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- 2324
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- 2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z
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- 2266
- text
- woolly, from long unacquaintance with the scraper, tar, and the brush.
Her keel seemed laid, her ribs put together, and she launched, from
Ezekiel’s Valley of Dry Bones.
In the present business in which she was engaged, the ship’s general
model and rig appeared to have undergone no material change from their
original warlike and Froissart pattern. However, no guns were seen.
The tops were large, and were railed about with what had once been
octagonal net-work, all now in sad disrepair. These tops hung overhead
like three ruinous aviaries, in one of which was seen, perched, on a
ratlin, a white noddy, a strange fowl, so called from its lethargic,
somnambulistic character, being frequently caught by hand at sea.
Battered and mouldy, the castellated forecastle seemed some ancient
turret, long ago taken by assault, and then left to decay. Toward the
stern, two high-raised quarter galleries—the balustrades here and there
covered with dry, tindery sea-moss—opening out from the unoccupied
state-cabin, whose dead-lights, for all the mild weather, were
hermetically closed and calked—these tenantless balconies hung over the
sea as if it were the grand Venetian canal. But the principal relic of
faded grandeur was the ample oval of the shield-like stern-piece,
intricately carved with the arms of Castile and Leon, medallioned about
by groups of mythological or symbolical devices; uppermost and central
of which was a dark satyr in a mask, holding his foot on the prostrate
neck of a writhing figure, likewise masked.
Whether the ship had a figure-head, or only a plain beak, was not quite
certain, owing to canvas wrapped about that part, either to protect it
while undergoing a re-furbishing, or else decently to hide its decay.
Rudely painted or chalked, as in a sailor freak, along the forward side
of a sort of pedestal below the canvas, was the sentence, “_Seguid
vuestro jefe_” (follow your leader); while upon the tarnished
headboards, near by, appeared, in stately capitals, once gilt, the
ship’s name, “SAN DOMINICK,” each letter streakingly corroded with
tricklings of copper-spike rust; while, like mourning weeds, dark
festoons of sea-grass slimily swept to and fro over the name, with
every hearse-like roll of the hull.
As, at last, the boat was hooked from the bow along toward the gangway
amidship, its keel, while yet some inches separated from the hull,
harshly grated as on a sunken coral reef. It proved a huge bunch of
conglobated barnacles adhering below the water to the side like a wen—a
token of baffling airs and long calms passed somewhere in those seas.
Climbing the side, the visitor was at once surrounded by a clamorous
throng of whites and blacks, but the latter outnumbering the former
more than could have been expected, negro transportation-ship as the
stranger in port was. But, in one language, and as with one voice, all
poured out a common tale of suffering; in which the negresses, of whom
there were not a few, exceeded the others in their dolorous vehemence.
The scurvy, together with the fever, had swept off a great part of
their number, more especially the Spaniards. Off Cape Horn they had
narrowly escaped shipwreck; then, for days together, they had lain
tranced without wind; their provisions were low; their water next to
none; their lips that moment were baked.
While Captain Delano was thus made the mark of all eager tongues, his
one eager glance took in all faces, with every other object about him.
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