First Love. Mrs. Loudon
Edmund had had the early watch—had been relieved—had retired to his hammock—had fallen into a sound sleep, and was dreaming of Lodore. Suddenly, his pleasing vision became troubled. A thunder-storm arose; the loud peal rolled, and resounded from mountain to mountain: the little girls shrieked. He started awake! and found the scene indeed different; but the noises which had occasioned his dream, real. The drum was beating to quarters; signal-guns were firing; and all hands hastening on deck. He jumped out of his hammock. The officers were all getting up; the men were casting the great guns loose, knocking away the bulk-heads, and tumbling them, as well as all the furniture of the cabins—trunks, tables, chairs, &c. &c.—pell-mell together, down into the hold, with a tremendous clatter. In short, the ship was clearing for action. She was also tacking to close with the enemy, and her deck, in consequence, was greatly crowded: blue lights burning, rockets going off, sails flapping, yards swinging, ropes rattling, and the tramping of feet excessive; while the voice of the officer giving orders was heard, from time to time, resounding through all. The vessel they were approaching, carried two stern-lights, indicating that a vice-admiral was on board. While all eyes were fixed upon her, she drew near slowly, and on coming up, opened at once all the ports of her three decks, displaying a blaze of lights which, amid the surrounding darkness, had much grandeur of effect, not only dazzling by its sudden brightness, but exhibiting, as it were, in proud defiance, the strength of the broadside, which was thus ready to salute a foe. The vessels now hailed each other, and lo! proved to be both English! The supposed enemy was the Erina, Admiral Lord Fitz Ullin, returning from Gibraltar. All hopes of fighting thus at an end, both men and officers were, to use their own expression, “confoundedly disappointed.”
They soon, however, had fighting enough; so much, that to give any account of the various actions they were in, would, we fear, be tedious; and, to those unacquainted with naval affairs, uninteresting; we shall not, therefore, attempt it, but passing over about four years of our hero’s life, proceed at once to his return to Old England, a fine, promising lad, of nineteen—a great favourite with all the officers, and in high estimation with the captain, having already given many proofs of spirit, and being always remarkable for regularity and good conduct.
CHAPTER XXII.
“From ocean’s mist, the white-sailed fleet arose!
First, a ridge of clouds it seemed; but brighter
Shone the sun—and the distant ships stood forth,
Their wet sides glittering in all his beams!”
“Heavens!
Must I renounce honour, reputation?”
As the Glorious anchored in Cawsand Bay, in company with a numerous fleet, the animated prospect which presented itself, especially in its combined effect with the state of the atmosphere, uniting a bright sunny glow with a fog, consequently, of a peculiar whiteness, possessed a degree and style of beauty not easily imagined by any one unaccustomed to harbour scenery.
It was the noon of a frosty day: the sun which, as we have observed, shone brightly, gave to the face of the waters the appearance of a sheet of light. The heights around, and all other distant objects, were covered with the smoky veil of white fog, already noticed, which reduced them to shades of the neutral tint; while, on the side of the nearest hill, the clumps of wood and undulations of ground were plainly visible, and along its topmost line some scattered trees stood curiously and beautifully traced against the pale, even mistiness of all behind. In the bay, too, the nearest range of ships, with all the varied and still varying forms of their floating canvass, (for almost all the fleet at this time were employed in furling their sails,) every mast, every cord, each figure standing beneath the picturesque canopy of a sail-boat, or stretching to the oars of a row-boat, were all strongly defined, and appeared, from contrast with the snowy whiteness of the fog behind them, black as ebony; while the more distant vessels, being deeper and deeper sunk in the shrouding atmosphere, were more and more faintly shown, till the farthest seemed but one degree more palpable than the mist itself. The wind, soon after the fleet anchored, died away entirely, and all that had been activity and bustle, changed to the most peculiar repose; as though the beautiful picture, once completed, was left to delight posterity; for nothing now moved as far as the eye could reach, except that, from time to time, a gleam reflected from the flat, wet oar of some row-boat, plying between ship and ship, shot, like a flash of summer lightning, across the still and shadowy scene.
During the anchoring of the fleet, one of the ships, by some mischance, got aground, and all the others were ordered to send boats immediately to her assistance. The task was laborious, and much disorder occurred in the tiers of the stranded vessel, where the sailors, taking advantage of the confusion which prevailed, had broken into the spirit-room, and were regaling themselves with rum. Towards evening, however, with the help of the tide, she was got off the rocks, and the signal being given for the boats which had been sent to her assistance to return alongside their respective ships, Edmund and Henry, with their boats and crews, did not obey the signal with their usual promptitude. Edmund, meanwhile, after going through great exertion the whole day, was still on board the vessel so lately got off, commanding his men in the most peremptory manner into his boat, when Henry observing that he appeared heated and fatigued, and thinking that, at such a time, a very little would overcome one not accustomed to excess, drew towards him a second glass, (for he had been drinking freely,) and filling both that and his own, said, “How heated you are, Montgomery! you will kill yourself, if you don’t take something!” at the same time offering him one of the glasses. Edmund answered instantly, and with indignation, that were it but water, and were he expiring with fatigue, it should not, in such a place, and at such a time, approach his lips! Henry stared at him, lifted the glass to his head, and, with a laugh, swallowed its contents. Edmund again remonstrated, and taking Henry, who was by this time very much intoxicated, by the arm, endeavoured to draw him away. Henry staggered, fell, dragged Edmund with him, and at the same time, seizing the handle of a can of spirits, which stood on the cask, trailed it after him, emptying its odoriferous contents on our hero’s breast and face, as he rolled with him on the floor.
At this unfortunate moment, a lieutenant, sent in search of the boats and midshipmen, which were missing, entered, and seeing both officers on the deck drenched in rum, two glasses on the barrel-head beside them, the spirit-can in their arms, and, apparently, the object of contention, as they struggled together on the floor while their men stood round them drinking, laughing, and swearing, he very naturally drew most unfavourable conclusions. Edmund, as soon as he could release himself from Henry’s grasp, arose; but so much heated, and so thoroughly ashamed of the situation in which he had been found, that he looked quite confused. He attempted to speak, but was silenced, and very harshly repulsed by the lieutenant to whom he addressed himself, who told him, with an air of the utmost contempt, at the same time holding a handkerchief to his nose, that while he smelt of spirits in so disgusting a manner, it was impossible to listen to him.
Our hero reddened with indignation, and repaired to his boat without further attempt at explanation, not doubting, however, that he should be able to justify himself ultimately. Henry was obliged to be carried to his boat, and thus did all return to the ship. The necessary report being made to Captain B., he was so much incensed, that he sent an order for both young men to quit the ship in half an hour, directing that, with their sea-chests beside them, they should be left on the nearest beach, to find their way home as they might.
Edmund begged to be heard. The captain refused, sending him word that it was impossible for him to permit gentlemen to remain in his ship, who had disgraced themselves by carousing among the common sailors. There was then no longer a hope! He must get into the boat. He did so; and, as they pushed off, another boat, in which sat a midshipman, (a stranger to Edmund,) passed them, and then ran alongside the ship, taking up the position they had just quitted.
The sun, a moment before, had dropped below the horizon. Edmund folded his arms, sighed, and resigned himself to his fate; then rested his eyes almost unconsciously on the scene before him. The water in the bay was still as a frozen lake, its face one sheet of cold transparent light,