Фредерик Марриет
The King's Own
The crew of the smuggler, perceiving all chance in their favour to be over, ran down below to avoid the fire, and secure their own effects. The boats of the frigate were soon on board of the lugger, and despatched back to her with McElvina and the chief officers. Willy jumped into the boat, and was taken on board with his patron.
The captain of the frigate was on the quarter-deck; and as he turned round, it occurred to Willy that he had seen his face before, but when or where he could not exactly call to mind; and he continued to scrutinise him, as he paced up and down the quarter-deck, revolving in his mind where it was that he had encountered that peculiar countenance.
His eye, so fixed upon the captain that it followed him up and down as he moved, at last was met by that of the latter, who, surprised at finding so small a lad among the prisoners, walked over to the lee-side of the quarter-deck, and addressed him with — “You’re but a young smuggler, my lad; are you the captain’s son?”
The voice immediately recalled to Willy’s recollection every circumstance attending their last meeting, and who the captain was. He answered in the negative, with a smile.
“You’ve a light heart, youngster. Pray, what’s your name?”
“You said that my name was to be Seymour, sir,” replied Willy, touching his hat.
“Said his name was to be Seymour! What does the boy mean? — Good Heavens! I recollect,” observed Captain M — , for it was he. “Are you the boy that I sent home in the chasse-marée, to be fitted out for the quarter-deck?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how long have you been on this praiseworthy service?”
“Ever since, sir,” replied our hero, who had little idea of its impropriety.
La Belle Susanne was as renowned for her fast sailing, and repeated escapes from the cruisers, as Captain McElvina and his crew were for their courage and success. The capture of the vessel had long been a desideratum of the English Government; and Captain M — , although gratified at her falling into his hands, was not very well pleased to find that a lad, whom he had intended to bring forward in the service should, as he supposed, have voluntarily joined a party, who had so long bid defiance to the laws and naval force of the country. His countenance assumed an air of displeasure, and he was about to turn away, without any further remarks, when McElvina, who perceived how matters stood, and felt aware that Willy’s future prospects were at stake, stepped forward, and respectfully addressing the captain, narrated in few words the rescue of Willy from the wreck, and added that the boy had been detained by him, and had had no opportunity of leaving the vessel, which had never anchored but in the French port of Havre. He also stated, what was indeed true, that he had always evaded explaining to the boy the real nature of the service upon which the lugger was employed; from which it may be inferred that, notwithstanding McElvina’s defence of smuggling in our former chapters, he was not quite so well convinced, in his own mind, of its propriety as he would have induced Debriseau to suppose.
The assertions of McElvina turned the scale again in Willy’s favour; and, after he had answered the interrogatories of the captain, relative to the fate of Mr Bullock and the rest of the men in the prize, Captain M — , who, although severe, was not only just, but kind-hearted, determined that his former good intentions relative to our hero should still remain in force.
“Well, Mr Seymour, you have seen a little service, and your captain gives you a high character, as an active and clever lad. As you have been detained against your will, I think we may recover your time and pay. I trust, however, that you will, in future, be employed in a more honourable manner. We shall, in all probability, be soon in port, and till then you must remain as you are, for I cannot trust you again in a prize.”
As our hero was in a new ship, the officers and ship’s company of which were not acquainted with his history, except that he had been promoted, for an act of gallantry, by Captain M — , he was favourably received by his messmates. The crew of the lugger were detained as prisoners on board of the frigate, and the vessel in charge of one of the officers was ordered to keep company, Captain M — having determined to return into port, and not wishing to lose sight of his valuable prize.
“You have a very fine ship’s company, Captain McElvina,” observed Captain M — . “How many of them are English?”
“About eighty; and as good seamen as ever walked a plank.”
Captain M — ordered the crew of the lugger aft of the quarter-deck, and put the question to them whether they would not prefer entering his Majesty’s service to the confinement of a prison: but, at the moment, they felt too indignant at having been captured by the frigate to listen to the proposal, and refused to a man. Captain M — turned away disappointed, surveying the fine body of men with a covetous eye, as they were ranged in a line on his quarter-deck. He felt what a prize they would be to him, if he could have added them to his own ship’s company; for at that time it was almost impossible to man the number of ships which were employed in an effective manner.
“Will you allow me to try what I can do for you, sir?” said McElvina, as the men disappeared from the quarter-deck, to their former station as prisoners. Having received the nod of assent on the part of Captain M — , McElvina went down to the men, who gathered round him. He forcibly pointed out to them the advantages of the proposal, and the good chance they had of enriching themselves by the prize-money they would make in a frigate which could capture such a fast-sailing vessel as the lugger. He also dwelt upon the misery of the prison which awaited them: but what decided them was the observation that, in all probability, they would not be permitted (now that seamen were in such request) to remain in prison, but would be drafted in several ships, and be separated; whereas, by now entering for Captain M — , they would all remain shipmates as before.
Having obtained their unanimous consent, McElvina, with a pleased countenance, came aft, followed by his men, and informed Captain M — that they had agreed to enter for his ship. “Allow me to congratulate you, sir, on your good fortune, as you will yourself acknowledge it to be, when you find out what an addition they will be to your ship’s company.”
“I am indebted to you for your interference, sir,” replied Captain M — , “and shall not prove ungrateful. Your conduct in this affair makes me inclined to ask another favour. I believe you can give me some valuable information, if you choose. Whether you are inclined to do so, I am not yet sure; but I now think that you will.”
“You will find me an Englishman, body and soul, sir and although I have, in defence of my profession, been occasionally necessitated to choose between capture and resistance, I can most conscientiously say, that every shot I have fired against my own countrymen has smitten me to the heart;” (and this assertion was true, although we have no time to analyse McElvina’s feelings at present). “I am not bound by honour, nor have I the least inclination, to conceal any information I may have obtained, when in the French ports. I went there to serve my purposes, and they allowed me to do so to serve their own. I never would (although repeatedly offered bribes) bring them any information relative to the proceedings of our own country, and I shall most cheerfully answer your questions; indeed, I have information which I would have given you before now, had I not felt that it might be supposed I was actuated more by a view of serving myself than my country. I only wish, Captain M — , that you may fall in with a French frigate before I leave your ship, that I may prove to you that I can fight as well for old England as I have done in defence of property entrusted to my charge.”
“Then do me the favour to step down into the cabin,” said Captain M — .
Captain M — and McElvina were shut up in the after-cabin for some time; and the information received by Captain M — was so important, that he determined not to anchor. He put all the French prisoners on board of the lugger at the entrance of the Sound, and, sending in a boat to take out the major part of the men who had charge of her, he retained McElvina on board of the frigate, and made all sail for the French coast.
Chapter Fifteen.
That which should accompany old age,
As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,
I must not look to have.
Shakespeare.
But we must return on shore, that we may not lose sight of the grandfather of our hero, who had no idea that there was a being in existence who was so nearly connected with him.
The time had come when that information was to be given; for, about six weeks previous to the action we have described, in which Adams the quarter-master was killed, Admiral De Courcy was attacked by a painful and mortal disease. As long as he was able to move about, his irritability of temper, increased by suffering, rendered him more insupportable than ever; but he was soon confined to his room, and the progress of the disease became so rapid, that the medical attendants considered it their duty to apprise him that all hopes of recovery must now be abandoned, and that he must prepare himself for the worst.
The admiral received the intelligence with apparent composure, and bowed his head to the physicians as they quitted his room. He was alone, and left to his own reflections, which were not of the most enviable nature. He was seated, propped up in an easy chair, opposite the large French window, which commanded a view of the park. The sun was setting, and the long-extended shadows of the magnificent trees which adorned his extensive domain were in beautiful contrast with the gleams of radiant light, darting in long streaks between them on the luxuriant herbage. The cattle, quietly standing in the lake, were refreshing themselves after the heat of the day, and the deer lay in groups under the shade, or crouching in their lairs, partly concealed by the underwood and fern. All was in repose and beauty, and the dying man watched the sun, as it fast descended to the horizon, as emblematical of his race, so shortly to be sped. He surveyed the groups before him — he envied even the beasts of the field, and the reclaimed tenants of the forest, for they at least had of their kind, with whom they could associate; but he, their lord and master, was alone — alone in the world, without one who loved or cared for him, without one to sympathise in his sufferings and administer to his wants, except from interested motives — without one to soothe his anguish, and soften the pillow of affliction and disease — without one to close his eyes, or shed a tear, now that he was dying.
His thoughts naturally reverted to his wife and children. He knew that two of these individuals, out of three, were in the cold grave — and where was the other? The certain approach of death had already humanised and softened his flinty heart. The veil that had been drawn by passion between his conscience and his guilt was torn away. The past rushed upon his memory with dreadful rapidity and truth, and horrible conviction flashed upon his soul, as he unwillingly acknowledged himself to be the murderer of his wife and child. Remorse, as usual, followed, treading upon the heels of conviction — such remorse, that, in a short space, the agony became insupportable.
After an ineffectual struggle of pride, he seized the line which was attached to the bell-rope, and, when his summons was obeyed, desired that the vicar might be immediately requested to come to him.
Acquainted with the admiral’s situation, the vicar had anxiously waited the summons which he was but too well aware would come, for he knew the human heart, and the cry for aid which the sinner in his fear sends forth. He was soon in the presence of the admiral, for the first time since the day that he quitted the house with the letter of the unfortunate Peters in his possession. The conversation which ensued between the agitated man, who had existed only for this world, and the placid teacher, who had considered it (as he inculcated) as only, a preparation for a better, was too long to be here inserted. It will be sufficient to say, that the humbled and terrified wretch, the sufferer from disease, and greater sufferer from remorse, never could have been identified with the once proud and over-bearing mortal who had so long spurned at the precepts of religion, and turned a deaf ear to the mild persuasions of its apostle.
“But that letter!” continued the admiral, in a faltering voice — “what was it? I have yet one child alive — Oh, send immediately for him, and let me implore his forgiveness for my cruelty.”
“That letter, sir, was written but one hour previously to his death.”
“His death!” cried the admiral, turning his eyes up to the ceiling. “God have mercy on me! then I have murdered him also. And how did he die? Did he starve, as I expressed in my horrid — horrid wish?”
“No, sir; his life was forfeited to the offended laws of his country.”
“Good God, sir!” hastily replied the admiral, whose ruling passion — pride — returned for the moment, “you do not mean to say that he was hanged?”
“Even so; but here is the letter which he wrote — read it.”
The admiral seized the letter in his tremulous hand, and devoured every word as he perused it. He let it fall on his knees, and said, in a subdued voice, “My God! — my God! — and he asked forgiveness, and forgives me!” Then, with frantic exclamation, he continued: “Wretch that I am, — would that I had died for thee, my son — my son!” and clasping his hands over his head, he fell back in a state of insensibility.
The vicar, much affected with the scene, rang the bell for assistance, which was obtained; but the wretched man had received a shock which hastened his dissolution. He was too much exhausted to sit upright, and they were obliged to carry him to the bed, from which he never rose again. As soon as he was sufficiently recovered to be able to converse, he waved the servants from the room, and resumed in a faltering voice —
“But, sir, he mentions his child — my grandchild. Where is he? Can I see him?”
“I am afraid not, sir,” replied the vicar, who then entered into a recital of the arrangements which had taken place, and the name of the ship on board of which our hero had been permitted to remain, under the charge of Adams, the quartermaster.
The admiral listened to the recital of the vicar without interruption, and, as soon as it was finished, to the great joy of the worthy pastor, expressed the most anxious wish to make every reparation in his power. Aware that difficulties might arise, from the circumstance of our hero’s existence not being suspected by his collateral heirs, who had for some time considered as certain their ultimate possession of his large entailed property, he directed a will to be immediately drawn up, acknowledging his grandchild, and leaving to him all his personal property, which was very considerable; and praying the vicar to take upon himself the office of guardian to the boy — a request which was cheerfully complied with. The admiral would not listen to the repeated requests of the vicar, to take the repose which his excited and sinking frame required, until the necessary document had been drawn out, signed, and duly witnessed. When all was complete he fell back on the pillow, in such a state of exhaustion as threatened immediately to terminate his career. It was late when the vicar took his leave, after having administered some little consolation to the repentant and dying man, and promised to call upon him early on the ensuing morning.
But the vicar had other duties to perform, which induced him to defer his visit until the following noon. Others were sick, others were dying, and needed spiritual consolation; and he made no distinction between the rich and the poor. The physicians had expressed their opinion that the admiral might linger for many days, and the vicar thought that advantage might be derived from his being left for a short time to his own reflections, and to recover from the state of exhaustion arising from the communications of the preceding evening. When he arrived at the hall the windows were closed — Admiral De Courcy was no more.
Reader, you shall hear how he died. It was about two o’clock in the morning that he awoke from an uneasy slumber, and felt his end approaching. The old crone who had been hired as a nurse to watch at night, was fast asleep in her chair. The rushlight had burned low down in the socket, and, through the interstices of its pierced shade, threw a feeble and alternate light and shadow over the room. The mouth of the dying man was glued together from internal heat, and he suffered from agonising thirst. He murmured for relief, but no one answered. Again and again he attempted to make his careless attendant acquainted with his wants, but in vain. He stretched out his arm and moved the curtains of the bed, that the noise of the curtain-rings upon the iron rods might have the effect, and then fell back with exhaustion, arising from the effort which he had made.
The old beldame, who, for money, was willing to undertake the most revolting offices, and who, without remuneration, was so hardened, by her constant familiarity with disease and death, that she was callous and insensible to the most earnest supplication, woke up at the noise which the curtain-rings had made, and opened the curtain to ascertain what was required. Long experience told her at once that all would soon be over, and she was convinced that her charge would never rise or speak again.
This was true; but the suffering man (his arm lying outside of the bedclothes, and his elbow bent upwards) still pointed with his finger to his parched mouth, with a look of entreaty from his sinking eyes. The old fiend shut the curtains, and the admiral waited with impatience for them to reopen with the drop of water “to cool his parched tongue” — but in vain. Leaving him to his fate, she hobbled about the room to secure a golden harvest, before others should make their appearance and share it with her. His purse was on the table: she removed the gold which it contained, and left the silver; she chose that which she imagined to be the most valuable of the three rings on the dressing table; she detached one seal from the chain of his watch. She then repaired to the wardrobe and examined its contents. One of her capacious pockets was soon filled with the finest cambric handkerchiefs, all of which she first took the precaution to open and hold up to the light, rejecting those which were not of the finest texture. The silk stockings were the next articles that were coveted; they were unfolded one by one, and her skinny arm passed up, that the feet might be extended by her shrivelled hands, to ascertain whether they were darned or not — if so, they were rejected.
The wardrobe was on the opposite side of the bed, and on that side the curtains had not been closed. The dying man had still enough sight left to perceive the employment of his attendant. What must have been his feelings! He uttered a deep groan, which startled the old hag, and she repaired to the bedside, to examine the state of her charge.
Again he pointed with his finger to his mouth, and again she returned to her employment, without having rendered the assistance which he required. His eyes followed, and his finger still pointed. Having ransacked every drawer, and secured all that she dared take, or that her pockets could contain, she rang the bell for the servants of the house; then pulling out her handkerchief, ready to put to her eyes in token of sympathy, she sat down on her easy chair to await their coming.
In the meanwhile, the eyes of the unfortunate man gradually turned upward; his vision was gone, but his agonising thirst continued to the last; and when the retainers of the family came in, he was found dead, with his finger still pointing in the same direction.
With ordinary minds, there is something so terrible in death, something so awful in the dissolution of the elements of our frame, something so horrible in the leap into the dark abyss, that it requires all the powers of a fortified spirit, all the encouragement of a good conscience, and all the consolations of religion and of faith, to enable us to muster any degree of resolution for the awful change. But if aught can smooth the pillow — can chase away from the terrified spirit the doubt and depression by which it is overwhelmed, it is the being surrounded and attended by those who are devoted and endeared to us. When love, and duty, and charity, and sympathy hover round the couch of the departing, fainting hope is supported by their presence, and the fleeting Spirit, directed by them, looks upward to the realms from which these heaven-born passions have been permitted to descend on earth, to cheer us through our weary pilgrimage.
What, then, had Admiral De Courcy to support him in his last moments? — A good conscience? — faith? — hope? — love? — duty? — or even sympathy? — Wanting all, he breathed his last. But, let us —
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all;
Close up his eyes, and draw the curtains
close.
And let us all to meditation.
The vicar affixed seals upon the drawers, to secure the remainder of the property (for the example of the old nurse had been followed by many others), and, having given directions for the funeral, returned to his own home.
The second day after the admiral’s death, a carriage and four drove furiously up the avenue and stopped at the entrance door. The occupants descended, and rang the bells with an air of authority; the summons was answered by several of the male domestics, who were anxiously looking out for the new proprietor of the domain. A tall man, of very gentlemanlike appearance, followed by a mean-looking personage in black, walked in, the latter as he followed, proclaiming the other to the servants as the heir-at-law, and present owner of the property. By this time the whole household were assembled, lining the hall for the visitors to pass, and bowing and curtseying to the ground. The vicar, who had expected the appearance of these parties, had left directions that he might be immediately acquainted with their arrival. On receipt of the information, he proceeded to the hall, and was ushered into the library, where he found them anxiously awaiting his arrival, that the seals might be withdrawn which had been placed upon the drawers.
“Whom have I the honour of addressing, sir?” said the vicar to the taller of the two, whom he presumed, by his appearance, to be the superior.
“Sir,” replied the little man, in a pompous manner, “you are speaking to Mr Rainscourt, the heir-at-law, of this entailed property.”
“I am sorry, truly sorry, sir,” replied the vicar, “that from not having been well informed, you should be subjected to such severe disappointment. I am afraid, sir, that, the grandchild of Admiral De Courcy will have a prior claim.”
The two parties started from their chairs and looked at each other in amazement.
“The grandchild!” replied the little man — “never even heard that there was such a person.”
“Very probably, sir; but I have long known it, and so did Admiral De Courcy, as you will perceive when you read his will, which is in my possession, as guardian to the child — and upon the strength of which office I have put seals upon the property.”
The parties looked aghast.
“We must inquire into this,” replied the legal adviser, for such he was.
“I am ready to give you any information you may require,” replied the vicar. “I have here copies of the marriage certificate of the parents, and the register of baptism of the child, the originals of which you will find in the parish church of — , not five miles distant; and I can most satisfactorily prove his identity, should that be necessary.”
“And where is the grandchild?”
“At sea, on board a man-of-war, at the dying request of his father, who determined that he should be brought up for the service. Would you like to see the late admiral’s will?”
The tall gentleman bowed assent, and it was read. Having been carefully examined by the lawyer, as well as the other documents in the vicar’s possession, all appeared so clear and conclusive, that he unwillingly acknowledged to his employer, in a whisper, that there was no chance of setting the will aside. Pallid with the revulsion of feelings from hope to despair, the pretender to the estates ordered the horses to be brought out, and, on their being announced, with a slight bow to the vicar, retired from the library.
But outside, the state of affairs was altered, by the servants having overheard the conversation. No one was attentive enough to open the door to let out those whom they had so obsequiously admitted: and one of the postilions was obliged to dismount, to shut up the chaise after they had entered it. Such is the deference shown respectively to those who are, or are not, the real heirs-at-law.
