The Peak of Teneriffe was soon lost in the far horizon; the gallant ship, once more under canvas, sped her course through lovely weather, shaping a direct course for the South American coast. Gradually getting accustomed to what at first seemed a hard life, making good friends in the gun-room—more especially with our portly head surgeon and the purser, to whose kindness I was indebted for leave to use the surgery and the clerk’s room, as well as the free run of the ship’s library—time hung less wearily. Besides, we were nearing the Brazilian shores. The land breeze every evening wafted to sea the balmy-scented air of orange groves; all eyes strained throughout the day to follow the varied indentations of distant ranges. We passed daily a number of quaintly rigged vessels and coast boats.
At last we reached our rendezvous with the Gloire, and paid the penalty of our treachery. She was not there, and for five dreary long days we had to tack off and on in view of one of the most lovely harbours in the world, scanning the blue line of the sky for the pennant of the old admiral. He came at last—his pride in finding the Heroine newly painted, scrubbed, and in every plank, spar, or rigging—a perfect picture of neat, trim beauty—made him overlook the otherwise unpardonable sin of having out-sailed his old boat.
IV.
FIRST LESSON IN FINANCE.
WE sailed into port together, simultaneously fired our royal salute, and cast anchor among several scores of ships of war of all nationalities, with whom visits of naval etiquette were exchanged for several days, keeping our poor gunners busy from daylight till dark. As I often thought at the time, if our chronometers could not withstand 21 guns on the Saint Philippe’s day two months before, their condition after our firing at Rio must have been sadly affected. But I suppose, like myself, they had by this time got their “sea-legs,” and consequently did not mind a slight jerking.
The captain did me the honour of taking me with him when he made a call on board the Gloire—to my great delight I found that the admiral was a friend of my father’s. I was kept on board to dine with the “great man,” and from that day got my “promotion” amongst my messmates and the gun-room officers of our own ship. Ahem! the friend of the admiral! The sequel was, that wherever our captain went this individual followed—aye, even to that most lovely of all royal palaces, the Emperor’s country house at San Cristopho, where the despatches of the King of the French were delivered to H.I. Majesty Don Pedro—then a fat boy of twenty odd years—who received “Us” most graciously, and introduced us to his two lovely sisters—one the Duchesse de Joinville in prospective. From that day until our departure from that charming country, every hour of the day—even very, very late at night—was taken up by parties, balls, pic-nics, excursions, visiting—a perfect and endless carnival of gaieties, on shore or on board the ships of the station.