Fugen eBooks

Clear,
refulgent with sunshine like the light of creation's first day, the
sting of ozone in the air, and the freshness of a scene never before
witnessed by human eyes--dawned the morning of November 5.
The shore was of black, adamant rock rising sheer from the sea in a
rampart wall. Reefs, serried, rank on rank, like sentinels, guarded
approach to the coast in jagged masses, that would rip the bottom from
any keel like the teeth of a saw; and over these rolled the roaring
breakers with a clutch to the back-wash that bade the gazing sailors
beware. Birds, birds in myriads upon myriads, screamed and circled
over the eerie heights of the beetling cliffs. This did not look like
Kamchatka. These birds were not birds of the Asiatic home port. These
cliffs were not like the snow-rimmed mountains of Avacha Bay.
Waxel called a council.
Officers and men dragged themselves to Bering's cabin. Waxel had
already canvassed all hands to vote for a landing to winter on these
shores. This, the dying Bering opposed with all his might. "We roust
be almost home," he said.


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