The morning broke with sinister brightness; the air alarmingly
transparent, the sky pure, the rim of the horizon clear and strong
against the heavens. The wind and the wild seas, now vastly swollen,
indefatigably hunted us. I stood on deck, choking with fear; I seemed to
lose all power upon my limbs; my knees were as paper when she plunged
into the murderous valleys; my heart collapsed when some black mountain
fell in avalanche beside her counter, and the water, that was more than
spray, swept round my ankles like a torrent. I was conscious of but one
strong desire--to bear myself decently in my terrors, and, whatever
should happen to my life, preserve my character: as the captain said, we
are a queer kind of beasts. Breakfast-time came, and I made shift to
swallow some hot tea. Then I must stagger below to take the time,
reading the chronometer with dizzy eyes, and marvelling the while what
value there could be in observations taken in a ship launched (as ours
then was) like a missile among flying seas. The forenoon dragged on in a
grinding monotony of peril; every spoke of the wheel a rash but an
obliged experiment--rash as a forlorn hope, needful as the leap that
lands a fireman from a burning staircase. Noon was made; the captain
dined on his day's work, and I on watching him; and our place was
entered on the chart with a meticulous precision which seemed to me half
pitiful and half absurd, since the next eye to behold that sheet of
paper might be the eye of an exploring fish. One o'clock came, then two;
the captain gloomed and chafed, as he held to the coaming of the house,
and if ever I saw dormant murder in man's eye, it was in his. God help
the man that should have disobeyed him.
Of a sudden he turned towards the mate, who was doing his trick at the
wheel.
"Two points on the port bow," I heard him say; and he took the wheel
himself.
Johnson nodded, wiped his eyes with the back of his wet hand, watched a
chance as the vessel lunged up hill, and got to the main rigging, where
he swarmed aloft. Up and up I watched him go, hanging on at every ugly
plunge, gaining with every lull of the schooner's movement, until,
clambering into the cross-trees and clinging with one arm around the
masts, I could see him take one comprehensive sweep of the
south-westerly horizon. The next moment he had slid down the backstay
and stood on deck, with a grin, a nod, and a gesture of the finger that
said "yes"; the next again, and he was back sweating and squirming at
the wheel, his tired face streaming and smiling, and his hair and the
rags and corners of his clothes lashing round him in the wind.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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