We sighted no more whales, and made for the Azores as fast as the old Clearchus would go, which was not at a dizzying speed. Wright was in such distress that the old man was anxious to get him ashore as soon as possible. He intended to call at Fayal, anyway. In addition to Wright’s necessities, there was some slight refitting to be attended to, he wanted another spare whaleboat, some oars, provisions, and other small matters. He expected to meet the tender there, too. The tender of the whaling fleet was a schooner, not what would be called fast, but faster than any whaler. She would take home the little oil we had, would have letters written since we left, and would take whatever letters we had to send. I wrote up my journal fully, and wrote letters to my father and my mother. I did not seal these, but left them to be added to at the last minute.

That whale led indirectly to an adventure of my own. I have spoken of the practical joke which a green hand tried to play on Black Tony, “The Prince,” as we all called him. The green hand was Lupo, a Portuguese who pulled midship oar in Mr. Brown’s boat, in which the Prince had the bow oar. I do not know the real cause of the attempt, and it is not important, but probably jealousy was at the bottom of it. There was real malice in it, although Lupo meant that it should pass for a joke. It happened just at twilight. I did not see the whole of it, only the Prince standing on the rail, the sharp spade in his hand instinctively raised to strike, his head up, the most utter contempt in his gaze, as he looked down at Lupo from under half-closed eyelids. He reminded me of a tiger, and very probably he reminded Lupo of one, too. Lupo was paralyzed with fear. The Prince smiled slowly and contemptuously, and slowly lowered the spade, but said nothing, and Lupo moved. He passed near me—I was in the shadow of the foremast—muttering curses and threats as he went.

After that I was on the watch for them both, and about an hour later I saw them. The Prince seemed to have forgotten Lupo’s existence, but I had not, and I kept in the shadow and watched him closely, as he edged nearer and nearer to the place where the Prince was working. We were trying-out, and everybody was busy. Lupo himself was supposed to be busy. He kept one hand back by his hip—on a knife, as it turned out—and in the other hand he carried either a mincing-knife or a boarding-knife. The light was too poor and uncertain for me to be sure which it was, but either was a formidable weapon. I remember just the feeling I had at the roots of my hair, and the prickling all over my body, and the way I smiled, for I found myself about to leap on him. I did not make up my mind to do it, I simply found that I was going to do it, and I was filled with an exaltation of joy at the knowledge. Call it what you will and explain it how you may, it was pure joy of a kind that I have known many times since, but never equal to that first time.

Well—I leaped just as he was raising his weapon, whatever it was, and as I leaped I gave a little nervous laugh of excitement. He had not seen me, and he was startled, and dropped his weapon, which clattered on the deck. I seized him about the body, pinning his elbows to his sides; but he was larger and stronger than I was, and partially freed them. I felt a warm sting in my hip, and knew that he had used his knife. Then I got thoroughly mad. When I was in that condition I felt nothing, blows, knife thrusts, or anything else. It is a curious phenomenon, and I suppose not peculiar to myself, that in such a situation, when my rage is once completely aroused—it never took much to rouse it—I seemed to lose all sense of pain, all feeling. It was always so with me, even as a very small boy. I attacked Lupo in a fury with hands and feet and teeth. What he did to me I did not know.

The fight did not last long. Suddenly he went down; inexplicably to me until my vision cleared, and I saw Lupo lying at full length on the deck, and the Prince stooping over him, holding a mincing-knife at his throat like the knife of a guillotine. I fully expected to see him beheaded on the instant. I wanted to see his head roll away, and blood spurting from his neck.

“You move,” whispered the Prince, “and—”

Lupo heard the whisper, and he did not move, for the edge of the knife was in contact with his throat. Then others came, and the Prince rose to his feet, laid down his mincing-knife quietly, and came and stood by me, while Lupo was led away.

“You hurt, Tim?” asked the Prince. “He knife you?”

I laughed a little nervously. The sense of feeling had not come back completely.

“I guess so,” I answered, “but I don’t feel it.”

“Le’s see,” he said. He took up a lantern and looked me over. Lupo’s knife had found only certain soft portions of my anatomy, and those far from any vital part.

The Prince laughed. “I see. All right. No harm, but you not sit down much for a while. Better go to the old man and get fixed up, though. Good boy, Tim! Great boy! You make good fight. Tony won’t forget. He won’t forget.”

All this time he was patting my shoulder. Then, as I did not move, he led me aft, keeping his hand on my shoulder.

“Now go below,” he said, giving me a gentle push toward the cabin stairs.

I found Captain Nelson there, sitting at the cabin table. The row on deck had been noiseless, and he had not been disturbed. He fixed me up with some simple remedy.

“It ’ll bleed a few minutes,” he said. “Let it. Now tell me the whole story. Been in a fight, have you?”

I told him the whole story, and he made no comment whatever, although I was expecting something, whether praise or blame I did not know. I never felt sure how he would take any of my exploits. But he said nothing, and I bade him good-night, and went to turn in. I did not go to sleep immediately. My wounds gave me no pain whatever, but I was still in a condition of excitement.

In the morning, however, I was so sore and lame that I dressed with difficulty. We were under way again, and Wright was no worse, although he certainly was no better. He told me that they had Lupo in irons, and that they would hand him over to the consul in Fayal, who would want my story again. This piece of information elated me, while filling me with apprehension and nervousness. I must be sure that I had my story straight, and I wrote it out at once, while it was all fresh in my mind.

Later in that day I was studying trigonometry, and found myself beyond my depth, when Mr. Brown came along. I was immersed in mathematics, and thinking of nothing but spherical angles. He stood for a few minutes, watching me, and half smiling to himself.

“Tim,” he said at last.

I looked up, startled at his abruptness.

“Yes, sir?”

“I guess that you had no intention of getting in that fight, but suddenly found yourself in it. Is n’t that so?”

“Well—yes, sir.” I did not like to tell him of my joy in it, or of my blind fury, but he must have guessed that too.

“I’m afraid you like to fight.”

“Well—I did n’t know that I liked it, sir.”

“It’s right that you should like it, in a good cause, but you ’ll have to be on your guard. I like it—or I used to—and it let me in for these.”

With that he opened his shirt, and showed me three old scars almost over his heart. I gaped at them.

“Just escaped with my life,” he added, smiling again. “My ribs stopped it. And I have other scars. And the cause was n’t good. I show you these only to let you know that I know what I am talking about. Be on your guard, boy.”

I was still gaping up at him. “Where?” I asked.

“Batavia,” he answered shortly, “years ago. I had got down pretty far. I don’t want you to. Now let’s see what bothers you.”

So we took up that question of angles. I had forgotten it.

When we had finished our session, I went on deck. It was nearly five o’clock, or two bells. The breeze had lightened, and the old ship lumbered along lazily, pitching slowly in the swells, and now and then throwing sheets of spray from her forefoot when a sea chanced to break with it. I could not see it, but I could hear it. I stood behind the steersman, and I forgot Batavia and Mr. Brown as I looked out astern over our slowly seething wake in a golden ocean, with crimson lights, and with shadows of dark green and blue in the seas which chased us. The crew were finishing the cleaning up of the ship with ashes from the try-works, and their noise sounded faintly behind me. I lost myself once more.

There was no land in sight, and no vessel, nothing but that gently heaving, golden ocean; but I imagined that the Elizabeth Islands were concealed behind haze on the horizon, and that I was bound home across the Bay. I wondered how my father would seem, and what he was doing at that moment; and I saw in imagination my mother’s face as she caught sight of me. I knew what she would be doing at that moment. She would be cooking supper—perhaps it was half an hour too early to be cooking supper, but soon she would be cooking supper; or frying doughnuts, although she was more apt to do that in the morning; or making soda biscuit. I could just see the great pan of them, and mother stooping before the open oven door. We had a plenty of good, homely food, and mother’s soda biscuits were—well, they were mother’s soda biscuits. There was nothing like them.

We got into Fayal in about a week. Wright was taken ashore the first thing, and put into the hands of a surgeon. We left him there. His hip was pretty bad, and he was really sick besides. He had con­sump­tion, although he would not acknowledge it. He went back to New Bedford on the tender, which left after we did, and I am afraid we all forgot him quickly.

Lupo was delivered to our consul, and was also sent back on the tender, according to the best recollection I have of the matter to be tried in New Bedford—or in the Federal Court in that district. I had to sign and swear to a deposition, which was merely a copy of my journal of the fight. When that duty was over I felt much better, for it had weighed on my mind for some days, although it turned out to be nothing but a formality, and the consul was very kind and friendly, as was everybody concerned except Lupo. I do not know what became of him.

The tender was waiting for us. I finished up my journal, so far, and my letters. The letters were not long, for all my narrative was contained in my journal. There was a long letter from my mother, filled with the news of home since I had left, and with the kind of thing that mothers’ letters are always filled with. Boys treat them carelessly sometimes, and affect not to value them, but they always do value them, I think. My father had written a postscript to my mother’s letter, not long, for my father never wrote long letters, and was not given to that form of self-expression—to any form of self-expression, for that matter. I wore that letter to a rag, carrying it about with me, and reading it and re-reading it. It brought back my homesickness. I rather cherished my homesickness, I think.

We had about a hundred barrels of oil to send home, and to be put aboard the tender, supplies and provisions to get, and a whaleboat if we could, and two men to recruit to take the places of Wright and Lupo, and we were likely to stay there four or five days at least.

Some of us were given liberty ashore, and Peter, the Prince, Black Man’el, and I undertook a tour into the interior. I cannot now remember much about that trip. I know that we wandered about the town for a half a day, and saw a little white and ancient-looking chapel, which we were told that Columbus had visited on his return from discovering America; and that we traveled on foot into the country. Fayal is less mountainous than most of the other islands, but the roads were not good. On the high ground back from the town we passed farms, and many small, round, terraced areas, not much bigger than a barn floor, with low walls of small boulders. They were floored with a very hard sort of clay. I believe these areas were used as threshing-floors. I remember best that I was pretty sore still.

Our oil was transferred, supplies and provisions on board, the new men shipped, and Captain Nelson impatient to get away; but several of the liberty men were not back, and although their liberty was not up until the next day Mr. Tilton was sent ashore with two men to find them. Mr. Tilton knew the places in Fayal where they would be likely to be, and he came back in a little over an hour, bringing the men, who were very drunk, and singing and shouting, or maudlin or sullen and vicious, according to their natures. Azevedo soused them with cold water, and we got under way at once.

Our course was a little east of south until we struck the northeast trades in latitude 28° N., although there was a good easterly wind all the way from Fayal, and the Clearchus did pretty well for her. We did not stop at Tenerife, which would have been several hundred miles out of our way. With the trades on our quarter we did better yet on a course a little west of south. This took us to the Cape Verde grounds.

During all this time from Fayal up to getting on the Cape Verde grounds, we hardly started a sheet, and the men had a good deal of time to themselves. Most of them were occupied with scrimshawing. I finished my pie marker, but did not begin anything else. A boy on shipboard does not have nearly as much spare time as would naturally be supposed by people who do not know; none of the crew have, either, although the crew is much larger than necessary for working the ship, and they do not care much for appearances, or for doing things smartly or in shipshape fashion. A boy has none of the duties of the men, except pulling and hauling when the boats are away, but he is at the beck and call of all officers. I really do not know whether all the officers have that right, but that was the way it worked out, and I never questioned it. Then I had my studies, at which I was really working. What spare time I had I preferred to spend on deck, gazing at the sky and the sea, and what I could see in them, rather than working with my eyes in my hat. There was little to be seen in the air, but the sea sometimes seemed alive with porpoises, and one day I saw a dolphin swimming just below the surface of the water alongside the ship. As it passed, with no perceptible effort, under the seas, with the sun shining upon it, it showed beautiful colors, changing every instant from one delicate shade of blue or green to another, like dissolving views. Then there came another and another, and flying fish leaping from the water. Some of the flying fish came aboard, or went clear across the deck in their flight, and I tried to catch them in my cap as they passed. I did catch three.

In about 14° N. latitude we ran into the doldrums, which prevail over but two or three degrees at this point and at this season. We were more than a week in getting out of them. It did not rain so much as I had expected, although the clouds hardly broke, and heavy showers were likely at almost any time.

In about latitude 9° N. we ran out of the doldrums and into a fresh breeze from the southwest, which the captain said was the southwest monsoon. I did not then know what a monsoon was. It sounded like simoon and typhoon, and I knew that some of them were ferocious and terrible things, but I was not at all sure which was the worst. It was the strange and foreign sound, I have no doubt, that scared me. If typhoons had been called simple hurricanes they would not have seemed nearly so bad. I had studied about typhoons and simoons and monsoons, and other winds, in my physical geography at school, but they had meant nothing to me but names, largely because they were nothing but names to my teacher. How could they be anything more? When we ran into it we found that the monsoon—this one, at any rate—was nothing to be afraid of. It is a sort of seasonal trade wind, due to the nearness, in this case, of the continent of Africa. We changed our course to southeast, and held it until we ran into the southeast trades a few degrees farther south; then changed again, running nearly west at first, to accommodate the ship to the wind, which at first was nearly south. The wind got around more to the eastward as we went on, and when we crossed the line we could lay a southwest course.

We crossed the equator in about longitude 25° W. The actual crossing occurred at night, but I think that fact had nothing to do with the attitude of the men toward that important event. They took absolutely no notice of it, and I do not believe that more than two or three of them thought of it at all.

In the latitude of Cape St. Roque and Pernambuco, the usual tracks for sailing ships from the United States and Europe to Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope converge because of the trade winds. The tracks of vessels, either sail or steam, from Cape Horn and the eastern ports of South America naturally pass through the same somewhat narrow area; but although it seems narrow when you see it on a chart, it covers six or seven degrees of longitude, which is about four hundred miles in this latitude. The chance of meeting ships here is, therefore, not so great as any one might suppose, but we did see five ships in four days. We spoke none of them, although we did try to speak one, a big ship which Captain Nelson thought was bound to New York. He wanted to send letters, and we all hastily got together what we had to send—there was no time to write more than a half dozen words—and made up a packet.

The ship did not respond to our signal, however. She was nearly a mile away, going like a race-horse, with every­thing she owned on her yards, and the wind just abaft the beam. She may not have seen our signal—she may not have looked for it, her master being unwilling to go to the very considerable trouble involved in taking a packet of letters from an old whaler. At any rate, she did not stop or give any sign. She was a beautiful sight as she passed to windward under her cloud of canvas, making a good sixteen knots, bowing slowly and gracefully, and shouldering the seas out of her way, smothered in foam to her knightheads. There is nothing so beautiful as a full-rigged clipper ship with all her towering spread of sail, and with as much wind as she can stagger under. I watched her as long as I could see her, thinking that merely sailing in such a ship must be sheer pleasure such as we in the Clearchus could not realize. I found that I was smiling to myself. I wish that the day of the sailing ship might come again. It really seems as if it might. There is a wide field for the large, fast sailing ship. There is none for the small, slow ship. After all, it is a question of costs: crews and wages against investment and depreciation and the price of coal or oil.

We kept on down the coast of South America, but well out of sight of land, for ten days. For the first half of the time we had the southeast trades, which were very nearly east, and nothing happened to break the pleasant monotony. I read the “Lives of the Navigators,” for before long we should be off the coast of Patagonia, and I wished to prepare for that experience. No information was to be despised, and who knows how much the true Patagonians have changed in three hundred years? I kept track of Peter’s scrimshawing too, although I did none myself, and I devoted a good deal of time to my studies.

Mr. Brown spent a good deal of time in helping me, and from casual remarks and allusions that he made from time to time I had pieced out a fragmentary history of his career. I had a pretty good notion that Brown was not his real name, but I had no evidence of it. His story, as far as I had been able to get at it, with some guesses on my part, was this.

He had come of good family, with some money; how much I could not tell, but enough to send him to a good school and to college. At school he was rather wild and uncontrollable, and at college he was worse. In the middle of his college course came the Civil War, and he left college and enlisted. What his history had been in the war I could not guess, for he made but one allusion to being in it at all. When the war was over, he went back to college; but in his senior year he got into some drunken scrape, and was expelled. His father seemed to have been a hard kind of man, or perhaps he had got discouraged and tired of pulling him out of scrapes, and he turned him adrift.

Mr. Brown, as I must call him, wandering down upon the Boston wharves, rather desperate, shipped in a fisherman. He had always been used to boats. It was a very short cruise, and upon his return he shipped in a merchantman for the East. On this voyage, as I inferred, he had not abandoned his bad habits, and somehow or other he found himself cast adrift for the second time, and “on the beach” at Batavia. Here he got into some row—a fight, which almost ended him—with his outcast companions, and barely escaped with his life. That seemed to have sobered him. He pulled himself together, and reformed; shipped as foremast hand on a whaler which had put into Batavia short of men, and had followed whaling for the six years since. Now he was thirty-two or thirty-three, quiet and kind and efficient, and he had my unqualified admiration and affection. If I were a second Conrad I would make a book of him.

In about latitude 17° S. the southeast trades left us, and the wind came out from the northeast and north, which suited us just as well. We continued on our course for another five days, and then stood in to the westward for Rio.