Once again I studied the dim loom and tracery of intricate rigging
and lofty, sail-carrying spars, thought of the mad, imbecile crew,
and experienced premonitions of disaster. How could such a voyage be
possible, with such a crew, on the huge Elsinore, a cargo-carrier
that was only a steel shell half an inch thick burdened with five
thousand tons of coal? It was appalling to contemplate. The voyage
had gone wrong from the first. In the wretched unbalance that loss
of sleep brings to any good sleeper, I could decide only that the
voyage was doomed. Yet how doomed it was, in truth, neither I nor a
madman could have dreamed.
I thought of the red-blooded Miss West, who had always lived and had
no doubts but what she would always live. I thought of the killing
and driving and music-loving Mr. Pike. Many a haler remnant than he
had gone down on a last voyage. As for Captain West, he did not
count. He was too neutral a being, too far away, a sort of favoured
passenger who had nothing to do but serenely and passively exist in
some Nirvana of his own creating.
Pages:
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122