The Pirate

“Williams,” said the mate, “a short life it may be to all of us, but not a merry one; the meaning of which I understand very well. Sorry I shall be to have your blood, or that of others, on my hands; but as sure as there’s a heaven, I’ll cleave to the shoulder the first man who attempts to break into the spirit-room. You know I never joke. Shame upon you! Do you call yourselves men, when, for the sake of a little liquor now, you would lose your only chance of getting drunk every day as soon as we get on shore again? There’s a time for all things; and I’ve a notion this is a time to be sober.”

As most of the crew sided with Oswald, the weaker party were obliged to submit, and the preparations were commenced. The two boats on the booms were found to be in good condition. One party was employed cutting away the bulwarks, that the boats might be launched over the side, as there were no means of hoisting them out. The well was again sounded. Nine feet of water in the hold, and the ship evidently settling fast. Two hours had now passed, and the gale was not so violent; the sea, also, which at the change of wind had been cross, appeared to have recovered its regular run. All was ready; the sailors, once at work again, had, in some measure, recovered their spirits, and were buoyed up with fresh hopes at the slight change in their favour from the decrease of the wind. The two boats were quite large enough to contain the whole of the crew and passengers; but, as the sailors said among themselves (proving the kindness of their hearts), “What was to become of those two poor babbies, in an open boat for days and nights, perhaps?” Captain Ingram had gone down to Mrs Templemore, to impart to her their melancholy prospects; and the mother’s heart, as well as the mother’s voice, echoed the words of the seamen, “What will become of my poor babes?”

It was not till nearly six o’clock in the evening that all was ready: the ship was slowly brought to the wind again, and the boats launched over the side. By this time the gale was much abated; but the vessel was full of water, and was expected soon to go down.

There is no time in which coolness and determination are more required than in a situation like the one which we have attempted to describe. It is impossible to know the precise moment at which a water-logged vessel, in a heavy sea, may go down: and its occupants are in a state of mental fever, with the idea of their remaining in her so late that she will suddenly submerge, and leave them to struggle in the waves. This feeling actuated many of the crew of the Circassian, and they had already retreated to the boats. All was arranged; Oswald had charge of one boat, and it was agreed that the larger should receive Mrs Templemore and her children, under the protection of Captain Ingram. The number appointed to Oswald’s boat being completed, he shoved off, to make room for the other, and laid-to to leeward, waiting to keep company. Mrs Templemore came up with Captain Ingram, and was assisted by him into the boat. The nurse, with one child, was at last placed by her side; Coco was leading Judy, the other nurse, with the remaining infant in her arms, and Captain Ingram, who had been obliged to go into the boat with the first child, was about to return to assist Judy with the other, when the ship gave a heavy pitch, and her forecastle was buried in the wave: at the same time the gunwale of the boat was stove by coming in contact with the side of the vessel. “She’s down, by God!” exclaimed the alarmed seamen in the boat; shoving off to escape from the vortex.

Captain Ingram, who was standing on the boat’s thwarts to assist Judy, was thrown back into the bottom of the boat; and, before he could extricate himself, the boat was separated from the ship, and had drifted to leeward.

“My child!” screamed the mother: “my child!”

“Pull to again, my lads!” cried Captain Ingram, seizing the tiller.

The men, who had been alarmed at the idea that the ship was going down, now that they saw that she was still afloat, got out the oars and attempted to regain her, but in vain—they could not make head against the sea and wind. Further and further did they drift to leeward, notwithstanding their exertions; while the frantic mother extended her arms, imploring and entreating. Captain Ingram, who had stimulated the sailors to the utmost, perceived that further attempts were useless.

“My child! my child!” screamed Mrs Templemore, standing up, and holding out her arms towards the vessel. At a sign from the captain, the head of the boat was veered round. The bereaved mother knew that all hope was gone, and she fell down in a state of insensibility.

Chapter Five.

The Old Maid

One morning, shortly after the disasters which we have described, Mr Witherington descended to his breakfast-room somewhat earlier than usual, and found his green morocco easy-chair already tenanted by no less a personage than William the footman, who, with his feet on the fender, was so attentively reading the newspaper that he did not hear his master’s entrance. “By my ancestor, who fought on his stumps! but I hope you are quite comfortable, Mr William; nay, I beg I may not disturb you, sir.”

William, although as impudent as most of his fraternity, was a little taken aback. “I beg your pardon, sir, but Mr Jonathan had not time to look over the paper.”

“Nor is it required that he should, that I know of, sir.”

“Mr Jonathan says, sir, that it is always right to look over the deaths, that news of that kind may not shock you.”

“Very considerate, indeed.”

“And there is a story there, sir, about a shipwreck.”

“A shipwreck! where, William? God bless me! where is it?”

“I am afraid it is the same ship you are so anxious about, sir,—the—I forget the name, sir.”

Mr Witherington took the newspaper, and his eye soon caught the paragraph in which the rescue of the two negroes and child from the wreck of the Circassian was fully detailed.

“It is indeed!” exclaimed Mr Witherington. “My poor Cecilia in an open boat! one of the boats was seen to go down,—perhaps she’s dead—merciful God! one boy saved. Mercy on me! where’s Jonathan?”

“Here, sir,” replied Jonathan, very solemnly, who had just brought in the eggs, and now stood erect as a mute behind his master’s chair, for it was a case of danger, if not of death.

“I must go to Portsmouth immediately after breakfast—shan’t eat though—appetite all gone.”

“People seldom do, sir, on these melancholy occasions,” replied Jonathan. “Will you take your own carriage, sir, or a mourning coach?”

“A mourning coach at fourteen miles an hour, with two pair of horses! Jonathan, you’re crazy.”

“Will you please to have black silk hatbands and gloves for the coachman and servants who attend you, sir?”

“Confound your shop! no; this is a resurrection, not a death; it appears that the negro thinks only one of the boats went down.”

“Mors omnia vincit,” quoth Jonathan, casting up his eyes.

“Never you mind that; mind your own business. That’s the postman’s knock—see if there are any letters.”

There were several; and amongst the others there was one from Captain Maxwell, of the Eurydice, detailing the circumstances already known, and informing Mr Witherington that he had despatched the two negroes and the child to his address by that day’s coach, and that one of the officers, who was going to town by the same conveyance, would see them safe to his house.

Captain Maxwell was an old acquaintance of Mr Witherington—had dined at his house in company with the Templemores, and therefore had extracted quite enough information from the negroes to know where to direct them.

“By the blood of my ancestors! they’ll be here to night,” cried Mr Witherington; “and I have saved my journey. What is to be done? better tell Mary to get rooms ready: d’ye hear, William? beds for one little boy and two niggers.”

“Yes, sir,” replied William; “but where are the black people to be put?”

“Put! I don’t care; one may sleep with cook, the other with Mary.”

“Very well, sir, I’ll tell them,” replied William, hastening away, delighted at the row which he anticipated in the kitchen.

“If you please, sir,” observed Jonathan, “one of the negroes is, I believe, a man.”

“Well, what then?”

“Only, sir, the maids may object to sleep with him.”

“By all the plagues of the Witheringtons! this is true; well, you may take him, Jonathan—you like that colour.”

“Not in the dark, sir,” replied Jonathan with a bow.

“Well, then, let them sleep together: so that affair is settled.”

“Are they man and wife, sir?” said the butler.

“The devil take them both! how should I know? Let me have my breakfast, and we’ll talk over the matter by-and-by.”

Mr Witherington applied to his eggs, and muffin, eating his breakfast as fast as he could, without knowing why; but the reason was that he was puzzled and perplexed with the anticipated arrival, and longed to think quietly over the dilemma, for it was a dilemma to an old bachelor. As soon as he had swallowed his second cup of tea he put himself into his easy-chair, in an easy attitude, and was very soon soliloquising as follows:—

“By the blood of the Witheringtons! what am I, an old bachelor, to do with a baby, and a wet-nurse as black as the ace of spades, and another black fellow in the bargain. Send him back again? yes, that’s best: but the child—woke every morning at five o’clock with its squalling—obliged to kiss it three times a-day—pleasant!—and then that nigger of a nurse—thick lips—kissing child all day, and then holding it out to me—ignorant as a cow—if child has the stomach-ache she’ll cram a pepper-pod down its throat—West India fashion—children never without the stomach-ache!—my poor, poor cousin!—what has become of her and the other child, too?—wish they may pick her up, poor dear! and then she will come and take care of her own children—don’t know what to do—great mind to send for sister Moggy—but she’s so fussy—won’t be in a hurry. Think again.”

Here Mr Witherington was interrupted by two taps at the door.

“Come in,” said he; and the cook, with her face as red as if she had been dressing a dinner for eighteen, made her appearance without the usual clean apron.

“If you please, sir,” said she, curtseying, “I will thank you to suit yourself with another cook.”

“Oh, very well,” replied Mr Witherington, angry at the interruption.

“And if you please, sir, I should like to go this very day—indeed, sir, I shall not stay.”

“Go to the devil! if you please,” replied Mr Witherington, angrily; “but first go out and shut the door after you.”

The cook retired, and Mr Witherington was again alone.

“Confound the old woman—what a huff she is in! won’t cook for black people, I suppose—yes, that’s it.”

Here Mr Witherington was again interrupted by a second double tap at the door.

“Oh! thought better of it, I suppose. Come in.”

It was not the cook, but Mary, the housemaid, that entered.

“If you please, sir,” said she, whimpering, “I should wish to leave my situation.”

“A conspiracy, by heavens! Well, you may go.”

“To-night, sir, if you please,” answered the woman.

“This moment, for all I care!” exclaimed Mr Witherington in his wrath.

The housemaid retired; and Mr Witherington took some time to compose himself.

“Servants all going to the devil in this country,” said he at last; “proud fools—won’t clean rooms after black people, I suppose—yes, that’s it, confound them all, black and white! here’s my whole establishment upset by the arrival of a baby. Well, it is very uncomfortable—what shall I do?—send for sister Moggy?—no, I’ll send for Jonathan.”

Mr Witherington rang the bell, and Jonathan made his appearance.

“What is all this, Jonathan?” said he; “cook angry—Mary crying—both going away—what’s it all about?”

“Why, sir, they were told by William that it was your positive order that the two black people were to sleep with them; and I believe he told Mary that the man was to sleep with her.”

“Confound that fellow! he’s always at mischief; you know, Jonathan, I never meant that.”

“I thought not, sir, as it is quite contrary to custom,” replied Jonathan.

“Well, then, tell them so, and let’s hear no more about it.”

Mr Witherington then entered into a consultation with his butler, and acceded to the arrangements proposed by him. The parties arrived in due time, and were properly accommodated. Master Edward was not troubled with the stomach-ache, neither did he wake Mr Witherington at five o’clock in the morning; and, after all, it was not very uncomfortable. But, although things were not quite so uncomfortable as Mr Witherington had anticipated, still they were not comfortable; and Mr Witherington was so annoyed by continual skirmishes with his servants, complaints from Judy, in bad English, of the cook, who, it must be owned, had taken a prejudice against her and Coco, occasional illness of the child, et cetera, that he found his house no longer quiet and peaceable. Three months had now nearly passed, and no tidings of the boats had been received; and Captain Maxwell, who came up to see Mr Witherington, gave it as his decided opinion that they must have foundered in the gale. As, therefore, there appeared to be no chance of Mrs Templemore coming to take care of her child, Mr Witherington at last resolved to write to Bath, where his sister resided, and acquaint her with the whole story, requesting her to come and superintend his domestic concerns. A few days afterwards he received the following reply:—

“Bath, August.

“My dear Brother Antony,

“Your letter arrived safe to hand on Wednesday last, and I must say that I was not a little surprised at its contents; indeed, I thought so much about it that I revoked at Lady Betty Blabkin’s whist-party, and lost four shillings and sixpence. You say that you have a child at your house belonging to your cousin, who married in so indecorous a manner. I hope what you say is true; but, at the same time, I know what bachelors are guilty of; although, as Lady Betty says, it is better never to talk or even to hint about these improper things. I cannot imagine why men should consider themselves, in an unmarried state, as absolved from that purity which maidens are so careful to preserve; and so says Lady Betty, with whom I had a little conversation on the subject. As, however, the thing is done, she agrees with me that it is better to hush it up as well as we can.

“I presume that you do not intend to make the child your heir, which I should consider as highly improper; and, indeed, Lady Betty tells me that the legacy-duty is ten per cent, and that it cannot be avoided. However, I make it a rule never to talk about these sort of things. As for your request that I will come up and superintend your establishment, I have advised with Lady Betty on the subject, and she agrees with me that, for the honour of the family, it is better that I should come, as it will save appearances. You are in a peck of troubles, as most men are who are free-livers and are led astray by artful and alluring females. However, as Lady Betty says, ‘the least said, the soonest mended.’

“I will, therefore, make the necessary arrangements for letting my house, and hope to join you in about ten days; sooner, I cannot, as I find that my engagements extend to that period. Many questions have already been put to me on this unpleasant subject; but I always give but one answer, which is, that bachelors will be bachelors; and that, at all events, it is not so bad as if you were a married man: for I make it a rule never to talk about, or even to hint about, these sort of things, for, as Lady Betty says, ‘Men will get into scrapes, and the sooner things are hushed up the better.’ So no more at present from your affectionate sister,

“Margaret Witherington.

“PS. Lady Betty and I both agree that you are very right in hiring two black people to bring the child into your house, as it makes the thing look foreign to the neighbours, and we can keep our own secrets.

“M.W.”

“Now, by all the sins of the Witheringtons, if this is not enough to drive a man out of his senses!—Confound the suspicious old maid! I’ll not let her come into this house. Confound Lady Betty, and all scandal-loving old tabbies like her! Bless me!” continued Mr Witherington, throwing the letter on the table with a deep sigh, “this is anything but comfortable.”

But if Mr Witherington found it anything but comfortable at the commencement, he found it unbearable in the sequel.

His sister Moggy arrived, and installed herself in the house with all the pomp and protecting air of one who was the saviour of her brother’s reputation and character. When the child was first brought down to her, instead of perceiving at once its likeness to Mr Templemore, which was very strong, she looked at it and at her brother’s face with her only eye, and shaking her finger, exclaimed—

“Oh, Antony! Antony! and did you expect to deceive me?—the nose—the mouth exact—Antony, for shame! fie, for shame!”

But we must hurry over the misery that Mr Witherington’s kindness and benevolence brought upon him. Not a day passed—scarcely an hour, without his ears being galled with his sister’s insinuations. Judy and Coco were sent back to America; the servants, who had remained so long in his service, gave warning one by one, and afterwards, were changed as often almost as there was a change in the moon. She ruled the house and her brother despotically; and all poor Mr Witherington’s comfort was gone until the time arrived when Master Edward was to be sent to school. Mr Witherington then plucked up courage, and after a few stormy months drove his sister back to Bath, and once more found himself comfortable.

Edward came home during the holidays, and was a great favourite; but the idea had become current that he was the son of the old gentleman, and the remarks made were so unpleasant and grating to him, that he was not sorry, much as he was attached to the boy, when he declared his intention to choose the profession of a sailor.

Captain Maxwell introduced him into the service; and afterwards, when, in consequence of ill health and exhaustion, he was himself obliged to leave it for a time, he procured for his protégé other ships. We must, therefore, allow some years to pass away, during which time Edward Templemore pursues his career, Mr Witherington grows older and more particular, and his sister Moggy amuses herself with Lady Betty’s remarks and her darling game of whist.

During all this period no tidings of the boats, or of Mrs Templemore and her infant, had been heard; it was therefore naturally conjectured that they had all perished, and they were remembered but as things that had been.

Chapter Six.

The Midshipman

The weather side of the quarter-deck of H.M. frigate Unicorn was occupied by two very great personages: Captain Plumbton, commanding the ship, who was very great in width if not in height, taking much more than his allowance of the deck, if it were not that he was the proprietor thereof, and entitled to the lion’s share. Captain P was not more than four feet ten inches in height; but then he was equal to that in girth: there was quite enough of him, if he had only been rolled out. He walked with his coat flying open, his thumbs stuck into the arm holes of his waistcoat, so as to throw his shoulders back and increase his horizontal dimensions. He also held his head well aft, which threw his chest and stomach well forward. He was the prototype of pomposity and good nature, and he strutted like an actor in a procession.

The other personage was the first lieutenant, whom Nature had pleased to fashion in another mould. He was as tall as the captain was short—as thin as his superior was corpulent. His long, lanky legs were nearly up to the captain’s shoulders; and he bowed down over the head of his superior, as if he were the crane to hoist up, and the captain the bale of goods to be hoisted. He carried his hands behind his back, with two fingers twisted together; and his chief difficulty appeared to be to reduce his own stride to the parrot march of the captain. His features were sharp and lean as was his body, and wore every appearance of a cross-grained temper.

He had been making divers complaints of divers persons, and the captain had hitherto appeared imperturbable. Captain Plumbton was an even-tempered man, who was satisfied with a good dinner. Lieutenant Markitall was an odd-tempered man, who would quarrel with his bread and butter.

“Quite impossible, sir,” continued the first-lieutenant, “to carry on the duty without support.”

This oracular observation, which, from the relative forms of the two parties, descended as it were from above, was replied to by the captain with a “Very true.”

“Then, sir, I presume you will not object to my putting that man in the report for punishment?”

“I’ll think about it, Mr Markitall.” This, with Captain Plumbton, was as much as to say, No.

“The young gentlemen, sir, I am sorry to say, are very troublesome.”

“Boys always are,” replied the captain.

“Yes sir: but the duty must be carried on, and I cannot do without them.”

“Very true—midshipmen are very useful.”

“But I am sorry to say, sir, that they are not. Now sir, there’s Mr Templemore; I can do nothing with him—he does nothing but laugh.”

“Laugh!—Mr Markitall, does he laugh at you?”

“Not exactly, sir; but he laughs at everything. If I send him to the mast-head, he goes up laughing; if I call him down, he comes down laughing; if I find fault with him, he laughs the next minute: in fact, sir, he does nothing but laugh. I should particularly wish, sir, that you would speak to him, and see if any interference on your part—”

“Would make him cry—eh? better to laugh than cry in this world. Does he never cry, Mr Markitall?”

“Yes, sir, and very unseasonably. The other day, you may recollect, when you punished Wilson the marine, whom I appointed to take care of his chest and hammock, he was crying the whole time; almost tantamount—at least an indirect species of mutiny on his part, as it implied—”

“That the boy was sorry that his servant was punished; I never flog a man but I’m sorry myself, Mr Markitall.”

“Well, I do not press the question of his crying—that I might look over; but his laughing, sir, I must beg that you will take notice of that. Here he is, sir, coming up the hatchway. Mr Templemore, the captain wishes to speak to you.”

Now the captain did not wish to speak to him, but, forced upon him as it was by the first-lieutenant, he could do no less. So Mr Templemore touched his hat, and stood before the captain, we regret to say, with such a good-humoured, sly, confiding smirk on his countenance, as at once established the proof of the accusation, and the enormity of the offence.

“So, sir,” said Captain Plumbton, stopping in his perambulation, and squaring his shoulders still more, “I find that you laugh at the first-lieutenant.”

“I, sir?” replied the boy, the smirk expanding into a broad grin.

“Yes; you, sir,” said the first-lieutenant, now drawing up to his full height; “why you’re laughing now, sir.”

“I can’t help it, sir—it’s not my fault; and I’m sure it’s not yours, sir,” added the boy, demurely.

“Are you aware, Edward—Mr Templemore, I mean—of the impropriety of disrespect to your superior officer?”

“I never laughed at Mr Markitall but once, sir, that I can recollect, and that was when he tumbled over the messenger.”

“And why did you laugh at him then, sir?”

“I always do laugh when any one tumbles down,” replied the lad; “I can’t help it, sir.”

“Then, sir, I suppose you would laugh if you saw me rolling in the lee-scuppers?” said the captain.

“Oh!” replied the boy, no longer able to contain himself, “I’m sure I should burst myself with laughing—I think I see you now, sir.”

“Do you, indeed! I’m very glad that you do not; though I’m afraid, young gentleman, you stand convicted by your own confession.”

“Yes, sir, for laughing, if that is any crime; but it’s not in the Articles of War.”

“No, sir; but disrespect is. You laugh when you go to the mast-head.”

“But I obey the order, sir, immediately—Do I not, Mr Markitall?”

“Yes, sir, you obey the order; but, at the same time, your laughing proves that you do not mind the punishment.”