‘The doctor’s in the barracks and wants brandy,’ said I.
‘Curse it, what’s wrong?’ exclaimed Captain Barrett, and instantly ran to the booby-hatch, followed by the subaltern.
‘Get on, then, get on!’ shouted Mr. Stiles, who had been drinking.
I ran with the brandy to the hatch, and seeing nobody to hand it to, descended. The scene of this interior of bulkheaded steerage was extraordinary; a lantern burnt dimly, its light was paled by the electric fires, which sparkled all over the prison bulkhead as though the wood was alive with the phosphoric lights of decay and rot. The bulkhead was studded with mushroom-headed nails, and every nail was tipped with fire. The sight was fearful; I thought the ship was burning. The women and the children were gathered in a heap in one corner, holding to one another, as though the vessel was about to founder; no child cried; the roar of the thunder seemed to have frightened the infants into silence.
A man lay on his back against the prison door, which was a little way open; the doctor bent over him and Captain Barrett and the subaltern stood close looking down. Such of the guard as were below were grouped with the women and children; they seemed dazed. The prostrate man was a soldier; doubtless the sentry stationed at the prison door. His musket, with its fixed bayonet, lay at a little distance from him, and I saw threads of fire writhing upon the bayonet.
‘Here’s the brandy!’ cried Captain Barrett.
The doctor looked up, and extended his hand for the glass. This brought me close to the door, and for a minute or two I had a clear view of the ’tweendecks prison. The cage-like barricade at the main-hatch was full of great nails, and every nail glowed as though red-hot. I don’t know where the lightning found entrance. It flashed through the blackness of this floating dungeon as if half a dozen hatches lay open to the sky. Wherever there was iron for the electric fires to catch hold of a small blue brilliant blaze was burning, inexpressibly wild and awful to behold. I clearly saw the whole sweep of the deck--the tiers of sleeping shelves stretching on either hand, the tables, the bulkhead of the prison and whatever else there was of grim and odious furniture in that interior. Numbers of the convicts lay motionless upon their faces on the deck; many crouched in squatting postures, with their hands to their heads; a few stood erect, defiant, as though waiting and heedless of what was next to happen. One of these, I might be sure, was Tom.