As the boat draws nearer, and the faces of the two men seated in the stern-sheets can be distinguished, there is observed upon them an expression which none can interpret. No one tries. All stand silently waiting till the cutter comes alongside, and sweeping past the bows, brings up on the frigate’s starboard beam, under the main-chains.
The officers move forward along the gangway, and stand looking over the bulwarks; while the men come crowding aft, as far as permitted.
The curiosity of all receives a check—an abrupt disappointment. There is no news from the barque, save the meagre scrap contained in the lieutenant’s order: “Back to the ship, and bring the doctor.”
Beyond this the cutter’s crew only knew that they have seen the hairy men. Seen and heard them, though without understanding a word of what these said. Two had sprung upon the shrouds, and shouted at the cutter’s people, as if scolding them off!
The tale spreads through the frigate, fore and aft, quick as a train of powder ignited. It is everywhere talked of, and commented on. On the quarter, it is deemed strange enough; while forward, it further intensifies the belief in something supernatural.
The tars give credulous ear to one who cries out: “That’s a phantom ship—sure!”
Their other comrade repeats what he said in the boat, and in the self-same words:
“Shipmates, we may never see that lieutenant again, nor the young reefer, nor the old cox—never!”
The boding speech appears like a prophecy, on the instant realised. Scarce has it passed the sailor’s lips, when a cry rings through the frigate that startles all on board, thrilling them more intensely than ever.
While the men have been commenting upon the message brought back from the barque, and the officers are taking steps to hasten its execution—the doctor getting out his instruments, with such medicines as the occasion seems to call for—the strange vessel has been for a time unthought of.