Neither did the Haabet sail on the morrow, for the wind had chopped round to the south-west; neither did she sail the next day, for there was a dead calm;—there was plenty of time for leave-taking, and a leisurely journey to Christiansand besides, which was accomplished in the carioles—their last journey, as Tom feelingly remarked. The Captain arrived at Ullitz’s, a good hour behind the rest, who would not wait for the end of his last conference with Lilla Nordlingen.—They were, besides, a little anxious about the weather, for the season was somewhat advanced, and everything was so deadly calm, that it was quite evident a change of some sort was at hand.
What that change was, the next morning made manifest enough, for the wind was roaring round the house, and the rain pattering furiously against the windows long before the sun was up.
However, the old copper lion that surmounted the church had veered round again, and was turning his battle-axe towards England, and Jan Torgensen—Captain Torgensen we should call him now in virtue of his new command, and in truth he was not a little proud of the title himself,—came in just as a very sulky breakfast was completed, and announced, “that as the wind was fair, he did not care the scale of a herring how much there was of it, and that this night should be spent at sea.”
No one was sorry for this announcement, not even Birger, who was going back to Nordlingen’s, as he said, “in order to console Ariadne for the desertion of her faithless Theseus.” The pleasures of the summer had departed, and it was useless to linger over the scenes of past enjoyments. At Nordlingen’s perhaps the time might have passed pleasantly enough, notwithstanding the change of weather, but Christiansand has but few resources for a rainy day; and besides this, the very idea of a prolonged parting is depressing. Torkel was gone, and Tom was much too low for a story or a joke. There were, however, some marine difficulties—there always are; papers are never ready, and agents are always behind time, and thus, though every one was anxious to be off, and none less than Torgensen himself, who grudged every blast of the fair wind, it was full five o’clock before the anchor broke ground; and a cake, the last token of Marie’s affection, having been previously placed on the taffrail for Nyssen, the Haabet turned her stern to the blast, and set her fore-sail, and hoisted a couple of double reefed top-sails to receive it. The rain redoubled—certainly if Gammle Norgé had received them with smiles, she honoured their departure with tears.
The first thing that met the Captain’s eye, as he turned from waving the last farewell to Birger’s receding boat, was the pilot, roaring drunk already, and the mate supplying him with no end of additional brandy. He went forward to draw Torgensen’s attention to this apparently dangerous breach of naval discipline.
“Be quiet,” said Torgensen, in broken English, “the mate knows very well what he is about, I supplied him with the brandy myself. That drunken rascal is sure to get us into a scrape, if he has sense enough left in his drunken body to fancy he can take charge of the ship; and I am obliged, by law, to take him drunk or sober. As soon as he gets too drunk to interfere, which I am happy to say will be the case very shortly, I shall pilot my own ship, and I should think I ought to know how to take her out of Christiansand by this time—we all do that; in fact, these drunken pilots are nothing but an incumbrance.” And an incumbrance in this instance he proved, for, Torgensen having safely carried his brig to the mouth of the fjord, they were obliged to heave to for the pilot’s boat, which kept them waiting for a good hour more. The Parson suggested taking him to sea; but Torgensen swore he had had too much of him already.
It was long after dark, therefore, when they passed the lighthouse, which they did in a furious squall of wind and rain, and stood out to sea under close reefed top-sails and reefed fore-sail, with two men at the helm, the brig steering as wild as if the Nyssen were blowing on both quarters at once, but dashing away through it for all that, and heaping up the sea under her bluff bows.
The whole surface was one vast blaze of phosphoric light—the ship’s ragged wake was a track of wavering flame, the water that broke from her bows was a cataract of fire, a rope that was towing under her counter (Torgensen was not at all particular about these little matters), was ten times more visible than it would have been by broad daylight, for every strand in it was clearly defined by lines of delicate blue flame, while each breaking wave was a flash of brightness. The wind was as fair as it could be, and as they drew out from under the lee of the land, seemed enough to tear the sails from their bolt ropes.
“Hurrah for Nyssen!” shouted Torgensen; but he shouted a little too soon, for not an hour afterwards they were close hauled with a south-west wind, dead foul, dancing like a cork in a mill pond, on the top of a tumbling cross sea, and plodding along at barely three knots; not even looking up within four points of their course.
And the next day, and the next night, and the next, the same monotonous story; only as the wind settled to the south-west, the bubble went down, and it was not so difficult to walk the three steps and a half, which formed the Haabet’s quarter-deck.