table bo'sun at
the bunt, this time to "skin" it up, and each man clawed out again at
the flat booming canvas, clawed at it with his crooked fingers as
wrestlers claw for hold behind each others' backs. A wrinkle gave hold,
we nipped it, and then the ironic devil in the gale shrieked with
laughter and snatched even so small an advantage from us. We knew the
"old man" and the mate were cursing us down below. Did they curse us, or
the weather, or the owners, or our English Agincourt trick once more?
What did it matter to us, beaten and unbeaten, as we rested for a moment
and then again stretched out bleeding fingers for some little advantage,
knowing well that when such a gale blew victory was only possible when
by constant trials the chance came of each being given good or fair
handhold at once. Then came a shriek of wind and a blown-out lull and a
wrinkle lapsed into a fold. We shouted "Now!" left hold of the
jack-stay, and with feet outstretched grabbed slack canvas and hung on
as another squall came singing like shrapnel across the peaks of the
leaping sea. "Hold on now, hold on!" so sang all of us, and we cursed
each other furiously. "Oh, oh, you miserable devil, hang on or it's lost
again!" We cursed ourselves, felt our muscles crack, our nails shred,
our skin peel and stretch and sting, and yet (thanks to our noble
selves) we only lost an inch. Once more--"Now, now up, you dogs!" and
that's the long-lost, long-waited, sudden, surprising clock of dawn
yonder. We have been two hours here, and once more the sail leaps up and
comes down. Here, two hours, two compressed swift hours, two compacted
eternities measured in gasps and half the work is done unless we weaken
and let up and let go.

But that's the dawn!

Morning and the glory of it, the grey wash of Eternity; sea-grey and
world-grey and sky-grey, all in one great wash with a little whiteness
standing for daylight. Beyond the illimitable wash where the sea breaks
against the sky is the sun; source of all, strength of all. And there is
no sleep to wash out of our eyes before we catch up strength from it,
and encouragement. Lately we might have raised the Ajax cry, "In the
light, in the light, destroy us," but now we see the little sea-plant of
grey-green grow in the east, and we are strong. There is light, or a
blight, a greyness out ahead and the deck whitens all awash, and the
"old man" shivers in his oilskin coat as he hangs on to a pin in the
rail to watch u