Читать книгу Ronald Morton; or, the Fire Ships - William Henry Giles Kingston - Страница 6

The accounts which Don Hernan had received from various quarters while on shore at Lerwick about the inhabitants of Lunnasting Castle had excited his curiosity and interest to the highest pitch. Though fully intending to return shortly to Lerwick, he had an object in suddenly leaving Brassay Sound. He also wished to arrive unexpectedly in the neighbourhood of Lunnasting.

Rolf Morton came at his summons; and understanding the “Saint Cecilia” was shortly to return to Lerwick, not having reason to suspect fraud of any description, he, without hesitation, took the ship on to Eastling Sound. She had not been long at anchor before Lawrence Brindister—who, as was his custom, had been at an early hour of the morning out fishing—espied her, and very soon made his appearance on board. Lawrence walked about the deck admiring the guns and the carved and gilt work with which the ship was adorned; for it was the custom, especially in the Spanish navy, in those days to ornament ships of war far more profusely than at present. At length Don Hernan came on deck. He observed the skiff alongside; and his eye falling on Lawrence, he very naturally at first took him to be some poor fisherman habited in the cast-off finery of a gentleman. Lawrence, however, guessed who he was from his uniform, and, shuffling along the deck, made him one of his profoundest bows, which Don Hernan returned with one in the same style.

As it had not been, impressed on Lawrence’s mind that there existed numerous nations speaking different tongues, he at once addressed the Spanish captain in English.

“Your people, good sir, have been very silent: not one has spoken to me since I stepped on board this trim craft of yours; for you have, I conclude, the happiness of being her captain, and you have, I hope, a tongue with which to hold pleasant and profitable converse.”

“I command this ship, and I am able to converse in English,” answered Don Hernan, wondering who his strange visitor could be. “May I ask in return whom I have the honour of addressing?”

“No less a person than Lawrence Brindister, Lord of Lunnasting Castle and the lands adjacent,” answered Lawrence, drawing himself up—“that is to say, who would be, and should be, and ought to be, had not certain traitorous and vile persons, who shall be nameless, interfered with his just rights, and ousted him from his property. But say not a word about that, most noble stranger. ‘A guid time is coming—a guid time is coming.’ ‘The prince shall have his ain again!’ ”

Don Hernan at once perceived his visitor’s state of mind.

“I had thought that Sir Marcus Wardhill was Lord of Lunnasting, though I am aware that, from times immemorial, it has been held by Brindisters, of whom I conclude you are one,” remarked the captain.

“Ay, there’s the rub,” said Lawrence. “You see, most noble captain, I’ve a difficulty in steering my craft; I never can keep her in good trim. Sometimes she luffs up, and sometimes she falls off; so as to holding a steady course, I find that out of the question. Ah, now I know all about it. I have come, most noble captain, feeling assured that you are of gentle birth and a man of honour, to invite you and your officers to visit Lunnasting Castle. My cousin and I will do our best to receive you as becomes your rank.”

Don Hernan, who believed that Miss Wardhill had really sent this strange being to invite him to the castle, replied, in suitable terms, that he should have great happiness in paying his respects to her. He also explained his connection with the Brindister family, and begged Lawrence to say that he hoped to visit Lunnasting in the character of a kinsman.

Lawrence was about to step into his boat when he saw Rolf Morton, who, hearing that a boat was alongside, had just come on deck with the intention of going on shore. He and Rolf were always on very good terms; so, when the latter begged for a cast on shore, he gladly undertook to land him wherever he wished.

“Abreast of the ship will suit me, for in half an hour I can be at home,” answered Morton. “Good-bye, Don Hernan; should the wind shift, I will be on board in a trice; or should you want me, send. We have not so many houses in Whalsey that mine cannot be found without difficulty.”

Saying this, he was following Lawrence into the skiff, when the latter cried out, “Hold fast! you are stepping on Surly Grind, Morton; he’ll not like it, let me tell you. He’s apt to treat with scant ceremony those who offend him.”

Morton looked down, and saw, coiled away at the bottom of the skiff, where Lawrence had taught him to lie, a huge black dog, with an unusually ferocious expression of countenance, though from his coat he had evidently much of the Newfoundland breed in him, but his face showed that he had also much of that of the mastiff and bloodhound, probably.

“Lie down, Surly Grind, and treat my visitors with respect,” said Lawrence; and the dog, which had lifted up his head and begun to growl and snarl, crouched down as before.

“Now, take your seat, man, and I’ll show you how a true Shetlander can pull,” said Lawrence, taking his place at the oars and giving several rapid strokes.

“But I deem that I have a right to hail from Shetland also, Master Lawrence,” answered Morton. “There is no other land owns me, and it is hard for a man to be without a country or a home.”

“Ay, true; you have a Shetland look and a Shetland tongue, and I believe that you have a Shetland heart also, Morton. ‘The prince shall hae his ain again, his ain again!’ That’s a curious old Scotch song; it’s always running in my head. ‘The prince shall hae his ain again!’ Well, but, you know, Morton, he didn’t get his ain again; so I’ve heard nurse Bertha say. She’s a wise woman, your mother-in-law, and my good cousin, too. Well, well; there are ups and downs in this life. All don’t get their ain, that’s poz; if they did, another’d be sitting on George’s throne; but that’s treason, ye ken; and another’d be ruling in Wardhill’s room, but that’s treason, too; so I’d better be holding my tongue, or all the cats I’ve got in my bag will be jumping out and playing more pranks than either you or I, or Sir Marcus Wardhill to boot, will be able to stay.”

Rolf Morton was too well aware of poor Lawrence’s state of mind to listen with much attention to what he said; but his curiosity was sufficiently awakened by some of the remarks he let fall to make him resolve to learn more about the matter from Bertha Eswick as soon as he could meet her.