The Survivors of the Chancellor | Page 8

Ruby, is the type of a vulgar
tradesman. Without any originality or magnanimity in his composition,
he has spent twenty years of his life in mere buying and selling, and as
he has gener- ally contrived to do business at a profit, he has realized a
considerable fortune. What he is going to do with the money, he does
not seem able to say: his ideas do not go beyond retail trade, his mind
having been so long closed to all other impressions that it appears
incapable of thought or reflection on any subject besides. Pascal says,
"L'homme est visiblement fait pour penser. C'est toute sa dignite et tout
son merite;" but to Mr. Ruby the phrase seems altogether inapplicable.
CHAPTER V
AN UNUSUAL ROUTE
OCTOBER 7. -- This is the tenth day since we left Charles- ton, and I
should think our progress has been very rapid. Robert Curtis, the mate,
with whom I continue to have many a friendly chat, informed me that
we could not be far off the Bermudas; the ship's bearings, he said, were
lat. 32 deg. 20' N. and long. 64 deg. 50' W. so that he had every reason
to believe that we should sight St. George's Island before night.
"The Bermudas!" I exclaimed. "But how is it we are off the Bermudas?
I should have thought that a vessel sail- ing from Charleston to
Liverpool, would have kept north- ward, and have followed the track of
the Gulf Stream."
"Yes, indeed, sir," replied Curtis, "that is the usual course; but you see
that this time the captain hasn't chosen to take it."
"But why not?" I persisted.
"That's not for me to say, sir; he ordered us eastward, and eastward we

go."
"Haven't you called his attention to it?" I inquired.
Curtis acknowledged that he had already pointed out what an unusual
route they were taking, but that the cap- tain had said that he was quite
aware what he was about. The mate made no further remark; but the
knit of his brow, as he passed his hand mechanically across his
forehead, made me fancy that he was inclined to speak out more
strongly.
"All very well, Curtis," I said, "but I don't know what to think about
trying new routes. Here we are at the 7th of October, and if we are to
reach Europe before the bad weather sets in, I should suppose there is
not a day to be lost."
"Right, sir, quite right; there is not a day to be lost."
Struck by his manner, I ventured to add, "Do you mind, Curtis, giving
me your honest opinion of Captain Huntly?"
He hesitated a moment, and then replied shortly, "He is my captain,
sir."
This evasive answer of course put an end to any further interrogation
on my part.
Curtis was not mistaken. At about three o'clock the look-out man sung
out that there was land to windward, and descried what seemed as if it
might be a line of smoke in the northeast horizon. At six, I went on
deck with M. Letourneur and his son, and we could then distinctly
make out the low group of the Bermudas, encircled by their formidable
chain of breakers.
"There," said Andre Letourneur to me, as we stood gaz- ing at the
distant land, "there lies the enchanted archipel- ago, sung by your poet
Moore. The exile Waller, too, as long ago as 1643, wrote an
enthusiastic panegyric on the islands, and I have been told that at one
time English ladies would wear no other bonnets than such as were
made of the leaves of the Bermuda palm."
"Yes," I replied, "the Bermudas were all the rage in the seventeenth
century, although latterly they have fallen into comparative oblivion."
"But let me tell you, M. Andre," interposed Curtis, who had as usual
joined our party, "that although poets may rave, and be as enthusiastic
as they like about these islands, sailors will tell a different tale. The
hidden reefs that lie in a semicircle about two or three leagues from

shore make the attempt to land a very dangerous piece of business. And
another thing, I know. Let the natives boast as they will about their
splendid climate, they are visited by the most frightful hurricanes. They
get the fag-end of the storms that rage over the Antilles; and the
fag-end of a storm is like the tail of a whale; it's just the strongest bit of
it. I don't think you'll find a sailor listening much to your poets -- your
Moores, and your Wallers."
"No doubt you are right, Mr. Curtis," said Andre, smil- ing, "but poets
are like proverbs; you can always find one to contradict another.
Although Waller and Moore have chosen to sing the praises