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For Treasure Bound

<h3>Chapter Nine.</h3> <h4>A Cape Horn Gale.</h4> We stood on to the southward and westward during the remainder of that day, the wind continuing still to freshen, and the sea getting up with most fearful rapidity. The glass fell slowly too, and there appeared to be every prospect of our getting a taste of the quality of the weather for which Cape Horn is so notorious. As the sun set, the veil of cloud-wrack which had obscured the heavens all day was rent asunder in the western quarter, and we caught a glimpse of the great luminary hanging upon the verge of the horizon like a ball of molten copper. His level beams shot for a few moments across the broad expanse of the heaving and wildly-leaping waters, tinging the wave-crests immediately in his wake with deep blood-red, whilst all around elsewhere the angry ocean was darkest indigo. A few rays shot upward, gleaming wildly among the flying scud, and then the orb of day sank into the ocean, shooting abroad as he did so a sudden baleful crimson glare, which gradually died out in the gloom of increasing storm and coming night. Bob stood by my side watching the wild scene I have so feebly described, and as the sun disappeared, he turned to me and remarked: “My eyes, Harry! what d’ye think of that, lad? To my mind it needs no prophet to tell us with that afore our eyes that we’re booked for a reg’lar thorough-bred Cape Horn gale of wind; and my advice as chief-mate of this here barkie is, that we makes her just as snug as we knows how, for, depend upon it, afore morning we shall have as thorough a trial of her seagoin’ qualities as we’re likely to want for many a day to come.” “My own idea, Bob,” replied I; “I have seldom seen a wilder sunset, and if it does not mean wind, and plenty of it too, all my weather-lore must go for nothing, and I shall have to turn to and learn everything over afresh.” “Ay, ay! you may say that,” returned he, “and I the same; but we’ve both knocked about too many years at sea to make any mistake in our reading when Natur’ opens so plain a page of her book for us as yon; so the sooner we turns to the better, say I, or we shall have the darkness upon us afore we’re ready for it. Thank God, we’ve plenty of sea-room; so let’s rouse up that floating-anchor contrivance of yourn, my lad, for, depend upon it, if ever the Lily is likely to need the consarn, she will to-night.” This floating-anchor I will describe for the benefit of those who may not have seen such a thing, for it is a most useful affair, and no small craft should undertake a long cruise without one. Ours was formed of two flat bars of iron, each ten feet in length, riveted together in the centre in such a way that they would either fold flat one upon the other (for convenience of stowage), or open out at right angles, forming a cross of four equal arms. In each end of each bar was a hole capable of taking a good stout rope swifter, which was set up taut when the bars were opened, so as to keep them spread at right angles. Four other holes were punched, two in each bar, about midway between each end and the centre rivet; these were for the reception of a crowfoot. As soon as the bars were spread open, and the swifter passed and set up, a square sheet of the stoutest canvas, painted, was spread over them, the edges laced to the swifter with a stout lacing, and the crowfoot toggled through the intermediate holes in the bars and corresponding holes in the canvas. A buoy was then attached to the end of one arm to float the anchor, with a sufficient amount of buoy-rope to allow it to sink to the requisite depth; the end of the cable was shackled into the thimble of the crowfoot, the buoy streamed overboard, and the anchor let go. I may as well state here, that for the economisation of space the buoy for floating out anchor was an india-rubber ball, made of the same materials as an ordinary air-cushion, and distended in the same way. This was enclosed in a strong net of three-strand sinnet, which net was attached to the buoy-rope. We hove the craft to whilst we were preparing the anchor, and glad enough was I when it was ready; for by this time the sea was running so high and breaking so heavily, that I was afraid once or twice, when we were caught broadside-to, that we should be capsized. We let go the anchor with only two fathoms of buoy-rope, so as to sink it just deep enough to keep us head to sea without materially interfering with the craft’s drift, as we thought we should ride all the easier for such an arrangement, and so it proved. As soon as the anchor was let go, we got our head-sail in, ran in the bowsprit, and got our topmast on deck; the trysail was close-reefed, and the sheet trimmed amidships, the anchor-light hoisted well up on the fore-stay, and our preparations for the night were complete. By this time it was blowing tremendously heavy, and the howling of the gale overhead, the shriek of the wind through our scanty rigging, and the hiss of the foaming water around us, mingled into such a deafening sound that Bob and I had fairly to shout, even when close alongside of each other, to make ourselves heard. And then it began to thunder and lighten heavily, still further increasing the wild and impressive grandeur of the scene upon which we gazed in awe-struck admiration. At one moment all would be deep black pitchy night, lighted up only by the pale unearthly shimmer of some foaming wave-crest as it rolled menacingly down upon us, gleaming with phosphorescent light; anon the canopy above would be rent asunder by the vivid lightning-flash, and for an instant the vast whirling forms of the torn and shredded clouds would be revealed, with a momentary vision of the writhing, leaping, and storm-driven waters beneath them, illumined by the ghastly glare of the levin-brand, and stricken into sudden rigidity by the rapidity of the flash. We stayed on deck for about an hour after our anchor was let go, watching this grand manifestation of the power of the Deity, sublime as terrible, terrible as sublime; and then, finding that no improvement suggested itself in our arrangements, and that the Lily rode like a cork over the mountain-billows—though occasionally the comb of a more than usually heavy sea would curl in over the bows and send a foaming cataract of water aft and out over her taffrail—we descended to the cabin to get our suppers, for which, by this time, we were quite ready. So easy was the motion of the little craft, that when we got below we found no difficulty whatever in boiling the water, and making ourselves a cup of good strong tea. While discussing this refreshing beverage and a few biscuits, we arrived at the conclusion that as we had done all it was possible to do for the safety of the boat, it was useless to keep a watch through the night, and that we would, therefore, take advantage of the opportunity to get a good undisturbed night’s rest, leaving the “sweet little cherub that sits up aloft” to look out. Accordingly, as soon as our meal was over, I left Bob to straighten up below, while I went on deck to take a last look round and see that everything was snug and as it should be, and our light burning brightly. I found everything satisfactory, except that it seemed to be blowing harder than ever; however, I could not help that, so I went below again, closing the companion after me, and we both turned in, chatted awhile, listened to the roaring of the gale and the occasional heavy wash of water along the deck, and finally dropped off to sleep. I awoke two or three times during the night, and once I turned out and pushed the slide of the companion far enough back to put my head outside; but the night was still as black as pitch, it was blowing harder if anything than before, and the air was full of spindrift and scud-water; so I pushed over the slide again, and tumbled once more into my comfortable hammock, very vividly impressed both with a sense of our helplessness in the midst of such a heavy gale, and also with the comparative degrees of comfort between the decks and the cabin. Bob was the first to make a muster in the morning; and his first act, like mine during the night, was to take a look out upon deck. “Blowing hard enough to blow the devil’s horns off,” I heard him exclaim, “and as thick as a hedge. And, my precious eyes! what a sea! come up and take a look at it, Harry, boy; I never see’d nothing like it all the years I’ve been afloat. Hurrah, young un! that’s your sort,” as the cutter rose fearfully near to the perpendicular in surmounting the crest of a sea, and then slid down, down, down into the trough, until it seemed as though she would sink to the very ocean’s bed. “And don’t the little hussy behave beautifully! She’s as floaty as a gull, Hal; and drier than e’er a seventy-four that ever was launched would be in a sea like this. Now, what lubber comes here with his eyes sealed up instead of looking before him? Jump up, Harry; quick, boy! we are in a mess here, and no mistake. No, no; it’s all right, he’ll clear us a’ter all. No thanks to him though, for there’s not a soul—ah! so you’re beginning to wake up at last, eh!” Here I put my head up through the companion, alongside of Bob’s lovely phiz, and saw within forty fathoms of us, over the ridge of a sea, and broad on our port beam, the topmast-heads of a brig. As we both rose together on the same sea, her sails first, and then her hull, came into view. She was not a large vessel; about two hundred tons or thereabouts, apparently; painted all black down to her copper, excepting a narrow red ribbon which marked the line of her sheer. She was hove-to on the port tack under a storm-staysail, and her topgallant-masts were down on deck. Everything was very trim and man-o’-warlike on board her; but no government dockyard ever turned out such a beautiful model as she was. When I first caught sight of her, she was heading directly for us; but as we watched her, her head paid off, and she swept slowly down across our stern, near enough for us to have hove a biscuit on board her. Some ten or a dozen heads peered curiously at us over her weather bulwarks as she drove slowly past us, and one man aft on the quarter-deck, the officer of the watch apparently, seized a trumpet to hail us; but whether he did so or not, or, if he did, what he said, we neither of us knew; for at that moment we both sank once more into the trough with a perfect mountain of water between us, until we lost sight of him altogether for a moment, even to his mast-heads. I took the glass, which we always kept slung in beckets in the companion-way, open and adjusted ready for immediate use, and as she rose once more into view I applied it to my eye, and the first thing which caught my attention was her name, painted on her stern, which was now towards us. “The Albatross, by all that’s unlucky!” exclaimed I. “Blest if we mightn’t have guessed as much if we’d been in a guessin’ humour,” ejaculated Bob. “Honest-going merchant ships ain’t so plaguy careful of their spars as that chap—leastways, not such small fry as he is. Pity but what they was, I often says; but where d’ye find a skipper who’ll be bothered to send down his top hamper every time it pipes up a bit of a breeze? No; ‘Let it stand if ’twill,’ is the word, ‘and if ’twon’t, let it blow away.’ But the chap is a real good seaman, Harry, no man’ll deny that; look how snug he’s got everything; and all hauled taut and coiled down neat and reg’lar man-o’-war fashion I’ll be bound.” We got, I think, a clearer idea of the tremendous strength of the gale by watching the brig than we did even by the motions of our own little craft. She was tossed about like the merest cockle-shell, and every time that she rose upon the crest of a sea, the wind took her rag of a staysail, distending it as though it would tear it clean out of the bolt-ropes, and heeling the vessel over until we could see the whole of her bottom nearly down to her keel; and then her sharp bows would cleave the wave-crest in a perfect cataract of foam and spray, and away she would settle down once more with a heavy weather-roll into the trough. “Well,” exclaimed Bob, as we lost sight of her in the driving scud, “she’s a pretty sea-boat, is yon brig; but I’m blest if the little Lily don’t beat her even at that game. What say you, Harry; ain’t she proving true the very words I spoke that night when we first began to talk about this here v’yage?” “Indeed she is, Bob,” I answered; “I am as surprised as I am delighted at her behaviour; I could never have believed, without seeing it myself, that so small a craft would even live in such weather, much less be as comfortable as she is. But I don’t like that” continued I, as the comb of a tremendous sea came curling in over our bows, fairly smothering the little craft in foam for a moment, though she came up immediately afterwards, “shaking her feathers” like a duck. “I’m afraid one of these gentlemen will be starting our skylight or companion for us; and that would be a very serious matter.” “Never fear,” returned Bob confidently. “Our bit of a windlass and the mast breaks the force of it before it reaches the skylight. And that idee of yours in having it rounded at the fore end is a capital one; it turns the water off each side almost like the stem of a ship, besides bein’ stronger than a square-shaped consarn. At the same time, all this water coming in on deck don’t do no good if it don’t do no harm; but how’s it to be pervented?” “I have an idea,” said I, “and it’s worth a trial. It can do no harm, and if it fails we are no worse off than we were before.” So saying, I dived below and got out a bottle of oil, through the cork of which I bored three or four holes with a corkscrew, but left the cork in. To the neck of the bottle I made fast the end of about a fathom of marline, and then, going forward, I made fast the other end of the marline to one of the links of the chain-cable by which we were riding to our floating-anchor. I then sung out to Bob to give her a few fathoms more chain, and as he did so I hove the bottle overboard. In about five minutes the success of my experiment became manifest. The oil leaked slowly out through the holes I had bored in the cork, and, diffusing itself on the surface of the water, caused the seas to sweep by us either without breaking at all, or, if they did break, it was with such diminished force that no more water came on board. I had heard of “oil on troubled waters” before, but at the time that I did so I never expected to put its virtues to so thoroughly practical a test. We went below and got breakfast under weigh; and whilst discussing the meal, our conversation naturally turned upon the appearance of the Albatross. “There can be no question, I fear, as to its being that scoundrel Johnson and his gang of desperadoes,” said I, half hoping to hear Bob dispute the probability. But he was quite of my opinion. “No, no,” said he, “that’s the scamp, never a doubt of it. I noticed the name on his starn; but there warn’t no name of a port where he hails from, for the simple reason that he hails from nowhere in particular. Besides, a man with half an eye could tell by looking at that craft that she’s strong-handed. Depend on’t, Harry, there’s too many hammocks in her fo’c’stle for an honest trader. And, worst luck, she’s bound the same road as ourselves—at least, she’s going round the Horn; but a’ter she gets round it’s not so easy to say what course she may steer. We must hope she’s on the look-out for some stray Spaniard or other coming down the coast; for if we falls in with her ag’in, she’ll have some’at to say to us, mark my words.” “You surely do not suppose the man will condescend to give such a pigmy as ourselves a thought, do you?” “That’s just what he’s doing at this identical moment, it’s my opinion,” returned Bob. “He is not fool enough to suppose we’re down here somewheres off the Horn, in this cockle-shell, on a pleasure trip; and that we’re not come down here to trade he also knows pretty well, or we should have a craft big enough to stow away something like a paying cargo; and if we’re here for neither one nor t’other of them objects, he’ll want to know what we are here for; and, depend upon it, he won’t be happy till he’s found out. So take my advice, Harry, and, if we fall in with him again, let’s give him a wide berth.” “Decidedly; I shall do so if possible,” returned I. “But that may prove no such easy matter with so smart a vessel as he has under his feet.” “Not in heavy weather, certainly,” said Bob; “but give us weather in which we can carry a topsail, even if it’s no more nor a jib-header, and I’ll say, ‘Catch who catch can!’ Why, we can lay a good two pints closer to the wind than he can, and still keep a good clean full; and the square-rigged craft that can beat us in going to wind’ard must be an out-and-out flyer, and no mistake. We must keep a bright look-out, and not be caught napping, that’s all; and give everything a good wide berth till we’re pretty certain of what it is.” “Well,” said I, “I trust we shall not fall in with him again. The Pacific is a pretty big place, and it’s not so easy to find a craft in it when you don’t know where to look for her. If we do meet with him again, we must do all we can to avoid him, and hope for the best.” “Ay, ay,” returned Bob, “‘hope for the best and prepare for the worst’ is a good maxim for any man. It takes him clear of many a difficulty, and enables him to lay his course on the v’yage of life clean full, and with slack bowlines. As for this here Johnson, I’d ask nothing better than to have him just out of gun-shot under our lee, with a nice breeze, and not too much sea for the little Lily, and then let him catch us if he’s man enough for the job.” I certainly could not echo this wish of Bob’s; but it was satisfactory to find that he had such great confidence in the boat and in her ability to escape from the Albatross, so I allowed him to remain in undisturbed enjoyment of his own opinion, especially as it seemed to afford him considerable entertainment, and went on deck to take another look at the weather. There was no sign of the gale breaking; in fact, it seemed to be scarcely at its height, for away to windward it looked as dirty and as full of wind as ever; and the sea was something awful to contemplate. It looked, of course, worse to us than it would to those on the deck of a large ship; but even allowing for that, it was unquestionably running far higher than anything I had ever seen before. I have read somewhere that scientific men assert that even in the heaviest gales and in mid-ocean the sea never attains a greater height than twenty feet from trough to crest; but with all due respect to them and their science-founded opinions, I take leave to assert that they are in this instance mistaken. An intelligent sailor (and I modestly claim to be at least this much) is as capable of judging the height of a sea as the most scientific of mortals; and I am confident of this, that many of the seas I watched that morning ran as high as our cross-trees, which were a trifle over thirty feet above the surface of the water. Indeed, to satisfy myself thoroughly upon this point I climbed so high (with the utmost difficulty, and at very great risk of being blown overboard), and whilst looking over the cross-trees, I saw the crest of more than one sea rearing itself between my eye and the horizon. So far the Water Lily had weathered the gale scatheless; there was not so much as a ropeyarn out of its place or carried away; and as there seemed to be no greater danger than there had been through the night, and as I had taken a good look round when aloft without seeing anything, we both went below to enjoy the comfort of the cabin, for on deck everything was cold, wet, and dismal in the extreme. I was anxious to get a sight of the sun at noon, if possible, so as to ascertain our exact latitude. I knew we were not very far to the southward of Staten; and I did not know but there might be a current setting us toward it, in which case we might find ourselves very awkwardly situated. It looked half inclined to break away two or three times during the morning; but as mid-day approached it became as bad as ever, and I had the vexation of seeing noon pass by without so much as a momentary glimpse of the sun. Towards evening, therefore, I took advantage of an exceptionally clear moment, and again scrambled aloft and took a thorough good look all round, and especially to the northward. There was nothing in sight, and with this I was obliged to rest satisfied. We noticed just about this time that the seas were beginning to break on board again, so I concluded that our bottle of oil was exhausted, and accordingly got out another, and having bored holes in the cork, as I had done with the first, it was bent on to the cable, more cable paid out, and we again rode all the easier. Our anchor-light was trimmed and lighted and hoisted up, and we went below to our tea, or supper, as sailors generally term it. We had found the day dreadfully tedious, cooped up as we were in our low cabin, and a meal was a most welcome break in the monotony. We sat long over this one, therefore, prolonging it to its utmost extent; and when it was over, we both turned to and cleared up the wreck. By the time that all was done it was intensely dark; but, before settling down below for the night, we both put our heads up through the companion to take a last look round. Bob was rather beforehand with me, and he had no sooner put his head outside than he pulled it in again, exclaiming, in an awe-struck tone: “Look here, Harry; what d’ye think of this?” I looked in the direction he indicated, and there, upon our lower-mast-head, and also upon the trysail gaff-end, was a globe of pale, sickly green light, which wavered to and fro, lengthening out and flattening in again as the cutter tossed wildly over the mountainous seas. It had not the appearance of flame, but rather of highly luminous mist, brilliant at the core, and softening off and becoming more dim as the circumference of the globe was reached; and it emitted a feeble and unearthly light of no great power. I had never seen such a thing before, but I had often heard of it, and I recognised our strange visitors at once as corposants, or “lamps of Saint Elmo,” as they are called by the seamen of the Mediterranean; though our own sailors call them by the less dignified name of “Davy Jones’ lanterns.” “What d’ye think of bein’ boarded by the likes of that?” again queried Bob, in a hoarse whisper. “Old Davy is out on a cruise to-night, I reckon; and it looks as though he meant to pay us a visit, by his h’isting them two lanterns of his’n in our rigging. Did ye ever see anything like it afore, Harry, lad?” “Never,” replied I, “but I have often heard them spoken of, old man; and though they certainly are rather queer to look at, they are easily accounted for. I have heard, it said that they are the result of a peculiar electrical condition of the atmosphere, and that the electricity, attracted by any such points as the yard-arms or mast-heads of a ship, accumulates there until it becomes visible in the form we are now looking at.” “And is the light never visible except at the end of a spar?” queried Bob. “I believe not,” I replied; “but—” “Then sail ho!” exclaimed Bob excitedly, pointing in the direction of our starboard-bow. I looked in the direction he indicated, but was too late: we were on the very summit of a wave at the moment that Bob spoke, but were now settling into the trough. As we rose to the next sea, however, I not only saw the ghostly light, but also got an indistinct view of the ship herself. She was fearfully close, but appeared to be at the moment sheering away from us. She looked long enough for a three-masted vessel, but one mast only was standing, evidently the mainmast. The corposant appeared to have attached itself to the stump of her foremast, which had been carried away about fifteen or twenty feet from the deck, and I thought her bowsprit seemed also to be missing. She was scudding under close-reefed maintopsail, and, from her sluggish movements, was evidently very much overloaded, or, what I thought more probable, had a great deal of water in her. I was the more inclined to this opinion from the peculiar character of her motions. As she rose on the back of a sea, her stern seemed at first to be pinned down, as it were, until it appeared as though the following wave would run clean over her; but gradually her stern rose until it was a considerable height above the water, whilst her bow in its turn seemed weighed down, as would be the case with a large body of water rushing from aft forward. They evidently saw our light, for a faint hail of ”— ahoy!” came down the wind to us from her. “In distress and wants assistance, by the look of it,” remarked Bob. “But, poor chaps, it’s little of that we can give ’em. Heaven and ’arth! look at that, Harry.” As he spoke, the ship, which was rushing forward furiously on the back of a sea, suddenly sheered wildly to port, until she lay broadside-to; the crest of the sea overtook her, and, breaking on board her in one vast volume of wildly flashing foam, threw her down upon her beam-ends, and, as it swept over her, her mast declined more and more towards the water, until it lay submerged. Then, as we gazed in speechless horror at the dreadful catastrophe, a loud, piercing shriek rang out clear and shrill above the hoarse diapason of the howling tempest. She rolled completely bottom upwards, and then disappeared. “Broached to, and capsized!” ejaculated we both in the same breath. “Jump below, Bob, and rouse up a coil of line, whilst I get the life-buoys ready,” exclaimed I, after a single moment’s pause to collect my scattered faculties. In an instant I had all four of the buoys ready, and two of them bent on to the longest rope-ends I could lay my hands on, and, in another, that glorious Bob appeared with a coil of ratline on his shoulder and a lighted blue-light in his hand. The stops were cut and the ends of the coil cleared in no time, and the two remaining buoys bent on, while Bob held the blue-light aloft at arm’s length, for the double purpose of throwing the light as far as possible over the water, and also to indicate our whereabouts to any strong swimmer who might be struggling for his life among the mountain surges, and to guide him to our tiny ark of refuge. For nearly an hour did we peer anxiously into the gloom, in the hope of seeing some poor soul within reach of such assistance as it was in our power to afford, but in vain; there is no doubt that the vessel sucked all hands down with her when she sank into her watery grave. When at last we reluctantly desisted from our efforts, and were in the act of securing the lifebuoys once more, Bob cast his eyes aloft, and called my attention to the fact that the corposants had disappeared. “Depend on’t, Harry,” quoth he, “them lanterns didn’t come aboard of us for nothing. They mightn’t have meant mischief for us exactly—for you can’t always read Old Davy’s signs aright; but you see they did mean mischief, and plenty of it too, for they no sooner appears aloft than a fine ship and her crew goes down close alongside of us; and as soon as that bit of work was over, away they go somewhere else to light up the scene of further devilry, I make no manner of doubt.” It was utterly in vain that I attempted to argue the honest fellow out of his belief that their appearance was a portent of disaster, for his mind was deeply imbued with all those superstitious notions which appear to take such peculiarly firm hold on the ideas of sailors; and against superstitions of lifelong duration, argument and reason are of but little avail. As may readily be believed, our slumbers that night, after witnessing so distressing a scene, were anything but sound. Bob and I were up and down between the deck and the cabin at least half a dozen times before morning, and it was with a sense of unutterable relief that, as day broke, we found that the gale was breaking also. By the time that breakfast was over there was a sensible diminution in the force of the wind, and by noon it cleared away sufficiently overhead to enable me to get an observation, not a particularly good one certainly—the sea was running far too high for that; but it enabled me to ascertain that we were at least sixty miles to the southward of Staten. About four p.m. I got a very much better observation for my longitude, and I found by it that our drift had not been anything like so great as I had calculated it would be. This I thought might possibly arise from our being in a weather-setting current. There was still rather too much of both wind and sea to make us disposed to get under way that night, but we managed to get the craft up to the buoy of our floating-anchor, which we weighed and let go again with five fathoms of buoy-rope. This was to prevent as much as possible any further drift to leeward, and to take full advantage of the current, the existence of which we suspected. Next morning, however, the weather had so far moderated that, tired of our long inaction, we resolved to make a start once more, so shaking the reefs out of the trysail, and rigging our bowsprit out far enough to set a small jib, we got our floating-anchor in, and stood away to the southward and westward, with the wind out from about west-nor’-west. <hr> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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