“You may test my wit by my book, Mr — , if you choose to read it,” and the author looked scornfully, “and my courage, when we reach Port Royal;” and the officer looked magnificently.

  “No more of this,” said the captain. “I was going to observe, that perhaps I am the only officer on the station or even in the fleet, that has under my command a live author, with the real book that he has published. Now, Mr Silva, we are all comfortable here — no offence is meant to you — only compliment and honour; will you permit us to have it read to us at the present meeting? we will be all attention. We will not deprive you of your wine — give the book to the younker.”

  “If you will be so kind, Captain Reud, to promise for yourself and the other gentlemen, to raise no discussion upon any particular phrase that may arise.”

  The captain did promise. We shall presently see how that promise was kept. The book was sent for, and placed in my hands. Now I fully opined that at least we should get past the second page. I was curiously mistaken.

  “Here, steward,” said the skipper, “place half a bottle of claret near Mr Rattlin. When your throat is dry, younker, you can whet your whistle; and when you come to any particular fine paragraph, you may wash it down with a glass of wine.”

  “If that’s the case, sir, I think, with submission, I ought to have my two bottles before me also; but, if I follow your directions implicitly, Captain Reud, I may get drunk in the first chapter.”

  Mr Silva thanked even a midshipman, with a look of real gratitude, for this diversion in his favour. I had begun to like the man, and there might have been a secret sympathy between us, as one day it was to be my fate also to write myself, author.

  Having adjusted ourselves into the most comfortable attitudes that we could assume, I began, as Lord Ogleby hath it, “with good emphasis, and good discretion,” to read the “Tour up and down the Rio de la Plate.” Before I began, the captain had sent for the master, and the honourable Mr B — ; so I had a very respectable audience.

  I had no sooner finished the passage, “After we had paved our way down the river,” than with one accord, and evidently by preconcert, every one stretching forth his right hand, as do the witches in Macbeth, roared out, “Stop!” It was too ludicrous. My eyes ran with tears, as I laid down the book, with outrageous laughter. Mr Silva started to his feet, and was leaving the cabin, when he was ordered back by Captain Reud. An appearance of amicability was assumed, and to the old argument they went, baiting the poor author like a bear tied to a stake. Debating is a thirsty affair; the two bottles to each, and two more, quickly disappeared; the wine began to operate, and with the combatants discretion was no longer the better part of valour.

  Whilst words fell fast and furious, I observed something about eight feet long and one high, on the deck of the cabin, covered with the ensign. It looked much like a decorated seat. Mr Silva would not admit the phrase to be improper, and consequently his associates would not permit the reading to proceed. During most of the time the captain was convulsed with laughter, and whenever he saw the commotion at all lulling, he immediately, by some ill-timed remark, renewed it to its accustomed fury. At length, as the seamen say, they all had got a cloth in the wind — the captain two or three, — and it was approaching the time for beating to quarters. The finale, therefore, as previously arranged, was acted. Captain Reud rose, and steadying himself on his legs, by placing one hand on the back of his chair, and the other on the shoulder of the gentleman that sat next to him, spoke thus: “Gentlemen — I’m no scholar — that is — you comprehend fully — on deck, there! — don’t keep that damned trampling — and put me out — where was I?”

  “Please, sir,” said I, “you were saying you were no scholar.”

  “I wasn’t — couldn’t have said so. I had the best of educations — but all my masters were dull — damned dull — so they couldn’t teach a quick lad, like me, too quick for them — couldn’t overtake me with their damned learning. I’m a straightforward man. I’ve common sense — com — common sense. Let us take a common sense view of this excruciation — ex — ex — I mean exquisite argument. Gentlemen, come here;” and the captain, between two supporters and the rest of the company, with Mr Silva, approached the mysterious looking, elongated affair, that lay, covered with the union-jack, like the corpse of some lanky giant, who had run himself up into a consumption by a growth too rapid. The doctor and purser, who were doubtlessly in the secret, wore each a look of the most perplexing gravity — the captain one of triumphant mischief; the rest of us, one of the most unfeigned wonder.

  “If,” spluttered out Captain Reud, see-sawing over the yet concealed thing. “If, Mr Paviour, you can pave your way down a river—”

  “My name, sir, is Don Alphonso Ribidiero da Silva,” said the annoyed lieutenant, with a dignified bow.

  “Well, then, Don Alphonso Ribs-are-dear-o damned Silva, if you can pave your way down a river, let us see how you can pave it in a small way down this hog-trough full of water,” plucking away, with the assistance of his confederates, the ensign that covered it.

  “With fools’ heads,” roared out the exasperated, and, I fear, not very sober, Portuguese.

  Though I was close by, I could not fully comprehend the whole manoeuvre. The captain was head and shoulders immersed in the filthy trough, which, uncleaned, was taken from the manger, that part of the main-deck directly under the forecastle, and filled with salt water. The doctor and purser had taken a greater lurch, and fallen over it, sousing their white waistcoats and well-arranged shirt frills in the dirty mixture. The rest of us contrived to keep our legs. The ship was running before the wind, and rolling considerably, and the motion, aided by the wine and the act of plucking aside the flag, might have precipitated the captain into his unenviable situation; he thought otherwise. No sooner was he placed upon his feet, and his mouth sufficiently clear from the salt water decoction of hog-wash, than he collared the poor victim of persecution, and spluttered out, “Mutiny — mu — mu — mutiny — sentry. Gentlemen, I call you all to witness, that Mr Silva has laid violent hands upon me.”

  The “paviour of ways” was immediately put under arrest, and a marine, with a drawn bayonet, placed at his cabin door, and the captain had to repair damages, vowing the most implacable vengeance for having been shoved into his own hog-trough. Did ever anybody know any good come of hoaxing?

  Chapter Forty Four.

  The palisade banquet, and Major Flushfire’s anthem to Yellow Jack — Who’s afraid? — The sands of life’s hour-glass will run out rapidly, unless well soaked with wine.

  We will despatch the object of persecution in a few words. Lieutenant Silva was given the option of a court-martial or of exchanging into a sloop of war. He chose the latter. The captain and his messmates saw him over the side, two days after we had anchored in Port Royal. The spiteful commander purposely contrived, when his effects were whipped into the boat, that one of the heavy, suspicious-looking cases should be swung against the gun and smashed. The result was exactly what we all expected. The water was strewn with copies, in boards, of the “Tour up and down the Rio de la Plate.” They must certainly have been light reading, as they floated about triumphantly. “I wonder whether they will pave their way up to Kingston,” said the captain, with a sneer.

  As the author would not suffer them to be picked up, they sank, one by one, and disappeared, like the remembrance of their creator in the minds of his companions. We heard, a few weeks after, that he had died of the yellow fever: and thus he, with his books, was consigned to oblivion, or is only rescued from it, if happily this work do not share his fate, by this short memento of him.

  Yellow fever! — malignant consumer of the brave! — how shall I adequately apostrophise thee? I have looked in thy jaundiced face, whilst thy maw seemed insatiate. But once didst thou lay thy scorched hand upon my frame; but the sweet voice of woman startled thee from thy prey, and the flame of love was stronger than even thy desolating fire. But now is not the time to tell of this, but rather of the eagerness with which most of my companions sought to avoid thee.

  Captain Reud had got, apparently, into his natural, as well as native, climate. The hotter it was, like a cricket, he chirped the louder, and enjoyed it the more. Young and restless, he was the personification of mischievous humour and sly annoyance. The tales he told of the fever were ominous, appalling, fatal. None could live who had not been seasoned, and none could outlive the seasoning. For myself; I might have been frightened, had I not been so constantly occupied in discussing pine-apples. But the climax was yet to be given to the fears of the fearful.

  All the officers that could be spared from the ship were invited to dine with the mess of the 60th Regiment, then doing duty at Kingston and Port Royal. That day, Captain Reud having been invited to dine with the admiral at the Penn, we were consequently deprived of his facetiousness. All the lieutenants and the ward-room officers, with most of the midshipmen, were of the party. The master took charge of the frigate. Suppose us all seated at the long table, chequered red and blue, with Major Flushfire, the officer in command of the garrison, at the top of the table, all scarlet and gold, and our own dear Dr Thompson, all scarlet and blue, at the bottom. These two gentlemen were wonderfully alike. The major’s scarlet was not confined to his regimentals: it covered his face. There was not a cool spot in that flame-coloured region; the yellow of his eyes was blood-shot, and his nose was richly Bardolphian. The expression of his features was thirst; but it was a jovial thirst withal — a thirst that burned to be supplied, encouraged, pampered. The very idea of water was repugnant to it. Hydrophobia was written upon the major’s brow.

  We have described our rubicund doctor before. He always looked warm, but since his entrance into the tropics, he had been more than hot, he had been always steaming. There was an almost perceptible mist about him. His visage possessed not the adust scorch of the major’s; his was a moist heat; his cheeks were constantly par-boiling in their own perspiration. He was a meet croupier for our host.

  Ranged on each side of this noble pair were the long lines of very pale and anxious faces (I really must except my own, for my face never looked anxious till I thought of marrying, or pale till I took to scribbling), the possessors of which were experiencing a little the torment of Tantalus. The palisades, those graves of sand, turned into a rich compost by the ever-recurring burial, were directly under the windows, and the land-breeze came over them, chill and dank, in palpable currents, through the jalousies, into the heated room; and, had one thrust his head into the moonlight and looked beneath, he would have seen hundreds of the shell-clad vampires, upon their long and contorted legs, moving hideously round, and scrambling horribly over newly-made mounds, each of which contained the still fresh corpse of a warrior, or of the land, or of the ocean. In a small way, your land-crab is a most indefatigable resurrectionist. But there is retribution for their villany. They get eaten in their turn. Delicate feeding they are, doubtlessly; and there can be no matter of question, but that, at that memorable dinner a double banquet was going on, upon a most excellent principle of reciprocity. The epicure crab was feeding upon the dish, man, below — whilst epicure man was feeding upon the dished-up crab above. True, the guests knew it not; I mean those who did not wear testaceous armour: the gentlemen in the coats of mail knew very well what they were about. It was, at the time of which I am speaking, a standing joke to make Johnny Newcome eat land-crab disguised in some savoury dish. Thank God, that was more than a quarter of a century ago. We trust that the social qualities and the culinary refinements of the West Indians do not now march à l’écrevisse and progress à reculons.

  There we all sat, prudence coqueting with appetite, and the finest yellow curries contending with the direst thoughts of yellow fever. Ever and anon some amiable youth would dash off a bumper of claret with an air of desperate bravery, and then turn pale at the idea of his own temerity. The most cautious were Scotch assistant-surgeons, and pale young ensigns who played the flute. The midshipmen feasted and feared. The major and the doctor kept on the “even tenor of their way,” that is, they ate and drank à l’envi.

  We will now suppose the King’s health drank, with the hearty and loyal, God bless him! from every lip — the navy drank, and thanks returned by the doctor, with his mouth full of vegetable marrow — the army drank, and thanks returned by the major, after clearing his throat with a bumper of brandy — and after “Rule Britannia” had ceased echoing along the now silent esplanade, and that had been thundered forth with such energy by the black band, an awful pause ensues. Our first-lieutenant of marines rises, and, like conscience, “with a still small voice,” thus delivers himself of the anxiety with which his breast was labouring.

  “Major Flushfire, may I claim the privilege of the similar colour of our cloth to entreat the favour of your attention? Ah! heh! — but this land breeze-laden, perhaps, with the germs of the yellow-fever — mephitic — and all that — you understand me, Dr Thompson?”

  “As much as you do yourself.”

  “Thank you — men of superior education — sympathy — and all that — you understand me fully, major. Now this night-breeze coming through that half-open jalousie — miasmata — and all that. Dr Armstrong, Dr Thompson — medical pill— ‘pillars of the state’ — you will pardon the classical allusion—”

  “I won’t,” growled out the doctor.

  “Ah — so like you — so modest — but don’t you think the draught is a little dangerous?”

  “Do you mean the doctor’s, or this?” said the inattentive and thirsty major, fetching a deep breath, as he put down the huge glass tumbler of sangaree.

  “Oh dear, no! — I mean the night draught through the window.”

  “The best way to dispose of it,” said the purser, nodding at the melting Galen.

  “No,” replied Major Flushfire, courteously, “there’s no danger in it at all — I like it.”

  “Bless me, major,” said the marine, “why it comes all in gusts.”

  “Like it all the better,” rejoined the major, with his head again half buried in the sangaree glass.

  “Degustibus non est disputandum,” observed Thompson.

  “Very true,” said the marine officer, looking sapiently. “That remark of yours about the winds is opposite. We ought to dispute their entrance, as you said in Latin. But is it quite fair, my dear doctor, for you and me to converse in Latin? We may be taking an undue advantage of the rest of the company.”

  “Greek! Greek!” said the purser.

  “Ay, certainly — it was Greek to Mr Smallcoates,” muttered Thompson.

  “To be sure it was,” said the innocent marine. “Major Flushfire,” continued he, once more upon his legs, “may I again entreat the honour of your attention. Dr Thompson has just proved by a quotation from a Greek author, Virgil or Paracelsus, I am not certain which, that the entrance of the night air into a hot room is highly injurious, and in — in — and all that. You understand me perfectly — would it be asking too much to have all the windows closed?”

  “Ovens and furnaces!” cried out the chairman, starting up. “Look at me and worthy Dr Thompson. Are we persons to enjoy a repetition of the Black Hole of Calcutta? The sangaree, Quasha — suffocation! The thought chokes me!” and he recommenced his devotions to the sangaree.

  “It melts me,” responded the doctor, swabbing his face with the napkin.

  “Are you afraid of taking cold?” said the purser to Mr Smallcoates.

  “Taking cold — let the gentleman take his wine,” said the major.

  “I must confess I am not so much afraid of cold as of fever. I believe, major, you have been three years in this very singularly hot and cold climate. Now, my dear sir, may I tax your experience to tell us which is the better method of living? Some say temperance, carried out even to abstemiousness, is the safer; others, that the fever is best repelled by devil’s punch, burnt brandy, and high living. Indeed, I may say that I speak at the request of my messmates. Do, major, give us your opinion.”

  “I think,” said the man of thirst, “the medical gentlemen should be applied to in preference to an old soldier like myself. They have great practice in disposing of fever cases.”

  “But if we must die, either of diet or the doctor, I am for knowing,” said the purser, “not what doctor, but what sort of diet, is most dilatory in its despatch.”

  “Well, I will not answer the question, but state the facts. My messmates can vouch for the truth of them. Five years ago, and not three, I came out with a battalion of this regiment. We mustered twenty-five officers in all. We asked ourselves the very same question you have just asked of me. We split into two parties, nearly even in number. Twelve of us took to water, temperance, and all manner of preservatives; the other thirteen of us led a harum-scarum life, ate whenever we were hungry, and when we were not hungry; drank whenever we were thirsty, and when we were not thirsty; and to create a thirst, we qualified our claret with brandy; and generally forgot the water, or substituted Madeira for it, in making our punch. This portion of our body, like Jack Falstaff, was given to sleeping on bulkheads on moonlight nights, shooting in the mid-day sun, riding races, and sometimes, hem! assisting — a — a — at drinking-matches.”

  Here the worthy soldier made a pause, appeared more thirsty than ever, scolded Quasha for not brandying his sangaree, and swigging it with the air of Alexander, when he proceeded to drain the cup that was fatal, he looked round with conscious superiority. The pale ensign looked more pale — the sentimental lieutenants more sentimental — many thrust their wine and their punch from before them, and there was a sudden competition for the water-jug. The marine carried a stronger expression than anxiety upon his features — it was consternation — and thus hesitatingly delivered himself:

  “And — so — so — sir, the bons vivants — deluded — poor deluded gentlemen! all perished — but — pardon me — delicate dilemma — but yourself, my good major.”