My Danish Sweetheart: A Novel. Volume 1 of 3Russell, William Clark
General
My Danish Sweetheart: A Novel. Volume 1 of 3
Russell, William Clark
Adventure stories; Fiction; Love stories; Sea stories
The dark line of the broad esplanade went winding round with the trend
of shore to the distance of about a mile. The dingy atmosphere gave it a
colouring of chocolate, and the space of white sand which stretched to
the wash of the water had the glance of ivory from the contrast. The
surf was small, but now that I was near I could catch a note in the
noise of it as it foamed in a cloudy line upon the sand, which made me
think of the voice of a distant tempest, as though each running fold
brought with it, from far past the sea-line, some ever-dying echo of the
hurricane's rage there. But a man had need to live long at the seaside
to catch these small accents of storm in the fall and pouring of the
unvexed breaker.
A number of white-breasted gulls, with black-edged wings, were flying
close inshore this side the Deadlow Rock and Twins: their posture was in
the main one of hovering and peering, and there was a sort of subdued
expectancy rather than restlessness in their motions; but they
frequently uttered sharp cries, and were certainly not afishing, for
they never stooped. Within a stone's-throw of the lifeboat house was a
coastguard's hut, a little place for keeping a look-out from, marked by
a flag-post; and the preventiveman, with a telescope under his arm,
stood in the doorway, talking to an aged boatman named Isaac Jordan. The
land past that flagstaff went in a rise, and soared into a very noble
height of dark cliff, the extremity of which we called Hurricane Point.
It looked a precipitous, deadly, inhospitable terrace of rocks in the
dismal light of that leaden morning. The foreland rose out of the bed of
foam which was kept boiling at the iron base by the steadfast hurl of
the Atlantic swell; yet Hurricane Point made a fine shelter of our bay
when the wind came out from the north, and I have seen the sea there
bursting and soaring into the air in volumes of steam, and the water a
mile and a half out running wide and wild and white with the whipping of
the gale, when, within, a wherry might have strained to her painter
without shipping a cupful of water.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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