Philip remained below not more than half an hour. On his return to the deck, what a change had taken place! He had left the vessel floating motionless on the still waters, with her lofty sails hanging down listlessly from the yards. The moon then soared aloft in her beauty, reflecting the masts and sails of the ship in extended lines upon the smooth sea. Now all was dark: the water rippled short and broke in foam; the smaller and lofty sails had been taken in, and the vessel was cleaving through the water; and the wind, in fitful gusts and angry moanings, proclaimed too surely that it had been awakened up to wrath, and was gathering its strength for destruction. The men were still busy reducing the sails, but they worked gloomily and discontentedly. What Schriften, the pilot, had said to them, Philip knew not; but that they avoided him and appeared to look upon him with feelings of ill-will, was evident. And each minute the gale increased.
“The wind is not steady,” observed Hillebrant: “there is no saying from which quarter the storm may blow: it has already veered round five points. Philip, I don’t much like the appearance of things, and I may say with the captain that my heart is heavy.”
“And, indeed, so is mine,” replied Philip; “but we are in the hands of a merciful Providence.”
“Hard a-port! flatten in forward! brail up the trysail, my men! Be smart!” cried Kloots, as from the wind’s chopping round to the northward and westward, the ship was taken aback, and careened low before it. The rain now came down in torrents, and it was so dark that it was with difficulty they could perceive each other on the deck.
“We must clew up the topsails while the men can get upon the yards. See to it forward, Mr Hillebrant.”
The lightning now darted athwart the firmament, and the thunder pealed.
“Quick! quick, my men, let’s furl all!”
The sailors shook the water from their streaming clothes, some worked, others took advantage of the night to hide themselves away, and commune with their own fears.
All canvass was now taken off the ship, except the fore-staysail, and she flew to the southward with the wind on her quarter. The sea had now risen, and roared as it curled in foam, the rain fell in torrents, the night was dark as Erebus, and the wet and frightened sailors sheltered themselves under the bulwarks. Although many had deserted from their duty, there was not one who ventured below that night. They did not collect together as usual—every man preferred solitude and his own thoughts. The Phantom Ship dwelt on their imaginations and oppressed their brains.
It was an interminably long and terrible night—they thought the day would never come. At last the darkness gradually changed to a settled sullen grey gloom—which was day. They looked at each other, but found no comfort in meeting each other’s eyes. There was no one countenance in which a beam of hope could be found lurking. They were all doomed—they remained crouched where they had—sheltered themselves during the night, and said nothing.