Chapter Three.
The Gale.
Those who, standing on the pier, had witnessed the proud bearing of the Circassian as she gave her canvas to the winds, little contemplated her fate: still less did those on board; for confidence is the characteristic of seamen, and they have the happy talent of imparting their confidence to whomsoever may be in their company. We shall pass over the voyage, confining ourselves to a description of the catastrophe.
It was during a gale from the north-west, which had continued for three days, and by which the Circassian had been driven into the Bay of Biscay, that at about twelve o’clock at night, a slight lull was perceptible. The captain, who had remained on deck, sent down for the chief mate. “Oswald,” said Captain Ingram, “the gale is breaking, and I think before morning we shall have had the worst of it. I shall lie down for an hour or two; call me if there be any change.”
Oswald Bareth, a tall, sinewy-built, and handsome specimen of transatlantic growth, examined the whole circumference of the horizon before he replied. At last his eyes were steadily fixed to leeward: “I’ve a notion not, sir,” said he; “I see no signs of clearing off to leeward: only a lull for relief, and a fresh hand at the bellows, depend upon it.”
“We have now had it three days,” replied Captain Ingram, “and that’s the life of a summer gale.”
“Yes,” rejoined the mate; “but always provided that it don’t blow back again. I don’t like the look of it, sir; and have it back we shall, as sure as there’s snakes in Virginny.”
“Well, so be if so be,” was the safe reply of the captain. “You must keep a sharp look out, Bareth, and don’t leave the deck to call me; send a hand down.”