The Boy Patriot by Edward Sylvester Ellis (best affordable ebook reader .txt) 📕

Derry Duck having vouchsafed his protection to the young stranger, for a time sought no further intimacy with him. He might be seen occasionally among the groups who were won to hear a song or a story from Blair, but he was apt to leave these scenes suddenly, as if for some call of duty or stirred by some quick and painful thrust of feeling.

Captain Knox was a stern, moody man, who had very little direct intercourse with his crew. Derry Duck was made his medium of communication on every ordinary occasion. The captain was the only person on board who kept a stock of writing materials, and from him, through Derry, Blair and the other114 sailors obtained such articles on the rare occasions when they were in demand. There was not much taste or time for literary efforts on board the Molly.

A pleasant evening had collected all the sailors on deck, and Blair had taken the opportunity to retire below to spend some time in recalling Scripture to his mind, which was now his substitute for reading in the holy book. He was roused from his meditations by the entrance of Derry Duck, with an inkstand in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other. Blair rose as the mate came towards him, supposing the writing materials were to be left in his charge for some shipmate.

"Sit down, boy," said Derry in his quick way, "sit down; I want you to do something for me."

"I should be right glad to do any thing I could for you. You have been a real friend to me," said Blair warmly.115 "You can't think how much I thank you for it."

Derry sat down and laid the paper on the table before him. Then the two were for a moment silent. Blair and his "friend" formed a strange contrast to each other.

The slender stripling, tall for his years, was yet in the blossom of his youth. His face, which was so like his loving mother's, would have been effeminate, but for the savor of old Joe Robertson the pilot, which told in the marked nose and strong chin of the boy, but had no part in his great, clear, soul-lit eyes, or the flexible lines of his changing mouth. That mouth was now parted as if he would say more, but waited for some word or sign from his companion.

Deny Duck was a very bundle of time-worn, storm-tried muscles and sinews. The knots on his bare arms were116 like knobs of oak; and his great brawny hand that lay there on the white paper, looked like a powerful living thing, having almost an identity and will of its own.

Derry's body and whole development to his thighs were those of a tall, stalwart man; but his lower limbs were short and sturdy, ending in great flat feet which were as much at home in the water as on the rolling deck, or amid the dizzy rigging. These peculiarities had given him the name by which he was known—originally "Daring Duck," but by degrees contracted into the "Derry Duck" which Blair had caught from the sailors.

It was hard to realize that the mate of the Molly had ever been an infant, whose tender cheek had been pressed to that of a loving mother. And yet it was true that a Christian mother had once hailed117 that hardened man as a gift from God to nurse for him. His lips had been taught to pray, and his young footsteps guided to the house of God.

Time had made sad changes in him since then. His skin was now as tough and well-tanned as his leathern belt, in which hung many a curious implement of war and peace, a perfect tool-shop for the boarder's wild work, or the seaman's craft. In that strong, hard face there was a tale of a life of exposure, a lawless life, which had well-nigh given over to the evil one the soul which God meant for himself.

"I want you to write a letter for me," said Derry, looking cautiously about him and then going on, "a letter to my little daughter. Hush; not a word of this to any of the men. When it is done, you must put it inside of one of your love-letters to your mother. They mustn't118 get wind of it. They are not fit even to know I have such a child, much less to see her. Be secret! Can I trust you, my boy?"

"I'll write for you with all my heart," said Blair in astonishment; "and of course I wont name it if you don't wish me to; no, not to a soul on board. But I shall have to tell my mother, or she wont know what to do with the letter."

"Just ask her to mail it for one of your shipmates. That will be enough," said Derry quickly. "'Least said, soonest mended.' I have my reasons. I know which way the wind blows, and how to ward off a sou'-wester."

"What shall I say?" said Blair, taking up the pen, and reaching for the paper. Derry's hand lay on it, a "paperweight" that did not move itself off at Blair's motion.

"You see," began the sailor, "you see119 I've got a little daughter, not so old as you are by a year or two. I dare say you think she's made of coarse stuff like me, fit for the rough and tumble of life. No such thing. Her hand is white as a sail on a summer sea, and her little round cheek is so soft, Oh, so soft, that when it snugs up to mine it seems as if an angel was touching me, and I feel as if I wasn't fit for such as her to love and fondle. Yet she loves me; she loves her old dad. She don't call me Derry Duck, not she. She don't know any thing about Derry Duck, and what he does when he 's off on the sea. I don't mean she ever shall. I'd rather die first, gnawed to pieces by a hungry shark. Her mother left her to me, a little two-year-old thing, a clinging little creature that would snug in my arms and go to sleep, whether I was drunk or sober. I killed her mother—sent her to the better country before her120 time. I didn't lay my hand to her; I wasn't bad enough for that. But my ways took the pink out of her cheeks, and made her pine away and just go out of my sight like the wake of a passing ship. Where she had been, there she was not. I loved her, boy, and these eyes cried; these great hands would have willingly been worn to the bone with hard work, if that could have restored her life. I don't drink any more. I've quit that. I haven't touched a drop since she died. I took to the sea. I made up my mind I wouldn't kill the little tender thing she left me. She should never die for knowing how bad her father was. I took the little money I had, and bought a real gentleman's suit of clothes. Then I went to a minister I knew about, in a far away town, where my—never mind where the child's mother came from—and I asked him and his wife to take care of the lit121tle thing, for a sorrowful man that was going off on the sea, and would pay well for what they did. I knew it wasn't the money that would make them lay their hand to the work; but they had nothing to spare, and I didn't mean to leave her to charity. I wanted her brought up to be like her mother, in ways that wouldn't end where I'm going. They took her, and there she is. Nobody can see her without loving her, such a little, dainty, winning, clinging, pretty thing, nine years have made out of the toddlin' creature I put out of my arms, that ached after her till I was clear out of sight of land. Don't think I miss seeing her when I'm ashore. Don't I leave Derry Duck aboard ship, and put on my landsman's clothes, and ride up to the door where she is, with my pocket full of money. She don't lack for any thing, I warrant you. She's dressed like a rose, all in122