As a party of us, including the second mate, were chattering and laughing on the deck about noon, our attention was suddenly attracted to a handsome pinnace, with green sides and venetians, and of a light and beautiful rig, gliding down the river, with all sail loosened, which, however, the light winds had barely power to distend. As it approached, we observed an old gentleman, and a numerous group of attendants on the chut or roof. Marpeet immediately observed that we were about to be visited by one of the Calcutta big wigs; and Grinnerson, applying the glass to his eye, exclaimed, after a little reconnoitring and slapping his leg with delight,
“By the piper that played before Moses, if it isn’t that old Tartar, General Capsicum; he’ll keep us all alive if he comes on board.”
The general was seated in an easy chair, smoking a magnificent hooka, the silver chains and other brilliant appendages of which were conspicuous even at a distance. Altogether, with his troop of attendants, he looked not a little like the chief of Loochoo, as depicted in Captain Hall’s voyage to that interesting island. Of the liveried and whiskered group about him, one swung a huge crimson silk punkah, or fan, with a silver handle, the end of which rested on the deck; a second held an umbrella of the same colour over his head; two more worked chowries, or whisks, to keep off the flies; and behind his chair stood his pipeman, or hookhaburdar, a black-bearded fellow, with his arms folded, and looking as grave and solemn as a judge. At the back of all these again, and forming a sort of rear-guard, were a body of mace-bearers and silver-stick men, awaiting the slightest order of the chief. Well, this is something like Eastern magnificence, indeed, thought I—nil desperandum—“Frank Gernon, hold up your head; you may be a nabob yet.”
Upon the arrival of the pinnace within a very short distance of the ship, the old gentleman, assisted by his obsequious attendants, arose from his chair, and moving to the verge of the roof or poop, with a gait almost as unsteady as the toddle of an infant, gave us a full view of about as odd a figure as can well be imagined. In height, he was below the middle size, and as thin and shrivelled as an old baboon, to the physiognomy of which animal his own bore no inconsiderable resemblance; indeed, till I saw him, I never thought much of Lord Monboddo’s theory. He wore a red camlet raggie, or Swiss jacket, with blue collar and facings, which hung in bags about him, and a white waistcoat, wide open, from which a volume of frill protruded. His nether man was encased in a pair of tight nankeens, buttoned at the ancle (a singular perversity common to old gentlemen whose calves have gone to grass), and which exhibited the extraordinary slenderness of his frail supporters in a very striking point of view. A queue (the general being one of the “last of the pigtails”), a round hat of black silk, a good deal battered, with a bullion loop and button, completed the outward appearance of the Bengal veteran, who soon, however, satisfied us that, spite of appearances, he was, as Grinnerson said, a stout-hearted old fellow, with plenty of pluck and mental vigour still about him; one of whom it might be said, that “E’en in his ashes glowed their wonted fires.”
When pretty close, the little old man, from whom a squeaky and faltering treble might have been expected, astonished us by shouting out, in a stentorian voice, and with a tone and accent smacking strongly of the “first gem of the sea,”
“Is that the Rottenbame Castle, sur?”
Being answered in the affirmative, he continued, “Is Captain McGuffin on board, sur?”
McGuffin, who by this time had come to the side, replied to this question himself. Taking off his hat, and waving it, he said,
“Hoo air ye, general? I’m glad to see you, sir, luking sae weel. Will you come on board, sir?”
“Hah! McGuffin, is that you? How are you, my good sur?” returned the general, raising his hat, too, with all the dignity of the old school, or of the guardsman at Fontenoy. “Sorry to see you in this ugly pickle, though. Have you got my Cordalia on board?” alluding to his daughter, a widow lady, one of our passengers from Madras, and who, at this instant, having heard of her father’s arrival, rushed to the side, and kissing one hand with empressement, whilst she waved her handkerchief in the other, soon afforded him satisfactory evidence of her existence.