The Pilot: A Tale of the SeaCooper, James Fenimore
History
The Pilot: A Tale of the Sea
Cooper, James Fenimore
Historical fiction; Sea stories; United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Naval operations -- Fiction; War stories
Griffith could distinguish the silent wave of his hand when the Pilot
concluded, and the next instant he was left alone. For several minutes
the young man continued where he had been standing, musing on the
singular endowments and restless enterprise of the being with whom
chance had thus unexpectedly brought him in contact, and with whose fate
and fortune his own prospects had, by the intervention of unlooked-for
circumstances, become intimately connected. When the reflections excited
by recent occurrences had passed away, he entered within the sweeping
circle of the ruinous walls, and, after a very cursory survey of the
state of the dilapidated building, he was satisfied that it contained
enough secret places to conceal his men, until the return of the Pilot
should warn them that the hour had come when they must attempt the
seizure of the devoted sportsmen, or darkness should again facilitate
their return to the Ariel. It was now about the commencement of that
period of deep night which seamen distinguish as the morning watch,
and Griffith ventured to the edge of the little wood, to listen if any
sounds or tumult indicated that they were pursued. On reaching a point
where his eye could faintly distinguish distant objects, the young man
paused, and bestowed a close and wary investigation on the surrounding
scene.
The fury of the gale had sensibly abated, but a steady current of sea
air was rushing through the naked branches of the oaks, lending a dreary
and mournful sound to the gloom of the dim prospect. At the distance
of a short half mile, the confused outline of the pile of St. Ruth rose
proudly against the streak of light which was gradually increasing above
the ocean, and there were moments when the young seaman even fancied he
could discern the bright caps that topped the waves of his own disturbed
element. The long, dull roar of the surf, as it tumbled heavily on the
beach or dashed with unbroken violence against the hard boundary of
rocks, was borne along by the blasts distinctly to his ears. It was a
time and a situation to cause the young seaman to ponder deeply on the
changes and chances of his hazardous profession. Only a few short hours
had passed since he was striving with his utmost skill, and with all his
collected energy, to guide the enormous fabric, in which so many of his
comrades were now quietly sleeping on the broad ocean, from that very
shore on which he now stood in cool indifference to the danger. The
recollection of home, America, his youthful and enduring passion, and
the character and charms of his mistress, blended in a sort of wild and
feverish confusion, which was not, however, without its pleasures, in
the ardent fancy of the young man; and he was slowly approaching, step
by step, toward the Abbey, when the sound of footsteps, proceeding
evidently from the measured tread of disciplined men, reached his ears.
He was instantly recalled to his recollection by this noise, which
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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