All were moored, as is the
custom in Apia, with two anchors practically east and west, clear hawse
to the north, and a kedge astern. Topmasts were struck, and the ships
made snug. The night closed black, with sheets of rain. By midnight it
blew a gale; and by the morning watch, a tempest. Through what remained
of darkness, the captains impatiently expected day, doubtful if they were
dragging, steaming gingerly to their moorings, and afraid to steam too
much.
Day came about six, and presented to those on shore a seizing and
terrific spectacle. In the pressure of the squalls the bay was obscured
as if by midnight, but between them a great part of it was clearly if
darkly visible amid driving mist and rain. The wind blew into the
harbour mouth. Naval authorities describe it as of hurricane force. It
had, however, few or none of the effects on shore suggested by that
ominous word, and was successfully withstood by trees and buildings. The
agitation of the sea, on the other hand, surpassed experience and
description. Seas that might have awakened surprise and terror in the
midst of the Atlantic ranged bodily and (it seemed to observers) almost
without diminution into the belly of that flask-shaped harbour; and the
war-ships were alternately buried from view in the trough, or seen
standing on end against the breast of billows.
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