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Updated: May 26, 2025
On the seventh afternoon, however, I was in the main crow's-nest with the chief, when I noticed a ship to windward of us alter her course, keeping away three or four points on an angle that would presently bring her across our bows a good way ahead.
The man in the "crow's-nest", as they call the cask fixed up at the masthead, was looking anxiously out for whales, and the crew were idling about the deck. Tom Lokins was seated on the windlass smoking his pipe, and I was sitting beside him on an empty cask, sharpening a blubber-knife. "Tom," said I, "what like is a whale?" "Why, it's like nothin' but itself," replied Tom, looking puzzled.
In the fireside narrative of Captain Sleet, entitled "A Voyage among the Icebergs, in quest of the Greenland Whale, and incidentally for the re-discovery of the Lost Icelandic Colonies of Old Greenland;" in this admirable volume, all standers of mast-heads are furnished with a charmingly circumstantial account of the then recently invented CROW'S-NEST of the Glacier, which was the name of Captain Sleet's good craft.
She proceeded to describe all the fun that was going on there, at such length and with so much particularity that I looked at her suspiciously. "Why, you talk as if you'd been in that crow's-nest yourself!" I said. Charlotte answered nothing, but pursed her mouth up and nodded violently for some minutes; and I could get nothing more out of her. I felt rather hurt.
The ice across the entrance of the harbour as far as this spot, and the whole of that in the offing, of which we had here a commanding view from the Hecla's crow's-nest, was still quite continuous and unbroken, with the same appearance of solidity as it had during the middle of winter, except that the pools of water were numerous upon its surface.
It may be fancied that here is Treasure Island itself, shuffled and laid apart in bits like a puzzle-picture. And through all this shop is the smell of hemp and tar. In finer matters I have no nose. It is ridiculous, really, that this very messenger and forerunner of myself, this trumpeter of my coming, this bi-nasal fellow in the crow's-nest, should be so deficient.
In the fireside narrative of Captain Sleet, entitled "A Voyage among the Icebergs, in quest of the Greenland Whale, and incidentally for the re-discovery of the Lost Icelandic Colonies of Old Greenland;" in this admirable volume, all standers of mast-heads are furnished with a charmingly circumstantial account of the then recently invented crow's-nest of the Glacier, which was the name of Captain Sleet's good craft.
"Aloft there," he hailed the crow's-nest. "Do you make out anyone aboard?" "No, sir," came the answer. "Mr. Carter, have the chief quartermaster report on deck with the signal flags." "Yes, sir." "Aren't we going to run up to her?" asked McGuire, turning in surprise to Edwards. "And take the risk of getting a hole punched in our pretty paint, with her running amuck that way? Not much!"
Now she was threading a narrow lane of water, now sailing across an open lake, but still on every side appeared those threatening fields of ice, which might at any moment enclose her in their deadly embrace. The captain, or one of the mates, was constantly in the crow's-nest, looking out for the most open passages ahead, through which the ship might be steered.
She, too, had walked up that road and flattened her nose against that portcullis; and she pointed out something that I had overlooked to wit, that if you rowed off in a boat to the curly ship, and got hold of a rope, and clambered aboard of her, and swarmed up the mast, and got into the crow's-nest, you could just see over the headland, and take in at your ease the life and bustle of the port.
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