Passion Read Online Free Page B
Book: Passion Read Online Free
Author: Jeanette Winterson
order to alert us, Patrick had been given an Alpine horn as tall as a man. On foggy nights this melancholy sound resounded as far as the Dover cliffs, fuelling the rumour that Bonaparte had hired the Devil himself as a look-out.
How did he feel about working for the French?
He preferred it to working for the English.
Without Bonaparte to care for I spent much of my time with Patrick on the pillar. The top of it was about twenty feet by
fifteen, so there was room to play cards. Sometimes Domino came up for a boxing match. His unusual height was no disadvantage to him and, although Patrick had fists like cannonballs, he never once landed a blow on Domino, whose tactic was to jump about until his opponent started to tire. Judging his moment, Domino hit once and once only, not with his fists but with both feet, hurling himself sideways or backwards or pushing off from a lightning handstand. These were playful matches, but I've seen him fell an ox simply by leaping at its forehead.
Tf you were my size, Henri, you'd learn to look after yourself, you wouldn't rely on the good nature of others.'
Looking out from the pillar I let Patrick describe to me the activity on deck beneath the English sails. He could see the Admirals in their white leggings and the sailors running up and down the rigging, altering the sail to make the most of the wind. There were plenty of floggings. Patrick said he saw a man's back lifted off in one clean piece. They dipped him in the sea to save him from turning septic and left him on deck staring at the sun. Patrick said he could see the weevils in the bread.
Don't believe that one.
July 20th, 1804. Too early for dawn but not night either.
There's a resdessness in the trees, out at sea, in the camp. The birds and we are sleeping fitfully, wanting to be asleep but tense with the idea of awakening. In maybe half an hour, that familiar cold grey light. Then the sun. Then the seagulls crying out over the water. I get up at this time most days. I walk down to the port to watch the ships tethered like dogs.
I wait for the sun to slash the water.
The last nineteen days have been millpond days. We have dried our clothes on the burning stones not pegged them up to the wind, but today my shirt-sleeves are whipping round my arms and the ships are listing badly.
We are on parade today. Bonaparte arrives in a couple of
hours to watch us put out to sea. He wants to launch 25,000 men in fifteen minutes.
He will.
This sudden weather is unexpected. If it worsens it will be impossible to risk the Channel.
Patrick says the Channel is full of mermaids. He says it's the mermaids lonely for a man that pull so many of us down.
Watching the white crests slapping against the sides of the ships, I wonder if this mischief storm is their doing?
Optimistically, it may pass.
Noon. The rain is running off our noses down our jackets into our boots. To talk to the next man I have to cup my hands around my mouth. The wind has already loosened scores of barges, forcing men out chest deep into the impossible waters, making a nonsense of our best knots. The officers say we can't risk a practice today. Bonaparte, with his coat pulled round his head, says we can. We will.
July 20th, 1804. Two thousand men were drowned today.
In gales so strong that Patrick as look-out had to be tied to barrels of apples, we discovered that our barges are children's toys after all. Bonaparte stood on the dockside and told his officers that no storm could defeat us.
'Why, if the heavens fell down we would hold them up on the points of our lances.'
Perhaps. But there's no will and no weapon that can hold back the sea.
I lay next to Patrick, flat and strapped, hardly seeing at all for the spray, but eveiy gap the wind left showed me another gap where a boat had been.
The mermaids won't be lonely any more.
We should have turned on him, should have laughed in his face, should have shook the dead-men-seaweed-hair in his face.
But his face is
How did he feel about working for the French?
He preferred it to working for the English.
Without Bonaparte to care for I spent much of my time with Patrick on the pillar. The top of it was about twenty feet by
fifteen, so there was room to play cards. Sometimes Domino came up for a boxing match. His unusual height was no disadvantage to him and, although Patrick had fists like cannonballs, he never once landed a blow on Domino, whose tactic was to jump about until his opponent started to tire. Judging his moment, Domino hit once and once only, not with his fists but with both feet, hurling himself sideways or backwards or pushing off from a lightning handstand. These were playful matches, but I've seen him fell an ox simply by leaping at its forehead.
Tf you were my size, Henri, you'd learn to look after yourself, you wouldn't rely on the good nature of others.'
Looking out from the pillar I let Patrick describe to me the activity on deck beneath the English sails. He could see the Admirals in their white leggings and the sailors running up and down the rigging, altering the sail to make the most of the wind. There were plenty of floggings. Patrick said he saw a man's back lifted off in one clean piece. They dipped him in the sea to save him from turning septic and left him on deck staring at the sun. Patrick said he could see the weevils in the bread.
Don't believe that one.
July 20th, 1804. Too early for dawn but not night either.
There's a resdessness in the trees, out at sea, in the camp. The birds and we are sleeping fitfully, wanting to be asleep but tense with the idea of awakening. In maybe half an hour, that familiar cold grey light. Then the sun. Then the seagulls crying out over the water. I get up at this time most days. I walk down to the port to watch the ships tethered like dogs.
I wait for the sun to slash the water.
The last nineteen days have been millpond days. We have dried our clothes on the burning stones not pegged them up to the wind, but today my shirt-sleeves are whipping round my arms and the ships are listing badly.
We are on parade today. Bonaparte arrives in a couple of
hours to watch us put out to sea. He wants to launch 25,000 men in fifteen minutes.
He will.
This sudden weather is unexpected. If it worsens it will be impossible to risk the Channel.
Patrick says the Channel is full of mermaids. He says it's the mermaids lonely for a man that pull so many of us down.
Watching the white crests slapping against the sides of the ships, I wonder if this mischief storm is their doing?
Optimistically, it may pass.
Noon. The rain is running off our noses down our jackets into our boots. To talk to the next man I have to cup my hands around my mouth. The wind has already loosened scores of barges, forcing men out chest deep into the impossible waters, making a nonsense of our best knots. The officers say we can't risk a practice today. Bonaparte, with his coat pulled round his head, says we can. We will.
July 20th, 1804. Two thousand men were drowned today.
In gales so strong that Patrick as look-out had to be tied to barrels of apples, we discovered that our barges are children's toys after all. Bonaparte stood on the dockside and told his officers that no storm could defeat us.
'Why, if the heavens fell down we would hold them up on the points of our lances.'
Perhaps. But there's no will and no weapon that can hold back the sea.
I lay next to Patrick, flat and strapped, hardly seeing at all for the spray, but eveiy gap the wind left showed me another gap where a boat had been.
The mermaids won't be lonely any more.
We should have turned on him, should have laughed in his face, should have shook the dead-men-seaweed-hair in his face.
But his face is
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