- end_line
- 4209
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:18.535Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 4176
- text
- blocks at their ends, striking Annatoo upon the forehead, she let go
her hold upon a stanchion, and sliding across the aslant deck, was
swallowed up in the whirlpool under our lea. Samoa shrieked. But there
was no time to mourn; no hand could reach to save.
By the connecting stays, the mainmast carried over with it the
foremast; when we instantly righted, and for the time were saved; my
own royal Viking our saviour.
The first fury of the gale was gone. But far to leeward was seen the
even, white line of its onset, pawing the ocean into foam. All round
us, the sea boiled like ten thousand caldrons; and through eddy, wave,
and surge, our almost water-logged craft waded heavily; every dead
clash ringing hollow against her hull, like blows upon a coffin.
We floated a wreck. With every pitch we lifted our dangling jib-boom
into the air; and beating against the side, were the shattered
fragments of the masts. From these we made all haste to be free, by
cutting the rigging that held them.
Soon, the worst of the gale was blown over. But the sea ran high. Yet
the rack and scud of the tempest, its mad, tearing foam, was subdued
into immense, long-extended, and long-rolling billows; the white cream
on their crests like snow on the Andes. Ever and anon we hung poised on
their brows; when the furrowed ocean all round looked like a panorama
from Chimborazo.
A few hours more, and the surges went down. There was a moderate sea, a
steady breeze, and a clear, starry sky. Such was the storm that came
after our calm.
- title
- Chunk 2