Strict orders were given not to allow Gubbins to communicate with anyone from the shore. A little before dusk, there was a boat ordered by the sentinels to keep off, that contained, besides the sculler, a respectable-looking old man, and a tall, stout, and rather handsome young woman. Directly they caught the eye of Reuben, he exclaimed, “Woundikins! if there bean’t feyther and our sister Moll.” And running aft, and putting his hat between his knees, he thus addressed the officer of the watch, “Please, Mr Officer, zur, there’s feyther and our Moll.”

  “Well!”

  “Zur, mayn’t I go and have my cry out with ‘em, for certain I ha’ behaved mortal bad?”

  “Against orders.”

  “But, sure-ly, you’ll let him come up to comfort loike his undutiful son.”

  “No, no; impossible.”

  “Whoy, lookee there, zur, — that’s feyther with the white hair, and that’s sister crying like mad. Ye can no’ ha’ the hard heart.”

  “Silence! and go forward.”

  I looked over the side, and there I saw the old man standing up reverently, with his hat in one hand, and a bag, apparently full of money in the other. Undoubtedly, the simple yeoman had supposed that money could either corrupt the captain, or buy off the servitude of his guilty son. It was a fine old countenance, down the sides of which that silver hair hung so patriarchally and gracefully; and there that poor old man stood, bowing in his wretchedness and his bereavement, with his money extended, to every officer that he could catch a glimpse of as his hat or head appeared above the hammock-nettings or the bulwarks. The grief of his sister was commonplace and violent; but there was a depth and a dignity in that of the old man that went to my very heart. I could not help going up to the lieutenant, and entreating him to grant the interview.

  “It won’t do, Mr Rattlin. Don’t you know that the fellow was put on board with ‘CP’ before his name? I anticipate what you are going to say; but humanity is a more abstract thing than you are aware of, and orders must be obeyed.”

  “But, zur,” said Gubbins, who had again approached, “I can see that feyther has forgi’en me, and he’s the mon I ha’ most wronged, arter all. Besides, sistur wull break her heart if she doan’t say ‘Good-bye, Reuben’ — if feyther has made it up, sure other folk mought be koind. Oh, ay — but I’ve been a sad fellow!” And then he began to blubber with fresh violence.

  The officer was a little moved — he went to the gangway, hailed the boat, and when she came near enough, he told the old farmer, kindly, that his orders to prevent personal communication were strict; that any parcel or letter should be handed up, but that he would do well not to let his reprobate son have any money. During this short conference, Reuben had placed himself within sight of his relatives, and the sacred words of “My father,” “My son,” were, in spite of all orders, exchanged between them. By this time the tide had turned, the wind had risen, and precisely from the right quarter; so the hands were turned up, “up anchor.” The orders for the boat to keep off were now reiterated in a manner more imperative; but it still hung about the ship, and after we were making way, as long as the feeble attempts of the boatman could keep his little craft near us, the poor old man and his daughter, with a constancy of love that deserved a better object, hung upon our wake, he standing up with his white hair blown about by the wind, to catch a last glimpse of a son whom he was destined to see no more, and who would, without doubt, as the Scripture beautifully and tenderly expresses it, “bring down his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.”

  Long, long after the stolid and sullen son had ceased, apparently, to interest himself about the two that were struggling after us, in their really frail boat, I watched from the taffrail the vain and loving pursuit; indeed, until the darkness and the rapidly-increasing distance shrouded it from my view, I did not leave my post of observation, and the last I could discern of the mourners still showed me the old man standing up, in the fixed attitude of grief, and the daughter with her face bent down upon her knees. To the last, the boat’s head was still towards the ship — a touching emblem of unswerving fatherly love.

  I could not away with the old man’s look, it was so wretched, so helpless, yet so fond — and was typed to my fancy so strongly by his little boat pursuing, with a hopeless constancy over waves too rough for it, the huge and disregarding ship; so, with my breast full, even to suffocation with mingled emotions, I went down to my berth, and, laying my head upon the table, and covering my face with my hands, I pretended to sleep. The cruel torture of that half-hour! I almost thought the poacher, with all his misery, still blessed in having a father’s love— ’twas then that I felt intensely the agony of the desertion of my own parent — the love that had been denied to me to give to my own father, I lavished upon the white-headed old man. In imagination I returned with him to his desolate home; I supported his tottering steps over the threshold, no longer musical with an only son. I could fancy myself placing him tenderly and with reverence in his accustomed chair, and speaking the words of comfort to him in a low voice, and looking round for his family Bible — and the sister, doubtless she had many sources of consolation; youth was with her — life all before her — she had companions, friends, perhaps a lover; but, — for the poor old man! At that moment, I would have given up all my anticipations of the splendid career that I fancied I was to run, in order to have gone and have been unto the bereaved sire as a son, and to have found in him a father.

  But nobody could make a sailor of Reuben Gubbins, and Reuben had no idea of making a sailor of himself. It was in vain that the boatswain’s mate docked the long tails of his blue coat (such things were done in the navy at that time), razéed his top-boots into seamen’s shoes, and that he had his smock-frock reduced into a seaman’s shirt. The soil hung upon him, he slouched over the deck, as if he were walking over the furrows of ploughed land, and looking up into the rigging, as if he saw a cock-pheasant at roost upon the rattlins. Moreover, he could talk of nothing else excepting “feyther,” and “our Moll,” and he really ate his bread (subintellige biscuit) moistened with his tears (if tears can moisten such flinty preparations), for he was always whimpering. For the sake of the fit of romance that I felt for his father, I took some kind notice of this yokel afloat. I believe, as much as it lay in his nature, he was grateful for it, for to everyone else on board he was the constant butt.

  Mr Farmer, our first-lieutenant, was a smart and somewhat exacting officer. He used to rig the smoke-sail some twelve feet high, across the mizzen-mast, and make the young gentlemen just caught, and the boys of the ship, lay out upon it, in order that they might practice furling after a safe method. At first, nothing could persuade Reuben to go a single step up the rigging — not even the rope’s-end of the boatswain’s mate. Now this delicacy was quite at variance with Mr Farmer’s ideas; so, in order to overcome it by the gentlest means in the world, Reuben had the option given him of being flogged, or of laying out on the smoke-sail yard, just to begin with, and to get into the way of it. It was a laughable thing to see this huge clown hanging with us boys on the thin yard, and hugging it as closely as if he loved it. He had a perfect horror of getting to the end of it. At a distance, when our smoke-sail yard was manned; we looked like a parcel of larks spitted, with one great goose in the midst of us. “Doey, get beyond me, zur; doey, Mr Rattlin,” he would say. “Ah! zur, I’d climb with any bragger in this ship for a rook’s nest, where I ha’ got a safe bough to stand upon; but to dance upon this here see-sawing line, and to call it a horse, too, ben’t Christian loike.”

  But his troubles were soon to cease. He was made a waister, and, at furling sails stationed on the main yard. I will anticipate a little that we may have done with him. The winter had set in severely, with strong gales, with much frost and snow. We were not clear yet of the chops of the Channel, and the weather became so bad, that it was found necessary to lie-to under try-sails and close-reefed main-top sail. About two bells in the first dog-watch the first-lieutenant decided upon furling the main-sail. Up on the main-yard Reuben was forced to go; he went to leeward, and the seamen, full of mischief; kept urging him further and further away from the bunt. I was with one of the oldsters in the maintop; the maintop-sail had just been close-reefed. I had a full view of the lads on the main-yard, and the terror displayed in Reuben’s face was at once ludicrous and horrible. It was bitterly cold, the rigging was stiffened by frost, and the cutting north-east wind came down upon the men on the lee-yard-arm out of the belly of the topsail with tremendous force, added to which, the ship, notwithstanding the pressure of the last-mentioned sail, surged violently, for there was a heavy though a short sea. The farmer’s son seemed to be gradually petrifying with fear: he held on upon a fold of the sail instinctively, without at all assisting to bundle it up. He had rallied all his energies into his cramped and clutching fingers. As I looked down upon him, I saw that he was doomed. I would have cried out for assistance, but I knew that my cry would have been useless, even if I had been able, through the roar of the winds and the waters, to have made it heard.

  But this trying situation could not last long. The part of the sail on which Reuben had hung, with what might be truly termed his death-clutch, was wanted to be rolled in with the furl, and, by the tenacity of his grasp, he impeded the operation.

  “Rouse up, my lads, bodily, to windward,” roared the master’s mate, stationed at the bunt of the sail.

  “Let go, you lubber,” said the sailor next to windward of Reuben, on the yard.

  Reuben was now so lost, that he did not reply to the man even by a look. “Now, my lads, now: one, two, three, and a — .” Obedient to the call of the officer, with a simultaneous jerk at the sail, the holdfast of the stupid peasant was plucked from his cracking fingers; he fell back with a loud shriek from the yard, struck midway on the main rigging, and thence bounding far to leeward in the sea, disappeared, and for ever, amid the white froth of the curling wave, that lapped him up greedily. He never rose again. Perhaps, in her leeway, the frigate drifted over him — and thus the violated laws of his country were avenged. I must confess, that I felt a good deal shocked at the little sensation this (to me) tragical event occasioned. But we get used to these things, in this best of all possible worlds; and if the poacher died unwept, unknelled, unprayed for, all that can be said of the matter is — that many a better man has met with a worse fate.

  Chapter Thirty Three.

  Symptoms of sickness, not of the sea, but of the land beyond it — Our M.D. wishes to write DIO, and prepares accordingly — Ralph is about to reap his first marine laurels on the rocks of Cove.

  I do not get on with this life at all. I have not yet reached the Cove of Cork. Clap on more sail. It is bitterly cold, however, and here we are now safely moored in one of the petals of the “first flower of the sea.”

  In making this short passage, Captain Reud was very affable and communicative. He could talk of nothing but the beautiful coast of Leghorn; the superb bay of Naples; pleasant trips to Rome; visits to Tripoli; and other interesting parts on the African coast; and, on the voluptuous city of Palermo, with its amiable ladies and incessant festivities — he was quite as eloquent as could reasonably be expected from a smart post-captain of four-and-twenty.

  We were all in a fool’s paradise. For myself; I was enraptured. I was continually making extracts from Horace, Virgil, and other school-books, that I still carried with me, which referred, in the least, to those places that we were at all likely to see. But visions of this land of promise, of this sea, flowing with gentle waves and rich prizes, were soon dispersed before a sad reality, that, without the aid of the biting weather, now made most of the officers and men look blue, so soon as our anchors had nipped the ground of the Green Island. We found ourselves in the middle of a convoy of more than two hundred vessels of all descriptions, that the experienced immediately knew to be West Indiamen.

  The sarcastic glee with which Captain Reud rubbed his skinny, yellow hands, when he ordered additional sentries, and a boat to row guard round the ship from sunset to sunrise, weather permitting, to prevent desertion, gave me a strong impression of the malignity of his disposition. Certainly, the officers, from the first lieutenant downwards, looked, when under the influence of the first surprise, about as sage as we may conceive did those seven wise men of Gotham, who put to sea in a bowl. Some of them had even exchanged into the ship, for certain unlawful considerations, because she was so fine a frigate, and the captain possessed so much interest, being a very near and dear relation of the then treasurer of the navy. With this interest they thought, of course, that he would have the selection of his own station. And so he had. They either did not know, or had forgotten, that Captain Reud was a West Indian creole, and that he had large patrimonial estates in Antigua.

  “Not loud but deep,” were the curses in the gun-room, but both “loud and deep” were those in the midshipman’s berth, for the denizens thereof were never proverbial for the niceties of their expressions, when the apalling certainty broke on the comminators, of three years’ roasting in the West Indies, with accompaniments of misgivings about Yellow Jack, and the palisades, merely because the captain wished to go and see why the niggers did not make quite so much sugar and rum as they used to do. But, after all, we had a sage ship’s company, officers included, for there was scarcely a man in the ship, who, after our destination was ascertained, did not say, “Well, I thought as much;” and they derived much consolation from the consciousness of their foresight.

  The knowledge of our station had a most decided effect upon two of our officers, the master and surgeon; the former of whom, a weather-beaten, old north-countryman, who had been all his life knocking about the north sea, and our channels at home, immediately gave himself up for lost. He made his will, and took a decidedly serious turn.

  But there was another person, who viewed the West India station not religiously like our master, or joyously like our captain, or grumblingly like the marine officer, or despitefully like all the lieutenants, or detestedly like my messmates, or indifferently like myself. He took the matter into consideration discreetly, and so, in order to enjoy a long life, he incontinently fell sick unto death. Of course he knew, more than any man on board, how ill he was, for he was the doctor himself. He was not merely a naval surgeon, but a regular M.D., and with an English diploma. He could appreciate, as much as any man, the value of life; and hard indeed did he struggle to preserve the means of prolonging it. He was a short, round, and very corpulent person, with a monstrously large and pleasantly-looking face, with a very high colour — a colour not the flush of intemperance, but the glow of genuine health. This vast physiognomy was dug all over with holes; not merely pock-marks, but pock-pits. Indeed, his countenance put you in mind of a vast tract of gravelly soil on a sunny day, dug over with holes; it was so red, so cavernous, and withal, so bright. I need not mention that he was a bon vivant, a most joyous, yet a most discreet one. Even on board of ship he contrived to make his breakfasts dinners, his dinners feasts, and his suppers, though light delicacies. He was no mean proficient in the culinary art, and as refined a gourmand as the dear departed Dr Kitchener — a man, to whose honour I have a great mind to devote an episode, and would do so, were not my poor shipmate, Dr Thompson, just now waiting for me to relieve him from his illness.

  No sooner did our clever medical attendant understand his destination, than he sent away his plate untouched at dinner — refused his wine — talked movingly of broken constitutions, a predisposition to anasarea, and the deceitful and dangerous appearances of florid health. At supper, he pronounced himself a lost man, held out his brawny fist to whomsoever would choose to feel his pulse, and sent for the first assistant-surgeon to make him up a tremendous quantity of prescriptions, to be exhibited the ensuing night — to whatever fish might be so unfortunate as to be swimming alongside. After this display, and whilst he was languidly sipping a tumbler of barley-water, the Honourable Mr B, our junior luff, was loud in his complaints of being, what he called, fairly entrapped; when Dr Thompson, in a feeble and tremulous voice, read him a long lecture on patriotism, obedience to the dictates of duty, and self-devotion, finishing thus:— “By Heaven, show me the man that flinches from his duty, and I’ll show you whatever may be his outward bearing, a craven at heart! I am very ill — I feel that I am fast sinking into a premature grave — but what of that. I should be but too happy if I could make my dying struggles subservient to my country. My body, Mr Farmer — Mr Wade, this poor temple of mine contains an insidious enemy — a strange, a dreadful, and a wasting disease. It is necessary for the sake of medical science, for my country’s good, for the health of the world at large, that my death, which will speedily happen, should take place in England, in order that after dissolution I may be dissected by the first operators, viewed by the most intelligent of the faculty, and thus another light be placed on the present dark paths of curative knowledge. My symptoms are momentarily growing worse. Gentlemen, messmates, friends, I must leave you for the night, and too soon, I fear, for ever; but never shrink your duty. If they be the last words that I shall utter to you — humble though I be — I may venture to hold myself up to you as a pattern of self-devotion. God bless you all — good night — and never shirk your duty.”

  Of course, the company to whom this was addressed, were infinitely amused at this display, and the third-lieutenant observed mournfully, “Now there’s no chance for me. The fat rogue is going to invalid himself. I suppose that I need not trouble my liver to be diseased just now, for the hypocrite won’t allow another man in the ship to be sick but himself.”

  The gentlemen guessed rightly. All the next day Dr Thompson kept his cot, and was duly reported to the captain as dangerously ill. Now, our first-lieutenant was a noble, frank, yet sensible and shrewd fellow, and the captain was as mischief-loving, wicked little devil, as ever grinned over a spiteful frolic. They held a consultation upon the case, and soon came to a more decided opinion on it, than the gentlemen of the faculty generally do on such occasions. Now, whilst the doctor is plotting to prove himself desperately and almost hopelessly sick, and the captain and Mr Farmer, to make him suddenly well, in spite of himself I shall take the opportunity of displaying my own heroic deeds, when placed in the first independent command ever conferred upon me. Jason, with his Argonauts, went to bear away the Golden Fleece; Columbus, and his heroes, to give a world to the sovereign of Spain; and I, with two little boys, pushed out of the Cove perilously to procure some sand in the dingy. Nothing elevates a biography like appropriate comparison. But I doubt whether either Jason or Columbus felt a more enthusiastic glow pervade their frames when each saw himself fairly under sail for unknown seas than I did when I seized the tiller of the dinghy, which was, by the bye, a stick not at all bigger than that which I had, not many months before, used in trundling my hoop.