Manchurian Books

On the 9th of January we were off the Rio Grande. In the evening
everything seemed to promise a violent storm; the captain consulted
his barometer every second almost, and issued his orders according
to its indications. Black clouds now began to drive towards us, and
the wind increased to such a pitch that the captain had all the
hatchways carefully fastened down, and the crew ready to reef the
sails at a moment's notice. At a little past 8, the hurricane broke
forth. Flash after flash of lightning darted across the horizon
from every side, and lighted the sailors in their work; the agitated
waves being illuminated with the most dazzling brilliancy. The
majestic rolling of the thunder drowned the captain's voice, and the
white foaming billows broke with such terrific force over the deck,
that it appeared as if they would carry everything with them into
the depths of the ocean. Unless there had been ropes stretched on
each side of the ship for the sailors to catch hold of, the latter
would most certainly have been washed away.


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