She had a long hornet stern that seemed to hold a sting.
Sometimes her paddles slowly turned,
For they kept steam up, waiting for a gale.
It seemed as if the slim boat chafed and yearned
To go hell-tearing under steam and sail.
The oily water churned
And made a _slap-slap_ to the paddles' stroke;
And a high painted canvas screen cut off
The blue haze of the lightwood smoke.
On the third evening, just at sunset, came
A scud of driving cloud; the lightning's flame;
The sun glared from a vicious, misty socket,
And in the moaning twilight curved a rocket
While a blue flame blurred and frayed
At Castle Pinckney; thus we knew the storm
Had shifted the blockade.
IV
Out from the docks we shot
Into the screaming night;
We steered by lightning's light;
The paddles beat a mad tattoo;
The gridded walking-beam
Pumped up, pumped down,
Against the misty gleam;
Faster and faster jets the stand-pipes' steam.
And the white water whirls
Astern in phosphorescent whorls--
It swirls
And then leads backward green with light
Of streaming foam across the velvet night.
Pages:
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86