CHAPTER XXI.“The billows lift their white heads above me!”
“The billows lift their white heads above me!”
“The billows lift their white heads above me!”
“The billows lift their white heads above me!”
A fewdays more, and our hero’s ship, the Glorious, was on the high seas. It was night. Edmund had had the early watch—had been relieved—had retired to his hammock—had fallen into a sound sleep, and was dreaming of Lodore. Suddenly, his pleasing vision became troubled. A thunder-storm arose; the loud peal rolled, and resounded from mountain to mountain: the little girls shrieked. He started awake! and found the scene indeed different; but thenoises which had occasioned his dream, real. The drum was beating to quarters; signal-guns were firing; and all hands hastening on deck. He jumped out of his hammock. The officers were all getting up; the men were casting the great guns loose, knocking away the bulk-heads, and tumbling them, as well as all the furniture of the cabins—trunks, tables, chairs, &c. &c.—pell-mell together, down into the hold, with a tremendous clatter. In short, the ship was clearing for action. She was also tacking to close with the enemy, and her deck, in consequence, was greatly crowded: blue lights burning, rockets going off, sails flapping, yards swinging, ropes rattling, and the tramping of feet excessive; while the voice of the officer giving orders was heard, from time to time, resounding through all. The vessel they were approaching, carried two stern-lights, indicating that a vice-admiral was on board. While all eyes were fixed upon her, she drew near slowly, and on coming up, opened at once all the ports of her three decks, displaying a blaze of lights which, amid the surrounding darkness, had much grandeur of effect, not only dazzling by its sudden brightness, but exhibiting, as it were, in proud defiance, the strength of the broadside, which was thus ready to salute a foe. The vessels now hailed each other, and lo! proved to be both English! The supposed enemy was the Erina, Admiral Lord Fitz Ullin, returning from Gibraltar. All hopes of fighting thus at an end, both men and officers were, to use their own expression, “confoundedly disappointed.”
They soon, however, had fighting enough; so much, that to give any account of the various actions they were in, would, we fear, betedious; and, to those unacquainted with naval affairs, uninteresting; we shall not, therefore, attempt it, but passing over about four years of our hero’s life, proceed at once to his return to Old England, a fine, promising lad, of nineteen—a great favourite with all the officers, and in high estimation with the captain, having already given many proofs of spirit, and being always remarkable for regularity and good conduct.
CHAPTER XXII.“From ocean’s mist, the white-sailed fleet arose!First, a ridge of clouds it seemed; but brighterShone the sun—and the distant ships stood forth,Their wet sides glittering in all his beams!”“Heavens!Must I renounce honour, reputation?”
“From ocean’s mist, the white-sailed fleet arose!First, a ridge of clouds it seemed; but brighterShone the sun—and the distant ships stood forth,Their wet sides glittering in all his beams!”“Heavens!Must I renounce honour, reputation?”
“From ocean’s mist, the white-sailed fleet arose!First, a ridge of clouds it seemed; but brighterShone the sun—and the distant ships stood forth,Their wet sides glittering in all his beams!”“Heavens!Must I renounce honour, reputation?”
“From ocean’s mist, the white-sailed fleet arose!First, a ridge of clouds it seemed; but brighterShone the sun—and the distant ships stood forth,Their wet sides glittering in all his beams!”“Heavens!Must I renounce honour, reputation?”
Asthe Glorious anchored in Cawsand Bay, in company with a numerous fleet, the animated prospect which presented itself, especially in its combined effect with the state of the atmosphere, uniting a bright sunny glow with a fog, consequently, of a peculiar whiteness, possessed a degree and style of beauty not easily imagined by any one unaccustomed to harbour scenery.
It was the noon of a frosty day: the sun which, as we have observed, shone brightly, gave to the face of the waters the appearance of a sheet of light. The heights around, and all other distant objects, were covered with the smoky veil of white fog, already noticed, which reduced them to shades of the neutral tint; while, on the side of the nearest hill, the clumps of wood and undulations of ground were plainly visible, and along its topmost line some scattered trees stood curiously and beautifully traced against the pale, even mistiness of all behind. In the bay, too, the nearest range of ships, with all the varied and still varying forms of their floating canvass, (for almost all the fleet at this time were employed in furling their sails,) every mast, every cord, each figure standing beneath the picturesque canopy of a sail-boat, or stretchingto the oars of a row-boat, were all strongly defined, and appeared, from contrast with the snowy whiteness of the fog behind them, black as ebony; while the more distant vessels, being deeper and deeper sunk in the shrouding atmosphere, were more and more faintly shown, till the farthest seemed but one degree more palpable than the mist itself. The wind, soon after the fleet anchored, died away entirely, and all that had been activity and bustle, changed to the most peculiar repose; as though the beautiful picture, once completed, was left to delight posterity; for nothing now moved as far as the eye could reach, except that, from time to time, a gleam reflected from the flat, wet oar of some row-boat, plying between ship and ship, shot, like a flash of summer lightning, across the still and shadowy scene.
During the anchoring of the fleet, one of theships, by some mischance, got aground, and all the others were ordered to send boats immediately to her assistance. The task was laborious, and much disorder occurred in the tiers of the stranded vessel, where the sailors, taking advantage of the confusion which prevailed, had broken into the spirit-room, and were regaling themselves with rum. Towards evening, however, with the help of the tide, she was got off the rocks, and the signal being given for the boats which had been sent to her assistance to return alongside their respective ships, Edmund and Henry, with their boats and crews, did not obey the signal with their usual promptitude. Edmund, meanwhile, after going through great exertion the whole day, was still on board the vessel so lately got off, commanding his men in the most peremptory manner into his boat, when Henry observing thathe appeared heated and fatigued, and thinking that, at such a time, a very little would overcome one not accustomed to excess, drew towards him a second glass, (for he had been drinking freely,) and filling both that and his own, said, “How heated you are, Montgomery! you will kill yourself, if you don’t take something!” at the same time offering him one of the glasses. Edmund answered instantly, and with indignation, that were it but water, and were he expiring with fatigue, it should not, in such a place, and at such a time, approach his lips! Henry stared at him, lifted the glass to his head, and, with a laugh, swallowed its contents. Edmund again remonstrated, and taking Henry, who was by this time very much intoxicated, by the arm, endeavoured to draw him away. Henry staggered, fell, dragged Edmund with him, andat the same time, seizing the handle of a can of spirits, which stood on the cask, trailed it after him, emptying its odoriferous contents on our hero’s breast and face, as he rolled with him on the floor.
At this unfortunate moment, a lieutenant, sent in search of the boats and midshipmen, which were missing, entered, and seeing both officers on the deck drenched in rum, two glasses on the barrel-head beside them, the spirit-can in their arms, and, apparently, the object of contention, as they struggled together on the floor while their men stood round them drinking, laughing, and swearing, he very naturally drew most unfavourable conclusions. Edmund, as soon as he could release himself from Henry’s grasp, arose; but so much heated, and so thoroughly ashamed of the situation in which he had been found, that he looked quite confused.He attempted to speak, but was silenced, and very harshly repulsed by the lieutenant to whom he addressed himself, who told him, with an air of the utmost contempt, at the same time holding a handkerchief to his nose, that while he smelt of spirits in so disgusting a manner, it was impossible to listen to him.
Our hero reddened with indignation, and repaired to his boat without further attempt at explanation, not doubting, however, that he should be able to justify himself ultimately. Henry was obliged to be carried to his boat, and thus did all return to the ship. The necessary report being made to Captain B., he was so much incensed, that he sent an order for both young men to quit the ship in half an hour, directing that, with their sea-chests beside them, they should be left on the nearest beach, to find their way home as they might.
Edmund begged to be heard. The captain refused, sending him word that it was impossible for him to permit gentlemen to remain in his ship, who had disgraced themselves by carousing among the common sailors. There was then no longer a hope! He must get into the boat. He did so; and, as they pushed off, another boat, in which sat a midshipman, (a stranger to Edmund,) passed them, and then ran alongside the ship, taking up the position they had just quitted.
The sun, a moment before, had dropped below the horizon. Edmund folded his arms, sighed, and resigned himself to his fate; then rested his eyes almost unconsciously on the scene before him. The water in the bay was still as a frozen lake, its face one sheet of cold transparent light, marking, by contrast, the pitchy darkness which twilight had already imparted to the hills that rose around it, and to every opaque objectlaying or moving on its peaceful surface. Perpetual, though imperceptibly wrought changes were each moment taking place in every thing around. The clouds near the horizon breaking, the still illumined western sky shed awhile a brilliant ray: the clouds closed again, and left all darker than before. The trees on the western hill stood for a few seconds strongly defined by the parting beam; then faded with the fading light. Some of the larger vessels, more lately arrived than the rest of the fleet, with majestic progress passed slowly to their places of anchorage. Single-masted boats, (warned by the approach of evening,) one by one drew smoothly towards the shore, changing, as they did so, at each moment, the disposition of their sails; and, finally, taking all down as they came to for the night under shelter of a projecting point. Alongside the same point, numerous row-boats, having shipped their oarsas they drew near, fell silently; while the single figure that had guided each, might shortly after be traced wandering homeward along the extended beach.
When the boat in which our hero sat had gone about twenty yards, they were hailed from their own ship, and desired by the officer of the watch to lay on their oars till further orders. Some time of anxious suspense followed, during which the approaches of night were as rapid as they were silent, and all objects were visibly shrouding themselves in that mysterious gloom which imagination loves to people with shadowy forms, when the flash of the evening gun was seen from the admiral’s ship, followed by a report which, with startling effect, broke upon the universal stillness, then rolled along like distant thunder up the harbour. As the last sounddied away, they were hailed again, ordered to come alongside, and Mr. Montgomery to come on board. Our hero obeyed the order, and was not a little surprised, on reaching the deck, to find all the ship’s company assembled there. In a few minutes, the captain and officers, preceded by lights, and accompanied by the strange midshipman who had passed the boat on its first quitting the ship, ascended the hatchway, and arranged themselves on the quarter-deck. Edmund was ordered to draw near. He did so; when the captain, addressing the stranger, in a tone which showed he wished to be heard by all present, said, “Lord Ormond, will you have the goodness to repeat, in the hearing of my officers and the whole ship’s company, the deposition you have made to me respecting Mr. Montgomery.”
The stranger, a mild-looking lad, about Edmund’s own age, came forward and said, that he had been in the tiers of the stranded vessel, calling off his own men, when Mr. Montgomery came in to collect his; that his attention had been fixed by that gentleman’s very proper conduct, which he here explained minutely, dwelling on our hero’s effort to rescue Henry; and his declaration, that were the beverage but water, he would not, for example sake, suffer a glass to be seen approach his lips, &c., till he came to where Edmund was pulled to the ground by the fall of Henry. He then proceeded to say, that he himself was about to go to his assistance, when, seeing the officer who came in search of both young men enter, he had hurried to his own boat, it being late.
Here the captain again spoke, saying, that as all had had reason to believe Mr. Montgomery’sconduct disgraceful, he had deemed it necessary that all should be thus publicly informed of his innocence, as well as made sensible of his, the captain’s, sufficient reasons for so sudden a change of measures towards him. He then turned to our hero, and expressed himself as highly gratified, to find the favourable opinion he had formed of his character thus justified. Captain B. here renewed the order to have Mr. St. Aubin immediately sent a-shore.
The stranger, Lord Ormond, who was the son of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin, got himself presented to Mr. Montgomery; and Edmund, anxious to express his gratitude, requested his new acquaintance to tell him by what fortunate circumstance he had become his deliverer.
“If any one deserves that title,” answered Ormond, “it is my father. I fear I was rather negligent in not remaining to assist you; but Ihad been already detained much too late. In my own justification, I described the scene I had just witnessed, and the consequent interest I could not avoid taking in what was passing; when, happening to say that the other gentleman called you Montgomery, my father repeated the name, and, after considering for a moment, exclaimed, ‘Why, that is the name of Lord L.’s young friend! If it be the same, he must be in the Glorious, Captain B., which came in this morning with the Cadiz fleet.’ I mentioned about what age you appeared to be; upon which my father started up, saying, ‘I could almost venture to affirm, that that young man has got into a serious scrape! You had better, Ormond,’ he continued, ‘go instantly on board the Glorious, present my compliments to Captain B., and recount all you witnessed of the business.’”
Before the young men parted, Ormond gave a message, of which he was the bearer, inviting Mr. Montgomery to dine with Lord Fitz-Ullin on the following day.
CHAPTER XXIII.“A vision came in on the moon-beam.”
“A vision came in on the moon-beam.”
“A vision came in on the moon-beam.”
“A vision came in on the moon-beam.”
Henry, left on the beach, with his chest beside him, slept heavily for some hours. When he awoke it was night. He lay on the shingles. He felt the fresh breath of the breeze, as, from time to time, it lifted the hair on his fevered temples. He heard the dash of each billow as it struck the shore, and the rattle of the loose stones, as each wave retired again, down the extended sloping bank of smooth pebbles, on which his head was pillowed. Thinking it alla dream, he remained for some moments motionless; when, becoming more clearly awake, he sat up, and passed his hand across his eyes, as it were to rectify their vision.
The moon had risen over the expanse of waters before him. He gazed on the sparkling of her myriad beams, mingling in fairy dance o’er all the solitary waste, for not a sail or mast appeared. He looked on his right hand, and on his left; here too all was loneliness!
His ideas still bewildered, he rested his eyes on the pillar of light, which the bright orb exactly opposite to him, and still near the horizon, had flung across the whole ocean, planting its base at his very feet. On a sudden this dazzling object became obscured, and he beheld, standing over him, and intercepting its refulgence, the same remarkable figure which, it may be remembered, Mr. Jackson had seen walking with him, about eight years since, in the shrubbery at Lodore House.
CHAPTER XXIV.“The darts of death,Are but hail to me, so oft they’ve boundedFrom my shield!”“No boy’s staff his spear!”“No harmless beamOf light, his sword.”
“The darts of death,Are but hail to me, so oft they’ve boundedFrom my shield!”“No boy’s staff his spear!”“No harmless beamOf light, his sword.”
“The darts of death,Are but hail to me, so oft they’ve boundedFrom my shield!”“No boy’s staff his spear!”“No harmless beamOf light, his sword.”
“The darts of death,Are but hail to me, so oft they’ve boundedFrom my shield!”
“No boy’s staff his spear!”“No harmless beamOf light, his sword.”
Thenext day, according to appointment, Edmund went to dine on board the Erina. Arriving rather early, he found Lord Fitz-Ullin alone in his cabin, reading a newspaper.
His lordship received our hero with the greatest cordiality, saying, he was happy to have it in his power to show any mark of attention, however trifling, to the young friend of Lord L.; “particularly,” he added, smiling, “as my office of patron is, I understand, to be quite a sinecure, I am the more called upon to discover minor modes of proving my friendship. You have already, I am informed, Mr. Montgomery,” he continued, “by your gallant conduct, so far cut your own way, that you are to receive your commission immediately, without any interference on my part. But, remember, my interest is only laid up for the first occasion on which it may be required, when you shall command it in a double proportion.”
Edmund was commencing a speech of thanks, but was prevented by Lord Fitz-Ullin, who said, “By the bye, Ormond is going up to the next examination, which will take place in a day or two. Had you not better go with him? You can then pass, and be made, without anyunnecessary delays; and, if you have no objection to sail with me, we can have you appointed to the Erina on your promotion.”
Edmund was delighted with this arrangement; and, as he smiled, and made his grateful acknowledgments, and even when he had concluded, he observed Lord Fitz-Ullin’s eyes resting on his features with a lingering expression of interest which surprised him, and therefore made him look grave. For a moment or two Lord Fitz-Ullin continued to gaze at him, as if waiting for something; and then, with an air of disappointment, sat down, and resumed his newspaper.
Ormond entering, and joining Edmund, the young people conversed with animation, but apart, that they might not interrupt the admiral’s reading. Edmund, however, saw that the newspaper was little regarded, and thatLord Fitz-Ullin’s eyes were generally turned on his countenance. He felt rather embarrassed by so strict a scrutiny, but contrived to maintain the appearance of not noticing it, except that he coloured a little.
Lord Fitz-Ullin rose, came forward, and joining them, asked Edmund if he thought Ormond like him.
“I have scarcely ever seen a likeness so strong as that of Lord Ormond to your lordship,” answered Edmund.
“Such is the general opinion,” said Lord Fitz-Ullin; “but it is a stationary likeness, consisting in feature. What a fascination there is about that gleam of resemblance, found only in expression, which comes and goes with a smile, particularly when the likeness is to one who has been dear to us, and who no longer exists! We wait for it, we watch for it! and, when itcomes, it brings momentary sunshine to the heart, and is gone again, with all the freshness of its charm entire, the eye not having had time to satisfy itself with a full examination into its nature or degree.”
Letters were at this moment brought in, and the admiral opened one, which he excused himself for reading, saying, it was from Lady Fitz-Ullin. The entrance of the rest of the company now diversified the scene, and dinner soon followed.
During the remainder of the day and evening, the intimacy between our hero and his young friend, Oscar Ormond, such was Lord Ormond’s name, made rapid progress; and both the lads looked forward, with equal pleasure, to the prospect of Edmund’s being appointed to the Erina.
There was an innocent openness about themanners of Oscar Ormond, proceeding from perfectly harmless intentions, which, to one so young as Edmund, and, himself of a disposition peculiarly frank, was very attractive. In Oscar, however, this winning quality, never having been cultivated into a virtue, had remained a mere instinct, and was even in danger of degenerating into a weakness—we mean that of idle egotism. While Edmund’s native candour, equally, in the first instance, springing from an honest consciousness of having no motive to conceal a thought, had, during that earliest period of education, so vitally important, been trained and sustained by the skilful hand of Mr. Jackson; and, therefore, already was accompanied by undeviating veracity on principle, and a consequent firmness of mind, worthy of riper years. This gave our hero an ascendancy over his young friend, which might besaid to have commenced at their very first interview; and which, in their after lives, frequently influenced the conduct of both, though neither, perhaps, was conscious of its existence.
CHAPTER XXV.“Pleasant to the ear is the praise of kings;But, Carril, forget not the lowly.”
“Pleasant to the ear is the praise of kings;But, Carril, forget not the lowly.”
“Pleasant to the ear is the praise of kings;But, Carril, forget not the lowly.”
“Pleasant to the ear is the praise of kings;But, Carril, forget not the lowly.”
Atthis time there was no passing in any sea-port, but before three captains. Oscar and Edmund, therefore, proceeded to town. The anxious hour, big with the fate of many a middy, arrived. The friends, accordingly, having already got through their first examination with success, now wended their way to the great centre of naval hopes and fears, to answer such final queries as it might be judged necessary to put to them. Entering an ante-room,they approached a standing group of youngsters, who, probably, had not much interest to smooth their path, for their conversation chiefly turned on subjects of discontent. One, whose name was Bullen, and who had once been a messmate of Ormond’s, seemed to be chief spokesman. He was growling at the additional difficulty which, he asserted, there was now every day in passing. “A young man might know it all well enough aboard,” he said, “but to have a parcel of old-wigs staring a fellow in the face, and asking him puzzlers, why, it was enough to scatter the brains of any one of common modesty!”
“If that is all,” said one of his companions, for middies are not ceremonious, “there is no fear of you, Bullen: your modesty will never stand in your way!”
“I hope not,” answered Bullen, “nor anything else, if I can help it. At any rate, I should be sorry to be quite so soft a one as Armstrong! Only think,” he continued, turning to Ormond, “only think of that foolish fellow Armstrong! One of the old-wigs asked him (saw he was soft, I suppose) the simplest question in the world, just to try him. Well, old-wig stares him in the face, and looking devilish knowing, says, ‘Suppose yourself, Sir, in a gale of wind on a lee shore, the ship in great danger of going on the rocks, when, the wind suddenly shifting, you are taken all aback, what, Sir, would you do in this critical juncture?’ Instead of answering, ‘Clap on sail, and put out to sea,’ poor Armstrong took it for granted he should not have been asked the question if it were not a puzzler, and was so confounded, that he looked like a fool, and had not a word to say, till the old-wigs themselves were all obliged to laugh out.”
At this moment Bullen was sent for to attend the said old-wigs, as he called them; and though he still tried to bluster, he coloured to the very roots of his hair at the awful summons. On his return, however, he came laughing and swaggering, and bolting into the midst of the still standing group, he seized a button of Ormond’s coat with one hand, and of Edmund’s with the other, and began to tell his story.
“Have you passed? have you passed?” cried many voices.
“Have I passed!” repeated Bullen. “There is no difficulty in passing.”
“I thought it was very difficult, a short time since,” observed Ormond.
“Well, well—so it may be to some: I found no difficulty, however. But listen till I tell you the fun. They thought they had got another Armstrong to deal with, I suppose;for one of the old fellows, looking as wise as Solomon, and as pompous as the grand Mogul, turned his eyes full on me, and began. I felt mine inclined to take a peep at my shoe-buckles; but, mustering all my courage, I raised them, stared straight in his face, clenched my teeth, drew my heels together, thus, and stood firm.
“‘Well, Sir!’ said old-wig, ‘hitherto you have answered well.’—This was encouraging. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘suppose yourself on a lee shore, under a heavy press of sail, the wind blowing such a gale that, in short, it is impossible to save the ship, what, Sir, would you do?’
“‘Why, let her go ashore and be d——d!’ I replied. Then, thinking I had been too rough, I added, with a bow, that I should never take the liberty of saving a ship whichhis lordship judged it impossible to save. He smiled, and said I had a fine bold spirit, just fit for a brave British tar! So I sailed out of port with flying colours, but no pennant, faith: I heard nothing of my commission.
“After all,” he continued, “what is the use of passing, when, if a man has not the devil and all of Scotch interest, and all that stuff, he don’t know when he’ll get made; but may, in all probability, be ayoungsteratforty! a middy in the cockpit, when he is as grey as a badger! There’s a fellow aboard of us now, who jumped over three times,—no less,—to save boys who fell over the ship’s side, and couldn’t swim; (he swims like a fish himself;) but he’s not Scotch! Well, the captain wrote word to the Admiralty; and what reward do you think they gave him? Why, employed one of their sneaking underscratchatoriesto write an officialline and a half, importing, that ‘their lordships were pleased to approve of his conduct.’”
“You may depend upon it,” replied Ormond, to whom Bullen chiefly addressed himself, “that his name is marked for promotion, as soon as a convenient opportunity offers.”
“Convenient!” interrupted Bullen: “it would be devilish convenient to me, I know, to be made just now.”
“And in the meantime,” continued Ormond, “what can be more gratifying than the approbation of the respectable heads of the department, under which he serves his country?”
“I think,” said our hero, whose opinions, like himself, were young, and therefore unsophisticated, “the lords of the admiralty do but justice to the motives of British officers, when they deem approbation the first of rewards! I mean, of course, in a public sense; consideringtheir lordships, in pronouncing that approbation, as the organs, not only of government, but also of the nation, on naval affairs; of which they are constituted the judges.”
“Besides,” said Ormond, “you forget how many men, in the British navy, have risen to the highest rank, without any interest whatever, entirely in consequence of meritorious conduct.”
“That was long ago,” replied Bullen sulkily. “But it’s very easy for you to talk! You, the son of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin; sure of whatever you want, and want nothing neither! Aye, aye, that’s the way of the world! I wish you’d make your father get me my commission, I know!”
The other young men looked at each other, and smiled.
“Well,” said Ormond, laughing; “do something very brilliant to deserve it; and if theAdmiralty give you approbation only, I pledge myself you shall not want interest. Here is my friend, Montgomery,” he added, turning to Edmund, “saying not a word; and yet, so just a sense have their lordships of his merits, that he has no use for interest, though he possesses it in the greatest profusion.”
“Does he faith?” exclaimed Bullen, “I wish he’d give it to me, then!”
Here all laughed out. And now Lord Ormond was summoned. He went; and, in due time, returned with rather a conscious smile on his countenance.
“Well!” cried Bullen. “Well!” echoed a dozen voices at once. “Well!” repeated Ormond; but proceeded no further.
Edmund began to question his amused-looking friend somewhat anxiously, as to how matters stood; and whether there was really anydifficulty, to one who knew what he was about.
“Why, to tell you the truth,” said Ormond, laughing out at last, “the only question they asked me, was—But I’ll not tell you—guess!—all guess!—I give you fifty guesses!”
Every puzzler which had been conned by any of the party, was now proposed and rejected, in turn; at first, with much of loud merriment; subsiding, finally, however, into grave wonder; for unguessed riddles are apt to grow dull.
“I am sure I can guess no more,” said Edmund at last. “Tell!” cried one. “Tell!” cried another. “Can’t you tell!” vociferated Bullen.
“Well,” said Ormond, “do you all give it up?”
“Yes!” “Yes!” “We all give it up!” “We all give it up!” answered many voices eagerly. And the circle drew itself closer round him.
“Well, then,” proceeded Ormond, “they asked me how”—and here he hesitated and laughed again.
“How what?” cried Bullen. “How what?” “How what?” “How what?” cried all.
“How my father was!!!” concluded his lordship, trying to look grave.
“No!” exclaimed every voice at once.
“I told you how it would be with you,” cried Bullen.
“But you are not serious?” demanded Edmund.
“But I am, faith!” answered his friend.
“And they asked you nothing else?” pursued Edmund.
“No,” said Ormond—“but, yes, they did, by the bye; they asked me to take a glass of wine, and a bit of cake.”
“And you passed?” demanded Bullen.
“I did,” replied Ormond.
“And are to have your commission, I suppose?”
His lordship answered in the affirmative.
Our hero was now summoned. He met with a very flattering reception; and, after a respectable examination, was informed, that his commission should be made out immediately. He had also the satisfaction of being expressly told, that he was thus early promoted, to mark their lordship’s approbation of his gallant and meritorious conduct, as reported by Captain B. How different this from being turned out of the ship in disgrace! thought Edmund.
CHAPTER XXVI.“Behold! the red stars silently descendHigh Cromla’s head of clouds is grey.”“Towards Temora’s groves rolls the lofty carOf Cormac.”
“Behold! the red stars silently descendHigh Cromla’s head of clouds is grey.”“Towards Temora’s groves rolls the lofty carOf Cormac.”
“Behold! the red stars silently descendHigh Cromla’s head of clouds is grey.”“Towards Temora’s groves rolls the lofty carOf Cormac.”
“Behold! the red stars silently descendHigh Cromla’s head of clouds is grey.”
“Towards Temora’s groves rolls the lofty carOf Cormac.”
Wenext find our hero, wrapped in a large boat cloak of blue camlet, lined with scarlet plush, and seated on the top of a mail coach; which, with more regard to expedition than to comfort, travels night and day towards the north. His anticipations were all of unmixed delight.
With what fixed attention would his darling Julia, and even the restless Frances, listen to all he had to recount!
How much gratified would both Mrs. Montgomery and Mr. Jackson be, to find, that by endeavouring to follow their wise counsels, he had obtained the approbation of those best entitled to judge of his conduct. And this, to Edmund, was no trifling source of happiness.
Then, what an important personage must his promotion render him in the eyes of every one! What joy would Mrs. Smyth evince, on seeing him return safe, and grown to be a man too! for such, at little more than nineteen, he already thought himself. Even one glimpse of the gleeful countenance of the old bargeman, who had the care of the pleasure-boat on the lake, appeared in the far perspective of busy fancy. Or, perhaps, this was a sort of vision; for it was one of the last things he could remember to have seen pass in review before his mind’s eye, when, over night, he had begun to nod on his perilous throne. The hour was early, themorning bright, when the mail set him down where the road turns off to Lodore House.
He almost ran the rest of the way, and quite breathless entered the dear haven of all his wishes, not by the common approach, but, as had ever been the custom of his childhood, by one of the glass doors which open on the lawn.
Breakfast was laid; the urn and hot rolls, evidently but just brought in, were smoking on the table: yet, a general stillness prevailed, and the room seemed without inhabitant. Edmund’s heart, which had been beating with violence, stopped suddenly: he drew a longer breath, and felt even a kind of relief; for the intensity of expectation had arisen to almost a painful height while he crossed the green and stepped over the threshold.
Advancing a few paces into the apartment he cast an eager look all round; and, in a farwindow, descried his darling little Julia sitting alone; her eyes fixed on a book—her lips moving, apparently learning a task. She looked up, and, not quite recognising the intruder, the first expression of her countenance was alarm. He spoke. Her colour mounted till a universal glow spread itself over neck, face, and arms; not from bashfulness, for she was not quite thirteen, therefore too young for such a feeling; but from that extreme emotion peculiar to the enthusiasm of her temper.
Edmund forgot to throw off his boat-cloak, and enveloped the elastic fairy form of his little favourite in its uncouth folds; while she clung round his neck and sobbed for a considerable time before she could speak to tell him how glad she was to see him, and how much she loved him still—though he had staid such a long, long time away!
Mrs. Montgomery, preceded by Frances performing pirouettes, now entered. They had heard nothing of Edmund’s arrival: the old lady, therefore, was much overcome. She embraced him, and wept over him; for his idea was ever associated in her feelings with that of her lost child. Frances, after a momentary pause, sprung into his arms, exclaiming,
“It’s brother Edmund! it’s brother Edmund!”
Our hero, meanwhile, swinging about in his boat-cloak, looked rather an unwieldy monster amongst them.
“My dear boy,” said Mrs. Montgomery, “why don’t you take off that great frightful muffle? I want to see what you are like!”
Edmund looked down at himself, laughed, and flung off the cloak, declaring he had quite forgotten it. Mrs. Montgomery now contemplated, with visible pleasure, his figure, become, fromits height and proportions, almost manly, without losing any of that air of elegance, which, from childhood, had been animate grace of Edmund’s: then, pointing to an ottoman close beside her chair, she bade him sit down; and, putting on her spectacles, for the shedding of many tears had dimmed her sight, she kindly stroked back the hair from his forehead, and examined his features. Julia stood close at her other side, holding her other hand. Frances was off to publish the joyful tidings to good Mrs. Smyth and the rest of the household; by singing at every bound, “News! news! news!—Brother Edmund is come! brother Edmund is come!—News! news! news!”
After dropping a few large tears in silence, Mrs. Montgomery said, mournfully,
“My poor child was quite right. She always prophesied how handsome you would be, when I used to say you were all eyes and eyelashes.Now, I am sure, they are just in good proportion. She used to admire the forehead, too; and the form of the mouth; and the sweetness of the expression. Yes, yes! she was certainly right.”
And she looked at him as though he had been a picture, without the slightest compassion for his blushes.
Edmund, willing to turn the conversation from himself, said,
“Pray, ma’am, is it not generally thought that Julia will be very beautiful? Did you ever see any thing like the brilliancy of her colour?”
“Yes, it is very bright,” said the old lady, “a sign of health, I hope.”
“And as to her smile,” proceeded Edmund, “I have always thought it the sweetest thing in nature! even in her nurse’s arms I can remember being delighted with it; when the darlingused to stretch out its little hands to come to me!”
And he looked, as he spoke, into the full, uplifted, liquid eyes of his little, listening favourite, with a thrill of tenderness, but too prophetic of the future.
“There! look how she blushes!” he continued, collecting the quantity of fair hair which hung around her neck, and playfully strewing it again over her shoulders.
“I think her beautiful, of course, my dear,” answered Mrs. Montgomery; “but I am partial, you know: and so indeed are you. You began to love her, I believe, on the very evening she was born! I shall never forget how carefully you supported the baby’s head on your little arm as you sat on this very table, I think it was, and asked leave to kiss her.”
“And was my presumptuous request granted, ma’am?” asked Edmund, laughing, and drawing little Julia kindly towards him, as though he had some thought of repeating the presumption of which he spoke; but she now began to twist her head away, blush, and look half angry: for little girls of her age, though, as we before observed, too young to be bashful, are very apt to be furiously modest.
“Certainly, my dear,” replied Mrs. Montgomery: “you were but six years of age, you know, and poor Julia there, not an hour old at the time.”
Her voice here faltered, her tears began to flow again, and her head shook a little; an infirmity she was able to suppress, except when much moved. Julia, who knew the symptom well, stole her arms round her grandmamma’s neck, and tried all the little coaxing ways which she had long found the most effectual on such occasions of mournful recollection.
CHAPTER XXVII.“What tho’No chiefs were they; their hands were strong in fight:They were our rock in danger; in triumph,The mountain whence we spread our eagle wing!”
“What tho’No chiefs were they; their hands were strong in fight:They were our rock in danger; in triumph,The mountain whence we spread our eagle wing!”
“What tho’No chiefs were they; their hands were strong in fight:They were our rock in danger; in triumph,The mountain whence we spread our eagle wing!”
“What tho’No chiefs were they; their hands were strong in fight:They were our rock in danger; in triumph,The mountain whence we spread our eagle wing!”
Letthose who are fond of dramatizing their ideas, picture to themselves the scene opening, and displaying the wardroom of the Erina; its centre occupied by a long breakfast-table, at which a number of the officers are already ranged.
Our hero enters, and takes his seat among them for the first time, having joined but the night before, just as the ship was getting under way.
Thus situated, he feels a very natural curiosity to observe what his new messmates are like. He looks around him accordingly; and every face being equally strange to him, he begins to amuse himself, by wondering at the manifold and ingenious contrivances of nature, to make such variety out of the old materials, of eyes, nose, and mouth.
One gentleman sat eating an egg with great solemnity; his elongated countenance, resembling one seen on the back of a table-spoon, held up the long way; while his next neighbour smiled on a roll, with a face that seemed reflected from the same part of the same utensil, turned the cross way. The next, a portly gentleman, looked as though he had stowed away, preparatory to the long voyage, good sea-store of claret in his cheeks, nose, and double chin. The next to him, as spare as Don Quixote, hada countenance the colour of a blanket; while the hollow of his cheeks, which he had ingeniously endeavoured to fill, by encouraging the growth of his whiskers, resembled excavations in a disused quarry, where tangled brambles had long been permitted to flourish undisturbed. One of the good-looking sat next; and the eye that was going the circle of the table, found agreeable rest, for a moment, on his oval countenance, adorned by a healthful complexion, fine eyes, and chesnut-brown hair. Next to him appeared a bluff-looking fellow; his face deeply pitted with the small-pox, and of a dark-red colour, relieved only by the sooty black of beard, hair, eye-brows, eye-lashes, eyes and whiskers. His neighbour had a merry face, of a lighter and brighter red, with the exception of the forehead, which was high, open, and brilliantly white, skirted by a thick forest of redhair; while a vigorous growth of whiskers, of the same colour, stood on each plump cheek, like underwood on the side of a hill.
Nearest him, sat a tall gentleman, whom our hero, on a further acquaintance, considered handsome; for he had a fine fresh skin and colour, a well-set mouth, good teeth, a high nose, and large blue eyes; but the rise on the nose was placed so much too high up, that it gave a ludicrous air of mock pomp to the whole countenance; while the eyes, peculiarly round, opened with that species of stare, which looks as though the cravat were tied too tight; and the cheeks, that seemed to have been plumped by practising the trumpet, wanting, alas! the sheltering grace of whiskers, but too much resembled, save in their hue, very large apple dumplings.
After thus scanning the faces of so manygood fellows, brave and jovial, though not, at first sight, perfect beauties; our hero’s wandering eye arrived, at length, at a vacant seat, before which was placed a plate, carefully covered. At this seat and plate, he observed many of the party looking, from time to time, with various knowing winks and smiles, accompanied by glances directed towards a door, leading from one of the cabins. The said door opening shortly, admitted a perfect personification of Sir John Falstaff.
“Mr. Barns, our chaplain,” whispered Edmund’s neighbour. Our hero felt uneasy: he saw, at a glance, that Barns was the butt of the mess; and it was not accordant with his habits, to make a jest of the sacred office, be it held by whom it might.
Mr. Barns rolled towards his seat; placed himself upon it, and as he settled in it, seemedto spread with his own weight. He made a sort of grunt, intended for the morning salutation; then, stretching forward his arms, a certain protuberance of chest and abdomen, not permitting a nearer approach of the rest of the person to the table, he touched lightly, with the fore-finger and thumb of both hands, the cover; when, finding that he was in no danger of burning himself, he raised it. His countenance had begun to fall a little on finding the cover cold; but now, aghast, his under jaw hung on his double chin; while the tongue, spread and slighted protruded, rested on the under-lip; for, lo!—the plate contained but atmospheric air, and Mr. Barns was not used to feed on the camelion.
He clapped down the cover, which, during his first astonishment, he had held suspended; and, leaning back in his chair, said, in a surlytone;—“Come, come, gentlemen; this making a jest of your chaplain, and that on Sunday morning too, is not very becoming, let me tell you! What must this gentleman, who is a stranger, think of such behaviour? I am very good-natured, sir, you must know,” he added, looking towards our hero, “and these gentlemen presume upon it.” Edmund bowed assent.
“I hope, Mr. Barns,” said the claret-faced gentleman, by name Warburton, “you mean to make your sermon to-day at least one minute the shorter, for this extempore lecture. Ten minutes, you know—we never listen after ten minutes; but promise, on the faith of a true divine, that you will not this day exceed nine minutes, and you shall have the real broil, that the steward is keeping hot without.” Mr. Barns’ countenance became less severe, when he heard that there actually was a real broil!
“Nonsense! nonsense!” he said; “but, there, call for the broil, or it will be too much done: a broil is not worth a farthing without the red gravy in it!”
The broil was called for accordingly.
“You are a man of honour, Barns,” continued Warburton; “remember the conditions: the sermon is not to exceed nine minutes this morning, or ten on any future occasion.”
“I don’t know that I shall preach at all to-day,” said Barns.
“Not preach at all!” echoed the gentleman with the high nose, making his eyes rounder than before.
“But, why? but, why?” demanded various voices.
“I don’t think the day will suit,” said Barns, taking his eye from the door for a moment, to glance it at the windows.
“You are always too timid of the weather, Mr. Barns,” observed Mr. Elliot, the long-faced gentleman: “a moderate sermon, such as Warburton spoke of, no man can object to. Those things, in my opinion, should not be entirely neglected, were it but for the sake of example to the youngsters and ship’s company.”
“Example!” repeated Barns; “that’s all very proper ashore, sir; and no man set a better example to his flock, when on terra firma, than I did; but I have no idea of being made an example of myself, in the fullest sense of the word, by having my pulpit blown over board, as might be the case, were it erected on deck without due regard to the weather, Mr. Elliot.”
“Nay, nay, Barns!” interrupted Warburton, “there can be no danger of that, when you are in it!”
“I don’t sail without ballast, I grant you, sir. But here comes the broil!” said Barns.
The bluff gentleman, Mr. Thomson, asked the steward, as he entered, how the day was on deck.
“Very fine, sir.”
“Will it do for the pulpit?” asked Mr. Jones, the red-haired gentleman.
“The pulpit is erected already, sir, by order of the captain,” replied the steward.
“I thought,” said Jones, aside, “this no preaching was too good news to be true.”
“Why,” asked Edmund, aside also, for Jones sat next to him, “is Mr. Barns’s preaching so very bad?”
“No—yes—I don’t know, faith!” answered Jones.
“Have you never heard Mr. Barns, then?” again asked Edmund.
“Oh, a thousand times!—That is—but you see, I never listen to prosing: it’s a bad sort of thing, I think. In short, I generally box the compass, or something of the sort, to amuse myself. It’s the best way, in my opinion,” he added, “never to think at all!”
“There you are quite wrong, sir,” observed Mr. Barns, catching the last words as he wiped his mouth, having finished his broil; “for spiritual food is as needful to the soul, as our common nutriment is to the body: and inasmuch as that body thrives best, which is best nurtured, so will that soul, which is best instructed!”
“That argument, from Mr. Barns, is certainly conclusive,” observed Mr. White, the thin gentleman.
“White,” whispered Jones to Edmund, “thin as he is, eats more than Barns does!”
All now repaired on deck, where, it is reported, that Mr. Barns’s presentiment proved but too well-founded; for, that while he was preaching, a most unexpected squall came on a sudden—took hold of the ship—gave her one thorough shake—and laid her on her beam-ends; and, that all being in confusion, the men in crowds running forward with the ropes to shorten sail, &c. &c., it was some time before he, Mr. Barns, was missed, and that when he was missed, while one talked of lowering a boat down, and another ran to look over the ship’s side, it was Mr. Montgomery, who at length discovered him, feet uppermost, in the lee scuppers, where the first reel of the vessel had tumbled him, with the heavy cannonade slides, and what not else besides, heaped on top of him.
Edmund very soon perceived, that this unbecoming levity of his messmates on sacred subjects, had much of its origin in the character of the admiral himself: for Lord Fitz-Ullin, though a man of so much personal dignity, that in his own manners he never offended against outward decorum, had, unfortunately, no settled principle on religious subjects—no happy conviction, that moral obligations, with all the thousand blessings that flow from them, have but one pure and inexhaustible source, in that simple, practical religion, which the universal Father gave his children to promote their happiness, temporal as well as eternal; that religion which saith, “Do unto others, as you would that they should do unto you;” that religion, which for every possible duty, hath a plain, practicable precept, which if followed by all, would realize the bliss of heaven even upon earth.
But Lord Fitz-Ullin had been disgusted, by frequently, during a considerable portion of very early life, being compelled to hear the irrational railing of a fanatical preacher against good works. The man might have meant right, but he knew not how to express himself; and Lord Fitz-Ullin, unable to adopt his doctrine, such as it met the ear, without further examination, rejected, or at least thenceforward neglected, all religion. Something of this was felt, if not seen, by those who looked up to the admiral, as to a man older than themselves—a man at the head of the honourable profession to which they had devoted themselves—and a man, as eminent in brilliancy of courage and talent, as in rank, both hereditary and acquired. The mischief done, therefore, bore proportion to the extensive influence which those shining qualities and exalted circumstances bestowed on their possessor.
With respect to his lordship’s choice of a chaplain, being blameably indifferent on the subject, he had appointed Mr. Barns, on the application of a friend, without any regard whatever to his fitness or unfitness to fill the situation. Our hero, notwithstanding, found his patron both a kind and most agreeable friend; and one, whose partiality to him daily increased. Lord Fitz-Ullin had been, all his life, in love with glory; in Edmund he recognized much of the same spirit, accompanied, too, by all that romance and enthusiasm of youth, so delightful to those, who, having retained such feelings longer than the usual period, find little that is congenial in the minds of people of their own age.
“I wish, Montgomery,” said the Earl, one day that Edmund dined with his lordship, “I wish you could inspire Ormond by your example—he is so indolent. I fear,” he continued,“I have given him bad habits: he has always, in fact, been sure of whatever he wished for, without the slightest exertion on his own part.”
“Why, yes,” said Ormond, playfully; “you know, sir, I am aware that I shall be an admiral one of those days, without taking any trouble about the matter.”
“Oscar,” said his father, “remember, that though you may attain to rank by interest, you can never obtain glory, but by deserving it!”
“Have I not the glory of being your son, sir!” replied Oscar, smiling.
“I have not even a name by inheritance!” thought Edmund; “I, therefore, must endeavour to earn one.”
As intercourse continued, and friendship grew, Edmund saw in his young friend daily evidencesof a heart overflowing with every amiable and generous sentiment; also, a high sense of honour—worldly honour, we mean, which had been carefully inculcated by his father.
Of any other standard of right, Oscar Ormond had little or no idea. The predominant weakness of his character, was an idle degree of vanity about his rank—the consequence of the early lessons of his nurse. This uneducated and ill-judging woman, with whom he was too much left, used carefully to give him his title from infancy, always telling him what a grand thing it was for him to be a lord already, when there were so many big men, who would never be lords! Yet, strange to say, Oscar was, as we have seen, devoid of ambition in his profession, to the infinite regret of his father; but he had got it into his head, that his own hereditary rank was something much greater thanany thing that could be acquired, and also, that all future steps would come, as all past ones had done—as mere matters of course. The natural consequences of his exalted birth!