Explore "The Convict Ship, Volume III" by W. Clark Russell on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The islanders had brought some fresh meat on board; I fried a steak, also boiled some eggs, potatoes, and vegetables. Taking the _Childe Harold_ first, and now this _Old Stormy_, we had been keeping the sea many weeks. Tom's fare in the convict ship had been the prison's, Will had fed upon forecastle food, Mr. Bates and I had done just a little better -- he at the cabin table and I at the scrap basket. The island produce, then, must make us a delicious meal.
The island was about three hours astern of us, distant about ten or twelve miles, a pile of sapphire, and the sea was of the same beautiful hue. The sky in the north was frosted with snow-white cloud running in links like chains, with a little plumy shooting as of mares' tails along the advanced brow of the delicately compacted stuff. The wind blew out of that quarter; it was a dead-on-end wind for us; but the brig, under topsails and foresail, looked well up; and now that Will had loosed the fore and main topgallant-sails, which had been sheeted home and the yards hoisted whilst I was in the galley, the little vessel was beginning to buzz over the wide blue heave of swell, and the wrinkles from her cutwater broke into thin lines of snow abreast of the gangways, as her nimble and metalled forefoot ate its way to windward.