To end this: there was a clergyman in the ship; and Bulstrode, who, without personal knowledge of Captain Mills, had heard of him and respected him, insisted upon the couple being married that same forenoon. They were not loth, and, the parson consenting, they were spliced in the presence of a full saloon. I shook the girl by the hand when the business was over, and wished her well; but from beginning to end it was all so unnecessary!
THE MAJOR’S COMMISSION.
My name is Henry Adams, and in 1854 I was mate of a ship of 1200 tons named the Jessamy Bride. June of that year found her at Calcutta with cargo to the hatches, and ready to sail for England in three or four days.
I was walking up and down the ship’s long quarter-deck, sheltered by the awning, when a young apprentice came aft and said a gentleman wished to speak to me. I saw a man standing in the gangway; he was a tall, soldierly person, about forty years of age, with iron-grey hair and spiked moustache, and an aquiline nose. His eyes were singularly bright and penetrating. He immediately said—
“I wanted to see the captain; but as chief officer you’ll do equally well. When does this ship sail?”
“On Saturday or Monday next.”
He ran his eye along the decks and then looked aloft: there was something bird-like in the briskness of his way of glancing.
“I understand you don’t carry passengers?”