Peter Simple

“Out wid you, you cratur, it is Mr O’Rourke you’d be having a conversation wid, and he be chucking you under that chin of yours. Out wid you, Mary, and lave me to find my way on board. Is it a boat I want, when I can swim like St. Patrick, wid my head under my arm, if it wasn’t on my shoulders? At all events, I can wid my nappersack and musket to boot.”

The young woman cried, and tried to restrain him, but he broke from her, and running down to the wharf, dashed off into the water. The young woman ran to the edge of the wharf, perceived him sinking, and shrieking with despair, threw up her arms in her agony. The child fell, struck on the edge of the piles, turned over, and before I could catch hold of it, sank into the sea. “The child! the child!” burst forth in another wild scream, and the poor creature lay at my feet in violent fits. I looked over, the child had disappeared; but the soldier was still struggling with his head above water. He sank and rose again—a boat was pulling towards him, but he was quite exhausted. He threw back his arms as if in despair, and was about disappearing under the wave, when, no longer able to restrain myself, I leaped off the high wharf, and swam to his assistance, just in time to lay hold of him as he was sinking for the last time. I had not been in the water a quarter of a minute before the boat came up to us, and dragged us on board. The soldier was exhausted and speechless; I, of course, was only very wet. The boat rowed to the landing-place at my request, and we were both put on shore. The knapsack which was fixed on the soldiers back, and his regimentals, indicated that he belonged to the regiment just embarked; and I stated my opinion, that as soon as he was a little recovered, he had better be taken on board. As the boat which picked us up was one of the men-of-war boats, the officer who had been embarking the troops, and had been sent on shore again to know if there were any yet left behind, consented. In a few minutes the soldier recovered, and was able to sit up and speak, and I only waited to ascertain the state of the poor young woman whom I had left on the wharf. In a few minutes she was led to us by the warder, and the scene between her and her husband was most affecting. When she had become a little composed, she turned round to me, where I stood dripping wet, and intermingled with lamentation for the child, showering down emphatic blessings on my head, inquired my name. “Give it to me!” she cried; “give it to me on paper, in writing, that I may wear it next my heart, read and kiss it every day of my life, and never forget to pray for you, and to bless you!”

“I’ll tell it you. My name—”

“Nay, write it down for me—write it down. Sure you’ll not refuse me. All the saints bless you, dear young man, for saving a poor woman from despair!”

The officer commanding the boat handed me a pencil and a card; I wrote my name and gave it to the poor woman; she took my hand as I gave it her, kissed the card repeatedly, and put it into her bosom. The officer, impatient to shove off, ordered her husband into the boat—she followed, clinging to him, wet as he was—the boat shoved off, and I hastened up to the inn to dry my clothes. I could not help observing, at the time, how the fear of a greater evil will absorb all consideration for a minor. Satisfied that her husband had not perished, she had hardly once appeared to remember that she had lost her child.

I had only brought one suit of clothes with me: they were in very good condition when I arrived, but salt water plays the devil with a uniform. I lay in bed until they were dry; but when I put them on again, not being before too large for me, for I grew very fast, they were now shrunk and shrivelled up so as to be much too small. My wrists appeared below the sleeves of my coat—my trowsers had shrunk halfway up to my knees—the buttons were all tarnished, and altogether I certainly did not wear the appearance of a gentlemanly, smart midshipman. I would have ordered another suit, but the examination was to take place at ten o’clock the next morning, and there was no time. I was therefore obliged to appear as I was, on the quarter-deck of the line-of-battle ship, on board of which the passing was to take place. Many others were there to undergo the same ordeal, all strangers to me, as I perceived by their nods and winks to each other, as they walked up and down in their smart clothes, not at all inclined to make my acquaintance.

There were many before me on the list, and our hearts beat every time that a name was called, and the owner of it walked aft into the cabin. Some returned with jocund faces, and our hopes mounted with the anticipation of similar good fortune; others came out melancholy and crest-fallen, and then the expression of their countenances was communicated to our own, and we quailed with fear and apprehension. I have no hesitation in asserting, that although “passing” may be a proof of being qualified, “not passing” is certainly no proof to the contrary. I have known many of the cleverest young men turned back (while others of inferior abilities have succeeded), merely from the feeling of awe occasioned by the peculiarity of the situation; and it is not to be wondered at, when it is considered that all the labour and exertion of six years are at stake at this appalling moment. At last my name was called, and, almost breathless from anxiety, I entered the cabin, where I found myself in presence of the three captains who was to decide whether I were fit to hold a commission in His Majesty’s service. My logs and certificates were examined and approved; my time calculated and allowed to be correct. The questions in navigation which were put to me were very few, for the best of all possible reasons, that most captains in His Majesty’s service knew little or nothing of navigation. During their servitude of midshipmen, they learn it by rote, without being aware of the principles upon which the calculations they use are founded. As lieutenants, their services as to navigation are seldom required, and they rapidly forget all about it. As captains, their whole remnant of mathematical knowledge consists in being able to set down the ship’s position on the chart. As for navigating the ship, the master is answerable; and the captains not being responsible themselves, they trust entirely to his reckoning. Of course there are exceptions, but what I state is the fact; and if an order from the Admiralty were given, that all captains should pass again, although they might acquit themselves very well in seamanship, nineteen out of twenty would be turned back when they were questioned in navigation. It is from the knowledge of this fact that I think the service is injured by the present system, and the captain should be held wholly responsible for the navigation of his ship. It has been long known that the officers of every other maritime state are more scientific than our own, which is easily explained, from the responsibility not being invested in our captains. The origin of masters in our service in singular. When England first became a maritime power, ships for the King’s service were found by the Cinque Ports and other parties—the fighting part of the crew was composed of soldiers sent on board. All the vessels at that time had a crew of sailors, with a master to navigate the vessel. During our bloody naval engagements with the Dutch, the same system was acted upon. I think it was the Earl of Sandwich, of whom it is stated, that his ship being in a sinking state, he took a boat to hoist his flag on board of another vessel in the fleet, but a shot cutting the boat in two, and the weight of his armour bearing him down, the Earl of Sandwich perished. But to proceed.

As soon as I had answered several questions satisfactorily, I was desired to stand up. The captain who had interrogated me on navigation, was very grave in his demeanour towards me, but at the same time not uncivil. During his examination, he was not interfered with by the other two, who only undertook the examination in “seamanship.” The captain, who now desired me to stand up, spoke in a very harsh tone, and quite frightened me. I stood up pale and trembling, for I augured no good from this commencement. Several questions in seamanship were put to me, which I have no doubt I answered in a very lame way, for I cannot even now recollect what I said.

“I thought so,” observed the captain; “I judged as much from your appearance. An officer who is so careless of his dress, as not even to put on a decent coat when he appears at his examination, generally turns out an idle fellow, and no seaman. One would think you had served all your time in a cutter, or a ten-gun brig, instead of dashing frigates. Come, sir, I’ll give you one more chance.”

I was so hurt at what the captain said, that I could not control my feelings. I replied with a quivering lip, that “I had had no time to order another uniform”—and I burst into tears.

“Indeed, Burrows, you are rather too harsh,” said the third captain; “the lad is frightened. Let him sit down and compose himself for a little while. Sit down, Mr Simple, and we will try you again directly.”

I sat down, checking my grief and trying to recall my scattered senses. The captains, in the meantime, turning over the logs to pass away the time; the one who had questioned me in navigation reading the Plymouth newspaper, which had a few minutes before been brought on board and sent into the cabin. “Heh! what’s this? I say, Burrows—Keats, look here,” and he pointed to a paragraph. “Mr Simple, may I ask whether it was you who saved the soldier who leaped off the wharf yesterday.”

“Yes, sir,” replied I, “and that’s the reason why my uniforms are so shabby. I spoilt them then, and had no time to order others. I did not like to say why they were spoilt.” I saw a change in the countenances of all the three, and it gave me courage. Indeed, now that my feelings had found vent, I was no longer under any apprehension.

“Come, Mr Simple, stand up again,” said the captain, kindly, “that is if you feel sufficiently composed: if not, we will wait a little longer. Don’t be afraid, we wish to pass you.”

I was not afraid, and stood up immediately. I answered every question satisfactorily, and finding that I did so, they put more difficult ones. “Very good, very good indeed, Mr Simple; now let me ask you one more; it’s seldom done in the service, and perhaps you may not be able to answer it. Do you know how to club-haul a ship?”

“Yes, sir,” replied I, having, as the reader may recollect, witnessed the manoeuvre when serving under poor Captain Savage, and I immediately stated how it was to be done.

“That is sufficient, Mr Simple; I wish to ask you no more questions. I thought at first you were a careless officer and no seaman: I now find you are a good seaman and a gallant young man. Do you wish to ask any more questions?” continued he, turning to the two others.

They replied in the negative; my passing certificate was signed, and the captain did me the honour to shake hands with me, and wish me speedy promotion. Thus ended happily this severe trial to my poor nerves; and, as I came out of the cabin, no one could have imagined that I had been in such distress within, when they beheld the joy that irradiated my countenance.

Chapter Thirty Nine

Is a chapter of plots—Catholic casuistry in a new cassock—Plotting promotes promotion—A peasant’s love, and a peer’s peevishness—Prospects of prosperity

As soon as I arrived at the hotel, I sent for a Plymouth paper, and cut out the paragraph which had been of such importance to me in my emergency, and the next morning returned home to receive the congratulations of my family. I found a letter from O’Brien, which had arrived the day before. It was as follows:—

“My dear Peter,—Some people, they say, are lucky to ‘have a father born before them,’ because they are helped on in the world—upon which principle, mine was born after me, that’s certain; however, that can’t be helped. I found all my family well and hearty: but they all shook a cloth in the wind with respect to toggery. As for Father McGrath’s cassock, he didn’t complain of it without reason. It was the ghost of a garment; but, however, with the blessing of God, my last quarterly bill, and the help of a tailor, we have had a regular refit, and the ancient family of the O’Briens of Ballyhinch are now rigged from stem to stern. My two sisters are both to be spliced to young squireens in the neighbourhood; it appears that they only waited for a dacent town gown to go to the church in. They will be turned off next Friday, and I only wish, Peter, you were here to dance at the weddings. Never mind, I’ll dance for you and for myself too. In the meantime, I’ll just tell you what Father McGrath and I have been doing, all about and consarning that thief of an uncle of yours.

“It’s very little or nothing at all that Father McGrath did before I came back, seeing as how Father O’Toole had a new cassock, and Father McGrath’s was so shabby that he couldn’t face him under such a disadvantage: but still Father McGrath spied about him, and had several hints from here and from there, all of which, when I came to add them up, amounted to nothing at all.

“But since I came home, we have been busy. Father McGrath went down to Ballycleuch, as bold as a lion, in his new clothing, swearing that he’d lead Father O’Toole by the nose for slamming the door in his face, and so he would have done, if he could have found him; but as he wasn’t to be found, Father McGrath came back again just as wise, and quite as brave, as he went out.

“So, Peter, I just took a walk that way myself, and, as I surrounded the old house where your uncle had taken up his quarters, who should I meet but the little girl, Ella Flanagan, who was in his service; and I said to myself, ‘There’s two ways of obtaining things in this world, one is for love, and the other is for money.’ The O’Briens are better off in the first article than in the last, as most of their countrymen are, so I’ve been spending it very freely in your service, Peter.

“‘Sure,’ says I, ‘you are the little girl that my eyes were ever looking upon when last I was this way.’

“‘And who are you?’ says she.

“‘Lieutenant O’Brien, of His Majesty’s service, just come home for a minute to look out for a wife,’ says I; ‘and it’s one about your make, and shape, and discretion, that would please my fancy.’

“And then I praised her eyes, and her nose, and her forehead, and so downwards, until I came to the soles of her feet; and asked her leave to see her again, and when she would meet me in the wood and tell me her mind. At first, she thought (sure enough) that I couldn’t be in earnest, but I swore by all the saints that she was the prettiest girl in the parts—and so she is altogether—and then she listened to my blarney. The devil a word did I say about your uncle or your aunt, or Father McGrath, that she might not suspect, for I’ve an idea that they’re all in the story. I only talked about my love for her pretty self, and that blinded her, as it will all women, ’cute as they may be.

“And now, Peter, it’s three weeks last Sunday, that I’ve been bespeaking this poor girl for your sake, and my conscience tells me that it’s not right to make a poor cratur fond of me, seeing as how that I don’t care a fig for her in the way of a wife, and in any other way it would be the ruin of the poor thing. I have spoken to Father McGrath on the subject, who says ‘that we may do evil that good may come, and, that if she had been a party to the deceit, it’s nothing but proper that she should be punished in this world, and that will, perhaps, save her in the next;’ still I don’t like it, Peter, and it’s only for you among the living that I’d do such a thing; for the poor creature now hangs upon me so fondly and talks about the wedding day; and tells me long stories about the connections which have taken place between the O’Flanagans and the O’Briens, times gone by, when they were all in their glory. Yesterday as we sat in the wood, with her arm round my waist, ‘Ella, dear,’ says I ‘who are these people that you stay with?’ And then she told me all she knew about their history, and how Mary Sullivan was a nurse to the baby.

“‘And what is the baby?’ says I.

“‘A boy, sure,’ says she.

“‘And Sullivan’s baby?’

“‘That’s a girl.’

“‘And is Mary Sullivan there now?’

“‘No,’ says she; ‘it’s yestreen she left with her husband and baby, to join the regiment that’s going out to Ingy.’

“‘Yesterday she left?’ says I, starting up.

“‘Yes,’ replies she, ‘and what do you care about them?’

“‘It’s very much I care,’ replied I, ‘for a little bird has whispered a secret to me.’

“‘And what may that be?’ says she.

“‘Only that the childer were changed, and you know it as well as I do.’ But she swore that she knew nothing about it, and that she was not there when either of the children were born, and I believe that she told the truth. ‘Well,’ says I, ‘who tended the lady?’

“‘My own mother,’ says Ella. ‘And if it were so, who can know but she?’

“‘Then,’ says I, ‘Ella, jewel, I’ve made a vow that I’ll never marry, till I find out the truth of this matter; so the sooner you get it out of your mother the better.’ Then she cried very much, and I was almost ready to cry too, to see how the poor thing was vexed at the idea of not being married. After a while she swabbed up her cheeks, and kissing me, wished me good-bye, swearing by all the saints that the truth should come out somehow or another.

“It’s this morning that I saw her again, as agreed upon yesterday, and red her eyes were with weeping, poor thing; and she clung to me and begged me to forgive her, and not to leave her; and then she told me that her mother was startled when she put the question to her, and chewed it, and cursed her when she insisted upon the truth; and how she had fallen on her knees, and begged her mother not to stand in the way of her happiness, as she would die if she did (I leave you to guess if my heart didn’t smite me when she said that, Peter, but the mischief was done), and how her mother had talked about her oath and Father O’Toole, and said that she would speak to him.

“Now, Peter, I’m sure that the childer have been changed and that the nurse has been sent to the Indies to be out of the way. They say they were to go to Plymouth. The husband’s name is, of course, O’Sullivan; so I’d recommend you to take a coach and see what you can do in that quarter; in the meantime, I’ll try all I can for the truth in this, and will write again as soon as I can find out any thing more. All I want to do is to get Father McGrath to go to the old devil of a mother, and I’ll answer for it, he’ll frighten her into swearing anything. God bless you, Peter and give my love to all the family.

“Yours ever,

“Terence O’Brien.”

This letter of O’Brien was the subject of much meditation. The advice to go to Plymouth was too late, the troops having sailed some time; and I had no doubt but that Mary Sullivan and her husband were among those who had embarked at the time that I was at the port to pass my examination. Show the letter to my father I would not, as it would only have put him in a fever, and his interference would, in all probability, have done more harm than good. I therefore waited quietly for more intelligence, and resolved to apply to my grandfather to obtain my promotion.

A few days afterwards I set off for Eagle Park, and arrived about eleven o’clock in the morning. I sent in my name and was admitted into the library, where I found Lord Privilege in his easy chair as usual.

“Well, child,” said he, remaining on his chair, and not offering even one finger to me, “what do you want, that you come here without an invitation?”

“Only, my lord, to inquire after your health, and to thank you for your kindness to me in procuring me and Mr O’Brien the appointment to a fine frigate.”

“Yes,” replied his lordship, “I recollect—I think I did so, at your request, and I think I heard some one say that you have behaved well, and had been mentioned in the despatches.”

“Yes, my lord,” replied I, “and I have since passed my examination for lieutenant.”

“Well, child, I’m glad to hear it. Remember me to your father and family.” And his lordship cast his eyes down upon his book which he had been reading.

My father’s observations appeared to be well grounded, but I would not leave the room until I had made some further attempt.

“Has your lordship heard from my uncle?”

“Yes,” replied he, “I had a letter from him yesterday. The child is quite well. I expect them all here in a fortnight or three weeks, to live with me altogether. I am old—getting very old, and I shall have much to arrange with your uncle before I die.”

“If I might request a favour of your lordship, it would be to beg that you would interest yourself a little in obtaining my promotion. A letter from your lordship to the First Lord—only a few lines—”

“Well, child, I see no objection—only I am very old, too old to write now.” And his lordship again commenced reading.

I must do Lord Privilege the justice to state that he evidently was fast verging to a state of second childhood. He was much bowed down since I had last seen him, and appeared infirm in body as well as mind.

I waited at least a quarter of an hour before his lordship looked up.

“What, not gone yet, child? I thought you had gone home.”

“Your lordship was kind enough to say that you had no objection to write a few lines to the First Lord in my behalf. I trust your lordship will not refuse me—”

“Well,” replied he, peevishly, “so I did—but I am too old, too old to write—I cannot see—I can hardly hold a pen.”

“Will your lordship allow me the honour of writing the letter for your lordship’s signature?”

“Well, child,—yes—I’ve no objection. Write as follows—no—write anything you please—and I’ll sign it. I wish your uncle William was come.”

This was more than I did. I had a great mind to show him O’Brien’s letter, but I thought it would be cruel to raise doubts, and, harass the mind of a person so close to the brink of the grave. The truth would never be ascertained during his life, I thought; and why, therefore, should I give him pain? At all events, although I had the letter in my pocket, I resolved not to make use of it except as a dernier resort.

I went to another table, and sat down to write the letter. As his lordship had said that I might write what I pleased, it occurred to me that I might assist O’Brien, and I felt sure that his lordship would not take the trouble to read the letter. I therefore wrote as follows, while Lord Privilege continued to read his book:—

“My Lord,—You will confer a very great favour upon me, if you will hasten the commission which, I have no doubt, is in preparation for my grandson Mr Simple, who has passed his examination, and has been mentioned in the public despatches; and also that you will not lose sight of Lieutenant O’Brien, who has so distinguished himself by his gallantry in the various cutting-out expeditions in the West Indies. Trusting that your lordship will not fail to comply with my earnest request, I have the honour to be your lordship’s very obedient humble servant.”

I brought this letter, with a pen full of ink, and the noise of my approach induced his lordship to look up. He stared at first, as having forgotten the whole circumstance—then said—“O yes! I recollect, so I did—give me the pen.” With a trembling hand he signed his name, and gave me back the letter without reading it, as I expected.

“There, child, don’t tease me any more. Good-bye; remember me to your father.”

I wished his lordship a good morning, and went away well satisfied with the result of my expedition. On my arrival I showed the letter to my father, who was much surprised at my success, and he assured me that my grandfather’s interest was so great with the Administration, that I might consider my promotion as certain. That no accident might happen, I immediately set off for London, and delivered the letter at the door of the First Lord with my own hands, leaving my address with the porter.

Chapter Forty

O’Brien and myself take a step each, “pari passu”—A family reunion, productive of anything but unity—My uncle, not always the best friend

A few days afterwards I left my card with my address with the First Lord, and the next day received a letter from his secretary, which, to my delight, informed me that my commission had been made out some days before. I hardly need say that I hastened to take it up, and when paying my fee to the clerk, I ventured, at a hazard, to inquire whether he knew the address of Lieutenant O’Brien.