The packet is beset by its late passengers, who instantly pervade the whole ship, and are to be with by the dozen in every nook and corner: swarming down below with their own baggage and stumbling over other people's; madly bent on opening locked doors and enforcing a passage into all kinds of out of the way places where there is no thoroughfare; and in short, creating the most extraordinary and bewildering tumult.
The vessel throbs like a strong giant that has just received the breath of life; the two great wheels turning fiercely round for the first time; and the whole ship, with wind and tide astern, breaks proudly through the lashed and foaming water.
It is the third morning. I am awakened out of my sleep by a dismal shriek from my wife, who demands to know whether there is any danger. I rouse myself, and look out of bed. The water jug is plunging and leaping like a lively dolphin. All the smaller articles are afloat, except my shoes. At the same time the door entirely disappears and a new one is opened in the floor. Then I begin to comprehend that the state room is standing on its head. Before it is possible to make any arrangement at all that is compatible with this novel state of things, the ship rights. Before one can say 'Thank heaven!' she wrongs again, and so she goes on. Staggering, heaving, wrestling, leaping, diving, jumping, pitching throbbing, rolling and rocking until one feels disposed to roar for mercy.
A steward passes.
'Steward!'
'Sir?'
'What is the matter? What do you call this?'
'Oh, rather a heavy sea on sir, and a head wind.'
A head wind! Imagine the wind howling, the sea roaring, the rain beating. Add to this the clattering on deck and, down below, the loud, hoarse shouts of seamen, the gurgling in and out of water through scuppers, with every now and then the striking of a heavy sea upon the planks above, and there is the 'head wind' of that January morning.
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