Chasing the Sun, Page 2

  CHAPTER TWO.

  THE STORM AND THE FIRST ADVENTURE.

  A storm raged on the bosom of the North Sea. The wind whistled as ifall the spirits of Ocean were warring with each other furiously. Thewaves writhed and tossed on the surface as if in agony. White foam,greenish-grey water, and leaden-coloured sky were all that met the eyesof the men who stood on the deck of a little schooner that rose and sankand staggered helplessly before the tempest.

  Truly, it was a grand sight--a terrible sight--to behold that littlecraft battling with the storm. It suggested the idea of God's might andforbearance,--of man's daring and helplessness.

  The schooner was named the _Snowflake_. It seemed, indeed, littleheavier than a flake of snow, or a scrap of foam, in the grasp of thatangry sea. On her deck stood five men. Four were holding on to theweather-shrouds; the fifth stood at the helm. There was only a narrowrag of the top-sail and the jib shown to the wind, and even this smallamount of canvas caused the schooner to lie over so much that it seemeda wonder she did not upset.

  Fred Temple was one of the men who held on to the weather-rigging; twoof the others were his friends Grant and Sam Sorrel. The fourth was oneof the crew, and the man at the helm was the Captain; for, although Fredunderstood a good deal of seamanship, he did not choose to take on hisown shoulders the responsibility of navigating the yacht. He employedfor that purpose a regular seaman whom he styled Captain, and neverinterfered with him, except to tell him where he wished to go.

  Captain McNab was a big, tough, raw-boned man of the Orkney Islands. Hewas born at sea, had lived all his life at sea, and meant (so he said)to die at sea. He was a grim, hard-featured old fellow, with a facethat had been so long battered by storms that it looked more like thefigure-head of a South-Sea whaler than the countenance of a living man.He seldom smiled, and when he did he smiled grimly; never laughed, andnever spoke when he could avoid it. He was wonderfully slow both inspeech and in action, but he was a first-rate and fearless seaman, inwhom the owner of the schooner had perfect confidence.

  As we have fallen into a descriptive vein it may be as well to describethe rest of our friends offhand. Norman Grant was a sturdy Highlander,about the same size as his friend Temple, but a great contrast to him;for while Temple was fair and ruddy, Grant was dark, with hair, beard,whiskers, and moustache bushy and black as night. Grant was aHighlander in heart as well as in name, for he wore a Glengarry bonnetand a kilt, and did not seem at all ashamed of exposing to view hisbrown hairy knees. He was a hearty fellow, with a rich deep-tonedvoice, and a pair of eyes so black and glittering that they seemed topierce right through you and come out at your back when he looked atyou! Temple, on the contrary, was clad in grey tweed from head to foot,wideawake included, and looked, as he was, a thorough Englishman. Grantwas a doctor by profession; by taste a naturalist. He loved to shootand stuff birds of every shape and size and hue, and to collect andsqueeze flat plants of every form and name. His rooms at home werefilled with strange specimens of birds, beasts, fishes, and plants fromevery part of Scotland, England, and Ireland--to the disgust of his oldnurse, whose duty it was to dust them, and to the delight of his littlebrother, whose self-imposed duty it was to pull out their tails and pickout their eyes!

  Grant's trip to Norway promised a rich harvest in a new field, so hewent there with romantic anticipations.

  Sam Sorrel was like neither of his companions. He was a little fellow--a mere spider of a man, and extremely thin; so thin that it seemed as ifhis skin had been drawn over the bones in a hurry and the fleshforgotten! The Captain once said to Bob Bowie in a moment of confidencethat Mr Sorrel was a "mere spunk," whereupon Bob nodded his head, andadded that he was no better than "half a fathom of pump water."

  If there was little of Sam, however, that little was good stuff. It hasbeen said that he was a painter by profession. Certainly there was nota more enthusiastic artist in the kingdom. Sam was a strange mixture ofearnestness, enthusiasm, and fun. Although as thin as a walking-stick,and almost as flat as a pancake, he was tough like wire, could walk anydistance, could leap farther than anybody, and could swim like a cork.His features were sharp, prominent and exceedingly handsome. His eyeswere large, dark, and expressive, and were surmounted by delicateeyebrows which moved about continually with every changeful feeling thatfilled his breast. When excited his glance was magnificent, and thenatural wildness of his whole aspect was increased by the luxuriance ofhis brown hair, which hung in long elf-locks over his shoulders. Amonghis intimates he was known by the name of "Mad Sam Sorrel."

  When we have said that the crew of the schooner consisted of six pickedmen besides those described and our friend Bob Bowie, we have enumeratedall the human beings who stood within the bulwarks of that trim littleyacht on that stormy summer's day.

  There was, however, one other being on board that deserves notice. Itwas Sam Sorrel's dog.

  Like its master, this dog was a curious creature. It was little andthin, and without form of any distinct or positive kind. If we couldsuppose that this dog had been permitted to make itself, and that it hadbegun with the Skye-terrier, suddenly changed its mind and attempted tocome the poodle, then midway in this effort had got itself very muchdishevelled, and become so entangled that it was too late to do anythingbetter than finish off with a wild attempt at a long-eared spaniel, onecould understand how such a creature as "Titian" had come intoexistence.

  Sam had meant to pay a tribute of respect to the great painter when henamed his dog Titian. But having done his duty in this matter, he foundit convenient to shorten the name into Tit--sometimes Tittles. Tittleshad no face whatever, as far as could be seen by the naked eye. Hiswhole misshapen body was covered with long shaggy hair of a light greycolour. Only the end of his black nose was visible in front and theextreme point of his tail in rear. But for these two landmarks it wouldhave been utterly impossible to tell which end of the dog was which.

  Somehow the end of his tail had been singed or skinned or burned, for itwas quite naked, and not much thicker than a pipe-stem.

  Tittles was extremely sensitive in regard to this, and could not bear tohave his miserable projection touched.

  How that storm did rage, to be sure! The whole sea was lashed into aboiling sheet of foam, and the schooner lay over so much that it wasimpossible for the men to stand on the deck. At times it seemed as ifshe were thrown on her beam-ends; but the good yacht was buoyant as acork, and she rose again from every fresh blast like an unconquerablewarrior.

  "It seems to me that the masts will be torn out of her," said Temple tothe Captain, as he grasped the brass rail that surrounded thequarterdeck, and gazed upward with some anxiety.

  "No fear o' her," said the Captain, turning the quid of tobacco in hischeek; "she's a tight boat, an' could stand a heavier sea than this. Ihope it'll blow a wee thing harder."

  "Harder!" exclaimed Fred.

  "You must be fond of wind, Captain," observed Grant with a laugh.

  "Oo ay, I've no objection to wund."

  The Captain said this, as he said everything else, more than halfthrough his nose, and very slowly.

  "But do you not think that more wind would be apt to carry away ourtop-masts, or split the sails?" said Temple.

  "It's not unlikely," was the Captain's cool reply.

  "Then why wish for it?" inquired the other in surprise.

  "Because we're only thirty miles from the coast of Norway, and if thewund holds on as it's doin', we'll not make the land till dark. But ifit blows harder we'll get under the shelter of the Islands in daylight."

  "Dark!" exclaimed poor Sam Sorrel, who, being a bad sailor, was verysick, and clung to the lee bulwarks with a look of helpless misery; "Ithought there was no dark in Nor--."

  The unhappy painter stopped abruptly in consequence of a sensation inthe pit of his stomach.

  "There's not much darkness in Norway in summer," answered McNab, "but atthe south end of it here there's a little--specially when the weather
isthick. Ay, I see it's comin'."

  The peculiar way in which the Captain said this caused the others toturn their eyes to windward, where it was very evident that somethingwas coming, for the sky was black as ink, and the sea under it wasruffled with cold white foam.

  "Stand by the clew-lines and halyards," roared the Captain.

  The men, who were now all assembled on deck, sprang to obey. As theydid so a squall came hissing down on the weather-quarter, and burst uponthe vessel with such fury that for a moment she reeled under the shocklike a drunken man, while the spray deluged her decks, and the windshrieked through the rigging.

  But this was too violent to last. It soon passed over and the gale blewmore steadily, driving the _Snowflake_ over the North Sea like a seamew.

  That evening the mountains of Norway rose to view. About the time thatthis occurred the sky began to clear towards the north-west and soonafter a white line of foam was seen on the horizon right ahead. Thiswas the ocean beating on the great army of islands, or skerries, thatline the west coast of Norway from north to south.

  "Hurrah for old Norway!" shouted Fred Temple with delight, when he firstobserved the foam that leaped upon these bare rocky islets.

  "It seems to me that we shall be wrecked," said Grant gravely. "I donot see an opening in these tremendous breakers, and if we can't getthrough them, even a landsman could tell that we shall be dashed topieces."

  "Why not put about the ship and sail away from them?" suggested Sorrel,looking round with a face so yellow and miserable that even the Captainwas _almost_ forced to smile.

  "Because that is simply impossible," said Fred Temple.

  Poor Sam groaned and looked down at his dog, which sat trembling on thedeck between his feet, gazing up in its master's face sadly--at least soit is to be supposed; but the face of Tittles, as well as the expressionthereof, was invisible owing to hair.

  "_Is_ there an opening, Captain?" inquired Fred in a low, serious tone.

  "Oo ay, no fear o' that," replied the Captain.

  There was, indeed, no fear of that, for as the schooner approached theislands, numerous openings were observed. It also became evident thatthe gentlemen had mistaken the distance from the broken water, for theywere much longer of reaching the outer skerries than they had expected,and the foam, which at first appeared like a white line, soon grew intoimmense masses, which thundered on these weather-worn rocks with a deep,loud, continuous roar, and burst upwards in great spouts like whitesteam many yards into the air.

  "Captain, are the islands as numerous everywhere along the coast as theyare here?" said Fred.

  "'Deed ay, an' more," answered the Captain, "some places ye'll sail forfifty or sixty miles after getting among the skerries before reachin'the main."

  They were now within a hundred yards of the islands, towards a narrowchannel, between two of which the Captain steered. Every one wassilent, for there was something awful in the aspect of the great darkwaves of the raging sea, as they rolled heavily forward and fell withcrash after crash in terrific fury on the rocks, dashing themselves topieces and churning the water into foam, so that the whole sea resembledmilk.

  To those who were unaccustomed to the coast, it seemed as if theschooner were leaping forward to certain destruction; but they knew thata sure hand was at the helm, and thought not of the danger but thesublimity of the scene.

  "Stand by the weather-braces," cried McNab.

  The schooner leaped as he spoke into the turmoil of roaring spray. Inten seconds she was through the passage, and there was a sudden andalmost total cessation of heaving motion. The line of islands formed aperfect breakwater, and not a wave was formed, even by the roaring gale,bigger than those we find on such occasions in an ordinary harbour. Asisle after isle was passed the sea became more and more smooth, and,although the surface was torn up and covered with foam, no great rollersheaved the vessel about. The tight little craft still bent over to theblast, but she cut through perfectly flat water now.

  A delightful feeling of having come to the end of a rough voyage filledthe hearts of all on board. Sam Sorrel raised his head, and began tolook less yellow and more cheerful. Tittles began to wag the stump ofhis miserable tail, and, in short, every one began to look and to feelhappy.

  Thus did the _Snowflake_ approach the coast of Norway.

  Now, it is by no means an uncommon occurrence in this world that a calmshould follow close on the heels of a storm. Soon after the _Snowflake_had entered the islands the storm began to abate, as if it felt thatthere was no chance of overwhelming the little yacht now. That night,and the greater part of the following day, a dead calm prevailed, andthe schooner lay among the islands with her sails flapping idly from theyards.

  A little after midnight all on board were asleep, save the man at thehelm and Captain McNab, who seemed to be capable of existing withoutsleep for any length of time when occasion required. The schooner nowlay in a latitude so far north that the light of the sun never quiteleft the sky in clear weather. A sweet soft twilight rested on therocky islands and on the sea, and no sound disturbed the stillnessexcept the creaking of the yards or the cries of seamews.

  Yes, by the way, there was another sound. It proceeded from the cabinwhere our three friends lay sleeping on the sofas. The sound was thatof snoring, and it issued from the wide-open mouth of Sam Sorrel, wholay sprawling on his back, with Tittles coiled up at his feet.

  It is probable that Sam would have snored on for hours, but for a pieceof carelessness on his part. Just before going to rest he had placed atin can of water close to his head in such a way that it was balanced onthe edge of a shelf. A slight roll of the schooner, caused by theentrance of a wave through an opening in the islands, toppled this canover and emptied its contents on the sleeper's face.

  He leaped up with a roar, of course. Tittles jumped up with a yelp,while Grant and Temple turned round with a growl at having beenawakened, and went off to sleep again.

  But sleep was driven away from the eyes of Sam Sorrel. He made one ortwo efforts to woo it back in vain, so in despair he jumped up, put hissketch-book in his pocket, seized a double-barrelled fowling-piece, andwent on deck, followed by Tittles. The little boat was floating underthe quarter, and a great mountainous island lay close off the starboardbow. Getting into the boat, Sam rowed to the island, and was soonclambering up the heights with the activity of a squirrel.

  Sam paused now and then to gaze with admiration on the magnificent scenethat lay spread out far below him; the innumerable islands, the calmwater bathed in the soft light of early morning, and the schoonerfloating just under his feet like a little speck or a sea-gull on thecalm sea. Pulling out his book and pencil, he sat down on a rock andbegan to draw.

  Suddenly the artist was startled by the sound of a heavy pair of wingsoverhead. Thousands of seagulls flew above him, filling the air withtheir wild cries, but Sam did not think it possible that they couldcause the sound which he had, heard. While he was still in doubt anenormous eagle sailed majestically past him. It evidently had not seenhim, and he sat quite still, scarce daring to draw his breath. In amoment the gigantic bird sailed round the edge of a precipitous cliff,and was gone.

  Sam at once rose and hurried forward with his gun. He was much excited,for eagles are very difficult to approach--they are so shy and wary.Few men who go to Norway ever get the chance of a shot at the king ofbirds.

  Judge, then, of the state of Sam Sorrel's mind when, on turning a cornerof rock, he suddenly beheld the eagle standing on the edge of a greatprecipice about a hundred yards in advance of him.

  But his hopes were much cast down when he observed that between him andthe eagle there was a space of open ground, so that he could not creepfarther forward without being seen. How was he to advance? What was heto do? Such a chance might not occur again during the whole voyage. Notime was to be lost, so he resolved to make a rush forward and get asnear as possible before the bird should take to flight.

  No sooner thou
ght than done. He rushed down the mountain-side like amadman. The eagle sprang up in alarm just as he reached the side of arounded rock. Halting suddenly, he took aim, and fired both barrels.The eagle gave a toss of its head and a twirl of its tail, and, sailingslowly away round a neighbouring cliff, disappeared from view.

  A deep groan burst from the poor artist as he exclaimed, "Oh dear, I'vemissed it!"

  But Sam was wrong. He had _not_ missed it. On climbing to the otherside of the cliff he found the eagle stretched on the ground in a dyingstate. Its noble-looking eye scowled for a moment on him as he came up,then the head drooped forward and the bird died. It measured six feetfour inches from tip to tip of its expanded wings, and was asmagnificent a specimen of the golden eagle as one could wish to see.

  With a triumphant step Sam carried it down to the yacht, where he foundhis comrades still sound asleep; so he quietly fastened the eagle upover Grant's bed, with the wings expanded and the hooked beak close tothe sleeper's nose!

  The day that followed this event continued calm, but towards evening alight breeze sprang up, and before midnight the _Snowflake_ cast anchorin the harbour of Bergen.