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Scott, Michael, 1789-1835

"Tom Cringle's Log"


Under the shadow of this horrible plume, the face seemed on the instant to
alter like the hideous changes in a dream. It appeared to become of a
deathlike paleness, and anon streaked with blood. Another stroke of the
oar--the chin had fallen down, and the tongue was hanging out. Another
pull--the eyes were gone, and from their sockets, brains and blood were
fermenting and flowing down the cheeks. It was the face of a putrefying
corpse. In this floating coffin we found the body of another sailor,
doubled across one of the thwarts, with a long Spanish knife sticking
between his ribs, as if he had died in some mortal struggle, or, what was
equally probable, had put an end to himself in his frenzy; whilst along the
bottom of the boat, arranged with some show of care, and covered by a piece
of canvass stretched across an oar above it, lay the remains of a beautiful
boy, about fourteen years of age, apparently but a few hours dead. Some
biscuit, a roll of jerked beef, and an earthen water--jar, lay beside him,
showing that hunger at least could have had no share in his destruction but
the pipkin was dry, and the small water--cask in the bow was staved, and
empty.
We had no sooner cast our grappling over the bow, and begun to tow the boat
to the ship, than the abominable bird that we had scared settled down into
it again, notwithstanding our proximity, and began to peck at the face of
the dead boy. At this moment we heard a gibbering noise, and saw something
like a bundle of old rags roll out from beneath the stem--sheets, and
whatever it was, apparently make a fruitless attempt to drive the
gallinaso from its prey.


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