Читать книгу The Flag of Distress: A Story of the South Sea - Reid Mayne - Страница 9

Notwithstanding the abnormal condition of naval affairs above described, and the difficulties to be dealt with, not all the vessels in San Francisco Bay are crewless. A few still retain their full complement of hands – these being mostly men-of-war, whose strict discipline prevents desertion, though it needs strategy to assist. They ride at anchor far out, beyond swimming distance from the beach, and will not allow shore-boats to approach them. The tar who attempts to take French leave will have a severe swim for it; perchance get a shot sent after, that may send him to the bottom of the sea. With this menace constantly before their minds, even California’s gold does not tempt many to run the dangerous gauntlet.

Among the craft keeping up this iron discipline is one that bears the British flag – a man-of-war, conspicuous by her handsome hull and clean tapering spars. Her sails are stowed snug, lashed neatly along the yards; in her rigging not a rope out of place. Down upon her decks, white as holystone can make them, the same regularity is observable; every rope coiled, every brace trimly turned upon its belaying-pin. It could not be otherwise with the frigate Crusader, commanded by Captain Bracebridge – a sailor of the old school, who takes a pride in his ship. He has managed to retain his crew – every man-Jack of them. There is not a name on the frigate’s books but has its representative in a live sailor, who can either be seen upon her decks, or at any moment summoned thither by the whistle of the boatswain. Even if left to themselves, but few of the “crusaders” would care to desert. Gold itself cannot lure them to leave a ship where things are so agreeable; for Captain Bracebridge does all in his power to make matters pleasant, for men as well as officers. He takes care that the former get good grub, and plenty of it – including full rations of grog. He permits them to have amusements among themselves; while the officers treat them to tableaux-vivants, charades, and private theatricals. To crown all, a grand ball has been given aboard the ship, in anticipation of her departure from the port – an event near at hand – at which more than one of her officers have made acquaintances they would wish to meet again – two of them desiring this with longings of a special kind. These last have fallen in love with a brace of shore damsels, with whom they had danced, and done a little flirting at the ball.

It is the third day after, and these love-struck gentlemen are standing upon the poop-deck, conversing about it. They are apart from their comrades – purposely, since their speech is confidential. Both are young men; the elder, by name Crozier, being a year or two over twenty; while the younger, Will Cadwallader, is almost as much under it. Crozier has passed his term of probationary service, and is now “mate;” while the other is still but a “midshipmite.” And a type of this last, just as Marryat would have made him; bright face, light-coloured hair, curling over cheeks ruddy as the bloom upon a Ribston pippin. For he is Welsh, with eyes of that turquoise blue often observed in the descendants of the Cymri, and hair of aureous hue.

Quite different is Edward Crozier, who hails from an ancestral hall in the East Riding of York. His hair, also curling, is dark brown; his complexion in correspondence. Moustaches already well grown. An acquiline nose and broad jaw-blades denote resolution – a character borne out by the glance of an eye that shows no quailing. He is of medium size, with a figure denoting strength, and capable of great endurance – in short, carrying out any resolve his mind may make. In point of personal appearance he is the superior; though both are handsome fellows, each in his own style.

And as the styles are different, so are their dispositions – these rather contrasting. Crozier is of a serious, sedate turn and, though anything but morose, rarely given to mirth; while, from the countenance of Cadwallader the laugh is scarce ever absent, and the dimple on his cheek – to employ a printer’s phrase – appears stereotyped. With the young Welshman a joke might be carried to extremes, and he would only seek his revanche by a lark of like kind. But with him of Yorkshire, practical jesting would be dangerous.

Notwithstanding this difference of disposition, the two officers are fast friends; a fact perhaps due to the dissimilitude of their natures. When not separated by their respective duties, they keep habitually together on board the ship, and together go ashore. And now, for the first time in the lives of both, they have commenced making love together. Fortune has favoured them in this, that they are not in love with the same lady. Still further, that their sweethearts do not dwell apart, but live under the same roof, and belong to one family. They are not sisters, for all that; nor yet cousins, though standing in a certain relationship. One is the aunt of the other.

Such kinship might argue inequality of age. There is none, however, or only a very little: scarce so much as between the young officers themselves. The aunt is but a year or so the senior of her niece. And as Fate has willed, the lots of the lovers have been cast to correspond in proper symmetry and proportion. Crozier is in love with the former – Cadwallader with the latter.

Their sweethearts are both Spanish, of the purest blood, the boasted sangre azul. They are, respectively, daughter and grand-daughter of Don Gregorio Montijo, whose house can be seen from the ship: a mansion of imposing appearance, in the Mexican hacienda style, set upon the summit of a hill, at some distance inshore, and southward from the town.

While conversing, the young officers have their eyes upon it – one of the two assisting his vision with a telescope. It is Cadwallader who uses the instrument.

Holding it to his eye, he says:

“I think I can see them, Ned. At all events, there are two heads on the house-top, just showing over the parapet. I’ll take odds it’s them, the dear girls. I wonder if they see us.”

“I should say, not likely; unless, as yourself, they’re provided with a telescope.”

“By Jove! I believe they’ve got one. I see something glance. My Iñez has it to her eye, I’ll warrant.”

“More likely it’s my Carmen. Give me that glass. For all those blue eyes you’re so proud of, I can sight a sail farther than you.”

“A sail, yes; but not a pretty face, Ned. No, no; you’re blind to beauty; else you’d never have taken on to the old aunt, leaving the niece to me. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Old, indeed! She’s as young as yours, if not younger. One tress of her bright amber hair is worth a whole head of your sweetheart’s black tangle. Look at that!”

He draws out such a tress, and unfolding, shakes it tauntingly before the other’s eyes. In the sun it gleams golden, with a radiance of red; for it is amber colour, as he has styled it.

“Look at this!” cries Cadwallader, also exhibiting a lock of hair. “You thought nobody but yourself could show love-locks. This to yours, is as costly silk alongside cheap cotton.”

For an instant each stands caressing his particular favours; then both burst into laughter, as they return them to their places of deposit.

Crozier, in turn taking the telescope, directs it on the house of Don Gregorio; after a time saying:

“About one thing you’re right, Will: those heads are the same from which we’ve had our tresses. Ay, and they’re looking this way, through glasses; perhaps, expecting us soon. Well; we’ll be with them, please God, before many hours; or it may be minutes. Then, you’ll see how much superior bright amber is to dull black – anywhere in the world, but especially in the light of a Californian sun.”

“Nowhere, under either sun or moon. Give me the girl with the crow-black hair!”

“For me, her whose locks are red gold!”

“Well; cada uno a su gusto, as my sweetheart has taught me to say in her soft Andalusian. But now, Ned, talking seriously, do you think the governor will give us leave to go ashore?”

“He must; I know he will.”

“How do you know it?”

“Bah! ma bohil; as our Irish second would say. You’re the son of a poor Welsh squire – good blood, I admit. But I chance to be heir to twice ten thousand a year, with an uncle in the Admiralty. I have asked leave for both of us. So, don’t be uneasy about our getting it. Captain Bracebridge is no snob; but he knows his own interests, and won’t refuse such fair request. See! There he is – coming this way. Now for his answer – affirmative, you may rely upon it.”

“Gentlemen,” says the captain, approaching, “you have my permission to go ashore for the day. The gig will take you, landing wherever you wish. You are to send the boat back, and give the coxswain orders where, and when, he’s to await you on return to the ship. Take my advice, and abstain from drink – which might get you into difficulties. As you know, just now San Francisco is full of all sorts of queer characters – a very Pandemonium of a place. For the sake of the service, and the honour of the uniform you wear, steer clear of scrapes – and above all, give a wide berth to women.”

After thus delivering himself, the captain turns on his heel, and retires – leaving mate and midshipman to their meditations.

They do not meditate long; the desired leave has been granted, and the order issued for the gig to be got ready. The boat is in the water, her crew swarming over the side, and seating themselves upon the thwarts.

The young officers only stay to give a finishing touch to their toilet, preparatory to appearing before eyes whose critical glances both more fear than they would the fire of a ship’s broadside.

Everything arranged, they drop down the man-ropes and seat themselves in the stern-sheets; Crozier commanding the men to shove off.

Soon the little gig is gliding over the tranquil waters of San Francisco Bay; not in the direction of the landing-wharf, but for a projecting point on the shore, to the south of, and some distance outside, the suburbs of the town. For, the beacon towards which they steer is the house of Don Gregorio Montijo.