"Why, we've got to make the best of the first of it and run down to our boats before our canvas is ripped out of us.After that don't give a rap what happens.The sticks'll stand it, and you and will have to, though we've plenty cut out for us."Still the calm continued.We ate dinner, a hurried and anxious meal for me with eighteen men abroad on the sea and beyond the bulge of the earth and with that heaven-rolling mountain range of clouds moving slowly down upon us.Wolf Larsen did not seem affected, however; though I noticed, when we returned to the deck, a slight twitching of the nostrils, a perceptible quickness of movement.His face was stern, the lines of it had grown hard, and yet in his eyes, -- blue, clear blue this day, -- there was a strange brilliancy, a bright scintillating light.It struck me that he was joyous, in a ferocious sort of way; that he was glad there was an impending struggle;that he was thrilled and upborne with knowledge that one of the great moments of living, when the tide of life surges up in flood, was upon him.
Once, and unwitting that he did so or that I saw, he laughed aloud, mockingly and defiantly, at the advancing storm.I see him yet, standing there like a pygmy out of the "Arabian Nights" before the huge front of some malignant genie.He was daring destiny, and he was unafraid.
He walked to the galley."Cooky, by the time you've finished pots and pans you'll be wanted on deck.Stand ready for a call.""Hump," he said, becoming cognizant of the fascinated gaze bent upon him, "this beats whiskey, and is where your Omar misses.think he only half lived after all."The western half of the sky had by now grown murky.The sun had dimmed and faded out of sight.It was two in the afternoon, and a ghostly twilight, shot through by wandering purplish lights, had descended upon us.In this purplish light Wolf Larsen's face glowed and glowed, and to my excited fancy he appeared encircled by a halo.We lay in the midst of an unearthly quiet, while all about us were signs and omens of oncoming sound and movement.
The sultry heat had become unendurable.The sweat was standing on my forehead, and I could feel it trickling down my nose.I felt as though I should faint, and reached out to the rail for support.
And then, just then, the faintest possible whisper of air passed by.
It was from the east, and like a whisper it came and went.The drooping canvas was not stirred, and yet my face had felt the air and been cooled.
"Cooky," Wolf Larsen called in a low voice.Thomas Mugridge turned a pitiable, scared face."Let go that fore-boom tackle and pass it across, and when she's willing let go the sheet and come in snug with the tackle.
And if you make a mess of it, it will be the last you ever make.Understand?
"Mr.Van Weyden, stand by to pass the head-sails over.Then jump for the topsails and spread them quick as God'll let you -- the quicker you do it the easier you'll find it.As for Cooky, if he isn't lively bat him between the eyes."I was aware of the compliment and pleased, in that no threat had accompanied my instructions.We were lying head to northwest, and it was his intention to jibe over all with the first puff.
"We'll have the breeze on our quarter," he explained to me."By the last guns the boats were bearing away slightly to the south'ard."He turned and walked aft to the wheel.I went forward and took my station at the jibs.Another whisper of wind, and another, passed by.The canvas flapped lazily.
"Thank Gawd she's not comin' all of a bunch, Mr.Van Weyden," was the Cockney's fervent ejaculation.
And I was indeed thankful, for I had by this time learned enough to know, with all our canvas spread, what disaster in such event awaited us.
The whispers of wind became puffs, the sails filled, the Ghost moved.
Wolf Larsen put the wheel hard up, to port, and we began to pay off.The wind was now dead astern, muttering and puffing stronger and stronger, and my head-sails were pounding lustily.I did not see what went on elsewhere, though I felt the sudden surge and heel of the schooner as the wind-pressures changed to the jibing of the fore- and main-sails.My hands were full with the flying-jib, jib, and staysail; and by the time this part of my task was accomplished the Ghost was leaping into the southwest, the wind on her quarter and all her sheets to starboard.Without pausing for breath, though my heart was beating like a trip-hammer from my exertions, I sprang to the topsails, and before the wind had become too strong we had them fairly set and were coiling down.Then I went aft for orders.
Wolf Larsen nodded approval and relinquished the wheel to me.The wind was strengthening steadily and the sea rising.For an hour steered, each moment becoming more difficult.I had not the experience to steer at the gait we were going on a quartering course.
"Now take a run up with the glasses and raise some of the boats.We've made at least ten knots, and we're going twelve or thirteen now.The old girl knows how to walk."I contented myself with the fore crosstrees, some seventy feet above the deck.As I searched the vacant stretch of water before me, comprehended thoroughly the need for haste if we were to recover any of our men.Indeed, as I gazed at the heavy sea through which we were running, I doubted that there was a boat afloat.It did not seem possible that such frail craft could survive such stress of wind and water.
