Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Red Eric by R. M. Ballantyne (world of reading txt) 📖
- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
Book online «The Red Eric by R. M. Ballantyne (world of reading txt) 📖». Author R. M. Ballantyne
“They ran well, the rascals, and shouted like maniacs, but I got the start of ’em, dived down one street, up another, into a by-lane, over a back-garden wall, in at the back-door of a house and out at the front, took a round of two or three miles, and came in here from the west; and whatever other objections there may be to the whole proceeding, I cannot say that it has spoiled my appetite.”
“And so, sir,” said Captain Dunning, “you call this your ‘misfortune?’”
“Surely, captain,” said Glynn, putting down his cup and looking up in some surprise—“surely, you cannot blame me for punishing the rascal who behaved so brutally, without the slightest provocation, to my shipmate!”
“Hear, hear!” cried Rokens involuntarily.
“I do blame you, lad,” replied the captain seriously. “In the first place, you had no right to take the law into your own hands. In the second place, your knocking down the man did no good whatever to your shipmate; and in the third place, you’ve got yourself and me and the ship into a very unsatisfactory scrape.”
Rokens’ face, which had hitherto expressed approval of Glynn’s conduct, began to elongate as the captain went on in this strain; and the youth’s recklessness of manner altogether disappeared as inquired, “How so, captain? I have escaped, as you see; and poor Sling, of course, was not to blame, so he’ll be all safe aboard, and well, I hope, by this time.”
“There you’re mistaken, boy. They will have secured Sling and made him tell the name of his ship, and also the name of his pugnacious comrade.”
“And do you think he’d be so mean as to tell?” asked Glynn indignantly.
“You forget that the first act in this nice little melodrama was the knocking down of Sling, so that he could not know what happened after, and the police would not be so soft as to tell him why they wanted such information until after they had got it.”
Poor Glynn looked aghast, and Rokens was overwhelmed.
“It seems to me, I’d better go and see about this,” said Millons, rising and buttoning his coat with the air of a man who had business to transact and meant to transact it.
“Right, Millons,” answered the captain. “I’m sorry to break up our evening so soon, but we must get this man aboard by hook or crook as speedily as possible. You had better go too, doctor. Rokens and I will take care of this young scamp, who must be made a nigger of in order to be got on board, for his face, once seen by these sharp limbs of justice, is not likely soon to be forgotten.”
Glynn Proctor was indeed a youth whose personal appearance was calculated to make a lasting impression on most people. He was about eighteen years of age, but a strong, well-developed muscular frame, a firm mouth, a large chin, and an eagle eye, gave him the appearance of being much older. He was above the middle height, but not tall, and the great breadth of his shoulders and depth of his chest made him appear shorter than he really was. His hair was of that beautiful hue called nut-brown, and curled close round his well-shaped head. He was a model of strength and activity.
Glynn Proctor had many faults. He was hasty and reckless. He was unsteady, too, and preferred a roving idle life to a busy one; but he had redeeming qualities. He was bold and generous. Above all, he was unselfish, and therefore speedily became a favourite with all who knew him. Glynn’s history is briefly told. He was an Englishman. His father and mother had died when he was a child, and left him in charge of an uncle, who emigrated to America shortly after his brother’s death. The uncle was a good man, after a fashion, but he was austere and unlovable. Glynn didn’t like him; so when he attained the age of thirteen, he quietly told him that he meant to bid him good-bye, and go seek his fortune in the world. The uncle as quietly told Glynn that he was quite right, and the sooner he went the better. So Glynn went, and never saw his uncle again, for the old man died while he was abroad.
Glynn travelled far and encountered many vicissitudes of fortune in his early wanderings; but he was never long without occupation, because men liked his looks, and took him on trial without much persuasion. To say truth, Glynn never took the trouble to persuade them. When his services were declined, he was wont to turn on his heel and walk away without a word of reply; and not unfrequently he was called back and employed. He could turn his hand to almost anything, but when he tired of it, he threw it up and sought other work elsewhere.
In the course of his peregrinations, he came to reside in the city in which our story finds him. Here he had become a compositor in the office of a daily newspaper, and, happening to be introduced to the Misses Dunning, soon became a favourite with them, and a constant visitor at their house. Thus he became acquainted with their brother. Becoming disgusted with the constant work and late hours of the printing-office, he resolved to join Captain Dunning’s ship, and take a voyage to southern seas as an ordinary seaman. Glynn and little Alice Dunning were great friends, and it was a matter of extreme delight to both of them that they were to sail together on this their first voyage.
Having been made a nigger of—that is, having had his face and hands blackened in order to avoid detection—Glynn sallied forth with the captain and Rokens to return to their ship, the Red Eric, which lay in the harbour, not ten minutes’ walk from the house.
They passed the police on the wharf without creating suspicion, and reached the vessel.
“Well, Millons, what news?” inquired the captain, as he stepped on deck.
“Bad news, sir, I fear” replied the first mate. “I found, on coming aboard, that no one knew anything about Sling, so I went ashore at once and ’urried up to the hospital, w’ere, sure enough, I found ’im lyin’ with his ’ead bandaged, and lookin’ as if ’e were about gone. They asked me if I knew what ship ’e belonged to, as the police wanted to know. So I told ’em I knew well enough, but I wasn’t going to tell if it would get the poor fellow into a scrape.
“‘Why don’t you ask himself?’ says I.
“They told me ’e was past speaking, so I tried to make ’im understand, but ’e only mumbled in reply. W’en I was about to go ’e seemed to mumble very ’ard, so I put down my ear to listen, and ’e w’ispered quite distinct tho’ very low—‘All right, my ’eartie. I’m too cute for ’em by a long way; go aboard an’ say nothin’.’ So I came away, and I’ve scarce been five minutes aboard before you arrived. My own opinion is, that ’e’s crazed, and don’t know what ’e’s sayin’.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Captain Dunning. “He said that, did he? Then my opinion is, that he’s not so crazed as you think. Tell the watch, Mr Millons, to keep a sharp look-out.”
So saying, Captain Dunning descended to the cabin, and Rokens to the forecastle (in sea phraseology the “fok-sail”), while Glynn Proctor procured a basin and a piece of soap, and proceeded to rub the coat of charcoal off his face and hands.
Half-an-hour had not elapsed when the watch on deck heard a loud splash near the wharf, as if some one had fallen into the water. Immediately after, a confused sound of voices and rapid footsteps was heard in the street that opened out upon the quay, and in a few seconds the end of the wharf was crowded with men who shouted to each other, and were seen in the dim starlight to move rapidly about as if in search of something.
“Wot can it be?” said Tim Rokens in a low voice, to a seaman who leaned on the ship’s bulwarks close to him.
“Deserter, mayhap,” suggested the man.
While Rokens pondered the suggestion, a light plash was heard close to the ship’s side, and a voice said, in a hoarse whisper, “Heave us a rope, will ye. Look alive, now. Guess I’ll go under in two minits if ye don’t.”
“Oho!” exclaimed Rokens, in a low, impressive voice, as he threw over the end of a rope, and, with the aid of the other members of the watch, hauled Nikel Sling up the side, and landed him dripping and panting on the deck.
“W’y—Sling! what on airth—?” exclaimed one of the men.
“It’s lucky—I am—on airth—” panted the tall cook, seating himself on the breech of one of the main-deck carronades, and wringing the water from his garments. “An’ it’s well I’m not at the bottom o’ this ’ere ’arbour.”
“But where did ye come from, an’ why are they arter ye, lad?” inquired Rokens.
“W’y? ’cause they don’t want to part with me, and I’ve gi’n them the slip, I guess.”
When Nikel Sling had recovered himself so as to talk connectedly, he explained to his wondering shipmates how that, after being floored in the street, he had been carried up to the hospital, and on recovering his senses, found Mr Millons standing by the bedside, conversing with the young surgeons. The first words of their conversation showed him that something was wrong, so, with remarkable self-possession, he resolved to counterfeit partial delirium, by which means he contrived to give the first mate a hint that all was right, and declined, without creating suspicion, to give any intelligible answers as to who he was or where he had come from.
The blow on his head caused him considerable pain, but his mind was relieved by one of the young surgeons, who remarked to another, in going round the wards, that the “skull of that long chap wasn’t fractured after all, and he had no doubt he would be dismissed cured in a day or two.” So the cook lay quiet until it was dark.
When the house-surgeon had paid his last visit, and the nurses had gone their rounds in the accident-ward, and no sound disturbed the quiet of the dimly-lighted apartment save the heavy fitful breathing and occasional moans and restless motions of the sufferers, Nikel Sling raised himself on his elbow, and glanced stealthily round on the rows of pain-worn and haggard countenances around him. It was a solemn sight to look upon, especially at that silent hour of the night. There were men there with almost every species of painful wound and fracture. Some had been long there, wasting away from day to day, and now lay quiet, though suffering, from sheer exhaustion. Others there were who had been carried in that day, and fidgeted impatiently in their unreduced strength, yet nervously in their agony; or, in some cases, where the fear of death was on them, clasped their hands and prayed in whispers for mercy to Him whose name perhaps they had almost never used before except for the purpose of taking it in vain.
But such sights had little or no effect on the cook, who had rubbed hard against the world’s roughest sides too long to be easily affected by the sight of human suffering, especially when exhibited in men. He paused long enough to note that the nurses were out of the way or dozing, and then slipping out of bed, he stalked across the room like a ghost, and made for the outer gateway of the hospital. He knew the way, having once before been a temporary inmate of the place. He reached the gate undiscovered, tripped up the porter’s heels, opened the wicket, and fled towards the harbour, followed by
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