"And they came for the buried king that lay
At rest in that ancient fane;
For he must be armed on the battle day,
With them to deliver Spain!--
Then the march went sounding on,
And the Moors by noontide sun,
Were dust on Tolosa's plain."
MRS. HEMANS.
It remains only to give a rapid sketch of the fortunes of our principal
characters, and of the few incidents that are more immediately connected
with what has gone before. The death of Bluewater was announced to the
fleet, at sunrise, by hauling down his flag from the mizzen of the
Cæsar. The vice-admiral's flag came down with it, and re-appeared at the
next minute at the fore of the Plantagenet. But the little white emblem
of rank never went aloft again in honour of the deceased. At noon, it
was spread over his coffin, on the main-deck of the ship, agreeably to
his own request; and more than once that day, did some rough old tar use
it, to wipe the tear from his eyes.
In the afternoon of the day after the death of one of our heroes, the
wind came round to the westward, and all the vessels lifted their
anchors, and proceeded to Plymouth. The crippled ships, by this time,
were in a state to carry more or less sail, and a stranger who had seen
the melancholy-looking line, as it rounded the Start, would have fancied
it a beaten fleet on its return to port. The only signs of exultation
that appeared, were the jacks that were flying over the white flags of
the prizes; and even when all had anchored, the same air of sadness
reigned among these victorious mariners. The body was landed, with the
usual forms; but the procession of warriors of the deep that followed
it, was distinguished by a gravity that exceeded the ordinary aspects of
mere form. Many of the captains, and Greenly in particular, had viewed
the man[oe]uvring of Bluewater with surprise, and the latter not
altogether without displeasure; but his subsequent conduct completely
erased these impressions, leaving no other recollection connected with
his conduct that morning than the brilliant courage, and admirable
handling of his vessels, by which the fortunes of a nearly desperate day
were retrieved. Those who did reflect any longer on the subject,
attributed the singularity of the course pursued by the rear-admiral, to
some private orders communicated in the telegraphic signal, as already
mentioned.
It is unnecessary for us to dwell on the particular movements of the
fleet, after it reached Plymouth. The ships were repaired, the prizes
received into the service, and, in due time, all took the sea again,
ready and anxious to encounter their country's enemies. They ran the
careers usual to English heavy cruisers in that age; and as ships form
characters in this work, perhaps it may not be amiss to take a general
glance at their several fortunes, together with those of their
respective commanders. Sir Gervaise fairly wore out the Plantagenet,
which vessel was broken up three years later, though not until she had
carried a blue flag at her main, more than two years. Greenly lived to
be a rear-admiral of the red, and died of yellow-fever in the Island of
Barbadoes. The Cæsar, with Stowel still in command of her, foundered at
sea in a winter's cruise in the Baltic, every soul perishing. This
calamity occurred the winter succeeding the summer of our legend, and
the only relieving circumstance connected with the disaster, was the
fact that her commander got rid of Mrs. Stowel altogether, from that day
forward. The Thunderer had her share in many a subsequent battle, and
Foley, her captain, died rear-admiral of England, and a vice-admiral of
the red, thirty years later. The Carnatic was commanded by Parker, until
the latter got a right to hoist a blue flag at the mizzen; which was
done for just one day, to comply with form, when both ship and admiral
were laid aside, as too old for further use. It should be added,
however, that Parker was knighted by the king on board his own ship; a
circumstance that cast a halo of sunshine over the close of the life of
one, who had commenced his career so humbly, as to render this happy
close more than equal to his expectations. In direct opposition to this,
it may be said here, that Sir Gervaise refused, for the third time, to
be made Viscount Bowldero, with a feeling just the reverse of that of
Parker's; for, secure of his social position, and careless of politics,
he viewed the elevation with an indifference that was a natural
consequence enough of his own birth, fortune, and high character. On
this occasion,--it was after another victory,--George II. personally
alluded to the subject, remarking that the success we have recorded had
never met with its reward; when the old seaman let out the true secret
of his pertinaciously declining an honour, about which he might
otherwise have been supposed to be as indifferent to the acceptance, as
to the refusal. "Sir," he answered to the remark of the king, "I am duly
sensible of your majesty's favour; but, I can never consent to receive a
patent of nobility that, in my eyes, will always seem to be sealed with
the blood of my closest and best friend." This reply was remembered, and
the subject was never adverted to again.
The fate of the Blenheim was one of those impressive blanks that dot the
pages of nautical history. She sailed for the Mediterranean alone, and
after she had discharged her pilot, was never heard of again. This did
not occur, however, until Captain Sterling had been killed on her decks,
in one of Sir Gervaise's subsequent actions. The Achilles was suffered
to drift in, too near to some heavy French batteries, before the treaty
of Aix-la-Chapelle was signed; and, after every stick had been again cut
out of her, she was compelled to lower her flag. His earldom and his
courage, saved Lord Morganic from censure; but, being permitted to go up
to Paris, previously to his exchange, he contracted a matrimonial
engagement with a celebrated _danseuse_, a craft that gave him so much
future employment, that he virtually abandoned his profession.
Nevertheless, his name was on the list of vice-admirals of the blue,
when he departed this life. The Warspite and Captain Goodfellow both
died natural deaths; one as a receiving-ship, and the other as a
rear-admiral of the white. The Dover, Captain Drinkwater, was lost in
attempting to weather Scilly in a gale, when her commander, and quite
half her crew, were drowned. The York did many a hard day's duty, before
her time arrived; but, in the end, she was so much injured in a general
action as to be abandoned and set fire to, at sea. Her commander was
lost overboard, in the very first cruise she took, after that related in
this work. The Elizabeth rotted as a guard-ship, in the Medway; and
Captain Blakely retired from the service with one arm, a yellow admiral.
The Dublin laid her bones in the cove of Cork, having been condemned
after a severe winter passed on the north coast. Captain O'Neil was
killed in a duel with a French officer, after the peace; the latter
having stated that his ship had run away from two frigates commanded by
the _Chevalier_. The Chloe was taken by an enemy's fleet, in the next
war; but Captain Denham worked his way up to a white flag at the main,
and a peerage. The Druid was wrecked that very summer, chasing inshore,
near Bordeaux; and Blewet, in a professional point of view, never
regained the ground he lost, on this occasion. As for the sloops and
cutters, they went the way of all small cruisers, while their nameless
commanders shared the usual fates of mariners.
Wycherly remained at Wychecombe until the interment of his uncle took
place; at which, aided by Sir Reginald's influence and knowledge, and,
in spite of Tom's intrigues, he appeared as chief mourner. The affair of
the succession was also so managed as to give him very little trouble.
Tom, discovering that his own illegitimacy was known, and seeing the
hopelessness of a contest against such an antagonist as Sir Reginald,
who knew quite as much of the facts as he did of the law of the case,
was fain to retire from the field. From that moment, no one heard any
thing more of the legacies. In the end he received the £20,000 in the
five per cents, and the few chattels Sir Wycherly had a right to give
away; but his enjoyment of them was short, as he contracted a severe
cold that very autumn, and died of a malignant fever, in a few weeks.
Leaving no will, his property escheated; but it was all restored to his
two uterine brothers, by the liberality of the ministry, and out of
respect to the long services of the baron, which two brothers, it will
he remembered, alone had any of the blood of Wychecombe in their veins
to boast of. This was disposing of the savings of both the baronet and
the judge, with a very suitable regard to moral justice.
Wycherly also appeared, though it was in company with Sir Gervaise
Oakes, as one of the principal mourners at the funeral obsequies of
Admiral Bluewater. These were of a public character, and took place in
Westminster Abbey. The carriages of that portion of the royal personages
who were not restrained by the laws of court-etiquette, appeared in the
procession; and several members of that very family that the deceased
regarded as intruders, were present incog. at his last rites. This,
however, was but one of the many illusions that the great masquerade of
life is constantly offering to the public gaze.
There was little difficulty in establishing the claims of Mildred, to be
considered the daughter of Colonel Bluewater and Agnes Hedworth. Lord
Bluewater was soon satisfied; and, as he was quite indifferent to the
possession of his kinsman's money, an acquisition he neither wished nor
expected, the most perfect good-will existed between the parties. There
was more difficulty with the Duchess of Glamorgan, who had acquired too
many of the notions of very high rank, to look with complacency on a
niece that had been educated as the daughter of a sailing-master in the
navy. She raised many objections, while she admitted that she had been
the confidant of her sister's attachment to John Bluewater. Her second
son, Geoffrey, did more to remove her scruples than all the rest united;
and when Sir Gervaise Oakes, in person, condescended to make a journey
to the Park, to persuade her to examine the proofs, she could not well
decline. As soon as one of her really candid mind entered into the
inquiry, the evidence was found to be irresistible, and she at once
yielded to the feelings of nature. Wycherly had been indefatigable in
establishing his wife's claims--more so, indeed, than in establishing
his own; and, at the suggestion of the vice-admiral--or, admiral of the
white, as he had become by a recent general promotion--he consented to
accompany the latter in this visit, waiting at the nearest town,
however, for a summons to the Park, as soon as it could be ascertained
that his presence would be agreeable to its mistress.
"If my niece prove but half as acceptable in appearance, as my _nephew_,
Sir Gervaise," observed the duchess, when the young Virginian was
introduced to her, and laying stress on the word we have
italicised--"nothing can be wanting to the agreeables of this new
connection. I am impatient, now, to see my niece; Sir Wycherly
Wychecombe has prepared me to expect a young woman of more than common
merit."
"My life on it, duchess, he has not raised your expectations too high.
The poor girl is still dwelling in her cottage, the companion of her
reputed mother; but it is time, Wychecombe, that you had claimed your
bride."
"I expect to find her and Mrs. Dutton at the Hall, on my return, Sir
Gervaise; it having been thus arranged between us. The sad ceremonies
through which we have lately been, were unsuited to the introduction of
the new mistress to her abode, and the last had been deferred to a more
fitting occasion."
"Let the first visit that Lady Wychecombe pays, be to this place," said
the duchess. "I do not command it, Sir Wycherly, as one who has some
slight claims to her duty; but I solicit it, as one who wishes to
possess every hold upon her love. Her mother was an _only_ sister; and
an _only_ sister's child must be very near to one."
It would have been impossible for the Duchess of Glamorgan to have said
as much as this before she saw the young Virginian; but, now he had
turned out a person so very different from what she expected, she had
lively hopes in behalf of her niece.
Wycherly returned to Wychecombe, after this short visit to Mildred's
aunt, and found his lovely bride in quiet possession, accompanied by her
mother. Dutton still remained at the station, for he had the sagacity to
see that he might not be welcome, and modesty enough to act with a
cautious reserve. But Wycherly respected his excellent wife too
profoundly not to have a due regard to her feelings, in all things; and
the master was invited to join the party. Brutality and meanness united,
like those which belonged to the character of Dutton, are not easily
abashed, and he accepted the invitation, in the hope that, after all, he
was to reap as many advantages by the marriage of Mildred with the
affluent baronet, as if she had actually been his daughter.
After passing a few weeks in sober happiness at home, Wycherly felt it
due to all parties, to carry his wife to the Park, in order that she
might make the acquaintance of the near relatives who dwelt there. Mrs.
Dutton, by invitation, was of the party; but Dutton was left behind,
having no necessary connection with the scenes and the feelings that
were likely to occur. It would be painting the duchess too much _en
beau_, were we to say that she met Mildred without certain misgivings
and fears. But the first glimpse of her lovely niece completely put
natural feelings in the ascendency. The resemblance to her sister was so
strong as to cause a piercing cry to escape her, and, bursting into
tears, she folded the trembling young woman to her heart, with a fervour
and sincerity that set at naught all conventional manners. This was the
commencement of a close intimacy; which lasted but a short time,
however, the duchess dying two years later.
Wycherly continued in the service until the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle,
when he finally quitted the sea. His strong native attachments led him
back to Virginia, where all his own nearest relatives belonged, and
where his whole heart might be said to be, when he saw Mildred and his
children at his side. With him, early associations and habits had more
strength, than traditions and memorials of the past. He erected a
spacious dwelling on the estate inherited from his father, where he
passed most of his time; consigning Wychecombe to the care of a careful
steward. With the additions and improvements that he was now enabled to
make, his Virginian estate produced even a larger income than his
English, and his interests really pointed to the choice he had made. But
no pecuniary considerations lay at the bottom of his selection. He
really preferred the graceful and courteous ease of the intercourse
which characterized the manners of James' river. In that age, they were
equally removed from the coarse and boisterous jollity of the English
country-squire, and the heartless conventionalities of high life. In
addition to this, his sensitive feelings rightly enough detected that he
was regarded in the mother-country as a sort of intruder. He was spoken
of, alluded to in the journals, and viewed even by his tenants as the
_American_ landlord; and he never felt truly at home in the country for
which he had fought and bled. In England, his rank as a baronet was not
sufficient to look down these little peculiarities; whereas, in
Virginia, it gave him a certain _éclat_, that was grateful to one of the
main weaknesses of human nature. "At home," as the mother-country was
then affectionately termed, he had no hope of becoming a privy
councillor; while, in his native colony, his rank and fortune, almost as
a matter of course, placed him in the council of the governor. In a
word, while Wycherly found most of those worldly considerations which
influence men in the choice of their places of residence, in favour of
the region in which he happened to be born, his election was made more
from feeling and taste than from any thing else. His mind had taken an
early bias in favour of the usages and opinions of the people among whom
he had received his first impressions, and this bias he retained to the
hour of his death.
Like a true woman, Mildred found her happiness with her husband and
children. Of the latter she had but three; a boy and two girls. The care
of the last was early committed to Mrs. Dutton. This excellent woman had
remained at Wychecombe with her husband, until death put an end to his
vices, though the close of his career was exempt from those scenes of
brutal dictation and interference that had rendered the earlier part of
her life so miserable. Apprehension of what might be the consequences to
himself, acted as a check, and he had sagacity enough to see that the
physical comforts he now possessed were all owing to the influence of
his wife. He lived but four years, however. On his death, his widow
immediately took her departure for America.
It would be substituting pure images of the fancy for a picture of sober
realities, were we to say that Lady Wychecombe and her adopted mother
never regretted the land of _their_ birth. This negation of feeling,
habits, and prejudices, is not to be expected even in an Esquimaux. They
both had occasional strictures to make on the _climate_, (and this to
Wycherly's great surprise, for _he_ conscientiously believed that of
England to be just the worst in the world,) on the fruits, the servants,
the roads, and the difficulty of procuring various little comforts. But,
as this was said good-naturedly and in pleasantry, rather than in the
way of complaint, it led to no unpleasant scenes or feelings. As all
three made occasional voyages to England, where his estates, and more
particularly settlements with his factor, compelled the baronet to go
once in about a lustrum, the fruits and the climate were finally given
up by the ladies. After many years, even the slip-shod, careless, but
hearty attendance of the negroes, came to be preferred to the dogged
mannerism of the English domestics, perfect as were the latter in their
parts; and the whole subject got to be one of amusement, instead of one
of complaint. There is no greater mistake than to suppose that the
traveller who passes _once_ through a country, with his home-bred, and
quite likely _provincial_ notions thick upon him, is competent to
describe, with due discrimination, even the usages of which he is
actually a witness. This truth all the family came, in time, to
discover; and while it rendered them more strictly critical in their
remarks, it also rendered them more tolerant. As it was, few happier
families were to be found in the British empire, than that of Sir
Wycherly Wychecombe; its head retaining his manly and protecting
affection for all dependent on him, while his wife, beautiful as a
matron, as she had been lovely as a girl, clung to him with the tenacity
of the vine to its own oak.
Of the result of the rising in the north, it is unnecessary to say much.
The history of the _Chevalier's_ successes in the first year, and of his
final overthrow at Culloden, is well known. Sir Reginald Wychecombe,
like hundreds of others, played his cards so skilfully that he avoided
committing himself; and, although he lived and eventually died a
suspected man, he escaped forfeitures and attainder. With Sir Wycherly,
as the head of his house, he maintained a friendly correspondence to the
last, even taking charge of the paternal estate in its owner's absence;
manifesting to the hour of his death, a scrupulous probity in matters of
money, mingled with an inherent love of management and intrigue, in
things that related to politics and the succession. Sir Reginald lived
long enough to see the hopes of the Jacobites completely extinguished,
and the throne filled by a native Englishman.
Many long years after the events which rendered the week of its opening
incidents so memorable among its actors, must now be imagined. Time had
advanced with its usual unfaltering tread, and the greater part of a
generation had been gathered to their fathers. George III. had been on
the throne not less than three lustrums, and most of the important
actors of the period of '45, were dead;--many of them, in a degree,
forgotten. But each age has its own events and its own changes. Those
colonies, which in 1745 were so loyal, so devoted to the house of
Hanover, in the belief that political and religious liberty depended on
the issue, had revolted against the supremacy of the parliament of the
empire. America was already in arms against the mother country, and the
very day before the occurrence of the little scene we are about to
relate, the intelligence of the battle of Bunker Hill had reached
London. Although the gazette and national pride had, in a degree,
lessened the characteristics of this most remarkable of all similar
combats, by exaggerating the numbers of the colonists engaged, and
lessening the loss of the royal troops, the impression produced by the
news is said to have been greater than any known to that age. It had
been the prevalent opinion of England--an opinion that was then general
in Europe, and which descended even to our own times--that the animals
of the new continent, man included, had less courage and physical force,
than those of the old; and astonishment, mingled with the forebodings of
the intelligent, when it was found that a body of ill-armed countrymen
had dared to meet, in a singularly bloody combat, twice their number of
regular troops, and that, too, under the guns of the king's shipping and
batteries. Rumours, for the moment, were rife in London, and the
political world was filled with gloomy anticipations of the future.
On the morning of the day alluded to, Westminster Abbey, as usual, was
open to the inspection of the curious and interested. Several parties
were scattered among its aisles and chapels, some reading the
inscriptions on the simple tablets of the dead which illustrate a
nation, in illustrating themselves; others listening to the names of
princes who derived their consequence from their thrones and alliances;
and still other sets, who were wandering among the more elaborate
memorials that have been raised equally to illustrate insignificance,
and to mark the final resting-places of more modern heroes and
statesmen. The beauty of the weather had brought out more visiters than
common, and not less than half-a-dozen equipages were in waiting, in and
about Palace Yard. Among others, one had a ducal coronet. This carriage
did not fail to attract the attention that is more than usually bestowed
on rank, in England. All were empty, however, and more than one party of
pedestrians entered the venerable edifice, rejoicing that the view of a
duke or a duchess, was to be thrown in, among the other sights,
gratuitously. All who passed on foot, however, were not influenced by
this vulgar feeling; for, one group went by, that did not even cast a
glance at the collection of carriages; the seniors of the party being
too much accustomed to such things to lend them a thought, and the
juniors too full of anticipations of what they were about to see, to
think of other matters. This party consisted of a handsome man of
fifty-odd, a lady some three or four years his junior well preserved and
still exceedingly attractive; a young man of twenty-six, and two lovely
girls, that looked like twins; though one was really twenty-one, and the
other but nineteen. These were Sir Wycherly and Lady Wychecombe,
Wycherly their only son, then just returned from a five years'
peregrination on the continent of Europe, and Mildred and Agnes, their
daughters. The rest of the family had arrived in England about a
fortnight before, to greet the heir on his return from the _grand tour_,
as it was then termed. The meeting had been one of love, though Lady
Wychecombe had to reprove a few innocent foreign affectations, as she
fancied them to be, in her son; and the baronet, himself, laughed at the
scraps of French, Italian, and German, that quite naturally mingled in
the young man's discourse. All this, however, cast no cloud over the
party, for it had ever been a family of entire confidence and unbroken
love.
"This is a most solemn place to me," observed Sir Wycherly, as they
entered at the Poets' corner, "and one in which a common man unavoidably
feels his own insignificance. But, we will first make our pilgrimage,
and look at these remarkable inscriptions as we come out. The tomb we
seek is in a chapel on the other side of the church, near to the great
doors. When I last saw it, it was quite alone."
On hearing this, the whole party moved on; though the two lovely young
Virginians cast wistful and curious eyes behind them, at the wonders by
which they were surrounded.
"Is not this an extraordinary edifice, Wycherly?" half whispered Agnes,
the youngest of the sisters, as she clung to one arm of her brother,
Mildred occupying the other. "Can the whole world furnish such another?"
"So much for hominy and James' river!" answered the young man,
laughing--"now could you but see the pile at Rouen, or that at Rheims,
or that at Antwerp, or even that at York, in this good kingdom, old
Westminster would have to fall back upon its little tablets and big
names. But Sir Wycherly stops; he must see what he calls his land-fall."
Sir Wycherly had indeed stopped. It was in consequence of having reached
the head of the _ch[oe]ur_, whence he could see the interior of the
recess, or chapel, towards which he had been moving. It still contained
but a single monument, and that was adorned with an anchor and other
nautical emblems. Even at that distance, the words "RICHARD
BLUEWATER, REAR-ADMIRAL OF THE WHITE," might be read. But the
baronet had come to a sudden halt, in consequence of seeing a party of
three enter the chapel, in which he wished to be alone with his own
family. The party consisted of an old man, who walked with tottering
steps, and this so much the more from the circumstance that he leaned on
a domestic nearly as old as himself, though of a somewhat sturdier
frame, and of a tall imposing-looking person of middle age, who followed
the two with patient steps. Several attendants of the cathedral watched
this party from a distance with an air of curiosity and respect; but
they had been requested not to accompany it to the chapel.
"They must be some old brother-officers of my poor uncle's, visiting his
tomb!" whispered Lady Wychecombe. "The very venerable gentleman has
naval emblems about his attire."
"_Do_ you--_can_ you forget him, love? 'Tis Sir Gervaise Oakes, the
pride of England! yet how changed! It is now five-and-twenty years since
we last met; still I knew him at a glance. The servant is old Galleygo,
his steward; but the gentleman with him is a stranger. Let us advance;
_we_ cannot be intruders in such a place."
Sir Gervaise paid no attention to the entrance of the Wychecombes. It
was evident, by the vacant look of his countenance, that time and hard
service had impaired his faculties, though his body remained entire; an
unusual thing for one who had been so often engaged. Still there were
glimmerings of lively recollections, and even of strong sensibilities
about his eyes, as sudden fancies crossed his mind. Once a year, the
anniversary of his friend's interment, he visited that chapel; and he
had now been brought here as much from habit, as by his own desire. A
chair was provided for him, and he sat facing the tomb, with the large
letters before his eyes. He regarded neither, though he bowed
courteously to the salute of the strangers. His companion at first
seemed a little surprised, if not offended at the intrusion; but when
Wycherly mentioned that they were relatives of the deceased, he also
bowed complacently, and made way for the ladies.
"This it is as what you wants to see, Sir Jarvy," observed Galleygo,
jogging his master's shoulder by way of jogging his memory. "Them 'ere
cables and hanchors, and that 'ere mizzen-mast, with a rear-admiral's
flag a-flying, is rigged in this old church, in honour of our friend
Admiral Blue, as was; but as is now dead and gone this many a long
year."
"Admiral of the Blue," repeated Sir Gervaise coldly. "You're mistaken,
Galleygo, I'm an admiral of the white, and admiral of the fleet in the
bargain. I know my own rank, sir."
"I knows that as well as you does yourself, Sir Jarvy," answered
Galleygo, whose grammar had rather become confirmed than improved, by
time, "or as well as the First Lord himself. But Admiral Blue was once
your best friend, and I doesn't at all admire at your forgetting
him--one of these long nights you'll be forgetting _me_."
"I beg your pardon, Galleygo; I rather think not. I remember _you_, when
a very young man."
"Well, and so you mought remember Admiral Blue, if you'd just try. I
know'd ye both when young luffs, myself."
"This is a painful scene," observed the stranger to Sir Wycherly, with a
melancholy smile. "This gentleman is now at the tomb of his dearest
friend; and yet, as you see, he appears to have lost all recollection
that such a person ever existed. For what do we live, if a few brief
years are to render our memories such vacant spots!"
"Has he been long in this way?" asked Lady Wychecombe, with interest.
The stranger started at the sound of her voice. He looked intently into
the face of the still fair speaker, before he answered; then he bowed,
and replied--
"He has been failing these five years, though his last visit here was
much less painful than this. But are our own memories perfect?--Surely,
I have seen that face before!--These young ladies, too--"
"Geoffrey--_dear_ cousin Geoffrey!" exclaimed Lady Wychecombe, holding
out both her hands. "It is--it must be the Duke of Glamorgan, Wycherly!"
No further explanations were needed. All the parties recognised each
other in an instant. They had not met for many--many years, and each had
passed the period of life when the greatest change occurs in the
physical appearance; but, now that the ice was broken, a flood of
recollections poured in. The duke, or Geoffrey Cleveland, as we prefer
to call him, kissed his cousin and her daughters with frank affection,
for no change of condition had altered his simple sea-habits, and he
shook hands with the gentlemen, with a cordiality like that of old
times. All this, however, was unheeded by Sir Gervaise, who sat looking
at the monument, in a dull apathy.
"Galleygo," he said; but Galleygo had placed himself before Sir
Wycherly, and thrust out a hand that looked like a bunch of knuckles.
"I knows ye!" exclaimed the steward, with a grin. "I know'd ye in the
offing yonder, but I couldn't make out your number. Lord, sir, if this
doesn't brighten Sir Jarvy up, again, and put him in mind of old times,
I shall begin to think we have run out cable to the better end."
"I will speak to him, duke, if you think it advisable?" said Sir
Wycherly, in an inquiring manner.
"Galleygo," put in Sir Gervaise, "what lubber fitted that cable?--he has
turned in the clench the wrong way."
"Ay--ay, sir, they _is_ great lubbers, them stone-cutters, Sir Jarvy;
and they knows about as much of ships, as ships knows of them. But here
is _young_ Sir Wycherly Wychecombe come to see you--the _old_ 'un's
nevy."
"Sir Wycherly, you are a very welcome guest. Bowldero is a poor place
for a gentleman of your merit; but such as it is, it is entirely at your
service. What did you say the gentleman's name was, Galleygo?"
"Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, the _young_ 'un--the _old_ 'un slipped the
night as we moored in his house."
"I hope, Sir Gervaise, I have not entirely passed from your
recollection; it would grieve me sadly to think so. And my poor uncle,
too; he who died of apoplexy in your presence!"
"_Nullus, nulla, nullum._ That's good Latin, hey! Duke? _Nullius,
nullius, nullius._ My memory _is_ excellent, gentlemen; nominative,
_penna_; genitive, _pennæ_, and so on."
"Now, Sir Jarvy, since you're veering out your Latin, _I_ should likes
to know if you can tell a 'clove-hitch' from a 'carrick-bend?'"
"That is an extraordinary question, Galleygo, to put to an old seaman!"
"Well, if you remembers _that_, why can't you just as reasonably
remember your old friend, Admiral Blue?"
"Admiral of the blue! I do recollect _many_ admirals of the blue. They
ought to make me an admiral of the blue, duke; I've been a rear-admiral
long enough."
"You've _been_ an admiral of the blue _once_; and that's enough for any
man," interrupted Galleygo, again in his positive manner; "and it isn't
five minutes since you know'd your own rank as well as the Secretary to
the Admiralty himself. He veers and hauls, in this fashion, on an idee,
gentlemen, until he doesn't know one end of it from t'other."
"This is not uncommon with men of great age," observed the duke. "They
sometimes remember the things of their youth, while the whole of later
life is a blank. I have remarked this with our venerable friend, in
whose mind I think it will not be difficult, however, to revive the
recollection of Admiral Bluewater, and even of yourself, Sir Wycherly.
Let _me_ make the effort, Galleygo."
"Yes, Lord Geoffrey," for so the steward always called the quondam
reefer, "you does handle him more like a quick-working boat, than any on
us; and so I'll take an hopportunity of just overhauling our old
lieutenant's young 'uns, and of seeing what sort of craft he has set
afloat for the next generation."
"Sir Gervaise," said the Duke, leaning over the chair, "here is Sir
Wycherly Wychecombe, who once served a short time with us as a
lieutenant; it was when you were in the Plantagenet. You remember the
Plantagenet, I trust, my dear sir?"
"The Plantagenets? Certainly, duke; I read all about them when a boy.
Edwards, and Henrys, and _Richards_--" at the last name he stopped; the
muscles of his face twitched; memory had touched a sensitive chord. But
it was too faintly, to produce more than a pause.
"There, now," growled Galleygo, in Agnes' face, he being just then
employed in surveying her through a pair of silver spectacles that were
a present from his master, "you see, he has forgotten the old Planter;
and the next thing, he'll forget to eat his dinner. It's _wicked_, Sir
Jarvy, to forget _such_ a ship."
"I trust, at least, you have not forgotten Richard Bluewater?" continued
the Duke, "he who fell in our last action with the Comte de Vervillin?"
A gleam of intelligence shot into the rigid and wrinkled face; the eye
lighted, and a painful smile struggled around the lips.
"What, _Dick_!" he exclaimed, in a voice stronger than that in which he
had previously spoken. "_Dick!_ hey! duke? _good, excellent Dick?_ We
were midshipmen together, my lord duke; and I loved him like a brother!"
"I _knew_ you did! and I dare say now you can recollect the melancholy
occasion of his death?"
"Is Dick _dead_?" asked the admiral, with a vacant gaze.
"Lord--Lord, Sir Jarvy, you knows he is, and that 'ere marvel
constructure is his monerment--now you _must_ remember the old Planter,
and the County of Fairvillian, and the threshing we guv'd him?"
"Pardon me, Galleygo; there is no occasion for warmth. When I was a
midshipman, warmth of expression was disapproved of by all the elder
officers."
"You cause me to lose ground," said the Duke, looking at the steward by
way of bidding him be silent: "is it not extraordinary, Sir Wycherly,
how his mind reverts to his youth, overlooking the scenes of latter
life! Yes, _Dick is_ dead, Sir Gervaise. He fell in that battle in which
you were doubled on by the French--when you had le Foudroyant on one
side of you, and le Pluton on the other--"
"_I remember it!_" interrupted Sir Gervaise, in a clear strong voice,
his eye flashing with something like the fire of youth--"I remember it!
Le Foudroyant was on our starboard beam; le Pluton a little on our
larboard bow--Bunting had gone aloft to look out for Bluewater--no--poor
Bunting was killed--"
"Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, who afterwards married Mildred Bluewater,
Dick's niece," put in the baronet, himself, almost as eager as the
admiral had now become; "Sir Wycherly Wychecombe _had_ been aloft, but
was returned to report the Pluton coming down!"
"So he did!--God bless him! A clever youth, and he _did_ marry Dick's
niece. God bless them _both_. Well, sir, you're a stranger, but the
story will interest you. There we lay, almost smothered in the smoke,
with one two-decker at work on our starboard beam, and another hammering
away on the larboard bow, with our top-masts over the side, and the guns
firing through the wreck."
"Ay, now you're getting it like a book!" exclaimed Galleygo exultingly,
flourishing his stick, and strutting about the little chapel; "that's
just the way things was, as I knows from seeing 'em!"
"I'm quite certain I'm right, Galleygo?"
"Right! your honour's righter than any log-book in the fleet. Give it to
'em, Sir Jarvy, larboard and starboard!"
"That we did--that we did"--continued the old man earnestly, becoming
even grand in aspect, as he rose, always gentleman-like and graceful,
but filled with native fire, "that did we! de Vervillin was on our
right, and des Prez on our left--the smoke was choking us
all--Bunting--no; young Wychecombe was at my side; he said a fresh
Frenchman was shoving in between us and le Pluton, sir--God forbid! I
_thought_; for we had enough of them, us it was. There she comes! See,
here is her flying-jib-boom-end--and there--hey! Wychecombe?--_That's_
the _old Roman_, shoving through the smoke!--Cæsar himself! and there
stands Dick and young Geoffrey Cleveland--_he_ was of your family,
duke--there stands Dick Bluewater, between the knight-heads, waving his
hat--_HURRAH!_--He's true, at last!--He's true, at last--_HURRAH!
HURRAH!_"
The clarion tones rose like a trumpet's blast, and the cheering of the
old sailor rang in the arches of the Abbey Church, causing all within
hearing to start, as if a voice spoke from the tombs. Sir Gervaise,
himself, seemed surprised; he looked up at the vaulted roof, with a gaze
half-bewildered, half-delighted.
"Is this Bowldero, or Glamorgan House, my Lord Duke," he asked, in a
whisper.
"It is neither, Admiral Oakes, but Westminster Abbey; and this is the
tomb of your friend, rear-admiral Richard Bluewater."
"Galleygo, help me to kneel," the old man added in the manner of a
corrected school-boy. "The stoutest of us all, should kneel to God, in
his own temple. I beg pardon, gentlemen; I wish to pray."
The Duke of Glamorgan and Sir Wycherly Wychecombe helped the admiral to
his knees, and Galleygo, as was his practice, knelt beside his master,
who bowed his head on his man's shoulders. This touching spectacle
brought all the others into the same humble attitude. Wycherly, Mildred,
and their children, with the noble, kneeling and praying in company. One
by one, the latter arose; still Galleygo and his master continued on the
pavement. At length Geoffrey Cleveland stepped forward, and raised the
old man, placing him, with Wycherly's assistance, in the chair. Here he
sat, with a calm smile on his aged features, his open eyes riveted
seemingly on the name of his friend, perfectly dead. There had been a
reaction, which suddenly stopped the current of life, at the heart.
Thus expired Sir Gervaise Oakes, full of years and of honours; one of
the bravest and most successful of England's sea-captains. He had lived
his time, and supplied an instance of the insufficiency of worldly
success to complete the destiny of man; having, in a degree, survived
his faculties, and the consciousness of all he had done, and all he
merited. As a small offset to this failing of nature, he had regained a
glimmering view of one of the most striking scenes, and of much the most
enduring sentiment, of a long life, which God, in mercy, permitted to be
terminated in the act of humble submission to his own greatness and
glory.