“She rights! she rights, boys! ware off shore!”
_Song._
The extraordinary activity of Griffith, which communicated itself with
promptitude to the crew, was produced by a sudden alteration in the
weather. In place of the well-defined streak along the horizon, that has
been already described, an immense body of misty light appeared to be
moving in, with rapidity, from the ocean, while a distinct but distant
roaring announced the sure approach of the tempest that had so long
troubled the waters. Even Griffith, while thundering his orders through
the trumpet, and urging the men, by his cries, to expedition, would
pause, for instants, to cast anxious glances in the direction of the
coming storm; and the faces of the sailors who lay on the yards were
turned, instinctively, towards the same quarter of the heavens, while
they knotted the reef-points, or passed the gaskets that were to confine
the unruly canvas to the prescribed limits.
The pilot alone, in that confused and busy throng, where voice rose
above voice, and cry echoed cry, in quick succession, appeared as if he
held no interest in the important stake. With his eye steadily fixed
on the approaching mist, and his arms folded together in composure, he
stood calmly waiting the result.
The ship had fallen off, with her broadside to the sea, and was
become unmanageable, and the sails were already brought into the folds
necessary to her security, when the quick and heavy fluttering of canvas
was thrown across the water, with all the gloomy and chilling sensations
that such sounds produce, where darkness and danger unite to appall the
seaman.
“The schooner has it!” cried Griffith: “Barnstable has held on, like
himself, to the last moment.--God send that the squall leave him cloth
enough to keep him from the shore!”
“His sails are easily handled,” the commander observed, “and she must be
over the principal danger. We are falling off before it, Mr. Gray; shall
we try a cast of the lead?”
The pilot turned from his contemplative posture, and moved slowly across
the deck before he returned any reply to this question--like a man who
not only felt that everything depended on himself, but that he was equal
to the emergency.
“'Tis unnecessary,” he at length said; “'twould be certain destruction
to be taken aback; and it is difficult to say, within several points,
how the wind may strike us.”
“'Tis difficult no longer,” cried Griffith; “for here it comes, and in
right earnest!”
The rushing sounds of the wind were now, indeed, heard at hand; and
the words were hardly past the lips of the young lieutenant, before the
vessel bowed down heavily to one side, and then, as she began to move
through the water, rose again majestically to her upright position, as
if saluting, like a courteous champion, the powerful antagonist with
which she was about to contend. Not another minute elapsed, before
the ship was throwing the waters aside, with a lively progress, and,
obedient to her helm, was brought as near to the desired course as the
direction of the wind would allow. The hurry and bustle on the yards
gradually subsided, and the men slowly descended to the deck, all
straining their eyes to pierce the gloom in which they were enveloped,
and some shaking their heads, in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the
apprehensions they really entertained. All on board anxiously waited for
the fury of the gale; for there were none so ignorant or inexperienced
in that gallant frigate, as not to know that as yet they only felt the
infant effects of the wind. Each moment, however, it increased in power,
though so gradual was the alteration, that the relieved mariners began
to believe that all their gloomy forebodings were not to be realized.
During this short interval of uncertainty, no other sounds were heard
than the whistling of the breeze, as it passed quickly through the mass
of rigging that belonged to the vessel, and the dashing of the spray
that began to fly from her bows, like the foam of a cataract.
“It blows fresh,” cried Griffith, who was the first to speak in that
moment of doubt and anxiety; “but it is no more than a capful of wind
after all. Give us elbow-room, and the right canvas, Mr. Pilot, and I'll
handle the ship like a gentleman's yacht, in this breeze.”
“Will she stay, think ye, under this sail?” said the low voice of the
stranger.
“She will do all that man, in reason, can ask of wood and iron,”
returned the lieutenant; “but the vessel don't float the ocean that will
tack under double-reefed topsails alone, against a heavy sea. Help
her with her courses, pilot, and you shall see her come round like a
dancing-master.”
“Let us feel the strength of the gale first,” returned the man who was
called Mr. Gray, moving from the side of Griffith to the weather gangway
of the vessel, where he stood in silence, looking ahead of the ship,
with an air of singular coolness and abstraction.
All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the frigate, when
her anchor was secured, and as the first mist of the gale had passed
over, it was succeeded by a faint light that was a good deal aided by
the glittering foam of the waters, which now broke in white curls around
the vessel in every direction. The land could be faintly discerned,
rising like a heavy bank of black fog above the margin of the waters,
and was only distinguishable from the heavens by its deeper gloom and
obscurity. The last rope was coiled, and deposited in its proper place,
by the seamen, and for several minutes the stillness of death pervaded
the crowded decks. It was evident to every one, that their ship
was dashing at a prodigious rate through the waves; and as she was
approaching, with such velocity, the quarter of the bay where the shoals
and dangers were known to be situated, nothing but the habits of the
most exact discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers and
men within their own bosoms. At length the voice of Captain Munson was
heard, calling to the pilot:
“Shall I send a hand into the chains, Mr. Gray,” he said, “and try our
water?”
Although this question was asked aloud, and the interest it excited drew
many of the officers and men around him, in eager impatience for his
answer, it was unheeded by the man to whom it was addressed. His head
rested on his hand, as he leaned over the hammock-cloths of the vessel,
and his whole air was that of one whose thoughts wandered from the
pressing necessity of their situation. Griffith was among those who had
approached the pilot; and after waiting a moment, from respect, to hear
the answer to his commander's question, he presumed on his own rank, and
leaving the circle that stood at a little distance, stepped to the side
of the mysterious guardian of their lives.
“Captain Munson desires to know whether you wish a cast of the lead?”
said the young officer, with a little impatience of manner. No immediate
answer was made to this repetition of the question, and Griffith laid
his hand unceremoniously on the shoulder of the other, with an intent
to rouse him before he made another application for a reply, but the
convulsive start of the pilot held him silent in amazement.
“Fall back there,” said the lieutenant, sternly; to the men, who were
closing around them in compact circle; “away with you to your stations,
and see all clear for stays.” The dense mass of heads dissolved, at this
order, like the water of one of the waves commingling with the ocean,
and the lieutenant and his companions were left by themselves.
“This is not a time for musing, Mr. Gray,” continued Griffith; “remember
our compact, and look to your charge--is it not time to put the vessel
in stays? of what are you dreaming?”
The pilot laid his hand on the extended arm of the lieutenant, and
grasped it with a convulsive pressure, as he answered:
“'Tis a dream of reality. You are young, Mr. Griffith, nor am I past the
noon of life; but should you live fifty years longer, you never can
see and experience what I have encountered in my little period of
three-and-thirty years!”
A good deal astonished at this burst of feeling, so singular at such a
moment, the young sailor was at a loss for a reply; but as his duty
was uppermost in his thoughts, he still dwelt on the theme that most
interested him.
“I hope much of your experience has been on this coast, for the ship
travels lively,” he said, “and the daylight showed us so much to dread,
that we do not feel over-valiant in the dark. How much longer shall we
stand on, upon this tack?”
The pilot turned slowly from the side of the vessel, and walked towards
the commander of the frigate, as he replied, in a tone that seemed
deeply agitated by his melancholy reflections:
“You have your wish, then; much, very much of my early life was passed
on this dreaded coast. What to you is all darkness and gloom, to me is
as light as if a noon-day sun shone upon it. But tack your ship, sir,
tack your ship; I would see how she works before we reach the point
where she _must_ behave well, or we perish.”
Griffith gazed after him in wonder, while the pilot slowly paced the
quarter-deck, and then, rousing from his trance, gave forth the cheering
order that called each man to his station, to perform the desired
evolution. The confident assurances which the young officer had given to
the pilot respecting the qualities of his vessel and his own ability to
manage her, were fully realized by the result. The helm was no sooner
put a-lee, than the huge ship bore up gallantly against the wind, and,
dashing directly through the waves, threw the foam high into the air,
as she looked boldly into the very eye of the wind; and then, yielding
gracefully to its power, she fell off on the other tack, with her head
pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had so recently approached
with such terrifying velocity. The heavy yards swung round, as if they
had been vanes to indicate the currents of the air; and in a few moments
the frigate again moved, with stately progress, through the water,
leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side of the bay, but
advancing towards those that offered equal danger on the other.
During this time the sea was becoming more agitated, and the violence
of the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no longer whistled amid
the cordage of the vessel, but it seemed to howl, surlily, as it passed
the complicated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path. An
endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy billows, and
the very air was glittering with the light that was disengaged from the
ocean. The ship yielded, each moment, more and more before the storm,
and in less than half an hour from the time that she had lifted her
anchor, she was driven along with tremendous fury by the full power of a
gale of wind. Still the hardy and experienced mariners who directed
her movements held her to the course that was necessary to their
preservation, and still Griffith gave forth, when directed by their
unknown pilot, those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where
alone safety was to be found.
So far, the performance of his duty appeared easy to the stranger, and
he gave the required directions in those still, calm tones, that formed
so remarkable a contrast to the responsibility of his situation. But
when the land was becoming dim, in distance as well as darkness, and the
agitated sea alone was to be discovered as it swept by them in foam, he
broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the tempest with the sounds of
his voice, seeming to shake off his apathy, and rouse himself to the
occasion.
“Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith,” he cried; “here we
get the true tide and the real danger. Place the best quartermaster of
your ship in those chains, and let an officer stand by him, and see that
he gives us the right water.”
“I will take that office on myself,” said the captain; “pass a light
into the weather main-chains.”
“Stand by your braces!” exclaimed the pilot, with startling quickness.
“Heave away that lead!”
These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis, and every
officer and man stood in fearful silence, at his assigned station,
awaiting the issue of the trial. Even the quartermaster at the cun gave
out his orders to the men at the wheel, in deeper and hoarser tones than
usual, as if anxious not to disturb the quiet and order of the vessel.
While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, the piercing cry of
the leadsman, as he called “By the mark seven,” rose above the tempest,
crossed over the decks, and appeared to pass away to leeward, borne on
the blast like the warnings of some water-spirit.
“'Tis well,” returned the pilot, calmly; “try it again.”
The short pause was succeeded by another cry, “And a half-five!”
“She shoals! she shoals!” exclaimed Griffith: “keep her a good full.”
“Ay! you must hold the vessel in command, now,” said the pilot, with
those cool tones that are most appalling in critical moments because
they seem to denote most preparation and care.
The third call, “By the deep four,” was followed by a prompt direction
from the stranger to tack.
Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot, in issuing the
necessary orders to execute this manoeuvre.
The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into which she had
been forced by the tempest, and the sails were shaking violently, as if
to release themselves from their confinement, while the ship stemmed
the billows, when the well-known voice of the sailing-master was heard
shouting from the forecastle:
“Breakers! breakers, dead ahead!”
This appalling sound seemed yet to be lingering about the ship, when a
second voice cried:
“Breakers on our lee bow!”
“We are in a bite of the shoals, Mr. Gray,” cried the commander. “She
loses her way; perhaps an anchor might hold her.”
“Clear away that best bower!” shouted Griffith through his trumpet.
“Hold on!” cried the pilot, in a voice that reached the very hearts of
all who heard him; “hold on everything.”
The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger who thus defied the
discipline of his vessel, and at once demanded:
“Who is it that dares to countermand my orders? Is it not enough that
you run the ship into danger, but you must interfere to keep her there?
If another word----”
“Peace, Mr. Griffith,” interrupted the captain, bending from the
rigging, his gray locks blowing about in the wind and adding a look
of wildness to the haggard care that he exhibited by the light of his
lantern; “yield the trumpet to Mr. Gray; he alone can save us.”
Griffith threw his speaking-trumpet on the deck, and as he walked
proudly away, muttered in bitterness of feeling:
“Then all is lost, indeed! and among the rest the foolish hopes with
which I visited this coast.”
There was, however, no time for reply; the ship had been rapidly running
into the wind, and as the efforts of the crew were paralyzed by the
contradictory orders they had heard, she gradually lost her way, and in
a few seconds all her sails were taken aback.
Before the crew understood their situation the pilot had applied the
trumpet to his mouth, and in a voice that rose above the tempest, he
thundered forth his orders. Each command was given distinctly, and with
a precision that showed him to be master of his profession. The helm
was kept fast, the head-yards swung up heavily against the wind, and the
vessel was soon whirling round on her heel, with a retrograde movement.
Griffith was too much of a seaman not to perceive that the pilot
had seized, with a perception almost intuitive, the only method that
promised to extricate the vessel from her situation. He was young,
impetuous, and proud--but he was also generous. Forgetting his
resentment and his mortification, he rushed forward among the men, and,
by his presence and example, added certainty to the experiment. The
ship fell off slowly before the gale, and bowed her yards nearly to the
water, as she felt the blast pouring its fury on her broadside, while
the surly waves beat violently against her stern, as if in reproach at
departing from her usual manner of moving.
The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady and calm, and
yet so clear and high as to reach every ear; and the obedient seamen
whirled the yards at his bidding in despite of the tempest, as if they
handled the toys of their childhood. When the ship had fallen off dead
before the wind, her head-sails were shaken, her after-yards trimmed,
and her helm shifted, before she had time to run upon the danger that
had threatened, as well to leeward as to windward. The beautiful fabric,
obedient to her government, threw her bows up gracefully towards the
wind again; and, as her sails were trimmed, moved out from among the
dangerous shoals, in which she had been embayed, as steadily and swiftly
as she had approached them.
A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the accomplishment of
this nice manoeuvre, but there was no time for the usual expressions of
surprise. The stranger still held the trumpet, and continued to lift
his voice amid the howlings of the blast, whenever prudence or skill
required any change in the management of the ship. For an hour longer
there was a fearful struggle for their preservation, the channel
becoming at each step more complicated, and the shoals thickening around
the mariners on every side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quick
eye of the pilot seemed to pierce the darkness with a keenness of vision
that exceeded human power. It was apparent to all in the vessel that
they were under the guidance of one who understood the navigation
thoroughly, and their exertions kept pace with their reviving
confidence. Again and again the frigate appeared to be rushing blindly
on shoals where the sea was covered with foam, and where destruction
would have been as sudden as it was certain, when the clear voice of
the stranger was heard warning them of the danger, and inciting them
to their duty. The vessel was implicitly yielded to his government;
and during those anxious moments when she was dashing the waters aside,
throwing the spray over her enormous yards, each ear would listen
eagerly for those sounds that had obtained a command over the crew that
can only be acquired, under such circumstances, by great steadiness and
consummate skill. The ship was recovering from the inaction of changing
her course, in one of those critical tacks that she had made so often,
when the pilot, for the first time, addressed the commander of the
frigate, who still continued to superintend the all-important duty of
the leadsman.
“Now is the pinch,” he said, “and if the ship behaves well, we are
safe--but if otherwise, all we have yet done will be useless.”
The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains at this portentous
notice, and calling to his first lieutenant, required of the stranger an
explanation of his warning.
“See you yon light on the southern headland?” returned the pilot; “you
may know it from the star near it?--by its sinking, at times, in the
ocean. Now observe the hummock, a little north of it, looking like a
shadow in the horizon--'tis a hill far inland. If we keep that light
open from the hill, we shall do well--but if not, we surely go to
pieces.”
“Let us tack again,” exclaimed the lieutenant.
The pilot shook his head, as he replied:
“There is no more tacking or box-hauling to be done tonight. We have
barely room to pass out of the shoals on this course; and if we can
weather the 'Devil's Grip,' we clear their outermost point--but if not,
as I said before, there is but an alternative.”
“If we had beaten out the way we entered,” exclaimed Griffith, “we
should have done well.”
“Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so,” returned the pilot,
calmly. “Gentlemen, we must be prompt; we have but a mile to go, and the
ship appears to fly. That topsail is not enough to keep her up to the
wind; we want both jib and mainsail.”
“'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvas in such a tempest!” observed the
doubtful captain.
“It must be done,” returned the collected stranger; “we perish without
it--see the light already touches the edge of the hummock; the sea casts
us to leeward.”
“It shall be done,” cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet from the hand of
the pilot.
The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as soon as issued;
and, everything being ready, the enormous folds of the mainsail were
trusted loose to the blast. There was an instant when the result was
doubtful; the tremendous threshing of the heavy sail seemed to bid
defiance to all restraint, shaking the ship to her centre; but art and
strength prevailed, and gradually the canvas was distended, and bellying
as it filled, was drawn down to its usual place by the power of a
hundred men. The vessel yielded to this immense addition of force, and
bowed before it like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the
measure was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger, that seemed to
burst from his inmost soul.
“She feels it! she springs her luff! observe,” he said, “the light opens
from the hummock already: if she will only bear her canvas we shall go
clear.”
A report, like that of a cannon, interrupted his exclamation, and
something resembling a white cloud was seen drifting before the wind
from the head of the ship, till it was driven into the gloom far to
leeward.
“'Tis the jib, blown from the bolt-ropes,” said the commander of the
frigate. “This is no time to spread light duck--but the mainsail may
stand it yet.”
“The sail would laugh at a tornado,” returned the lieutenant; “but the
mast springs like a piece of steel.”
“Silence all!” cried the pilot. “Now, gentlemen, we shall soon know our
fate. Let her luff--luff you can!”
This warning effectually closed all discourse, and the hardy mariners,
knowing that they had already done all in the power of man to insure
their safety, stood in breathless anxiety, awaiting the result. At a
short distance ahead of them the whole ocean was white with foam, and
the waves, instead of rolling on in regular succession, appeared to be
tossing about in mad gambols. A single streak of dark billows, not half
a cable's length in width, could be discerned running into this chaos
of water; but it was soon lost to the eye amid the confusion of the
disturbed element. Along this narrow path the vessel moved more heavily
than before, being brought so near the wind as to keep her sails
touching. The pilot silently proceeded to the wheel, and, with his own
hands, he undertook the steerage of the ship. No noise proceeded from
the frigate to interrupt the horrid tumult of the ocean; and she
entered the channel among the breakers, with the silence of a desperate
calmness. Twenty times, as the foam rolled away to leeward, the crew
were on the eve of uttering their joy, as they supposed the vessel past
the danger; but breaker after breaker would still heave up before them,
following each other into the general mass, to check their exultation.
Occasionally, the fluttering of the sails would be heard; and when the
looks of the startled seamen were turned to the wheel, they beheld the
stranger grasping its spokes, with his quick eye glancing from the water
to the canvas. At length the ship reached a point where she appeared
to be rushing directly into the jaws of destruction, when suddenly her
course was changed, and her head receded rapidly from the wind. At the
same instant the voice of the pilot was heard shouting:
“Square away the yards!--in mainsail!”
A general burst from the crew echoed, “Square away the yards!” and,
quick as thought, the frigate was seen gliding along the channel before
the wind. The eye had hardly time to dwell on the foam, which seemed
like clouds driving in the heavens, and directly the gallant vessel
issued from her perils, and rose and fell on the heavy waves of the sea.
The seamen were yet drawing long breaths, and gazing about them like
men recovered from a trance, when Griffith approached the man who had so
successfully conducted them through their perils. The lieutenant grasped
the hand of the other, as he said:
“You have this night proved yourself a faithful pilot, and such a seaman
as the world cannot equal.”
The pressure of the hand was warmly returned by the unknown mariner, who
replied:
“I am no stranger to the seas, and I may yet find my grave in them.
But you, too, have deceived me; you have acted nobly, young man, and
Congress----”
“What of Congress?” asked Griffith, observing him to pause.
“Why, Congress is fortunate if it has many such ships as this,” said the
stranger, coldly, walking away toward the commander.
Griffith gazed after him a moment in surprise; but, as his duty required
his attention, other thoughts soon engaged his mind.
The vessel was pronounced to be in safety. The gale was heavy and
increasing, but there was a clear sea before them; and as she slowly
stretched out into the bosom of the ocean, preparations were made for
her security during its continuance. Before midnight, everything was in
order. A gun from the Ariel soon announced the safety of the schooner
also, which had gone out by another and an easier channel, that the
frigate had not dared to attempt; when the commander directed the usual
watch to be set, and the remainder of the crew to seek their necessary
repose.
The captain withdrew with the mysterious pilot to his own cabin.
Griffith gave his last order; and renewing his charge to the officer
instructed with the care of the vessel, he wished him a pleasant
watch, and sought the refreshment of his own cot. For an hour the young
lieutenant lay musing on the events of the day. The remark of Barnstable
would occur to him, in connection with the singular comment of the boy;
and then his thoughts would recur to the pilot, who, taken from the
hostile shores of Britain, and with her accent on his tongue, had served
them so faithfully and so well. He remembered the anxiety of Captain
Munson to procure this stranger, at the very hazard from which they had
just been relieved, and puzzled himself with conjecturing why a pilot
was to be sought at such a risk. His more private feelings would then
resume their sway, and the recollection of America, his mistress, and
his home, mingled with the confused images of the drowsy youth. The
dashing of the billows against the side of the ship, the creaking of
guns and bulkheads, with the roaring of the tempest, however, became
gradually less and less distinct, until nature yielded to necessity, and
the young man forgot even the romantic images of his love, in the deep
sleep of a seaman.