I glanced down at the decks. They were filled with flickering, grotesque
shadows cast by the dripping light above. A group of the men stood by
the port galley door--their faces upturned and pale and unreal under the
gleam of the light.
Then I was in the futtock rigging, and a moment afterwards, standing in
the top, beside the Old Man. He was shouting to the men who had gone out
on the craneline. It seemed that the man on the port side was bungling;
but at last--nearly a minute after the other man had lit his flare--he
got going. In that time, the man in the top had lit his second
blue-light, and we were ready to get into the topmast rigging. First,
however, the Skipper leant over the afterside of the top, and sung out
to the First Mate to send a man up on to the fo'cas'le head with a
flare. The Mate replied, and then we started again, the Old Man leading.
Fortunately, the rain had ceased, and there seemed to be no increase in
the wind; indeed, if anything, there appeared to be rather less; yet
what there was drove the flames of the flare-ups out into occasional,
twisting serpents of fire at least a yard long.
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