Marmaduke Merry: A Tale of Naval Adventures in Bygone Days

by William Henry Giles Kingston

One placed an empty dish before my mother, into which the cook had forgot to put the poultry; the butler filled my father’s glass with fish soy, and two of the men bolted tilt against each other and capsized the remains of a sirloin of beef over the carpet with which one of them was hurrying off after waiting to listen to the fag end of one of my narratives.

Toby Bluff was as busily employed in the servants’ hall, and from the broad grins on the countenances of the footmen as they returned to the dining-room, I have no doubt that his narratives were of a facetious character.

I never have spent so jolly a time as I did during that visit home. Our wounds did not incommode us; we had everything our own way, and all my family and friends made a vast deal of us.

At length a newspaper arrived, giving an account of the capture of the Aigle, and confirming all I had said, and when, two nights after, we appeared at a country ball, and as we entered the room the band struck up “See the conquering hero comes,” we were higher in feather than ever.

Grey and Spellman had, however, to go and see their own friends, and they enjoyed the rather doubtful advantage of again undergoing the same treatment they had received at our house. When they were gone, and the nine days of wonder were over, I found myself sinking into a rather more ordinary personage. In those good old days, however, midshipmen who had been in an engagement and got wounded were somebodies—at all events, if their fathers had fine country seats and saw a number of guests.

Time sped on. I do not think my family were tired of me, but when the Doris was reported ready for sea, they calmly acquiesced in the necessity of my rejoining her without delay, and so Toby and I found ourselves packed off in a yellow chaise, and directed to find our way back to Plymouth as fast as we could.

We made the journey without any adventure, and on our arrival on board found that Mr Lukyn had been promoted, and that Mr Bryan was the first-lieutenant. As soon as we had reported ourselves, we dived below to the berth to hear the news. Two new lieutenants had joined—the second was a Mr Patrick Fitzgerald. I need not say that he was an Irishman. He was pronounced to be a most extraordinary fish, and he positively seemed to take a pleasure in being so considered. He had a big head covered with reddish hair, which stuck out straight as if he was always in a fright, his complexion was richly freckled, his eyes small but twinkling, and his nose, though not prominent, was of ample dimensions as to width. This beautiful headpiece was placed on the broadest of shoulders. His body was somewhat short, but his legs were proportioned to bear the frame of an elephant. He was, as he used to boast, entirely Irish from truck to keelson, but certainly not of a high class type. The third lieutenant was an Englishman. This was fortunate. Mr Haisleden was a steady trustworthy man, and had a good deal of the cut of a first-lieutenant about him. It is said that, as a rule, Irishmen make better soldiers than sailors, and perhaps this is the case. If inclined to be wild they are apt to out-Herod Herod. The strict rules of naval discipline do not suit their natural temperament. Paddy Fitzgerald was a case in point, but a more amusing fellow and better messmate never lived. The ship was again almost ready for sea. Perigal, who had got leave, came on board, looking very sad at having had again to part from his wife. Spellman and Grey joined the next day. There had been no changes in our berth. Perigal ought certainly to have been promoted, but he was not. “When the ship is paid off, I suppose that I shall be,” he observed with a sigh. It was soon reported that we were ordered to the West Indies. Grey and I took an opportunity of asking Mr Johnson what sort of a country we should find out there.

“One thing I will tell you, young gentlemen, you’ll find it hot enough to boil your blood up a bit,” he answered; “as to cooking a beefsteak on the capstan-head, that’s nothing, but what do you say to finding all the fowls in the hen-coops roasted and fit for table? and all you have to do, is to hold a burning glass over a bucket of water with fish swimming about in it, and in five minutes you’ll have them all thoroughly boiled.”

Grey and I laughed.

“Well, Mr Johnson, it must be hot indeed,” said I, and, though I did not exactly put faith in his account, I began to wish we had been bound elsewhere. The boatswain saw Spellman listening with mouth agape.