Perhaps it was because he had been ashamed to go
back and own himself beaten, or perhaps it was his native Border
dourness that had caused him to stick to it; but at any rate he did
stick to it--though, like most sailors, he growled, and even swore
sometimes, that he hated the life. And now, in the winter of 1784-5,
here he was in Kelso, stout, weather-beaten, grey-headed, over fifty,
living within earshot of the deep voice of flooded Tweed roaring and
fretting over the barrier with which the devil, at bidding of Michael
Scott the Wizard, long syne dammed its course. Many a time when the
captain's little vessel, close hauled, had been threshing through
leaden-grey seas under hurrying, leaden-grey skies and bitter snow
squalls, with a foul wind persistently pounding at her day after day, he
had thought, as some more than ordinarily angry puff whitened the water
to windward and broke him off his course, with the weather leech of his
close-reefed topsail shivering, how pleasant it must be to be a
landsman, to go where he pleased in spite of wind or weather. Ah! they
were the happy ones, those lucky landsmen, who could always do as they
chose, blow high, blow low.
Well, here he was at last, drinking in all a landsman's pleasures,
enjoying his privileges--and not too old yet, he told himself with
self-conscious chuckle, to raise a pleasant flutter of expectation in
the hearts of Kelso's widows and maidens.
Pages:
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312