University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The dawning of day, on the morning which succeeded,
was a moment of great interest, on board the different English
ships which then lay off the Gulf of Salerno. Cuffe
and Lyon were called, according to especial orders left by
themselves, while even Sir Frederick Dashwood allowed
himself to be awakened, to hear the report of the officer of the
deck. The first was up quite half-an-hour before the light
appeared. He even went into the main-top, again, in order
to get as early and as wide a survey of the horizon as he
wished. Griffin went aloft with him, and, together they
stood leaning against the top-mast rigging, watching the
slow approach of those rays which gradually diffused themselves
over the whole of a panorama that was as bewitching
as the hour and the lovely accessories of an Italian landscape
could render it.

“I see nothing, in-shore,” exclaimed Cuffe, in a tone of
disappointment, when the light permitted a tolerable view of
the coast. “If she should be outside of us, our work will
be only half done!”

“There is a white speck close in with the land, sir,”
returned Griffin; “here, in the direction of those ruins, of
which our gentlemen that have been round in the boats to
look at, tell such marvels; I believe, however, it is only a
felucca or a sparanara. There is a peak to the sail that
does not look lugger-fashion.”

“What is this, off here at the north-west, Griffin?—Is it
too large for the le Few-Folly?”

“That must be the Terpsichore, sir. It 's just where she
ought to be, as I understand the orders; and, I suppose, Sir
Frederick has carried her there. But yonder 's a sail, in the

northern board, which may turn out to be the lugger; she 's
fairly within Campanella, and is not far from the north shore
of the bay.”

“By George!”—that must be she; Monsieur Yvard has
kept her skulking round and about Amalfi, all this time!
Let us go down, and set everything that will draw, at once,
sir.”

In two minutes Griffin was on deck, hauling the yards,
and clearing away to make sail. As usual, the wind was
light at the southward, again, and the course would be nearly
before it. Studding-sail booms were to be run out, the sails
set, and the ship's head laid to the northward, keeping a
little to seaward of the chase. At this moment the Proserpine
had the Point of Piane, and the little village of Abate,
nearly abeam. The ship might have been going four knots
through the water, and the distance across the mouth of the
bay was something like thirty miles. Of course, eight hours
would be necessary to carry the frigate over the intervening
space, should the wind stand, as it probably would not, at
that season of the year. A week later, and strong southerly
winds might be expected, but that week was as interminable
as an age, for any present purpose.

Half-an-hour's trial satisfied all on the deck of the Proserpine,
that the chase was keeping off, like themselves, and
that she was standing towards the mountains of Amalfi.
Her progress, too, was about equal to that of the frigate, for,
dead before the wind, the latter ship was merely a good
sailer; her great superiority commencing only when she
brought the breeze forward of the beam. It had been supposed
that the stranger, when first seen, was about fifteen
miles distant, his canvass appearing both small and shapeless;
but some doubts now began to be entertained, equally
as to his rig, his size, and his distance. If a large or a lofty
vessel, of course he must be materially farther off, and if a
large or lofty vessel it could not be le Feu-Follet.

The other frigate took her cue from the Proserpine, and
stood across for the northern side of the gulf; a certain proof
that nothing was visible, from her mast-heads, to lead her
in any other direction. Two hours, however, satisfied all
on board the latter ship, that they were on a wrong scent,
and that the vessel to-leeward was their own consort, the

sloop; Lyon having, in his eagerness to get the prize before
she could be seen from the other ships, carried the Ringdove
quite within the bay, and thus misled Cuffe and Sir Frederick.

“There can no longer be any doubt!” exclaimed the
captain of the Proserpine, dropping his glass, with vexation
too strongly painted in his manner to be mistaken; “that is
a ship; and, as you say, Winchester, it must be the Ringdove;
though what the devil Lyon is doing away in there with
her, unless he sees something close under the land, is more
than I can tell. As there is clearly nothing in this quarter,
we will stand on, and take a look for ourselves.”

This nearly destroyed the hope of success. The officers
began to suspect that their look-out on Campanella had been
deceived, and that what he had supposed to be a lugger, was,
in truth, a felucca, or perhaps a xebec; a craft which might
well be mistaken for a lugger, at the distance of a few
leagues. The error, however, was with those in the ship.
The officer sent upon the heights was a shrewd, practised
master's-mate, who knew everything about his profession,
that properly came within his line, and knew little else.
But for a habit of drinking, he would long since have been
a lieutenant, being, in truth, an older sailor than Winchester;
but, satisfied of his own infirmity, and coming from a
class in life in which preferment was viewed as a God-send,
rather than as a right, he had long settled down into the
belief that he was to live and die in his present station, thereby
losing most of the desire to rise. The name of this man was
Clinch. In consequence of his long experience, within the
circle of his duties, his opinion was greatly respected by his
superiors, when he was sober; and, as he had the precaution
not to be otherwise, when engaged on service, his weakness
seldom brought him into any serious difficulties. Cuffe, as
a last hope, had sent him up on the heights of Campanella,
with a perfect conviction that, if anything were really in
sight, he would not fail to see it. All this confidence, however,
had now ended in disappointment; and, half-an-hour
later, when it was announced to Cuffe, that “the cutter, with
Mr. Clinch, was coming down the bay towards them,” the
former even heard the name of his drunken favourite with
disgust. As was usual with him, when out of humour, he

went below, as the boat drew near, leaving orders for her
officer to be sent down to him, the instant the latter got on
board. Five minutes later, Clinch thrust his hard-looking,
weather-beaten, but handsome red countenance in at the
cabin-door.

“Well, sir,” commenced the captain, on a tolerably high
key—“a d—d pretty wild-goose chase you 've sent us all
on, down here, into this bay! The southerly wind is failing,
already, and, in half-an-hour, the ships will be frying the pitch
off their decks, without a breath of air: when the wind does
come, it will come out at west, and bring us all four or five
leagues dead to leeward!”

Clinch's experience had taught him the useful man-of-war
lesson, to bow to the tempest, and not to attempt to brave it.
Whenever he was “rattled-down,” as he called it, he had
the habit of throwing an expression of surprise, comically
blended with contrition, into his countenance, that seemed to
say, “what have I done, now?”—or, “if I have done anything
amiss, you see how sorry I am for it.” He met his
irritated commander, on the present occasion, with this expression,
and it produced the usual effect of mollifying him,
a little.

“Well, sir — explain this matter, if you please,” continued
Cuffe, after a moment's hesitation.

“Will you please to tell me, sir, what you wish explained?”
inquired Clinch, throwing more surprise than
common, even, into his countenance.

“That is an extraordinary question, Mr. Clinch! I wish
the signal you made from yonder head-land explained, sir.
Did you not signal the ship, to say that you saw the le
Few-Folly down here, at the southward?”

“Well, sir, I 'm glad there was no mistake in the matter,”
answered Clinch, in a confident and a relieved manner. “I
was afraid, at first, Captain Cuffe, my signal had not been
understood.”

“Understood!—How could it be mistaken? You showed
a black ball, for `the lugger 's in sight.' You 'll not deny
that, I trust?”

“No, sir — one black ball, for `the lugger 's in sight.'
That 's just what I did show, Captain Cuffe.”

“And three black balls together, for `she bears due south
from Capri.' What do you say to that?”

“All right, sir. Three black balls together, for `she
bears due south from Capri.' I didn't tell the distance,
Captain Cuffe, because Mr. Winchester gave me no signals
for that.”

“And these signals you kept showing every half-hour,
as long as it was light; even until the Proserpine was off.”

“All according to orders, Captain Cuffe, as Mr. Winchester
will tell you. I was to repeat every half-hour, as long
as the lugger was in sight, and the day lasted.”

“Ay, sir; but you were not ordered to send us after a
jack-o'-lantern, or to mistake some xebec or other, from
one of the Greek islands, for a light, handy French lugger.”

“Nor did I, Captain Cuffe, begging your pardon, sir. I
signalled the Few-Folly, and nothing else, I give you my
word for it.”

Cuffe looked hard at the master's-mate for half a minute,
and his ire insensibly lessened as he gazed.

“You are too old a seaman, Clinch, not to know what
you were about! If you saw the privateer, be good enough
to tell us what has become of her?”

“That is more than I can say, Captain Cuffe, though see
her I did; and that so plainly, as to be able to make out
her jigger, even. You know, sir, we shot away her jigger-mast
in the chase off Elba, and she got a new one that
steves for'rard uncommonly. I noticed that when we fell
in with her in the canal of Piombino; and seeing it again,
could not but know it. But there 's no mistaking the saucy
Folly, for them that has once seen her; and I am certain we
made her out, about four leagues to the southward of the
cape, at the time I first signalled.”

“Four leagues! — I had thought she must be at least
eight or ten, and kept off that distance, to get her in the net.
Why did you not let us know her distance?”

“Had no signals for that, Captain Cuffe.”

“Well, then, why not send a boat to tell us the fact?”

“Had no orders, sir. Was told by Mr. Winchester just
to signal the lugger and her bearings; and this, you must
own, Captain Cuffe, we did plain enough. Besides, sir—”

“Well; besides what?” demanded the captain, observing
that the master's-mate hesitated.

“Why, sir, how was I to know that any one in the ship
would think a lugger could be seen eight or ten leagues?
That 's a long bit of water, sir; and it would take a heavy
ship's spars to rise high enough for such a sight.”

“The land you were on, Clinch, was much loftier than
any vessel's spars.”

“Quite true, sir; but not lofty enough for that, Captain
Cuffe. That I saw the Folly, I 'm as certain as I am of
being in this cabin.”

“What has become of her, then? — You perceive she is
not in the bay now.”

“I suppose, Captain Cuffe, that she stood in until near
enough for her purpose, and that she must have hauled off
the land, after night set in. There was plenty of room for
her to pass out to sea again between the two frigates, and
not be seen in the dark.”

This conjecture was so plausible, as to satisfy Cuffe; and
yet it was not the fact. Clinch had made le Feu-Follet,
from his elevated post, to the southward, as his signal had
said; and he was right in all his statements about her, until
darkness concealed her movements. Instead of passing out
of the Bay, as he imagined, however, she had hauled up
within a quarter of a league of Campanella, doubled that
point, brushed along the coast to the northward of it, fairly
within the Bay of Naples, and pushed out to sea, between
Capri and Ischia; going directly athwart the anchorage the
men-of-war had so recently quitted, in order to do so.

When Raoul quitted his vessel, he ordered her to stand
directly off the land, just keeping Ischia and Capri in view,
lying-to under her jigger. As this was low sail, and a lugger
shows so little aloft, it was a common expedient with
cruisers of that rig, when they wished to escape observation.
Monsieur Pintard, Raoul's first-lieutenant, had expected a
signal from his commander at the very spot where Clinch
had taken his station; but seeing none, he had swept along
the coast, after dark, in the hope of discovering his position
by the burning of a blue-light. Failing of this, however, he
went off the land again, in time to get an offing before the
return of day, and to save the wind. It was the boldness

of the manœuvre, that saved the lugger; Lyon going out
through the pass between Capri and Campanella, about
twenty minutes before Pintard brushed close round the
rocks, under his jigger and jib only, anxiously looking out
for a signal from his captain. The Frenchmen saw the
sloop-of-war quite plainly, and, by the aid of their night-glasses,
ascertained her character; mistaking her, however,
for another ship, bound to Sicily or Malta; while their own
vessel escaped observation, owing to the little sail she carried,
the want of hamper, and her situation so near the land,
which gave her a back-ground of rocks. Clinch had not
seen the movements of the lugger after dark, in consequence
of his retiring to the village of St. Agata to seek lodgings,
as soon as he perceived that his own ship had gone to sea,
and left him and his boat's crew behind. The following
morning, when he made the ship to the southward, he pushed
off, and pulled towards his proper vessel, as related.

“Where did you pass the night, Clinch?” demanded the
captain, after they had discussed the probabilities of the lugger's
escape. “Not on the heights, under the canopy of
heaven?”

“On the heights, and under the great canopy that has
covered us both so often, Captain Cuffe; but with a good
Neapolitan mud-roof between it and my head. As soon as
it was dark, and I saw that the ship was off, I found a village
named St. Agata, that stands on the heights, just abeam
of those rocks they call the Sirens, and there we were well
berthed until morning.”

“You are lucky in bringing back all the boat's crew,
Clinch. You know it 's low-water with us as to men, just
now; and our fellows are not all to be trusted ashore, in a
country that is full of stone walls, good wine, and pretty
girls.”

“I always take a set of regular steady-ones with me,
Captain Cuffe; I have n't lost a man from a boat, these five
years.”

“You must have some secret, then, worth knowing; for
even the admirals sometimes lose their barge-men. I dare
say, now, yours are all married chaps, that hold on to their
wives, as so many sheet-anchors; they say that is often a
good expedient.”

“Not at all, sir. I did try that, till I found that half the
fellows would run to get rid of their wives. The Portsmouth
and Plymouth marriages don't always bring large estates
with them, sir, and the bridegrooms like to cut adrift at the
end of the honey-moon. Don't you remember when we
were in the Blenheim together, sir, we lost eleven of the
launch's crew at one time; and nine of them turned out to
be vagabonds, sir, that deserted their weeping wives and
suffering families at home!”

“Now you mention it, I do remember something of the
sort; draw a chair, Clinch, and take a glass of grog. Tim,
put a bottle of Jamaica before Mr. Clinch. I have heard it
said that you are married yourself, my gallant master's-mate?”

“Lord, Captain Cuffe, that 's one of the young gentlemen's
stories! If a body believed all they say, the Christian
religion would soon get athwart-hawse, and mankind be
all adrift in their morals,” answered Clinch, smacking his
lips, after a very grateful draught. “We 've a regular set
of high-flyers, aboard this ship, at this blessed minute, Captain
Cuffe, sir, and Mr. Winchester has his hands full of
them! I often wonder at his patience, sir.”

“We were young once ourselves, Clinch, and ought to
be indulgent to the follies of youth. But, what sort of a
berth did you find last night, upon the rocks yonder?”

“Why, sir, as good as one can expect out of Old England.
I fell in with an elderly woman calling herself Giuntotardi—which
is regular-built Italian, isn't it, sir?”

“That it is — but, you speak the language, I believe,
Clinch?”

“Why, sir, I 've been drifting about the world so long,
that I speak a little of everything, finding it convenient
when I stand in need of victuals and drink. The old lady
on the hill and I overhauled a famous yarn between us, sir.
It seems she has a niece and a brother at Naples, who ought
to have been back night before last; and she was in lots of
tribulation about them, wanting to know if our ship had seen
anything of the rovers?”

“By George, Clinch, you were on soundings, there, had
you but known it! Our prisoner has been in that part of
the world, and we might get some clue to his manœuvres,

by questioning the old woman closely. I hope you parted
good friends?”

“The best in the world, Captain Cuffe. No one that
feeds and lodges me well, need dread me as an enemy.”

“I 'll warrant it! That 's the reason you are so loyal,
Clinch.”

The hard, red face of the master's-mate worked a little,
and, though he could not well look all sorts of colours, he
looked all ways, but in his captain's eye. It was now ten
years since he ought to have been a lieutenant, having once
actually outranked Cuffe, in the way of date of service at
least; and his conscience told him two things, quite distinctly;
first, the fact of his long and weary probation; and second,
that it was, in a great degree, his own fault.

“I love His Majesty, sir,” Clinch observed, after giving
a gulp,” and I never lay anything that goes hard with myself
to his account. Still, memory will be memory; and
spite of all I can do, sir, I sometimes remember what I
might have been, as well as what I am. If His Majesty
does feed me, it is with the spoon of a master's-mate; and
if he does lodge me, it is in the cockpit.”

“I have been your shipmate, often, and for years at a
time,” answered Cuffe, good-naturedly, though a little in
the manner of a superior; “and no one knows your history
better. It is not your friends who have failed you, at need,
so much as a certain enemy, with whom you will insist on
associating, though he harms them most, who love him
best.”

“Ay, ay, sir — that can't be denied, Captain Cuffe; yet
it 's a hard life that passes altogether without hope.”

This was uttered with an expression of melancholy that
said more for Clinch's character than Cuffe had witnessed
in the man for years, and it revived many early impressions
in his favour. Clinch and he had once been messmates,
even; and, though years of a decided disparity in rank had
since interposed their barrier of etiquette and feeling, Cuffe
never could entirely forget the circumstance.

“It is hard, indeed, to live as you say, without hope,”
returned the captain; “but hope ought to be the last thing
to die. You should make one more rally, Clinch, before
you throw up, in despair.”

“It's not so much for myself, Captain Cuffe, that I mind
it, as for some that live ashore. My father was as reputable
a tradesman as there was in Plymouth, and when he got
me on the quarter-deck, he thought he was about to make a
gentleman of me, instead of leaving me to pass a life, in a
situation that may be said to be even beneath what his own
was.”

“Now you undervalue your station, Clinch. The berth
of a master's-mate, in one of His Majesty's finest frigates, is
something to be proud of; I was once a master's-mate—
nay, Nelson has doubtless filled the same station. For that
matter, one of His Majesty's own sons may have gone through
the rank.”

“Ay, gone through it, as you say, sir,” returned Clinch,
with a husky voice. “It does well enough for them that go
through it, but it 's death to them that stick. It 's a feather
in a midshipman's cap to be rated a mate; but it 's no
honour to be a mate, at my time of life, Captain Cuffe.”

“What is your age, Clinch? — You are not much my
senior.”

“Your senior, sir!—The difference in our years is not as
great as in our rank, certainly, though I never shall see
thirty-two, again. But it 's not so much that, after all, as
the thoughts of my poor mother, who set her heart on seeing
me with His Majesty's commission in my pocket; and of
another, who set her heart on one that I 'm afraid was never
worthy her affection.”

“This is new to me, Clinch,” returned the captain, with
interest. “One so seldom thinks of a master's-mate marrying,
that the idea of your being in that way has never
crossed my mind, except in the manner of a joke.”

“Master's-mates have married, Captain Cuffe, and they
have ended in being very miserable. But Jane, as well as
myself, has made up her mind to live single, unless we can
see brighter prospects before us than what my present hopes
afford.”

“Is it quite right, Jack, to keep a poor young woman,
towing along in this uncertainty, during the period of life
when her chances for making a good connection are the
best?”

Clinch stared at his commander, until his eyes filled with

tears. The glass had not touched his lips since the conversation
took its present direction; and the usual, hard, settled
character of his face was becoming expressive, once
more, with human emotions.

“It 's not my fault, Captain Cuffe,” he answered, in a
low voice; “it 's now quite six years, since I insisted on
her giving me up; but she wouldn't hear of the thing. A
very respectable attorney wished to have her, and I even
prayed her to accept his offer; and the only unkind glance
I ever got from her eye, was when she heard me make a
request that she told me sounded impiously, almost, to her
ears. She would be a sailor's wife, or die a maid.”

“The girl has unfortunately got some romantic notions
concerning the profession, Clinch, and they are ever the
hardest to be convinced of what is for their own good.”

“Jane Weston! — Not she, sir — There is not as much
romance about her, as in the fly-leaves of a prayer-book.
She is all heart, poor Jane; and how I came to get such a
hold of it, Captain Cuffe, is a great mystery to myself. I
certainly do not deserve half her affection, and I now begin
to despair of ever being able to repay her for it.”

Clinch was still a handsome man, though exposure and his
habits had made some inroads on a countenance, that by
nature was frank, open, and prepossessing. It now expressed
the anguish that occasionally came over his heart,
as the helplessness of his situation presented itself fully to
his mind. Cuffe's feelings were touched, for he remembered
the time when they were messmates, with a future before
them, that promised no more to the one than to the other,
the difference in the chances which birth afforded the captain,
alone excepted. Clinch was a prime seaman, and as
brave as a lion, too; qualities that secured to him a degree
of respect, that his occasional self-forgetfulness had never
entirely forfeited. Some persons thought him the most
skilful mariner the Proserpine contained; and, perhaps,
this was true, if the professional skill were confined strictly
to the handling of a ship, or to taking care of her on critical
occasions. All these circumstances induced Cuffe to enter
more closely into the master-mate's present distress than he
might otherwise have done. Instead of shoving the bottle
to him, however, as if conscious how much disappointed

hope had already driven the other to its indiscreet use, he
pushed it gently aside, and taking his old messmate's hand,
with a momentary forgetfulness of the difference in rank, he
said in a tone of kindness and confidence, that had long
been strangers to Clinch's ears—

“Jack, my honest fellow, there is good stuff in you yet,
if you will only give it fair play. Make a manly rally,
respect yourself for a few months, and something will turn
up, that will yet give you your Jane, and gladden your old
mother's heart.”

There are periods in the lives of men, when a few kind
words, backed by a friendly act or two, might save thousands
of human beings from destruction. Such was the
crisis in the fate of Clinch. He had almost given up hope,
though it did occasionally revive in him, whenever he got a
cheering letter from the constant Jane, who pertinaciously
refused to believe anything to his prejudice, and religiously
abstained from all reproaches. But, it is necessary to understand
the influence of rank, on board a man-of-war, fully
to comprehend the effect, which was now produced on the
master's-mate, by the captain's language and manner.
Tears streamed out of the eyes of Clinch, and he grasped
the hand of his commander, almost convulsively.

“What can I do, sir?—Captain Cuffe, what can I do?”
he exclaimed. “My duty is never neglected; but there are
moments of despair, when I find the burthen too hard to be
borne, without calling upon the bottle for support.”

“Whenever a man drinks with such a motive, Clinch, I
would advise him to abstain altogether. He cannot trust
himself; and that which he terms his friend, is, in truth, his
direst enemy. Refuse your rations, even; determine to be
free. One week, nay, one day, may give a strength that
will enable you to conquer, by leaving your reason unimpaired.
Absence from the ship has accidentally befriended
you, for the little you have taken here, has not been sufficient
to do any harm. We are now engaged on a most
interesting duty, and I will throw service into your way,
that may be of importance to you. Get your name once
fairly in a despatch, and your commission is safe. Nelson
loves to prefer old tars; and nothing would make him
happier, than to be able to serve you. Put it in my power

to ask it of him, and I 'll answer for the result. Something
may yet come out of your visit to the cottage of this woman,
and do you be mindful to keep yourself in fortune's way.”

“God bless you, Captain Cuffe — God bless you, sir,”—
answered Clinch, nearly choked,—“I 'll endeavour to do as
you wish.”

“Remember Jane and your mother. With such a woman
dependent for her happiness on his existence, a man must
be a brute, not to struggle hard.”

Clinch groaned, for Cuffe probed his wound deep; though
it was done with an honest desire to cure. After wiping
the perspiration from his face, and writhing on his chair,
however, he recovered a little of his self-command, and became
comparatively composed.

“If a friend could only point out the way by which I
might recover some of the lost ground,” he said, “my gratitude
to him would last as long as life, Captain Cuffe.”

“Here is an opening then, Clinch. Nelson attaches as
much importance to our catching this lugger as he ever did
to falling in with a fleet. The officer who is serviceable on
this occasion may be sure of being remembered, and I will
give you every chance in my power. Go, dress yourself in
your best; make yourself look as you know you can; then
be ready for boat service. I have some duty for you now,
which will be but the beginning of good luck, if you only
remain true to your mother, to Jane, and to yourself.”

A new life was infused into Clinch. For years he had
been overlooked; apparently forgotten, except when thorough
seamanship was required; and even his experiment
of getting transferred to a vessel commanded by an old
messmate had seemingly failed. Here was a change, however,
and a ray, brighter than common, shone athwart the
darkness of his future. Even Cuffe was struck with the
cheerfulness of his countenance, and the alacrity of the
master's-mate's movements, and he reproached himself with
having so long been indifferent to the best interests of one
who certainly had some claims on his friendship. Still,
there was nothing unusual in the present relations between
these old messmates. Favoured by family and friends,
Cuffe had never been permitted to fall into despondency, and
had pursued his career successfully and with spirit; while

the other, unsupported, and failing of any immediate opportunity
for getting ahead, had fallen into evil ways, and come
to be, by slow degrees, the man he was. Such instances as
the latter, are of not unfrequent occurrence even in a marine
in which promotion is as regular as our own, though it is
rare indeed that a man recovers his lost ground, when placed
in circumstances so trying.

In half an hour Clinch was ready, dressed in his best.
The gentlemen of the quarter-deck saw all these preparations
with surprise; for, of late, the master's-mate had seldom
been seen in that part of the ship at all. But, in a
man-of-war, discipline is a matter of faith, and no one presumed
to ask questions. Clinch was closeted with the
Captain for a few minutes, received his orders, and went
over the ship's side with a cheerful countenance, actually
entering the Captain's gig, the fastest rowing boat of the
ship. As soon as seated, he shoved off, and held his way
towards the point of Campanella, then distant about three
leagues. No one knew whither he was bound, though all
believed it was on duty that related to the lugger, and duty
that required a seaman's judgment. As for Cuffe, his manner,
which had begun to be uneasy and wandering, became
more composed when he saw his old messmate fairly off,
and that too, at a rate which would carry him even to
Naples, in the course of a few hours should his voyage
happen to be so long.