Blackwall, we heared of a strong press from the men-o'-war; and as I'd
got a dreadful dislike to the sarvice, there was a lot of us
marchant-men kept stowed away close in holes an' corners till we could
suit ourselves. At last we got well tired, and a shipmate o' mine and I
wanted to go and see our sweethearts over in the town. So we hired the
slops from a Jew, and makes ourselves out to be a couple o' watermen,
with badges to suit, a carrying off a large parcel and a ticket on it.
In the arternoon we came back again within sight of the Tower, where we
saw the coast was clear, and made a fair wind along Rosemary Lane and
Cable Street. Just then we saw a tall young fellow, in a brown coat, an'
a broad-brim hat, standing in the door of a shop, with a paper under his
arm, on the look out for some one. "Twig the Quaker, Bob!" my shipmate
says to me. As soon as he saw us, out the Quaker steps, and says he to
Bill, in a sleepy sort of a v'ice, "Friend, thou'rt a waterman, I
b'lieve?" "D---- it, yes," says Bill, pretty short like, "that's what we
hails for! D'ye want a boat, master?" "Swear not, friend," says the
broad-brim; "but what I want is this, you see. We have a large vessel,
belonging to our house, to send to Havannah, and willin' to give double
wages, but we can't find any mariners at this present for to navigate.
Now," says he, "I s'pose this onfortunate state o' things is on account
of the sinful war as is goin' on--they're afraid of the risk. Hows'ever,
my friends," says he, "perhaps, as you knows the river, ye could put us
upon a way of engagin' twenty or more bold mariners, as is not afeard of
ventering for good pay?" and with this he looks into his papers; and
says Bill, "Well, sir, I don't know any myself--do you, Bob?" and he
gives me a shove, and says under the rose, "no fear, mate," says Bill,
"he's all over green--don't slip the chance for all hands of us at
Jobson's." "Why, master," I says, "what ud you give them mariners you
speaks on, now?" "Six pounds a month, friend," says he, looking up; "but
we gives tea in place of spirits, and we must have steady men. We can't
wait, neither," says he, "more nor three days, or the vessel won't sail
at all." "My eye!" says Bill, "'twont do to lose, Bob!--stick to him,
that's all." "Well, sir," I says, "I thinks I does have a notion of
some't of the sort. If you sends your papers to Jobson's Tavern
to-night, in the second lane 'twixt Barnaby Street and the Blue Anchor
Road, over the water, why, I'll get ye as many hands to sign as you
wants!" "Thanks, friend," says the young broad-brim, "I will attend to
thine advice,"--so he bids us good day, and stepped into his door again.
"Bill," says I, as he went off, "now I think on it, I can't help a
notion I've seen that chap's face afore!" "Very like," says Bill, "for
the matter o' that 'tis the same with me--them broad-brims is so much of
a piece! But that 'ere fellow don't know nothing of ships, sure enough,
or he wouldn't offer what he did, and the crimps' houses all of a swarm
with hands!"
"Take my word, mate," says I, "it's a paying trip, or he wouldn't do
it--leave a Quaker alone for that! Why, the chap's a parfit youngster,
but I am blessed if he don't look as starched as if he'd sat over a desk
for twenty year!"
Well, strike me lucky, mates all, if the whole affair warn't a complete
trap! Down comes a clerk with the papers, sure enough--but in ten
minutes more the whole blessed lot of us was puckalowed, and hard an'
fast, by a strong press-gang. They put us into a cutter off Redriff
Stairs, an' the next noon all hands was aboard of the Pandora frigate at
Sheerness. The first time of being mustered on deck, says Bill to me,
"Cuss my eyes, Bob, if there isn't the 'farnal Quaker!" I looked, and
sees a midshipman in uniform like the rest, and so it was. "The sly
soft-sauderin' beggar!" says I. "All fair in war, and a press-mate!"
says one o' the frigate's men. All the while I kept looking and looking
at the midshipman; and at last I says to Bill when we got below, giving
a slap to my thigh, "Blessed if it ain't! it's the _Green Hand_
himself!" "Green Hand!" says Bill, sulky enough, "who's the Green Hand?
Blow me Bob, if I don't think we're the green hands ourselves, if that's
what you're upon!" So I told him the story about Ned Collins. "Well,"
says he, "if a fellow was green as China rice, cuss me if the reefers'
mess wouldn't take it all out on him in a dozen watches. The softest
thing I know, as you say, Bob, just now, it's to come the smart hand
when you're a lubber; but to sham green after that style, ye know, why,
'tis a mark or two above either you or I, messmate. So for my part, I
forgives the young scamp, 'cause I ought to ha' known better!"
By the time the frigate got to sea, the story was blown over the whole
maindeck; many a good laugh it gave the different messes; and Bill, the
midshipman, and I, got the name of the "Three Green Hands."
One middle-watch, Mister Ned comes for'ard by the booms to me, and says
he, "Well, Bob Jacobs, you don't bear a grudge, I hope!" "Why," says I,
"Mister Collins, 'twould be mutiny now, I fancy, you bein' my officer!"
so I gave a laugh; but I couldn't help feeling' hurt a little, 'twas so
like a son turnin' against his father, as 'twere. "Why Bob," says he,
"did ye think me so green as not to know a seaman when I saw him? I was
afeared you'd know me that time." "Not I, sir," I answers: "why, if we
hadn't sailed so long in company, I wouldn't know ye now!" so master Ned
gave me to understand it was all for old times he wanted to ship me in
the same craft; but he knew my misliking to the sarvice, though he said
he'd rather ha' lost the whole haul of 'em nor myself. So many a yarn we
had together of a dark night, and for a couple of years we saw no small
service in the Pandora. But if ye'd seen Ned the smartest reefer aboard,
and the best liked by the men, in the fore-taups'l bunt in a gale, or
over the maindeck hatch, with an enemy's frigate to leeward, or on a
spree ashore at Lisbon or Naples, you wouldn't ha' said there was
anything green in his eye, I warrant ye! He was made acting lieutenant
of a prize he cut out near Chairboorg, before he passed examination; so
he got me for prize bo'sun, and took her into Plymouth. Soon after that
the war was ended, and all hands of the Pandora paid off. Master Ned got
passed with flying colors, and confirmed lieutenant besides, but he had
to wait for a ship. He made me say where I'd be found, and we parted
company for about a year.
Well, I was come home from a short trip, and one day Leftenant Collins
hunts me up at Wapping Docks, where I'd had myself spliced, six years
before, to Betsy Brown, an' was laid up for a spell, havin' seen a good
deal of the sea. Ye must know the young leftenant was fell deep in love
with a rich Indy Naboob's daughter, which had come over to take her back
to' the East Indgees. The old fellow was hard close-hauled against the
match, notwithstanding of the young folks makin' it all up; so he'd
taken out berths aboard of a large Company's ship, and bought over the
captain on no account to let any king's navy man within the gangways,
nor not a shoulder with a swab upon it, red or blue, beyond the ship's
company. But, above all, the old tyrant wouldn't have a blue-jacket,
from stem to starn, if so be he'd got nothing ado but talk sweet; I
s'pose he fancied his girl was mad after the whole blessed cloth. The
leftenant turns over this here log to me, and, says he, "I'll follow
her to the world's end, if need be, Bob, and cheat the old villain?"
"Quite right too, sir," says I. "Bob," says he, "I'll tell ye what I
wants you to do. Go you and enter for the Seringpatam at Blackwall, if
you're for sea just now; I'm goin' for to s'cure my passage myself, an'
no doubt doorin' the voy'ge something'll turn up to set all square; at
any rate, I'll stand by for a rope to pull!" "Why here's a go!" thinks I
to myself: "is Ned Collins got so green again, spite of all that's come
an' gone, for to think the waves is agoin' to work wonders, or ould
Neptune under the line's to play the parson and splice all!" "Well,
sir," I says, "but don't you think the skipper will smoke your
weather-roll, sir, at sea, as you did Bill Pikes an' me, you know, sir?"
says I. "Oh, Bob, my lad," says the leftenant, "leave you that to me.
The fellow most onlikest to a sailor on the Indyman's poop will be me,
and that's the way you'll know me!"
Well, I did ship with the Seringpatam for Bombay. Plenty of passengers
she had, but only clerks, naboobs, old half-pay fellows, and ladies, not
to speak o' children and nurses, black and white. She sailed without my
seein' Leftenant Collins, so I thought I was to hear no more on it. When
the passengers began to muster on the poop, by the time we got out o'
Channel, I takes a look over the ladies, in coilin' up the ropes aft, or
at the wheel. I knowed the said girl at once by her good looks, and the
old fellow by his grumpy-yallow frontispiece. All on a sudden I takes
note of a figger coming up from the cuddy, which I made out at once for
my Master Ned, spite of his wig and a pair o' high-heeled boots, as gave
him the walk of a chap treading amongst eggs. When I hears him lisp out
to the skipper at the round-house if there was any fear of wind, 'twas
all I could do to keep the juice in my cheek. Away he goes up to
windward, holding on by everything, to look over the bulwarks behind his
sweetheart, givin' me a glance over his shoulder. At night I see the two
hold a sort of a collogue abaft the wheel, when I was on my trick at the
helm. After a while there was a row got up amongst the passengers, with
the old naboob and the skipper, to find out who it was that kept a
singing every still night in the first watch, alongside of the ladies'
cabin, under the poop. It couldn't be cleared up, hows'ever, who it was.
All sorts o' places they said it comed from--mizen-chains,
quarter-galleries, lower-deck ports, and davit-boats. But what put the
old hunks most in a rage was, the songs was every one on 'em such as
"Rule Britannia," "Bay of Biscay," "Britannia's Bulwarks," and "All in
the Downs." The captain was all at sea about it, and none of the men
would say anything, for by all accounts 'twas the best pipe at a
sea-song as was to be heard. For my part, I knowed pretty well what was
afloat. One night a man comed for'ard from the wheel, after steering his
dog-watch out, and "Well I'm blessed, mates," says he on the fok'sle,
"but that chap aft yonder with the lady--he's about the greenest hand
I've chanced to come across! What d'ye think I hears him say to old
Yallowchops an hour agone?" "What was it, mate?" I says. Says he, "'Do
ye know, Sar Chawls, is the hoshun reely green at the line--_green_ ye
know, Sar Chawls, _reely_ green?' 'No, sir,' says the old naboob, ''tis
blue.' 'Whoy, ye don't sa--ay so!' says the young chap, pullin' a long
face." "Why, Jim," another hand drops in, "that's the very chap as sings
them first-rate sea-songs of a night! I seed him myself come out o' the
mizen-chains!" "Hallo!" says another at this, "then there's some'at
queer i' the wind!" I _thought_ he gave rather a weather-look aloft,
comin' on deck i' the morning! I'll bet a week's grog the chap's
desarted from the king's flag, mates! Well, ye know, hereupon I
couldn't do no less nor shove in my oar, so I takes word from all hands
not to blow the gaff,[A] an' then gives 'em the whole yarn to the very
day, about the Green Hand--for somehow or another, I was always a
yarning sort of a customer. As soon as they heard it was a love consarn,
not a man but swore to keep a stopper on his jaw; only, at findin' out
he was a leftenant in the Royal Navy, all hands was for touching hats
when they went past.
[Footnote A: Let out the secret.]
Hows'ever, things went on till we'd crossed the line a good while; the
leftenant was making his way with the girl at every chance. But as for
the old fellow, I didn't see he was a fathom the nearer with _him_;
though, as the naboob had never clapt eyes on him to know him like,
'twain't much matter before heaving in sight o' port. The captain of the
Indyman was a rum old-fashioned codger, all for plain sailing and old
ways--I shouldn't say overmuch of a smart seaman. He read the sarvice
every Sunday, rigged the church an' all that, if it was anything short
of a reef-taups'l breeze. 'Twas queer enough, ye may think, to hear the
old boy drawling out, "As 'twas in the beginning,"--then, in the one
key, "Haul aft the mainsheet,"--"is now and ever shall be,"--"Small pull
with the weather-brace,"--"Amen,"--"Well the mainyard,"--"The Lord be
with you,--Taups'l yard well!" As for the first orficer, he was a
dandy, know-nothing young blade, as wanted to show off before the
ladies; and the second was afraid to call the nose on his face his own,
except in his watch; the third was a good seaman, but ye may fancy the
craft stood often a poor chance of being well handled.
'Twas one arternoon watch, off the west coast of Africay, as hot a day
as I mind on, we lost the breeze with a swell, and just as it got down
smooth, land was made out, low upon the starboard bow, to the
south-east. The captain was turned in sick below, and the first orficer
on deck. I was at the wheel, and I hears him say to the second how the
land-breeze would come off at night. A little after, up comes Leftenant
Collins, in his black wig and his 'long-shore hat, an' begins to squint
over the starn to nor'west'ard, "Jacobs, my lad," whispers he to me,
"how d'ye like the looks o' things?" "Not overmuch, sir," says I; "small
enough sea-room for the sky there!" Up goes he to the first officer,
after a bit. "Sir," says he, "do ye notice how we've risen the land
within the last hour and a half?" "No, sir," says the first mate; "what
d'ye mean?" "Why, there's a current here, takin' us inside the point,"
says he. "Sir," says the Company's man, "if I didn't know what's what,
d'ye think I'd larn it off a gentleman as is so confounded green?
There's nothing of the sort," he says. "Look on the starboard quarter
then," says the leftenant, "at the man-o'-war bird afloat yonder with
its wings spread. Take three minutes' look," says he. Well, the mate did
take a minute or two's look through the mizen-shroud, and pretty blue he
got, for the bird came abreast of the ship by that time. "Now," says the
leftenant, "d'ye think ye'd weather that there point two hours after
this, if a gale come on from the nor'west, sir?" "Well," says the first
mate, "I daresay we shouldn't--but what o' that?" "Why, if you'd cruised
for six months off the coast of Africa, as I've done," says the
leftenant, "you'd think there was something ticklish about that white
spot in the sky to nor'west! But on top o' that, the weather-glass is
fell a good bit since four bells." "Weather-glass!" the mate says, "why,
that don't matter much in respect of a gale, I fancy." Ye must
understand, weather-glasses wan't come so much in fashion at that time,
except in the royal navy. "Sir," says the mate again, "mind _your_
business, if you've got any, and I'll mind mine!" "If I was you," the
leftenant says, "I'd call the captain." "Thank ye," says the mate--"call
the captain for nothing!" Well, in an hour more the land was quite plain
on the starboard bow, and the mate comes aft again to Leftenant Collins.
The clouds was beginning to grow out of the clear sky astarn too. "Why,
sir," says the mate, "I'd no notion you was a _seaman_ at all! What
would you do yourself now, supposin' the case you put a little ago?"
"Well, sir," says Mr. Collins, "if you'll do it, I'll tell ye at once."
At this point of old Jack's story, however, a cabin-boy came from aft,
to say that the captain wanted him. The old seaman knocked the ashes out
of his pipe, which he had smoked at intervals in short puffs, put it in
his jacket-pocket, and got off the windlass end. "Why, old ship!" said
the man-o'-war's-man, "are ye goin' to leave us in the lurch with a
_short yarn_?" "Can't help it, bo'," said Old Jack; "orders must be
obeyed, ye know," and away he went. "Well, mates," said one, "what was
the up-shot of it, if the yarn's been overhauled already? I didn't hear
it myself." "Blessed if I know," said several--"Old Jack didn't get the
length last time he's got now." "More luck!" said the man-o-war's-man;
"'tis to be hoped he'll finish it next time!"
From Fraser's Magazine for June.
SOMETHING ABOUT A MURDER.
FOUNDED ON FACT.
A Fair and gentle girl was Barbara Comyn, the only daughter of one of
the strictest and sternest old ministers that ever adhered to Calvin.
Yet Mr. Comyn was thoroughly conscientious in all his views; and when he
frowned, he did it not through love of frowning, but that he hoped, by
gathering a cloud upon his brows, to bring down from those eyes upon
which he frowned such showers of repentance as refresh and make green
the soul sin-withered and sere from the harsh and hot suns of vice. He
was, in truth, a worthy and good man; somewhat narrow of mind and
bigoted of creed, it may be, but utterly incapable of committing an
ungenerous or dishonorable action. Still, greatly as he loved his
winsome daughter, much as he prized her for that dead woman's sake, who,
as long as she lay in his bosom, had brought him comfort, and happiness,
and honor, he was something over-harsh with her, niggardly in the
bestowing of caresses, and liberal in the gift of unnecessary rebuke.
Very severe, then, was his displeasure, when she confessed to him, with
many blushes, that she loved her young Episcopalian kinsman, John
Percival.
The cousins had not been reared together, nor had they even met before
the youth had passed his twenty-fifth, the girl her nineteenth year. But
we are not of the opinion that young people are the more prone to fall
in love with each other for the being educated together in a sort of
family domesticity. Such facts are contended for in fiction, but
realities have convinced us that such things seldom happen; and if we
ever have the fortune to possess children of our own, and wish a son or
daughter to wed a particular individual, we shall take good care, not
only to conceal our intentions from them, but to keep the pair apart
from all brother-and-sister communism, until such time as each heart
begins to have its natural craving for a congenial spirit,--when, in
sooth, it looks for others than brothers and sisters to cling to. It is
a very old, perhaps a very vulgar proverb, that "familiarity breeds
contempt;" and we assuredly think, that the constant fireside
association of young folks, trained up together in bread-and-butter
ease, is more apt to generate calm friendship than warm affection.
But, as we have said, our cousins were brought up asunder; he in
England, of which country his father was an eminent physician lately
deceased, who had bequeathed to his only son his professional ability,
with ample means of commencing his career in a handsome manner. When he
first came to Scotland to visit his mother's sister, he found her a
corpse; and there, in the house of mourning, the consoler of the
motherless Barbara, he learnt to love her with a sincerity of affection
to which she fully responded. Great was his vexation and surprise to
receive a stern denial of his suit from the minister, who, although he
had never testified any degree of partiality for his wife's nephew, had,
nevertheless, evinced no dislike of him. But when respectfully called
upon to assign a reason for so unexpected a rejection, he briefly said,
that "no child of his should with his blessing wed any man who was not a
strict Presbyterian; and that, moreover, he had other views for his
daughter." Nor were the tears of his child, nor the intercession in
their favor of his kindhearted but timid old maiden sister, of any
effect. His obstinacy was not to be subdued, nor his will opposed; and
the unrelenting preacher, who taught humility, love, and concord from
his pulpit, and who could produce not one sensible reason for thwarting
the attachment of two amiable creatures, concluded the scene by flying
into a furious passion, in which he gave John Percival clearly to
understand, that he was no longer an acceptable, or even permitted,
guest.
The young man left the manse immediately, and was not slow in quitting
Scotland; but love, which teaches many things, taught the kinsfolk means
of keeping up, though at rare intervals, an epistolary communion--so
frequently the one sustaining prop of two divided hearts!
A year or more passed, finding them true to each other. Barbara refused
several excellent proposals of marriage, nor did her father persecute
her with expressed wishes for her acceptance of any of them; until, at
length, he introduced to her one Mr. Bruce, a wealthy cloth-merchant
from Glasgow. He was a man of about fifty years of age, of a
well-favored and portly presence, and accounted a sure and somewhat sour
follower of Mr. Comyn's favorite creed. Barbara had frequently heard her
father speak highly of his Glasgow friend, but as no warning had
prepared her, she was very far from dreaming of the character he was
about to perform in her presence; and, indeed, the wooing of the honest
clothier was neither very active nor oppressive--but, alas, for all
that, it was steadfast and resolute.
A wonderful deal of what they deemed "religious discussion" was carried
on betwixt Mr. Bruce and the minister during the visit of the former at
the manse, which, we have omitted to state, (though for certain reasons
we do not intend to give it a name,) was situated out of the town of
Aberdeen, in a retired strath or valley, full of hazels and sloe-bushes,
with the Dee running through them like a huge silver snake. Although
little more than half a mile from Aberdeen, and much nearer the church
of which Mr. Comyn was minister, the manse seemed as lonely and quiet as
if thirty miles lay between it and a busy, populous town. Now, though
Mr. Bruce had hired a sleeping apartment in the cottage of Mr. Comyn's
bell-man, or sexton, which stood hard by the kirk, he spent all his
spare time with his friend at the manse, where his meals were invariably
taken; and in addition to the wonderful amount of polemical palaver we
have hinted at, a wonderful deal of whisky-toddy did the worthy minister
and his guest contrive to swallow in the heat of their arguments. Many a
time and oft did good, innocent Miss Henny Comyn declare, that when the
shake-hands hour arrived, Mr. Bruce, "puir man, seemed to toddle aff to
his cosie beddie at Davy Bain's marvellously fu' o' the spirit!" True it
was; but the ancient virgin guessed not in her guilelessness, that the
spirit was an evil one, and elicited by man and fire from the
unsuspecting barleycorn.
At last, as we have said, Mr. Comyn spoke out his wish--nay, his
commands--that Barbara should prepare to receive Mr. Bruce as a
bridegroom in six months thereafter. And now Mr. Bruce himself, a shy
and dour man at other times, found courage one day, after dinner, to
express his--"love;" so he really called it, and so we suppose must we,
in our extreme ignorance of the precise category of nomenclature to
which the feelings that actuated him belonged. Honest man! bigoted and
selfish as he was, he was neither cruel by nature nor cross-grained; and
he was even moved by the pathetic and frank avowal which Barbara made to
him on the state of her heart. But, though touched by her tears, he
understood them not, treated them but as the natural mawkishness of
girlish sentimentality; nor had her assurance that she could never love
any one but her cousin John, power to dissuade him from the prosecution
of his suit. He was void of all delicacy of feeling, was neither hurt
nor displeased with her confessed partiality for another, but satisfied
himself by quoting, misquoting, and utterly perverting Scripture, and
concluded by assuring her that it was her bounden duty to obey her
father _before_ marriage--her husband _after_. He had no doubt she would
be very happy as his wife, for "he was rich, and a steady Presbyterian!"
And with this declaration, threatening a return in six months to claim
her hand--which he had the audacity to kiss--he left her for his Glasgow
warehouses.
In this dire dilemma the poor lassie knew not what course to pursue. Her
aunt, although kind, indulgent, and pitying her, (for in youth she had
had experience of a blighted affection, and no woman-heart, that is not
naturally sour, passes through such trial without becoming
sweeter)--was bound in complete serfdom to her brother, and was quite
unable to suggest any means or likelihood of release; so Barbara wrote a
full account of her predicament to her lover. Not long afterward, so
cleverly disguised by dress as to deceive even herself, Percival was
again at Aberdeen--determined, should all other methods fail, to carry
off his kinswoman on the very eve of the bridal; and many a twilight
evening, when the minister sat over books or took his after-dinner nap,
did those two young creatures meet, unnoticed and unsuspected, on the
banks of the Dee. But those meetings must soon end, for six months have
passed, and Mr. Bruce--once more lodged in the house of Davy Bain--is
come to wed and take home his reluctant bride.
One evening--it was cloudy and threatened foul weather, though the
summer air was warm and surcharged with flower-scents--John Percival
betook himself as usual to the customary trysting-place. It was a thick
copse of hazel past which ran--heard but not seen--the river; which,
where the shrubbery ended, formed a dark, deep pool, so garnished by
overhanging nut-trees that it had acquired the name of the Nut-hole.
Beyond this pool lay the road to the manse; but as the trees here ceased
to offer concealment, the Nut-tree-hole became the limits to Percival's
attendance on his cousin in her way homeward. The rustic seat in the
centre of the coppice was still unoccupied, and he began to fear that
something had transpired to prevent her from coming. It was no use to
listen for the sounds of her light, advancing footsteps; for the Dee
made so loud and incessant a sough as it tumbled from the steep bank
that helped to form the Nut-hole, that it drowned all lesser sounds.