--"Brace round the foreyard; round with it--set the
jib--that's it--fore--topmast stay--sail--haul--never mind if the gale
takes it out of the bolt rope"--a thundering flap, and away it flew in
truth down to leeward, like a puff of white smoke.--"Never mind, men, the
jib stands. Belay all that--down with the helm, now don't you see she has
sternway yet? Zounds! we shall be smashed to atoms if you don't mind your
hands, you lubbers--main--topsail sheets let fly--there she pays off, and
has headway once more, that's it--right your helm now--never mind his
spanker--boom, the forestay will stand it--there--up with the helm, sir
we have cleared him hurrah!"--And a near thing it was too but we soon had
every thing snug; and although the gale continued without any intermission
for ten days, at length we ran in and anchored with our prize in Five
Fathom Hole, off the entrance to St George's Harbour.
It was lucky for us that we got to anchor at the time we did, for that same
afternoon, one of the most tremendous gales of wind from the westward came
on that I ever saw. Fortunately it was steady and did not veer about, and
having good ground--tackle down, we rode it out well enough. The effect
was very uncommon; the wind was howling over our mast--heads, and amongst
the cedar bushes on the cliffs above, while on deck it was nearly calm, and
there was very little swell, being a weather shore; but half a mile out at
sea all was white foam, and the tumbling waves seemed to meet from north
and south, leaving a space of smooth water under the lee of the island,
shaped like the tail of a comet, tapering away, and gradually roughening
and becoming more stormy, until the roaring billows once more owed
allegiance to the genius of the storm.
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