The French Warship
Once,
I remember, we came upon a man-of-war anchored off the coast. There
wasn't even a shed there, and she was shelling the bush. It appeared
the French had one of their wars going on thereabouts. Her ensign
dropped limp like a rag.; the muzzles of the long eight-inch guns
stuck out all over the low hull; the greasy, slimy swell swung her up
lazily and let her down, swaying her thin masts. In the empty
immensity of earth, sky, and water, there she was, incomprehensible,
firing into a continent. Pop, would go one of the eight-inch guns; a
small flame would dart and vanish, a little white smoke would
disappear, a tiny projectile would give a feeble screech – and
nothing happened. Nothing could happen. There was a touch of insanity
in the proceeding, a sense o lugubrious drollery in the sight; and it
was not dissipated by somebody on board assuring me earnestly there
was a camp of natives – he called them enemies! - hidden out of
sight somewhere.
Heart Of Darkness di L.Bartolotti รจ distribuito con Licenza Creative Commons Attribuzione 4.0 Internazionale.