A GALE OF WIND
(From John Holdsworth, Chief Mate.)
By W. CLARK RUSSELL.
At midnight Holdsworth came on deck to relieve the second mate. A man out of the port watch came to the wheel, and stood yawning, scarcely awake. The night was dark—a hazy atmosphere, through which the stars gleamed sparely, and the sea like ebony. The rise and fall of the ship flapped the sails against the masts and drove eddies of air about the decks, but in reality there was not a breath of wind. There was something stupendous in the black, profound, and breathless placidity of the night. The compass swung round in the binnacle anywhere, but the swell made the rudder kick heavily now and again, and gave the wheel a twist that flung the spokes out of the man’s hand and woke him up.
This prolonged inactivity was galling. One longed to hear the rush of parting water and the singing of the wind in the shrouds.
The mainsail flapped so heavily that Holdsworth ordered it to be furled. The song of the men brought the captain on deck. He flitted, shadow-like, about the binnacle, sniffed at the night impatiently, and then went to Holdsworth.
“The glass has fallen half an inch since eight bells,” said he.
“Yes, sir; there’ll be a change before morning.”
“Better stow the royals and mizzentop-gall’ns’l.”
“Ay, ay, sir.”