About 20 feet distant, is a building containing painter’s cabin for grinding paint, and the engineer’s office, beneath is a lead cellar. We next visited the engineer’s workshop, where we were agreeably entertained with seeing the cutting and punching machine put into motion. I am not engineer enough to describe this machine in a technical manner, and must therefore only remark that, by means of an oblong wheel, if I may be allowed the expression, worked by two men, it is capable of cutting through the thickest piece of cold iron, with the same ease and quickness a person would cut a scrap of paper, and at the same time, punching holes of about the diameter of a shilling through another piece of the same metal. We also saw a turning-lathe capable of turning any description of iron from three inches to 28 in diameter. There were also innumerable machines, of other forms, and for various purposes, which were put into motion for our amusement; and a piece of the iron, which had been cut and punched in divers figures, was tendered to me—a memento of an engineer’s workshop in a West Indian dockyard.
The next place we entered was one more suited to a hyperborean climate than an Antiguan noonday—a blacksmith’s shop. Here, six forges can be worked; and several Cyclops ply their skill amid their dingy implements. To these forges, immense bellows “turned their iron mouths,” and, impelled by swarthy hands, sent forth a shower of glittering sparks. We also saw, two patent blowing machines, manufactured by “Thomas, late Halley and Co.,” which, by a peculiar arrangement, propels the blast upwards and downwards at the same time. The master blacksmith worked them for a few moments, but informed us they had not so much power as the first pair of bellows we observed upon our entrance, which, from its magnitude, ought to be called the “King of the Bellows.” He bid us place ourselves before the mouth of this last-mentioned pair, and we should be convinced of the truth of his assertions; but as I felt no wish to be blown away in a gale of ashes, I declined the invitation, humbly subscribing to his superior knowledge in such matters. I could not help thinking, that had Eolus known the use of these “blowing-machines,” what a far more powerful wind he might have raised, than (as it is pictured he did) by employing the sons of Astræus to blow so painfully with their distended cheeks amid his mighty caverns.
Leaving the blacksmith’s shop, we passed the sawpit shed and smaller tank, and the shipwright’s house, and then turning an acute angle, came to a very pleasant residence, occupied by the superintendent of the yard, Mr. Hart. Here I met with some of my favourite lime-trees, their pearly flowers redolent with perfume. Mr. Hart kindly plucked for us some of the golden fruit; and afterwards presented, what was dearer to me, from the recollections they call up, three beautiful roses.[[86]] I may be laughed at for being so fanciful, but I never see a rose, I never inhale its rich fragrance, without wandering in imagination through the flowery gardens of my own land. “Oh! England, my own dear country! never did one of thy children love thee better than I do! In the midst of sickness, in the midst of suffering—when the fervour of a tropical sun burns through my very frame, and the climate throws its languor around me—my mind still reverts to thy verdant fields, I see again thy hawthorn-hedges with all their snowy blossoms, thy carpeting of lovely lowly flowers,—I breathe thy countless odours,—I hear thy sweet-toned birds, or the soft chime of thy village bells, and feel upon ‘my very cheek thy bland and healthy breeze.’”
But to return to Mr. Hart and his roses. I kept them through the hot day, bore them in safety to my home, and they now stand before me. But, alas! their beauty is all gone,—their discoloured leaves seem to mourn their own dishonour; and only that “the scent of the roses hangs round it still,” I should scarcely know what the vase contains.
After resting in a cool apartment for some time, and taking a glass of lemonade which Pomona herself would not have refused, the carriage was ordered to the door, and we were in the act of stepping in, when it occurred to us that this was a good opportunity to visit the spot where Lieut. Peterson received his death wound.
I have already mentioned, in the historical part of this work, this unfortunate incident, but, with the permission of my readers, I must again allude to it. At the time of the occurrence, Lord Camelford commanded the “Favourite,” sloop of war, and Commodore Fahie the ship “Perdrix,” Mr. Peterson holding the rank of first lieutenant on board the last-named vessel. Commodore Fahie had left Antigua a short time before, to take temporary command of the fleet, then anchored before St. Kitts,[[87]] and during his absence, Lieutenant Peterson was, of course, left in command of the “Perdrix.”
It was the custom, in those troubled days of warfare, for boats to row backwards and forwards across the harbour during the hours of night, the sailors of the different ships in the dock, headed by one of their officers, taking it by turns to keep this watch; and the sleeper might often be roused from his dreams as the deep-toned all’s well resounded through the still night air.
Lord Camelford and Lieutenant Peterson were unhappily at variance; and, perhaps to mortify his rival, Lord Camelford ordered Mr. Peterson to take the watch upon the very evening that a gay ball was to be given at Blacks Point to the naval officers. Unfortunately Lieutenant Peterson entertained the idea that as he was in command of the ship “Perdrix,” in the absence of Commodore Fahie, he was superior officer to Lord Camelford, who only commanded a sloop; and, in consequence of this false impression, he positively refused to obey his lordship’s orders.
The disastrous evening approached, and the lieutenant retired to his quarters above the capstan-house, in order to dress for the festive party. Arming himself with a pair of loaded pistols, and telling his boat’s crew to attend him, Lord Camelford quitted his retirement, and stationed himself directly between the capstan house and the guard house, (now called the commissioner’s house,) and there waited the approach of Mr. Peterson, whom he had already summoned to attend him.
Upon the unfortunate young officer making his appearance, accompanied by some of his friends, his lordship again commanded him to take charge of the watch for the evening—the command was again refused—when, taking one of the pistols from his bosom, Lord Camelford immediately fired, and the ball passing through the breast of the brave, but inconsiderate lieutenant, he fell a corpse upon the ground, the deadly stream welling from the wound, and staining, as it flowed, the gay ball-dress which he wore.