“And if I am obliged to go, I’ll not touch anything,” rejoined the master. “There’s an old proverb, ‘you may lead a horse to the pond, but you can’t make him drink.’”

  “Whatever we do,” replied Roberts, the first-lieutenant, “we must act in concert; but I have been long enough in the service to know that we must obey first, and remonstrate afterwards. That this is an unusual order, I grant, nor do I know by what regulations of the service it can be enforced; but at the same time I consider that we run a great risk in refusing to obey it. Only observe, in the preamble, how artfully he inserts ‘appearance of a conspiracy, tending to bring him into contempt;’ and again, ‘for the better discipline of his Majesty’s service, which must invariably suffer when there is an appearance of want of cordiality between those to whom the men must look for example.’ Upon my soul, he’s devilish clever. I do believe he’d find out a reason for drawing out all our double teeth, if he was inclined, and prove it was all for the benefit of his Majesty’s service. Well, now, what’s to be done?”

  “Why, what’s your opinion, Roberts?”

  “Oh, mine is to go; and if you will act with me, he won’t allow us to dine with him a second time.”

  “Well, then, I agree,” replied the surgeon.

  “And so must I, then, I presume; but, by heavens, downright tyranny and oppression.”

  “Never mind; listen to me. Let’s all go, and all behave as ill as we can — be as unmannerly as bears — abuse everything — be as familiar as possible, and laugh in his face. He cannot touch us for it, if we do not go too far — and he’ll not trouble us to come a second time.”

  Their plans were arranged; and at three o’clock they were ushered into the cabin, with one of the midshipmen of the ship, and Jerry, who, as a stranger, had been honoured with an invitation. Captain Bradshaw, whose property was equal to his liberality, piqued himself upon keeping a good table; his cook was an artiste, and his wines were of the very best quality. After all, there was no great hardship in dining with him — but, “upon compulsion!” — No. The officers bowed. The captain, satisfied with their obedience, intended, although he had brought them there by force, to do the honours of his table with the greatest urbanity.

  “Roberts,” said he, “do me the favour to take the foot of the table. — Doctor, here’s a chair for you. — Mr Bradly, come round on this side. Now, then, steward, off covers, and let us see what you have for us. Why, youngster, does your captain starve you?”

  “No, sir,” replied Jerry, who knew what was going on; “but he don’t give me a dinner every day.”

  “Humph!” muttered the captain, who thought Mr Jerry very free upon so short an acquaintance.

  The soup was handed round; the first spoonful that Roberts took in his mouth, he threw out on the snow-white deck, crying out, as soon as his mouth was empty, “O Lord!”

  “Why, what’s the matter?” inquired the captain.

  “So cursed hot, I’ve burnt my tongue.”

  “Oh, that’s all? — steward, wipe up that mess,” said the captain, who was rather nice in his eating.

  “Do you know Jemmy Cavan, sir, at Barbadoes?” inquired the doctor.

  “No, sir, I know no Jemmies,” replied Captain Bradshaw, surprised at his familiar address.

  “He’s a devilish good fellow, sir, I can tell you. When he gets you on shore, he’ll make you dine with him every day, whether or not. He’ll take no denial.”

  “Now, that’s what I call a damned good fellow: you don’t often meet a chap like him,” observed the master.

  Captain Bradshaw felt that he was indirectly called a chap, which did not please him.

  “Mr Bradly, will you take some mutton?”

  “If you please,” said the master.

  “Roberts, I’ll trouble you to carve the saddle of mutton.”

  The first-lieutenant cut out a slice, and taking it on the fork, looked at it suspiciously, and then held his nose over it.

  “Why, what’s the matter?”

  “Rather high, sir, I’m afraid.”

  “Oh, I smell it here,” said Jerry, who entered into the joke.

  “Indeed! Steward, remove that dish; fortunately, it is not all our dinner. What will you take, Mr Bradly?”

  “Why, really, I seldom touch anything but the joint. I hate your kickshaws, there’s so much pawing about them. I’ll wait, if you please; in the meantime, I’ll drink a glass of wine with you, Captain Bradshaw.”

  “The devil you will!” was nearly out of the captain’s mouth, at this reversal of the order of things; but he swallowed it down, and answered, in a surly tone, “With great pleasure, sir.”

  “Come, doctor, let you and I hob and nob,” said the first-lieutenant. They did so, and clicked their glasses together with such force as to break them both, and spill the wine upon the fine damask table-cloth. Jerry could contain himself no longer, but burst out into a roar of laughter, to the astonishment of Captain Bradshaw, who never had seen a midshipman thus conduct himself at his table before: but Jerry could not restrain his inclination for joining with the party, although he had no excuse for his behaviour.

  “Bring some wine-glasses, steward; and you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, but I will thank you not to try the strength of them again,” said Captain Bradshaw, with a very majestic air.

  “Now, Mr Ferguson, I shall be happy to take a glass of wine with you. What will you have? There’s sherry and Moselle.”

  “I prefer champagne, if you please,” answered the surgeon, who knew that Captain Bradshaw did not produce it except when strangers were at the table.

  Captain Bradshaw restrained his indignation, and ordered champagne to be brought.

  “I’ll join you,” cried the first-lieutenant, shoving in his glass.

  “Come, younker, let you and I have a glass cosy together,” said Jerry to the midshipman, who, frightened at what was going on, moved his chair a little further from Jerry, and then looked first at him and then at the captain.

  “Oh, pray take a glass with the young gentleman,” said Captain Bradshaw, with mock politeness.

  “Come, steward, none of your half allowance, if you please,” continued the impertinent Jerry. “Now, then, my cock, here’s towards you, and ‘better luck still.’”

  Captain Bradshaw was astonished. “I say, youngster, did Captain M — ever flog you?”

  “No, sir,” replied Jerry, demurely, perceiving that he had gone too far; “he always treats his officers like gentlemen.”

  “Then, I presume, sir, when they are on board of his ship, that they conduct themselves as gentlemen.”

  This hint made Jerry dumb for some time; the officers, however, continued as before. The surgeon dropped his plate, full of damascene tart, on the deck. The first-lieutenant spilt his snuff on the table-cloth, and laid his snuff-box on the table, which he knew to be the captain’s aversion; and the master requested a glass of grog, as the rotgut French wines had given him a pain in the bowels. Captain Bradshaw could hardly retain his seat upon the chair, upon which he fidgeted right and left. He perceived that his officers were behaving in a very unusual manner, and that it was with a view to his annoyance: yet it was impossible for him to take notice of breaking glasses, and finding fault with the cookery, which they took care to do, sending their plates away before they had eaten a mouthful, with apparent disgust; neither could he demand a court-martial for awkwardness or want of good manners at his own table. He began to think that he had better have left out the “every day until further orders,” in the memorandum, as rescinding it immediately would have been an acknowledgment of their having gained the victory; and as to their going on in this way, to put up with it was impossible.

  The dinner was over, and the dessert placed on the table. Captain Bradshaw passed the bottles round, helping himself to Madeira. Roberts took claret, and as soon as he had tasted it, “I beg your pardon, Captain Bradshaw,” said he, “but this wine is corked.”

  “Indeed — take it away, steward, and bring another bottle.”

  Another was put on the table.

  “I hope you will find that better, Mr Roberts,” said the captain, who really thought that what he stated had been the case.

  “Yes,” replied the first-lieutenant; “for the description of wine, it’s well enough.”

  “What do you mean, sir? Why, its Château Margaux of the first growth.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” replied the officer, with an incredulous smile; “they must have imposed upon you.”

  Captain Bradshaw, who was an excellent judge of wine, called for a glass, and pouring out the claret, tasted it. “I must differ from you, sir; and, moreover, I have no better.”

  “Then I’ll trouble you to pass the port, doctor, for I really cannot drink that stuff.”

  “Do you drink port, Mr Bradly?” said the captain, with a countenance as black as a thunder-cloud.

  “No, not to-day; I am not well in my inside: but I’ll punish the port to-morrow.”

  “So will I,” said the surgeon.

  “And as I am not among the privileged,” added Jerry, who had already forgotten the hint, “I’ll take my whack to-day.”

  “Perhaps you may,” observed the captain, drily.

  The officers now began to be very noisy, arguing among themselves upon points of service, and taking no notice whatever of the captain. The master, in explanation, drew a chart, with wine, upon the polished table, while the first-lieutenant defended his opinion with pieces of biscuit, laid at different positions — during which two more glasses were demolished.

  The captain rang, and ordered coffee in an angry tone. When the officers had taken it, he bowed stiffly, and wished them good evening.

  There was one dish which was an object of abhorrence to Captain Bradshaw. The first-lieutenant, aware of it, as they rose to depart, said, “Captain Bradshaw, if it’s not too great a liberty, we should like to have some tripe to-morrow. We are all three very partial to it.”

  “So am I,” rejoined Jerry.

  Captain Bradshaw could hold out no longer. “Leave the cabin immediately, gentlemen. By heavens, you shall never put your legs under my table again.”

  “Are we not to dine here to-morrow, sir?” replied the first-lieutenant with affected surprise; “the order says, ‘every day.’”

  “Till further orders,” roared the captain; “and now you have them, for I’ll be damned if ever you dine with me again.”

  The officers took their departure, restraining their mirth until they gained the gun-room: and Jerry was about to follow, when Captain Bradshaw caught him by the arm.

  “Stop, my young gentleman, you’ve not had your ‘whack,’ yet.”

  “I’ve had quite sufficient, sir, I thank you,” replied Jerry; “an excellent dinner — many thanks to your hospitality.”

  “Yes, but I must now give you your dessert.”

  “I’ve had my dessert and coffee too, sir,” said Jerry, trying to escape.

  “But you have not had your chasse-café, and I cannot permit you to leave the cabin without it. Steward, desire a boatswain’s mate to bring his cat, and a quarter-master to come here with seizings.”

  Jerry was now in a stew — the inflexible countenance of Captain Bradshaw showed that he was in earnest. However, he held his tongue until the operators appeared, hoping that the captain would think better of it.

  “Seize this young gentleman up to the breach of the gun, quarter-master!”

  “Will you oblige me, sir, by letting me know my offence!”

  “No, sir.”

  “I do not belong to your ship,” continued Jerry. “If I have done wrong, Captain M — is well known to be a strict officer, and will pay every attention to your complaint.”

  “I will save him the trouble, sir.”

  Jerry was now seized up, and every arrangement made preparatory to punishment. “Well, sir,” resumed Jerry, “it must be as you please; but I know what Captain M — will say.”

  “What, sir?”

  “That you were angry with your officers, whom you could not punish, and revenged yourself upon a poor boy.”

  “Would he? — Boatswain’s mate, where’s your cat?”

  “Here, sir; — how many tails am I to use?”

  “Oh, give him the whole nine.”

  “Why, your honour,” replied the man, in a compassionate tone, “there’s hardly room for them there.”

  Jerry, who, when his indignation was roused, cared little what he said, and defied consequences, now addressed the captain.

  “Captain Bradshaw, before you commence, will you allow me to tell you what I will call you after the first lash?”

  “What, sir?”

  “What!” cried Jerry, with scorn,— “Why, if you cut me to pieces, and turn me out of the service afterwards, I will call you a paltry coward, and your own conscience, when you are able to reflect, will tell you the same.”

  Captain Bradshaw started back with astonishment at such unheard-of language from a midshipman; but he was pleased with the undaunted spirit of the boy — perhaps he felt the truth of the observation. At all events, it saved Jerry. After a short pause, the captain said —

  “Cast him loose; but observe, sir, never let me see your face again while you are in the ship!”

  “No, nor any other part of me, if I can help it,” replied Jerry, buttoning up his clothes, and making a precipitate escape by the cabin-door.

  Chapter Thirty Five.

  The air no more was vital now,

  But did a mortal poison grow.

  The lungs, which used to fan the heart,

  Served only now to fire each part;

  What should refresh, increased the smart.

  And now their very breath,

  The chiefest sign of life, became the cause of death!

  Sprat, Bishop of Rochester.

  The Aspasia did not drop her anchor in Carlisle Bay until three weeks after the arrival of the frigate which brought up Courtenay and the prize crew; but she had not been idle, having three valuable prizes, which she had captured in company. Courtenay immediately repaired on board of his ship, to report to Captain M — the circumstances which had occurred connected with the loss of his five men. He was too honourable to attempt to disguise or palliate the facts: on the contrary, he laid all the blame upon himself; and enhanced the merits of the two midshipmen. Captain M — , who admired his ingenuous confession, contented himself with observing that he trusted it would be a caution to him during his future career in the service. To Seymour and Jerry he said nothing, as he was afraid that the latter would presume upon commendation; but he treasured up their conduct in his memory, and determined to lose no opportunity that might offer to reward them. Courtenay descended to the gun-room, where he was warmly greeted by his messmates, who crowded round him to listen to his detail of the attempt to recapture.

  “Well,” observed Price, “it appears we have had a narrow chance of losing a messmate.”

  “Narrow chance lose two, sar,” replied Billy Pitts; “you forgit, sar, I on board schooner!”

  “Oh, Billy, are you there? How does the dictionary come on?”

  “Come on well, sar; I make a corundum on Massa Doctor, when on board schooner.”

  “Made a what? — a corundum! What can that be?”

  “It ought to be something devilish hard,” observed Courtenay.

  “Yes, sar, debblish hard find out. Now, sar, — Why Massa Macallan like a general?”

  “I’m sure I can’t tell. We give it up, Billy.”

  “Then, sar, I tell you. Because he ‘feelossifer.”

  “Bravo, Billy! — Why, you’ll write a book soon. By the bye, Macallan, I must not forget to thank you for the loan of that gentleman: he has made himself very useful, and behaved very well.”

  “Really, Massa Courtenay, I tought I not give you satisfaction.”

  “Why so, Billy?”

  “Because, sar, you never give me present — not one dollar.”

  “He has you there,” said Price; “you must fork out.”

  “Not a rap — the nigger had perquisites. I saw the English merchants give him a handful of dollars, before they left the vessel.”

  “Ah! they real gentlemen, Massa Capon and Massa — dam um name — I forgot.”

  “And what am I, then, you black thief?”

  “Oh! you, sar, you very fine officer,” replied Billy, quitting the gun-room.

  Courtenay did not exactly like the answer — but there was nothing to lay hold of. As usual, when displeased, he referred to his snuff-box, muttering something, in which the word “annoying” could only be distinguished.

  The breeze from the windsail blew some of the snuff out of the box into the eyes of Macallan.

  “I wish to Heaven you would be more careful, Courtenay,” cried the surgeon, in an angry tone, and stamping with the pain.

  “I really beg your pardon,” replied Courtenay, “snuffing’s a vile habit, — I wish I could leave it off.”

  “So do your messmates,” replied the surgeon: “I cannot imagine what pleasure there can be in a practice in itself so nasty, independent of the destruction of the olfactory powers.”

  “It’s exactly for that reason that I take snuff; I am convinced that I am a gainer by the loss of the power of smell.”

  “I consider it ungrateful, if not wicked, to say so,” replied the surgeon, gravely. “The senses were given to us as a source of enjoyment.”

  “True, doctor,” answered Courtenay, mimicking the language of Macallan; “and if I were a savage in the woods, there could not be a sense more valuable, or affording so much gratification, as the one in question. I should rise with the sun, and inhale the fragrance of the shrubs and flowers, offered up in grateful incense to their Creator, and I should stretch myself under the branches of the forest tree, as evening closed, and enjoy the faint perfume with which they wooed the descending moisture after exhaustion from the solar heat. But in civilised society, where men and things are packed too closely together, the case is widely different: for one pleasant, you encounter twenty offensive smells; and of all the localities for villainous compounds, a ship is indubitably the worst. I therefore patronise ‘‘baccy,’ which, I presume, was intended for our use, or it would not have been created.”