Peter Simple

“‘Fire away, my lads—steady aim!’ cries Nelson. ‘Jump down there, Mr Thomas; pass the word to reduce the cartridges, the shot go clean through her. Double shot the guns there, fore and aft.’

“So we were at it for about half-an-hour, when our guns became so hot from quick firing, that they bounced up to the beams overhead, tearing away their ringbolts, and snapping the breechings like rope yarns. By this time we were almost as much unrigged as if we had been two days paying off in Portsmouth harbour. The four-decker forged ahead, and Troubridge, in the jolly old Culloden, came between us and two other Spanish ships, who were playing into us. She was as fresh as a daisy, and gave them a dose which quite astonished them. They shook their ears, and fell astern, when the Blenheim laid hold of them, and mauled them so that they went astern again. But it was out of the frying-pan into the fire: for the Orion, Prince George, and one or two others, were coming up, and knocked the very guts out of them. I’ll be damned if they forgot the 14th of April, and sarve them right, too. Wasn’t a four-decker enough for any two-decker, without any more coming on us? and couldn’t the beggars have matched themselves like gentlemen? Well, Mr Simple, this gave us a minute or two to fetch our breath, let the guns cool, and repair damages, and swab the blood from the decks; but we lost our four-decker, for we could not get near her again.”

“What odd names the Spaniards give to their ships, Swinburne!”

“Why, yes, they do; it would almost appear wicked to belabour the Holy Trinity as we did. But why they should call a four-decked ship the Holy Trinity I can’t tell. Bill Saunders said that the fourth deck was for the Pope, who was as great a parsonage as the others: but I can’t understand how that can be. Well, Mr Simple, as I was head-signalman, I was perched on the poop, and didn’t serve at a gun. I had to report all I could see, which was not much, the smoke was so thick; but now and then I could get a peep, as it were, through the holes in the blanket. Of course I was obliged to keep my eye as much as possible upon the admiral, not to make out his signals, for Commodore Nelson wouldn’t thank me for that; I knew he hated a signal when in action, so I never took no notice of the bunting, but just watched to see what he was about. So while we are repairing damages, I’ll just tell you what I saw of the rest of the fleet. As soon as old Jervis had done for the Spanish admiral, he hauled his wind on the larboard tack, and, followed by four or five other ships, weathered the Spanish line and joined Collingwood in the Excellent. Then they all dashed through the line; the Excellent was the leading ship, and she first took the shine out of the Salvador del Mondo, and then left her to be picked up by the other ships, while she attacked a two-decker, who hauled down her colours—I forget her name just now. As soon as the Victory ran alongside of the Salvador del Mondo, down went her colours, and Excellent reasons had she for striking her flag. And now, Mr Simple, the old Captain comes into play again. Having parted company with the four-decker, we had recommenced action with the San Nicolas, a spanish eighty, and while we were hard at it, old Collingwood comes up in the Excellent. The San Nicolas, knowing that the Excellent’s broadside would send her to old Nick, put her helm up to avoid being raked: in so doing, she fell foul of the San Josef a Spanish three-decker, and we being all cut to pieces, and unmanageable—all of us indeed reeling about like drunken men—Nelson ordered his helm a star-board, and in a jiffy there we were, all three hugging each other, running in one another’s guns, smashing our chain-plates, and poking our yard arms through each other’s canvas.

“‘All hands to board!’ roared Nelson, leaping on the hammocks and waving his sword.

“‘Hurrah! hurrah!’ echoed through the decks, and up flew the men, like as (men) angry bees out of a bee-hive. In a moment pikes, tomahawks, cutlasses, and pistols were seized (for it was quite unexpected, Mr Simple), and our men poured into the eighty-gun ship, and in two minutes the decks were cleared, and all the Dons pitched below. I joined the boarders and was on the main-deck when Captain Miller came down, and cried out, ‘On deck again immediately.’ Up we went, and what do you think it was for, Mr Simple? Why to board a second time; for Nelson having taken the two-decker, swore that he’d have the three-decker as well. So away we went again, clambering up her lofty sides how we could, and dropping down on her decks like hailstones. We all made for the quarter-deck, beat down every Spanish beggar that showed fight, and in five minutes more we had hauled down the colours of two of the finest ships in the Spanish navy. If that wasn’t taking the shine out of the Dons, I should like to know what is. And didn’t the old captains cheer and shake hands, as Commodore Nelson stood on the deck of the San Josef, and received the swords of the Spanish officers! There was enough of them to go right round the capstern, and plenty to spare. Now, Mr Simple, what do you think of that for a spree?”

“Why, Swinburne, I can only say that I wish I had been there.”

“So did every man in the fleet, Mr Simple, I can tell you.”

“But what became of the Santissima Trinidad?”

“Upon my word, she behaved one deck better than all the others. She held out against four of our ships for a long while, and then hauled down her colours, and no disgrace to her, considering what a precious hammering she had taken first. But the lee division of the Spanish weather fleet, if I may so call it, consisting of eleven sail of the line, came up to her assistance, and surrounded her, so that they got her off. Our ships were too much cut up to commence a new action, and the admiral made the signal to secure the prizes. The Spanish fleet then did what they should have done before—got into line; and we lost no time in doing the same. But we both had had fighting enough.”

“But do you think, Swinburne, that the Spaniards fought well?”

“They’d have fought better, if they’d only have known how. There’s no want of courage in the Dons, Mr Simple, but they did not support each other. Only observe how Troubridge supported us. By God, Mr Simple, he was the real fellow, and Nelson knew it well. He was Nelson’s right-hand man; but you know there wasn’t room for two Nelsons. Their ships engaged held out well, it must be acknowledged, but why wer’n’t they all in their proper berths? Had they kept close order of sailing, and had all fought as well as those who were captured, it would not have been a very easy matter for fifteen ships to gain a victory over twenty-six. That’s long odds, even when backed by British seamen.”

“Well, how did you separate?”

“Why, the next morning the Spaniards had the weather-gauge, so they had the option whether to fight or not. At one time they had half a mind, for they bore down to us; upon which we hauled our wind, to show them we were all ready to meet them, and then they thought better of it, and rounded-to again. So as they wouldn’t fight, and we didn’t wish it, we parted company in the night; and two days afterwards we anchored, with our four prizes, in Lagos Bay. So now you have the whole of it, Mr Simple, and I’ve talked till I’m quite hoarse. You havn’t by chance another drop of the stuff left to clear my throat? It would be quite a charity.”

“I think I have, Swinburne; and as you deserve it, I will go and fetch it.”

Chapter Thirty Six

A letter from Father McGrath, who diplomatises—When priest meets priest, then comes the tug of war—Father O’Toole not to be made a tool of

We continued our cruise for a fortnight, and then made sail for Jamaica, where we found the admiral at anchor at Port Royal: but our signal was made to keep under weigh, and Captain Kearney, having paid his respects to the admiral, received orders to carry despatches to Halifax. Water and provisions were sent on board by the boats of the admiral’s ships, and, to our great disappointment, as the evening closed in, we were again standing out to sea, instead of, as we had anticipated, enjoying ourselves on shore; but the fact was, that orders had arrived from England to send a frigate immediately up to the admiral at Halifax, to be at his disposal.

I had, however, the satisfaction to know that Captain Kearney had been true to his word in making mention of my name in the despatch, for the clerk showed me a copy of it. Nothing occurred worth mentioning during our passage, except that Captain Kearney was very unwell nearly the whole of the time, and seldom quitted his cabin. It was in October that we anchored in Halifax harbour, and the Admiralty, expecting our arrival there, had forwarded our letters. There were none for me, but there was one for O’Brien, from Father McGrath, the contents of which were as follows:—

“My dear son,—

“And a good son you are, and that’s the truth on it, or devil a bit should you be a son of mine. You’ve made your family quite contented and peaceable and they never fight for the praties now—good reason why they shouldn’t, seeing that there’s a plenty for all of them, and the pig craturs into the bargain. Your father and your mother, and your brother, and your three sisters, send their duty to you, and their blessings too—and you may add my blessing, Terence, which is worth them all; for won’t I get you out of purgatory in the twinkling of a bed-post? Make yourself quite asy on that score, and lave it all to me; only just say a pater now and then, that when St. Peter lets you in, he mayn’t throw it in your teeth, that you’ve saved your soul by contract, which is the only way by which emperors and kings ever get to heaven. Your letter from Plymouth came safe to hand: Barney, the post-boy, having dropped it under foot close to our door, the big pig took it into his mouth and ran away with it; but I caught sight of him, and speaking to him, he let it go, knowing (the ’cute cratur!) that I could read it better than him. As soon as I had digested the contents, which it was lucky the pig did not instead of me, I just took my meal and my big stick, and then set off for Ballycleuch.

“Now, you know, Terence, if you haven’t forgot—and if you have, I’ll just remind you—that there’s a flaunty sort of young woman at the poteen shop there, who calls herself Mrs O’Rourke, wife to a corporal O’Rourke, who was kilt or died one day, I don’t know which, but that’s not of much consequence. The devil a bit do I think the priest ever gave the marriage-blessing to that same; although she swears that she was married on the rock of Gibraltar—it may be a strong rock fore I know, but it’s not the rock of salvation like the seven sacraments, of which marriage is one. Benedicite! Mrs O’Rourke is a little too apt to fleer and jeer at the priests; and if it were not that she softens down her pertinent remarks with a glass or two of the real poteen, which proves some respect for the church, I’d excommunicate her body and soul, and everybody, and every soul that put their lips to the cratur at her door. But she must leave that off, as I tell her, when she gets old and ugly, for then all the whisky in the world shan’t save her. But she’s a fine woman now, and it goes agin my conscience to help the devil to a fine woman. Now this Mrs O’Rourke knows everybody and everything that’s going on in the country about; and she has a tongue which has never had a holyday since it was let loose.

“‘Good morning to ye, Mrs O’Rourke,’ says I.

“‘An’ the top of the morning to you, Father McGrath,’ says she, with a smile: ‘what brings you here? Is it a journey that you’re taking to buy the true wood of the cross; or is it a purty girl that you wish to confess, Father McGrath? or is it only that you’re come for a drop of poteen, and a little bit of chat with Mrs O’Rourke?’

“‘Sure it’s I who’d be glad to find the same true wood of the cross, Mrs O’Rourke, but it’s not grown, I suspect, at your town of Ballycleuch; and it’s no objection I’d have to confess a purty girl like yourself, Mrs O’Rourke, who’ll only tell me half her sins, and give me no trouble; but it’s the truth, that I’m here for nothing else but to have a bit of chat with yourself, dainty dear, and taste your poteen, just by way of keeping my mouth nate and clane.’

“So Mrs O’Rourke poured out the real stuff, which I drank to her health; and then says I, putting down the bit of a glass, ‘So you’ve a stranger come, I find, in your parts, Mrs O’Rourke.’

“‘I’ve heard the same,’ replied she. So you observe, Terence, I came to the fact all at once by a guess.

“‘I’m tould,’ says I, ‘that he’s a Scotchman, and spakes what nobody can understand.’

“‘Devil a bit,’ says she; ‘he’s an Englishman, and speaks plain enough.’

“‘But what can a man mane, to come here and sit down all alone?’ says I.

“‘All alone, Father McGrath!’ replied she: ‘is a man all alone when he’s got his wife and childer, and more coming, with the blessing of God?’

“‘But those boys are not his own childer, I believe,’ says I.

“‘There again you’re all in a mistake, Father McGrath,’ rejoins she. ‘The childer are all his own, and all girls to boot. It appears that it’s just as well that you come down, now and then, for information, to our town of Ballycleuch.’

“‘Very true, Mrs O’Rourke,’ says I; ‘and who is it that knows everything so well as yourself?’ You observe, Terence, that I just said everything contrary and vice versa, as they call it, to the contents of your letter; for always recollect, my son, that if you would worm a secret out of a woman, you’ll do more by contradiction than you ever will by coaxing—so I went on: ‘Anyhow, I think it’s a burning shame, Mrs O’Rourke, for a gentleman to bring over with him here from England a parcel of lazy English servants, when there’s so many nice boys and girls here to attind upon them.’

“‘Now there you’re all wrong again, Father McGrath,’ says she. ‘Devil a soul has he brought from the other country, but has hired them all here. Ain’t there Ella Flanagan for one maid, and Terence Driscol for a footman? and it’s well that he looks in his new uniform, when he comes down for the newspapers; and ar’n’t Moggy Cala there to cook the dinner, and pretty Mary Sullivan for a nurse for the babby as soon as it comes into the world.’

“‘Is it Mary Sullivan, you mane?’ says I; ‘she that was married about three months back, and is so quick in child-getting, that she’s all but ready to fall to pieces in this same time?’

“‘It’s exactly she,’ says Mrs O’Rourke; ‘and do you know the reason?’

“‘Devil a bit,’ says I; ‘how should I?’

“‘Then it’s just that she may send her own child away, and give her milk to the English babby that’s coming; because the lady is too much of a lady to have a child hanging to her breast.’

“‘But suppose Mary Sullivan’s child ar’n’t born till afterwards, how then?’ says I. ‘Speak, Mrs O’Rourke, for you’re a sensible woman.’

“‘How then?’ says she. ‘Och! that’s all arranged; for Mary says that she’ll be in bed a week before the lady, so that’s all right, you’ll perceive, Father McGrath.’

“‘But don’t you perceive, sensible woman as you are, that a young woman, who is so much out of her reckoning as to have a child three months after her marriage, may make a little mistake in her lying-in arithmetic, Mrs O’Rourke?’

“‘Never fear, Father McGrath, Mary Sullivan will keep her word; and sooner than disappoint the lady, and lose her place, she’ll just tumble downstairs, and won’t that put her to bed fast enough?’

“‘Well, that’s what I call a faithful good servant that earns her wages,’ says I; ‘so now I’ll just take another glass, Mrs O’Rourke, and thank you too. Sure you’re the woman that knows everything, and a mighty pretty woman into the bargain.’

“‘Let me alone now, Father McGrath, and don’t be pinching me that way anyhow.’

“‘It was only a big flea that I perceived hopping on your gown, my darling, devil anything else.’

“‘Many thanks to you, father, for that same; but the next time you’d kill my fleas, just wait until they’re in a more dacent situation.’

“‘Fleas are fleas, Mrs O’Rourke, and we must catch ’em when we can, and how we can, and as we can, so no offence. A good night’s rest to you, Mrs O’Rourke—when do you mean to confess?’

“‘I’ve an idea that I’ve too many fleas about me to confess to you just now, Father McGrath, and that’s the truth on it. So a pleasant walk back to you.’

“So you’ll perceive, my son, that having got all the information from Mrs O’Rourke, it’s back I went to Ballyhinch, till I heard it whispered that there were doings down at the old house at Ballycleuch. Off I set, and went to the house itself, as priests always ought to be welcomed at births and marriages, and deaths, being, as you know, of great use on such occasions—when who should open the door but Father O’Toole, the biggest rapparee of a priest in the whole of Ireland. Didn’t he steal a horse, and only save his neck by benefit of clergy? and did he ever give absolution to any young woman without making her sin over again? ‘What may be your pleasure here, Father McGrath?’ says he, holding the door with his hand.

“‘Only just to call and hear what’s going on.’

“‘For the matter of that,’ says he, ‘I’ll just tell you that we’re all going on very well; but ar’n’t you ashamed of yourself, Father McGrath, to come here and interfere with my flock, knowing that I confess the house altogether?’

“‘That’s as may be,’ says I, ‘but I only wanted to know what the lady had brought into the world.’

“‘It’s a child,’ says he.

“‘Indeed!’ says I; ‘many thanks for the information, and pray what is it that Mary Sullivan has brought into the world?’

“‘That’s a child, too,’ says he; ‘and now that you know all about it, good evening to you, Father McGrath.’ And the ugly brute slarnmed the door right in my face.

“‘Who stole a horse?’ cries I; but he didn’t hear me—more’s the pity.

“So you’ll perceive, my dear boy, that I have found out something, at all events, but not so much as I intended; for I’ll prove to Father O’Toole, that he’s no match for Father McGrath. But what I find out must be reserved for another letter, seeing that it’s not possible to tell it to you in this same. Praties look well, but somehow or another clothes don’t grow upon trees in ould Ireland; and one of your half quarterly bills, or a little prize-money, if it found its way here, would add not a little to the respectability of the family appearance. Even my cassock is becoming too holy for a parish priest; not that I care about it so much, only Father O’Toole, the baste! had on a bran new one—not that I believe that he ever came honestly by it, as I have by mine—but, get it how you may, a new gown always looks better than an ould one, that’s certain. So no more at present from your loving friend and confessor,

“Urtagh McGrath.”

“Now, you’ll observe, Peter,” said O’Brien, after I had read the letter, “that, as I supposed, your uncle meant mischief when he went over to Ireland. Whether the children are both girls or both boys, or your uncle’s is a boy, and the other is a girl, there’s no knowledge at present. If an exchange was required, it’s made, that’s certain; but I will write again to Father McGrath, and insist upon his finding out the truth, if possible. Have you any letter from your father?”

“None, I am sorry to say. I wish I had, for he would not have failed to speak on the subject.”

“Well, never mind, it’s no use dreaming over the matter; we must do our best when we get to England ourselves, and in the meantime trust to Father McGrath. I’ll go and write to him while my mind’s full of it.” O’Brien wrote his letter, and the subject was not started again.

Chapter Thirty Seven

Captain Kearney’s illness—He makes his will and devises sundry “chateaux en espagne,” for the benefit of those concerned—The legacy duty in this instance not ruinous—He signs, seals, and dies

The captain, as was his custom, went on shore, and took up his quarters at a friend’s house; that is to say, the house of an acquaintance, or any polite gentleman who would ask him to take a dinner and a bed. This was quite sufficient for Captain Kearney, who would fill his portmanteau, and take up his quarters without thinking of leaving them until the ship sailed, or some more advantageous invitation was given. This conduct in England would have very much trespassed upon our ideas of hospitality; but in our foreign settlements and colonies, where the society is confined and novelty is desirable, a person who could amuse like Captain Kearney was generally welcome, let him stay as long as he pleased. All sailors agree in asserting that Halifax is one of the most delightful ports in which a ship can anchor. Everybody is hospitable, cheerful, and willing to amuse and be amused. It is, therefore, a very bad place to send a ship to if you wish her to refit in a hurry, unless indeed the admiral is there to watch over your daily progress, and a sharp commissioner to expedite your motions in the dock-yard. The admiral was there when we arrived, and we should not have lain there long, had not the health of Captain Kearney, by the time that we were ready for sea, been so seriously affected, that the doctor was of opinion that he could not sail. Another frigate was sent to our intended cruising ground, and we lay idle in port. But we consoled ourselves: if we did not make prize-money, at all events, we were very happy, and the major part of the officers very much in love.

We had remained in Halifax harbour about three weeks, when a very great change for the worse took place in Captain Kearney’s disease. Disease, indeed, it could hardly be called. He had been long suffering from the insidious attacks of a hot climate, and though repeatedly advised to invalid, he never would consent. His constitution appeared now to be breaking up. In a few days he was so ill, that, at the request of the naval surgeons, he consented to be removed to the hospital, where he could command more comforts than in any private house. He had not been in the hospital more than two days, when he sent for me, and stated his wish that I should remain with him. “You know, Peter, that you are a cousin of mine, and one likes to have one’s relations near one when we are sick, so bring your traps on shore. The doctor has promised me a nice little room for yourself, and you shall come and sit with me all day.” I certainly had no objection to remain with him, because I considered it my duty so to do, and I must say that there was no occasion for me to make any efforts to entertain him, as he always entertained me; but I could not help seriously reflecting, and feeling much shocked, at a man, lying in so dangerous a state—for the doctors had pronounced his recovery to be impossible—still continuing a system of falsehood during the whole day, without intermission. But it really appeared to him to be innate; and, as Swinburne said, “if he told truth, it was entirely by mistake.”

“Peter,” said he, one day, “there’s a great draught. Shut the door and put on some more coals.”

“The fire does not draw well, sir,” replied I, “without the door is open.”

“It’s astonishing how little people understand the nature of these things. When I built my house called Welcot Abbey, there was not a chimney would draw; I sent for the architect and abused him, but he could not manage it; I was obliged to do it myself.”

“Did you manage it, sir?”

“Manage it—I think I did. The first time I lighted the fire, I opened the door, and the draught was so great, that my little boy William, who was standing in the current of air, would have gone right up the chimney, if I had not caught him by the petticoats; as it was, his frock was on fire.”

“Why, sir, it must have been as bad as a hurricane!”

“No, no, not quite so bad—but it showed what a little knowledge of philosophical arrangement could effect. We have no hurricanes in England, Peter; but I have seen a very pretty whirlwind when I was at Welcot Abbey.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“Yes, it cut four square haystacks quite round, and I lost twenty tons of hay; it twisted the iron lamppost at the entrance just as a porpoise twists a harpoon, and took up a sow and her litter of pigs that were about a hundred yards from the back of the house, and landed them safe over the house, to the front, with the exception of the old sow putting her shoulder out.”