Jacob Faithful. Фредерик Марриет

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СКАЧАТЬ single actions, and, at the battle of Trafalgar, had wound up his servitude with the loss of both his legs and an out-pension from the Greenwich Hospital, which he preferred to being received upon the establishment, as he had a wife and child. Since that time he had worked on the river. He was very active, and broad-shouldered, and had probably, before he lost his legs, been a man of at least five feet eleven or six feet high; but as he found that he could keep his balance better upon short stumps than long ones, he had reduced his wooden legs to about eight inches in length, which, with his square body, gave him the appearance of a huge dwarf. He bore, and I will say most deservedly, an excellent character. His temper was always cheerful, and he was a little inclined to drink: but the principal feature in him was lightness of heart; he was always singing. His voice was very fine and powerful. When in the service he used to be summoned to sing to the captain and officers, and was the delight of the forecastle. His memory was retentive, and his stock of songs incredible, at the same time, he seldom or ever sang more than one or two stanzas of a song in the way of quotation, or if apt to what was going on, often altering the words to suit the occasion. He was accompanied by his son Tom, a lad of my own age, as merry as his father, and who had a good treble voice and a good deal of humour; he would often take the song up from his father, with words of his own putting in, with ready wit and good tune. We three composed the crew of the lighter; and, as there had already been considerable loss from demurrage, were embarked as soon as they arrived. The name of the father was Tom Beazeley, but he was always known on the river as “old Tom” or, as some more learned wag had christened him, “the Merman on two sticks.” As soon as we had put our traps on board, as old Tom called them, he received his orders, and we cast off from the wharf. The wind was favourable. Young Tom was as active as a monkey, and as full of tricks. His father took the helm, while we two, assisted by a dog of the small Newfoundland breed, which Tom had taught to take a rope in his teeth, and be of no small service to two boys in bowsing on a tackle, made sail upon the lighter, and away we went, while old Tom’s strain might be heard from either shore.

      “Loose, loose every sail to the breeze,

          The course of the vessel improve,

      I’ve done with the toil of the seas,

          Ye sailors, I’m bound to my love.

      “Tom, you beggar, is the bundle ready for your mother? We must drop the skiff, Jacob, at Battersea reach, and send the clothes on shore for the old woman to wash, or there’ll be no clean shirts for Sunday. Shove in your shirts, Jacob; the old woman won’t mind that. She used to wash for the mess. Clap on, both of you, and get another pull at those haulyards. That’ll do, my bantams.

      “Hoist, hoist, every sail to the breeze,

          Come, shipmates, and join in the song,

      Let’s drink while the barge cuts the seas,

          To the gale that may drive her along.

      “Tom, where’s my pot of tea? Come, my boy, we must pipe to breakfast. Jacob, there’s a rope towing overboard. Now, Tom, hand me my tea, and I’ll steer her with one hand, drink with the other, and as for the legs, the less we say about them the better.

      “No glory I covet, no riches I want,

          Ambition is nothing to me.

      But one thing I beg of kind Heaven to grant—”

      Tom’s treble chimed in, handing him the pot—

      “For breakfast a good cup of tea.

      “Silence, you sea-cook! how dare you shove in your penny whistle! How’s tide, Tom?”

      “Three quarters ebb.”

      “No, it a’n’t, you thief; how is it Jacob?”

      “About half, I think.”

      “And you’re right.”

      “What water have we down here on the side?”

      “You must give the point a wide berth,” replied I; “the shoals runs out.”

      “Thanky, boy, so I thought, but wasn’t sure:” and then old Tom burst out in a beautiful air:

      “Trust not too much your own opinion,

          When your vessel’s under weigh,

      Let good advice still bear dominion;

          That’s a compass will not stray.”

      “Old Tom, is that you?” hallooed a man from another barge.

      “Yes; what’s left of me, my hearty.”

      “You’ll not fetch the bridges this tide—there’s a strong breeze right up the reaches below.”

      “Never mind, we’ll do all we can.

      “If unassailed by squall or shower,

          Wafted by the gentle gales

      Let’s not lose the favouring hour,

          While success attends our sails.”

      “Bravo, old Tom! why don’t the boys get the lines out, for all the fishes are listening for you,” cried the man, as the barges were parted by the wind and tide.

      “I did once belong to a small craft called the Anon,” observed old Tom, “and they say as how the story was, that that chap could make the fish follow him just when he pleased. I know that when we were in the North Sea the shoals of seals would follow the ship if you whistled; but these brutes have ears—now fish hav’n’t got none.

      “Oh well do I remember that cold dreary land,

           here the northern light,

          In the winter’s night,

      Shone bright on its snowy strand.

      “Jacob, have you finished your breakfast? Here, take the helm, while I and Tom put the craft a little into apple-pie order.”

      Old Tom then stumped forward, followed by his son and the Newfoundland dog, who appeared to consider himself as one of the most useful personages on board. After coiling down the ropes, and sweeping the decks, they went into the cabin to make their little arrangements.

      “A good lock that, Tom,” cried the father, turning the key of the cupboard. (I recollected it, and that its snapping so loud was the occasion of my being tossed overboard.) Old Tom continued: “I say, Tom, you won’t be able to open that cupboard, so I’ll put the sugar and the grog into it, you scamp. It goes too fast when you’re purser’s steward.

      “For grog is our larboard and starboard,

          Our main-mast, our mizzen, our log,

      On shore, or at sea, or when harbour’d,

          The mariner’s compass is grog.”

      “But it arn’t a compass to steer steady by, father,” replied Tom.

      “Then don’t you have nothing to do with it, Tom.”

      “I only takes a little, father, because you mayn’t take too much.”

      “Thanky for nothing; when do I ever take too much, you scamp?”

      “Not too much for a man standing on his own pins, but too much for a man on two broomsticks.”

      “Stop your jaw, Mr СКАЧАТЬ