some are unvenerated recollections, as of spiteful wild-cats clawing at your agonized vitals; others are severe, like a visitation; and one or two rise up draped and mysterious, with an aspect of ominous menace.  In each of them there is a characteristic point at which the whole feeling seems contained in one single moment.  Thus there is a certain four o’clock in the morning in the confused roar of a black and white world when coming on deck to take charge of my watch I received the instantaneous impression that the ship could not live for another hour in such a raging sea.

I wonder what became of the men who silently (you couldn’t hear yourself speak) must have shared that conviction with me.  To be left to write about it is not, perhaps, the most enviable fate; but the point is that this impression resumes in its intensity the whole recollection of days and days of desperately dangerous weather.  We were then, for reasons which it is not worth while to specify, in the close neighbourhood of Kerguelen Land; and now, when I open an atlas and look at the tiny dots on the map of the Southern Ocean, I see as if engraved upon the paper the enraged physiognomy of that gale.

Another, strangely, recalls a silent man.  And yet it was not din that was wanting; in fact, it was terrific.  That one was a gale that came upon the ship swiftly, like a parnpero, which last is a very sudden wind indeed.  Before we knew very well what was coming all the sails we had set had burst; the furled ones were blowing loose, ropes flying, sea hissing—­it hissed tremendously—­wind howling, and the ship lying on her side, so that half of the crew were swimming and the other half clawing desperately at whatever came to hand, according to the side of the deck each man had been caught on by the catastrophe, either to leeward or to windward.  The shouting I need not mention—­it was the merest drop in an ocean of noise—­and yet the character of the gale seems contained in the recollection of one small, not particularly impressive, sallow man without a cap and with a very still face.  Captain Jones—­let us call him Jones—­had been caught unawares.  Two orders he had given at the first sign of an utterly unforeseen onset; after that the magnitude of his mistake seemed to have overwhelmed him.  We were doing what was needed and feasible.  The ship behaved well.  Of course, it was some time before we could pause in our fierce and laborious exertions; but all through the work, the excitement, the uproar, and some dismay, we were aware of this silent little man at the break of the poop, perfectly motionless, soundless, and often hidden from us by the drift of sprays.

When we officers clambered at last upon the poop, he seemed to come out of that numbed composure, and shouted to us down wind:  “Try the pumps.”  Afterwards he disappeared.  As to the ship, I need not say that, although she was presently swallowed up in one of the blackest nights I can remember, she did not disappear.  In truth, I don’t fancy that there had ever been much danger of that, but certainly the experience was noisy and particularly distracting—­ and yet it is the memory of a very quiet silence that survives.