On clearing the harbour of Cadiz, Hildebrand put his ship on a
southward course, intending, while he was yet favoured by the
wind, to run for the Azores. He had previously learned from
Halyard, on discussing the policy of such a step, that the
Mexican fleet was still at sea, and he was in hopes that he would
come up with it about that quarter, if he should not meet it on
the way. In this expectation, he set everything in order to carry
the design which led him to seek it practicably out.
Meantime, Don Rafaele, on coming on the open water, was attacked
with sea-sickness, and was obliged to be carried to the cabin.
Having seen the watch set, and directed a good look-out to be
posted for’ard, Hildebrand followed him thither, purposing to
attend to his requirements himself. He found him bestowed in
bed, in one of the two sleeping-berths, but, as may be imagined,
far from being disposed for sleep. He was, however, equally
indisposed for conversation, and, when Hildebrand approached
to greet him, he waved him back, and buried his head under the
bedclothes.
For three successive days, he remained in the same state, without
taking any food, or uttering a single word. In the mean time,
the wind, which had originally been no more than what is called
“fresh,” gradually grew boisterous, and, on the second day,
increased to a gale. Owing to this circumstance, Hildebrand was
obliged to be constantly on deck, superintending the changes
which, conformably to the cautious navigation then followed,
were continually being made in the disposition of the ship.
Nevertheless, he made it a point, every now and then, when he
could be spared for a moment from his duties, to visit the
cabin, and inquire if his friend’s sickness had abated. With all
his unfailing attention, however, he could draw from the sick
Spaniard only a monosyllable answer, and his recommendations of
refreshment were always wholly unheeded.
Towards the evening of the third day, the wind abated, and, as
a consequence of this change, the rocking of the ship, which
had hitherto been excessive, became less violent. The subdued
motion had a decidedly beneficial effect on the health of Don
Rafaele. He answered Hildebrand’s inquiries more fully, and
though, with that distaste for food which is a peculiar feature
of sea-sickness, he still declined to eat anything, Hildebrand
succeeded in prevailing on him to take a cup of wine. The wine
acted as a soporific, and, after a short interval, he sank into a
profound sleep.
It was broad day when he awoke, and, raising himself up in
his berth, he found the sickening qualms which he had lately
felt less oppressive, and the whirling sensation in his head,
which had been even more afflictive, sensibly mitigated. Owing
to the subsidence of the wind, the motion of the ship was now
comparatively gentle, and, as he found himself able to sit up, he
seemed to acquire more confidence, and ventured to look out on
the cabin.
There was no one in the cabin, and the sleeping-berth opposite,
which he knew to be appropriated to Hildebrand, was also
untenanted. The cabin was quite light; for though there were no
windows, a large skylight rose through the ship’s deck, about
the centre of the cabin, which enabled him to distinguish every
object. Under the skylight was the table, and, happening to
glance thitherwards, he perceived, to his great satisfaction,
that it was set out for a meal. The sight of the eatables,
arranged in tempting order, on a clean white table-cloth, excited
his appetite; and for the first time since he came on board, he
felt inclined to eat. He seemed to hesitate a moment; and then,
extending his arm, he reached his clothes, which were lying at
the foot of his bed, and proceeded to dress himself.
When he had donned his clothes, he stepped over the locker, which
was just below his berth, on to the deck, and looked round the
cabin more narrowly. In the furthermost corner, adjoining the
doorway, or entrance, and fitting in a small recess, there was a
wash-hand stand, furnished with a pewter bason; and above this,
a pewter water-vessel, which hung from a nail in the wainscot by
a string of oakum, tied securely round its long and broad-rimmed
neck. A looking-glass, and a towel, apparently fresh from the
laundry, hung on contiguous nails, and, remembering the locality,
formed altogether a toilet not to be despised.
The eyes of the young cavalier brightened as these several
articles incurred his observation. With a step which, considering
the motion of the ship, and his debilitated condition, was far
from being unsteady, he hastened to bring them into use. Before
he did so, however, he carefully closed the door; and, with the
aid of a bolt which he found under the lock, and which he shot
into the socket, secured himself against intrusion. This done, he
raised his hand to his lips, and--for they now proved to be only
an assumed feature--drew off his moustachios. His face displayed
quite another expression on the removal of the false moustachios.
His eyes, which were large and full, seemed to look softer, and
to assume a more melting and feminine beauty. His other features
also gained by the change, and their exquisite and faultless
outlines, running into each other in imperceptible gradation,
presented in every turn a new charm, and a more fascinating
sweetness. Even his complexion appeared less masculine and
vigorous; and its pure alabaster ground, rounded with deep red,
which a pensive but stirring animation almost illuminated, would
have more become the face of a mellow girl, than that of an
approaching man.
He soon despatched his ablutions, and, with the aid of the
napkin, and the looking-glass (but more especially the latter),
shortly fulfilled his toilet. This refreshing process completed,
he turned to the contiguous table, and regarded the various
eatables which there rose to view, in the order before described,
with augmented satisfaction and appetite.
Nevertheless, when he came to sit down, a very thin slice of
ham, with a fragment of biscuit, and a small cup of wine, served
to appease his hunger. Though he ate so sparingly, however, his
meal greatly refreshed him, and, on rising from the table, he
felt himself possessed of increased vigour, and animated by a new
spirit.
After pausing a moment at the table, he stepped towards the
door, and proceeded to ascend to the deck. The motion of the
ship, which otherwise might have retarded his progress, was now
very gentle, and, with the help of an accommodating side-rope,
he passed up the ladder with ease. As he stepped through
the hatchway to the deck, he observed Hildebrand, with his
lieutenant, Halyard, standing right before him, and, steadying
his foot against the combing, he stretched out his hand, and
seized him familiarly by the arm.
Hildebrand--whose face had been turned the other way--started
round directly.
“Well done, my brave Senhor!” he exclaimed, with an earnest
smile, at the same time clasping the cavalier’s extended hand, “I
am right merry to see thee up again.”
Before Don Rafaele could make any reply, Master Halyard, hearing
the salutation of his captain, also turned round, and caught up
his other hand.
“Shiver my topsail!” cried the honest tar, in an odd mixture of
Spanish and English phrases, “but I be heartily glad to see thee
afloat again, Master Don. ’Tis sheer idling to lay long on one’s
beam-ends. Life is but short; let us live well on the road, says
the gentle Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.”
“I thank you both, fair gentlemen,” answered Don Rafaele. “I now
feel quite strong again, though, having the heart of a landsman,
I still long for the shore. But have we the breeze with us?” he
added, with that curiosity about the wind, which, whatever may be
our situation, one always feels at sea, and is never inclined to
check.
“Right heartily,” replied Hildebrand. “Mark how gallantly we
buffet the waves!”
Don Rafaele, with a smile, raised his eyes, and swept them
eagerly around.
When we behold ourselves out of sight of land for the first
time, with no horizon, as far as the eye can any way pierce, but
the unbroken sky, rising from the water’s edge in gradual and
inseparable lines, and covering the vast circle we move in with
its eternal dome--which, shoot forward as we may, still presents
the same circuit, and seems to hold us ever in its centre;--when
we view such a prospect for the first time, the heart feels, in
the surrounding immensity, a keener sense of its own littleness,
and of its insignificance in the scale of the creation, than in
any other situation that life affords. The black waves, mounting
in a hundred heads, and then falling under one crowning swell,
which, rolling forward, is itself overtopped, and lost in its
successor:--the black waves, thus rushing by, remind one of the
onward course of life, of the mutability of human fortunes, and
the briefness of mortality.
Such was the reflection that rose in the mind of the young
Spaniard. But it passed away directly, and the more cheerful
features of the scene--for it was not without cheerful
features--engaged his whole attention.
The sun was high in the heavens, and a long line of dazzling
sunshine, looking more like light than reflection, was spread
out in the wake of the ship, making the white surf that marked
her course fairly sparkle. The sky, though so high over head,
was almost transparent, and the few clouds that broke its vast
arch were light and buoyant, and served rather to relieve its
sameness, than to contract its beauty. Nor were there wanting
objects of interest on the water. Looking over the ship’s side,
Don Rafaele beheld, at a little distance, squadrons of gulls,
not unvaried in their plumage, sailing gaily by, or occasionally
mounting into the air, and wheeling round and round towards the
sky. Alongside was the active porpoise, rolling over and over
on the waves, and seeming, by the regularity of his progress,
to measure his speed to that of the ship. Every now and then,
too, a lively bonito, either from mere sportiveness, or to
avoid some approaching and voracious enemy, would leap bodily
into the air, and, after performing a perfect summerset, drop
into the deep again, and be seen no more. If the eye pushed its
survey further, the ship herself, viewed from the quarter-deck,
presented much to arrest its attention. The white sails, spread
out before the wind, which filled them to the brim, were not its
most interesting feature. Sailors were perched in various parts
of the rigging, on the yards, and in the shrouds, gazing intently
for’ard, whose seemingly perilous situation was a more engrossing
object. Don Rafaele, unused to the economy of a ship, turned
pale as he observed them, and, wheeling round to Hildebrand, he
inquired if there was any reason for their being thus disposed.
“They are there of their own choice, Senhor,” answered
Hildebrand, with a smile.
“Surely, no!” returned the incredulous Spaniard.
“Indeed, it is even so,” said Hildebrand. “Those birds thou seest
yonder, and the scraps of trees and seaweed floating by, tell
them we are near land, and they are striving who shall hail it
first.”
“A merry conceit, truly,” observed Don Rafaele. “See!” he added,
pointing to the top-gallant mast, to which the stout frame of
Tarpaulin was clinging, “how yon frail stick, every now and anon,
bends with the weight of that sturdy man! Couldst thou thus
sustain thyself, Sir Lieutenant?”
“I am no ways particular, Master Don,” answered Halyard.
“No, in sooth?” replied Don Rafaele. “Well, I believe thee; and
yet, my life! ’tis a right perilous elevation. I’faith, a hair’s
turn would there take life away.”
His remark offered a tempting opportunity to Halyard to speak
with effect; and though, as Don Rafaele paused, he saw that
Hildebrand was about to reply, he interposed immediately, and
gave his sentiments utterance.
“Well,” he said, very quickly, in order that he might come in
before Hildebrand, “life is but short; let us live well on the
road, says the gentle Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.”
“Land, on the larboard bow!” cried Tom Tarpaulin, from the head
of the top-gallant mast.
“Land, on the larboard bow!” cried a dozen voices, from various
parts of the ship.
All was bustle and excitement in a moment. Even Don Rafaele, who
had scarcely been able to steady himself hitherto, comprehending
what the cry signified, sprang nimbly to the side of the ship,
and looked anxiously round the horizon. Trusting entirely to
instinct, however, he made a slight mistake in the direction,
and, instead of going to the larboard bow, posted straight to
the starboard. He was gazing earnestly round, when Hildebrand,
who had observed his error, came up with him, and led him to the
proper quarter.
Leaving the quarter-deck, they passed to the forecastle, where
they were able, from their greater elevation, to view the horizon
more fully. Some little time elapsed, however, before Hildebrand,
with all his quick sight, could fix the object which he wished to
point out to Don Rafaele. At last, he achieved his purpose, and
succeeded in bringing it under that person’s observation.
It was like a mist, rising out of the water, on the extreme verge
of the horizon; and appeared to be no larger than a man’s hand.
Gradually--but by very slow degrees--it grew more apparent,
and, after the eye had rested on it for a short space longer,
presented a bold and distinct outline.
On this simple object the inmates of the good ship “Eliza” gazed
earnestly for several successive minutes. The most protracted
gaze elicited no more than was seen by a first and cursory
glance; but, though they were not ignorant of this, every one
still looked upon it, after they had viewed it over and over
again, with unabated interest. It was a landmark, and, though it
was land that they were never to tread, it connected them, by
association, and by the train of images that it involuntarily
forced into their minds, with the world that they had left, and
showed that the wide waste of waters around was not their only
home.
For a little time, Hildebrand and Don Rafaele surveyed the
dim landmark in silence. After he had satisfied his curiosity
respecting its aspect, however, the latter person, in his usual
musical voice, proceeded to inquire its name.
“And what land may that be, Senhor?” he inquired of Hildebrand.
“’Tis the island of St. George, one of the Azores,” answered
Hildebrand.
“Be the Azores on the way to England?” asked Don Rafaele, with
some surprise.
Hildebrand, from whatever motive, made no reply at the moment;
but, turning round, first led him back to the quarter-deck. When
they had come to their former position, by the after-hatchway, he
rendered an explanation.
“Of a surety, they are not in the direct way to England, Senhor,”
he said, “for our purpose does not take us thither straight.
’Twas for this, and not that I liked not thy fair company, that I
hesitated to bring thee with us from Cadiz.”
“Oh, I care not! I care not!” answered Don Rafaele, with a
smile. “I’faith, I am quite a mariner now.”
“Ah, Senhor!” returned Hildebrand, “we may, perchance, never
tread the merry land again. And in this apprehension, I account
not the perils of the sea, but the more fatal perils of war.”
Don Rafaele looked downcast.
“To one bred up to war, these give no concern,” continued
Hildebrand; “but thou art of another mould, and, moreover, too
young to be exposed to them.”
“To speak fair sooth,” answered Don Rafaele, in a tremulous tone,
“I never cared to turn soldier. ’Tis a merry life, certes; but
commend me to a more peaceful one.”
So spiritless a sentiment was not calculated to excite a response
in the martial bosom of Hildebrand. Although, however, on its
first utterance, he originally deemed it mean and unmanly, a
moment’s reflection served to set the young Spaniard’s character
before him in more pleasing and favourable colours. His noble
heroism in the prison, in throwing himself between him and the
alguazil, when such interposition appeared to entail upon him
inevitable death, had not escaped his memory; and, though it
was but a momentary impulse, he considered that this act alone
answered for his courage, and denoted him to be the possessor of
many admirable qualities. He had, moreover, from the nature of
the events that had brought them together, and which had marked
their acquaintance up to the present moment, insensibly begun to
look upon him with regard, and so was further inclined to slight
anything that might arise to his disparagement. Thus influenced,
he replied to the cavalier in a soothing tone, and without taking
any exception, either by his words or manner, to his somewhat
irregular sentiment.
“In the passing instance, Senhor,” he said, “thou canst not even
have the excuse of a soldier for seeking to display thy courage.
The enemy we shall encounter will be thine own countrymen.”
“Alas!” sighed Don Rafaele.
“Wert thou not with us, I should look for the issue less
impatiently,” pursued Hildebrand; “but, as it is, I cannot
conceal from thee, in anticipation of the worst, that their force
will greatly surpass ours.”
“But we may miss them,” said Don Rafaele.
“But an’ we do not,” answered Hildebrand, more cheerfully, and
with some approach to a smile, “thou must promise me, if we go
into action, that thou wilt hold thyself below the while, and not
engage in a contest wherein thou hast no concern.”
“That do I promise heartily,” replied Don Rafaele, with much
earnestness.
“’Tis a wise resolve, and a brave,” said Hildebrand; “for
’twould become thee ill to take part against thy country. It
grieves me sorely to see thee in peril at all.”
“Nay, let it not deject thee,” rejoined Don Rafaele. “When thou
art at hand, I have no fear.”
The confidence breathed in his remark made Hildebrand smile.
“Thou leanest on me thus,” he observed, in a grave tone, “because
thou art young. Youth is trusting; but wert thou older, thou
wouldst look on me, who am known to thee for so brief a space,
with more wariness, and less reliance.”
“In sooth, no, never!” said Don Rafaele, earnestly. “Hardly could
thine own self make me ever doubt thee.”
He paused, and, as though he had just become sensible of
the eagerness with which he had spoken, and the warmth and
earnestness of his manner, and, for some reason or other,
considered such a manifestation unbecoming, looked confused.
Turning to avoid observation, his eye fell on the ship’s shrouds,
and he there discerned something that, seized on the instant,
furnished him with an excellent opening for retreat.
“Madonna! see your lieutenant, Senhor!” he said, pointing to the
shrouds, which Master Halyard, in order to show that what he had
asserted to him was a fact, and that he was really “no ways
particular,” had mounted barefooted, and was now ascending on his
way aloft. “In faith, he treads the rope to measure, as though
there were music playing.”
His astonishment was increased when, on approaching the summit
of the shrouds, Master Halyard, instead of pushing through the
lubbers’-hole, took the more venturous route upward, and drew
himself on to the topmast-landing over the outside. When he had
gained the landing, he came to a halt; and previous to pursuing
his progress, in which he had yet made but little way, swept his
eye round the horizon.
“A sail to leeward, Sir!” he cried to Hildebrand.
Hildebrand, thus addressed, turned his eye in the direction
specified; but, though he surveyed the horizon earnestly, could
discern no trace of the reported ship.
“Three more sail to leeward, Sir!” cried Halyard.
Again Hildebrand turned his eye on the horizon.
“Three more sail to leeward, Sir!” cried Halyard.
Hildebrand’s countenance became more grave.
“Ho there! at the helm!” he shouted: “Bear off a point to
windward!”
“Ay, ay, Sir!” was the ready answer of the helmsman.
“Now, Senhor, seize thee a grasp of that pin,” said Hildebrand to
Don Rafaele, at the same time pointing to a belaying-pin, or hold
for a rope, that stood out of the ship’s bulwark.
Don Rafaele, without inquiring the object of such a procedure,
grasped at the pin on the instant, and then looked to Hildebrand
for further instruction. While his eye yet rested on his face,
the helmsman, conformably to his recent orders, suddenly turned
the helm, and the ship gave a violent pitch on the water.
Don Rafaele turned pale as he felt the deck tremble under him;
but, having a firm hold of the belaying-pin, he maintained his
footing with ease.
“Two more sail to leeward, Sir!” cried Halyard.
Hildebrand, after another glance at the horizon, which revealed
no more than his former ones, raised himself on the ship’s
bulwark, and mounted into the shrouds. Thence he passed to the
topmast-landing, and there, coming to a halt, joined Halyard.
In this elevated position, he quickly discerned the topmasts of
the nine ships, like so many separate specks, scattered over the
verge of the horizon. His survey, however, did not satisfy him,
and, after a moment’s pause, he parted from Master Halyard, and
pushed up higher aloft.
It was curious, if any one had marked it, to see what an effect
his ascent from the deck produced on Don Rafaele. That cavalier
had watched the ascent of Master Halyard, described heretofore,
with evident interest, but without any show of anxiety; but no
sooner did Hildebrand mount the shrouds, than, all at once, he
became violently agitated. As he viewed his progress upward,
his face became pale and red by turns, as though his blood,
according as fear or hope predominated, advanced and receded with
the mariner’s every step. When Hildebrand had gained the topmast
landing, he seemed, by the deep breath he exhaled, to have quite
a burthen taken from his heart, and to become more composed.
But his composure lasted only while Hildebrand was stationary.
Directly that person mounted the upper shrouds, on his way to the
top-gallant mast, his emotion revived, and became even more and
more lively. He scarcely breathed till he saw him gain the foot
of the top-gallant mast. But when, with no help but the adjacent
tackle, which appeared to be hardly strong enough to hold up its
pulleys, Hildebrand hoisted himself to the yards above, he seemed
to lose himself in his excessive agitation. His face fairly
quivered; his lips parted, as it seemed, in speechless terror;
and, every now and then, he turned away his eyes, as though
their continued contemplation of Hildebrand’s giddy height could
not be endured.
At length he beheld Hildebrand clinging round the crowning
spar of the ship. As the ship rose and fell over the waves,
the slender mast, if it might be called a mast, rocked him to
and fro, and appeared on the point of snapping asunder every
moment. Don Rafaele would have been concerned for a bird in
such a dizzying situation. He could look up no longer: if he
raised his eyes, he felt giddy himself, and his head swam again.
Apprehensive that his agitation might excite remark, which,
whatever was his motive, he evidently desired earnestly to avoid,
he was about to turn away, when he heard Hildebrand call out.
“Ho, Master Halyard!”
“Ay, ay, Sir!”
“Four more sail to leeward, Sir!”
Don Rafaele, overcome with terror, covered his eyes with his
hand. He felt as though the fate of Hildebrand depended on him,
and that, if he looked up, the giddiness he would feel would
seize on Hildebrand, and cast him down headlong. With this
feeling, he remained perfectly still for several successive
minutes. The brief interval seemed an age; and the uninterrupted
rise and fall of his noble chest, which his declining attitude
only revealed more fully, showed that it stirred within him the
deepest emotion. While he was yet thus agitated, he felt some
one’s hand laid gently on his arm, and, starting round, he found
Hildebrand at his side.
His soft black eyes sparkled again as he beheld him in safety.
“In sooth, now,” he said, with a bright smile, “I never thought
to see thee here again. Madonna! but thy dexterity is exceeding
marvellous!”
“Thou thinkest so,” answered Hildebrand, “but mariners, who go
aloft for mere sport, hold it lightly. But I grieve to say, we
shall even need to have marvellous dexterity afore to-morrow.”
“Is danger so nigh?” asked Don Rafaele.
“Within sight, Senhor,” returned Hildebrand. “But I care not for
it myself: my only care is for thee.”
“In faith, I thank thee,” said Don Rafaele, in an earnest tone.
“But let thy heart be light. I am right content to be with thee;
and, ’fore God, could I be safe back again at Cadiz, I would
prefer me to be in peril at thy side. Be of good heart, then. I
am no way afeard.”
“Beshrew me, but thou makest me love thee,” said Hildebrand.
“Would God I did!” murmured the cavalier. But, seeing that
Hildebrand was about to reiterate his declaration of attachment,
he added quickly, with some embarrassment,--“Well, well, I
believe it. But I must below. This change of motion makes me
reel.”
“Thou wilt be more at ease below, then,” observed Hildebrand.
“Moreover, my pantler, by his presence at the hatchway here,
invites us down to dinner.”
The pantler, or steward, whose appearance on the deck was thus
considered introductory to dinner, was standing in the contiguous
hatchway; but on the instant that he was sensible of having
incurred Hildebrand’s attention, he receded from the aperture,
and retired to the cabin. Thither he was quickly followed by
Hildebrand and Don Rafaele, and, in a short time afterwards, by
Master Halyard, who also was in the secret of his noonday visit
to the after-hatchway.
Their meal was soon despatched. When they had brought it to a
close, Master Halyard, rising from the table, announced it to be
his intention to “turn-in,” as he conjectured that they would
that night have little opportunity of taking their usual rest.
“I’faith, no!” answered Hildebrand. “And with thy good leave,
Senhor,” he added, to Don Rafaele, “I will even commend me to an
hour’s sleep myself.”
“Prithee do,” said Don Rafaele, with an appearance of
solicitude. “Thou wilt be the better for ’t.”
“’Twould not be amiss for thee,” replied Hildebrand. “Afore
midnight, we may, if this breeze continue, be all confusion.”
“Well, well, I will lay me down,” returned the young cavalier;
“for though I be in no mind for sleep, my giddiness doth ill
qualify me to sit up.”
With these words, he rose from the table, and turned round to his
berth. Planting his feet on the locker, and holding on by the
panel above, he easily raised himself to his berth, and scrambled
on to the bed within. Hildebrand disposed himself in the berth
opposite, and Master Halyard, to use his own phrase, “hove-to” in
a hammock, in the steerage, without the cabin-door.
Although Don Rafaele had not retired to his berth with the
intention of seeking repose, but had thrown himself down without
undressing, he had not been long in a recumbent posture,
reflecting on the various circumstances of his situation, before
he was overtaken by sleep. It was, however, a restless slumber,
broken by repeated starts, and was not calculated to refresh or
invigorate him. Still he slept on; and an increased violence in
the ship’s motion, and a variety of noises that prevailed on the
deck above, with other adverse incidents, alike failed to awake
him.
It was quite dark when he did awake. The ship was pitching a
little; and this, with the darkness that prevailed, and the
solemn silence, broken only by a solitary footfall overhead,
pacing the quarter-deck, or an occasional creaking of the
mainmast, depressed him severely. He was soon to have more
serious cause for dejection. While he was musing what course he
should pursue, and whether it would be better, as the night had
now set in, to remain in his berth, or to take a turn on the
deck, the silence that prevailed was suddenly interrupted by the
clamour of several voices. Footsteps were then heard passing over
the deck, and, after a brief pause, the rolling of a drum broke
on his ear.
The stirring call to arms rolled through the ship like thunder.
Scarcely had its echoing voice been awakened, when sounds of
stir and bustle, including all manner of noises, rose from every
part of the ship. In a few minutes, however, both the rolling
of the drum, and the din that it created, and which was even
more spirit-stirring, died away; and except for the passage of
an occasional footstep over the deck, or the sound of a voice,
raised somewhat above the ordinary pitch, all was quiet.
It might reasonably be expected, from his youth, and his gallant
appearance, which one could hardly separate from ideas of
manliness, that Don Rafaele could not hear the martial rolling
of the drum without feeling some of those animating impulses
which it was so eminently calculated to excite. But, however
reasonable such an expectation might be, the issue no way bore it
out. Far from inspiring him with courage, the stirring alarum,
with the various and conflicting noises that ensued, struck him
with a panic; and he felt more inclined to cover himself with
the bedclothes, than eager for action. His excitement was so
intense, that it pervaded his whole frame; and, as the din on
deck continued, he trembled in every limb. He grew more composed
after a while; but whether from fear, or that the excitement he
sustained had affected his nerves, and so was beyond his control,
he was still excessively agitated. Nevertheless, he no longer
seemed disposed to remain in his berth. As the restored silence
was prolonged, he planted his two hands firmly on his bed, and
made an effort to rise. Just as he had raised himself up, the
roar of artillery burst on his ear; and the ship, which had been
sailing pretty steadily a moment previous, reeled under the shock
of a dozen cannon.