THE ALBATROSS. 217 



dead men. I shouted to them to come back, but 

 the wind carried the sound away. You could not 

 have made them hear with a trumpet. I waved 

 my arms at them and they struggled down on 

 deck and made their way aft with ducked heads, 

 coming hand over hand, clinging to the belaying 

 pins along the starboard bulwarks. 



The storm had its way. The sails blew out 

 from under the gaskets. They were nearly new 

 canvas, but they were blown into strips like 

 ribbons. The ship shook with a frightful tremor. 



The wind was blowing with such force that the 

 sea could not rise. Instead, it was rolling over 

 with a white foam; and the foam, as it dashed 

 against the weather side of the ship, would send a 

 spray over us like fine, drifting snow. 



It was full moon, and that heightened the 

 terror. It made the dangers visible and invisible 

 by turns, for clouds rushed over our heads with 

 frightful rapidity. They were very low — so low 

 it seemed as if we could reach them. They were 

 like frightened spirits fleeing from the wrath of 

 the storm-god ! 



The cargo was secured with billets of wood, so 

 I had no fears on that score. There was no 

 danger of its shifting. The real peril was the 

 chance of being blown ashore on the coast of 



