Now, it sometimes occurred that a mess, when called, would miss its turn, by the man deputed to receive the liquor not being present: upon which occasion the other messes were served in rotation, and the one who had not appeared to the call was obliged to wait till after all the rest; but a circumstance of this kind always created a great deal of mirth; for the sheep, who knew that it was his turn after the eighteenth, or last mess, would butt away any one who attempted to interfere; and if the party persevered in being served before Jack, he would become quite outrageous, flying at the offender, and butting him forward into the galley, and sometimes down the hatchway, before his anger could be appeased — from which it would appear that the animal was passionately fond of spirits. This I consider as great a change in the nature of a ruminating animal as can well be imagined.
I could mention many instances of this kind, but I shall reserve them till I have grown older; then I will be as garrulous as Montaigne. As it is, I think I hear the reader say — “All this may be very true, but what has it to do with the novel?” Nothing, I grant; but it has a great deal to do with making a book — for I have completed a whole chapter out of nothing.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
And with a flowing sail
Went a bounding for the island of the free,
Towards which the impatient wind blew half a gale;
High dash’d the spray, the bows dipp’d in the sea.
Byron.
After a run of six weeks, the Aspasia entered the Channel. The weather, which had been clear during the passage home, now altered its appearance; and a dark sky, thick fog, and mizzling, cold rain, intimated their approach to the English shore. But, relaxed as they had been by three years’ endurance of a tropical sun, it was nevertheless a source of congratulation, rather than complaint; for it was “regular November Channel weather,” and was associated with their propinquity to those homes and firesides, which would be enhanced in value from the ordeal to be passed before they could be enjoyed.
“Hah!” exclaimed an old quarter-master, who had served the earlier part of his life in a coaster, as he buttoned his pea-jacket up to the throat; “this is what I calls something like; none of your damned blue skies here.”
Such is the power of affection, whether of person or of things, that even faults become a source of endearment.
As the short day closed, the Aspasia, who was running before the wind and slanting rain, which seemed to assist her speed with its gravity, hove to, and tried for soundings.
“Well, Stewart, what’s the news?” said one of the midshipmen, as he entered the berth; the drops of rain, which hung upon the rough exterior of his great coat, glittering like small diamonds, from the reflection of the solitary candle, which made darkness but just visible.
“News,” replied Stewart, taking off his hat with a jerk, so as to besprinkle the face of Prose with the water that had accumulated on the top of it, and laughing at his sudden start from the unexpected shower; “why, as the fellows roar out with the second edition of an evening paper, ‘Great news, glorious news!’ — and all comprised in a short sentence: — Soundings in seventy four fathoms; grey sand and shells.”
“Huzza!” answered the old master’s mate.
“Now for three cheers — and then for the song.”
The three cheers having been given with due emphasis, if not discretion, they all stood up round the table. “Now, my boys, keep time. Mr Prose, if you attempt to chime in with your confounded nasal twang, I’ll give you a squeeze.”
For England, when, with favouring gale,
Our gallant ship up channel steer’d,
And, scudding under easy sail,
The high blue western land appear’d,
To heave the lead the seaman sprung,
And to the watchful pilot sung,
By the deep nine.
The song, roared out in grand chorus by the midshipmen, was caught up, after the first verse, by the marines in their berth, close to them; and from them passed along the lower deck as it continued, so that the last stanzas were sung by nearly two hundred voices, sending forth a volume of sound, that penetrated into every recess of the vessel, and entered into the responsive bosoms of all on board, not excepting the captain himself, who smiled, as he bent over the break of the gangway, at what he would have considered a breach of subordination in the ship’s company, had not he felt that it arose from that warm attachment to their country which had created our naval pre-eminence.
The song ended with tumultuous cheering fore and aft, and not until then did the captain send down to request that the noise might be discontinued. As soon as it was over, the grog was loudly called for in the midshipmen’s berth, and made its appearance.
“Here’s to the white cliffs of England,” cried one, drinking off his tumbler, and turning it upside down on the table.
“Here’s to the Land of Beauty.”
“Here’s to the Emerald Isle.”
“And here’s to the Land of Cakes,” cried Stewart, drinking off his tumbler, and throwing it over his shoulder.
“Six for one for skylarking,” cried Prose.
“A hundred for one, you damned cockney, for all I care.”
“No — no — no,” cried all the berth; “not one for one.”
“You shall have a song for it, my boys,” cried Stewart, who immediately commenced, with great taste and execution, the beautiful air —
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o’ lang syne?
“Well, I’ve not had my toast yet,” said Jerry, when the applause at the end of the song had discontinued: — “Here’s to the shady side of Pall-mall.”
“And I suppose,” said Stewart, giving Prose a slap on the back, which took his breath away, “that you are thinking of Wapping, blow you.”
“I think I have had enough of whopping since I’ve been in this ship,” answered Prose.
“Why, Prose, you’re quite brilliant, I do declare,” observed Jerry. “Like a flint, you only require a blow from Stewart’s iron fist to emit sparks. Try him again, Stewart. He’s like one of the dancing dervishes, in the Arabian Nights: you must thrash him to get a few farthings of wit out of him.”
“I do wish that you would keep your advice to yourself, Jerry.”
“My dear Prose, it’s all for the honour of Middlesex that I wish you to shine. I’m convinced that there’s a great deal of wit in that head of yours; but it’s confined, like the kernel in a nut: there’s no obtaining it without breaking the shell. Try him again, Stewart.”
“Come, Prose, I’ll take your part, and try his own receipt upon himself. I’ll thrash him till he says something witty.”
“I do like that, amazingly,” replied Jerry. “Why, if I do say a good thing, you’ll never find out. I shall be thrashed to all eternity. Besides, I’m at too great a distance from you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I’m like some cows; I don’t give down my milk without the calf is alongside of me. Now, if you were on this side of the table — ”
“Which I am,” replied Stewart, as he sprang over it, and seizing Jerry by the neck — “Now, Mr Jerry, say a good thing directly.”
“Well, promise me to understand it. We are just in the reverse situation of England and Scotland, after the battle of Culloden.”
“What do you mean by that, you wretch?” cried Stewart, whose wrath was kindled by the reference.
“Why, I’m in your clutches, just like Scotland was — a conquered country.”
“You lie, you little blackguard,” cried Stewart, pinching Jerry’s neck till he forced his mouth open: “Scotland was never conquered.”
“Well, then,” continued Jerry, whose bile was up, as soon as Stewart relaxed his hold; “I’m like King Charles in the hands of the Scotch. How much was it that you sold him for?”
Jerry’s shrivelled carcase sounded like a drum, from the blow which he received for this second insult to Stewart’s idolised native land. As soon as he could recover his speech, “Well, haven’t I been very witty? Are you content, or will you have some more? or will you try Prose, and see whether you can draw blood out of a turnip?”
Stewart, who seemed disinclined to have any more elegant extracts from Jerry, resumed his former seat by Prose, who appeared to be in deep reflection.
“Well, Prose, are you thinking of your friends in Cheap-side?”
“And suppose I am, Stewart? We have the same feelings in the city that you have in the heather; and although I do not, like you, pretend to be allied to former kings, yet one may love one’s father and mother, brothers and sisters, without being able to trace back to one’s great-great-grand-father. I never disputed your high pretensions; why, then, interfere with my humble claims to the common feelings of humanity?”
“I am rebuked, Prose,” replied Stewart; “you shall have my glass of grog for that speech, for you never made a better. Give me your hand, my good fellow.”
“I am glad that you, at last, show some symptoms of reason,” observed the still indignant Jerry, standing close to the door. “I have some hopes of your Majesty yet, after such an extraordinary concession on your part. You must have great reason to be proud that you are able to trace your pedigree up to a border chieftain, who sallied forth on the foray, when the spurs were dished up for his dinner: or, in plain words, went a cattle stealing, and robbing those who could not resist. It might then be considered a mark of prowess; but times are altered now; and if your celebrated ancestor lived in the present time, why,” continued Jerry, pointing his finger under his left ear, “he would receive what he well deserved, that’s all.”
“By Him that made me, get out of my reach, if you do not wish me to murder you!” cried Stewart, pale with rage.
“I took care of that,” replied Jerry, “before I ventured to give my opinion; and now that I’m ready for a start, I’ll give you a piece of advice. Trace your ancestors as far back as you can, as long as they have continued to be honest men, — if you don’t stop there you are a fool” — and Jerry very prudently made his escape at the conclusion of his sentence.
“The hour of retribution will come,” cried Stewart after Jerry, as the latter sprang up the ladder; but it did not, for when they met next morning, it was to feast their eyes upon the chalky cliffs of the Isle of Wight, as the Aspasia steered for the Needles. There are two events on board of a man-of-war, after which injuries are forgotten, apologies are offered and received, intended duels are suppressed, hands are exchanged in friendship, and good-will drives away long-cherished animosity. One is, after an action — another, upon the sight of native land, after a protracted absence.
Jerry fearlessly ranged up alongside of Stewart, as he looked over the gangway.
“We shall be at anchor by twelve o’clock.”
“You may bless your stars for it,” replied Stewart, with a significant smile.
The Aspasia now ran through the Needles, and having successively passed by Hurst Castle, Cowes, and the entrance to Southampton Water, brought up at Spithead, in seven fathoms. The sails were furled, the ship was moored, the boat was manned, and Captain M — went on shore to report himself to the port admiral, and deliver his despatches. When the boat returned, it brought off letters which had been waiting the arrival of the ship. One informed Jerry of the death of his father, and of his being in possession of a fortune which enabled him to retire from the service. Another, from the Admiralty, announced the promotion of Stewart to the rank of lieutenant; and one from McElvina to our hero, inviting him to take up his quarters at his house, as long as the service would permit, stating that Captain M — had been written to, to request that he might be allowed leave of absence.
As soon as Captain M — had received an answer from the Admiralty, he returned on board, and acquainted his officers that he had obtained leave to remain on shore for some time, for the re-establishment of his health, and that another captain would be appointed to the ship. He turned the hands up, and addressed the ship’s company, thanking them for their good behaviour while under his command, and expressing his hopes, that upon his reappointment he should find them all alive and well. The first-lieutenant, to his great surprise and delight, was presented with his rank as commander, which Captain M — had solicited from the Admiralty. The men were dismissed, and Captain M — , bidding farewell to his officers, descended the side and shoved off. As soon as the boat was clear of the frigate, the men, without orders, ran up, and manning the shrouds, saluted him with three farewell cheers. Captain M — took off his hat to the compliment, and, muffling up his face with his boat-cloak to conceal his emotion, the boat pulled for the shore.
Seymour, who was in the boat, followed his captain to the inn: who informed him, that he had obtained his discharge into a guard-ship, that his time might go on, and leave of absence for two months, which he might spend with his friend McElvina. Captain M — then dismissed him with a friendly shake of the hand, desiring him to write frequently, and to draw upon his agent if he required any pecuniary assistance.
Seymour’s heart was full, and he could not answer his kind protector. He returned on board, and bidding farewell to his messmates, the next evening he had arrived at the cottage of McElvina. That his reception was cordial, it is hardly necessary to state. McElvina, whose marriage had not been blessed with a family, felt towards our hero as if he was his own child; and Susan was delighted with the handsome exterior and winning manners of the lad, whose boyish days had often been the theme of her husband’s conversation.
If the reader will take the trouble to reckon with his fingers, he will find that William Seymour is now sixteen years old. If he will not, he must take my word for it; and it may also be as well to inform him that Miss Rainscourt is more than fourteen. I am the more particular in mentioning these chronological facts, because in the next chapter I intend to introduce the parties to each other.
Chapter Thirty Nine.
A strong bull stands, threat’ning furious war:
He flourishes his horns, looks sourly round,
And, hoarsely bellowing, traverses his ground.
Blackmore.
It was on the second day after the arrival of Seymour, that Emily, who was not aware of the addition to the party at the cottage, proceeded on foot through the park and field adjacent, to pay Susan a visit. She was attended by a man-servant in livery, who carried some books, which Mrs McElvina had expressed a desire to read. When Emily had arrived at the last field, which was rented by a farmer hard by, she was surprised to perceive that it was occupied by an unpleasant tenant, to wit, a large bull; who, on their approach, commenced pawing the ground, and showing every symptom of hostility. She quickened her pace, and as the animal approached, found that she had gained much nearer to the stile before her than to the one which she had just passed over, and frightened as she was, she determined to proceed. The servant who accompanied her manifested more fear than she did. As the bull approached, Emily, who had heard what precautions should be taken in a similar exigence, turned her face towards the animal, and walked backwards to the stile. The domestic seemed determined to preserve the exact station which his duty and respect required, and kept himself behind his young mistress. As, however, the bull advanced, and seemed inclined to charge upon them, his fears would not permit him to remain in that situation, and throwing down the books, he took to his heels, and ran for a gap in the hedge. By this manoeuvre, Emily was left to make any arrangements she pleased with the infuriated animal.
But the bull had no quarrel with a lady, dressed in a white muslin frock; he had taken offence at the red plush inexpressibles, which were a part of the family livery, and immediately ran at the servant, passing Emily without notice. The terrified man threw himself in an agony of fright into the gap, but was so paralysed with fear that he had no strength to force his passage through. With his head and shoulders on the other side of the hedge, there he stuck on his hands and knees, offering a fair target to the bull, who flew at it with such violence, that he forced him several yards in the opposite field. Senseless and exhausted, he lay there more from fear than injury, while the roaring bull paced up and down the hedge, with his tail in the air, attempting in vain to force a passage in pursuit of the object of his detestation.
The mind of woman is often more powerful than her frame; and the one will bear up against circumstances in which the other will succumb. Thus it was with Emily, who reached the stile, clambered over it with difficulty, and attaining the house of McElvina, which was but a few yards distant, felt that her powers failed her as soon as exertion was no longer required. With difficulty she perceived with her swimming eyes that there was a gentleman in the parlour; and faintly exclaiming, “O! Mr McElvina!” fell senseless into the arms of William Seymour.
Mr and Mrs McElvina were not at home: they had walked to the vicarage; and Seymour, who was very busy finishing a sketch of the Aspasia for his hostess, had declined accompanying them in their visit. His surprise at finding a young lady in his arms, may easily be imagined; but, great as was his surprise, his distress was greater, from the extreme novelty of the situation. It was not that he was unaccustomed to female society: on the contrary, his captain had introduced him everywhere in the different ports of the colonies in which they had anchored; and perhaps there is no better society, although limited, than is to be met with at the table of a colonial governor, but here it was quite different. He had been habituated to follow in the wake, as the lady governess made sail for the dining-room, the whole fleet forming two lines abreast in close order, and then coming to an anchor, in beautiful precision, to attack the dinner, which surrendered at discretion. He had been habituated to the ball-room, where the ladies glided over the chalked floor, like so many beautiful yachts plying in Southampton Water on a fine day: he had tired his rate of sailing down the middle of a country dance with some fair partner; and tacked and wore as required to the mazes of poussette and right and left. This was all plain sailing; but the case was now quite different. Here was a strange sail, who had not even shown her number, taken aback in stays, and on her beam-ends in a squall.
Seymour knew nothing about fainting. Sometimes a man had fits on board a ship (although invariably discharged when it was known); but the only remedy, in a man-of-war, in such cases, was to lay the patient down between the guns, and let him come-to at his own leisure. It was impossible to act so in this case; and Seymour, as he bent over the beautiful pale countenance of Emily, felt that he never could be tired of holding her in his arms. However, as it was necessary that something should be done, he laid her down on the sofa, and seizing the bell-rope, pulled it violently for assistance. The wire had been previously slackened, and the force which Seymour used brought down the rope without ringing the bell. There was but one in the room: and, not choosing to leave Emily, he was again compelled to rely on his own resources. What was good for her? Water? There was none in the room, except what he had been painting with, and that was desperately discoloured with the Indian ink. Nevertheless, he snatched up his large brush which he used for washing-in his skies, and commenced painting her face and temples with the discoloured water; but without producing the desired effect of re-animation.
What next? — Oh, salts and burnt feathers; he had read of them in a novel. Salts he had none — burnt feathers were to be procured. There were two live birds, called cardinals, belonging to Mrs McElvina, in a cage near the window, and there was also a stuffed green parrot in a glass case. Seymour showed his usual presence of mind in his decision. The tails of the live birds would in all probability grow again; that of the stuffed parrot never could. He put his hand into the cage, and seizing the fluttering proprietors, pulled out both their long tails, and having secured the door of the cage, thrust the ends of the feathers into the fire, and applied them, frizzing and spluttering, to the nostrils of Emily. But they were replaced in the fire again and again, until they would emit no more smoke, and Emily still continued in a state of insensibility. There was no help for it — the parrot, which he knew Mrs McElvina was partial to, must be sacrificed. A blow with the poker demolished the glass, and the animal was wrenched off its perch, and the tail inserted between the bars of the grate. But burnt feathers were of no use; and Seymour, when he had burnt down the parrot’s tail to the stump, laid it upon the table in despair.
He now began to be seriously alarmed, and the beauty of the object heightened his pity and commiseration. His anxiety increased to that degree that, losing his presence of mind, and giving way to his feelings, he apostrophised the inanimate form, and, hanging over it with the tenderness of a mother over her lifeless child, as a last resource, kissed its lips again and again with almost frantic anxiety. At the time of his most eager application of this last remedy, McElvina and Susan entered the room, without his being aware of their approach.
The parrot on the table, with his tail still burning like a slow match, first caught their eyes: and as they advanced further in, there was Seymour, to their astonishment, kissing a young lady to whom he had never been introduced, and who appeared to be quite passive to his endearments.
“Seymour!” cried McElvina, — “what is all this?”
“I’m glad you’ve come; I cannot bring her to. I’ve tried everything.”
“So it appears. Why, you’ve smothered her — she’s black in the face,” replied McElvina, observing the marks of the Indian ink upon Emily’s cheek.
Susan, who immediately perceived the condition of Emily, applied her salts, and desired McElvina to call the women. In a few