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.