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.