I yielded, as I generally did in such matters, to Bob’s judgment; and it was settled that the Water Lily should brave Cape Horn with all its perils. On the fourth day of our stay at Funchal we filled up our water-tank, made a few additions to our stores (among others, a small stock of the famous wine produced by the island); and towards evening stood out to sea again, with our main-boom well garnished with bunches of bananas and nets of various kinds of fruits; the wind at the time being light, from about east-south-east, with a fine settled look about the weather. This lasted us for four days, and ran us fairly into the “trades,” and on the third day following, just as the sun was dipping beneath the horizon, we sighted Saint Antonio, the westernmost of the Cape Verde Islands.
The “trades” were blowing very moderately as it happened, and the weather was as fine as heart could wish, with a nearly full moon into the bargain, so we were able to carry not only a jib-headed topsail, but also our spinnaker at the bowsprit-end; and under this canvas the little beauty made uncommonly short miles of it, tripping along like a rustic belle going to her first ball. We fell in with several homeward-bound ships, all of whom we requested to report us on their arrival as “all well.” So fine a run had we from the Cape de Verdes, that on the morning of the fifth day after sighting them we ran into the “doldrums” or region of calms and light variable airs which prevail about the line.
Here our light duck did us valuable service, for though the wind soon fell so light that it became imperceptible to us, and not a ripple disturbed the glassy surface of the water, by getting our enormous balloon gaff-topsail aloft we managed to catch enough wind from somewhere to fan us along at the rate of nearly three knots. True, the breeze was very variable, our boom being sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other, sometimes square out (at least as far as the little air of wind had power to project it), and sometimes hauled close in as the flaws headed us, and broke us off two or three points one side or the other of our course. But, in spite of the baffling airs, such good progress did we make, that by two o’clock that afternoon we were gliding slowly through a fleet of about forty sail of vessels which were so completely becalmed that they were heading in all directions, utterly without steerage-way.
We reported ourselves to such as we passed within hail of, and finally, about four o’clock, ranged up alongside of and boarded a beautiful little barque of about three hundred and fifty tons, whose monkey-poop we saw full of passengers (some of whom were ladies), regarding us with die utmost curiosity as we approached. She turned out to be from Natal, bound to London; and her captain (a perfect gentleman both in appearance and manner) not only promised to report us, but gave us a hearty welcome on board, and so cordial an invitation to dinner that there was no resisting it.
Our story, or at least as much of it as we chose to tell (which was simply that we were taking the cruise partly as an adventure, and partly with the object of seeking intelligence of my father), was of course soon drawn out of us; and, naturally enough, it excited the liveliest astonishment in the minds of our hearers, and soon got all over the ship. We excited some curiosity on board the other ships too, for no less than four captains lowered their boats and pulled alongside to learn where the pigmy cutter had sprung from.
The little craft was regarded with the greatest curiosity and admiration, especially by the ladies (who are of course good judges of the model of a vessel), some of them declaring that they would be delighted (with strong emphasis) to make a voyage in such a little darling of a yacht.
We mustered quite a strong party at the dinner-table, what with the regular party, the four visiting captains (who were also pressed to stay), and our two selves, and a very merry one withal. We contributed to the dessert from our stock on the main-boom; and they only who have enjoyed it can say what a luxury is fresh fruit on the line, especially when one has been a long time on board a ship.
The skipper produced unlimited champagne (of which, for a wonder, he still had a very fair stock) in honour of the occasion, and “a prosperous voyage, and success to the Water Lily” was drunk over and over again that evening. We kept it up until nearly midnight, the poop being converted into a ball-room by merely hanging a few lamps in the mizzen-rigging; the orchestra consisting of one of the seamen, who played the concertina better than I ever heard it played before or since.
The weather being as I have described it, with out any signs of a change, such a departure from the ordinary routine of the ship was permissible, and I have no doubt everybody on board was glad enough of an occurrence which gave such an excuse for breaking in upon the monotony of the voyage.
Tedious enough they must have found it, for it appeared that they had already been becalmed five days, and had not altered their position as many miles; and there seemed every prospect of their being becalmed five days more, for the glass was as steady as if the mercury had been solid.
At last we visitors made signs of moving. The captains of the other vessels ordered their crews into their boats, and I was just about going over the side on my way to our small cabin to write a hasty line to Ada (our kind host having promised to post my letter for me immediately on his arrival), when a seaman stepped up to me, and with the usual nautical scrape of the foot and a respectful “Beg pardon, sir,” intimated a desire to speak to me.
“There’s a strange yarn going the rounds of this here craft’s fo’c’sle,” said he, “about your bein’ on a sort of v’yage of discovery a’ter your father, sir.”
I said, “Certainly; it was perfectly true.”
“Well, sir,” said he, “maybe I might be able to help you in your search. It needs no prophet to tell that you are Captain Collingwood’s son, when a man gets a fair squint at your figure-head, axing your pardon, sir, for my boldness; and if you’ll just give me your word that nothing I may say shall tell agin me, I’ll tell you all I knows about it, and gladly too; for I sailed with your father, sir, and a kinder skipper or a better seaman never trod a deck than he was, as I’ve had good reason to know.”
“Was?” exclaimed I, with a sudden sinking of heart.
“And is still, for aught I know, sir; at least I hope so; there’s no reason why he mayn’t be still alive,” replied the man, fully understanding all the meaning of my exclamation.
“Thank God for that,” replied I fervently. “But why is this strange pledge required? Surely, fellow, you will not have the temerity to tell me—his son—that he has been the victim of any foul play? If so—”
“Not on my part, sir, I’ll take my Bible oath,” said he. “What I did I was forced to do to save my own life. Gladly would I have helped the skipper if I could; but what can one man do agin a whole ship’s crew.”
“Much, if he have the will,” replied I. “I will give no pledge whatever, beyond this. Tell me your story, and if I find you were powerless to prevent the evil which I begin to suspect has befallen my poor father, you have nothing to fear; but if I find that you have in any way aided—”
“Never, sir. If I could have had my will the skipper would not be where, I suppose, he is now; but you shall hear all I have to say, and then judge for yourself whether I could prevent anything that happened or no.”
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