At length, when Tristram's
head was reeling and the backs of the bench-full just in front were
melting before his eyes and swimming in a blood-red haze, the order
was yelled to easy. The men dropped their faces forward on the oars,
and rested them there while they panted and coughed, catching the
breath again into their heaving bodies. Then one or two began to
laugh and utter some poor drolleries; presently the sound spread, and
within three minutes the whole pit was full of chatter and uproar.
They seemed to forget their miseries even as they wiped the blood off
their shoulders.
And now, while the cold wind began to creep underneath the awning and
dry the sweat around their loins, Tristram had time to take stock of
his companions, and even to ask a question or two of the slave that
had spoken to him. They were all stalwart fellows, the Commodore
having the pick of all the _forcats_ drafted to his port, and
exercising it with some care, because he prided himself on the speed
of his vessel. Not a few wore on their cheeks the ghastly red
fleur-de-lis, which he now knew for the mark of deserters, murderers,
and the more flagrant criminals; others, he learned, were condemned
for the pettiest thefts, and a large proportion for having no better
taste than to belong to the Protestant religion.
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