Читать книгу The West Wind - Crosbie Garstin - Страница 8

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“Ye gentle gales that fan the air

And wanton in the shady grove;

Oh, whisper to my absent Fair

My secret Pain and endless Love.

And in the sultry heat of day,

When she doth seek some cool retreat,

Throw spicy odours in her way

And scatter roses at her feet.”

Ortho Penhale rode towards Falmouth town in high good-humour, giving his robust, melodious voice full play. The bay mare, full-fed, well-groomed, stepped briskly, tossing her head, whisking her tail. He lifted her into a canter, thrilled to feel the smooth muscles gather and release under him; swerved her aside to jump a big wind-fall and turned into the track again. A farm girl, plodding towards Bareppa, her skirts drawn high out of the mud, revealing deplorable ankles, backed into the bushes to let him pass. Ortho swung the mare about and sweeping off his hat greeted her tunefully.

“Tell me, tell me, charming creature,

Will you never ease my pain?

Must I die for every feature?

Must I always love in vain?”

The girl glanced at him, startled, and backed farther into the bushes. Ortho swayed towards her, hand pressed to heart.

“Are such giddy ways beseeming?

Will my love be fickle still?

Conquest is the joy of women,

Let their slaves be what they will.”

There was a loud snapping of twigs as the damsel scrambled through the hedge and beat a retreat across the field beyond.

Ortho stood up in his stirrups, flourishing his hat in the air.

“If your wandering heart is beating

For new lovers, let it be.

But when you have done coquetting

Name a day and fix on me.”

He sent a piercing tally-ho! after the fleeting fair and crowed with laughter to see her scuttle. “It is a damn curious thing,” said he to the bay mare, “but the uglier the woman the more convinced is she that every Tom, Dick and Harry is threatening her virtue—you may have noticed it yourself?”

The bay mare flicked her ears at a fly.

“You have? Then that settles it. In my opinion the delusion is sent them in divine compensation. Now step along, my lamb.”

The mare stepped on through green tunnels of oak and chestnut, netted in a flickering web of sunlight.

Ortho was in exuberant spirits. Things were looking up. Three months before he had landed in Bristol with the bare clothes he stood up in. Now he was getting a fresh command and, unless things went grievously amiss, a most profitable one. He had no doubt whatever that he would take this ship. He must. There were reasons why he could not stop at home, and, moreover, he needed money.

On he rode, past white-washed cottages swathed, in climber-roses and thatched with reeds. Idyllic dwellings in a bowery land. They reminded Ortho of pictures in moral works for the young in which the industrious labourer is represented returning to the bosom of his rejoicing family at close of day, roses over the porch and the sun setting in the background. He searched his vocabulary for an apt expression and pounced on the word ‘smug.’ “That’s it—‘smug,’ ” said he.

Better his own bare, western parish, fronting the broad Atlantic and the wild sea winds.

A small boy crouched beside a duck-pond sailing a cork boat to and fro, much to the consternation of the titular ducks.

“Hello! Hello!” shouted the cavalier.

“Hello!” chirped the boy, undisturbed.

“That’s a smart craft you’ve got there.”

The boy sniffed. “I don’t think so then. When my uncle do come home from Halifax he’s goin’ to make me a wood one with real sails to h’ist up and down. He’s a gunner he is.”

“Good luck to him! And are you goin’ to be a gunner too?”

“Ess, surely—an’ voyage foreign on the packets and kill Frenchies.”

“Good luck to you as well,” said Ortho, laughing. “Come to me when you’re ready and we’ll voyage together and kill ’em all. Here, go buy yourself a cutlass and a cocked hat, Admiral Drake o’ the duck-pond.” He tossed the lad a shilling and rode on whistling merrily.

The silver in his pocket was getting woeful short, but he had never allowed his expenditure to be limited by his income—furthermore, money would be tumbling in ere long, he told himself, money by the barrel.

Over Pennance hill he went, round the reedy pool whereon white swans cruised with all the full-blown majesty of ships of the line, and thence, by leafy lanes, to Falmouth itself.

The straggling town was all a-bustle. A fleet of eighty merchantmen were lying in Carrick Roads waiting convoy to the Thames. They covered the blue harbour like a flock of riding gulls; brigs, barques, ketches, pinks, schooners, snows and yawls; grimy Tyne colliers, Irish pork boats, salt-stained Newfoundlanders, sun-bleached West Indian sugar ships. Amongst them the bumboats, water-boats and Press-gang cutters plied. From the town quay Ortho witnessed an exciting race. A ship’s boat containing three men pushed suddenly out from under the bows of a chequered brigantine—a fourth man dropping off the dolphin striker as she went by—and headed for the Trefusis shore, her crew rowing desperately. Then from the other side of the brigantine shot a Press cutter in full pursuit. The trader’s boat had a good start, but it was a clumsy tub, whereas the cutter was built for speed and pulled three oars of a side. It leapt after the merchant boat like a greyhound after a rabbit, gaining one foot in two.

“They’re cot, poor souls,” said a longshoreman at Ortho’s elbow.

“Not yet, they ain’t,” his mate replied. “They’re pullin’ wid the dread of the blasted navy in ’em. They’ll pull till they burst.”

The two boats neared the shore, the pursued battling nobly on, the pursuer close upon her. A gangster sprang up in the latter’s bows, cudgel in hand, ready to leap.

“Cot!” said the pessimistic longshoreman.

“Wait,” said his friend. “Ah!”

The runaways, recking nothing, had crashed their boat on the rocks at full speed. The gang coxswain, mindful of his cutter, backed water. The minute lost to him was sufficient for the fugitives, who could be seen—about the size of ants—scampering across the fields above Trefusis Point. The gangsters re-embarked and paddled slowly back, greeted by derisive howls from the assembled shipping.

But this did not exhaust the attractions of Falmouth that June morning. Three Post-Office packets lay off Flushing making ready for sea. One was towing out to the Roads preparatory to sailing next day, and two—one from the West Indies and one from Rio de Janeiro—had dropped anchor only a few hours before. Boats were churning to and fro. Seamen staggered up Market Strand burdened with passengers’ luggage, their wives at their heels, pestering them for money. One tattooed stalwart, that moment arrived from Brazil, deposited his load on the kerb, boxed his spouse’s ears and staggered on again. From a tavern came the noise of husky voices raised in song. A small Guiana monkey with a chain about its middle shot out of the door and gambolled down Church Street, pursued by a negro steward and a host of excited dogs and boys. It ran up a hatter’s sign and sat there chattering and grimacing at the baffled crowd below. Down Arwenack came the royal mail coach, scattering the crowd, its guard very splendid in a scarlet coat, a blunderbuss strapped beside him, a long copper horn at his lips—‘Ta-ran-ta! Ta-ran-ta-ra!’

This was followed by a huge tilted wagon, drawn by six horses and accompanied by a squad of soldiers—bullion, London-bound.

All Falmouth, gentle and simple, was in the narrow street, drawn by the arrival of the packets; ladies with high-waisted gowns, puffed sleeves and mob-caps, gentlemen in buff coats or blue; here and there a sombre Quaker. But most noticeable of all were the packet captains, at once conspicuous by their gold epaulettes and cocked hats as well as the deference they compelled. Ruddy-faced, prosperous gentlemen striding full-chested through the town with an air of owning it—which, as a fact, they very largely did. Ortho watched their progress enviously. Ah, well! before very long he would be a man of mark himself, outshining them all. In imagination he saw the Ghost swimming in past Black Rock, a train of rich prizes in her wake, St. Mawes and Pendennis castles thundering salutes. He pictured himself landing on Market Strand amid the huzzas of the populace, a Cornish Duguay-Trouin. Delightful dreams! He swaggered in anticipation, edging the mare through the press with chin held high and back well hollowed.

“Lud sakes! There goes a very handsome person,” twittered the lovely Miss Sarah Hocken to her friend Mrs. Bown Harris. “Who is he, I wonder?”

Niels Falck, destined to die at Salamanca, shrugged his broad shoulders. “Black Jack of the Bath Road, I should guess—come to rob the mail.”

Ortho drew rein at the New Hotel and, handing the mare to an ostler, swaggered within.

The hall was blocked with passengers’ luggage and porter-seamen refreshing themselves. Upstairs bells pealed, doors slammed; voices, male and female, shrilled and bellowed. Chambermaids scurried, waiters ran. The barber, followed by his lad bearing powder bag and razors, rushed out of one door and dived into another. A boot boy, grasping two armfuls of boots, tripped on the stairs and fell headlong to the bottom, an avalanche of foot-wear clattering about him.

In the coffee-room, serenely indifferent to the confusion, lounged those great heroes the packet captains, taking their morning tipple. Ortho strutted in and ordered himself a glass of Madeira. The captains raised their eyebrows slightly, turned their backs and went on with their conversation.

“Ned says he spoke the Lady Pelham off Cape Frio thirty-four days out,” said one. “Smart work—eh?”

There was a general murmur of agreement.

“Meet with any trouble, Ned?” a second inquired.

“Lost his foretop-mast in a tornado three days out.”

“I meant in the way of hostiles.”

“Not a thing. Kirkness did though, in the Windward Passage. Three small privateers, swarming with men. He lashed a broadside into the foremost and got away, the wind hardening.”

Said a third, “I hear there was a Breton armed lugger off Black Head this mornin’. Did you?”

“Yes. Lord bless you, they’re everywhere!”

“What are the underwriters asking for the Jamaica run, d’you know?”

“Twenty-three per cent., I believe.”

“Whew!”

And so on, professional chatter. They took no ostensible notice of Ortho. A sociable soul, he was in a mind to ask them to drink with him, concluded that it would only mean a snub, so emptied his glass and strode out again. They’d be glad enough to know him some day.

A packet captain jerked his head. “Who is that tall buck—just gone out?”

Another sat up. “I’ll take me oath I’ve seen him before—at Rosario’s in Kingston, playin’ billiards with a set of rake-hell Guinea masters. I have an idea he was one himself.”

“He don’t look like a seafaring man,” said a third.

The first grunted. “He looks up to anything—if you ask me.”

“He’s a notable-lookin’ person. Would make hay with the females, I should say,” said a dried-up little fellow, sighing enviously.

“Not with mine,” growled a bloated old gentleman in the corner, withdrawing his nose from a glass of grog. “Not with mine. I’d plant a bullet in him.”

“Always supposing he didn’t plant a couple in you first, Charlie,” said a friend. “At the nimble pulling of triggers and corks these Guinea rascals are second to none—they live by it. If fight you must, shoot him first and challenge him afterwards. It’s your only chance.”

Whereat there was a general titter and the scandalous insurance rates came up for discussion again.

Ortho walked down the water-side and asked for the Ghost of a longshoreman.

“Privateer fittin’ out for Mr. Burnadick of Nancarrow?” The man pointed a calloused finger. “Over there, behind that collier brig.”

“Row me out to her, will you?” said Ortho, and the fellow complied.

Like most watermen he was a confirmed gossip and as inquisitive as a flea. He prattled on concerning this craft and that master, apprising his fare the while with a beady, curious eye. It was plain he could not fathom Ortho’s business with the Ghost, the spurs and riding boots upset him.

“The Ghost, brigantine,” he remarked, presently. “Handy little craft, there’s no denying, but what do Mr. Burnadick want with her? Proper gentleman, none better, but Lord bless you, what do he know of ship-owning? Man needs to be bred up in it.”

No reply from Ortho.

The boatman spat on his palms and rowed on. “If ‘Oakum’ Angwin could of taken she out ’twould ‘a been well enough, I dare say. But he stepped backwards down a hatch. Old ‘Parson’ Pentacost is in charge now.” A snort of contempt. “Heh!”

“That’s the mate, ain’t it? What’s amiss with him?”

“Oh, I s’pose he’s a smart enough sailor,” said the boatman grudgingly. “He was sailing master in the packets for twenty years, so he ought to know some’ot. But all the same he’s ...” The man rapped his forehead and winked. “You understand.”

“Mad?”

“As a May-gum.”

“What does he do foolish?”

“Thinks he’s a prophet.”

“A what?”

“A prophet—one that foretells trouble. A notable one for grog and jollification in his youth, so they say, but he heard Mr. Wesley preach one day, fell down in a fit and rose up again converted. He was with the Methodies for a while, but they weren’t pious enough for him by this time, so he up and starts a dissent of his own. They hold meetings in an old sail-loft in Penryn, singing and moaning and carrying on.”

“What do they call themselves?”

“ ‘The Trumpets’—‘Trumpets of Jehovah.’ But Lord save you, they ain’t got the breath to blast very loud. Just a parcel of ancient widow women and one old blind shoemaker.”

“Is there a second mate aboard?” Ortho inquired, none too enraptured with the description of the first.

“Aye.”

“What sort is he?”

“Fowey,” said the waterman, with a shrug, as who should say, “You know what Fowey people are.” Letting the boat drift for a second he pointed to a trim little barque lying off Flushing. “Now if I was a gentleman wishful to try my fortune—a ‘volunteer,’ as you might say—that there would be my choice. The Killigrew, Captain Nankivel, as fine an officer as ever trod a deck. He’ll get the pick of the Falmouth boys, he will. They know him.... That old Pentacost ... !”

A jet of tobacco-juice enriched the harbour waters, expressing the boatman’s opinion of the prophet.

Ortho was amused. Took him for a volunteer, did he? A bumpkin seeking to fill depleted pockets by an adventure at sea. He was tempted to let the fellow’s rabid curiosity go unsatisfied, but on consideration determined it were better to give him something to bite on. He did not want to have this creature hanging about the water-front warning every likely boy against the ship.

They had rounded the Tyne brig by this time and the Ghost lay in full view. Ortho’s critical eye leapt upon her, swept her from bow to stern, from trucks to water-line, and was satisfied. She lay low but buoyantly in the water and was painted dead black all over, except for a single narrow yellow line and the white figure-head—that of a woman rising from the grave, flinging back her shroud. The French name Revenante had been painted out and the translation Ghost imposed. Ortho did not like the figure-head; the staring eyes, hollow cheeks and streaming hair sent a shudder through him. “By heck, that is a pleasant thing to go sailing with!” he muttered, knowing, nevertheless, that sail with it he must; ghastly as the figure-head might be, nautical superstition would permit no change. He turned from the sinister image to admire the vessel’s lines. Very graceful they were, flowing away from her sharp stem, swelling over her beam to meet again in her exquisitely moulded counter. She would sheer the blue ridges like a knife, ride them under and slip on, clean-heeled. “She’ll skim like a flying fish,” he said to himself. “Wave ’em all good-bye.”

He turned on the boatman. “Suppose Mr. Pentacost is not commanding her at all. Suppose I am.”

The man’s jaw dropped. “Eh!” His incredulous eye travelled from spattered riding boots to fashionable cravat. “You?”

“Yes, me,” said Ortho. “You must not imagine the supply of masters is confined to your prosperous if relaxing town. I have commanded ships before. Ask ’em in Port o’ Spain or Habana if they’ve ever heard of Captain Ortho Penhale of the Charming Helen. Ask ’em anywhere down the surf from Goree to St. Paul Loanda. Ask ’em in Bombay, Fort William, Macao, Foochow, Panama or Callao, Valparaiso, Archangel or ...” His geographical knowledge failed him for the moment. “Anyhow ask ’em and blast you!”

“Sir,” the man protested, not unreasonably, “how the devil can I?”

“You can’t, I know, but if you could you’d hear enough to fill even your long ears. Your hand—quick!” The command came sharp as a pistol shot.

The fellow, bewildered, put his hand out. Ortho grabbed it in a flash and pressed it slowly backwards. The boatman resisted with all his might. It was useless. Back he went, back, impotent, squirming across the thwart.

“Now forwards, towards me—so.”

The boatman strained and wriggled to no avail, the iron wrist was screwing his arm out of its socket. He sagged forwards and flopped on his knees on the bottom boards, cursing foully.

“Hmm!” said Ortho. “If you’re a sample of Falmouth manhood Nankivel is welcome to ’em. You will pardon the liberty, I trust. Here’s something to wet your throat.”

So saying he ran up the Ghost’s ladder.

The boatman, still on his knees, watched him go. Active as a cat, strong as a lion. Could twist your neck with one hand, devil take the big black bully! What had he given him? A crown, be Japes! A crown for five minutes’ pulling! Lavish, be Cripes! A proper gentleman, be Jasus! Most he’d ever had out of the eminent Nankivel was a shilling, from Angwin sixpence. A crown! He could get drunk as an earl on a crown. God bless the princely hero! He swung his punt about and tugged rapidly for the shore, half his mind reducing a crown-piece to terms of gin flip, half engaged with the surprising fellow in black and silver. There was a personality aboard the Ghost. Nankivel—pah! Angwin—tush!