BOUT eleven o’clock, on a sultry autumn morning, a small fore and aft schooner, which had been lying by the quay in the harbour of Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, having set her various sails with much squeaking on the part of the blocks and much shouting on the part of the crew, slipped her mooring rope and slowly got under way. The light airs hardly stirred the sails, and when the sweeps, with which she had been worked out of the harbour, were taken in she crept out to seaward with a motion that was barely perceptible. On board the vessel the somnolent influence of the calm was evident; the master yawned by the tiller, the crew sat on the deck with their backs against the low bulwark, conversing sleepily and blowing clouds of smoke into the still air, while on that which would have been the weather side of the deck had there been any perceptible breeze, a solitary passenger walked meditatively to and fro. The short briar pipe that he held in his mouth and the cut of his clothing, no less than the truculent blue eye that he turned contemptuously now and again on the lounging Spaniards, proclaimed him beyond doubt an Englishman.
Matthew Jephson—such was the passenger’s name—had been brought up to follow the sea as a profession, and he had, in fact, taken his master’s certificate; but, after serving for three years as mate of a large Australian sailing ship, he had accepted the offer of an agency at Las Palmas and had settled down ashore. A couple of days before the commencement of this story he had, while sauntering down the mole, noticed a small schooner loading by the quay. During a talk with the men he learned that she was owned by his old friend, Señor Aldecoa, and was bound for Valverde on the outlying island of Hierro (or Ferro), and that she would probably be back in Las Palmas in the course of a week. Now Jephson had visited most of the Canary Islands and had frequently wished to see Hierro, but had not hitherto had an opportunity. He resolved, however, not to allow the present chance to slip, and so we find him a passenger on the Manoel, bound for that somewhat remote and out-of-the-world region.
He was not the only passenger. Half a dozen peasants were returning to their homes in Hierro, and two petty traders were bound for Valverde on business. These all squatted on the deck forward, chattering to one another and taking little notice of Jephson or of the crew.
ABOUT noon the breeze freshened somewhat, and the little schooner, with her sails now well filled, slipped along at quite a brisk pace, so that by the time evening began to close in, the Punta de Mas Palomas, the most southerly point of Grand Canary, was passed and the vessel’s head pointed west by north, straight on to Hierro.
Shortly after taking his frugal supper on deck (from a canvas bag which he had wisely stocked with provisions and brought with him), Jephson tumbled down the rude companion-hatch with the idea of turning in, but he returned to the deck with much greater precipitancy, for the combined aroma of cheese, garlic, and humanity with which the tiny cabin was filled would, as he afterwards declared, have suffocated a polecat. He looked about the deck for a convenient spot on which to rest for the night, and finally made his bed on some spare sails in the bottom of the jolly-boat, which was supported on chocks on the main hatch. Here he lay smoking and dreamily watching the stars pass to and fro over the swaying mastheads. Presently his pipe went out, and he began to doze, and was just dropping off to sleep when he was roused with a start by a heavy thump on the vessel’s bows.
In a moment he was out of the boat, and, running along the deck, he peered into the darkness on either side of the bows. For a little while he could see nothing beyond the dark water; but the steersman, who had left the tiller and rushed forward, suddenly pointed with an exclamation to the sea on the schooner’s quarter, and Jephson could then distinguish faintly a long dark body, which almost immediately passed astern and vanished. It was evidently the mast of some wrecked vessel, and had been floating end on to the schooner when her bow struck it; hence the force of the impact. Having ascertained this reassuring fact, Jephson went back to his bed in the boat, and the steersman returned to his post.
Jephson’s rest was not, however, very prolonged, for the dawn had scarcely broken when he was awakened by somebody dragging at his arm.
“What the deuce is the matter now?” he angrily demanded, as he stood up in the boat and bumped his head against the overhanging boom.
By way of reply, the skipper—for it was he who had disturbed the Englishman’s slumber—pointed to the large, one-handled pump, which was now manned by two of the passengers, who were working frantically while the sweat trickled down their fear-stricken faces.
“The hold is full of water,” he remarked. “Last night we struck some wreckage and must have opened a seam, for just before daybreak the water began to come up through the cabin floor, and we started to pump out at once. It will be your turn after these two men.”
“Do you know if the leak is a large one?” inquired Jephson.
“I can’t tell at all,” replied the skipper; “but I know that if I had not been sleeping on the cabin floor, we should have had a good chance of going to the bottom before anything was noticed.”
At this moment the two men finished their spell and retired puffing and perspiring, in search of a dry spot in which to lie down. Jephson slipped off his coat and waistcoat and set to work with a will, sending a stream of water down the deck into the scuppers.
He had hardly been pumping ten minutes when the water that issued from the pump, from being clear and sweet, became suddenly dark and foul-smelling.
“Bilge-water,” he exclaimed to the group of passengers and sailors that stood round encouraging him and waiting their turn; “we shall soon have it all out now.”
This prediction was soon after confirmed when the pump sucked, showing that the hold was clear of water, and the alarm of the passengers and crew, to a great extent, subsided.
At this time the island of Grand Canary was visible on the horizon some thirty miles to the north-east. When the leak was first discovered the schooner was put about with the idea of making one of the ports in the south of the island without delay, but now that there seemed no immediate danger she was turned back on her original course, for the captain declared—as was indeed evident—that the leak could be easily kept under, and that in twenty-four hours they would be in Valverde.
The vessel sailed on all day before a steady breeze from the north-east. The island that they had left sank and vanished below the horizon about seven o’clock in the morning, and by five in the evening they were within forty miles of their destination. The passengers and crew took their turns regularly and cheerfully at the pump, and the stream of water from the scupper-holes flowed almost continuously, excepting for the hour’s rest that was taken each time that the pump sucked.
It was about sunset that Jephson noticed, as he thought, an increase in the time taken to pump the vessel out completely. The two following spells of pumping he carefully timed with his watch without attracting notice, with the result that the second spell was clearly two minutes longer than the first. In the next interval he took the captain aside and mentioned the fact to him; but that officer had evidently observed the increase in the leak himself, for he said rather gruffly:
“The best thing for you is to do your work and make no remarks. If you frighten the men they will not pump at all, and then we shall lose the vessel.”
There was little rest for anyone on board the Manoel that night, for before a man had time to settle himself comfortably for a doze his turn came round to work the pump.
Jephson took short rests in his old berth in the boat, and as he lay he could hear the water washing heavily from side to side in the hold.
AT the first glimmer of dawn the passengers and crew crowded into the bows and strained their eyes into the west. A rosy haze at first obscured the horizon, but presently, as the light increased, there appeared in the west a faint blue shadow. It was Hierro.
A murmur of satisfaction arose as this was made out, and those who were not engaged in pumping sat down on the deck and consumed their simple breakfasts.
But as the day went on this satisfaction gave place to impatience and then to anxiety, for the faint breeze of the early morning soon died away, leaving the schooner helplessly becalmed within twenty miles of the island. To make matters worse, the current, which here sets strongly to the south-west, carried her rapidly away from her destination and moreover to leeward of it, so that for every mile that she drifted she would have to sail six as she tacked back. As the morning passed the intervals of rest between the spells of pumping had to be reduced, and both passengers and sailors noticed the increasing length of the spells of work with undisguised anxiety.
“This leak is getting much larger, captain,” said one of them as he finished his spell. “If a breeze does not spring up soon, we shall have to put off in the boat.”
“Why not put out the boat now?” suggested another. “We shall never be able to keep the vessel afloat to get her into port; let us get the boat out before the schooner goes down under us.”
The refrain was taken up by several more, and these were with difficulty appeased by the captain. It was evident that a panic was imminent among the passengers and crew; the leak was clearly increasing, while their strength was as surely failing, and with it their courage and self-control.
By four o’clock the vessel had drifted so far that the land was no longer visible. As this fact was observed the perturbation of the passengers and crew increased. They gathered in a knot by the windlass and talked excitedly for a few minutes; then they came aft in a body, and one of the passengers, acting as spokesman, addressed the captain.
“Captain, we want the boat launched. If you do not consent, we shall do it without your leave.”
The captain, who was now seriously alarmed himself at the aspect of things, was not sorry to find himself thus relieved of responsibility if the vessel must be abandoned.
“Well,” he answered, “there is no harm in having the boat alongside; in fact, it is better not to wait until the last moment if we should want her.”
“That is all very true,” interposed Jephson, “but you know perfectly well that as soon as the boat is in the water these fellows will stop pumping and crowd into her. If you want to keep your vessel afloat, you had better keep your boat on the chocks.”
“If you take my advice, my friend,” said the passenger to Jephson, “you will not meddle with matters that do not concern you. You understand,” he continued, addressing the captain, “that we are all agreed that the boat shall be launched, with your permission or without.”
“You hear what they say,” said the captain sulkily in reply to Jephson’s look of inquiry. “There are twelve of them, and they mean to do as they please.”
“If you intend to behave like a man, you may count on my support at any rate,” responded Jephson.
“Why, what will you do?” inquired the captain and the passenger together.
“I’ll knock down the first man that attempts to touch the boat,” replied the Englishman hotly, and by way of illustrating his intentions he picked up a marlinspike that lay in a coil of rope.
“Come now, put that thing down and don’t be a fool,” urged the captain angrily. “You can’t hold out against twelve men as good as yourself; besides, the boat ought to be got out in readiness in case she is wanted.”
“That means that you agree to abandon the vessel?”
“It means, sir, that you had better mind your own business,” retorted the captain as he turned his back on Jephson and walked away.
Jephson pursued him to the waist, where the men, who had already opened the gangway, were preparing to raise the boat from the chocks.
“It seems to me, my good sir,” he said contemptuously, “that you would have done better to stay at home and attend to the house work and send men to sea. When I see my friend, Señor Aldecoa, I shall——”
With a curse like the growl of a wild animal, the man, infuriated by these taunts, rushed, knife in hand, at his tormentor. There was a momentary scuffle as Jephson dodged out of the way of the knife; then the Englishman’s fist shot out and met his assailant’s cheek with a resounding smack, and the Spaniard staggered backward through the open gangway plump into the blue water.
There was a general shout as all the men on the vessel ran simultaneously to the side, and in a few moments the captain was hauled in and stood dripping on the deck, scowling malevolently at Jephson but not attempting to renew the attack.
The boat was now dragged across the deck and launched through the gangway, and as soon as it floated alongside the passengers and crew began, as Jephson had predicted, to swarm into it with their goods and their bags of provisions. A reserve of food was brought from below by the sailors and a large beaker of water, and when these stores had been stowed in the stern sheets the sailors jumped in, and the captain advanced to the cleat to which the boat’s “painter” was made fast, and, taking the rope in his hand, was about to cast it off.
“So you are going to desert your vessel?” said Jephson.
The captain made no answer, but commenced to cast off. Jephson took him by the shoulder, and roughly pushed him away from the cleat.
“What are you going to say to Señor Aldecoa when he asks how his vessel was lost? Will you tell him you ran away because you hadn’t the pluck to stay and do your duty?”
“Knock him down! Stick your knife between his ribs!” shouted the men in the boat, who were rapidly becoming mad with fright lest the schooner should sink and drag them down with her. But Jephson still held the marlinspike in his hand, and his appearance was not inviting.
“Are you going to cast off that rope?” asked the captain, white with rage.
“Are you not going to make some effort to save your vessel?” inquired Jephson by way of giving a Scotch answer.
For reply the captain sprang into the boat, and, whipping out his knife, cut the rope, while a sailor pushed off with the butt of an oar.
Jephson waited for a few seconds, expecting the men to pull alongside for him to get in; but when they had settled the oars in the rowlocks they began to pull steadily, and the boat rapidly receded from the schooner. Jephson shouted until he was hoarse, but neither the captain nor the men took any notice, and in ten minutes the boat was fully half a mile away.
He was abandoned with the sinking vessel.
FOR the first few moments after he realised his position Matthew Jephson stood gazing after the fast-receding boat in a state of complete bewilderment.
The treachery and vindictiveness of the Spaniards appeared incredible, and he could not at first help cherishing a hope that they would presently relent and return for him. But as minute after minute passed and the boat kept steadily on her way, it became evident that if he did not wish to go down with the vessel he must take some measures to save himself, since the water had now been pouring in unchecked by the pump for half an hour.
Jephson looked round the deck in search of the materials for the construction of a raft, if there should be time to make one. At first sight there seemed little enough. There were no spare spars excepting a couple of long ash sweeps and a pair of small yards for rigging a square topsail—quite insufficient to form even the frame of a raft. Suddenly his eye fell upon a row of cases ranged along under the bulwarks on each quarter. The stencilled inscriptions on them stated that they were wax candles, and they were consigned to the priest at Valverde. They were evidently the long church candles, and these Jephson knew were commonly sent out soldered up in airtight tin cases. Here, then, was the material that he wanted, and without further delay he set about making such a raft as could be put together in the short time that was left to him.
First the four spars were loosely lashed together with pieces of lead-line into a square frame just large enough to hold comfortably nine of the cases. This frame being launched through the gangway and moored alongside, the cases were, one by one, worked down the deck and tumbled overboard into it until nine of them floated inside it.
The spars were now brought nearer together, so as to embrace closely the floating cases, and firmly lashed. A stout rope was also carried round each row of cases, passing underneath and over outside the frame. By this means a raft, some nine feet square, of fair floating capacity was produced—a ramshackle contrivance, indeed, that a heavy sea would have broken up in five minutes, but still an immediate refuge from drowning.
By way of making it more comfortable, Jephson thought he would fix a few floor boards across the raft, and he ran down the companion stairs with the idea of tearing up a few boards from the cabin floor. But there were already eighteen inches of water washing about in the cabin, and Jephson determined that he had better be off without further delay. He therefore gathered up hastily a portion of the provisions that were left in the lockers, and deposited them on the raft, together with a large stone bottle, which he filled with water from the butt near the companion hatch. At the last moment he discovered a spare oar lying by the windlass, and with this and a coil of rope he stepped on to the raft, cast off the line, and pushed away from the schooner.
Not a moment too soon, he thought, for even as he left the vessel the water was lapping up on to the deck through the open gangway, and bubbling up into the scuppers. He worked the raft away about twenty yards, and then stood by to see the Manoel go down.
Ten minutes passed.
Every moment the vessel seemed on the point of foundering, yet she kept afloat. She wallowed heavily but slowly, for the sea was still smooth and the calm continued. As she rolled towards the raft, Jephson could see that her boom nearly dipped into the sea, and the deck was wet for a foot from the gangway. But still she did not go down.
Half an hour passed.
The sun, which had been hovering a few degrees above the horizon, dived into a bank of slaty-blue cloud, leaving the sky all crimson and gold, and the sea like burnished copper. The form of the schooner, now a couple of hundred yards distant, stood black against the rosy glow of the sky as she slowly heaved from side to side, and the thump of the sheet-blocks as the booms swung over came across the water at regular intervals, like the throb of a large engine.
Why did she not go down? This question puzzled Jephson more and more as the time sped on. The light waned, and still the schooner floated.
Suddenly a light broke in upon his mind, and with it there came a ray of joyful hope. He remembered that while he was standing on the quay, watching the Manoel loading, he had seen a large number of casks—big wine casks—put on board. He had noticed that they were empty, and also that they formed the upper tier of the cargo, being stowed immediately under the deck. Clearly, then, the Manoel had settled as far as she was going to. Her cargo consisted mostly of light goods, and so, in spite of the leak, she was kept afloat by the tier of casks.
When he had finally, come to this conclusion, Jephson put out his one oar and began to paddle the raft in the direction of the schooner, the form of which was rapidly fading in the gathering gloom. He was now as anxious to get back as he had been to escape a short time before, and he was fearful lest he should lose sight of the vessel; but a quarter of an hour’s work brought him close alongside, and he commenced to cautiously reconnoitre.
As far as he could see, the vessel’s condition was unchanged. The streak of wet upon the deck extended only a foot or so from the edge at the gangway, and when she was upright she still had a freeboard of fully six inches. Having noted these facts, Jephson stepped on to the deck and made a line from the raft fast to a shroud. He then ran to the companion hatch and looked down into the cabin. Here the condition of things was unchanged. About eighteen inches of water still washed about over the floor, and it was evident that no more had come in since he left. Jephson realised with a sigh of relief that, at any rate as long as the weather was moderate, the schooner was as safe as ever.
For some time past he had been filled with an overpowering desire for sleep, and it was by an almost superhuman effort of will that he set himself to do what was absolutely necessary.
The first thing was to transfer the provisions, from the raft to the schooner; and when this was done, the vessel had to be eased of some of the weight aloft. During the calm every inch of canvas that she could carry had been crowded on, and a considerable part of this would have to be taken in; so Jephson rubbed his eyes and set manfully to work. The schooner carried two large gaff topsails, as well as a jib topsail, and when these three sails had been taken in and both topmasts lowered on to the deck, the vessel was greatly eased, and no longer rolled so heavily.
She would undoubtedly have been more snug with most of the remaining sails lowered, and Jephson was considering the advisability of stowing them as he sat for a rest on the main topsail, which lay on the deck, when his head dropped on to the heap of canvas, and he fell into a deep sleep.
WHEN he awoke the sun was near the zenith; and on looking at his watch, he found that he had slept nearly twelve hours, which, indeed, was not surprising, considering the fatigue and loss of rest that he had suffered.
The north-east trade wind had awakened too, and was blowing quite freshly, and the schooner lay head to wind with her canvas shivering; but when Jephson took the helm and put the foresail aback she paid off, and he then found that she carried her canvas fairly well in spite of her partially waterlogged condition, and travelled through the water at a good four knots. The compass had been taken from the binnacle by the skipper when the boat put off, but Jephson had a small charm compass on his watch-chain, and with this, as well as he could, he put the schooner’s head on a course north-west-by-north.
THE boat which put off from the Manoel was launched at about five in the afternoon, and for fully an hour she was rowed briskly in a north-easterly direction.
In the hurry and scuffle that attended their departure the crew had neglected to bring a sail, so that every mile would have to be covered by sheer muscular effort. To make things worse, one of the four, oars with which the boat was provided had been left on the deserted schooner, and although it was, of course, missed at once, no one cared to go back for it and face the infuriated Englishman. So the boat had to be worked with three oars, and with these she went slowly and heavily, but still for the first hour the men pulled briskly enough in their excitement. Then the fatigue, anxiety, and broken rest to which they had been subjected began to tell on them; several fell asleep as they sat, and as night approached it became necessary to divide the boat’s crew into definite watches.
The first watch, consisting of the skipper and two seamen, was set about half-past seven. The remaining occupants of the boat lay down at the bottom, and, covering themselves with their wraps, fell into a dead sleep, while the two seamen pulled drowsily at their oars and the skipper held the tiller. Presently the skipper began to nod, then his head dropped forward on his chest, and he slept the sleep of utter weariness. The two seamen rowed on for a while, and then they, too, began to nod over their oars, and at length their hands fell motionless on their knees; they leaned forward, dropped from the seat into the bottom of the boat, and lay there wrapped in profound slumber. Meanwhile the oars, released from the sailors’ grasp, slipped up and down between the thole-pins as the boat rolled, and at each roll they fell a little lower. At length one of them went, with a quiet splash, into the water, and shortly after was followed by the other. For a few minutes they both lay alongside, now and again tapping against the boat’s side as if asking for readmittance; then the light breeze that had just sprung up carried the boat slowly to leeward, and soon there was half a mile of heaving water between them.
THERE was no little excitement among the quay loafers of Santa Cruz de Teneriffe when it became known that the large steamer, which had just dropped anchor outside, had brought in a shipwrecked crew. Particularly interested was Señor Aldecoa, merchant and shipowner, of Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, who had come over to Santa Cruz on business only the night before, for he had just learned from the skipper of a coaster from Valverde that his schooner, the Manoel, was not only ten days overdue at that port—a thing in itself unheard of — but had not been seen or heard of since she left Las Palmas.
When the shore boat, therefore, was seen returning from the steamer, he was not surprised to distinguish, among the passengers with which it was crowded, the rather ill-favoured countenance of Juan Gomez, the skipper of the Manoel. Gomez, however, was not quite so prepared to meet his owner, and when, on reaching the top of the steps, he suddenly encountered Señor Aldecoa, he turned as pale as a ghost and staggered against a post. But that his nerves should be somewhat shaken was only natural, and Aldecoa, quite affected by the man’s apparent grief, laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, and bade him tell the story of his misfortunes. “So our poor little ship has gone to the bottom, has she?” he asked.
“Yes,” Gomez exclaimed, in a tone of the deepest distress, “the beautiful little schooner is gone! The little Manoel, the pride and pleasure of my life—she is at the bottom of the sea. I shall never see her again! Ah!” and the man snatched off his cap and flung it on the ground, and, clutching his greasy hair with both hands, he burst into fresh tears.
A sympathetic bystander picked up the cap and replaced it on the head of the weeping mariner, remarking:
“Well! if she is at the bottom of the sea, we may hope that you never will see her again.”
“Yes, indeed,” assented Aldecoa; “but tell us how it happened. Did she capsize?”
“No, no,” replied Gomez. “She foundered. The very first night out we struck some sunken wreckage, and she sprang a leak and the water came in and filled the hold and filled the cabin, and although we pumped and pumped until we nearly dropped, still it kept rising till at last we were obliged to take to the boat; and before we were a dozen lengths away, the poor little schooner settled and went down like a stone.” Here the skipper was again overcome.
“Then,” he presently resumed, “we drifted about in the boat for over seven days——”
“Why, how in the name of all the saints was that?” asked Aldecoa in astonishment. “You could not have been more than a few miles off the land when the schooner went down. Why were you not able to row ashore?—and where is the English gentleman? Where is Mr. Jephson?” he added quickly, looking round anxiously.
The skipper’s already pale countenance became ghastly. He picked uneasily at his clothing, and his eyes wandered restlessly about on the ground.
“Ah, the poor English gentleman! ” he exclaimed, glancing askance at his companions. “He, too, is lost; he also is at the bottom of the sea.”
“What?” screamed Aldecoa. “Do you tell me that my poor friend is lost too? That is bad news indeed. The vessel was loss enough and all her cargo too; these could be replaced in time, but a human life and that of my dear friend——” Here the kind-hearted merchant, who was really attached to Jephson, drew out a large black handkerchief and wiped his eyes.
“Yes,” continued the skipper, now speaking rapidly and keeping an eye on his companions; “it was in the first night after we left the Manoel. Mr. Jephson was rowing when he fell asleep for a moment and his oar slipped from his hand into the water. That woke him, and he jumped up and leaned over the boat’s side to pick up the oar when he fell right over into the sea; he vanished completely in the darkness, and we never saw either him or the oar again. Do I not speak truly, my friends?” he added, addressing the crew and passengers, who stood around.
These miscreants corroborated the skipper’s story in every detail with complete accuracy and consistency (which was not surprising, seeing that the whole account had been rehearsed several times a day for over a week). The even enlarged on it. One of them pointed out that all their subsequent sufferings were due to this accident, “for; you see, we had to leave the schooner so hurriedly that we only brought two oars, and after this disaster we were left with one, and so could not bring the boat to land, but drifted right out to sea.”
These explanations were for the present interrupted by the arrival of the Liverpool steamer Secondee, on which they would have to travel back to Las Palmas; and as she was blowing her whistle lustily as an intimation that she did not intend to make a long stay, they all proceeded on board without delay.
IT was late in the afternoon of the same day when the Secondee rounded La Isleta at the northern extremity of Grand Canary. Our voyagers, including Señor Aldecoa, were grouped together on the foredeck, leaning on the starboard bulwark and telling over again and again the story of the wreck. As they rounded the point and opened out Las Palmas, a schooner was seen making for the harbour.
“Now just look at that,” exclaimed Aldecoa, indignantly pointing out the little vessel to the skipper of the Manoel. “Do you see? She is loaded to the very water’s edge. Why, a single heavy sea would send her to the bottom.” As he spoke the schooner, the hull of which was barely visible above the water, slipped into the harbour, and vanished behind a large steamer that lay at anchor.
The sight of the harbour and the shipping awakened painful reflections in Aldecoa’s mind. “Poor Mr. Jephson! ” he murmured. “We shall never see him about the harbour again in his trim smart boat. Gladly would I give the value of the Manoel over again to have him back, but it can never be.”
Juan Gomez and his comrades listened with secret uneasiness to Aldecoa’s lamentations. They, too, had often wished that Jephson were with them, for they were haunted not only by remorse but also, and especially, by a sense of the insecurity of a secret that was shared by thirteen persons.
Gomez strove to conceal his dislike of the subject under an appearance of grief. “I, too, senor,” he exclaimed with exaggerated fervour, “ would give all that I possess—which is little enough, it is true—but I would give it all cheerfully if I could only once more see that brave gentleman. Yes, indeed, I would even——”
He paused suddenly, and his companions, looking up at his face, saw that he was staring before him with gaping mouth and distended eyeballs as one who sees an apparition.
Following the direction of his gaze, their eyes fell on the schooner which had just entered the harbour, and which they were now close alongside, and a simultaneous exclamation of amazement burst from them all; for her half-submerged counter bore the inscription, in white letters, “ ‘MANOEL’—LAS PALMAS,” and there, leaning over the taffrail, was none other than Matthew Jephson.