Rover's Secret

Harry Collingwood

Description

Marine engineer William Joseph Cosens Lancaster came from a long line of Navy men and set out for his first tour of duty at the age of 15. However, his poor eyesight ended his nautical career soon afterwards. Instead, he began working as a designer of harbors. On the side, he penned a series of rollicking tales of nautical adventure under the pseudonym "Harry Collingwood." The engaging tale The Rover's Secret unfurls against the backdrop of the inlets and isles around what is now Cuba.

Sujets

• Adventure (Guyana)
• Adventure

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775459378
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE ROVER'S SECRET
A TALE OF THE PIRATE CAYS AND LAGOONS OF CUBA
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HARRY COLLINGWOOD
 
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The Rover's Secret A Tale of the Pirate Cays and Lagoons of Cuba First published in 1888 ISBN 978-1-77545-937-8 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter One - My Childhood Chapter Two - My Mother's Portrait Chapter Three - I Join the "Hermione" Chapter Four - An Unsuccessful Chase Chapter Five - A "Cutting-Out" Expedition Chapter Six - A Remonstrance—And its Sequel Chapter Seven - The Mutiny Chapter Eight - La Guayra Chapter Nine - Inez de Guzman Chapter Ten - Our Flight - And Subsequent Mystification Chapter Eleven - Captain Carera Imparts Some Interesting Information Chapter Twelve - A Narrow Escape Chapter Thirteen - The Conconil Lagoons Chapter Fourteen - A Packet of Disturbing Letters Chapter Fifteen - A Brush with a Piratical Felucca Chapter Sixteen - The Pirates Attempt a Night Attack Upon the "Foam" Chapter Seventeen - The Conquest of the Conconil Lagoons Chapter Eighteen - A Dinner Party at the Admiral's Penn Chapter Nineteen - We Assist in the Capture of a French Frigate Chapter Twenty - The Privateer and the Indiaman Chapter Twenty One - An Unexpected Meeting Chapter Twenty Two - The Foundering of the "Dolphin" Chapter Twenty Three - The Spanish Treasure-Ship Chapter Twenty Four - The Capture and Recapture of the "Santa Catalina" Chapter Twenty Five - "All's Well that Ends Well"
Chapter One - My Childhood
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My father—Cuthbert Lascelles—was the great painter who, under apseudonym which I need not mention here, was a few years ago well knownin the world of art, and whose works are now to be found enshrined insome of the noblest public and private collections both at home andabroad.
He was a tall and singularly handsome man; with clear grey eyes, and astern resolute-looking mouth shadowed by a heavy moustache which, likehis short curly hair and carefully trimmed beard, was of a pale goldentint.
My mother died in giving me birth; and this, together with the fact thatshe was a native of Italy, was all I, for some years, knew concerningher.
One of the earliest impressions made upon my infant mind—for I cannotrecall the time when I was free from it—was that my parents sufferedgreat unhappiness during the latter part of their short married life;unhappiness resulting from some terrible mistake on the part of one orthe other of them; which mistake was never explained and rectified—ifexplanation and rectification were indeed possible—during my mother'slifetime.
Having received this impression at so very early an age, I cannot, ofcourse, say with certainty whence I derived it; but I am inclined toattribute it chiefly to the singularity of my father's conduct towardmyself.
I was his only child.
He was a man to whom solitude and retirement appeared to be the chiefessentials of existence. Though living in London, he very rarelymingled in society, yet I have since heard that he always met with amost cordial welcome when he did so—and it was seldom indeed that hisstudio doors unfolded to admit anyone but their master. If he went intothe country, as of course was often the case, in search of subjects, henever by any chance happened to be going in the same direction as any ofhis brethren of the brush; his destination was invariably some wildspot, unfrequented—possibly even unknown—alike by painter and tourist.And there—if undisturbed—he would remain, diligently working all dayin the open air during favourable weather; and, when the elements wereunpropitious for work, taking long walks over solitary heaths anddesolate mountain sides, or along the lonely shore. And when the firstsnows of winter came, reminding him that it was time to turn his facehomeward once more, he would pack up his paraphernalia and return totown, laden with studies of skies and seas, of barren moorland, rockycrag, and foaming mountain torrent which provoked alike the envy and theadmiration of his brother artists.
It will naturally be supposed that, to a man of such solitary habits asthese, the society of his only child would be an unspeakable comfort.But, with my father, this did not appear to be by any means the case.He never took me out of town with him on his annual pilgrimage to thecountry; and, when he was at home, it often happened that I did not seehim, face to face, for weeks together. As a consequence of thispeculiar arrangement, almost the whole of the time which I spent indoorswas passed in the nursery, where also my meals were served, and whereinmy only companion was Mary, the nursemaid.
The only exceptions to this isolated state of existence were those rareoccasions when my father, without the slightest warning, and apparentlywith as little reason, used to send for me to visit him in his studio.It was during these interviews that his peculiar treatment of me becamemost noticeable. As a general rule, when—after a vigorous cleansing ofmy face and hands and a change of my raiment had been effected by thenursemaid—I was introduced into the studio, my father would ensconce mein a roomy old easy-chair by the fire; provide me with a picture-book ofsome kind wherewith to amuse myself; and then take no further notice ofme. This, however, seemed to depend to some extent upon the greetingwhich I received from him, and that proved to be a tolerably accurateindex of the humour which happened to possess him at the moment.Sometimes the greeting would consist of a cold shake of the hand and anequally cold "I hope you are well, boy," accompanied by a single keenglance which seemed at once to take in every detail of my person andclothing. Sometimes the shake of the hand would be somewhat warmer, theaccompanying remark being, perhaps, "I am glad to see you looking sowell, my boy." And occasionally—but very rarely—I was agreeablysurprised to find myself received with an affectionate embrace andkiss—which I always somewhat timidly returned—and the words, "Lionel,my son, how are you?"
When the greeting reached this stage of positive warmth, it usuallyhappened that, instead of being consigned at once to the arm-chair andthe picture-book, I was lifted to my father's knee, when, laying asidepalette and brushes, he would proceed to ask me all sorts of questions,such as, What had I been doing lately; where had I been, and what had Iseen worthy of notice; did I want any new toys? and so on; enticing meout of my reserve until he had coaxed me into talking freely with him.On these especial occasions he had a curious habit of wheeling round infront of us a large mirror which constituted one of his studio"properties," and into this, whilst talking to me, he would intentlygaze at his own reflected image, and mine, laying his cheek beside mineso as to bring both our faces to the same level, and directing me alsoto look into the mirror. Sometimes this curious inspection terminatedsatisfactorily; in which case, after perhaps an hour's chat on his knee,I was tenderly placed in the easy-chair, in such a position that myfather could see me without his work being materially interfered with;our conversation was maintained with unflagging spirit on both sides;and the day was brought to a happy close by our dining together, andperhaps going to the theatre or a concert afterwards. There wereoccasions, however, when this pleasant state of affairs did not obtain—when the ordeal of the mirror did not terminate so satisfactorily. Itoccasionally happened that, whilst gazing at my father's reflectedfeatures, I observed a stern and sombre expression settling like a heavythunder-cloud upon them; and this always sufficed to speedily reduce meto silence, however garrulous I might before have been. The paternalgaze would gradually grow more intense and searching; the thunder-cloudwould lower more threateningly; and unintelligible mutterings wouldescape from between the fiercely clenched firm white teeth. And,finally, I would either be placed—as in the last-mentioned instance—where my father could look at me whilst at work—and where he did frequently look at me with appalling sternness—or I was at oncedismissed with a short and sharp "Run away, boy; I am busy."
Looking back upon the first eight years of my existence, andcontemplating them by the light of my now matured knowledge, I aminclined to regard them as quite an unique experience of child-life; atall events I would fain hope that but few children have suffered sokeenly as I have from the lack of paternal love. And yet I cannot saythat I was absolutely unhappy, except upon and for a day or two afterthose chilling dismissals from my father's presence to which I havebriefly referred; the suffering , although it existed, had by longusage become a thing to which I had grown accustomed, and it consistedchiefly in a yearning after those endearments and evidences of affectionwhich I instinctively felt were my due. The conviction that myfather —the one to whom my childish heart naturally turned for sympathyin all my little joys and sorrows—regarded me coldly—for hisdemonstrations of affection were indeed few and far between—exercised asubduing and repressive influence upon me from which, even now, I havenot wholly recovered, and which will probably continue to affect me tothe latest hour of my life. What made my position decidedly worse wasthat my father had, so far, not deemed it necessary to send me toschool; and I had, therefore, no companions of my own age, no