JOHN MASEFIELD 67 



or in the west, to hint that somewhere, very far 

 away, there is daylight brightening the face of 

 things. 



If you are in a ship in the Cape Horn calm, you 

 forge ahead, under all sail, a quarter of a mile an 

 hour. The swell heaves you up and drops you, 

 in long, slow, gradual movements, in a rhythm 

 beautiful to mark. You roll, too, in a sort of 

 horrible crescendo, half a dozen rolls and a lull. 

 You can never tell when she will begin to roll. 

 She will begin quite suddenly, for no apparent 

 reason. She will go over and over with a rattling 

 clatter of blocks and chains. Then she will swing 

 back, groaning along the length of her, to slat 

 the great sails and set the reef points flogging, to 

 a great clack and jangle of staysail sheets. Then 

 over she will go again, and back, and again over, 

 rolling further each time. At the last of her rolls 

 there comes a great clattering of tins, as the galley 

 gear and whack pots slither across to leeward, 

 followed by cursing seamen. The iron swing-pots 

 bang to and fro. The straining and groaning 

 sounds along her length. Every block aloft clacks 

 and whines. The sea splashes up the scuppers. 

 The sleepers curse her from their bunks for a 

 drunken drogher. Then she lets u|) and stands 

 on her dignity, and rolls no more for perhaps 

 another quarter of an hour. 



fohn MasefieliL 



