Shifting Winds: A Tough Yarn. Robert Michael Ballantyne

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      It may be as well to remark here, good reader, that at the time of which I write I was unacquainted, as a matter of course, with many of the facts which I am now narrating: they were made known to me piecemeal in the course of after years. I feel that this explanation is necessary in order to account for my otherwise unaccountable knowledge of things that were said and done when I was not present.

      Chapter Seven.

      Lizzie Gordon is run away with, and Gaff is “pumped”

      The road to the Cove lay along the top of the cliffs, and was in many parts exceedingly picturesque; now passing, in the form of a mere bridle-path, along the verge of the precipices, where thousands of sea-gulls floated around the giddy heights, or darted down into the waves which fell on shingly beach, or promontory, or bay of yellow sand, far below; anon cutting across the grassy downs on some bold headland, or diverging towards the interior, and descending into a woody dell in order to avoid a creek or some other arm of the sea that had cleft the rocks and intruded on the land.

      The day was sunny and sufficiently warm to render a slow pace agreeable to my nag, which was a sedate animal, inclined to corpulency like myself. My young companions and their horses were incapable of restraining themselves to my pace, so they dashed on ahead at intervals, and sometimes came back to me at full gallop. At other times they dismounted and stood on the cliffs looking at the view of the sea, which appeared to them, as it has always been to me, enchanting.

      I think a view from a high cliff of the great blue sea, dotted with the white and brown sails of ships and boats, is one of the grandest as well as the most pleasant prospects under the sun.

      Kenneth Stuart thought so too, for I heard him make use of that or some similar expression to Lizzie as he stood beside her talking earnestly, in spite of the light and jocular remarks of my son, who stood at Lizzie’s other side commenting on things in general with that easy freedom of speech which is characteristic of middies in the British navy, although not entirely confined to them.

      The party had dismounted, and Kenneth held Lizzie’s horse by the bridle, while Gildart held his own. Bucephalus was roaming at large. His master had trained him so thoroughly that he was as obedient as a dog. He followed Kenneth about, and would trot up to him when he whistled. I don’t think I ever saw such a magnificent horse, as to size, beauty, and spirit, coupled with docility, either before or since.

      “Why, uncle, we thought you must have gone to sleep,” said Lizzie, turning towards me with a laugh as I rode up.

      “Or fallen over the cliffs,” added Gildart.

      “In either case you would not have taken it much to heart, apparently,” said I; “come, mount and push on.”

      Lizzie placed her little foot in Kenneth’s hand, and was in the saddle like a flash of thought, and with the lightness of a rose-leaf. Gildart, being a little fellow, and his horse a tall one, got into the saddle, according to his own statement, as a lands-man clambers into the main-top through the “lubber’s hole” in a squall; and I think the idea was not far-fetched, for, during the process of mounting, his steed was plunging like a ship in a heavy sea. Bucephalus came up at once when whistled to.

      “You seem very fond of your horse,” said Lizzie, as Kenneth vaulted into the saddle.

      “I love him,” replied the youth enthusiastically.

      “You love other creatures besides horses,” thought I; but the thought had barely passed through my brain when Lizzie went off like an arrow. Kenneth sprang forward like a thunderbolt, and Gildart followed—if I may so speak—like a zig-zag cracker. Now, it chanced that Lizzie’s horse was in a bad humour that morning, so it ran away, just as the party came to a grassy slope of half a mile in extent. At the end of this slope the road made a sharp turn, and descended abruptly to the beach. Kenneth knew that if the horse came to this turn at a furious gallop, nothing could save Lizzie from destruction. He therefore took the only course open to him, which was to go by a short cut close along the edge of the cliff, and thus overshoot and intercept the runaway. He dashed spurs into Bucephalus, and was off like an arrow from a bow. There was but one point of danger—a place where the bridle-path was crossed by a fence, beyond which the road turned sharp to the left. The risk lay in the difficulty of making the leap and the turn almost at the same instant. To fail in this would result in horse and man going over the cliff and being dashed to pieces. On they went like the wind, while my son and I followed as fast as we could.

      “Bravo, Kenneth!” shouted Gildart, as Bucephalus took the fence like a deer, and disappeared.

      Gildart did not know the dangers of the leap: I did, and hastened to the spot with a feeling of intense alarm. On reaching it I saw Kenneth flying far down the slope. He was just in time; a few seconds more, and Lizzie would have been lost. But the bold youth reached the road in time, caught her bridle, reined the horse almost on his haunches, then turned him gradually aside until he galloped with him to a place of safety.

      This episode induced us to ride the rest of the way in a more leisurely fashion.

      Arrived at Cove, we each went on our several pieces of business, arranging to meet at the north end of the village in about an hour afterwards.

      Kenneth found Stephen Gaff at home. Leaving Lizzie to make inquiry as to the health of John Furby, he took the seaman out and walked towards the Downs.

      “Well, Stephen, you have been wrecked again, I am told?” said Kenneth.

      “So I have, sir; it’s the sixth time now. It’s quite plain I ain’t born to be drownded. I only hope as how I won’t live to be hanged.”

      “I hope not, Stephen. What was the name of the ship?”

      “The ‘Fairy Queen.’”

      “The ‘Fairy Queen,’” echoed Kenneth, with a slight feeling of disappointment; “from Australia?”

      “Yes, from Australia.”

      “Did she go to pieces?”

      “Ay, not an inch of her left. She was an old rotten tub not fit for sea.”

      “Indeed! That’s by no means an uncommon state of things,” said Kenneth, with some degree of warmth. “It seems to me that until men in power take the matter up, and get a more rigid system of inspection instituted, hundreds of lives will continue to be sacrificed every year. It is an awful thing to think that more than a thousand lives are lost annually on our shores, and that because of the indifference of those who have the power, to a large extent, to prevent it. But that is not the point on which I want to speak to you to-day. Was the ‘Fairy Queen’ bound for this port?”

      “No; for the port of London,” said Gaff, with a cautious glance at his questioner.

      “Then why did she make for Wreckumoft?” inquired Kenneth.

      “That’s best known to the cap’n, who’s gone to his long home,” said Gaff gravely.

      “Were all lost except yourself?” pursued Kenneth, regarding his companion’s face narrowly; but the said face exhibited no expression whatever as its owner replied simply—

      “It’s more than I can tell; mayhap some of ’em were carried away on bits o’ wreck and may turn up yet.”

      “At all events none of them came ashore, to your knowledge?”

      “I believe that every СКАЧАТЬ