“Can you still see either of them, Williams?” hailed the captain.
“Yes, sir; I can still see the one I saw at first; but not the other,” was the reply.
“We must pick him up, if possible,” exclaimed the skipper. “Up helm, my man; hard up with it. Man the main-braces, and fill the topsail!”
At this juncture Sibylla, who had not heard the first part of the skipper’s speech, stepped up to Captain Blyth, ashy pale, and gasped:
“What are you going to do, captain? Is it possible you are going to be inhuman enough to leave that poor fellow there to die?”
“No, my dear,” was the answer. “I am going to save him, if it is in human power to do so. You go below, now, like a good girl, and persuade the others to go too; this is no sight for a woman to look upon.”
But Sibylla could no more have gone below than she could have flown. She walked aft, and stood at the taffrail with tightly-clasped hands and starting eyes, looking eagerly astern, her whole body quivering with an agony of impatience at what seemed to her the tardy movements of the ship.
As a matter of fact, however, the Flying Cloud had never proved herself more handy, or been worked more smartly than on that precise occasion; had she been sentient she could scarcely have yielded to her commander’s will more readily than she did. Keeping broad away until she had good way on her the skipper watched his opportunity, and, signing to the helmsman, the wheel was put over, and the ship flew up into the wind, tacking like a yacht, Williams at the same time making his way up on to the royal-yard, in order that the main-topsail might not interfere with his range of vision. In effecting this change of position, notwithstanding his utmost care, he contrived to lose sight of the diminutive speck on the surface of the water; and when Captain Blyth again hailed, asking him if he still saw it, he was compelled to answer “No.” An anxious search of about a minute, however—a minute which seemed an age to Sibylla—enabled him to hit it off once more, and he joyously hailed the deck to say that the person—whoever it might be—was still afloat and broad on the lee-bow.
“Keep her away a couple of points,” commanded Captain Blyth; “and pass the word for the boatswain to muster all the light heaving-line he can lay his hands upon. Range yourselves fore and aft along the lee bulwarks, my lads, and let each one stand by to heave a rope’s-end with a standing bowline in it as soon as we get near enough. How does he bear now, Williams?”
“Straight ahead, sir. Luff, or you will be over him! It is Ned, sir.”
“Luff!” said the skipper. “Man the main-braces, some of you, and stand by to heave the main-yard aback.”
Captain Blyth then sprang upon a hen-coop, and peered eagerly out ahead.
“I see him!” he eagerly exclaimed at last. “Back your main-topsail. Luff, my lad; luff and shake her! So, well there with the main-braces, belay all; and stand by fore and aft with your ropes’-ends. Look out, for’ard there; now heave! Missed him, by all that’s clumsy! Try you, the next man. Missed again; line not long enough. Steady, men, steady, or you’ll lose him yet. Now, look out, Ned, my lad! Heave, boatswain, and let us see what you can do. Well hove! Pay out the line, pay out smartly—ha! lost it. Tut! tut! this will never do. Well done! he has it this time! Let him slip it over his shoulder; that’s well. Now haul in—handsomely, my lads—and mind you don’t lose him.”
Half a minute more and poor Ned, gasping for breath, speechless, and too exhausted to stand upright, was dragged triumphantly up over the side and seated on the deck, where, of course, all hands instantly crowded around him. Doctor Henderson, however, promptly interfered, and, taking charge of the patient, was soon able to pronounce that, barring exhaustion, the poor fellow was all right; upon which the anxious little crowd dispersed, Sibylla retiring to her state-room, locking herself in, and gaining relief to her overwrought feelings by abandoning herself to a perfect tempest of hysterical tears.
Under the doctor’s skilful treatment Ned was soon sufficiently restored to answer a few questions, when he stated that though he had remained continuously on the watch from the moment of his rising above the surface after his first plunge to almost the moment of his being picked up, he had never caught a single glimpse of the mate, and that it was his impression the unfortunate man must have been hurt in his fall, and that he had never risen above water again. Notwithstanding this statement the ship was kept hove-to for another half-hour, with a man on the look-out on each topgallant-yard; when, nothing having been seen of the missing man during that time, Captain Blyth reluctantly gave up the search, and, wearing round, the ship once more proceeded on her voyage.
Chapter Six.
The springing of the Mink.
The deplorable fatality mentioned in the last chapter necessitated a further rearrangement of the official duties on board the Flying Cloud; Ned being advanced still another step and made acting chief-mate, or “chief-officer” as it is the custom to dub this official in the merchant service, whilst another apprentice—a very quiet, steady young man named Robert Manners—was promoted to the post of second-mate thus rendered vacant. Although these two posts—the most important and responsible in the ship next to that of the master—were now filled by two young men whose united ages fell short of forty years, the arrangement appeared to work in the most thoroughly satisfactory manner. The lads performed their onerous duties efficiently; the crew were as orderly and obedient as heretofore, and not a single sinister omen or indication manifested itself to arouse anxiety in the mind of the skipper. To add to Captain Blyth’s satisfaction, the island of New Amsterdam was sighted and passed on the morning of the tenth day succeeding the loss of the unfortunate Mr. Willoughby, and that, too, in a direction and at an hour which precisely verified the prediction of the captain, who rather prided himself upon his skill and accuracy as a navigator.
For several nights previous to this occurrence the skipper had been losing a great deal of rest; he had been too anxious to sleep, knowing that during his absence from the deck the ship was in absolute charge of one or the other of two lads whom he remembered, as though it had been but yesterday, joining him without a particle of experience. But as day after day, and night after night passed, and he saw what excellent use those two lads had made of the training and instruction he had so conscientiously bestowed upon them, he had gradually grown less anxious. And now, with fine weather, a fair breeze, and New Amsterdam sighted and passed, the poor fagged skipper once more knew what it was to enjoy an easy mind; and as he bade Ned “good-night” on the poop, about five bells in the first watch, he announced, in tones loud enough to be distinctly heard by the man at the wheel, that he intended to treat himself to a whole night’s sleep, and that he was not to be called or disturbed unless for something out of the common.
When, therefore, about three o’clock next morning, he was aroused from sleep by a gentle tap at the outer door of his state-room, Captain Blyth’s first coherent thought was: “I wonder what is the matter now!” It was nothing to do with the weather—unless the sky had assumed a threatening aspect—for, by long force of habit, he had acquired the power of detecting, even during his soundest sleep, any such important change in the state of the elements as a material increase of wind or sea, and, though the sleep from which he had been aroused was as sound as it ever falls to the lot of a seaman to enjoy, he had been quite conscious all the time that neither the sough of the wind in the rigging nor the steady swinging motion of the ship had become intensified. It was, therefore, in a somewhat peevish tone that he inquired:
“Well, what is the news?”
“Will you please step for’ard, sir, and see what ails Bob—young Mr. Manners, I mean, sir?” said a voice which the skipper recognised as belonging