There Is Flying Scud Overhead, And I Notice The Stars
Being Blotted Out.
Walls of darkness close in upon me, so that,
when the last star is gone, the darkness is so near that it seems I
can reach out and touch it on every side.
When I lean toward it, I
can feel it loom against my face. Puff follows puff, and I am glad
the mizzen is furled. Phew! that was a stiff one! The Snark goes
over and down until her lee-rail is buried and the whole Pacific
Ocean is pouring in. Four or five of these gusts make me wish that
the jib and flying-jib were in. The sea is picking up, the gusts
are growing stronger and more frequent, and there is a splatter of
wet in the air. There is no use in attempting to gaze to windward.
The wall of blackness is within arm's length. Yet I cannot help
attempting to see and gauge the blows that are being struck at the
Snark. There is something ominous and menacing up there to
windward, and I have a feeling that if I look long enough and strong
enough, I shall divine it. Futile feeling. Between two gusts I
leave the wheel and run forward to the cabin companionway, where I
light matches and consult the barometer. "29-90" it reads. That
sensitive instrument refuses to take notice of the disturbance which
is humming with a deep, throaty voice in the rigging. I get back to
the wheel just in time to meet another gust, the strongest yet.
Well, anyway, the wind is abeam and the Snark is on her course,
eating up easting. That at least is well.
The jib and flying-jib bother me, and I wish they were in. She
would make easier weather of it, and less risky weather likewise.
The wind snorts, and stray raindrops pelt like birdshot. I shall
certainly have to call all hands, I conclude; then conclude the next
instant to hang on a little longer. Maybe this is the end of it,
and I shall have called them for nothing. It is better to let them
sleep. I hold the Snark down to her task, and from out of the
darkness, at right angles, comes a deluge of rain accompanied by
shrieking wind. Then everything eases except the blackness, and I
rejoice in that I have not called the men.
No sooner does the wind ease than the sea picks up. The combers are
breaking now, and the boat is tossing like a cork. Then out of the
blackness the gusts come harder and faster than before. If only I
knew what was up there to windward in the blackness! The Snark is
making heavy weather of it, and her lee-rail is buried oftener than
not. More shrieks and snorts of wind. Now, if ever, is the time to
call the men. I WILL call them, I resolve. Then there is a burst
of rain, a slackening of the wind, and I do not call.
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