They Push Off, Velis Et Remis
And now to tell how, tempted by devil or good angel, and a thousand
miles from land, we embarked upon this western voyage.
It was midnight, mark you, when our watch began; and my turn at the
helm now coming on was of course to be avoided. On some plausible
pretense, I induced our solitary watchmate to assume it; thus leaving
myself untrammeled, and at the same time satisfactorily disposing of
him. For being a rather fat fellow, an enormous consumer of “duff,” and
with good reason supposed to be the son of a farmer, I made no doubt,
he would pursue his old course and fall to nodding over the wheel. As
for the leader of the watch—our harpooner—he fell heir to the nest of
old jackets, under the lee of the mizzen-mast, left nice and warm by
his predecessor.
The night was even blacker than we had anticipated; there was no trace
of a moon; and the dark purple haze, sometimes encountered at night
near the Line, half shrouded the stars from view.
Waiting about twenty minutes after the last man of the previous watch
had gone below, I motioned to Jarl, and we slipped our shoes from our
feet. He then descended into the forecastle, and I sauntered aft toward
the quarter-deck. All was still. Thrice did I pass my hand full before
the face of the slumbering lubber at the helm, and right between him
and the light of the binnacle.
Mark, the harpooneer, was not so easily sounded. I feared to approach
him. He lay quietly, though; but asleep or awake, no more delay. Risks
must be run, when time presses. And our ears were a pointer’s to catch
a sound.
To work we went, without hurry, but swiftly and silently. Our various
stores were dragged from their lurking-places, and placed in the boat,
which hung from the ship’s lee side, the side depressed in the water,
an indispensable requisite to an attempt at escape. And though at
sundown the boat was to windward, yet, as we had foreseen, the vessel
having been tacked during the first watch, brought it to leeward.
Endeavoring to manhandle our clumsy breaker, and lift it into the boat,
we found, that by reason of the intervention of the shrouds, it could
not be done without, risking a jar; besides straining the craft in
lowering. An expedient, however, though at the eleventh hour, was hit
upon. Fastening a long rope to the breaker, which was perfectly tight,
we cautiously dropped it overboard; paying out enough line, to insure
its towing astern of the ship, so as not to strike against the copper.
The other end of the line we then secured to the boat’s stern.
Fortunately, this was the last thing to be done; for the breaker,
acting as a clog to the vessel’s way in the water, so affected her
steering as to fling her perceptibly into the wind. And by causing the
helm to work, this must soon rouse the lubber there stationed, if not
already awake. But our dropping overboard the breaker greatly aided us
in this respect: it diminished the ship’s headway; which owing to the
light breeze had not been very great at any time during the night. Had
it been so, all hope of escaping without first arresting the vessel’s
progress, would have been little short of madness. As it was, the sole
daring of the deed that night achieved, consisted in our lowering away
while the ship yet clove the brine, though but moderately.
All was now ready: the cranes swung in, the lashings adrift, and the
boat fairly suspended; when, seizing the ends of the tackle ropes, we
silently stepped into it, one at each end. The dead weight of the
breaker astern now dragged the craft horizontally through the air, so
that her tackle ropes strained hard. She quivered like a dolphin.
Nevertheless, had we not feared her loud splash upon striking the wave,
we might have quitted the ship almost as silently as the breath the
body. But this was out of the question, and our plans were laid
accordingly.
“All ready, Jarl?”
“Ready.”
“A man overboard!” I shouted at the top of my compass; and like
lightning the cords slid through our blistering hands, and with a
tremendous shock the boat bounded on the sea’s back. One mad sheer and
plunge, one terrible strain on the tackles as we sunk in the trough of
the waves, tugged upon by the towing breaker, and our knives severed
the tackle ropes—we hazarded not unhooking the blocks—our oars were
out, and the good boat headed round, with prow to leeward.
“Man overboard!” was now shouted from stem to stern. And directly we
heard the confused tramping and shouting of the sailors, as they rushed
from their dreams into the almost inscrutable darkness.
“Man overboard! Man overboard!” My heart smote me as the human cry of
horror came out of the black vaulted night.
“Down helm!” was soon heard from the chief mate. “Back the main-yard!
Quick to the boats! How’s this? One down already? Well done! Hold on,
then, those other boats!”
Meanwhile several seamen were shouting as they strained at the braces.
“Cut! cut all! Lower away! lower away!” impatiently cried the sailors,
who already had leaped into the boats.
“Heave the ship to, and hold fast every thing,” cried the captain,
apparently just springing to the deck. “One boat’s enough. Steward;
show a light there from the mizzen-top. Boat ahoy!—Have you got that
man?”
No reply. The voice came out of a cloud; the ship dimly showing like a
ghost. We had desisted from rowing, and hand over hand were now hauling
in upon the rope attached to the breaker, which we soon lifted into the
boat, instantly resuming our oars.
“Pull! pull, men! and save him!” again shouted the captain.
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered Jarl instinctively, “pulling as hard as ever we
can, sir.”
And pull we did, till nothing could be heard from the ship but a
confused tumult; and, ever and anon, the hoarse shout of the captain,
too distant to be understood.
We now set our sail to a light air; and right into the darkness, and
dead to leeward, we rowed and sailed till morning dawned.