Фредерик Марриет
The King's Own

Chapter Eighteen.

So; poverty at home, and debts abroad,

My present fortune bad; my hopes yet worse!

What will become of me?

Southeron’s Isabella.

The gentleman who had supposed himself the next heir to the entailed property, vacant by the demise of Admiral De Courcy, and whose hasty visit and departure from Hall we have mentioned in a previous chapter, was a third cousin of the deceased. His history is short. He had squandered away the personal property left him by his father; and his family estate, which was of greater extent than value, was mortgaged for even more than it was worth. He had lately subsisted by borrowing large sums of money at exorbitant interest, upon the expectancy of succeeding to the property of Admiral De Courcy. The result of his visit to the hall was, therefore, unsatisfactory in more ways than one; and before he had arrived at his own residence, his obsequious little friend in black had reminded him of certain bonds which were in his possession, and assumed a tone and demeanour towards his client very different from that in which he had addressed the supposed inheritor of the large property of D — ; intimating in very plain terms that some speedy arrangement must be made.

Rainscourt, who had nothing left except the old castle on his property at Galway, his manorial rights, and the unbounded attachment and devotion of the wild tenants, who looked upon him as their feudal chieftain, felt convinced that he had no resource but to escape from his numerous creditors, who would not hesitate to put him in durance, and whose impatience had been with difficulty restrained until the death of the admiral. The speedy arrangement upon which he determined was, to set off immediately for Ireland, and, by regaining his castle, defy legal authority, — if there could be found any that would be rash enough to attempt his person, when encircled by his lawless retainers.

As he descended from the chaise, at the handsomely furnished lodgings, in the west end of the metropolis, which he had engaged, his companion informed him, with a haughty air, that he would have the honour of paying his respects on the ensuing noon; while Rainscourt, with his usual indifference to money, dismissed the post boys with a handsome gratuity, although there were not many guineas left in his purse; and then proceeded up to the drawing room, on the first-floor, where his wife and only daughter were anxiously awaiting his arrival.

Mrs Rainscourt, still a fine and elegant woman, had, in her youth, been remarkable for her great personal attractions; and for two seasons, had been considered as the belle of the Irish metropolis. She was, at that period, a high-spirited and generous-minded girl, easily provoked, and as easily appeased — proud of her beauty and her accomplishments, which her worldly-minded parents were in hopes would be bartered for a coronet. Rainscourt was also, at that time, one of the handsomest, if not the handsomest man in Ireland, with the advantage of polished manners, talent, and ancient birth. Received and courted in every society, he was as indefatigable in squandering away his property as the parents of Mrs Rainscourt were in trying to obtain an advantageous establishment for their daughter. Rainscourt was proud and overbearing in disposition: vain, to excess, of his personal advantages, he considered himself irresistible with the other sex. He had seen and admired his future spouse; but still, as he required an alliance which would enable him to indulge in his extravagance, and as her parents were aware that Rainscourt was, or would soon be, a ruined man, in all probability they would never have come in contact, but have rolled in different orbits, more consonant to their views and their happiness, had it not occurred that, at a large and convivial party, Rainscourt’s vanity had been piqued by his companions, who told him that he never could obtain the hand of Miss — , whose parents aspired to a higher connection. Piqued at this remark, and flushed with the wine that had been freely circulated, he offered to stake a considerable sum that he would succeed before a certain allotted time. The wager was accepted. Rainscourt courted without affection: and, by his assiduities and feigned attachment, ultimately succeeded in persuading the fond girl to destroy all the golden visions of her parent, and resign herself to his arms, where he assured her that competence and love would be found more than commensurate to a coronet and neglect.

They eloped; all Dublin was in an uproar for three days. Rainscourt received the amount of his bet, and the congratulations of his friends, and for a short time he and his wife lived together without any serious fracas. The first that occurred proceeded from an anonymous letter, evidently written by some envious and disappointed female, acquainting Mrs Rainscourt with all the circumstances attending the bet, to which she had been sacrificed. This mortifying news was received with showers of tears, and some upbraiding; for Mrs Rainscourt really loved her husband; and although patched up by Rainscourt’s protestations, as to the falsehood of the accusation, it sunk deep into her heart, and was but the forerunner of future misery.

Rainscourt soon became tired of a woman whom he had never loved; cursed his own vanity, that had induced him to saddle himself with such an encumbrance as a wife; and by alternate violence and moroseness, irritated her feelings, and roused her spirit. Neglect on his part produced indifference on her side; and as the means of gaiety and expense melted away, so did all respect and esteem for each other.

An extravagant man seldom makes a good husband; he becomes embarrassed, and his circumstances prey upon his mind, and sour his temper. A woman who has, before marriage, been the admiration of the metropolis, is not very likely to prove a good wife. She still sighs for the adulation that she received, and which, from habit, has become necessary to her, and would exact from the man for whom she has given up the world, all the attention that she has lost by the sacrifice.

Mr and Mrs Rainscourt were joined — but they were not one. Like many others in this world of error, their marriage might be typified by a vial, of which one half had been filled with oil, and the other with water, having a cork in its mouth, which confined them, and forced them to remain in contact, although they refused to unite. The fruit of this marriage was one daughter, now about six years old.

“Well, Mr Rainscourt, all is well, I hope; and may I not kiss my daughter, and congratulate her upon being one of the largest heiresses in the kingdom.”

“You may, if you please, madam.”

“May, if I please? Why, is it not so, Mr Rainscourt?” replied the lady, startled at the moody brow of her husband, as he threw himself on the sofa.

Now, Rainscourt would not have so immediately answered the question, but he was determined that his spouse should participate in those pangs of disappointment which swelled his own breast; as a partner of all his joys, she was, of course, fully entitles to an equal proportion of his cares.

“No, madam — it is not so.”

“Surely you are trifling with me, Mr Rainscourt: is not the admiral dead?”

“Yes, madam, and his grandchild is alive.”

“His grandchild!” cried the lady in alto, pallid with vexation and disappointment. “Well, Mr Rainscourt, this is another specimen of your usual prudence and foresight. What man in his senses would not have ascertained such a fact, previous to squandering away his whole property, and leaving his daughter a beggar?”

“I think, madam, if the property has been squandered, as you term it, that you have assisted me in so doing; at all events, the property was my own; for I cannot exactly recollect that you increased it one shilling when I married you.”

“Certainly, not much, Mr Rainscourt, except, indeed, the amount of the bet. I consider that as my marriage portion,” replied the lady with a sneer.

“Never made a worse bet in my life,” replied the gentleman, throwing his legs upon the sofa.

“Perhaps not,” replied his wife, with offended seriousness; “but recollect, Mr Rainscourt, that you have no one to blame but yourself — you were not deceived. I might have been happy — might have met with sincerity and reciprocal affection. Your conduct towards me was an act of cruelty, which would have called forth some compunction in the breast of my bitterest enemy; and yet, unoffending, I was heartlessly sacrificed to your vanity.”

“Say, rather, to your own, which blinded you, or you would have been able to discriminate better.”

Mrs Rainscourt burst into tears. Before her emotion could be controlled, her husband, who was hardened to these scenes of alternate anger and grief, either was, or pretended to be, in a sound sleep.

The little girl had nestled close to her mother at the ebullition of her feelings, and waited in silence until it was exhausted.

“Why, mamma, I thought you said we should be so happy now.”

“Did I, my dear?” replied Mrs Rainscourt, mournfully.

“Yes, you did, and told me that we should have a fine house in London, and that we should not go back to the old castle again. I was sorry for that, though. Where shall we go now, mamma?”

“God knows, my child; you must ask your father.”

“Papa’s asleep, and I must not wake him. I do hope we shall go back to the castle.”

“Then you’ll have your wish, my love,” replied Mr Rainscourt, rousing up, “for I start this very evening.”

“Are we to go with you, Mr Rainscourt?” asked Mrs Rainscourt, calmly; “or are we to be left here?”

“As you please; but I must be off, for that little scoundrel T — , threatened me with a visit to-morrow morning as I got out of the chaise, and I am aware that he will not come without a companion or two.”

“T — ! What T — ? your friend T — ! that you brought from Dublin with you, and who professes so much admiration and esteem — your own factotum?”

“Yes, my own factotum — snivelling little scoundrel. But, however, there’s not time to be lost. You have some jewels, my dear, and other articles of value; you had better pack them up, and consign them to me as soon as possible. You may then take your choice, — go with me now, or follow me in a day or two. They cannot arrest you.”

“I am aware of that, Mr Rainscourt,” replied the lady; “but as I may not have the means of following, my daughter and I will, if you please, become a part of your travelling incumbrance, as well as the jewels and other articles of value.”

“Be it so,” replied the gentleman, who perfectly understood her sarcastic meaning, but did not think it advisable to retort at the moment; “One post-chaise will carry us all; but we must leave town at twelve o’clock this night. If I recollect right, we are asked to a rout at Lady G — ’s?”

“We are; but pray, Mr Rainscourt, how am I to get ready so soon? The servants must be paid — all the bills must be called in.”

“If you wait until I can pay all the bills, you must wait till eternity, perhaps. Pack up everything that is portable, without the knowledge of the servants; your jewels you can have upon your own person, or in a pocket, if you ever wear one. Order the carriage — dress, and we will both go to the rout. I shall leave word with Roberts to bring me any letters which may be sent, telling him that the admiral is not dead yet, although hourly expected — nothing has transpired to the contrary. I can slip away from the rout, and write the letter myself, which I will send by a porter. When I go home, and the chaise which I shall order is at the door, I will put Emily in it, and call for you at Lady G’s. The servants may suspect something, but it will then be too late.”

Danger will unite those who are at variance. Mrs R entered readily into the proposed arrangements, which necessity imposed upon them, and in a few hours, father, mother, and daughter were on their way to Ireland, leaving the house-rent, butcher’s, baker’s, chandler’s and all other bills, of no trifling sum total, to be paid at some more favourable opportunity. The servants indemnified themselves as well as they could, by seizing what was left, and cursing the elopers; and the obsequious little gentleman in black vowed vengeance as he quitted the deserted mansion, to which he had paid his promised visit in the morning, with a particular friend or two, to enforce his arguments with Mr Rainscourt.

Chapter Nineteen.

Fal.

Have you provided me here half a dozen sufficient men?

Shal.

Marry have we, sir.

Fal.

Let me see them, I beseech you.

Shal.

Where’s the roll! where’s the roll!

Let them appear as I call.

Shakespeare.

As the reader will have a more intimate acquaintance with them hereafter, I must now enter into some description of the characters of the captain and officers, with whom our hero was fated to be a shipmate. To begin with the captain, who has already made his appearance in the course of these pages: —

Captain M — was the son of a north-country gentleman — one of the numerous class still existing in this world, who have inherited large ideas and small fortunes. As usual, the latter were got rid of much sooner than the former. The consequence was, that although young M — was an only son, it was considered advisable that he should be brought up to some profession. The naval service was selected by himself, and approved of by his father, who, although he had no money, had some interest, that is to say, he had powerful and wealthy connections, who, for their own sakes, rather than have to support their young relation, would exert themselves to make him independent.

M — rose to the rank of post-captain as fast as his friends could wish, and did credit to their patronage. Having once obtained for him the highest rank that the profession could offer, until he became an admiral from seniority, they thought that they had done enough; and had it not been that Captain M — , by his zeal and abilities, had secured a personal interest at the Board, he might have languished on half-pay; but his services were appreciated, and he was too good an officer not to be employed. His father was dead, and the payment of debts which he had contracted, and the purchase of an annuity for his mother, had swallowed up almost all the prize-money which Captain M — , who had been very successful, had realised; but he was single from choice, and frugal from habit. His pay, and the interest of the small remains of prize-money in the funds, were more than adequate to his wants. He was enthusiastic in his profession, and had the bad taste to prefer a fine ship to a fine lady.

Having entered the service at a later period than was usual, he had the advantage of an excellent education, which being naturally of a serious disposition, and fond of reading, he had very much improved by study. As an officer he was a perfect master of his profession, both in theory and practice, and was what is termed afloat, “all for the service.” Indeed, this feeling was so powerful in him, that, like Aaron’s rod, it swallowed up all the rest. If there was any blemish in his character, it was in this point. Correct himself, he made no allowance for indiscretion; inflexibly severe, but always just, he in no instance ever spared himself, nor would he ever be persuaded to spare others. The rules and regulations of the service, as laid down by the Board of Admiralty, and the articles of war, were as rigidly observed by him, and extracted from others, as if they had been added to the Decalogue; and any deviation or neglect was sure to bring down reprimand or punishment upon the offender, whether it happened to be the senior lieutenant, or the smallest boy in the ship’s company.

But, with all his severity, so determined was Captain M — to be just, that he never would exercise the power without due reflection. On one occasion, in which the conduct of a sailor had been very offensive, the first lieutenant observed that summary punishment would have a very beneficial effect upon the ship’s company in general. “Perhaps it might, Mr H — ,” replied he; “but it is against a rule which I have laid down, and from which I never deviate. Irritated as I am at this moment with the man’s conduct, I may perhaps consider it in a more heinous light than it deserves, and be guilty of too great severity. I am liable to error, — subject, as others, to be led away by the feelings of the moment — and have therefore made a compact with myself never to punish until twenty-four hours after the offence has been committed; and so repeatedly, when at the time I have settled in my mind the quantum of punishment that the offender should receive, have I found, upon reflection, which delay has given time for, reasons to mitigate the severity, that I wish, for the benefit of the service, that the Admiralty would give a standing order to that effect.”

Such was the character of Captain M — . It hardly need be added, after the events already narrated of this history, that he was a man of undaunted bravery. In his person he was tall, and rather slight in figure. His features were regular, but there was a sternness in his countenance, and lines of deep thought on his brow, which rendered the expression unpleasing. It was only when he smiled that you would have pronounced him handsome; then he was more than handsome, he was fascinating.

Mr Bully, the first-lieutenant (who was the second-lieutenant in the ship in the action with the French frigate), was an officer who well understood his duty. He had the merit of implicitly obeying all orders; and, considering the well-known fact, that a first lieutenant has always sufficient cause to be put out of temper at least twenty times during the twelve hours, he was as good-tempered as a first-lieutenant could possibly be. He had entered the service when very young, and, being of humble extraction, had not had any advantage of education. In person he was short and thick-set, and having suffered severely from the small-pox during his infancy, was by no means prepossessing in his outward appearance.

The second-lieutenant, whose name was Price, was a good-looking young man, who kept his watch and read Shakespeare. He was constantly attempting to quote his favourite author; but, fortunately for those who were not fond of quotations, his memory was very defective.

Mr Courtenay, the third-lieutenant, was a little, bilious-looking personage, who, to use the master’s phraseology, was never quite happy unless he was damned miserable. He was full of misfortunes and grievances, and always complaining or laughing, at his real or imaginary disasters; but his complaint would often end in a laugh, or his mirth terminate in a whine. You never could exactly say whether he was in joke or in earnest. There was such a serio-comic humour about him that one side of his countenance would express pleasure, while the other indicated vexation. There seemed to be a perpetual war, in his composition, of good-humour versus bile, both of which were most unaccountably blended in the same temperament.

According to seniority, Mr Pearce, the master, is the next to be introduced to the reader: in external appearance, a rough, hard-headed north-countryman; but, with an unpromising exterior, he was a man with sense and feeling. He had every requisite for his situation: his nerves were like a chain-cable; he was correct and zealous in his duty; and a great favourite of the captain’s, who was his countryman. He was about fifty years of age, a married man, with a large family.

The surgeon, whose name was Macallan, was also most deservedly a great favourite with Captain M — ; indeed, there was a friendship between them, grown out of long acquaintance with each other’s worth, inconsistent with, and unusual, in a service where the almost despotic power of the superior renders the intimacy of the inferior similar to the smoothing with your hand the paw of a lion, whose fangs, in a moment of caprice, may be darted into your flesh. He was a slight-made, spare man, of about thirty-five years of age, and had graduated and received his diploma at Edinburgh, — an unusual circumstance at that period, although the education in the service was so defective, that the medical officers were generally the best informed in the ship. But he was more than the above: he was a naturalist, a man of profound research, and well informed upon most points — of an amiable and gentle disposition, and a sincere Christian.

It would naturally be inferred that those whose profession it is to investigate the human frame, and constantly have before their eyes the truth that we are fearfully and wonderfully made, would be more inclined than others to acknowledge the infinite wisdom and power. But this is too often found not to be the case, and it would appear as if the old scholium, that “too much familiarity breeds contempt,” may be found to act upon the human mind even when in communion with the Deity. With what awe does the first acquaintance with death impress us! What a thrill passes through the living, as it bends over the inanimate body, from which the spirit has departed! The clay that returns to the dust from which it sprung, the tenement that was lately endued with volition and life, the frame that exhibited a perfection of mechanism, deriding all human power, and confounding all human imagination, now an inanimate mass, rapidly decomposing, and soon to become a heap of corruption.

Strong as the feeling is, how evanescent it becomes, when once familiarised! It has no longer power over the senses, and the soldier and sailor pillow themselves on the corpse with perfect indifference, if not with a jest. So it is with those who are accustomed to post-mortem arrangements, who wash and lay out the body previous to interment.

Yet, although we acknowledge that habit will remove the first impressions of awe, how is it that the minute investigation upon which conviction ought to be founded, should too often have the contrary effect from that which it should produce? Is it because mystery, the parent of awe, is in a certain degree removed?

Faith, says the apostle, is the evidence of things not seen. There would be no merit in believing what is perfectly evident to the senses. Yet some would argue that the evidence ought to be more clear and palpable. If so, would not the awe be also removed, and would religion gain by it? We have enough imparted to convince us that all is right; and is not that which is hidden or secret purposely intended to produce that awe, without which the proud mind of man would spurn at infinite wisdom?

The above digression had nearly caused me to omit that Macallan had one peculiar failing. His language, from long study, had been borrowed from books, more than from men and when he entered upon his favourite science of natural history, his enthusiasm made him more pedantic in his style and pompous in his phraseology than ever. But who is perfect?

The purser, O’Keefe, was an elderly man, very careful of the pounds, shillings, and pence. He was affected with an incurable deafness, which he never thought proper to acknowledge, but catching at a word or two in the sentence, would frame his answer accordingly, occasioning frequent mirth to his mess-mates, whom he imagined were laughing with, and not at him. For the present I shall pass over the rest of the officers, with the exception of the boatswain, whose character was of a very peculiar nature.

He was a man who had long been considered as one of the best boatswains in the service, and had been applied for by Captain M — . He used his cane with severity, but had always some jest at hand to soften down the smart of the blow, and was very active in his own person, setting an example to the men. It had, however, happened, that about a year before he joined, Mr Hardsett had been induced by his wife to go with her to a conventicle, which the rising sect of methodists had established at the port where she resided; and whether it was that his former life smote his conscience, or that the preacher was unusually powerful, he soon became one of the most zealous of his converts. He read nothing but his Bible, which employed all his leisure hours, and he was continually quoting it in his conversation. But he was not exactly a methodist, taking the cognomen in the worst or the best interpretation: he was an enthusiast and a fanatic — notwithstanding which, he contrived that his duty towards his Maker should not interfere with that of boatswain of the ship. Captain M — regretted the man’s bigotry: but as he never tried to make any converts, and did his duty in his situation, the captain did not attempt to interfere with his religious opinions, the more so, as he was convinced that Hardsett was sincere.

The Aspasia was but a short time in harbour, for the captain was anxious to add to the laurels which he had already won: and having reported the ship ready for sea, received an order to proceed to the West India station. The frigate was unmoored, the blue-peter hoisted, and the fore-topsail loosened as the signal for departure: and after lying a short time with her anchor “short stay apeak,” Captain M — came on board, the anchor was run up to the bows, and once more the frigate started, like an armed knight in search of battle and adventure.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and the tenants of the gun-room had assembled to their repast. “Now all my misery is about to commence,” cried Courtenay, as he took his seat at the gun-room table, on which the dinner was smoking in all the variety of pea-soup, Irish stew, and boiled mutton with caper sauce.

“Indeed!” said the master. “Pray, then, what is it that you have been grumbling about, ever since you have joined the ship?”

“Psha! they were only petty vexations, but now we are at sea. I shall be sea-sick. I am always obliged to throw off the accumulation of bile whenever I go out of harbour.”

“I say, doctor,” replied Pearce, “can you stop up the leak in that little gentleman’s liver? He’s not content to keep a hand-pump going to get rid of his bile when in harbour, but it seems that he requires the chain-pumps to be manned when he goes to sea.”

“Chain-pumps!” exclaimed Courtenay, shuddering, and drawing back his head with a grimace at the idea of such a forcible discharge, and then looking round at his messmates with one of his serio-comic faces.

“Pumps! ay,” said Price; “you remember Shakespeare in the ‘Tempest’ — he says — dear me, — I — ”

“Come, Price,” said Courtenay, “don’t make me sick before my time, — it’s unkind. You don’t know what an analogy there is between spouting and sea-sickness. In both cases you throw up what is nauseous, because your head or you stomach is too weak to retain it. Spare me, then, a quotation, my dear fellow, till you see me in the agony of Nature ‘aback,’ and then one will be of service in assisting her efforts to ‘box off.’ I say, Billy Pitt, did you stow away the two jars of pickled cabbage in my cabin?”

We must here break off the conversation to introduce this personage to the reader. He was a black, who ran away, when quite a lad, from his master at Barbadoes, and entered on board of a man-of-war. Macallan, the surgeon, had taken a fancy to him, and he had been his servant for some years, following him into different ships. He was a very intelligent and singular character. Macallan had taught him to read and write, and he was not a little proud of his acquirements. He was excessively good-humoured, and a general favourite of the officers and ship’s company, who used to amuse themselves with his peculiarities, and allow him a greater freedom than usual. But Billy’s grand forte, in his own opinion, was a lexicographer. He had a small Entick’s dictionary, which he always carried in his jacket-pocket, and nothing gave him so much pleasure as any one referring to him for the meaning of a hard word, which, although he could not always explain correctly, he certainly did most readily. Moreover, he was, as may be supposed, very fond of interlarding his conversation with high-sounding phraseology, without much regard as to the context.

Although Billy Pitt was the doctor’s servant, Courtenay, who had taken a great fancy to him, used to employ him as his own, to which, as the doctor was not a man who required much attendance himself, and was very good-natured, no objection had been raised.

We must repeat the question —

“I say, Billy Pitt, did you stow away the two jars of pickled cabbage in my cabin?”

“No, sar, I no hab’em to stow. Woman say, that Mr Kartney not pay for the pickled onun — say quite incongrous send any more.”

“Not pay for the onions! No, to be sure I didn’t; but I gave her a fresh order, which is the same thing.” (Price laid down the potato which he was in the act of peeling, and stared at Courtenay with astonishment.) “Well, to a London tradesman, it is, I can assure you.”

“It may be, but I cannot conceive how. If you owe me ten shillings, I can’t consider borrowing ten more the same thing as paying the first.”

“Pooh! you do not understand these things.”

“I do not, most certainly,” replied the master, resuming his potato.

“And so you haven’t got them?” resumed Courtenay to the servant.

“No, sar. She say Massa Kartney owe nine shillings for onuns, and say I owe farteen for ’baccy, and not trust us any more. I tell just as she say, sir. Gentleman never pay for anything. She call me damned nigger, and say, like massa like man. I tell her not give any more rhoromantade, and walk out of shop.”

“Well, how cursed annoying! Now, I never set my mind upon anything but I’m disappointed. One might as well be Sancho in the Isle of Barataria. I think I’ll go up to the captain, and ask him to heave-to, while I send for them. Do you think he would, master, eh?” said Courtenay, in affected simplicity of interrogation.