The Log of the "Jolly Polly" E-Book

Richard Harding Davis

• Herausgeber: DigiCat
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In "The Log of the 'Jolly Polly,'" Richard Harding Davis crafts a vivid narrative that intertwines adventure and maritime life, weaving a tapestry of vivid imagery and engaging dialogue. Set against the backdrop of the early 20th century, Davis employs a rich, descriptive style with a buoyant tone, inviting readers into both the exhilaration and tribulations of sea voyages. The book reflects the zeitgeist of exploration and adventure prevalent during this era, drawing on Davis's own experiences at sea, thus offering a unique blend of fiction and autobiographical insights that resonate with enthusiasts of nautical literature. Richard Harding Davis, a prominent American journalist and writer, is well-known for his vivid reporting during the Spanish-American War, which undoubtedly informed his adventurous spirit and storytelling capability. His diverse experiences—from reporting on far-flung conflicts to mingling with the elite of society—imbue his writing with authenticity and a sharp understanding of human nature. This multifaceted background sheds light on his ability to create compelling narratives that hew closely to the realities of life at sea while still embracing the romantic ideals of adventure and competition. Readers seeking a captivating maritime tale will find "The Log of the 'Jolly Polly'" an enthralling escapade. Davis's keen observations and attention to detail immerse the audience in the trials and triumphs faced by sailors, making it a must-read for those who appreciate not only the allure of the sea but also the intricacies of human relationships within that spirited context.

Leseprobe

Richard Harding Davis

The Log of the "Jolly Polly"

 

EAN 8596547312413

DigiCat, 2022 Contact: [email protected]

Table of Contents

Cover

Titlepage

Text

"

Temptation came to me when I was in the worst possible position to resist it.

It is a way temptation has. Whenever I swear off drinking invariably I am invited to an ushers' dinner. Whenever I am rich, only the highbrow publications that pay the least, want my work. But the moment I am poverty-stricken the MANICURE GIRL'S MAGAZINE and the ROT AND SPOT WEEKLY spring at me with offers of a dollar a word. Temptation always is on the job. When I am down and out temptation always is up and at me.

When first the Farrells tempted me my vogue had departed. On my name and “past performances” I could still dispose of what I wrote, but only to magazines that were just starting. The others knew I no longer was a best-seller. All the real editors knew it. So did the theatrical managers.

My books and plays had flourished in the dark age of the historical-romantic novel. My heroes wore gauntlets and long swords. They fought for the Cardinal or the King, and each loved a high-born demoiselle who was a ward of the King or the Cardinal, and with feminine perversity, always of whichever one her young man was fighting. With people who had never read Guizot's “History of France,” my books were popular, and for me made a great deal of money. This was fortunate, for my parents had left me nothing save expensive tastes. When the tastes became habits, the public left me. It turned to white-slave and crook plays, and to novels true to life; so true to life that one felt the author must at one time have been a masseur in a Turkish bath.

So, my heroines in black velvet, and my heroes with long swords were “scrapped.” As one book reviewer put it, “To expect the public of to-day to read the novels of Fletcher Farrell is like asking people to give up the bunny hug and go back to the lancers.”

And, to make it harder, I was only thirty years old.

It was at this depressing period in my career that I received a letter from Fairharbor, Massachusetts, signed Fletcher Farrell. The letter was written on the business paper of the Farrell Cotton Mills, and asked if I were related to the Farrells of Duncannon, of the County Wexford, who emigrated to Massachusetts in 1860. The writer added that he had a grandfather named Fletcher and suggested we might be related. From the handwriting of Fletcher Farrell and from the way he ill-treated the King's English I did not feel the ties of kinship calling me very loud. I replied briefly that my people originally came from Youghal, in County Cork, that as early as 1730 they had settled in New York, and that all my relations on the Farrell side either were still at Youghal, or dead. Mine was not an encouraging letter; nor did I mean it to be; and I was greatly surprised two days later to receive a telegram reading, “Something to your advantage to communicate; wife and self calling on you Thursday at noon. Fletcher Farrell.” I was annoyed, but also interested. The words “something to your advantage” always possess a certain charm. So, when the elevator boy telephoned that Mr. and Mrs. Farrell were calling, I told him to bring them up.

My first glance at the Farrells convinced me the interview was a waste of time. I was satisfied that from two such persons, nothing to my advantage could possibly emanate. On the contrary, from their lack of ease, it looked as though they had come to beg or borrow. They resembled only a butler and housekeeper applying for a new place under the disadvantage of knowing they had no reference from the last one. Of the two, I better liked the man. He was an elderly, pleasant-faced Irishman, smooth-shaven, red-cheeked, and with white hair. Although it was July, he wore a frock coat, and carried a new high hat that glistened. As though he thought at any moment it might explode, he held it from him, and eyed it fearfully. Mrs. Farrell was of a more sophisticated type. The lines in her face and hands showed that for years she might have known hard physical work. But her dress was in the latest fashion, and her fingers held more diamonds than, out of a showcase, I ever had seen.

With embarrassment old man Farrell began his speech. Evidently it had been rehearsed and as he recited it, in swift asides, his wife prompted him; but to note the effect he was making, she kept her eyes upon me. Having first compared my name, fame, and novels with those of Charles Dickens, Walter Scott, and Archibald Clavering Gunter, and to the disadvantage of those gentlemen, Farrell said the similarity of our names often had been commented upon, and that when from my letter he had learned our families both were from the South of Ireland, he had a premonition we might be related. Duncannon, where he was born, he pointed out, was but forty miles from Youghal, and the fishing boats out of Waterford Harbor often sought shelter in Blackwater River. Had any of my forebears, he asked, followed the herring?

Alarmed, lest at this I might take offense, Mrs. Farrell interrupted him.

“The Fletchers and O'Farrells of Youghal,” she exclaimed, “were gentry. What would they be doing in a trawler?”

I assured her that so far as I knew, 1750 being before my time, they might have been smugglers and pirates.

“All I ever heard of the Farrells,” I told her, “begins after they settled in New York. And there is no one I can ask concerning them. My father and mother are dead; all my father's relatives are dead, and my mother's relatives are as good as dead. I mean,” I added, “we don't speak!”

To my surprise, this information appeared to afford my visitors great satisfaction. They exchanged hasty glances.

“Then,” exclaimed Mr. Farrell, eagerly; “if I understand you, you have no living relations at all—barring those that are dead!”

“Exactly!” I agreed.

He drew a deep sigh of relief. With apparent irrelevance but with a carelessness that was obviously assumed, he continued.

“Since I come to America,” he announced, “I have made heaps of money.” As though in evidence of his prosperity, he flashed the high hat. In the sunlight it coruscated like one of his wife's diamonds. “Heaps of money,” he repeated. “The mills are still in my name,” he went on, “but five years since I sold them—We live on the income. We own Harbor Castle, the finest house on the whole waterfront.”

“When all the windows are lit up,” interjected Mrs. Farrell, “it's often took for a Fall River boat!”

“When I was building it,” Farrell continued, smoothly, “they called it Farrell's Folly; but not NOW.” In friendly fashion he winked at me, “Standard Oil,” he explained, “offered half a million for it. They wanted my wharf for their tank steamers. But, I needed it for my yacht!”

I must have sat up rather too suddenly, for, seeing the yacht had reached home, Mr. Farrell beamed. Complacently his wife smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her skirt.

“Eighteen men!” she protested, “with nothing to do but clean brass and eat three meals a day!”

Farrell released his death grip on the silk hat to make a sweeping gesture.

“They earn their wages,” he said generously.

“Aren't they taking us this week to Cap May?”

“They're taking the yacht to Cape May!” corrected Mrs. Farrell; “not ME!”