Jacob Faithful. Фредерик МарриетЧитать онлайн книгу.
you’re taken, and can’t help yourself, for you are more trusted than a pressed man who is obstinate. I liked the sarvice from the first—the captain was not a particular man; according to some people’s ideas of the sarvice, she wasn’t in quite man-of-war fashion, but she was a happy ship, and the men would have followed and fought for the captain to the last drop of their blood. That’s the sort of ship for me. I’ve seen cleaner decks, but I never saw merrier hearts. The only one of the officers disliked by the men was the lieutenant who pressed me; he had a foul mouth and no discretion; and as for swearing, it was really terrible to hear the words which came out of his mouth. I don’t mind an oath rapped out in the heat of the moment, but he invented his oaths when he was cool, and let them out in his rage. We were returning home, after having seen the convoy safe, when we met with a gale of wind in our teeth, one of the very worst I ever fell in with. It had been blowing hard from the South West, and then shifted to the North West, and made a cross sea, which was tremendous. Now, the frigate was a very old vessel, and although they had often had her into dock and repaired her below, they had taken no notice of her upper works, which were as rotten as a medlar. I think it was about three bells in the middle watch, when the wind was howling through the rigging, for we had no canvas on her ’cept a staysail and trysail, when the stay-sail sheet went, and she broached-to afore they could prevent her. The lieutenant I spoke of had the watch, and his voice was heard through the roaring of the wind swearing at the men to haul down the staysail, that we might bend on the sheet, and set it right again; when, she having, I said, broached-to, a wave—ay, a wave as high as the maintop almost, took the frigate right on her broadside, and the bulwarks of the quarter-deck being, as I said, quite rotten, cut them off clean level with the main chains, sweeping them, and guns, and men, all overboard together. The mizzenmast went, but the mainmast held on, and I was under its lee at the time, and was saved by clinging on like a nigger, while for a minute I was under the water, which carried almost all away with it to leeward. As soon as the water passed over me, I looked up and around me—it was quite awful; the quarter-deck was cut off as with a knife—not a soul left there, that I could see; no man at the wheel—mizzen-mast gone—skylights washed away—waves making a clear breach, and no defence; boats washed away from the quarters—all silent on deck, but plenty of noise below and on the main-deck, for the ship was nearly full of water, and all below were hurrying up in their shirts, thinking that we were going down. At last the captain crawled up, and clung by the stancheons, followed by the first lieutenant and the officers, and by degrees all was quiet, the ship was cleared, and the hands were turned up to muster under the half-deck. There were forty-seven men who did not answer to their names—they had been summoned to answer for their lives, poor fellows! and there was also the swearing lieutenant not to be found. Well, at last we got the hands on deck, and put her before the wind, scudding under bare poles. As we went aft to the taffrail, the bulwark of which still remained, with about six feet of the quarter-deck bulwark on each side, we observed something clinging to the stern-ladder, dipping every now and then into the sea, as it rose under her counter, and assisted the wind in driving her before the gale. We soon made it out to be a man, and I went down, slipped a bowling knot over the poor fellow, and with some difficulty we were both hauled up again. It proved to be the lieutenant, who had been washed under the counter, and clung to the stern-ladder, and had thus miraculously been preserved. It was a long while before he came to, and he never did any duty the whole week we were out, till we got into Yarmouth Roads; indeed, he hardly ever spoke a word to any one, but seemed to be always in serious thought. When we arrived, he gave his commission to the captain, and went on shore; went to school again, they say, bore up for a parson, and, for all I know, he’ll preach somewhere next Sunday. So you see, water drove him out of the sarvice, and fire forced me in. There’s a yarn for you, Jacob.”
“I like it very much,” replied I.
“And now, father, give us a whole song, and none of your little bits.” Old Tom broke out with the “Death of Nelson,” in a style that made the tune and words ring in my ears for the whole evening.
The moon was up before the tide served, and we weighed our anchor; old Tom steering, while his son was preparing supper, and I remaining forward, keeping a sharp look-out that we did not run foul of anything. It was a beautiful night; and as we passed through the several bridges, the city appeared as if it were illuminated, from the quantity of gas throwing a sort of halo of light over the tops of the buildings which occasionally marked out the main streets from the general dark mass—old Tom’s voice was still occasionally heard, as the scene brought to his remembrance his variety of song.
“For the murmur of thy lip, love,
Comes sweetly unto me,
As the sound of oars that dip, love,
At moonlight on the sea.”
I never was more delighted than when I heard these snatches of different songs poured forth in such melody from old Tom’s lips, the notes floating along the water during the silence of the night. I turned aft to look at him; his face was directed upwards, looking on the moon, which glided majestically through the heavens, silvering the whole of the landscape. The water was smooth as glass, and the rapid tide had swept us clear of the ranges of ships in the pool; both banks of the river were clear, when old Tom again commenced:—
“The moon is up, her silver beam
Shines bower, and grove, and mountain over;
A flood of radiance heaven doth seem
To light thee, maiden, to thy lover.”
“Jacob, how does the bluff-nob bear? on the starboard bow?”
“Yes—broad on the bow; you’d better keep up half a point, the tide sweeps us fast.”
“Very true, Jacob; look out, and say when steady it is, boy.
“If o’er her orb a cloud should rest,
’Tis but thy cheek’s soft blush to cover.
He waits to clasp thee to his breast;
The moon is up—go, meet thy lover.
“Tom, what have you got for supper, boy? What is that frizzing in your frying-pan? Smells good, anyhow.”
“Yes, and I expect will taste good too. However, you look after the moon, father, and leave me and the frying-pan to play our parts.”
“While I sing mine, I suppose, boy.
“The moon is up, round beauty’s shine,
Love’s pilgrims bend at vesper hour,
Earth breathes to heaven, and looks divine,
And lovers’ hearts confess her power.”
Old Tom stopped and the frying-pan frizzled on, sending forth an odour which, if not grateful to Heaven, was peculiarly so to us mortals, hungry with the fresh air.
“How do we go now, Jacob?”
“Steady, and all’s right; but we shall be met with the wind next reach, and had better brail up the mainsail.”
“Go, then, Tom, and help Jacob.”
“I can’t leave the ingons, (onions) father, not if the lighter tumbled overboard; it would bring more tears in my eyes to spoil them, now that they are frying so merrily, than they did when I was cutting them up. Besides, the liver would be as black as the bends.”
“Clap the frying-pan down on deck, Tom, and brail the sail up with Jacob, there’s a good boy. You can give it another shake or two afterwards.
“Guide on, my bark, how sweet to rove,
With such a beaming eye above!
“That’s right, my boys, belay all that; now to our stations; Jacob on the look-out, Tom to his frying-pan, and I to the helm—
“No sound is heard to break the spell,
Except the water’s gentle swell;
While midnight, like a mimic