Chapter VIII.
The Storm.
The navigation of the Atlantic by means of the immense sea-going steamers of the present day, with all its superiority in most respects, is attended with one very serious disadvantage, at least for all romantic people, and those who particularly enjoy what is grand and sublime. To passengers on board an Atlantic steamer, a storm at sea—that spectacle which has, in former times, been so often described as the most grand and sublime of all the exhibitions which the course of nature presents to man—is divested almost entirely of that imposing magnificence for which it was formerly so renowned.
There are several reasons for this.
First, the height of the waves appears far less impressive, when seen from on board an Atlantic steamer, than from any ordinary vessel; for the deck in the case of these steamers is so high, that the spectator, as it were, looks down upon them. Any one who has ever ascended a mountain knows very well what the effect is upon the apparent height of all smaller hills, when they are seen from an elevation that is far higher than they. In fact, a country that is really quite hilly is made to appear almost level, by being surveyed from any one summit that rises above the other elevations. The same is the case with the waves of the sea, when seen from the promenade deck of one of these vast steamers.
The waves of the sea are never more than twelve or fifteen feet high, although a very common notion prevails that they run very much higher. It has been well ascertained that they never rise more than twelve or fifteen feet above the general level of the water; and if we allow the same quantity for the depth of the trough, or hollow between two waves, we shall have from twenty-five to thirty feet as the utmost altitude which any swell of water can have, reckoning from the most depressed portions of the surface near it. Now, in a first-class Atlantic steamer, there are two full stories, so to speak, above the surface of the sea, and a promenade deck above the uppermost one. This brings the head of the spectator, when he stands upon the promenade dock and surveys the ocean around him, to the height of twenty-five or thirty feet above the surface of the water. The elevation at which he stands varies considerably, it is true, at different portions of the voyage. When the ship first comes out of port she is very heavily laden, as she has on board, in addition to the cargo, all the coal which she is to consume during the whole voyage. This is an enormous quantity—enough for the full lading of what used to be considered a large ship in former days. This coal being gradually consumed during the voyage, the steamer is lightened; and thus she swims lighter and lighter as she proceeds, being four or five feet higher out of the water when she reaches the end of her voyage than she was at the beginning.
Thus the height at which the passenger stands above the waves, when walking on the promenade deck of an Atlantic steamer, varies somewhat during the progress of the voyage; but it is always, or almost always, so great as to bring his head above the crests of the waves. Thus he looks down, as it were, upon the heaviest seas, and this greatly diminishes their apparent magnitude and elevation. On the contrary, to one going to sea in vessels as small as those with which Columbus made the voyage when he discovered America, the loftiest billows would rise and swell, and toss their foaming crests far above his head, as he clung to the deck to gaze at them. They would seem at times ready to overwhelm him with the vast and towering volumes of water which they raised around him. Then, when the shock which was produced by the encounter of one of them was passed, and the ship, trembling from the concussion, rose buoyantly over the swell, being small in comparison with the volume of the wave, she was lifted so high that she seemed to hang trembling upon the brink of it, ready to plunge to certain destruction into the yawning gulf which opened below.
All this is, however, now changed. The mighty steamer, twice as long, and nearly four times as massive as the ship, surpasses the seas now, as it were, in magnitude and momentum, as well as in power. She not only triumphs over them in the contest of strength, but she towers above and overtops them in position. The billow can now no longer toss her up so lightly to the summit of its crest; nor, when the crest of it is passed, will she sink her so fearfully into the hollow of the sea. The spectator, raised above all apparent danger, and moving forward through the scene of wild commotion with a power greater far than that which the foaming surges can exert, surveys the scene around him with wonder and admiration, it is true, but without that overpowering sensation of awe which it could once inspire.
Then there is another thing. A sailing vessel, which is always in a great measure dependent upon the wind, is absolutely at its mercy in a storm. When the gale increases beyond a certain limit, she can no longer make head at all against its fury, but must turn and fly—or be driven—wherever the fury of the tempest may impel her. In such cases, she goes bounding over the seas, away from her course, toward rocks, shoals, breakers, or any other dangers whatever which may lie in the way, without the least power or possibility of resistance. She goes howling on, in such a case, over the wide waste of waters before her, wholly unable to escape from the dreadful fury of the master who is driving her, and with no hope of being released from his hand, until he chooses, of his own accord, to abate his rage.