Driven to Bay, Volume III by Florence Marryat

The threatening aspect which the heavens had assumed, turned out to be nothing more after all than a violent squall, which caused the _Pandora_ to fly along at her topmost speed for a few hours, and then died away as quickly as it had sprung up, leaving a calm behind it. The wet sails beat with loud flaps against the masts in time to the roll of the vessel; the sheets and tacks were limp and slack; and the weather shrouds, which had made their lanyards and dead-eyes creak and groan, could be shaken with the hand -- whilst the fine old ship, which had behaved so gallantly under her widespread canvas, lay like a log on the ocean, and refused even to steer. The wheel was jammed hard down, sheets flattened, and everything done to help her, but it was of no avail. All the coaxing of her officers would not induce her to behave like a lady, and she drifted along idly, with her nose heading every point except the one she was wanted to follow. The _Pandora_ was a true woman that night -- wilful and headstrong, and refusing all assistance. She declined to answer her rudder -- even the head-sails had no control over her -- and her mizen had to be hauled up, since it only made her the more perverse and cantankerous. When all the sailors' efforts had failed, and they had given her up -- at all events, for the present -- as a hopeless job, a massive sheet of cloud appeared in the eastward. It was like its predecessor in shape and consistency, but of a brighter shade -- a greyish, half-mourning hue -- and as it crept slowly towards them, like the mighty simoom of the Desert of Sahara, it shut out the surrounding scene from view. The moon and stars that were reflected on the still waters were soon enveloped in its dingy mantle, and before daybreak, the _Pandora_ was hidden by a raw, penetrating mist.

It was a wintry fog, that carried on its breath the seeds of sickness and mortality; that made itself felt through the thickest garments, and attacked the joints with stiffness and cramp; that made the night humid, close, and unhealthy, and the day dark and cheerless; that compelled the stewards to screw down the port-holes, lest the vapour should fill their only refuge with its disease-inspiring breath; that mildewed the dry provisions, and rotted the vegetables that hung in the long-boat, and transformed the warm grasp of the friend of your bosom into a cold and clammy touch. When the passengers essayed to make their toilets, they had to light their lamps, and discovered that their glasses were dim, and their clothes damp with moisture; nor could the pleasures of the breakfast-table send a glow through their benumbed bodies, nor restore the geniality of their tempers.