Then the terrors of a
land-locked bay, and a lee shore; the ship tacking, writhing,
twisting, to weather one jutting promontory; the sea and safety is on
the other side of it; land and destruction on this--the attempt, the
hope, the failure; then the stout-hearted, skillful captain would try
one rare maneuver to save the ship, cargo, and crew. He would
club-haul her, "and if that fails, my lads, there is nothing but up
mainsail, up helm, run her slap ashore, and lay her bones on the
softest bit of rock we can pick."
Long ere this the poor ship had become a live thing to all these four,
and they hung breathless on her fate.
Then he showed how a ship is club-hauled, and told how nobly the old
_Connemara_ behaved (ships are apt to when well
handled--double-barreled guns ditto), and how the wind blew fiercer,
and the rocks seemed to open their mouths for her, and how she hung
and vibrated between safety and destruction, and at last how she
writhed and slipped between Death's lips, yet escaped his teeth, and
tossed and tumbled in triumph on the great but fair fighting sea; and
how they got at last to the whaling ground, and could not find a whale
for many a weary day, and the novices said: "They were all killed
before we sailed;" and how, as uncommon ill luck is apt to be balanced
by uncommon good luck, one fine evening they fell in with a whole
shoal of whales at play, jumping clean into the air sixty feet long,
and coming down each with a splash like thunder; even the captain had
never seen such a game; and how the crew were for lowering the boats
and going at them, but the captain would not let them; a hundred
playful mountains of fish, the smallest weighing thirty ton, flopping
down happy-go-lucky, he did not like the looks of it.
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