Fathers and daughters -- Fiction; Older men -- Fiction; Seafaring life -- Fiction; Ship captains -- Fiction
cocoa-nuts for a living on some God-forsaken islet of the Indian Ocean;
but it was from that patent slip in a lonely wooded bay that had sprung
the workshops of the Consolidated Docks Company, with its three
graving basins carved out of solid rock, its wharves, its jetties,
its electric-light plant, its steam-power houses--with its gigantic
sheer-legs, fit to lift the heaviest weight ever carried afloat, and
whose head could be seen like the top of a queer white monument peeping
over bushy points of land and sandy promontories, as you approached the
New Harbor from the west.
There had been a time when men counted: there were not so many carriages
in the colony then, though Mr. Denham, he fancied, had a buggy. And
Captain Whalley seemed to be swept out of the great avenue by the swirl
of a mental backwash. He remembered muddy shores, a harbor without
quays, the one solitary wooden pier (but that was a public work) jutting
out crookedly, the first coal-sheds erected on Monkey Point, that caught
fire mysteriously and smoldered for days, so that amazed ships came
into a roadstead full of sulphurous smoke, and the sun hung blood-red
at midday. He remembered the things, the faces, and something more
besides--like the faint flavor of a cup quaffed to the bottom, like a
subtle sparkle of the air that was not to be found in the atmosphere of
to-day.
In this evocation, swift and full of detail like a flash of magnesium
light into the niches of a dark memorial hall, Captain Whalley
contemplated things once important, the efforts of small men, the growth
of a great place, but now robbed of all consequence by the greatness
of accomplished facts, by hopes greater still; and they gave him for a
moment such an almost physical grip upon time, such a comprehension of
our unchangeable feelings, that he stopped short, struck the ground with
his stick, and ejaculated mentally, “What the devil am I doing here!” He
seemed lost in a sort of surprise; but he heard his name called out in
wheezy tones once, twice--and turned on his heels slowly.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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