strong breeze, a rope chanced to break, twisted round my legs, and
carried me into mid air, head downwards. If the sinewy arms of the
captain of the maintop and one of the top men had not caught me as I
passed, I should have fallen into the sea or on the deck, and either
alternative would have been disagreeable. Later on, at the end of the
cruise, we re-entered Brest in a south-westerly squall, under
circumstances which made a very useful impression on me.

We had bad weather for some days, no reliable observations had been
taken, and we were very doubtful as to the frigate's position. Driving
as we were at a great rate, before the gale, we were reckoning on the
occasional partial lightening of the fog to catch sight of and recognize
some point of land or rock, according to which we might steer our course
amongst the reefs which swarm at the entrance of Brest harbour. We had
to be ready to change our course and go about at any moment. Everybody
was on deck, straining his eyes to try and see something, cool, and
steady in nerve, as a well-disciplined body of men is in face of any
danger. But one man was not present, our commanding officer, whose
prompt judgment and word of command alone could bring us from perilous
uncertainty into safety. Our commander was below, in his cabin, and
there he persisted in staying, in spite of the indirect efforts made by
the officer of the watch, the second in command, and the navigating
officer to get him out of it. It was incomprehensible, and at the same
time very alarming. Commander d'Oysonville, who was churchwarden of St.
Roch when he died, was a kind and very honourable man, but nobody could
possibly have been less of a sailor. He was a first-class organizer, and
he carried his theories to the extremist possible limit. He had one,
amongst others, that the captain of a ship ought to command her from his
cabin, so as never to appear before his crew except on the most solemn
occasions, and it was for the sake of being true to this principle that