Newton Forster; Or, The Merchant Service. Фредерик Марриет
Flot, derived from the French flottant, floating; and jet, from the verb jeter, to throw up; both used in seignoral rights, granted by kings to favourites, empowering them to take possession of the property of any man who might happen to be unfortunate, which was in those times tantamount to being guilty. I dare say, if one could see the deed thus empowering them to confiscate the goods and chattels of others for their own use, according to the wording of the learned clerks in those days, it would run thus:—“Omnium quod flotsam et jetsam, et every thing else-um, quod findetes;” in plain English, “every thing floating or thrown up, and every thing else you may pick up.” Now the admiral of the coast had this piratical privilege: and as, in former days, sextants and chronometers were unknown, sea-faring men incurred more risk than they do at present, and the wrecks which strewed the coast were of very great value. I had a proof the other day that this right is still exacted; that is as far as regards property unclaimed. I had arrived at Plymouth from the Western Islands. When we hove up our anchor at St. Michael’s, we found another anchor and cable hooked most lovingly to our own, to the great joy of the first-lieutenant who proposed buying silk handkerchiefs for every man in the ship, and expending the residue in paint. But we had not been at anchor in Plymouth Sound more than twenty four hours, and he hardly had time to communicate with the gentlemen-dealers in marine stores, when I received a notification from some lynx-eyed agent of the present admiral of the coast (who is a lawyer, I believe), requesting the immediate delivery of the anchor and cable—upon the plea of his seignoral rights of flotsam and jetsam. Now the idea was as preposterous as the demand was impudent. We had picked up the anchor in the roadstead of a foreign power, about fifteen hundred miles distant from the English coast.
We are all lawyers, now, on board ship; so I gave him one of my legal answers, “that in the first place, flotsam meant floating, and anchors did not float; in the second place, that jetsam meant thrown up, and anchors never were thrown up; in the third and last place, I’d see him damned first!”
My arguments were unanswerable. Counsel for the plaintiff (I presume) threw up his brief, for we heard no more of “Mr. Flotsam and Jetsam.”
But to proceed:—The man and boy, who, with Newton, composed the whole crew, seemed perfectly to acquiesce in the distribution made by the master of the sloop; taking it for granted that their silence, as to the liquor being on board, would be purchased by a share of it, as long as it lasted.
They repaired forward with a panikin from the cask, with which they regaled themselves, while Newton stood at the helm. In half an hour Newton called the boy aft to steer the vessel, and lifted the trunk into the cabin below, where he found that Thompson had finished the major part of the contents of the mug, and was lying in a state of drunken stupefaction.
The hasp of the lock was soon removed by a claw-hammer, and the contents of the trunk exposed to Newton’s view. They consisted chiefly of female wearing apparel and child’s linen; but, with these articles there was a large packet of letters, addressed to Madame Louise de Montmorenci, the contents of which were a mystery to Newton, who did not understand French. There were also a red morocco case, containing a few diamond ornaments, and three or four crosses of different orders of knighthood. All the wearing apparel of the lady was marked with the initials LM, while those appertaining to the infant were marked with the letters JF.
After a careful examination, Newton spread out the clothes to dry, over the cabin lockers and table; and depositing the articles of value in a safe place, he returned on deck. Although Thompson had presented him with the trunk and its contents, he felt that they could not be considered as his property, and he determined to replace every thing, and, upon his return, consult his father as, to the proper measures which should be taken to discover who were the lawful owners.
The sloop, under the direction of Newton, had continued her course for two days against the adverse, yet light breeze, when the weather changed. The wind still held to the same quarter: but the sky became loaded with clouds, and the sun set with a dull red glare, which prognosticated a gale from the North West; and before morning the vessel was pitching through a short chopping sea. By noon the gale was at its height; and Newton, perceiving that the sloop did not “hold her own,” went down to rouse the master, to inquire what steps should be taken, as he considered it advisable to bear up; and the only port under their lee for many miles was one, with the navigation of which he was himself unacquainted.
The vessel was under close-reefed mainsail and storm foresail, almost buried in the heavy sea, which washed over the deck from forward to the companion hatch, when Newton went down to rouse the besotted Thompson, who, having slept through the night without having had recourse to additional stimulus, was more easy to awaken than before.
“Eh! what?—blows hard—whew!—so it does. How’s the wind?” said the master, throwing his feet outside the standing bed-place, as he sat up.
“North West, veering to Nor’-Nor’-West in the squalls.—We have lost good ten miles since yesterday evening, and are close to Dudden Sands,” replied Newton. “I think we must bear up, for the gale shows no signs of breaking.”
“Well, I’ll be on deck in a moment, my boy,” rejoined Thompson, who was now quite himself again, and was busy putting on his shoes, the only articles which had been removed when he turned in. “Go you up, and see that they keep her clean, full and bye—and those casks well secured.—Dudden Sands—awkward place too—but I’ve not been forty years a-boxing about this coast for nothing.”
In a minute Thompson made his appearance on deck, and steadying himself by the weather topmast backstay, fixed his leaden eyes upon the land on the quarter.—“All right younker, that’s the head, sure enough;” then turning his face to the wind, which lifted up his grey curling locks, and bore them out horizontally from his fur cap, “and it’s a devil of a gale, sure enough.—It may last a month of Sundays for all I know.—Up with the helm, Tom.—Ease off the main sheet, handsomely, my lad—not too much.—Now, take in the slack, afore she jibes;” and the master ducked under the main boom and took his station on the other side of the deck. “Steady as you go now.—Newton, take the helm.—D’ye see that bluff? keep her right for it. Tom, you and the boy rouse the cable up—get about ten fathoms on deck, and bend it.—You’ll find a bit of seizing and a marline-spike in the locker abaft.”—The sloop scudded before the gale, and in less than two hours was close to the headland pointed out by the master. “Now, Newton, we must hug the point or we shall not fetch—clap on the main sheet here, all of us.—Luff; you may handsomely.—That’s all right; we are past the Sand-head, and shall be in smooth water in a jiffy. Steady, so-o.—Now for a drop of swizzle,” cried Thompson, who considered that he had kept sober quite long enough, and proceeded to the cask of rum lashed to leeward. As he knelt down to pull out the spile, the sloop, which had been brought to the wind, was struck on her broadside by a heavy sea which careened her to her gunnel; the lashings of the weather cask gave way, and it flew across the deck, jamming the unfortunate Thompson, who knelt against the one to leeward, and then bounding overboard. The old man gave a heavy groan, and fell upon his back; the man and boy ran to his assistance, and by the directions of Newton, who could not quit the helm, carried him below, and placed him on his bed. In a few minutes the sloop was safe at anchor, in smooth water, and Newton ran down into the cabin. Thompson’s head had been crushed against the chime of the cask; for an hour or two he breathed heavily; and then—he was no more!
Volume One--Chapter Six.
The Indian weed, unknown to ancient times,
Nature’s choice gift, whose acrimonious fume
Extracts superfluous juices, and refines
The blood distemper’d from its noxious salts;
Friend to the spirit, which with vapours bland
It gently mitigates—companion fit
Of a good pot of porter. Phillips. There’s a pot