I shall not easily forget the captain's look as he turned towards the stranger, and gave his huge shoulders a shrug, as much as to say—
"Well, I can't help it now; he's here, and I can't throw him overboard."
The coffee, beef, and biscuit were sent him, and the stranger seemed to eat them with great gout, and drank the coffee with much relish, and returned the things, saying,
"Your captain is an excellent cook; give him my compliments."
I thought the captain would think that was but a left-handed compliment, and look more angry than pleased, but no notice was taken of it.
It was strange, but this man had impressed upon all in the vessel some singular notion of his being more than he should be—more than a mere mortal, and not one endeavoured to interfere with him; the captain was a stout and dare-devil a fellow as you would well met with, yet he seemed tacitly to acknowledge more than he would say, for he never after took any further notice of the stranger nor he of him.
They had barely any conversation, simply a civil word when they first met, and so forth; but there was little or no conversation of any kind between them.
The stranger slept upon deck, and lived upon deck entirely; he never once went below after we saw him, and his own account of being below so long.
This was very well, but the night-watch did not enjoy his society, and would have willingly dispensed with it at that hour so particularly lonely and dejected upon the broad ocean, and perhaps a thousand miles away from the nearest point of land.
At this dread and lonely hour, when no sound reaches the ear and disturbs the wrapt stillness of the night, save the whistling of the wind through the cordage, or an occasional dash of water against the vessel's side, the thoughts of the sailor are fixed on far distant objects—his own native land and the friends and loved ones he has left behind him.
He then thinks of the wilderness before, behind, and around him; of the immense body of water, almost in places bottomless; gazing upon such a scene, and with thoughts as strange and indefinite as the very boundless expanse before him, it is no wonder if he should become superstitious; the time and place would, indeed unbidden, conjure up thoughts and feelings of a fearful character and intensity.
The stranger at such times would occupy his favourite seat on the water cask, and looking up at the sky and then on the ocean, and between whiles he would whistle a strange, wild, unknown melody.
The flesh of the sailors used to creep up in knots and bumps when they heard it; the wind used to whistle as an accompaniment and pronounce fearful sounds to their ears.
The wind had been highly favourable from the first, and since the stranger had been discovered it had blown fresh, and we went along at a rapid rate, stemming the water, and dashing the spray off from the bows, and cutting the water like a shark.
This was very singular to us, we couldn't understand it, neither could the captain, and we looked very suspiciously at the stranger, and wished him at the bottom, for the freshness of the wind now became a gale, and yet the ship came through the water steadily, and away we went before the wind, as if the devil drove us; and mind I don't mean to say he didn't.
The gale increased to a hurricane, and though we had not a stitch of canvass out, yet we drove before the gale as if we had been shot out of the mouth of a gun.
The stranger still sat on the water casks, and all night long he kept up his infernal whistle. Now, sailors don't like to hear any one whistle when there's such a gale blowing over their heads—it's like asking for more; but he would persist, and the louder and stronger the wind blew, the louder he whistled.
At length there came a storm of rain, lightning, and wind. We were tossed mountains high, and the foam rose over the vessel, and often entirely over our heads, and the men were lashed to their posts to prevent being washed away.
But the stranger still lay on the water casks, kicking his heels and whistling his infernal tune, always the same. He wasn't washed away nor moved by the action of the water; indeed, we heartily hoped and expected to see both him and the water cask floated overboard at every minute; but, as the captain said—
"Confound the binnacle! the old water tub seems as if it were screwed on to the deck, and won't move off and he on the top of it."
There was a strong inclination to throw him overboard, and the men conversed in low whispers, and came round the captain, saying—
"We have come, captain, to ask you what you think of this strange man who has come so mysteriously on board?"
"I can't tell what to think, lads; he's past thinking about—he's something above my comprehension altogether, I promise you."
"Well, then, we are thinking much of the same thing, captain."
"What do you mean?"
"That he ain't exactly one of our sort."
"No, he's no sailor, certainly; and yet, for a land lubber, he's about as rum a customer as ever I met with."
"So he is, sir."
"He stands salt water well; and I must say that I couldn't lay a top of those water casks in that style very well."
"Nor nobody amongst us, sir."
"Well, then, he's in nobody's way, it he?—nobody wants to take his berth, I suppose?"
The men looked at each other somewhat blank; they didn't understand the meaning at all—far from it; and the idea of any one's wanting to take the stranger's place on the water casks was so outrageously ludicrous, that at any other time they would have considered it a devilish good joke and have never ceased laughing at it.
He paused some minutes, and then one of them said—
"It isn't that we envy him his berth, captain, 'cause nobody else could live there for a moment. Any one amongst us that had been there would have been washed overboard a thousand times over."
"So they would," said the captain.
"Well, sir, he's more than us."
"Very likely; but how can I help that?"
"We think he's the main cause of all this racket in the heavens—the storm and hurricane; and that, in short, if he remains much longer we shall all sink."
"I am sorry for it. I don't think we are in any danger, and had the strange being any power to prevent it, he would assuredly do so, lest he got drowned."
"But we think if he were thrown overboard all would be well."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, captain, you may depend upon it he's the cause of all the mischief. Throw him overboard and that's all we want."
"I shall not throw him overboard, even if I could do such a thing; and I am by no means sure of anything of the kind."
"We do not ask it, sir."
"What do you desire?"
"Leave to throw him overboard—it is to save our own lives."
"I can't let you do any such thing; he's in nobody's way."
"But he's always a whistling. Only hark now, and in such a hurricane as this, it is dreadful to think of it. What else can we do, sir?—he's not human."
At this moment, the stranger's whistling came clear upon their ears; there was the same wild, unearthly notes as before, but the cadences were stronger, and there was a supernatural clearness in all the tones.
"There now," said another, "he's kicking the water cask with his heels."
"Confound the binnacle!" said the captain; "it sounds like short peals of thunder. Go and talk to him, lads."
"And if that won't do, sir, may we—"
"Don't