The hurricane had just stopped short. There was no longer in the airsou'-wester or nor'-wester. The fierce clarions of space were mute. Thewhole of the waterspout had poured from the sky without any warning ofdiminution, as if it had slided perpendicularly into a gulf beneath.None knew what had become of it; flakes replaced the hailstones, thesnow began to fall slowly. No more swell: the sea flattened down.
Such sudden cessations are peculiar to snowstorms. The electriceffluvium exhausted, all becomes still, even the wave, which in ordinarystorms often remains agitated for a long time. In snowstorms it is notso. No prolonged anger in the deep. Like a tired-out worker it becomesdrowsy directly, thus almost giving the lie to the laws of statics, butnot astonishing old seamen, who know that the sea is full of unforeseensurprises.
The same phenomenon takes place, although very rarely, in ordinarystorms. Thus, in our time, on the occasion of the memorable hurricane ofJuly 27th, 1867, at Jersey the wind, after fourteen hours' fury,suddenly relapsed into a dead calm.
In a few minutes the hooker was floating in sleeping waters.
At the same time (for the last phase of these storms resembles thefirst) they could distinguish nothing; all that had been made visible inthe convulsions of the meteoric cloud was again dark. Pale outlineswere fused in vague mist, and the gloom of infinite space closed aboutthe vessel. The wall of night--that circular occlusion, that interior ofa cylinder the diameter of which was lessening minute byminute--enveloped the _Matutina_, and, with the sinister deliberation ofan encroaching iceberg, was drawing in dangerously. In the zenithnothing--a lid of fog closing down. It was as if the hooker were at thebottom of the well of the abyss.
In that well the sea was a puddle of liquid lead. No stir in thewaters--ominous immobility! The ocean is never less tamed than when itis still as a pool.
All was silence, stillness, blindness.
Perchance the silence of inanimate objects is taciturnity.
The last ripples glided along the hull. The deck was horizontal, with aninsensible slope to the sides. Some broken planks were shifting aboutirresolutely. The block on which they had lighted the tow steeped intar, in place of the signal light which had been swept away, swung nolonger at the prow, and no longer let fall burning drops into the sea.What little breeze remained in the clouds was noiseless. The snow fellthickly, softly, with scarce a slant. No foam of breakers could beheard. The peace of shadows was over all.
This repose succeeding all the past exasperations and paroxysms was, forthe poor creatures so long tossed about, an unspeakable comfort. It wasas though the punishment of the rack had ceased. They caught a glimpseabout them and above them of something which seemed like a consent, thatthey should be saved. They regained confidence. All that had been furywas now tranquillity. It appeared to them a pledge of peace. Theirwretched hearts dilated. They were able to let go the end of rope orbeam to which they had clung, to rise, hold themselves up, stand, walk,move about. They felt inexpressibly calmed. There are in the depths ofdarkness such phases of paradise, preparations for other things. It wasclear that they were delivered out of the storm, out of the foam, out ofthe wind, out of the uproar. Henceforth all the chances were in theirfavour. In three or four hours it would be sunrise. They would be seenby some passing ship; they would be rescued. The worst was over; theywere re-entering life. The important feat was to have been able to keepafloat until the cessation of the tempest. They said to themselves, "Itis all over this time."
Suddenly they found that all was indeed over.
One of the sailors, the northern Basque, Galdeazun by name, went downinto the hold to look for a rope, then came above again and said,--
"The hold is full."
"Of what?" asked the chief.
"Of water," answered the sailor.
The chief cried out,--
"What does that mean?"
"It means," replied Galdeazun, "that in half an hour we shall founder."