“Yes. Very soon now.”
“It’s anxious work, waiting.”
“Why, yes. Worse than the event.”
“It’ll come hard on that poor girl.”
“She’s better quit of him, sir. Much better.”
“She won’t think that.”
“Not at first. But she will.”
“I wonder what it’s going to be. Pretty, that little cove there, with the little green boat coming out.”
“Very pretty sights at sea, sir. Nice bit of timber yonder. Good spars in them red pine. Don’t borrow trouble, sir. We’ll know soon enough.”
Thus they talked together as the ship came slowly to her anchorage. Perrin joined them, seemingly indifferent to the present trouble. “Whatever happens,” he said, “we shall be ourselves. It’s no use worrying.” He smoked more than usual after dinner, and then made outline draughts of the coast. He was not being brave; but having little imagination he was indifferent. It was hot, too; and hot weather always made him dull. The sight of the new land pleased him. There was forest; miles of forest; forest rising over hills, lapsing to hollows of marsh, coming down to the sea, fading in a blur of branches. Here and there were clearings. Here and there, in sandy bays, the cows came, lowing at the sea. Smoke, in blue spires, rose up at a planter’s slip where a sloop was building. At times, as they neared the land, before going about on another reach, they heard the voices of men, the chop of axes upon timber. A country sloop lay at a jetty. Her men were hoisting casks aboard, singing at the tackles. A saw was at work at hand. Men were carrying planks to the jetty end. One of the men, laying down his load, waved to the ship as Captain Cammock flung his colours out. Very proudly, with all the dignity of beauty, the Broken Heart marched to her rest. Her sailors cheered. They fired their guns, took up their berth and anchored. Jamestown lay before them; with some twenty of her citizens watching them from the battery. Already one or two men were putting out in boats towards them.