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Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge), 1825-1900

"Springhaven : a Tale of the Great War"

Here is a long
reach of dreary exposure, facing the west unprofitably, with a shallow
slope of brown sand, and a scour of tide, and no pleasant moorings.
Jotted as the coast was all along (whereon dry batteries grinned
defiance, or sands just awash smiled treachery) with shallow transports,
gun-boats, prames, scows, bilanders, brigs, and schooners, row-galleys,
luggers, and every sort of craft that has a mast, or gets on without
one, and even a few good ships of war pondering malice in the safer
roadsteads, yet here the sweep of the west wind, and the long roll
from the ocean following, kept a league or two, northward of the mighty
defences of Boulogne, inviolate by the petty enmities of man. Along the
slight curve of the coast might be seen, beyond Ambleteuse and Wimereux,
the vast extent of the French flotilla, ranged in three divisions,
before the great lunette of the central camp, and hills jotted with
tents thick as limpets on a rock.
Carne (whose dealings were quite unknown to all of the French
authorities save one, and that the supreme one) was come by appointment
to meet his commander in a quiet and secluded spot. It was early
February now, and although the day was waning, and the wind, which was
drawing to the north of west, delivered a cold blow from the sea, yet
the breath of Spring was in the air already, and the beat of her pulse
came through the ground. Almost any man, except those two concerting
to shed blood and spread fire, would have looked about a little at the
pleasure of the earth, and felt a touch of happiness in the goodness of
the sky.


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