Troy Is Swept Out to Sea — Far from the Madding Crowd

Troy walks out of Weatherbury and keeps walking south. He is sick of farming, haunted by the sight of Fanny's end and the grave where she lies, and he has no wish to face his wife. Hardy gives him a long, straight, chalk-white road up a hill, with not a living thing on it and a muggy afternoon pressing down. At the top the sea opens out, flat as polished steel, and the only thing that moves is a frill of foam licking the stones like tongues.

Troy's spirits lift at the sight, so he undresses and plunges into a small cove, as smooth as a pond. Finding it dull, he swims out between two spurs of rock, which Hardy calls the pillars of Hercules to a miniature Mediterranean. Outside lies a current he does not know about, and it sweeps him round and out to sea. Then he remembers the cove's bad name: bathers there had prayed for a dry death and, like Gonzalo, had not been answered. Budmouth lies in the distance, quietly regarding his struggles. He tries every stroke he knows and is nearly spent when he settles on treading water and drifting in with the tide.

A ship's boat, manned by sailors who have come ashore for sand, rounds the spit he is aiming for. Troy holds up one arm and shouts, and his white body shows against the darkening sea. Two sailors haul him in over the stern, lend him what clothing they can spare, and agree to land him in the morning. Night comes down. The lamps of Budmouth are lit one by one, each throwing a flaming sword into the water, and the cluck of oars is the only sound as the shape of the brig rises ahead of the boat.