“There come the tug1-boats, Colonel,” says an officer, as I stand on the deck of the “Alice Counce,” waiting for my regiment2. I am a stranger to it, and only assume command to-day. From the East river come the boats, laden3 as many other boats have been, with a dark swarm4 of men, who cover the deck and hang upon the bulwarks5.
The boats come alongside and throw their lines to the ship, and then rises a concord6 of those sounds that generally start with a new regiment.
“Attention! Officers and men will remain on board the boats till ordered aboard the ship. Captains of A and F will march their companies aboard and conduct them to their quarters. The bunks7 of each are marked with their Company letter.”
The hubbub9 ends, and the companies climb successively aboard, and stumble down into the dark hold, 8where, cold and clammy from recent scrubbings, are certain rough bunks, each so contrived10 as thoroughly11 to make four men unhappy. Unhappy! for the bunks are three tiers thick between decks, leaving no room wherein to sit up and be sick—and four men in one bed never did and never will lie still. Those who have never been to sea before, dream not of what awaits them!
Yet the men surprise me with the great good humor in which they seek out and take possession of their dark quarters. On one side, beginning at the sternmost bulkhead, Co. “A,” with the aid of dingy13 ship-lanterns, stows away the baggage, and next to it is “F,” at the same work. This order of the companies has a reason; for in line of battle, they are assorted14 in pairs, called “divisions,” so that each division shall contain one of the five senior and one of the five junior captains. In camp too they occupy the same places as in line of battle, and hence this is the proper guide for assigning quarters on ship board. Beginning on one side at the extreme stern with “A,” we run round the ship until at the extreme stern on the opposite side we finish with “B.” There is some difference in the comfort of the bunks; somebody must have the worst, and it is very desirable that this somebody shall blame for it only his own bad luck.
“Shall we weigh anchor soon, Captain?”
“Can’t tell, sir. No wind now. Looks as though a fog were coming down. Can’t sail till we’ve a wind.”
9“Colonel,” says one of the Captains, “my first-lieutenant15 has not been out of camp for six weeks. If you will let him go ashore16, I shall be much obliged.”
“I cannot, Captain; the ship is ordered to sail immediately. While this is possible, no officer can leave.”
“Colonel,” says another, “Lieutenant A., of my company, learnt last evening that his mother is quite ill. “Will you approve this pass?”
“I am sorry to say, Captain, that no officer can leave the ship. We are under sailing orders—the pilot is on board—the tug within hail, and we shall weigh anchor whenever the wind freshens.”
“It is really very hard.”
“Very!”
“Colonel,” says a third, “my first-sergeant17’s wife is very ill. I told him that he could go back and see her, and get his things this morning. If you will approve this pass, I shall be very much obliged.”
“He must send for his things. We are under sailing orders. No one can leave the ship.”
“The poor fellow promised her that he would certainly be back to-day. It was the only way he could make her consent to his coming. He is a most faithful fellow.”
“Mate, do you think we can possibly sail to-night?”
“No, sir; fog won’t rise afore midnight. Pilot’s gone ashore.”
“Then, Captain, let your sergeant take this dispatch to head-quarters, and report on board at daylight.”
10The fog grows denser18 and denser—the rain comes down; such dreary19 refusals and disappointments have filled the day. The cabin will not hold half the officers. Nothing is settled—all is dirt, disorder20 and confusion. Oh, what a wretched, moody21, miserable22 day!
A week of such days passes, but at last the fresh west wind blows keen and cold. A little tug comes out from among the piers23, and seizing the great vessel24, leads her towards the Narrows, and the regiment at last is moving to New Orleans.
“I shall be glad,” says a young lieutenant, flushed with the thought of setting forth25 on his first campaign, “I shall be glad when we are out of sight of New York.”
“You’ll be gladder when you come in sight of it again.”
“Perhaps I shall,” he says, with a laugh; “but after all our working and waiting, it’s delightful26 to be off at last.”
I stand on the deck watching the sinking city and the lessening27 shores, as many have done before me, while gliding28 down the beautiful bay, until they grow dim in the distance, and then turn away, to think of inspections30, rations31, fires, and sea-sickness.
The first night has passed without incident or accident, extinguishing the excitement of our sailing and leaving us to wake up quietly for our first day at sea. Not “quietly,” for twenty drummer boys, without the faintest sign of sea-sickness, rattled32 out a reveille that 11frightened the rats from their holes, and brought the sleeping watch from the forecastle, and disturbed every sailor and sleeper33 in the ship. It left us wide awake, and ready for the routine and duties of the day.
Breakfast!—Breakfast is no easy thing to get in a transport ship. All night long two gangs of cooks have been at work, and there are fears and whispers that with all their efforts, the breakfast will run short. Very aggravating34 is it to wait for breakfast in this cold sea air, with nothing else to think of, and your thoughts quickened (if you are among the last) by the fear that there is not enough to go round. A serious business, too, it is to deal it out, requiring more than an hour of hungry moments. The companies form in files, and on each side of the ship approach the caboose. A mug and plate are thrust through a hole. In a moment, filled with a junk of pork, three “hard-tack,” and a pint35 of pale coffee, they are thrust back. The hungry owner seizes them and hurries away to some quiet spot, where he can unclasp his knife and fork, and cool his coffee to his liking36. The long files of the unfed, one by one, creep slowly up to the greasy37 dispensary. The first company of the occasion ironically congratulates the last, the last ironically condoles38 with the first. They take turn about. Company A is first at breakfast to-day; second at lunch; third at supper; to-morrow it will be fourth, and thus it will keep on until at length it reaches the agonizing39 state of being last!
Water!—The water is the next annoyance40 of the 12morning. The men are brought up on the upper deck. On the lower one is a pump connected by a hose, with the water casks below. The mate, on behalf of the ship, and an officer, on behalf of the regiment, deal out the water. Two men from every squad41, each with a load of canteens hung around his neck, come forward and fill them from the tub—a slow and mussy piece of work.
Inspection29.—“The water is dealt out, Colonel,” says the Officer of the Day. “Will you inspect the quarters?”
The assembly beats, and the men again crowd the upper deck. Armed with a lantern, I grasp a slippery ladder, and go down into the dark, “between decks.” It is very still and almost empty there, much like a gloomy cave. The companies have been divided into four squads42, and a sergeant and two corporals have charge of the quarters of each.
I begin with the first and poke43 the lantern up into the upper tier, over into the middle tier, down into the lower tier. Blankets out—knapsacks at the head—nothing lying loose. No crumbs44 betraying hard-tack smuggled45 in; the deck scrubbed clean. “Very good, Sergeant. Your quarters do you credit.” The next, a blanket not out—half a hard-tack in the upper tier, the crumbs scattered46 over the lower—the deck dingy with loathsome47 tobacco. “Look at this, and this, and this, Sergeant. Yours are the only dirty quarters in the ship.”
13“Don’t you think the quarters pretty good on the whole, Colonel?” asks the Officer of the Day.
“Very good, Captain. If we except that sergeant’s, there is really nothing to find fault with.” And thus ends the first inspection.
“If the rebels hadn’t ha’ destroyed the light-house,” remarks my friend the first mate, as he looks with his glass toward Hampton Roads, “we could ha’ run right straight in last night, but seeing that the ship is light in ballast, and a good many souls aboard, why, it wasn’t safe.”
“Yes indeed, they did, and it does seem to me that of all they’ve done that ought to ha’ set the hull49 civilized50 world against them, it’s the worst. Just think now how many a fine vessel must ha’ gone aground there, and never be got off again, just for want of the light; why, it does seem to me that it’s worse than a shooting women and children; at any rate, it’s just the same.”
“There comes the pilot-boat, and she has her signal set,” says some one.
Far up the Chesapeake the pilot-boat is seen, a small flag fluttering from her mast head. She comes straight as an arrow, like a greyhound rushing down upon us in his play. How beautifully she bounds along, looking as she mounts the waves as if she would leap from the water. The yards are backed and the ship stops and waits for the little craft. The pilot-boat circles round 14her, and coming into the wind, seems to settle down like a dog resting from his sport. A little cockle shell of a boat puts off, pulled by two black oarsmen, who buffet51 and dodge52 the waves, and make their way slowly against the wind toward the ship. There is much curiosity to see this Virginian pilot, and all hands crowd forward as he comes up the side. The Captain alone has not moved to meet him. He stands dignifiedly on the poop deck, his glass beneath his arm. The pilot does not ask for him, or pause or look around; he evidently knows the very spot on which the Captain stands. He bows to the crowd around him, pushes his way through, and mounts to the deck. He walks up to the Captain, and they shake hands. The Captain hands him his glass: the pilot takes it: it is the emblem53 of authority, and the Captain no longer commands the ship.
The pilot raises the glass and looks sharply in one direction; he takes a turn or two up and down the deck, and looks attentively54 in another. I am convinced that he knows as well where we are as I should, were I standing55 on the steps of the City Hall. All this looking is evidently done to impress beholders with the difficulty of being a pilot. “How does she head?” says the pilot. “Due west,” says the man at the wheel. “Keep her west by sou’ half sou’,” says the pilot. “Wes’ by sou’ half sou’,” responds the man at the wheel. “Set your jib, sir,” says the pilot to the Capt. “Set the jib, Mr. Small,” says the Captain to the first mate. “Set the jib, Mr. Green,” says the first mate to the second 15mate. “All hands man the jib halyards,” says the second mate. “Aye, aye, sir,” respond the sailors, and the soldiers look quite sober at finding themselves all of a sudden in so difficult and maybe dangerous a channel. Meanwhile the black oarsmen pull back to where the pilot-boat still lies at rest. The touch of the cockle shell upon her side startles her again into life. She shakes her white wings, and turning, bounds off toward another ship, whose sails are slowly rising from the waves far off toward the east.
What we have come to Fortress56 Monroe for no one can tell. In spite of a decisive order to sail forthwith for New Orleans, the wind refuses to blow. Another weary week of calm and fog intervenes. The Captain laments57 and growls58, and says if we had kept on with that breeze, we could have been at the Hole-in-the-wall, and maybe at Abicum-light; but now there’s no telling when the wind will set in from the west—he’s known it set this way at this season for three weeks. The officers and men repeat the growls and lamentations, and fail not to ask me five hundred times a day what we have come to Fortress Monroe for.
The week of waiting ends, and a westerly wind assures us that we may start. “We must have a tug to tow us down,” says the Captain. “And we must have the water-boat along side,” says the mate. A boat load of officers and soldiers go ashore to make their last purchases. I wait on the dock and watch the water-boat as it puts off, and listen to the “yo he yo” on the “Alice 16Counce” and “Emily Sturges,” which tells me that their anchors are coming up.
The tug took us down—the pilot left us much as before, and we are now out at sea. The “Emily” led us by half an hour, and all day long was in sight, sailing closer to the wind and standing closer on the coast. As the evening closed in, we cast many jealous glances toward her, and asked each other which ship would be ahead in the morning.
The second day was a gloomy, wintry day, with a rising wind, and constantly increasing sea; and the second night out I felt the motion grow and grow, but thought it rather pleasant, and had no fears of evil consequences. I rose with the reveille, which seemed fainter than usual, steadied myself out of the cabin, and still knew no fear. I reached the deck and found that but four drummer boys rub-a-dubbed, and but few men had come up from below. I mounted to the poop deck, and there I found three lieutenants59. There was something unusual about them. Two sat very still braced60 against a spar, while the third staggered violently up and down with a pale, in fact a ghastly face, and kept saying in a jolly manner to himself, “How are you, ship? how are you, o—oh—shun?”
“This is very strange,” thought I. “But perhaps they’re ill. I’ll ask them.”
“Gentlemen, are you sick—sea-sick?”
“Sick? oh no!”
Nobody was sick, so I turned and looked down on the 17main deck. The reveille had ended, yet the number on deck had not increased. A sergeant with five or six men in line was calling his roll in a loud voice, at which he and half his men repeatedly laughed, as though absence from roll-call was a capital joke.
It is usual for an officer from each company to come up to me immediately after the morning roll-call, and report the state of his company, “all present or accounted for,” or so many present and so many absent and not accounted for. I am somewhat strict about it, yet on this morning only one or two reported. I thought this negligence61 strange—unaccountable—yet for some reason or other, I did not go down and ascertain62 the cause of it. I turned toward the east. The sun was near his rising, and the crimson63 light filled the sky and tinged64 the white foam65 of the tossing waves. It was a splendid sight, and brought to mind one of the finest sea pieces of the Dusseldorf. I stood watching the wide expanse of heaving billows—the cloud-spotted sky under-lit with rays of the coming sun—the unnumbered waves breaking in long rolls of foam, silvered and gilded66 by the glowing east. I was lost in admiration67, when I suddenly felt—sick! I made brave attempts to keep myself up—to weather it out—to stay on my legs—to stay on deck—to do something—to do anything. In vain!
That day the wind increased and blew a gale68. Through the long hours of the afternoon the vessel plunged69 and tossed. Furniture broke loose and slid 18backward and forward across the cabin. The steward70 looked in, seized the vagrant71 pieces, and lashed72 them fast. Stragglers steadied themselves from door to table and from table to sofa, to say that all the others were down—that they began to feel a little qualmish, and that affairs were growing serious. Toward midnight there was a tremendous shock—the ship staggered and stood still, as though she had struck upon a rock; in an instant more the door of the forward cabin was burst open with a crash, and in another the water broke through the sky-light over my head, and poured, a torrent73, on the cabin floor. To the men between decks it seemed a shipwreck74. Yet there were not wanting a few heartless wretches75, who, neither sea-sick nor frightened, made sport of all the others. “The ship’s struck a breaker,” roared one of these from his bunk8. “All frightened men roll out and put on their boots to sink in.” “Struck,” “breakers,” “sinking,” sounded around, and several hundred men rolled out in the darkness, and frantically76 tried to put on their boots. With the next roll, away all hands went. Some caught at the bunks—some clutched each other—the penitent77 prayed—the wicked swore—the frightened blubbered—the sick and philosophical78 lay still. In the midst of the sliding, the scramble79 and the din12, a voice rose from another bunk, “Captains”—it thundered in the style of a Colonel on drill—“rectify the alignment80.” And the jokers added to the din their loud laughs of derision.
A little later the mate came in—a large, stalwart 19sailor, seeming a giant in his oilskins and sou’wester. He carefully closed the door, stepped lightly across the cabin floor, ceremoniously removed his hat, and looking into the darkness of the captain’s state-room, said in the most apologetic of tones, “Captain Singer, I’m really afraid the mast will go, if we don’t ease her a point. It works very bad, and the wind’s rising.”
The Captain considered slowly and said, “Ease her.”
The mate said politely, “Yes, sir,” and then backed across the cabin lightly on tip toe, hat in hand, opened the door slowly and noiselessly, and then, without replacing his hat, slipped out into the storm.
The long night wore away and was followed by a longer day. The ship tossed and plunged, rising as though she were mounting from the water to the sky, and then sinking as though she would never stop. At last the gale blew itself out, and then came a calm, when the ship lay like a log on the water, rolling ceaselessly from side to side, and creaked and groaned81 with every toss and roll. But now there is a cry of land, and the sick drag themselves to the deck and look toward a rocky island of the Bahama group, which is the “land.” How beautiful it seems, hung there on the horizon between the shifting clouds and tossing sea! The breeze is fair, the sea not rough, and we soon draw nearer to this land. On the farther end rises the snowy tower of the light-house, and beside it stands the house of the keeper. No other house, nor field, nor tree, nor blade of grass adorns82 this huge bare rock. The waves have 20worn grooves83 on the steep sides, and up these the water dashes, and runs down in white moving columns. Abreast84 of us is a strange opening in the wall-like rock, which has given to the island its name of “Hole-in-the-wall.” The spy-glasses disclose a man, a woman, and some children, looking toward the ship. Once in three months the supply ship will visit them, bringing their food, their clothing, their water and the oil: once or twice a year, when the sea is calm and the wind has fallen, the keeper may row out to some ship to beg for newspapers; more often they may gaze, as they are gazing now, at passing vessels85; and thus, with such rare intervals86, they pass their lonely life, cut off and isolated87 from all mankind.
The warm temperature and rich blue color of the water tell us that we are in the Gulf88 Stream. As I lie upon the deck looking upon the mysterious current, a slender bird, eight or ten inches long, shining like silver, flits through the air. “Did you see that bird?” asks more than one voice. “Was it a bird?” “Yes, it flew like one.” “No, it came out of the water and went back there.”
“It’s a flying-fish, gentlemen,” says the mate; “you’ll see plenty of them soon.”
A more beautiful, fairy-like sight than these flying-fish present, I have seldom seen. A delicate creature, bright and silvery, and often beautifully tinged with blue, emerges from the water, and soars just above the waves in a long, graceful89, bird-like flight, until striking 21against the summit of some wave that lifts its white cap higher than the rest, it disappears.
This is called a pleasant voyage from Hole-in-the-wall. We watch the flying-fish, catch Portuguese90 men-of-war, and bathe in the warm water of the stream, until there appears before us what some at first thought a mud bank, but which now proves to be another ocean of muddy water.
“It is the Mississippi,” says the Captain. “The river must be up, for we’re a hundred miles good from the Sou’west Pass. There’ll be trouble in crossing the bar; when the river’s up the water’s down.”
As we draw nearer, the contrast between the two oceans grows more plain. The line is as distinct as that between land and water on a map. Now the bow of the vessel reaches it—now the line is a midship—now I look down upon it, and now the ship floats wholly in the water of the Mississippi.
The muddy sea has raised a ferment91 of excitement, and many, who have all faith in the ship’s reckoning, still look forward as though they could look through the hundred miles before us, and see the wished-for land. Night closes, however, leaving us surrounded by the same muddy waves; but we turn in, with the strong assurance that to-morrow we shall make the Pass.
Land! But hidden under low fogs, that, I am told, brood over this delta92 of the Mississippi. From the crosstrees can be seen one or two steam-tugs93, vessels at anchor, and distant salt marshes94; but from the deck we 22peer about in all directions, and see nothing in the fog. A pilot moves the ship up to her anchorage. We are to wait perhaps only the moving of the tugs—perhaps the falling of the river; the river is up, and as was foretold95 by the Captain, the water is down.
The explanation of this paradox96 is simple. The water on the bar is ocean water, though discolored by the river. Its height is always a tidal height, that is, it rises with the tide, not with the river. The freshets, while they do not add to the height of the water, nevertheless bring down large quantities of mud, which settles on the bar, and thus builds up the bottom without raising the surface of the water. The pilots measure from the bottom, and finding it nearer the surface than it was, say that the water has fallen, when in fact it is the bottom that has risen. Then come the tides and wash away the loose mud upon the bar, and thus the water deepens while the river falls.
We are again at anchor; a tug is heard in the fog, and all turn anxiously toward it. The Captain of the tug hails the Captain of the ship, and demands what water she draws.
“Sixteen feet and a half,” is the answer. “Will that do?”
The Captain of the tug says it is doubtful—they are going down to tug another ship that draws fifteen and a half, and if they get her over, they will tug us at the next flood-tide.
That ship is the transport “William Woodbury.” She 23comes down gallantly97, the soldiers crowding her bulwarks, two powerful tugs puffing98 at her sides, and every sail set. We watch her with anxiety. She passes a buoy99 that we think marks the bar, and all seems well. The mate says he “don’t know but akind of believes she’s over.” As he speaks, she swings round, stops, and sticks fast. The steam-tugs pull her backward and forward and sidewise, and at last over the bar; she disappears in the fog beyond, and we await with fresh anxiety the flood-tide of the afternoon.
These tugs have one strange appendage100 in the form of a ladder as high as the smoke-pipe; on the top of this is a chair, and in this chair is a man. It is the pilot who thus looks over the low fogs of the Pass. From this high place we hear the voice of one, toward evening, and soon two tugs come down to try their strength in dragging our ship through two feet of mud. The heaviest hawser101 is out on deck and an end run over either side to the stubborn little tug that lies there. The anchor is tripped, a sail or two set, and with good headway, we approach the bar. Suddenly every one who is on his legs takes an unexpected step forward—the hawser parts—the tugs break loose—and we are hard aground. But the tugs do not give it up. They reattach themselves and drag us, after many efforts, out of the mud and back to where we started.
We approach the bar again cautiously; but again we feel the vessel grounding, and again she stands still. The tugs tug away as though striving to drag us through 24by main strength, and many declare that we are moving slowly. A neighboring buoy, however, stays close beside us, and after half an hour’s hard work, shows that we have not moved a foot. Still the tugs tug as obstinately102 as ever. They drag us back and try afresh—now to the right—now to the left—panting, puffing and blowing. The pilots sit enveloped103 in clouds of black coal smoke, and shout, and scream. At last, with the last rays of daylight, and the last swelling104 of the tide, and the last strands105 of the hawser, and at the moment when all efforts must cease, we are dragged across the bar, and enter the Mississippi.
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1
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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bulwarks
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| n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 )；保障；支柱；舷墙 | |
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concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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denser
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| adj. 不易看透的, 密集的, 浓厚的, 愚钝的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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inspections
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| n.检查( inspection的名词复数 )；检验；视察；检阅 | |
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rations
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| 定量( ration的名词复数 )； 配给量； 正常量； 合理的量 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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33
sleeper
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| n.睡眠者，卧车，卧铺 | |
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34
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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35
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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36
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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37
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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38
condoles
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的第三人称单数 ) | |
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39
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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40
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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41
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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42
squads
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| n.（军队中的）班( squad的名词复数 )；（暗杀）小组；体育运动的运动（代表）队；（对付某类犯罪活动的）警察队伍 | |
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43
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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44
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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45
smuggled
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| 水货 | |
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46
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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47
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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48
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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49
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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50
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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51
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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52
dodge
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| v.闪开，躲开，避开；n.妙计，诡计 | |
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53
emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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54
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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56
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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57
laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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59
lieutenants
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| n.陆军中尉( lieutenant的名词复数 )；副职官员；空军；仅低于…官阶的官员 | |
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60
braced
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| adj.拉牢的v.支住( brace的过去式和过去分词 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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61
negligence
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| n.疏忽，玩忽，粗心大意 | |
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62
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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63
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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64
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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68
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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73
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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74
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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75
wretches
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| n.不幸的人( wretch的名词复数 )；可怜的人；恶棍；坏蛋 | |
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76
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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77
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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78
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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79
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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80
alignment
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| n.队列；结盟，联合 | |
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81
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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82
adorns
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| 装饰，佩带( adorn的第三人称单数 ) | |
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83
grooves
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| n.沟( groove的名词复数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏v.沟( groove的第三人称单数 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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84
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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85
vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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86
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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87
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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88
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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89
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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90
Portuguese
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| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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91
ferment
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| vt.使发酵；n./vt.（使）激动，（使）动乱 | |
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92
delta
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| n.（流的）角洲 | |
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93
tugs
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| n.猛拉( tug的名词复数 )；猛拖；拖船v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的第三人称单数 ) | |
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94
marshes
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| n.沼泽，湿地( marsh的名词复数 ) | |
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95
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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97
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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98
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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99
buoy
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| n.浮标；救生圈；v.支持，鼓励 | |
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100
appendage
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| n.附加物 | |
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101
hawser
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| n.大缆；大索 | |
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102
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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103
enveloped
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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105
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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