Marmaduke Merry: A Tale of Naval Adventures in Bygone Days

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“Really, that fellow Préville is a trump,” I exclaimed, as I poured out a glass of the former, and handed it to McAllister. “We’ll drink his health, for he deserves it. Come, rouse up, my boy. It’s good liquor; you’ll not deny that.”

“I’ll drink his health and long life to him, that we may have a better chance of meeting together in mortal combat,” answered my messmate, gloomily. “To have our hard-won prize stolen out of our hands in this way—it’s more than I can bear. And to have to make our appearance on board the frigate without our vessel, and to report the loss of poor Perigal and the others, is even worse.”

I did my best to rouse up McAllister, and to make him see matters in a more cheerful light, but it was no easy matter. He was ever dwelling on the fact that the prize had been placed under his charge, and that he had lost her. I was sometimes almost afraid that, if not watched at night, he would be jumping overboard, so gloomy did he become. Bambrick entertained the same idea also, I suspected, and I was glad to see that he watched him narrowly. We also did our best to amuse him, and I got the men to sing songs and spin yarns from morning till night. Only one story told by Ned Bambrick seemed to afford him much amusement.

“You must know, sir, when I was paid off during the last peace, I joined a South Sea whaler. You’ve heard tell of Botany Bay. Well, that’s nowhere, or that’s to say, it is not the place where they send prisoners. But there’s a fine harbour near it, which they call Port Jackson, and up it there’s a town which they call the Camp, but which has now got the name of Sydney. It’s what they call a colony, that’s to say, a good number of people of all sorts, besides convicts, goes out there, and they’ve a governor set over them, who rules the land just like any king. He’s a right, real sort of a governor, to my mind, for he makes the laws and sees that they are obeyed, too. He won’t stand no nonsense, and though he doesn’t wear a wig and gown, like the judges at home, he sits in a court, and tries all them who doesn’t do what they ought. He hears both parties, and, when they’ve done, he sings out, ‘Haul in the slack of your jaw-tackle, and belay all that,’ and then he goes for to say what each party must do, and he won’t hear a word more from either of them. Well, as I was a saying, I joined a South Sea whaler. I can’t say as how I had a pleasant time aboard, but it was better than others had. Our captain was one of them chaps as always does what they choose, and he pretty often chose to do what was very bad. He had a quarrel with the doctor of the ship, who was a very decent, well-behaved young man, and not wanting in spirit. Their disputes went on from bad to worse, so what does he do one day, but call four or five hands aft, fellows always ready to do any dirty work for a glass of grog, and getting hold of the poor doctor, clap him into one of the hen-coops. ‘Now,’ says he, ‘you’ll stay there till you beg my pardon.’ ‘I’ll never beg your pardon,’ says the doctor. ‘I’ll see if I can’t make you,’ says the captain. Well, would you believe it? the captain kept the poor doctor in there, day after day, and always took his meals to him himself, cut up into little bits so that he could eat them with a spoon. When he put in the plate, he always used to sing out, ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ just as he would have done if he was feeding the fowls. It aggravated the poor doctor, but he couldn’t help himself. No one dared to speak to the captain, who always walked about with a brace of pistols in his belt, and swore he’d shoot any one who interfered with him. You may be sure I and others felt for the doctor when the savage used to go to him, with a grin on his face, and sing out, ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ The doctor would have been starved if he hadn’t taken the food when the captain brought it him, with his ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’

“At last one day, the doctor wouldn’t stand it any longer; so says he, ‘If you don’t let me out of this, I’ll make you sing out “Coopity! coopity!” from the other side of your mouth; so look out.’ The captain laughed at him, and went on as before. However, we had to put into Port Jackson to refit, and it came to the ears of the governor that our skipper had a man shut up in a hen-coop; so he sent some soldiers aboard, and had the doctor taken out and brought ashore. Then there was a regular trial, and the governor heard what the doctor had to say, and the skipper and we had to say, and then he says, ‘I decide that you, Captain Crowfoot, shall pay Dr McGrath two hundred golden guineas before you leave this court.’ The captain, with many wry faces, began to make all sorts of excuses, but the governor wouldn’t listen to one of them, and Captain Crowfoot had to get a merchant to hand him out two bags of guineas. ‘Count them, captain, count them,’ says the governor; and as the skipper counted them out on the table, the doctor stood by with another bag, and, as he swept them in with his hand, he kept singing out ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ Really it was pleasant to hear the doctor go on with his ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ Everybody in the court laughed, and, I believe you, the skipper was glad enough to get away when he had counted out all his money, and there was a regular cheer of ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ as he rushed out of the court.” I had not seen McAllister laugh since we had lost the prize. He now gave way to a hearty peal, exclaiming, “Ha! ha! ha! I’ll make the French lieutenant sing out ‘Coopity! coopity! coopity!’ before the world is many years older.”

I need not describe all that occurred in the boat. We made fair way while the wind continued fair, and the weather favourable, but Jamaica still seemed a long distance off. It is a large island however, so that there was not much chance of our missing it. Four days had passed since we left the Audacieuse, when about midnight the wind suddenly shifted to the northward, and, what was worse, it came on to blow very hard. We closely reefed our sail, and hove-to, but the seas constantly broke over us, and we were obliged to keep two hands baling, or we should have been swamped. It was bad enough as it was, but it might come on worse, and then, would the boat swim? That was a question. That was a dreary night. The rain came down too—as it knows well how to do in the tropics. We had no want of water, but we unwisely neglected to fill our casks. Expecting to make a quick run, we had not stinted ourselves in the use of water. Of course the boat all this time was drifting to leeward, and we were losing all the distance we had made good during the last day or so; if the gale continued we should lose still more. At last daylight came, but the wind blew as hard as ever—half a gale at all events. Two whole days more it blew. At last it ceased, but it left us a hundred miles nearly further from our destination than when it commenced. This was bad enough, but though there was little of it remaining, that little was in our teeth. We however hauled our wind, and tried to beat up. When the sea went down we got the oars out, and, lowering the sails, pulled head to wind. It was greatly trying to the men, to know that after toiling away for hours, the entire distance gained might be lost in a quarter of the time. Still, as British seamen always do, they persevered. McAllister and I took our turn at the oars with the rest. For several days we laboured thus. The prospect of a quick run to Jamaica was over. Our provisions were running short—our water was almost expended. Hunger and thirst began to stare us in the face—things apt not only to stare people out of countenance, but out of their good looks. We at once went on short allowance, which grew shorter and shorter. As we gazed on each other’s faces, we saw how haggard our shipmates had become, each person scarcely aware of his own emaciated appearance. At last we had not a drop of water remaining. Jamaica might still be a week’s sail off, under favourable circumstances. The thirst we now endured was far worse than hunger, in that climate, with a hot sun burning down on our heads all day. Our throats got hotter and more parched every hour; we drew in our belts, and that silenced the cravings of hunger for a time, and we had some few bits of biscuit, and ham, and chocolate, but nothing we could do could allay our thirst. We dipped our faces in water, and kept applying our wet handkerchiefs to our mouths and eyes. We got most relief from breathing through our wet handkerchiefs; but it was only transient; the fever within burned as fiercely as ever. We had to work at the oars, when we could not keep our handkerchiefs wet. McAllister, like a brave fellow as he was, aroused himself, and endeavoured to encourage us to persevere. He especially warned the men against drinking salt water, telling them that it would be downright suicide, and that they might as well jump overboard and be drowned at once. We were certainly making way, and every hour lessening our distance to Jamaica. Again our hopes were raised. We had a few scraps of food to support life for two days more; but it was the water we wanted. I felt that I could not hold out another twenty-four hours. I must have water or die. The wind, however, came fair; we made sail, and ran merrily over the water—at least the boat did. Our feelings were heavy enough. Still I must say that we did our best to keep up each other’s courage. Again the wind fell. It shifted. We might be driven back, and lose all the way we had gained. Dark clouds gathered—the feeling of the air changed. “Get the sail spread out flat, and the buckets, and cask, and mugs ready, boys,” cried McAllister, “Open your mouths.”

Scarcely had he spoken, when down came the rain. Oh, how delicious were the cool streams which flowed down our parched throats, and washed the salt from our faces. As the sail caught it, we let it run off into the receptacles we had prepared. Mugful after mugful we drained. We filled our cask and buckets. The rain ceased just as we had done so, and then it fell a dead calm. But we all felt refreshed and invigorated. New life seemed put into us, and the dry morsels of biscuit and ham, which we before could not swallow, were eaten with a relish. This deliverance from immediate death gave us hope; but still we might have again to encounter all the difficulties we had before gone through, before reaching land. Could we possibly survive them? I had often read of similar adventures and sufferings, and had been so much interested and amused, that I had felt considerably obliged to those who had gone through them, and really felt that I should like to have been with them; but I found the reality very different indeed. The terrible reality was presented to me with the gilding off—the romance vanished. My great wish was to escape from my present position. I have no doubt that all my companions felt with me.

The oars were again got out, and slowly we pulled to the northward. It was soon evident, however, that our strength was totally unequal to the task. One after the other the oars dropped from the men’s feeble grasp. It was terrible to see strong men thus reduced to weakness. The calm continued. Even I began to despair. A dizziness came over me. I was nearly sinking to the bottom of the boat, but I resisted the impulse by a strong effort. “I’ll not give in while life and sense remain.” I fancied that I felt a puff of air on my cheek. I wetted my finger, and held it up. There was no doubt about it. A breeze was coming from the southward. I stood up as well as I was able, and looked astern for the expected blue line in the horizon. My heart leaped within me when my eye fell on the white sails of a vessel coming fast up with us. I shouted out the joyous news. My companions lifted up their heads, some scarcely understanding what I said. McAllister, who had been asleep, started up, and, with his hand over his eyes, gazed anxiously at the stranger. Bambrick, with a strength which surprised me, leaped up on the thwart, holding on by the mast, and, after looking for some time, he exclaimed, “She’s the Espoir, as sure as my name is Ned Bambrick.”

“The Espoir went down in the hurricane, and this craft is only some phantom come to delude and mock us,” muttered McAllister, gloomily.

“Nonsense! you don’t believe in such stuff,” I exclaimed. “If yonder craft is the Espoir, it’s plain the Espoir did not go down in the hurricane; and if the Espoir did go down in the hurricane, it is equally plain that the vessel in sight is not she.”