Large and
strong-looking, dingy white was she, lying far below the wharf.
My guide enquired for the captain, who appeared suddenly from somewhere -
a tall man with a resolute face and keen eye, gray as to hair and
whiskers, every inch a captain. I knew that his face - once a handsome
face, I am sure - had got that look of determination carved into it by
doing his duty by his ship and facing many a storm on God Almighty's
sea. I trusted him at once.
Did not sail through the night as I expected, but were still in Portland
when morning came. We had fish for breakfast; found mine frozen beneath
the crisp brown outside. After breakfast went up on deck. The sky was
blue and bright, the air piercing cold. The town of Portland looked
clean and beautiful in the fair sunlight. It is a place that goes
climbing up hill. The floating ice and the liquid green water ruffled
into white on the crest of the swells, are at play together. The ship
moves out slowly, almost imperceptibly. Portland fades from a house-
crowned hillside into a white line, darkness comes down. We are out at
sea.
The glass has gone down; the storm has come up; the sea tyrant has got
hold of the solitary passenger and dandles her very roughly, singing
"The Wreck of the 'Hesperus'" in a loud bass to some grand deep tune,
alternating with the one hundred and third Psalm in Gaelic.
