Household words, No. 4, April 20, 1850 — John Shaqi
Household words, No. 4, April 20, 1850
General
Household words, No. 4, April 20, 1850
English literature -- Periodicals
‘My duty!’ ejaculated Flashley, ‘Attend to my duty! Oh, what _is_ my
duty?’ His eyes wandered round. Nothing but hard black planks and
timbers, and masts with reefed sails, and rigging all covered with
coal-dust, met his gaze. The sky, however, was visible above him—_that_
was a great comfort.
‘Scrape these carrots and parsnips,’ said the Captain solemnly, ‘very
clean, d’ye mind!—and take them to the cook in the galley, who’ll let
you know what’s next. When he has done with you, clean my sea-boots, and
grease them with candle-ends; dry my peajacket, pilot-coat, and
dreadnoughts; clean my pipe, and fill it—light, and take three whiffs to
start it; mix me a glass of grog, and bring it with the lighted pipe;
then, go and lend a hand in tarring the weather-rigging, and stand by,
to go aloft and ease down the fore-top-gallant mast when the mate wants
her on deck.’
‘Oh, heavens!’ thought Flashley, ‘are these then my duties! This hideous
black ship must be a collier—and I am the cabinboy!’
A mixed impulse of equal curiosity and apprehension (it certainly was
from no anxiety to commence his miscellaneous duties) caused him to
‘inquire his way’ to the cook’s galley. He was presently taken to a
square enclosure, not unlike a great black rabbit-hutch, open at both
sides, in which he was received by a man of large proportions, who was
seated on an inverted iron saucepan, smoking. The black visage gave a
grim smile and familiar wink. It could not be the miner who had acted as
his guide and companion underground! And yet—
Flashley stepped back hastily, and cast an anxious look towards the
after-part of the deck. There stood the Captain. A short yet very
heavily-built figure,—a kind of stunted giant. He was not an Indian, nor
a Mulatto, nor an African,—and yet his face was as black as a coal, in
which several large veins rose prominently, and had a dull yellow tinge,
as if they had been run with gold, or some metallic substance of that
colour. Who could he be? Some demon _incog._? No, not that—but some one
whom Flashley held in equal awe.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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