“And then?” asked Beaudésir, sadly.
“And then,” repeated the Captain, with a shudder, “I might have become a brute rather than a man. Do you remember the British schooner we retook from those Portuguese rovers, and the mustee,[3] who commanded them? I tell you I hate to think it possible, and yet I believe a man utterly without hope might come to be such a wretch as that!”
“You never would,” said Beaudésir, “and I never should; I know it. Even hope may be dispensed with if memory remains. My pity is for those who have neither.”
“I could not live without hope,” resumed the Captain, cheerily. “I own I do hope most sincerely, at some future time, for a calmer and happier lot than this; a lot that would also make the happiness of another; and that other so gentle, so trusting, and so true!”
Eugène looked in his face surprised. Then he smiled brightly, and laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“It will come!” he exclaimed; “never doubt it for a moment. It will come! do you remember what I said to you of my skill in fortune-telling? I repeat, success is written in your face. What you really wish and strive to attain is as sure to arrive at last as a fair wind in the trades or a flood-tide at full moon.”
“I hope so,” returned the Captain; “I believe it. I suppose I am as bold as my neighbours, and luckily it never comes across me when there’s anything to do; but sometimes my heart fails when I think, if I should go down and lose my number, how she’ll sit and wonder, poor thing, why I never come back!”
“Courage, my Captain!” said Eugène, cheerily, affecting the tone and manner of their old corps. “Courage. En arant! à la Mousquetaire! You will lose nothing, not even the cargo; we shall return with both pockets full of money. You will buy a château. There will be a fête at your wedding: I shall bring there my violin, and, believe me, I shall rejoice in your happiness as if it were my own.”
“She is so young, so beautiful, so gentle,” continued the Captain; “I could not bear that her life should be darkened, whatever comes of me. If, at last, the great happiness does arrive, Eugène, I shall not forget my friend. Château or cottage, you will be welcome with your violin. You would admire her as I do; we both think alike on so many subjects. So young, so fresh, so beautiful! I wish you could see her. I am not sure but that you have seen her. Do you remember the day—?”
What further confidences the skipper was about to impart were here cut short by a round of applause from the forecastle, apparently arising from some proposal much approved by the whole assemblage. The Captain, with his friend, paused to listen. It was a request that Bottle-Jack would sing, and seemed not unfavourably received by that veteran. After many excuses, and much of a mock modesty to be observed under similar conditions in the most refined societies, he took his quid from his cheek, and cleared his voice with great pomp ere he embarked on a ditty of which the subject conveyed a delicate compliment to the proclivities of his friend Smoke-Jack, who had originated the call, and which he sang in that flat, monotonous, and dispiriting key, only to be accomplished, I firmly believe, by an able seaman in the daily exercise of his profession. He designated it “The Real Trinidado,” and it ran as follows:—