And all the time, slender, aristocratic, graceful in streaming
oilskins, in apparent unconcern, giving no orders, effortlessly
accommodating his body to the violent rolling of the Elsinore,
Captain West strolled up and down.
It was at this stage in the gale that he unbent sufficiently to tell
me that we were going through a circular storm and that the wind was
boxing the compass. I did notice that he kept his gaze pretty
steadily fixed on the overcast, cloud-driven sky. At last, when it
seemed the wind could not possibly blow more fiercely, he found in
the sky what he sought. It was then that I first heard his voice--a
sea-voice, clear as a bell, distinct as silver, and of an ineffable
sweetness and volume, as it might be the trump of Gabriel. That
voice!--effortless, dominating! The mighty threat of the storm, made
articulate by the resistance of the Elsinore, shouted in all the
stays, bellowed in the shrouds, thrummed the taut ropes against the
steel masts, and from the myriad tiny ropes far aloft evoked a
devil's chorus of shrill pipings and screechings. And yet, through
this bedlam of noise, came Captain West's voice, as of a spirit
visitant, distinct, unrelated, mellow as all music and mighty as an
archangel's call to judgment. And it carried understanding and
command to the man at the wheel, and to Mr. Pike, waist-deep in the
wash of sea below us. And the man at the wheel obeyed, and Mr. Pike
obeyed, barking and snarling orders to the poor wallowing devils who
wallowed on and obeyed him in turn. And as the voice was the face.
This face I had never seen before. It was the face of the spirit
visitant, chaste with wisdom, lighted by a splendour of power and
calm. Perhaps it was the calm that smote me most of all. It was as
the calm of one who had crossed chaos to bless poor sea-worn men with
the word that all was well. It was not the face of the fighter. To
my thrilled imagination it was the face of one who dwelt beyond all
strivings of the elements and broody dissensions of the blood.
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