Читать книгу The West Wind - Crosbie Garstin - Страница 10

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It was not until evening that Ortho left the Ghost. Pentacost accompanied him, a metamorphosed Pentacost. Gone were the clumsy sea-boots and tarred smock, giving place to steel-buckled shoes, black stockings and black broad-cloth coat. The blue nightcap was displaced by a wide-brimmed beaver hat and plain white wig. Pentacost, first mate of the privateer Ghost, was laid aside. ‘Parson Pentacost,’ high-priest of the ‘Trumpets,’ was going ashore.

A ship’s boy rowed them to the Greenbank, and all the way the old man said never a word, but sat bolt upright, staring straight ahead, his lips moving soundlessly.

“He’s composing to-night’s sermon,” said Ortho to himself. “I’ll warrant he spits brimstone like a volcano.”

As they stepped ashore two old women in long black cloaks rose up off a bench where they had been waiting, and placing themselves on either side of the Prophet marched him off in the direction of Penryn.

The ship’s boy told Ortho that the stouter of the two was the mate’s wife. “She’ve got a house of her own at St. Gluvias,” he added, “a tan-yard and two farms.”

“Then why does the old fool go to sea?” said Ortho.

The boy grinned. “ ’Cos he says the French are idolaters and the Lord have commanded him to destroy ’em.”

“Oh ho!” said Ortho. “So that’s how the wind lies. And why do you go to sea, my son?”

“For battle and glory, sir,” said the boy, glowing.

“Myself, I go for money,” said Ortho. “Well, between the three of us we ought to do something.”