The handle of the great oar swung towards Tristram. Noting how his
neighbour's hands were laid upon it, and copying his example, he
began to tug with the rest, rising from his bench and falling back
upon it at each stroke; and at the end of each stroke, where
ordinarily a boat's oars rattle briskly against the tholepins, the
time was marked with a loud clash of chains, and often enough with a
sharp cry from some poor wretch who had been caught lagging and
thwacked across the bare shoulders. The fatigue after a time grew
intolerably heavy. While the sun smote down through the awning, the
heat of their exercise seemed never to pass up through it, but beat
back upon their faces in sickening waves, stopping their breath.
Of the world outside their den they could see nothing but a small
patch of grey sea beyond the hole in which their oar worked.
The sweat poured off their chests and backs in streams, until their
waist-bands clung to the flesh like soaked sponges. Some began to
moan and sob; others to entreat Heaven for a respite, as if God were
directing their torture and taking delight in it; others again broke
out into frightful imprecations, cursing their Maker and the hour of
their birth. And while the oars swung and the chains clashed and the
cries redoubled their volume, the three keepers moved imperturbably
up and down the gangway, flicking their whips to left and right, and
drawing blood with every second stroke.
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