The sunshine gleamed cold on the white curls of black
waves. Before the strong breath of westerly squalls the ship, with
reduced sail, lay slowly over, obstinate and yielding. She drove to and
fro in the unceasing endeavour to fight her way through the invisible
violence of the winds: she pitched headlong into dark smooth hollows;
she struggled upwards over the snowy ridges of great running seas; she
rolled, restless, from side to side, like a thing in pain. Enduring and
valiant, she answered to the call of men; and her slim spars waving for
ever in abrupt semicircles, seemed to beckon in vain for help towards
the stormy sky.
It was a bad winter off the Cape that year. The relieved helmsmen came
off flapping their arms, or ran stamping hard and blowing into swollen,
red fingers. The watch on deck dodged the sting of cold sprays or,
crouching in sheltered corners, watched dismally the high and merciless
seas boarding the ship time after time in unappeasable fury. Water
tumbled in cataracts over the forecastle doors. You had to dash through
a waterfall to get into your damp bed. The men turned in wet and turned
out stiff to face the redeeming and ruthless exactions of their glorious
and obscure fate.
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