“You had better try him,” replied Pearce, laughing.
“Well, it would be very considerate of him, and pickled cabbage is the only thing that cures my sea-sickness.” — (Perceiving Price about to speak) — “Stop now — it’s no use — there’s not a word about pickled cabbage in Shakespeare.”
“I did not say that there was,” retorted Price; “but there’s ‘beef without mustard,’ and that will be your case now.”
“And there’s ‘Write me down an ass,’” replied Courtenay, who was not a little vexed at the loss of his favourite condiment.
“Did you hear what Courtenay said of you, O’Keefe?” continued Price, turning to the purser.
“Yes — yes — I know — hand him over a glass; but this is not a clane one. Steward, will you bring a clane wine-glass?”
The rest laughed, while Courtenay proceeded.
“Why, O’Keefe, you hear better than ever. I say, doctor, you must put me in the sick list — I’m not fit to take charge of a watch.”
“If you’ll prove that to me,” replied Macallan, “I certainly will report you.”
“Well, I’ll prove it to you in five seconds. I’m just in that state, that if everything in the ship was to go overboard to the devil, I shouldn’t care. Now, with such a feeling of indifference, a person is not fit to be trusted with the charge of a watch.”
“That you’re not fit to be trusted with the charge of a watch, as you state it yourself, I shall not deny,” replied Macallan; “but I consider that to be a complaint for which you ought rather to be put off the list that on it.”
“Ha! ha! ha! I say, Courtenay, you know what Shakespeare says, ‘’Tis the curse of service,’ that — that — ”
“All hands, ’bout ship!” now resounded through the ship as it was repeated in the variety of basses of the boatswain and his mates, at either hatchway — one of the youngsters of the watch running down at the same time to acquaint the officers, in his shrill falsetto, with that which had been roared out loud enough to startle even the deaf purser. The first-lieutenant, followed by the master, brushed by him, and was up the ladder before his supererogatory communication could be delivered.
“How cursed annoying!” cried Courtenay. “I was just feeling a little better, and now I shall be worse than ever.”
“You recollect in the ‘Tempest,’” said Price, “where Shakespeare says — ”
“Forecastle, there!” roared out Captain M — , from the quarter-deck, in a voice that was distinctly heard below.
“By Jove, you’d better skip for it, or you’ll have what Captain M — says. He’s hailing your station,” said Courtenay, laughing — a piece of advice immediately acted upon by Price, who was up the ladder and on the forecastle in a few seconds. — “And I must go up too. How cursed annoying to be stationed in the waist! Nothing to do, except to stop my ears against the infernal stamp-and-go of the marines and after-guards, over my head; sweet music to a first-lieutenant, but to me discord most horrible. I could stamp with vexation.”
“Had you not better go first and stamp afterwards?” observed the surgeon, drily.
“I think I had, indeed,” replied Courtenay, as he bolted out of the gun-room door. — “Cursed annoying! but the captain’s such a bilious subject.”
Chapter Twenty.
This chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.
Henry IV. Part I.
We must now descend to the steerage, where our hero is seated in the berth, in company with a dozen more (as they designated themselves, from the extreme heat of their domicile) perspiring young heroes, who were amusing themselves with crunching hard biscuits, and at the same time a due proportion of those little animals of the scaribee tribe, denominated weevils, who had located themselves in the unleavened bread, and which the midshipmen declared to be the only fresh meat which they had tasted for some time.
Captain M — ’s character stood so high at the Admiralty, that the major part of the young aspirants who had been committed to his charge were of good family and connections. At that time few of the aristocracy or gentry ventured to send their sons into the navy; whereas, at present, none but those classes can obtain admission.
A better school for training young officers could not have been selected; and the midshipmen’s berth of the Aspasia was as superior to those in other ships, as Captain M — was himself to the generality of his contemporary captains in the service. But I cannot pay these young men the compliment to introduce them one by one, as I did the gun-room officers. It would be an anomaly unheard of. I shall, therefore, with every respect for them, describe them just as I want them. It was one bell after eight o’clock — a bottle of ship’s rum, a black jack of putrid water, and a tin bread-basket, are on the table, which is lighted with a tallow candle of about thirteen to the pound.
“I say, Mr Jerry Sneak, what are you after there — what are you foraging for in that locker?” said one of the oldsters of the berth to a half-starved, weak-looking object of a youngster, whose friends had sent him to sea with the hopes of improving his stamina.
“What for? — why, for my supper if you must know. D’ye think I look too fat? I stowed it away before I went on deck, that it might not fall into your ravenous maw.”
“Mind your stops, my Jack of the Bonehouse, or I shall shy a biscuit at your head.”
“Do, and prove your bravery; it will be so very courageous. I suppose you will expect to be gazetted for it.”
The youngster who had been dignified with the above sobriquet, and who made these replies, was certainly a most miserable-looking object, and looked as if a top-gallant breeze would have blown him to atoms. But if his body was weak, his tongue was most powerful. He resorted to no other weapon, and used that skilfully. He was a species of Thersites, and no dread of punishment could control his railing. He offered no resistance, but bent down like the reed, and resumed his former position as soon as the storm was over. His keen and sarcastic remarks, although they occasionally subjected him to chastisement, to a certain degree served him as a defence, for he could always raise a laugh at the expense of the individual whom he attacked, with the formidable weapon which he had inherited direct from his mother.
The oldster before mentioned put his hand into the breadbasket, and seized a handful of the biscuit. “Now I’ll bet you a glass of grog that you don’t throw a biscuit at my head,” cried Jerry, with a sneer.
“Done,” replied the oldster, throwing the contents of his hand at Jerry with all his force.
“I’ll just trouble you for that glass of grog, for you’ve lost,” said the youngster, taking it up from the table where it stood, before the oldster; “you’ve only thrown some pieces, and not a biscuit;” and following up his words with deeds, he swallowed down the whole contents of the tumbler, which he replaced very coolly before his opponent.
“Fair bet, and fairly lost,” cried the rest of the berth, laughing.
“You scarecrow! you’re not worth thrashing,” said the oldster, angrily.
“Why, that’s exactly what I have been trying to impress upon your memory ever since I have joined the ship. There’s no credit to be gained by licking a half-starved wretch like I am; but there’s Bruce, now,” (pointing to one of the oldsters, between whom and his opponent a jealousy subsisted), “why don’t you lick him? There would be some credit in that. But you know better than to try it.”
“Do I?” retorted the oldster, forgetting himself in the heat of the moment.
“Yes, you do,” replied Bruce, jumping up in defiance; and there was every appearance of a disturbance, much to the delight of Jerry, who, provided that they fought, was quite indifferent which party was the victor. But a fortunate interruption took place, by the appearance of the master-at-arms.
“Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please — the lights must be put out.”
“Very well, master-at-arms,” replied one of the oldsters.
The master-at-arms took his seat on a chest close to the door of the berth, aware that a second summons, if not a third, would be requisite, before his object was obtained. In a few minutes he again put his head into the berth. “Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please. I must report you to the first-lieutenant.”
“Very well, Byfield — it shall be out in a minute.”
The master-at-arms resumes his station on the chest outside.
“Why, it’s Saturday night,” cried Bruce. “Sweethearts and wives, my boys, though I believe none of us are troubled with the latter. Forster, pass the rum.”
“I’ll pass the bottle, and you may make a bull of it, if you choose.”
“Confound it, no more grog — and Saturday night. I must drink ‘Auld lang syne,’ by Heavens.”
The master-at-arms again made his appearance. “Gentlemen, you must put the light out.”
“Stop one minute, Byfield. Let us see whether we can get any more rum.”
The excuse appeared reasonable to the jack in office, and he disappeared.
“Boy, tell Billy Pitt I want him.”
Billy Pitt had turned in, but was soon roused out of his hammock, and made his appearance at the berth door, with only his shirt on that he was sleeping in.
“You want me, Massa Bruce?”
“Billy, my beau, you know everything. We sent for you to tell us what’s the meaning of a repartee?”
“Repartee, sir — repartee! — stop a bit — Eh — I tell you, sir. Suppose you call me dam nigger — then I call you one dam dirty white-livered son of a b — ; dat a repartee, sir.”
“Capital, Billy — you shall be a bishop. But Billy, has your master got any rum in his cabin?”
“Which massa, sir? Massa Courtenay, or Massa Doctor?”
“Oh! Courtenay, to be sure. The surgeon never has any.”
“Yes, sar, I tink he have a little.”
“Be quick, Billy; and fetch it. I will give it you back at the tub to-morrow.”
“Suppose you forget, sar, you put me in very fine predicalament. Massa Courtenay look dam blue — no, he not look blue, but he look dam yellow,” replied Billy, showing his white teeth as he grinned.
“But I won’t forget, Billy, upon my honour.”
“Well, honour quite enough between two gentlemen. I go fetch the bottle.”
Billy soon reappeared with a quart bottle of rum, just as three bells were struck. “By gad, I rattle the bottle as I take him out — wake Mr Courtenay — he say, dam black fellow he make everything adrift — cursed annoying, he say, and go to sleep again.”
“Really, gentlemen, I cannot wait any longer,” resumed the master-at-arms; “the lights must be reported or I shall be in disgrace.”
“Very true, Byfield; you are only doing your duty. Will you take a glass of grog?”
“If you please,” replied Mr Byfield, taking off his hat, “Your health, gentlemen.”
“Thank you,” replied the midshipmen.
“Tank you, sir,” replied also Billy Pitt.
“Well, Billy. What’s the last word you read in your dictionary?”
“Last word? Let me see — Oh! commission, sar. You know dat word?”
“Commission! We all know what that is, Billy, and shall be glad to get it too, by-and-bye.”
“Yes, sar; but there are two kind of commission. One you want, obliged to wait for; one I want, always have at once, — commission as agent, sar.”
“Oh, I understand,” replied Bruce; “five per cent on the bottle, eh?”
“Five per cent not make a tiff glass of grog, Massa Bruce.”
“Well, then, Billy, you shall have ten per cent,” replied the midshipman, pouring him out a north-wester. “Will that do?”
The black had the politeness to drink the health of all the gentlemen of the berth separately, before he poured the liquor down his throat. “Massa Bruce, I tink doctor got a little rum in his cabin.”
“Go and fetch it, Billy; you shall have it back to-morrow.”
“Honour, Mr Bruce.”
“Honour, Mr Pitt.”
“Ten per cent, Massa Bruce,” continued Billy, grinning.
“Ten per cent is the bargain.”
“I go see.”
Another quart bottle made its appearance; and the agent having received his commission, made his bow, and returned to his hammock.
“I do — really — think — upon — my — word — that that — black — scoundrel — would — sell — his — own — mother — for — a — stiff — glass — of — grog,” observed a youngster, of the name of Prose, a cockney, who drawled out his words, which, “like a wounded snake, dragged their slow length along.”
“The lights, gentlemen, if you please,” resumed the master-at-arms, putting his head again into the door.
“Another commission,” said Jerry: “a tax upon light. Billy Pitt has the best right to it.”
A second glass of grog was poured out, and the bribe disappeared down Mr Byfield’s gullet.
“Now we’ll put the light out,” said one of the oldsters, covering the candlestick with a hat.
“If you will put your candle into my lantern,” observed the obsequious master-at-arms, “I can then report the lights out. Of course you will allow it to remain there?”
The suggestion was adopted; and the light was reported out to the first-lieutenant, at the very moment that it was taken out of the lantern again, and replaced in the candlestick. The duplicate supply began to have its effect upon our incipient heroes, who commenced talking of their friends. Bruce, a fine manly, honourable Scotchman, had the peculiarity of always allying himself, when half drunk, to the royal house who formerly sat upon the throne of England; but, when quite intoxicated, he was so treasonable as to declare himself the lawful King of Great Britain. Glass after glass increased his propinquity to the throne, till at last he seated himself on it, and the uproar of the whole party rose to that height, that the first-lieutenant sent out, desiring the midshipmen immediately to retire to their hammocks.
“Send me to bed! ‘Proud man, dressed in a little brief authority.’ If the Lord’s anointed had been respected, he, with millions, would be now bending the knee to me. Well, if I can’t be King of all England, at least I’ll be king in this berth. Tell me,” cried Bruce, seizing the unfortunate Prose by the collar, “am I not king?”
“Why — according — to — the — best — of — my — belief,” said Prose, “I — should — rather — be — inclined — to — think — that — you are — not — the — king.”
“Am not, base slave!” cried Bruce, throwing him on the deck, and putting his foot on his chest.
“No — if — I die for it — I don’t care — but if you are — not king — I must own — that — you — are one of — my thirty tyrants,” drawled out Prose, half suffocated with the pressure.
“I — do — declare,” cried Jerry, imitating Prose’s drawl, “that — he — has — squeezed — a pun — out — of — you.”
“Am not I king?” resumed Bruce, seizing Jerry, who had advanced within reach, to laugh at Prose.
“I feel that you ought to be,” replied Jerry: “and I don’t doubt your lineal descent: for you have all the dispositions of the race from which you claim descent. A boon, your gracious majesty,” continued Jerry, bending on one knee.
“Thou shalt have it, my loyal subject,” replied Bruce, who was delighted with the homage, “even (as Ahasuerus said to Esther) to the half of my kingdom.”
“God forbid that I should deprive your majesty of that,” replied Jerry, smiling at the idea of halving nothing. “It is only to request that I may not keep the middle watch to-night.”
“Rise, Jerry, you shall not keep a night-watch for a fortnight.”
“I humbly thank your most gracious majesty,” replied the astute boy, who was a youngster of the watch of which Bruce was mate.
As the reader may be amused with the result of this promise, he must know, that Bruce, who did not recollect what had passed, when he perceived Jerry not to be on deck, sent down for him. The youngster, on his appearance, claimed his promise; and his claim was allowed by Bruce, rather than he would acknowledge himself to have been intoxicated. Jerry, upon the strength of the agreement, continued, for more than the prescribed time, to sleep in every night-watch, until, aware that he was no longer safe, he thought of an expedient which would probably insure him one night longer, and prevent a disagreeable interruption of his dreams. Prose, whose hammock was hung up next the hatchway, had a bad cold, and Jerry thought it prudent to shift his berth, that he might not be found.
“It’s the draught from the hatchway that makes your cold so bad, Prose; you’ll never get well while you sleep there. I will give you my inside berth until it is better — ’tis really quite distressing to hear you cough.”
“Well, now, Jerry, that’s what I call very good-natured of you. I have not had such a friendly act done towards me since I joined the ship, and I do assure you, Jerry, that I shall not be ungrateful — I shall not forget it.”
It happened that, on the very night that Prose exchanged berths with Jerry, Bruce made his calculation that the fortnight had elapsed three days back: and although he felt himself bound in honour to keep his promise, yet feeling rather sore at being over-reached, he now ordered the quarter-master to cut Jerry’s hammock down by the head. This was supposed to be done, and poor Prose, who had just fallen asleep after keeping the previous watch, awoke with a stunning sensation, and found his feet up at the beams and his head on the deck; while Jerry, who had been awakened by the noise, was obliged to cram the sheets into his mouth, that his laughter might be unperceived.
“Well, now, I do declare, this is too bad — I most certainly will complain to the captain, to-morrow morning — as sure as my name is Prose. Sentry, bring me a light, and assist me to get my hammock up again — I will not put up with this treatment — I do declare;” and so saying, Prose once more resumed his position in his precarious dormitory.
But, during our digression, the berth has become empty — some walking, and others, particularly his majesty, reeling to bed. So we shall close this chapter, from which the reader may perceive, that, even in the best-regulated ships, there is more going on in a midshipmen’s berth than a captain is acquainted with, or that comes between Heaven and his philosophy.
Chapter Twenty One.
With leave, Bassanio, I am half yourself, and I must freely have the half of anything that this same paper brings you.
Shakespeare.
The castle which had been built by the ancestors of Mr Rainscourt, and which, in feudal times, had been one of strength and importance, was about two miles from the town of — , in the county of Galway, on the west coast of Ireland; and, as Mr Rainscourt had correctly surmised, when he returned to it, no officer could be found who was bold enough to venture his life by an attempt at caption, surrounded as he was by a savage and devoted peasantry, who had no scruples at bloodshed. Immured within its walls, with little to interest, and no temptation to expend money, Mr and Mrs Rainscourt lived for nearly two years, indulging their spleen and discontent in mutual upbraidings, — their feelings towards each other, from incessant irritation, being now rather those of hatred than any other term that could be applied. The jewels of Mrs Rainscourt, and every other article that could be dispensed with, had been sold, and the purse was empty. The good-will of the tenants of the mortgaged property had for some time supplied the ill-assorted couple with the necessaries of life; every day added to their wants, to their hatred, and their despair.
They were seated at the table, having finished a dinner off some game which Mr Rainscourt had procured with his gun, and which had been their fare, with little variety, ever since the shooting season had commenced, when the old nurse, the only domestic they retained, — probably the only one who would remain with them without receiving wages, — made her appearance. “And sure there’s a letter for the master; Barney, the post-boy, is just bringing it.”
“Well, where is it?” replied Rainscourt.
“He says that it’s two thirteens that must be paid for it, and the dirty spalpeen of a postmaster told him not to give you the letter without the money for it in his fist.”
“Tell Barney to step in here — have you two shillings, Mrs Rainscourt?”
“Not one, Mr Rainscourt,” replied the lady, gloomily.
The nurse reappeared with Barney.
“Well, Barney, where’s the letter?” said Mr Rainscourt; “let me look at it.”
“Sure, your honour, it’s not me that’s refusing it ye. But the master tould me — ‘Barney,’ says he, ‘if you give his honour the letter without the two thirteens in your fist, it’s a good bating that I’ll give ye when ye come back.’”
“Well, but, Barney, let me look at it, and see by the postmark where it’s from. I shall know, directly, whether I will take it up or not.”
“And suppose that your honour should wish to open the letter! It’s not for gentlemen like ye to be standing against the temptation; — and then, the two thirteens, your honour.”
“Well, Barney, since you won’t trust me, and I have no money, you must take the letter back. It might bring me good news — I have had nothing but bad of late.”
“And sure enough it might bring you good news. Then, your honour shall take the letter and I’ll take the bating;” and the good-natured lad pulled out the letter from his pocket, and gave it to Rainscourt.
Rainscourt, who first wished to ascertain whether it was one of his usual dunning correspondents, examined the post-mark and handwriting of the superscription, that he might return it unopened, and save poor Barney from the beating which he had volunteered to receive for his sake, but the hand was unknown to him, and the post-mark was so faint and illegible that he could not decipher it. He looked into the sides of the letter, and the few words which he could read whetted his curiosity.
“I’m afraid, Barney, that I must open it.”
“Good luck to your honour, then, and may it prove so.”
The letter was opened, and the contents threw a gleam of pleasure, which had been rarely seen of late on the brow of the reader. His wife had watched his countenance. “Barney,” cried Rainscourt, with delight, “call to-morrow, and I’ll give you a guinea.”
“Sure your honour’s in luck, and me too,” replied Barney, grinning, and backing out of the room. “I’ll go take my bating at once.”
But, to explain the contents of this letter, we must narrate events of which we have lost sight in following up the naval career of our hero.
About three weeks after the death of Admiral de Courcy, the line-of-battle ship in which old Adams had sailed with our hero under his protection, returned into port. The vicar, who anxiously awaited her arrival, immediately proceeded there, that he might claim Willy in the capacity of his guardian. Having obtained the address of Captain M — , he called upon him, and opened his case by requesting that the boy might be permitted to come on shore. He was proceeding to narrate the change which had taken place in his ward’s prospects, when he was interrupted by Captain M — , who, first detailing the death of old Adams, and the conduct of Willy, stated that he had sent the boy home in the prize for an outfit. It was with great feeling that Captain M — was forced to add the apparent certainty, that the vessel, which had never been heard of, had foundered at sea. Shocked at the intelligence, which was communicated at a moment when his heart was expanded, at the idea of having been instrumental in repairing the injustice and neglect which had been shown towards his protégé, the vicar, not caring to mention to a stranger the family particulars upon which his request had been grounded, withdrew, without even giving his name or address. Three years afterwards, when, as we have narrated, our hero again made his appearance, Captain M — had no clue to guide him, by which he might communicate the intelligence of his recovery to one whom he naturally concluded did not make such inquiries without having some interest in our hero’s welfare.
The vicar, in the mean time, although he had every reason to believe that Willy was no more, resorted to every means that his prudence could suggest to ascertain the positive fact. For many months the most strict inquiries were set afloat by his agents, whether a captured vessel had been wrecked on the French coast. The prisoners at Verdun and other depots were examined — rewards were offered, by emissaries in France, for the discovery of the boy, but without success. Having waited two years, all hope became extinct, and the letter now received by Mr Rainscourt was from the vicar, acquainting him with the circumstances, and surrendering up the property to him, as next of kin.
“Pray, Mr Rainscourt, may I ask the contents of a letter, the perusal of which not only makes you so generous, but implies that you expect to have the means of being so?”
When happy ourselves, especially when unexpectedly so, we feel kindly disposed towards others. For a moment Rainscourt seemed to have forgotten all his differences with his wife; and he as readily imparted to her his good fortune as he had, on a previous occasion, his disappointment.
“My dear Clara, the grandchild is dead, and we have possession of the property.”
“My dear Clara!” Such an epithet had never been used since the first week of their marriage. Overcome by the joyful intelligence, but more overcome by the kind expression of her husband, which recalled the days when she fondly loved. Mrs Rainscourt burst into tears, and throwing herself down with her face on his knees, poured out, in sobs, her gratitude to Heaven, and her revived affection for her husband.
Their daughter Emily, now ten years old, astonished at so unusual a scene, ran up, impelled as it were by instinct, and completed the family group, by clinging to her father. Rainscourt, who was affected, kissed the brow of the child, and congratulated her on becoming an heiress.
“I never knew before that money would do so much good,” observed the child, referring to the apparent reconciliation of her parents.
Mrs Rainscourt rose from her position, and sat down at the table, leaning her face upon her hands. “I am afraid that it has come too late,” said she, mournfully, as she recalled the years of indifference and hostility which had preceded.
Mrs Rainscourt was correct in her supposition. Respect and esteem had long departed, and without their aid, truant love was not to be reclaimed. The feeling of renewed attachment was as transient as it was sudden.
“I must be off to England immediately,” observed the husband. “I presume that I shall have no difficulty in obtaining money from the bank when I show this letter. Old — will be ready enough to thrust his notes into my hands now.”
“Shall we not go with you, Mr Rainscourt?”
“No; you had better remain here till I have arranged matters a little. I must settle with three cursed money-lenders, and take up the bonds from J — . Little scoundrel! he’ll be civil enough.”
“Well, Mr Rainscourt, it must, I suppose, be as you decide: but neither Emily nor I are very well equipped in our wardrobes and you will not be exactly competent to execute our commissions.”
“And therefore shall execute none.”
“Do you, then, mean to leave us here in rags and beggary, while you are amusing yourself in London?” replied Mrs Rainscourt, with asperity. “With your altered circumstances, you will have no want of society, either male or female,” continued the lady, with an emphasis upon the last word — “and a wife will probably be an encumbrance.”
“Certainly not such a kind and affectionate one as you have proved, my dear,” replied the gentleman, sarcastically; “nevertheless I must decline the pleasure of your company till I have time to look about me a little.”
“Perhaps, Mr Rainscourt, now that you will be able to afford it, you will prefer a separate establishment? If so, I am willing to accede to any proposition you may be inclined to make.”
“That’s a very sensible remark of yours, my dear, and shall receive due consideration.”
“The sooner the better, sir,” replied the piqued lady, as Mr Rainscourt quitted the room.
“My dear child,” said Mrs Rainscourt to her daughter, “you see how cruelly your father treats me. He is a bad man, and you must never pay attention to what he says.”
“Papa told me just the same of you, mamma,” replied the girl, “yesterday morning, when you were walking in the garden.”
“Did he! The wretch, to set my own child against me!” cried Mrs Rainscourt, who had just been guilty of the very same offence which had raised her choler against her husband.