Chapter XIII.

      “Safely in harbour
  Is the king’s ship; in the deep nook, where once
  Thou calledst me up at midnight to fetch dew
  From the still vex’d Bermoothes, there she’s hid.”

  Tempest.

The letter of Roswell Gardiner last received, bore the date of December 10th, 1819, or just a fortnight after he had sailed from Rio de Janeiro.  We shall next present the schooner of Deacon Pratt to the reader on the 18th of that month, or three weeks and one day after she had sailed from the capital of Brazil.  Early in the morning of the day last mentioned, the Sea Lion of Oyster Pond was visible, standing to the northward, with the wind light but freshening from the westward, and in smooth water.  Land was not only in sight, but was quite near, less than a league distant.  Towards this land the head of the schooner had been laid, and she was approaching it at the rate of some four or five knots.  The land was broken, high, of a most sterile aspect where it was actually to be seen, and nearly all covered with a light but melting snow, though the season was advanced to the middle of the first month in summer.  The weather was not very cold, however, and there was a feeling about it that promised it would become still milder.  The aspect of the neighbouring land, so barren, rugged and inhospitable, chilled the feelings, and gave to the scene a sombre hue which the weather itself might not have imparted.  Directly ahead of the schooner rose a sort of pyramid of broken rocks, which, occupying a small island, stood isolated in a measure, and some distance in advance of other and equally ragged ranges of mountains, which belonged also to islands detached from the main land thousands of years before, under some violent convulsions of nature.

It was quite apparent that all on board the schooner regarded that ragged pyramid with lively interest.  Most of the crew was collected on the forecastle, including the officers, and all eyes were fastened on the ragged pyramid which they were diagonally approaching.  The principal spokesman was Stimson, the oldest mariner on board, and one who had oftener visited those seas than any other of the crew.

“You know the spot, do you, Stephen?” demanded Roswell Gardiner, with interest.

“Yes, sir, there’s no mistake.  That’s the Horn.  Eleven times have I doubled it, and this is the third time that I’ve been so close in as to get a fair sight of it.  Once I went inside, as I’ve told you, sir.”

“I have doubled it six times myself,” said Gardiner, “but never saw it before.  Most navigators give it a wide berth.  ’Tis said to be the stormiest spot on the known earth!”

“That’s a mistake, you may depend on ’t, sir.  The sow-westers blow great guns here-abouts, it is true enough; and when they do, sich a sea comes tumbling in on that rock as man never seed anywhere else, perhaps; but, on the whull, I’d rather be close in here, than two hundred miles further to the southward.  With the wind at sow-west, and heavy, a better slant might be made from the southern position; but here I know where I am, and I’d go in and anchor, and wait for the gale to blow itself out.”