“Yes,” responded Leslie, good-naturedly. “Such chances do not, however, seem to come to whalers. Why, there blows another!” as a fourth whale broke water about a hundred yards on the brig’s starboard beam. “We seem to have fallen in with a whole school of them!”
And so indeed it proved, for within ten minutes there were no less than seventeen of the monsters in view at the same moment within a radius of a quarter of a mile of the brig, which craft appeared to possess a fascination for them; for they not only swam round and round her, but approached her so closely and so persistently that Miss Trevor became seriously alarmed; while even Leslie began to grow somewhat uneasy lest the brutes, whose temper he knew to be rather uncertain, should develop an inclination to attack the craft. To the relief, however, of all hands, the curiosity of the creatures at length appeared to be satisfied, and they drew off from the brig a little, still remaining upon the surface, however. And presently the huge brutes began to develop a playful disposition, that commenced with their chasing each other hither and thither, first of all in a leisurely manner, then, as their excitement grew, their rapidity of movement increased until they were rushing through the water—and round the brig—with the speed of a fleet of steamers. And finally they took to “breaching,” that is, throwing themselves completely out of the water, to a height of from ten to twenty feet, coming down again with a splash, that soon set the water boiling and foaming all round them, and creating a commotion that caused the brig to roll and pitch as though she were in a choppy sea. This exhibition of strength and activity lasted for a full three-quarters of an hour, when the creatures disappeared as suddenly as they had come, much, it must be confessed, to the relief of all hands aboard the brig.
From this time nothing of moment occurred until the Mermaid arrived off Staten Island, the eastern extremity of which she sighted at daylight on a cold, bleak morning some ten weeks after the date when Leslie and Miss Trevor had become members of her ship’s company. The weather had, in the interim, been fine upon the whole, with occasional calms and contrary winds; but, taking everything into consideration, Leslie felt that they had done by no means badly.
On this especial morning, however, appearances seemed to point to the probability that they were about to experience an unpleasant taste of typical Cape Horn weather. The sky was gloomy and overcast, the entire firmament being obscured by a thick pall of cold, leaden-hued cloud lying in horizontal layers, and presenting the appearance described by sailors as “greasy”—an appearance that usually forebodes plenty of wind and, not improbably, rain. The breeze was blowing fresh from the westward, having hauled round from the north-west during the night, and the brig was pounding through a short, lumpy sea under single-reefed topsails. The air was damp and raw, with a nip in it that sent everybody into their thick winter clothing, and called for a fire in the cabin stove; and the deck, as far aft as the waist, was streaming with water that had come in over the weather rail in the form of spray. Everybody on deck, except Miss Trevor, had donned sea boots and oilskins, and the only creature who appeared to enjoy the weather was Sailor, the dog, who trotted about the deck and through the heavy showers of spray with manifest delight. There was no hope whatever of getting a sight of the sun that day; but this was a matter of comparatively slight importance, since Leslie had very carefully taken the bearings of the land, and had thus been able to verify his reckoning.
As the day wore on the wind freshened perceptibly, while with every mile that the brig made to the southward the sea grew longer and heavier, and the air more bleak and nipping. At noon, when the watch was called, Leslie seized the opportunity to take a second reef in the topsails, and to haul up and furl the mainsail; an arrangement that was productive of an immediate change for the better, since the brig went along almost as fast as before, while she took the seas more easily, and was altogether drier and more comfortable. The barometer, however, was falling steadily; a circumstance that, combined with the look of the sky to windward, led Leslie to the conclusion that they were booked for a regular Cape Horn gale. All through the afternoon the weather steadily became more unpleasant, and about one bell in the first dog-watch, it came on to rain—a cold, heavy, persistent downpour—while the wind piped up so fiercely that Leslie decided to haul down the third reef in his topsails, brail up and stow the trysail, and take in the inner jib without further delay, thus snugging the brig down for the night.
The next morning dawned dark, gloomy, and so thick with driving rain that it was impossible to see anything beyond half a mile from the brig in any direction. But within that radius the scene was depressing enough, a steep, high sea of an opaque greenish-grey tint sweeping down, foam-capped and menacing, upon the brig from to windward, while the air was thick with spindrift and scudwater. The foresail had been taken in during the middle watch; and the brig was now under close-reefed topsails and fore-topmast staysail only, under which canvas she was making a bare three knots in the hour, leaving behind her a short wake that streamed out broad on her weather quarter. So unpleasant were the conditions that, except for brief intervals during the fore and afternoon, Miss Trevor remained below, whiling away the time as best she might with a book; disregarding Sailor’s importunate invitations to accompany him on deck.
Meanwhile the gale was steadily increasing, and between five and six bells in the afternoon watch the main-topsail suddenly split with a loud report, and immediately blew out of the bolt-ropes; with the result that, despite the utmost efforts of the helmsman, the brig at once fell off into the trough of the sea. Hearing the report, and the subsequent commotion on deck, Leslie, who had been snatching a little rest in his cabin, dashed up on deck and, taking in the position of affairs at a glance, gave orders for the fore topsail to be at once clewed up, and the spanker to be set; which being done, brought the brig once more to the wind, and extricated her from her dangerous situation. Then he ordered a new main-topsail to be at once brought on deck and bent; having no fancy for leaving the brig all night under such low and ineffective canvas as the spanker—a sail that, with the heavy sea then running, was half the time becalmed.
By the time that the remains of the burst main-topsail had been unbent, and the new sail brought on deck, it was eight bells, and all hands were set to work to bend the sail. This, under the existing weather conditions—with the wind blowing at almost hurricane strength, and the brig flung like a cork from trough to crest of the mountainous, furious-running sea, with wild weather rolls as the seas swept away from under her, succeeded by sickening rolls to leeward that at times laid her almost on her beam-ends as she climbed the lee slope of the next on-coming sea—was a long, difficult, and perilous job for the hands aloft; and Leslie heaved a sigh of relief when at length, having bent and close-reefed the sail, the little party laid in off the yard, and descended to the deck to assist in sheeting it home. This delicate job was happily accomplished without mishap; and, the trysail being brailed in and stowed, the brig was then hove-to under close-reefed main-topsail and fore-topmast staysail.
All through the night and the whole of the succeeding day the gale continued to rage furiously, and although the Mermaid proved herself to be an unexpectedly good sea-boat in such exceptionally heavy weather, riding easily the mountainous sea that was now running, she rolled with such terrific violence that it was impossible to move anywhere on board her, whether on deck or below, without incurring the risk of serious injury. As for Miss Trevor, acting on Leslie’s advice, she kept to her own cabin, and passed the disagreeable time in the comparative safety of her bunk, which she left only at meal times.
The morning of the fourth day brought with it a change. The gale broke about the time of sunrise, and soon afterwards the sky cleared, the canopy of cloud broke up, and drifted away to the eastward in tattered fragments, revealing a sky of hard pallid blue, in which the sun hung low like a ball of white fire. The sea went down somewhat, and no longer broke so menacingly, while it changed its colour from dirty green to steel-grey. Far away on the southern horizon a gleam of dazzling white betrayed the presence of a small iceberg, and the air was piercingly cold.