Читать книгу With John Paul Jones - John Thomas McIntyre - Страница 7

Table of Contents

The knowledge displayed by Ethan in the working of a ship during the first week out, and his ready courage in the taking of a couple of British prizes, won the regard of the Ranger’s tars, and he was ever a welcome visitor to the forecastle when he chose to go there. Many were the yarns they told him of voyages with Barry, Murray, Whipple and other hearts of oak; and many were those he told in return of strange seas, strange ports and stranger people.

He had finished telling of an adventure in the China Sea in his grandfather’s ship, Warlock; and during the appreciative pause that followed, the silence was rudely broken by a loud, sneering laugh.

“He pulls a long bow for a youngster,” said a voice; “and you seasoned tars sit around and draw it in like sucking pigs their mammy’s milk.”

Ethan flushed scarlet, and a murmur went up from the watch below. But it was the master’s mate that spoke, a huge-chested Canadian named Blake; and no one among the seamen dared to resent his words, for in his week among them he had, by his ruffianism, cowed them all. A few, at the beginning, had dared to defy him; but his brawny fists had soon beaten them into submission. Indeed, by this time, the forecastle had come to be a sort of grill upon which the bully toasted his shipmates one after the other and laughed at their helpless squirming.

Ethan made no reply to the man’s remark. Longsword, who sat with his broad back against the heel of the bowsprit, grew crimson, and two sharp points of light shot into his eyes; but he made no movement; since the death of Ethan’s father he had come to look upon the lad as his superior officer, and so strong was the military idea fixed in his mind that he never took an important step without orders.

The master’s mate took a seat upon an upturned tub and regarded his mates with a sneering smile.

“It’s amusing,” said he, “to stand and watch you taking in all the plum duff that this boy gives you. I suppose,” with a significant laugh, “you’re duty bound to do it because he’s a friend to the skipper.”

Still there was no reply; Ethan sat still, never even glancing at the man; the seamen shifted uneasily in their places; they felt assured that the bully meant to pick a quarrel with Ethan, and while they did not like it, his demeanor had so awed them that they dared not interfere. Blake seemed to have mapped out his plan of action well in advance, and proceeded.

“It may be an honor to be a friend to a captain, but I don’t know. What sort of captains have you in this American navy of yours? I’ve sailed in British ships, and I tell you they wouldn’t let your skippers swab the quarter deck.”

Still he got no answer, though there was no lack of scowling looks directed at him.

“And this Captain Jones,” he went on, his face alive with malice, “was one time named Paul, I hear, just plain John Paul. He was drove out of the British merchant service for killing a sailor by flogging, and he come to America and changed his name.”

Ethan had come to admire John Paul Jones greatly since he came aboard the Ranger, and this repetition of an old slander aroused him at once.

“If you know anything about the matter at all,” said he quietly, “you know that what you say is false!”

“What’s that?” shouted the bully, leaping to his feet.

“I said it was false. It was a thing invented by his enemies; when he defied them and invited them to prove it, they feared to come forward.”

“Maybe,” spoke the master’s mate, folding his thick arms across his bulging chest, “you think that I am afraid to come forward, as you call it.”

“It seems to me,” said Ethan as he rose slowly to his feet, “that you are too ready to bluster and bully people whom you think will not fight.” His voice had been low and his movements of the most deliberate as he said this. Then suddenly his manner changed; like a flash he stripped off his woolen shirt and cried, sharply: “Get ready; I’m going to make you prove what you’ve said.”

Longsword came to his feet like a shot, and two long strides took him to Ethan’s side. The boy’s bared body gleamed like satin under the glare of the ship’s lanterns, and the strong fingers of the Irish trooper at once began kneading the long, supple muscles of the arms, chest and back and performing other services that his years of experience told him would be of benefit.

Blake stood, for a moment, dumbfounded, unable to credit his eyes; there was a clattering of draught boards as sailors who had been playing sprung up, a hissing of sharply in-drawn breath, and then a ring of human bodies formed in a twinkling; a circle of tense faces showed the interest that was excited in the breasts of all.

The master’s mate was slow of brain; but when he at last realized that a combat was inevitable, he manifested much savage satisfaction.

“I’ve got you safe now,” said he, as he stripped off his shirt in turn. “And I’ll beat you so badly that you’ll think keel-hauling is play in comparison.”

“You’ll never beat him by talking about it, my bucko,” said Longsword, grimly, still grooming his principal in a very workmanlike manner.

In a moment the two had faced each other. The bulk of the Canadian seaman and the slenderness of the young American were now, more than ever, evident. But Blake was muscle bound, ponderous in his movements and scant of wind; nevertheless he was a formidable foe, for his bulk suggested power, and his cruel expression denoted a merciless nature.

Ethan’s frame was strong, but needed the filling that years would bring; his muscles, thanks to the effort of Longsword, were those of a trained athlete, but when compared with the bully he looked almost frail.

The watch below noted all this; they also saw the panther-like grace with which the lad advanced to the centre of the human ring, and marked the lumbering movements of Blake as he did likewise.

“Mind yourself,” warned the Irish dragoon as he sent his man forward. “Don’t let him clinch. He’ll have ye then, Master Ethan.”

The two met in the centre and raised their guards. Ethan’s was free, swinging and low; Blake’s was high and held as rigid as iron. With short cat-like steps Ethan wove in and out; the bully watched him narrowly; the regular opening and closing of his hands showed that he was meditating a rush—a grapple—and then Ethan would be at his mercy. The great weight of the man must crush the slighter boy to the deck.

Around and around crept the soft-footed young athlete; Blake wheeled constantly to face him, still holding his high, rigid guard. Suddenly the man’s bulging muscles grew tense; Ethan knew that another moment would bring the expected rush; with the speed of lightning his right shot out and landed a smashing blow in the other’s wind; then he went dancing away, a smile upon his lips. The lad continued to follow these tactics. Every time Blake stepped in to clinch, Ethan’s left hand would dart in a quick stab. Each succeeding failure to get within reach made Blake more and more ferocious; the lad’s tantalizing smile, and Longsword’s words of advice, served to almost madden him.

He began to make savage, bull-like rushes; his thick arms thrashed like flails. Laughter came from the watch below as he failed again and yet again. Ethan had expected much more from his huge opponent; a growing contempt took possession of him; he began to step in and out with little or no caution; his second called to him frantically to be careful, but he paid no heed.

A gleam of cunning shot through the brain of the panting giant; he drew in his breath in gasps; his movements were labored; his knees seemed to quiver beneath him.

“Finish him,” came the cry from the sailors, delighting in the bully’s defeat.

Longsword shouted his warnings madly, but Ethan was after his foe like a flash, and driving in short, jarring blows with all the power of his athletic young body. Suddenly Blake’s burly form stiffened and lurched forward; his great arms whirled, and one brawny fist landed with terrific force upon Ethan’s body. It was his first blow of the battle. Ethan went white and swayed weakly, his hands groping blindly. With a savage grin Blake dashed at him.

“Down,” yelled Longsword desperately. The reeling brain of the sorely hurt boy just managed to grasp the meaning of this advice, and he sank to his knees just in time to escape the shattering blow that passed above his head.

“Stand off,” snarled the Irish dragoon as he worked like mad over his pupil. He turned his face to glare over his shoulder at Blake, and the great scar across it seemed to burn like fire.

A friendly hand dashed cold water over Ethan’s bare back; the shock cleared the lad’s head, and clinging to Longsword he regained his feet, his breath wheezing in his throat, his chest laboring in great spasmodic sobs.

At this point the ring at the side nearest the forecastle hatch opened and Captain Paul Jones appeared; behind him showed the face of Lieutenant Simpson, wrinkled with malicious satisfaction. The commander half raised his hand for a gesture that would have stopped the combat; but he paused, hesitated; then he caught the appeal in Ethan’s wide open eyes. He nodded quickly. The crowd drew a breath of relief. The fight was to go on.

Longsword sluiced more water over his charge, taking care to stand between him and his opponent, so as to give him the benefit of every second’s delay.

“Stand out of the way,” raved Blake. “Play fair, there!”

“Fair play,” came from all hands. They almost to a man desired to see Blake defeated; but it must be done fairly. Ethan shoved Shamus aside and faced his foe once more, pale and perceptibly weak.

The bully rushed, but Ethan evaded him. With each passing moment the boy felt the glow of fresh life stealing through his numbed limbs, and to avoid the heavy plunges of Blake grew easy once more. He began again to rock the other’s head with his straight shoulder drives. But, for all this, he found himself, little by little, being driven back to the side of the ring, Blake pressing eagerly after him. Now and then Ethan would dart in a stinging hit; the man would shake his head in a bull-like motion, but still come on.

At length the lad could retreat no farther; he was preparing to feint and dart aside when he stumbled over an outstretched foot. He shouted for those behind him to take notice, and then stumbled again. There came an answering cry from the vigilant Longsword, who hurled himself across the ring and struck down the Lascar, Siki, whose treacherous foot was stretched into Ethan’s way.

The young American’s attention was taken by this incident for a moment; then Blake came driving at him like a bison; Ethan was penned up, his back to the throng of seamen, with no hope of escape by his usual tactics of retreat.

So he braced himself and met the rush with all the power of his square young shoulders. Once, twice, thrice he struck, throwing his head from side to side to avoid the swinging hits of the other. Then, suddenly, he felt Blake’s big body give before his blows; the next instant he was standing gazing with dazed eyes, at the prostrate form of the Ranger’s bully as he lay, with wide flung arms, upon the deck.