 | CHAPTER III. The two admirals |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
When every year and month send forth a new one;
'Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;—”
Byron.
In consequence of the unsteadiness of the father's nerves,
the duty of raising Mildred in his arms, and of carrying her
to the cottage, devolved on the young man. This he did
with a readiness and concern which proved how deep an
interest he took in her situation, and with a power of arm
which showed that his strength was increased rather than
lessened by the condition into which she had fallen. So
rapid was his movement, that no one saw the kiss he impressed
on the pallid cheek of the sweet girl, or the tender
pressure with which he grasped the lifeless form. By the
time he reached the door, the motion and air had begun to
revive her, and Wychecombe committed her to the care of
her alarmed mother, with a few hurried words of explanation.
He did not leave the house, however, for a quarter of
an hour, except to call out to Dutton that Mildred was reviving,
and that he need be under no uneasiness on her account.
Why he remained so long, we leave the reader to
imagine, for the girl had been immediately taken to her
own little chamber, and he saw her no more for several
hours.
When our young sailor came out upon the head-land
again, he found the party near the flag-staff increased to
four. Dick, the groom, had returned from his errand, and
Tom Wychecombe, the intended heir of the baronet, was
also there, in mourning for his reputed father, the judge.
This young man had become a frequent visiter to the station,
of late, affecting to imbibe his uncle's taste for sea
air, and a view of the ocean. There had been several meetings
between himself and his namesake, and each interview
was becoming less amicable than the preceding, for a reason
that was sufficiently known to the parties. When they met
were haughty and distant, and the glances cast at each other
might have been termed hostile, were it not that a sinister
irony was blended with that of Tom Wychecombe. Still,
the feelings that were uppermost did not prevent the latter
from speaking in an apparently friendly manner.
“They tell me, Mr. Wychecombe,” observed the judge's
heir, (for this Tom Wychecombe might legally claim to be;)
“they tell me, Mr. Wychecombe, that you have been taking
a lesson in your trade this morning, by swinging over the
cliffs at the end of a rope? Now, that is an exploit, more
to the taste of an American than to that of an Englishman,
I should think. But, I dare say one is compelled to do many
things in the colonies, that we never dream of at home.”
This was said with seeming indifference, though with
great art. Sir Wycherly's principal weakness was an over-weening
and an ignorant admiration of his own country, and
all it contained. He was also strongly addicted to that feeling
of contempt for the dependencies of the empire, which
seems to be inseparable from the political connection between
the people of the metropolitan country and their colonies.
There must be entire equality, for perfect respect, in
any situation in life; and, as a rule, men always appropriate
to their own shares, any admitted superiority that may happen
to exist on the part of the communities to which they
belong. It is on this principle, that the tenant of a cock-loft
in Paris or London, is so apt to feel a high claim to superiority
over the occupant of a comfortable abode in a
village. As between England and her North American
colonies in particular, this feeling was stronger than is the
case usually, on account of the early democratical tendencies
of the latter; not, that these tendencies had already become
the subject of political jealousies, but that they left social impressions,
which were singularly adapted to bringing the
colonists into contempt among a people predominant for
their own factitious habits, and who are so strongly inclined
to view every thing, even to principles, through the medium
of arbitrary, conventional customs. It must be confessed
that the Americans, in the middle of the eighteenth century,
were an exceedingly provincial, and in many particulars a
narrow-minded people, as well in their opinions as in their
day; but the country from which they are derived had
not then made the vast strides in civilization, for which it
has latterly become so distinguished. The indifference, too,
with which all Europe regarded the whole American continent,
and to which England, herself, though she possessed
so large a stake on this side of the Atlantic, formed no material
exception, constantly led that quarter of the world into
profound mistakes in all its reasoning that was connected
with this quarter of the world, and aided in producing the
state of feeling to which we have alluded. Sir Wycherly
felt and reasoned on the subject of America much as the
great bulk of his countrymen felt and reasoned in 1745;
the exceptions existing only among the enlightened, and
those whose particular duties rendered more correct knowledge
necessary, and not always among them. It is said
that the English minister conceived the idea of taxing
America, from the circumstance of seeing a wealthy Virginian
lose a large sum at play, a sort of argumentum
ad hominem that brought with it a very dangerous conclusion
to apply to the sort of people with whom he had to
deal. Let this be as it might, there is no more question, that
at the period of our tale, the profoundest ignorance concerning
America existed generally in the mother country, than
there is that the profoundest respect existed in America for
nearly every thing English. Truth compels us to add, that
in despite of all that has passed, the cis-atlantic portion of
the weakness has longest endured the assaults of time and
of an increased intercourse.
Young Wycherly, as is ever the case, was keenly
alive to any insinuations that might be supposed to reflect
on the portion of the empire of which he was a native. He
considered himself an Englishman, it is true; was thoroughly
loyal; and was every way disposed to sustain the honour
and interests of the seat of authority; but when questions
were raised between Europe and America, he was an American;
as, in America itself, he regarded himself as purely a
Virginian, in contradistinction to all the other colonies. He
understood the intended sarcasm of Tom Wychecombe, but
smothered his resentment, out of respect to the baronet, and
been so lately indulging.
“Those gentlemen who are disposed to fancy such things
of the colonies, would do well to visit that part of the world,”
he answered, calmly, “before they express their opinions too
loudly, lest they should say something that future observation
might make them wish to recall.”
“True, my young friend—quite true,” put in the baronet,
with the kindest possible intentions. “True as gospel. We
never know any thing of matters about which we know nothing;
that we old men must admit, Master Dutton; and I
should think Tom must see its force. It would be unreasonable
to expect to find every thing as comfortable in
America as we have it here, in England; nor do I suppose
the Americans, in general, would be as likely to get
over a cliff as an Englishman. However, there are exceptions
to all general rules, as my poor brother James used to
say, when he saw occasion to find fault with the sermon of
a prelate. I believe you did not know my poor brother,
Dutton; he must have been killed about the time you were
born — St. James, I used to call him, although my brother
Thomas, the judge that was, Tom's father, there — said he
was St. James the less.”
“I believe the Rev. Mr. Wychecombe was dead before I
was of an age to remember his virtues, Sir Wycherly,” said
Dutton, respectfully; “though I have often heard my own
father speak of all your honoured family.”
“Yes, your father, Dutton, was the attorney of the next
town, and we all knew him well. You have done quite
right to come back among us to spend the close of your own
days. A man is never as well off, as when he is thriving
in his native soil; more especially when that soil is old England,
and Devonshire. You are not one of us, young gentleman,
though your name happens to be Wychecombe;
but, then we are none of us accountable for our own births,
or birth-places.”
This truism, which is in the mouths of thousands while it
is in the hearts of scarcely any, was well meant by Sir
Wycherly, however plainly expressed. It merely drew from
the youth the simple answer that — “he was born in the
others had heard already, some ten or a dozen times.
“It is a little singular, Mr. Wychecombe, that you should
bear both of my names, and yet be no relative,” continued
the baronet. “Now, Wycherly came into our family from
old Sir Hildebrand Wycherly, who was slain at Bosworth
Field, and whose only daughter, my ancestor, and Tom's
ancestor, there, married. Since that day, Wycherly has
been a favourite name among us. I do not think that the
Wychecombes of Herts, ever thought of calling a son Wycherly,
although, as my poor brother the judge used to say,
they were related, but of the half-blood, only. I suppose
your father taught you what is meant by being of the half-blood,
Thomas?”
Tom Wychecombe's face became the colour of scarlet,
and he cast an uneasy glance at all present; expecting in
particular, to meet with a look of exultation in the eyes
of the lieutenant. He was greatly relieved, however, at
finding that neither of the three meant or understood more
than was simply expressed. As for his uncle, he had not
the smallest intention of making any allusion to the peculiarity
of his nephew's birth; and the other two, in common
with the world, supposed the reputed heir to be legitimate.
Gathering courage from the looks of those around him, Tom
answered with a steadiness that prevented his agitation from
being detected:
“Certainly, my dear sir; my excellent parent forgot nothing
that he thought might be useful to me, in maintaining
my rights, and the honour of the family, hereafter. I very
well understand that the Wychecombes of Hertfordshire
have no claims on us; nor, indeed, any Wychecombe who
is not descended from my respectable grandfather, the late
Sir Wycherly.”
“He must have been an early, instead of a late Sir Wycherly,
rather, Mr. Thomas,” put in Dutton, laughing at his
own conceit; “for I can remember no other than the
honourable baronet before us, in the last fifty years.”
“Quite true, Dutton—very true,” rejoined the person last
alluded to. “As true as that `time and tide wait for no
man.' We understand the meaning of such things on the
coast here. It was half a century, last October, since I
half century before some one will succeed me!”
Sir Wycherly was a hale, hearty man for his years, but
he had no unmanly dread of his end. Still he felt it could
not be very distant, having already numbered fourscore and
four years. Nevertheless, there were certain phrases of
usage, that Dutton did not see fit to forget on such an occasion,
and he answered accordingly, turning to look at and
admire the still ruddy countenance of the baronet, by way
of giving emphasis to his words.
“You will yet see half of us into our graves, Sir Wycherly,”
he said, “and still remain an active man. Though I dare
say another half century will bring most of us up. Even
Mr. Thomas, here, and your young namesake can hardly
hope to run out more line than that. Well, as for myself,
I only desire to live through this war, that I may again see
His Majesty's arms triumphant; though they do tell me that
we are in for a good thirty years' struggle. Wars have
lasted as long as that, Sir Wycherly, and I don't see why
this may not, as well as another.”
“Very true, Dutton; it is not only possible, but probable;
and I trust both you and I may live to see our flower-hunter
here, a post-captain, at least — though it would be
wishing almost too much to expect to see him an admiral.
There has been one admiral of the name, and I confess I
should like to see another!”
“Has not Mr. Thomas a brother in the service?” demanded
the master; “I had thought that my lord, the judge,
had given us one of his young gentlemen.”
“He thought of it; but the army got both of the boys, as
it turned out. Gregory was to be the midshipman; my
poor brother intending him for a sailor from the first, and so
giving him the name that was once borne by the unfortunate
relative we lost by shipwreck. I wished him to call one of the
lads James, after St. James; but, somehow, I never could
persuade Thomas to see all the excellence of that pious
young man.”
Dutton was a little embarrassed, for St. James had left
anything but a godly savour behind him; and he was about
to fabricate a tolerably bold assertion to the contrary, rather
than incur the risk of offending the lord of the manor, when,
opportunity of bringing about an apposite change
in the subject. During the whole of the morning the sea
had been invisible from the head-land, a dense body of vapour
resting on it, far as eye could reach; veiling the whole
expanse with a single white cloud. The lighter portions of
the vapour had at first floated around the head-land, which
could not have been seen at any material distance; but all
had been gradually settling down into a single mass, that
now rose within twenty feet of the summit of the cliffs. The
hour was still quite early, but the sun was gaining force,
and it speedily drank up all the lighter particles of the mist,
leaving a clear, bright atmosphere above the feathery bank,
through which objects might be seen for miles. There was
what seamen call a “fanning breeze,” or just wind enough
to cause the light sails of a ship to swell and collapse, under
the double influence of the air and the motion of the hull,
imitating in a slight degree the vibrations of that familiar
appliance of the female toilet. Dutton's eye had caught a
glance of the loftiest sail of a vessel, above the fog, going
through this very movement; and it afforded him the release
he desired, by enabling him to draw the attention of his
companions to the same object.
“See, Sir Wycherly—see, Mr. Wychecombe,” he cried,
eagerly, pointing in the direction of the sail; “yonder is
some of the king's canvass coming into our roadstead, or I
am no judge of the set of a man-of-war's royal. It is a
large bit of cloth, too, Mr. Lieutenant, for a sail so lofty!”
“It is a two-decker's royal, Master Dutton,” returned the
young sailor; “and now you see the fore and main, separately,
as the ship keeps away.”
“Well,” put in Sir Wycherly, in a resigned manner;
“here have I lived fourscore years on this coast, and, for
the life of me, I have never been able to tell a fore-royal
from a back-royal; or a mizzen head-stay from a head
mizzen-stay. They are the most puzzling things imaginable;
and now I cannot discover how you know that yonder
sail, which I see plain enough, is a royal, any more than
that it is a jib!”
Dutton and the lieutenant smiled, but Sir Wycherly's
simplicity had a cast of truth and nature about it, that deterred
rank, fortune, and local interest of the baronet, counted for
a good deal on all such occasions.
“Here is another fellow, farther east,” cried Dutton, still
pointing with a finger; “and every inch as big as his consort!
Ah! it does my eyes good to see our roadstead come
into notice, in this manner, after all I have said and done in
its behalf — But, who have we here — a brother chip, by
his appearance; I dare say some idler who has been sent
ashore with despatches.”
“There is another fellow further east, and every inch as
big as his consort,” said Wychecombe, as we shall call our
lieutenant, in order to distinguish him from Tom of the same
name, repeating the very words of Dutton, with an application
and readiness that almost amounted to wit, pointing, in
his turn, at two strangers who were ascending to the station
by a path that led from the beach. “Certainly both these
gentlemen are in His Majesty's service, and they have probably
just landed from the ships in the offing.”
The truth of this conjecture was apparent to Dutton at a
glance. As the strangers joined each other, the one last
seen proceeded in advance; and there was something in his
years, the confident manner in which he approached, and
his general appearance, that induced both the sailors to believe
he might be the commander of one of the ships that had
just come in view.
“Good-morrow, gentlemen,” commenced this person, as
soon as near enough to salute the party at the foot of the
flag-staff; “good-morrow to ye all. I 'm glad to meet you,
for it 's but a Jacob's ladder, this path of yours, through the
ravine in the cliffs. Hey! why Atwood,” looking around
him at the sea of vapour, in surprise, “what the devil has
become of the fleet?”
“It is lost in the fog, sir; we are above it, here; when
more on a level with the ships, we could see, or fancy we
saw, more of them than we do now.”
“Here are the upper sails of two heavy ships, sir,” observed
Wychecombe, pointing in the direction of the vessels
already seen; “ay, and yonder are two more—nothing but
the royals are visible.”
“Two more!—I left eleven two-deckers, three frigates, a
might have covered 'em all with a pocket-handkerchief, hey!
Atwood?”
“They were certainly in close order, sir, but I 'll not take
it on myself to say quite as near together as that.”
“Ay, you 're a dissenter by trade, and never will believe
in a miracle. Sharp work, gentlemen, to get up such a
hill as this, after fifty.”
“It is, indeed, sir,” answered Sir Wycherly, kindly.
“Will you do us the favour to take a seat among us, and
rest yourself after so violent an exertion? The cliff is hard
enough to ascend, even when one keeps the path; though
here is a young gentleman who had a fancy just now to go
down it, without a path; and that, too, merely that a pretty
girl might have a nosegay on her breakfast-table.”
The stranger looked intently at Sir Wycherly for a moment,
then glanced his eye at the groom and the pony, after
which he took a survey of Tom Wychecombe, the lieutenant,
and the master. He was a man accustomed to look about
him, and he understood, by that rapid glance, the characters
of all he surveyed, with perhaps the exception of that of
Tom Wychecombe; and even of that he formed a tolerably
shrewd conjecture. Sir Wycherly he immediately set down
as the squire of the adjacent estate; Dutton's situation he
hit exactly, conceiving him to be a worn-out master, who
was employed to keep the signal-station; while he understood
Wychecombe, by his undress, and air, to be a sea-lieutenant
in the king's service. Tom Wychecombe he
thought it quite likely might be the son and heir of the lord
of the manor, both being in mourning; though he decided
in his own mind that there was not the smallest family likeness
between them. Bowing with the courtesy of a man
who knew how to acknowledge a civility, he took the proffered
seat at Sir Wycherly's side without farther ceremony.
“We must carry the young fellow to sea with us, sir,” rejoined
the stranger, “and that will cure him of looking for
flowers in such ticklish places. His Majesty has need of us
all, in this war; and I trust, young gentleman, you have
not been long ashore, among the girls.”
“Only long enough to make a cure of a pretty smart
burt, received in cutting out a lugger from the opposite
yet with sufficient spirit.
“Lugger!—ha! what Atwood? You surely do not mean,
young gentleman, la Voltigeuse?”
“That was the name of the craft, sir — we found her in
the roads of Groix.”
“And then I 've the pleasure of seeing Mr. Wychecombe,
the young officer who led in that gallant attack?”
This was said with a most flattering warmth of manner,
the stranger even rising and removing his hat, as he uttered
the words with a heartiness that showed how much his feelings
were in unison with what he said.
“I am Mr. Wychecombe, sir,” answered the other, blushing
to the temples, and returning the salute; “though I had
not the honour of leading; one of the lieutenants of our ship
being in another boat.”
“Yes—I know all that—but he was beaten off, while you
boarded and did the work. What have my lords commissioners
done in the matter?”
“All that is necessary, so far as I am concerned, sir, I do
assure you; having sent me a commission the very next
week. I only wish they had been equally generous to Mr.
Walton, who received a severe wound also, and behaved as
well as man could behave.”
“That would not be so wise, Mr. Wychecombe, since it
would be rewarding a failure,” returned the stranger, coldly.
“Success is all in all, in war. Ah! There the fellows begin
to show themselves, Atwood.”
This remark drew all eyes, again, towards the sea, where
a sight now presented itself that was really worthy of a
passing notice. The vapour appeared to have become
packed into a mass of some eighty or a hundred feet in
height, leaving a perfectly clear atmosphere above it. In
the clear air, were visible the upper spars and canvass of the
entire fleet mentioned by the stranger; sixteen sail in all.
There were the eleven two-deckers, and the three frigates,
rising in pyramids of canvass, still fanning in towards the
anchorage, which in that roadstead was within pistol-shot of
the shore; while the royals and upper part of the top-gallant
sails of the sloop seemed to stand on the surface of the fog,
like a monument. After a moment's pause, Wychecombe
pennant lazily fluttering ahead of it, partly concealed in vapour.
The fog seemed to settle, instead of rising, though it
evidently rolled along the face of the waters, putting the
whole scene in motion. It was not long ere the tops of the
ships of the line became visible, and then living beings were
for the first time seen in the moving masses.
“I suppose we offer just such a sight to the top-men of
the ships, as they offer to us,” observed the stranger. “They
must see this head-land and flag-staff, Mr. Wychecombe;
and there can be no danger of their standing in too far!”
“I should think not, sir; certainly the men aloft can see
the cliffs above the fog, as we see the vessels' spars. Ha!
Mr. Dutton, there is a rear-admiral's flag flying on board
the ship farthest to the eastward.”
“So I see, sir; and by looking at the third vessel on the
western side of the line, you will find a bit of square bunting
at the fore, which will tell you there is a vice-admiral beneath
it.”
“Quite true!” exclaimed Wychecombe, who was ever
enthusiastic on matters relating to his profession; “a vice-admiral
of the red, too; which is the next step to being a full
admiral. This must be the fleet of Sir Digby Downes!”
“No, young gentleman,” returned the stranger, who perceived
by the glance of the other's eye, that a question was
indirectly put to himself; “it is the southern squadron; and
the vice-admiral's flag you see, belongs to Sir Gervaise
Oakes. Admiral Bluewater is on board the ship that carries
a flag at the mizzen.”
“Those two officers always go together, Sir Wycherly,”
added the young man. “Whenever we hear the name of
Sir Gervaise, that of Bluewater is certain to accompany it.
Such a union in service is delightful to witness.”
“Well may they go in company, Mr. Wychecombe,” returned
the stranger, betraying a little emotion. “Oakes
and Bluewater were reefers together, under old Breasthook,
in the Mermaid; and when the first was made a lieutenant
into the Squid, the last followed as a mate. Oakes was first
of the Briton, in her action with the Spanish frigates, and
Bluewater third. For that affair Oakes got a sloop, and his
friend went with him as his first. The next year they had
the first time in their service, the two young men were separated;
Oakes getting a frigate, and Bluewater getting the
Squid. Still they cruised in company, until the senior was
sent in command of a flying squadron, with a broad pennant,
when the junior, who by this time was post, received
his old messmate on board his own frigate. In that manner
they served together, down to the hour when the first hoisted
his flag. From that time, the two old seamen have never
been parted; Bluewater acting as the admiral's captain, until
he got the square bunting himself. The vice-admiral has
never led the van of a fleet, that the rear-admiral did not
lead the rear-division; and, now that Sir Gervaise is a commander-in-chief,
you see his friend, Dick Bluewater, is
cruising in his company.”
While the stranger was giving this account of the Two
Admirals, in a half-serious, half-jocular manner, the eyes
of his companions were on him. He was a middle-sized,
red-faced man, with an aquiline nose, a light-blue animated
eye, and a mouth, which denoted more of the habits and care
of refinement than either his dress or his ordinarily careless
mien. A great deal is said about the aristocracy of the ears,
and the hands, and the feet; but of all the features, or other appliances
of the human frame, the mouth and the nose have
the greatest influence in producing an impression of gentility.
This was peculiarly the case with the stranger, whose
beak, like that of an ancient galley, gave the promise of a
stately movement, and whose beautiful teeth and winning
smile, often relieved the expression of a countenance that
was not unfrequently stern. As he ceased speaking, Dutton
rose, in a studied manner, raised his hat entirely from his
head, bowed his body nearly to a right angle, and said,
“Unless my memory is treacherous, I believe I have the
honour to see Rear-Admiral Bluewater, himself; I was a mate
in the Medway, when he commanded the Chloe; and unless
five-and-twenty years have made more changes than I think
probable, he is now on this hill.”
“Your memory is a bad one, Mr. Dutton, and your hill
has on it a much worse man, in all respects, than Admiral
Bluewater. They say that man and wife, from living together,
and thinking alike, having the same affections, loving
look alike; hey! Atwood? It may be that I am growing
like Bluewater, on the same principle; but this is the first
time I ever heard the thing suggested. I am Sir Gervaise
Oakes, at your service, sir.”
The bow of Dutton was now much lower than before,
while young Wychecombe uncovered himself, and Sir Wycherly
arose and paid his compliments cordially, introducing
himself, and offering the admiral and all his officers the
hospitality of the Hall.
“Ay, this is straight-forward and hearty, and in the good
old English manner!” exclaimed the admiral, when he had
returned the salutes, and cordially thanked the baronet.
“One might land in Scotland, now, anywhere between the
Tweed and John a'Groat's house, and not be asked so much
as to eat an oaten cake; hey! Atwood?—always excepting
the mountain dew.”
“You will have your fling at my poor countrymen, Sir
Gervaise, and so there is no more to be said on the subject,”
returned the secretary, for such was the rank of the admiral's
companion. “I might feel hurt, at times, did I not
know that you get as many Scotsmen about you, in your
own ship, as you can; and that a fleet is all the better in
your judgment, for having every other captain from the land
o' cakes.”
“Did you ever hear the like of that, Sir Wycherly? Because
I stick to a man I like, he accuses me of having a
predilection for his whole country. Here's Atwood, now;
he was my clerk, when in a sloop; and he has followed me
to the Plantagenet, and because I do not throw him over-board,
he wishes to make it appear half Scotland is in her
hold.”
“Well, there are the surgeon, the purser, one of the
mates, one of the marine officers, and the fourth lieutenant,
to keep me company, Sir Gervaise,” answered the secretary,
smiling like one accustomed to his superior's jokes, and who
cared very little about them. “When you send us all back
to Scotland, I'm thinking there will be many a good vacancy
to fill.”
“The Scotch make themselves very useful, Sir Gervaise,”
put in Sir Wycherly, by way of smoothing the matter over;
Englishmen have less jealousy of them than formerly. I
am sure I should be happy to see all the gentlemen mentioned
by Mr. Atwood, at Wychecombe Hall.”
“There, you're all well berthed, while the fleet lies in
these roads. Sir Wycherly, in the name of Scotland, I
thank you.—But what an extr'ornary (for so admirals pronounced
the word a hundred years ago,) scene this is, hey!
Atwood? Many a time have I seen the hulls of ships when
their spars were hid in the fog; but I do not remember ever
to have seen before sixteen sets of masts and sails, moving
about on vapour, without a single hull to uphold them. The
tops of all the two-decked ships are as plainly to be seen, as
if the air were without a particle of vapour, while all below
the cat-harpings is hid in a cloud as thick as the smoke of
a battle. I do not half like Bluewater's standing in so far;
perhaps, Mr. Dutton, they cannot see the cliffs, for I assure
you we did not, until quite close under them. We went altogether
by the lead, the masters feeling their way like so
many blind beggars!”
“We always keep that nine-pounder loaded, Sir Gervaise,”
returned the master, “in order to warn vessels when
they are getting near enough in; and if Mr. Wychecombe,
who is younger than I, will run to the house and light this
match, I will prime, and we may give 'em warning where
they are, in less than a minute.”
The admiral gave a ready assent to this proposition, and
the respective parties immediately set about putting it in execution.
Wychecombe hastened to the house to light the
match, glad of an opportunity to inquire after Mildred;
while Dutton produced a priming-horn from a sort of armchest,
that stood near the gun, and put the latter in a condition
to be discharged. The young man was absent but a
minute, and when all was ready he turned towards the admiral,
in order to get the signal to proceed.
“Let'em have it, Mr. Wychecombe,” cried Sir Gervaise,
smiling; “it will wake Bluewater up; perhaps he may
favour us with a broadside, by way of retort.”
The match was applied, and the report of the gun succeeded.
Then followed a pause of more than a minute;
when the fog lifted around the Cæsar, the ship that wore
in the mist, and then came the bellowing of a piece of
heavy ordnance. Almost at the same instant, three little
flags appeared at the mast-head of the Cæsar, for previously
to quitting his own ship, Sir Gervaise had sent a message
to his friend, requesting him to take care of the fleet.
This was the signal to anchor. The effect of all this, as
seen from the height, was exceedingly striking. As yet
not a single hull had become visible, the fog remaining
packed upon the water, in a way to conceal even the lower
yards of the two-deckers. All above was bright, distinct,
and so near as almost to render it possible to distinguish persons.
There everything was vivid, while a sort of supernatural
mystery veiled all beneath. Each ship had an officer
aloft to look out for signals, and no sooner had the Cæsar
opened her three little flags, which had long been suspended
in black balls, in readiness for this service, than the answers
were seen floating at the mast-head of each of the vessels.
Then commenced a spectacle still more curious than that
which those on the cliff had so long been regarding with interest.
Ropes began to move, and the sails were drawn up
in festoons, apparently without the agency of hands. Cut
off from a seeming communication with the ocean, or the
hulls, the spars of the different ships appeared to be instinct
with life; each machine playing its own part independently
of the others, but all having the same object in view. In a
very few minutes, the canvass was hauled up, and the whole
fleet was swinging to the anchors. Presently head after
head was thrown out of the fog, the upper yards were alive
with men, and the sails were handed. Next came the
squaring of the yards, though this was imperfectly done,
and a good deal by guess-work. The men came down,
and there lay a noble fleet at anchor, with nothing visible to
those on the cliffs, but their top-hamper, and upper spars.
Sir Gervaise Oakes had been so much struck and amused
with a sight that to him happened to be entirely novel, that
he did not speak during the whole process of anchoring.
Indeed many a man might pass his life at sea, and never
witness such a scene; but those who have, know that it is
one of the most beautiful and striking spectacles connected
with the wonders of the great deep.
By this time the sun had got so high, as to begin to stir
the fog, and streams of vapour were shooting up from the beach,
like smoke rising from coal-pits. The wind increased, too,
and rolled the vapour before it, and in less than ten minutes,
the veil was removed; ship after ship coming out in plain
view, until the entire fleet was seen riding in the roadstead,
in its naked and distinct proportions.
“Now, Bluewater is a happy fellow,” exclaimed Sir Gervaise.
“He sees his great enemy, the land, and knows how
to deal with it.”
“I thought the French were the great and natural enemies
of every British sailor,” observed Sir Wycherly, simply, but
quite to the point.
“Hum—there's truth in that too. But the land is an
enemy to be feared, while the Frenchman is not—hey! Atwood?”
It was indeed a goodly sight to view the fine fleet that
now lay anchored beneath the cliffs of Wychecombe. Sir
Gervaise Oakes was, in that period, considered a successful
naval commander, and was a favourite both at the admiralty
and with the nation. His popularity extended to the
most distant colonies of England, in nearly all of which he
had served with zeal and credit. But we are not writing of
an age of nautical wonders, like that which succeeded, at
the close of the century. The French, and Dutch, and even
the Spaniards, were then all formidable as naval powers;
for revolutions and changes had not destroyed their maritime
corps, nor had the consequent naval ascendency of
England annihilated their navigation; the two great causes
of the subsequent apparent invincibility of the latter power.
Battles at sea, in that day, were warmly contested, and were
frequently fruitless; more especially when fleets were brought
in opposition. The single combats were usually more decisive,
though the absolute success of the British flag, was
far from being as much a matter of course as it subsequently
became. In a word, the science of naval warfare had not
made those great strides, which marked the career of England
in the end, nor had it retrograded among her enemies,
to the point which appears to have rendered their defeat
nearly certain. Still Sir Gervaise was a successful officer;
having captured several single ships, in bloody encounters,
the great battles of the times; besides being second and
third in command, on various similar occasions. His own
ship was certain to be engaged, let what would happen to
the others. Equally as captains and as flag-officers, the
nation had become familiar with the names of Oakes and
Bluewater, as men ever to be found sustaining each other in
the thickest of the fight. It may be well to add here, that
both these favourite seamen were men of family, or at least
what was considered men of family among the mere gentry
of England; Sir Gervaise being a baronet by inheritance,
while his friend actually belonged to one of those naval lines
which furnishes admirals for generations; his father having
worn a white flag at the main; and his grandfather having
been actually ennobled for his services, dying vice-admiral
of England. These fortuitous circumstances perhaps rendered
both so much the greater favourites at court.
| CHAPTER III. The two admirals | |