Ninety-Three. Victor Hugo

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      The corvette was little better than a wreck.

      A sepulchral solemnity pervaded the dim twilight, the darkness of the clouds, the confused changes of the horizon, and the mysterious sullenness of the waves. There was no sound except the hostile blasts of the wind. The catastrophe rose majestic from the abyss. It looked more like an apparition than an attack. No stir on the rocks, no stir on the ships. The silence was overpowering beyond description. Were they dealing with reality? It was like a dream passing over the sea. There are legends that tell of such visions. The corvette lay, so to speak, between a demon reef and a phantom fleet.

      Count Boisberthelot in a low voice gave orders to La Vieuville, who went down to the gun-deck, while the captain, seizing his telescope, stationed himself behind the pilot. Gacquoil's sole effort was to keep up the corvette to the wind; for if struck on her side by the sea and the wind, she would inevitably capsize.

      "Pilot, where are we?" said the captain.

      "On the Minquiers."

      "On which side?"

      "On the worst one."

      "What kind of bottom?"

      "Small rocks."

      "Can we turn broadside on?"

      "We can always die."

      The captain turned his spy-glass towards the west and examined the Minquiers; then turning it to the east he watched the sails that were in sight.

      The pilot went on, as though speaking to himself:

      "Yonder is the Minquiers. That is where the laughing sea-mew and the great black-hooded gull stop to rest when they migrate from Holland."

      Meanwhile the captain had counted the sails.

      There were, indeed, eight ships drawn up in line, their warlike profiles rising above the water. In the centre was seen the stately outline of a three-decker.

      The captain questioned the pilot.

      "Do you know those ships?"

      "Of course I do."

      "What are they?"

      "That's the squadron."

      "Of the French?"

      "Of the Devil."

      A silence ensued; and again the captain resumed his questions.

      "Are all the cruisers there?"

      "No, not all."

      In fact, on the 2d of April, Valazé had reported to the Convention that ten frigates and six ships of the line were cruising in the Channel. The captain remembered this.

      "You are right," he said; "the squadron numbers sixteen ships, and only eight are here."

      "The others are straggling along the coast down below, on the lookout," said Gacquoil.

      Still gazing through his spy-glass the captain murmured—

      "One three-decker, two first-class and five second-class frigates."

      "I too have seen them close at hand," muttered Gacquoil. "I know them too well to mistake one for the other."

      The captain passed his glass to the pilot.

      "Pilot, can you make out distinctly the largest ship?"

      "Yes, commander. It is the 'Côte-d'Or.'"

      "They have given it a new name. It used to be the 'États de Bourgogne,'—a new ship of a hundred and twenty-eight cannon."

      He took a memorandum-book and pencil from his pocket, and wrote down the number "128."

      "Pilot, what is the first ship on the port?"

      "The 'Expérimentée.'"

      "A frigate of the first class; fifty-two guns. She was fitting out at Brest two months ago."

      The captain put down on his note-book the number "52."

      "What is the second ship to port, pilot?"

      "The 'Dryade.'"

      "A frigate of the first class; forty eighteen-pounders. She has been in India, and has a glorious military record."

      And below the "52" he wrote the number "40." Then, raising his head, he said—

      "Now, on the starboard?"

      "They are all second-class frigates, commander; there are five of them."

      "Which is the first one from the ship?"

      "The 'Résolue.'"

      "Thirty-two eighteen-pounders. The second?"

      "The 'Richmond.'"

      "Same. Next?"

      "The 'Athée.'"

      "A queer name to sail under. Next?"

      "The 'Calypso.'"

      "Next?"

      "The 'Preneuse.'"

      "Five frigates, each of thirty-two guns."

      The captain wrote "160" under the first numbers.

      "You are sure you recognize them, pilot?" he asked.

      "You also know them well, commander. It is something to recognize them; but it is better to know them."

      The captain, with his eyes on the note-book, was adding up the column to himself.

      "One hundred and twenty-eight, fifty-two, forty, one hundred and sixty."

      Just then La Vieuville came up on deck.

      "Chevalier," exclaimed СКАЧАТЬ