In the Gulf of Florida we encountered a most terrific gale, wind and current at variance, and oh, such a sea! We lay to for forty-eight hours; we could not cook, and the main deck was flooded. Sir John and I never got out of our cots: he perfectly good-humoured on all occasions, and always convincing himself, and endeavouring to convince us, that the gale was abating. The third morning Stirling came to my cot. “Come, turn out; you will see how I manage my craft. I am going to make sail, and our lubberly cut may set us on our beam-ends, or sink us altogether.” A delightful prospect, indeed. He was and is a noble seaman, all animation, and he was so clear and decided in his orders! Sail was made amid waves mountains high, and the Brazen, as impudent a craft as ever spurned the mighty billows, so beautifully was she managed and steered, rode over or evaded seas apparently overwhelming; and Stirling, in the pride of his sailor’s heart, says, “There, now, what would you give to be a sailor?” It really was a sight worth looking at—a little bit of human construction stemming and resisting the power of the mighty deep.
As we neared the mouth of the British Channel, we had, of course, the usual thick weather, when a strange sail was reported. It was now blowing a fresh breeze; in a few minutes we spoke her, but did not make her haul her main-topsail, being a bit of a merchantman. Stirling hailed as we shot past. “Where are you from?” “Portsmouth.” “Any news?” “No, none.” The ship was almost out of sight, when we heard, “Ho! Bonaparter’s back again on the throne of France.” Such a hurrah as I set up, tossing my hat over my head! “I will be a Lieutenant-Colonel yet before the year’s out!” Sir John Lambert said, “Really, Smith, you are so vivacious! How is it possible? It cannot be.” He had such faith in the arrangements of our government, he wouldn’t believe it. I said, “Depend upon it, it’s truth; a beast like that skipper never could have invented it, when he did not even regard it as news: ‘No, no news; only Bonaparte’s back again on the throne of France.’ Depend on it, it’s true.” “No, Smith, no.” Stirling believed it, and oh, how he carried on! We were soon at Spithead, when all the men-of-war, the bustle, the general appearance, told us, before we could either see telegraphic communication or speak any one, where “Bonaparter” was.
We anchored about three o’clock, went on shore immediately, and shortly after were at dinner in the George. Old West had brought from the Havannah two pups of little white curly dogs, a dog and bitch, which he said were “a present for missus.” They are very much esteemed in England, these Havana lapdogs; not much in my way.
The charm of novelty which I experienced on my former visit to England after seven years’ absence, was much worn off, and I thought of nothing but home. Sir John and I started for London in a chaise at night, and got only as far as Guildford. I soon found our rate of progression would not do, and I asked his leave to set off home. At that time he was not aware of all my tale. I never saw his affectionate heart angry before; he positively scolded me, and said, “I will report our arrival; write to me, that I may know your address, for I shall most probably very soon want you again.” My wife and Sir John were afterwards the greatest friends.
So Mr. West and I got a chaise, and off we started, and got to London on a Sunday, the most melancholy place on that day on earth. I drove to my old lodgings, where I had last parted from my wife. They could assure me she was well, as she had very lately ordered a new riding-habit. So I ordered a post-chaise, and ran from Panton Square to Weeks’ in the Haymarket, and bought a superb dressing-case and a heavy gold chain; I had brought a lot of Spanish books from the Havannah. So on this occasion I did not return to my home naked and penniless, as from Coruña.
I got to Waltham Cross about twelve o’clock. I soon found a pair of horses was far too slow for my galloping ideas; so I got four, and we galloped along then as fast as I could wish. I rattled away to the Falcon Inn in my native place, Whittlesea; for I dare not drive to my father’s house. I sent quietly for him, and he was with me in a moment. The people were in church as I drove past. My wife was there, so as yet she was safe from any sudden alarm. She and my sisters took a walk after church, when servants were sent in every direction in search of them, with orders quietly to say that my father wanted my sisters. A fool of a fellow being the first to find them, and delighted with his prowess, ran up, shouting, “Come home directly; a gentleman has come in a chaise-and-four”—who, he did not know. My poor wife, as he named no one, immediately believed some one had arrived to say I was killed, and down she fell senseless. My sisters soon restored her, and they ran home, to their delight, into my arms. My wife and I were never again separated,[67] though many an eventful scene was in store and at hand for us.
ST. MARY’S, WHITTLESEY.
From a photograph by A. Gray, Whittlesey, 1900.