“Well, Tabor, what d’ye see?” was the general inquiry.
“Why,” said Tabor, coolly rolling the quid from his weather to his lee cheek, “I see a cussed old barque that looks like Granny Howland’s wash-tub, with a few broomsticks rigged up in the middle of it.”
“Pull, you devils!” cried our headsman; “there’s duff in the cook’s coppers.”
“Yes! I think I smell it,” said Tabor.
It was nearly dark when we arrived alongside of the barque with our prize; but what was our surprise to find that the starboard and larboard boats had killed five whales between them! They were all of a small size, and did not average more than fifteen barrels each.
That night not a breath of air ruffled the clear, broad ocean as it swelled beneath and around us, forming a multitude of mirrors that reflected all the beauties of the splendid canopy above. The moon arose with unusual brilliancy. It was a night for the winged spirits of the air. I enjoyed a melancholy pleasure in walking the decks beneath the soft moonbeams, thinking of past times. Silence reigned over the deep. The calm, broad ocean presented a beautiful simile of repose, and the light, shadowy clouds floated motionless in the air, as if in awe of the mighty wilderness of waters beneath them. A clear, silvery light beamed over the glassy swell; and far away the moon’s rays, casting their soft and delicate glow over the whole scene, gradually vanished in a dreamy haze upon the horizon. I gazed with pensive feelings upon this scene; so calm, so heavenly, so unrivaled in its loveliness; and I thought, with a sigh, of the coming day: the fiery, tropical sun; the heat and smoke of the try-works; and all the realities of a whaleman’s life. I have heard of the solitude of the desert; but what can compare with that of the ocean at such a time as this?
Never had the sea looked more beautiful than it did that night.
It was a source of pleasure to feel that, notwithstanding the wretched life I led, there were still left a few of the better feelings of my nature. A passage in the “Vision of Don Roderic” occurred to me as singularly expressive of the checkered fortunes of a seafarer. Well might I hope the light cloud which occasionally obscured the moon’s brightness might prove a happy omen of my future fate:
“Melting, as a wreath of snow it hangs