From the excerpt, it can be inferred that Henry and Eva are compassionate and protective figures for Daniel and the narrator, having helped them survive a traumatic experience at sea. This is evident when the narrator mentions, "I want to help them, show my gratitude," indicating a sense of indebtedness and appreciation for their efforts. Furthermore, when Eva shakes her head and points to the bottom of the boat, suggesting the narrator should rest, it demonstrates her concern for the narrator's well-being and health after their ordeal. The collaboration between Henry and Eva in managing the sails and navigating to safety shows their commitment to ensuring both Daniel and the narrator are safely rescued and cared for, reinforcing their roles as supportive guardians in a time of crisis.
today I feel only dread. I’m sweating again—my cheeks are flushed. I thought I would feel relieved to be back in civilization, to be rescued from certain death, but instead, seeing the town and the men rushing about on the dock, the boats and sails and horse-drawn wagons, I’m struck again by what we have just endured. I want to find Daniel, see his face, know that he remembers too, but he’s tunneled down beneath the blankets like a mole.
“Parry Sound,” Henry calls out, and I see the blankets covering Daniel begin to stir.
Along the shore, lumber is stacked in piles as high as a schooner. It looks like a pencil drawing done with a ruler—perfect, straight lines. Boats, most of them small, meant for fishing, dot the bay here and there. Some are tied up at dock; others are anchored in the water just past the river. The chimney stacks of houses and large wood-frame buildings whisper smoky murmurs into the sky.
I hear the hwah of a seagull and look up, hoping absurdly to see the bird from the other day. But there are many seagulls, all of them flying around like tugboats escorting a ship into harbor.
The wind begins to die as we get closer, and Henry and Eva set to work dousing the sails. I want to help them, show my gratitude, but when I try to move, the muscles in my legs are putty, my head a spinning top. Eva looks at me with eyebrows raised and shakes her head no. She points to the bottom of the boat. I should sit.
Henry and Eva fold the sails and get out oars. We are bumping up against the stone-filled cribs of a large, wide dock within minutes.
I watch the men on the docks with their untamed beards and callused hands, their frayed wool pants and faded hats. They are young and old and move about like a kind of machine, few of them speaking but working together without need of words. Moving cargo, hauling wood, cleaning boats. Picking up, passing, carrying. I hear one call to another in French, someone respond in English. A thick-necked tabby cat sneaks down the dock, sniffing here and there. It rubs its long orange-and-white striped side along one burly man’s boot. The man reaches down and scratches the old cat behind its ear, and it leans in toward him.
These men pay us little attention until we are banging up against the high dock. Their faces flicker with confusion, then disbelief as Daniel calls out, “We were on the Asia. The boat is sunk. We are survivors! Help us.” He holds up the pillowcase with S.S. Asia stenciled along the hem.
There’s a moment in which nothing happens, as if no one can quite believe what he is hearing. Then one man shouts, “Survivors!” and scrambles to take the bowline. Another reaches far down into the boat to haul Daniel up like a fish on a line. They gesture to me. “Petite fille,” they gasp. I lift my arms, and someone takes my hands. The blanket falls from my shoulders as I’m in the air. “A girl,” one says. “A child.”
I don’t have time to think about how strange these words sound, how little I feel like a child, before I am half carried, half dragged down the dock, men smelling of sweat and wood and coal pushing in on either side of me. I am still weak, my forehead on fire once again, and I let them lift me, though I don’t like their arms around my waist, though I want to turn back to Eva to say, Thank you, thank you for your berries and your kindness. Thank you, Henry, for keeping us safe when there was no one else. Daniel is beside me, though he is allowed to walk on his own. I can hear him talking to the men, but I can’t make out the words. There are shouts all around us. “The Asia! Survivors! Make way! Survivors!”
Use the excerpt from “Big Water” to answer the question.
It is possible to infer from this excerpt something about what Henry and Eva have done for Daniel and the narrator.
What inference can you make?
In 3–5 sentences, state your inference and provide strong and thorough textual evidence from the excerpt to support the inference.
3 answers
The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he fell into his arms, pale and trembling.
“What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?” inquired the young man, much alarmed.
“No, no, my dear Edmond—my boy—my son!—no; but I did not expect you; and joy, the surprise of seeing you so suddenly—Ah, I feel as if I were going to die.”
“God forgive me,” said the young man, “for rejoicing at happiness derived from the misery of others, but, Heaven knows, I did not seek this good fortune; it has happened, and I really cannot pretend to lament it. The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable that, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you understand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred louis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor sailor like me could have hoped for?”
“Yes, my dear boy,” replied the old man, “it is very fortunate.”
“Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small house, with a garden in which to plant clematis, nasturtiums, and honeysuckle. But what ails you, father? Are you not well?”
“’Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away”—and as he said so the old man’s strength failed him, and he fell backwards.
“Come, come,” said the young man, “a glass of wine, father, will revive you. Where do you keep your wine?”
“No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it,” said the old man.
“Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small house, with a garden in which to plant clematis, nasturtiums, and honeysuckle. But what ails you, father? Are you not well?”
“’Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away”—and as he said so the old man’s strength failed him, and he fell backwards.
“Come, come,” said the young man, “a glass of wine, father, will revive you. Where do you keep your wine?”
“No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it,” said the old man.
“Yet,” stammered Dantès, wiping the perspiration from his brow,—“yet I gave you two hundred francs when I left, three months ago.”
“Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little debt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He reminded me of it, telling me if I did not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see, lest he might do you an injury——”
“Well?”
“Why, I paid him.”
“But,” cried Dantès, “it was a hundred and forty francs I owed Caderousse.”
“Yes,” stammered the old man.
“And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?”
The old man nodded.
“So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs,” muttered Edmond.
“You know how little I require,” said the old man.
“Heaven pardon me,” cried Edmond, falling on his knees before his father.
Use the story excerpt to answer the question.
In 3–5 sentences, explain how Dantès contributes to the development of a theme. Provide samples from the text to support your answer.
In this excerpt, Dantès illustrates the theme of familial love and sacrifice through his interactions with his father. His return elicits a profound emotional response from his father, showcasing the joy and relief that family brings amid hardship. Dantès' concern for his father's health reveals his deep affection and responsibility, as he immediately questions, “What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?” This concern is further emphasized when he learns that his father has been living on an insufficient amount after paying off a debt, prompting Edmond to fall to his knees, showing the depth of his guilt and compassion: “Heaven pardon me.” Dantès' ambition to provide his father with a “small house, with a garden” emphasizes his desire to uplift his family, reinforcing the central theme of love and familial duty against a backdrop of struggle.