My Shipmate Louise: The Romance of a Wreck, Volume 1 (of 3)Russell, William Clark
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My Shipmate Louise: The Romance of a Wreck, Volume 1 (of 3)
Russell, William Clark
Sea stories; Shipwrecks -- Fiction
‘What is it?’ inquired Mr. Cocker.
‘Am I expected to stand here alone, sir?’ asked the fellow.
‘Certainly. What! On a fine night like this? What do you want? That I
should call hands to the relieving tackles?’ cried the second-mate.
The man sent a look up at the stars before answering, with a sort of
cowering air in the posture of his head.
‘One of them blooming boomerangs,’ said he, ‘might come along again,
sir. What’s a man to do if time ain’t allowed him to get out of the
road?’
‘Your having a companion won’t help you,’ said the second-mate.
‘I dunno,’ answered the fellow. ‘Whatever it be that chucks the like of
them things, might hold off at the sight of _two_ of us.’
The second-mate stood looking at him a little, and then burst into a
laugh.
‘Well, well!’ said he; ‘if there’s ever a lead-line to sound the depths
of forecastle ignorance, I allow there must be fathoms enough of it to
belay an end to the moon’s horns.’
Nevertheless he called to one of the watch to come aft and hold the
wheel with the other man, making some allowance, I daresay, for the
superstitious feelings which possessed the sailor, and which were
certainly not to be softened down by the sight of the great bloodstain
close to his feet.
I went below for a glass of brandy, and found the passengers listening
to Mr. Saunders, who, with the meteorolite before him, was delivering
a discourse on that kind of stone, pointing to it with his finger,
speaking very slowly and emphatically, and looking in his wistful way
up into the faces of his audience. Even Miss Temple seemed interested,
and stood listening with her back against the mizzen-mast, the
embellished trunk of which formed a very noble fanciful background
for her fine figure. However, I was more in the temper for a pipe of
tobacco than for a lecture, and was presently on deck again, for after
half-past nine o’clock in the evening we were privileged to smoke
upon the poop. Colledge presently joined me; but in twenty minutes
he gave a prodigious yawn and then went to bed; and I paced the deck
alone, with deep enjoyment of the hush coming to the ship out of the
dark scintillant distance--a silence of ocean-night that seemed to
be deepened to the senses by the marble stillness of the wide white
pinions stealing and floating up in a sort of glimmer of spaces to the
faint mist-like square of the main royal. There was a faint noise
of trembling and rippling waters over the side, and the line of the
taffrail with the two fellows at the wheel rose and fell very softly to
the black secret heave of the long deep-sea undulation. The cuddy lamps
were dimmed, the interior deserted; there was a small group of smokers
on the quarter-deck in the shadow of the bulwark conversing quietly;
abaft the mizzen rigging flitted the dusky form of old Keeling, who had
come up to take a turn or two and a final squint at the weather before
turning in.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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