Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. Vol. 3 (of 3)Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
General
Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. Vol. 3 (of 3)
Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
New Forest (England : Forest) -- Fiction
The under–supercargo heeded not these laconic interchanges. The
oppression was too great for him. Amid that universal blaze and
downright pour of stifling heat, his mind was gone woolgathering back
into the old New Forest. The pleasant stir of the stripling leaves,
the shadows weaving their morrice–dance, and trooping away on the
grass–tufts at the pensive steps of evening; the sound and scent of
the vernal wind among the blowing gorse; the milky splash of the
cuckoo–flower in swarded breaks of woodland, the bees in the belfry of
cowslips, the frill of the white wind–flower, and the fleeting scent
of violets—all these in their form and colour moved, or lay in their
beauty before him, while he was leaning against the side–rail, and it
burned his hand to touch it.
“Wants a wet swab on his nob,” said the first mate, tersely; “never
come to himself sure as my name is Cracklins.”
“Donʼt agree with you,” answered the captain, who always snubbed the
mate; “heʼs a sight better now than at Blackwall. Poor young gent, I
like him.”
“So do I,” said the mate, pouring out more boiling beer; “but that
ainʼt much to do with it. Thereʼs the wet swab anyhow.”
About an hour before sunset, when the sky was purple, and the hot
vapours piling away in slow drifts, like large haycocks walking, a
gentle breeze came up and made little finger–marks on the water. First
it awoke shy glances and glosses, light as the play upon richly–glazed
silk, or the glimpse upon mother–of–pearl. Then it breathed on the
lips of men, and they sucked at it as at spring–water. Then it came
sliding, curling, ruffling, breaking the image of sky upon sea, but
bringing earthly life and courage, hope, and the spirit of motion. Many
a rough and gruff tar shed tears, not knowing the least about them,
only from natureʼs good–will and power, as turpentine flows from the
pine–wood.
“Hearty, my lads, and bear a hand.” “Pipe my eye, and be blessed to
me!” They rasped it off with their tarry knuckles, and would knock down
any one of canine extraction, who dared to say wet was the white of
their eyes.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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