Nostromo: A Tale of the Seaboard
The capataz seized hold of the stern and blew with force. A queer, faint feeling had come over him while he swam. He had to get rid of his boots and coat in the water. He hung on for a time, regaining his breath. In the distance the transports, more in a bunch now, held on straight for Sulaco with their air of friendly contest, of nautical sport, of a regatta; and the united smoke of their funnels drove like a thin, sulphurous fog-bank right over his head. It was his daring, his courage, his act that had set these ships in motion upon the sea, hurrying on to save the lives and fortunes of the Blancos, the taskmasters of the people; to save the San Tomé mine; to save the children.
With a vigorous and skilful effort he clambered over the stern. The very boat! No doubt of it; no doubt whatever. It was the dinghy of the lighter No. 3—the dinghy left with Martin Decoud on the Great Isabel so that he should have some means to help himself if nothing could be done for him from the shore. And here she had come out to meet his, empty and inexplicable. What had become of Decoud? The capataz made a minute examination. He looked for some scratch, for some mark, for some sign. All he discovered was a brown stain on the gunwale abreast of the thwart. He bent his face over it and rubbed hard with his ringer. Then he sat down in the sternsheets, passive, with his knees close together and legs aslant.
Streaming from head to foot, with his hair and whiskers hanging lank and dripping, and a lustreless stare fixed upon the bottom boards, the capataz of the
550
