Chapter 5

CHAPTER V.

OCTOBER 7th.--This is the tenth day since we left Charleston, and
I should think our progress has been very rapid. Robert Curtis,
the mate, with whom I continue to have many a friendly chat,
informed me that we could not be far off Cape Hatteras in the
Bermudas; the ship's bearings, he said were lat. 32deg. 20min. N.
and long. 64deg. 50min. W., so that he had every reason to
believe that we should sight St. George's Island before night.

"The Bermudas!" I exclaimed. "But how is it we are off the
Bermudas? I should have thought that a vessel sailing from
Charleston to Liverpool, would have kept northwards, and have
followed the track of the Gulf Stream."

"Yes, indeed; sir," replied Curtis, "that is the usual course;
but you see that this time the captain hasn't chosen to take it."

"But why not?" I persisted.

"That's not for me to say, sir; he ordered us eastwards, and
eastwards we go."

"Haven't you called his attention to it?" I inquired.

Curtis acknowledged that he had already pointed out what an
unusual route they were taking, but that the captain had said
that he was quite aware what he was about. The mate made no
further remark; but the knit of his brow, as he passed his hand
mechanically across his forehead, made me fancy that he was
inclined to speak out more strongly.

"All very well, Curtis," I said, "but I don't know what to think
about trying new routes. Here we are at the 7th of October, and
if we are to reach Europe before the bad weather sets in, I
should suppose there is not a day to be lost."

"Right, sir, quite right; there is not a day to be lost."

Struck by his manner, I ventured to add, "Do you mind, Mr. Curtis
giving me your honest opinion of Captain Huntly?"

He hesitated a moment, and then replied shortly, "He is my
captain, sir."

This evasive answer of course put an end to any further
interrogation on my part, but it only set me thinking the more.

Curtis was not mistaken. At about three o'clock the lookout man
sung out that there was land to windward, and descried what
seemed as if it might be a line of smoke in the north-east
horizon. At six, I went on deck with M. Letourneur and his son,
and we could then distinctly make out the low group of the
Bermudas, encircled by their formidable chain of breakers.

"There," said Andre Letourneur to me, as we stood gazing at the
distant land, "there lies the enchanted Archipelago, sung by your
poet Moore. The exile Waller, too, as long ago as 1643, wrote an
enthusiastic panegyric on the islands, and I have been told that
at one time English ladies would wear no other bonnets than such
as were made of the leaves of the Bermuda palm."