_Brrrrrrrrrrr!_... The steam-winch is lifting the anchor; and the
_Guadeloupe_ trembles through every plank as the iron torrent of her
chain-cable rumbles through the hawse-holes.... At last the quivering
ceases;--there is a moment's silence; and Violet-Eyes seems trying to
catch a last glimpse of her faithful _bonne_ among the ever-thickening
crowd upon the quay.... Ah! there she is--waving her foulard.
Mademoiselle Lys is waving a handkerchief in reply....
Suddenly the shock of the farewell gun shakes heavily through our
hearts, and over the bay,--where the tall mornes catch the flapping
thunder, and buffet it through all their circle in tremendous mockery.
Then there is a great whirling and whispering of whitened water behind
the steamer--another,--another; and the whirl becomes a foaming stream:
the mighty propeller is playing!.... All the blue harbor swings slowly
round;--and the green limbs of the land are pushed out further on the
left, shrink back upon the right;--and the mountains are moving their
shoulders. And then the many-tinted façades,--and the tamarinds of the
Place Bertin,--and the light-house,--and the long wharves with their
throng of turbaned women,--and the cathedral towers,--and the fair
palms,--and the statues of the hills,--all veer, change place, and begin
to float away... steadily, very swiftly.
Farewell, fair city,--sun-kissed city,--many-fountained city!--dear
yellow-glimmering streets,--white pavements learned by heart,--and faces
ever looked for,--and voices ever loved! Farewell, white towers with
your golden-throated bells!--farewell, green steeps, bathed in the light
of summer everlasting!--craters with your coronets of forest!--bright
mountain paths upwinding 'neath pomp of fern and angelin and feathery
bamboo!--and gracious palms that drowse above the dead! Farewell,
soft-shadowing majesty of valleys unfolding to the sun,--green golden
cane-fields ripening to the sea!...
... The town vanishes. The island slowly becomes a green silhouette. So
might Columbus first have seen it from the deck of his caravel,--nearly
four hundred years ago. At this distance there are no more signs of life
upon it than when it first became visible to his eyes: yet there are
cities there,--and toiling,--and suffering,--and gentle hearts that
knew me.... Now it is turning blue,--the beautiful shape!--becoming a
dream....