The vessel had, as most craft had in those days, platforms called channels at her side, for spreading her lower rigging. She was a little brig. The channels sat low and were but a step from our gunwale. I easily got over the side with the others, and Will took a turn with the boat’s painter to secure her. The low moon gave no light now to see by, the starshine was faint, and the decks of the brig ran dark fore and aft. We made out a house running the length of the quarter-deck. The door was closed. Tom threw it open and shouted long and loud. No voice answered. Not a sound was returned in answer. You heard nothing but the rippling of the breeze-stirred waters along the bends. The mate went forward and beat upon the forescuttle and bawled, and still we got no answer. It was sure we had lighted on an abandoned ship, so far as life went; that she had been the theatre of a tragedy and was yet freighted with some secret horrors remained to be discovered. ‘Has she a boat forward, Bates?’ called Tom. ‘No boat, sir.’ ‘Jump into the quarter-boat, Johnstone, and hand the things out of her. She’ll tow astern till daylight.’ ‘There is the hand of God in this, Butler,’ said Mr. Bates, solemnly, whilst he received the things from Will out of the boat. ‘Is the hand out yonder amongst those drenched sleepers?’ answered Tom, sullenly and gloomily. ‘Who the devil are we to sail away with Providence? You flatter yourself, Bates. Is everything out of that boat, Johnstone?’ The lad answered, ‘Yes,’ climbed over the side, gave the tinder-box and matches to Tom, then helped the boat astern with the painter. ‘We’ll trim sail,’ said Tom. ‘What course, sir?’ said the mate. ‘Oh, south--south!’ cried my sweetheart. ‘A sure course for somewhere by-and-by; but to the south’ard now--to the south’ard now!’ The wind was about north-east. Tom put me to the wheel, which was fixed in the old-fashioned style in front of the after-deck house. My sweetheart tried the helm, then bade me hold the spokes, and the three of them squared the yards on the fore and the main masts. It was the blackest of the dark hours, and the brig slowly floated forward in deep shadow. The only noise was the rippling and jerking of the _Childe Harold’s_ quarter-boat in our wake. Will asked if he should light the binnacle lamp. Tom said no; he’d show no light on deck. The next thing to be done, he said, was to sound the well and make a light secretly in the deck-house cabin to read the rod by. They left me at the wheel, steering by a bright star at the starboard fore-topsail yardarm, and after they had searched a while gropingly for the rod, the mate put his hand upon it. They were obliged to draw the pump to sound. Tom and Bates then carried the rod into the deck-house, where they chipped a light and read the rod by the small glare of a sulphur match.