Thenceforth he consorted with the ship’s goat until the Maggie reached Lisbon; and, though he bore the scars of that wild night’s work all the rest of his life, and the hair, where it grew again upon his flanks, came white in patches, he lived to carry his master through the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, and die at the long last of cold and famine at the Cavalry Camp on the slopes above Kadikoi.
Said Morty, coming up to a red-headed trooper on the forecastle-deck of the Maggie: “Look here! I’ve just found out it was you who saved my life. And I’m obliged to you—tremenjous!—and though all the money I’d got was burned on that dam’ ship, my father—Mr. Thompson Jowell—owner—will give you anything you want! See?”
And the speaker, attired in a cast-off pair of trousers of the master’s and a pea-jacket lent by the Maggie o’ Muirhead’s second mate—and wearing a list slipper of the steward’s on his right foot, and a half-boot contributed by another philanthropist, on the left one—held out his large hand to his savior with genuine eagerness.
“Blast your father!” said the red-headed trooper, so suddenly and so savagely that Morty jumped in his odd foot-coverings. “Can he give me back my boy? And do you think—if I’d been let to have a chance o’ choosing—I’d ha’ put out my hand—knowingly—to save his son? Wait till next time, that’s all I ha’ got to say!—you wait till next time, that’s all!”
And Joshua Horrotian turned his back on the heir of his enemy, and spat over the bulwarks of the forecastle-deck in loathing, and then a thought occurred to him that brought his head round again.
His wish had been granted. He had lived to see Jowell’s son, half-clad and penniless, with an old boot on one foot and an old shoe on the other—asking—and asking vainly for the hand he had denied.
It was merely an odd chance. That experimental curse of Josh’s had had nothing to do with it. And yet—supposing Some One Above had heard—the granting of that ill wish had not spared misfortune to the wisher. The wife and the horse were safe, though; and Corporal and Mrs. Geogehagan were in one of the boats that had been picked up by the St. Domingo schooner. One would do well not to grumble at one’s luck, reflected Joshua Horrotian.
LXXX
The Tsar was right. Men who desire Death very keenly and bitterly, who seek the grim tyrant in his very citadel, find him difficult of access, as a rule.