Fifty ton was our craft, with a crazy pitch to her prow like to take a
man's stomach out and the groaning of infernal fiends in her timbers.
Twelve men, our crew all told, half of them young gentlemen of fortune
from Quebec, with titles as long as a tilting lance and the fighting
blood of a Spanish don and the airs of a king's grand chamberlain.
Their seamanship you may guess. All of them spent the better part of
the first weeks at sea full length below deck. Of a calm day they
lolled disconsolate over the taffrail, with one eye alert for flight
down the companionway when the ship began to heave.
"What are you doing back there, La Chesnaye?" asks M. de Radisson, with
a quiet wink, not speaking loud enough for fo'castle hands to hear.
"Cursing myself for ever coming," growls that young gentleman, scarce
turning his head.
"In that case," smiles Sieur Radisson, "you might be better occupied
learning to take a hand at the helm."
"Sir," pleads La Chesnaye meekly, "'tis all I can do to ballast the
ship below stairs."
"'Tis laziness, La Chesnaye," vows Radisson. "Men are thrown overboard
for less!"
"A quick death were kindness, sir," groans La Chesnaye, scalloping in
blind zigzags for the stair. "May I be shot from that cannon, sir, if
I ever set foot on ship again!"
M.
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