Читать книгу Lolóma, or two years in cannibal-land. A story of old Fiji онлайн

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The wind caught the schooner astern. She had been luckily brought under easy sail, or she would have been dismasted. The canvas she carried lifted her forward with one tremendous bound, and then every inch of it was furiously torn from her and hurried away on the wings of the gale. The vessel was now fairly enveloped in the tempest, running with it under bare poles—a skeleton ship engaged in a terrible race with Death. Her shrouds and stays rang responsive to the wind, like the strings of a harp, furnishing a weird musical accompaniment to the howling of the storm.

The noise was terrific. The sound was that of air travelling with the highest attainable velocity, and carrying with it the ocean spray. It was as if we were actually enclosed by a great body of water rapidly in motion, forming part of a concrete moving mass, and as though every particle of the element was endowed with the power of shrieking demoniacally. No man’s voice could by any possibility be heard, nor could anyone stand on deck without holding on to something. It was appalling. We felt that the Angel of Death had encompassed us with his wings.