“When I awoke the sun was shining out brightly, and I heard some one on board a vessel coming up the harbour hail and call somebody or other a drunken old rascal. Who he meant of course I couldn’t tell; that was nothing to me. At last I sat up in my boat, and rubbed my eyes, and there was the doctor’s bottles and the empty rum bottle and the can, without any water in it, just as I left them when I was taken ill. I half expected to see the whole troop of wriggling, twisting, forked-tailed smoke-worms coming up the harbour with the last of the flood; but though I looked out till the tide had done, they didn’t come, and it’s my belief that they knocked themselves about so much against the Needle rocks, that they put about and went down Channel; and all I can say is that I hope that every one of ’em was drowned or came to some other bad end out at sea, and that I may never as long as I live have such a night as the one I spent after taking Doctor Gulliman’s physic. Sarvant, marm and gentlemen, you’ll agree that story is worth five shillings. Howsomedever, I never charges my friends, but gives them all free gratis and for nothing.” And old Jerry gave one of his most knowing winks as he finished off his glass and took up his hat to prepare for his departure.
I ought perhaps to apologise for giving such a story; but it is a fair specimen of the style of narrative in which old seamen of Jerry Vincent’s stamp are apt to indulge, and I have heard many such, though seldom told with so much spirit, during my career at sea.
Chapter Eight.
Visit to Plymouth—Bitter disappointment—Miss Rundle’s account of Charley—Voyage to Shetland—Wrecked again—Fall among friends—Near death’s door—Happy encounter—Description of Shetland—My residence there—Married—Summoned southward.
I did not think that I should ever have got tired of living at Southsea with my kind aunt and fine hearty old uncle, but I had been so accustomed to a roving life and active employment, that in a little time I began to consider that I ought to be looking out for something to do. What to do was the question. I had a fancy for staying on shore after having been knocked about at sea for so many years, and setting up in some business.
“What, have you forgotten Margaret Troall?” said my aunt to me one day.
The chord was struck. “No, indeed, I have not,” said I; “I’ll go and find her, and bring her back to you as my wife if she will have me.”
I had given all my money to my uncle to have put safe in a bank for me. The next day I drew thirty pounds of it, and shipped myself aboard a smack bound for Plymouth.