The King's Own. Фредерик Марриет
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of precision in the arrangement of his hair and whiskers, which proved that with him neatness was habitual. He had a worsted mitten on his left hand; the right, which held his pipe, was bare, and remarkably white and small. Perceiving the situation of the boy, he called to one of the men—“Here, Phillips, take this poor devil down, and put something dry on him, and give him a glass of brandy; when he’s all right again, we’ll find out from him how he happened to be adrift all by himself, like a bear in a washing-tub. There, go along with Phillips, boy.”
“He’s of the right sort,” said one of the men who had brought him on board, casting his eyes in the direction of our hero, who was descending the companion: “I thought so when I see’d him have his wits about him to hoist the signal. He made no more of jumping overboard than a Newfoundland dog—never stopped two seconds to think on’t.”
“We shall soon see what he is made of;” replied the captain, relighting his pipe, which had been allowed to go out during the time that they were rescuing Willy and the men from the boat when she returned.
Willy was soon provided with more comfortable clothing; and whether it was or was not from a whim of Phillips’s, who had been commissioned to rig him out, he appeared on deck the very picture of the animal which he had been compared to by the sailor. Thick woollen stockings, which were longer than both his legs and thighs, a pair of fisherman’s well-greased boots, a dark Guernsey frock that reached below his knees, and a rough pea-jacket that descended to his heels, made him appear much broader than he was high. A red woollen nightcap completed his attire, which, although anything but elegant, was admirably calculated to assist the brandy in restoring the circulation.
“Here he is, captain, all a-tanto, but not very neat,” said Phillips, shoving Willy up the hatchway, for he was so encumbered with the weight of his new apparel that he never could have ascended without assistance—“I have stowed away some spirits in his hold, and he no longer beats the devil’s tattoo with his grinders.”
“Now, my lad,” said the captain, taking his pipe out of his mouth, “tell me what’s your name, what you are, and how you came to be adrift in that barky? Tell me the truth—be honest, always be honest, it’s the best policy.”
Now, it rather unfortunately happened for Willy, that these two first questions were rather difficult for him to answer. He told his story with considerable hesitation—believed his name was Seymour—believed he was a midshipman. He was listened to without interruption by the captain and crew of the vessel, who had gathered round to hear him “spin his yarn.” When he had finished, the captain, looking Willy very hard in the face, thus addressed him:—“My little friend, excuse me, but I have some slight knowledge of the world, and I therefore wish that you had not forgotten the little advice I gave you, as a caution, before you commenced your narrative. Did not I say be honest? You believe you are an officer, believe your name to be Seymour. I tell you, my lad, in return, that I don’t believe a word that you say; but, however, that’s of no consequence. It requires reflection to tell a lie, and I have no objection to a little invention, or a little caution with strangers. All that about the battle was very clever; but still, depend upon it honesty’s the best policy. When we are better acquainted, I suppose we shall have the truth from you. I see the land on the lee-bow—we shall be into Cherbourg in an hour, when I expect we shall come to a better understanding.”
The Sainte Vierge, for such was the name of the vessel, which smelt most insufferably of gin, and, as our readers may probably have anticipated, was a smuggler, running between Cherbourg and the English coast, soon entered the port, and, having been boarded by the officers of the douane (who made a very proper distinction between smuggling from and to their own territories) came to an anchor close to the mole. As soon as the vessel was secured, the captain went below, and in a few minutes reappearing, dressed in much better taste than one-half of the saunterers in Bond-street, went on shore to the cabaret where he usually took up his quarters, taking with him our hero, whose strange attire, so peculiarly contrasted with that of the captain’s, was a source of great amusement to the sailors and other people who were assembled on the quay.
“Ah, mon capitaine, charmé de vous revoir. Buvons un coup, n’est-ce pas?” said the proprietor of the cabaret, presenting a bottle of prime French brandy, and a liquor glass, to the captain, as he entered.
“Heureux voyage, n’est-ce pas, Monsieur?”
“Ça va bien,” replied the captain, throwing the glass of liquor down his throat. “My apartments, if you please, and a bed for this lad. Tell Mr. Beaujou, the slopseller, to come here directly with some clothes for him. Is Captain Debriseau here?”
“He is, sir—lost all his last cargo—obliged to throw over in deep water.”
“Never mind: he ran the two before—he can afford it.”
“Ah, but Captain Debriseau is in a very bad humour, nevertheless. He called me an old cheat this morning—c’est incroyable.”
“Well, present my compliments to him, and say that I request the honour of his company, if he is not otherwise engaged. Come, youngster.”
The landlord of the cabaret ushered the captain of the sloop and our hero, with many profound bows, into a low dark room, with only one window, the light from which was intercepted by a high wall, not four feet distant. The floor was paved with tiles, the table was deal, not very clean, and the whitewashed walls were hung around with stiff drawings of several smuggling vessels, whose superior sailing and consequent good fortune had rendered them celebrated in the port of Cherbourg. The straw had been lighted under some logs of wood on the hearth, which as yet emitted more smoke than flame: a few chairs, an old battered sofa, and an upright press, completed the furniture.
“I knew your beautiful sloop long before she came in—there’s no mistaking her; and I ordered the apartment de Monsieur to be prepared. C’est un joli apartement, n’est-ce pas, Monsieur? so retired!” With some forbearance, but with great judgment, the beauty of the prospect was not expatiated upon by the obsequious landlord.
“It will do to smoke and eat in, Monsieur Picardon, and that is all that I require. Now bring pipes and tobacco, and take my message to Captain Debriseau.”
The latter gentlemen and the pipes were ushered in at the same moment.
“McElvina, my dear fellow, I am glad to see that you have had better luck than I have had this last trip. Curses on the cutter. Sacristie,” continued Captain Debriseau, who was a native of Guernsey, “the wind favoured her three points after we were about, or I should have doubled him—ay, and have doubled the weight of the leathern bag too. Sacré nom de Dieu,” continued he, grinding his teeth, and pulling a handful of hair out of his rough head, which could have spared as much as Absalom used to poll—“Que ça me fait bisquer.”
“Bah! Laissez aller, mon ami—sit down and take a pipe,” rejoined our captain. “This is but pettifogging work at the best: it won’t pay for the means of resistance. My lugger will be ready in May, and then I’ll see what a revenue cutter is made of. I was at Ostend last Christmas, and saw her. By Jove, she’s a beauty! She was planked above the watermark then, and must be nearly ready for launching by this time. I’ll pass through the Race but once more; then adieu to dark nights and south-west gales—and huzza for a row of teeth, with the will, as well as the power, to bite. Sixteen long nines, my boy!”
“Quick returns, though, quick returns, messmate,” answered Debriseau, referring to the Cherbourg system of smuggling, which, being his own means of livelihood, he did not like to hear disparaged.
For the benefit of those who have no objection to unite a little information with amusement, I shall here enter into a few remarks relative to the smuggling carried on between the port of Cherbourg and our own coast—premising that my readers have my entire approbation to skip over a page or two, if they are not anxious to know anything about these nefarious transactions.
The port of Cherbourg, from its central situation, is better adapted than any other in France for carrying