Whatever you do， make westing！ make westing！ —Sailingdirections for Cape Horn.
For seven weeks the Mary Rogers had been between 5Odegrees south in the Atlantic and 5O degrees south in thePacific， which meant that for seven weeks she had beenstruggling to round Cape Horn. For seven weeks she hadbeen either in dirt， or close to dirt， save once， and then，following upon six days of excessive dirt， which she hadridden out under the shelter of the redoubtable Terra delFuego coast， she had almost gone ashore during a heavyswell in the dead calm that had suddenly fallen. For sevenweeks she had wrestled with the Cape Horn graybeards，and in return been buffeted and smashed by them. Shewas a wooden ship， and her ceaseless straining had openedher seams， so that twice a day the watch took its turn atthe pumps.
The Mary Rogers was strained， the crew was strained，and big Dan Cullen， master， was likewise strained. Perhapshe was strained most of all， for upon him rested theresponsibility of that titanic struggle. He slept most ofthe time in his clothes， though he rarely slept. He hauntedthe deck at night， a great， burly， robust ghost， black withthe sunburn of thirty years of sea and hairy as an orangoutang.
He， in turn， was haunted by one thought of action，a sailing direction for the Horn： Whatever you do， makewesting！ make westing！ It was an obsession. He thoughtof nothing else， except， at times， to blaspheme God forsending such bitter weather.
Make westing！ He hugged the Horn， and a dozen timeslay hove to with the iron Cape bearing east-by-north， ornorth-north-east， a score of miles away. And each time theeternal west wind smote him back and he made easting.
He fought gale after gale， south to 64 degrees， insidethe antarctic drift-ice， and pledged his immortal soul tothe Powers of Darkness for a bit of westing， for a slantto take him around. And he made easting. In despair， hehad tried to make the passage through the Straits of LeMaire. Halfway through， the wind hauled to the north’ardof north-west， the glass dropped to 28.88， and he turnedand ran before a gale of cyclonic fury， missing， by a hair’sbreadth，piling up the Mary Rogers on the black-toothedrocks. Twice he had made west to the Diego RamirezRocks， one of the times saved between two snow-squallsby sighting the gravestones of ships a quarter of a miledead ahead.
Blow！ Captain Dan Cullen instanced all his thirty yearsat sea to prove that never had it blown so before. TheMary Rogers was hove to at the time he gave the evidence，and， to clinch it， inside half an hour the Mary Rogers washove down to the hatches. Her new maintopsail and brandnew spencer were blown away like tissue paper； and fivesails， furled and fast under double gaskets， were blownloose and stripped from the yards. And before morningthe Mary Rogers was hove down twice again， and holeswere knocked in her bulwarks to ease her decks from theweight of ocean that pressed her down.
On an average of once a week Captain Dan Cullencaught glimpses of the sun. Once， for ten minutes， thesun shone at midday， and ten minutes afterward a newgale was piping up， both watches were shortening sail， andall was buried in the obscurity of a driving snow-squall.
For a fortnight， once， Captain Dan Cullen was without ameridian or a chronometer sight. Rarely did he know hisposition within half of a degree， except when in sight ofland； for sun and stars remained hidden behind the sky，and it was so gloomy that even at the best the horizonswere poor for accurate observations. A gray gloomshrouded the world. The clouds were gray； the greatdriving seas were leaden gray； the smoking crests were agray churning； even the occasional albatrosses were gray，while the snow-flurries were not white， but gray， under thesombre pall of the heavens.
Life on board the Mary Rogers was gray—gray andgloomy. The faces of the sailors were blue-gray； theywere afflicted with sea-cuts and sea-boils， and sufferedexquisitely. They were shadows of men. For seven weeks，in the forecastle or on deck， they had not known what itwas to be dry. They had forgotten what it was to sleep outa watch， and all watches it was， “All hands on deck！” Theycaught snatches of agonized sleep， and they slept in theiroilskins ready for the everlasting call. So weak and wornwere they that it took both watches to do the work of one.
That was why both watches were on deck so much of thetime. And no shadow of a man could shirk duty. Nothingless than a broken leg could enable a man to knock offwork； and there were two such， who had been mauled andpulped by the seas that broke aboard.
One other man who was the shadow of a man wasGeorge Dorety. He was the only passenger on board， afriend of the firm， and he had elected to make the voyagefor his health. But seven weeks of Cape Horn had notbettered his health. He gasped and panted in his bunkthrough the long， heaving nights； and when on deckhe was so bundled up for warmth that he resembled aperipatetic old-clothes shop. At midday， eating at thecabin table in a gloom so deep that the swinging sealampsburned always， he looked as blue-gray as the sickest，saddest man for’ard. Nor did gazing across the table atCaptain Dan Cullen have any cheering effect upon him.
Captain Cullen chewed and scowled and kept silent. Thescowls were for God， and with every chew he reiteratedthe sole thought of his existence， which was make westing.
He was a big， hairy brute， and the sight of him was notstimulating to the other’s appetite. He looked uponGeorge Dorety as a Jonah， and told him so， once eachmeal， savagely transferring the scowl from God to thepassenger and back again.
Nor did the mate prove a first aid to a languid appetite.