In the height of a south-west gale the wind shifted, in the instant, eight points, which is equivalent to a quarter of the circle.

Imagine it! Imagine a gale howling from out of the south-west.

And then imagine the wind, in a heavier and more violent gale, abruptly smiting you from the north-west.

We had been sailing through a circular storm, Captain West vouchsafed to me, before the event, and the wind could be expected to box the compass.
Clad in sea-boots, oilskins and sou'wester, I had for some time been hanging upon the rail at the break of the poop, staring down fascinated at the poor devils of sailors, repeatedly up to their necks in water, or submerged, or dashed like straws about the deck, while they pulled and hauled, stupidly, blindly, and in evident fear, under the orders of Mr.
Pike.
Mr.Pike was with them, working them and working with them.

He took every chance they took, yet somehow he escaped being washed off his feet, though several times I saw him entirely buried from view.