The mizzen is in and fast furled.In the night, what of the roll and the absence of wind, it had made life too hideous to be permitted to go on rasping at the mast, smashing at the tackles, and buffeting the empty air into hollow outbursts of sound.But the big mainsail is still on, and the staysail, jib, and flying-jib are snapping and slashing at their sheets with every roll.Every star is out.Just for luck I put the wheel hard over in the opposite direction to which it had been left by Hermann, and I lean back and gaze up at the stars.There is nothing else for me to do.There is nothing to be done with a sailing vessel rolling in a stark calm.
Then I feel a fan on my cheek, faint, so faint, that I can just sense it ere it is gone.But another comes, and another, until a real and just perceptible breeze is blowing.How the Snark's sails manage to feel it is beyond me, but feel it they do, as she does as well, for the compass card begins slowly to revolve in the binnacle.
In reality, it is not revolving at all.It is held by terrestrial magnetism in one place, and it is the Snark that is revolving, pivoted upon that delicate cardboard device that floats in a closed vessel of alcohol.
So the Snark comes back on her course.The breath increases to a tiny puff.The Snark feels the weight of it and actually heels over a trifle.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 Ican reach out and touch it on every side.When I lean toward it, Ican 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 Ileave the wheel and run forward to the cabin companionway, where Ilight 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 Irejoice 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 Iknew what was up there to windward in the blackness! The Snark is ****** 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.But it is rather lonely, there at the wheel, steering a little world through howling blackness.It is quite a responsibility to be all alone on the surface of a little world in time of stress, doing the thinking for its sleeping inhabitants.I recoil from the responsibility as more gusts begin to strike and as a sea licks along the weather rail and splashes over into the cockpit.The salt water seems strangely warm to my body and is shot through with ghostly nodules of phosphorescent light.I shall surely call all hands to shorten sail.Why should they sleep? I am a fool to have any compunctions in the matter.My intellect is arrayed against my heart.It was my heart that said, "Let them sleep." Yes, but it was my intellect that backed up my heart in that judgment.Let my intellect then reverse the judgment; and, while I am speculating as to what particular entity issued that command to my intellect, the gusts die away.Solicitude for mere bodily comfort has no place in practical seamanship, I conclude sagely; but study the feel of the next series of gusts and do not call the men.After all, it IS my intellect, behind everything, procrastinating, measuring its knowledge of what the Snark can endure against the blows being struck at her, and waiting the call of all hands against the striking of still severer blows.