Читать книгу Martin of Old London - George Herbert Ely - Страница 3
ОглавлениеTHE WAITING BOAT
One fine evening in the August of the year 1666, Martin Leake, aged fourteen and a few months, had strolled down to the riverside for a breath of air.
It had been a terribly hot day. The whole month had been fine and dry; the narrow streets of London were stuffy and smelly, and it was a relief to escape from them to the bank of the broad Thames, where the easterly wind carried in a sharp salt tang from the sea.
The river always had a charm for Martin. In those days it might have been called the main highway of London City, and he loved to watch the wherries laden with passengers, and the tall ships lying at anchor or floating up or down on the tide.
He sauntered on and on, every now and then exchanging a nod or smile or cheery word with some waterman he knew. But most of the watermen were busy on the river, and as the evening went on Martin met fewer and fewer people.
Presently he sat down to rest near the head of a flight of stairs that led down to the water. A broad stone post gave support for his back, and leaning against it he watched the sun sinking into a fiery sky, and the lights that began to twinkle on the ships moored in the stream.
It was very peaceful. The only sounds that reached his ears were the plash of oars in passing boats and the voices of the watermen and their passengers.
Turning to look in the other direction, he noticed for the first time a ship’s boat straining at her painter, which was made fast to a ring at the foot of the stairs. In the boat sat, or rather crouched, a solitary seaman—a man with a very dark face and long, coal-black hair. His head was bent forward on his crossed arms; it seemed that the light rise and fall of the boat on the tide had rocked him to sleep. He wore a sailor’s long red cap and an orange-coloured jersey.
A waterman passing at the moment stopped and smiled as he glanced at the slumbering figure. Observing Martin, he said:
“They sleep like cats, these foreigners.”
“He’s a foreigner, then?”
“For sure: out of the Portugal ship repairing at Deptford. Her mizzen-mast, they say, was shot away by a French privateer nigh the Goodwins. Very bold these Frenchies are of late, though I did hear as the Duke of York have give ’em a good drubbing.”
He said Good-night and passed on.
All was still again. The glow faded from the sky. Martin’s eyes were attracted by a three-master that glided out of the dusk, dropping down with the tide. He watched her graceful shape threading her way among the smaller craft on the river, and wondered where she was bound for, what adventures she would meet with on her voyage.
She had almost disappeared when Martin was roused from his reverie by the sound of footsteps on the cobbled roadway behind him. Peeping round the edge of the post, he saw, in the gloom, a man come forward to the head of the stairs. There he paused and threw a look round in the manner of a person who is ill at ease.
Martin caught a glimpse of his face, and, with a start of surprise, shrank back into the shelter of the post. The man had not seen him. Next moment he stepped down the stairs, and in a low voice hailed the seaman slumbering in the boat.
There was no answer. The newcomer called again, more urgently. This time the sailor stirred, straightened himself, mumbled a reply, and hauling on the painter, drew the boat alongside the lower stairs. The man stepped into it, casting another suspicious glance around as he seated himself on the stern thwart.
A word was spoken that Martin did not catch. Then the seaman cast off, thrust his oars into the rowlocks, and with long, swinging strokes drove the boat into the darkness downstream.
“What’s Mr. Slocum after?” said Martin to himself as he got up and started for home.
