Chapter Forty Two.
It’s well to have a long spoon when one sips soup with the Devil—The captain’s shot seldom misses.
It is always a greater proof of courage to stand fire coolly than to fire. Captain Reud, I must suppose, wished to try the degree of intrepidity of his officers, by permitting the chase to give us several weighty objections against any more advance of familiarity on our parts. A quarter of a century ago there were some very strange notions prevalent in the navy, among which none was more common, than that the firing of the bow guns materially checked the speed of the vessel. The captain and the first-lieutenant both held this opinion. Thus we continued to gain upon the corvette, and she, being emboldened by the impunity with which she cannonaded us, fired the more rapidly and with the greater precision, as our rent sails and ravelled running rigging began to testify.
I was rather impatient at this apparent apathy on our parts. Mr Burn, the gunner, seemed to more than participate in my feelings. Our two bow-guns were very imposing-looking magnates. They would deliver a message at three miles’ distance, though it were no less than a missive of eighteen pounds avoirdupois; and we were now barely within half that distance. Mr Burn was particularly excellent at two things—a long shot, and the long bow. In all the ships that I have sailed, I never yet met with his equal at a cool, embellished, intrepid lie, or at the accuracy of his ball practice. Baron Munchausen would have found no mean rival in him at the former; and, were duels fought with eighteen pounders, Lord Camelford would have been remarkably polite in the company of our master of projectiles.
I was upon the point of writing that Mr Burn was burning with ardour. I see it written—it is something worse than a pun—therefore, per omnes modos et casus—heretical and damnable—consequently I beg the reader to consign it to the oblivion with which we cover our bad actions, and read thus:— The gunner was burning with impatience to show the captain what a valuable officer he commanded. The two guns had long been ready, and, with the lanyard of the lock in his right hand, and the rim of his glazed hat in his left, he was continually saying, “shall I give her a shot now, Captain Reud?”
The answer was as provokingly tautologous as a member of parliament’s speech, who is in aid of the whipper-in, speaking against time. “Wait a little, Mr Burn.”
“Well, Mr Rattlin,” said the fat doctor, blowing himself up to me, “so you have been knighted—on the field of battle, too—knight banneret of the order of the light bobs.”
I was standing with the captain’s glass to my eye, looking over the hammocks. In order to get near me he had been obliged to cling hold of the hammock rails with both hands, so that his huge, round, red face, just peeped above the tarpaulin hammock cloths, his chin resting upon them, no bad type of an angry sun showing his face above the rim of a black cloud, through a London November fog.
“Take care doctor,” I sang out, for I had seen the flashings of the enemy’s guns.
“Light bobs,” said the jeering doctor; when away flew the upper part of his hat, and down he dropped on the deck, on that part which nature seems to have purposely padded in order to make the fall of man easy.
“No light bob, however,” said I.
The doctor arose, rubbing with an assiduity that strongly reminded me of my old schoolmaster, Mr Root.
“To your station, doctor,” said the captain, harshly.
“Spoilt a good hat in trying to make a bad joke;” and he shuffled himself below.
“Your gig, Captain Reud, cut all to shivers,” said a petty officer.
This was the unkindest cut of all. As we were approaching Barbados, the captain had caused his very handsome gig to be hoisted in from over the stern, placed on the thwarts of the launch, and it had been in that position only the day before, very elaborately painted. The irritated commander seized hold of the lanyard of one of the eighteen pounders, exclaiming, at the same time, “Mr Burn, when you have got your sight, fire!”
The two pieces of artillery simultaneously roared out their thunders, the smoke was driven aft immediately, and down toppled the three topmasts of the corvette. The falling of those masts was a beautiful sight. They did not rush down impetuously, but stooped themselves gradually and gracefully, with all their clouds of canvas. A swan in mid air, with her drooping wings broken by a shot, slowly descending, might give you some idea of the view. But after the descent of the multitudinous sails, the beauty was wholly destroyed. Where before there careered gallantly and triumphantly before the gale a noble ship, now nothing but a wreck appeared painfully to trail along laboriously its tattered and degraded ruins.
“What do you think of that shot, Mr Farmer?” said the little captain, all exultation. “Pray, Mr Rattlin, where did Mr Burn’s shot fall?”
“One of the shot struck the water about half a mile to port, sir,” said I, for I was still at my post watching the proceedings.
“O Mr Burn! Mr Burn! what could you be about? It is really shameful to throw away his Majesty’s shot in that manner. Oh, Mr Burn!” said the captain, more in pity than in anger.
Mr Burn looked ridiculously foolish.
“O Mr Burn!” said I, “is this all you can show to justify your bragging?”
“If ever I fire a shot with the captain again,” said the mortified gunner, “may I be rammed, crammed, and jammed in a mortar, and blown to atoms.”
In the space of a quarter of an hour we were alongside of the Jean Bart. She mounted twenty-two guns, was crowded with a dirty crew, and, after taking out most of them, and sending plenty of hands on board, in two hours more we had got up her spare top-masts.
Before dark, everything appeared to be as if nothing had occurred, with the exception of the captain’s gig and the doctor’s hat; and hauling our wind, in company with our prize, we made sail towards that quarter in which we had left our convoy.
At daylight next morning, we found ourselves again with our convoy. Mr Silva had recaptured the four vessels taken by the felucca. The Falcon hove in sight about mid-day. She had chased the felucca well, to windward, when the immense large schooner had intruded herself as a third in the party, and she and the felucca, as well as I could understand, had united, and gave the man-of-war brig a pretty considerable tarnation licking, as brother Jonathan hath it.
She certainly made a very shattered appearance, and had lost several men. However, in the official letter of the commander to Captain Reud, all this was satisfactorily explained. He had beaten both, and they had struck; but owing to night coming on before he could take possession of them, they had most infamously escaped in the darkness. However, it did not much signify, as they were now, having struck, lawful prizes to any English vessel that could lay hold of them. I thought at the time that there was no doubt of that.
The next day we made the land. The low island of Barbados had the appearance of a highly-cultivated garden, and the green look, so refreshing in a hot country, and so dear to me, as it reminded me of England.