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Already the European sailors were at work, some cutting away useless top-hamper, others attempting to drag the terror-stricken Malays to a place of comparative safety. Luke FitzHenry took command of these men, as was his duty, working like one of them, with infinite daring. He could only communicate with his captain by signs, speech being impossible. It was a seaman's fight.
The captain drinks his whisky and hot water with a certain slow appreciation of the merits of that reprehensible solution, and glances at the aneroid barometer on the bulkhead of his cabin. Overhead, on the spidery bridge, far up in the howling night, Luke FitzHenry, returning from the enervating tropics, stares sternly into the night, heedless of the elemental warfare.
There was no sound but the thud of the piston-rods and the whispering swirl of the water lashed by the huge screw. The Croonah raced on, her sails set, her engines working at full speed. Suddenly Luke FitzHenry grasped the handle of the engine- room signal. He wrenched it to one side "Stand by." Instantly the gong answered, "Stand by." "Half speed ahead." And half speed ahead it was.
We are in the care of good men, and all we have to do is to obey orders, and damn it, sir! to remember we're Englishmen!" The general walked out of the smoking-saloon, and the first sight that greeted his eyes was Luke FitzHenry, quick, keen, and supernaturally calm, standing over a group of Malay sailors who were hard at work getting in awnings.
Harrington might be unduly incensed against that poor boy, Luke FitzHenry; that in a moment of disappointment, you know, she might be making some well, some alteration in her will to the detriment of the boy." Susan stood for a moment in front of the lady, with a strange little smile of amusement among the wrinkles of her face. "Yes, that may be," she said, and quietly left the room.
Richard accepted, but thought it prudent to obtain the King's special permission; and in the meantime, Dermod, by his promises, further engaged in his cause a small band of other knights Robert Fitzstephen, Maurice Fitzgerald, Milo Fitzhenry, Herve de Montmarais, and some others.
A man with three hundred lives depending upon his keen eyes, his knowledge, and his judgment. A man whose name is Luke FitzHenry. The captain has gone below for a few minutes to thaw, leaving the ship to FitzHenry. He does it with an easy conscience as easy, that is, as the maritime conscience can well be in a gale of wind, with the Foreland lights ahead and infinite possibilities all around.
The maligned Bay of Biscay lay behind, and already a large number of the passengers had plucked up spirit to leave the cabin stairs, crawling on deck to lie supine in long chairs and talk hopefully of calmer days to come. Agatha had proved herself to be a good sailor. She walked beside Luke FitzHenry with her usual dainty firmness of step and confidence of carriage.
Eve was not alone on the terrace, for a certain small gentleman, called Henry Cyprian FitzHenry, a prospective sailor, lay in a pink and perfect slumber on her lap. Henry Cyprian fully appreciated the valley of repose. Eve was reading a letter a lamentable scrawl, by the way obviously the work of a hand little used to the pen.
Here was a man militant. A man who must needs be fighting something, and Fate, with unusual foresight, had placed him in a position to fight Nature. Luke FitzHenry rather revelled in a night such as this the gloom, the horror, and the patent danger of it suited his morose, combative nature.
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