Although several of the things were said in his presence, Owen took no notice of them. He trusted that he might win the regard of his new messmates by his uniform good conduct and gentlemanly bearing towards them. Still, he found that he had much to put up with. Ashurst possessed considerable influence in the berth, and there is an old saying, that “dirt cannot be thrown without some of it sticking.” Owen was often treated in a contemptuous manner by several of the mates and midshipmen. He heard himself called a wretched young quill-driver, Cheeseparings, junior—Cheeseparings being the name gived to the purser—the captain’s spy, or licenced talebearer, with many similar uncomplimentary epithets. He made no complaint even when Mr Leigh once kindly asked him if he was happy in the berth, nor did he reply in a way to excite the anger of those who were endeavouring to annoy him.
He knew that it could not last long. He had written to Mr Fluke, stating the position in which he was on board the “Sylvia,” and asking whether it was his wish that he should return home and resume his duties in the counting-house. He dispatched a much longer letter to his friends at Fenside, giving a full account of his adventures. He did not forget either to write to Mrs Aggett, describing her husband’s peaceful death, feeling that a knowledge of this would be far more consolatory to the widow, than should she suppose that he had been lost during the horrors of a shipwreck, which otherwise she would very naturally have concluded to have been the case. He was greatly puzzled whenever he thought the matter over, to account for Ashurst’s manner. As far as Owen could judge, Ashurst did not treat any of his other young messmates in the same way, although he might have been somewhat supercilious in his manner towards them, as if he considered himself a being of a superior order. Captain Stanhope was anxious, as soon as possible, to get away from Batavia, there being much sickness in the place, as is usually the case in that unhealthy town. He hoped, however, that the ships would escape, as he allowed none of the officers or men to visit the shore oftener than could be helped. Owen, however, on one occasion accompanied the captain, who had business to transact. They were returning to the harbour to embark when they met a party of natives, carrying a person on a stretcher, followed by several Dutchmen, and two or three English sailors. The bearers stopped on seeing the captain, supposing that he was some one in authority, and placed the stretcher on the ground.
“Please, sir,” said one of the seamen, “we have just picked up this Englishman; can you tell us where we are to take him to?”
“To the public hospital of course,” answered Captain Stanhope, “if the man is alive. But are you sure of that?” he asked, looking down.
Owen just then recognised the countenance of the first mate of the “Druid,” as did also Captain Stanhope.
“I suspect that he is a subject for the dead-house rather than the hospital,” observed the captain.
“Why, so I believe,” cried the seaman, placing his hand on the mate’s heart, and then lifting up his arm, it fell motionless by his side.
Captain Stanhope ascertained that the man had been seen to fall down, apparently in a drunken fit and had not since uttered a word.
“Take him to the hospital, and you will soon learn whether he is dead, or if there is any hope of his recovering,” said the captain.
The bearers taking up the dead body—for dead he was, there could be no doubt—hurried on to the hospital as directed. Such was the ending of the first mate of the “Druid,” and such has been that of countless numbers of seamen who have given way to the terrible vice of drunkenness.