"What boat is it to be, sir?"
This question is asked by the first lieutenant, who has followed the
captain to the quarter.
"The cutter," replies his superior; "there seems no need, Mr Black, to
send anything larger, at least till we get word of what's wanted.
Possibly it's a case of sickness--scurvy or something. Though that
would be odd too, seeing how the barque keeps her canvas spread. Very
queer altogether!"
"Is the doctor to go?"
"He needn't, till we've heard what it is. He'd only have to come back
for his drugs and instruments. You may instruct him to be getting them
ready. Meanwhile, let the boat be off, and quick. When they bring back
their report we'll see what's to be done. The cutter's crew will be
quite sufficient. As to any hostility from those on board the stranger,
that's absurd. We could blow her out of the water with a single
broadside."
"Who's to command the boat, sir?"
The captain reflects, with a look cast inquiringly around. His eye
falls upon the third lieutenant, who stands near, seemingly courting the
glance.
It is short and decisive. The captain knows his third officer to be a
thorough seaman; though young, capable of any duty, however delicate or
dangerous. Without further hesitation he assigns him to the command of
the cutter.
The young officer enters upon the service with alacrity--as if moved by
something more than the mere obedience due to discipline. He hastens to
the ship's side to superintend the lowering of the boat. Nor does he
stand at rest, but is seen to help and hurry it, with a look of restless
impatience in his eye, and the shadow still observable on his brow.
While thus occupied, he is accosted by another officer, one yet younger
than himself--the midshipman already mentioned.
"Can I go with you?" the latter asks, as if addressing an equal.
"Certainly, my dear fellow," responds the lieutenant, in like familiar
tone. "I shall be only too pleased to have you. But you must get the
captain's consent."
The young reefer glides aft, sees the frigate's commander upon the
quarterdeck, and saluting, says:
"Captain, may I go with the cutter?"
"Well, yes," responds the chief; "I have no objection." Then, after
taking a survey of the youngster, he adds, "Why do you wish it?"
The youth blushes, without replying. There is a cast upon his
countenance that strikes the questioner, somewhat puzzling him. But
there is no time either for further inquiry or reflection. The cutter
has been lowered, and rests upon the water. Her crew is crowding into
her; and she will soon be moving off from the ship.
"You can go, lad," assents the captain. "Report yourself to the third
lieutenant, and tell him I have given you leave. You're young, and,
like all youngsters, ambitious of gaining glory. Well; in this affair
you won't have much chance. I take it. It's simply boarding a ship in
distress, where you're more likely to be a spectator to scenes of
suffering. However, that will be a lesson for you; therefore you can
go."
Thus authorised, the mid hurries away from the quarterdeck, drops down
into the boat, and takes seat alongside the lieutenant, already there.
"Shove off!" commands the latter; and with a push of boat-hook, and
plashing of oars, the cutter parts from the ship's side, cleaving the
water like a knife.
The two vessels still lie becalmed, in the same relative position to one
another, having changed from it scarce a cable's length. And stem to
stern, just as the last breath of the breeze, blowing gently against
their sails, forsook them.
On both, the canvas is still spread, though not bellied. It hangs limp
and loose, giving an occasional flap, so feeble as to show that this
proceeds not from any stir in the air, but the mere balancing motion of
the vessels. For there is now not enough breeze blowing to flout the
long feathers in the tail of the Tropic bird, seen soaring aloft.
Both are motionless; their forms reflected in the water, as if each had
its counterpart underneath, keel to keel.
Between them, the sea is smooth as a mirror--that tranquil calm which
has given to the Pacific its distinctive appellation. It is now only
disturbed, where furrowed by the keel of the cutter, with her stroke of
ten oars, five on each side. Parting from the frigate's beam, she is
steering straight for the becalmed barque.
On board the man-of-war all stand watching her--their eyes at intervals
directed towards the strange vessel. From the frigate's forward-deck,
the men have an unobstructed view, especially those clustering around
the head. Still there is nearly a league between, and with the naked
eye this hinders minute observation. They can but see the white-spread
sails, and the black hull underneath them. With a glass the flag, now
fallen, is just distinguishable from the mast along which it clings
closely. They can perceive that its colour is crimson above, with blue
and white underneath--the reversed order of the Chilian ensign. Its
single star is no longer visible, nor aught of that heraldry, which
spoke so appealingly. But if what they see fails to furnish them with
details, these are amply supplied by their excited imaginations. Some
of them can make out men aboard the barque--scores, hundreds! After
all, she may be a pirate, and the upside-down ensign a decoy. On a
tack, she might be a swifter sailer than she has shown herself before
wind; and, knowing this, has been but "playing possum" with the frigate.
If so, God help the cutter's crew?
Besides these conjectures of the common kind, there are those on the
frigate's fore-deck who, in very truth, fancy the polacca to be a
spectre. As they continue gazing, now at the boat, now at the barque,
they expect every moment to see the one sink beneath the sea; and the
other sail off, or melt into invisible air! On the quarter, speculation
is equally rife, though running in a different channel. There the
captain still stands surrounded by his officers, each with glass to his
eye, levelled upon the strange craft. But they can perceive nought to
give them a clue to her character; only the loose flapping sails, and
the furled flag of distress.
They continue gazing till the cutter is close to the barque's beam. For
then do they observe any head above the bulwarks, or face peering
through the shrouds!
The fancy of the forecastle seems to have crept aft among the officers.
They, too, begin to feel something of superstitious fear--an awe of the
uncanny!