“Oh, I forgot. The Admiral begs you will spare him some steady old hands to act as gunner, boatswain, &c.—elderly men, if you please, who will shorten sail before the squall strikes him. If you float him away with a crew of boys, the little scamp will get bothered, or capsized, in a jiffy. All this for your worship’s government. How do you live with your passenger—prime follow, an’t he? My love to him. Lady——is dying to see him again.”
“WELL, MR CRINGLE, what say you?”
“Of course, I must obey, sir;—highly flattered by Mr Secretary’s good opinion, any how.”
The Captain laughed heartily.
“It is nearly calm, I see. We must set about manning this seventy four for you, without delay. So, come along, Captain Cringle.”
When we got on deck,—“Hail the Wave to close, Mr Yerk,” said Transom. “Lower away the boat, and pipe away the yaulers, boatswain’s mate.”
Presently the Captain and I were on the Wave’s deck, where I was much surprised to find no less personages than Pepperpot Wagtail, and Paul Gelid, Esquires. Mr Gelid, a conch, or native of the Bahamas, was the same yawning, drawling, long-legged Creole as ever. He had been ill with fever, and had asked a passage to Nassau, where his brother was established. At bottom, however, he was an excellent fellow, warm hearted, honourable, and upright. As for little Wagtail—oh, he was a delight!—a small round man, with all the Jamaica Creole irritability of temper, but also all the Jamaica warmth of heart about him straightforward, and scrupulously conscientious in his dealings, but devoted to good cheer in every shape. He had also been ailing, and had adventured on the cruise in order to recruit. I scarcely know how to describe his figure better than by comparing his corpus to an egg, with his little feet stuck through the bottom of the shell; but he was amazingly active withal.
Both the Captain and myself were rejoiced to see our old friends; and it was immediately fixed that they should go on board the corvette, and sling their cots alongside of Mr Bang, so long as the courses—of the two vessels lay together. This being carried into execution, we set about our arrangements. Our precious blockheads at the dockyard had fitted a thirty-two pound carronade on the pivot, and stuck two long sixes, one on each side of the little vessel. I hate carronades. I had, before now, seen thirty-two pound shot thrown by them jump off a ship’s side with a rebound like a football, when a shot from an eighteen— pounder long gun went crash, at the same range, through both sides of the ship, whipping off a leg and arm, or aiblins a head or two, in its transit.
“My dear sir,” said I, “don’t shove me adrift with that old pot there do lend me one of your long brass eighteen-pounders.”
“Why, Master Cringle, what is your antipathy to carronades?”