Читать книгу A Son of the Sea - John Arthur Barry - Страница 3

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"HIT him again, Torre! harder, oh harder, ever so much! Mind! he's got a stone! Oh, the great coward!"

Thus shrilled a little girl as she danced, wild with excitement, around two boys, one considerably the stouter and heavier, who were doggedly pummelling each other in a secluded spot of garden hidden from the house by a thick grove of laurels.

As she spoke, the bigger of the combatants paused a minute to shake his fist at her, and his opponent, a much slighter and younger lad, seizing his opportunity, rushed in and planted such a shrewd fist on the other's nose that the blood began to flow pretty freely. Wild with the pain of the blow, he ran close up to the other boy, and, when only a foot or so away, with all his strength hurled a piece of rock he had picked up from a miniature mountain fernery close at hand. As luck would have it his opponent moved his head slightly, and the jagged stone, in place of hitting fairly, and probably killing him, only cut a shallow groove across his forehead. But in a second his face was streaming with blood. The little girl screamed with fright and ran away as the lad, wiping his eyes clear, sprang like a wild cat at the other's throat, got one arm around it, and bending his head down into chancery punched it with such hearty goodwill that it was soon of the same colour as his own, whilst the loud bellowing of the sufferer could be heard all over the garden.

At this critical moment there appeared on the scene a stout, bald-headed, elderly gentleman, dragged along rapidly by the little girl already mentioned. The pair paused as they took in the aspect of the fight, and the newcomer remarked placidly, as he put up his pince-nez, "Why, Edie, I thought you told me that Torre was getting killed! Now, as well as I can make out, I think my stepson seems in most danger, eh?"

"Yes, pa, it's all right now," assented Edie, cheerfully. "Look, Torre's punching him real good an' cumfable. That'll learn him to throw cowardly stones again—and tie crackers to my cat's tail."

"Well," replied her father, "I really think, my dear, that I must put a stop to it now, before your mother comes. Laban's roarings are enough to wake the dead."

But even as he spoke a voice was heard above the din of battle that made the pair draw back hurriedly, whilst on to the scene marched a tall, thin, hard-faced woman, who, catching up a garden rake that lay handy, commenced at once to belabour the smaller of the boys.

"Oh, you wicked villain," she screamed, "do you want to murder my poor Labie! Take that (whack) and that! (whack). Off you go for good, this time. Uncle or no uncle, Torre Leigh, I've done with you. Go and find a home for yourself where you like. But stay here to knock poor Laban about in this way you shall not!" (whack, whack).

Up till now the boy addressed had hung on to his prey like a bull-dog. But the round of a rake handle, with a furious woman at the other end to ply it, must take effect in time, so the lad let go his hold of the enemy, who at once sought protection under his mother's wing, sobbing and blubbering, and with nose, eyes, and mouth showing the effects of heavy punishment. Meanwhile Torre backed away towards his coat lying on the grass behind him—a slim, active figure of a fifteen years old lad, with dark curly hair, brown eyes, oval face, and alert, upright carriage, an undeniably handsome youngster, showing something of blood and breeding, too, in the style of him.

His late opponent, now seated beside his mother, who, as she wiped his damaged face, paused every now and then to abuse Torre, was fully a couple of years the elder, stout, broad-chested, and of so light a complexion that even eyelashes and brows looked quite white, whilst the eyes themselves, of a pale milk-and-water blue, were shifty, narrow, and too close together.

"Torre," whispered a voice from the other side of the laurel bushes, and the boy, pushing through them, found a pair of soft young arms round his neck, whilst kisses rained on his discoloured face.

Edith Bovey was only fourteen, but tall for her age, and in appearance not unlike her cousin, Torre Leigh, possessing the same rich dark complexion, deep brown eyes, and slim figure. Indeed, they might have passed for brother and sister anywhere.

"I'm ashamed of you, Torre," said his uncle in a matter-of-fact sort of way, belied, however, by a kindly smile. "You're always in mischief, and always rowing with Laban. What your aunt will do this time I really don't know."

"Well, uncle," replied Torre, as the three walked away, "I can't help it. You see, he tied a bunch of crackers to Mab's tail and set them alight, and nearly drove the poor thing mad. Then, when I tried to take 'em off he hit me. So, and so—why, you see, there was nothing else for it. And, I say, uncle, you know I've been wanting this long time to leave school and get away to sea. There's no peace here for me."

"Umph," said Mr Bovey, irresolutely, "I'd like you to have another year or two's schooling. Still, it's very evident you and Laban will never hit it."

"No, uncle," replied Torre, with a laugh, "we hit each other. He's always had the best of it, too, till to-day, when I got a few in that he won't forget in a hurry, I'll bet."

And the others, although they said nothing, seemed to derive satisfaction from the idea.

Mr Bovey, after many years spent in business as a wholesale grocer in Exeter, had retired with a fair competence to a pleasant house in the village of Newton Pomeroy, on the coast of South Devon. At that time he was a widower with one child, Edith. Then, in an unfortunate moment, he married the present Mrs Bovey, a widow named Freeman, possessing, besides a snug little income derived from money carefully invested in Consols, a boy by her first husband.

Mr Bovey's sister, Jane, had married and survived a young army officer of good family, and when she died she left a legacy to her brother in the shape of Torre and £100 in trust for him.

Open war had always raged between little Edie Bovey and Laban Freeman, but on Torre's appearance in the household, very much against Mrs Bovey's wish, matters became worse. At first Laban bullied the pair unmercifully, making their young lives a burden to them, and supported ever by Mrs Bovey, of whom her husband stood in awe, both as regarded her tongue and her person, the first of which was sharp and tireless, the latter powerful to masculinity.

As time went on the condition of affairs at "Laurustinus Lodge" resolved itself into one of unequal but acknowledged hostility between Mrs Bovey and her son on one side, and Torre and Edith on the other, with Mr Bovey as a passive well-wisher to the weaker party, and an ineffective court of appeal to both. Until to-day the opposition had always scored. Therefore, now, Torre and Edie felt a qualified delight; nor was the former in any hurry to remove the stains of battle, albeit the rake-handle so vigorously applied to the small of his back made him walk with a shortened strut that seemed triumphant, but was emphatically not so.

"I suppose she'll be sending for us presently," remarked Mr Bovey after a while. And these few words sensibly diminished the quiet elation of his young companions, who looked at each other forebodingly as, with a deep sigh, his uncle continued, affecting a faintly jocular manner, "Better go to your room, Torre, and have a wash and a bit of a brush up before the court opens. It'll be a big trial this time, I expect."

But, to the surprise of all three, there was no enquiry held as was usually the case. Only, at dinner, Mrs Bovey's stern features seemed even harsher and grimmer than ever as she sat next to her son, whose swelled nose and discoloured eyes presented a notable contrast to Torre's handsome face, untouched except for a broad band of diachylon across the forehead where the treacherously flung stone had left its mark. It was a silent meal, and an uncomfortable one, made more so from the ill-advised attempts of Mr Bovey to appear quite at his ease by casting inane little remarks on the deceptive calm that prevailed. Then, as it suddenly dawned upon him that perhaps this time he alone was to be the victim, and the coming night and its inevitable lit de justice cast its shadow over his soul, he all at once subsided. Towards the close, however, things livened up a little. Laban Freeman, made bold by his mother's presence, stretching out under the table, kicked Torre hard and heavily upon the shin, an attention that the latter promptly acknowledged by dashing a cup full of hot tea in the other's face.

"Torre!" exclaimed Mr Bovey in a tone of horror.

"Look what the coward did, uncle," replied the boy, pulling up his trousers and showing a nasty red mark on the leg. "Why can't he fight fairly, or else leave me alone?"

"Even so, sir," replied Mr Bovey as severely as he could, "the table is no place to settle your quarrels at. You had better go to your room." Torre had risen to leave. But Mrs Bovey, with an awful smile, remarked, as she got up and signed to her son, who was roaring with pain and rage, to follow her: "No, if anybody leaves it must be me and my poor tortured child. Pray do not disturb your nephew on my account, Mr Bovey. Let him turn your dining-room into a pigstye, if he likes. Perhaps he will throw something at me presently. Come along, Labie, dear."

"I'm sorry, uncle," said Torre, "but it wasn't my fault. And I'd better go away. You can see it's no use my trying to live here. It's hard to leave you and Edie, though. I'll go to sea, uncle, whenever you're ready."

Torre spoke bravely; but, presently, what with the pain of the kick and the thought of leaving his uncle and Edie, both of whom he dearly loved, his lip trembled and the tears rolled down his face. Then the girl, putting her arms round his neck and her soft cheek to his, began to cry too, whilst old Bovey scratched his bald head in perplexity. He was fond of his nephew, and wished much to keep the lad with him. This, however, he soon saw was a manifest impossibility. Before next morning he had realised the fact more strongly than ever.

No one ever knew what he went through during the quiet night watches, but when he came down to breakfast he looked a ten years' older man than he had done the day before.

"Have you really made up your mind to go to sea, Torre?" he asked of the boy later on.

"Yes, uncle," replied Torre, looking up from "Midshipman Easy," and certain from the tone of the old man's voice that his time at Laurustinus Lodge was getting short.

"Yes, uncle. I think I should make a good sailor, and it seems to be a fine free and easy life, with lots of adventures and things in it."

"Umph!" replied old Bovey, doubtfully. "I don't know much about it. But I should say it was a pretty hard life myself, with more kicks than ha'pence. Think it over, Torre, my lad. I can get you a good place in a grocer's business in Plymouth. There won't be any adventures and stuff of that sort. Still, it's a good, steady, paying concern. I made money at it. And then, too, you'll be near me and Edie."

But the lad's soul revolted at the thought of serving out sugar and plums, clad perhaps in a white apron, as he had seen the assistants doing in the very place he knew his uncle had in mind.

Although he was inland bred, having lived at Wellington under the shadow of Shropshire's Wrekin, he was not inland born, but, on the contrary, a son of the sea itself, born on the voyage home from India, and a love of the sea, although dormant, was instinctive in him, and needed only opportunity to become a ruling passion.

Yet the two years he had passed within sound of the sea had not given him any more practical familiarity with the life he was so eager to follow than if he had seen it for the first time.

Newton Pomeroy boasted a harbour, certainly, but it was a small one, and strictly in accord with the little coasting trade carried on there—a few schooners, slate-laden from Welsh quarries, or a grimy old brig or two with Cardiff coals, being all there was to represent the magic and mystery of men's doings in the great deep. But to Torre, sitting at times on the pier-head, and watching one of the old tubs transformed by the magic of the moon into a thing of beauty, her patched sails looking as if they were hollowed out of great pearls, her rusty sides, chafed rigging, and buckled spars etherealised by the soft effulgence as she swam slowly along in a sea of liquid silver, the scene appealed very forcibly, playing on the natural bent of the boy's mind, filled as it was by a long course of indiscriminate reading, with a too ready appreciation of the romantic side of things. And with the romance of the sea Torre was saturated; dreaming dreams of a wild roving life; of hidden treasures in lonely wrecks; of "Summer isles of Eden" peopled by brown men and women, flower-crowned, where tall palms swayed to the spicy breeze, and the long moan of the breakers on the circling reef fell faintly on the ear.

But old Bovey only shook his head as Torre enthusiastically recited whole chapters of Michael Scott and Marryat and Hermann Melville.

"Yes," he would reply, "it sounds pretty and fine. But I doubt there's another side of the story, if somebody'd only tell it. To my notion, and from the bit I've heard, there's precious little romance left about a sailor's life, and as for those tropic smells your writers rave of, why, you'd find it hard to beat the inside of a big grocer's shop. But there, my boy," concluded the old man, "I see you're bent on it, so you shall have a try anyhow. I've been having a talk with Mr James, whose son is a sailor. He says the young man served his time in the D. D. and S. Line; and he also very kindly gave me a note to one of the owners. So, to-morrow, we'll go up to town and see if we can make arrangements. According to James, though, it seems a rather expensive sort of business, this going to sea, what with a premium and outfit."

Now that Mrs Bovey and her son had gained the day, the former treated Torre with the calm toleration of the victor. But Laban, like the ill-conditioned cub he was, became so profuse in his taunts, and so triumphant in his rejoicing, that, but for Torre's wish to avoid making trouble for his uncle, there would assuredly have been more fights between the pair. As for Edie, she was inconsolable at the prospect of losing her playmate and protector, hanging about him and weeping incessantly, until her father said that she too might come to London and see the last of him.