Фредерик Марриет
Peter Simple
Chapter Thirty Six
A letter from Father McGrath, who diplomatises—When priest meets priest, then comes the tug of war—Father O’Toole not to be made a tool of
We continued our cruise for a fortnight, and then made sail for Jamaica, where we found the admiral at anchor at Port Royal: but our signal was made to keep under weigh, and Captain Kearney, having paid his respects to the admiral, received orders to carry despatches to Halifax. Water and provisions were sent on board by the boats of the admiral’s ships, and, to our great disappointment, as the evening closed in, we were again standing out to sea, instead of, as we had anticipated, enjoying ourselves on shore; but the fact was, that orders had arrived from England to send a frigate immediately up to the admiral at Halifax, to be at his disposal.
I had, however, the satisfaction to know that Captain Kearney had been true to his word in making mention of my name in the despatch, for the clerk showed me a copy of it. Nothing occurred worth mentioning during our passage, except that Captain Kearney was very unwell nearly the whole of the time, and seldom quitted his cabin. It was in October that we anchored in Halifax harbour, and the Admiralty, expecting our arrival there, had forwarded our letters. There were none for me, but there was one for O’Brien, from Father McGrath, the contents of which were as follows:—
“My dear son,—
“And a good son you are, and that’s the truth on it, or devil a bit should you be a son of mine. You’ve made your family quite contented and peaceable and they never fight for the praties now—good reason why they shouldn’t, seeing that there’s a plenty for all of them, and the pig craturs into the bargain. Your father and your mother, and your brother, and your three sisters, send their duty to you, and their blessings too—and you may add my blessing, Terence, which is worth them all; for won’t I get you out of purgatory in the twinkling of a bed-post? Make yourself quite asy on that score, and lave it all to me; only just say a pater now and then, that when St. Peter lets you in, he mayn’t throw it in your teeth, that you’ve saved your soul by contract, which is the only way by which emperors and kings ever get to heaven. Your letter from Plymouth came safe to hand: Barney, the post-boy, having dropped it under foot close to our door, the big pig took it into his mouth and ran away with it; but I caught sight of him, and speaking to him, he let it go, knowing (the ’cute cratur!) that I could read it better than him. As soon as I had digested the contents, which it was lucky the pig did not instead of me, I just took my meal and my big stick, and then set off for Ballycleuch.
“Now, you know, Terence, if you haven’t forgot—and if you have, I’ll just remind you—that there’s a flaunty sort of young woman at the poteen shop there, who calls herself Mrs O’Rourke, wife to a corporal O’Rourke, who was kilt or died one day, I don’t know which, but that’s not of much consequence. The devil a bit do I think the priest ever gave the marriage-blessing to that same; although she swears that she was married on the rock of Gibraltar—it may be a strong rock fore I know, but it’s not the rock of salvation like the seven sacraments, of which marriage is one. Benedicite! Mrs O’Rourke is a little too apt to fleer and jeer at the priests; and if it were not that she softens down her pertinent remarks with a glass or two of the real poteen, which proves some respect for the church, I’d excommunicate her body and soul, and everybody, and every soul that put their lips to the cratur at her door. But she must leave that off, as I tell her, when she gets old and ugly, for then all the whisky in the world shan’t save her. But she’s a fine woman now, and it goes agin my conscience to help the devil to a fine woman. Now this Mrs O’Rourke knows everybody and everything that’s going on in the country about; and she has a tongue which has never had a holyday since it was let loose.
“‘Good morning to ye, Mrs O’Rourke,’ says I.
“‘An’ the top of the morning to you, Father McGrath,’ says she, with a smile: ‘what brings you here? Is it a journey that you’re taking to buy the true wood of the cross; or is it a purty girl that you wish to confess, Father McGrath? or is it only that you’re come for a drop of poteen, and a little bit of chat with Mrs O’Rourke?’
“‘Sure it’s I who’d be glad to find the same true wood of the cross, Mrs O’Rourke, but it’s not grown, I suspect, at your town of Ballycleuch; and it’s no objection I’d have to confess a purty girl like yourself, Mrs O’Rourke, who’ll only tell me half her sins, and give me no trouble; but it’s the truth, that I’m here for nothing else but to have a bit of chat with yourself, dainty dear, and taste your poteen, just by way of keeping my mouth nate and clane.’
“So Mrs O’Rourke poured out the real stuff, which I drank to her health; and then says I, putting down the bit of a glass, ‘So you’ve a stranger come, I find, in your parts, Mrs O’Rourke.’
“‘I’ve heard the same,’ replied she. So you observe, Terence, I came to the fact all at once by a guess.
“‘I’m tould,’ says I, ‘that he’s a Scotchman, and spakes what nobody can understand.’
“‘Devil a bit,’ says she; ‘he’s an Englishman, and speaks plain enough.’
“‘But what can a man mane, to come here and sit down all alone?’ says I.
“‘All alone, Father McGrath!’ replied she: ‘is a man all alone when he’s got his wife and childer, and more coming, with the blessing of God?’
“‘But those boys are not his own childer, I believe,’ says I.
“‘There again you’re all in a mistake, Father McGrath,’ rejoins she. ‘The childer are all his own, and all girls to boot. It appears that it’s just as well that you come down, now and then, for information, to our town of Ballycleuch.’
“‘Very true, Mrs O’Rourke,’ says I; ‘and who is it that knows everything so well as yourself?’ You observe, Terence, that I just said everything contrary and vice versa, as they call it, to the contents of your letter; for always recollect, my son, that if you would worm a secret out of a woman, you’ll do more by contradiction than you ever will by coaxing—so I went on: ‘Anyhow, I think it’s a burning shame, Mrs O’Rourke, for a gentleman to bring over with him here from England a parcel of lazy English servants, when there’s so many nice boys and girls here to attind upon them.’
“‘Now there you’re all wrong again, Father McGrath,’ says she. ‘Devil a soul has he brought from the other country, but has hired them all here. Ain’t there Ella Flanagan for one maid, and Terence Driscol for a footman? and it’s well that he looks in his new uniform, when he comes down for the newspapers; and ar’n’t Moggy Cala there to cook the dinner, and pretty Mary Sullivan for a nurse for the babby as soon as it comes into the world.’
“‘Is it Mary Sullivan, you mane?’ says I; ‘she that was married about three months back, and is so quick in child-getting, that she’s all but ready to fall to pieces in this same time?’
“‘It’s exactly she,’ says Mrs O’Rourke; ‘and do you know the reason?’
“‘Devil a bit,’ says I; ‘how should I?’
“‘Then it’s just that she may send her own child away, and give her milk to the English babby that’s coming; because the lady is too much of a lady to have a child hanging to her breast.’
“‘But suppose Mary Sullivan’s child ar’n’t born till afterwards, how then?’ says I. ‘Speak, Mrs O’Rourke, for you’re a sensible woman.’
“‘How then?’ says she. ‘Och! that’s all arranged; for Mary says that she’ll be in bed a week before the lady, so that’s all right, you’ll perceive, Father McGrath.’
“‘But don’t you perceive, sensible woman as you are, that a young woman, who is so much out of her reckoning as to have a child three months after her marriage, may make a little mistake in her lying-in arithmetic, Mrs O’Rourke?’
“‘Never fear, Father McGrath, Mary Sullivan will keep her word; and sooner than disappoint the lady, and lose her place, she’ll just tumble downstairs, and won’t that put her to bed fast enough?’
“‘Well, that’s what I call a faithful good servant that earns her wages,’ says I; ‘so now I’ll just take another glass, Mrs O’Rourke, and thank you too. Sure you’re the woman that knows everything, and a mighty pretty woman into the bargain.’
“‘Let me alone now, Father McGrath, and don’t be pinching me that way anyhow.’
“‘It was only a big flea that I perceived hopping on your gown, my darling, devil anything else.’
“‘Many thanks to you, father, for that same; but the next time you’d kill my fleas, just wait until they’re in a more dacent situation.’
“‘Fleas are fleas, Mrs O’Rourke, and we must catch ’em when we can, and how we can, and as we can, so no offence. A good night’s rest to you, Mrs O’Rourke—when do you mean to confess?’
“‘I’ve an idea that I’ve too many fleas about me to confess to you just now, Father McGrath, and that’s the truth on it. So a pleasant walk back to you.’
“So you’ll perceive, my son, that having got all the information from Mrs O’Rourke, it’s back I went to Ballyhinch, till I heard it whispered that there were doings down at the old house at Ballycleuch. Off I set, and went to the house itself, as priests always ought to be welcomed at births and marriages, and deaths, being, as you know, of great use on such occasions—when who should open the door but Father O’Toole, the biggest rapparee of a priest in the whole of Ireland. Didn’t he steal a horse, and only save his neck by benefit of clergy? and did he ever give absolution to any young woman without making her sin over again? ‘What may be your pleasure here, Father McGrath?’ says he, holding the door with his hand.
“‘Only just to call and hear what’s going on.’
“‘For the matter of that,’ says he, ‘I’ll just tell you that we’re all going on very well; but ar’n’t you ashamed of yourself, Father McGrath, to come here and interfere with my flock, knowing that I confess the house altogether?’
“‘That’s as may be,’ says I, ‘but I only wanted to know what the lady had brought into the world.’
“‘It’s a child,’ says he.
“‘Indeed!’ says I; ‘many thanks for the information, and pray what is it that Mary Sullivan has brought into the world?’
“‘That’s a child, too,’ says he; ‘and now that you know all about it, good evening to you, Father McGrath.’ And the ugly brute slarnmed the door right in my face.
“‘Who stole a horse?’ cries I; but he didn’t hear me—more’s the pity.
“So you’ll perceive, my dear boy, that I have found out something, at all events, but not so much as I intended; for I’ll prove to Father O’Toole, that he’s no match for Father McGrath. But what I find out must be reserved for another letter, seeing that it’s not possible to tell it to you in this same. Praties look well, but somehow or another clothes don’t grow upon trees in ould Ireland; and one of your half quarterly bills, or a little prize-money, if it found its way here, would add not a little to the respectability of the family appearance. Even my cassock is becoming too holy for a parish priest; not that I care about it so much, only Father O’Toole, the baste! had on a bran new one—not that I believe that he ever came honestly by it, as I have by mine—but, get it how you may, a new gown always looks better than an ould one, that’s certain. So no more at present from your loving friend and confessor,
“Urtagh McGrath.”
“Now, you’ll observe, Peter,” said O’Brien, after I had read the letter, “that, as I supposed, your uncle meant mischief when he went over to Ireland. Whether the children are both girls or both boys, or your uncle’s is a boy, and the other is a girl, there’s no knowledge at present. If an exchange was required, it’s made, that’s certain; but I will write again to Father McGrath, and insist upon his finding out the truth, if possible. Have you any letter from your father?”
“None, I am sorry to say. I wish I had, for he would not have failed to speak on the subject.”
“Well, never mind, it’s no use dreaming over the matter; we must do our best when we get to England ourselves, and in the meantime trust to Father McGrath. I’ll go and write to him while my mind’s full of it.” O’Brien wrote his letter, and the subject was not started again.
Chapter Thirty Seven
Captain Kearney’s illness—He makes his will and devises sundry “chateaux en espagne,” for the benefit of those concerned—The legacy duty in this instance not ruinous—He signs, seals, and dies
The captain, as was his custom, went on shore, and took up his quarters at a friend’s house; that is to say, the house of an acquaintance, or any polite gentleman who would ask him to take a dinner and a bed. This was quite sufficient for Captain Kearney, who would fill his portmanteau, and take up his quarters without thinking of leaving them until the ship sailed, or some more advantageous invitation was given. This conduct in England would have very much trespassed upon our ideas of hospitality; but in our foreign settlements and colonies, where the society is confined and novelty is desirable, a person who could amuse like Captain Kearney was generally welcome, let him stay as long as he pleased. All sailors agree in asserting that Halifax is one of the most delightful ports in which a ship can anchor. Everybody is hospitable, cheerful, and willing to amuse and be amused. It is, therefore, a very bad place to send a ship to if you wish her to refit in a hurry, unless indeed the admiral is there to watch over your daily progress, and a sharp commissioner to expedite your motions in the dock-yard. The admiral was there when we arrived, and we should not have lain there long, had not the health of Captain Kearney, by the time that we were ready for sea, been so seriously affected, that the doctor was of opinion that he could not sail. Another frigate was sent to our intended cruising ground, and we lay idle in port. But we consoled ourselves: if we did not make prize-money, at all events, we were very happy, and the major part of the officers very much in love.
We had remained in Halifax harbour about three weeks, when a very great change for the worse took place in Captain Kearney’s disease. Disease, indeed, it could hardly be called. He had been long suffering from the insidious attacks of a hot climate, and though repeatedly advised to invalid, he never would consent. His constitution appeared now to be breaking up. In a few days he was so ill, that, at the request of the naval surgeons, he consented to be removed to the hospital, where he could command more comforts than in any private house. He had not been in the hospital more than two days, when he sent for me, and stated his wish that I should remain with him. “You know, Peter, that you are a cousin of mine, and one likes to have one’s relations near one when we are sick, so bring your traps on shore. The doctor has promised me a nice little room for yourself, and you shall come and sit with me all day.” I certainly had no objection to remain with him, because I considered it my duty so to do, and I must say that there was no occasion for me to make any efforts to entertain him, as he always entertained me; but I could not help seriously reflecting, and feeling much shocked, at a man, lying in so dangerous a state—for the doctors had pronounced his recovery to be impossible—still continuing a system of falsehood during the whole day, without intermission. But it really appeared to him to be innate; and, as Swinburne said, “if he told truth, it was entirely by mistake.”
“Peter,” said he, one day, “there’s a great draught. Shut the door and put on some more coals.”
“The fire does not draw well, sir,” replied I, “without the door is open.”
“It’s astonishing how little people understand the nature of these things. When I built my house called Welcot Abbey, there was not a chimney would draw; I sent for the architect and abused him, but he could not manage it; I was obliged to do it myself.”
“Did you manage it, sir?”
“Manage it—I think I did. The first time I lighted the fire, I opened the door, and the draught was so great, that my little boy William, who was standing in the current of air, would have gone right up the chimney, if I had not caught him by the petticoats; as it was, his frock was on fire.”
“Why, sir, it must have been as bad as a hurricane!”
“No, no, not quite so bad—but it showed what a little knowledge of philosophical arrangement could effect. We have no hurricanes in England, Peter; but I have seen a very pretty whirlwind when I was at Welcot Abbey.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yes, it cut four square haystacks quite round, and I lost twenty tons of hay; it twisted the iron lamppost at the entrance just as a porpoise twists a harpoon, and took up a sow and her litter of pigs that were about a hundred yards from the back of the house, and landed them safe over the house, to the front, with the exception of the old sow putting her shoulder out.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“Yes, but what was strange, there were a great many rats in the hayrick, and up they went with the hay. Now, Peter, by the laws of gravitation, they naturally came down before the hay, and I was walking with my greyhound, or rather terrier, and after one coming down close to her, which she killed, it was quite ridiculous to notice her looking up in the air, and watching for the others.”
“A greyhound did you say, sir, or a terrier?”
“Both, Peter: the fact is, she had been a greyhound, but breaking her fore-leg against a stump, when coursing, I had the other three amputated as well, and then she made a capital terrier. She was a great favourite of mine.”
“Well,” observed I, “I have read something like that in Baron Munchausen.”
“Mr Simple,” said the captain, turning on his elbow and looking me severely in the face, “what do you mean to imply?”
“O nothing, sir, but I have read a story of that kind.”
“Most probably; the great art of invention is to found it upon facts. There are some people who out of a mole-hill will make a mountain; and facts and fiction become so blended now-a-days, that even truth becomes a matter of doubt.”
“Very true, sir,” replied I; and as he did not speak for some minutes, I ventured to bring my Bible to his bedside, as if I were reading it to myself.
“What are you reading, Peter?” said he.
“Only a chapter in the Bible, sir,” said I. “Would you like that I should read aloud?”
“Yes, I’m very fond of the Bible—it’s the book of truth. Peter, read me about Jacob, and his weathering Esau with a mess of pottage, and obtaining his father’s blessing.” I could not help thinking it singular that he should select a portion in which, for divine reasons, a lie was crowned with such success and reward.
When I had finished it, he asked me to read something more; I turned over to the Acts of the Apostles, and commenced the chapter in which Ananias and Sapphira were struck dead. When I had finished, he observed very seriously, “That is a very good lesson for young people, Peter, and points out that you never should swerve from the truth. Recollect, as your motto, Peter, to ‘tell truth and shame the devil.’”
After this observation I laid down the book, as it appeared to me that he was quite unaware of his propensity; and without a sense of your fault, how can repentance and amendment be expected? He became more feeble and exhausted every day, and at last was so weak that he could scarcely raise himself in his bed. One afternoon he said, “Peter, I shall make my will, not that I am going to kick the bucket just yet; but still it is every man’s duty to set his house in order, and it will amuse me: so fetch pen and paper, and come and sit down by me.”
I did as he requested.
“Write, Peter, that I, Anthony George William Charles Huskisson Kearney, (my father’s name was Anthony, Peter; I was christened George after the present Regent, William and Charles after Mr Pitt and Mr Fox, who were my sponsors; Huskisson is the name of my great uncle, whose property devolves to me; he’s eighty-three now, so he can’t last long,)—have you written down that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Being in sound mind, do hereby make my last will and testament, revoking all former wills.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I bequeath to my dearly beloved wife, Augusta Charlotte Kearney (she was named after the Queen and Princess Augusta, who held her at the baptismal font), all my household furniture, books, pictures, plate, and houses, for her own free use and will, and to dispose of at her pleasure upon her demise. Is that down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also, the interest of all my money in the three per cents reduced, and in the long annuities, and the balance in my agent’s hands, for her natural life. At her death to be divided into equal portions between my two children, William Mohamed Potemkin Kearney, and Caroline Anastasia Kearney. Is that down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then, Peter, now for my real property. My estate in Kent (let me see, what is the name of it?)—Walcot Abbey, my three farms in the Vale of Aylesbury, and the marsh lands in Norfolk I bequeath to my two children aforenamed, the proceeds of the same to be laid up deducting all necessary expenses for their education, for their sole use and benefit. Is that down?”
“Not yet, sir—‘use and benefit.’ Now it is, sir.”
“Until they come to the age of twenty-one years; or in case of my daughter, until she marries with the consent of my executors, then to be equally and fairly valued and divided between them. You observe, Peter I never make any difference between girls and boys—a good father will leave one child as much as another. Now I’ll take my breath a little.”
I was really astonished. It was well known that Captain Kearney had nothing but his pay, and that it was the hopes of prize-money to support his family, which had induced him to stay out so long in the West Indies. It was laughable; yet I could not laugh: there was a melancholy feeling at such a specimen of insanity which prevented me.
“Now, Peter, we’ll go on,” said Captain Kearney, after a pause of a few minutes. “I have a few legacies to bequeath. First, to all my servants 50 pounds each, and two suits of mourning; to my nephew, Thomas Kearney, of Kearney Hall, Yorkshire, I bequeath the sword presented me by the grand Sultan. I promised it to him, and, although we have quarrelled, and not spoken for years, I always keep my word. The plate presented me by the merchants and under-writers of Lloyd’s I leave to my worthy friend the Duke of Newcastle. Is that down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well; my snuff-box, presented me by Prince Potemkin, I bequeath to Admiral Sir Isaac Coffin; and, also, I release him from the mortgage which I hold over his property of the Madeline Islands, in North America. By-the-bye, say, and further, I bequeath to him the bag of snuff presented to me by the Dey of Algiers; he may as well have the snuff as he has the snuff-box. Is that down?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then, now, Peter, I must leave you something.”
“O, never mind me,” replied I.
“No, no, Peter, I must not forget my cousin. Let me see, you shall have my fighting sword. A real good one, I can tell you. I once fought a duel with it at Palermo, and ran a Sicilian prince so clean through the body, and it held so tight, that we were obliged to send for a pair of post-horses to pull it out again. Put that down as a legacy for my cousin, Peter Simple. I believe that is all. Now for my executors, and I request my particular friends, the Earl of Londonderry, the Marquis of Chandos, and Mr John Lubbock, banker, to be my executors, and leave each of them the sum of one thousand pounds for their trouble, and in token of regard. That will do, Peter. Now, as I have left so much real property, it is necessary that there should be three witnesses; so call in two more, and let me sign in your presence.”
This order was obeyed, and this strange will duly attested; for I hardly need say, that even the presents he had pretended to receive were purchased by himself at different times; but such was the force of his ruling passion even to the last. Mr Phillott and O’Brien used to come and see him, as did occasionally some of the other officers, and he was always cheerful and merry, and seemed to be quite indifferent about his situation, although fully aware of it. His stories, if anything, became more marvellous, as no one ventured to express a doubt as to their credibility.
I had remained in the hospital about a week, when Captain Kearney was evidently dying: the doctor came, felt his pulse, and gave it as his opinion that he could not outlive the day. This was on a Friday, and there certainly was every symptom of dissolution. He was so exhausted, that he could scarcely articulate; his feet were cold, and his eyes appeared glazed, and turning upwards. The doctor remained an hour, felt his pulse again, shook his head, and said to me in a low voice, “He is quite gone.” As soon as the doctor quitted the room, Captain Kearney opened his eyes, and beckoned me to him. “He’s a confounded fool, Peter,” said he: “he thinks I am slipping my wind now—but I know better; going I am, ’tis true—but I sha’n’t die till next Thursday.” Strange to say, from that moment he rallied; and although it was reported that he was dead, and the admiral had signed the acting order for his successor, the next morning, to the astonishment of everybody, Captain Kearney was still alive. He continued in this state, between life and death, until the Thursday next, the day on which he asserted that he would die—and, on that morning, he was evidently sinking fast. Towards noon, his breathing became much oppressed and irregular, and he was evidently dying, the rattle in his throat commenced; and I watched at his bedside, waiting for his last grasp, when he again opened his eyes, and beckoning me, with an effort, to put my head close to him to hear what he had to say, he contrived in a sort of gurgling whisper, and with much difficulty, to utter—“Peter, I’m going now—not that the rattle—in my throat—is a sign of death: for I once knew a man—to live with—the rattle in his throat—for six weeks.” He fell back and expired, having, perhaps, at his last gasp, told the greatest lie of his whole life.
Thus died this most extraordinary character, who, in most other points, commanded respect; he was a kind man, and a good officer; but from the idiosyncrasy of his disposition, whether from habit or from nature, could not speak the truth. I say from nature, because I have witnessed the vice of stealing equally strong, and never to the eradicated. It was in a young messmate of good family, and who was supplied with money to almost any extent: he was one of the most generous, open-hearted lads that I ever knew; he would offer his purse, or the contents of his chest, to any of his messmates; and, at the same time, would steal everything that he could lay his hands upon. I have known him watch for hours, to steal what could be of no use to him, as, for instance, an odd shoe, and that much too small for his foot. What he stole he would give away the very next day; but to check it was impossible. It was so well known, that if anything were missed, we used first to apply to his chest to see if it were there, and usually found the article in question. He appeared to be wholly insensible to shame upon this subject, though in every other he showed no want of feeling or of honour; and, strange to say, he never covered his theft with a lie. After vain attempts to cure him of this propensity, he was dismissed the service as incorrigible.
Captain Kearney was buried in the churchyard with the usual military honours. In his desk we found directions, in his own hand, relative to his funeral, and the engraving on his tombstone. In these, he states his age to be thirty-one years. If this were correct, Captain Kearney, from the time that he had been in the service of his country, must have entered the navy just four months before he was born. It was unfortunate that he commenced the inscription with “Here lies Captain Kearney,” etcetera, etcetera. His tombstone had not been set up twenty-four hours, before somebody, who knew his character, put a dash under one word, as emphatic as it was true of the living man, “Here lies Captain Kearney.”
