Rattlin the Reefer

by Edward Howard

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.”

“Exactly, Mr Smallcoates; and within the eighteen months.”

There was a perceptible shudder through the company, military as well as naval. The pure element became in more demand than ever, and those who did not actually push away their claret, watered it. The imperturbable major brandied his sangaree more potently.

“But,” said Mr Smallcoates, brightening up, “the temperate gentlemen all escaped the contagion—undoubtedly!”

“I beg your pardon—they all died within the year. I alone remain of all the officers to tell the tale. The year eight was dreadful. Poor fellows!” The good major’s voice faltered, and he bent over his sangaree much longer than was necessary to enjoy the draught.

Blank horror passed her fearful glance from guest to guest. Even the rubicund doctor’s mouth was twitched awry. I did not quite like it myself.

“But I’m alive,” said the major, rallying up from his bitter recollections, “and the brandy is just as invigorating, and the wine just as refreshing as ever.”

“The major is alive,” said the marine officer, very sapiently. “Is that brandy before you, Mr Farmer? I’ll trouble you for it—I really feel this claret very cold upon my stomach. Yes,” he repeated, after taking down a tumbler-full of half spirits, half wine, “the major is alive—and—so am I.”

“The major is alive,” went round the table; “let us drink his health in bumpers.”

The major returned thanks, and volunteered a song. I begged it, and the reader may sing it as he pleases, though I shall please myself by recording how the major was pleased to have it sung.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “you will do me the favour to fill a bumper of lemonade, and when I cry chorus, chorus me standing, with the glasses in your hands; and at the end of each chorus you will be pleased to remember that the glass is to be drained. No heel-taps after, and no daylight before. Now for it, my lads!” and with a voice that must have startled the land crabs from their avocations, he roared out—

“Yellow Jack! Yellow Jack! hie thee hack! hie thee back!
To thy damp, drear abode in the jungle;
I’ll be sober and staid,
And drink lemonade,
Try and catch me—you’ll make a sad bungle,
Yellow Jack!
“But he came, the queer thief, and he seized my right-hand,
And I writh’d and I struggled, yet could not withstand
His hot, griping grasp, though I drank lemonade—
He grinn’d and he clutch’d me, though sober and staid.”
Chorus (with increasing loudness).
“Yellow Jack! Yellow Jack! hie thee back! hie thee back!
To thy damp, drear abode in the jungle;
We’ll be sober and staid,
And we’ll drink lemonade,
Try and catch us—you’ll make a sad bungle,
Yellow Jack!” (tremendously).

“Bumpers of sangaree!” roared the major, and sang:

“Yellow Jack! Yellow Jack! hie thee back! hie thee back!
To thy pestilent swamp quickly hie thee;
For I’ll drink sangaree,
Whilst my heart’s full of glee,
In thy death-doing might I’ll defy thee,
Yellow Jack!
“But the fiend persever’d and got hold of my side,
How I burn’d, and I froze, and all vainly I tried
To get rid of his grasp—though I drank sangaree,
No longer my bosom exulted with glee.”
Chorus (still more loudly).
“Yellow Jack! Yellow Jack! hie thee back! hie thee back
To thy pestilent swamp quickly hie thee;
For we’ll drink sangaree,
Whilst our hearts throb with glee,
In thy death-doing might we defy thee,
Yellow Jack!”

After the sangaree, strong, and highly spiced, had been quaffed, the excitement grew wilder, and the leader of our revels exclaimed, at the top of his voice, “Wine, gentlemen, wine—brimmers!” and thus continued—

“Yellow Jack! Yellow Jack! hie thee back! hie thee back!
Begone to thy father, old Sootie,
Pure wine now I’ll drink,
So Jack, I should think,
Of me thou wilt never make booty,
Yellow Jack!
“But a third time he came, and seized hold of my head;
’Twas in vain that the doctor both blister’d and bled;
My hand, and my side, and my heart too, I think,
Would soon have been lost, though pure wine I might drink.”
Chorus.
“Yellow Jack! Yellow Jack! hie thee hack! hie thee back!
Begone to thy father, old Sootie.
Pure wine now we’ll drink,
So Jack, we should think,
Of us thou wilt never make booty,
Yellow Jack!

“Brandy!” shouted the major. “Brandy—he’s a craven who shirks the call.” There was no one there craven but myself. My youth excused my apostacy from the night’s orgies. The major resumed, his red face intensely hot and arid:

“Yellow Jack! Yellow Jack! hie thee back! hie thee back
To the helldam, Corruption, thy mother;
For with brandy I’ll save
My heart, and thus brave
Thee, and fell Death, thine own brother
Yellow Jack!
“To brandy I took, then Jack took his leave,
Brandy-punch and neat brandy drink morn, noon, and eve,
At night drink, then sleep, and be sure, my brave boys,
Naught will quell Yellow Jack but neat brandy and noise.”
The Chorus (most uproariously).
“Yellow Jack! Yellow Jack! hie thee back! hie thee back!
To the helldam, Corruption, thy mother;
For with brandy we’ll save
Our hearts, and thus brave
Thee, and fell Death, thine own brother,
Yellow Jack!”

At last “Yellow Jack” was thundered out loud enough to awake his victims from the palisades. The company were just then fit for anything, but certainly most fit for mischief. Our first-lieutenant intimated to me that our jolly-boat was waiting to take the junior officers on board—considerate man—so I took the hint, marvelling much upon the scene that I had just witnessed.

Whether or not there was any mystic virtue in the exorcisory cantation of the previous night I cannot determine; but it is certain that, next morning, though headaches abounded among our officers, indications of the yellow fever there were none.

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