Chapter Fifty.Peter Simple first takes a command, then three West Indiamen, and twenty prisoners—One good turn deserves another—The prisoners endeavour to take him, but are themselves taken in.The next day I was very unhappy. The brig was in the offing waiting for me to come on board. I pointed her out to Celeste as we were at the window, and her eyes met mine. An hour’s conversation could not have said more. General O’Brien showed that he had perfect confidence in me, for he left us together.“Celeste,” said I, “I have promised your father—”“I know what has passed,” interrupted she; “he told me everything.”“How kind he is! But I did not say that I would not bind myself, Celeste.”“No! but my father made me promise that you should not—that if you attempted, I was immediately to prevent you—and so I shall.”“Then you shall keep your word, Celeste. Imagine everything that can be said in this—” and I kissed her.“Don’t think me forward, Peter, but I wish you to go away happy,” said Celeste; “and therefore, in return, imagine all I could say in this—” and she returned my salute, kissing my cheek.After this, we had a conversation of two hours; but what lovers say is very silly, except to themselves, and the reader need not be troubled with it. General O’Brien came in, and told me the boat was ready. I rose up—I was satisfied with what had passed, and with a firm voice, I said, “Good-bye, Celeste; God bless you!” and followed the general, who, with some of his officers, walked down with me to the beach. I thanked the general, who embraced me, paid my adieus to the officers, and stepped into the boat. In half-an-hour I was on board of the brig, and in O’Brien’s arms. We put the helm up, and in a short time the town of St. Pierre was shut out from my longing sight, and we were on our way to Barbadoes. That day was passed in the cabin with O’Brien, giving me a minute detail of all that had passed.When we anchored once more in Carlisle Bay, we found that the hurricane had been much more extensive in the Windward Islands than we had imagined. Several men-of-war were lying there, having lost one or more of their masts, and there was great difficulty in supplying the wants of so many. As we arrived the last, of course we were last served; and, there being no boats left in store, there was no chance of our being ready for sea under two or three months. TheJoan d’Arcschooner privateer was still lying there, but had not been fitted out for want of men; and the admiral proposed to O’Brien that he should man her with a part of his ship’s company, and send one of his lieutenants out to cruise in her. This was gladly assented to by O’Brien, who came on board and asked me whether I should like to have her, which I agreed to, as I was quite tired of Barbadoes and fried flying fish.I selected two midshipmen, Swinburne, and twenty men, and having taken on board provisions and water for three months, I received my written instructions from O’Brien, and made sail. We soon discovered that the masts which the American had sold to the schooner were much too large for her: she was considerably overmasted, and we were obliged to be very careful. I stood for Trinidad, off which island was to be my cruising ground, and in three weeks had recaptured three West Indiamen; when I found myself so short of hands, that I was obliged to return to Barbadoes. I had put four hands into the first vessel, which, with the Englishmen, prisoners, were sufficient, and three hands into the two others; but I was very much embarrassed with my prisoners, who amounted to nearly double my ship’s company, remaining on board. Both the midshipmen I had sent away, and I consulted with Swinburne as to what was best to be done.“Why, the fact is, Mr Simple, Captain O’Brien ought to have given us more hands; twenty men are little enough for a vessel with a boom mainsail like the one we have here; and now we have only ten left! but I suppose he did not expect us to be so lucky, and it’s true enough that he has plenty of work for the ship’s company, now that he has to turn everything in afresh. As for the prisoners, I think we had better run close in, and give them two of our boats to take them on shore. At all events, we must be rid of them, and not be obliged to have one eye aloft and the other down the hatchway, as we must now.”This advice corresponded with my own ideas, and I ran in-shore, gave them the stern boat and one of the larger ones, which held them all, and sent them away, leaving only one boat for the schooner, which was hoisted up on the starboard chess-tree. It fell a dead calm as we sent away the prisoners; we saw them land and disappear over the rocks, and thought ourselves well rid of them, as they were twenty-two in number, most of them Spaniards, and very stout, ferocious-looking fellows.It continued calm during the whole day, much to our annoyance, as I was very anxious to get away as soon as I could; still I could not help admiring the beauty of the scenery—the lofty mountains, rising abruptly from the ocean, and towering in the clouds, reflecting on the smooth water, as clear as in a looking-glass, every colour, every tint, beautifully distinct. The schooner gradually drifted close in-shore, and we could perceive the rocks at the bottom, many fathoms deep. Not a breath of wind was to be seen on the surface of the water for several miles round, although the horizon in the offing showed that there was a smart breeze outside.Night came on, and we still lay becalmed. I gave my orders to Swinburne, who had the first watch, and retired to my standing bed-place in the cabin. I was dreaming, and I hardly need say who was the object of my visions. I thought I was in Eagle Park, sitting down with her under one of the large chestnut trees, which formed the avenue, when I felt my shoulder roughly pushed. I started up—“What is the matter? Who’s that—Swinburne?”“Yes, sir. On with your clothes immediately, as we have work on hand, I expect;” and Swinburne left the cabin immediately.I heard him calling the other men who were below. I knew that Swinburne would not give a false alarm. In a minute I was on deck, where I found he had just arrived, and was looking at the stern of the schooner.“What is that, Swinburne?” said I.“Silence, sir. Hark! don’t you hear them?”“Yes,” replied I; “the sound of oars.”“Exactly, sir; depend upon it, those Spaniards have got more help, and are coming back to take the vessel; they know we have only ten hands on board.”By this time the men were all on deck. I directed Swinburne to see all the muskets loaded, and ran down for my own sword and pistols. The water was so smooth, and the silence so profound, that Swinburne had heard the sound of the oars at a considerable distance. Fortunate it was, that I had such a trusty follower. Another might have slumbered, and the schooner have been boarded and captured without our being prepared. When I came on deck again I spoke to the men, exhorted them to do their duty, and pointed out to them that these cut-throat villains would certainly murder us all if we were taken, which I firmly believe would have been the case. The men declared that they would sell their lives as dearly as they could. We had twenty muskets, and the same number of pistols, all of which were now loaded. Our guns were also ready, but of no use, now that the schooner had not steerage-way.The boats were in sight, about a quarter of a mile astern, when Swinburne said, “There’s a cat’s-paw flying along the water, Mr Simple; if we could only have a little wind, how we would laugh at them; but I’m afraid there’s no such luck. Shall we let them know that we are ready?”“Let every one of us take two muskets,” said I: “when the first boat is under the counter, take good aim, and discharge into one of the boats; then seize the other musket, and discharge it at the other boat. After that, we must trust to our cutlasses and pistols; for if they come on, there will be no time to load again. Keep silence, all of you.”The boats now came up, full of men; but as we remained perfectly quiet, they pulled up gently, hoping to surprise us. Fortunately, one was a little in advance of the other; upon which I altered my directions, and desired my men to fire their second musket upon the first boat, as, if we could disable her, we were an equal match for those in the other. When the boat was within six yards of the schooner’s counter. “Now!” said I, and all the muskets were discharged at once, and my men cheered. Several of the oars dropped, and I was sure we had done great execution; but they were laid hold of by the other men, who had not been pulling, and again the boat advanced to the counter.“Good aim, my lads, this time,” cried Swinburne; “the other boat will be alongside as soon as you have fired. Mr Simple, the schooner has headway, and there’s a strong breeze coming up.”Again we discharged our ten muskets into the boat, but this time we waited until the bowman had hooked on the planeshear with his boat-hook, and our fire was very effective. I was surprised to find that the other boat was not on board of us: but a light breeze had come up, and the schooner glided through the water. Still she was close under our counter, and would have been aboard in a minute.In the meantime, the Spaniards who were in the first boat were climbing up the side, and were repulsed by my men with great success. The breeze freshened, and Swinburne ran to the helm. I perceived the schooner was going fast through the water, and the second boat could hardly hold her own. I ran to where the boat-hook was fixed on the planeshear, and unhooked it; the boat fell astern, leaving two Spaniards clinging to the side, who were cut down, and they fell into the water.“Hurrah! all safe!” cried Swinburne; “and now to punish them.”The schooner was now darting along at the rate of five miles, with an increasing breeze. We stood in for two minutes, then tacked, and ran for the boats. Swinburne steered, and I continued standing in the bows, surrounded by the rest of the men. “Starboard a little, Swinburne.”“Starboard it is.”“Steady—steady: I see the first boat, she is close under our bows. Steady—port—port—port a little—port. Look out, my lads, and cut down all who climb up.”Crash went the schooner on to the boat, the men in her in vain endeavouring to escape us. For a second or two she appeared to right, until her further gunwale was borne down under the water; she turned up, and the schooner went over her, sending every soul in her to their account. One man clung on to a rope, and was towed for a few seconds, but a cutlass divided the rope at the gunwale, and with a faint shriek he disappeared. The other boat was close to us, and perceived what had been done. They remained with their oars poised, all ready to pull so as to evade the schooner. We steered for her, and the schooner was now running at the rate of seven miles an hour. When close under our bows, by very dexterously pulling short round with their starboard oars, we only struck her with our bow; and before she went down many of the Spaniards had gained the deck, or were clinging to the side of the vessel. They fought with desperation, but we were too strong for them. It was only those who had gained the deck which we had to contend with. The others clung for a time, and unable to get up the sides, one by one dropped into the water and went astern. In a minute, those on deck were lying at our feet, and in a minute more, they were tossed overboard after their companions; not, however, until one of them struck me through the calf of the leg with his knife, as we were lifting him over the gunwale. I do not mean to say that the Spaniards were not justified in attempting to take the schooner; but still, as we had liberated them but a few hours before, we felt that it was unhandsome and treacherous on their part, and therefore showed them no quarter. There were two of my men wounded as well as myself, but not severely, which was fortunate, as we had no surgeon on board, and only about half a yard of diachylum plaster in the vessel.“Well out of that, sir,” said Swinburne, as I limped aft. “By the Lord Harry! it might have been apretty go.”Having shaped our course for Barbadoes, I dressed my leg, and went down to sleep. This time I did not dream of Celeste, but fought the Spaniard over again, thought I was wounded, and awoke with the pain of my leg.
The next day I was very unhappy. The brig was in the offing waiting for me to come on board. I pointed her out to Celeste as we were at the window, and her eyes met mine. An hour’s conversation could not have said more. General O’Brien showed that he had perfect confidence in me, for he left us together.
“Celeste,” said I, “I have promised your father—”
“I know what has passed,” interrupted she; “he told me everything.”
“How kind he is! But I did not say that I would not bind myself, Celeste.”
“No! but my father made me promise that you should not—that if you attempted, I was immediately to prevent you—and so I shall.”
“Then you shall keep your word, Celeste. Imagine everything that can be said in this—” and I kissed her.
“Don’t think me forward, Peter, but I wish you to go away happy,” said Celeste; “and therefore, in return, imagine all I could say in this—” and she returned my salute, kissing my cheek.
After this, we had a conversation of two hours; but what lovers say is very silly, except to themselves, and the reader need not be troubled with it. General O’Brien came in, and told me the boat was ready. I rose up—I was satisfied with what had passed, and with a firm voice, I said, “Good-bye, Celeste; God bless you!” and followed the general, who, with some of his officers, walked down with me to the beach. I thanked the general, who embraced me, paid my adieus to the officers, and stepped into the boat. In half-an-hour I was on board of the brig, and in O’Brien’s arms. We put the helm up, and in a short time the town of St. Pierre was shut out from my longing sight, and we were on our way to Barbadoes. That day was passed in the cabin with O’Brien, giving me a minute detail of all that had passed.
When we anchored once more in Carlisle Bay, we found that the hurricane had been much more extensive in the Windward Islands than we had imagined. Several men-of-war were lying there, having lost one or more of their masts, and there was great difficulty in supplying the wants of so many. As we arrived the last, of course we were last served; and, there being no boats left in store, there was no chance of our being ready for sea under two or three months. TheJoan d’Arcschooner privateer was still lying there, but had not been fitted out for want of men; and the admiral proposed to O’Brien that he should man her with a part of his ship’s company, and send one of his lieutenants out to cruise in her. This was gladly assented to by O’Brien, who came on board and asked me whether I should like to have her, which I agreed to, as I was quite tired of Barbadoes and fried flying fish.
I selected two midshipmen, Swinburne, and twenty men, and having taken on board provisions and water for three months, I received my written instructions from O’Brien, and made sail. We soon discovered that the masts which the American had sold to the schooner were much too large for her: she was considerably overmasted, and we were obliged to be very careful. I stood for Trinidad, off which island was to be my cruising ground, and in three weeks had recaptured three West Indiamen; when I found myself so short of hands, that I was obliged to return to Barbadoes. I had put four hands into the first vessel, which, with the Englishmen, prisoners, were sufficient, and three hands into the two others; but I was very much embarrassed with my prisoners, who amounted to nearly double my ship’s company, remaining on board. Both the midshipmen I had sent away, and I consulted with Swinburne as to what was best to be done.
“Why, the fact is, Mr Simple, Captain O’Brien ought to have given us more hands; twenty men are little enough for a vessel with a boom mainsail like the one we have here; and now we have only ten left! but I suppose he did not expect us to be so lucky, and it’s true enough that he has plenty of work for the ship’s company, now that he has to turn everything in afresh. As for the prisoners, I think we had better run close in, and give them two of our boats to take them on shore. At all events, we must be rid of them, and not be obliged to have one eye aloft and the other down the hatchway, as we must now.”
This advice corresponded with my own ideas, and I ran in-shore, gave them the stern boat and one of the larger ones, which held them all, and sent them away, leaving only one boat for the schooner, which was hoisted up on the starboard chess-tree. It fell a dead calm as we sent away the prisoners; we saw them land and disappear over the rocks, and thought ourselves well rid of them, as they were twenty-two in number, most of them Spaniards, and very stout, ferocious-looking fellows.
It continued calm during the whole day, much to our annoyance, as I was very anxious to get away as soon as I could; still I could not help admiring the beauty of the scenery—the lofty mountains, rising abruptly from the ocean, and towering in the clouds, reflecting on the smooth water, as clear as in a looking-glass, every colour, every tint, beautifully distinct. The schooner gradually drifted close in-shore, and we could perceive the rocks at the bottom, many fathoms deep. Not a breath of wind was to be seen on the surface of the water for several miles round, although the horizon in the offing showed that there was a smart breeze outside.
Night came on, and we still lay becalmed. I gave my orders to Swinburne, who had the first watch, and retired to my standing bed-place in the cabin. I was dreaming, and I hardly need say who was the object of my visions. I thought I was in Eagle Park, sitting down with her under one of the large chestnut trees, which formed the avenue, when I felt my shoulder roughly pushed. I started up—“What is the matter? Who’s that—Swinburne?”
“Yes, sir. On with your clothes immediately, as we have work on hand, I expect;” and Swinburne left the cabin immediately.
I heard him calling the other men who were below. I knew that Swinburne would not give a false alarm. In a minute I was on deck, where I found he had just arrived, and was looking at the stern of the schooner.
“What is that, Swinburne?” said I.
“Silence, sir. Hark! don’t you hear them?”
“Yes,” replied I; “the sound of oars.”
“Exactly, sir; depend upon it, those Spaniards have got more help, and are coming back to take the vessel; they know we have only ten hands on board.”
By this time the men were all on deck. I directed Swinburne to see all the muskets loaded, and ran down for my own sword and pistols. The water was so smooth, and the silence so profound, that Swinburne had heard the sound of the oars at a considerable distance. Fortunate it was, that I had such a trusty follower. Another might have slumbered, and the schooner have been boarded and captured without our being prepared. When I came on deck again I spoke to the men, exhorted them to do their duty, and pointed out to them that these cut-throat villains would certainly murder us all if we were taken, which I firmly believe would have been the case. The men declared that they would sell their lives as dearly as they could. We had twenty muskets, and the same number of pistols, all of which were now loaded. Our guns were also ready, but of no use, now that the schooner had not steerage-way.
The boats were in sight, about a quarter of a mile astern, when Swinburne said, “There’s a cat’s-paw flying along the water, Mr Simple; if we could only have a little wind, how we would laugh at them; but I’m afraid there’s no such luck. Shall we let them know that we are ready?”
“Let every one of us take two muskets,” said I: “when the first boat is under the counter, take good aim, and discharge into one of the boats; then seize the other musket, and discharge it at the other boat. After that, we must trust to our cutlasses and pistols; for if they come on, there will be no time to load again. Keep silence, all of you.”
The boats now came up, full of men; but as we remained perfectly quiet, they pulled up gently, hoping to surprise us. Fortunately, one was a little in advance of the other; upon which I altered my directions, and desired my men to fire their second musket upon the first boat, as, if we could disable her, we were an equal match for those in the other. When the boat was within six yards of the schooner’s counter. “Now!” said I, and all the muskets were discharged at once, and my men cheered. Several of the oars dropped, and I was sure we had done great execution; but they were laid hold of by the other men, who had not been pulling, and again the boat advanced to the counter.
“Good aim, my lads, this time,” cried Swinburne; “the other boat will be alongside as soon as you have fired. Mr Simple, the schooner has headway, and there’s a strong breeze coming up.”
Again we discharged our ten muskets into the boat, but this time we waited until the bowman had hooked on the planeshear with his boat-hook, and our fire was very effective. I was surprised to find that the other boat was not on board of us: but a light breeze had come up, and the schooner glided through the water. Still she was close under our counter, and would have been aboard in a minute.
In the meantime, the Spaniards who were in the first boat were climbing up the side, and were repulsed by my men with great success. The breeze freshened, and Swinburne ran to the helm. I perceived the schooner was going fast through the water, and the second boat could hardly hold her own. I ran to where the boat-hook was fixed on the planeshear, and unhooked it; the boat fell astern, leaving two Spaniards clinging to the side, who were cut down, and they fell into the water.
“Hurrah! all safe!” cried Swinburne; “and now to punish them.”
The schooner was now darting along at the rate of five miles, with an increasing breeze. We stood in for two minutes, then tacked, and ran for the boats. Swinburne steered, and I continued standing in the bows, surrounded by the rest of the men. “Starboard a little, Swinburne.”
“Starboard it is.”
“Steady—steady: I see the first boat, she is close under our bows. Steady—port—port—port a little—port. Look out, my lads, and cut down all who climb up.”
Crash went the schooner on to the boat, the men in her in vain endeavouring to escape us. For a second or two she appeared to right, until her further gunwale was borne down under the water; she turned up, and the schooner went over her, sending every soul in her to their account. One man clung on to a rope, and was towed for a few seconds, but a cutlass divided the rope at the gunwale, and with a faint shriek he disappeared. The other boat was close to us, and perceived what had been done. They remained with their oars poised, all ready to pull so as to evade the schooner. We steered for her, and the schooner was now running at the rate of seven miles an hour. When close under our bows, by very dexterously pulling short round with their starboard oars, we only struck her with our bow; and before she went down many of the Spaniards had gained the deck, or were clinging to the side of the vessel. They fought with desperation, but we were too strong for them. It was only those who had gained the deck which we had to contend with. The others clung for a time, and unable to get up the sides, one by one dropped into the water and went astern. In a minute, those on deck were lying at our feet, and in a minute more, they were tossed overboard after their companions; not, however, until one of them struck me through the calf of the leg with his knife, as we were lifting him over the gunwale. I do not mean to say that the Spaniards were not justified in attempting to take the schooner; but still, as we had liberated them but a few hours before, we felt that it was unhandsome and treacherous on their part, and therefore showed them no quarter. There were two of my men wounded as well as myself, but not severely, which was fortunate, as we had no surgeon on board, and only about half a yard of diachylum plaster in the vessel.
“Well out of that, sir,” said Swinburne, as I limped aft. “By the Lord Harry! it might have been apretty go.”
Having shaped our course for Barbadoes, I dressed my leg, and went down to sleep. This time I did not dream of Celeste, but fought the Spaniard over again, thought I was wounded, and awoke with the pain of my leg.
Chapter Fifty One.Peter turned out of his command by his vessel turning bottom up—A cruise on a main-boom, with sharks “en attendant”—self and crew, with several flying fish, taken on board a negro boat—Peter regenerates by putting on a new outward man.We made Barbadoes without any further adventure, and were about ten miles off the bay, steering with a very light breeze, and I went down into the cabin expecting to be at anchor before breakfast the next morning. It was just daylight, when I found myself thrown out of my bed-place, on the deck, on the other side of the cabin, and heard the rushing of water. I sprang up. I knew the schooner was on her beam ends, and gained the deck. I was correct in my supposition: she had been upset by what is called a white squall, and in two minutes would be down. All the men were up on deck, some dressed, others, like myself, in their shirts. Swinburne was aft; he had an axe in his hand, cutting away the rigging of the main-boom. I saw what he was about; I seized another, and disengaged the jaw-rope and small gear about the mast. We had no other chance; our boat was under the water, being hoisted up on the side to leeward. All this, however, was but the work of two minutes; and I could not help observing by what trifles lives are lost or saved. Had the axe not been fortunately at the capstan, I should not have been able to cut the jaw-rope, Swinburne would not have had time, and the main-boom would have gone down with the schooner. Fortunately we had cleared it; the schooner filled, righted a little, and then sank, dragging us and the main-boom for a few seconds down in its vortex, and then we rose to the surface.The squall still continued, but the water was smooth. It soon passed over, and again it was nearly calm. I counted the men clinging to the boom, and found that they were all there. Swinburne was next to me. He was holding with one hand, while with the other he felt in his pocket for his quid of tobacco, which he thrust into his cheek. “I wasn’t on deck at the time, Mr Simple,” said he, “or this wouldn’t have happened. I had just been relieved, and I told Collins to look out sharp for squalls. I only mention it, that if you are saved, and I am not, you mayn’t think I was neglectful of my duty. We ain’t far from the land, but still we are more likely to fall in with a shark than a friend, I’m thinking.”This, indeed, had been my thoughts, but I had concealed them; but after Swinburne had mentioned the shark, I very often looked along the water for their fins, and down below to see if they were coming up to tear us to pieces. It was a dreadful feeling.“It was not your fault, Swinburne, I am sure. I ought to have relieved you myself, but I kept the first watch and was tired. We must put our trust in God: perhaps we may yet be spared.”It was now almost calm, and the sun had mounted in the heavens: the scorching rays were intolerable upon our heads, for we had not the defence of hats.I felt my brain on fire, and was inclined to drop into the water, to screen myself from the intolerable heat. As the day advanced, so did our sufferings increase. It was a dead calm, the sun perpendicular over us, actually burning that part of our bodies which rose clear of the water. I could have welcomed even a shark to relieve me of my torment; but I thought of Celeste, and I clung to life. Towards the afternoon, I felt sick and dizzy; my resolution failed me; my vision was imperfect; but I was roused by Swinburne, who cried out, “A boat, by all that’s gracious! Hang on a little longer, my men, and you are saved.”It was a boat full of negroes, who had come out to catch flying fish. They had perceived the spar on the water, and hastened to secure the prize. They dragged us all in, gave us water, which appeared like nectar, and restored us to our fleeting senses. They made fast the boom, and towed it in-shore. We had not been ten minutes on our way, when Swinburne pointed to the fin of a large shark above the water. “Look there, Mr Simple.” I shuddered, and made no answer; but I thanked God in my heart.In two hours we were landed, but were too ill to walk. We were carried up to the hospital, bled, and put into cots. I had a brain fever which lasted six or seven days, during which O’Brien never left my bedside. My head was shaved, all the skin came off my face like a mask, as well as off my back and shoulders. We were put into baths of brandy and water, and in three weeks were all recovered.“That was but an unlucky schooner from beginning to end,” observed O’Brien, after I had narrated the events of my cruise. “We had a bad beginning with her, and we had a bad ending. She’s gone to the bottom, and the devil go with her; however, all’s well that ends well, and Peter, you’re worth a dozen dead men yet; but you occasion me a great deal of trouble and anxiety, that’s the truth of it, and I doubt if I shall ever rear you, after all.”I returned to my duty on board of the brig, which was now nearly ready for sea. One morning O’Brien came on board and said, “Peter, I’ve a piece of news for you. Our gunner is appointed to theAraxes, and the admiral has given me a gunner’s warrant for old Swinburne. Send for him on deck.”Swinburne was summoned, and came rolling up the hatchway. “Swinburne,” said O’Brien, “you have done your duty well, and you are now gunner of theRattlesnake. Here is your warrant, and I’ve great pleasure in getting it for you.”Swinburne turned the quid in his cheek, and then replied, “May I be so bold as to ax, Captain O’Brien, whether I must wear one of them long tog, swallow-tailed coats—because if so, I’d prefer being a quarter-master?”“A gunner may wear a jacket, Swinburne, if he likes: when you go on shore, you may bend the swallow-tail if you please.”“Well, sir, then if that’s the case, I’ll take the warrant, because I know it will please the old woman.”So saying, Swinburne hitched up his trowsers, and went down below. I may here observe, that Swinburne kept to his round jacket until our arrival in England, when the “old woman,” his wife, who thought her dignity at stake, soon made him ship the swallow-tail; and after it was once on, Swinburne took a fancy to it himself, and always wore it, except when he was at sea.The same evening, as I was coming with O’Brien from the governor’s house, where I had dined, we passed a building, lighted up. “What can that be?” observed O’Brien: “not a dignity ball—there is no music.” Our curiosity induced us to enter, and we found it to be fitted up as a temporary chapel, filled with black and coloured people, who were ranged on the forms, and waiting for the preacher.“It is a Methodist meeting,” said I to O’Brien.“Never mind,” said he, “let us hear what is going on.”In a moment afterwards the pulpit was filled, not by a white man, as we had anticipated, but by a tall negro. He was dressed in black, and his hair, which it was impossible to comb down straight, was plaited into fifty little tails, with lead tied at the end of them, like you sometimes see the mane of a horse: this produced a somewhat more clerical appearance. His throat was open, and collar laid back; the wristbands of his shirt very large and white, and he flourished a white cambric handkerchief.“What a dandy he is!” whispered O’Brien.I thought it almost too absurd, when he said he would take the liberty to praise God in the 17th hymn, and beg all the company to join chorus. He then gave out the stanzas in the most strange pronunciation.“Gentle Jesus, God um lub,” etc.When the hymn was finished, which was sung by the whole congregation, in most delightful discord—for every one chose his own key—he gave an extempore prayer, which was most unfortunately incomprehensible, and then commenced his discourse, which was onFaith. I shall omit the head and front of his offending, which would, perhaps, hardly be gratifying, although ludicrous. He reminded me of a monkey imitating a man; but what amused me most, was his finale, in which he told his audience that there could be no faith without charity. For a little while he descanted upon this generally, and at last became personal. His words were, as well as I can recollect, nearly as follows:—“And now you see, my dear bredren, how unpossible to go to heaven with all the faith in the world, without charity. Charity mean, give away. Suppose you no give—you no ab charity; suppose you no ab charity—you no ab faith; suppose you no ab faith—you all go to hell and be damned. Now den, let me see if you ab charity. Here, you see, I come to save all your soul from hell-fire; and hell-fire dam hot, I can tell you. Dere you all burn, like coal, till you turn white powder, and den burn on till you come black again: and so you go on, burn, burn, sometime white, sometime black, for ebber and ebber. The debil never allow Sangoree to cool tongue. No, no cocoa-nut milk—not a lilly drap of water; debil see you damned first. Suppose you ask, he poke um fire and laugh. Well, den, ab you charity? No, you ab not. You, Quashee, how you dare look me in the face? You keep shop—you sell egg—you sell yam—you sell pepper hot—but when you give to me? Eh! nebber, so help me God. Suppose you no send—you no ab charity, and you go to hell. You black Sambo,” continued he, pointing to a man in a corner, “ab very fine boat, go out all day, catch fly-fish, bring um back, fry um, and sell for money: but when you send to me? not one little fish ebber find way to my mouth. What I tell you ’bout Peter and ’postles—all fishermen? good men; give ’way to poor. Sambo, you no ab charity; and ’spose you no repent this week, and send one very fine fish in plantain leaf, you go to hell, and burn for ebber and ebber. Eh! so you will run away, Massa Johnson,” cried he out to another, who was edging to the door; “but you no run away from hell-fire; when debil catch you he hold dam tight. You know you kill sheep and goat ebery day. You send bell ring all ’bout town for people to come buy; but when you send to me? nebber, ’cept once, you give me lilly bit of libber. That no do, Massa Johnson; you no ab charity; and suppose you no send me sheep’s head to-morrow morning, dam you libber, that’s all. I see many more, but I see um all very sorry, and dat they mean to sin no more, so dis time I let um off, and say nothing about it, because I know plenty of plantain and banana” (pointing to one), “and oranges and shaddock” (pointing to another), “and salt fish” (pointing to a third), “and ginger pop and spruce beer,” (pointing to a fourth), “and a straw hat” (pointing to a fifth), “and eberything else, come to my house to-morrow. So I say no more bout it; I see you all very sorry—you only forget. You all ab charity and all ab faith; so now, my dear bredren, we go down on our knees, and thank God for all this, and more especially that I save all your souls from going to the debil, who run about Barbadoes like one roaring lion, seeking what he may lay hold off, and cram into his dam fiery jaw.”“That will do, Peter,” said O’Brien; “we have the cream of it I think.”We left the house and walked down to the boat. “Surely. O’Brien,” said I, “this should not be permitted?”“He’s no worse than his neighbours,” replied O’Brien, “and perhaps does less harm. I admired the rascal’s ingenuity; he gave his flock what, in Ireland, we should call a pretty broad hint.”“Yes, there was no mistaking him; but is he a licensed preacher?”“Very little license in his preaching, I take it; no, I suppose he has had acall.”“A call!—what do you mean?”“I mean that he wants to fill his belly. Hunger is a call of nature, Peter.”“He seems to want a good many things, if we were to judge by his catalogue: what a pity it is that these poor people are not better instructed.”“That they never will be, Peter, while there is, what may be called, free trade in religion.”“You speak like a Catholic, O’Brien.”“I am one,” replied he. And here our conversation ended, for we were close to the boat, which was waiting for us on the beach.The next day a man-of-war brig arrived from England, bringing letters for the squadron on the station. I had two from my sister Ellen, which made me very uncomfortable. She stated, that my father had seen my uncle, Lord Privilege, and had had high words with him; indeed, as far as she could ascertain of the facts, my father had struck my uncle, and had been turned out of the house by the servants. That he had returned in a state of great excitement, and had been ill ever since. That there was a great deal of talk in the neighbourhood on the subject—people generally highly blaming my father’s conduct and thinking that he was deranged in his intellect,—a supposition very much encouraged by my uncle. She again expressed her hopes of my speedy return. I had now been absent nearly three years, and she had been so uncomfortable that she felt as if it had been at least ten. O’Brien also received a letter from Father McGrath, which I shall lay before the reader.“My dear son,—Long life, and all the blessings of all the saints be upon you now and for evermore! Amen. And may you live to be married, and may I dance at your wedding, and may you never want children, and may they grow up as handsome as their father and their mother (whoever she may hereafter be), and may you die of a good old age, and in the true faith, and be waked handsomely, as your own father was last Friday s’ennight, seeing as how he took it into his head to leave this world for a better. It was a very dacent funeral-procession, my dear Terence, and your father must have been delighted to see himself so well attinded. No man ever made a more handsome corpse, considering how old, and thin, and haggard he had grown of late; and how grey his hair had turned. He held the nosegay between his fingers, across his breast, as natural as life, and reminded us all of the blessed saint Pope Gregory who was called to glory some hundred years before either you or I was born.“Your mother’s quite comfortable; and there she sits in the ould chair, rocking to and fro all day long, and never speaking a word to nobody, thinking about heaven, I dare to say; which is just what she ought to do, seeing that she stands a very pretty chance of going there in the course of a month or so. Divil a word has she ever said since your father’s departure, but then she screamed and yelled enough to last for seven years at the least. She screamed away all her senses any how, for she has done nothing since but cough, cough, and fumble at her pater-nosters,—a very blessed way to pass the remainder of her days, seeing that I expect her to drop every minute, like an over ripe sleepy pear. So don’t think any more about her, my son, for without you are back in a jiffy, her body will be laid in consecrated ground, and her happy, blessed soul in purgatory.Pax vobiscum. Amen! Amen!“And now having disposed of your father and your mother so much to your satisfaction, I’ll just tell you that Ella’s mother died in the convent at Dieppe, but whether she kept her secret or not I do not know; but this I do know, that if she didn’t relieve her soul by confession, she’s damned to all eternity. Thanks be to God for all his mercies. Amen! Ella Flanagan is still alive, and, for a nun, is as well as can be expected. I find that she knows nothing at all about the matter of the exchanging the genders of the babbies—only that her mother was on oath to Father O’Toole, who ought to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, instead of those poor fellows whom the government called rebels, but who were no more rebels than Father McGrath himself, who’ll uphold the Pretender, as they call our true Catholic King, as long as there’s life in his body, or a drop of whisky left in ould Ireland to drink his health wid.—Talking about Father O’Toole puts me in mind that the bishop has not yet decided our little bit of dispute, saying that he must take time to think about it. Now considering that it’s just three years since the row took place, the old gentleman must be a very slow thinker, not to have found out by this time that I was in the right, and that Father O’Toole, the baste, is not good enough to be hanged.“Your two married sisters are steady and diligent young women, having each made three children since you last saw them. Fine boys, every mother’s son of them, with elegant spacious features, and famous mouths for taking in whole potatoes. By the powers, but the effects of the tree of the O’Briens begin to make a noise in the land, anyhow, as you would say if you only heard them roaring for their bit of suppers.“And now, my dear son Terence, to the real purport of this letter, which is just to put to your soul’s conscience, as a dutiful son, whether you ought not to send me a small matter of money to save your poor father’s soul from pain and anguish—for it’s no joke that being in purgatory, I can tell you; and you wouldn’t care how soon you were tripped out of it yourself. I only wish you had but your little toe in it, and then you’d burn with impatience to have it out again. But you’re a dutiful son, so I’ll say no more about it—a nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse.“When your mother goes, which, with the blessing of God, will be in a very little while, seeing that she has only to follow her senses, which are gone already, I’ll take upon myself to sell everything, as worldly goods and chattels are of no use to dead people: and I have no doubt but that what, with the furniture, and the two cows, and the pigs, and the crops in the ground, there will be enough to save her soul from the flames, and bury her dacently into the bargain. However, as you are the heir-at-law, seeing that the property is all your own, I’ll keep a debtor and creditor account of the whole; and should there be any over, I’ll use it all out in masses, so as to send her up to heaven by express and if there’s not sufficient, she must remain where she is till you come back and make up the deficiency. In the meanwhile I am your loving father in faith,“Urtagh McGrath.”
We made Barbadoes without any further adventure, and were about ten miles off the bay, steering with a very light breeze, and I went down into the cabin expecting to be at anchor before breakfast the next morning. It was just daylight, when I found myself thrown out of my bed-place, on the deck, on the other side of the cabin, and heard the rushing of water. I sprang up. I knew the schooner was on her beam ends, and gained the deck. I was correct in my supposition: she had been upset by what is called a white squall, and in two minutes would be down. All the men were up on deck, some dressed, others, like myself, in their shirts. Swinburne was aft; he had an axe in his hand, cutting away the rigging of the main-boom. I saw what he was about; I seized another, and disengaged the jaw-rope and small gear about the mast. We had no other chance; our boat was under the water, being hoisted up on the side to leeward. All this, however, was but the work of two minutes; and I could not help observing by what trifles lives are lost or saved. Had the axe not been fortunately at the capstan, I should not have been able to cut the jaw-rope, Swinburne would not have had time, and the main-boom would have gone down with the schooner. Fortunately we had cleared it; the schooner filled, righted a little, and then sank, dragging us and the main-boom for a few seconds down in its vortex, and then we rose to the surface.
The squall still continued, but the water was smooth. It soon passed over, and again it was nearly calm. I counted the men clinging to the boom, and found that they were all there. Swinburne was next to me. He was holding with one hand, while with the other he felt in his pocket for his quid of tobacco, which he thrust into his cheek. “I wasn’t on deck at the time, Mr Simple,” said he, “or this wouldn’t have happened. I had just been relieved, and I told Collins to look out sharp for squalls. I only mention it, that if you are saved, and I am not, you mayn’t think I was neglectful of my duty. We ain’t far from the land, but still we are more likely to fall in with a shark than a friend, I’m thinking.”
This, indeed, had been my thoughts, but I had concealed them; but after Swinburne had mentioned the shark, I very often looked along the water for their fins, and down below to see if they were coming up to tear us to pieces. It was a dreadful feeling.
“It was not your fault, Swinburne, I am sure. I ought to have relieved you myself, but I kept the first watch and was tired. We must put our trust in God: perhaps we may yet be spared.”
It was now almost calm, and the sun had mounted in the heavens: the scorching rays were intolerable upon our heads, for we had not the defence of hats.
I felt my brain on fire, and was inclined to drop into the water, to screen myself from the intolerable heat. As the day advanced, so did our sufferings increase. It was a dead calm, the sun perpendicular over us, actually burning that part of our bodies which rose clear of the water. I could have welcomed even a shark to relieve me of my torment; but I thought of Celeste, and I clung to life. Towards the afternoon, I felt sick and dizzy; my resolution failed me; my vision was imperfect; but I was roused by Swinburne, who cried out, “A boat, by all that’s gracious! Hang on a little longer, my men, and you are saved.”
It was a boat full of negroes, who had come out to catch flying fish. They had perceived the spar on the water, and hastened to secure the prize. They dragged us all in, gave us water, which appeared like nectar, and restored us to our fleeting senses. They made fast the boom, and towed it in-shore. We had not been ten minutes on our way, when Swinburne pointed to the fin of a large shark above the water. “Look there, Mr Simple.” I shuddered, and made no answer; but I thanked God in my heart.
In two hours we were landed, but were too ill to walk. We were carried up to the hospital, bled, and put into cots. I had a brain fever which lasted six or seven days, during which O’Brien never left my bedside. My head was shaved, all the skin came off my face like a mask, as well as off my back and shoulders. We were put into baths of brandy and water, and in three weeks were all recovered.
“That was but an unlucky schooner from beginning to end,” observed O’Brien, after I had narrated the events of my cruise. “We had a bad beginning with her, and we had a bad ending. She’s gone to the bottom, and the devil go with her; however, all’s well that ends well, and Peter, you’re worth a dozen dead men yet; but you occasion me a great deal of trouble and anxiety, that’s the truth of it, and I doubt if I shall ever rear you, after all.”
I returned to my duty on board of the brig, which was now nearly ready for sea. One morning O’Brien came on board and said, “Peter, I’ve a piece of news for you. Our gunner is appointed to theAraxes, and the admiral has given me a gunner’s warrant for old Swinburne. Send for him on deck.”
Swinburne was summoned, and came rolling up the hatchway. “Swinburne,” said O’Brien, “you have done your duty well, and you are now gunner of theRattlesnake. Here is your warrant, and I’ve great pleasure in getting it for you.”
Swinburne turned the quid in his cheek, and then replied, “May I be so bold as to ax, Captain O’Brien, whether I must wear one of them long tog, swallow-tailed coats—because if so, I’d prefer being a quarter-master?”
“A gunner may wear a jacket, Swinburne, if he likes: when you go on shore, you may bend the swallow-tail if you please.”
“Well, sir, then if that’s the case, I’ll take the warrant, because I know it will please the old woman.”
So saying, Swinburne hitched up his trowsers, and went down below. I may here observe, that Swinburne kept to his round jacket until our arrival in England, when the “old woman,” his wife, who thought her dignity at stake, soon made him ship the swallow-tail; and after it was once on, Swinburne took a fancy to it himself, and always wore it, except when he was at sea.
The same evening, as I was coming with O’Brien from the governor’s house, where I had dined, we passed a building, lighted up. “What can that be?” observed O’Brien: “not a dignity ball—there is no music.” Our curiosity induced us to enter, and we found it to be fitted up as a temporary chapel, filled with black and coloured people, who were ranged on the forms, and waiting for the preacher.
“It is a Methodist meeting,” said I to O’Brien.
“Never mind,” said he, “let us hear what is going on.”
In a moment afterwards the pulpit was filled, not by a white man, as we had anticipated, but by a tall negro. He was dressed in black, and his hair, which it was impossible to comb down straight, was plaited into fifty little tails, with lead tied at the end of them, like you sometimes see the mane of a horse: this produced a somewhat more clerical appearance. His throat was open, and collar laid back; the wristbands of his shirt very large and white, and he flourished a white cambric handkerchief.
“What a dandy he is!” whispered O’Brien.
I thought it almost too absurd, when he said he would take the liberty to praise God in the 17th hymn, and beg all the company to join chorus. He then gave out the stanzas in the most strange pronunciation.
“Gentle Jesus, God um lub,” etc.
“Gentle Jesus, God um lub,” etc.
When the hymn was finished, which was sung by the whole congregation, in most delightful discord—for every one chose his own key—he gave an extempore prayer, which was most unfortunately incomprehensible, and then commenced his discourse, which was onFaith. I shall omit the head and front of his offending, which would, perhaps, hardly be gratifying, although ludicrous. He reminded me of a monkey imitating a man; but what amused me most, was his finale, in which he told his audience that there could be no faith without charity. For a little while he descanted upon this generally, and at last became personal. His words were, as well as I can recollect, nearly as follows:—
“And now you see, my dear bredren, how unpossible to go to heaven with all the faith in the world, without charity. Charity mean, give away. Suppose you no give—you no ab charity; suppose you no ab charity—you no ab faith; suppose you no ab faith—you all go to hell and be damned. Now den, let me see if you ab charity. Here, you see, I come to save all your soul from hell-fire; and hell-fire dam hot, I can tell you. Dere you all burn, like coal, till you turn white powder, and den burn on till you come black again: and so you go on, burn, burn, sometime white, sometime black, for ebber and ebber. The debil never allow Sangoree to cool tongue. No, no cocoa-nut milk—not a lilly drap of water; debil see you damned first. Suppose you ask, he poke um fire and laugh. Well, den, ab you charity? No, you ab not. You, Quashee, how you dare look me in the face? You keep shop—you sell egg—you sell yam—you sell pepper hot—but when you give to me? Eh! nebber, so help me God. Suppose you no send—you no ab charity, and you go to hell. You black Sambo,” continued he, pointing to a man in a corner, “ab very fine boat, go out all day, catch fly-fish, bring um back, fry um, and sell for money: but when you send to me? not one little fish ebber find way to my mouth. What I tell you ’bout Peter and ’postles—all fishermen? good men; give ’way to poor. Sambo, you no ab charity; and ’spose you no repent this week, and send one very fine fish in plantain leaf, you go to hell, and burn for ebber and ebber. Eh! so you will run away, Massa Johnson,” cried he out to another, who was edging to the door; “but you no run away from hell-fire; when debil catch you he hold dam tight. You know you kill sheep and goat ebery day. You send bell ring all ’bout town for people to come buy; but when you send to me? nebber, ’cept once, you give me lilly bit of libber. That no do, Massa Johnson; you no ab charity; and suppose you no send me sheep’s head to-morrow morning, dam you libber, that’s all. I see many more, but I see um all very sorry, and dat they mean to sin no more, so dis time I let um off, and say nothing about it, because I know plenty of plantain and banana” (pointing to one), “and oranges and shaddock” (pointing to another), “and salt fish” (pointing to a third), “and ginger pop and spruce beer,” (pointing to a fourth), “and a straw hat” (pointing to a fifth), “and eberything else, come to my house to-morrow. So I say no more bout it; I see you all very sorry—you only forget. You all ab charity and all ab faith; so now, my dear bredren, we go down on our knees, and thank God for all this, and more especially that I save all your souls from going to the debil, who run about Barbadoes like one roaring lion, seeking what he may lay hold off, and cram into his dam fiery jaw.”
“That will do, Peter,” said O’Brien; “we have the cream of it I think.”
We left the house and walked down to the boat. “Surely. O’Brien,” said I, “this should not be permitted?”
“He’s no worse than his neighbours,” replied O’Brien, “and perhaps does less harm. I admired the rascal’s ingenuity; he gave his flock what, in Ireland, we should call a pretty broad hint.”
“Yes, there was no mistaking him; but is he a licensed preacher?”
“Very little license in his preaching, I take it; no, I suppose he has had acall.”
“A call!—what do you mean?”
“I mean that he wants to fill his belly. Hunger is a call of nature, Peter.”
“He seems to want a good many things, if we were to judge by his catalogue: what a pity it is that these poor people are not better instructed.”
“That they never will be, Peter, while there is, what may be called, free trade in religion.”
“You speak like a Catholic, O’Brien.”
“I am one,” replied he. And here our conversation ended, for we were close to the boat, which was waiting for us on the beach.
The next day a man-of-war brig arrived from England, bringing letters for the squadron on the station. I had two from my sister Ellen, which made me very uncomfortable. She stated, that my father had seen my uncle, Lord Privilege, and had had high words with him; indeed, as far as she could ascertain of the facts, my father had struck my uncle, and had been turned out of the house by the servants. That he had returned in a state of great excitement, and had been ill ever since. That there was a great deal of talk in the neighbourhood on the subject—people generally highly blaming my father’s conduct and thinking that he was deranged in his intellect,—a supposition very much encouraged by my uncle. She again expressed her hopes of my speedy return. I had now been absent nearly three years, and she had been so uncomfortable that she felt as if it had been at least ten. O’Brien also received a letter from Father McGrath, which I shall lay before the reader.
“My dear son,—Long life, and all the blessings of all the saints be upon you now and for evermore! Amen. And may you live to be married, and may I dance at your wedding, and may you never want children, and may they grow up as handsome as their father and their mother (whoever she may hereafter be), and may you die of a good old age, and in the true faith, and be waked handsomely, as your own father was last Friday s’ennight, seeing as how he took it into his head to leave this world for a better. It was a very dacent funeral-procession, my dear Terence, and your father must have been delighted to see himself so well attinded. No man ever made a more handsome corpse, considering how old, and thin, and haggard he had grown of late; and how grey his hair had turned. He held the nosegay between his fingers, across his breast, as natural as life, and reminded us all of the blessed saint Pope Gregory who was called to glory some hundred years before either you or I was born.“Your mother’s quite comfortable; and there she sits in the ould chair, rocking to and fro all day long, and never speaking a word to nobody, thinking about heaven, I dare to say; which is just what she ought to do, seeing that she stands a very pretty chance of going there in the course of a month or so. Divil a word has she ever said since your father’s departure, but then she screamed and yelled enough to last for seven years at the least. She screamed away all her senses any how, for she has done nothing since but cough, cough, and fumble at her pater-nosters,—a very blessed way to pass the remainder of her days, seeing that I expect her to drop every minute, like an over ripe sleepy pear. So don’t think any more about her, my son, for without you are back in a jiffy, her body will be laid in consecrated ground, and her happy, blessed soul in purgatory.Pax vobiscum. Amen! Amen!“And now having disposed of your father and your mother so much to your satisfaction, I’ll just tell you that Ella’s mother died in the convent at Dieppe, but whether she kept her secret or not I do not know; but this I do know, that if she didn’t relieve her soul by confession, she’s damned to all eternity. Thanks be to God for all his mercies. Amen! Ella Flanagan is still alive, and, for a nun, is as well as can be expected. I find that she knows nothing at all about the matter of the exchanging the genders of the babbies—only that her mother was on oath to Father O’Toole, who ought to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, instead of those poor fellows whom the government called rebels, but who were no more rebels than Father McGrath himself, who’ll uphold the Pretender, as they call our true Catholic King, as long as there’s life in his body, or a drop of whisky left in ould Ireland to drink his health wid.—Talking about Father O’Toole puts me in mind that the bishop has not yet decided our little bit of dispute, saying that he must take time to think about it. Now considering that it’s just three years since the row took place, the old gentleman must be a very slow thinker, not to have found out by this time that I was in the right, and that Father O’Toole, the baste, is not good enough to be hanged.“Your two married sisters are steady and diligent young women, having each made three children since you last saw them. Fine boys, every mother’s son of them, with elegant spacious features, and famous mouths for taking in whole potatoes. By the powers, but the effects of the tree of the O’Briens begin to make a noise in the land, anyhow, as you would say if you only heard them roaring for their bit of suppers.“And now, my dear son Terence, to the real purport of this letter, which is just to put to your soul’s conscience, as a dutiful son, whether you ought not to send me a small matter of money to save your poor father’s soul from pain and anguish—for it’s no joke that being in purgatory, I can tell you; and you wouldn’t care how soon you were tripped out of it yourself. I only wish you had but your little toe in it, and then you’d burn with impatience to have it out again. But you’re a dutiful son, so I’ll say no more about it—a nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse.“When your mother goes, which, with the blessing of God, will be in a very little while, seeing that she has only to follow her senses, which are gone already, I’ll take upon myself to sell everything, as worldly goods and chattels are of no use to dead people: and I have no doubt but that what, with the furniture, and the two cows, and the pigs, and the crops in the ground, there will be enough to save her soul from the flames, and bury her dacently into the bargain. However, as you are the heir-at-law, seeing that the property is all your own, I’ll keep a debtor and creditor account of the whole; and should there be any over, I’ll use it all out in masses, so as to send her up to heaven by express and if there’s not sufficient, she must remain where she is till you come back and make up the deficiency. In the meanwhile I am your loving father in faith,“Urtagh McGrath.”
“My dear son,—Long life, and all the blessings of all the saints be upon you now and for evermore! Amen. And may you live to be married, and may I dance at your wedding, and may you never want children, and may they grow up as handsome as their father and their mother (whoever she may hereafter be), and may you die of a good old age, and in the true faith, and be waked handsomely, as your own father was last Friday s’ennight, seeing as how he took it into his head to leave this world for a better. It was a very dacent funeral-procession, my dear Terence, and your father must have been delighted to see himself so well attinded. No man ever made a more handsome corpse, considering how old, and thin, and haggard he had grown of late; and how grey his hair had turned. He held the nosegay between his fingers, across his breast, as natural as life, and reminded us all of the blessed saint Pope Gregory who was called to glory some hundred years before either you or I was born.
“Your mother’s quite comfortable; and there she sits in the ould chair, rocking to and fro all day long, and never speaking a word to nobody, thinking about heaven, I dare to say; which is just what she ought to do, seeing that she stands a very pretty chance of going there in the course of a month or so. Divil a word has she ever said since your father’s departure, but then she screamed and yelled enough to last for seven years at the least. She screamed away all her senses any how, for she has done nothing since but cough, cough, and fumble at her pater-nosters,—a very blessed way to pass the remainder of her days, seeing that I expect her to drop every minute, like an over ripe sleepy pear. So don’t think any more about her, my son, for without you are back in a jiffy, her body will be laid in consecrated ground, and her happy, blessed soul in purgatory.Pax vobiscum. Amen! Amen!
“And now having disposed of your father and your mother so much to your satisfaction, I’ll just tell you that Ella’s mother died in the convent at Dieppe, but whether she kept her secret or not I do not know; but this I do know, that if she didn’t relieve her soul by confession, she’s damned to all eternity. Thanks be to God for all his mercies. Amen! Ella Flanagan is still alive, and, for a nun, is as well as can be expected. I find that she knows nothing at all about the matter of the exchanging the genders of the babbies—only that her mother was on oath to Father O’Toole, who ought to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, instead of those poor fellows whom the government called rebels, but who were no more rebels than Father McGrath himself, who’ll uphold the Pretender, as they call our true Catholic King, as long as there’s life in his body, or a drop of whisky left in ould Ireland to drink his health wid.—Talking about Father O’Toole puts me in mind that the bishop has not yet decided our little bit of dispute, saying that he must take time to think about it. Now considering that it’s just three years since the row took place, the old gentleman must be a very slow thinker, not to have found out by this time that I was in the right, and that Father O’Toole, the baste, is not good enough to be hanged.
“Your two married sisters are steady and diligent young women, having each made three children since you last saw them. Fine boys, every mother’s son of them, with elegant spacious features, and famous mouths for taking in whole potatoes. By the powers, but the effects of the tree of the O’Briens begin to make a noise in the land, anyhow, as you would say if you only heard them roaring for their bit of suppers.
“And now, my dear son Terence, to the real purport of this letter, which is just to put to your soul’s conscience, as a dutiful son, whether you ought not to send me a small matter of money to save your poor father’s soul from pain and anguish—for it’s no joke that being in purgatory, I can tell you; and you wouldn’t care how soon you were tripped out of it yourself. I only wish you had but your little toe in it, and then you’d burn with impatience to have it out again. But you’re a dutiful son, so I’ll say no more about it—a nod’s as good as a wink to a blind horse.
“When your mother goes, which, with the blessing of God, will be in a very little while, seeing that she has only to follow her senses, which are gone already, I’ll take upon myself to sell everything, as worldly goods and chattels are of no use to dead people: and I have no doubt but that what, with the furniture, and the two cows, and the pigs, and the crops in the ground, there will be enough to save her soul from the flames, and bury her dacently into the bargain. However, as you are the heir-at-law, seeing that the property is all your own, I’ll keep a debtor and creditor account of the whole; and should there be any over, I’ll use it all out in masses, so as to send her up to heaven by express and if there’s not sufficient, she must remain where she is till you come back and make up the deficiency. In the meanwhile I am your loving father in faith,
“Urtagh McGrath.”
Chapter Fifty Two.Good sense in Swinburne—No man a hero to his “valet de chambre,” or a prophet in his own country—O’Brien takes a step by strategy—O’Brien parts with his friend, and Peter’s star is no longer in the ascendant.O’Brien was sorry for the death of his father, but he could not feel as most people would have done, as his father had certainly never been a father to him. He was sent to sea to be got rid of, and ever since he had been there had been the chief support of his family: his father was very fond of whisky, and not very fond of exertion. He was too proud of the true Milesian blood in his veins, to do anything to support himself; but not too proud to live upon his son’s hard-earned gains. For his mother O’Brien felt very much; she had always been kind and affectionate, and was very fond of him. Sailors, however, are so estranged from their families, when they have been long in their profession, and so accustomed to vicissitudes, that no grief for the loss of a relation lasts very long, and, in a week, O’Brien had recovered his usual spirits, when a vessel brought us the intelligence that a French squadron had been seen off St. Domingo. This put us all on thequi vive. O’Brien was sent for by the admiral, and ordered to hasten his brig for sea with all possible despatch, as he was to proceed with despatches to England forthwith. In three days we were reported ready, received our orders, and at eight o’clock in the evening made sail from Carlisle Bay.“Well, Mr Swinburne,” said I, “how do you like your new situation?”“Why, Mr Simple, I like it well enough, and it’s not disagreeable to be an officer, and sit in your own cabin; but still, I feel that I should get on better, if I were in another ship. I’ve been hail fellow well met with the ship’s company so long, that I can’t top the officer over them, and we can’t get the duty done as smart as I could wish; and then, at night, I find it very lonely, stuck up in my cabin like a parson’s clerk, and nobody to talk to; for the other warrants are particular, and say that I’m only acting, and may not be confirmed, so they hold aloof. I don’t much like being answerable for all that lot of gunpowder—it’s queer stuff to handle.”“Very true, Swinburne; but still, if there were no responsibility, we should require no officers. You recollect that you are now provided for for life, and will have half-pay.”“That’s what made me bite, Mr Simple; I thought of the old woman, and how comfortable it would make her in her old age, and so, d’ye see, I sacrificed myself.”“How long have you been married, Swinburne?”“Ever since Christmas ’94. I wasn’t going to be hook’d carelessly, so I nibbled afore I took the bait. Had four years’ trial of her first, and finding that she had plenty of ballast, I sailed her as my own.”“How do you mean by plenty of ballast?”“I don’t mean, Mr Simple, a broad bow and square hulk. You know very well that if a vessel has not ballast, she’s bottom up in no time. Now, what keeps a woman stiff under her canvas is her modesty.”“Very true. Swinburne; but it’s a rare commodity on the beach.”“And why, Mr Simple? because liquor is more valued. Many a good man has found it to be his bane; and as for a woman, when once she takes to it, she’s like a ship without a rudder, and goes right before the wind to the devil. Not that I think a man ought not to take a nor-wester or two, when he can get them. Rum was not given by God Almighty only to make the niggers dance, but to make all our hearts glad; neither do I see why a woman is to stand out neither; what’s good for Jack can’t hurt Poll; only there is a medium, as they say, in all things, and half-and-half is quite strong enough.”“I should think it was,” replied I, laughing.“But don’t be letting me prevent you from keeping a look-out, Mr Simple.—You Hoskins, you’re half a point off the wind. Luff you may.—I think, Mr Simple, that Captain O’Brien didn’t pick out the best man, when he made Tom Alsop a quarter-master in my place.”“Why, he is a very steady, good man, Swinburne.”“Yes, so he is; but he has natural defects, which shouldn’t be overlooked.”“I was not aware of that.”“No, but I was. Alsop wants to sarve out his time for his pension, and when he has sarved, you see if, when the surgeons examine him, they don’t invalid him, as blind as a bat. I should like to have him as gunner’s mate, and that’s just what he’s fit for. But, Mr Simple, I think we shall have some bad weather. The moon looks greasy, and the stars want snuffing. You’ll have two reefs in the topsails afore morning. There’s five bells striking. Now, I’ll turn in; if I didn’t keep half the first, and half the morning watch, I shouldn’t sleep all the night. I miss my regular watch very much, Mr Simple—habit’s every thing—and I don’t much fancy a standing bed-place, it’s so large, and I feel so cold of my sides. Nothing like a hammock, after all. Good night, Mr Simple.”“Good night. Swinburne.”Our orders were to proceed with allpossibledespatch; and O’Brien carried on day and night, generally remaining up himself till one or two o’clock in the morning. We had very favourable weather, and in a little more than a month we passed the Lizard. The wind being fair, we passed Plymouth, ran up Channel, and anchored at Spithead.After calling upon the admiral, O’Brien set off for town with his despatches, and left me in command of the ship. In three days, I received a letter from him, informing me that he had seen the First Lord, who had asked him a great many questions concerning the station he had quitted; that he had also complimented O’Brien on his services. “On that hint I spake,” continued O’Brien; “I ventured to insinuate to his lordship, that I had hoped that I had earned my promotion; and as there is nothing likequartering on the enemy, I observed that I had not applied to Lord Privilege, as I considered my services would have been sufficient, without any application on his part. His lordship returned a very gracious answer; said that my Lord Privilege was a great ally of his and very friendly to the Government; and inquired when I was going to see him. I replied, that I certainly should not pay my respects to his lordship at present, unless there was occasion for it, as I must take a more favourable opportunity. So I hope that good may come from the great lord’s error, which of course I shall not correct, as I feel I deserve my promotion—and you know, Peter, if you can’t gain it byhook, you must bycrook.” He then concluded his letter; but there was a postscript as follows:—“Wish me joy, my dear Peter. I have this moment received a letter from the private secretary, to say that I ampostedand appointed to theSemiramisfrigate, about to set sail for the East Indies. She is all ready to start; and now I must try and get you with me, of which I have no doubt; as, although her officers have been long appointed, there will be little difficulty of success, when I mention your relationship to Lord Privilege, and while they remain in error as to his taking an interest in my behalf.”I sincerely rejoiced at O’Brien’s good fortune. His promotion I had considered certain, as his services had entitled him to it: but the command of so fine a frigate must have been given upon the supposition that it would be agreeable to my uncle, who was not only a prime supporter, but a very useful member of the Tory government. I could not help laughing to myself, at the idea of O’Brien obtaining his wishes from the influence of a person who, probably, detested him as much as one man could detest another; and I impatiently waited for O’Brien’s next letter, by which I hoped to find myself appointed to theSemiramis; but a sadcontre tempstook place.O’Brien did not write; but came down two days afterwards, hastened on board theSemiramis, read his commission, and assumed the command before even he had seen me: he then sent his gig on board of theRattlesnake, to desire me to come to him directly. I did so, and we went down into the cabin of the frigate. “Peter,” said he, “I was obliged to hasten down and read myself captain of this ship, as I am in fear that things are not going on well. I had called to pay my respects at the Admiralty, previous to joining, and was kicking my heels in the waiting-room, when who should walk up the passage, as if he were a captain on his own quarter-deck, but your uncle, Lord Privilege. His eye met mine—he recognised me immediately—and, if it did not flash fire, it did something very like it. He asked a few questions of one of the porters, and was giving his card, when my name was called for. I passed him, and up I went to the First Lord, thanked him for the frigate; and having received a great many compliments upon my exertions on the West India station, made my bow and retired. I had intended to have requested your appointment, but I knew that your name would bring up Lord Privilege’s; and, moreover, your uncle’s card was brought up and laid upon the table while I was sitting there. The First Lord, I presume, thought that his lordship was come to thank him for his kindness to me, which only made him more civil. I made my bow, and went down, and met the eye of Lord Privilege, who looked daggers at me as he walked upstairs—for, of course, he was admitted immediately after my audience was finished. Instead of waiting to hear the result of the explanation, I took a post-chaise, and have come down here as fast as four horses can bring me, and have read myself in—for, Peter, I feel sure, that if not on board, my commission will be cancelled; and I know that if once in command, as I am now, I can call for a court-martial, to clear my character if I am superseded. I know that the Admiraltycando anything, but still they will be cautious in departing from the rules of the service, to please even Lord Privilege. I looked up at the sky as soon as I left the Admiralty portico, and was glad to see that the weather was so thick, and the telegraph not at work, or I might have been too late. Now I’ll go on shore, and report myself to the admiral, as having taken the command of theSemiramis.”O’Brien went on shore to report himself, was well received by the admiral, who informed him, that if he had any arrangements to make, he could not be too soon, as he should not be surprised if his sailing orders came down the next morning. This was very annoying, as I could not see how I should be able to join O’Brien’s ship, even if I could effect an exchange, in so short a time. I therefore hastened on board of theSemiramisand applied to the officers to know if any of them were willing to exchange into theRattlesnake; but although they did not much like going to the East Indies, they would not exchange into a brig, and I returned disappointed.The next morning, the admiral sent for O’Brien, and told him confidentially, for he was the same admiral who had received O’Brien when he escaped from prison with me, and was very kind to him, that there was some hitch about his having theSemiramis, and that orders had come down to pay her off, all standing, and examine her bottom, if Captain O’Brien had not joined her.“Do you understand what this means?” said the admiral, who was anxious to know the reason.O’Brien answered frankly, that Lord Privilege, by whose interest he had obtained his former command, was displeased with him; and that as he saw him go up to the First Lord after his own audience, he had no doubt but that his lordship had said something to his disadvantage, as he was a very vindictive man.“Well,” said the admiral, “it’s lucky that you have taken the command, as they cannot well displace you, or send her into dock without a survey, and upon your representation.”And so it proved; the First Lord, when he found that O’Brien had joined, took no further steps, but allowed the frigate to proceed to her intended destination. But all chance of my sailing with him was done away, and now, for the first time, I had to part with O’Brien. I remained with him the whole time that I could be spared from my duties. O’Brien was very much annoyed, but there was no help. “Never mind, Peter,” said he, “I’ve been thinking that perhaps it’s all for the best. You will see more of the world, and be no longer in leading-strings. You are now a fine man grown up, big enough, and ugly enough, as they say, to take care of yourself. We shall meet again; and if we don’t, why then God bless you, my boy, and don’t forget O’Brien.”Three days afterwards, O’Brien’s orders came down. I accompanied him on board; and it was not until the ship was under weigh, and running towards the Needles with a fair wind, that I shook hands with him, and shoved off. Parting with O’Brien was a heavy blow to me; but I little knew how much I was to suffer before I saw him again.
O’Brien was sorry for the death of his father, but he could not feel as most people would have done, as his father had certainly never been a father to him. He was sent to sea to be got rid of, and ever since he had been there had been the chief support of his family: his father was very fond of whisky, and not very fond of exertion. He was too proud of the true Milesian blood in his veins, to do anything to support himself; but not too proud to live upon his son’s hard-earned gains. For his mother O’Brien felt very much; she had always been kind and affectionate, and was very fond of him. Sailors, however, are so estranged from their families, when they have been long in their profession, and so accustomed to vicissitudes, that no grief for the loss of a relation lasts very long, and, in a week, O’Brien had recovered his usual spirits, when a vessel brought us the intelligence that a French squadron had been seen off St. Domingo. This put us all on thequi vive. O’Brien was sent for by the admiral, and ordered to hasten his brig for sea with all possible despatch, as he was to proceed with despatches to England forthwith. In three days we were reported ready, received our orders, and at eight o’clock in the evening made sail from Carlisle Bay.
“Well, Mr Swinburne,” said I, “how do you like your new situation?”
“Why, Mr Simple, I like it well enough, and it’s not disagreeable to be an officer, and sit in your own cabin; but still, I feel that I should get on better, if I were in another ship. I’ve been hail fellow well met with the ship’s company so long, that I can’t top the officer over them, and we can’t get the duty done as smart as I could wish; and then, at night, I find it very lonely, stuck up in my cabin like a parson’s clerk, and nobody to talk to; for the other warrants are particular, and say that I’m only acting, and may not be confirmed, so they hold aloof. I don’t much like being answerable for all that lot of gunpowder—it’s queer stuff to handle.”
“Very true, Swinburne; but still, if there were no responsibility, we should require no officers. You recollect that you are now provided for for life, and will have half-pay.”
“That’s what made me bite, Mr Simple; I thought of the old woman, and how comfortable it would make her in her old age, and so, d’ye see, I sacrificed myself.”
“How long have you been married, Swinburne?”
“Ever since Christmas ’94. I wasn’t going to be hook’d carelessly, so I nibbled afore I took the bait. Had four years’ trial of her first, and finding that she had plenty of ballast, I sailed her as my own.”
“How do you mean by plenty of ballast?”
“I don’t mean, Mr Simple, a broad bow and square hulk. You know very well that if a vessel has not ballast, she’s bottom up in no time. Now, what keeps a woman stiff under her canvas is her modesty.”
“Very true. Swinburne; but it’s a rare commodity on the beach.”
“And why, Mr Simple? because liquor is more valued. Many a good man has found it to be his bane; and as for a woman, when once she takes to it, she’s like a ship without a rudder, and goes right before the wind to the devil. Not that I think a man ought not to take a nor-wester or two, when he can get them. Rum was not given by God Almighty only to make the niggers dance, but to make all our hearts glad; neither do I see why a woman is to stand out neither; what’s good for Jack can’t hurt Poll; only there is a medium, as they say, in all things, and half-and-half is quite strong enough.”
“I should think it was,” replied I, laughing.
“But don’t be letting me prevent you from keeping a look-out, Mr Simple.—You Hoskins, you’re half a point off the wind. Luff you may.—I think, Mr Simple, that Captain O’Brien didn’t pick out the best man, when he made Tom Alsop a quarter-master in my place.”
“Why, he is a very steady, good man, Swinburne.”
“Yes, so he is; but he has natural defects, which shouldn’t be overlooked.”
“I was not aware of that.”
“No, but I was. Alsop wants to sarve out his time for his pension, and when he has sarved, you see if, when the surgeons examine him, they don’t invalid him, as blind as a bat. I should like to have him as gunner’s mate, and that’s just what he’s fit for. But, Mr Simple, I think we shall have some bad weather. The moon looks greasy, and the stars want snuffing. You’ll have two reefs in the topsails afore morning. There’s five bells striking. Now, I’ll turn in; if I didn’t keep half the first, and half the morning watch, I shouldn’t sleep all the night. I miss my regular watch very much, Mr Simple—habit’s every thing—and I don’t much fancy a standing bed-place, it’s so large, and I feel so cold of my sides. Nothing like a hammock, after all. Good night, Mr Simple.”
“Good night. Swinburne.”
Our orders were to proceed with allpossibledespatch; and O’Brien carried on day and night, generally remaining up himself till one or two o’clock in the morning. We had very favourable weather, and in a little more than a month we passed the Lizard. The wind being fair, we passed Plymouth, ran up Channel, and anchored at Spithead.
After calling upon the admiral, O’Brien set off for town with his despatches, and left me in command of the ship. In three days, I received a letter from him, informing me that he had seen the First Lord, who had asked him a great many questions concerning the station he had quitted; that he had also complimented O’Brien on his services. “On that hint I spake,” continued O’Brien; “I ventured to insinuate to his lordship, that I had hoped that I had earned my promotion; and as there is nothing likequartering on the enemy, I observed that I had not applied to Lord Privilege, as I considered my services would have been sufficient, without any application on his part. His lordship returned a very gracious answer; said that my Lord Privilege was a great ally of his and very friendly to the Government; and inquired when I was going to see him. I replied, that I certainly should not pay my respects to his lordship at present, unless there was occasion for it, as I must take a more favourable opportunity. So I hope that good may come from the great lord’s error, which of course I shall not correct, as I feel I deserve my promotion—and you know, Peter, if you can’t gain it byhook, you must bycrook.” He then concluded his letter; but there was a postscript as follows:—
“Wish me joy, my dear Peter. I have this moment received a letter from the private secretary, to say that I ampostedand appointed to theSemiramisfrigate, about to set sail for the East Indies. She is all ready to start; and now I must try and get you with me, of which I have no doubt; as, although her officers have been long appointed, there will be little difficulty of success, when I mention your relationship to Lord Privilege, and while they remain in error as to his taking an interest in my behalf.”
I sincerely rejoiced at O’Brien’s good fortune. His promotion I had considered certain, as his services had entitled him to it: but the command of so fine a frigate must have been given upon the supposition that it would be agreeable to my uncle, who was not only a prime supporter, but a very useful member of the Tory government. I could not help laughing to myself, at the idea of O’Brien obtaining his wishes from the influence of a person who, probably, detested him as much as one man could detest another; and I impatiently waited for O’Brien’s next letter, by which I hoped to find myself appointed to theSemiramis; but a sadcontre tempstook place.
O’Brien did not write; but came down two days afterwards, hastened on board theSemiramis, read his commission, and assumed the command before even he had seen me: he then sent his gig on board of theRattlesnake, to desire me to come to him directly. I did so, and we went down into the cabin of the frigate. “Peter,” said he, “I was obliged to hasten down and read myself captain of this ship, as I am in fear that things are not going on well. I had called to pay my respects at the Admiralty, previous to joining, and was kicking my heels in the waiting-room, when who should walk up the passage, as if he were a captain on his own quarter-deck, but your uncle, Lord Privilege. His eye met mine—he recognised me immediately—and, if it did not flash fire, it did something very like it. He asked a few questions of one of the porters, and was giving his card, when my name was called for. I passed him, and up I went to the First Lord, thanked him for the frigate; and having received a great many compliments upon my exertions on the West India station, made my bow and retired. I had intended to have requested your appointment, but I knew that your name would bring up Lord Privilege’s; and, moreover, your uncle’s card was brought up and laid upon the table while I was sitting there. The First Lord, I presume, thought that his lordship was come to thank him for his kindness to me, which only made him more civil. I made my bow, and went down, and met the eye of Lord Privilege, who looked daggers at me as he walked upstairs—for, of course, he was admitted immediately after my audience was finished. Instead of waiting to hear the result of the explanation, I took a post-chaise, and have come down here as fast as four horses can bring me, and have read myself in—for, Peter, I feel sure, that if not on board, my commission will be cancelled; and I know that if once in command, as I am now, I can call for a court-martial, to clear my character if I am superseded. I know that the Admiraltycando anything, but still they will be cautious in departing from the rules of the service, to please even Lord Privilege. I looked up at the sky as soon as I left the Admiralty portico, and was glad to see that the weather was so thick, and the telegraph not at work, or I might have been too late. Now I’ll go on shore, and report myself to the admiral, as having taken the command of theSemiramis.”
O’Brien went on shore to report himself, was well received by the admiral, who informed him, that if he had any arrangements to make, he could not be too soon, as he should not be surprised if his sailing orders came down the next morning. This was very annoying, as I could not see how I should be able to join O’Brien’s ship, even if I could effect an exchange, in so short a time. I therefore hastened on board of theSemiramisand applied to the officers to know if any of them were willing to exchange into theRattlesnake; but although they did not much like going to the East Indies, they would not exchange into a brig, and I returned disappointed.
The next morning, the admiral sent for O’Brien, and told him confidentially, for he was the same admiral who had received O’Brien when he escaped from prison with me, and was very kind to him, that there was some hitch about his having theSemiramis, and that orders had come down to pay her off, all standing, and examine her bottom, if Captain O’Brien had not joined her.
“Do you understand what this means?” said the admiral, who was anxious to know the reason.
O’Brien answered frankly, that Lord Privilege, by whose interest he had obtained his former command, was displeased with him; and that as he saw him go up to the First Lord after his own audience, he had no doubt but that his lordship had said something to his disadvantage, as he was a very vindictive man.
“Well,” said the admiral, “it’s lucky that you have taken the command, as they cannot well displace you, or send her into dock without a survey, and upon your representation.”
And so it proved; the First Lord, when he found that O’Brien had joined, took no further steps, but allowed the frigate to proceed to her intended destination. But all chance of my sailing with him was done away, and now, for the first time, I had to part with O’Brien. I remained with him the whole time that I could be spared from my duties. O’Brien was very much annoyed, but there was no help. “Never mind, Peter,” said he, “I’ve been thinking that perhaps it’s all for the best. You will see more of the world, and be no longer in leading-strings. You are now a fine man grown up, big enough, and ugly enough, as they say, to take care of yourself. We shall meet again; and if we don’t, why then God bless you, my boy, and don’t forget O’Brien.”
Three days afterwards, O’Brien’s orders came down. I accompanied him on board; and it was not until the ship was under weigh, and running towards the Needles with a fair wind, that I shook hands with him, and shoved off. Parting with O’Brien was a heavy blow to me; but I little knew how much I was to suffer before I saw him again.
Chapter Fifty Three.I am pleased with my new captain—Obtain leave to go home—Find my father afflicted with a very strange disease, and prove myself a very good doctor, although the disorder always breaks out in a fresh place.The day after O’Brien had sailed for the East Indies, the dock-yard men came on board to survey the brig, and she was found so defective, as to be ordered into dock. I had received letters from my sister, who was overjoyed at the intelligence of my safe return, and the anticipation of seeing me. The accounts of my father were, however, very unsatisfactory. My sister wrote, that disappointment and anxiety had had such an effect upon him that he was deranged in his intellect. Our new captain came down to join us. He was a very young man, and had never before commanded a ship. His character as lieutenant was well known, and not very satisfactory, being that of a harsh, unpleasant officer; but, as he had never been first lieutenant, it was impossible to say what he might prove when in command of a ship. Still we were a little anxious about it, and severely regretted the loss of O’Brien.He came on board the hulk to which the ship’s company had been turned over, and read his commission. He proved to be all affability, condescension, and good-nature. To me he was particularly polite, stating that he should not interfere with me in carrying on the duty, as I must be so well acquainted with the ship’s company. We thought that those who gave us the information must have been prejudiced or mistaken in his character. During the half-hour that he remained on board, I stated that now that the brig was in dock, I should like very much to have an opportunity of seeing my friends, if he would sanction my asking for leave.To this he cheerfully consented, adding, that he would extend it upon his own responsibility. My letter to the Admiralty was therefore forwarded through him, and was answered in the affirmative. The day afterwards, I set off by the coach, and once more embraced my dear sister.After the first congratulations were over, I inquired about my father; she replied, that he was so wild that nobody could manage him. That he was melancholy and irritable at the same time, and was certainly deranged, fancying himself to be made of various substances, or to be in a certain trade or capacity. That he generally remained in this way four or five days, when he went to bed, and slept for twenty-four hours, or more, and awoke with some new strange imagination in his head. His language was violent, but that, in other respects, he seemed to be more afraid of other people than inclined to be mischievous; and that every day he was getting more strange and ridiculous. He had now just risen from one of his long naps, and was in his study; that before he had fallen asleep he had fancied himself to be a carpenter, and had sawed and chopped up several articles of furniture in the house.I quitted my sister to see my father, whom I found in his easy-chair. I was much shocked at his appearance. He was thin and haggard his eyes were wild, and he remained with his mouth constantly open. A sick nurse, who had been hired by my sister, was standing by him.“Pish, pish, pish, pish!” cried my father; “what can you, a stupid old woman, know about my inside? I tell you the gas is generating fast, and even now I can hardly keep on my chair. I’m lifting—lifting now; and if you don’t tie me down with cords, I shall go up like a balloon.”“Indeed, sir,” replied the woman, “it’s only the wind in your stomach. You’ll break it off directly.”“It’s inflammable gas, you old hecate!—I know it is. Tell me will you get a cord, or will you not? Hah! who’s that—Peter? Why you’ve dropped from the clouds, just in time to see me mount up to them.”“I hope you feel yourself better, sir,” said I.“I fell myself a great deal lighter every minute. Get a cord, Peter, and tie me to the leg of the table.”I tried to persuade him that he was under a mistake; but it was useless. He became excessively violent, and said I wished him in heaven. As I had heard that it was better to humour people afflicted with hypochondriacism, which was evidently the disease under which my father laboured, I tried that method. “It appears to me, sir,” said I, “that if we could remove the gas every ten minutes, it would be a very good plan.”“Yes—but how?” replied he, shaking his head mournfully.“Why, with a syringe, sir,” said I; “which will, if empty, of course draw out the gas, when inserted into your mouth.”“My dear Peter, you have saved my life,” replied my father; “be quick though, or I shall go up, right through the ceiling.” Fortunately, there was an instrument of that description in the house. I applied it to his mouth, drew up the piston, and then ejected the air, and re-applied it. In two minutes he pronounced himself better, and I left the old nurse hard at work, and my father very considerably pacified. I returned to my sister, to whom I recounted what had passed; but it was no source of mirth to us, although had it happened to an indifferent person, I might have been amused. The idea of leaving her, as I must soon do—having only a fortnight’s leave—to be worried by my father’s unfortunate malady, was very distressing. But we entered into a long conversation, in which I recounted the adventures that had taken place since I had left her, and for the time forgot our source of annoyance and regret. For three days my father insisted upon the old woman pumping the gas out of his body; after that he again fell into one of his sound sleeps, which lasted nearly thirty hours.When he arose, I went again to see him. It was eight o’clock in the evening, and I entered with a candle. “Take it away—quick, take it away; put it out carefully.”“Why, what’s the matter, sir?”“Don’t come near me, if you love me; don’t come near me. Put it out, I say—put it out.”I obeyed his orders, and then asked him the reason. “Reason!” said he, now that we were in the dark; “can’t you see?”“No, father; I can see nothing in the dark.”“Well, then, Peter, I’m a magazine, full of gun-powder; the least spark in the world, and I am blown up. Consider the danger. You surely would not be the destruction of your father, Peter;” and the poor old gentleman burst into tears, and wept like a child.I knew that it was in vain to reason with him. “My dear father,” said I, “on board ship, when there is any danger of this kind, we always float the magazine. Now, if you were to drink a good deal of water, the powder would be spoiled, and there would be no danger.”My father was satisfied with my proposal, and drank a tumbler of water every half-hour, which the old nurse was obliged to supply as fast as he called for it, and this satisfied him for three or four days, and I was again left to the company of my dear Ellen, when my father again fell into his stupor, and we wondered what would be his next fancy. I was hastily summoned by the nurse; and found my poor father lying in bed, and breathing in a very strange manner.“What is the matter, my dear sir?” inquired I.“Why, don’t you see what is the matter? How is a poor little infant, just born, to live, unless its mother is near to suckle it, and take care of it?”“Indeed, sir, do you mean to say that you are just born?”“To be sure I do. I’m dying for the breast.”This was almost too absurd; but I gravely observed, “That it was all very true, but unfortunately his mother had died in child-birth, and that the only remedy was to bring him up by hand.”He agreed with me. I desired the nurse to make some gruel, with brandy, and feed him: which she did, and he took the gruel just as if he were a baby.This fit lasted about six days; for he went to sleep, because a baby always slept much; and I was in hopes it would last much longer: but he again went off into his lethargic fit, and after a long sleep awoke with a new fancy. My time had nearly expired, and I had written to my new captain, requesting an extension of leave, but I received an answer stating that it could not be granted, and requesting me to join the brig immediately.I was rather surprised at this, but of course was compelled to obey and, embracing my dear sister once more, set off for Portsmouth. I advised her to humour my father, and this advice she followed; but his fancies were such, occasionally, as would have puzzled the most inventive genius to combat, or to find the remedy which he might acknowledge to be requisite. His health became certainly worse and worse, and his constitution was evidently destroyed by a slow, undermining bodily and mental fever. The situation of my poor sister was very distressing; and I must say that I quitted her with melancholy forebodings.I ought here to observe, that I received all my prize-money amounting to 1560 pounds, a large sum for a lieutenant. I put it into the funds, and gave a power of attorney to Ellen, requesting her to use it as her own. We consulted as to what she should do if my father should die, and agreed that all his debts, which we knew to amount to three or four hundred pounds, should be paid, and that she should manage how she could upon what was left of my father’s property, and the interest of my prize-money.
The day after O’Brien had sailed for the East Indies, the dock-yard men came on board to survey the brig, and she was found so defective, as to be ordered into dock. I had received letters from my sister, who was overjoyed at the intelligence of my safe return, and the anticipation of seeing me. The accounts of my father were, however, very unsatisfactory. My sister wrote, that disappointment and anxiety had had such an effect upon him that he was deranged in his intellect. Our new captain came down to join us. He was a very young man, and had never before commanded a ship. His character as lieutenant was well known, and not very satisfactory, being that of a harsh, unpleasant officer; but, as he had never been first lieutenant, it was impossible to say what he might prove when in command of a ship. Still we were a little anxious about it, and severely regretted the loss of O’Brien.
He came on board the hulk to which the ship’s company had been turned over, and read his commission. He proved to be all affability, condescension, and good-nature. To me he was particularly polite, stating that he should not interfere with me in carrying on the duty, as I must be so well acquainted with the ship’s company. We thought that those who gave us the information must have been prejudiced or mistaken in his character. During the half-hour that he remained on board, I stated that now that the brig was in dock, I should like very much to have an opportunity of seeing my friends, if he would sanction my asking for leave.
To this he cheerfully consented, adding, that he would extend it upon his own responsibility. My letter to the Admiralty was therefore forwarded through him, and was answered in the affirmative. The day afterwards, I set off by the coach, and once more embraced my dear sister.
After the first congratulations were over, I inquired about my father; she replied, that he was so wild that nobody could manage him. That he was melancholy and irritable at the same time, and was certainly deranged, fancying himself to be made of various substances, or to be in a certain trade or capacity. That he generally remained in this way four or five days, when he went to bed, and slept for twenty-four hours, or more, and awoke with some new strange imagination in his head. His language was violent, but that, in other respects, he seemed to be more afraid of other people than inclined to be mischievous; and that every day he was getting more strange and ridiculous. He had now just risen from one of his long naps, and was in his study; that before he had fallen asleep he had fancied himself to be a carpenter, and had sawed and chopped up several articles of furniture in the house.
I quitted my sister to see my father, whom I found in his easy-chair. I was much shocked at his appearance. He was thin and haggard his eyes were wild, and he remained with his mouth constantly open. A sick nurse, who had been hired by my sister, was standing by him.
“Pish, pish, pish, pish!” cried my father; “what can you, a stupid old woman, know about my inside? I tell you the gas is generating fast, and even now I can hardly keep on my chair. I’m lifting—lifting now; and if you don’t tie me down with cords, I shall go up like a balloon.”
“Indeed, sir,” replied the woman, “it’s only the wind in your stomach. You’ll break it off directly.”
“It’s inflammable gas, you old hecate!—I know it is. Tell me will you get a cord, or will you not? Hah! who’s that—Peter? Why you’ve dropped from the clouds, just in time to see me mount up to them.”
“I hope you feel yourself better, sir,” said I.
“I fell myself a great deal lighter every minute. Get a cord, Peter, and tie me to the leg of the table.”
I tried to persuade him that he was under a mistake; but it was useless. He became excessively violent, and said I wished him in heaven. As I had heard that it was better to humour people afflicted with hypochondriacism, which was evidently the disease under which my father laboured, I tried that method. “It appears to me, sir,” said I, “that if we could remove the gas every ten minutes, it would be a very good plan.”
“Yes—but how?” replied he, shaking his head mournfully.
“Why, with a syringe, sir,” said I; “which will, if empty, of course draw out the gas, when inserted into your mouth.”
“My dear Peter, you have saved my life,” replied my father; “be quick though, or I shall go up, right through the ceiling.” Fortunately, there was an instrument of that description in the house. I applied it to his mouth, drew up the piston, and then ejected the air, and re-applied it. In two minutes he pronounced himself better, and I left the old nurse hard at work, and my father very considerably pacified. I returned to my sister, to whom I recounted what had passed; but it was no source of mirth to us, although had it happened to an indifferent person, I might have been amused. The idea of leaving her, as I must soon do—having only a fortnight’s leave—to be worried by my father’s unfortunate malady, was very distressing. But we entered into a long conversation, in which I recounted the adventures that had taken place since I had left her, and for the time forgot our source of annoyance and regret. For three days my father insisted upon the old woman pumping the gas out of his body; after that he again fell into one of his sound sleeps, which lasted nearly thirty hours.
When he arose, I went again to see him. It was eight o’clock in the evening, and I entered with a candle. “Take it away—quick, take it away; put it out carefully.”
“Why, what’s the matter, sir?”
“Don’t come near me, if you love me; don’t come near me. Put it out, I say—put it out.”
I obeyed his orders, and then asked him the reason. “Reason!” said he, now that we were in the dark; “can’t you see?”
“No, father; I can see nothing in the dark.”
“Well, then, Peter, I’m a magazine, full of gun-powder; the least spark in the world, and I am blown up. Consider the danger. You surely would not be the destruction of your father, Peter;” and the poor old gentleman burst into tears, and wept like a child.
I knew that it was in vain to reason with him. “My dear father,” said I, “on board ship, when there is any danger of this kind, we always float the magazine. Now, if you were to drink a good deal of water, the powder would be spoiled, and there would be no danger.”
My father was satisfied with my proposal, and drank a tumbler of water every half-hour, which the old nurse was obliged to supply as fast as he called for it, and this satisfied him for three or four days, and I was again left to the company of my dear Ellen, when my father again fell into his stupor, and we wondered what would be his next fancy. I was hastily summoned by the nurse; and found my poor father lying in bed, and breathing in a very strange manner.
“What is the matter, my dear sir?” inquired I.
“Why, don’t you see what is the matter? How is a poor little infant, just born, to live, unless its mother is near to suckle it, and take care of it?”
“Indeed, sir, do you mean to say that you are just born?”
“To be sure I do. I’m dying for the breast.”
This was almost too absurd; but I gravely observed, “That it was all very true, but unfortunately his mother had died in child-birth, and that the only remedy was to bring him up by hand.”
He agreed with me. I desired the nurse to make some gruel, with brandy, and feed him: which she did, and he took the gruel just as if he were a baby.
This fit lasted about six days; for he went to sleep, because a baby always slept much; and I was in hopes it would last much longer: but he again went off into his lethargic fit, and after a long sleep awoke with a new fancy. My time had nearly expired, and I had written to my new captain, requesting an extension of leave, but I received an answer stating that it could not be granted, and requesting me to join the brig immediately.
I was rather surprised at this, but of course was compelled to obey and, embracing my dear sister once more, set off for Portsmouth. I advised her to humour my father, and this advice she followed; but his fancies were such, occasionally, as would have puzzled the most inventive genius to combat, or to find the remedy which he might acknowledge to be requisite. His health became certainly worse and worse, and his constitution was evidently destroyed by a slow, undermining bodily and mental fever. The situation of my poor sister was very distressing; and I must say that I quitted her with melancholy forebodings.
I ought here to observe, that I received all my prize-money amounting to 1560 pounds, a large sum for a lieutenant. I put it into the funds, and gave a power of attorney to Ellen, requesting her to use it as her own. We consulted as to what she should do if my father should die, and agreed that all his debts, which we knew to amount to three or four hundred pounds, should be paid, and that she should manage how she could upon what was left of my father’s property, and the interest of my prize-money.