We had a glorious breeze that morning on the quarter; the long swell, which had been so smooth and glassy the day before, was broken into short waves, which came rushing, and curling, and bursting under the ship's counter; the sky was covered with light mackerel clouds; every stitch of canvas we could carry was spread; the sails were all asleep, and the ship snoring through the water;—there was every appearance of a steady breeze, and of continued fine weather. A little after mid-day, the captain came on deck, and said to the officer of the watch, "Mr Freeman, what do you think of the weather?"
Mr Freeman, with a look of surprise, replied, "I never saw a finer day, sir; and there is every appearance of a steady breeze."
"Well," said he, "that's my opinion too; yet the glass is falling rapidly. I do not understand it. Send for Mr Sneerwell." And the chief mate made his appearance. He agreed in thinking that there was no sign of change in the weather.
"Well," said the captain, "my glass has never deceived me yet, and I will believe it now against my own opinion, and in spite of favourable appearances. You will pipe to dinner, if you please; and, when the people have had their time, call the hands out to shorten sail."
"Ay, ay, sir! Pipe to dinner!"
The breeze began gradually to freshen; and, by the time we had swallowed our dinner, we were glad to get our stunsails and lofty sails in as fast as possible. A small dark cloud had appeared on the weather-beam, which gradually spread and spread, till the whole heaven was covered with an ominous darkness, and the wind increased so rapidly that there was barely time to execute the orders which followed each other in quick succession from the quarterdeck. Before one reef was taken in in the topsails, it was time to take in another; the courses were reefed, the mainsail furled, the topgallantyards sent on deck. Before midnight, we were under reefed foresail and close-reefed driver; and, before the morning watch, were hove to under stormstaysails. Tom had exerted himself greatly during the gale; and, when aloft in the maintop, had been struck on the temple by one of the points of the topsail which was shaking in the wind while reefing. The blow, though from so small a rope, had stunned him; and, when he recovered, he was obliged to be assisted down to his cot, where the doctor took a good quantity of blood from him. About this time, an epidemic disorder had shown itself among the crew, which spread rapidly, and in a short time our sick list amounted to six or seven-and-twenty. At first, the disease was not fatal; but, after a time, death followed in its footsteps, and the mortality became quite alarming and dispiriting to the survivors of the crew. The only officer who was seized with the disorder was my friend Tom, who had hardly recovered from the weakening effect of loss of blood, and whose constitution had been much shaken by severe illness abroad. Long and doubtful was the struggle between life and death; but at length the crisis of the disease was over, and he began slowly to recover. Oh! how often did I vow, while watching by his sick-bed, and bathing his burning hands and brow, never again to go to sea with one for whom I felt more than a common regard! I thought it would be almost better to renounce the communion of intimate friendship altogether, than again to expose myself to the risk of such grief as I now felt in the prospect of losing my friend. Tom did no more duty for the remainder of the passage of five weeks, and was still very feeble when we arrived in the Downs. During that time, however, he used often to come on deck in my watch; and, if there were no particular ship's duty going on, we indulged in long conversations about the past, and in pleasant anticipations of the future. But, on whatever topic our conversations might commence, they always ended in the same subject—L—— Manse and its inmates. Kate Fotheringham, Kate Fotheringham, was the everlasting theme of Tom's tongue; even if I had never seen her, I might almost have painted her picture from his vivid descriptions of her.
"You forget, Tom," I have often said, "that I have seen this paragon of yours; you need not give me such a minute description of her."
"You have seen her, Harry! I always see her; her image is in my heart. It is out of the fulness of my heart that my mouth speaks. Oh! let me talk of her—the very sound of her name is like music to my ear. Kate, Kate Fotheringham—is it not a sweet name, Harry?"
"The name is pretty enough; but, my dear fellow, you are allowing your passion to run away with your senses altogether. For her sake, as well as your own, you must endeavour to restrain the violence of your feelings, which, in the present enfeebled state of your health, might produce fatal effects."
"Fatal!" said he—"nothing can be fatal to me as long as Kate Fotheringham's love remains to me. But, oh Harry! if I were to lose that, what would become of me?"