“All the same, it’s in sight, but you’re not a cat, Fielding. Mind your helm. The difference of a quarter of a point might sink the island for us by daybreak.”
He would then go to the binnacle and stand looking upon the card, address the helmsman, and after running his eyes over the canvas and stepping to the side, not to peer ahead like the men, but to judge of the rate of sailing by the passage of the sea fire through the deep shadow made by the hull, disappear through the companion way.
It was very dark at four o’clock in the morning, at which hour my watch ended. When eight bells were struck I went into the head and sunk my sight into the obscurity forward, running my gaze from beam to beam, for though it was very black there were stars sparely shining over the sea line, and by the obliteration of a handful of them might I guess the presence of land; but I saw nothing. I went aft and found Bol near the wheel and Greaves in the act of stepping through the hatchway. Eight bells had not long been chimed and the larboard watch had not yet gone below.
“While all hands are on deck reduce sail, Mr. Fielding,” said Greaves. “Take in your studding sails and ease her down to the main topgallant sail.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”
Nothing more was said. Yan Bol went forward, I remained aft, whence I delivered the necessary orders. The heavier canvas was rolled up by all hands; the watch was then called—that is to say, the larboard watch were sent below. Daybreak was still an hour off. I said to myself, if the island is hereabouts there will be plenty to do when daylight comes. Let me sleep while I can; and for the second time that night I withdrew to my cabin and lay down, “all standing,” ready for a call.
I slept well, and was awakened by a beating upon the door. The voice of the lad Jimmy called out:
“It’s eight bells, sir.”
“Any news of the island?” I cried.
I received no reply; in fact, the lad had run on deck the instant he had called the time to me. The berth was full of light and the glass of the scuttle was a trembling, brilliant, silver-blue disk, with the ocean splendor flowing to it. I stepped on deck, and the moment my head was clear of the companion way I beheld the island. It stood at a distance of about seven miles upon the lee or starboard bow. Greaves was pacing the deck, with his hands locked behind him and his head thoughtfully bent. Yan Bol stood in the gangway and all hands were forward breakfasting in the open; they grasped pannikins of steaming tea; they sawed with jack-knives at cubes of beef, blue with brine, locked by their hairy thumbs to biscuits, which served for trenchers; the muscles of their leather cheeks moved slowly as they chawed, chawed, chawed, cow-like; and cow-like still they moved their eyes slowly in their sockets to direct them at the island over the bow.