Читать книгу List, Ye Landsmen! - William Clark Russell - Страница 5

A correspondent informs us that the brig Black Watch, 295 tons, built in 1806, by Mr. W. Dixon, of Sunderland, is fitting out in the Thames presumably for a privateering cruise. She is said to have been purchased by a gentleman of Amsterdam, but the person who goes in command of her is Captain Michael Greaves, who belongs to this town. If the owner be a Dutchman, as rumor asserts, it is not to be supposed that letters of marque will be issued.

“What do you say, uncle?” said I.

“I cannot tell. I know nothing about letters of marque, Bill. If she’s furrin’-owned her capers can’t be countenanced by our State, can ’ey?”

“No,” said I.

I looked again at the paragraph.

“Michael Greaves—Michael Greaves.” I seemed to know the name. I pondered, found I could get nothing out of memory, and turned my eye upon another part of the paper.

“Here is an account of the casting away of the William and Jane.”

“That’s the ship for whose murder her skipper is swinging on the sand hills,” said my uncle.

I read the story—an old-world story, not infrequently repeated since. Do not we know it, Jack? A ship mysteriously leaks; the carpenter sounds the well, and his eyes are damned by the captain for hinting at a started butt; all hands sweat at the pumps; the water gains; the mate thinks the leak is in the fore-peak, and the master, who is intoxicated, stutters with blasphemies that the mischief is in the after-hold; the people leave in the boats: the derelict washes ashore, and is found with four auger holes in her bottom; the master is collared and charged. At the trial the carpenter states that the master borrowed an auger from him and forgot to return it. Master is damned by the evidence of the mate and a number of seamen; is condemned to be hanged by the neck, and is turned off on the Deal sand hills protesting his innocence.

“Why the Deal sand hills?” said I.

“As a warning to the coast,” answered my uncle. “And look again at the newspaper. The scuttling job was managed right abreast of these parts, behind the Good’ns. Oh, it’s justice—it’s justice!” and he handed me a glass of punch.

“Is it wind or rain?” exclaimed my aunt, lifting her forefinger.

“Rain,” said my uncle—“a thunder squall. Ha!”

A sharp boom of thunder came from the direction of the sea. ’Twas like a ship testing her distance by throwing a shot. You found yourself hearkening for the broadside to follow. I looked at the clock and again went to the house door. The earth was sobbing and smoking under a fall of rain that came down straight like harp strings; the lightning touched each liquid line into blue crystal; the trees hissed to the deluge, and I stood listening for wind, but there was none.

“I’ll wait till this shower thins,” said I, “and then be off.”

“I’ll be a wet walk, William, I fear,” said my aunt.

“It’s a wet life all round, with us sailors,” said I, extending my tumbler for another ladleful of punch, in obedience to an eloquent gesture on the part of my uncle.

It was midnight before they would let me go, and still there was no wind. I was well primed with grog, and felt tight and jolly; had accepted an invitation to spend a month of my stay ashore down here at Sandwich; had listened with a countenance lighted up with smiles to Uncle Joe’s “I’ll warrant ye it shall go hard if I don’t help you into command next year, my lad,” pronounced with one eye closed, the other eye humid, and his face awork with punch and benevolence; then came some hearty hand-shaking, some still heartier “God-bless-ye’s,” and there being a pause outside, forth I walked, stepping high and something dancingly, the collar of my pea-coat to my ears, the round brim of my hat turned down to clear the scuppers for the next downpour.