Part 27 (1/2)
Clubin had placed the candle on the table, and had begun to readjust a row of pins which he kept in the collar of his overcoat. He continued:
”Didn't you say, Captain, that the _Tamaulipas_ would not touch anywhere?”
”Yes; she goes direct to Chili.”
”In that case, she can send no news of herself on the voyage.”
”I beg your pardon, Captain Clubin. In the first place, she can send any letters by vessels she may meet sailing for Europe.”
”That is true.”
”Then there is the ocean letter-box.”
”What do you mean by the ocean letter-box?”
”Don't you know what that is, Captain Clubin?”
”No.”
”When you pa.s.s the straits of Magellan----”
”Well.”
”Snow all round you; always bad weather; ugly down-easters, and bad seas.”
”Well.”
”When you have doubled Cape Monmouth----”
”Well, what next?”
”Then you double Cape Valentine.”
”And then?”
”Why, then you double Cape Isidore.”
”And afterwards?”
”You double Point Anne.”
”Good. But what is it you call the ocean letter-box?”
”We are coming to that. Mountains on the right, mountains on the left.
Penguins and stormy petrels all about. A terrible place. Ah! by Jove, what a howling and what cracks you get there! The hurricane wants no help. That's the place for holding on to the sheer-rails; for reefing topsails. That's where you take in the mainsail, and fly the jibsail; or take in the jibsail and try the stormjib. Gusts upon gusts! And then, sometimes four, five, or six days of scudding under bare poles. Often only a rag of canvas left. What a dance! Squalls enough to make a three-master skip like a flea. I saw once a cabin-boy hanging on to the jibboom of an English brig, the _True Blue_, knocked, jibboom and all, to ten thousand nothings. Fellows are swept into the air there like b.u.t.terflies. I saw the second mate of the _Revenue_, a pretty schooner, knocked from under the forecross-tree, and killed dead. I have had my sheer-rails smashed, and come out with all my sails in ribbons. Frigates of fifty guns make water like wicker baskets. And the d.a.m.nable coast!
Nothing can be imagined more dangerous. Rocks all jagged-edged. You come, by and by, to Port Famine. There it's worse and worse. The worst seas I ever saw in my life. The devil's own lat.i.tudes. All of a sudden you spy the words, painted in red, 'Post Office.'”
”What do you mean, Captain Gertrais?”