five minutes after, the frigate’s sails go flapping against the masts, and her flag hangs half-folded.
In five more, the canvas only shows motion by an occasional clout; while the bunting droops dead downward.
Within the ten, as her captain predicted, the huge warship lies motionless on the sea – its surface around her smooth as a swan-pond.
Chapter Two.
A Call for Boarders
The frigate is becalmed – what of the barque? Has she been similarly stayed in her course?
The question is asked by all on board the warship, each seeking the answer for himself. For all are earnestly gazing at the strange vessel regardless of their own condition.
Forward, the superstitious thought has become intensified into something like fear. A calm coming on so suddenly, just when they had hopes of overhauling the chase! What could that mean? Old sailors shake their heads, refusing to make answer; while young ones, less cautious of speech, boldly pronounce the polacca to be a spectre!
The legends of the Phantom Ship and Flying Dutchman are in their thoughts, and on their lips, as they stand straining their eyes after the still receding vessel; for beyond doubt she is yet moving on with waves rippling around her!
“As I told ye, mates,” remarks an old tar, “we’d never catch up with that craft – not if we stood after her till doomsday. And doomsday it might be for us, if we did.”
“I hope she’ll hold her course, and leave us a good spell behind,” rejoins a second. “It was a foolish thing followin’ her; for my part, I’ll be glad if we never do catch up with her.”
“You need have no fear about it,” says the first speaker. “Just look! She’s making way yet! I believe she can sail as well without a wind as with one.”
Scarce are the words spoken, when, as if to contradict them, the sails of the chased vessel commence clouting against the masts; while her flag falls folded, and is no longer distinguishable either as signal of distress, or any other. The breeze that failed the frigate is also now dead around the barque, which, in like manner, has been caught in the calm.
“What do you make her out, Mr Black?” asks the frigate’s captain of his first, as the two stand looking through their levelled glasses.
“Not anything, sir,” replies the lieutenant; “except that she should be Chilian from her colours. I can’t see a soul aboard of her. Ah, yonder! Something shows over the taffrail! Looks like a man’s head! It’s down again – ducked suddenly.”
A short silence succeeds, the commanding officer, busied with his binocular, endeavouring to catch sight of the thing seen by his subordinate. It does not appear again.
“Odd!” says the captain, resuming speech; “a ship running up signals of distress, at the same time refusing to be relieved! Very odd, isn’t it, gentlemen?” he asks, addressing himself to the group of officers now gathered around; who all signify assent to his interrogatory.
“There must be something amiss,” he continues. “Can any of you think what it is?”
To this there is a negative response. They are as much puzzled as himself – mystified by the strange barque, and more by her strange behaviour.
There are two, however, who have thoughts different from the rest – the third lieutenant, and one of the midshipmen. Less thoughts than imaginings; and these so vague, that neither communicates them to the captain, nor to one another. And whatever their fancies, they do not appear pleasant ones; since on the faces of both is an expression of something like anxiety. Slight and little observable, it is not noticed by their comrades standing around. But it seems to deepen, while they continue to gaze at the becalmed barque, as though due to something there observed. Still they remain silent, keeping the dark thought, if such it be, to themselves.
“Well, gentlemen,” says the commanding officer to his assembled subordinates, “I must say this is singular. In all my experience at sea, I don’t remember anything like it. What trick the Chilian barque – if she be Chilian – is up to, I can’t guess; not for the life of me. It cannot be a case of piracy. The craft has no guns; and if she had, she appears without men to handle them. It’s a riddle all round; to get the reading of which, we’ll have to send a boat to her.”
“I don’t think we’ll get a very willing crew, sir,” says the first lieutenant jestingly. “Forward, they’re quite superstitious about the character of the stranger. Some of them fancy her the Flying Dutchman. When the boatswain pipes for boarders, they’ll feel as if his whistle were a signal for them to walk the plank.”
The remark causes the captain to smile, as also the other officers; though two of the latter abstain from such cheerful demonstration – the third lieutenant and midshipman, already mentioned, on both of whose brows the cloud still sits, seeming darker than ever.
“It’s a very remarkable thing,” observes the commander, musingly, “how that sort of feeling still affects the forecastle! For your genuine British tar, who’ll board an enemy’s ship, crawling across the muzzle of a shotted gun, and has no fear of death in human shape, will act like a scared child when it threatens him in the guise of his Satanic majesty! I have no doubt, as you say, Mr Black, that our lads forward are a bit shy about boarding yonder vessel. Let me show you how to send their shyness adrift. I’ll do that with a single word!”
The captain steps forward, his subordinates following him. When within speaking distance of the fore-deck, he stops, and makes sign he has something to say. The tars are all attention.
“Men!” he exclaims, “you see that barque we’ve been chasing; and at her masthead a flag reversed – which you know to be a signal of distress? That is a call never to be disregarded by an English ship, much less an English man-of-war. Lieutenant! order a boat lowered, and the boatswain to pipe for boarders. Those of you who wish to go, muster on the main-deck.”
A loud “hurrah!” responds to the appeal; and, while its echoes are still resounding through the ship, the whole crew comes crowding towards the main-deck. Scores of volunteers present themselves, enough to man every boat in the frigate.
“So, gentlemen!” says the captain, turning to his officers with a proud expression on his countenance, “there’s the British sailor for you. I’ve said he fears not man. And, when humanity makes call, as you see, neither is he frightened at ghost or devil!”
A second cheer succeeds the speech, mingled with good-humoured remarks, though not much laughter. The sailors simply acknowledge the compliment their commanding officer has paid them, at the same time feeling that the moment is too solemn for merriment; for their instinct of humanity is yet under control of the weird feeling.
As the captain turns aft to the quarter, many of them fall away toward the fore-deck, till the group of volunteers becomes greatly diminished. Still there are enough to man the largest boat in the frigate, or fight any crew the chased craft may carry, though these should prove to be pirates of the most desperate kind.
Chapter Three.
Forecastle Fears
“What boat is it to be, sir?”
This question is asked by the first lieutenant, who has followed the captain to the quarter.
“The cutter,” replies his superior;
