For the next three weeks we ran smoothly to the westward, with nothing occurring aboard The Gentle Hand to break the monotony of ship’s duty. The stiff breeze, the edge of the northeast trade-wind, bore us steadily on over warm seas bright with sunlight and under blue skies flecked with the lumpy trade clouds that hung apparently motionless in the void above.

During this weather I had little to do, and had a better chance of seeing something of the after-guard while looking to the gear of the two long twelves we carried upon the quarter-deck for stern-chasers. We carried no metal on the forecastle, and it appeared that these heavy guns aft were out of all proportion to the rest of the battery.

I spoke to Hawkson about it, but he explained that the natives of the Navigator, Society, and Fiji groups were somewhat dangerous, and that, as our mission was one of peaceful trading, we would always run when attacked rather than fight, and the heavy twelves were for keeping large canoes at a distance.

“It would be a rather large canoe,” I admitted, “that would face the fire of a long twelve-pounder as heavy as any used in vessels of the frigate class. The islands you speak of are not, however, in the South Atlantic.”

“You always were a clever lad, Heywood,” said he, with an ugly smile. “What a smart one you were to see the error of that! But we’ll have a try just to see what you can hit. Get a beef barrel and heave it overboard, an’ get the men of the gun-crew aft.”

After that we seldom let many days slip without practice. Tim begged me to take him in the gun-crew, and, as he was as active as a monkey, I always let him have a chance. He grew very quiet and sad as we drew near the Bahamas, and when we ran clear of the trade, within a hundred miles of the island, he seemed to be gazing over the sunlit ocean, watching for a coming breeze.

Sometimes I had him aft, polishing the brass of a gun-breech, and I noticed that he divided his attention mostly between the captain, Hicks, and Renshaw, and the southern horizon.

The great southern ocean is a lonely place, but its very loneliness and quietness on the edge of the great winds makes it appeal to a turbulent soul.

Tim and I sat a long time on the breech of the stern-chaser, rubbing the metal easily and gazing out over the calm ocean. It was quiet aboard, and the voices of the men on the main-deck sounded loud and discordant. The slatting of the canvas was the only sound aloft, the royals jerking at the clews first as the barque swung easily on the swell, and then the t’gallantsails followed by the topsails fore and aft, the taut canvas fanning the almost still air with the rolling swing, making the jerking of the tacks and clews sound rhythmically upon the ear. Below, the captain and his two passengers smoked and drank their ale under the cabin skylight, their jokes sounding particularly coarse in the sunlit quiet.

Tim suddenly stopped work and gazed to the southward. Far away, miles and miles to windward, the horizon darkened slightly where the deeper blue of the ocean stood out against the pale azure of the semitropical sky.

While he looked, there came a sound over the water. It was a long, plaintive cry of immense volume, but hardly distinct enough to be heard unless the listener gave his attention. It was like a wild minor chord of a harp, long continued and sustained, rising and falling over the dark blue heave of the swells where the light air darkened and streaked the ruffled surface. Farther away to windward, the ocean took on a deeper blue, and the air filled the sails more steadily for a few minutes.

Tim stood gazing into the distance, his eyes bright and his lips parted, but there was an expression of peace and tranquillity upon his freckled face that I had never noticed before.

“It’s the calling, Heywood, Heywood,” he whispered. “It’s the great calling of the millions who have gone before. Listen!”

I heard it. The sad, wailing notes coming from miles and miles away to windward over that smooth sea, with the freshening breeze, made an impression upon me I could not throw off. It vibrated through my whole being, and was like the voice of great loneliness calling from the vast world of sea and sky. It was not like the hum of the trade in the rigging or the snore of a gale under the foot of a topsail, nor like the thunderous roar of the hurricane through the rigging of a hove-to ship. The melancholy sadness of the long-sustained wail was musical to a degree. I sat there listening.

Of course, it must have been caused by the wind over the surface of the sea at a great distance, or by different currents of air in passing, but the effect upon the imagination was like that which might be caused by the prolonged cry of a distant host from the vastness of sunlit waste. It pervaded my whole being, and enforced listening to its call, seeming to draw my soul to it as if out in that sparkling world of rippling wavelets lay the end of all strife and the great eternal peace.

Tim stretched forth his arm. His eyes held a strange look in them, and he moved to the rail as though in a dream.

“I am coming, May, coming,” he whispered.

Before I realized what had happened, he had gone over the side. Then I jumped to my feet with a yell, and bawled out: “Man overboard!” at the same time heaving the end of a gun-tackle over the taffrail. The cry and noise of my rush brought the entire watch to the side, and the captain and Hawkson to the quarter-rail. The barque was barely moving, and Tim was alongside. But he refused to take the end of the line. There was an exclamation beside me at the taffrail, and Renshaw leaned his elbows upon the rail and looked over at the sinking sailor. Their eyes met for an instant, and Tim made a grab for the line. He was hauled up quickly, and went forward without a word of excuse to the captain and Hawkson’s inquiries as to how he happened overboard.

It was a strange occurrence, and I pondered over it that evening while the barque rolled slowly toward the islands under a bright moon, and our watch stretched themselves upon the main-hatch to smoke and spin yarns. Tim avoided me.

The next morning we found ourselves close to New Providence Harbour, the white water of the Great Bahama bank stretching away on all sides.

The skipper seemed to know the bank pretty well, for he sprung his luff and headed into the harbour without waiting for a pilot. We ran close in, clewing up the topsails as we went; then dropping the head-sails, let go the hook within pistol-shot of the town of Nassau. The town looked inviting enough. There it lay, and any kind of a swimmer could make the beach easily. In fact, before we had the sails rolled up there were niggers alongside, swimming out in utter disregard for sharks, and begging for a coin to be tossed overboard that they might dive for it and catch it before it reached the bottom. I was anxious about Tim. His strange action and talk made me expect some peculiar happening, and I watched him closely.

Martin came to me as I stood in the fore-rigging and spoke, looking longingly at the white coral beach, where the cocoanuts raised their bunchy, long-leaved tops into the hot air and rustled softly an invitation to the sailor.

“I say, Heywood, ye dare do it or no, hey?” he said.

“I’ll see,” I answered; “but isn’t the barky all right? We’ve been treated mighty well even if we were gulled in signing into her. I don’t know the place, and we might be a great deal worse off ashore.”

“Barky be sunk! What the devil care I for the barky, man? Didn’t I sign on as mate?”

Bill came down from aloft and joined us, and then big Jones came forward with Tim. We made a pretence of coiling down running-gear on the pin-rail, while we gazed longingly at the shore.

While we looked, a whale-boat shot out from the landing. It was rowed by eight strapping blacks, the oars double-banked, and in the stern-sheets were two men in white linen, looking very cool and trim in the hot sunshine. As the craft drew nearer, we saw she was heading for us, and the two men were gazing at our quarter-deck, where Hawkson and Captain Howard were talking earnestly with Hicks and Renshaw. The one who was steering was a medium-sized man with a smooth, red face, his beard seeming to start just beneath his chin and fill his collar with its shaggy growth that shot upward from somewhere below.

Behind this man in the stern-sheets, I caught the flutter of a dress, and soon made out the figure of a young girl dressed in white muslin.

“Who is it?” asked Bill. “Looks youst like an admiral.”

“It’s Yankee Dan,” said Tim. “I thought so. That’s his daughter with him. He’s the biggest trader north o’ Cuba.”

“The deil run away with him,” said Martin. “If he’s backin’ this barque fer nothin’ but plain, honest trade, I’m no man fer him. She ware a pirit once, why not again? I slip before dark. Will ye be the mon to follow, ye giant Jones, or be ye nothin’ but a beefy lout like what ye look?”

The big fellow scowled at this.

“Ef you are the better man, show me to-night,” said he.

The boat had now drawn up alongside, and the bearded fellow in charge stood up and hailed the quarter-deck, where Howard, Hawkson, and the rest were leaning over the rail watching him. Hicks and Renshaw bowed and removed their hats in deference to the young lady, but Hawkson and the skipper stood stiff.

“Didn’t expect to see you, Howard,” cried the trader. “They haven’t hung you yet! How is it? Rope scarce? Lines give out? This is my daughter,--and you’ll be damn civil to her if you’ll do any business with me. Swing over your ladder, and don’t keep me waiting. I won’t wait for you or any other bull-necked Britisher.”

Hawkson had already had Mr. Gull swing out the accommodation ladder from the poop, and the second mate simply lowered it an inch or two as the whale-boat swept up.

“Take in them oak gales,” roared Yankee Dan, whacking the stroke oarsman over the knuckles with a light cane he carried. Then pulling savagely upon the port tiller-rope, the boat swung up alongside the ladder under full headway.

“Stop her,” he bellowed.

It looked as though she would go rasping along the whole length of the barque with the impetus, but the blacks were instantly at the rail, grasping and seizing anything in their powerful hands, while one man forward, who had banked the bow oar, stood up with a huge hook and rammed its point into our side to check her. She brought up so suddenly that the trader was almost thrown from his feet.

“Come aboard, Whiskers, an’ don’t tear all our paint off,” said Hawkson, swaying the man-ropes so they fell aboard.

The old trader glanced upward, the white hair of his beard sticking out aggressively over his collar and framing his otherwise hairless face in a sort of bristling halo. I saw the young girl flash a glance of disdain at the poop and then seize the man-ropes. She sprang lightly upon the ladder and mounted rapidly to the deck, followed by the younger man, who had replied to none of the salutations and had quietly awaited events.

Yankee Dan followed and seized Hawkson’s hand, greeting him as an old friend. Then he slapped Captain Howard a rousing blow upon the back and introduced his daughter. Mr. Curtis shook hands all round, appearing to know every one, and we rightly surmised that he was the principal owner.

The vociferous trader kept talking in high good humour, being on familiar terms with Hicks, Renshaw, and the captain, and our men were anxious to hear his words, hoping to gather something in reference to our cruise. As for me, I found my attention drawn more toward the young lady, for never had I seen such perfection in womanly form or feature.

She was tall, and her figure, while not stout, had a supple fulness that spoke of great strength and grace. Her face was full and rosy, and her dark eyes were exquisitely bright, glancing quickly at a word or look. Her mouth, partly open, showed strong white teeth, and her smile was a revelation. There was nothing about her that spoke of her father save her apparent good humour and disdain for conventionalities. Her eyes were gentle, and had nothing of the fierce twinkle of the trader’s. Altogether I was so entirely taken up noting her charms that I was not aware of Mr. Gull until he came close to us and bawled out:

“Clear away the long-boat. All loafers who are tired of the sea and want a run on the beach get ready to go ashore.”