Before the sun set he was a dead man.
“A neat morning’s work, gentlemen,” thought I.
The two surgeons came up, opened his dress, felt his pulse, and shook their heads; the boats’ crews grouped around them—he was lifted into his gig, the word was given to shove off, and—I returned to my broom-cutters.
When we got on board, the gunner, who had the watch, was taking his fisherman’s walk on the starboard side of the quarterdeck, and kept looking steadily at the land, as if to avoid seeing poor little Duncan’s coffin, that lay on a grating near the gangway. The crew, assisted by thirty men from the flag-ship, were employed in twenty different ways, repairing damages, and were bustling about, laughing, joking, and singing, with small regard to the melancholy object before their eyes, when Mr Douglas put his head up the ladder—”Now, Jackson, if you please.”
The old fellow’s countenance fell as if his heart was wrung by the order he had to give.
“Aloft there! lie out, you Perkins, and reeve a whip on the starboard yard-arm to lower Mr—” The rest stuck in his throat, but, as if ashamed of his soft-heartedness, he throw as much gruffness as he could into his voice as he sang out, “Beat to quarters there!—knock off, men!”
The roll of the drum stayed the confusion and noise of the people at work in an instant, who immediately ranged themselves, in their clean frocks and trousers, on each side of the quarterdeck. At a given signal, the white deal coffin, wrapped in its befitting pall—the meteor flag of England—swung high above the hammock nettings, between us and the bright blue sky, to the long clear note of the boatswain’s whistle, which soon ending in a short cherup, told that it now rested on the thwarts of the boat alongside. We pulled ashore, and it was a sight perchance to move a woman, to see the poor little fellow’s hat and bit of a dirk lying on his coffin, whilst the body was carried by four ship boys, the eldest scarcely fourteen. I noticed the tears stand in Anson’s eyes as the coffin was lowered into the grave—the boy had been wounded close to him,— and when we heard the hollow rattle of the earth on the coffin—an unusual sound to a sailor—he shuddered.
“Yes, Master Cringle,” he said, in a whisper, “he was as kind-hearted and as brave a lad as ever trode on shoe leather. None of the larkings of the men in the clear moonlight nights ever reached the cabin through him; nor was he the boy to rouse the watch from under the lee of the boats in bad weather, to curry with the lieutenant, while he knew the look-outs were as bright as beagles; and where was the man in our watch that wanted ‘baccy while Mr Duncan had a shiner left?” The poor fellow drew the back of his horny hand across his eyes, and grumbled out as he turned away, “And here am I, Bill Anson, such a swab as to be ashamed of being sorry for him.”
We were now turned over into the receiving-ship, the old Shark, and fortunately there were captains enough in port to try us for the loss of the Torch, so we got over our court-martial speedily, and the very day I got back my dirk the packet brought me out a lieutenant’s commission. Being now my own master for a season, I determined to visit some relations I had in the island, to whom I had never yet been introduced; so I shook hands with old Splinter, packed my kit, and went to the wharf to charter a wherry to carry me up to Kingston. The moment my object was perceived by the black boatmen, I was surrounded by a mob of them, pulling and hauling each other, and shouting forth the various qualifications of their boats, with such vehemence, that I was nearly deafened.
“Massa, no see Pam be Civil, sail like a witch, tack like a dolphin?”
“Don’t believe him, massa; Ballahoo is de boat dat can beat him.”
“Big lie dat, as I am a gentleman!” roared a ragged black vagabond.
“Come in de Monkey, massa; no flying fis can beat she.”
“Don’t boder de gentleman,” yelled a fourth—”massa love de Stamp-and-go—no so, massa?” as he saw me make a step in the direction of his boat. “Oh yes, so get out of de way, you black rascals”—the fellow was black as a sloe him-self—”make room for man-of-war buccra; him leetle just now, but will be admiral one day.”
So saying, the fellow who had thus appropriated me, without more ado, levelled his head like a battering-ram and began to batter in breach all who stood in his way. He first ran a tilt against Pam be Civil, and shot him like a rocket into the sea; the Monkey fared no better; the Ballahoo had to swim for it; and having thus opened a way by main force, I at length got safely moored in the stern-sheets; but just as we were shoving off, Mr Callaloo, the clergyman of Port Royal, a tall yellow personage, begged for a passage, and was accordingly taken on board. As it was high-water, my boatman chose the five-foot channel, as the boat channel near to Gallows Point is called, by which a long stretch would be saved, and we were cracking on cheerily, my mind full of my recent promotion, when scur, scur, scur, we stuck fast on the bank. Our black boatmen, being little encumbered with clothes, jumped overboard in a covey like so many wild-ducks, shouting as they dropped into the water, “We must all get out—we must all get out;” whereupon Mr Callaloo, a sort of Dominie Sampson in his way, promptly leaped overboard up to his waist in the water. The negroes were thunderstruck.
“Massa Parson Callaloo, you mad surely, you mad!”
“Children, I am not mad, but obedient; you said we must all get out!”
“To be sure, massa, and you see we all did get out.”
“And did you not see that I got out too?” rejoined the parson, still in the water, and somewhat nettled.
“Oh, lud, massa! we no mean you—we meant poor nigger, not white man parson.”
“You said all, children, and thereupon I leaped,” pronouncing, the last word in two syllables—”be more correct in your grammar next time.”
The worthy but eccentric old chap then scrambled on board again, amidst the suppressed laughter of the boatmen, and kept his seat, wet clothes and all, until we reached Kingston.
CHAPTER VII.
SCENES IN JAMAICA.
“Excellent—why this is the best fooling when all is done.”
Twelfth Night
I CONFESS that I did not promise myself much pleasure from my cruise ashore. Somehow or other I had made up my mind to believe that in Jamaica, putting aside the magnificence and natural beauty of the face of the country, there was little to interest me, I had pictured to myself the slaves—a miserable squalid, half-fed, ill-clothed, over-worked race—and their masters, and the white inhabitants generally, as an unwholesome-looking crew of saffron-faced tyrants, who wore straw hats with umbrella brims, wide trousers, and calico jackets, living on pepper pot and land crabs, and drinking sangaree and smoking cigars the whole day—in a word, that all that Bryan Edwards and others had written regarding the civilisation of the West Indies was a fable. But I was agreeably undeceived; for although I did meet with some extraordinary characters, and witnessed not a few rum scenes, yet, on the whole, I gratefully bear witness to the great hospitality of the inhabitants, both in the towns and in the country. In Kingston the society was extremely good, as good, I can freely affirm, as I ever met with in any provincial town anywhere; and there prevailed a warmth of heart, and a kindliness, both in the males and females of those families to which I had the good fortune to be introduced, that I never experienced out of Jamaica.
At the period I am describing, the island was in the hey-day of its prosperity, and the harbour of Kingston was full of shipping. I had never before seen so superb a mercantile haven; it is completely land-locked, and the whole navy of England might ride in it commodiously.
On the sea-face it is almost impregnable, for it would be little short of a miracle for an invading squadron to wind its way through the labyrinth of shoals and reefs lying off the mouth of it, amongst which the channels are so narrow and intricate that at three or four points the sinking of a sand barge would effectually block up all ingress; but, independently of this, the entrance at Port Royal is defended by very strong works—the guns ranging the whole way across—while, a little farther on, the a
ttacking ships would be exposed to a cross fire from the heavy metal of the Apostles’ Battery; and, even assuming all these obstacles to be overcome, and the passage into the harbour forced, before they could pass the narrows, to get up to the anchorage at Kingston, they would be blown out of the water by a raking fire from sixty pieces of large cannon on Fort Augusta, which is so situated that they would have to turn to windward for at least half-an-hour, in a strait which, at the widest, would not allow them to reach beyond musket-shot of the walls. Fortunately, as yet Mr Canning had not called his New World into existence, and the whole of the trade of Terra Firma, from Porto Cavello down to Chagres, the greater part of the trade of the islands of Cuba and San Domingo, and even that of Lima and San Blas, and the other ports of the Pacific, carried on across the Isthmus of Darien, centred in Kingston, the usual supplies through Cadiz being stopped by the advance of the French in the Peninsula. The result of this princely traffic, more magnificent than that of Tyre, was a stream of gold and silver flowing into the Bank of England to the extent of three millions of pounds sterling annually, in return for British manufactures; thus supplying the sinews of war to the government at home, and, besides the advantage of so large a mart, employing an immense amount of British tonnage, and many thousand seamen; and in numberless ways opening up new outlets to British enterprise and capital. Alas! alas! where is all this now? The echo of the empty stores might answer “where!”
On arriving at Kingston, my first object was to seek out Mr * * *, the admiral’s agent, and one of the most extensive merchants in the place, in order to deliver some letters to him, and get his advice as to my future proceedings. Mr Callaloo undertook to be my pilot, striding along abeam of me, and leaving in his wake two serpentine dottings on the pavement from the droppings of water from his voluminous coat-skirts, which had been thoroughly soaked by his recent ducking.
Everything appeared to be thriving, and we passed along, the hot sandy streets were crowded with drays conveying goods from the wharfs to the stores, and from the stores to the Spanish Posadas. The merchants of the place, active sharp-looking men, were soon grouped under the piazzas in earnest conversation with their Spanish customers, or perched on top of the bales and boxes just landed, waiting to hook the gingham-coated, Moorish-looking Dons, as they came along with cigars in their mouths, and a train of negro servants following them with fire-buckets on their heads, filled with pesos fuertes. The appearance of the town itself was novel and pleasing; the houses, chiefly of two storeys, looked as if they had been built of cards, most of them being surrounded with piazzas from ten to fourteen feet wide, gaily painted green and white, and formed by the roofs projecting beyond the brick walls or shells of the houses. On the ground-floor these piazzas are open, and in the lower part of the town, where the houses are built contiguous to each other, they form a covered way, affording a most grateful shelter from the sun, on each side of the streets, which last are unpaved, and more like dry river-courses than thoroughfares in a Christian town. On the floor above, the balconies are shut in with a sort of movable blinds, called “jealousies,” like large-bladed Venetian blinds, fixed in frames, with here and there a glazed sash to admit light in bad weather when the blinds are closed. In the upper part of the town the effect is very beautiful, every house standing detached from its neighbour, in its little garden filled with vines, fruit-trees, stately palms, and cocoa-nut-trees, with a court of negro houses and offices behind, and a patriarchal-looking draw-well in the centre, generally overshadowed by a magnificent wild tamarind. When I arrived at the great merchant’s place of business, I was shown to a lofty cool room, with a range of desks along the walls where a dozen clerks were quill-driving. In the centre sat my man, a small, sallow, yet perfectly gentleman-like personage. “Dat is massa,” quoth my black usher.
I accordingly walked up to him, and presented my letter. He never lifted his head from his paper, which I had half a mind to resent; but at the moment there was a bustle in the piazza, and a group of naval officers, amongst whom was the admiral, came in. My silent friend was now alert enough, and profuse of his bows and smiles.
“Who have we here? Who is that boy, L——?” said the admiral to his secretary.
“Young Cringle, sir; the only one except Mr Splinter saved from the Torch; he was first on the Admiralty list t’ other day.”
“What, the lad Willoughby spoke so well of? “
“The same, sir; he got his promotion by last packet.”
“I know, I know. I say, Mr Cringle, you are appointed to the Firebrand, do you know that?” I did not know it, and began to fear my cruise on shore was all up. “But I don’t look for her from Havanna for a month; so leave your address with L——, that you may get the order to join when she does come.”
It appeared that I had seen the worst of the agent, for he gave me a very kind invitation to stay some days with him, and drove me home in his ketureen—a sort of sedan chair, with the front and sides knocked out, and mounted on a gig body.
Before dinner we were lounging about the piazza, and looking down into the street, when a negro funeral came past, preceded by a squad of drunken black vagabonds, singing and playing on gumbies, or African drums, made out of pieces of hollow trees, about six feet long, with skins braced over them, each carried by one man, while another beats it with his open hands. The coffin was borne along on the heads of two negroes—a negro carries everything on his head, from a bale of goods to a wineglass or tea-cup. It is a practice for the bearers, when they come near the house of any one against whom the deceased was supposed to have had a grudge, to pretend that the coffin will not pass by, and in the present case, when they came opposite to where we stood, they began to wheel round and round, and to stagger under their load, while the choristers shouted at the top of their lungs.
“We beg you, shipmate, for come along—do, broder, come away;” then another reel. “What, you no wantee go in a hole, eh? You hab grudge ‘gainst somebody lif here, eh?”—another devil of a lurch—”Massa * * *’s housekeeper, eh? Ah, it must be!”—A tremendous stagger—”Oh, Massa * * *, dollar for drink; something to hold play” negro wake, “in Spring-path,” the negro burying-ground; “Bediacko say him won’t pass ‘less you give it.” And here they began to spin round more violently than before; but at the instant a drove of bullocks coming along, they got entangled amongst them, and down went body and bearers and all, the coffin bursting in the fall, and the dead corpse, with its white grave-clothes and black face, rolling over and over in the sand amongst the feet of the cattle. It was immediately caught up, however, bundled into the coffin again, and away they staggered, drumming and singing as loudly as before.
The party at dinner was a large one; everything in good style, wines superb, turtle, &c., magnificent, and the company exceedingly companionable. A Mr Francis Fyall (a great planting attorney—that is, an agent for a number of proprietors of estates who preferred living in England, and paying a commission to him for managing in Jamaica, to facing the climate themselves), to whom I had an introduction, rather posed me, by asking me during dinner, if I would take anything in the long way with him, which he explained by saying he would be glad to take a glass of small beer with me. This, after a deluge of Madeira, Champagne, and all manner of light wines, was rather trying; but I kept my countenance as well as I could. One thing, I remember, struck me as remarkable; just as we were rising to go to the drawing-room a cloud of winged ants burst in upon us through the open windows, and, had it not been for the glass-shades, would have extinguished the candles; but when they had once settled on the table they deliberately wriggled themselves free of their wings, as one would cast off a greatcoat, and crept away in their simple and more humble capacity of creeping things.
Next day I went to wait on my relation, Mrs Palma. I had had a confoundedly hot walk through the burning sandy streets, and was nearly blinded by the reflection from them, as I ascended the front stairs. There are no carpets in the houses in Jamaica; but the floors, which ar
e often of mahogany, are beautifully polished, and shine like a well-kept dinner table. They are, of course, very slippery, and require wary walking till one gets accustomed to them. The rooms are made exceedingly dark during the heat of the day, according to the prevailing practice in all ardent climates. A black footman, very handsomely dressed, all to his bare legs (I thought at first he had black silk stockings on), preceded me, and when he reached the drawing-room door, asked my name. I told him, “Mr Cringle,”—whereupon he sang out, to my dismay—”Massa Captain Ringtail to wait pan Misses.”
This put me out a leetle—especially as I heard some one say—”Captain who?—what a very odd name!”
But I had no time for reflection, as I had not blundered three steps out of the glare of the piazza, into the palpable obscure of the darkened drawing-room, black as night from the contrast, when I capsized headlong over an ottoman in the middle of the apartment, and floundered right into the centre of a group of young ladies, and one or two lapdogs, by whom it was conjointly occupied. Trying to recover myself, I slipped on the glass-like floor, and came down stern foremost; and being now regularly at the slack end, for I could not well get lower, I sat still, scratching my caput in the midst of a gay company of morning visitors, enjoying the gratifying consciousness that I was distinctly visible to them, although my dazzled optics could as yet distinguish nothing. To add to my pleasurable sensations, I now perceived, from the coldness of the floor, that in my downfall the catastrophe of my unmentionables had been grievously rent, but I had nothing for it but sitting patiently still amidst the suppressed laughter of the company, until I became accustomed to the twilight, and they, like bright stars, began to dawn on my bewildered senses in all their loveliness, and prodigiously handsome women some of them were, for the Creoles, so far as figure is concerned, are generally perfect, while beautiful features are not wanting, and my travel had reconciled me to the absence of the rose from their cheeks. My eldest cousin Mary (where is there a name like Mary?) now approached; she and I were old friends, and many a junketing we used to have in my father’s house during the holidays, when she was a boarding-school girl in England. My hardihood and self-possession returned, under the double gratification of seeing her, and the certainty that my blushes (for my cheeks were glowing like hot iron) could not have been observed in the subdued green light that pervaded the room.
Tom Cringle's Log Page 17
