The Cumbermede had passed the line of gentle winds, and had struck a point where strong ones and even storms might be looked for. Still the sailors took no notice of the clouds; they believed too strongly in luck, and the new captain had been running in a “streak” of it ever since he hoisted anchor for the outward trip; he would get in all safe, no fear of that. But the captain had less faith in his star, and more in watchfulness, and was more frequently on deck as every day went by.
“I don’t like those clouds there to starboard, Morton,” he said to his first officer one afternoon; “they look a little ugly to me.”
The mate took a sharp look towards them.
“I don’t believe there’s much in them,” he said, “and they’re to leeward of us, too, or have been, rather; the wind’s getting round a trifle, I see.”
“That’s just it,” said the captain; “and if it gets round a little farther we may find out what’s in them before night. Keep a good lookout, and I’ll be on deck again in half an hour.”
Before the half hour had passed the wind had shifted decidedly, and was blowing very brisk from where the clouds lay.
“Reef the topsails,” said the captain the moment he came up.
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the mate, and passed the order to the men. But the winds worked faster than the men could, and before the order was fairly executed it was time to issue another, and still another followed. All hands were called, and in another half hour the vessel was driving, close-reefed, before a constantly increasing gale. “A half a gale,” as the sailors called it at first, then “a gale of wind,” and by the time the darkness gathered, “a living gale of wind.”
The captain’s voice could be heard clear and sharp above the tempest for some time, but at last it was almost impossible for either his or the mate’s to be distinguished, though there was little to do by that time but to let the vessel drive.