The Red Eric, R. M. Ballantyne [popular e readers txt] 📗
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Red Eric, R. M. Ballantyne [popular e readers txt] 📗». Author R. M. Ballantyne
Captain Dunning stood with his back to the fireplace in the back-parlour of a temperance coffee-house in a certain town on the eastern seaboard of America.
The name of that town is unimportant, and, for reasons with which the reader has nothing to do, we do not mean to disclose it.
Captain Dunning, besides being the owner and commander of a South Sea whale-ship, was the owner of a large burly body, a pair of broad shoulders, a pair of immense red whiskers that met under his chin, a short, red little nose, a large firm mouth, and a pair of light-blue eyes, which, according to their owner’s mood, could flash like those of a tiger or twinkle sweetly like the eyes of a laughing child. But his eyes seldom flashed; they more frequently twinkled, for the captain was the very soul of kindliness and good-humour. Yet he was abrupt and sharp in his manner, so that superficial observers sometimes said he was hasty.
Captain Dunning was, so to speak, a sample of three primary colours—red, blue, and yellow—a walking fragment, as it were, of the rainbow. His hair and face, especially the nose, were red; his eyes, coat, and pantaloons were blue, and his waistcoat was yellow.
At the time we introduce him to the reader he was standing, as we have said, with his back to the fireplace, although there was no fire, the weather being mild, and with his hands in his breeches pockets. Having worked with the said hands for many long years before the mast, until he had at last worked himself behind the mast, in other words, on to the quarterdeck and into possession of his own ship, the worthy captain conceived that he had earned the right to give his hands a long rest; accordingly he stowed them away in his pockets and kept them there at all times, save when necessity compelled him to draw them forth.
“Very odd,” remarked Captain Dunning, looking at his black straw hat which lay on the table before him, as if the remark were addressed to it—“very odd if, having swallowed the cow, I should now be compelled to worry at the tail.”
As the black straw hat made no reply, the captain looked up at the ceiling, but not meeting with any response from that quarter, he looked out at the window and encountered the gaze of a seaman flattening his nose on a pane of glass, and looking in.
The captain smiled. “Ah! here’s a tail at last,” he said, as the seaman disappeared, and in another moment reappeared at the door with his hat in his hand.
It may be necessary, perhaps, to explain that Captain Dunning had just succeeded in engaging a first-rate crew for his next whaling voyage (which was the “cow” he professed to have swallowed), with the exception of a cook (which was the “tail,” at which he feared he might be compelled to worry).
“You’re a cook, are you?” he asked, as the man entered and nodded.
“Yes, sir,” answered the “tail,” pulling his forelock.
“And an uncommonly ill-favoured rascally-looking cook you are,” thought the captain; but he did not say so, for he was not utterly regardless of men’s feelings. He merely said, “Ah!” and then followed it up with the abrupt question—
“Do you drink?”
“Yes, sir, and smoke too,” replied the “tail,” in some surprise.
“Very good; then you can go,” said the captain, shortly.
“Eh!” exclaimed the man:
“You can go,” repeated the captain. “You won’t suit. My ship is a temperance ship, and all the hands are teetotalers. I have found from experience that men work better, and speak better, and in every way act better, on tea and coffee than on spirits. I don’t object to their smoking; but I don’t allow drinkin’ aboard my ship; so you won’t do, my man. Good-morning.”
The “tail” gazed at the captain in mute amazement.
“Ah! you may look,” observed the captain, replying to the gaze; “but you may also mark my words, if you will. I’ve not sailed the ocean for thirty years for nothing. I’ve seen men in hot seas and in cold—on grog, and on tea—and I know that coffee and tea carry men through the hardest work better than grog. I also know that there’s a set o’ men in this world who look upon teetotalers as very soft chaps—old wives, in fact. Very good,” (here the captain waxed emphatic, and struck his fist on the table.) “Now look here, young man, I’m an old wife, and my ship’s manned by similar old ladies; so you won’t suit.”
To this the seaman made no reply, but feeling doubtless, as he regarded the masculine specimen before him, that he would be quite out of his element among such a crew of females, he thrust a quid of tobacco into his cheek, put on his hat, turned on his heel and left the room, shutting the door after him with a bang.
He had scarcely left when a tap at the door announced a second visitor.
“Hum! Another ‘tail,’ I suppose. Come in.”
If the new-comer was a “tail,” he was decidedly a long one, being six feet three in his stockings at the very least.
“You wants a cook, I b’lieve?” said the man, pulling off his hat.
“I do. Are you one?”
“Yes, I jist guess I am. Bin a cook for fifteen year.”
“Been to sea as a cook?” inquired the captain.
“I jist have. Once to the South Seas, twice to the North, an’ once round the world. Cook all the time. I’ve roasted, and stewed, and grilled, and fried, and biled, right round the ’arth, I have.”
Being apparently satisfied with the man’s account of himself, Captain Dunning put to him the question—“Do you drink?”
“Ay, like a fish; for I drinks nothin’ but water, I don’t. Bin born and raised in the State of Maine, d’ye see, an’ never tasted a drop all my life.”
“Very good,” said the captain, who plumed himself on being a clever physiognomist, and had already formed a good opinion of the man. “Do you ever swear?”
“Never, but when I can’t help it.”
“And when’s that?”
“When I’m fit to bu’st.”
“Then,” replied the captain, “you must learn to bu’st without swearin’, ’cause I don’t allow it aboard my ship.”
The man evidently regarded his questioner as a very extraordinary and eccentric individual; but he merely replied, “I’ll try;” and after a little further conversation an agreement was come to; the man was sent away with orders to repair on board immediately, as everything was in readiness to “up anchor and away next morning.”
Having thus satisfactorily and effectually disposed of the “tail,” Captain Dunning put on his hat very much on the back of his head, knit his brows, and pursed his lips firmly, as if he had still some important duty to perform; then, quitting the hotel, he traversed the streets of the town with rapid strides.
In the centre of the town whose name we have declined to communicate, there stood a house—a small house—so small that it might have been more appropriately, perhaps, styled a cottage. This house had a yellow-painted face, with a green door in the middle, which might have been regarded as its nose, and a window on each side thereof, which might have been considered its eyes. Its nose was, as we have said, painted green, and its eyes had green Venetian eyelids, which were half shut at the moment Captain Dunning walked up to it as if it were calmly contemplating that seaman’s general appearance.
There was a small garden in front of the house, surrounded on three sides by a low fence. Captain Dunning pushed open the little gate, walked up to the nose of the house, and hit it several severe blows with his knuckles. The result was that the nose opened, and a servant-girl appeared in the gap.
“Is your mistress at home?” inquired the captain.
“Guess she is—both of ’em!” replied the girl.
“Tell both of ’em I’m here, then,” said the captain, stepping into the little parlour without further ceremony; “and is my little girl in?”
“Yes, she’s in.”
“Then send her here too, an’ look alive, lass.” So saying, Captain Dunning sat down on the sofa, and began to beat the floor with his right foot somewhat impatiently.
In another second a merry little voice was heard in the passage, the door burst open, a fair-haired girl of about ten years of age sprang into the room, and immediately commenced to strangle her father in a series of violent embraces.
“Why, Ailie, my darling, one would think you had not seen me for fifty years at least,” said the captain, holding his daughter at arm’s-length, in order the more satisfactorily to see her.
“It’s a whole week, papa, since you last came to see me,” replied the little one, striving to get at her father’s neck again, “and I’m sure it seems to me like a hundred years at least.”
As the child said this she threw her little arms round her father, and kissed his large, weather-beaten visage all over—eyes, mouth, nose, chin, whiskers, and, in fact, every attainable spot. She did it so vigorously, too, that an observer would have been justified in expecting that her soft, delicate cheeks would be lacerated by the rough contact; but they were not. The result was a heightening of the colour, nothing more. Having concluded this operation, she laid her cheek on the captain’s and endeavoured to clasp her hands at the back of his neck, but this was no easy matter. The captain’s neck was a remarkably thick one, and the garments about that region were voluminous; however, by dint of determination, she got the small fingers intertwined, and then gave him a squeeze that ought to have choked him, but it didn’t: many a strong man had tried that in his day, and had failed signally.
“You’ll stay a long time with me before you go away to sea again, won’t you, dear papa?” asked the child earnestly, after she had given up the futile effort to strangle him.
“How like!” murmured the captain, as if to himself, and totally unmindful of the question, while he parted the fair curls and kissed Ailie’s forehead.
“Like what, papa?”
“Like your mother—your beloved mother,” replied the captain, in a low, sad voice.
The child became instantly grave, and she looked up in her father’s face with an expression of awe, while he dropped his eyes on the floor.
Poor Alice had never known a mother’s love. Her mother died when she was a few weeks old, and she had been confided to the care of two maiden aunts—excellent ladies, both of them; good beyond expression; correct almost to a fault; but prim, starched, and extremely self-possessed and judicious, so much so that they were injudicious enough to repress some of the best impulses of their natures, under the impression that a certain amount of dignified formality was essential to good breeding and good morals in every relation of life.
Dear, good, starched Misses Dunning! if they had had their way, boys would have played cricket and football with polite urbanity, and girls would have kissed their playmates with gentle solemnity. They did their best to subdue little Alice, but that was impossible. The child would rush about the house at all unexpected and often inopportune seasons, like a furiously insane kitten and she would disarrange their collars too violently every evening when she bade them good-night.
Alice was intensely sympathetic. It was quite enough for her to see any one in tears, to cause her to open up the flood-gates of her eyes and weep—she knew not and she cared not why. She threw her arms round her father’s neck again, and hugged him,
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