Master Jack had been plumped down in a chair by the doctor’s servant, who, as he quitted him, first looked at his own hands, from which the blood was drawn in several parts, and then at Master Jack, with his teeth closed and lips compressed, as much as to say, “If I only dared, would not I, that’s all?” and then walked out of the room, repaired to the carriage at the front door, when he showed his hands to the coachman, who looked down from his box in great commiseration, at the same time fully sharing his fellow-servant’s indignation. But we must repair to the parlour. Dr. Middleton ran over a newspaper, while Johnny sat on the chair all of a heap, looking like a lump of sulks, with his feet on the upper front bar, and his knees almost up to his nose. He was a promising pupil, Jack.
Mr. Bonnycastle made his appearance—a tall, well-built, handsome, fair man, with a fine powdered head, dressed in solemn black, and knee buckles; his linen beautifully clean, and with a peculiar bland expression of countenance. When he smiled he showed a row of teeth white as ivory, and his mild blue eye was the ne plus ultra of beneficence. He was the beau-idéal of a preceptor, and it was impossible to see him and hear his mild pleasing voice, without wishing that all your sons were under his protection. He was a ripe scholar, and a good one, and at the time we speak of had the care of upwards of one hundred boys. He was celebrated for turning them out well, and many of his pupils were rising fast in the senate, as well as distinguishing themselves in the higher professions.
Dr. Middleton, who was on intimate terms with Bonnycastle, rose as he entered the room, and they shook hands. Middleton then turned to where Jack sat, and pointing to him, said, “Look there.”
Bonnycastle smiled. “I cannot say that I have had worse, but I have almost as bad. I will apply the Promethean torch, and soon vivify that rude mass. Come, sit down, Middleton.”
“But,” said the doctor, as he resumed his chair, “tell me, Bonnycastle, how you will possibly manage to lick such a cub into shape, when you do not resort to flogging?”
“I have no opinion of flogging, and therefore I do not resort to it. The fact is, I was at Harrow myself, and was rather a pickle. I was called up as often as most boys in the school, and I perfectly recollect that eventually I cared nothing for a flogging. I had become case-hardened. It is the least effective part that you can touch a boy upon. It leaves nothing behind to refresh their memory.”
“I should have thought otherwise.”
“My dear Middleton, I can produce more effect by one caning than twenty floggings. Observe, you flog upon a part for the most part quiescent; but you cane upon all parts, from the head to the heels. Now, when once the first sting of the birch is over, then a dull sensation comes over the part, and the pain after that is nothing; whereas a good sound caning leaves sores and bruises in every part, and on all the parts which are required for muscular action. After a flogging, a boy may run out in the hours of recreation, and join his playmates as well as ever, but a good caning tells a very different tale; he cannot move one part of his body without being reminded for days by the pain of the punishment he has undergone, and he is very careful how he is called up again.”
“My dear sir, I really had an idea that you were excessively lenient,” replied Middleton, laughing; “I am glad that I am under a mistake.”
“Look at that cub, doctor, sitting there more like a brute than a reasonable being; do you imagine that I could ever lick it into shape without strong measures? At the same time, allow me to say, that I consider my system by far the best. At the public schools, punishment is no check; it is so trifling that it is derided: with me punishment is punishment in the true sense of the word, and the consequence is, that it is much more seldom resorted to.”
“You are a terrorist, Bonnycastle.”
“The two strongest impulses in our nature are fear and love. In theory, acting upon the latter is very beautiful; but in practice, I never found it to answer—and for the best of reasons, our self-love is stronger than our love for others. Now I never yet found fear to fail, for the very same reason that the other does, because with fear we act upon self-love, and nothing else.”
“And yet we have many now who would introduce a system of schooling without correction; and who maintain that the present system is degrading.”
“There are a great many fools in this world, doctor.”
“That reminds me of this boy’s father,” replied Dr. Middleton; who then detailed to the pedagogue the idiosyncrasy of Mr. Easy, and all the circumstances attending Jack being sent to his school.
“There is no time to be lost then, doctor. I must conquer this young gentleman before his parents call to see him. Depend upon it, in a week I will have him obedient and well broke in.”
Dr. Middleton wished Jack good-bye, and told him to be a good boy. Jack did not vouchsafe to answer. “Never mind, doctor, he will be more polished next time you call here, depend upon it,” and the doctor departed.
Although Mr. Bonnycastle was severe, he was very judicious. Mischief of all kinds was visited but by slender punishment, such as being kept in at play hours, etcetera; and he seldom interfered with the boys for fighting, although he checked decided oppression. The great sine quâ non with him was attention to their studies. He soon discovered the capabilities of his pupils, and he forced them accordingly; but the idle boy, the bird who “could sing and wouldn’t sing,” received no mercy. The consequence was, that he turned out the cleverest boys, and his conduct was so uniform and unvarying in its tenor, that if he was feared when they were under his control, he was invariably liked by those whom he had instructed, and they continued his friends in after life.
Mr. Bonnycastle at once perceived that it was no use coaxing our hero, and that fear was the only attribute by which he could be controlled. So, as soon as Dr. Middleton had quitted the room, he addressed him in a commanding tone, “Now, boy, what is your name?”
Jack started; he looked up at his master, perceived his eye fixed upon him, and a countenance not to be played with. Jack was no fool, and somehow or another, the discipline he had received from his father had given him some intimation of what was to come. All this put together induced Jack to condescend to answer, with his forefinger between his teeth, “Johnny.”
“And what is your other name, sir?”
Jack, who appeared to repent his condescension, did not at first answer, but he looked again in Mr. Bonnycastle’s face, and then round the room: there was no one to help him, and he could not help himself, so he replied “Easy.”
“Do you know why you are sent to school?”
“Scalding father.”
“No; you are sent to learn to read and write.”
“But I won’t read and write,” replied Jack sulkily.
“Yes, you will and you are going to read your letters now directly.”
Jack made no answer. Mr. Bonnycastle opened a sort of book-case, and displayed to John’s astonished view a series of canes, ranged up and down like billiard cues, and continued, “Do you know what those are for?”
Jack eyed them wistfully; he had some faint idea that he was sure to be better acquainted with them but he made no answer.
“They are to teach little boys to read and write, and now I am going to teach you. You’ll soon learn. Look now here,” continued Mr. Bonnycastle, opening a book with large type, and taking a capital at the head of a chapter, about half an inch long. “Do you see that letter?”
“Yes,” replied Johnny, turning his eyes away, and picking his fingers.
“Well, that is the letter B. Do you see it? Look at it, so that you may know it again. That’s the letter B. Now tell me what that letter is.”
Jack now determined to resist, so he made no answer.
“So you cannot tell; well, then, we will try what one of these little fellows will do,” said Mr. Bonnycastle, taking down a cane. “Observe, Johnny, that’s the letter B. Now, what letter is that? Answer me directly.”
“I won’t learn to read and write.”
Whack came the cane on Johnny’s shoulders, who burst out into a roar as he writhed with pain.
Mr. Bonnycastle waited a few seconds. “That’s the letter B. Now tell me, sir, directly, what that letter is.”
“I’ll tell my mar.” Whack! “O law! O law!”
“What letter is that?”
Johnny, with his mouth open, panting, and the tears on his cheeks, answered indignantly, “Stop till I tell Sarah.”
Whack came the cane again, and a fresh burst from Johnny.
“What letter’s that?”
“I won’t tell,” roared Johnny; “I won’t tell—that I won’t.”
Whack—whack—whack, and a pause. “I told you before, that’s the letter B. What letter is that? Tell me directly.”
Johnny, by way of reply, made a snatch at the cane. Whack—he caught it, certainly, but not exactly as he would have wished. Johnny then snatched up the book, and dashed it to the corner of the room. Whack, whack. Johnny attempted to seize Mr. Bonnycastle with his teeth. Whack, whack, whack, whack; and Johnny fell on the carpet, and roared with pain. Mr. Bonnycastle then left him for a little while, to recover himself, and sat down.
At last Johnny’s exclamations settled down in deep sobs, and then Mr. Bonnycastle said to him, “Now, Johnny, you perceive that you must do as you are bid, or else you will have more beating. Get up immediately. Do you hear, sir?”
Somehow or another, Johnny, without intending it, stood upon his feet.
“That’s a good boy; now you see, by getting up as you were bid, you have not been beaten. Now, Johnny, you must go and bring the book from where you threw it down. Do you hear, sir? bring it directly!”
Johnny looked at Mr. Bonnycastle and the cane. With every intention to refuse, Johnny picked up the book and laid it on the table.
“That’s a good boy; now we will find the letter B. Here it is: now, Johnny, tell me what that letter is.”
Johnny made no answer.
“Tell me directly, sir,” said Mr. Bonnycastle, raising his cane up in the air. The appeal was too powerful. Johnny eyed the cane; it moved, it was coming. Breathlessly he shrieked out, “B!”
“Very well indeed, Johnny—very well. Now your first lesson is over, and you shall go to bed. You have learned more than you think for. To-morrow we will begin again. Now we’ll put the cane by.”
Mr. Bonnycastle rang the bell, and desired Master Johnny to be put to bed, in a room by himself, and not to give him any supper, as hunger would, the next morning, much facilitate his studies. Pain and hunger alone will tame brutes, and the same remedy must be applied to conquer those passions in man which assimilate him with brutes. Johnny was conducted to bed, although it was but six o’clock. He was not only in pain, but his ideas were confused; and no wonder, after all his life having been humoured and indulged—never punished until the day before. After all the caresses of his mother and Sarah, which he never knew the value of—after stuffing himself all day long, and being tempted to eat till he turned away in satiety, to find himself without his mother, without Sarah, without supper—covered with weals, and, what was worse than all, without his own way. No wonder Johnny was confused; at the same time that he was subdued; and, as Mr. Bonnycastle had truly told him, he had learned more than he had any idea of. And what would Mrs. Easy have said, had she known all this—and Sarah too? And Mr. Easy, with his rights of man? At the very time that Johnny was having the devil driven out of him, they were consoling themselves with the idea, that, at all events, there was no birch used at Mr. Bonnycastle’s, quite losing sight of the fact, that as there are more ways of killing a dog besides hanging him, so are there more ways of teaching than à posteriori. Happy in their ignorance, they all went fast asleep, little dreaming that Johnny was already so far advanced in knowledge as to have a tolerable comprehension of the mystery of cane. As for Johnny, he had cried himself to sleep at least six hours before them.
As there was no time to lose, our hero very soon bade adieu to his paternal roof, as the phrase is, and found his way down to Portsmouth. As Jack had plenty of money, and was very much pleased at finding himself his own master, he was in no hurry to join his ship, and five or six companions not very creditable, whom either Jack had picked up, or had picked up Jack, and who lived upon him, strongly advised him to put it off until the very last moment. As this advice happened to coincide with Jack’s opinion, our hero was three weeks at Portsmouth before any one knew of his arrival, but at last Captain Wilson received a letter from Mr. Easy, by which he found that Jack had left home at the period we have mentioned, and he desired the first-lieutenant to make inquiries, as he was afraid that some accident might have happened to him. As Mr. Sawbridge, the first-lieutenant, happened to be going on shore on the same evening for the last time previous to the ship’s sailing, he looked into the Blue Posts, George, and Fountain Inns, to inquire if there was such a person arrived as Mr. Easy. “Oh, yes,” replied the waiter at the Fountain—“Mr. Easy has been here these three weeks.”
“The devil he has,” roared Mr. Sawbridge, with all the indignation of a first-lieutenant defrauded three weeks of a midshipman; “where is he; in the coffee-room?”
“Oh dear no, sir,” replied the waiter, “Mr. Easy has the front apartments on the first floor.”
“Well, then, show me up to the first floor.”
“May I request the pleasure of your name, sir?” said the waiter.
“First-lieutenants don’t send up their names to midshipmen,” replied Mr. Sawbridge; “he shall soon know who I am.”
At this reply the waiter walked upstairs, followed by Mr. Sawbridge, and threw open the door.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” said the waiter.
“Desire him to walk in,” said Jack: “and, waiter, mind that the punch is a little better than it was yesterday; I have asked two more gentlemen to dine here.”
In the meantime Mr. Sawbridge, who was not in his uniform, had entered, and perceived Jack alone, with the dinner-table laid out in the best style for eight, a considerable show of plate for even the Fountain Inn, and everything, as well as the apartment itself, according to Mr. Sawbridge’s opinion, much more fit for a commander-in-chief than a midshipman of a sloop of war.
Now Mr. Sawbridge was a good officer, one who had really worked his way up to the present rank, that is to say, that he had served seven-and-twenty years, and had nothing but his pay. He was a little soured in the service, and certainly had an aversion to the young men of family who were now fast crowding into it—and with some grounds, as he perceived his own chance of promotion decrease in the same ratio as the numbers increased. He considered that in proportion as midshipmen assumed a cleaner and more gentlemanly appearance, so did they become more useless, and it may therefore be easily imagined that his bile was raised by this parade and display in a lad, who was very shortly to be, and ought three weeks before to have been, shrinking from his frown. Nevertheless, Sawbridge was a good-hearted man, although a little envious of luxury, which he could not pretend to indulge in himself.
“May I beg to ask,” said Jack, who was always remarkably polite and gentlemanly in his address, “in what manner I may be of service to you?”
“Yes, sir, you may—by joining your ship immediately. And may I beg to ask in return, sir, what is the reason you have stayed on shore three weeks without joining her?”
Hereupon Jack, who did not much admire the peremptory tone of Mr. Sawbridge, and who during the answer had taken a seat, crossed his legs and played with the gold chain to which his watch was secured, after a pause very coolly replied:
“And pray, who are you?”
“Who am I, sir?” replied Sawbridge, jumping out of his chair—“my name is Sawbridge, sir, and I am the first-lieutenant of the Harpy. Now, sir, you have your answer.”
Mr. Sawbridge, who imagined that the name of the first-lieutenant would strike terror to a culprit midshipman, threw himself back in the chair, and assumed an air of importance.
“Really, sir,” replied Jack, “what may be your exact situation on board, my ignorance of the service will not allow me to guess, but if I may judge from your behaviour, you have no small opinion of yourself.”
“Look ye, young man, you may not know what a first-lieutenant is, and I take it for granted that you do not, by your behaviour; but depend upon it, I’ll let you know very soon. In the meantime, sir, I insist upon it, that you go immediately on board.”
“I’m sorry that I cannot comply with your very moderate request,” replied Jack coolly. “I shall go on board when it suits my convenience, and I beg that you will give yourself no further trouble on my account.”
Jack then rang the bell; the waiter, who had been listening outside, immediately entered, and before Mr. Sawbridge, who was dumb with astonishment at Jack’s impertinence, could have time to reply:
“Waiter,” said Jack, “show this gentleman downstairs.”
“By the god of war!” exclaimed the first-lieutenant, “but I’ll soon show you down to the boat, my young bantam; and when once I get you safe on board, I’ll make you know the difference between a midshipman and a first-lieutenant.”
“I can only admit of equality, sir,” replied Jack; “we are all born equal—I trust you’ll allow that.”
“Equality—damn it, I suppose you’ll take the command of the ship. However, sir, your ignorance will be a little enlightened by-and-by. I shall now go and report your conduct to Captain Wilson; and I tell you plainly, that if you are not on board this evening, to-morrow morning, at daylight, I shall send a sergeant, and a file of marines, to fetch you.”
“You may depend upon it, sir,” replied Jack, “that I also shall not fail to mention to Captain Wilson that I consider you a very quarrelsome, impertinent fellow, and recommend him not to allow you to remain on board. It will be quite uncomfortable to be in the same ship with such an ungentlemanly bear.”
“He must be mad—quite mad,” exclaimed Sawbridge, whose astonishment even mastered his indignation. “Mad as a March hare—by God.”
“No, sir,” replied Jack, “I am not mad, but I am a philosopher.”
“A what?” exclaimed Sawbridge, “damme, what next?—well, my joker, all the better for you; I shall put your philosophy to the proof.”
“It is for that very reason, sir,” replied Jack, “that I have decided upon going to sea: and if you do remain on board, I hope to argue the point with you, and make you a convert to the truth of equality and the rights of man.”
“By the Lord that made us both, I’ll soon make you a convert to the thirty-six articles of war—that is, if you remain on board; but I shall now go to the captain, and report your conduct, sir, and leave you to your dinner with what appetite you may.”
“Sir, I am infinitely obliged to you; but you need not be afraid of my appetite; I am only sorry, as you happen to belong to the same ship, that I cannot, in justice to the gentlemanly young men whom I expect, ask you to join them. I wish you a very good morning, sir.”
“Twenty years have I been in the service,” roared Sawbridge, “and, damme—but he’s mad—downright, stark, staring mad.” And the first-lieutenant bounced out of the room.
Jack was a little astonished himself. Had Mr. Sawbridge made his appearance in uniform it might have been different, but that a plain-looking man, with black whiskers, shaggy hair, and old blue frock-coat and yellow casimere waistcoat, should venture to address him in such a manner, was quite incomprehensible;—he calls me mad, thought Jack, I shall tell Captain Wilson what is my opinion about his lieutenant. Shortly afterwards, the company arrived, and Jack soon forgot all about it.
In the meantime, Sawbridge called at the captain’s lodgings, and found him at home: he made a very faithful report of all that had happened, and concluded his requests by demanding, in great wrath, either an instant dismissal or a court-martial on our hero, Jack.
“Stop, Sawbridge,” replied Captain Wilson, “take a chair. As Mr. Easy says, we must argue the point, and then I will leave it to your better feelings. As for the court-martial, it will not hold good, for Mr. Easy, in the first place, has not yet joined the ship, and in the next place, could not be supposed to know that you were the first-lieutenant, or even an officer, for you went to him out of uniform.”
“Very true, sir,” replied Sawbridge, “I had forgotten that.”
“Then, as for his dismissal, or rather, not allowing him to join, Mr. Easy has been brought up in the country, and has never seen anything aquatic larger than a fish-pond, perhaps, in his life; and as for the service, or the nature of it, I believe he is as ignorant of it as a child not a year old—I doubt whether he knows the rank of a lieutenant; certainly, he can have no idea of the power of a first-lieutenant, by his treatment of you.”
“I should think not,” replied Sawbridge dryly.
“I do not think, therefore, that conduct which must have proceeded from sheer ignorance, should be so severely punished—I appeal to you, Sawbridge.”
“Well, sir, perhaps you are right—but still he told me he was a philosopher, and talked about equality and rights of man. Told me that he could only admit of equality between us, and begged to argue the point. Now, sir, if a midshipman is to argue the point every time that an order is given, the service will come to a pretty pass.”
“That is all very true, Sawbridge; and now you remind me of what never occurred to me at the time that I promised to take Mr. Easy in the ship. I now recollect that his father, who is a distant relation of mine, has some very wild notions in his head, just like what have been repeated by his son on your interview with him. I have occasionally dined there, and Mr. Easy has always been upholding the principles of natural equality and of the rights of man, much to the amusement of his guests, and I confess, at the time, of mine also. I recollect telling him that I trusted he would never be able to disseminate his opinions in the service to which I belonged, as we should have an end of all discipline. I little thought, at the time, that his only son, who has no more occasion to go to sea than the Archbishop of Canterbury, for his father has a very handsome property—I believe seven or eight thousand a year—would ever have sailed with me, and have brought these opinions with him into any ship that I commanded. It is a pity, a great pity—”
“He never could have brought his pigs to a worse market,” observed Sawbridge.
“I agree with you, and, as a father myself, I cannot but help feeling how careful we should be how we inculcate anything like abstract and philosophical idea to youth. Allowing them to be in themselves correct, still they are dangerous as sharp instruments are in the hands of a child; allowing them to be erroneous, they are seized upon with an avidity by young and ardent minds, and are not to be eradicated without the greatest difficulty, and very often not until they have accomplished their ruin.”
“Then you think, sir, that these ideas have taken deep root in this young man, and we shall not easily rid him of them.”
“I do not say so; but still, recollect they have been instilled, perhaps, from the earliest period, by one from whom they must have been received with all confidence—from a father to a son; and that son has never yet been sufficiently in the world to have proved their fallacy.”
“Well sir,” replied Sawbridge, “if I may venture to offer an opinion on the subject, and in so doing I assure you that I only shall from a feeling for the service—if, as you say, these opinions will not easily be eradicated, as the young man is independent, would it not be both better for himself, as well as for the service, that he is sent home again? As an officer he will never do any good for himself, and he may do much harm to others. I submit this to you, Captain Wilson, with all respect; but as your first-lieutenant, I feel very jealous at any chance of the discipline of the ship being interfered with by the introduction of this young man, to whom it appears that a profession is no object.”
“My dear Sawbridge,” replied Captain Wilson, after taking one or two turns up and down the room, “we entered the service together, we were messmates for many years, and you must be aware that it is not only long friendship but an intimate knowledge of your unrewarded merit, which has induced me to request you to come with me as my first-lieutenant. Now, I will put a case to you, and you shall then decide the question—and, moreover, I will abide by your decision.
“Suppose that you were a commander like myself, with a wife and seven children, and that, struggling for many years to support them, you found yourself, notwithstanding the utmost parsimony, gradually running into debt. That, after many long applications, you had at last succeeded in obtaining employment by an appointment to a fine sloop, and there was every prospect, by prize-money and increased pay, of recovering yourself from your difficulties, if not realising a sufficient provision for your family. Then suppose that all this prospect and all these hopes were likely to be dashed to the ground by the fact of having no means of fitting yourself out, no credit, no means of paying debts you have contracted, for which you would have been arrested, or anything sufficient to leave for the support of your family during your absence, your agent only consenting to advance one-half of what you require. Now, suppose, in this awkward dilemma, without any one in this world upon whom you have any legitimate claim, as a last resource you were to apply to one with whom you have but a distant connection, and but an occasional acquaintance—and that when you had made your request for the loan of two or three hundred pounds, fully anticipating a refusal (from the feeling that he who goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing)—I say, suppose, to your astonishment, that this generous person was to present you with a cheque on his banker for one thousand pounds, demanding no interest, no legal security, and requests you only to pay it at your convenience—I ask you, Sawbridge, what would be your feelings towards such a man?”
“I would die for him,” replied Sawbridge, with emotion.
“And suppose that, by the merest chance, or from a whim of the moment, the son of that man was to be placed under your protection?”
“I would be a father to him,” replied Sawbridge.
“But we must proceed a little further: suppose that you were to find the lad was not all that you could wish—that he had imbibed erroneous doctrines, which would probably, if not eradicated, be attended with consequences fatal to his welfare and happiness, would you therefore, on that account, withdraw your protection, and leave him to the mercy of others, who had no claims of gratitude to sway them in his favour?”
“Most certainly not, sir,” replied Sawbridge; “on the contrary, I would never part with the son until, by precept or otherwise, I had set him right again, and thus had, as far as it was possible, paid the debt of gratitude due to the generous father.”
“I hardly need say to you, Sawbridge, after what has passed, that this lad you have just come from, is the son, and that Mr. Easy of Forest Hill is the father.”
“Then, sir, I can only say, that not only to please you, but also from respect to a man who has shown such goodwill towards one of our cloth, I shall most cheerfully forgive all that has passed between the lad and me, and all that may probably take place before we make him what he ought to be.”
“Thank you, Sawbridge; I expected as much, and am not disappointed in my opinion of you.”
“And now, Captain Wilson, pray what is to be done?”
“We must get him on board, but not with a file of marines—that will do more harm than good. I will send a note, requesting him to breakfast with me to-morrow morning, and have a little conversation with him. I do not wish to frighten him: he would not scruple to run back to Forest Hill—now I wish to keep him if I possibly can.”
“You are right, sir; his father appears his greatest enemy. What a pity that a man with so good a heart should be so weak in the head! Then, sir, I shall take no notice of this at present, but leave the whole affair in your hands.”
“Do, Sawbridge; you have obliged me very much by your kindness in this business.”
Mr. Sawbridge then took his leave, and Captain Wilson despatched a note to our hero, requesting the pleasure of his company to breakfast at nine o’clock the ensuing morning. The answer was in the affirmative, but verbal, for Jack had drunk too much champagne to trust his pen to paper.
The success of any young man in a profession very much depends upon the occurrences at the commencement of his career, as from those is his character judged, and he is treated accordingly. Jack had chosen to enter the Service at a much later period than most lads; he was tall and manly for his age, and his countenance, if not strictly handsome, wore that expression of honesty and boldness which is sure to please. His spirit in not submitting to, and meeting Vigors when he had hardly recovered from his severe prostration of sea-sickness, had gained him with the many respect, and with all, except his antagonist and Mr. Smallsole, goodwill. Instead of being laughed at by his messmates, he was played with; for Jolliffe smiled at his absurdities, and attempted to reason him out of them, and the others liked Jack for himself and his generosity, and, more over, because they looked up to him as a protector against Vigors, who had persecuted them all; for Jack had declared, that as might was right in a midshipman’s berth, he would so far restore equality, that if he could not put down those who were the strongest, at all events he would protect the weak, and, let who would come into the berth, they must be his master before they should tyrannise over those weaker than he.
Thus did Jack Easy make the best use that he could of his strength, and become, as it were, the champion and security of those who, although much longer at sea and more experienced than he was, were glad to shelter themselves under his courage and skill, the latter of which had excited the admiration of the butcher of the ship, who had been a pugilist by profession. Thus did Jack at once take the rank of an oldster, and soon became the leader of all the mischief. We particularly observe this, because, had it so happened that our hero had succumbed to Vigors, the case would have been the very reverse. He then would have had to go through the ordeal to which most who enter the naval service are exposed, which cannot be better explained than by comparing it to the fagging carried to such an iniquitous extent in public schools.
Mr. Asper, for his own reasons, made him his companion: they walked the night-watch together, and he listened to all Jack’s nonsense about the rights of man. And here Mr. Asper did good without intending it, for, at the same time that he appeared to agree with Jack, to secure his favour, he cautioned him, and pointed out why this equality could not exist altogether on board of a man-of-war.
As for himself, he said, he saw no difference between a lieutenant, or even a captain, and a midshipman, provided they were gentlemen: he should choose his friends where he liked, and despised that power of annoyance which the service permitted. Of course, Jack and Mr. Asper were good friends, especially as, when half the watch was over, to conciliate his good will and to get rid of his eternal arguing, Mr. Asper would send Jack down to bed.
They were now entering the Straits, and expected to anchor the next day at Gibraltar, and Jack was forward on the forecastle, talking with Mesty, with whom he had contracted a great friendship, for there was nothing that Mesty would not have done for Jack, although he had not been three weeks in the ship; but a little reflection will show that it was natural.
Mesty had been a great man in his own country; he had suffered all the horrors of a passage in a slave ship; he had been sold as a slave twice; he had escaped—but he found that the universal feeling was strong against his colour, and that on board of a man-of-war he was condemned, although free, to the humblest of offices.
He had never heard any one utter the sentiments, which now beat in his own heart, of liberty and equality—we say now, for when he was in his own country before his captivity, he had no ideas of equality; no one has who is in power: but he had been schooled; and although people talked of liberty and equality at New York, he found that what they preached for themselves, they did not practise towards others, and that, in the midst of liberty and equality, he and thousands more were enslaved and degraded beings.
Escaping to England, he had regained his liberty, but not his equality; his colour had prevented the latter, and in that feeling all the world appeared to conspire together against him, until, to his astonishment, he heard those sentiments boldly expressed from the lips of Jack, and that in a service where it was almost tantamount to mutiny. Mesty, whose character is not yet developed, immediately took a fondness for our hero, and in a hundred ways showed his attachment. Jack also liked Mesty, and was fond of talking with him, and every evening, since the combat with Vigors, they had generally met in the forecastle to discuss the principles of equality and the rights of man.
The boatswain, whose name was Biggs, was a slight, dapper, active little man, who, as captain of the foretop, had shown an uncommon degree of courage in a hurricane, so much so, as to recommend him to the admiral for promotion. It was given to him; and after the ship to which he had been appointed was paid off, he had been ordered to join H.M. sloop Harpy. Jack’s conversation with Mesty was interrupted by the voice of the boatswain, who was haranguing his boy. “It’s now ten minutes, sir, by my repeater,” said the boatswain, “that I have sent for you;” and Mr. Biggs pulled out a huge silver watch, almost as big as a Norfolk turnip. A Jew had sold him the watch; the boatswain had heard of repeaters, and wished to have one. Moses had only shown him watches with the hour and minute hands; he now produced one with a second hand, telling him it was a repeater.
“What makes it a repeater?” inquired the boatswain.
“Common watches,” said the cunning Jew, “only tell the minutes and the hours; but all repeaters tell the seconds.”
The boatswain was satisfied—bought the watch, and, although many had told him it was no repeater, he insisted that it was, and would call it so.
“I swear,” continued the boatswain, “it’s ten minutes and twenty seconds by my repeater.”
“If you please, sir,” said the boy, “I was changing my trousers when you sent for me, and then I had to stow away my bag again.”
“Silence, sir; I’d have you to know that when you are sent for by your officer, trousers or no trousers, it is your duty to come up directly.”
“Without trousers, sir!” replied the boy.
“Yes, sir, without trousers; if the captain required me, I should come without my shirt. Duty before decency.” So saying, the boatswain lays hold of the boy.
“Surely, Mr. Biggs,” said Jack, “you are not going to punish that boy for not coming up without his trousers!”
“Yes, Mr. Easy, I am—I must teach him a lesson. We are bound, now that newfangled ideas are brought into the ship, to uphold the dignity of the service; and the orders of an officer are not to be delayed ten minutes and twenty seconds because a boy has no trousers on.” Whereupon the boatswain administered several smart cuts with his rattan upon the boy, proving that it was quite as well that he had put on his trousers before he came on deck. “There,” said Mr. Biggs, “is a lesson for you, you scamp—and, Mr. Easy, it is a lesson for you also,” continued the boatswain, walking away with a most consequential air.
“Murder Irish!” said Mesty—“how him cut caper. De oder day he hawl out de weather ear-ring, and touch him hat to a midshipman. Sure enough, make um cat laugh.”
The next day, the Harpy was at anchor in Gibraltar Bay; the captain went on shore, directing the gig to be sent for him before nine o’clock; after which hour the sally-port is only opened by special permission. There happened to be a ball given by the officers of the garrison on that evening, and a polite invitation was sent to the officers of H.M. sloop Harpy. As those who accepted the invitation would be detained late, it was not possible for them to come off that night. And as their services were required for the next day, Captain Wilson allowed them to remain on shore until seven o’clock the next morning, at which hour, as there was a large party, there would be two boats sent for them.
Mr. Asper obtained leave, and asked permission to take our hero with him; to which Mr. Sawbridge consented. Many other officers obtained leave, and, among others, the boatswain, who, aware that his services would be in request as soon as the equipment commenced, asked permission for this evening. And Mr. Sawbridge, feeling that he could be better spared at this than at any other time, consented. Asper and Jack went to an inn, dined, bespoke beds, and then dressed themselves for the ball, which was very brilliant, and, from the company of the officers, very pleasant. Captain Wilson looked on at the commencement, and then returned on board. Jack behaved with his usual politeness, danced till two o’clock, and then, as the ball thinned, Asper proposed that they should retire. Having once more applied to the refreshment-room, they had procured their hats, and were about to depart, when one of the officers of the garrison asked Jack if he would like to see a baboon, which had just been brought down from the rock; and, taking some of the cakes, they repaired to the court where the animal was chained down to a small tank. Jack fed the brute till all the cakes were gone, and then, because he had no more to give him, the baboon flew at Jack, who, in making his retreat, fell back into the tank, which was about two feet deep. This was a joke; and having laughed heartily, they wished the officer good-night, and went to the inn.
Now, what with the number of officers of the Harpy on shore, who had all put up at the same inn, and other occupants, the landlord was obliged to put his company into double and treble bedded rooms; but this was of little consequence. Jack was shown into a doubled-bedded room, and proceeded to undress; the other was evidently occupied, by the heavy breathing which saluted Jack’s ear.
As Jack undressed, he recollected that his trousers were wet through, and to dry them he opened the window, hung them out, and then jammed down the window again upon them, to hold them in their position, after which he turned in and fell fast asleep. At six o’clock he was called, as he had requested, and proceeded to dress, but to his astonishment found the window thrown open and his trousers missing. It was evident that his partner in the room had thrown the window open during the night, and that his trousers, having fallen down into the street, had been walked off with by somebody or another. Jack looked out of the window once more, and perceived that whoever had thrown open the window had been unwell during the night. A nice drunken companion I have had, thought Jack; but what’s to be done? And in saying this, he walked up to the other bed, and perceived that it was tenanted by the boatswain. Well, thought Jack, as Mr. Biggs has thought proper to lose my trousers, I think I have a right to take his, or at least the wear of them, to go on board. It was but last night he declared that decency must give way to duty, and that the orders of a superior officer were to be obeyed, with or without garments. I know he is obliged to be on board, and now he shall try how he likes to obey orders in his shirt tails. So cogitating, Jack took the trousers of the boatswain, who still snored, although he had been called, and, putting them on, completed the rest of his dress, and quitted the room. He went to that of Mr. Asper, where he found him just ready, and, having paid the bill—for Asper had forgotten his purse—they proceeded down to the sally-port, where they found other officers waiting, sufficient to load the first boat, which shoved off, and they went on board. As soon as he was down below, Jack hastened to change his trousers, and, unobserved by any one, threw those belonging to Mr. Biggs on a chair in his cabin, and, having made a confidant of Mesty, who was delighted, he went on deck, and waited the issue of the affair.
Before Jack left the hotel, he had told the waiter that there was the boatswain still fast asleep, and that he must be roused up immediately; and this injunction was obeyed. The boatswain, who had drunk too much the night before, and, as Jack had truly imagined, had opened the window because he was unwell, was wakened up, and, hearing how late it was, hastened to dress himself. Not finding his trousers, he rang the bell, supposing that they had been taken down to be brushed, and, in the meantime, put on everything else, that he might lose no time: the waiter who answered the bell denied having taken the trousers out of the room, and poor Mr. Biggs was in a sad quandary. What had become of them, he could not tell: he had no recollection of having gone to bed the night before; he inquired of the waiter, who said that he knew nothing about them—that he was very tipsy when he came home, and that when he called him, he had found the window open, and it appeared that he had been unwell—he supposed that he had thrown his trousers out of the window. Time flew, and the boatswain was in despair. “Could they lend him a pair?”
“He would call his master.”
The master of the inn knew very well the difference of rank between officers, and those whom he could trust and those whom he could not. He sent up the bill by the waiter, and stated that, for a deposit, the gentleman might have a pair of trousers. The boatswain felt in his pockets and remembered that all his money was in his trousers’ pocket. He could not only not leave a deposit, but could not pay his bill. The landlord was inexorable. It was bad enough to lose his money, but he could not lose more.
“I shall be tried by a court-martial, by heavens!” exclaimed the boatswain. “It’s not far from the sally-port; I’ll make a run for it, and I can slip into one of the boats and get another pair of trousers before I report myself as having come on board;” so, making up his mind, the boatswain took to his heels, and with his check shirt tails streaming in the wind, ran as hard as he could to where the boat was waiting to receive him. He was encountered by many, but he only ran the faster the more they jeered, and, at last, arrived breathless at his goal, flew down the steps, jumped into the boat, and squatted on the stern sheets, much to the surprise of the officers and men, who thought him mad. He stated in a few words that somebody had stolen his trousers during the night; and as it was already late, the boat shoved off, the men as well as the officers convulsed with laughter.
“Have any of you a pea-jacket?” inquired the boatswain of the men—but the weather was so warm that none of them had brought a pea-jacket. The boatswain looked round; he perceived that the officers were sitting on a boat-cloak.
“Whose boat-cloak is that?” inquired the boatswain.
“Mine,” replied Gascoigne.
“I trust, Mr. Gascoigne, you will have the kindness to lend it to me to go up the side with.”
“Indeed I will not,” replied Gascoigne, who would sooner have thrown it overboard and have lost it, than not beheld the anticipated fun; “recollect I asked you for a fishing-line, when we were becalmed off Cape St. Vincent, and you sent word that you’d see me damned first. Now I’ll see you the same before you have my boat-cloak.”
“Oh, Mr. Gascoigne, I’ll give you three lines, directly I get on board.”
“I dare say you will, but that won’t do now. ‘Tit for tat,’ Mr. Boatswain, and hang all favours,” replied Gascoigne, who was steering the boat, having been sent on shore for the others. “In bow—rowed of all.” The boat was laid alongside—the relentless Gascoigne caught up his boat-cloak as the other officers rose to go on board, and rolling it up, in spite of the earnest entreaties of Mr. Biggs, tossed it into the main chains to the man who had thrown the stern-fast, and to make the situation of Mr. Biggs still more deplorable, the first lieutenant was standing looking into the boat, and Captain Wilson walking the quarter deck.
“Come, Mr. Biggs, I expected you off in the first boat,” cried Mr. Sawbridge; “be as smart as you please, for the yards are not yet squared.”
“Shall I go ahead in this boat, and square them, sir?”
“That boat, no; let her drop astern, jump up here and lower down the dinghy. What the devil do you sit there for, Mr. Biggs?—you’ll oblige me by showing a little more activity, or, by Jove, you may save yourself the trouble of asking to go on shore again. Are you sober, sir?”
The last observation decided Mr. Biggs. He sprung up from the boat just as he was, and touched his hat as he passed the first lieutenant.
“Perfectly sober, sir, but I’ve lost my trousers.”
“So it appears, sir,” replied Mr. Sawbridge, as Mr. Biggs stood on the planeshear of the sloop where the hammock netting divides for an entrance, with his shirt tails fluttering in the sea breeze; but Mr. Sawbridge could not contain himself any longer; he ran down the ship ladder which led on the quarter deck, choked with laughter. Mr. Biggs could not descend until after Mr. Sawbridge, and the conversation had attracted the notice of all, and every eye in the ship was on him.
“What’s all this?” said Captain Wilson, coming to the gangway.
“Duty before decency,” replied Jack, who stood by, enjoying the joke.
Mr. Biggs recollected the day before—he cast a furious look at Jack, as he touched his hat to the captain, and then dived down to the lower deck.
If anything could add to the indignation of the boatswain, it was to find that his trousers had come on board before him. He now felt that a trick had been played him, and also that our hero must have been the party, but he could prove nothing; he could not say who slept in the same room, for he was fast asleep when Jack went to bed, and fast asleep when Jack quitted the room.
The truth of the story soon became known to all the ship, and “duty before decency” became a by-word. All that the boatswain could do he did, which was to revenge himself upon the poor boy—and Gascoigne and Jack never got any fishing-tackle. The boatswain was as obnoxious to the men as Vigors, and in consequence of Jack’s known opinions upon the rights of man, and his having floored their two greatest enemies, he became a great favourite with the seamen, and, as all favourites are honoured by them with a sobriquet, our hero obtained that of Equality Jack.
Whatever may have been Jack’s thoughts, at all events they did not spoil his rest. He possessed in himself all the materials of a true philosopher, but there was a great deal of weeding still required. Jolliffe’s arguments, sensible as they were, had very little effect upon him, for, strange to say, it is much more easy to shake a man’s opinions when he is wrong than when he is right; proving that we are all of a very perverse nature. “Well,” thought Jack, “if I am to go to the mast-head, I am, that’s all; but it does not prove that my arguments are not good, only that they will not be listened to;” and then Jack shut his eyes, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.