Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [141]
My mother, I own, finds the boys’ spirits to have a shattering effect upon her nerves, which invariably fail her in moments of family crisis. No matter how diligently Edward might twist himself about in our reading chairs, engrossed in TheLakeofKiUarney, or George lose a morning in attempting to sketch a ship of the line, their exuberance will drive my mother to her bedchamber well before the dinner hour, to take her evening meal upon a tray.
Yesterday, I carried the boys up the River Itchen in Mr. Hawkins's skiff, and stopped to examine a seventy-four that is presently building in the dockyard there.1 The place was a bustle of activity—scaffolding and labourers vied for place in a chaos of scrap wood and iron tools— and left to myself, I should not have dreamt of disturbing them. But under the chaperonage of Mr. Hawkins, a notorious tar known to all in Southampton as the Bosun's Mate, we received a ready welcome from the shipwright Mr. Dixon is a hearty fellow of mature years and bright blue eyes who takes great pride in his work.
“Miss Austen, d'ye say?” he enquired sharply over our introduction. “Not any relation to Captain Francis Austen?”
“I am his sister, sir.”
“Excellent fellow! A true fighting captain, or I miss my mark! And no blubberhead neither. You won't find Frank Austen playing cat-and-mouse with Boney; goes straight at ‘em, in the manner of dear old Nelson.”
“That is certainly my brother's philosophy. You are acquainted with him, I collect?”
“Supplied the Cap'n with carronades last summer, as he could not secure them in Portsmouth,” Mr. Dixon replied. “He should certainly have need of them, once the St Alton's reached the Peninsula. A great hand for gunnery, your brother. Now! What shall we find to engage the interest of these young scrubs, eh?”
He scrutinized my nephews’ faces, well aware that nothing more was required to command their full attention than the spectacle of the seventy-four.
The great third-rate towered above our heads, her keel a massive construction of elm to which great ribs of oak were fixed. She was nearly complete, the decks having been laid and the hull partitioned into bulkheads, powder magazines, storerooms, and cabins, with ladders running up and down. The Itchen yard is ideally suited for such a ship, for the river water flows in through a lock, and the finished vessel may float down to Southampton Water in time.
“Jupiter!” Edward exclaimed. “Isn't she a beauty, though! How long have you been a-building?”
The shipwright gazed at his work with ill-concealed affection. “Nearly three years she's been under our hands, and you shall not find a sweeter ship in all the Kingdom. No rot in her timbers, no crank in her design; and we shan't hear of this lady falling to pieces in a storm!”
“Are such things so common?” I murmured to Mr. Hawkins.
The Bosun's Mate glowered. “Have ye not heard of the Forty Thieves, ma'am? All ships o’ the line, built in rotten yards? Floating coffins, they were—though I served in no less than five of ‘em.”
“Good Lord.”
“When is she to sail, Mr. Dixon?” George enquired.
“We expect to launch her at Spithead in the spring. Perhaps your naval uncle will have the command of her! Should you like to look in?”
“Should we!” the boy replied. “Above all things!”
“Jeremiah!” Dixon called. “Yo, there—Jeremiah! Now, where is that Lascar?”
A dark-skinned, lanky fellow with jet-black hair ran up and salaamed, in the manner of the East Indies. A Lascar! The boys, I am certain, had never encountered a true exotic of the naval world—one of the renowned sailors of the Seven Seas. I smiled to see Edward's expression of interest, and George's of apprehension.
“Jeremiah at your service,” he said, with another low bow. “You wish to see the boat, yes?”
Mr. Dixon slapped my nephews on the back so firmly George winced. “Get along with ye, now. The Lascar won't bite. Refuses even to touch good English beef, if you'll credit it; but he's a dab hand with a plane and a saw.”
Nearly an hour later we bid Mr. Dixon goodbye, and Mr. Hawkins