Отрывок из книги
Friedrich Gerstäcker
Published by Good Press, 2019
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After two days, the pilot came on board, the anchor was weighed, all was life and mirth. None would remain below, and the deck was crowded; the wind blew fair and we were soon in the North Sea. The strip of land became smaller and smaller; the pilot left us; his boat lessened and lessened; then there was only a thin, blue line with one dark point, the steeple of Wangerode; this became more misty and indistinct; the last trace of home disappeared in the blue distance. There, behind those thin clouds that seemed to lie on the water, lived all those who were near and dear to me in this world—and yet I had no tears, for their source seemed dried up. I stood for a long, long time scanning, with dry eyes, that part of the heavens. I went early to bed to indulge my thoughts. I had hardly turned in, when my comrades came, and the squeeze began again. All was tolerably quiet in the steerage, most of the party being, probably, affected by the disappearance of their mother country.
Running with a fair wind, the ship soon became uneasy; I awoke in the night with a very disagreeable sensation, to find that my head lay much lower than my heels. Our berth was on the starboard or right side of the ship, looking towards the head, and our feet were towards the ship’s side, on account of the fresh wind; in the night the wind changed, and the ship laid over on the port side; between laughing and swearing, and not without considerable difficulty, we changed our position.
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