I could see about
sundown this day a bunch of clouds that stood in one spot, right
ahead, while the other clouds floated on; this was a sign of
something. By midnight, as the sloop sailed on, a black object
appeared where I had seen the resting clouds. It was still a long way
off, but there could be no mistaking this: it was the high island of
Rodriguez. I hauled in the patent log, which I was now towing more
from habit than from necessity, for I had learned the _Spray_ and her
ways long before this. If one thing was clearer than another in her
voyage, it was that she could be trusted to come out right and in
safety, though at the same time I always stood ready to give her the
benefit of even the least doubt. The officers who are over-sure, and
"know it all like a book," are the ones, I have observed, who wreck
the most ships and lose the most lives. The cause of the discrepancy
in the log was one often met with, namely, coming in contact with some
large fish; two out of the four blades of the rotator were crushed or
bent, the work probably of a shark. Being sure of the sloop's
position, I lay down to rest and to think, and I felt better for it.
By daylight the island was abeam, about three miles away. It wore a
hard, weather-beaten appearance there, all alone, far out in the
Indian Ocean, like land adrift. The windward side was uninviting, but
there was a good port to leeward, and I hauled in now close on the
wind for that.
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