Читать книгу The Story of Paul Jones - Alfred Henry Lewis - Страница 3

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This is in the long-ago, or, to be exact, in July, 1759. The new brig Friendship, not a fortnight off the stocks, is lying in her home harbor of Whitehaven, being fitted to her first suit of sails. Captain Bennison is restlessly about her decks, overseeing those sea-tailors, the sail-makers, as they go forward with their task, when Mr. Younger, the owner, comes aboard. The latter gentleman is lowland Scotch, stout, middle-aged, and his severe expanse of smooth-shaven upper-lip tells of prudence, perseverance and Presbyterianism in even parts, as traits dominant of his character.

“Dick,” says Mr. Younger, addressing Captain Bennison, “ye’ll have a gude brig; and mon! ye s’uld have a gude crew. There’ll be none of the last in Whitehaven, for what ones the agents showed me were the mere riff-raff of the sea. I’ll even go to Arbigland, and pick ye a crew among the fisher people.”

“Arbigland!” repeats Captain Bennison, with a glow of approval. “The Arbigland men are the best sailor-folk that ever saw the Solway. Give me an Arbigland crew, James, and I’ll find ye the Rappahannock with the Friendship, within the month after she tears her anchor out o’ Whitehaven mud.”

And so Mr. Younger goes over to Arbigland.

It is a blowing July afternoon. An off-shore breeze, now freshening to a gale, tosses the Solway into choppy billows. Most of the inhabitants of Arbigland are down at the mouth of the little tide-water creek, that forms the harbor of the village, eagerly watching a small fishing yawl. The latter craft is beating up in the teeth of the gale, striving for the shelter of the creek.

The crew of the yawl consists of but one, and him a lad of twelve. His right hand holds the tiller; with the left he slacks or hauls the sheets, and shifts the sail when he goes about.

The yawl has just heeled over on the starboard tack, as Mr. Younger pushes in among the villagers that crowd the little quay.

“They’ll no make it!” exclaims a fisherman, alluding to the boy and yawl; “they’ll be blawn oot t’ sea!”

“Ay! they’ll make it sure enough,” declares another stoutly. “It’s little Jack Paul who’s conning her, and he’d bring the yawl in against a horrycane. She’s a gude boat, too—as quick on her feet as a dancing maister; and, as for beating to wind’ard, she’ll lay a point closer to the wind than a man has a right to ask of his lawful wedded wife. Ye’ll see; little Jack’ll bring her in.”

“Who is he?” asks Mr. Younger of the last speaker; “who’s yon boy?”

“He’s son to John Paul, gardener to the laird Craik.”

“Sitha! son to Gardener Paul, quo’ you!” breaks in an old fish-wife who, with red arms folded beneath her coarse apron, stands watching the yawl with the others. “Now to my mind, he looks mair like the laird than I s’uld want my son to look, if I were wife to Gardener Paul.”

“Shame for ye, Lucky!” cries the fisherman to whom she speaks. “Would ye cast doots on the lad’s mither, and only because the lad in his favoring makes ye think now and again on Maister Craik? Jeanny Paul, that was Jeanny Macduff, is well kenned to be as carefu’ a wife as ever cooked her man’s breakfast in Arbigland.”

“Ye think so, Tam Bryce?” retorts the incorrigible Lucky. “Much ye s’uld know of the wives of Arbigland, and you to sea eleven months o’ the year! I tell ye, Jeanny came fro’ the Highlands; and it’ll be lang, I trow, since gude in shape of man or woman came oot o’ the Highlands.”

“Guide your tongue, Lucky!” remonstrates the other, in a low tone; “guide your tongue, ye jade! Here comes Gardener Paul himsel’.‘’

“I’ll no stay to meet him,” says Lucky, moving away. “Puir blinded fule! not to see what all Arbigland, ay! and all Kirkbean Parish, too, for that matter, has seen the twal years, that his boy Jack is no mair no less than just the laird’s bairn when all’s said.”

“Ye’ll no mind her, Maister Younger,” says Tom Bryce, pointing after Lucky; “although, to be preceese, what the carline tells has in it mair of truth than poetry.”

“I was no thinking on the dame’s clack,” returns Mr. Younger, his eyes still on the nearing yawl, “or whether yon lad’s a gardener’s bairn or a gentleman’s by-blaw. What I will say, in the face of the sun, however, is that he has in him the rudiments of as brisk a sailorman as ever walked saut water.”

“There’ll be none that’s better,” observes Tom Bryce, “going in and oot o’ Solway Firth.” Then, eyeing the yawl: “He’ll win to the creek’s mouth on the next reach to sta’board.”

Gardener Paul joins Mr. Younger and the fisherman, Tom Bryce.

“We were talking of your son,” says Mr. Younger to Gardener Paul. “What say ye, mon; will ye apprentice him? I’ll send him with Dick Bennison, in my new brig Friendship, to the Virginias and Jamaica.”

John Paul, gardener to the laird, Robert Craik, is a dull man, notably thick of wit, and slow.

“The Virginias!” he repeats. “My son William has been there these sixteen year. He’s head man for my kinsman Jones, on his plantation by the Rappahannock. If Jack sails with Dick Bennison, he’ll meet William that he’s never seen.”

“He’ll see his brother for sure,” returns Mr. Younger. “The Friendship goes from Whitehaven to Urbana, and that’s not a dozen miles down the Rappahannock from your cousin’s plantation.”

The yawl has come safely into the creek’s mouth, and lies rocking at her moorings as lightly as a gull. The lad leaps ashore, and is patted on the back by the fisherman in praise of his seamanship. He smiles through the salt water that drips from his face; for beating to windward is not the driest point of sailing, and the lad is spray-soaked from head to heel.

“And may I go, father?

“This is Mr. Younger, Jack,” says Gardener Paul, as the lad conies up. “He wants ye to sail ‘prentice with Dick Bennison, in the new brig.‘’ The difference to show between Gardener Paul and little Jack Paul, as the pair stand together on the quay, goes far to justify those innuendoes of the scandalous Lucky. Gardener Paul’s heavy peasant face possesses nothing to mark, on his part, any blood-nearness to the boy, whose olive skin, large brown eyes, clean profile and dark hair like silk, speak only of the patrician.

“And may I go, father?” asks Jack, a flush breaking eagerly through the tan on his cheek.