Читать книгу Tillamook Passage - Brian MD Ratty - Страница 6

MY BOOTS MADE A MUFFLED CLOPPING NOISE on the damp cobblestones as I walked towards my father’s home. The February day had been dark, cold, and foggy, and I was chilled to my bone. My mood was as miserable as the weather, for I had spent eleven hours hunched over my clerk’s desk, and now I relished the hope of a hot meal and a warm fire. But it was more than just the day and weather, as I had not been joyful since my mother’s death, almost four years before. A Puritan woman in both heart and soul, she had been the center of my universe; she had taught me the joy of reading and writing, how to use my numbers, the rhythm of good music and the fine lines of great art. She had been my spiritual beacon in an otherwise dreary childhood. Now, at eighteen, I still couldn’t envision a future without her.

Turning the corner at Fulton, I looked down the long, deserted street. Only the oil lamps from a few public houses lit the dark way. The light fog that hung low over the stones made for a ghostly and shadowy journey. At nearly eight o’clock, most folks were cozy at home, enjoying fire and food.

My father had been a drunk during my mother’s life and had worsened after her passing. Now his wrath was pointed only at me and my younger brother, Frederic. At least Momma was spared those indignities…the only good thing about her passing. After her funeral, I thought about running away and going to sea, but I feared for Frederic’s well-being. No, I would stay and become the foil between father and brother. It was a job that I hated, but it had to be done until Frederic could find the courage to stand up to our father.

After Momma’s death, I was obliged to work for my father in his blacksmith shop. As his apprentice, I was taught what he called “real skills, not fancies from books.” With his massive, filthy hands, he showed me how to work the forge, and to cut, bend and shape the iron and bronze. As always, I was a quick study, and I soon learned the blacksmith’s dance in the molten sparks of the spitting forge and hammer. It was heavy, hot, and dirty work. The days were long and the rewards few. But my tall, lean body soon grew strong, with muscular limbs and powerful hands—hands that I washed three times a day so as not to have them look like the grimy paws of my father.

Over the sounds from my boots, I heard eight bells ring out from one of the ships moored at the piers, only blocks away. The high-pitched sounds bounced off the brick buildings that lined my way, producing an echoing effect.

Two years had passed since I’d left my father’s blacksmith shop to clerk for the merchant Joseph Barrel… and what did I have to show for it? Nothing! My father confiscated my wages for rum, and my back ached from the long hours I spent hunched over my desk. Soon I would look like Mr. Crumwell, the old, rawboned chief clerk, who could no longer stand erect. He was a wretched man with a deplorable job.

My thoughts were interrupted by sounds of gaiety coming from the opening door of a public house, a half block down. By the light spilling into the street, I could just make out the tavern’s carved sign: Sea Witch. The figure of a man, dressed in a heavy coat and tricorne hat, stumbled into the night. From my position across the street, he was difficult to make out. Slowly, he turned his back to me and staggered down Fulton, holding onto the buildings for stability. He soon disappeared into the gloom.

Such a sight reminded me of my father on most Saturday nights. The only thing more pathetic than a drunk in public was a lone drunk on a cold, dark night. Rum was for the weak, and I would have none of it!

As I passed directly across from the public house, its door opened again, releasing more sounds of merriment. Stopping in the shadows, I watched two young men emerge from the tavern. Both looked like jack-tars, in their striped blouses, tattered jackets, and baggy breeches. As the door closed behind them, one turned and peered up Fulton, while the other turned and looked down the avenue. One whispered loudly, “He went this way, mate. Come on, let’s get him.” Turning, both men moved briskly into the darkness, following the drunk.

I crossed the street, knowing full well what was happening. It had become a nightly custom for some to beat and rob the many drunks found on the docks. It had happened to my father more than once, and I hadn’t liked it. A hapless drunk made an easy but unfair target, one that I found shameful. These scourges of the wharfs had to be stopped.

Picking up my pace, I rapidly reached the next cross street, but I could neither see nor hear which direction the sailors had gone. It was so dark that I could hardly make out the lines of the buildings, let alone moving shapes. Looking up at the sky, I prayed for moonlight and moved farther down Fulton.

Halfway along the next block, I heard a dog bark, and then the faint sounds of a person crying out. Moving towards the sounds, tracing the passing shop fronts with my fingertips, I found an alley just down the street. As I rounded its corner, the clouds briefly parted, and a sliver of blue moonlight helped me see the way.

Twenty feet into the lane, a shadowy figure lay prone on the cobbles. One jack-tar, to the left of him, was kicking the drunk with his boot. With each kick, I heard a muffled cry. The other sailor, closer to me, knelt by the figure, apparently rummaging through his clothes.

“What the hell goes on here?” I shouted.

The ruffian on his knees turned quickly at my approaching steps and shouted back, “No concern of yours, mate. Move on, before I spoil your guts.”

“Stop kicking that man!” I demanded.

In the blink of an eye, the kneeling sailor jumped to his feet and turned to face me. In the pale moonlight, I saw a quick flash from a knife in his right hand.

He lunged at me, trying to stick me with the blade, but I jumped to the side. As he stumbled by me, I kicked him hard in his groin with my boot. He let out a loud cry and hit the stones with a thud, face down. When he landed, I heard the knife clink out of his hand. Looking down in the faint light, I spotted the blade not three feet from me and moved to it, kicking it out of the alley and onto Fulton. Then, twisting back, I found the second thug moving towards me over the stranger’s body. But as he did so, the drunk raised one of his legs, tripping him. The sailor landed hard on the stones and scrambled in an effort to get to his knees. Rushing to him, I punched the side of his head before he could rise. The force from my blow threw the man across the alley, where he crumpled against the opposite wall.

Rounding on the first thug, I saw that he was still moaning, holding his crotch as he tried to stand. Reaching down with trembling hands, I pulled the second jack-tar up the bricks until we were face to face. He was dazed and only half conscious, the fight gone from his eyes. Grabbing him by his jacket, I pushed him in the direction of the other wavering sailor.

The entire brawl had lasted only a few breaths, and I was shaking but ready for more. Herding the two groaning men towards the street, I angrily shouted, “You guttersnipes get the hell out of here… and if you touch that dagger in the street, I’ll stick you both.”

Helping one another, they slowly retreated out to the street and vanished into the darkness.

Turning, I rushed back to the stranger, who had pulled himself up to a sitting position, his back braced against the alley wall. When I knelt, I found him groggy and groaning.

“Let me help you, sir,” I said quietly.

He just sat there a moment, shaking his head in the dark. Slowly, he moved his hands down to the cobbles and finally looked up at me. “You’ve got a hell of a punch, lad. Thanks. Let’s see if I can get up.”

Putting my hands under his arms, I gently helped him stand, with his back to the bricks. Then, after a brief rest, we stumbled out of the alley to the street. Here I propped him against a building, and we took another respite. By the faint moonlight, I finally got a look at his face, and what I found startled me. He had blood trickling down one side of his dirty forehead, and he wore a pearl stud in his left ear. On the right side, his badly scarred eye was mauled shut. His face, hair, and thick beard were covered with filth, as was his black wool coat.

Concerned, I said, “Your forehead is bleeding, sir, and your eye looks mangled.”

With a slight grin, he replied, “Aye, the blinker has been like that for years. Go back and retrieve my hat, lad… and my eye patch, so I can cover it up.”

Steadying the stranger against the wall, I watched as he reached into his pocket and retrieved a handkerchief, which he then held to his bleeding head.

“Are you sure you’re alright, sir?”

“Aye. The rum got the best of me, and those varmints thought me an easy mark. My head will heal. It’s my innards that hurt. They got a couple good whacks at my ribs before you came along. Now, go get my belongings, boy. I’ll be fine.”

Returning with his gear, I watched as he slipped the black patch over his dead eye and placed his hat on his head. When he finished, he looked every bit like the pirates I had read about. Laughing to myself, I thought, what have I done here—saved one buccaneer from other pirates?

After straightening his filthy coat, he finally said, “Okay, lad, let’s sail for home.”

“Where would that be, sir?”

“The Morrison House, just a few blocks down.”

With the stranger’s right arm draped around my shoulders, I steadied him as we slowly stumbled farther down Fulton. The man was short and stout, but I could feel his powerful muscles under his coat. With every step of his left leg, he let out a grunt or a cry. I was sure that those vicious wharf rats had cracked a few of his ribs, and I hoped he wouldn’t pass out from the pain.

Finally we reached the boarding house, where I knocked loudly on the small front door.

Within seconds, an older man opened the way. The expression on his wrinkled face when he saw us was one of shock. He stood there a moment, staring at the scruffy drunk, and finally said, “Captain, is that you? Come in, come in.” Helping me get the stranger through the doorway, he pointed down a small hall. “Put him in the parlor by the fire and get his coat off. I’ll get a basin to clean him up.”

We bumped down the narrow hall and into a large, warm, well-lit room. Here I steadied the standing captain in front of a chair while I helped him remove his heavy coat.

Once done, he collapsed into the overstuffed armchair and mumbled, “I need some rum, boy. It’s over there on the sideboard. Pour me mug, there’s a good lad.”

Studying the stranger slumped in the chair, I found that he was a man in his early thirties, and I was surprised to see that, under his dirty coat, he was dressed in clean gentleman’s togs. That’s when I remembered a passage from one of my books: Never trust a gentleman with a black eye patch. Shaking off the notion, I moved to the sideboard for his rum.

As I poured, I asked, “What are you a captain of… sir?”

Shaking his head, he slurred, “Right now… nothing. But I still have my purse, thanks to you.”

Returning to his chair, I handed him the mug. After taking a large swig, he slowly reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a coin, which he flipped into the air in my direction.

Reaching out instinctively, I snatched it just as he added, “That’s for you, lad, for your help. But I’m still in your debt. You’re a hell of an alley fighter. You can run along now. Mr. Morrison will care for my needs.”

Looking down at the coin, I saw a new, silver Continental Dollar, a week’s wages for just a few moments of help. I was overwhelmed by his generosity.

Just then, the proprietor returned with a tray of soap, water, and towels. Nodding to the captain with a surprised smile, I thanked him and rushed out of the boarding house, clutching my good fortune.

Shortly, I was climbing the stairs to our small flat above my father’s blacksmith shop. Still excited about the events and the reward, I wanted to share the news with my family. However, when I opened the door, I found the drab main room lit only with firelight, and my father, Samuel, seated in the shadows at the eating table. In the dim light, I could see a clay jug next to him.

When I entered, he looked up at me and snarled, “Where the hell you been, boy? There’s still some stew in the pot, but it’s cold by now. You’re just too damn late.”

Taking off my coat, I hung it on a wall peg. “Why is it so dark in here? Why aren’t the lamps lit?”

Samuel snapped back, “Oil costs money, boy—money we don’t have, with the lousy wages you bring home.”

Taking a punk from the fire, I lit the candle on the mantel, and then used the candle to light the oil lamp next to a chair and the other lamp on the eating table. As I did so, I noticed a flagon in front of my father, half full of rum, with his dirty paws wrapped possessively around it.

With the light on his face, I realized just how old and pathetic he looked. He smelled of sweat, and his clothes were dirty and worn. His eyes were deep-set, with dark rings beneath them, and his black hair was matted, showing strands of gray. Not many years before, he had been regarded as a handsome and vigorous man, but now he was full of self pity. His quick downfall frightened me.

“What are you staring at?” he asked angrily.

“Father, you need to get washed up. You’re filthy.”

He took a swig from the mug. “Watch your tongue, boy. You don’t know anything. You’re not my equal.”

Just then, the bedroom door opened and my brother Frederic came into the room.

Moving towards the fire, he said, “Joseph! I’m pleased you’re home. I was getting worried. What kept you?”

In answer to his question, I told him the tale of the alley fight and the reward that I had received. Finishing, I handed the coin to him, and he examined it in the firelight.

“Blimey!” he exclaimed. “I’ve never seen a Continental Dollar before.”

At those words, Father surged out of his chair and snatched the dollar out of Frederic’s hand. He looked at the bright coin in the light, and then closed his large, filthy fingers around it.

When he turned to move back to the table, I blocked his path. “It’s my coin, Father, and I’ll have it back now.”

Without hesitation, Frederic joined me. “Yes, Father, it’s Joe’s money. Give it back to him.”

Father turned his head and looked at us in the flickering firelight. What he saw was my brother and me standing shoulder to shoulder, staring back at him, blink for blink. After a moment, a strange expression crossed his face; it wasn’t his usual look of anger, but one of nervous uncertainty. For the first time, I think he realized that standing before him, making this demand, were two men, not two boys.

Opening his hand, he gazed at the coin again and then flipped it to me. “Foolish pay for a foolish deed. Helping strangers is not your business. Just remember, boy – if you get hurt, I ain’t caring for ya.”

Grabbing the coin, I grinned at Frederic, thanking him silently for his support. He nodded back and returned to the bedroom.

I kept my face straight as I ate warmed up stew, while my father sat at the table in complete silence, consuming his spirits. Eventually, without another word, he got up and staggered to his bedroom.

Moving to the fire, I stoked the remaining wood, then sat and watched the flames. It had been an eventful evening. It wasn’t just the scuffle in the alley, although my quick reactions and powerful fist had surprised even me. And it wasn’t just that the mysterious captain had rewarded me so well. No, the most important thing had been how Frederic had stood up to father. This was the first time that I had seen such courage from him. Maybe – just maybe – there might yet be a future for us both.