Конец рабства
I
Malaccatobeginwith,inatdaylightandoutatdusk,tocrossoverwitharigidphosphorescentwakethishighwayoftheFarEast.Darknessandgleamsonthewater,clearstarsonablacksky,perhapsthelightsofahomesteamerkeepingherunswervingcourseinthemiddle,ormaybetheelusiveshadowofanativecraftwithhermatsailsflittingbysilently—andthelowlandontheothersideinsightatdaylight.Atnoonthethreepalmsofthenextplaceofcall,upasluggishriver.Theonlywhitemanresidingtherewasaretiredyoungsailor,withwhomhehadbecomefriendlyinthecourseofmanyvoyages.Sixtymilesfartherontherewasanotherplaceofcall,adeepbaywithonlyacoupleofhousesonthebeach.Andsoon,inandout,pickingupcoastwisecargohereandthere,andfinishingwithahundredmiles’steadysteamingthroughthemazeofanarchipelagoofsmallislandsuptoalargenativetownattheendofthebeat.Therewasathreedays’restfortheoldshipbeforehestartedheragainininverseorder,seeingthesameshoresfromanotherbearing,hearingthesamevoicesinthesameplaces,backagaintotheSofala’sportofregistryonthegreathighwaytotheEast,wherehewouldtakeupaberthnearlyoppositethebigstonepileoftheharborofficetillitwastimetostartagainontheoldroundof1600milesandthirtydays.Notaveryenterprisinglife,this,forCaptainWhalley,HenryWhalley,otherwiseDare-devilHarry—WhalleyoftheCondor,afamousclipperinherday.No.
