Clad in sea-boots, oilskins and sou'wester, I had for some time been
hanging upon the rail at the break of the poop, staring down
fascinated at the poor devils of sailors, repeatedly up to their
necks in water, or submerged, or dashed like straws about the deck,
while they pulled and hauled, stupidly, blindly, and in evident fear,
under the orders of Mr. Pike.
Mr. Pike was with them, working them and working with them. He took
every chance they took, yet somehow he escaped being washed off his
feet, though several times I saw him entirely buried from view.
There was more than luck in the matter; for I saw him, twice, at the
head of a line of the men, himself next to the pin. And twice, in
this position, I saw the North Atlantic curl over the rail and fall
upon them. And each time he alone remained, holding the turn of the
rope on the pin, while the rest of them were rolled and sprawled
helplessly away.
Almost it seemed to me good fun, as at a circus, watching their
antics. But I did not apprehend the seriousness of the situation
until, the wind screaming higher than ever and the sea a-smoke and
white with wrath, two men did not get up from the deck.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139