The commodore now determined to sell the Midge all standing, and to draft her crew to Gazelle once more—and it was accordingly done.
As old Dogvane came over the side, after having given up charge of her to the Spanish sailors that came to take possession, he grumbled out—"That same wicked little Midge an't done with her buzzing or stinging either, or I mistake. She has fallen among thieves, or little better, that's sartain, judging from the sample we have here,"—eyeing the strangers,—"and I'll lay a pound of baccy, she will either be put in the contraband slaving on the coast of Africay again, or to some worse purpose, among them keys and crooked channels hereaways. I say, my hearties," turning to the Spaniards, "what are your masters agoing to do with this here fellucre?"
"To rone between Jamaica and dis wid goods—passengers—one trader to be."
"One trader—no honest one, I'll venture—but all's one to old Dogvane."
Next morning, De Walden came to my room as I was dressing, with a packet from Jamaica, that had been sent to Batabano, and thence across the island to Havanna. I opened it, and had to read it twice over before I could comprehend the contents, or ascertain what the writer wanted to be at.
To understand this letter sufficiently, be it known that the author thereof was suffering at the time from gout in his hand, and in consequence had to employ a brown clerk as an amanuensis—a simple creature, as I afterwards found, when I came to know him, whose only qualification for his post was the writing, like all his cast, a most beautiful hand; but, unfortunately, in his blind zeal, he had given a little more than had been intended to stand as the text by the party whose signature was appended to it; in fact, he had written down, verbatim et literatim, all that his master had said while dictating the letter; and the effect of the patchwork was infinitely ridiculous. The reason why the superfluous dialogue in it had not been expunged was the want of time, and loss of the spectacles, as stated.
"Ballywindle Estate, Jamaica,
"Such a date.
"MY DEAR NEPHEW,—I had letters from England, although none from you—you boy of slender manners. Knowing how much I made of you when you were a little potato button, I expected other things;—but to the letters—they told me—the devil fly away with this infernal gout, that makes me employ a brown chap, who, they say, is somewhat like me about the snout, as an amanuensis—mind you spell that word now—and fortunately for you I do so employ him, as he writes as beautiful a fist as one would like to see in a long winter's morning when the fog is thick—but, as I was saying, I had letters telling me that you had gone out with your kit packed in a ready-made coffin, to the coast of Africa, with my excellent old friend Sir Oliver Oakplank; who, as a recompense for a life spent in the service, had been sent to die in the bight of Benin—that's a parenthesis, mind—to gather negroes from others who stole them—and that, according to practice, the Gazelle, that is the name of the commodore's ship, although it is probable you already know as much, having been by this time three months on board of her from all accounts—put that in a parenthesis also—was to make the round voyage by Jamaica to Havanna, and home. Judge, then, my great surprise when, after trudging to Kingston, I found that you were not there in the old frigate at all, but had chosen to go to Havanna in the tender; and what was worse, I was at the same time told by your uncle's correspondents, my excellent friends Peaweep, Snipe, and Flamingo (what a broth of a boy that same young Flamingo is!) that you were to be taken into the Liverpool House, and to return direct from Havanna, without visiting me at all, at all.
"Now, if that old villain, Peter Brail, your excellent uncle, and all the rest of it, has had the heart to do this, may the devil burn me if he shall ever get another tierce of coffee from Lathom Frenche. He has plenty of young friends to bring on, while I have none but you, Benjie; so he must give you up, or I shall murder him. But stop till I tell my story properly.
"So, you see, after I heard of this change I was in such a taking, that, to drown my disappointment, I had a wet week with Sir Oliver and some Kingston friends; for it was the rainy season, you must know, and devils are those same Kingstonians, in the way of gentleman-like libations of tepid Madeira and cold claret, whereby I got another touch of my old remembrancer the gout, under which I am at this blessed moment suffering severely—I say, boy, bring me a rummer of Madeira sangaree, and a hot yam with the brown, crisp and well scraped, do you hear—well I declare the skin of it is as beautiful as a berry, and the mealy inside as fragrant as the dryest potato from Ballywindle in old Ireland—so here's the 'glorious and immortal memory,' and confound the Pope; but never mind, although, you may just confound the gout too, when you are at it.—But, as I was saying, I came home with the gout brewing all the way, and got so wet one day, that I dreaded lest, it should be driven into that fortress, or rather that citadel, the stomach—there's a poetical image for you—so I took a warming, that is, I made another comfortable week of it on my return home, just to keep up the circulation, and to drive the enemy—don't be surprised at the militariness of my lingo, for I am colonel of the regiment of foot militia here—another parenthesis, Timothy—from, the interior, and compel him to develope his strength in the outworks, or rather to retreat to them, which he, the gout, viz. has done with a vengeance, let me tell you; having clapperclawed what you would call my larboard peg, and my starboard fin, zig-zagging in his approaches, as regularly as Vauban or Cohorn—fair play, you know—a sound limb on each side, which is a mercy of its kind; so I hop from table to bed, and vice versa, and balance myself the whole way like a rope-dancer; for I hate a crutch—what are you stopping for, Timothy—oh, I see, to mend your pen—sangaree, Tim—bless me, how thirsty I am, to be sure!—I hate a crutch, and my servants, curiously enough, for we don't often agree, are unanimous with me in that same, as somehow I break one a-day, when I am driven to it, over their woolly skulls: and that costs money—if you could pick up a cheap lot of lancewood spars, now, in Havanna, that would stand a blow—you might fetch me a hundred or so—it is tough, and bends, and doesn't break like mahogany or cedar.