The Gardens of the Sun
A Naturalist's Journal on the Mountains and in the Forests and Swamps of Borneo and the Sulu Archipelago
9781465640406
281 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
When our ship had nearly reached the mouth of the Mersey, on her outward voyage, the boatswain and his men were busily engaged in lashing everything moveable in its place on deck. “We shall get it to-night,” said that man of the sea; but on the vessel went as smoothly as ever, and everybody was merry at dinner-time, hours after the “Bosun’s” prophecy. We watched the setting sun, and a gorgeous after-glow of purple, grey, and gold. Then came the twilight, and a sense of chilliness. The land on the port-side was lost in a soft grey mist; then it became colder and darker, and we went below. The saloon looked bright and cheerful, with its sparkle of glasses in the swinging racks, and the mellow light of the lamps. I read for an hour or more, and then “turned in,” heartily glad to think we were having such a smooth and pleasant time, and that the “Bosun’s” prediction had not been verified. I was soon asleep. How long I slept I do not quite remember, but I dreamed that I was falling down a well, and the crash made when I reached the bottom awoke me. I forgot for the moment where I was, but my first impressions were that, Zazel-like, I had been shot out of a cannon, and that I was whirling round chain-shot fashion. Instinctively stretching out my hands, I found myself in my berth, but the ship was plunging and rolling very much, and everything moveable was knocking about in all directions. Another crash, similar to the one which awoke me, told of loose crockery going to destruction in the steward’s pantry. I spent some time in trying to decide whether the ship was playing at leapfrog, or trying to turn a somersault. A “sea change” put an end to my deliberations. Sleep was impossible, and I was glad when morning came, and I held on to the berth with one hand, and dressed with the other. That man of the sea was right. We had “got” it, and no mistake; and we continued to “get it” until off Cape St. Vincent, when we regained smooth water. Cape St. Vincent is a rocky bluff, crested with a ruined convent and a lighthouse, the white walls of which gleam out brightly in the sunshine, although we are fully ten miles away. After we have passed it, and look back, it forms a much more picturesque object than when seen directly opposite; and in front of the nearly perpendicular cliffs is a curious cone-shaped rock, and through the narrow passage between this and the mainland, tradition says an American skipper ran his vessel for a wager, and got through safely. The whole coast here is bold and rocky, but not dangerous. Large craft may ride close in under the cliffs.
