A sea change

by FRANK T. BULLEN

Bullen, Frank Thomas (1857-1915), is an English writer of sea stories. He was born in London in a worker's family. Bullen and his sister lived with their aunt. The death of their aunt turned him on the streets at the age of 9. After 3 years' work as an errand boy he shipped as a cabin boy. At the age of 30 he began to work at the Morning Leader.

Night was coming. The brig was an old one, whose owner was poor. So she had been gradually going from bad to worse. Being a smart model and newly painted, she looked rather attractive when Captain South first saw her lying in the St. Katherine's Docks. Poor man, the command of her meant so much to him. Long out of employment, friendless and poor, he had invested a tiny legacy, just fallen to his wife, in the vessel as the only means whereby he could obtain command of even such a poor specimen of a vessel as the Dorothea.

In order to avoid expense, he lived on board while in dock. The first piece of bad news came when the Dorothea was chartered to carry a cargo of railway iron and machinery to Buenos Aires. With Mary, his wife, on board — the thought was paralysing. A wooden vessel, even of the best construction, burdened with those rigid lengths of solid metal, is like a living creature on the rack, in spite of the most careful stowage. Captain South already knew that the Dorothea was far from being staunch and well-built.

In the selection of his crew he had been unusually careful. Five seamen were all that he was allowed, the vessel being only 500 tons burden, two officers beside himself, and one man for the double function of cook and steward. Therefore, he sought to secure the best possible according to his judgement, and really succeeded in getting a strong little crew. His chief comfort, however, was in his second mate, who was a Finn — one of the phlegmatic race from the eastern shore of the Baltic who seem to inherit not only a natural talent for a sea life, but also the ability to build ships, make sails and rigging, do blacksmithing, etc. — all, in fact, that is necessary on a ship. In Olaf Svensen, then, the skipper felt he had a tower of strength. The mate was a young Londoner, smart and trustworthy. The other six members of the crew — two Englishmen and three Scandinavians — were good seamen.

It was late in October when they sailed, and they had no sooner put to sea than they were greeted by a strong northwester. For fourteen days they fought their way inch by inch down the Channel, when a hard northeaster drove them clear of the land and 300 miles out into the Atlantic. Then a calm fell. Three days it lasted—days that brought no comfort to the skipper. Then one evening there began to rise in the west the familiar sign so dear to homeward-bounders, so dreaded by outward-going ships — the dense dome of cloud uplifted to receive the setting sun. The skipper watched its growth until at midnight it had risen to be a vast screen, hiding one-half of the deep blue sky. The first moaning breath of the coming gale roused him almost as soon as it reached the ship, and as the watchful Svensen gave his first order, they tried to get the Dorothea into that position where she would be best able to stem the rising sea. Silent and anxious, Captain South hung with one elbow over the edge of the companion, his keen hearing taking note of every complaint made by the trembling timbers beneath his feet.

All that his long experience could suggest for the safety of his vessel was put into practice. By eight bells (4 a. m.) the brig showed nothing to the darkness above but the two gaunt masts, with their ten bare yards tightly braced up against the lee backstays. A tiny weather-cloth of canvas only a yard square was stopped in the weather main rigging, its small area amply sufficing to keep the brig’s head up in the wind. There was little said, and only a few looks exchanged. The skipper had, indeed, to meet the pale face of his wife, but she dared not put her fear into words, or he bring himself to tell her that except for a miracle their case was hopeless. He seldom left the deck.

So passed a night and a day of such length that the ceaseless tumult of wind and wave had become normal. Svensen had been preparing their only serviceable boat by stocking her with food, water, etc. The skipper had watched him with a dull eye but felt satisfaction at the evidence of his second mate’s forethought. For all hope of the Dorothea's weathering the gale was now completely gone. Midnight brought a calm, as deep as if there had been no wind, but the old swell still came marching on, making the doomed brig heave clumsily as it passed her. The day broke in perfect splendour, cloudless and pure, with the sun shining brightly. But into that solitary circle, whereof the brig was the centre, came no friendly glint of sails, no welcome strain of trailing smoke across the clear blue. But the calm gave opportunity for a careful launching of the boat. Hardly a word was spoken as the little company left the ship's side and entered the boat. A few faint splashes were heard as the oars rose and fell, and the boat grided away. At a cable's length they ceased pulling, and turned upon the brig. In a painful strained hush, they saw her bow as if bidding good-bye. Silently she disappeared.

Very peacefully passed the night, no sound invading the stillness except the regular plash of the oars. At dawn rowing ceased for a time. Svensen broke that scared quiet by a shout of "Sailho!", and all presently saw, with the vigilant Finn, the unmistakable outlines of a vessel. No order was given or needed. The oars gripped the water, and with a steady rush the boat sped eastward towards that vision of salvation. Even the skipper's face lost its dull shade of hopelessness, in spite of his loss, as he saw the haggard lines relax from Mary's face. Quite a cheerful buzz of chat arose. Hour after hour, the boat sped onward over the bright smoothness. After four hours of extremely hard labour they were near enough to see that she was a steamer lying still, with no trace of smoke from her funnel. As they drew nearer they saw that she had a heavy list to port, and presently came the suggestion that she was deserted. Hopes began to rise, weariness was forgotten, and the oars rose and fell as if driven by steam, until they rounded to under the stern of a schooner-rigged steamer of about 2000 tons burden, without a boat in her davits, and her lee rail nearly at the water's edge. Running alongside, a rope trailing overboard was caught, and the boat made fast. In two minutes every man but the skipper was on board. The discovery was soon made that, although the decks had been swept and the cargo evidently shifted, the engines and boilers were in perfect order except that there was much water in the stokehold. She was evidently Italian by her name, the Luigi C., and her crew must have deserted her in a sudden panic.

Ex. I. Answer the following questions:

1. What kind of ship was the Dorothea?

2. What can you say about the captain?

3. What cargo was the Dorothea chartered to carry?

4. What happened to the ship on her way to the port of destination?

5. How did it happen that the crew did not perish?

Ex. II. Translate the following sentences into English:

1. Оно могло перевозить только около 500 тонн груза.

2. Все члены экипажа остались живы.

3. Они спустили на воду единственную лодку, нагруженную пресной водой и продуктами.

4. Рано утром они увидели итальянское судно, которое в панике покинула команда.

5. Команда погибшего судна «Доротея» благополучно добралась до Лондона.