“‘Luck!’ nonsense. There is no such thing. Life is not a game of chance
any more than chess is. If you lose, you have no one but yourself to
blame.”
This was said by a young lieutenant in the Royal Navy, to a middle-aged
midshipman, his elder brother.
“Do you mean to say that luck had nothing to do with Fine Gentleman
Bobbin passing for lieutenant, and my being turned back?” was the
rejoinder.
“Bobbin, though a dandy, is a good seaman, and--and----.” The speaker
looked another way, and hesitated.
“I am _not_, you would add--if you had courage. But I say I am, and a
better seaman than Bobbin.”
“Practically, perhaps, for you are ten years older in the service. But
it was in the theoretical part of seamanship--which is equally
important--that you broke down before the examiners,” continued the
younger officer, in tones of earnest but sorrowful reproach, “You never
_would_ study.”
“I’ll tell you what it is, master Ferdinand,” said the elder middy, not
without a show of displeasure. “I don’t think this is the correct sort
of conversation to be going on between two brothers after a five years’
separation.”
The young lieutenant laid his hand soothingly on his brother’s arm, and
entreated him to take what he said in good part.
“Well, well!” rejoined the middy, with a laugh half-forced. “Take care
what you are about, or, by Jove, I’ll inform against you.”
“What for?”
“Why, for preaching without a license. Besides, you were once as bad as
you pretend I am.”
“I own it with sorrow; but I was warned in time by the wretched end of
poor James Barber----”
“Of whom?” asked the elder brother, starting back as he pushed his glass
along the table. “You don’t mean Jovial Jemmy, as we used to call him;
once my messmate in the brig ‘Rollock.’”
“Yes, I do.”
“What! dead?”
“Yes.”
“Why, it was one of our great delights, when in harbor and on shore, to
‘go the rounds’--as he called it--with Jovial Jemmy. He understood life
from stem to stern--from truck to keel. He knew everybody, from the
First Lord downwards. I have seen him recognized by _the_ Duke one
minute, and the next pick up with a strolling player, and familiarly
treat him at a tavern. He once took me to a quadrille party at the
Duchess of Durrington’s, where he seemed to know and be known to
everybody present, and then adjourned to the Cider Cellars, where he was
equally intimate with all sorts of queer characters. Though a favorite
among the aristocracy, he was equally welcome in less exclusive
societies. He was ‘Brother,’ ‘Past Master,’ ‘Warden,’ ‘Noble Grand,’ or
‘President’ of all sorts of Lodges and Fraternities. Uncommonly knowing
was Jemmy in all sorts of club and fashionable gossip. He knew who gave
the best dinners, and was always invited to the best balls. He was a
capital judge of champagne, and when he betted upon a horse-race
everybody backed him. He could hum all the fashionable songs, and was
the fourth man who could dance the polka when it was first imported.
Then he was as profound in bottled stout, Welsh rabbits, Burton ale,
devilled kidneys, and bowls of Bishop, as he was in Roman punch, French
cookery, and Italian singers. Afloat, he was the soul of fun:--he got up
all our private theatricals, told all the best stories, and sung comic
songs that made even the Purser laugh.”
“An extent and variety of knowledge and accomplishments,” said
Lieutenant Fid, “which had the precise effect of blasting his prospects
in life. He was, as you remember, at last dismissed the service for
intemperance and incompetence.”
“When did you see him last?”
“What, _alive_?” inquired Ferdinand Fid, changing countenance.
“Of course! Surely you do not mean to insinuate that you have seen his
ghost!”
The lieutenant was silent; and the midshipman took a deep draught of his
favorite mixture--equal portions of rum and water--and hinted to his
younger brother, the lieutenant, the expediency of immediately confiding
the story to the Marines; for he declined to credit it. He then ventured
another recommendation, which was that Ferdinand should throw the
impotent temperance tipple he was then imbibing “over the side of the
Ship”--which meant the tavern of that name in Greenwich, at the open
bow-window of which they were then sitting--and clear his intellects by
something stronger.
“I can afford to be laughed at,” said the younger Fid, “because I have
gained immeasurably by the delusion, if it be one; but if ever there was
a ghost, I have seen the ghost of James Barber. I, like yourself and he,
was nearly ruined by love of amusement and intemperance, when he--or
whatever else it might have been--came to my aid.”
“Let us hear. I see I am ‘in’ for a ghost story.”
“Well; it was eighteen forty-one when I came home in the ‘Arrow’ with
despatches from the coast of Africa: you were lying in the Tagus in the
‘Bobstay.’ Ours, you know, was rather a thirsty station; a man inclined
for it comes home from the Slaving Coasts with a determination to make
up his lee way. I did mine with a vengeance. As usual, I looked up
‘Jovial Jemmy.’”
“’Twas easy to find him if you knew where to go.”
“I _did_ know, and went. He had by that time got tired of his more
aristocratic friends. Respectability was too ‘slow’ for him, so I found
him presiding over the ‘Philanthropic Raspers,’ at the ‘Union Jack.’ He
received me with open arms, and took me, as you say, the ‘rounds.’ I
can’t recall that week’s dissipation without a shudder. We rushed about
from ball to tavern, from theatre to supper-room, from club to
gin-palace, as if our lives depended on losing not a moment. We had not
time to walk, so we galloped about in cabs. On the fourth night, when I
was beginning to feel knocked up, and tired of the same songs, the same
quadrilles, the bad whiskey, the suffocating tobacco smoke, and the
morning’s certain and desperate penalties, I remarked to Jemmy that it
was a miracle how he had managed to weather it for so many years. ‘What
a hardship you would deem it,’ I added, ‘if you were _obliged_ to go the
same weary round from one year’s end to another.’”
“What did he say to that?” asked Philip.
“Why, I never saw him so taken aback. He looked quite fiercely at me,
and replied, ‘I _am_ obliged!’”
“How did he make that out?”
“Why, he had tippled and dissipated his constitution into such a state
that use had become second nature. Excitement was his natural condition,
and he dared not become quite sober for fear of a total collapse--or
dropping down like a shot in the water.”
The midshipman had his glass in his hand, but forebore to taste
it.--“Well, what then?”
“The ‘rounds’ lasted two nights longer. I was fairly beaten. Cast-iron
could not have stood it. I was prostrated in bed with fever--and worse.”
Ferdinand was agitated, and took a large draught of his lemonade.
“Well, well, you need not enlarge upon that,” replied Phil Phid, raising
his glass towards his lips, but again thinking better of it; “I heard
how bad you were from Seton, who shaved your head.”
“I had scarcely recovered when the ‘Arrow’ was ordered back, and I made
a vow.”
“Took the pledge, perhaps!” interjected the mid, with a slight curl of
his lip.
“No! I determined to work more and play less. We had a capital naval
instructor aboard, and our commander was as good an officer as ever
trod the deck. I studied--a little too hard perhaps, for I was laid up
again. The ‘Arrow’ was, as usual, as good as her name, and we shot
across to Jamaica in five weeks. One evening as we were lying in
Kingston harbor, Seton, who had come over to join the Commodore as full
surgeon, told me what he had never ventured to divulge before.”
“What was that?”
“Why, that, on the very day I left London, James Barber died of a
frightful attack of _delirium tremens_!”
“Poor Jemmy!” said the elder Fid, sorrowfully, taking a long pull of
consolation from his rummer. “Little did I think, while singing some of
your best songs off Belem Castle, that I had seen you for the last
time!”
“_I_ hadn’t seen him for the last time,” returned the lieutenant, with
awful significance.
Philip assumed a careless air, and said, “Go on.”
“We were ordered home in eighteen forty-five, and paid off in January. I
went to Portsmouth; was examined, and passed as lieutenant.”
This allusion to his brother’s better condition made poor Philip look
rather blank.
“On being confirmed at the Admiralty,” continued Ferdinand, “I had to
give a dinner to the ‘Arrows;’ which I did at the Salopian, Charing
Cross. In the excess of my joy at promotion, my determination of
temperance and avoidance of what is called ‘society’ was swamped. I kept
it up once more; I went the ‘rounds,’ and accepted all the dinner,
supper, and ball invitations I could get, invariably ending each morning
in one of the old haunts of dissipation. Old associations with James
Barber returned, and like causes produced similar effects. One morning
while maundering home, I began to feel the same wild confusion as had
previously commenced my dreadful malady.”
“Ah! a little touched in the top-hamper.”
“It was just day-light. Thinking to cool my self, I jumped into a
wherry to get pulled down here to Greenwich.”
“Of course you were not quite sober.”
“Don’t ask! I do not like even to allude to my sensations, for fear of
recalling them. My brain seemed in a flame. The boat appeared to be
going at the rate of twenty miles an hour. Fast as we were cleaving the
current, I heard my name distinctly called out. I reconnoitred, but
could see nobody. I looked over on one side of the gun-wale, and, while
doing so, felt something touch me from the other; I felt a chill; I
turned round and saw----”
“Whom?” asked the midshipman, holding his breath.
“What seemed to be James Barber.”
“Was he wet?”
“As dry as you are.”
“I summoned courage to speak. ‘Hillo! some mistake!’ I exclaimed.
“‘Not at all,’ was the reply. ‘I’m James Barber. Don’t be frightened,
I’m harmless.’
“‘But----’
“‘I know what you are going to say,’ interrupted the intruder. ‘Seton
did not deceive you--I am only an occasional visitor _up here_.’
“This brought me up with a round turn, and I had sense enough to wish my
friend would vanish as he came. ‘Where shall we land you?’ I asked.
“‘Oh, any where--it don’t matter. I have got to be out every night and
all night; and the nights are plaguy long just now.’
“I could not muster a word.
“‘Ferd Fid,’ continued the voice, which now seemed about fifty fathoms
deep; and fast as we were dropping down the stream, the boat gave a heel
to starboard, as if she had been broadsided by a tremendous wave--‘Ferd
Fid, you recollect how I used to kill time; how I sang, drank, danced,
and supped all night long, and then slept and soda-watered it all day.
You remember what a happy fellow I seemed. Fools like yourself thought I
was so; but I say again, I wasn’t,’ growled the voice, letting itself
down a few fathoms deeper. ‘Often and often I would have given the
world to have been a market-gardener or a dealer in chick-weed while
roaring “He is a jolly good fellow,” and “We won’t go home till
morning!” as I emerged with a group from some tavern into Covent Garden
market. But I’m punished fearfully for my sins now. What do you think I
have got to do every night of my--never mind--what do you think is now
marked out as my dreadful punishment?’
“‘Well, to walk the earth, I suppose,’ said I.
“‘No.’
“‘To paddle about in the Thames from sunset to sun-rise?’
“‘Worse. Ha, ha!’ (his laugh sounded like the booming of a gong). ‘I
only wish my doom was merely to be a mud-lark. No, no, I’m condemned to
rush about from one evening party and public house to another. At the
former I am bound for a certain term on each night to dance all the
quadrilles, and a few of the polkas and waltzes with clumsy partners;
and then I have to eat stale pastry and tough poultry before I am let
off from _that_ place. After, I am bound to go to some cellar or singing
place to listen to “Hail smiling morn,” “Mynheer Van Dunk,” “The monks
of old,” “Happy land,” imitations of the London actors, and to hear a
whole canto of dreary extempore verses. I must also smoke a dozen of
cigars, knowing--as in my present condition I must know,--what they are
made of. The whole to end on each night with unlimited brandy (British)
and water, and eternal intoxication. Oh, F. F., be warned! Take my
advice; keep up your resolution, and don’t do it again. When afloat,
drink nothing stronger than purser’s tea. When on shore be temperate in
your pleasures; don’t turn night into day; don’t exchange wholesome
amusements for rabid debauchery, robust health for disease and--well, I
won’t mention it. When afloat, study your profession and don’t get
cashiered and cold-shouldered as I was. Promise me--nay, you must
swear!’
“At this word I thought I heard a gurgling sound in the water.
“‘If I can get six solemn pledges before the season’s over, I’m only to
go these horrid rounds during the meeting of Parliament.’
“‘_Will_ you swear?’ again urged the voice, with persuasive agony.
“I was just able to comply.
“‘Ten thousand thanks!’ were the next words I heard; ‘I’m off, for there
is an awful pint of pale ale, a chop, and a glass of brandy and water
overdue yet, and I must devour them at the Shades.’ (We were then close
to London Bridge.) ‘Don’t let the waterman pull to shore; I can get
there without troubling him.’
“I remember no more. When sensation returned, I was in bed, in this very
house, a shade worse than I had been from the previous attack.”
“That,” said Philip, who had left his tumbler untasted, “must have been
when you had your head shaved for the second time.”
“Exactly so.”
“And you really believe it was Jovial James’ ghost,” inquired Fid,
earnestly.
“Would it be rational to doubt it?”
Philip rose and paced the room in deep thought for several minutes. He
cast two or three earnest looks at his brother, and a few longing ones
at his glass. In the course of his cogitation, he groaned out more than
once an apostrophe to poor “James Barber.” At length he declared his
mind was made up.
“Ferd!” he said, “I told you awhile ago to throw your lemonade over the
side of the Ship. Don’t. Souse out my grog instead.”
The lieutenant did as he was bid.
“And now,” said Fid the elder, “ring for soda water; for one must drink
_something_.”
* * * * *
Last year it was my own good fortune to sail with Mr. Philip Fid in the
“Bombottle” (74). He is not exactly a tee-totaller; but he never drinks
spirits, and will not touch wine unmixed with water, for fear of its
interfering with his studies, at which he is, with the assistance of the
naval instructor (who is also the chaplain), assiduous. He is our first
mate, and the smartest officer in the ship. Seton is our surgeon.
One day, after a cheerful ward-room dinner (of which Fid was a guest),
while we were at anchor in the Bay of Cadiz, the conversation happened
to turn upon Jovial Jemmy’s apparition, which had become the
best-authenticated ghost story in Her Majesty’s Naval service. On that
occasion Seton undertook to explain the mystery upon medical principles.
“The fact is,” he said, “what the commander of the ‘Arrow’ saw
(Ferdinand had by this time got commissioned in his old ship) was a
spectrum, produced by that morbid condition of the brain, which is
brought on by the immoderate use of stimulants, and by dissipation; we
call it Transient Monomania. I could show you dozens of such ghosts in
the books, if you only had patience while I turned them up.”
Everybody declared that was unnecessary. We would take the doctor’s word
for it; though I feel convinced not a soul besides the chaplain and
myself had one iota of his faith shaken in the real presence of Jovial
Jemmy’s _post-mortem_ appearance to Fid the younger.
Ghost or no ghost, however, the story had had the effect of converting
Philip Fid from one of the most intemperate and inattentive to one of
the soberest and best of Her Majesty’s officers. May his promotion be
steady!