_Philadelphia, 1889._
[Illustration]
A TRIP TO
THE TROPICS
[Illustration]
[Illustration: Sketch Map showing
the places mentioned,
in TWO YEARS IN THE
FRENCH WEST INDIES
by Lafcadio Hearn]
A MIDSUMMER TRIP TO
THE TROPICS
I
A long, narrow, graceful steel steamer, with two masts and an orange-yellow
chimney,--taking on cargo at Pier 49 East River. Through her yawning
hatchways a mountainous piling up of barrels is visible below;--there is
much rumbling and rattling of steam-winches, creaking of derrick-booms,
groaning of pulleys as the freight is being lowered in. A breezeless July
morning, and a dead heat,--87° already.
The saloon-deck gives one suggestion of past and of coming voyages.
Under the white awnings long lounge-chairs sprawl here and there,--each
with an occupant, smoking in silence, or dozing with head drooping to
one side. A young man, awaking as I pass to my cabin, turns upon me a
pair of peculiarly luminous black eyes,--creole eyes. Evidently a West
Indian....
The morning is still gray, but the sun is dissolving the haze. Gradually
the gray vanishes, and a beautiful, pale, vapory blue--a spiritualized
Northern blue--colors water and sky. A cannon-shot suddenly shakes the
heavy air: it is our farewell to the American shore;--we move. Back
floats the wharf, and becomes vapory with a bluish tinge. Diaphanous
mists seem to have caught the sky color; and even the great red
storehouses take a faint blue tint as they recede. The horizon now has a
greenish glow. Everywhere else the effect is that of looking through
very light-blue glasses....
We steam under the colossal span of the mighty bridge; then for a little
while Liberty towers above our passing,--seeming first to turn towards
us, then to turn away from us, the solemn beauty of her passionless face
of bronze. Tints brighten:--the heaven is growing a little bluer. A
breeze springs up....
Then the water takes on another hue: pale-green lights play through it.
It has begun to sound. Little waves lift up their heads as though to
look at us,--patting the flanks of the vessel, and whispering to one
another.
Far off the surface begins to show quick white flashes here and there,
and the steamer begins to swing.... We are hearing Atlantic waters. The
sun is high up now, almost overhead: there are a few thin clouds in the
tender-colored sky,--flossy, long-drawn-out, white things. The horizon
has lost its greenish glow: it is a spectral blue. Masts, spars,
rigging,--the white boats and the orange chimney,--the bright
deck-lines, and the snowy rail,--cut against the colored light in almost
dazzling relief. Though the sun shines hot the wind is cold: its strong
irregular blowing fans one into drowsiness. Also the somnolent chant of
the engines--_do-do, hey! do-do, hey!_--lulls to sleep.
... Towards evening the glaucous sea-tint vanishes,--the water becomes
blue. It is full of great flashes, as of seams opening and reclosing
over a white surface. It spits spray in a ceaseless drizzle. Sometimes
it reaches up and slaps the side of the steamer with a sound as of a
great naked hand. The wind waxes boisterous. Swinging ends of cordage
crack like whips. There is an immense humming that drowns speech,--a
humming made up of many sounds: whining of pulleys, whistling of
riggings, flapping and fluttering of canvas, roar of nettings in the
wind. And this sonorous medley, ever growing louder, has rhythm,--a
_crescendo_ and _diminuendo_ timed by the steamer's regular swinging:
like a great Voice crying out, "Whoh-oh-oh! whoh-oh-oh!" We are nearing
the life-centres of winds and currents. One can hardly walk on deck
against the ever-increasing breath;--yet now the whole world is
blue,--not the least cloud is visible; and the perfect transparency and
voidness about us make the immense power of this invisible medium seem
something ghostly and awful.... The log, at every revolution, whines
exactly like a little puppy;--one can hear it through all the roar fully
forty feet away.
... It is nearly sunset. Across the whole circle of the Day we have been
steaming south. Now the horizon is gold green. All about the falling
sun, this gold-green light takes vast expansion.... Right on the edge of
the sea is a tall, gracious ship, sailing sunset ward. Catching the
vapory fire, she seems to become a phantom,--a ship of gold mist: all
her spars and sails are luminous, and look like things seen in dreams.
Crimsoning more and more, the sun drops to the sea. The phantom ship
approaches him,--touches the curve of his glowing face, sails right
athwart it! Oh, the spectral splendor of that vision! The whole great
ship in full sail instantly makes an acute silhouette against the
monstrous disk,--rests there in the very middle of the vermilion sun.
His face crimsons high above her top-masts,--broadens far beyond helm
and bowsprit. Against this weird magnificence, her whole shape changes
color: hull, masts, and sails turn black--a greenish black.
Sun and ship vanish together in another minute. Violet the night comes;
and the rigging of the foremast cuts a cross upon the face of the moon.