One such scene Carthew will remember till he dies. It
blew great guns from the seaward; a huge surf
bombarded, five hundred feet below him, the steep
mountain's foot; close in was a vessel in distress,
firing shots from a fowling-piece, if any help might
come. So he saw and heard her the moment before the
train appeared and paused, throwing up a Babylonian
tower of smoke into the rain, and oppressing men's
hearts with the scream of her whistle. The engineer
was there himself; he paled as he made the signal: the
engine came at a foot's pace; but the whole bulk of
mountain shook and seemed to nod seaward, and the
watching navvies instinctively clutched at shrubs and
trees; vain precautions, vain as the shots from the
poor sailors. Once again fear was disappointed; the
train passed unscathed; and Norris, drawing a long
breath, remembered the labouring ship, and glanced
below. She was gone.
So the days and the nights passed: Homeric labour in
Homeric circumstance. Carthew was sick with
sleeplessness and coffee; his hands, softened by the
wet, were cut to ribbons; yet he enjoyed a peace of
mind and health of body hitherto unknown.
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