Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Pilot: A Tale of the Sea by James Fenimore Cooper (reading diary txt) 📖
- Author: James Fenimore Cooper
Book online «The Pilot: A Tale of the Sea by James Fenimore Cooper (reading diary txt) 📖». Author James Fenimore Cooper
The promised hour carried the ship safely through all the dangers, which were much lessened by daylight; and by the time the sun had begun to fall over the land, Griffith, who had not quitted the deck during the day, beheld his vessel once more cleared of the confusion of the chase and battle, and ready to meet another foe. At this period he was summoned to the cabin, at the request of the ship's chaplain Delivering the charge of the frigate to Barnstable, who had been his active assistant, no less in their subsequent labors than in the combat, he hastily divested himself of the vestiges of the fight, and proceeded to obey the repeated and earnest call.
CHAPTER XXXIV. “Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?” Bryant.
When the young seaman who now commanded the frigate descended from the quarter-deck in compliance with the of ten-repeated summons, he found the vessel restored to the same neatness as if nothing had occurred to disturb its order. The gun-deck had been cleansed of its horrid stains, and the smoke of the fight had long since ascended through the hatches and mingled with the clouds that flitted above the ship. As he walked along the silent batteries, even the urgency of his visit could not prevent him from glancing his eyes towards the splintered sides, those terrible vestiges, by which the paths of the shot of their enemy might be traced; and by the time he tapped lightly at the door of the cabin, his quick look had embraced every material injury the vessel had sustained in her principal points of defence. The door was opened by the surgeon of the frigate, who, as he stepped aside to permit Griffith to enter, shook his head with that air of meaning, which, in one of his profession, is understood to imply the abandonment of all hopes, and then immediately quitted the apartment, in order to attend to those who might profit by his services.
The reader is not to imagine that Griffith had lost sight of Cecilia and her cousin during the occurrences of that eventful day: on the contrary, his troubled fancy had presented her terror and distress, even in the hottest moments of the fight; and the instant that the crew were called from their guns he had issued an order to replace the bulkheads of the cabin, and to arrange its furniture for their accommodation, though the higher and imperious duties of his station had precluded his attending to their comfort in person. He expected, therefore, to find the order of the rooms restored; but he was by no means prepared to encounter the scene he was now to witness.
Between two of the sullen cannon, which gave such an air of singular wildness to the real comfort of the cabin, was placed a large couch, on which the colonel was lying, evidently near his end. Cecilia was weeping by his side, her dark ringlets falling in unheeded confusion around her pale features, and sweeping in their rich exuberance the deck on which she kneeled. Katherine leaned tenderly over the form of the dying veteran, while her dark, tearful eyes seemed to express self-accusation blended with deep commiseration. A few attendants of both sexes surrounded the solemn scene, all of whom appeared to be under the influence of the hopeless intelligence which the medical officer had but that moment communicated. The servants of the ship had replaced the furniture with a care that mocked the dreadful struggle that so recently disfigured the warlike apartment, and the stout square frame of Boltrope occupied the opposite settee, his head resting on the lap of the captain's steward, and his hand gently held in the grasp of his friend the chaplain. Griffith had heard of the wound of the master, but his own eyes now conveyed the first intelligence of the situation of Colonel Howard. When the shock of this sudden discovery had a little subsided, the young man approached the couch of the latter, and attempted to express his regret and pity, in a voice that afforded an assurance of his sincerity.
“Say no more, Edward Griffith,” interrupted the colonel, waving his hand feebly for silence; “it seemeth to be the will of God that this rebellion should triumph, and it is not for vain man to impeach the acts of Omnipotence. To my erring faculties, it wears an appearance of mystery, but doubtless it Is to answer the purpose of his own inscrutable providence. I have sent for you, Edward, on a business that I would fain see accomplished before I die, that it may not be said that old George Howard neglected his duty, even in his last moments. You see this weeping child at my side; tell me, young man, do you love the maiden?”
“Am I to be asked such a question?” exclaimed Griffith.
“And will you cherish her—will you supply to her the places of father and mother—will you become the fond guardian of her innocence and weakness?”
Griffith could give no other answer than a fervent pressure of the hand he had clasped.
“I believe you,” continued the dying man; “for however he may have forgotten to inculcate his own loyalty, worthy Hugh Griffith could never neglect to make his son a man of honor. I had weak and perhaps evil wishes in behalf of my late unfortunate kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon; but, they have told me that he was false to his faith. If this be true, I would refuse him the hand of the girl, though he claimed the fealty of the British realms. But he has passed away, and I am about to follow him into a world where we shall find but one Lord to serve; and it may have been better for us both had we more remembered our duty to him, while serving the princes of the earth. One thing further—know you this officer of your Congress well—this Mr. Barnstable?”
“I have sailed with him for years,” returned Griffith, “and can answer for him as myself.”
The veteran made an effort to rise, which in part succeeded, and he fastened on the youth a look of keen scrutiny, that gave to his pallid features an expression of solemn meaning, as he continued:
“Speak not now, sir, as the Companion of his idle pleasures, and as the unthinking associate commends his fellow, but remember that your opinion is given to a dying man who leans on your judgment for advice. The daughter of John Plowden is a trust not to be neglected, nor will my death
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