The Secret Sharer and Other Stories by Joseph Conrad

in.”
    Jukes heard his commander upbraiding.
    â€œThis—come—anything—warning—call me.”
    He tried to explain, with the uproar pressing on his lips.
    â€œLight air—remained—bridge—sudden—northeast—could turn—thought—you—sure—hear.”
    They had gained the shelter of the weather cloth, and could converse with raised voices, as people quarrel.
    â€œI got the hands along to cover up all the ventilators. Good job I had remained on deck. I didn’t think you would be asleep, and so ... What did you say, sir? What?”
    â€œNothing,” cried Captain MacWhirr. “I said—all right.”
    â€œBy all the powers! We’ve got it this time,” observed Jukes in a howl.
    â€œYou haven’t altered her course?” inquired Captain MacWhirr, straining his voice.
    â€œNo, sir. Certainly not. Wind came out right ahead. And here comes the head sea.”
    A plunge of the ship ended in a shock as if she had landed her forefoot upon something solid. After a moment of stillness a lofty flight of sprays drove hard with the wind upon their faces.
    â€œKeep her at it as long as we can,” shouted Captain MacWhirr.
    Before Jukes had squeezed the salt water out of his eyes all the stars had disappeared.
    III
    Jukes was as ready a man as any half-dozen young mates that may be caught by casting a net upon the waters; and though he had been somewhat taken aback by the startling viciousness of the first squall, he had pulled himself together on the instant, had called out the hands and had rushed them along to secure such openings about the deck as had not been already battened down earlier in the evening. Shouting in his fresh, stentorian voice, “Jump, boys, and bear a hand!” he led in the work, telling himself the while that he had “just expected this.”
    But at the same time he was growing aware that this was rather more than he had expected. From the first stir of the air felt on his cheek the gale seemed to take upon itself the accumulated impetus of an avalanche. Heavy sprays enveloped the Nan-Shan from stem to stern, and instantly in the midst of her regular rolling she began to jerk and plunge as though she had gone mad with fright.
    Jukes thought, “This is no joke.” While he was exchanging explanatory yells with his captain, a sudden lowering of the darkness came upon the night, falling before their vision like something palpable. It was as if the masked lights of the world had been turned down. Jukes was uncritically glad to have his captain at hand. It relieved him as though that man had, by simply coming on deck, taken most of the gale’s weight upon his shoulders. Such is the prestige, the privilege, and the burden of command.
    Captain MacWhirr could expect no relief of that sort from anyone on earth. Such is the loneliness of command. He was trying to see, with that watchful manner of a seaman who stares into the wind’s eye as if into the eye of an adversary, to penetrate the hidden intention and guess the aim and force of the thrust. The strong wind swept at him out of a vast obscurity; he felt under his feet the uneasiness of his ship, and he could not even discern the shadow of her shape. He wished it were not so; and very still he waited, feeling stricken by a blind man’s helplessness.
    To be silent was natural to him, dark or shine. Jukes, at his elbow, made himself heard yelling cheerily in the gusts, “We must have got the worst of it at once, sir.” A faint burst of lightning quivered all round, as if flashed into a cavern—into a black and secret chamber of the sea, with a floor of foaming crests.
    It unveiled for a sinister, fluttering moment a ragged mass of clouds hanging low, the lurch of the long outlines of the ship, the black figures of men caught on the bridge, heads forward, as if petrified in the act of butting. The darkness palpitated down upon all