 | CHAPTER XV. The two admirals |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Mighty, yet ignorant of thy power!
Loftier than earth, or air, or sea,
Yet meaner than the lowliest flower!”
Margaret Davidson.
Not a syllable of explanation, reproach or self-accusation
had passed between the commander-in-chief and the
rear-admiral, since the latter received his wound. Each
party appeared to blot out the events of the last few days,
leaving the long vista of their past services and friendship,
undisfigured by a single unsightly or unpleasant object. Sir
Gervaise, while he retained an active superintendence of his
fleet, and issued the necessary orders right and left, hovered
around the bed of Bluewater with the assiduity and almost
with the tenderness of a woman; still not the slightest
allusion was made to the recent battles, or to anything that
had occurred in the short cruise. The speech recorded at
the close of the last chapter, was the first words he had uttered
which might, in any manner, carry the mind of either
back to events that both might wish forgotten. The rear-admiral
felt this forbearance deeply, and now that the subject
was thus accidentally broached between them, he had
a desire to say something in continuation. Still he waited
until the baronet had left the window and taken a seat by
his bed.
“Gervaise,” Bluewater then commenced, speaking low
from weakness, but speaking distinctly from feeling, “I cannot
die without asking your forgiveness. There were
several hours when I actually meditated treason—I will not
say to my king; on that point my opinions are unchanged
—but to you.”
“Why speak of this, Dick? You did not know yourself
when you believed it possible to desert me in the face of the
enemy. How much better I judged of your character, is
seen in the fact that I did not hesitate to engage double my
rescue.”
Bluewater looked intently at his friend, and a smile of
serious satisfaction passed over his pallid countenance as he
listened to Sir Gervaise's words, which were uttered with
his usual warmth and sincerity of manner.
“I believe you know me better than I know myself,
truly,” he answered, after a thoughtful pause; “yes, better
than I know myself. What a glorious close to our professional
career would it have been, Oakes, had I followed you
into battle, as was our old practice, and fallen in your wake,
imitating your own high example!”
“It is better as it is, Dick—if anything that has so sad a
termination can be well—yes, it is better as it is; you have
fallen at my side, as it were. We will think or talk no
more of this.”
“We have been friends, and close friends too, for a long
period, Gervaise,” returned Bluewater, stretching his arm
from the bed, with the long, thin fingers of the hand extended
to meet the other's grasp; “and, yet, I cannot recall an
act of your's which I can justly lay to heart, as unkind, or
untrue.”
“God forgive me, if you can—I hope not, Dick; most
sincerely do I hope not. It would give me great pain to believe
it.”
“You have no cause for self-reproach. In no one act or
thought can you justly accuse yourself with injuring me,
I should die much happier could I say the same of myself,
Oakes!”
“Thought!—Dick?—Thought! You never meditated
aught against me in your whole life. The love you bear
me, is the true reason why you lie there, at this blessed
moment.”
“It is grateful to find that I have been understood. I am
deeply indebted to you, Oakes, for declining to signal me
and my division down, when I foolishly requested that untimely
forbearance. I was then suffering an anguish of
mind, to which any pain of the body I may now endure, is
an elysium; your self-denial gave time—”
“For the heart to prompt you to that which your feelings
yearned to do from the first, Bluewater,” interrupted
enjoin silence on this subject, for ever.”
“I will endeavour to obey. It will not be long, Oakes,
that I shall remain under your orders,” added the rear-admiral,
with a painful smile. “There should be no charge
of mutiny against me, in the last act of my life. You
ought to forgive the one sin of omission, when you remember
how much and how completely my will has been subject
to yours, during the last five-and-thirty years,—how
little my mind has matured a professional thought that yours
has not originated!”
“Speak no more of `forgive,' I charge you, Dick. That
you have shown a girl-like docility in obeying all my orders,
too, is a truth I will aver before God and man; but when it
comes to mind, I am far from asserting that mine has had
the mastery. I do believe, could the truth be ascertained,
it would be found that I am, at this blessed moment, enjoying
a professional reputation, which is more than half due
to you.”
“It matters little, now, Gervaise—it matters little, now.
We were two light-hearted and gay lads, Oakes, when we
first met as boys, fresh from school, and merry as health
and spirits could make us.”
“We were, indeed, Dick!—yes, we were; thoughtless as
if this sad moment were never to arrive!”
“There were George Anson, and Peter Warren, little
Charley Saunders, Jack Byng, and a set of us, that did,
indeed, live as if we were never to die! And yet we carried
our lives, as it might be, in our hands, Oakes!”
“There is much of that, Dick, in boyhood and youth.
But, he is happiest, after all, who can meet this moment as
you do — calmly, and yet without any dependence on his
own merits.”
“I had an excellent mother, Oakes! Little do we think,
in youth, how much we owe to the unextinguishable tenderness,
and far-seeing lessons of our mothers! Ours both
died while we were young, and yet I do think we were
their debtors for far more than we could ever repay.”
Sir Gervaise simply assented, but making no immediate
answer, otherwise, a long pause succeeded, during which
doze. He was mistaken.
“You will be made Viscount Bowldero, for these last
affairs, Gervaise,” the wounded man unexpectedly observed,
showing how much his thoughts were still engrossed with
the interests of his friend. “Nor do I see why you should
again refuse a peerage. Those who remain in this world,
may well yield to its usages and opinions, while they do not
interfere with higher obligations.”
“I!”—exclaimed Sir Gervaise, gloomily. “The thought
of so commemorating what has happened, would be worse
than defeat to me! No — I ask no change of name to remind
me constantly of my loss!”
Bluewater looked grateful, rather than pleased; but he
made no answer. Now, he fell into a light slumber, from
which he did not awake until the time he had himself set for
the marriage of Wycherly and Mildred. With one uncle
dead and still unburied, and another about to quit the world
for ever, a rite that is usually deemed as joyous as it is
solemn, might seem unseasonable; but the dying man had
made it a request that he might have the consolation of
knowing ere he expired, that he left his niece under the legal
protection of one as competent, as he was desirous of protecting
her. The reader must imagine the arguments that
were used for the occasion, but they were such as disposed
all, in the end, to admit the propriety of yielding their ordinary
prejudices to the exigencies of the moment. It may
be well to add, also, to prevent useless and unprofitable
cavilling, that the laws of England were not as rigid on the
subject of the celebration of marriages in 1745, as they subsequently
became; and that it was lawful then to perform
the ceremony in a private house without a license, and without
the publishing of banns, even; restrictions that were
imposed a few years later. The penalty for dispensing with
the publication of banns, was a fine of £100, imposed on
the clergyman; and this fine Bluewater chose to pay, rather
than leave the only great object of life that now remained
before him unaccomplished. This penalty in no degree
impaired the validity of the contract, though Mrs. Dutton,
as a woman, felt averse to parting with her beloved, without
a rigid observance of all the customary forms. The point
to the reason of this respectable woman, and by
urging the necessity of the case. Her consent, however,
was not given without a proviso, that a license should be
subsequently procured, and a second marriage be had at a
more fitting moment, should the ecclesiastical authorities
consent to the same; a most improbable thing in itself.
Mr. Rotherham availed himself of the statute inflicting
the penalty, as an excuse for not officiating. His real motive,
however, was understood, and the chaplain of the Plantagenet,
a divine of character and piety, was substituted in
his place. Bluewater had requested that as many of the
captains of the fleet should be present as could be collected,
and it was the assembling of these warriors of the deep,
together with the arrival of the clergyman, that first gave
notice of the approach of the appointed hour.
It is not our intention to dwell on the details of a ceremony
that had so much that was painful in its solemnities.
Neither Wycherly nor Mildred made any change in their
attire, and the lovely bride wept from the time the service
began, to the moment when she left the arms of her uncle,
to be received in those of her husband, and was supported
from the room. All seemed sad, indeed, but Bluewater; to
him the scene was exciting, but it brought great relief to his
mind.
“I am now ready to die, gentlemen,” he said, as the door
closed on the new-married couple. “My last worldly care is
disposed of, and it were better for me to turn all my thoughts
to another state of being. My niece, Lady Wychecombe,
will inherit the little I have to leave; nor do I know that it
is of much importance to substantiate her birth, as her uncle
clearly bestowed what would have been her mother's property,
on her aunt, the duchess. If my dying declaration
can be of any use, however, you hear it, and can testify to
it. Now, come and take leave of me, one by one, that I
may bless you all, and thank you for much undeserved, and,
I fear, unrequited love.”
The scene that followed was solemn and sad. One by
one, the captains drew near the bed, and to each the dying
man had something kind and affectionate to say. Even the
most cold-hearted looked grave, and O'Neil, a man remarkable
battle some of the pleasantest moments of his life, literally
shed tears on the hand he kissed.
“Ah! my old friend,” said the rear-admiral, as Parker,
of the Carnatic, drew near in his customary meek and subdued
manner, “you perceive it is not years alone that bring
us to our graves! They tell me you have behaved as usual
in these late affairs; I trust that, after a long life of patient
and arduous services, you are about to receive a proper
reward.”
“I will acknowledge, Admiral Bluewater,” returned Parker,
earnestly, “that it would be peculiarly grateful to
receive some mark of the approbation of my sovereign;
principally on account of my dear wife and children. We
are not, like yourself, descended from a noble family; but
must carve our rights to distinction, and they who have
never known honours of this nature, prize them highly.”
“Ay, my good Parker,” interrupted the rear-admiral,
“and they who have ever known them, get to know their
emptiness; most especially as they approach that verge of
existence, whence the eye looks in a near and fearful glance,
over the vast and unknown range of eternity.”
“No doubt, sir; nor am I so vain as to suppose that hairs
which have got to be grey as mine, can last for ever. But,
what I was about to say is, that precious as honours are to
the humble, I would cheerfully yield every hope of the sort
I have, to see you on the poop of the Cæsar again, with Mr.
Cornet at your elbow, leading the fleet, or following the
motions of the vice-admiral.”
“Thank you, my good Parker; that can never be; nor can
I say, now, that I wish it might. When we have cast off
from the world, there is less pleasure in looking back, than
in looking ahead. God bless you, Parker, and keep you,
as you ever have been, an honest man.”
Stowel was the last to approach the bed, nor did he do it
until all had left the room but Sir Gervaise and himself.
The indomitable good-nature, and the professional nonchalance
of Bluewater, by leaving every subordinate undisturbed
in the enjoyment of his own personal caprices, had
rendered the rear-admiral a greater favourite, in one sense
at least, than the commander-in-chief. Stowel, by his near
than any other officer under him, and the effect
on his feelings had been in a very just proportion to the
benefits. He could not refrain, it is true, from remembering
the day when he himself had been a lieutenant in the ship
in which the rear-admiral had been a midshipman, but he no
longer recollected the circumstance with the bitterness that
it sometimes drew after it. On the contrary, it was now
brought to his mind merely as the most distant of the many
land-marks in their long and joint services.
“Well, Stowel,” observed Bluewater, smiling sadly, “even
the old Cæsar must be left behind, in taking leave of life.
It is seldom a flag-captain has not some heart-burnings on
account of his superior, and most sincerely do I beg you to
forget and forgive any I may have occasioned yourself.”
“Heaven help me, sir!—I was far, just then, from thinking
of any such thing! I was fancying how little I should have
thought it probable, when we were together in the Calypso,
that I should ever be thus standing at your bedside. Really,
Admiral Bluewater, I would rejoice to share with you the
remnant of life that is left me.”
“I do believe you would, Stowel; but that can never be.
I have just performed my last act in this world, in giving
my niece to Sir Wycherly Wychecombe.”
“Yes, sir;—yes, sir—marriage is no doubt honourable,
as I often tell Mrs. Stowel, and therefore not to be despised;
and yet it is singular, that a gentleman who has lived a
bachelor himself, should fancy to see a marriage ceremony
performed, and that, too, at the cost of £100, if any person
choose to complain, just at the close of his own cruise!
However, men are no more alike in such matters, than
women in their domestic qualities; and I sincerely hope this
young Sir Wycherly may find as much comfort, in the old
house I understand he has a little inland here, as you and
I have had, together, sir, in the old Cæsar. I suppose
there 'll be no co-equals in Wychecombe Hall.”
“I trust not, Stowel. But you must now receive my last
orders, as to the Cæsar—”
“The commander-in-chief has his own flag flying aboard
of us, sir!” interrupted the methodical captain, in a sort of
admonitory way.
“Never mind that, Stowel;—I 'll answer for his acquiescence.
My body must be received on board, and carried
round in the ship to Plymouth. Place it on the main-deck,
where the people can see the coffin; I would pass my last
hours above ground, in their midst.”
“It shall be done, sir—yes, sir, to the letter, Sir Gervaise
not countermanding. And I 'll write this evening to Mrs.
Stowel to say she needn't come down, as usual, as soon as
she hears the ship is in, but that she must wait until your
flag is fairly struck.”
“I should be sorry, Stowel, to cause a moment's delay in
the meeting of husband and wife!”
“Don't name it, Admiral Bluewater;—Mrs. Stowel will
understand that it 's duty; and when we married, I fully explained
to her that duty, with a sailor, came before matrimony.”
A little pause succeeded, and then Bluewater took a final
and affectionate leave of his captain. Some twenty minutes
elapsed in a profound silence, during which Sir Gervaise
did not stir, fancying that his friend again dozed. But it
was ordered that Bluewater was never to sleep again, until
he took the final rest of the dead. It was the mind, which
had always blazed above the duller lethargy of his body,
that buoyed him thus up, giving an unnatural impulse to
his physical powers; an impulse, however, that was but
momentary, and which, by means of the reaction, contributed,
in the end, to his more speedy dissolution. Perceiving,
at length, that his friend did not sleep, Sir Gervaise
drew near his bed.
“Richard,” he said, gently, “there is one without, who
pines to be admitted. I have refused even his tears, under
the impression that you felt disposed to sleep.”
“Never less so. My mind appears to become brighter
and clearer, instead of fading; I think I shall never sleep,
in the sense you mean. Whoever the person is, let him be
admitted.”
Receiving this permission, Sir Gervaise opened the door,
and Geoffrey Cleveland entered. At the same moment, Galleygo,
who came and went at pleasure, thrust in his own
ungainly form. The boy's face betrayed the nature and the
extent of his grief. In his mind, Admiral Bluewater was
and, though the period had in truth been so short, in his
brief existence, the vista through which he looked back,
seemed quite as long as that which marked the friendship
of the two admirals, themselves. Although he struggled
manfully for self-control, feeling got the better of the lad, and
he threw himself on his knees, at the side of the bed, sobbing
as if his heart would break. Bluewater's eye glistened, and
he laid a hand affectionately on the head of his young relative.
“Gervaise, you will take charge of this boy, when I 'm
gone,” he said; “and receive him in your own ship. I
leave him to you, as a very near and dear professional
legacy. Cheer up—cheer up—my brave boy; look upon
all this as a sailor's fortune. Our lives are the—”
The word “king's,” which should have succeeded, seemed
to choke the speaker. Casting a glance of meaning at his
friend, with a painful smile on his face, he continued silent.
“Ah! dear sir,” answered the midshipman, ingenuously;
“I knew that we might all be killed, but it never occurred
to me that an admiral could lose his life in battle. I 'm sure
— I 'm sure you are the very first that has met with this
accident!”
“Not by many, my poor Geoffrey. As there are but
few admirals, few fall; but we are as much exposed as
others.”
“If I had only run that Monsieur des Prez through the
body, when we closed with him,” returned the boy, grating
his teeth, and looking all the vengeance for which, at the
passing instant, he felt the desire; “it would have been
something! I might have done it, too, for he was quite
unguarded!”
“It would have been a very bad thing, boy, to have
injured a brave man, uselessly.”
“Of what use was it to shoot you, sir? We took their
ship, just the same as if you had not been hurt.”
“I rather think, Geoffrey, their ship was virtually taken
before I was wounded,” returned Bluewater, smiling. “But
I was shot by a French marine, who did no more than his
duty.”
“Yes, sir,” exclaimed the boy, impatiently; “and he
massacred.”
“Thou art bloody-minded, child; I scarce know thee.
Massacred is not a word for either a British nobleman or a
British sailor. I saved the life of that marine; and, when
you come to lie, like me, on your death-bed, Geoffrey, you
will learn how sweet a consolation can be derived from the
consciousness of such an act; we all need mercy, and none
ought to expect it, for themselves, who do not yield it to
others.”
The boy was rebuked, and his feelings took a better, though
scarcely a more natural direction. Bluewater now spoke to
him of his newly-discovered cousin, and had a melancholy
satisfaction in creating an interest in behalf of Mildred, in
the breast of the noble-hearted and ingenuous boy. The
latter listened with respectful attention, as had been his wont,
until, deceived by the tranquil and benevolent manner of
Bluewater, he permitted himself to fall into the natural delusion
of believing the wound of the rear-admiral less serious
than he had supposed, and to begin to entertain hopes that
the wounded man might yet survive. Calmed by these feelings,
he soon ceased to weep; and, promising discretion,
was permitted by Sir Gervaise to remain in the room, where
he busied himself in the offices of a nurse.
Another long pause succeeded this exciting little scene,
during which Bluewater lay quietly communing with himself
and his God. Sir Gervaise wrote orders, and read
reports, though his eye was never off the countenance of his
friend more than a minute or two at a time. At length, the
rear-admiral aroused himself, again, and began to take an
interest once more, in the persons and things around him.
“Galleygo, my old fellow-cruiser,” he said, “I leave Sir
Gervaise more particularly in your care. As we advance
in life, our friends decrease in numbers; it is only those
that have been well tried that we can rely on.”
“Yes, Admiral Blue, I knows that, and so does Sir Jarvy.
Yes, old shipmates before young 'uns, any day, and old
sailors, too, before green hands. Sir Jarvy's Bowlderos are
good plate-holders, and the likes of that; but when it comes
to heavy weather, and a hard strain, I think but little on
'em all put together.”
“By the way, Oakes,” said Bluewater, with a sudden interest
in such a subject, that he never expected to feel again,
“I have heard nothing of the first day's work, in which,
through the little I have gleaned by listening to those around
me, I understand you took a two-decker, besides dismasting
the French admiral?”
“Pardon me, Dick; you had better try and catch a little
sleep; the subject of those two days' work is really painful
to me.”
“Well, then, Sir Jarvy, if you has an avarsion to telling
the story to Admiral Blue, I can do it, your honour,” put in
Galleygo, who gloried in giving a graphic description of a
sea-fight. “I thinks, now, a history of that day will comfort
a flag-hofficer as has been so badly wounded himself.”
Bluewater offering no opposition, Galleygo proceeded
with his account of the evolutions of the ships, as we have
already described them, succeeding surprisingly well in rendering
the narrative interesting, and making himself perfectly
intelligible and clear, by his thorough knowledge, and ready
use, of the necessary nautical terms. When he came to
the moment in which the English line separated, part passing
to windward, and part to leeward of the two French
ships, he related the incident in so clear and spirited a manner,
that the commander-in-chief himself dropped his pen,
and sate listening with pleasure.
“Who could imagine, Dick,” Sir Gervaise observed,
“that those fellows in the tops watch us so closely, and
could give so accurate an account of what passes!”
“Ah! Gervaise, and what is the vigilance of Galleygo to
that of the All-seeing eye! It is a terrible thought, at an
hour like this, to remember that nothing can be forgotten.
I have somewhere read that not an oath is uttered that does
not continue to vibrate through all time, in the wide-spreading
currents of sound—not a prayer lisped, that its record
is not also to be found stamped on the laws of nature, by the
indelible seal of the Almighty's will!”
There was little in common between the religious impressions
of the two friends. They were both sailors, and
though the word does not necessarily imply that they were
sinners in an unusual degree, neither does it rigidly imply
that they were saints. Each had received the usual elementary
as it might be, on the ocean of life, to suffer the seed to take
root, and the fruit to ripen as best they might. Few of
those “who go down to the great deep in ships,” and who
escape the more brutalizing effects of lives so rude, are altogether
without religious impressions. Living so much,
as it were, in the immediate presence of the power of God,
the sailor is much disposed to reverence his omnipotence,
even while he transgresses his laws; but in nearly all those
instances in which nature has implanted a temperament inclining
to deep feelings, as was the case with Bluewater,
not even the harsh examples, nor the loose or irresponsible
lives of men thus separated from the customary ties of society,
can wholly extinguish the reverence for God which is
created by constantly dwelling in the presence of his earthly
magnificence. This sentiment in Bluewater had not been
altogether without fruits, for he both read and reflected
much. Sometimes, though at isolated and distant intervals,
he even prayed; and that fervently, and with a strong and
full sense of his own demerits. As a consequence of this
general disposition, and of the passing convictions, his mind
was better attuned for the crisis before him, than would have
been the case with most of his brethren in arms, who, when
overtaken with the fate so common to the profession, are
usually left to sustain their last moments with the lingering
enthusiasm of strife and victory.
On the other hand, Sir Gervaise was as simple as a child
in matters of this sort. He had a reverence for his Creator,
and such general notions of his goodness and love, as the
well-disposed are apt to feel; but all the dogmas concerning
the lost condition of the human race, the mediation, and the
power of faith, floated in his mind as opinions not to be controverted,
and yet as scarcely to be felt. In short, the commander-in-chief
admitted the practical heresy, which overshadows
the faith of millions, while he deemed himself to be
a stout advocate of church and king. Still, Sir Gervaise
Oakes, on occasions, was more than usually disposed to
seriousness, and was even inclined to be devout; but it was
without much regard to theories or revelation. At such
moments, while his opinions would not properly admit him
within the pale of any Christian church, in particular, his
apprehend he was a tolerably fair example of what vague
generalities, when acting on a temperament not indisposed
to moral impressions, render the great majority of men; who
flit around the mysteries of a future state, without alighting
either on the consolations of faith, or discovering any of
those logical conclusions which, half the time unconsciously
to themselves, they seem to expect. When Bluewater made
his last remark, therefore, the vice-admiral looked anxiously
at his friend; and religion for the first time since the other
received his hurt, mingled with his reflections. He had devoutly,
though mentally, returned thanks to God for his
victory, but it had never occurred to him that Bluewater
might need some preparation for death.
“Would you like to see the Plantagenet's chaplain, again,
Dick?” he said, tenderly; “you are no Papist; of that I
am certain.”
“In that you are quite right, Gervaise. I consider all
churches—the one holy Catholic church, if you will, as but
a means furnished by divine benevolence to aid weak men
in their pilgrimage; but I also believe that there is even a
shorter way to his forgiveness than through these common
avenues. How far I am right,” he added, smiling, “none
will probably know better than myself, a few hours hence.”
“Friends must meet again, hereafter, Bluewater; it is
irrational to suppose that they who have loved each other
so well in this state of being, are to be for ever separated in
the other.”
“We will hope so, Oakes,” taking the vice-admiral's
hand; “we will hope so. Still, there will be no ships for
us—no cruises—no victories—no triumphs! It is only at
moments like this, at which I have arrived, that we come to
view these things in their proper light. Of all the past,
your constant, unwavering friendship, gives me the most
pleasure!”
The vice-admiral could resist no longer. He turned aside
and wept. This tribute to nature, in one so manly, was
imposing even to the dying man, and Galleygo regarded it
with awe. Familiar as the latter had become with his master,
by use and indulgence, no living being, in his estimation,
was as authoritative or as formidable as the commander-in-chief;
was to induce him to hide his own face in self-abasement.
Bluewater saw it all, but he neither spoke, nor gave any
token of his observation. He merely prayed, and that right
fervently, not only for his friend, but for his humble and
uncouth follower.
A reaction took place in the system of the wounded man,
about nine o'clock that night. At this time he believed
himself near his end, and he sent for Wycherly and his
niece, to take his leave of them. Mrs. Dutton was also present,
as was Magrath, who remained on shore, in attendance.
Mildred lay for half an hour, bathing her uncle's
pillow with her tears, until she was removed at the surgeon's
suggestion.
“Ye'll see, Sir Gervaise,” he whispered — (or “Sir Jairvis,”
as he always pronounced the name,)—“ye'll see, Sir
Jairvis, that it's a duty of the faculty to prolong life, even
when there's no hope of saving it; and if ye'll be regairding
the judgment of a professional man, Lady Wychecombe
had better withdraw. It would really be a matter of honest
exultation for us Plantagenets to get the rear-admiral through
the night, seeing that the surgeon of the Cæsar said he could
no survive the setting sun.”
At the moment of final separation, Bluewater had little
to say to his niece. He kissed and blessed her again and
again, and then signed that she should be taken away. Mrs.
Dutton, also, came in for a full share of his notice, he having
desired her to remain after Wycherly and Mildred had
quitted the room.
“To your care and affection, excellent woman,” he said,
in a voice that had now sunk nearly to a whisper—“we
owe it, that Mildred is not unfit for her station. Her recovery
would have been even more painful than her loss, had
she been restored to her proper family, uneducated, vulgar,
and coarse.”
“That could hardly have happened to Mildred, sir, in any
circumstances,” answered the weeping woman. “Nature
has done too much for the dear child, to render her anything
but delicate and lovely, under any tolerable circumstances
of depression.”
“She is better as she is, and God be thanked that he raised
all in all to her in her infancy, and she will strive to repay
it to your age.”
Of this Mrs. Dutton felt too confident to need assurances;
and receiving the dying man's blessing, she knelt at his bedside,
prayed fervently for a few minutes, and withdrew. After
this, nothing out of the ordinary track occurred until
past midnight, and Magrath, more than once, whispered his
joyful anticipations that the rear-admiral would survive until
morning. An hour before day, however, the wounded
man revived, in a way that the surgeon distrusted. He
knew that no physical change of this sort could well happen
that did not arise from the momentary ascendency of
mind over matter, as the first is on the point of finally abandoning
its earthly tenement; a circumstance of no unusual
occurrence in patients of strong and active intellectual properties,
whose faculties often brighten for an instant, in their
last moments, as the lamp flashes and glares as it is about
to become extinct. Going to the bed, the examined his patient
attentively, and was satisfied that the final moment
was near.
“You're a man and a soldier, Sir Jairvis,” he said, in
a low voice, “and it'll no be doing good to attempt misleading
your judgment in a case of this sort. Our respectable
friend, the rear-admiral, is articulo mortis, as one might
almost say; he cannot possibly survive half an hour.”
Sir Gervaise started. He looked around him a little wistfully;
for, at that moment, he would have given much to be
alone with his dying friend. But he hesitated to make a request
which, it struck him, might seem improper. From this
embarrassment, however, he was relieved by Bluewater himself,
who had the same desire, without the same scruples
about confessing it. He drew the surgeon to his side, and
whispered a wish to be left alone with the commander-in-chief.
“Well, there will be no trespass on the rules of practice
in indulging the poor man in his desire,” muttered Magrath,
as he looked about him to gather the last of his professional
instruments, like the workman who is about to quit one
place of toil to repair to another; “and I'll just be indulging
him.”
So saying, he pushed Galleygo and Geoffrey from the
room before him, left it himself, and closed the door.
Finding himself alone, Sir Gervaise knelt at the side of
the bed and prayed, holding the hand of his friend in both
his own. The example of Mrs. Dutton, and the yearnings
of his own heart, exacted this sacrifice; when it was over
he felt a great relief from sensations that had nearly choked
him.
“Do you forgive me, Gervaise?” whispered Bluewater.
“Name it not—name it not, my best friend. We all
have our moments of weakness, and our need of pardon.
May God forget all my sins, as freely as I forget your errors!”
“God bless you, Oakes, and keep you the same simple-minded,
true-hearted man, you have ever been.”
Sir Gervaise buried his face in the bed-clothes, and
groaned.
“Kiss me, Oakes,” murmured the rear-admiral.
In order to do this, the commander-in-chief rose from his
knees and bent over the body of his friend. As he raised
himself from the cheek he had saluted, a benignant smile
gleamed on the face of the dying man, and he ceased to
breathe. Near half a minute followed, however, before the
last and most significant breath that is ever drawn from
man, was given. The remainder of that night Sir Gervaise
Oakes passed in the chamber alone, pacing the floor,
recalling the many scenes of pleasure, danger, pain, and
triumph through which he and the dead had passed in company.
With the return of light, he summoned the attendants,
and retired to his tent.
| CHAPTER XV. The two admirals | |