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Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich
"MAN OVERBOARD!"
I
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his canvas and glided silently across Atlantic Ocean, knots of seven. Empty around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
- Allow, your honor, songwriters to sing songs! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, echoed among the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially from old sailors, surrounded the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and seriousness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
- For the very insides enough, scoundrel, - said the sailors about the echo.
Song poured after song, reminding the sailors, amid the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its close to heart the lack of space and squalor ...
- Go dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and was ringing now with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if he had a fitted body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sounds of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
- And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
“He ought to learn a little more, but if, approximately, to understand the bass general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young cantonist clerk Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, handsome clerk and said:
- You have an opera with us! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
- Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and prudently hastened to hide.
- Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but already without an affectionate expression ...
“That’s what I’m saying,” he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, “it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
- Well, what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with the paint of a tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, at the sight of which one involuntarily becomes brighter and more joyful in the soul. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to laugh infectiously, deliciously. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. His cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, the storm raged all around, and the clipper under storm sails was thrown like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of views, were gloomily silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, and he was vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at that time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He so calmly and simply "lashed out", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
- And where are you, the devil, so dexterous to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on the naso-warmer with makhorka. - One sailor sang with us on the Kostenkin, I must tell the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
- So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That was how they called me in the village: the singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
And for some reason everyone smiled in response, and Lavrentich, in addition, beat Shutikov on the back and, in the form of a special disposition, swore in the most gentle tone that his drunken voice was capable of.
II
At that moment, pushing the sailors aside, a stout, elderly sailor Ignatov hastily entered the circle.
Pale and bewildered, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he announced in a voice gusty with anger and excitement that the gold had been stolen from him.
- Twenty franoks! Twenty franoks, brothers! He repeated plaintively, underlining the figure.
This news confused everyone. Such deeds were rare on the clipper.
The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly broken the cheerful mood, with more frightened curiosity than sympathy, listened as he, panting and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances that accompanied the theft: how he, even today, after lunch, when the team was resting, I went to my trunk, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and how now he was going to buy some shoe goods - and ... the castle, brothers, is broken ... there are no twenty franoks ...
- How's that? To steal from your brother? - Ignatov finished, sweeping the crowd with a wandering gaze.
His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face covered with large freckles with small round eyes and a sharp, like a hawk's, curved nose, always distinguished by calm restraint and a contented, sedate look of an intelligent person who understands his worth, was now distorted by the despair of a curmudgeon who had lost everything property. The lower jaw trembled; his round eyes crossed his faces in confusion. It was evident that the theft completely upset him, revealing his kulak, stingy nature.
It was not for nothing that Ignatov, whom some sailors were already beginning to honorably call Semyonitch, was a tight-fisted and greedy person for money. They're in circumnavigation went, volunteering as a hunter and leaving in Kronstadt his wife - a tradeswoman in the bazaar - and two children, with the sole purpose of saving some money in the voyage and, having retired, to do some trade in Kronstadt. He led an extremely abstinent life, did not drink wine, and did not spend money on the shore. He saved money, saved it stubbornly, for pennies, he knew where it was possible to profitably exchange gold and silver, and under great secrecy, he lent small amounts of money for interest to reliable people. In general, Ignatov was a resourceful man and hoped to do a good job by bringing cigars and some Japanese and Chinese things to Russia for sale. He had already done such things before, when he sailed through the years in Gulf of Finland: in Revel, he used to buy kilka, in Helsingfors, cigars and mamurovkas and resell them at a profit in Kronstadt.
Ignatov was a helmsman, served regularly, trying to get along with everyone, he was friends with the battalier and the captain, he was literate and carefully concealed that he had some money, and, moreover, decent for a sailor.
- This is certainly a scoundrel Proshka, no one like him! - seething with anger, Ignatov continued excitedly. - Dave, he kept spinning in the deck when I went to the chest ... Now what to do with this scoundrel, brothers? - he asked, referring mainly to the elderly and, as it were, seeking their support. - Can it be that I will decide to make money? .. After all, I have Blood money ... You know, brothers, what money a sailor has ... I collected pennies ... I don’t drink my own glasses ... - he added in a humiliated, plaintive tone.
Although there was no other evidence, besides the fact that Proshka was "spinning in the deck", nevertheless, the victim himself and the listeners had no doubt that it was Proshka Zhitin who had stolen the money, who had more than once been caught in petty thefts from his comrades. Not a single voice rang out in his defense. On the contrary, many outraged sailors showered the alleged thief with abuse.
- A sort of scoundrel! .. Only shames sailor rank ... - Lavrentich said with a heart.
- Yes, yes ... We got a lousy dog too ...
- We must teach him a lesson now, so that he remembers, dissolute bummer!
- So how, brothers? - continued Ignatov. - What to do with Proshka? .. If he doesn’t give it back, I’ll ask you to report it to the senior officer. Let them sort it out in shape.
But this thought, pleasant to Ignatov, did not find support on the tank. The tank had its own special, unwritten charter, the strict guardians of which, like the ancient priests, were the old sailors.
And Lavrentich was the first to protest energetically.
- It turns out, with a leport on the authorities? He drawled contemptuously. - To start slander? Forgot, apparently, out of fright, he was a sailor's rule? Eh, you ... people! - And Lavrentich, for the sake of relief, remembered “people” with his usual word. - Also invented, and you are also considered a sailor! He added, casting a not particularly friendly look at Ignatov.
- How do you think?
- And in our opinion, the same as taught before. Beat the dog's son Proshka with a splash so that he remembers, but take the money. Here's our way.
- You never know, they beat him, the scoundrel! And if he does not give it back? .. So, then, and wasted money? What is this for? Let it be better to formally condemn the thief ... There is nothing to be sorry for such a dog, brothers.
- You are very greedy for money, Ignatov ... I suppose Proshka did not steal everything ... Still a little left? Lavrentich said ironically.
- Did you think that!
- That’s why I didn’t consider it, but it’s not a sailor’s business - slander. It won't do! - Lavrentich noted authoritatively. - Am I right, guys?
And almost all the "guys", to Ignatov's displeasure, confirmed that it was not good to start a slander.
- Now bring Proshka here! Interrogate him in front of the guys! - decided Lavrentich.
And Ignatov, angry and displeased, obeyed, however, the general decision and went after Proshka.
Waiting for him, the sailors closed the circle closer.
III
Prokhor Zhitin, or, as everyone scornfully called him, Proshka, was the very last sailor. Having fallen into the sailors from the courtyards, a desperate coward, whom only the threat of flogging could compel to ascend to Mars, where he experienced an irresistible physical fear, a lazy person and a bummer who shirked work and was dishonest to all this, Proshka from the very beginning of his voyage was in a position of what something of a rejected pariah. They were all pushed around; boatswain and non-commissioned officers in passing, and for the cause, and so, you live great, scolded and beat Proshka, saying: "Uh, quitter!" And he never protested, but with some habitual stupid obedience of a slaughtered animal he endured the beatings. After several petty thefts in which he was convicted, he was hardly spoken to and treated with disdain. Anyone who was not lazy could curse him with impunity, hit him, send him somewhere, mock him, as if a different attitude towards Proshka was unthinkable. And Proshka seemed so accustomed to this position of a driven, lousy dog that he did not expect any other treatment and endured the whole convict life, apparently without any particular burden, rewarding himself on the clipper with hearty food and training a pig, which Proshka taught to make different pieces, and on trips to the shore - drinking and caring for the fair sex, to which he was a great hunter; he spent his last penny on women, and for their sake, it seems, he dragged money from his comrades, despite the harsh retribution he received in case of capture. He was an eternal latrine - there was no other position for him, and he was among the quarterderers, fulfilling the duty of a labor force that did not require any abilities. And then he got it, because he always Lazily pulled some tackle together with others, pretending to really pull.
- Ooh ... a vile bum! - scolded his quartering non-commissioned officer, promising him to "brush" his teeth.
And, of course, "cleaned".
IV
Climbing under the launch, Proshka slept sweetly, smiling meaninglessly in his sleep. A violent kick from his leg woke him up. He wanted to get away from this uninvited leg, as a new kick made it clear to Proshka that he was needed for some reason and that he had to get out of a secluded place. He crawled out, got to his feet and looked at Ignatov's angry face with a dull gaze, as if expecting that they would still beat him.
- Follow me! - said Ignatov, barely restraining himself from the desire to immediately torment Proshka.
Proshka obediently, like a guilty dog, followed Ignatov with his slow, lazy gait, waddling like a duck from side to side.
He was a man in his thirties, soft-bodied, awkward, ill-built, with a disproportionate body on short crooked legs, like tailors. (Before the service, he was a tailor on a manor house.) His puffy, sallow face with a wide flat nose and large protruding ears protruding from under his hat was unattractive and worn out. Small dull gray eyes looked out from under light sparse eyebrows with an expression of submissive indifference, which is the case with downtrodden people, but at the same time, it was as if something sly was felt in them. In all his awkward figure there was not even a trace of a sailor's bearing; everything on him sat baggy and slovenly - in a word, Proshkin's figure was completely inappropriate.
When, following Ignatov, Proshka entered the circle, all the conversations fell silent. The sailors closed closer, and everyone's gaze turned to the thief.
To start the interrogation, Ignatov, first of all, hit Proshka in the face with all his might.
The blow was unexpected. Proshka staggered slightly and unrequitedly blew off the crack. Only his face became even dumber and more frightened.
- You first really torture, and you will have time to naklast in a pussycat! Lavrentich said angrily.
- This is for him as a deposit, scoundrel! - noticed Ignatov and, turning to Proshka, said: - Confess, you bastard, did you steal the gold from my chest?
At these words, Proshka's dull face instantly lit up with a meaningful expression. He understood, it seemed, the full importance of the accusation, cast a frightened glance at the concentratedly serious, unfriendly faces, and suddenly turned pale and somehow shrunk all over. A dull fear distorted his features.
This sudden change further confirmed everyone in the idea that Proshka had stolen the money.
Proshka was silent, his eyes downcast.
- Where's the money? Where did you hide them? Tell me! - continued the interrogator.
- I didn't take your money! - Proshka answered quietly.
Ignatov was furious.
“Oh, look… I’ll beat you to death, if you don’t give the money in kind! ..” Ignatov said and said so spitefully and seriously that Proshka leaned back.
And from all sides hostile voices were heard:
- Obey better, you brute!
- Don't lock yourself up, Proshka!
- You'd better give it back!
Proshka saw that everyone was against him. He raised his head, took off his cap and, addressing the crowd, exclaimed with the hopeless despair of a man clutching at straws:
- Brothers! As before the true god! Fuck swearing in an hour! Smite me on the spot! .. Do with me what is good, but I didn’t take money!
Proshkin's words seemed to shake some.
But Ignatov did not allow the impression to intensify and hastily began to speak:
- Don't lie, you vile creature ... leave God! You locked yourself even then, when you pulled out a franc from Kuzmin's pocket ... do you remember? And how did he steal Leontyev's shirt, he also went under oath, eh? You, shameless, swear to spit ...
Proshka lowered his head again.
- Blame, they tell you, rather. Tell me where is my money? I didn’t see how you were spinning around ... Tell me, shameless, why were you diving in the deck when everyone was resting? - the interrogator was advancing.
- So I walked ...
- So he went ?! Hey, Proshka, don't lead to sin. Confess.
But Proshka was silent.
Then Ignatov, as if wishing to try the last resort, suddenly immediately changed his tone. Now he did not threaten, but asked Proshka to give the money in an affectionate, almost ingratiating tone.
- You won't have anything ... do you hear? .. Give me only my money ... You should drink it on drink, and I have a family ... Give it back! - Ignatov almost begged.
- Search me ... I didn't take your money!
- So you did not take, mean soul? Didn't take it? - Ignatov exclaimed, his face pale with anger. - Didn't take ?!
And with these words he, like a hawk, swooped down on Proshka.
Pale, his body shuddering all over, Proshka closed his eyes and tried to hide his head from blows.
The sailors frowned silently at this ugly scene. And Ignatov, excited by the irresponsibility of the victim, grew more and more ferocious.
- Enough ... Will ... will be! - Suddenly came the voice of Shutikov from the crowd.
Many of the crowd, following Shutikov, angrily shouted:
- Will ... will be!
- You first search Proshka and then teach!
Ignatov left Proshka and, shuddering angrily, stepped aside. Proshka ducked out of the circle. Everyone was silent for a few moments.
- Look, what a scoundrel ... he locks himself up! - taking a breath, said Ignatov. - Wait, as I will butcher him on the shore, if he does not give the money! - Ignatov threatened.
“Maybe it’s not him!” - Suddenly said Shutikov quietly.
And the same thought seemed to affect some of the tensely serious, frowning faces.
- Isn't he? For the first time to him, or what? .. This is certainly his business ... A thief known to him ...
And Ignatov, taking two people, went off to search Proshkin's things.
- And man is angry with money! Oh, angry! Lavrentich grumbled angrily after Ignatov, shaking his head. - And you do not steal, do not disgrace the sailor rank! - he suddenly added unexpectedly and swore - this time, apparently with the sole purpose of: to resolve the bewilderment that clearly stood on his face.
- So you, Yegor, think that this is not Proshka? He asked after a moment's silence. - If there is no one else.
Shutikov said nothing, and Lavrentich did not ask any more and began to intensively light his short pipe.
The crowd began to disperse.
A few minutes later it became known on the tank that neither Proshka nor his things had any money.
- Hid it, rogue, somewhere! - decided many and added that now Proshka will have bad things: Ignatov will not forgive him this money.
"MAN OVERBOARD!"
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun was slowly rolling towards the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried the entire canvas and glided silently across the Atlantic Ocean, seven knots at a time. Empty around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
Allow me, your honor, to sing songs for the songwriters? - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, echoed among the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially from old sailors, surrounded the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and seriousness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentich, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, a long-torn marsa-halyard, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is brought from the shore always insensible and with a broken face
(he loves to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this very Lavrentiich, listening to songs, seemed to froze in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a nose red-gray like a plum and a bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression of quiet pensiveness. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
There is enough for the very insides, scoundrel, - the sailors said about the echo.
Song after song poured out, reminding the sailors, among the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its close to heart the lack of space and squalor ...
Come dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and was ringing now with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small, lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if in himself, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sounds of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to the tub to smoke, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
And well you sing, oh well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
He ought to learn some more, but if, approximately, to understand the bass-general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young clerk from the cantonists, Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise "officials" *, as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and who considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the fair-haired, plump, pretty clerk and said:
You've got an opera! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
* The sailors call all non-combatants "officials": clerks, paramedics, battaliers, captains. - P r and m.
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
Do you understand what opera means? - noticed the embarrassed scribe ... - Oh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and prudently hastened to hide.
Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but this time without an affectionate expression ...
That’s what I’m saying, ”he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov,“
it's important you sing songs, Yegorka ...
So what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with the paint of a tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the very first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare, happy, cheerful natures, the sight of which involuntarily makes your soul brighter and more joyful. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to laugh infectiously, deliciously. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, at least in Shutikov's story sometimes there was nothing particularly funny. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually sang softly some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. His cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, a storm raged all around, and the clipper, under stormy sails, threw like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its gray crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of views, were gloomily silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, and he was vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at that time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He is so calm and simple
he "laughed", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
And where are you, the devil, so dexterously to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on a naso-warmer with makhorka ...
"Kostenkine" is one sailor, I must tell you the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That's how they called me in the village: a singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
And for some reason everyone smiled in response, and Lavrentich, in addition, beat Shutikov on the back and, in the form of a special disposition, swore in the most gentle tone that his drunken voice was capable of.
At that moment, pushing the sailors aside, a stout elderly sailor Ignatov, who had just jumped out of the deck, hastily entered the circle.
Pale and bewildered, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he announced in a broken voice with anger and excitement that the gold had been stolen from him.
Twenty franoks! Twenty franoks, brothers! he repeated plaintively, underlining the figure.
This news confused everyone. Such deeds were rare on the clipper.
The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly disturbed the cheerful mood, with more frightened curiosity than sympathy, listened as he, panting and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances that accompanied the theft: how he, even today, after lunch, when the team was resting, I went to my little trunk, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and how now he went to get some shoe goods - and ... the castle, brothers, is broken ... twenty francs No...
How is it? To steal from your brother? - Ignatov finished, sweeping the crowd with a wandering gaze.
His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face covered with large freckles with small round eyes and a sharp, like a hawk's, curved nose, always distinguished by calm restraint and a contented, sedate look of an intelligent person who understands his worth, was now distorted by the despair of a curmudgeon who had lost everything property. The lower jaw trembled; his round eyes crossed his faces in confusion. It was evident that the theft completely upset him, revealing his stingy kulak nature.
It was not for nothing that Ignatov, whom some sailors were already beginning to honorably call "Semyonich", was a tight-fisted and greedy person for money. He went on a voyage around the world, volunteering as a hunter and leaving in Kronstadt his wife - a tradeswoman in the bazaar - and two children, with the sole purpose of saving some money in the voyage and, having retired, to do some trade in Kronstadt. He led an extremely temperate life, did not drink wine, and did not spend money on the shore. He saved money, saved it stubbornly, for pennies, knew where it was possible to profitably exchange gold and silver, and, under great secrecy, lent small amounts of money for interest to reliable people. In general, Ignatov was a resourceful man and hoped to do a good job by bringing cigars and some Japanese and Chinese things to Russia for sale. He had already done such things before when he sailed in the Gulf of Finland during the summer: he used to buy kilka in Reval, cigars and mamurovkas in Helsingfors and resell them at a profit in Kronstadt.
Ignatov was a helmsman, served regularly, trying to get along with everyone, he was friends with the battalier and the captain, he was literate and carefully concealed that he had some money, and, moreover, decent for a sailor.
This is certainly a scoundrel Proshka, no one like him! - seething with anger, Ignatov continued excitedly. - Dave, he kept spinning on the deck when I went to the chest ... Now what to do with this scoundrel, brothers? he asked, referring mainly to the elderly and, as it were, seeking their support. -
Can it really be that I will decide to make money? .. After all, my money is hard-earned ... You yourself know, brothers, what money a sailor has ... I collected a penny ... I don’t drink my cups ... - he added humiliated, plaintive tone.
Although there was no other evidence, besides the fact that Proshka was "spinning in the deck", nevertheless, the victim himself and the listeners had no doubt that it was Proshka Zhitin who had stolen the money, who had more than once been caught in petty thefts from his comrades. Not a single voice rang out in his defense.
On the contrary, many outraged sailors showered the alleged thief with abuse.
Such a scoundrel ... He only disgraces the sailor title ... - Lavrentich said with a heart.
Y-yes ... We got a lousy dog too ...
We must now teach him a lesson so that he remembers, you dissolute bummer!
So how, brothers? - continued Ignatov ... - What to do with Proshka?
Let them sort it out in shape.
But this thought, pleasant to Ignatov, did not find support on the tank. The tank had its own special, unwritten charter, the strict guardians of which, like the ancient priests, were the old sailors.
And Lavrentich was the first to protest energetically.
This, it turns out, is with a leport on the authorities? he drawled contemptuously.
To start slander? Forgot the sailor's rule out of fright? Eh you ...
people! - And Lavrentich, for relief, remembered "people" with his usual word.
Also invented, and you are also considered a sailor! he added, casting a not particularly friendly look at Ignatov.
How do you think?
And in our opinion, the same as taught before. Beat the dog's son Proshka with a splash so that he remembers, but take the money. Here's our way.
You never know, they beat him, a scoundrel! And if he does not give it back? .. So, then, and wasted money? What is this for? Let it be better to formally condemn the thief ...
There is nothing to be sorry for such a dog, brothers.
You are very greedy for money, Ignatov ... I suppose Proshka did not steal everything ... Still a little left? Lavrentich said ironically.
Did you think that!
That’s why I didn’t consider it, but it’s not a sailor’s business - slander. It won't do! - Lavrentich noted authoritatively. - Am I right, guys?
And almost all the "guys", to the displeasure of Ignatov, confirmed that it was "not good to start slandering."
Now bring Proshka here! Interrogate him in front of the guys! - decided Lavrentich.
And Ignatov, angry and displeased, obeyed, however, the general decision and went after Proshka.
Waiting for him, the sailors closed the circle closer.
Prokhor Zhitin, or, as everyone scornfully called him, Proshka, was the very last sailor. Having fallen into the sailors from the courtyards, a desperate coward, whom only the threat of flogging could force to climb to Mars, where he experienced an irresistible physical fear, a lazy person and a bummer who shirked from work, and to all this dishonest, Proshka from the very beginning of the voyage became some outcast pariah. They were all pushed around; boatswain and non-commissioned officers in passing, and for the cause, and so, you live well, scolded and beat Proshka, saying: "Uh, quitter!" And he never protested, but with some habitual stupid obedience of a slaughtered animal he endured the beatings.
After several petty thefts in which he was convicted, he was hardly spoken to and treated with disdain. Anyone who was not lazy could curse him with impunity, hit him, send him somewhere, mock him, as if a different attitude towards Proshka was unthinkable. And Proshka seemed so accustomed to this position of a driven, lousy dog that he did not expect any other treatment and endured the whole convict life, apparently without any particular burden, rewarding himself on the clipper with hearty food and training a pig, which Proshka taught to make different pieces, and on trips to the shore - drinking and caring for the fair sex, to which he was a great hunter; he spent his last penny on women, and for their sake, it seems, he dragged money from his comrades, despite the harsh retribution he received in case of capture. He was an eternal "latrine" - there was no other position for him, and was among the lords, fulfilling the duty of a labor force that did not require any abilities. And then he got it, since he always lazily pulled some tackle together with others, pretending to be a lazy crafty horse, as if he were really pulling.
Ooh ... a vile bum! - scolded his non-commissioned officer, promising him to brush his teeth already.
And, of course, "cleaned".
Climbing under the launch, Proshka slept sweetly, smiling meaninglessly in his sleep. A violent kick from his leg woke him up. He wanted to crawl away from this unwelcome leg, as a new kick made it clear to Proshka that he was needed for some reason and that he had to get out of a secluded place. He crawled out, got to his feet and looked at Ignatov's angry face with a dull gaze, as if expecting that they would still beat him.
Follow me! - said Ignatov, barely restraining himself from the desire to immediately torment Proshka.
Proshka obediently, like a guilty dog, followed Ignatov with his slow, lazy gait, waddling like a duck from side to side.
He was a man in his thirties, soft-bodied, awkward, ill-built, with a disproportionate body on short crooked legs, like tailors. (Before the service, he was a tailor on a manor house.) His puffy, sallow face with a wide flat nose and large protruding ears protruding from under his hat was unattractive and worn out.
Small dull gray eyes looked out from under light sparse eyebrows with an expression of submissive indifference, which is the case with downtrodden people, but at the same time, it was as if something sly was felt in them. In all his awkward figure there was not even a trace of a sailor's bearing; everything on him sat baggy and slovenly - in a word, Proshkin's figure was completely inappropriate.
When, following Ignatov, Proshka entered the circle, all the conversations fell silent. The sailors closed closer, and everyone's gaze turned to the thief.
To start the interrogation, Ignatov first of all hit Proshka in the face with full swing.
The blow was unexpected. Proshka staggered slightly and unrequitedly blew off the crack. Only his face became even dumber and more frightened.
You first really try, and you will have time to put it in a pussycat! Lavrentich said angrily.
This is for him as a deposit, scoundrel! - noticed Ignatov and, turning to Proshka, said: - Admit it, you bastard, did you steal the gold from my chest?
At these words, Proshka's dull face instantly lit up with a meaningful expression. He understood, it seemed, the full weight of the accusation, threw a frightened glance at the concentratedly serious, unfriendly faces and suddenly turned pale and somehow cringed all over. A dull fear distorted his features.
This sudden change further confirmed everyone in the idea that Proshka had stolen the money.
Proshka was silent, his eyes downcast.
Where's the money? Where did you hide them? Tell me! - continued the interrogator.
I didn't take your money! - Proshka answered quietly.
Ignatov was furious.
Oh, look ... I will beat you to death, if you don’t give money in kind! .. -
said Ignatov and said so maliciously and seriously that Proshka leaned back.
And from all sides hostile voices were heard:
Obey better, you brute!
Don't lock yourself up, Proshka!
You better give it back!
Proshka saw that everyone was against him. He raised his head, took off his cap and, addressing the crowd, exclaimed with the hopeless despair of a man clutching at straws:
Brothers! As before the true god! Fuck swearing in an hour! Smite me on the spot! .. Do with me what is good, but I didn’t take money!
Proshkin's words seemed to shake some.
But Ignatov did not allow the impression to intensify and hastily began to speak:
Don't lie, you vile creature ... leave God! You locked yourself even then, when you pulled out a franc from Kuzmin's pocket ... do you remember? And how did he steal Levontiev's shirt, he also went under oath, eh? You, shameless, swear to spit ...
Proshka lowered his head again.
Blame, they tell you, rather. Tell me where is my money? I didn’t see you spinning around ... Tell me, shameless, why did you dart around on deck when everyone was resting? - the interrogator was advancing.
So he walked ...
Did you walk like that ?! Hey, Proshka, don't lead to sin. Confess.
But Proshka was silent.
Then Ignatov, as if wishing to try the last resort, suddenly immediately changed his tone. Now he did not threaten, but asked Proshka to give the money in an affectionate, almost ingratiating tone.
You won't have anything ... do you hear? .. Give me only my money ... You must drink it away, and I have a family ... Give it back! - Ignatov almost begged.
Search me ... I didn't take your money!
So you didn't take, mean soul? Didn't take it? - exclaimed Ignatov with a face that turned white with anger. - Didn't take ?!
And with these words he, like a hawk, swooped down on Proshka.
Pale, shuddering with all his shriveled body, Proshka closed his eyes and tried to hide his head from blows.
The sailors frowned silently at this ugly scene. And Ignatov, excited by the irresponsibility of the victim, grew more and more ferocious.
Enough ... Will ... Will be! - Suddenly came the voice of Shutikov from the crowd.
Many of the crowd, following Shutikov, angrily shouted:
Will ... will be!
You first search Proshka and then teach!
Ignatov left Proshka and, shuddering angrily, stepped aside. Proshka ducked out of the circle. Everyone was silent for a few moments.
Look, what a scoundrel ... he locks himself up! - taking a breath, said Ignatov. - Wait, as I will butcher him on the shore, if he does not give the money! - Ignatov threatened.
Or maybe it's not him! Shutikov suddenly said quietly.
And the same thought seemed to affect some of the tensely serious, frowning faces.
Isn't he? For the first time to him, or what? .. This is certainly his business ... A thief known to him ...
And Ignatov, taking two people, went off to search Proshkin's things.
And man is angry with money! Oh, angry! Lavrentich grumbled angrily after Ignatov, shaking his head. - And you do not steal, do not disgrace the sailor rank! - he suddenly added unexpectedly and swore - this time, apparently with the sole purpose of: to resolve the bewilderment that clearly stood on his face.
So you, Yegor, do you think that this is not Proshka? he asked after a moment's silence. - If there is no one else.
Shutikov said nothing, and Lavrentich did not ask any more and began to intensively light his short pipe.
The crowd began to disperse.
A few minutes later it became known on the tank that neither Proshka nor his things had any money.
Hid it, rogue, somewhere! - decided many and added that now Proshka will have bad things: Ignatov will not forgive him this money.
A gentle tropical night quickly descended over the ocean.
The sailors slept on deck - it was stuffy below - and there was one squad on watch. In the tropics, in the trade winds, the watch is calm, and the sailors of the watch, as usual, while away the night hours, dispersing the slumber with conversations and fairy tales.
That night, from midnight to six, the second section, in which Shutikov and Proshka were, happened to be on watch.
Shutikov had already told a few tales to a handful of sailors seated at the foremast and went off to smoke. Having smoked his pipe, he went, stepping carefully between the sleeping, on the quarterdecks and, seeing in the darkness Proshka, huddled lonely at the side and nodding his nose, quietly called out to him:
Is that you ... Proshka?
I AM! - Proshka started.
What can I tell you, ”Shutikov continued in a quiet, gentle voice:“
after all, Ignatov, you yourself know what kind of man ... He will completely beat you on the shore ... without any pity ...
Proshka was on his guard ... This tone was a surprise to him.
Well, let it hit, but I didn’t touch the money! - answered Proshka after a short silence.
That is why he does not believe and, until he returns his money, he will not forgive you ...
And many guys hesitate ...
It is said: did not take! - repeated Proshka with the same persistence.
I, brother, believe that you did not take ... Hey, I believe, and I regretted that they beat you in vain just now and Ignatov still threatens to beat you ... And here's what, Proshka: take twenty franoks from me and give them to Ignatov ... God bless him! Let him rejoice for the money, but someday you will give it to me - I will not forcibly ...
So it will be more accurate ... Yes, hey, don't tell anyone about this! -
added Shutikov.
Proshka was resolutely puzzled and could not find words at the first minute.
If Shutikov could see Proshka's face, he would see that it was embarrassed and unusually agitated. Still would! They regret the proshka, and not only do they regret it, they also offer money to save him from beating. This was too much for a person who had not heard an affectionate word for a long time.
Depressed, feeling something approaching his throat, he stood silently with his head bowed.
So take the money! - said Shutikov, taking out of his pants pocket all his capital wrapped in a rag.
It's like ... Oh, my God! - Proshka muttered in confusion.
Eka ... stupid ... It is said: get it, don’t worry!
Get it ?! Oh, brother! Thank you, your kind soul! - answered Proshka in a voice trembling with excitement and suddenly added decisively: -
Only your money, Shutikov, is not needed ... I still feel and do not want to be a scoundrel in front of you ... I do not want ... I myself will give Ignatov his gold after the watch.
So you ...
That's what I am! - Proshka uttered barely audibly ... - Nobody would have found out ... The money is hidden in the cannon ...
Eh, Prokhor, Prokhor! - only Shutikov rebuked in a sad tone, shaking his head.
Now let him hit me ... Let him turn the whole cheekbone. Do you a favor! Beat the scoundrel Proshka ... fry him, scoundrel, do not regret it! - Proshka continued with a kind of fierce animation against his own person. - I will endure everything with my pleasure ... At the very least, I know that you regretted, believed ... An affectionate word said to Proshka ... Oh, God! I will never forget this!
Look what you are! - said Shutikov affectionately and sat down on the cannon.
He paused and spoke:
Listen to what I tell you, my brother: give up all these things ... really, give them up! .. Live, Prokhor, how people live in an amicable way ... Become a uniform sailor so that everyone , then, as it should ...
So it will be more sincere ... But is it really sweet to you yourself? .. I, Prokhor, not in reproach, but pitiful! .. - added Shutikov.
Proshka listened to these words and was under their charm. No one, in all his life, spoke to him so affectionately and sincerely. Until now, he was only scolded and beaten - that was the teaching.
And a warm feeling of gratitude and affection seized Proshkino's heart.
He wanted to express them in words, but the words were not found.
When Shutikov walked away, promising to persuade Ignatov to forgive Proshka, Proshka did not feel so insignificant as he had considered himself before.
For a long time he stood, looking over the side, and once or twice wiped away a tear that was pouring in.
In the morning, after the shift, he brought Ignatov a gold piece. The delighted sailor greedily grabbed the money, held it in his hand, gave Proshka in the teeth and was about to go, but Proshka stood in front of him and repeated:
Hit it again ... Hit it, Semyonitch! In the face in the very blow!
Surprised by Proshka's courage, Ignatov looked at Proshka contemptuously and said:
I would have butchered you, bastard, completely, if you hadn't given me the money, and now it's not worth dirtying your hands ... Get lost, you bastard, but just look ...
try again to climb to me ... I will cripple! - Ignatov added impressively and, pushing Proshka out of the way, ran downstairs to hide his money.
That was the end of the massacre.
Thanks to the intercession of Shutikov, the boatswain Shchukin, who learned about the theft and was going to "spit the bitch after the cleanup," rather graciously, relatively speaking, patted, as he put it, "Proshkino hailo."
Proshka Semyonitch was frightened! He provided the money, and how he locked himself up, rogue! - said the sailors during the morning cleaning.
Since that memorable night, Proshka selflessly became attached to Shutikov and was devoted to him like a faithful dog. Of course, he did not dare to express his affection openly, in front of everyone, feeling, probably, that the friendship of such an outcast would humiliate Shutikov in the eyes of others. He never spoke to Shutikov in front of others, but he often looked at him as at some special creature, in front of whom he, Proshka, was the last rubbish. And he was proud of his patron, taking to heart everything that touches him. He admired, looking from below, how Shutikov famously controlled the yard, froze with pleasure, listening to his singing, and generally found extremely good everything that Shutikov did. Sometimes during the day, but more often during the night watch, noticing Shutikov alone, Proshka came up and stomped around.
What are you doing, Prokhor? - Shutikov would ask, sometimes affably.
Oh nothing! - Proshka will answer.
Where are you going?
And to my place ... I'm just so! - Proshka will say, as if apologizing for bothering Shutikov, and will leave.
With all his might, Proshka tried to please Shutikov with something: he would either offer him to wash his clothes, then fix his wardrobe, and often left embarrassed, receiving a refusal of services. Once Proshka brought a smartly crafted sailor's shirt with a Dutch front and, somewhat agitated, gave it to Shutikov.
Well done, Zhitin ... Important, brother, work! - Shutikov remarked approvingly after a detailed examination and held out his hand, returning the shirt.
It's me for you, Yegor Mitrich ... Respect ... Wear it to your health.
Shutikov began to refuse, but Proshka was so upset and so asked to respect him that Shutikov finally accepted the gift.
Proshka was delighted.
And Proshka became less lazy, working without his former slyness.
They began to beat him less often, but the attitude towards him remained disdainful, and Proshka was often teased, making fun of this bullying.
Particularly fond of teasing him was one of the second-hand, bullying, but cowardly young sailor Ivanov. Once, wishing to amuse the assembled circle, he pestered Proshka with his mockery. Proshka, as usual, kept silent, and Ivanov became more and more importunate and ruthless in his jokes.
Shutikov, who happened to be passing by, saw Proshka being hounded, stood up:
This, Ivanov, is not that ... this is not good ... Why are you sticking to a person, exactly tar?
Proshka is not touchy! - Ivanov answered with a laugh ... - Come on, Proshenka, tell me how you dragged shilniki at the priest's place and wore mumzels afterwards ... Do not wander about ... Tell me, Proshenka! - sneered at the general amusement Ivanov.
Don't touch, I say, the person ... - Shutikov repeated sternly.
Everyone was surprised that for Proshka, for a bummer and a thief Proshka, Shutikov stood up so ardently.
What are you doing? Ivanov suddenly snapped.
I’m okay, but you don’t swagger ... Look, you also found someone to swagger over.
Touched to the depths of his soul and at the same time afraid that because of him there would be no trouble for Shutikov, Proshka decided to give a voice:
Ivanov is nothing ... He's just so ... joking, so ...
And you would have hit him on the ear, I suppose you would have stopped joking like that.
Would Proshka go? .. - Ivanov exclaimed in surprise, so it seemed to him incredible. - Well, try it, Proshka ... I would put you, the lop-eared, in a kitty.
Maybe he would have eaten the change himself.
Is it from you?
That's something from me! - restraining his excitement, said Shutikov, and his usually good-natured face was now stern and serious.
Ivanov was effaced. And only when Shutikov walked away, he said, smiling mockingly and pointing at Proshka:
However ... I found myself a friend Shutikov ... There is nothing to say ...
buddy ... good buddy, Proshka-latrine!
After this incident, Proshka was offended less, knowing that he had an intercessor, and Proshka became even more attached to Shutikov and soon proved what the affection of his grateful soul is capable of.
It was in Indian Ocean, on the way to the Sunda Islands.
The morning that day was sunny, brilliant, but cool -
the relative proximity of the South Pole made itself felt. A fresh, steady wind was blowing, and white cirrus clouds rushed across the sky, representing graceful fantastic patterns. Smoothly swinging, our clipper flew in full wind under the topsails into one reef, under the foresail and mainsail, escaping from the passing wave.
It was nearly ten o'clock. The whole team was at the top. The watchmen stood by their gear, and the watchmen were separated for work. Everyone was engaged in some business: someone was finishing cleaning copper, someone was scraping a boat, someone was knitting a mat.
Shutikov stood on the main channel *, attached with a hemp belt, and learned to throw the lot, having recently replaced another sailor. Proshka was also close to him. He cleaned the tool and from time to time stopped, admiring Shutikov, how he, having gained many circles of the lot-line (the rope on which the lot is attached), deftly throws it back, like a lasso, and then, when the rope stretches out, again with quick dexterous movements her...
* Grot - the second mast on the ship. R u s l e n - a platform outside the side of the ship (for removing the propeller).
Suddenly a desperate cry came from the quarterdeck:
Man overboard!
Less than a few seconds later, the ominous cry again:
Another man overboard!
For a moment, everything froze on the clipper. Many were baptized in horror.
The lieutenant of watch, standing on the bridge, saw the figure of a man who had fallen off, saw another rush into the sea. His heart trembled, but he was not lost. He threw a lifebuoy from the bridge, shouting to throw life buoys and from the poop, and in a thunderous, agitated voice commanded:
Fock and mainsail on the guitars!
With the first shout, all the officers rushed upstairs. The captain and the senior officer, both agitated, were already on the bridge.
He seems to have grabbed the buoy! - said the captain, looking up from the binoculars. - The signalman ... keep them out of sight! ..
There is ... I see!
Hurry ... hurry to drift and launch the boat! the captain urged nervously, abruptly.
But there was nothing to rush. Realizing that every second is precious, the sailors were eager like mad. Eight minutes later, the clipper was already drifting, and the longboat with people, under the command of midshipman Lesovoy, quietly descended from the Bokanites.
With God! - the captain admonished. - Look for people on the East-Nord-East ...
Don't go too far! he added.
Those who had fallen into the sea were no longer visible. In those eight minutes, the clipper had run at least a mile.
Who fell that? the captain asked the senior officer.
Shutikov. Broke, throwing a lot ... Burst belt ...
And the other one?
Zhitin! He rushed after Shutikov.
Zhitin? This coward and rogue? - the captain was surprised.
I myself cannot understand! - answered Vasily Ivanitch.
Meanwhile, all eyes were fixed on the launch, which was slowly moving away from the clipper, now hiding, now showing up among the waves. Finally, he completely disappeared from sight, not armed with binoculars, and all around was one wave of the ocean.
A gloomy silence reigned on the clipper. Occasionally only the sailors exchanged words in an undertone. The captain did not look up from his binoculars. The senior navigator and two signalmen looked through telescopes.
A long half hour passed in this way.
The longboat is going back! - reported the signalman.
And again, all eyes were on the ocean.
That's right, they saved people! the senior officer remarked quietly to the captain.
Why do you think, Vasily Ivanovich?
Lesovoy would not have returned so soon!
God forbid! God forbid!
Diving in the waves, the launch was approaching. From a distance it seemed like a tiny shell. It seemed that he was about to be overwhelmed by a wave. But he again showed up on the ridge and dived again.
Well done, Lesovoy rules! Well done! - burst out from the captain, eagerly looking at the boat.
The longboat came closer and closer.
Both are in the boat! the signalman shouted cheerfully.
A joyful sigh escaped everyone. Many sailors were baptized. The Clipper came to life. Conversations started again.
We got off happily! - said the captain, and a happy, good smile appeared on his serious face.
Vasily Ivanovich also smiled in response.
And Zhitin ... a coward, a coward, but go! .. - continued the captain.
Surprising ... And the sailor was a quitter, but he rushed after his comrade! ..
Shutikov patronized him! - added Vasily Ivanovich to the explanation.
And everyone marveled at Proshka. Proshka was the hero of the minute.
Ten minutes later, the longboat approached the side and was safely lifted to the bokans.
Wet, sweaty and red, panting with fatigue, the rowers got out of the launch and headed for the tank. Shutikov and Proshka came out, shaking themselves off the water like ducks, both pale, agitated and happy.
Everyone was now looking with respect at Proshka, who was standing in front of the captain who had approached.
Well done, Zhitin! - said the captain, involuntarily perplexed at the sight of this awkward, nondescript sailor who risked his life for a comrade.
And Proshka shifted from foot to foot, apparently shy.
Well, go, change your clothes as soon as possible, and drink a glass of vodka for me ... For your feat I will introduce you to a medal, and from me you will receive a monetary reward.
Proshka, completely crazed, did not even think to say "glad to try!"
and, smiling perplexedly, turned and walked with his duck-like gait.
Get off the drift! - ordered the captain, going up to the bridge.
The command of the lieutenant of the watch was heard. His voice now sounded cheerful and calm. Soon the retracted sails were set, and about five minutes later the clipper was on the same course again, rising from wave to wave, and the interrupted work resumed again.
Look what you are, eat you a flea! - stopped Lavrentich Proshka, when he, disguised and warmed up by a glass of rum, followed Shutikov onto the deck. - A tailor, a tailor, and what a desperate one! - continued Lavrentich, affectionately patting Proshka on the shoulder.
Without Prokhor, brothers, I would not have seen the light! How I plunged and emerged, well, I think - the Sabbath ... God will have to give my soul! - said Shutikov. - I can't hold out, they say, for a long time on the water ... I hear - Prokhor screams in a voice ... Floats with a circle and gave me a buoy ... That made me happy, brothers! So we held together until the launch came up.
Was it scary? the sailors asked.
How did you think? How scary, brothers! God forbid! - answered Shutikov, smiling good-naturedly.
And how did you, brother, decide? - the boatswain approached Proshka affectionately.
Proshka smiled stupidly and, after a pause, answered:
I didn’t think at all, Matvey Nilych ... I see he fell, Shutikov, that means ... I, God bless me, but for him ...
That's what it is! .. The soul is in it ... Well done, Prokhor! Look ...
Smoke some straws for a snack! - said Lavrentich, passing Proshka, as a sign of special benevolence, his short pipe, and at the same time added a catchy word in the most gentle tone.
From that day on, Proshka ceased to be the former hunted by Proshka and turned to Prokhor.
Konstantin Stanyukovich - MAN ABOARD!, read text
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his sailcloth and glided silently across the Atlantic Ocean, seven knots at a time. Empty around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
- Allow, your honor, songwriters to sing songs! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, echoed among the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially from old sailors, surrounded the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and seriousness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
- For the very insides enough, scoundrel, - said the sailors about the echo.
Song poured after song, reminding the sailors, amid the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its close to heart the lack of space and squalor ...
- Go dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and was ringing now with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if he had a fitted body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sounds of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
- And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
“He ought to learn a little more, but if, approximately, to understand the bass general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young cantonist clerk Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, handsome clerk and said:
- You have an opera with us! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
- Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and prudently hastened to hide.
- Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but already without an affectionate expression ...
“That’s what I’m saying,” he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, “it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
- Well, what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with the paint of a tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, at the sight of which one involuntarily becomes brighter and more joyful in the soul. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to laugh infectiously, deliciously. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. His cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, the storm raged all around, and the clipper under storm sails was thrown like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of views, were gloomily silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, and he was vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at that time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He so calmly and simply "lashed out", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
- And where are you, the devil, so dexterous to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on the naso-warmer with makhorka. - One sailor sang with us on the Kostenkin, I must tell the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
- So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That was how they called me in the village: the singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
-------
| collection site
|-------
| Konstantin Mikhailovich Stanyukovich
| "Man overboard!"
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The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his sailcloth and glided silently across the Atlantic Ocean, seven knots at a time. Empty around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
- Allow, your honor, songwriters to sing songs! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, echoed among the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially from old sailors, surrounded the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and seriousness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentyev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy, tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in a kind of languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly.
Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
- For the very insides enough, scoundrel, - said the sailors about the echo.
Song poured after song, reminding the sailors, amid the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its close to heart the lack of space and squalor ...
- Go dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and was ringing now with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if he had a fitted body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sounds of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
- And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
“He ought to learn a little more, but if, approximately, to understand the bass general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young cantonist clerk Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, handsome clerk and said:
- You have an opera with us! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
- Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and prudently hastened to hide.
- Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but already without an affectionate expression ...
“That’s what I’m saying,” he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov, “it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
- Well, what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with the paint of a tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, at the sight of which one involuntarily becomes brighter and more joyful in the soul. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to laugh infectiously, deliciously. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. His cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, the storm raged all around, and the clipper under storm sails was thrown like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of views, were gloomily silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, and he was vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at that time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He so calmly and simply "lashed out", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
- And where are you, the devil, so dexterous to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on the naso-warmer with makhorka. - One sailor sang with us on the Kostenkin, I must tell the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
- So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That was how they called me in the village: the singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
And for some reason everyone smiled in response, and Lavrentich, in addition, beat Shutikov on the back and, in the form of a special disposition, swore in the most gentle tone that his drunken voice was capable of.
At that moment, pushing the sailors aside, a stout, elderly sailor Ignatov hastily entered the circle.
Pale and bewildered, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he announced in a voice gusty with anger and excitement that the gold had been stolen from him.
- Twenty franoks! Twenty franoks, brothers! He repeated plaintively, underlining the figure.
This news confused everyone. Such deeds were rare on the clipper.
The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly broken the cheerful mood, with more frightened curiosity than sympathy, listened as he, panting and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances that accompanied the theft: how he, even today, after lunch, when the team was resting, I went to my trunk, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and how now he was going to buy some shoe goods - and ... the castle, brothers, is broken ... there are no twenty franoks ...
- How's that? To steal from your brother? - Ignatov finished, sweeping the crowd with a wandering gaze.
His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face covered with large freckles with small round eyes and a sharp, like a hawk's, curved nose, always distinguished by calm restraint and a contented, sedate look of an intelligent person who understands his worth, was now distorted by the despair of a curmudgeon who had lost everything property. The lower jaw trembled; his round eyes crossed his faces in confusion. It was evident that the theft completely upset him, revealing his kulak, stingy nature.
It was not for nothing that Ignatov, whom some sailors were already beginning to honorably call Semyonitch, was a tight-fisted and greedy person for money. He went on a voyage around the world, volunteering as a hunter and leaving in Kronstadt his wife - a tradeswoman in the bazaar - and two children, with the sole purpose of saving some money in the voyage and, having retired, to do some trade in Kronstadt. He led an extremely abstinent life, did not drink wine, and did not spend money on the shore. He saved money, saved it stubbornly, for pennies, he knew where it was possible to profitably exchange gold and silver, and under great secrecy, he lent small amounts of money for interest to reliable people. In general, Ignatov was a resourceful man and hoped to do a good job by bringing cigars and some Japanese and Chinese things to Russia for sale. He had already done such things before when he sailed in the Gulf of Finland during the summer: he used to buy kilka in Reval, cigars and mamurovkas in Helsingfors and resell them at a profit in Kronstadt.
Ignatov was a helmsman, served regularly, trying to get along with everyone, he was friends with the battalier and the captain, he was literate and carefully concealed that he had some money, and, moreover, decent for a sailor.
- This is certainly a scoundrel Proshka, no one like him! - seething with anger, Ignatov continued excitedly. - Dave, he kept spinning in the deck when I went to the chest ... Now what to do with this scoundrel, brothers? - he asked, referring mainly to the elderly and, as it were, seeking their support. - Can it be that I will decide to make money? .. After all, I have Blood money ... You know, brothers, what money a sailor has ... I collected pennies ... I don’t drink my own glasses ... - he added in a humiliated, plaintive tone.
Although there was no other evidence, besides the fact that Proshka was "spinning in the deck", nevertheless, the victim himself and the listeners had no doubt that it was Proshka Zhitin who had stolen the money, who had more than once been caught in petty thefts from his comrades. Not a single voice rang out in his defense. On the contrary, many outraged sailors showered the alleged thief with abuse.
- A sort of scoundrel! .. Only shames sailor rank ... - Lavrentich said with a heart.
- Yes, yes ... We got a lousy dog too ...
- We must teach him a lesson now, so that he remembers, dissolute bummer!
- So how, brothers? - continued Ignatov. - What to do with Proshka? .. If he doesn’t give it back, I’ll ask you to report it to the senior officer. Let them sort it out in shape.
But this thought, pleasant to Ignatov, did not find support on the tank. The tank had its own special, unwritten charter, the strict guardians of which, like the ancient priests, were the old sailors.
And Lavrentich was the first to protest energetically.
- It turns out, with a leport on the authorities? He drawled contemptuously. - To start slander? Forgot, apparently, out of fright, he was a sailor's rule? Eh, you ... people! - And Lavrentich, for the sake of relief, remembered “people” with his usual word. - Also invented, and you are also considered a sailor! He added, casting a not particularly friendly look at Ignatov.
- How do you think?
- And in our opinion, the same as taught before. Beat the dog's son Proshka with a splash so that he remembers, but take the money. Here's our way.
- You never know, they beat him, the scoundrel! And if he does not give it back? .. So, then, and wasted money? What is this for? Let it be better to formally condemn the thief ... There is nothing to be sorry for such a dog, brothers.
- You are very greedy for money, Ignatov ... I suppose Proshka did not steal everything ... Still a little left? Lavrentich said ironically.
- Did you think that!
- That’s why I didn’t consider it, but it’s not a sailor’s business - slander. It won't do! - Lavrentich noted authoritatively. - Am I right, guys?
And almost all the "guys", to Ignatov's displeasure, confirmed that it was not good to start a slander.
- Now bring Proshka here! Interrogate him in front of the guys! - decided Lavrentich.
And Ignatov, angry and displeased, obeyed, however, the general decision and went after Proshka.
Waiting for him, the sailors closed the circle closer.
Prokhor Zhitin, or, as everyone scornfully called him, Proshka, was the very last sailor. Having fallen into the sailors from the courtyards, a desperate coward, whom only the threat of flogging could compel to ascend to Mars, where he experienced an irresistible physical fear, a lazy person and a bummer who shirked work and was dishonest to all this, Proshka from the very beginning of his voyage was in a position of what something of a rejected pariah. They were all pushed around; boatswain and non-commissioned officers in passing, and for the cause, and so, you live great, scolded and beat Proshka, saying: "Uh, quitter!" And he never protested, but with some habitual stupid obedience of a slaughtered animal he endured the beatings. After several petty thefts in which he was convicted, he was hardly spoken to and treated with disdain. Anyone who was not lazy could curse him with impunity, hit him, send him somewhere, mock him, as if a different attitude towards Proshka was unthinkable. And Proshka seemed so accustomed to this position of a driven, lousy dog that he did not expect any other treatment and endured the whole convict life, apparently without any particular burden, rewarding himself on the clipper with hearty food and training a pig, which Proshka taught to make different pieces, and on trips to the shore - drinking and caring for the fair sex, to which he was a great hunter; he spent his last penny on women, and for their sake, it seems, he dragged money from his comrades, despite the harsh retribution he received in case of capture. He was an eternal latrine - there was no other position for him, and he was among the quarterderers, fulfilling the duty of a labor force that did not require any abilities. And then he got it, because he always Lazily pulled some tackle together with others, pretending to really pull.
- Ooh ... a vile bum! - scolded his quartering non-commissioned officer, promising him to "brush" his teeth.
And, of course, "cleaned".
Climbing under the launch, Proshka slept sweetly, smiling meaninglessly in his sleep. A violent kick from his leg woke him up. He wanted to get away from this uninvited leg, as a new kick made it clear to Proshka that he was needed for some reason and that he had to get out of a secluded place. He crawled out, got to his feet and looked at Ignatov's angry face with a dull gaze, as if expecting that they would still beat him.
- Follow me! - said Ignatov, barely restraining himself from the desire to immediately torment Proshka.
Proshka obediently, like a guilty dog, followed Ignatov with his slow, lazy gait, waddling like a duck from side to side.
He was a man in his thirties, soft-bodied, awkward, ill-built, with a disproportionate body on short crooked legs, like tailors. (Before the service, he was a tailor on a manor house.) His puffy, sallow face with a wide flat nose and large protruding ears protruding from under his hat was unattractive and worn out. Small dull gray eyes looked out from under light sparse eyebrows with an expression of submissive indifference, which is the case with downtrodden people, but at the same time, it was as if something sly was felt in them. In all his awkward figure there was not even a trace of a sailor's bearing; everything on him sat baggy and slovenly - in a word, Proshkin's figure was completely inappropriate.
When, following Ignatov, Proshka entered the circle, all the conversations fell silent. The sailors closed closer, and everyone's gaze turned to the thief.
To start the interrogation, Ignatov, first of all, hit Proshka in the face with all his might.
The blow was unexpected. Proshka staggered slightly and unrequitedly blew off the crack. Only his face became even dumber and more frightened.
- You first really torture, and you will have time to naklast in a pussycat! Lavrentich said angrily.
- This is for him as a deposit, scoundrel! - noticed Ignatov and, turning to Proshka, said: - Confess, you bastard, did you steal the gold from my chest?
At these words, Proshka's dull face instantly lit up with a meaningful expression. He understood, it seemed, the full importance of the accusation, cast a frightened glance at the concentratedly serious, unfriendly faces, and suddenly turned pale and somehow shrunk all over. A dull fear distorted his features.
This sudden change further confirmed everyone in the idea that Proshka had stolen the money.
Proshka was silent, his eyes downcast.
- Where's the money? Where did you hide them? Tell me! - continued the interrogator.
- I didn't take your money! - Proshka answered quietly.
Ignatov was furious.
“Oh, look… I’ll beat you to death, if you don’t give the money in kind! ..” Ignatov said and said so spitefully and seriously that Proshka leaned back.
And from all sides hostile voices were heard:
- Obey better, you brute!
- Don't lock yourself up, Proshka!
- You'd better give it back!
Proshka saw that everyone was against him. He raised his head, took off his cap and, addressing the crowd, exclaimed with the hopeless despair of a man clutching at straws:
- Brothers! As before the true god! Fuck swearing in an hour! Smite me on the spot! .. Do with me what is good, but I didn’t take money!
Proshkin's words seemed to shake some.
But Ignatov did not allow the impression to intensify and hastily began to speak:
- Don't lie, you vile creature ... leave God! You locked yourself even then, when you pulled out a franc from Kuzmin's pocket ... do you remember? And how did he steal Leontyev's shirt, he also went under oath, eh? You, shameless, swear to spit ...
Proshka lowered his head again.
- Blame, they tell you, rather. Tell me where is my money? I didn’t see how you were spinning around ... Tell me, shameless, why were you diving in the deck when everyone was resting? - the interrogator was advancing.
- So I walked ...
- So he went ?! Hey, Proshka, don't lead to sin. Confess.
But Proshka was silent.
Then Ignatov, as if wishing to try the last resort, suddenly immediately changed his tone. Now he did not threaten, but asked Proshka to give the money in an affectionate, almost ingratiating tone.
- You won't have anything ... do you hear? .. Give me only my money ... You should drink it on drink, and I have a family ... Give it back! - Ignatov almost begged.
- Search me ... I didn't take your money!
- So you did not take, mean soul? Didn't take it? - Ignatov exclaimed, his face pale with anger. - Didn't take ?!
And with these words he, like a hawk, swooped down on Proshka.
Pale, his body shuddering all over, Proshka closed his eyes and tried to hide his head from blows.
The sailors frowned silently at this ugly scene. And Ignatov, excited by the irresponsibility of the victim, grew more and more ferocious.
- Enough ... Will ... will be! - Suddenly came the voice of Shutikov from the crowd.
And this soft voice immediately awakened human feelings in others as well.
Many of the crowd, following Shutikov, angrily shouted:
- Will ... will be!
- You first search Proshka and then teach!
Ignatov left Proshka and, shuddering angrily, stepped aside. Proshka ducked out of the circle. Everyone was silent for a few moments.
- Look, what a scoundrel ... he locks himself up! - taking a breath, said Ignatov. - Wait, as I will butcher him on the shore, if he does not give the money! - Ignatov threatened.
“Maybe it’s not him!” - Suddenly said Shutikov quietly.
And the same thought seemed to affect some of the tensely serious, frowning faces.
- Isn't he? For the first time to him, or what? .. This is certainly his business ... A thief known to him ...
And Ignatov, taking two people, went off to search Proshkin's things.
- And man is angry with money! Oh, angry! Lavrentich grumbled angrily after Ignatov, shaking his head. - And you do not steal, do not disgrace the sailor rank! - he suddenly added unexpectedly and swore - this time, apparently with the sole purpose of: to resolve the bewilderment that clearly stood on his face.
- So you, Yegor, think that this is not Proshka? He asked after a moment's silence. - If there is no one else.
Shutikov said nothing, and Lavrentich did not ask any more and began to intensively light his short pipe.
The crowd began to disperse.
A few minutes later it became known on the tank that neither Proshka nor his things had any money.
- Hid it, rogue, somewhere! - decided many and added that now Proshka will have bad things: Ignatov will not forgive him this money.
A gentle tropical night quickly descended over the ocean.
The sailors slept on deck - it was stuffy below - and there was one squad on watch. In the tropics, in the trade winds, the watch is calm, and the sailors of the watch, as usual, while away the night hours, dispersing the slumber with conversations and fairy tales.
That night, from midnight to six, the second section, in which Shutikov and Proshka were, happened to be on watch.
Shutikov had already told a few tales to a handful of sailors seated at the foremast and went off to smoke. Having smoked his pipe, he went, stepping carefully between the sleeping, on the quarterdecks and, seeing in the darkness Proshka, huddled lonely at the side and nodding his nose, quietly called out to him:
- Is that you ... Proshka?
- I AM! - Proshka started.
The heat of a tropical day was beginning to subside. The sun rolled slowly over the horizon.
Driven by a gentle trade wind, the clipper carried his sailcloth and glided silently across the Atlantic Ocean, seven knots at a time. Empty around: no sails, no haze on the horizon! Wherever you look, the same endless water plain, slightly agitated and roaring with some mysterious rumble, bordered on all sides by the transparent blue cloudless dome. The air is soft and transparent; from the ocean carries a healthy sea smell.
Empty around.
Occasionally, under the rays of the sun, a bright scale, like gold, a jumping flying fish will shine, a white albatross will burrow high in the air, a small loop will hastily sweep over the water, hurrying to the distant African coast, there will be the noise of a water jet released by a whale, and again not a single living creature around. Ocean and sky, sky and ocean - both calm, affectionate, smiling.
Let the songwriters sing songs, your honor! - asked the non-commissioned officer of the watch, going up to the officer, who was walking lazily along the bridge.
The officer shook his head in the affirmative, and a minute later the harmonious sounds of a village song, full of breadth and sadness, echoed among the ocean.
Satisfied that after the day's languor there has come a chill, the sailors crowd on the tank, listening to the songwriters gathered at the tank cannon. Inveterate amateurs, especially from old sailors, surrounded the singers in a tight circle, listen with concentration and seriousness, and a silent delight shines on many tanned, weathered faces. Leaning forward, a broad-shouldered, stooped old man Lavrentiev, a "solid" sailor from the "Bakovshchina", with sinewy tarred hands, without a finger on one hand, long torn off by Marsafal, and tenacious, slightly twisted legs, is a desperate drunkard who is always brought from the shore in insensibility and with a broken face (he loved to get into a fight with foreign sailors for the fact that, in his opinion, they "do not drink real, but only swagger", diluting the strongest rum that he blows with water with water) - this same Lavrentiich, listening to songs , as if frozen in some languor, and his wrinkled face with a red-gray, like a plum, nose and bristly mustache - usually angry, as if Lavrentich was dissatisfied with something and would now release a fountain of abuse - now looks unusually meek, softened by an expression quiet reverie. Some sailors pull up quietly; others, sitting in small groups, talk in low voices, expressing at times approval, now with a smile, now with an exclamation.
Indeed, our songwriters sing well! The voices in the choir were all young, fresh and clean and sang perfectly. Everyone was especially delighted with the excellent velvet tenor voice of Shutikov's echo. This voice stood out among the choir for its beauty, crawling into the very soul with enchanting sincerity and warmth of expression.
There is enough for the very insides, scoundrel, - the sailors said about the echo.
Song poured after song, reminding the sailors, amid the warmth and splendor of the tropics, a distant homeland with its snows and frosts, fields, forests and black huts, with its close to heart the lack of space and squalor ...
Come dance, guys!
The chorus burst into a merry dance hall. The tenor of Shutikov was so overflowing, and was ringing now with boldness and gaiety, causing an involuntary smile on their faces and forcing even respectable sailors to shrug their shoulders and stamp their feet.
Makarka, a small lively young sailor, who had long felt an itch in his lean body, as if he had a fitted body, could not stand it and went to grab the trepak to the sounds of a dashing song, to the general delight of the audience.
Finally the singing and dancing ended. When Shutikov, a lean, slender, dark-haired sailor, left the circle and went to smoke in the tub, he was accompanied by approving remarks.
And well you sing, oh, well, the dog eat you! - noticed the moved Lavrentich, shaking his head and adding an unprintable curse as a sign of approval.
He ought to learn some more, but if, approximately, to understand the bass-general, so fuck the opera! - with aplomb put in our young cantonist clerk Pugovkin, who sported good treatment and refined expressions.
Lavrentich, who could not tolerate and despise officials as people, in his opinion, completely useless on the ship, and considered it as a duty of honor to cut them off in any case, frowned, threw an angry glance at the blond, corpulent, handsome clerk and said:
You've got an opera! .. I grew my belly from idleness, and the opera came out! ..
There was a chuckle among the sailors.
Do you understand what opera means? - said the embarrassed scribe. - Eh, uneducated people! - he said quietly and prudently hastened to hide.
Look what an educated mumzel! - contemptuously let Lavrentich go after him and added, as was his custom, a fierce swearing, but this time without an affectionate expression ...
That’s what I’m saying, ”he began, after a pause and turning to Shutikov,“ it’s important that you sing songs, Yegorka ...
So what to interpret. He's a jack of all trades. One word ... well done Yegorka! .. - someone noticed.
In response to the approval, Shutikov only smiled, showing his even white teeth from beneath his good-natured plump lips.
And this contented smile, clear and bright, like that of children, which stood in the soft features of a young, fresh face, covered with the paint of a tan, and these large dark eyes, meek and affectionate, like a puppy, and a neat, matched, lean figure, strong, muscular and flexible, not devoid, however, of a peasant baggy fold - everything in him attracted and attracted to itself from the first time, like his wonderful voice. And Shutikov enjoyed general affection. Everyone loved him, and he seemed to love everyone.
It was one of those rare happy, cheerful natures, at the sight of which one involuntarily becomes brighter and more joyful in the soul. Such people are some born optimistic philosophers. His cheerful, heartfelt laughter was often heard on the clipper. Sometimes he would tell something and he would be the first to laugh infectiously, deliciously. Looking at him, others involuntarily laughed, although sometimes there was nothing particularly funny in Shutikov's story. Sharpening some block, scraping off paint on a boat or short night watch, perched on Mars, behind the wind, Shutikov usually quietly sang along some song, and he himself smiled with his good smile, and everyone was somehow cheerful and comfortable with him. Rarely have you seen Shutikov angry or sad. His cheerful mood did not leave him even when others were ready to lose heart, and at such moments Shutikov was indispensable.
I remember how one day we were storming. The wind roared fierce, the storm raged all around, and the clipper under storm sails was thrown like a splinter on the ocean waves, ready, it seemed, to swallow the fragile ship in its crests. The Clipper shuddered and moaned pitifully with all his limbs, merging his complaints with the whistle of the wind howling through the swollen rigging. Even the old sailors, who had seen all kinds of views, were gloomily silent, looking inquisitively at the bridge, where the tall figure of the captain, wrapped in a raincoat, seemed to be rooted to the railings, and he was vigilantly gazing at the raging storm.
And Shutikov at that time, holding on to the tackle with one hand so as not to fall, occupied a small group of young sailors, with frightened faces pressed against the mast, with extraneous conversations. He so calmly and simply "lashed out", talking about some funny village incident, and laughed so good-naturedly when the spray of the waves hit his face, that this calm mood was involuntarily transmitted to others and encouraged the young sailors, driving away any thought of danger.
And where are you, the devil, so dexterously to tear your throat? - Lavrentich spoke again, sucking on the naso-warmer with makhorka. - One sailor sang with us on "Kostenkin", I must tell the truth that he sang uniformly, a rogue ... but everything is not so fierce.
So, self-taught, when he lived in shepherds. It used to be that the herd scattered through the forest, and you yourself lay under a birch tree and played songs ... That's how they called me in the village: a singing shepherd! - added Shutikov, smiling.
And for some reason everyone smiled in response, and Lavrentich, in addition, beat Shutikov on the back and, in the form of a special disposition, swore in the most gentle tone that his drunken voice was only capable of.
At that moment, pushing the sailors aside, a stout, elderly sailor Ignatov hastily entered the circle.
Pale and bewildered, with an uncovered, short-cropped round head, he announced in a voice gusty with anger and excitement that the gold had been stolen from him.
Twenty franoks! Twenty franoks, brothers! he repeated plaintively, underlining the figure.
This news confused everyone. Such deeds were rare on the clipper.
The old men frowned. The young sailors, dissatisfied that Ignatov had suddenly disturbed the cheerful mood, with more frightened curiosity than sympathy, listened as he, panting and desperately waving his neat hands, hurried to tell about all the circumstances that accompanied the theft: how he, even today, after lunch, when the team was resting, I went to my little trunk, and, thank God, everything was intact, everything was in its place, and how now he went to get some shoe goods - and ... the castle, brothers, is broken ... twenty francs No...
How is it? To steal from your brother? - Ignatov finished, sweeping the crowd with a wandering gaze.
His smooth, well-fed, clean-shaven face covered with large freckles with small round eyes and a sharp, like a hawk's, curved nose, always distinguished by calm restraint and a contented, sedate look of an intelligent person who understands his worth, was now distorted by the despair of a curmudgeon who had lost everything property. The lower jaw trembled; his round eyes crossed his faces in confusion. It was evident that the theft completely upset him, revealing his kulak, stingy nature.
It was not for nothing that Ignatov, whom some sailors were already beginning to honorably call Semyonitch, was a tight-fisted and greedy person for money. He went on a voyage around the world, volunteering as a hunter and leaving in Kronstadt his wife - a tradeswoman in the bazaar - and two children, with the sole purpose of saving some money in the voyage and, having retired, to do some trade in Kronstadt. He led an extremely abstinent life, did not drink wine, and did not spend money on the shore. He saved money, saved it stubbornly, for pennies, he knew where it was possible to profitably exchange gold and silver, and under great secrecy, he lent small amounts of money for interest to reliable people. In general, Ignatov was a resourceful man and hoped to do a good job by bringing cigars and some Japanese and Chinese things to Russia for sale. He had already done such things before when he sailed in the Gulf of Finland during the summer: he used to buy kilka in Reval, cigars and mamurovkas in Helsingfors and resell them at a profit in Kronstadt.
Ignatov was a helmsman, served regularly, trying to get along with everyone, he was friends with the battalier and the captain, he was literate and carefully concealed that he had some money, and, moreover, decent for a sailor.
This is certainly a scoundrel Proshka, no one like him! - seething with anger, Ignatov continued excitedly. - Dave, he kept spinning on the deck when I went to the chest ... Now what to do with this scoundrel, brothers? he asked, referring mainly to the elderly and, as it were, seeking their support. “Can it be that I’m going to make up my mind about money? .. After all, I have Blood money ... You yourself know, brothers, what money a sailor has ... I collected pennies ... I don’t drink my own glasses ...” he added humiliated, in a plaintive tone.
Although there was no other evidence, besides the fact that Proshka "was spinning in the deck", nevertheless, the victim himself and the listeners had no doubt that it was Proshka Zhitin who had stolen the money, who had more than once been caught in petty thefts from his comrades. Not a single voice rang out in his defense. On the contrary, many outraged sailors showered the alleged thief with abuse.
Such a scoundrel! .. He only disgraces the sailor rank ... - Lavrentich said with a heart.
Yes, yes ... We got a lousy dog too ...
We must now teach him a lesson so that he remembers, you dissolute bummer!
So how, brothers? - continued Ignatov. - What to do with Proshka? .. If he doesn’t give it back, I’ll ask you to report it to the senior officer. Let them sort it out in shape.
But this thought, pleasant to Ignatov, did not find support on the tank. The tank had its own special, unwritten charter, the strict guardians of which, like the ancient priests, were the old sailors.
And Lavrentich was the first to protest energetically.
This, it turns out, is with a leport on the authorities? he drawled contemptuously. - To start slander? Forgot, apparently, out of fright, he was a sailor's rule? Eh, you ... people! - And Lavrentich, for relief, remembered "people" with his usual word. - Also invented, and you are also considered a sailor! he added, casting a not particularly friendly look at Ignatov.
How do you think?
And in our opinion, the same as taught before. Beat the dog's son Proshka with a splash so that he remembers, but take the money. Here's our way.
You never know, they beat him, the scoundrel! And if he does not give it back? .. So, then, and wasted money? What is this for? Let it be better to formally condemn the thief ... There is nothing to be sorry for such a dog, brothers.
You are very greedy for money, Ignatov ... I suppose Proshka hasn't stolen everything ... Is there still a little left? Lavrentich said ironically.
Did you think that!
That’s why I didn’t consider it, but it’s not a sailor’s business - slander. It won't do! - Lavrentich noted authoritatively. - Am I right, guys?
And almost all the "guys", to the displeasure of Ignatov, confirmed that it is not good to start a slander.
Now bring Proshka here! Interrogate him in front of the guys! - decided Lavrentich.
And Ignatov, angry and displeased, obeyed, however, the general decision and went after Proshka.
Waiting for him, the sailors closed the circle closer.
Prokhor Zhitin, or, as everyone scornfully called him, Proshka, was the very last sailor. Having fallen into the sailors from the courtyards, a desperate coward, whom only the threat of flogging could compel to ascend to Mars, where he experienced an irresistible physical fear, a lazy person and a bummer who shirked work and was dishonest to all this, Proshka from the very beginning of his voyage was in a position of what something of a rejected pariah. They were all pushed around; boatswain and non-commissioned officers in passing, and for the cause, and so, you live well, scolded and beat Proshka, saying: "Uh, quitter!" And he never protested, but with some habitual stupid obedience of a slaughtered animal he endured the beatings. After several petty thefts in which he was convicted, he was hardly spoken to and treated with disdain. Anyone who was not lazy could curse him with impunity, hit him, send him somewhere, mock him, as if a different attitude towards Proshka was unthinkable. And Proshka seemed so accustomed to this position of a driven, lousy dog that he did not expect any other treatment and endured the whole convict life, apparently without any particular burden, rewarding himself on the clipper with hearty food and training a pig, which Proshka taught to make different pieces, and on trips to the shore - drinking and caring for the fair sex, to which he was a great hunter; he spent his last penny on women, and for their sake, it seems, he dragged money from his comrades, despite the harsh retribution he received in case of capture. He was an eternal latrine - there was no other position for him, and was among the quarterderers, fulfilling the duty of a labor force that did not require any abilities. And then he got it, because he always Lazily pulled some tackle together with others, pretending to really pull.
Ooh ... a vile bum! - scolded his non-commissioned officer, promising him to "brush" his teeth.
And, of course, "cleaned".
Climbing under the launch, Proshka slept sweetly, smiling meaninglessly in his sleep. A violent kick from his leg woke him up. He wanted to get away from this uninvited leg, as a new kick made it clear to Proshka that he was needed for some reason and that he had to get out of a secluded place. He crawled out, got to his feet and looked at Ignatov's angry face with a dull gaze, as if expecting that they would still beat him.
Follow me! - said Ignatov, barely restraining himself from the desire to immediately torment Proshka.
Proshka obediently, like a brand new dog, followed Ignatov with his slow, lazy gait, waddling like a duck from side to side.
He was a man in his thirties, soft-bodied, awkward, ill-built, with a disproportionate body on short crooked legs, like tailors. (Before the service, he was a tailor on a manor house.) His puffy, sallow face with a wide flat nose and large protruding ears protruding from under his hat was unattractive and worn out. Small dull gray eyes looked out from under light sparse eyebrows with an expression of submissive indifference, which is the case with downtrodden people, but at the same time, it was as if something sly was felt in them. In all his awkward figure there was not even a trace of a sailor's bearing; everything on him sat baggy and slovenly - in a word, Proshkin's figure was completely inappropriate.
When, following Ignatov, Proshka entered the circle, all the conversations fell silent. The sailors closed closer, and everyone's gaze turned to the thief.
To start the interrogation, Ignatov, first of all, hit Proshka in the face with all his might.
The blow was unexpected. Proshka staggered slightly and unrequitedly blew off the crack. Only his face became even dumber and more frightened.
You first really try, and you will have time to put it in a pussycat! Lavrentich said angrily.
This is for him as a deposit, scoundrel! - noticed Ignatov and, turning to Proshka, said: - Admit it, you bastard, did you steal the gold from my chest?
At these words, Proshka's dull face instantly lit up with a meaningful expression. He understood, it seemed, the full importance of the accusation, cast a frightened glance at the concentratedly serious, unfriendly faces, and suddenly turned pale and somehow shrunk all over. A dull fear distorted his features.
This sudden change further confirmed everyone in the idea that Proshka had stolen the money.
Proshka was silent, his eyes downcast.
Where's the money? Where did you hide them? Tell me! - continued the interrogator.
I didn't take your money! - Proshka answered quietly.
Ignatov was furious.
Oh, look ... I will beat you to death, if you don’t give the money in kind! .. - said Ignatov and said so viciously and seriously that Proshka leaned back.
And from all sides hostile voices were heard:
Obey better, you brute!
Don't lock yourself up, Proshka!
You better give it back!
Proshka saw that everyone was against him. He raised his head, took off his cap and, addressing the crowd, exclaimed with the hopeless despair of a man clutching at straws:
Brothers! As before the true god! Fuck swearing in an hour! Smite me on the spot! .. Do with me what is good, but I didn’t take money!
Proshkin's words seemed to shake some.
But Ignatov did not allow the impression to intensify and hastily began to speak:
Don't lie, you vile creature ... leave God! You locked yourself even then, when you pulled out a franc from Kuzmin's pocket ... do you remember? And how did he steal Leontyev's shirt, he also went under oath, eh? You, shameless, swear to spit ...
Proshka lowered his head again.
Blame, they tell you, rather. Tell me where is my money? I didn’t see you spinning around ... Tell me, shameless, why did you dart around on deck when everyone was resting? - the interrogator was advancing.
So he walked ...
Did you walk like that ?! Hey, Proshka, don't lead to sin. Confess.
But Proshka was silent.
Then Ignatov, as if wishing to try the last resort, suddenly immediately changed his tone. Now he did not threaten, but asked Proshka to give the money in an affectionate, almost ingratiating tone.
You won't have anything ... do you hear? .. Give me only my money ... You must drink it away, and I have a family ... Give it back! - Ignatov almost begged.
Search me ... I didn't take your money!
So you didn't take, mean soul? Didn't take it? - Ignatov exclaimed, his face pale with anger. - Didn't take ?!
And with these words he, like a hawk, swooped down on Proshka.
Pale, his body shuddering all over, Proshka closed his eyes and tried to hide his head from blows.
The sailors frowned silently at this ugly scene. And Ignatov, excited by the irresponsibility of the victim, grew more and more ferocious.
Enough ... Will ... Will be! - Suddenly came the voice of Shutikov from the crowd.
Many of the crowd, following Shutikov, angrily shouted:
Will ... will be!
You first search Proshka and then teach!
Ignatov left Proshka and, shuddering angrily, stepped aside. Proshka ducked out of the circle. Everyone was silent for a few moments.
Look, what a scoundrel ... he locks himself up! - taking a breath, said Ignatov. - Wait, as I will butcher him on the shore, if he does not give the money! - Ignatov threatened.
Or maybe it's not him! Shutikov suddenly said quietly.
And the same thought seemed to affect some of the tensely serious, frowning faces.
Isn't he? For the first time to him, or what? .. This is certainly his business ... A thief known to him ...
And Ignatov, taking two people, went off to search Proshkin's things.
And man is angry with money! Oh, angry! Lavrentich grumbled angrily after Ignatov, shaking his head. - And you do not steal, do not disgrace the sailor rank! - he suddenly added unexpectedly and swore - this time, apparently with the sole purpose of: to resolve the bewilderment that clearly stood on his face.
So you, Yegor, do you think that this is not Proshka? he asked after a moment's silence. - If there is no one else.
Shutikov said nothing, and Lavrentich did not ask any more and began to intensively light his short pipe.
The crowd began to disperse.
A few minutes later it became known on the tank that neither Proshka nor his things had any money.
Hid it, rogue, somewhere! - decided many and added that now Proshka will have bad things: Ignatov will not forgive him this money.
A gentle tropical night quickly descended over the ocean.
The sailors slept on deck - it was stuffy below - and there was one squad on watch. In the tropics, in the trade winds, the watch is calm, and the sailors of the watch, as usual, while away the night hours, dispersing the slumber with conversations and fairy tales.
That night, from midnight to six, the second section, in which Shutikov and Proshka were, happened to be on watch.
Shutikov had already told a few tales to a handful of sailors seated at the foremast and went off to smoke. Having smoked his pipe, he went, stepping carefully between the sleeping, on the quarterdecks and, seeing in the darkness Proshka, huddled lonely at the side and nodding his nose, quietly called out to him:
Is that you ... Proshka?
I AM! - Proshka started.
What can I tell you, 'Shutikov went on in a quiet and gentle voice:' after all, Ignatov, you yourself know what kind of person ... He will beat you at all on the shore ... without any pity ...
Proshka was on his guard ... This tone was a surprise to him.
Well, let it hit, but I didn’t touch the money! - answered Proshka after a short silence.
That is, he does not believe and until he returns his money, he will not forgive you ... And many guys hesitate ...
It is said: did not take! - repeated Proshka with the same persistence.
I, brother, believe that you did not take ... Hey, I believe, and I regretted that they beat you in vain just now and Ignatov still threatens to beat you ... And here's what, Proshka: take twenty franoks from me and give them to Ignatov ... God bless him! Let him rejoice for the money, but someday you will give it to me - I will not forcibly ... So it will be more accurate ... Yes, hey, don't tell anyone about this! - added Shutikov.
Proshka was resolutely puzzled and could not find words at the first minute. If Shutikov could make out Proshkino's face, he would see that it was embarrassed and unusually agitated. Still would! They regret the proshka, and not only do they regret it, they also offer money to save him from beating. This was too much for a person who had not heard an affectionate word for a long time.
Depressed, feeling something approaching his throat, he stood silently with his head bowed.
So take the money! - said Shutikov, getting out of it. pockets of pants wrapped in a rag all their capital.
It's like ... Oh, God! - Proshka muttered in confusion ...
Eka ... stupid ... It is said: get it, don’t worry!
Get it ?! Ah, brother! Thank you, your kind soul! - answered Proshka, his voice trembling with excitement, and suddenly added resolutely: - Only your money, Shutikov, is not needed ... I still feel and do not want to be a scoundrel in front of you ... I do not wish ... I myself will give Ignatov after the watch its golden.
So you ...
That's what I am! - Proshka said barely audibly. - Nobody would have found out ... The money is hidden in the gun ...
Eh, Prokhor, Prokhor! - only Shutikov rebuked in a sad tone, shaking his head.
Now let him hit me ... Let him turn the whole cheekbone. Do you a favor! Beat the scoundrel Proshka ... fry him, scoundrel, do not regret it! - Proshka continued with a kind of fierce animation against his own person. - I will endure everything with my pleasure ... At the very least, I know that you regretted, believed ... An affectionate word said to Proshka ... Oh, God! I will never forget this!
Look what you are! - said Shutikov affectionately.
He paused and spoke:
Listen to what I tell you, my brother: give up all these things ... really, give them up! .. Live, Prokhor, how people live in an amicable way ... Become a uniform sailor so that everyone , then, as it should be ... That will be more sincere ... But is it really sweet to you yourself? .. I, Prokhor, not in reproach, but pitiful! .. - added Shutikov.
Proshka listened to these words and was under their charm. No one, in all his life, spoke to him so affectionately and sincerely. Until now, he was only scolded and beaten - that was the teaching.
And a warm feeling of gratitude and affection seized Proshkino's heart. He wanted to express them in words, but the words were not found.
When Shutikov walked away, promising to persuade Ignatov to forgive Proshka, Proshka did not feel so insignificant as he had considered himself before. For a long time he stood, looking over the side, and once or twice wiped away a tear that was pouring in.
In the morning, after the shift, he brought Ignatov a gold piece. The delighted sailor greedily grabbed the money, held it in his hand, gave Proshka in the teeth and was about to go, but Proshka stood in front of him and repeated:
Hit it again ... Hit it, Semyonitch! In the face in the very blow!
Surprised by Proshka's boldness, Ignatov looked contemptuously at Proshka and repeated:
I would have butchered you, bastard, completely, if you hadn’t given me the money, and now you don’t have to get your hands dirty ... Get lost, you bastard, but just look ... try to climb up to me again ... I will cripple! - Ignatov added impressively and, pushing Proshka out of the way, ran downstairs to hide his money.
That was the end of the massacre.
Thanks to the petition of Shutikov, the boatswain Shchukin, who learned about the theft and was going to "spit the bitch after the cleanup," rather graciously, relatively speaking, patted, as he put it, "Proshkino hailo."
Proshka Semyonitch was frightened! He provided the money, and how he locked himself up, rogue! - said the sailors during the morning cleaning.
Since that memorable night, Proshka selflessly became attached to Shutikov and was devoted to him like a faithful dog. Of course, he did not dare to express his affection openly, in front of everyone, feeling, probably, that the friendship of such an outcast would humiliate Shutikov in the eyes of others. He never spoke to Shutikov in front of others, but he often looked at him as at some special creature, in front of whom he, Proshka, was the last rubbish. And he was proud of his patron, taking to heart everything that touches him. He admired, looking from below, how Shutikov quietly steers on the yard, froze with pleasure, listening to his singing, and in general found unusually good everything that Shutikov did. Sometimes during the day, but more often during the night watch, noticing Shutikov alone, Proshka came up and stomped around.
What are you doing, Prokhor? - Shutikov would ask, sometimes affably.
Oh nothing! - Proshka will answer.
Where are you going?
And to my place ... I'm just so! - Proshka will say, as if apologizing for bothering Shutikov, and will leave.
With all his might, Proshka tried to please Shutikov with something: he would either offer him to wash his clothes, then fix his wardrobe, and often left embarrassed, receiving a refusal of services. Once Proshka brought a smartly crafted sailor's shirt with a Dutch front and, somewhat agitated, gave it to Shutikov.
Well done, Zhitin ... Important, brother, work! - Shutikov remarked approvingly after a detailed examination and held out his hand, returning the shirt.
It's me for you, Yegor Mitrich ... Respect ... Wear it to your health.
Shutikov began to refuse, but Proshka was so upset and so asked to respect him that Shutikov finally accepted the gift.
Proshka was delighted.
And Proshka became less lazy, working without his former slyness. They began to beat him less often, but the attitude towards him remained disdainful, and Proshka was often teased, making fun of this bullying.
Particularly fond of teasing him was one of the second-hand, bullying, but cowardly young sailor Ivanov. Once, wishing to amuse the assembled circle, he pestered Proshka with his mockery. Proshka, as usual, kept silent, and Ivanov became more and more importunate and ruthless in his jokes.
Shutikov, who was passing by by chance, saw Proshka being hounded and stood up.
This, Ivanov, is not that ... it is not good ... What are you sticking to a person, exactly tar.
Proshka is not touchy! - Ivanov answered with a laugh. - Come on, Proshenka, tell me how you dragged shilniki at the priest's place and wore mumzels afterwards ... Don't wander about ... Tell me, Proshenka! - sneered at the general amusement Ivanov.
Don't touch, I say, the person ... - Shutikov repeated sternly.
Everyone was surprised that for Proshka, for a bummer and a thief Proshka, Shutikov stood up so ardently.
What are you doing? Ivanov suddenly snapped.
I’m okay, but you don’t swagger ... Look, you also found someone to swagger over.
Touched to the depths of his soul and at the same time afraid that because of him there would be no trouble for Shutikov, Proshka decided to give a voice:
Ivanov is nothing ... He's just so ... joking, so ...
And you would have hit him on the ear, I suppose you would have stopped joking like that.
Proshka would have gone ... - Ivanov exclaimed in surprise, so it seemed to him incredible. - Well, try it, Proshka ... I would put you, the lop-eared, in a kitty.
Maybe he would have eaten the change himself.
Is it from you?
That's something from me! - restraining his excitement, said Shutikov, and his usually good-natured face was now stern and serious.
Ivanov was effaced. And only when Shutikov walked away did he speak, smiling mockingly and pointing at Proshka.
However ... I found myself a friend Shutikov ... There is nothing to say ... my friend ... a good friend, Proshka the latrine man!
After this incident, Proshka was offended less, knowing that he had an intercessor, and Proshka became even more attached to Shutikov and soon proved what the affection of his grateful soul is capable of.
It was in the Indian Ocean on the way to the Sunda Islands.
The morning that day was sunny, brilliant, but cool - the relative proximity of the South Pole made itself felt. A fresh, steady wind was blowing, and white cirrus clouds rushed across the sky, representing graceful fantastic patterns. Smoothly swinging, our clipper flew in full wind under the topsails into one reef, under the foresail and mainsail, escaping from the passing wave.
It was nearly ten o'clock. The whole team was at the top. The watchmen stood by their gear, and the watchmen were separated for work. Everyone was engaged in some business: someone was finishing cleaning copper, someone was scraping a boat, someone was knitting a mat.
Shutikov stood on the main channel, attached with a hemp belt, and learned to throw the lot, having recently replaced another sailor. Proshka was also close to him. He cleaned the tool and from time to time stopped, admiring Shutikov, how he, having gained many circles of the lot-line (the rope on which the lot is attached), deftly throws it back, like a lasso, and then, when the rope stretches out, again with quick dexterous movements her...
Suddenly a desperate cry came from the quarterdeck:
Man overboard!
Less than a few seconds later, the ominous cry again:
Another man overboard!
For a moment, everything froze on the clipper. Many were baptized in horror.
The lieutenant of watch, standing on the bridge, saw the figure of a man who had fallen off, saw another rush into the sea. His heart trembled, but he was not lost. He threw a lifebuoy from the bridge, shouting to throw life buoys and from the poop, and in a thunderous, agitated voice commanded:
Fock and mainsail on the guitars!
With the first shout, all the officers rushed upstairs. The captain and the senior officer, both agitated, were already on the bridge.
He seems to have grabbed the buoy! - said the captain, looking up from the binoculars. - The signalman ... keep them out of sight! ..
There is ... I see!
Hurry ... hurry to drift and launch the boat! the captain urged nervously, abruptly.
But there was nothing to rush. Realizing that every second is precious, the sailors were torn like mad. Eight minutes later, the clipper was already drifting, and the longboat with people under the command of midshipman Lesovoy quietly descended from the Bokanites.
With God! - the captain admonished. - Look for people on the East-Nord-East ... Don't go too far! he added.
Those who had fallen into the sea were no longer visible. In those eight minutes, the clipper ran at least a mile.
Who fell that? the captain asked the senior officer.
Shutikov. Broke, throwing a lot ... Burst belt ...
And the other one?
Zhitin! He rushed after Shutikov.
Zhitin? This coward and rogue? - the captain was surprised.
I myself cannot understand! - answered Vasily Ivanovich.
Meanwhile, all eyes were fixed on the launch, which was slowly moving away from the clipper, now hiding, now showing up among the waves. Finally, he completely disappeared from sight, not armed with binoculars, and all around was one wave of the ocean.
A gloomy silence reigned on the clipper. Occasionally only the sailors exchanged words in an undertone. The captain did not look up from his binoculars. The senior navigator and two signalmen looked through telescopes.
A long half hour passed in this way.
The longboat is going back! - reported the signalman.
And again, all eyes were on the ocean.
That's right, they saved people! the senior officer remarked quietly to the captain.
Why do you think, Vasily Ivanovich?
Lesovoy would not have returned so soon!
God forbid! God forbid!
Diving in the waves, the launch was approaching. From a distance it seemed like a tiny shell. It seemed that he was about to be overwhelmed by a wave. But he again showed up on the ridge and dived again.
Well done, Lesovoy rules! Well done! - burst out from the captain, eagerly looking at the boat.
The longboat came closer and closer.
Both are in the boat! the signalman shouted cheerfully.
A joyful sigh escaped everyone. Many sailors were baptized. The Clipper came to life. Conversations started again.
We got off happily! - said the captain, and a happy, good smile appeared on his serious face.
Vasily Ivanovich also smiled in response.
And Zhitin ... a coward, a coward, but go! .. - continued the captain.
Surprising ... And the sailor was a bummer, but rushed after his comrade! .. Shutikov patronized him! - added Vasily Ivanovich to the explanation.
And everyone marveled at Proshka. Proshka was the hero of the minute.
Ten minutes later, the longboat approached the side and was safely lifted to the bokans.
Wet, sweaty and red, panting with fatigue, the rowers got out of the launch and headed for the tank. Shutikov and Proshka came out, shaking themselves off the water like ducks, both pale, agitated and happy.
Everyone was now looking with respect at Proshka, who was standing in front of the captain who had approached.
Well done, Zhitin! - said the captain, involuntarily perplexed at the sight of this awkward, nondescript sailor who risked his life for a comrade.
And Proshka shifted from foot to foot, apparently shy.
Well, go and change as soon as possible and drink a glass of vodka for me ... For your feat I will introduce you to a medal, and you will receive a monetary reward from me.
Proshka, completely crazed, did not think to say: "We are glad to try!" and, smiling perplexedly, turned and walked with his duck-like gait.
Get off the drift! - ordered the captain, going up to the bridge.
The command of the lieutenant of the watch was heard. His voice now sounded cheerful and calm. Soon the retracted sails were set, and about five minutes later the clipper was on the same course again, rising from wave to wave, and the interrupted work resumed again.
Look what you are, eat you a flea! - stopped Lavrentich Proshka, when he, disguised and warmed up by a glass of rum, followed Shutikov onto the deck. - A tailor, a tailor, and what a desperate one! - continued Lavrentich, affectionately patting Proshka on the shoulder.
Without Prokhor, brothers, I would not have seen the light! How I plunged and emerged, well, I think - the Sabbath ... God will have to give my soul! - said Shutikov. - I can't hold out, they say, for a long time on the water ... I hear - Prokhor screams in a voice ... Floats with a circle and gave me a buoy ... That made me happy, brothers! So we held together until the launch came up.
Was it scary? the sailors asked.
How did you think? How scary, brothers! God forbid! - answered Shutikov, smiling good-naturedly.
And how did you, brother, decide? - the boatswain approached Proshka affectionately.
Proshka smiled stupidly and, after a pause, answered:
I didn’t think at all, Matvey Nilych ... I see he fell, Shutikov, it means ... I, God bless me, but for him!
That's what it is! .. The soul is in it ... Well done, Prokhor! Look ... Nakos, smoke some straws for a snack! - said Lavrentich, passing Proshka, as a sign of special benevolence, his short pipe, and at the same time added a catchy word in the most gentle tone.
From that day on, Proshka ceased to be the former hunted by Proshka and turned to Prokhor.
