Stories by English Authors: the Sea

Stories by English Authors: the
Sea

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Title: Stories by English Authors: The Sea
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STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS
THE SEA
THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF A CHIEF MATE BY W.
CLARK RUSSELL QUARANTINE ISLAND BY SIR WALTER
BESANT THE ROCK SCORPIONS ANONYMOUS THE MASTER
OF THE "CHRYSTOLITE" BY G. B. O'HALLORAN "PETREL"
AND "THE BLACK SWAN" ANONYMOUS MELISSA'S TOUR BY
GRANT ALLEN VANDERDECKEN'S MESSAGE HOME
ANONYMOUS

THE EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE OF A CHIEF MATE
BY W. CLARK RUSSELL

In the newspapers of 1876 appeared the following extracts from the log
of a merchantman: "VOLCANIC ISLAND IN THE NORTH
ATLANTIC. --The ship Hercules, of Liverpool, lately arrived in the
Mersey, reports as follows: March 23, in 2 deg. 12' north latitude, 33
deg. 27' west longitude, a shock of earthquake was felt, and shortly
afterward a mass of land was hove up at a distance of about two miles
from the ship. Michael Balfour, the chief officer, fell overboard. A
buoy was thrown to him, the ship brought to the wind, and a boat
lowered within fifteen minutes of the occurence. But though the men
sought the chief mate for some time, nothing could be seen of him, and
it is supposed that he sank shortly after falling into the sea. Masters of
vessels are recommended to keep a sharp lookout in approaching the

situation of the new island as given above. No doubt it will be sighted
by other ships, and duly reported."
I am Michael Balfour; I it was who fell overboard; and it is needless for
me to say here that I not drowned. The volcanic island was only
reported by one other ship, and the reason why will be read at large in
this account of my strange adventure and merciful deliverance.
It was the evening of the 23d of March, 1876. Our passage to the
equator from Sydney had been good, but for three days we had been
bothered with light head winds and calms, and since four o'clock this
day the ocean had stretched in oil-smooth undulations to its margin,
with never a sigh of air to crispen its marvellous serenity into shadow.
The courses were hauled up, the staysails down, the mizzen brailed up;
the canvas delicately beat the masts to the soft swing of the tall spars,
and sent a small rippling thunder through the still air, like a roll of
drums heard at a distance. The heat was great; I had never remembered
a more biting sun. The pitch in the seams was soft as putty, the
atmosphere was full of the smell of blistered paint, and it was like
putting your hand on a red-hot stove to touch the binnacle hood or
grasp for an an instant an iron belaying-pin.
A sort of loathing comes into a man with a calm like this. "The very
deep did rot," says the poet; and you understood his fancy when you
marked the blind heave of the swell to the sun standing in the midst of
a sky of brass, with his wake under him sinking in a sinuous dazzle, as
though it was his fiery glance piercing to the green depths a thousand
fathoms deep. It was hot enough to slacken the nerves and give the
imagination a longer scope than sanity would have it ride by.
That was why, perhaps, I found something awful and forbidding in the
sunset, though at another time it might scarcely have detained my gaze