He had been the slave of habit,
custom, and daily duty. His record, therefore, was fairly clean until
two days after the escape from the Thames and the sighting of the
Portsmouth fleet. Then all his revolutionary spirit ran riot in him.
Besides, the woman to whom he had become attached at the Nore had been
put ashore on the day Dyck gained control. It roused his enmity now.
When Dyck came down, he had the gunners called to him, admonishing them
that drill must go on steadily, and promising them good work to do. Then
he turned to the ordinary seamen.
At this moment Nick Swaine strode forward within a dozen feet of Dyck.
"Look there!" he said, and he jerked a finger towards the distant
Portsmouth fleet. "Look there! You've passed that."
Dyck shrugged a shoulder.
"I meant to pass it," he said quietly.
"Give orders to make for it," said Nick with a sullen eye.
"I shall not. And look you, my man, keep a civil tongue to me, who
command this ship, or I'll have you put in irons."
"Have me put in irons!" Swaine cried hotly. "This isn't Dublin jail.
You can't do what you like here. Who made you captain of this ship?"
"Those who made me captain will see my orders carried out. Now, get you
back with the rest, or I'll see if they still hold good." Dyck waved a
hand. "Get back when I tell you, Swaine !"
"When you've turned the ship to the Portsmouth fleet I'll get back, and
not till then."
Dyck made a motion of the hand to some boatswains standing by.
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