In the latter, one has all the excitement of a battle with the elements; in the former, one can but wait and think and long for the winds to blow.
“The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free.”
Yes; but although in the region of calms some ships seem to have luck, the Sea Flower had none.
“Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
’Twas sad as sad could be;
And they did speak only to break
The silence of the sea.”
A week, a fortnight, nearly three weary weeks went past like this.
There was no singing now forward among the men. Even little Fitz the nigger, who generally was trolling a song, at times high over the roar of the wind, was silent now. So, too, was Ransey Tansey. He and Nelda had been before the life of the good ship. It seemed as if they should never be so again. Bob took to lying beside the man at the wheel. As far as the latter was concerned, there might just as well have been no man there at all. The sea all round was a sea of heaving oil. The waves were houses high—not long rollers, but a series of hills and valleys, in which the Sea Flower wallowed and tumbled; while the fierce heat of the sun caused the pitch to melt and bubble where the decks were not protected by an awning.
The motion of the good ship was far indeed from agreeable. Any seaman can walk easily even when half a gale of wind is roaring through the rigging. There is a method in the motion of a ship in such a sea-way. There is no method in the motion of a vessel in the doldrums; and when one puts one’s foot down on the quarterdeck, or, rather, where it seemed to be a second before, it finds but empty space. The body lurches forward, and the deck swings up to receive it. A grasp at a stay or sheet alone can avert a fall.
In such a sea-way there is no longer any leeward or windward. The sails go flapping to and fro, however: they are making wind for themselves as the vessel rolls and tumbles; and if this wind carries her forward a few yards one minute, it hurls her back again the next.
No wonder Nelda often asked her father if the wind would never, never blow again, or whether it would be always, always like this.
No birds either, save now and then a migrant gull that floated lazily on a wave to rest, or perched on the fin of a basking shark.