Our plantations were thriving vigorously. The seed we had sown was
shooting through the moist earth. All nature was refreshed.
Our nest was our first care: filled with leaves and broken and torn by
the wind, it looked indeed dilapidated. We worked hard, and in a few
days it was again habitable. My wife begged that I would now start her
with the flax, and as early as possible I built a drying-oven, and then
prepared it for her use; I also, after some trouble, manufactured a
beetle-reel and spinning-wheel, and she and Franz were soon hard at
work, the little boy reeling off the thread his mother spun.
I was anxious to visit Tentholm, for I feared that much of our
precious stores might have suffered. Fritz and I made an excursion
thither. The damage done to Falconhurst was as nothing compared to the
scene that awaited us. The tent was blown to the ground, the canvas
torn to rags, the provisions soaked, and two casks of powder utterly
destroyed. We immediately spread such things as we hoped yet to
preserve in the sun to dry.
The pinnace was safe, but our faithful tub-boat was dashed in pieces,
and the irreparable damage we had sustained made me resolve to contrive
some safer and more stable winter-quarters before the arrival of the
next rainy season.
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