It is perhaps because I know the sequel, but I can
never think upon this voyage without a profound sense
of pity and mystery; of the ship (once the whim of a
rich blackguard) faring with her battered fineries and
upon her homely errand, across the plains of ocean, and
past the gorgeous scenery of dawn and sunset; and the
ship's company, so strangely assembled, so Britishly
chuckle-headed, filling their days with chaff in place
of conversation; no human book on board with them
except Hadden's Buckle, and not a creature fit either
to read or to understand it; and the one mark of any
civilised interest being when Carthew filled in his
spare hours with the pencil and the brush: the whole
unconscious crew of them posting in the meanwhile
towards so tragic a disaster.
Twenty-eight days out of Sydney, on Christmas Eve, they
fetched up to the entrance of the lagoon, and plied all
that night outside, keeping their position by the
lights of fishers on the reef, and the outlines of the
palms against the cloudy sky. With the break of day
the schooner was hove-to, and the signal for a pilot
shown.
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