“I’ve got something to say about that beef-bone, sir,” I began.
“What’s that, Mr D’Arcy,” he exclaimed, turning sharp round. “When am I to hear the last of that beef-bone?”
“Why, sir, it wasn’t the carpenter threw it, but one of the midshipmen; he couldn’t help it, though. No one could, I’m sure,” I rapped out.
“Why, Master D’Arcy, I verily believe you’re the culprit,” he exclaimed, looking at me steadfastly.
I detected, however, a smile in his eye, which showed that his anger was not very serious; so I at once told him exactly how the matter had occurred, and that Dicky had begged me to come and confess the truth and intercede for him. Master Sharpe was therefore sent for; and having been severely reprimanded, was told that as soon as we got into harbour his leave would be stopped, and was then ordered to the masthead for a couple of hours, to sit there instead of on the stool of repentance. The carpenter was released from arrest, on condition that he should keep the peace. The boatswain’s nose mended in the course of a few days; and though reminded of the outrage every time he attempted to shave before his broken bit of looking-glass, he and Chissel soon patched up their quarrel and resumed their former intimacy. The person who fared worst was Bobby Smudge, who, never a favourite with his master, now obtained a double allowance of finnams, and a sly rope’s-ending whenever opportunities offered. Bobby began to discover that revenge, though sweet, may recoil on the head of the avenger, and become very bitter. More ultimately came out of the beef-bone affair.
Chapter Twelve.
Reach the Mediterranean—Malta—A Ride on Shore—A Ball—A Heroine—Our Partners—Mr Nip and his Partner—An Odd Egg Hatched—Adam Stallman’s Advice—The Right Thing the Best Thing.
Nothing of importance occurred that I remember during our passage across the Bay of Biscay. We had the usual heavy swells (though I have found it as level as a fish-pond), a stiffish breeze for a day or so, which gave us a cheery shove on our way, and light and variable winds and calms, which latter let us roll till our yard-arms almost touched the water, and effectually turned the landsmen inside out. Ten days after leaving Plymouth, we were in the latitude of Lisbon. It was early morning, and the land we were approaching was shrouded to common eyes by a soft silvery haze, which allowed only a circle of blue sea to be perceived round the ship, and a patch of about the same size of clear sky overhead. On the larboard bow was perceived a darker mass of mist, which after some time resolved itself into the well-known form of the Rock of Lisbon. The wind being light and variable, we drew very gradually inshore, till the mist suddenly lifting, as if at the command of a magician, disclosed to us the splendid and fantastic scenery of those rocky heights, as they rose proudly from the glittering ocean, which was dotted with numerous sails of fishing-boats and coasters, and here and there the canvas of some loftier merchantmen, making for the mouth of the Tagus. On the lower land, to the north of the Rock, was seen the royal palace of Mafra—a curious huge pile, imposing from its height and the large extent of ground it covers. I do not, however, intend to bother my readers with accounts of places and scenery, which they may find much better described in numberless books of voyages and travels. The wind freshening and coming fair, we continued our course, and, passing the Capes of Ortegal and Finisterre on the second day after leaving the Rock, were off Cape Saint Vincent, immortalised in naval memories by Sir John Jervis’ great action, and since then, by the way, by a very pretty bit of fighting under Charlie Napier, when he took possession of Don Miguel’s fleet with one half its size. Cape Trafalgar next came in sight, and was eagerly viewed by all hands, for, often as one may gaze on its dark blue cliffs, the deep interest they inspire can never fail; one is reminded that in their neighbourhood the glorious navy of England, under the greatest of its chiefs, secured the freedom of the world, and struck the blow which stopped the victor of continental Europe in his wild career of conquest. Peace to the names of England’s gallant defenders, who died for their country off Trafalgar’s Cape! and sacred be the memory of the immortal Nelson, our meteor-flag of victory!—But, little Neil D’Arcy, where are you steering for? Has the sight of Trafalgar made you fancy you can do a bit of fine writing? Just get back, boy, to your usual style, and leave such attempts to the pens of novelists and travellers.