But there
was a difference, I found that Hugo's narrative had stirred me more
profoundly than was I stirred by this actual struggle before my eyes.
I have repeatedly said that the sea makes one hard. I now realized
how hard I had become as I stood there at the break of the poop in my
wind-shipped, spray-soaked pyjamas. I felt no solicitude for the
forecastle humans who struggled in peril of their lives beneath me.
They did not count. Ah--I was even curious to see what might happen,
did they get caught by those crashing avalanches of sea ere they
could gain the safety of the fife-rail.
And I saw. Mr. Pike, in the lead, of course, up to his waist in
rushing water, dashed in, caught the flying wreckage with a turn of
rope, and fetched it up short with a turn around one of the port
mizzen-shrouds. The Elsinore flung down to port, and a solid wall of
down-toppling green upreared a dozen feet above the rail. The men
fled to the fife-rail. But Mr. Pike, holding his turn, held on,
looked squarely into the wall of the wave, and received the downfall.
Pages:
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315