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Perils of Certain English Prisoners By: Charles Dickens (1812-1870) |
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Transcribed from the 1894 Chapman and Hall "Christmas Stories" edition by
David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk THE PERILS OF CERTAIN ENGLISH PRISONERS
CHAPTER I THE ISLAND OF SILVER STORE
It was in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and forty four,
that I, Gill Davis to command, His Mark, having then the honour to be a
private in the Royal Marines, stood a leaning over the bulwarks of the
armed sloop Christopher Columbus, in the South American waters off the
Mosquito shore. My lady remarks to me, before I go any further, that there is no such
christian name as Gill, and that her confident opinion is, that the name
given to me in the baptism wherein I was made, &c., was Gilbert. She is
certain to be right, but I never heard of it. I was a foundling child,
picked up somewhere or another, and I always understood my christian name
to be Gill. It is true that I was called Gills when employed at
Snorridge Bottom betwixt Chatham and Maidstone to frighten birds; but
that had nothing to do with the Baptism wherein I was made, &c., and
wherein a number of things were promised for me by somebody, who let me
alone ever afterwards as to performing any of them, and who, I consider,
must have been the Beadle. Such name of Gills was entirely owing to my
cheeks, or gills, which at that time of my life were of a raspy
description. My lady stops me again, before I go any further, by laughing exactly in
her old way and waving the feather of her pen at me. That action on her
part, calls to my mind as I look at her hand with the rings on it Well!
I won't! To be sure it will come in, in its own place. But it's always
strange to me, noticing the quiet hand, and noticing it (as I have done,
you know, so many times) a fondling children and grandchildren asleep, to
think that when blood and honour were up there! I won't! not at
present! Scratch it out. She won't scratch it out, and quite honourable; because we have made an
understanding that everything is to be taken down, and that nothing that
is once taken down shall be scratched out. I have the great misfortune
not to be able to read and write, and I am speaking my true and faithful
account of those Adventures, and my lady is writing it, word for word. I say, there I was, a leaning over the bulwarks of the sloop Christopher
Columbus in the South American waters off the Mosquito shore: a subject
of his Gracious Majesty King George of England, and a private in the
Royal Marines. In those climates, you don't want to do much. I was doing nothing. I
was thinking of the shepherd (my father, I wonder?) on the hillsides by
Snorridge Bottom, with a long staff, and with a rough white coat in all
weathers all the year round, who used to let me lie in a corner of his
hut by night, and who used to let me go about with him and his sheep by
day when I could get nothing else to do, and who used to give me so
little of his victuals and so much of his staff, that I ran away from
him which was what he wanted all along, I expect to be knocked about
the world in preference to Snorridge Bottom. I had been knocked about
the world for nine and twenty years in all, when I stood looking along
those bright blue South American Waters. Looking after the shepherd, I
may say. Watching him in a half waking dream, with my eyes half shut, as
he, and his flock of sheep, and his two dogs, seemed to move away from
the ship's side, far away over the blue water, and go right down into the
sky. "It's rising out of the water, steady," a voice said close to me. I had
been thinking on so, that it like woke me with a start, though it was no
stranger voice than the voice of Harry Charker, my own comrade. "What's rising out of the water, steady?" I asked my comrade. "What?" says he. "The Island." "O! The Island!" says I, turning my eyes towards it. "True. I forgot
the Island." "Forgot the port you're going to? That's odd, ain't it?" "It is odd," says I. "And odd," he said, slowly considering with himself, "ain't even... Continue reading book >>
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