My Shipmate Louise: The Romance of a Wreck, Volume 3 (of 3)Russell, William Clark
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My Shipmate Louise: The Romance of a Wreck, Volume 3 (of 3)
Russell, William Clark
Sea stories; Shipwrecks -- Fiction
At long intervals I would exchange a few sentences with Joe Wetherly.
Unfortunately, he was in the carpenter’s watch, and my opportunities,
therefore, for speaking with him were few. It was only now and again,
when he was required to keep a lookout for Lush or myself, that I
contrived to gather what was going forward amongst the men by engaging
him in a brief chat before he quitted the poop. I was so sensible of
being keenly observed by all hands, that I was obliged to exercise the
utmost caution in speaking to this man. On the poop there was always the
fellow at the helm to observe me; and the quarter-deck was within the
easy reach of men stirring about the galley, or leaving or entering the
forecastle.
However, it happened one dog-watch that Wetherly came aft instead of the
carpenter to relieve me. Mr. Lush, he told me, felt unwell, and had
asked him to stand his watch from eight to twelve. It was a clear night,
but dark, the south-east trade-wind strong off the port beam, and the
weather dry and cold, with a frosty glitter in the trembling of the
stars which enriched the heavens with such a multitude of white and
green lights that the firmament seemed to hover over our mastheads like
some vast sheet of black velvet gloriously spangled with brilliants and
emeralds and dust of diamonds and tender miracles of delicate prisms.
Miss Temple had left me some twenty minutes or so, and was now in the
cabin, seated at the table under the lamp, with a pencil in her hand,
with which she drew outlines upon a sheet of paper with an air of
profound absent-mindedness. She wore over her dress a knitted waistcoat
that had belonged to the captain; it stretched to her figure, and it was
already a need even in the day-time with the sun shining brightly, for
we were penetrating well to the southwards, and every score of miles
which the nimble keel of the barque could measure made a sensible
difference in the temperature of even the shelter in the cabin. It was
too dark to distinguish Wetherly until he was close. On hearing that he
was to keep the deck until twelve, I determined to have a long chat with
him, to get with some thoroughness at his views, which, to a certain
extent, I had found a bit puzzling, and to gather what information I
could from him touching the behaviour I might expect in the crew if
there should be no gold, or, which was the same, no island.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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