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Wreck Humid air hovered over our work; my hands slipped on the gunstock. Beneath dense nesting sites the ground was white with droppings which gave off effluvia each day more repellent. I recalled heronries on the island in Fresh Pond, near Boston, built on the ground, but here the birds preferred mangroves at varied heights, some drooping over black water. On my birthday I shot with pleasure the largest heron of my life, a new species, called to the others "A Prize! A Prize!" after which I felt exhausted by heat. We rested, ate soaked biscuit & water with molasses. Toward evening we came upon a cove where scores of limp forms stirred in the slack tide: for some seconds I was at Nantes again; I know not what the others thought. Beyond the second bar an angled mast & half a hull. We took it in and looked at each other & away. And then we spent a careful hour checking the heavy cotton bales—some perfect though most burst— wading, prodding, to ensure none of the Crew lay lost amongst the cargo. 44 ...

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