Two Years in the French West Indies | Page 2

Quarter of the Fort Village of Morne Rouge Pellé as seen from Grande
Anse Arborescent Ferns on a Mountain Road 'Ti Canot The Martinique
Turban The Guadeloupe Head-dress Young Mulattress Coolie Woman
in Martinique Costume Country Girl-pure Negro Race Coolie
Half-breed Capresse The Old Market-place of the Fort, St. Pierre
Bread-fruit Tree Basse-terre, St. Kitt's

A Trip to the Tropics.

PART ONE--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 nearing 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 sunsetward. 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