The Perils of Certain English PrisonersDickens, Charles
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The Perils of Certain English Prisoners
Dickens, Charles
English fiction -- 19th century
My little deaf and dumb boy slumbered a good deal now, and that was the
case with all the children. They caused very little trouble to any one.
They seemed, in my eyes, to get more like one another, not only in quiet
manner, but in the face, too. The motion of the raft was usually so much
the same, the scene was usually so much the same, the sound of the soft
wash and ripple of the water was usually so much the same, that they were
made drowsy, as they might have been by the constant playing of one tune.
Even on the grown people, who worked hard and felt anxiety, the same
things produced something of the same effect. Every day was so like the
other, that I soon lost count of the days, myself, and had to ask Miss
Maryon, for instance, whether this was the third or fourth? Miss Maryon
had a pocket-book and pencil, and she kept the log; that is to say, she
entered up a clear little journal of the time, and of the distances our
seamen thought we had made, each night.
So, as I say, we kept afloat and glided on. All day long, and every day,
the water, and the woods, and sky; all day long, and every day, the
constant watching of both sides of the river, and far ahead at every bold
turn and sweep it made, for any signs of Pirate-boats, or
Pirate-dwellings. So, as I say, we kept afloat and glided on. The days
melting themselves together to that degree, that I could hardly believe
my ears when I asked "How many now, Miss?" and she answered "Seven."
To be sure, poor Mr. Pordage had, by about now, got his Diplomatic coat
into such a state as never was seen. What with the mud of the river,
what with the water of the river, what with the sun, and the dews, and
the tearing boughs, and the thickets, it hung about him in discoloured
shreds like a mop. The sun had touched him a bit. He had taken to
always polishing one particular button, which just held on to his left
wrist, and to always calling for stationery. I suppose that man called
for pens, ink, and paper, tape, and scaling-wax, upwards of one thousand
times in four-and-twenty hours. He had an idea that we should never get
out of that river unless we were written out of it in a formal
Memorandum; and the more we laboured at navigating the rafts, the more he
ordered us not to touch them at our peril, and the more he sat and roared
for stationery.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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