The Yarn of Old Harbour TownRussell, William Clark
General
The Yarn of Old Harbour Town
Russell, William Clark
English fiction -- 20th century; Historical fiction; Sea stories
"I quite agree, but it is so unusual for Tupman to be out of bed at
this hour that we cannot but think that something very important
and dangerous has called him from his moorings. No, sister, the
flat-bottomed boats are not in sight yet, and I suspect we shall
have to go on staring for many a week, and many a month, if not for
ever, before we sight them coming along in a shoal with the little
cocked-hatted usurper, his arms folded upon his breast, watching the
van from the hindmost, for he is one of those mighty conquerors who are
very careful of their own precious carcasses."
It was as Captain Acton said: the _Saucy_ brig-of-war was getting under
weigh, and it might be safely concluded for no other purpose than to
exercise the crew by an off-shore trip. Captain Acton and the two
ladies stood watching the little toy figure away down in the river's
mouth. Sail was made with man-of-war despatch; all the clews were
sheeted home together, the yards at the same time mounting, so that all
at once it seemed the little vessel broke into a broad, bright, shapely
glare of canvas, slightly leaning from the breeze as she softly crept
round and pointed her bowsprit seaward, and whitening the water under
her with the power of a floating body of radiance.
"Well done, Tupman!" cried Captain Acton, who watched the manoeuvre
with a sailor's interest. "Sluggard as you are, you have your little
ship and her people well in hand. I wonder if there's a foreigner
afloat that could have made sail with the despatch that brig exhibited?"
The little leaning vessel, diminished by the distance from which she
was surveyed into a size fit only to be manned by Liliputian sailors,
crept like a small white cloud along the placid water of Old Harbour,
and rounding the pier hauled the wind for a south-westerly course.
They watched her as she streamed onwards with a sparkle as pretty as
a rainbow at her fore-foot, and a short scope of trembling lustre
astern as though she towed a length of satin. A few minutes before
she disappeared from the sight of those who viewed her from the lawn
of Old Harbour House, past the bluff or round of cliff on which stood
the dropsical old lighthouse, she dipped her flag manifestly in
response to a hidden salutation, and scarcely had she vanished when
there stole out from the edge of the cliff round which she had gone,
the slanting figure of a large three-masted schooner with the English
ensign at her peak. She was steering directly for Old Harbour. Though
she had evidently come a long journey, she made upon those silver-white
rippling waters a far handsomer figure than the brig. She was clothed
from truck to waterway with sails which reflected the light of the
morning with something of the splendour of polished metal. Her hull
was black, but she was inclined sufficiently by the breeze to reveal a
narrow breadth of copper sheathing, which sprang pulses of wet dazzling
light upon the eye in keen flashes like gun fire.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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