- end_line
- 526
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:18.534Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 474
- text
- CHAPTER III.
A King For A Comrade
At the time I now write of, we must have been something more than sixty
degrees to the west of the Gallipagos. And having attained a desirable
longitude, we were standing northward for our arctic destination:
around us one wide sea.
But due west, though distant a thousand miles, stretched north and
south an almost endless Archipelago, here and there inhabited, but
little known; and mostly unfrequented, even by whalemen, who go almost
every where. Beginning at the southerly termination of this great
chain, it comprises the islands loosely known as Ellice’s group; then,
the Kingsmill isles; then, the Radack and Mulgrave clusters. These
islands had been represented to me as mostly of coral formation, low
and fertile, and abounding in a variety of fruits. The language of the
people was said to be very similar to that or the Navigator’s islands,
from which, their ancestors are supposed to have emigrated.
And thus much being said, all has been related that I then knew of the
islands in question. Enough, however, that they existed at all; and
that our path thereto lay over a pleasant sea, and before a reliable
Trade-wind. The distance, though great, was merely an extension of
water; so much blankness to be sailed over; and in a craft, too, that
properly managed has been known to outlive great ships in a gale. For
this much is true of a whale-boat, the cunningest thing in its way ever
fabricated by man.
Upon one of the Kingsmill islands, then, I determined to plant my foot,
come what come would. And I was equally determined that one of the
ship’s boats should float me thither. But I had no idea of being
without a companion. It would be a weary watch to keep all by myself,
with naught but the horizon in sight.
Now, among the crew was a fine old seaman, one Jarl; how old, no one
could tell, not even himself. Forecastle chronology is ever vague and
defective. “Man and boy,” said honest Jarl, “I have lived ever since I
can remember.” And truly, who may call to mind when he was not? To
ourselves, we all seem coeval with creation. Whence it comes, that it
is so hard to die, ere the world itself is departed.
Jarl hailed from the isle of Skye, one of the constellated Hebrides.
Hence, they often called him the Skyeman. And though he was far from
being piratical of soul, he was yet an old Norseman to behold. His
hands were brawny as the paws of a bear; his voice hoarse as a storm
roaring round the old peak of Mull; and his long yellow hair waved
round his head like a sunset. My life for it, Jarl, thy ancestors were
Vikings, who many a time sailed over the salt German sea and the
Baltic; who wedded their Brynhildas in Jutland; and are now quaffing
mead in the halls of Valhalla, and beating time with their cans to the
hymns of the Scalds. Ah! how the old Sagas run through me!
- title
- Chunk 1