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stood upon the deck one night,
And there beheld a moving sight.
It made the very men grow pale,
Their shudder almost rent the sail!
For lo! they saw a mighty whale!
It drew a shriek from Olaf brave,
Then plunged beneath the briny wave,
And, while the women loudly shouted,
Up came its blundering nose and spouted.
Then underneath our keel it went,
And glared with savage fury pent,
And round about the ship it swum,
Striking each man and woman dumb.
Stay—one there was who found a tongue
And still retained her strength of lung.
Freydissa, beauteous matron bold,
Resolved to give that whale a scold!
But little cared that monster fish
To gratify Freydissa’s wish;
He shook his tail, that naughty whale,
And flourished it like any flail,
And, ho! for Vinland he made sail!”
“Now, friends, was not that a great omission on the part of Karlsefin?”
“If the whale had brought his flail down on your pate it would have served you right, Biarne,” said Freydissa, flushing, yet smiling in spite of herself.
“I think it is capital,” cried Olaf, clapping his hands—“quite as good as the other poem.”
Some agreed with Olaf, and some thought that it was not quite in keeping with Karlsefin’s composition, but, after much debate, it was finally ruled that it should be added thereto as part and parcel of the great Vinland poem. Hence it appears in this chronicle, and forms an interesting instance of the way in which men, for the sake of humorous effect, mingle little pieces of fiction with veritable history.
By the time this important matter was settled it was getting so late that even the most enthusiastic admirer among them of moonlight on a calm sea became irresistibly desirous of going to sleep. They therefore broke up for the night; the women retired to their cabin, and none were left on deck except the steersman and the watch. Long before this the saga-tellers on the forecastle had retired; the monotone and the soft lowing of the cattle had ceased; man and beast had sought and found repose, and nothing was heard save the ripple of the water on the ship’s sides as she glided slowly but steadily over the sleeping sea.
Chapter Six.
Changes in Wind and Weather Produce Changes in Temper and Feeling—Land Discovered, and Freydissa Becomes Inquisitive
There are few things that impress one more at sea than the rapidity of the transitions which frequently take place in the aspect and the condition of vessel, sea, and sky. At one time all may be profoundly tranquil on board; then, perhaps, the necessity for going “about ship” arises, and all is bustle; ropes rattle, blocks clatter and chirp, yards creak, and seamen’s feet stamp on the deck, while their voices aid their hands in the hauling of ropes; and soon all is quiet as before. Or, perhaps, the transition is effected by a squall, and it becomes more thorough and lasting. One moment everything in nature is hushed under the influence of what is appropriately enough termed a “dead calm.” In a few seconds a cloud-bank appears on the horizon and one or two cats-paws are seen shooting over the water. A few minutes more and the sky is clouded, the glassy sea is ruffled, the pleasant light sinks into a dull leaden grey, the wind whistles over the ocean, and we are—as far as feeling is concerned—transported into another, but by no means a better, world.
Thus it was with our adventurers. The beautiful night merged into a “dirty” morning, the calm into a breeze so stiff as to be almost a gale, and when Olaf came out of the cabin, holding tight to the weather-bulwarks to prevent himself from being thrown into the lee-scuppers, his inexperienced heart sank within him at the dreary prospect of the grey sky and the black heaving sea.
But young Olaf came of a hardy seafaring race. He kept his feelings to himself; and staggered toward Karlsefin, who still stood at his post. Olaf thought he had been there all night, but the truth was that he had been relieved by Biarne, had taken a short nap, and returned to the helm.
Karlsefin was now clad in a rough-weather suit. He wore a pair of untanned sealskin boots and a cap of the same material, that bore a strong resemblance in shape and colour to the sou’-westers of the present day, and his rough heavy coat, closed up to the chin, was in texture and form not unlike to the pilot-cloth jackets of modern seamen—only it had tags and loops instead of buttons and button-holes. With his legs wide apart, he stood at the tiller, round which there was a single turn of a rope from the weather-bulwarks to steady it and himself. The boy was clad in miniature costume of much the same cut and kind, and proud was he to stagger about the deck with his little legs ridiculously wide apart, in imitation of Thorward and Biarne, both of whom were there, and had, he observed, a tendency to straddle.
“Come hither, Olaf; and learn a little seamanship,” said Karlsefin, with a good-humoured smile.
Olaf said he would be glad to do that, and made a run towards the tiller, but a heavy plunge of the ship caused him to sheer off in quite a different direction, and another lurch would have sent him head-foremost against the lee-bulwarks had not Biarne, with a laugh, caught him by the nape of the neck and set him against Karlsefin’s left leg, to which he clung with remarkable tenacity.
“Ay, hold on tight to that, boy,” said the leg’s owner, “and you’ll be safe. A few days will put you on your sea-legs, lad, and then you won’t want to hold on.”
“Always hold your head up, Olaf, when you move about aboard ship in rough weather,” said Biarne, pausing a minute in his perambulation of the deck to give the advice, “and look overboard, or up, or away at the horizon—anywhere except at your feet. You can’t see how the ship’s going to roll, you know, if you keep looking down at the deck.”
Olaf acted on this advice at once, and then began to question Karlsefin in regard to many nautical matters which it is not necessary to set down here, while Biarne and Thorward leaned on the bulwarks and looked somewhat anxiously to windward.
Already two reefs of the huge sail had been taken in, and Biarne now suggested that it would be wise to take in another.
“Let it be done,” said Karlsefin.
Thorward ordered the men to reef; and the head of the ship was brought up to the wind so as to empty the sail while this was being done.
Before it was quite accomplished some of the women had assembled on the poop.
“This is not pleasant weather,” observed Gudrid, as she stood holding on to her husband.
“We must not expect to have it all plain sailing in these seas,” replied Karlsefin; “but the dark days will make the bright ones seem all the brighter.”
Gudrid smiled languidly at this, but made no reply.
Freydissa, who scorned to receive help from man, had vigorously laid hold of the bulwarks and gradually worked her way aft. She appeared to be very much out of sorts—as indeed all the women were. There was a greenish colour about the parts of their cheeks that ought to have been rosy, and a whitey blue or frosted appearance at the points of their noses, which damaged the beauty of the prettiest among them. Freydissa became positively plain—and she knew it, which did not improve her temper. Astrid, though fair and exceedingly pretty by nature, had become alarmingly white; and Thora, who was dark, had become painfully yellow. Poor Bertha, too, had a washed-out appearance, though nothing in the way of lost colour or otherwise could in the least detract from the innocent sweetness of her countenance. She did not absolutely weep, but, being cold, sick, and in a state of utter wretchedness, she had fallen into a condition of chronic whimpering, which exceedingly exasperated Freydissa. Bertha was one of those girls who are regarded by some of their own sex with a species of mild contempt,