I accept that he was here to protect his interests? Each question was accompanied by a shovelful into the firebox of the steam engine.
“You can stop!” a voice called in my ear.
“What?”
“I said,” Peter Beauchamp repeated, “you can stop. No sense killin’ yourself down here. You’ve been at it for half an hour. Go topside and leave this to me.”
“Thanks.”
“Reckon the Osprey has a new stoker.”
I had no response to that. I seized my clothes and staggered up the steps to the deck. There was a marvelous breeze coming over it just then, and I stood with a shirt in one hand and a jacket in the other flapping in the breeze like flags as the wind caressed my chest with its wonderful cool fingers. I closed my eyes and threw back my head.
“Are you going to stand there all day, Mr. Llewelyn?” my employer asked. “There’s work to be done.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, struggling into my shirt, which is not easy to do in a stiff breeze.
“Stow your gear below,” he ordered. “You’ll not be needing it here.”
Cyrus Barker now stood with his feet planted widely on the poop deck, the wheel in his hand, steering. His manner had changed subtly since I’d come aboard. There was no more “lad” or “Thomas,” but the more formal “Mr. Llewelyn,” as if there were a hundred of us at his command instead of two, and he would not play favorites. There was a look of contentment on his face. God was in his heaven; all was right with the world.
“So, where are we?” I asked, after having struggled into my shirt and stowed my gear. One side of the ship faced land a half mile off, but I could not see a coastline on the other.
“Near Newhaven. We took her out as far as Hove and are returning. How’s your stomach? Are you seasick?”
“I didn’t have time to be, I guess.”
“Would you like a treat?” Barker asked.
I hesitated. The Guv’s idea of a treat would always differ from mine; perhaps a tot of rum or grog. One could never tell with him, but it would be churlish to refuse.
“Certainly,” I said, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice.
“Climb the mainmast there. It’s an experience you’ll never forget.”
It will be , I told myself, if I happen to fall to the deck from that far up . The belief that I had any choice in the matter was an illusion, of course. I walked to the mast, seized the first rung, and began to climb. There was no crow’s nest at the top of the mast, but presumably, one could stand on the top spar and hold the mast for dear life. I didn’t dare look down until I had struggled to the very top.
I could picture it all in my mind—the sudden slip caused by inattention or a bit of grease on the spar; the sudden futile scramble for a finger’s purchase on anything; the sudden plunge, knowing that I would probably not survive; and the final, shattering crash upon the hard wood of the deck below.
It was quiet up here, once I’d reached the top spar; I didn’t hear the constant complaint of wood creaking against wood. The wind whistled slightly as it broke over the outstretched spars. It was an alien world so far up. I could see the broken line of chalk cliffs and the toylike lighthouse of Belle Tout. On the other side, France had come into view.
Barker changed course; and the mast I stood on dipped from the perpendicular, leaving me scrambling to hold on. I had no wish to be tossed into the sea. When we were upright again, I made my descent to the deck in a sedate manner far better than the way I’d first imagined. The Guv had been right. I would never forget my first time atop a mast.
“That’s fantastic,” I told him, as soon as my feet landedon the firm deck. “You can see all the way to France up there.”
“I hope you are sufficiently cooled off from your exertions. Now go down and tell Mr. Beauchamp to stop engines. No, wait! I’ll tell him. You take the wheel.”
“Me, sir?”
“Aye. Try not to crash on any rocks. Captain Beauchamp
“You can stop!” a voice called in my ear.
“What?”
“I said,” Peter Beauchamp repeated, “you can stop. No sense killin’ yourself down here. You’ve been at it for half an hour. Go topside and leave this to me.”
“Thanks.”
“Reckon the Osprey has a new stoker.”
I had no response to that. I seized my clothes and staggered up the steps to the deck. There was a marvelous breeze coming over it just then, and I stood with a shirt in one hand and a jacket in the other flapping in the breeze like flags as the wind caressed my chest with its wonderful cool fingers. I closed my eyes and threw back my head.
“Are you going to stand there all day, Mr. Llewelyn?” my employer asked. “There’s work to be done.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, struggling into my shirt, which is not easy to do in a stiff breeze.
“Stow your gear below,” he ordered. “You’ll not be needing it here.”
Cyrus Barker now stood with his feet planted widely on the poop deck, the wheel in his hand, steering. His manner had changed subtly since I’d come aboard. There was no more “lad” or “Thomas,” but the more formal “Mr. Llewelyn,” as if there were a hundred of us at his command instead of two, and he would not play favorites. There was a look of contentment on his face. God was in his heaven; all was right with the world.
“So, where are we?” I asked, after having struggled into my shirt and stowed my gear. One side of the ship faced land a half mile off, but I could not see a coastline on the other.
“Near Newhaven. We took her out as far as Hove and are returning. How’s your stomach? Are you seasick?”
“I didn’t have time to be, I guess.”
“Would you like a treat?” Barker asked.
I hesitated. The Guv’s idea of a treat would always differ from mine; perhaps a tot of rum or grog. One could never tell with him, but it would be churlish to refuse.
“Certainly,” I said, trying to keep the quaver out of my voice.
“Climb the mainmast there. It’s an experience you’ll never forget.”
It will be , I told myself, if I happen to fall to the deck from that far up . The belief that I had any choice in the matter was an illusion, of course. I walked to the mast, seized the first rung, and began to climb. There was no crow’s nest at the top of the mast, but presumably, one could stand on the top spar and hold the mast for dear life. I didn’t dare look down until I had struggled to the very top.
I could picture it all in my mind—the sudden slip caused by inattention or a bit of grease on the spar; the sudden futile scramble for a finger’s purchase on anything; the sudden plunge, knowing that I would probably not survive; and the final, shattering crash upon the hard wood of the deck below.
It was quiet up here, once I’d reached the top spar; I didn’t hear the constant complaint of wood creaking against wood. The wind whistled slightly as it broke over the outstretched spars. It was an alien world so far up. I could see the broken line of chalk cliffs and the toylike lighthouse of Belle Tout. On the other side, France had come into view.
Barker changed course; and the mast I stood on dipped from the perpendicular, leaving me scrambling to hold on. I had no wish to be tossed into the sea. When we were upright again, I made my descent to the deck in a sedate manner far better than the way I’d first imagined. The Guv had been right. I would never forget my first time atop a mast.
“That’s fantastic,” I told him, as soon as my feet landedon the firm deck. “You can see all the way to France up there.”
“I hope you are sufficiently cooled off from your exertions. Now go down and tell Mr. Beauchamp to stop engines. No, wait! I’ll tell him. You take the wheel.”
“Me, sir?”
“Aye. Try not to crash on any rocks. Captain Beauchamp
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