'Tossed on the tide she feels the tempest blow
And dreads the vengeance of so fell a foe
As the proud horse, with costly trappings gay,
Exulting, prances to the bloody fray,
Spurning the ground, he glories in his might,
But reels tumultuous in the shock of fight;
Even so, caparisoned in gaudy pride,
The bounding vessel dances on the tide.'
He looked quickly round for some reaction to his simile: he saw nothing but deep, universal stupidity, but this may only have been the reserve called for by the rules. In any case he hurried on to ground where everybody would-be more at home:
'Fierce and more fierce the southern demon blew,
And more incensed the roaring waters grew.
The ship no longer can her topsails spread,
And every hope of fairer skies is fled.
Bowlines and halyards are relaxed again,
Clewlines hauled down, and sheets let fly amain;
Clewed up each topsail, and by braces squared,
The seamen climb aloft on either yard.
They furled the sails, and pointed to the wind
The yard by rolling tackles then confined.
While o'er the ship the gallant boatswain flies,
Like a hoarse mastiff through the storm he cries:
Prompt to direct th'unskilful still appears;
Th'expert he praises, and the fearful cheers.
Now some to strike topgallant yards attend:
Some travellers up the weather-backstays send;
At each masthead the top-ropes others bend.
The youngest sailors from the yards above
Their parrels, lifts, and braces soon remove:
Then topped an-end, and to the travellers tied,
Charged with their sails, they down the backstays slide.
Their sails reduced, and all the rigging clear,
Awhile the crew relax from toils severe.
But then it gets worse,' said Mowett, 'and the sun goes down - I skip the sunset, such a shame - I skip the moon and stars -
The ship no longer can her courses bear;
To reef the courses is the master's care:
The sailors, summoned aft, a daring band!
Attend th'enfolding brails at his command.
But he who strives the tempest to disarm
Will never first embrail the lee yardarm.
So to windward, and obedient to command,
To raise the tack, the ready sailors stand.
The sheet and weather-brace they then stand by,
The lee clew-garnet and the buntlines ply.
Thus all prepared - Let go the sheet! he cries.
Impetuous -'
'Time,; cried Pullings.
'Oh, Tom,' said Mowett, sinking in his chair, his afflatus gone.
'I am sorry, old fellow,' said Pullings, 'but fair's fair, you know, and the Royal Marines must have their whack.'
