The officer of the deck, who had been roaring up angry imprecations to the "lazy lubbers" on the yard to "make haste and get in that sail," jumped back toward the wheel. Carrying the press of canvas she was then under, the Macedonian was making not far from thirteen or fourteen knots, and almost directly before the wind. It was no laughing matter to bring her up all standing, as it were; and though men were jumping here and there, hauling and heaving with the added strength that comes from the dread cry "Man overboard!" it was almost five minutes before the great ship had headed up, and during that time she had left the spot where the poor lad had gone down, by a mile and more. The Lieutenant, when he had given his first order, had thrown overboard one of the boat's gratings, and this had been followed by one of the chicken coops on the forecastle. With the squall coming down upon her, and the stiff wind increasing every minute, the Macedonian lurched up and down, almost burying her nose in the roaring, tumbling sea. Every one was on deck.
"'Tis no use trying to lower away a boat now, Mr. Edwards," observed Captain Stewart. "'Twould be only risking the lives of brave men. Stand by for a few minutes and keep sharp lookout." Although it was blowing hard, the air was filled with a thick, gray mist, and the sky now appeared to close down upon the water. It was a lonely, fearful place for a man to be out there in the waste of the waters, fighting for his life. It was a lonely, fearful feeling for men to have who must leave him there. And they all knew him well; they liked him, for he was a cheerful, laughing lad. The old sailor who had been on the yard arm with him had descended to the deck. He was telling it breathlessly to the men gathered about him.
"Why," said he, "I hollers to him to be careful when the sail fetched away. It was just as if the yard tried to fling him off like that." He snapped his fingers at arm's length.
A man who was standing on one of the anchor-flukes well forward suddenly pointed out to leeward. The English frigate, that had been last seen holding a course due west, was now, evidently, engaged in making all snug for the coming blow. She had heaved to, and was now lying with topsail aback, rearing and plunging,—sometimes pitching down until her hull was completely hidden in the hollows of the seas. The mist had blown away. A clear, shadowless, distance-killing light succeeded it. It was hard to tell whether the frigate was two miles off, or whether she was a little toy boat in the near perspective. But the heaving water that lay between the ships, crossed with its lines of white, rolling foam, was no toy thing. It had an angry, spiteful look. It was pitiless, and yet had lost the dread that it held when hidden in the treacherous half-gloom of the mist.
But why had the English frigate come up into the wind? All hands had rushed to the side. It was almost as if they had forgotten the frightful cause of their own delaying. Soon all was understood. There was a tiny, white speck drifting to the southward of the English vessel. It would heave to the top of a great sea and disappear again.
"One of their boats is out!" roared the man who was standing forward, using his hands for a trumpet.
The officers on the quarter-deck had now sighted both the vessel and the little object far astern of her. The First Lieutenant was squinting through the glass and talking excitedly.
"Egad, sir, I can make it out; there's a man clinging to a cask or something just to leeward of that cutter. There are eight good men in that boat, I can tell you," he added, "but I think they have lost sight of him."
The lashings of the whaleboat, which most American vessels carried, had been cast loose some time before. The Captain touched the Lieutenant on the arm.
"He's as near to us as he is to them; call away the whaleboat," he said quietly; and then, turning to a young, boyish-looking officer,—one of the senior midshipmen,—he said, "Mr. Emmett, you will go with her."