“Then old ‘hop-and-go-one’ and old ‘hop-o’-my thumb’ would be sworn chums for ever and ever,” laughed Fitzgerald; “but at this moment I don’t want to fall out with you, honour bright! I want you to look back at that magnificent view, and the dear old Rattler in the middle of it. I never saw a more lovely picture!”
Fitz was an artist of no mean capacity, and I strongly suspected that he had at that moment a paint-box and brushes in his pocket. Hand-cameras would have enchanted him, but they had not then been invented.
It certainly was a lovely view, and I felt grateful to my brother-middy for calling my attention to it.
We had been winding gradually along the summit of a low range of hills, on the outermost spur of which was situated the fort we had just evacuated. The gradient was upwards, though in no place steep, and we had now reached a somewhat extensive plateau covered with short springy sward. From this point of vantage we had a full and extensive view of the winding tortuous creek; the hills, clad with palm groves, which enclosed it; and the broad blue sea beyond, glittering in the sunshine, and here and there barred with purple cloud-shadows. For the primrose streaks of colour in the sky had melted away as if by magic, and the glorious sun had recalled a sleeping world to life. In the roadstead our beautiful frigate lay calmly and serenely at anchor, her guns frowning from the portholes, and her shapely hull and taut spars and rigging reflected with extraordinary fidelity in the waters which appeared to sleep in the warm rays of the sun. Astern lay the Flying-fish, which, though a well-built vessel, lacked the trim appearance and impressiveness of the British man-of-war. Above, the blue vault of heaven stretched away into limitless infinity, its tint of deepest azure only broken here and there by a few sluggishly-moving clouds and the white wings of innumerable sea-gulls.
As we gazed admiringly at our floating home we saw the proud white ensign slowly ascend to her gaff, drooping listlessly in the stagnant air; and the distant strains of “God save the Queen” came faintly to our ears through the still, clear atmosphere of a Cuban early morning.
“Eight bells!” I cried. “If we were on board the old hooker, Fitz, we should be just sitting down to eat salt-junk and swill gunroom catlap.”
“Instead of which we’re out upon the war-path,” said Fitzgerald, “and, like Fenimore Cooper’s Indian braves, are dying to scalp the enemy.”
A halt was called just at this moment on account of a stampede amongst some of the baggage-mules.
The gunnery lieutenant, who was very anxious to push on and find traces of the enemy, was exceedingly angry at this unlooked-for delay.
“Mr. Darcy,” he sang out to me, “ascertain at once the cause of that stampede among the mules; and if it was due in any way to the cruelty of the Spanish drivers, have the delinquents brought before me, and I’ll give them a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry.”