“The fact was, the old boy had tumbled into a hollow, the troops had passed over him, and sometime after their retreat, finding all quiet, he crawled out; when meeting suddenly with three Frenchmen dismounted, he presented his pistols and compelled them to go a-head just as we hove in sight.
“With light hearts the boats were once more shoved off from the beach; and, notwithstanding the old gemman boasted highly of his prowess, he swore it should be a long day before he’d trust his precious limbs out of the ship again, to go bush-fighting like a land privateer.”
“Arter all,” exclaimed the old boatswain’s-mate, “them there were spirit-stirring times; but the Neapolitans and Italians were scarcely worth fighting for. I was aboard the ould Culloden, 74, along with Troubridge up the Mediterranean; and one day a boat comes along-side and up mounts a Neapolitan officer, his rigging dressed out in gold lace and stars, so that he looked like a man-cake of gilt gingerbread. So he goes aft into the cabin, and tells the captain the Neapolitan troops were going to attack the French in a small fortified town on the coast, and Captain Troubridge being commodore, he had made bould to ax him for one of the sloop-of-war brigs to cannonade ’em by sea whilst the sodgers stormed ’em by land; and he talked so big of the bravery of his men, that it was enough to make a fellow believe that they cared no more for a bagonet than they did for a sail-needle, and no more for a two-and-thirty pound shot than they did for a ball of spun-yarn, and it puzzled me to think how the captain could hoist it all in; for he bowed very politely, and told the officer ‘he made no doubt that they would eat all they killed;’ and the officer bowed again almost to the deck, and he kept bending and bending like a ship heeling over to sudden gusts from the land. Howsomever, the skipper grants him the eighteen-gun brig, and then they began to overhaul a goodish deal about the plan of attack; and the Neapolitan observed, that if the captain would let ’em have a frigate instead of the brig, it would be much better and must ensure success. So the captain, very good-humouredly, countermands the order for the brig, and makes the signal for the captain of one of the frigates; and then they conversed together again, and the Count—they called him a Count, but Lord love you! he wouldn’t count for nothing among British sodgers:—I say, the Count danced about the cabin as if he was charging the French garrison, and cutting ’em up into four-pound pieces. Well, ashore he goes, and the frigate’s signal was made to unmoor and prepare for sea; when aboard comes the Count again to say the commander-in-chief requested a line-of-battle ship might be sent instead of the frigate, as it would place the victory beyond a doubt, and after some backing and filling about the matter, Troubridge consented, and the brig was ordered to get under way and direct one of the seventy-fours outside to proceed to the place appointed. So away goes the Count, though it was plain to see the skipper warn’t over and above pleased with the shuffling; but still he hoped the French would be beat, and ill as he could spare the seventy-four, the sloop was soon walking away under her canvass and had got to some distance; when alongside comes the Count again and goes into the cabin; but he hadn’t been long there before out he comes again holus-bolus through the door-way, and the skipper in his wake with a face like scarlet, kicking the Count under his counter and starting him endways like seven bells half-struck. The Count scratched his indecencies and run along the quarter-deck, with old Troubridge belabouring him, and hollaing out, ‘D— his eyes, first a brig, then a frigate, and next a line-of-battle ship; and now he won’t fight arter all!’ So the Count jumped into his boat, the brig was recalled, and the French kept possession till the army retreated, and then they capitulated.”
“Ay, that was a sweet ship,” said an aged pensioner, “that ould Culloden. Did you know Bill Buntline, as was captain of her fore-top?”
“Why, to be sure I do,” replied the other; “we were messmates for three years, and a worthy soul Bill was, too. He could spin a yarn that would last the whole look-out; and then, like some of your magazines, he continued it in the next. He was brave, too; but I fear we shall never muster many such as he again.”
“’Cause why?” said my old chaperon, “they don’t steer the right course to gain the point: who’d live burning under the line with only half allowance of grog? or in regard of the matter o’ that, what heart could go boldly into action that was swamped in tea-water? The parsons may say what they please, but they arn’t more fond of the kettle nor other folks, unless they takes it warm with a couple o’ lumps o’ sugar. But most of our tars are now in foreign sarvices, and teaching their art to our enemies.”
“Ay, it is so, ould shipmate,” rejoined the pensioner; “I reads of ’em sometimes when they used to be with Cochrane in South America, and I glories in the whacking the Portuguese fleet have just napped from Napier. It makes my ould heart bound with joy when I thinks of it.”
“But, mayhap,” said the boatswain’s-mate, “there’ll be some whistling to get ’em back again, in case of another war; but I hardly think a British tar would battle the watch against his country.”
“Tell that to the marines!” exclaimed the old man. “Why! warn’t the Yankee frigates principally manned with British tars,—many of ’em who had fought under Nelson, and hailed with three cheers his last memorable signal? Did not the United States have two of her guns, one named Nelson and the other Victory, worked solely by men who had fought at Trafalgar, and in most of the general actions? Nay, more: all of them had been bargemen to the undaunted hero, had shared his dangers, and revenged his death! Oh, what could have wrought such ruinous principles in their hearts, as to make them not only desert from, but strive to crush the proud flag for which they had shed their richest blood! And yet we are to be told, that this is not a fit subject for inquiry among the gemmen at the head of affairs; and that, in the event of another war, seaman are again to be dragged into the service, and compelled to toil under the dread of the cat. As for me, I always served my king and my country, (God bless ’em!) and mean to stick to my stuff as long as my timbers will hold together. But, nevertheless, I am a seaman, have a seaman’s feelings, and cannot bear to see a seaman injured: they are my messmates, my brothers; and I long to see them once more under the ‘union,’ gallantly asserting their country’s rights, and maintaining her naval glory.
“But to return to Bill; poor fellow, the last time I saw him he was on board an East Ingeeman, outward bound. The frost of years was on his head, and age had ploughed deep furrows on his brow; but his heart was as light as ever. I can remember him, the finest-looking fellow in the fleet, full of life and spirit; and, one day, when we were all, (that is the boarders,) exercising our cutlasses on the quarter-deck,—by the by, Mr. Kendall, who went out with Captain Franklin, was midshipman of our division, and a worthy little officer he was; his father was a captain in the navy, and both his grandfathers died admirals: I knew ’em well, and brave officers they were. Well, as I was a saying, there we stood, cutting and slashing right and left, while the officers watched our motions, and practised among themselves. ‘That’s a bonnie lad there,’ said the captain’s lady, leaning on the arm of the marine officer, and pointing to Bill; ‘a bonnie lad, in gude truth, Mr. M.’—‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied the officer, ‘a fine muddle for a Polly.’ But, Lord love you! as for being muddled, why he was as sober as a judge, and warn’t no more like a Polly than this pewter pot’s like a wooden platter.