A Ship sailing down the Pacific, on the line of longitude 125 degrees West. Technically speaking, not a ship, but a barque, as may be told by her mizzen-sails, set fore and aft.
Of all craft encountered on the ocean, there is none so symmetrically beautiful as the barque. Just as the name looks well on the page of poetry and romance, so is the reality itself on the surface of the sea. The sight is simply perfection.
And about the vessel in question another graceful peculiarity is observable: her masts are of the special kind called polacca—in one piece from step to truck.
Such vessels are common enough in the Mediterranean, and not rare in Spanish-American ports. They may be seen at Monte Video, Buenos Ayres, and Valparaiso—to which last this barque belongs. For she is Chilian built; her tall tapering masts made of trees from the ancient forests of Araucania. Painted upon the stern is the name El Condor; and she is the craft commanded by Captain Antonio Lantanas.
This may seem strange. In the harbour of San Francisco the Condor was a ship. How can she now be a barque?
The answer is easy, as has been the transformation; and a word will explain it. For the working of her sails, a barque requires fewer hands than a ship. Finding himself with a short crew, Captain Lantanas has resorted to a stratagem, common in such cases, and converted his vessel accordingly. The conversion was effected on the day before leaving San Francisco; so that the Condor, entering the Golden Gate a ship, stood out of it a barque. As such she is now on the ocean, sailing southward along the line of longitude 125 degrees West. In the usual track taken by sailing-vessels between Upper California and the Isthmus, she has westered, to get well clear of the coast, and catch the regular winds, that, centuries ago, wafted the spice-laden Spanish galleons from the Philippines to Acapulco. A steamer would hug the shore, keeping the brown barren mountains of Lower California in view. Instead, the Condor has sheered wide from the land; and, in all probability, will not again sight it till she’s bearing up to Panama Bay.
It is the middle watch of the night—the first after leaving San Francisco. Eight bells have sounded, and the chief mate is in charge, the second having turned in, along with the division of crew allotted to him. The sea is tranquil, the breeze light, blowing from the desired quarter, so that there is nothing to call for any unusual vigilance.
True, the night is dark, but without portent of storm. It is, as Harry Blew knows, only a thick rain-cloud, such as often shadows this part of the Pacific.
But the darkness need not be dreaded. They are in too low a latitude to encounter icebergs; and upon the wide waters of the South Sea there is not much danger of collision with ships.
Notwithstanding these reasons for feeling secure, the chief officer of the Condor paces her decks with a brow clouded, as the heavens over his head; while the glance of his eye betrays anxiety of no ordinary kind. It cannot be from any apprehension about the weather. He does not regard the sky, nor the sea, nor the sails. On the contrary, he moves about, not with bold, manlike step, as one having command of a vessel, but stealthily, now and then stopping and standing in crouched attitude, within the deeper shadow thrown upon the decks by masts, bulwarks, and boats. He seems less to occupy himself about the ropes, spars, and sails, than the behaviour of those who work them. Not while they are working them either, but more when they are straying idly along the gangways, or clustered in some corner, and conversing. In short, he appears to be playing spy on them.