"You'll find it won't improve the temper of the officers," said Crosby, who had joined the group."There's nothing sailors hate more than a fog.They can go to sleep in a hurricane between the rolls of a ship, but a fog keeps them awake.It's the one thing they can't shirk.There's the skipper tumbled up, too! The old man looks wrathy, don't he? But it's no use now; we're going slap into it, and the wind's failing!"It was true.In the last few moments all that vast glistening surface of metallic blue which stretched so far to windward appeared to be slowly eaten away as if by some dull, corroding acid; the distant horizon line of sea and sky was still distinct and sharply cut, but the whole water between them had grown gray, as if some invisible shadow had passed in mid-air across it.The actual fog bank had suddenly lost its resemblance to the shore, had lifted as a curtain, and now seemed suspended over the ship.
Gradually it descended; the top-gallant and top-sails were lost in this mysterious vapor, yet the horizon line still glimmered faintly.Then another mist seemed to rise from the sea and meet it; in another instant the deck whereon they stood shrank to the appearance of a raft adrift in a faint gray sea.With the complete obliteration of all circumambient space, the wind fell.Their isolation was complete.
It was notable that the first and most peculiar effect of this misty environment was the absolute silence.The empty, invisible sails above did not flap; the sheets and halyards hung limp; even the faint creaking of an unseen block overhead was so startling as to draw every eye upwards.Muffled orders from viewless figures forward were obeyed by phantoms that moved noiselessly through the gray sea that seemed to have invaded the deck.Even the passengers spoke in whispers, or held their breath, in passive groups, as if fearing to break a silence so replete with awe and anticipation.
It was next noticed that the vessel was subjected to some vague motion; the resistance of the water had ceased, the waves no longer hissed under her bows, or nestled and lapped under her counter; a dreamy, irregular, and listless rocking had taken the place of the regular undulations; at times, a faint and half delicious vertigo seemed to overcome their senses; the ship was drifting.
Captain Bunker stood near the bitts, where his brief orders were transmitted to the man at the almost useless wheel.At his side Senor Perkins beamed with unshaken serenity, and hopefully replied to the captain's half surly, half anxious queries.
"By the chart we should be well east of Los Lobos island, d'ye see?" he said impatiently."You don't happen to remember the direction of the current off shore when you were running up here?""It's five years ago," said the Senor modestly; "but I remember we kept well to the west to weather Cape St.Eugenio.My impression is that there was a strong northwesterly current setting north of Ballenos Bay.""And we're in it now," said Captain Bunker shortly."How near St.
Roque does it set?"
"Within a mile or two.I should keep away more to the west," said Senor Perkins, "and clear"--"I ain't asking you to run the ship," interrupted Captain Bunker sharply."How's her head now, Mr.Brooks?"The seamen standing near cast a rapid glance at Senor Perkins, but not a muscle of his bland face moved or betrayed a consciousness of the insult.Whatever might have been the feeling towards him, at that moment the sailors--after their fashion--admired their captain; strong, masterful, and imperious.The danger that had cleared his eye, throat, and brain, and left him once more the daring and skillful navigator they knew, wiped out of their shallow minds the vicious habit that had sunk him below their level.
It had now become perceptible to even the inexperienced eyes of the passengers that the Excelsior was obeying some new and profound impulse.The vague drifting had ceased, and in its place had come a mysterious but regular movement, in which the surrounding mist seemed to participate, until fog and vessel moved together towards some unseen but well-defined bourne.In vain had the boats of the Excelsior, manned by her crew, endeavored with a towing-line to check or direct the inexplicable movement; in vain had Captain Bunker struggled, with all the skilled weapons of seamanship, against his invincible foe; wrapped in the impenetrable fog, the ship moved ghost-like to what seemed to be her doom.
The anxiety of the officers had not as yet communicated itself to the passengers; those who had been most nervous in the ordinary onset of wind and wave looked upon the fog as a phenomenon whose only disturbance might be delay.To Miss Keene this conveyed no annoyance; rather that placid envelopment of cloud soothed her fancy; she submitted herself to its soft embraces, and to the mysterious onward movement of the ship, as if it were part of a youthful dream.Once she thought of the ship of Sindbad, and that fatal loadstone mountain, with an awe that was, however, half a pleasure.
"You are not frightened, Miss Keene?" said a voice near her.
She started slightly.It was the voice of Mr.Hurlstone.So thick was the fog that his face and figure appeared to come dimly out of it, like a part of her dreaming fancy.Without replying to his question, she said quickly,--"You are better then, Mr.Hurlstone? We--we were all so frightened for you."An angry shadow crossed his thin face, and he hesitated.After a pause he recovered himself, and said,--"I was saying you were taking all this very quietly.I don't think there's much danger myself.And if we should go ashore here"--"Well?" suggested Miss Keene, ignoring this first intimation of danger in her surprise at the man's manner.
