XXIV.
For, after all, a gale of wind, the thing of mighty sound, is
inarticulate. It is man who, in a chance phrase, interprets the
elemental passion of his enemy. Thus there is another gale in my
memory, a thing of endless, deep, humming roar, moonlight, and a
spoken sentence.
It was off that other cape which is always deprived of its title as
the Cape of Good Hope is robbed of its name. It was off the Horn.
For a true expression of dishevelled wildness there is nothing like
a gale in the bright moonlight of a high latitude.
The ship, brought-to and bowing to enormous flashing seas,
glistened wet from deck to trucks; her one set sail stood out a
coal-black shape upon the gloomy blueness of the air. I was a
youngster then, and suffering from weariness, cold, and imperfect
oilskins which let water in at every seam. I craved human
companionship, and, coming off the poop, took my place by the side
of the boatswain (a man whom I did not like) in a comparatively dry
spot where at worst we had water only up to our knees. Above our
heads the explosive booming gusts of wind passed continuously,
justifying the sailor's saying "It blows great guns." And just
from that need of human companionship, being very close to the man,
I said, or rather shouted:
"Blows very hard, boatswain."
His answer was:
"Ay, and if it blows only a little harder things will begin to go.
I don't mind as long as everything holds, but when things begin to
go it's bad."
The note of dread in the shouting voice, the practical truth of
these words, heard years ago from a man I did not like, have
stamped its peculiar character on that gale.
A look in the eyes of a shipmate, a low murmur in the most
sheltered spot where the watch on duty are huddled together, a
meaning moan from one to the other with a glance at the windward
sky, a sigh of weariness, a gesture of disgust passing into the
keeping of the great wind, become part and parcel of the gale. The
olive hue of hurricane clouds presents an aspect peculiarly
appalling. The inky ragged wrack, flying before a nor'-west wind,
makes you dizzy with its headlong speed that depicts the rush of
the invisible air. A hard sou'-wester startles you with its close
horizon and its low gray sky, as if the world were a dungeon
wherein there is no rest for body or soul. And there are black
squalls, white squalls, thunder squalls, and unexpected gusts that
come without a single sign in the sky; and of each kind no one of
them resembles another.
There is infinite variety in the gales of wind at sea, and except
for the peculiar, terrible, and mysterious moaning that may be
heard sometimes passing through the roar of a hurricane--except for
that unforgettable sound, as if the soul of the universe had been
goaded into a mournful groan--it is, after all, the human voice
that stamps the mark of human consciousness upon the character of a
gale.
