Chapter 24 - Page 2

For ere the ropes' ends can be the east off from the pins, the
tornado is blowing down to the bottom of their throats. The masts
are willows, the sails ribbons, the cordage wool; the whole ship
is brewed into the yeast of the gale.

An now, if, when the first green sea breaks over him, Captain
Rash is not swept overboard, he has his hands full be sure. In
all probability his three masts have gone by the board, and,
ravelled into list, his sails are floating in the air. Or,
perhaps, the ship _broaches to_, or is _brought by the lee_. In
either ease, Heaven help the sailors, their wives and their
little ones; and heaven help the underwriters.

Familiarity with danger makes a brave man braver, but less
daring. Thus with seamen: he who goes the oftenest round Cape
Horn goes the most circumspectly. A veteran mariner is never
deceived by the treacherous breezes which sometimes waft him
pleasantly toward the latitude of the Cape. No sooner does he
come within a certain distance of it--previously fixed in his own
mind--than all hands are turned to setting the ship in storm-
trim; and never mind how light the breeze, down come his t'-
gallant-yards. He "bends" his strongest storm-sails, and lashes
every-thing on deck securely. The ship is then ready for the
worst; and if, in reeling round the headland, she receives a
broadside, it generally goes well with her. If ill, all hands go
to the bottom with quiet consciences.

Among sea-captains, there are some who seem to regard the genius
of the Cape as a wilful, capricious jade, that must be courted
and coaxed into complaisance. First, they come along under easy
sails; do not steer boldly for the headland, but tack this way
and that--sidling up to it, Now they woo the Jezebel with a t'-
gallant-studding-sail; anon, they deprecate her wrath with
double-reefed-topsails. When, at length, her unappeasable fury is
fairly aroused, and all round the dismantled ship the storm howls
and howls for days together, they still persevere in their
efforts. First, they try unconditional submission; furling every
rag and _heaving to_: laying like a log, for the tempest to toss
wheresoever it pleases.

This failing, they set a _spencer_ or _try-sail_, and shift on
the other tack. Equally vain! The gale sings as hoarsely as before.
At last, the wind comes round fair; they drop the fore-sail; square
the yards, and scud before it; their implacable foe chasing them
with tornadoes, as if to show her insensibility to the last.

Other ships, without encountering these terrible gales, spend
week after week endeavouring to turn this boisterous world-corner
against a continual head-wind. Tacking hither and thither, in the
language of sailors they