Captains Courageous by Rudyard Kipling (e manga reader .txt) đ
- Author: Rudyard Kipling
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âBen Ireson he was skipper oâ the Betty, young feller, cominâ home frum the Banksâthat was before the war of 1812, but jestice is jestice at all times. They fund the Active oâ Portland, anâ Gibbons oâ that town he was her skipper; they fund her leakinâ off Cape Cod Light. There was a terrâble gale on, anâ they was gettinâ the Betty home âs fast as they could craowd her. Well, Ireson he said there warnât any sense to reskinâ a boat in that sea; the men they wouldnât hev it; and he laid it before them to stay by the Active till the sea run daown a piece. They wouldnât hev that either, hanginâ araound the Cape in any sech weather, leak or no leak. They jest up staysâl anâ quit, natârally takinâ Ireson with âem. Folks to Marblehead was mad at him not runninâ the risk, and becaze nexâ day, when the sea was caâam (they never stopped to think oâ that), some of the Activeâs folks was took off by a Truro man. They come into Marblehead with their own tale to tell, sayinâ how Ireson had shamed his town, anâ so forth anâ so on, anâ Iresonâs men they was scared, seeinâ public feelinâ aginâ âem, anâ they went back on Ireson, anâ swore he was responsâble for the hull act. âTwerenât the women neither that tarred and feathered himâMarblehead women donât act that wayââtwas a passel oâ men anâ boys, anâ they carted him araound town in an old dory till the bottom fell aout, and Ireson he told âem theyâd be sorry for it some day. Well, the facts come aout later, sameâs they usually do, too late to be any ways useful to an honest man; anâ Whittier he come along anâ picked up the slack eend of a lyinâ tale, anâ tarred and feathered Ben Ireson all over onct more after he was dead. âTwas the only tune Whittier ever slipped up, anâ âtwerenât fair. I whaled Dan good when he brought that piece back from school. You donât know no better, oâ course; but Iâve give you the facts, hereafter anâ evermore to be remembered. Ben Ireson werenât no sech kind oâ man as Whittier makes aout; my father he knew him well, before anâ after that business, anâ you beware oâ hasty jedgments, young feller. Next!â
Harvey had never heard Disko talk so long, and collapsed with burning cheeks; but, as Dan said promptly, a boy could only learn what he was taught at school, and life was too short to keep track of every lie along the coast.
Then Manuel touched the jangling, jarring little machette to a queer tune, and sang something in Portuguese about âNina, innocente!â ending with a full-handed sweep that brought the song up with a jerk. Then Disko obliged with his second song, to an old-fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in the chorus. This is one stanza:
âNow Aprile is over and melted the snow, And outer Noo Bedford we shortly must tow; Yes, out oâ Noo Bedford we shortly must clear, Weâre the whalers that never see wheat in the ear.â
Here the fiddle went very softly for a while by itself, and then:
âWheat-in-the-ear, my true-loveâs posy blowin, Wheat-in-the-ear, weâre goinâ off to sea; Wheat-in-the-ear, I left you fit for sowin, When I come back a loaf oâ bread youâll be!â
That made Harvey almost weep, though he could not tell why. But it was much worse when the cook dropped the potatoes and held out his hands for the fiddle. Still leaning against the locker door, he struck into a tune that was like something very bad but sure to happen whatever you did. After a little he sang, in an unknown tongue, his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight. Harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail.
âJimmy Christmas! Thet gives me the blue creevles,â said Dan. âWhat in thunder is it?â
âThe song of Fin McCoul,â said the cook, âwhen he wass going to Norway.â His English was not thick, but all clear-cut, as though it came from a phonograph.
âFaith, Iâve been to Norway, but I didnât make that unwholesim noise. âTis like some of the old songs, though,â said Long Jack, sighing.
âDonât letâs hev another âthout somethinâ between,â said Dan; and the accordion struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended:
âItâs six anâ twenty Sundays sence lasâ we saw the land, With fifteen hunder quintal, Anâ fifteen hunder quintal, âTeen hunder toppinâ quintal, âTwixâ old âQueereau anâ Grand!â
âHold on!â roared Tom Platt. âDâye want to nail the trip, Dan? Thatâs Jonah sure, âless you sing it after all our saltâs wet.â
âNo, âtainât, is it, Dad? Not unless you sing the very lasâ verse. You canât learn me anything on Jonahs!â
âWhatâs that?â said Harvey. âWhatâs a Jonah?â
âA Jonahâs anything that spoils the luck. Sometimes itâs a manâsometimes itâs a boyâor a bucket. Iâve known a splittinâ-knife Jonah two trips till we was on to her,â said Tom Platt. âThereâs all sorts oâ Jonahs. Jim Bourke was one till he was drowned on Georges. Iâd never ship with Jim Bourke, not if I was starvinâ. There wuz a green dory on the Ezra Flood. Thet was a Jonah, too, the worst sort oâ Jonah. Drowned four men, she did, anâ used to shine fiery O, nights in the nestâ
âAnd you believe that?â said Harvey, remembering what Tom Platt had said about candles and models. âHavenât we all got to take whatâs served?â
A mutter of dissent ran round the bunks. âOutboard, yes; inboard, things can happen,â said Disko. âDonât you go makinâ a mock of Jonahs, young feller.â
âWell, Harve ainât no Jonah. Day after we catched him,â Dan cut in, âwe had a toppinâ good catch.â
The cook threw up his head and laughed suddenlyâa queer, thin laugh. He was a most disconcerting nigger.
âMurder!â said Long Jack. âDonât do that again, doctor. We ainât used to ut.â
âWhatâs wrong?â said Dan. âAinât he our mascot, and didnât they strike on good after weâd struck him?â
âOh! yess,â said the cook. âI know that, but the catch iss not finish yet.â
âHe ainât goinâ to do us any harm,â said Dan, hotly. âWhere are ye hintinâ anâ edginâ to? Heâs all rightâ
âNo harm. No. But one day he will be your master, Danny.â
âThat all?â said Dan, placidly. âHe wunâtânot by a jugful.â
âMaster!â said the cook, pointing to Harvey. âMan!â and he pointed to Dan.
âThatâs news. Haow soon?â said Dan, with a laugh.
âIn some years, and I shall see it. Master and manâman and master.â
âHow in thunder dâye work that out?â said Tom Platt.
âIn my head, where I can see.â
âHaow?â This from all the others at once.
âI do not know, but so it will be.â He dropped his head, and went on peeling the potatoes, and not another word could they get out of him.
âWell,â said Dan, âa heap oâ thingsâll hev to come abaout âfore Harveâs any master oâ mine; but Iâm glad the doctor ainât choosen to mark him for a Jonah. Now, I mistrust Uncle Salters fer the Jonerest Jonah in the Fleet regardinâ his own special luck. Dunno ef itâs spreadinâ sameâs smallpox. He ought to be on the Carrie Pitman. That boatâs her own Jonah, sureâcrews anâ gear made no differ to her driftinâ. Jiminy Christmas! Sheâll etch loose in a flat caâam.â
âWeâre well clear oâ the Fleet, anyway,â said Disko. âCarrie Pitman anâ all.â There was a rapping on the deck.
âUncle Salters has catched his luck,â said Dan as his father departed.
âItâs blown clear,â Disko cried, and all the focâsle tumbled up for a bit of fresh air. The fog had gone, but a sullen sea ran in great rollers behind it. The âWeâre Hereâ slid, as it were, into long, sunk avenues and ditches which felt quite sheltered and homelike if they would only stay still; but they changed without rest or mercy, and flung up the schooner to crown one peak of a thousand gray hills, while the wind hooted through her rigging as she zigzagged down the slopes. Far away a sea would burst into a sheet of foam, and the others would follow suit as at a signal, till Harveyâs eyes swam with the vision of interlacing whites and grays. Four or five Mother Careyâs chickens stormed round in circles, shrieking as they swept past the bows. A rain-squall or two strayed aimlessly over the hopeless waste, ran down âwind and back again, and melted away.
âSeems to me I saw somethinâ flicker jest naow over yonder,â said Uncle Salters, pointing to the northeast.
âCanât be any of the fleet,â said Disko, peering under his eyebrows, a hand on the focâsle gangway as the solid bows hatcheted into the troughs. âSeaâs oilinâ over dretful fast. Danny, donât you want to skip up a piece anâ see how aour trawl-buoy lays?â
Danny, in his big boots, trotted rather than climbed up the main rigging (this consumed Harvey with envy), hitched himself around the reeling crosstrees, and let his eye rove till it caught the tiny black buoy-flag on the shoulder of a mile-away swell.
âSheâs all right,â he hailed. âSail O! Dead to the noâthâard, corainâ down like smoke! Schooner she be, too.ââ
They waited yet another half-hour, the sky clearing in patches, with a flicker of sickly sun from time to time that made patches of olive-green water. Then a stump-foremast lifted, ducked, and disappeared, to be followed on the next wave by a high stern with old-fashioned wooden snailâs-horn davits. The snails were red-tanned.
âFrenchmen!â shouted Dan. âNo, âtainât, neither. Daad!â
âThatâs no French,â said Disko. âSalters, your blame luck holds tighterân a screw in a keg-head.â
âIâve eyes. Itâs Uncle Abishai.â
âYou canât nowise tell fer sure.â
âThe head-king of all Jonahs,â groaned Tom Platt. âOh, Salters, Salters, why wasnât you abed anâ asleep?â
âHow could I tell?â said poor Salters, as the schooner swung up.
She might have been the very Flying Dutchman, so foul, draggled, and unkempt was every rope and stick aboard. Her old-style quarterdeck was some or five feet high, and her rigging flew knotted and tangled like weed at a wharf-end. She was running before the windâyawing frightfullyâher staysail let down to act as a sort of extra foresail,ââscandalized,â they call it,âand her foreboom guyed out over the side. Her bowsprit cocked up like an old-fashioned frigateâs; her jib-boom had been fished and spliced and nailed and clamped beyond further repair; and as she hove herself forward, and sat down on her broad tail, she looked for all the world like a blouzy, frouzy, bad old woman sneering at a decent girl.
âThatâs Abishal,â said Salters. âFull oâ gin anâ Judique men, anâ the judgments oâ Providence layinâ fer him anâ never takinâ good holt Heâs run in to bait, Miquelon way.â
âHeâll run her under,â said Long Jack. âThatâs no rig fer this weather.â
âNot he, âr heâdâa done it long ago,â Disko replied. âLooks âs if he calâlated to run us under. Ainât she daown by the head more ân natural, Tom Platt?â
âEf itâs his style oâ loadinâ her she ainât safe,â said the sailor slowly. âEf sheâs spewed her oakum heâd better git to his pumps mighty quick.â
The creature threshed up, wore round with a clatter and raffle, and lay head to wind within ear-shot.
A gray-beard wagged over the bulwark, and a thick voice yelled something Harvey could not understand. But Diskoâs face darkened. âHeâd resk every stick he hez to carry bad
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