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Peter Simple

<h3>Chapter Twenty Nine.</h3> <h4>A long conversation with Mr Chucks—The advantages of having a prayer-book in your pocket—We run down the trades—Swinburne, the quarter-master, and his yarns—the captain falls sick.</h4> The next day the captain came on board with sealed orders, with directions not to open them until off Ushant. In the afternoon, we weighed and made sail. It was a fine northerly wind, and the Bay of Biscay was smooth. We bore up, set all the studding sails, and ran along at the rate of eleven miles an hour. As I could not appear on the quarter-deck, I was put down on the sick list. Captain Savage, who was very particular, asked what was the matter with me. The surgeon replied, “An inflamed eye.” The captain asked no more questions; and I took care to keep out of his way. I walked in the evening on the forecastle, when I renewed my intimacy with Mr Chucks, the boatswain, to whom I gave a full narrative of all my adventures in France. “I have been ruminating, Mr Simple,” said he, “how such a stripling as you could have gone through so much fatigue, and now I know how it is. It is blood, Mr Simple—all blood—you are descended from good blood; and there’s as much difference between nobility and the lower classes, as there is between a racer and a cart-horse.” “I cannot agree with you, Mr Chucks. Common people are quite as brave as those who are well-born. You do not mean to say that you are not brave—that the seamen on board this ship are not brave?” “No, no, Mr Simple but as I observed about myself, my mother was a woman who could not be trusted, and there is no saying who was my father; and she was a very pretty woman to boot, which levels all distinctions for the moment. As for the seamen, God knows, I should do them an injustice if I did not acknowledge that they were as brave as lions. But there are two kinds of bravery, Mr Simple—the bravery of the moment, and the courage of bearing up for a long while. Do you understand me?” “I think I do; but still do not agree with you. Who will bear more fatigue than our sailors?” “Yes, yes, Mr Simple, that is because they are endured to it from their hard life: but if the common sailors were all such little thread-papers as you, and had been brought up so carefully, they would not have gone through all you have. That’s my opinion, Mr Simple—there’s nothing like blood.” “I think, Mr Chucks, you carry your ideas on that subject too far.” “I do not Mr Simple; and I think, moreover, that he who has more to lose than another will always strive more. But a common man only fights for his own credit; but when a man is descended from a long line of people famous in history, and has a coat in arms, criss-crossed, and stuck all over with lions and unicorns to support the dignity of—why, has he not to fight for the credit of all his ancestors, whose names would be disgraced if he didn’t behave well?” “I agree with you, Mr Chucks, in the latter remark, to a certain extent.” “Mr Simple, we never know the value of good descent when we have it, but it’s when we cannot get it, that we can ’preciate it. I wish I had been born a nobleman—I do, by heavens!” and Mr Chucks slapped his fist against the funnel, so as to make it ring again. “Well, Mr Simple,” continued he, after a pause, “it is however a great comfort to me that I have parted company with that fool, Mr Muddle, with his twenty-six thousand and odd years, and that old woman, Dispart the gunner. You don’t know how those two men used to fret me; it was very silly, but I couldn’t help it. Now the warrant officers of this ship appear to be very respectable, quiet men who know their duty, and attend to it, and are not too familiar, which I hate and detest. You went home, Mr Simple, to your friends, of course, when you arrived in England?” “I did, Mr Chucks, and spent some days with my grandfather, Lord Privilege, whom you say you met at dinner.” “Well, and how was the old gentleman?” inquired the boatswain with a sigh. “Very well, considering his age.” “Now do, pray, Mr Simple, tell me all about it; from the time that the servants met you at the door until you went away. Describe to me the house and all the rooms, for I like to hear of all these things, although I can never see them again.” To please Mr Chucks, I entered into a full detail, which he listened to very attentively, until it was late, and then with difficulty would he permit me to leave off, and go down to my hammock. The next day, rather a singular circumstance occurred. One of the midshipmen was mast-headed by the second lieutenant, for not waiting on deck until he was relieved. He was down below when he was sent for, and expecting to be punished from what the head-master told him, he thrust the first book into his jacket-pocket which he could lay his hand on, to amuse himself at the mast-head, and then ran on deck. As he surmised he was immediately ordered aloft. He had not been there more than five minutes, when a sudden squall carried away the main-topgallant mast, and away he went flying over to leeward (for the wind: had shifted, and the yards were now braced up). Had he gone overboard as he could not swim, he would in all probability have been drowned; but the book in his pocket brought him up in the jaws of the fore-brace, block, where he hung until taken out by the main-topmen. Now it so happened that it was a prayer-book which he had laid hold of in his hurry, and those who were superstitious declared it was all owing to his having taken a religious book with him. I did not think so, as any other book would have answered the purpose quite as well: still the midshipman himself thought so, and it was productive of good, as he was a sad scamp, and behaved much better afterwards. But I had nearly forgotten to mention a circumstance which occurred on the day of our sailing, which will be eventually found to have had a great influence upon my after-life. It was this I received a letter from my father, evidently written in great vexation and annoyance, informing me that my uncle, whose wife I have already mentioned had two daughters, and was again expected to be confined, had suddenly broke up his housekeeping, discharged every servant, and proceeded to Ireland under an assumed name. No reason had been given for this unaccountable proceeding; and not even my grandfather, or any of the members of the family, had had notice of his intention. Indeed, it was by mere accident that his departure was discovered, about a fortnight after it had taken place. My father had taken a great deal of pains to find out where he was residing; but although my uncle was traced to Cork, from that town all clue was lost, but still it was supposed, from inquiries, that he was not very far from thence. “Now,” observed my father, in his letter, “I cannot help surmising, that my brother, in his anxiety to retain the advantages of a title to his own family, has resolved to produce to the world a spurious child as his own, by some contrivance or another. His wife’s health is very bad, and she is not likely to have a large family. Should the one now expected prove a daughter, there is little chance of his ever having another and I have no hesitation in declaring it my conviction, that the measure has been taken with a view of defrauding you of your chance of eventually being called to the House of Lords.” I showed this letter to O’Brien, who, after reading it over two or three times, gave his opinion that my father was right in his conjectures. “Depend upon it, Peter, there’s foul play intended, that is, if foul play is rendered necessary.” “But, O’Brien, I cannot imagine why, if my uncle has no son of his own, he should prefer acknowledging a son of any other person’s instead of his own nephew.” “But I can, Peter: your uncle is not a man likely to live very long, as you know. The doctor says that, with his short neck, his life is not worth two years’ purchase. Now if he had a son, consider that his daughters would be much better off, and much more likely to get married; besides, there are many reasons which I won’t talk about now, because it’s no use making you think your uncle to be a scoundrel. But I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll go down to my cabin directly, and write to Father McGrath, telling him the whole affair, and desiring him to ferret him out, and watch him narrowly, and I’ll bet you a dozen of claret, that in less than a week he’ll find him out, and will dog him to the last. He’ll get hold of his Irish servants, and you little know the power that a priest has in our country. Now give the description as well as you can of your uncle’s appearance, also of that of his wife, and the number of their family, and their ages. Father McGrath must have all particulars, and then let him alone for doing what is needful.” I complied with O’Brien’s directions as well as I could, and he wrote a very long letter to Father McGrath, which was sent on shore by a careful hand. I answered my father’s letter, and then thought no more about the matter. Our sealed orders were opened, and proved our destination to be the West Indies, as we expected. We touched at Madeira to take in some wine for the ship’s company; but as we only remained one day, we were not permitted to go on shore. Fortunate indeed would it have been if we had never gone there; for the day after, our captain, who had dined with the consul, was taken alarmingly ill. From the symptoms, the surgeon dreaded that he had been poisoned by something which he had eaten, and which most probably had been cooked in a copper vessel not properly tinned. We were all very anxious that he should recover; but, on the contrary, he appeared to grow worse and worse every day, wasting away, and dying, as they say, by inches. At last he was put in his cot, and never rose from it again. This melancholy circumstance, added to the knowledge that we were proceeding to an unhealthy climate, caused a gloom throughout the ship; and although the trade wind carried us along bounding over the bright blue sea—although the weather was now warm, yet not too warm—although the sun rose in splendour, and all was beautiful and cheering, the state of the captain’s health was a check to all mirth. Every one trod the deck softly, and spoke in a low voice, that he might not be disturbed; all were anxious to have the morning report of the surgeon, and our conversation was generally upon the sickly climate, the yellow fever, of death and the palisades where they buried us. Swinburne, the quarter-master, was in my watch, and as he had been long in the West Indies, I used to obtain all the information from him that I could. The old fellow had a secret pleasure in frightening me as much as he could. “Really, Mr Simple, you ax so many questions,” he would say, as I accosted him while he was at his station at the conn, “I wish you wouldn’t ax so many questions, and make yourself uncomfortable—‘steady so’—‘steady it is;’—with regard to Yellow Jack, as we calls the yellow fever; it’s a devil incarnate, that’s sartain—you’re well and able to take your allowance in the morning, and dead as a herring ’fore night. First comes a bit of a headache—you goes to the doctor, who bleeds you like a pig—then you go out of your senses—then up comes the black vomit, and then it’s all over with you, and you go to the land crabs, who pick your bones as clean and as white as a sea elephant’s tooth. But there be one thing to be said in favour of Yellow Jack, a’ter all. You dies straight, like a gentleman—not cribbled up like a snow-fish, chucked out on the ice of the river St. Lawrence, with your knees up to your nose, or your toes stuck into your arm-pits, as does take place in some of your foreign complaints; but straight, quite straight, and limber, like a gentleman. Still Jack is a little mischievous, that’s sartain. In the Euridiscy we had as fine a ship’s company as was ever piped aloft—‘Steady, starboard, my man, you’re half a pint off your course;’—we dropped our anchor in Port Royal, and we thought that there was mischief brewing, for thirty-eight sharks followed the ship into the harbour, and played about us day and night. I used to watch them during the night watch, as their fins, above water, skimmed along, leaving a trail of light behind them; and the second night I said to the sentry abaft, as I was looking at them smelling under the counter—‘Soldier,’ says I, ‘them sharks are mustering under the orders of Yellow Jack;’ and I no sooner mentioned Yellow Jack, than the sharks gave a frisky plunge, every one of them, as much as to say, ‘Yes, so we are, damn your eyes.’ The soldier was so frightened, that he would have fallen overboard, if I hadn’t caught him by the scruff of the neck, for he was standing on the top of the taffrail. As it was, he dropped his musket over the stern, which the sharks dashed at from every quarter, making the sea look like fire—and he had it charged to his wages, 1 pound 15 shillings, I think. However, the fate of his musket gave him an idea of what would have happened to him, if he had fallen instead of it—and he never got on the taffrail again. ‘Steady, port—mind your helm, Smith—you can listen to my yarn all the same.’ Well, Mr Simple, Yellow Jack came, sure enough. First the purser was called to account for all his roguery. We didn’t care much about the land crabs eating him, who made so many poor dead men chew tobacco, cheating their wives and relations, or Greenwich Hospital, as it might happen. Then went two of the middies, just about your age, Mr Simple; they, poor fellows, went off in a sad hurry; then went the master—and so it went on, till at last we had no more nor sixty men left in the ship—The captain died last, and then Yellow Jack had filled his maw, and left the rest of us alone. As soon as the captain died, all the sharks left the ship, and we never saw any more of them.” Such were the yarns told to me and the other midshipmen during the night-watches; and I can assure the reader that they gave us no small alarm. Every day that we worked our day’s work, and found ourselves so much nearer to the islands, did we feel as if we were so much nearer to our graves. I once spoke to O’Brien about it, and he laughed. “Peter,” says he, “fear kills more people than the yellow fever, or any other complaint of the West Indies. Swinburne is an old rogue, and only laughing at you. The devil’s not half so black as he’s painted—nor the yellow fever half so yellow, I presume.” We were now fast nearing the island of Barbadoes, the weather was beautiful, the wind always fair; the flying fish rose in shoals, startled by the foaming seas, which rolled away, and roared from the bows as our swift frigate cleaved through the water; the porpoises played about us in thousands—the bonetas and dolphins at one time chased the flying fish, and, at others, appeared to be delighted in keeping company with the rapid vessel. Everything was beautiful, and we all should have been happy, had it not been for the state of Captain Savage, in the first place, who daily became worse and worse, and from the dread of the hell which we were about to enter through such a watery paradise. Mr Falcon, who was in command, was grave and thoughtful; he appeared indeed to be quite miserable at the chance which would insure his own promotion. In every attention and every care that could be taken to insure quiet, and afford relief to the captain, he was unremitting; the offence of making a noise was now, with him, a greater crime than drunkenness, or even mutiny. “When within three days’ sail of Barbadoes, it fell almost calm, and the captain became much worse; and now, for the first time, did we behold the great white shark” of the Atlantic. There are several kinds of sharks, but the most dangerous are the great white shark and the ground shark. The former grows to an enormous length—the latter is seldom very long, not more than twelve feet, but spreads to a great breadth. We could not hook the sharks as they played around us, for Mr Falcon would not permit it, lest the noise of hauling them on board should disturb the captain. A breeze again sprang up. In two days we were close to the island, and the men were desired to look out for the land. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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