There was nothing very
angry in the sky, nor even threatening; only a general uncertainty
and wavering; "I wish you well all round," instead of "Here's a guinea
apiece for you." Scuddy understood it, and resolved to carry on.
Having no compass, and small knowledge of the coast--which lay out of
range of the British investment--he had made up his mind to lie by for
the night, or at any rate to move no more than he could help, for
fear of going altogether in the wrong direction. He could steer by the
stars--as great mariners did, when the world was all discovery--so long
as the stars held their skirts up; but, on the other hand, those stars
might lead him into the thick of the enemy. Of this, however, he must
now take his chance, rather than wait and let the wind turn against him.
For his main hope was to get into the track where British frigates,
and ships of light draught like his own dear Blonde, were upon patrol,
inside of the course of the great war chariots, the ships of the line,
that drave heavily. Revolving much grist in the mill of his mind, as
the sage Ulysses used to do, he found it essential to supply the motive
power bodily. One of Madame Fropot's loaves was very soon disposed of,
and a good draught of sound cider helped to renew his flagging energy.
Throughout that night he kept wide-awake, and managed to make fair
progress, steering, as well as he could judge, a little to the west of
north.
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