Albion surged forwards and steadied momentarily before dropping with stomach-turning speed into the troughs of the mountainous Atlantic rollers; then, more slowly she would rise to the next crest, as the following wave caught her up astern and passed her with a thundering rush, throwing up boiling foam as high as the main deck ports and sweeping on into the darkness with a hiss and a roar under the spray-drenched catheads and bowsprit. Like most tall three-deckers, Albion did not steer well when running in a heavy sea, and needed all the strength of four men at the wheel to keep her on course. Throughout the ship, the howling of the wind in the rigging, the rattling of blocks and spars and the creaking of the guns accompanied the more constant and lower-pitched groaning of the timbers. The pitching motion was more pleasing than the simultaneous heavy rolling, which had not been much reduced by lashing the main and middle deck guns amidships. But although the gale was uncomfortable, it was, from a sailor’s point of view, quite manageable.
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