Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks, Nicole
Apostola and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
In the newspapers of 1876 appeared the following extracts fromthe log of a merchantman: "VOLCANIC ISLAND IN THE NORTH ATLANTIC.—The ship Hercules, of Liverpool, lately arrived in the Mersey,reports as follows: March 23, in 2 deg. 12' north latitude, 33 deg.27' west longitude, a shock of earthquake was felt, and shortlyafterward a mass of land was hove up at a distance of about two milesfrom the ship. Michael Balfour, the chief officer, fell overboard.A buoy was thrown to him, the ship brought to the wind, and a boatlowered within fifteen minutes of the occurence. But though themen sought the chief mate for some time, nothing could be seen ofhim, and it is supposed that he sank shortly after falling intothe sea. Masters of vessels are recommended to keep a sharp lookoutin approaching the situation of the new island as given above. Nodoubt it will be sighted by other ships, and duly reported."
I am Michael Balfour; I it was who fell overboard; and it isneedless for me to say here that I not drowned. The volcanic islandwas only reported by one other ship, and the reason why will beread at large in this account of my strange adventure and mercifuldeliverance.
It was the evening of the 23d of March, 1876. Our passage to theequator from Sydney had been good, but for three days we had beenbothered with light head winds and calms, and since four o'clockthis day the ocean had stretched in oil-smooth undulations to itsmargin, with never a sigh of air to crispen its marvellous serenityinto shadow. The courses were hauled up, the staysails down, themizzen brailed up; the canvas delicately beat the masts to the softswing of the tall spars, and sent a small rippling thunder throughthe still air, like a roll of drums heard at a distance. The heatwas great; I had never remembered a more biting sun. The pitch inthe seams was soft as putty, the atmosphere was full of the smellof blistered paint, and it was like putting your hand on a red-hotstove to touch the binnacle hood or grasp for an an instant an ironbelaying-pin.
A sort of loathing comes into a man with a calm like this. "Thevery deep did rot," says the poet; and you understood his fancywhen you marked the blind heave of the swell to the sun standingin the midst of a sky of brass, with his wake under him sinking ina sinuous dazzle, as though it was his fiery glance piercing to thegreen depths a thousand fathoms deep. It was hot enough to slackenthe nerves and give the imagination a longer scope than sanitywould have it ride by.
That was why, perhaps, I found something awful and forbidding inthe sunset, though at another time it might scarcely have detainedmy gaze a minute. But it is true, nevertheless, that others besidesme gaped at the wonderful gushings of hot purple,—arrested whirlpoolsof crimson haze, they looked,—in the heart of which the orb satrayless, flooding the sea with blood under him, so magnificentlyfell was the hue, and flushing the sky with twenty dyes of goldand orange, till, in the