A Ship sailing down the Pacific, on the line of longitude 125 degrees
West. Technically speaking, not a _ship_, but a _barque_, as may be
told by her mizzen-sails, set fore and aft.
Of all craft encountered on the ocean, there is none so symmetrically
beautiful as the _barque_. Just as the name looks well on the page of
poetry and romance, so is the reality itself on the surface of the sea.
The sight is simply perfection.
And about the vessel in question another graceful peculiarity is
observable: her masts are of the special kind called _polacca_--in one
piece from step to truck.
Such vessels are _common enough_ in the Mediterranean, and not rare in
Spanish-American ports. They may be seen at Monte Video, Buenos Ayres,
and Valparaiso--to which last this barque belongs. For she is Chilian
built; her tall tapering masts made of trees from the ancient forests of
Araucania. Painted upon the stern is the name _El Condor_; and she is
the craft commanded by Captain Antonio Lantanas.
This may seem strange. In the harbour of San Francisco the _Condor_ was
a ship. How can she now be a barque?
The answer is easy, as has been the transformation; and a word will
explain it. For the working of her sails, a barque requires fewer hands
than a ship. Finding himself with a short crew, Captain Lantanas has
resorted to a stratagem, common in such cases, and converted his vessel
accordingly. The conversion was effected on the day before leaving San
Francisco; so that the _Condor_, entering the Golden Gate a ship, stood
out of it a barque. As such she is now on the ocean, sailing southward
along the line of longitude 125 degrees West. In the usual track taken
by sailing-vessels between Upper California and the Isthmus, she has
westered, to get well clear of the coast, and catch the regular winds,
that, centuries ago, wafted the spice-laden Spanish galleons from the
Philippines to Acapulco. A steamer would hug the shore, keeping the
brown barren mountains of Lower California in view. Instead, the
_Condor_ has sheered wide from the land; and, in all probability, will
not again sight it till she's bearing up to Panama Bay.
It is the middle watch of the night--the first after leaving San
Francisco. Eight bells have sounded, and the chief mate is in charge,
the second having turned in, along with the division of crew allotted to
him. The sea is tranquil, the breeze light, blowing from the desired
quarter, so that there is nothing to call for any unusual vigilance.
True, the night is dark, but without portent of storm. It is, as Harry
Blew knows, only a thick rain-cloud, such as often shadows this part of
the Pacific.
But the darkness need not be dreaded. They are in too low a latitude to
encounter icebergs; and upon the wide waters of the South Sea there is
not much danger of collision with ships.
Notwithstanding these reasons for feeling secure, the chief officer of
the _Condor_ paces her decks with a brow clouded, as the heavens over
his head; while the glance of his eye betrays anxiety of no ordinary
kind. It cannot be from any apprehension about the weather. He does
not regard the sky, nor the sea, nor the sails. On the contrary, he
moves about, not with bold, manlike step, as one having command of a
vessel, but stealthily, now and then stopping and standing in crouched
attitude, within the deeper shadow thrown upon the decks by masts,
bulwarks, and boats. He seems less to occupy himself about the ropes,
spars, and sails, than the behaviour of those who work them. Not while
they are working them either, but more when they are straying idly along
the gangways, or clustered in some corner, and conversing. In short, he
appears to be playing spy on them.
For this he has his reasons. And for all good ones. Before leaving
port he had discovered the incapacity of the crew, so hastily scraped
together. A bad lot, he could see at first sight--rough, ribald, and
drunken. In all there are eleven of them, the second mate included; the
last, as already stated, a Spaniard, by name Padilla. There are three
others of the same race--Spaniards, or Spanish-Americans--Gil Gomez,
Jose Hernandez, and Jacinto Velarde; two Englishmen, Jack Striker and
Bill Davis; a Frenchman, by name La Crosse; a Dutchman, and a Dane; the
remaining two being men whose nationality is difficult to determine, and
scarce known to themselves--such as may be met on almost every ship that
sails the sea.
The chief officer of the _Condor_, accustomed to a man-o'-war, with its
rigid discipline, is already disgusted with what is going on aboard the
merchantman. He was so before leaving San Francisco, having also some
anxiety about the navigation of the vessel. With a crew so incapable,
he anticipated difficulty, if not danger. But now that he is out upon
the open ocean, he is sure of the first, and keenly apprehensive of the
last. For, in less than a single day's sailing, he has discovered that
the sailors, besides counting short, are otherwise untrustworthy.
Several of them are not sailors at all, but "longshore" men; one or two
mere "land-lubbers," who never laid hand upon a ship's rope before
clutching those of the _Condor_. With such, what chance will there be
for working the ship in a storm? But there is a danger he dreads far
more than the mismanagement of ropes and sails--insubordination. Even
thus early, it has shown itself among the men, and may at any moment
break out into open mutiny. All the more likely from the character of
Captain Lantanas, with which he has become well acquainted.
The Chilian skipper is an easy-going man, given to reading books of
natural history, and collecting curiosities--as evinced by his brace of
Bornean apes, and other specimens picked up during his trading trip to
the Indian Archipelago. A man in every way amiable, but just on this
account the most unfitted to control a crew, such as that he has shipped
for the voyage to Valparaiso.
Absorbed in his studies, he takes little notice of them, leaving them in
the hands, and to the control, of his _piloto_, Harry Blew.
But the ex-man-o'-war's man, though a typical British sailor, is not one
of the happy-go-lucky kind. He has been entrusted with something more
than the navigation of the Chilian ship--with the charge of two fair
ladies in her cabin; and although these have not shown themselves on
deck, he knows they are safe, and well waited on by the black cook; who
is also steward, and who, under his rough sable skin, has a kindly,
gentle heart.
It is when thinking of his cabin passengers, that the _Condor's_ first
officer feels apprehensive, and then not from the incapacity of her
sailors, but their bold, indeed almost insolent, behaviour. Their
having shown something of this at first might have been excusable, or at
all events, capable of explanation. They had not yet sobered down.
Fresh from the streets of San Francisco, so lawless and licentious, it
could not be expected. But most of them have been now some days
aboard--no drink allowed them save the regular ration, with plenty of
everything else. Kind treatment from captain and mate, and still they
appear scowling and discontented, as if the slightest slur--an angry
word, even a look--would make mutiny among them.
What can it mean? What do the men want?
A score of times has Harry Blew thus interrogated himself, without
receiving satisfactory answer. It is to obtain this, he is now gliding
silently about the decks, and here and there concealing himself in
shadow, with the hope of overhearing some speech that will give him
explanation of the conspiracy--if conspiracy it be.
And in this hope he is not deceived or disappointed, but successful
beyond his most sanguine expectations. For he at length obtains a clue,
not _only_ to the insubordination of the sailors, but all else that has
been puzzling him.
And a strange problem it is, its solution appalling.
He gets the latter while standing under a piece of sailcloth, spread
from the rail to the top of the round-house--rigged up by the carpenter
as a sun screen, while doing some work during the heat of the day, and
so left. The sky being now starless and pitch-black, with this
additional obstruction to light, Harry Blew stands in obscurity
impenetrable to the eye. A man passing, so close as almost to touch,
could not possibly see him.
Nor is he seen by two men, who, like himself, sauntering about, have
come to a stop under the spread canvas. Unlike him, however, they are
not silent, but engaged in conversation, in a low tone, still loud
enough for him to hear every word said. And to every one he listens
with interest so engrossing, that his breath is well nigh suspended.
He understands what is said; all the easier from their talk being
carried on in English--his own tongue. For they who converse are Jack
Striker and Bill Davis.
And long before their dialogue comes to a close, he has not only
obtained intelligence of what has hitherto perplexed him, but gets a
glimpse of something beyond--that which sets his hair on end, almost
causing the blood to curdle in his veins.