But at last came a day when the meridian of Staten Island was passed under our counter; and when eight bells had been made, the ship’s course was altered, and we were once more heading for the sun with a strong wind on the beam, the ocean working in long sapphire lines of creaming billows, the ship leaning down under a maintopgallant sail, with a single reef in the topsail under it, and the sailors going about their work with cheerful countenances; for this northward course made us all feel that we were really and truly homeward bound at last.

It was thought that our passage would be a smart one, as good a run as any on record, for though, to be sure, we had been detained a bit off the Horn by the frequent heaving to of the ship, yet we had traversed the long stretch of the South Pacific very briskly, whilst for a long eight days now there blew a strong, steady beam wind that drove us through it at an average of two hundred and fifty miles in the twenty-four hours. With less weight in the breeze we should have done better still. We could never show more than a maintopgallant sail to it, and the high seas were by no means helpful to the heels of the ship. Yet Cape Horn was speedily a long way astern of us; the horrible weather of it was forgotten as pain is. Every night, stars which had become familiar to us were sinking in the south, and new constellations soaring out of the horizon over the bows. It was delightful to handle the ropes, and find them supple as coir instead of stiff as iron bars, to pick up the sails, and feel them soft again to the touch instead of that hardness of sheets of steel which they gathered to them in the frosty parallels. The sun shone with a warmth that was every day increasing in ardency; the dry decks sparkled crisply like the white firm sand of the sea-beach. The live-stock grew gay and hearty with the Atlantic temperature: the cocks crew cheerily, the hens cackled with vigour, the sheep bleated with voices which filled our salted, weather-toughened heads with visions of green meadows, of fields enamelled with daisies, of hedges full of nosegays, and of twinkling green branches melodious with birds.

We slipped into the south-east trade wind, and bore away for the equator under fore-topmast studding-sail.

One moonlight night a fancy to view the ship from the bowsprit entered my mind. I went on to the forecastle and crawled out on to the jibboom, and there sat riding a-cock-horse of it, holding by the outer jib-stay. The moon shone brightly over the maintopsail yard-arm; all sail was on the ship, and she was leaning over from the fresh breeze like a yacht in a racing match. The moonlight made her decks resemble ivory, and stars of silver glory sparkled fitfully along them in the glass and brass work. The whole figure of the noble fabric seemed to be rushing at me; the foam poured like steam from her stem that was smoking and sheering through the ocean surge. Over my head soared the great jibs, like the wings of some mighty spirit. My heart leapt up in me to the rise and fall of the spar that I jockeyed. It was like sitting at one end of a leviathan see-saw, and every upheaval was as exhilarating as a flight through the air. Ah, thought I, as I leisurely made my way inboards, if sailoring were always as pleasant as this, I believe I should wish to continue at sea all my life.

It was two days afterwards, at about half-past six in the morning watch, that a fellow in the foretop hailed the deck and reported a black object on the lee-bow which, he said, didn’t look like a ship, though it was a deal too big for a long-boat. I was staring wistfully in the direction the man had indicated. Mr. Johnson noticed this, and said, with a kind smile (I seemed to be a favourite of his, maybe because I was but a little chap to be at sea, otherwise I do not know what particularly entitled me to his kindness)—

“Here, Rockafellar, take my glass into the foretop, and see what you can make of the object.”

I was very proud of this commission, and not a little pleased to escape even for a short spell the grimy, prosaic business of scrubbing the poop. The telescope was a handsome instrument in a case, the strap of which I threw over my shoulder; and, slipping on a pair of shoes (for I never could endure the pressure of the ratlines against the soles of my naked feet), I got into the shrouds and arrived in the foretop.

“Where is it?” said I to a man who stood peering seawards, with a hairy tar-stained hand protecting his eyes.

He pointed.

I levelled the glass, and in an instant beheld the black hull of a ship lying deep in the water, rolling heavily, yet very sluggishly. All three masts were gone, and a few splinters forking out between her knight-heads were all that remained of her bowsprit.

The sailor asked leave to look, and putting his eye to the telescope, exclaimed—

“Here’s a bad job, I lay. She’s a settling down too. She’ll be out of sight under water afore we’re abreast, or I’m a Kanaka,” by which he meant a South Sea Islander.

I made my way to the deck, and reported what I had seen to the chief mate. It was not twenty minutes after this when a loud cry arose from the forecastle, followed by a rush of men to the rail, to see what the fellow who had called out was pointing at. We of the poop, forgetting the ship’s discipline in the excitement raised by the shout and headlong hurry of men forward, ran to the side to look also, and we saw close against the lee-bow of the ship, fast sliding along past the side, the figure of a man in a lifebuoy. He was naked to the waist; his arms overhung the circle, but his form, leaning forward, had so tilted the buoy that his head lay under water. He rose and fell upon the seas, which sometimes threw him a little way out and then submerged him again, with his long hair streaming like grass at the bottom of a shallow running stream.

The sailors along the waist and on the forecastle were looking aft, as though they expected that the mate would back the topsail yard and send a boat; but the man that had gone past was dead as dead can be: even my young eyes could have told that, though his head had been above water all the time.

“It is a recent wreck, I expect, sir,” I heard Mr. Johnson say to the captain, who stepped on deck at that moment. “The poor fellow didn’t look to have been in the water long.”

“There was no doubt he was a corpse?” inquired the captain, to whose sight the form of the drowned man was invisible, so rapidly had it veered astern into the troubled and concealing foam of our wake.

“Oh yes, sir,” answered Mr. Johnson. “His face only lifted now and again.”

At eight bells the wreck was in sight from the poop, but at a long distance. I went below to get some breakfast, and then returned, too much interested in the object that had hove into view to stay in the cabin, though I had been on deck since four o’clock, and had scarcely slept more than two hours during the middle watch.

Our ship’s helm had been slightly shifted, so that we might pass the wreck close. As we advanced, fragments of the torn and mutilated fabric passed us; portions of yards, of broken masts with the attached gear snaking out from it, casks, hatch-covers, and so forth. It was easy to guess, by the look of these things, that they had been wrenched from the hull by a hurricane. I noticed a length of sail-cloth attached to a yard, with a knot in it so tied that I did not need to have been at sea many months to guess that nothing could have done it but some furious ocean blast.

We all stood looking with eagerness towards the wreck—the ladies with opera-glasses to their eyes, the gentlemen with telescopes; the captain aft was constantly viewing her through his glass, and the second mate, who had charge of the deck, watched her through the shrouds of the main rigging with the intentness of a pirate whose eyes are upon a chase.

The fact was, it was impossible to tell whether there might be human beings aboard of her, let alone the sort of pathetic interest one found in the sight of the lonely object rolling out yonder in a drowning way amidst the sparkling morning waters of the blue immensity of the deep. Only a little while ago, I thought to myself as I surveyed her, she was a noble ship; her white sails soared, she sat like a large summer cloud upon the water, the foam sparkled at her fore-foot; like ourselves, she might have been homeward bound—and now see her! Hearts which were lately beating in full life, are silent—stilled for ever in those cold depths upon whose surface she is heaving.

There is no object in life, I think, that appeals more solemnly to the mind than a wreck fallen in with far out at sea. She is an image of death, and the thought of the eternity that follows upon death is symbolized by the secret green profound in whose depths she will shortly be swallowed up.

The hull lay so deep in the water that the name under her counter was buried, and not to be read. A flash of light broke from her wet black side each time she rolled from the sun, and the brilliant glare was so much like the crimson gleam of a gun, that again and again I would catch myself listening for the noise of the explosion, as though forsooth there were people firing signals to us aboard her.

“An eight hundred ton ship at least,” the captain told the ladies, “and a very fine model. Oh yes! She’s been hammered to pieces by a storm of wind. She has no boats, you see, so let us hope her people managed to get away in safety, and that they are by this time on board a ship.”

“I daresay,” said a young fellow, one of the cuddy passengers, “that her hold is full of valuable goods. Pity we couldn’t take her in tow and carry her home with us. Why shouldn’t the cargo of such a vessel as that be worth—call it twenty thousand pounds if you will? There’s just money enough in that figure to make me tolerably comfortable for the rest of my life. Confounded nonsense to have a fortune under your nose, and be obliged to watch it sink!”

“Well, Mr. Graham,” said the captain, laughing, “there’s the hulk, sir. If you have a mind to take charge of her, I’ll put you on board. Nothing venture nothing have, you know. That’s particularly the case at sea.”

“Too late! too late!” growled out the bass voice of an old major who had been making the tour of the world for his health. “See there!” and he pointed a long, skinny, trembling forefinger at the wreck.

She was sinking as he spoke! It was as wild a sight in its way as you could conceive; she put her bow under and lifted her stern, and made her last dive as though she were something living. She disappeared swiftly; indeed the ocean was rolling clear to the horizon before you could realise that the substantial object, which a moment or two before was floating firm to your sight, was gone.

The young gentleman named Graham shuddered as he turned away.

It was an hour after this that one of the midshipmen came into our berth, and said that a ship’s boat had been made out right ahead. Nothing living in her had as yet been distinguished.

“The notion of course is,” said he, “that she belonged to the wreck that we passed this morning.”

I was reading in my bunk, but on hearing this, I immediately hopped out and went on deck. There was more excitement now than before. A crowd of the passengers were staring from the poop, with knots of steerage folks and a huddle of the ship’s idlers on the forecastle, craning their necks under the bowsprit and past the jibs to get a view. Indeed, whilst the midshipmen had been telling us about this boat below, a glimpse had been caught of something moving over the low gunwale of her—some said it was a cap that had been waved; but whatever it was it had not shown again. However, everybody was now sure that there was something alive in the boat, and we all seemed to hold our breath whilst we waited. It was an ordinary ship’s quarter-boat painted white.

“There again!” shouted somebody. “Did you see it? A man’s head it looked like.”

“Ay,” said the second mate, who had his telescope bearing on the boat at the moment: “a head, and no mistake; but of what kind, though? More like a cocoa-nut, to my fancy, than a man’s nob.”

“There he is! there’s the poor creature!” cried a lady in a sort of shriek, with an opera-glass at her eyes. “He’s standing up—he has fallen backwards—ah! he’s up again. But, oh dear me!—can it be a man?”

“With a tail!” said the second mate, who continued to ogle the boat through his telescope. “Bless my heart!—why—why—captain, I believe it’s a great monkey!”

In a few minutes the boat was under the bow, and a strange roar of mingled wonder and laughter came floating aft to us from the crowd on the forecastle. It was a monkey, as the second mate had said—a big ape, with strong white whiskers, which ringed the lower part of his face like wool. He had evidently been some crew’s pet; a small velvet cap with a yellow tassel, like a smoking cap, was secured to his head; he also wore a pair of large spectacles apparently cut out of thin white wood. His body was clothed in a short jacket of some faded reddish material, with a slit behind for the convenience of his tail, the end of which was raw, as though he had been lately breakfasting off it. His legs were cased in their native hair, which was long, something like a goat’s.

“IT WAS A MONKEY.”