Chapter III: The Dread Stillness Broken by a Wailing Shriek

There were still left on board the _Zingara_ enough hands to work the ship. From captain to Kroo-boys, as the darkies were called, there were just seventeen all told, leaving out of count Miss Leona and sweet wee Teenie.

Bitter were the tears the little lass shed when she heard that the evil men had killed poor Petersen.

“There is some good in that man whom children love, sir, I think,” said Archie.

“As true a word as e’er was spoken,” replied Antonio.

“And now, mate, we must see to ourselves. Davie must take the boatswain’s watch.”

“Poor faithful fellow, no doubt he was the first man slain!”

“But, sir, where may we not drift to? We are but a wreck; we haven’t a spare spar to rig a jury main or mizen mast, and the rudder is useless.”

“The rudder we must try to unship,” said Antonio, “hoist on deck, and see to.”

“That will be an all but impossible task, for we have no mizen to reeve block and tackle to.”

And so it proved.

They were, indeed, little more than a helpless floating wreck.

The _Zingara_ was drifting northwards, her latitude about 22° north, and western longitude about 30°.

An attempt was made for several days to steer the vessel by means of boats ahead. This was hard work; yet it might have been successful, and they might have eventually found themselves in the track of ships, had a breeze sprung up.

They appeared, however, to be in a region of calms.

In very truth, they were drifting into that great ocean backwater, the Sargasso Sea, which I speak of in my Preface.

The Sea of Sargasso might be described as a kind of meadow-land of floating weeds, as large at times as half Europe, but often divided into canals that are continually opening and closing.

It lies midway in the Atlantic, but well out of the track of ocean steamers, except when it shifts its position to north or south. Latitude might be from 20° to 30°; longitude from 25° to 50°.

Until the unfortunate _Zingara_ drifted helplessly into this great lone sea of weed, little was really known of it and its strange inhabitants.

Long, long ago the ships of Columbus passed through some outlying streams of this wonderful Gulf weed, and when they did so his superstitious sailors began to murmur, and beseech the intrepid explorer to put back, “for,” they said, “God Himself is showing His displeasure at your foolhardiness.”

But Columbus had but one motto, and that was, “Advance!”

Many and many a good ship has been entombed in this wondrous sea of weeds, and never got free till one by one the crew died, and there came to them that freedom which comes to us all sooner or later.

I had, when beginning this chapter, thought of describing the course of the great Gulf Stream, which, starting from Africa, sweeps across towards Brazil and the Gulf of Mexico; then north, and away to Newfoundland; then on and east to Northern Europe, past our own coasts here, and southward, to Africa, once again. But I need be no more explicit. In a story one cares little for unnecessary lectures on the science of geography or anything else.

Suffice it to say that the region of almost perpetual calms and Sea of Sargasso lies in the centre of the sweeping circle of the second branch of the Gulf Stream.

It is said to be a smooth and almost motionless basin; but, as will be seen, our heroes did not always find it so.

One day a man at the foretop masthead shouted--

“Sea of dark water right ahead, sir.”

Antonio and the first mate both went up to have a look.

“That is the terrible Sea of Sargasso,” said Antonio. “God alone can help us if we get ingulfed in that.”

Boats were had out now, and all the afternoon struggled to keep the ship away.

But thickest darkness fell, and the boats were hoisted.

They would resume their efforts next day. No sooner, however, did the sun appear than, to their horror, they found the thick, dark sea of weeds closing rapidly in all around them.

The explanation is easy; they had drifted far into a huge gulf or bay, and the horns thereof had now closed up behind them.

“Who enters here leaves hope behind.”

This they well might have said, for by noon there was no blue water to be seen even from the masthead, nothing but the brown-black sea, close aboard of them the dark trailing weeds, lifting their folds on the water till it seemed a veritable ocean of great sea-snakes.

It was probably the first time since sailing away from Merrie England that our heroes had seen Captain Antonio dull and depressed. He retired to his cabin complaining of not feeling over well, and remained there alone for three long hours.

Then while still dozing a soft little hand was laid in his, and a sweet girlish voice said sympathisingly--

“’Tonio, ’Tonio, you isn’t ill, is you?”

He roused himself at once, and smiled as he patted her hand.

He had given way for a time to a depression that was almost selfish; but now he remembered that he was the centre, as it were, of all the life on board, and had duties to perform, which he determined not to shirk.

“Oh, dearie,” he replied, “I had a little bit of a headache, you know, but it is better now.”

“Wait!” cried Teenie.

She went off at the run, but by-and-by returned, walking rather unsteadily, because she bore in her two hands a large cup of fragrant tea.

“Oh, thank you, Teenie. I’m so pleased.”

He drank the tea, and in another hour walked into the saloon, to all outward appearance his own old self again.

“Glad indeed to see you, sir,” cried Barclay.

“And so we all are,” said Archie the mate. “You feel better?”

“Oh yes. Presently I will sing and play to you as usual.”

“What have you done, mate?”

“Oh, I’ve taken in the jib, and just clewed up, you know. Perhaps, though, our imprisonment in this terrible sea will not be for many weeks.”

Antonio smiled somewhat sadly, but replied, “Mate, we are not going to despair, come what may. Despair never did any good.”

“Besides, I have already discovered,” said Archie, “that we are still drifting, although sometimes our bows are pointing to the nor’ard and sometimes broadside or stern.”

“Have you taken soundings?”

“Yes, and the water is of no great depth. It ranges from seventeen to twenty fathoms.”

“Good! and now let us try to be cheery. To-morrow we will muster by open list, and also survey our stores.”

“Teenie, dearie,” he cried.

Teenie came running at his call.

“You don’t like storms, do you?”

“Oh no, ’Tonio; I don’t like the sea when it wobbles and splashes _too_ much, you know.”

“Well, dearie, here in this dark weedy ocean there will be no wobbling and never a splash, and you shall catch fish all day if you like, and be as happy as a dickie-bird.”

“Oh, that will be jolly. Won’t it, Barclay?

“Perfectly jolly!” laughed our young hero.

There was a good quarter of an hour’s silence after this.

Everybody appeared to be thinking except Teenie, who was making love to Muffie the cat and talking low to her.

“I say, sir,” said Barclay Stuart at last, “we have resolved ourselves into a kind of Quaker’s meeting, but it would be interesting to know what we’ve been all thinking about.”

“Well, you begin,” said Antonio, smiling.

“_I’ve_ been thinking that we’ll have a real good quiet time of it for six months in this strange sea, and that Davie Drake and I will by that time be fit to pass our exams for chief officers as soon as we get back to Merrie England.”

“And I’ve been thinking,” said Davie, “about our dear old home at Fisherton. What a long, long time it seems since we left!”

“Oh,” said Barclay, “I haven’t forgotten my mother and Phœbe, and the letters we got at the Cape telling us how well they were gave me such joy.

“But ah!” he added, “if we are detained long here they may give up hope, and the grief may kill my dear, kind mother.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Archie, “about my log-book, and how little there will be to put in it.”

“My dear mate,” interrupted Antonio, “there will be far more than you imagine. It won’t be merely the temperature of water and air, the wind, the current, and all that, for I’ve been thinking about adventures that will make your hair stand up like bristles.”

“I’ve been thinking,” said Teenie, “about fishes to catch for Muffie and me.”

Well, presently Pandoo himself appeared with the supper, and after this every one was of better cheer, and far more hopeful.

But nearly all the talk to-night was about their far-off friends and homes in Merrie England.

There had been letters at the Cape of Good Hope for all the saloon and petty officers, to say nothing of the men.

Even Teenie’s father had got some one to write for him to his little daughter, for the good honest fellow was not ashamed to confess that he was “no scholard.”

But at the Cape also Antonio had insisted on not only Teenie, but Miss Leona as well, having a thorough new rig-out, as he phrased it, “low and aloft,” and so neither would want for clothes for a year to come at least.

Teenie after supper stole on tiptoe to the captain’s cabin, and presently appeared, lugging along the great guitar, which was nearly as big as herself.

“Play and sing,” she said or commanded, as she handed Antonio the instrument.

“Come, lads,” cried the weird little man, dashing his fingers across the strings, “let us cast care to the winds. There is, you know--

“‘A sweet little cherub who sits up aloft,
To look after the life of poor Jack.’”

Archie laughed.

“He must squat in the foretop then,” he said, “as we’ve got neither main nor mizen for his convenience.”

Song after song did Antonio sing, to the delight of his listeners. His whole soul seemed to well out from the strings of that guitar, so sweet, so sad and low.

But he finished at last.

“Four bells,” he said, looking at the clock.

“Well, boys all, it is time to turn in.”

“But, captain, not before we return thanks to Heaven for our marvellous escape from cruel death. He--our Father--you know, gave us the victory.” This from Sister Leona.

“In that case,” said Antonio, “let us call all hands aft.”

The men gladly gathered in, and no more solemn little service was perhaps ever held at sea.

It was Davie’s watch, and he now retired to walk the deck till midnight, Barclay going with him for company’s sake.

The moon, which was but a waning one, had not yet risen, and the night was very dark, for thick black clouds obscured the sky, and seemed to be banked up on all sides and close aboard of the doomed ship.

There was hardly a breath of wind, and the deep mysterious silence was almost awesome.

Scarcely did our two boy heroes care to speak above a whisper.

Sometimes they paused in their walk and leant over the bulwark listening.

What did they hear in the darkness? Only this, a strange mysterious whispering sound, coming from what direction they could not tell. It was as if that dark and solemn ocean of weeds were trying to tell them its awful story from times long, long forgotten, till the present age.

But presently both started with an almost nervous tremor, for from afar off apparently rose a melancholy wail or shriek. Again and again it was repeated, but finally died away in the distance.

No more weird and mournful wail probably ever broke the silence of the sea.

Antonio himself came gliding to their side and laid a hand on the shoulder of each.

They started and looked quickly round.

“It is Antonio. Don’t be alarmed.”

“But did you not hear those awful wailing screams?”

“Yes, I did, boys, and they are often heard here. They make the bravest men nervous, and sailors say it is the ghosts of men who have entered this strange sea, never, never to leave it more, and whose clay-covered skeletons lie deep in the bottom of the ocean.”

“But you do not believe that, sir?”

“No, Barclay. No, I am not so superstitious. I put them down either to wild birds, or to a curious fish found here, called the piping shark. It is said that it appears but for a few minutes above the water, utters those awful sounds, and sinks again into the sea’s dark depths.”

* * * * *

Next day Antonio did as he had intended, and held a general survey on the quantity and condition of the stores.

The verdict communicated to our heroes and the first and second mates was this: “With economy, and if the tinned meats keep in good condition, we have food enough to last a year.”

“A year,” said poor Paddy M‘Koy. “Ach, sure it is joking entoirely you are, sorr. It’s never a year we’ll lie in this black sea.”

The captain shook his head sadly.

“I was to have been married, sorr, on my return to Dublin to one of the purtiest girls in Ould Ireland. Och and och, and what will become of her at all, at all?”

“Paddy,” said the captain, “we have all a duty to each other to perform.”

“And what is it thin, sorr?”

“To appear hopeful and cheerful, whether we feel it or not.”

But Paddy only sighed and went below.