The Castaways | Page 9

craft that were knocking
about in the Channel on that blind and dismal night.

When my berth steward brought me my coffee next morning he
informed me, in reply to my inquiries, that the weather had improved
somewhat during the night, and that, in his opinion, the temperature on
deck was mild enough for me to take a salt-water bath in the ship's head,
if I pleased. I accordingly jumped out of my bunk and, hastily donning
my bathing togs, made my way on deck. I was no sooner on my feet,
however, than I became aware that the ship was particularly lively. She
was on the port tack, and was heeling over considerably, so much so
indeed that, when she rolled to leeward, to keep my footing without
holding on to something was pretty nearly as much as I could well
manage. Then there was a continuous vibrant thrill pervading the entire
fabric, suggestive of the idea that her blood was roused and that she
was quivering with eager excitement, which, to the initiated, is an
unfailing sign that the ship is travelling fast through the water. Upon
reaching the deck I found the watch engaged in the task of washing
decks and polishing the brasswork, while Mr Murgatroyd, as officer of
the watch, paced to and fro athwart the fore end of the poop, pausing
every time he reached the weather side of the deck to fling a quick,
keen glance to windward, and another aloft at the bending topmasts and
straining rigging.
For Mr Murgatroyd was "carrying on" and driving the ship quite as
much as was consistent with prudence; the wind, it is true, had
moderated slightly from its boisterous character of the previous day,
and was now steady; but it was still blowing strong, and had hauled
round a point or two until it was square abeam; yet, although the lower
yards were braced well forward, the ship was under all three royals, and
fore and main-topgallant and topmast studding-sails, with a lower
studding-sail upon the foremast! She was lying down to it like a racing
yacht, with the foam seething and hissing and brimming to her rail at
every lee roll, and the lee scuppers all afloat, while she swept along
with the eager, headlong, impetuous speed of a sentient creature flying
for its life. The wailing and crying of the wind aloft--especially when
the ship rolled to windward--was loud enough and weird enough to fill
the heart of a novice with dismay, but to the ear of the seaman it sang a
song of wild, hilarious sea music, fittingly accompanied by the deep,
intermittent thunder of the bow wave as it leapt and roared, glassy

smooth, in a curling snow-crowned breaker from the sharp, shearing
stem at every wild plunge of it into the heart of an on-rushing wave. I
ran up the poop ladder, and stood to windward, a fathom back from the
break of the poop, where I could obtain the best possible view of the
ship; and I thought I had never before beheld so magnificent and
perfect a picture as she presented of triumphant, domineering strength
and power, and of reckless, breathless, yet untiring speed.
"Morning, Mr Conyers," shouted Murgatroyd, halting alongside me as I
stood gazing at the pallid blue sky across which great masses of cloud
were rapidly sweeping--to be outpaced by the low-flying shreds and
tatters of steamy scud--the opaque, muddy green waste of foaming,
leaping waters, and the flying ship swaying her broad spaces of
damp-darkened canvas, her tapering and buckling spars, and her
tautly-strained rigging in long arcs athwart the scurrying clouds as she
leapt and plunged and sheared her irresistible way onward in the midst
of a wild chaos and dizzying swirl and hurry of foaming spume: "what
think you of this for a grand morning, eh, sir? Is this breeze good
enough for you? And what's your opinion of the City of Cawnpore,
now, sir?"
"It is a magnificent morning for sailing, Mr Murgatroyd," I replied; "a
magnificent morning--that would be none the worse for an occasional
glint of sunshine, which, however, may come by and by; and, as for the
ship, she is a wonder, a perfect flyer--why, she must be reeling off her
thirteen knots at the least."
"You've hit it, sir, pretty closely; she was going thirteen and a half
when we hove the log at four bells, and she hasn't eased up anything
since," was the reply.
"Ah," said I, "that is grand sailing--with the wind where it is. But you
are driving her rather hard, aren't you? stretching the kinks out of your
new rigging, eh?"
"Well, perhaps we are," admitted the mate, with a short laugh, as he
glanced at the slender upper spars, that were whipping about