The rope severed thy name from his lips, sweet girl; but not until it also severed his soul from his body, and sent him to his tremendous account—young in years, but old in wickedness—to answer at that tribunal, where we must all appear, to the God who made him, and whose gifts he had so fearfully abused, for thy broken heart and early death, amongst the other scarlet atrocities of his short but ill spent life.
The signal had been given—the lumbering flap of the long drop was heard, and five-and-twenty human beings were wavering in the sea breeze in the agonies of death! The other eighteen suffered on the same spot the week following; and for long after, this fearful and bloody example struck terror into the Cuba fishermen.
“Strange now, that the majority—ahem—of my beauties and favourites through life have been called Mary. There is my own Mary—un peu passee certainly—but deil mean her, for half a dozen lit”—“Now, Tom Cringle, don’t bother with your sentimentality, but get along, do.”—“Well, I will get along—but have patience, you Hottentot Venus—you Lord Nugent, you. So once more we make sail.”
Next morning, soon after gunfire, I landed at the Wherry wharf in Port Royal. It was barely daylight, but, to my surprise, I found my friend Peregrine Whiffle seated on a Spanish chair, close to the edge of the wharf, smoking a cigar. This piece of furniture is an arm-chair strongly framed with hard-wood, over which, back and bottom, a tanned hide is stretched, which, in a hot climate, forms a most luxurious seat, the back tumbling out at an angle of 45 degrees, while the skin yields to every movement, and does not harbour a nest of biting ants, or a litter of scorpions, or any other of the customary occupants of a cushion that has been in Jamaica for a year.
He did not know me as I passed; but his small glimmering red face instantly identified the worthy little old man to me.
“Good morning, Mr Whiffle—the top of the morning to you, sir.”
“Hillo,” responded Peregrine—“Tom, is it you?—how d’ye do, man—how d’ye do?” and he started to his feet, and almost embraced me.
Now, I had never met the said Peregrine Whiffle but twice in my life; once at Mr Fyall’s, and once during the few days I remained in Kingston, before I set out on my travels; but he was a warm hearted kindly old fellow, and, from knowing all my friends there very intimately, he, as a matter of course, became equally familiar with me.
“Why the diable came you not to see me, man? Have been here for change of air, to recruit, you know, after that demon, the gout, had been so perplexing me, ever since you came to anchor—the Firebrand, I mean—as for you, you have been mad one while, and philandering with those inconvenient white ladies the other. You’ll cure of that, my boy you’ll come to the original comforts of the country soon, no fear!”
“Perhaps I may, perhaps not.”