The Pilot (7 page)

"Sounds! I hear no sounds, boy, but the flapping aloft; even that pilot,
who struts the quarter-deck like an admiral, has nothing to say."

"Is not that a sound to open a seaman's ear?"

"It is in truth a heavy roll of the surf, lad, but the night air carries
it heavily to our ears. Know you not the sounds of the surf yet,
younker?"

"I know it too well, Mr. Griffith, and do not wish to know it better.
How fast are we tumbling in towards that surf, sir?"

"I think we hold our own," said Griffith, rousing again; "though we had
better anchor. Luff, fellow, luff—you are broadside to the sea!"

The man at the wheel repeated his former intelligence, adding a
suggestion, that he thought the ship "was gathering stern way."

"Haul up your courses, Mr. Griffith," said Captain Munson, "and let us
feel the wind."

The rattling of the blocks was soon heard, and the enormous sheets of
canvas that hung from the lower yards were instantly suspended "in the
brails." When this change was effected, all on board stood silent and
breathless, as if expecting to learn their fate by the result. Several
contradictory opinions were, at length, hazarded among the officers,
when Griffith seized the candle from the lantern, and springing on one
of the guns, held it on high, exposed to the action of the air. The
little flame waved, with uncertain glimmering, for a moment, and then
burned steadily, in a line with the masts. Griffith was about to lower
his extended arm, when, feeling a slight sensation of coolness on his
hand, he paused, and the light turned slowly toward the land, flared,
flickered, and finally deserted the wick.

"Lose not a moment, Mr. Griffith," cried the pilot aloud; "clew up and
furl everything but your three topsails, and let them be double-reefed.
Now is the time to fulfill your promise."

The young man paused one moment, in astonishment, as the clear, distinct
tones of the stranger struck his ears so unexpectedly; but turning his
eyes to seaward, he sprang on the deck, and proceeded to obey the order,
as if life and death depended on his dispatch.

"She rights! she rights, boys! ware off shore!"
Song.

The extraordinary activity of Griffith, which communicated itself with
promptitude to the crew, was produced by a sudden alteration in the
weather. In place of the well-defined streak along the horizon, that has
been already described, an immense body of misty light appeared to be
moving in, with rapidity, from the ocean, while a distinct but distant
roaring announced the sure approach of the tempest that had so long
troubled the waters. Even Griffith, while thundering his orders through
the trumpet, and urging the men, by his cries, to expedition, would
pause, for instants, to cast anxious glances in the direction of the
coming storm; and the faces of the sailors who lay on the yards were
turned, instinctively, towards the same quarter of the heavens, while
they knotted the reef-points, or passed the gaskets that were to confine
the unruly canvas to the prescribed limits.

The pilot alone, in that confused and busy throng, where voice rose
above voice, and cry echoed cry, in quick succession, appeared as if he
held no interest in the important stake. With his eye steadily fixed on
the approaching mist, and his arms folded together in composure, he
stood calmly waiting the result.

The ship had fallen off, with her broadside to the sea, and was become
unmanageable, and the sails were already brought into the folds
necessary to her security, when the quick and heavy fluttering of canvas
was thrown across the water, with all the gloomy and chilling sensations
that such sounds produce, where darkness and danger unite to appall the
seaman.

"The schooner has it!" cried Griffith: "Barnstable has held on, like
himself, to the last moment.—God send that the squall leave him cloth
enough to keep him from the shore!"

"His sails are easily handled," the commander observed, "and she must be
over the principal danger. We are falling off before it, Mr. Gray; shall
we try a cast of the lead?"

The pilot turned from his contemplative posture, and moved slowly across
the deck before he returned any reply to this question—like a man who
not only felt that everything depended on himself, but that he was equal
to the emergency.

"'Tis unnecessary," he at length said; "'twould be certain destruction
to be taken aback; and it is difficult to say, within several points,
how the wind may strike us."

"'Tis difficult no longer," cried Griffith; "for here it comes, and in
right earnest!"

The rushing sounds of the wind were now, indeed, heard at hand; and the
words were hardly past the lips of the young lieutenant, before the
vessel bowed down heavily to one side, and then, as she began to move
through the water, rose again majestically to her upright position, as
if saluting, like a courteous champion, the powerful antagonist with
which she was about to contend. Not another minute elapsed, before the
ship was throwing the waters aside, with a lively progress, and,
obedient to her helm, was brought as near to the desired course as the
direction of the wind would allow. The hurry and bustle on the yards
gradually subsided, and the men slowly descended to the deck, all
straining their eyes to pierce the gloom in which they were enveloped,
and some shaking their heads, in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the
apprehensions they really entertained. All on board anxiously waited for
the fury of the gale; for there were none so ignorant or inexperienced
in that gallant frigate, as not to know that as yet they only felt the
infant effects of the wind. Each moment, however, it increased in power,
though so gradual was the alteration, that the relieved mariners began
to believe that all their gloomy forebodings were not to be realized.
During this short interval of uncertainty, no other sounds were heard
than the whistling of the breeze, as it passed quickly through the mass
of rigging that belonged to the vessel, and the dashing of the spray
that began to fly from her bows, like the foam of a cataract.

"It blows fresh," cried Griffith, who was the first to speak in that
moment of doubt and anxiety; "but it is no more than a capful of wind
after all. Give us elbow-room, and the right canvas, Mr. Pilot, and I'll
handle the ship like a gentleman's yacht, in this breeze."

"Will she stay, think ye, under this sail?" said the low voice of the
stranger.

"She will do all that man, in reason, can ask of wood and iron,"
returned the lieutenant; "but the vessel don't float the ocean that will
tack under double-reefed topsails alone, against a heavy sea. Help her
with her courses, pilot, and you shall see her come round like a
dancing-master."

"Let us feel the strength of the gale first," returned the man who was
called Mr. Gray, moving from the side of Griffith to the weather gangway
of the vessel, where he stood in silence, looking ahead of the ship,
with an air of singular coolness and abstraction.

All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the frigate, when
her anchor was secured, and as the first mist of the gale had passed
over, it was succeeded by a faint light that was a good deal aided by
the glittering foam of the waters, which now broke in white curls around
the vessel in every direction. The land could be faintly discerned,
rising like a heavy bank of black fog above the margin of the waters,
and was only distinguishable from the heavens by its deeper gloom and
obscurity. The last rope was coiled, and deposited in its proper place,
by the seamen, and for several minutes the stillness of death pervaded
the crowded decks. It was evident to every one, that their ship was
dashing at a prodigious rate through the waves; and as she was
approaching, with such velocity, the quarter of the bay where the shoals
and dangers were known to be situated, nothing but the habits of the
most exact discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers and
men within their own bosoms. At length the voice of Captain Munson was
heard, calling to the pilot:

"Shall I send a hand into the chains, Mr. Gray," he said, "and try our
water?"

Although this question was asked aloud, and the interest it excited drew
many of the officers and men around him, in eager impatience for his
answer, it was unheeded by the man to whom it was addressed. His head
rested on his hand, as he leaned over the hammock-cloths of the vessel,
and his whole air was that of one whose thoughts wandered from the
pressing necessity of their situation. Griffith was among those who had
approached the pilot; and after waiting a moment, from respect, to hear
the answer to his commander's question, he presumed on his own rank, and
leaving the circle that stood at a little distance, stepped to the side
of the mysterious guardian of their lives.

"Captain Munson desires to know whether you wish a cast of the lead?"
said the young officer, with a little impatience of manner. No immediate
answer was made to this repetition of the question, and Griffith laid
his hand unceremoniously on the shoulder of the other, with an intent to
rouse him before he made another application for a reply, but the
convulsive start of the pilot held him silent in amazement.

"Fall back there," said the lieutenant, sternly; to the men, who were
closing around them in compact circle; "away with you to your stations,
and see all clear for stays." The dense mass of heads dissolved, at this
order, like the water of one of the waves commingling with the ocean,
and the lieutenant and his companions were left by themselves.

"This is not a time for musing, Mr. Gray," continued Griffith; "remember
our compact, and look to your charge—is it not time to put the vessel
in stays? of what are you dreaming?"

The pilot laid his hand on the extended arm of the lieutenant, and
grasped it with a convulsive pressure, as he answered:

"'Tis a dream of reality. You are young, Mr. Griffith, nor am I past the
noon of life; but should you live fifty years longer, you never can see
and experience what I have encountered in my little period of three-and-
thirty years!"

A good deal astonished at this burst of feeling, so singular at such a
moment, the young sailor was at a loss for a reply; but as his duty was
uppermost in his thoughts, he still dwelt on the theme that most
interested him.

"I hope much of your experience has been on this coast, for the ship
travels lively," he said, "and the daylight showed us so much to dread,
that we do not feel over-valiant in the dark. How much longer shall we
stand on, upon this tack?"

The pilot turned slowly from the side of the vessel, and walked towards
the commander of the frigate, as he replied, in a tone that seemed
deeply agitated by his melancholy reflections:

"You have your wish, then; much, very much of my early life was passed
on this dreaded coast. What to you is all darkness and gloom, to me is
as light as if a noon-day sun shone upon it. But tack your ship, sir,
tack your ship; I would see how she works before we reach the point
where she
must
behave well, or we perish."

Griffith gazed after him in wonder, while the pilot slowly paced the
quarter-deck, and then, rousing from his trance, gave forth the cheering
order that called each man to his station, to perform the desired
evolution. The confident assurances which the young officer had given to
the pilot respecting the qualities of his vessel and his own ability to
manage her, were fully realized by the result. The helm was no sooner
put a-lee, than the huge ship bore up gallantly against the wind, and,
dashing directly through the waves, threw the foam high into the air, as
she looked boldly into the very eye of the wind; and then, yielding
gracefully to its power, she fell off on the other tack, with her head
pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had so recently approached
with such terrifying velocity. The heavy yards swung round, as if they
had been vanes to indicate the currents of the air; and in a few moments
the frigate again moved, with stately progress, through the water,
leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side of the bay, but
advancing towards those that offered equal danger on the other.

During this time the sea was becoming more agitated, and the violence of
the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no longer whistled amid
the cordage of the vessel, but it seemed to howl, surlily, as it passed
the complicated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path. An
endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy billows, and the
very air was glittering with the light that was disengaged from the
ocean. The ship yielded, each moment, more and more before the storm,
and in less than half an hour from the time that she had lifted her
anchor, she was driven along with tremendous fury by the full power of a
gale of wind. Still the hardy and experienced mariners who directed her
movements held her to the course that was necessary to their
preservation, and still Griffith gave forth, when directed by their
unknown pilot, those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where
alone safety was to be found.

So far, the performance of his duty appeared easy to the stranger, and
he gave the required directions in those still, calm tones, that formed
so remarkable a contrast to the responsibility of his situation. But
when the land was becoming dim, in distance as well as darkness, and the
agitated sea alone was to be discovered as it swept by them in foam, he
broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the tempest with the sounds of
his voice, seeming to shake off his apathy, and rouse himself to the
occasion.

"Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith," he cried; "here we
get the true tide and the real danger. Place the best quartermaster of
your ship in those chains, and let an officer stand by him, and see that
he gives us the right water."