- end_line
- 4086
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.590Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 3999
- text
- fiercely waged battle against tyrannical odds.
“Did you go to sea young, lad?”
“Yes, pretty young.”
“I went at twelve, from Whitehaven. Only so high,” raising his hand
some four feet from the deck. “I was so small, and looked so queer in
my little blue jacket, that they called me the monkey. They’ll call me
something else before long. Did you ever sail out of Whitehaven?”
“No, Captain.”
“If you had, you’d have heard sad stories about me. To this hour they
say there that I—bloodthirsty, coward dog that I am—flogged a sailor,
one Mungo Maxwell, to death. It’s a lie, by Heaven! I flogged him, for
he was a mutinous scamp. But he died naturally, some time afterwards,
and on board another ship. But why talk? They didn’t believe the
affidavits of others taken before London courts, triumphantly
acquitting me; how then will they credit _my_ interested words? If
slander, however much a lie, once gets hold of a man, it will stick
closer than fair fame, as black pitch sticks closer than white cream.
But let ’em slander. I will give the slanderers matter for curses. When
last I left Whitehaven, I swore never again to set foot on her pier,
except, like Caesar, at Sandwich, as a foreign invader. Spring under
me, good ship; on you I bound to my vengeance!”
Men with poignant feelings, buried under an air of care-free self
command, are never proof to the sudden incitements of passion. Though
in the main they may control themselves, yet if they but once permit
the smallest vent, then they may bid adieu to all self-restraint, at
least for that time. Thus with Paul on the present occasion. His
sympathy with Israel had prompted this momentary ebullition. When it
was gone by, he seemed not a little to regret it. But he passed it over
lightly, saying, “You see, my fine fellow, what sort of a bloody
cannibal I am. Will you be a sailor of mine? A sailor of the Captain
who flogged poor Mungo Maxwell to death?”
“I will be very happy, Captain Paul, to be sailor under the man who
will yet, I dare say, help flog the British nation to death.”
“You hate ’em, do ye?”
“Like snakes. For months they’ve hunted me as a dog,” half howled and
half wailed Israel, at the memory of all he had suffered.
“Give me your hand, my lion; wave your wild flax again. By Heaven, you
hate so well, I love ye. You shall be my confidential man; stand sentry
at my cabin door; sleep in the cabin; steer my boat; keep by my side
whenever I land. What do you say?”
“I say I’m glad to hear you.”
“You are a good, brave soul. You are the first among the millions of
mankind that I ever naturally took to. Come, you are tired. There, go
into that state-room for to-night—it’s mine. You offered me your bed in
Paris.”
“But you begged off, Captain, and so must I. Where do you sleep?”
“Lad, I don’t sleep half a night out of three. My clothes have not been
off now for five days.”
“Ah, Captain, you sleep so little and scheme so much, you will die
young.”
“I know it: I want to: I mean to. Who would live a doddered old stump?
What do you think of my Scotch bonnet?”
“It looks well on you, Captain.”
“Do you think so? A Scotch bonnet, though, ought to look well on a
Scotchman. I’m such by birth. Is the gold band too much?”
“I like the gold band, Captain. It looks something as I should think a
crown might on a king.”
“Aye?”
“You would make a better-looking king than George III.”
“Did you ever see that old granny? Waddles about in farthingales, and
carries a peacock fan, don’t he? Did you ever see him?”
“Was as close to him as I am to you now, Captain. In Kew Gardens it
was, where I worked gravelling the walks. I was all alone with him,
talking for some ten minutes.”
- title
- Chunk 2