The Pilot: A Tale of the SeaCooper, James Fenimore
History
The Pilot: A Tale of the Sea
Cooper, James Fenimore
Historical fiction; Sea stories; United States -- History -- Revolution, 1775-1783 -- Naval operations -- Fiction; War stories
“I'll not deny it,” said Manual, more stoutly; “I have served as a
marine for two years, though taken from the line of----”
“The army,” said Borroughcliffe, interrupting a most damning confession
of which “state line” the other had belonged to. “I kept a dog-watch,
myself, once, on board the fleet of my Lord Howe; but it is a service
that I do not envy any man. Our afternoon parades were dreadfully
unsteady, for it's a time, you know, when a man wants solid ground to
stand on. However, I purchased my company with some prize-money that
fell in my way, and I always remember the marine service with gratitude.
But this is dry work. I have put a bottle of sparkling Madeira in my
pocket, with a couple of glasses, which we will discuss while we talk
over more important matters. Thrust your hand into my right pocket;
I have been used to dress to the front so long, that it comes mighty
awkward to me to make this backward motion, as if it were into a
cartridge-box.”
Manual, who had been at a loss how to construe the manner of the other,
perceived at once a good deal of plain English in this request, and he
dislodged one of Colonel Howard's dusty bottles, with a dexterity
that denoted the earnestness of his purpose. Borroughcliffe had made
a suitable provision of glasses; and extracting the cork in a certain
scientific manner, he tendered to his companion a bumper of the liquor,
before another syllable was uttered by either of the expectants. The
gentlemen concluded their draughts with a couple of smacks, that sounded
not unlike the pistols of two practised duellists, though certainly a
much less alarming noise, when the entertainer renewed the discourse.
“I like one of your musty-looking bottles, that is covered with dust and
cobwebs, with a good southern tan on it,” he said. “Such liquor does not
abide in the stomach, but it gets into the heart at once, and becomes
blood in the beating of a pulse. But how soon I knew you! That sort of
knowledge is the freemasonry of our craft. I knew you to be the man you
are, the moment I laid eyes on you in what we call our guard-room; but
I thought I would humor the old soldier who lives here, by letting him
have the formula of an examination, as a sort of deference to his age
and former rank. But I knew you the instant I saw you. I have seen you
before!”
The theory of Borroughcliffe, in relation to the incorporation of wine
with the blood, might have been true in the case of the marine,
whose whole frame appeared to undergo a kind of magical change by
the experiment of drinking, which, the reader will understand, was
diligently persevered in while a drop remained in the bottle. The
perspiration no longer rolled from his brow, neither did his throat
manifest that uneasiness which had rendered such constant external
applications necessary; but he settled down into an air of cool but
curious interest, which, in some measure, was the necessary concomitant
of his situation.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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