The Red Eric. Robert Michael Ballantyne

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      “It’s your turn at the wheel, lad, ain’t it?” inquired Mr Millons, coming up at that moment, and putting an abrupt termination to the walk in Fairyland.

      “It is, sir,” answered Glynn, springing quickly to the wheel, and relieving the man who had been engaged in penetrating the ocean’s depths.

      The mate walked forward; the released sailor went below, and Ailie was again left to her solitary meditations;—for she was enough of a sailor now, in heart, to know that she ought not to talk too much to the steersman, even though the weather should be calm and there was no call for his undivided attention to the duties of his post.

      While Nature was thus, as it were, asleep, and the watch on deck were more than half in the same condition, there was one individual in the ship whose faculties were in active play, whose “steam,” as he himself would have remarked, “was up.” This was the worthy cook, Nikel Sling, whose duties called him to his post at the galley-fire at an early hour each day.

      We have often thought that a cook’s life must be one of constant self-denial and exasperation of spirit. Besides the innumerable anxieties in reference to such important matters as boiling over and over-boiling, being done to a turn, or over-done, or singed or burned, or capsized, he has the diurnal misery of being the first human being in his little circle of life, to turn out of a morning, and must therefore experience the discomfort—the peculiar discomfort—of finding things as they were left the night before. Any one who does not know what that discomfort is, has only to rise an hour before the servants of a household, whether at sea or on shore, to find out. Cook, too, has generally, if not always, to light the fire; and that, especially in frosty weather, is not agreeable. Moreover, cook roasts himself to such an extent, and at meal-times, in nine cases out of ten, gets into such physical and mental perturbation, that he cannot possibly appreciate the luxuries he has been occupied all the day in concocting. Add to this, that he spends all the morning in preparing breakfast; all the forenoon in preparing dinner; all the afternoon in preparing tea and supper, and all the evening in clearing up, and perhaps all the night in dreaming of the meals of the following day, and mentally preparing breakfast, and we think that we have clearly proved the truth of the proposition with which we started—namely, that a cook’s life must be one of constant self-denial and exasperation of spirit.

      But this is by the way, and was merely suggested by the fact that, while all other creatures were enjoying either partial or complete repose, Nikel Sling was washing out pots and pans and kettles, and handling murderous-looking knives and two-pronged tormentors with a demoniacal activity that was quite appalling.

      Beside him, on a little stool close to the galley-fire, sat Tim Rokens—not that Mr Rokens was cold—far from it. He was, to judge from appearances, much hotter than was agreeable. But Tim had come there and sat down to light his pipe, and being rather phlegmatic when not actively employed, he preferred to be partially roasted for a few minutes to getting up again.

      “We ought,” remarked Tim Rokens, puffing at a little black pipe which seemed inclined to be obstinate, “we ought to be gittin’ among the fish by this time. Many’s the one I’ve seed in them ’ere seas.”

      “I rather guess we should,” replied the cook, pausing the midst of his toils and wiping the perspiration from his forehead with an immense bundle of greasy oakum. “But I’ve seed us keep dodgin’ about for weeks, I have, later in the year than this, without clappin’ eyes on a fin. What sort o’ baccy d’ye smoke, Rokens?”

      “Dun know. Got it from a Spanish smuggler for an old clasp-knife. Why?”

      “Cause it smells like rotten straw, an’ won’t improve the victuals. Guess you’d better take yourself off, old chap.”

      “Wot a cross-grained crittur ye are,” said Rokens, as he rose to depart.

      At that moment there was heard a cry that sent the blood tingling to the extremities of every one on board the Red Eric.

      “Thar she blows! thar she blows!” shouted the man in the crow’s-nest.

      The crow’s-nest is a sort of cask, or nest, fixed at the top of the mainmast of whale-ships, in which a man is stationed all day during the time the ships are on the fishing-ground, to look out for whales; and the cry, “Thar she blows,” announced the fact that the look-out had observed a whale rise to the surface and blow a spout of steamy water into the air.

      No conceivable event—unless perhaps the blowing-up of the ship itself—could have more effectually and instantaneously dissipated the deep tranquillity to which we have more than once referred. Had an electric shock been communicated through the ship to each individual, the crew could not have been made to leap more vigorously and simultaneously. Many days before, they had begun to expect to see whales. Every one was therefore on the qui vive, so that when the well-known signal rang out like a startling peal in the midst of the universal stillness, every heart in the ship leaped in unison.

      Had an observant man been seated at the time in the forecastle, he would have noticed that from out of the ten or fifteen hammocks that swung from the beams, there suddenly darted ten or fifteen pairs of legs which rose to the perpendicular position in order to obtain leverage to “fetch way.” Instantly thereafter the said legs descended, and where the feet had been, ten or fifteen heads appeared. Next moment the men were “tumbling up” the fore-hatch to the deck, where the watch had already sprung to the boat-tackles.

      “Where away?” sang out Captain Dunning who was among the first on deck.

      “Off the weather bow, sir, three points.”

      “How far?”

      “About two miles. Thar she blows!”

      “Call all hands,” shouted the captain.

      “Starboard watch, ahoy!” roared the mate, in that curious hoarse voice peculiar to boatswains of men-of-war. “Tumble up, lads, tumble up! Whale in sight! Bear a hand, my hearties!”

      The summons was almost unnecessary. The “starboard watch” was—with the exception of one or two uncommonly heavy sleepers—already on deck pulling on its ducks and buckling its belts.

      “Thar she breaches, thar she blows!” again came from the crow’s-nest in the voice of a Stentor.

      “Well done, Dick Barnes, you’re the first to raise the oil,” remarked one of the men, implying by the remark that the said Dick was fortunate enough to be the first to sight a whale.

      “Where away now?” roared the captain, who was in a state of intense excitement.

      “A mile an’ a half to leeward, sir.”

      “Clear away the boats,” shouted the captain.

      “Masthead, ahoy! D’ye see that whale now?”

      “Ay, ay, sir. Thar she blows!”

      “Bear a hand, my hearties,” cried the captain, as the men sprang to the boats which were swinging at the davits. “Get your tubs in! Clear your falls! Look alive, lads! Stand-by to lower! All ready?”

      “All ready, sir.”

      “Thar she blows!” came again from the masthead with redoubled energy. “Sperm-whales, sir; there’s a school of ’em.”

      “A school of them!” whispered Ailie, who had left her post at the mizzen-shrouds, and now stood by her father’s side, СКАЧАТЬ