The surprise caused by the disappearance of the strange vessel is but
short-lived; explained by that very natural phenomenon--a fog. Not the
haze already spoken of; but a dense bank of dark vapour that, drifting
over the surface of the sea, has suddenly enveloped the barque within
its floating folds.
It threatens to do the same with the frigate--as every sailor in her can
perceive. But though their wondering is at an end, a sense of undefined
fear still holds possession of them. Nor is this due to the fast
approaching fog. That could not frighten men who have dared every
danger of the deep, and oft groped their way through icy seas shrouded
in darkness almost amorphous.
Their fears spring from the old fancy, that the other phenomena are not
natural. The fog of itself may be; but what brings it on, just then, at
a crisis, when they were speculating about the character of the chased
vessel, some doubting her honesty, others sceptical of her reality, not
a few boldly pronouncing her as a phantom? If an accident of nature,
certainly a remarkable one.
The reader may smile at credulity of this kind; but not he who has mixed
among the men of the forecastle, whatever the nationality of the ship,
and whether merchantmen or man-of-war. Not all the training of naval
schools, nor the boasted enlightenment of this our age, has fully
eradicated from the mind of the canvas-clad mariner a belief in
something more than he has seen, or can see--something _outside_ nature.
To suppose him emancipated from this would be to hold him of higher
intelligence than his fellow-men, who stay ashore ploughing the soil, as
he does the sea. To thousands of these he can point, saying: "Behold
the believers in supernatural existences--in spirit-rappings--ay, in
very ghosts; this not only in days gone by, but now--now more than ever
within memory of man!" Then let not landsmen scoff at such fancies, not
a whit more absurd than their own credence in spiritualism.
Aside from this sort of feeling in the warship, there is a real and far
more serious cause for apprehension, in which all have a share--officers
as men. A fog is before their eyes, apparently drifting towards them.
It has curtained the other vessel, spreading over her like a pall, and
will surely do the same with their own. They perceive, also, that it is
not a fog of the ordinary kind, but one that portends storm, sudden and
violent. For they are threatened by the _black squall_ of the Pacific.
Enough in its name to cause uneasiness about the safety of their ship;
though not of her are they thinking. She is a strong vessel, and can
stand the sea's buffetings. Their anxiety is more for their shipmates,
whose peril all comprehend. They know the danger of the two vessels
getting separated in a fog. If they should, what will be the fate of
those who have gone aboard the barque? The strange craft had been
signalling distress. Is it scarcity of provisions, or want of water?
In either case she will be worse off than ever. It cannot be shortness
of hands to work her sails, with these all set! Sickness then? Some
scourge afflicting her crew--cholera, or yellow fever? Something of the
kind seems probable, by the lieutenant sending back for the doctor--and
the doctor only.
Conjecturing ends, and suddenly. The time for action has arrived. The
dark cloud comes driving on, and is soon around the ship, lapping her in
its damp murky embrace. It clings to her bulwarks, pours over her
canvas still spread, wetting it till big drops clout down upon the deck.
It is no longer a question of the surgeon starting forth on his errand
of humanity, nor the cutter returning to the becalmed barque. There
would be no more likelihood of discovering the latter, than of finding a
needle in a stack of straw. In such a fog, the finest ship that ever
sailed sea, with the smartest crew that ever vessel carried, would be
helpless as a man groping his way in dungeon darkness.
There is no more thought of the barque, and not much about the absent
officers. Out of sight, they are for a time almost out of mind. For on
board the frigate every one has enough to do looking after himself and
his duties. Almost on the instant of her sails being enveloped in
vapour, they are struck by a strong wind, coming from a quarter directly
opposite to that for which they have been hitherto set.
The voice of her commander, heard thundering through a trumpet, directs
all canvas to be instantly taken in.
The order is executed with the promptness peculiar to a man-of-war; and
soon after, the huge ship is tossing amid tempestuous waves, with only
storm-sails set.
A ship under storm-canvas is a sight always melancholy to the mariner.
It tells of a struggle with wind and wave, a serious conflict with the
elements, which may well cause anxiety.
And such is the situation of the British frigate, soon as surrounded by
the fog. The sea, lately tranquil, is now madly raging; the waves
tempest-lashed, their crests like the manes of white horses going in
headlong gallop. Amid them the huge war-vessel, but the moment before
motionless--a leviathan, apparently the sea's lord--is now its slave,
and soon may be its victim. Dancing like a cork, she is buffeted from
billow to billow, or bounding into the trough between, as if cast there
in scorn.
The frigate's crew is now fully occupied taking care of her, without
time to think about any other vessel--even one flying a flag of
distress. Ere long they may have to hoist the same signal themselves.
But there are skilled seamen aboard, who well know what to do--who watch
and ward every sea that comes sweeping along. Some of these tumble the
big ship about, till the steersmen feel her going almost regardless of
the rudder.
There are but two courses left for safety, and her captain weighs the
choice between them. He must "lie to," and ride out the gale, or "scud"
before it. To do the latter may take him away from the strange vessel--
now no longer seen--and she may never be sighted by them again. Ten
chances to one if she ever would; for _she_ may not elect to run down
the wind. Even if she did, there would be but slight hope of
overhauling her--supposing the storm to continue for any considerable
time. The probabilities are that she will lie to. As the naval
lieutenant will no doubt have control, he would order her sails to be
taken in. Surely he will not think of parting from that spot.
Thus reflecting, the frigate's captain determines upon "lying to," and
keep as near the place as possible. Everything has been made snug, and
the ship's head set close to wind.
Still, aboard of her, brave hearts are filled with fears and
forebodings, not for themselves, but the safety of their shipmates on
the barque. Both of the absent officers are favourites with their
comrades of the quarter, as with the crew. So too the coxswain who
accompanies them. What will be their fate?
All are thinking of it, though no one offers a surmise. No one can tell
to what they have committed themselves. 'Tis only sure, that in the
tempest now raging there must be danger to the stranger craft, without
counting that signalised by the reversed ensign--without thought of the
mystery already enwrapping her. The heart of every one on board the
warship is beating with humanity, as pulsing with pent-up fear. And
while the waves are pitching her almost on her beam-ends--while winds
are rattling loud amidst her rigging--a yet louder sound mingles with
their monotone. It is given out at regularly measured intervals: for it
is the _minute-gun_ which the frigate has commenced firing--not as a
signal of distress, asking for assistance, but one of counsel and cheer,
seeking to give it. Every sixty seconds, amidst the wild surging of
waves, and the hoarse howling of winds, the louder boom of cannon breaks
their harsh continuity.
The night comes down, adding to the darkness, though not much to the
dilemma in which the frigate is placed. The fog and storm combined have
already made her situation dangerous as might be; it could not well be
worse.
Both continue throughout the night. And on through it all she keeps
discharging her signal-guns, though no one thinks of listening for a
response. In all probability there is no cannon aboard the barque--
nothing that could give it.
Close upon the hour of morning, the storm begins to abate, and the
clouds to dissipate. The fog seems to be lifting, or drifting off to
some other part of the ocean.
And with hope again dawning comes the dawn of day. The frigate's
people--every man of them, officers and tars--are upon deck. They stand
along the ship's sides, ranged in rows by the bulwarks, looking out
across the sea. There is no fog now--not the thinnest film. The sky is
clear as crystal, and blue as a boat-race ribbon fresh unfolded; the sea
the same, its big waves no longer showing sharp white crests, but
rounded, and rolling lazily along. Over these the sailors look,
scanning the surface. Their gaze is sent to every quarter--every point
of the compass. The officers sweep the horizon with their glasses,
ranging around the circle where the two blues meet. But neither naked
eye nor telescope can discover aught there. Only sea and sky; an
albatross with pinions of grand spread, or a tropic bird, its long
tail-feathers trailing train-like behind it. No barque, polacca-rigged
or otherwise--no ship of any kind--no sign of sail--no canvas except a
full set of "courses" which the frigate herself has now set. She is
alone upon the ocean--in the mighty Pacific--a mere speck upon its
far-stretching illimitable expanse.
Every man upon the war-vessel is imbued with a strange sense of sadness.
But all are silent--each inquiring of himself what has become of the
barque, and what the fate of their shipmates.
One alone is heard speaking aloud, giving expression to a thought,
seeming common to all. It is the sailor who twice uttered the
prediction, which, for the third time, he repeats, now as the assertion
of a certainty. To the group gathered around him he says:--
"Shipmates, we'll never see that lieutenant again, nor the young reefer,
nor the old cox--never!"