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97 pages

English

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Description

Unlike many other writers of nautical action-adventure, William Clark Russell often added a layer of psychological and existential terror to his tales of heroism and happenstance on the high seas, reflecting the rigors of long stretches of isolation in trying conditions. His novel The Last Entry is a thrilling blend of pulse-pounding plot twists and gradually increasing suspense.

Sujets

Adventure (Guyana)

Adventure

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 juillet 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776580835
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

THE LAST ENTRY
* * *
WILLIAM CLARK RUSSELL

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The Last Entry First published in 1899 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-083-5 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-084-2 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Opinions of the Pressonthe Last Entry Chapter I - Mr. And Miss Vanderholt Chapter II - Down River Chapter III - 'Along of Bill' Chapter IV - Captain Mary Lind Chapter V - On the Eve Chapter VI - The Murders Chapter VII - Captain Parry Chapter VIII - In Search Chapter IX - The Discovery Endnotes
Opinions of the Pressonthe Last Entry
*
'"The Last Entry" is a rattling good salt-water yarn, told in theauthor's usual breezy, exhilarating style.'— Daily Mail.
'In this new novel Mr. Russell has cleverly thrown its events into theyear 1837, and there are one or two ingenious passages which add to theDiamond Jubilee interest which that date suggests.... "The Last Entry"is as certain of general popularity as any of Mr. Russell's former talesof the marvels of the sea.'— Glasgow Herald.
'We do not think it possible for anyone to dip into this novel withoutdesiring to finish it, and it adds another to the long list of successesof our best sea author.'— Librarian.
'In addition to mutiny and murder, "The Last Entry" contains many ofthose good things which have made Mr. Russell's pages a joy to so manylovers of the sea during the last twenty years.... "The Last Entry" is awelcome addition to Mr. Clark Russell's library.'— Speaker.
'The writer is as realistic and picturesque as usual in his vividdescriptions of the stagnant life on board the homeward-boundIndiaman.'— Times.
'It is full of pleasant vigour.... As is always the case in Mr. ClarkRussell's books, the elements are treated with the pen of anartist.'— Standard.
'We expected plenty of go, of fresh and vigorous description ofsea-faring life, coupled with a story which would not be wanting ininterest. All this we have here.'— Tablet.
Chapter I - Mr. And Miss Vanderholt
*
This story belongs to the year 1837, and was regarded by the generationsof that and a succeeding time as the most miraculous of all the recordeddeliverances from death at sea.
It may be told thus:
Mr. Montagu Vanderholt sat at breakfast with his daughter Violet onemorning in September. Vanderholt's house was one of a fine terrace closeto Hyde Park. He was a rich man, a retired Cape merchant, and his lifehad been as chequered as Trelawney's, with nothing of romance andnothing of imagination in it. He was the son of honest parents, of Dutchextraction, and had run away to sea when about twelve years old.
Nothing under the serious heavens was harsher, more charged with misery,suffering, dirt, and wretchedness, than seafaring in the days when youngVanderholt, with an idiot's cunning, fled to it from his father'scomfortable little home. He got a ship, was three years absent, and onhis return found both his father and mother dead. He went again to sea,and, fortunately for him, was shipwrecked in the neighbourhood ofSimon's Bay. The survivors made their way to Cape Town, and presentlyyoung Vanderholt got a job, and afterwards a position. He then became amaster, until, after some eight or ten years of heroic perseverance,attended by much good luck, behold Mr. Vanderholt full-blown into acolonial merchant prince. How much he was worth when he made up his mindto settle in England, after the death of his wife, and when he haddisposed of his affairs so as to leave himself as free a man as ever hehad been when he was a common Jack Swab, really signifies nothing. It iscertain he had plenty, and plenty is enough, even for a merchant princeof Dutch extraction.
Besides Violet, he had two sons, who will not make an appearance on thislittle brief stage. They are dismissed, therefore, with this briefreference—that both were in the army, and both, at the time of thistale, in India.
Violet was Vanderholt's only daughter, and he loved her exceedingly. Shewas not beautiful, but she was fair to see, with a pretty figure, and anarch, gay smile. You saw the Dutch blood in her eyes, as you saw it inher father's, whose orbs of vision, indeed, were ridiculouslysmall—scarcely visible in their bed of socket and lash. An Englishmother had come to Violet's help in this matter. Taking her from top totoe, with her surprising quantity of brown hair, soft complexion, goodmouth, teeth, and figure, Violet Vanderholt was undoubtedly a fine girl.
The room in which they were breakfasting was imposingly furnished. Thepictures were many and fine. One in particular took the eye, anddetained it. It was hung over the sideboard, which glittered with plate;it represented a schooner, bowed by a sudden blast, coming at you. Thewhite brine, shredded by the shrieking stroke of the squall, hissedshrilly from the cut-water. The life and spirit of the reality was inthat fine canvas. The sailors seemed to run as you watched, the gaffs todroop with the handling of their gear. She came rushing in a smother ofspume right at you, and, before delight could arise, you had felt apleasurable shock of surprise that was almost alarm. Such is the effectproduced by Cooper's bull as, with bowed head and eyes of fire, andhorns of death, it looks to be bounding with the velocity of alocomotive out of the frame.
Mr. Vanderholt and his daughter conversed for some time on matters of noconcern to us who are to follow their fortunes. Presently, after helpinghimself to his second bloater—for his wealth had neither lessened hisappetite nor influenced his choice of dishes: he clung, with true Dutchcourage, to solid sausage; he loved new bread, smoking hot; he waswedded to all the several kinds of cured fish, and often drank a pint ofbeer, instead of coffee or tea, at his morning meal—he took his secondherring, and, whilst his gray beard wagged to the movement of his jaws,an expression of pensiveness entered his face as he fastened his gazeupon the picture of the rushing schooner.
'How beautifully she is painted!' said he. 'It is the greatest of thearts. How with the pen could you make that vessel show as the brushhas?'
'It could only be done by suggestion,' said Miss Vanderholt, looking upsideways at the picture. 'It is the hint that submits the pen-and-inksketch.'
'So that, if a man has never seen a schooner, you might hint and suggestall your life, and the death-bed of that man would still find his mind ablank as to a schooner?'
'True,' said his daughter.
'I am going to tell you what I have made up my mind to do.'
'Yes, and there she is,' interrupted the girl, with a sweep of her handat the picture. 'And pretty wet they are; and a fine handsome sea isgoing to run presently, till the yacht shall swoop into the cataractslike a wreck—veiled—strained! She is too small.'
'You consider one hundred and eighty tons too small? What would Columbushave thought of you? Do you know that Mynheer Vanderdecken is battlingwith the storms of the Cape of Good Hope at this very hour in somethingunder one hundred and eighty tons?'
'But I really don't think, father, that you need such an extensivechange.'
'My doctors are of my opinion. I require nothing less than three monthsof the sea-breeze, and all the climates that I can pack into that time.'
'And George?' said Miss Vanderholt, her voice a little coloured byvexation. 'He may arrive home and find us absent, and there will benobody in the world to tell him where we are—whether we are alive ordead, and when we may be expected back.'
'George won't be home till June next.' said Mr. Vanderholt. 'There isno chance of it. Meanwhile, I mean to escape the winter by headingdirect for the Equator and back.'
'I'm afraid it is likely that George will not be able to arrive inEngland before the end of June,' exclaimed Miss Vanderholt. 'But if heshould return sooner, it would drive me mad to hear that he had come andfound me absent.'
'We shall be back by February,' said Mr. Vanderholt, in that sort ofvoice which makes you feel that the man who speaks is used to having hisway.
'Shall you take any friends with you?'
'Not even a dog,' answered Mr. Vanderholt.
'Then it will be dull!' exclaimed his daughter. 'Nothing but sea and skyand novels. Why not ask Mr. Allan Kinnaird? He is a very amusing man.'
'I do not agree with you. Kinnaird is amusing for about half an hour.Kinnaird and I never could get on at sea, locked up together as weshould be. He is always objecting to what I say, and he listens to myjokes merely with the intention of enlarging upon their points so as todefraud me of the laugh.'
'Will you carry a doctor?'
'I have thought over that. No; we will ship a medicine chest instead,and a book treating of every disease under the sun. We do not go to seato be ill. A doctor will be in the way. He will be neither with us norof us. He might begin to bore you with his attentions, and you wouldonly think of him as a man who believes that he is under an obligationto be agreeable.'
'But the Mowbray has not been afloat for two or three years,' saidMiss Vanderholt.
'She has been well looked after. I have always liked the boat, and wouldnot sell her, though I have not used her of late,' said Mr. Vanderholt,leaning back in his chair to contemplate to advantage the beautifulpicture over the sideboard. 'She is French built, and about twenty yearsold. The French are better ship-builders than the English—infinitelymore choice in their lines and curves, and so scientific that you sel