The pilot a tale of the sea |
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| 5. | CHAPTER V. |
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 | CHAPTER V. The pilot |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
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 canvass to the
prescribed limits.
The pilot alone, in that confused and busy
throng, where voice rose above voice, and cry
he held no interest in the important stake. With
his eyes steadily fixed on the approaching mist,
and his arms folded together, in composure, he
stood calmly awaiting 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 canvass was thrown across the water,
with all the gloomy and chilling sensations that
such sounds produce, where darkness and danger
unite to appal 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 every thing 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
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 they, as yet, only felt the infant efforts
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 cap-full of wind,
after all. Give us elbow-room, and the right
canvass, 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
sea. Help her with the courses, pilot, and
you'll 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
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 a
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 companion
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
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
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 safety was, alone, 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 was only to be discovered as it swept
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 quarter-master
of your ship in those chains, and let an
officer stand by him, and see that he gives us the
right water.”
“I will take that office on myself,” said the
captain; “pass a light into the weather main-chains.”
“Stand by your braces!” exclaimed the pilot,
with startling quickness. “Heave away that
lead!”
These preparations taught the crew to expect
the crisis, and every officer and man stood in
fearful silence, at his assigned station, awaiting
the issue of the trial. Even the quarter-master
at the cun gave out his orders to the men at the
wheel, in deeper and hoarser tones than usual,
as if anxious not to disturb the quiet and order
of the vessel.
While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate,
the piercing cry of the leadsman, as he
called, “by the mark seven,” rose above the tempest,
crossed over the decks, and appeared to
pass away to leeward, borne on the blast, like
the warnings of some water spirit.
“'Tis well,” returned the pilot, calmly; “try
it again.”
The short pause was succeeded by another
cry, “and a half-five!”
“She shoals! she shoals!” exclaimed Griffith;
“keep her a good full.”
“Ay! you must hold the vessel in command,
now,” said the pilot, with those cool tones that
they seem to denote most preparation and care.
The third call of “by the deep four!” was followed
by a prompt direction from the stranger to
tack.
Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the
pilot, in issuing the necessary orders to execute
this manœuvre.
The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position
into which she had been forced by the tempest,
and the sails were shaking violently, as if to
release themselves from their confinement, while
the ship stemmed the billows, when the wellknown
voice of the sailing-master was heard
shouting from the forecastle—
“Breakers! breakers, dead ahead!”
This appalling sound seemed yet to be lingering
about the ship, when a second voice cried—
“Breakers on our lee-bow!”
“We are in a bight of the shoals, Mr. Gray,”
said the commander. “She loses her way; perhaps
an anchor might hold her.”
“Clear away that best-bower,” shouted Griffith
through his trumpet.
“Hold on!” cried the pilot, in a voice that
reached the very hearts of all who heard him;
“hold on every thing.”
The young man turned fiercely to the daring
stranger, who thus defied the discipline of his vessel,
and at once demanded—
“Who is it that dares to countermand my orders?—is
it not enough that you run the ship
into danger, but you must interfere to keep her
there! If another word—”
“Peace, Mr. Griffith,” interrupted the captain,
bending from the rigging, his gray locks blowing
about in the wind, and adding a look of wildness
to the haggard care that he exhibited by the light
he alone can save us.”
Griffith threw his speaking trumpet on the
deck, and as he walked proudly away, muttered,
in bitterness of feeling—
“Then all is lost, indeed, and among the rest,
the foolish hopes with which I visited this coast.”
There was, however, no time for reply; the
ship had been rapidly running into the wind, and
as the efforts of the crew were paralyzed by the
contradictory orders they had heard, she gradually
lost her way, and in a few seconds, all her
sails were taken aback.
Before the crew understood their situation, the
pilot had applied the trumpet to his mouth, and
in a voice that rose above the tempest, he thundered
forth his orders. Each command was
given distinctly, and with a precision that showed
him to be master of his profession. The helm
was kept fast, the head yards swung up heavily
against the wind, and the vessel was soon whirling
round on her heel, with a retrograde movement.
Griffith was too much of a seaman, not to perceive
that the pilot had seized, with a perception
almost intuitive, the only method that promised
to extricate the vessel from her situation. He
was young, impetuous, and proud—but he was
also generous. Forgetting his resentment and
his mortification, he rushed forward among the
men, and, by his presence and example, added
certainty to the experiment. The ship fell off
slowly before the gale, and bowed her yards
nearly to the water, as she felt the blast pouring
its fury on her broadside, while the surly waves
beat violently against her stern, as if in reproach
at departing from her usual manner of moving.
The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard,
reach every ear; and the obedient seamen whirled
the yards at his bidding, in despite of the tempest,
as if they handled the toys of their childhood.
When the ship had fallen off dead before the
wind, her head sails were shaken, her after yards
trimmed, and her helm shifted, before she had
time to run upon the danger that had threatened,
as well to leeward as to windward. The beautiful
fabric, obedient to her government, threw her
bows up gracefully towards the wind again, and
as her sails were trimmed, moved out from
amongst the dangerous shoals, in which she had
been embayed, as steadily and swiftly as she had
approached them.
A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded
the accomplishment of this nice manœuvre,
but there was no time for the usual expressions of
surprise. The stranger still held the trumpet,
and continued to lift his voice amid the howlings
of the blast, whenever prudence or skill directed
any change in the management of the ship. For
an hour longer, there was a fearful struggle for
their preservation, the channel becoming, at each
step, more complicated, and the shoals thickening
around the mariners, on every side. The lead
was cast rapidly, and the quick eye of the pilot
seemed to pierce the darkness, with a keenness of
vision that exceeded human power. It was apparent
to all in the vessel, that they were under
the guidance of one who understood the navigation
thoroughly, and their exertions kept
pace with their reviving confidence. Again and
again, the frigate appeared to be rushing blindly
on shoals, where the sea was covered with foam,
and where destruction would have been as sudden
as it was certain, when the clear voice of the
stranger was heard warning them of the danger,
implicitly yielded to his government, and during
those anxious moments when she was dashing
the waters aside, throwing the spray over her
enormous yards, each ear would listen eagerly
for those sounds that had obtained a command
over the crew, that can only be acquired, under
such circumstances, by great steadiness and consummate
skill. The ship was recovering from
the inaction of changing her course, in one of
those critical tacks that she had made so often,
when the pilot, for the first time, addressed the
commander of the frigate, who still continued to superintend
the all-important duty of the leadsman.
“Now is the pinch,” he said, “and if the ship
behaves well, we are safe—but if otherwise, all
we have yet done will be useless.”
The veteran seaman whom he addressed left
the chains, at this portentous notice, and calling
to his first lieutenant, required of the stranger an
explanation of his warning.
“See you yon light on the southern headland?”
returned the pilot; “you may know it from the
star near it—by its sinking, at times, in the ocean.
Now observe the hom-moc, a little north of it,
looking like a shadow in the horizon—'tis a hill
far inland. If we keep that light open from the
hill, we shall do well—but if not, we surely go to
pieces.”
“Let us tack again!” exclaimed the lieutenant.
The pilot shook his head, as he replied—
“There is no more tacking or box-hauling to
be done to night. We have barely room to pass
out of the shoals on this course, and if we can
weather the `Devil's-Grip,' we clear their outermost
point—but if not, as I said before, there is
but an alternative.”
“If we had beaten out the way we entered!”
exclaimed Griffith, “we should have done well.”
“Say, also, if the tide would have let us do
so,” returned the pilot, calmly. “Gentlemen,
we must be prompt; we have but a mile to go,
and the ship appears to fly. That topsail is not
enough to keep her up to the wind; we want
both jib and mainsail.”
“'Tis a perilous thing, to loosen canvass in
such a tempest!” observed the doubtful captain.
“It must be done,” returned the collected
stranger; “we perish, without it—see! the light
already touches the edge of the hom-moc; the
sea casts us to leeward!”
“It shall be done!” cried Griffith, seizing the
trumpet from the hand of the pilot.
The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost
as soon as issued, and every thing being
ready, the enormous folds of the mainsail were
trusted, loose, to the blast. There was an instant
when the result was doubtful; the tremendous
threshing of the heavy sails, seeming to bid defiance
to all restraint, shaking the ship to her
centre; but art and strength prevailed, and gradually
the canvass was distended, and bellying as
it filled, was drawn down to its usual place, by the
power of a hundred men. The vessel yielded to
this immense addition of force, and bowed before
it, like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success
of the measure was announced by a joyful
cry from the stranger, that seemed to burst from
his inmost soul.
“She feels it! she springs her luff! observe,”
he said, “the light opens from the hom-moc already;
if she will only bear her canvass, we shall
go clear!”
A report, like that of a cannon, interrupted his
exclamation, and something resembling a white
head of the ship, till it was driven into the gloom
far to leeward.
“'Tis the jib, blown from the bolt-ropes,” said
the commander of the frigate. “This is no time
to spread light duck—but the mainsail may stand
it yet.”
“The sail would laugh at a tornado,” returned
the lieutenant; “but that mast springs like a
piece of steel.”
“Silence all!” cried the pilot. “Now, gentlemen,
we shall soon know our fate. Let her
luff—luff you can!”
This warning effectually closed all discourse,
and the hardy mariners, knowing that they had
already done all in the power of man, to ensure
their safety, stood in breathless anxiety, awaiting
the result. At a short distance ahead of them,
the whole ocean was white with foam, and the
waves, instead of rolling on, in regular succession,
appeared to be tossing about in mad gambols.
A single streak of dark billows, not half a
cable's length in width, could be discerned running
into this chaos of water; but it was soon
lost to the eye, amid the confusion of the disturbed
element. Along this narrow path the
vessel moved more heavily than before, being
brought so near the wind as to keep her sails
touching. The pilot, silently, proceeded to the
wheel, and, with his own hands, he undertook the
steerage of the ship. No noise proceeded from
the frigate to interrupt the horrid tumult of the
ocean, and she entered the channel among the
breakers, with the silence of a desperate calmness.
Twenty times, as the foam rolled away to
leeward, the crew were on the eve of uttering
their joy, as they supposed the vessel past the
danger; but breaker after breaker would still
general mass, to check their exultation. Occasionally,
the fluttering of the sails would be
heard; and when the looks of the startled seamen
were turned to the wheel, they beheld the stranger
grasping its spokes, with his quick eye glancing
from the water to the canvass. At length
the ship reached a point, where she appeared to
be rushing directly into the jaws of destruction,
when, suddenly, her course was changed, and her
head receded rapidly from the wind. At the
same instant, the voice of the pilot was heard,
shouting—
“Square away the yards!—in mainsail!”
A general burst from the crew echoed, “square
away the yards!” and, quick as thought, the frigate
was seen gliding along the channel, before
the wind. The eye had hardly time to dwell on
the foam, which seemed like clouds driving in the
heavens, and directly the gallant vessel issued
from her perils, and rose and fell on the heavy
waves of the open sea.
The seamen were yet drawing long breaths,
and gazing about them like men recovered from
a trance, when Griffith approached the man who
had so successfully conducted them through their
perils. The young lieutenant grasped the hand
of the other, as he said—
“You have this night proved yourself a faithful
pilot, and such a seaman as the world cannot
equal.”
The pressure of the hand was warmly returned
by the unknown mariner, who replied—
“I am no stranger to the seas, and I may yet
find my grave in them. But you, too, have deceived
me; you have acted nobly, young man,
and Congress—”
“What of Congress?” asked Griffith, observing
him to pause.
“Why, Congress is fortunate, if it has many
such ships as this,” said the stranger, coldly, and
walking towards the commander.
Griffith gazed after him, a moment, in surprise;
but as his duty required his attention, other
thoughts soon engaged his mind.
The vessel was pronounced to be in safety.
The gale was heavy and increasing, but there
was a clear sea before them, and, as she slowly
stretched out into the bosom of the ocean, preparations
were made for her security during its continuance.
Before midnight, every thing was in
order. A gun from the Ariel had announced the
safety of the schooner also, which had gone out
by another and an easier channel, that the frigate
had not dared to attempt; and the commander directed
the usual watch to be set, and the remainder
of the crew to seek their necessary repose.
The captain withdrew with the mysterious
pilot to his own cabin. Griffith gave his last
order, and renewing his charge to the officer intrusted
with the care of the vessel, he wished him
a pleasant watch, and sought the refreshment of
his own cot. For an hour, the young lieutenant
lay musing on the events of the day. The remark
of Barnstable would occur to him, in connexion
with the singular comment of the boy;
and then his thoughts would recur to the pilot,
who, taken from the hostile shores of Britain, and
with her accent on his tongue, had served them
so faithfully and so well. He remembered the
anxiety of Captain Munson to procure this stranger,
at the very hazard from which they had just
been relieved, and puzzled himself with conjecturing
why a pilot was to be sought at such a
risk. His more private feelings would then resume
his mistress, and his home, mingled with the
confused images of the drowsy youth. The
dashing of the billows against the side of the
ship, the creaking of guns and bulk-heads, with
the roaring of the tempest, however, became gradually
less and less distinct, until nature yielded
to necessity, and the young man forgot even the
romantic images of his love, in the deep sleep of
a seaman.
| CHAPTER V. The pilot | |