Standing in his accustomed place on the iron floor of the iron chamber,
Edgar Berrington watched the grinding of the great crank, and pondered.
He had now been many weeks at sea, and had not once spoken a word to
Aileen--had not even seen her more than half-a-dozen times in the far
vista of the quarter-deck. Each Sabbath-day, indeed, dressed like his
former self, he had worshipped with her in the same saloon, but on these
occasions he had kept carefully in the background, had crept quietly
down after the others had assembled, had kept in the shadow of the door,
and had left before the worshippers had time to rise.
An event, however, was now pending, which was destined to remove his
present difficulties in a very unexpected manner, and to saddle on the
shoulders of Charles Hazlit, Esquire, difficulties which he had never in
all his previous business calculations taken into account.
During most part of the voyage out to China Mr Hazlit's visage had
presented a sea-green aspect, edged with yellow. The great Demon of the
sea had seized upon and held him with unwonted avidity and perseverance.
It appeared to regard him as fair game--as one whose life had been
largely devoted to ploughing up its peculiar domain--or rather, inducing
others to plough there--and who was therefore worthy of special
attention. At all events, the wealthy merchant did not appear
above-board until the lapse of two weeks after leaving his native land.
At the end of that period something like the ghost of him crawled on
deck one rather fine day, but a demoniac squall rudely sent him below,
where he remained until those charming regions of the Equatorial calms
were entered. Here a bad likeness--a sort of spoiled photograph--of him
again made its appearance, and lay down helplessly on a mattress, or
smiled with pathetic sarcasm when food was offered. But soon the calm
regions were passed; the Cape of Storms was doubled, and the fierce
"south-easters" of the Indian seas were encountered, during which period
Mr Hazlit passed away, as one of the things that _had_ been, from the
memory of all on board, with the exception of Aileen, the captain, the
bed-room steward, and a Christian pastor, who, with his amiable wife,
had done much during the voyage for their fellow-passengers.
At last, when the shores of China were approached, and people began to
talk earnestly about the end of the voyage, Mr Hazlit's shade once more
made its appearance, with a spot of dark red on each cheek and on the
point of his nose. These spots were hopefully regarded as signs of
returning health. They did not appear too soon, for the shade would
infallibly have vanished altogether if it had been subjected to further
attenuation.
"Oh, papa dear, you look so _much_ better to-day!" said Aileen,
arranging his shawls as he lay on deck--"quite rosy."
If she had said port-winy it would have been more in accordance with
truth, but Aileen was rather apt to diverge from truth, unintentionally,
in speaking of her father.
"I am thankful, dear," replied the shade in a faint voice, and with a
fainter smile. "The captain says we shall be in port in a few days, and
then we shall be all right, and--"
"Ha! Shall you?" exclaimed the Demon of the sea, giving the ship a
little lurch to starboard, which cut short the merchant's remarks
abruptly; "you think so, do you? Ho! We shall see!"
Following up this inaudible speech with one of those audible howls for
which demons are so justly celebrated, he went off in a gust of wind,
and summoned to his aid one of those simooms, or monsoons, or typhoons
which are in the habit of ravaging the southern seas.
These spirits, quickly obeying the summons, sent not only Mr Hazlit but
many of the other passengers to their berths, blew into ribbons the few
sails that chanced to be hoisted, boiled up the sea as if in a huge
caldron, caused the blackened sky to mingle with the world of waters,
rent the firmament with gleaming fire and crashing thunder, and hissed
or yelled everywhere in the spirit of wildest revelry.
The _Warrior_ was a splendid steamer, and her commander an able seaman,
but neither splendour of material nor power of mind can avert what is
decreed.
The storm was prolonged, and raged with unwonted fury, the captain did
his best, the good ship behaved nobly, and things went well until the
night of the third day. It was at that time so very dark that nothing
could be seen farther off than a few yards beyond the bulwarks, where
the white-crested waves loomed high in air in a sort of ghostly fashion
as if they meant to fall on the deck unawares and sink the ship.
The passengers had by degrees got used to the mad plunging and rolling
of their iron home, and even the timid among them began to feel hopeful
that after all the gale would be weathered, and the harbour gained.
What the captain thought no one could tell. He remained on the bridge
night and day, clad from head to foot in oil-skin garments, facing the
furious blast as if it were his native air, watching every motion of his
vessel, and gazing intently into the world of ebony ahead as if trying
to read his fate there.
The darkness around was almost palpable. Sometimes it seemed as if the
vessel were rushing against a mighty rock, that towered high above the
masts, but this was only optical illusion, or, perhaps, a denser
storm-cloud than usual passing by, for the steamer continued to plough
her onward way unchecked, save, now and then, by the bursting on her
bows of a monster billow, which caused her to quiver from stem to stern,
and swept the decks with green seas fore and aft. One such sea had
carried away part of the bulwarks, and swept overboard all the loose
material on the decks. Presently, there was a slight diminution in the
force of the seas. The captain noted this, and gave orders to get the
lead ready to heave.
Deep in the iron chambers below, Edgar Berrington stood--not in his
wonted dreamy mood, beside the great crank, but close to the
steering-wheel of the engine,--alert, steady, with his hand on the
wheel, his eye on the index.