The sea was like a mill-pond,
but in that he saw only its well-known treachery, to lead them on to this
unparalleled act of madness: each sail he hoisted seemed one more agent
of Destruction rising at his own suicidal command.
Towards evening it became nearly dead calm. The sea heaved a little, but
was waveless, glassy, and the colour of a rose, incredibly brave and
delicate.
The look-out reported pieces of wreck to windward. As the ship was making
so little way, Dodd beat up towards them: he feared it was a British ship
that had foundered in the storm, and thought it his duty to ascertain and
carry the sad news home. In two tacks they got near enough to see with
their glasses that the fragments belonged, not to a stranger, but to the
_Agra_ herself. There was one of her waterbutts, and a broken mast with
some rigging: and as more wreck was descried coming in at a little
distance, Dodd kept the ship close to the wind to inspect it: on drifting
near, it proved to be several pieces of the bulwark, and a mahogany table
out of the cuddy This sort of flotsam was not worth delaying the ship to
pick it up; so Dodd made sail again, steering now south-east.
Pages:
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375