Tom Cringle's Log

by Michael Scott

  It were harrowing to repeat the heart-rending description given by her, of the sickening of the heart when the first night fell, and still no tidings of the boats; the second sun set—still the horizon was speckless; the next dreary day wore to an end, and three innocent helpless children were dead corpses; on the fourth, madness seized on their mothers, and—but I will not dwell on such horrors.

  During these manifold goings and comings I naturally enlarged the circle of my acquaintance in the island, especially in Kingston, the mercantile capital; and often does my heart glow within me when the scenes I have witnessed in that land of fun and fever rise up before me after the lapse of many years under the influence of a good fire and a glass of old madeira. Take the following example of Jamaica High-Jinks as one of many: On a certain occasion I had gone to dine with Mr Isaac Shingle, an extensive American merchant, and a most estimable man, who considerately sent his gig down to the wherry-wharf for me. At six o’clock I arrived at my friend’s mansion, situated in the upper part of the town, a spacious one-storey house, overshadowed by two fine old trees, and situated back from the street about ten yards—the intervening space being laid out in a beautiful little garden, raised considerably above the level of the adjoining thoroughfare, from which it was divided by a low parapet wall, surmounted by a green painted wooden railing. There was a flight of six brick steps from the street to the garden, and you ascended from the latter to the house itself, which was raised on brick pillars a fathom high by another stair of eight broad marble slabs. The usual verandah, or piazza, ran along the whole front, beyond which you entered a large and lofty, but very darksome hall, answering to our European drawing-room, into which the bedrooms opened on each side. It did strike me at first as odd, that the principal room in the house should be a dark dungeon of a place, with nothing but borrowed lights, until I again recollected that darkness and coolness were convertible terms within the tropics. Advancing through this room you entered, by a pair of folding doors, on a very handsome dining-room, situated in what I believe is called a back-jamb, a sort of outrigger to the house, fitted all round with movable blinds, or jealousies, and open like a lantern to all the winds of heaven except the west, in which direction the main body of the house warded off the sickening beams of the setting sun. And how sickening they are, let the weary sentries under the pillars of the Jamaica viceroy’s house in Spanish Town tell, reflected as they were there from the hot brick walls of the palace.

  This room again communicated with the back-yard, in which the negro houses, kitchen, and other offices were situated, by a wooden stair of the same elevation as that in front. Here the table was laid for dinner, covered with the finest diaper, and snow-white napkins, and silver wine-coolers, and silver forks, and fine steel, and cut-glass, and cool green finger-glasses with lime-leaves floating within, and tall wax-lights shaded from the breeze in thin glass barrels, and an epergne filled with flowers, with a fragrant fresh-gathered lime in each of the small leaf-like branches, and salt-cellars with red peppers in them, &c. &c., all of which made the tout ensemble the most captivating imaginable to a hungry man.

  I found a large party assembled in the piazza and the dark hall, to whom I was introduced in due form. In Jamaica, of all countries I ever was in, it is a most difficult matter for a stranger to ascertain the real names of the guests at a bachelor dinner like the present, where all the parties were intimate—there were so many sobriquets amongst them; for instance, a highly respectable merchant of the place, with some fine young women for daughters, by the way, from the peculiarity of a prominent front tooth, was generally known as the Grand Duke of Tuscany; while an equally respectable elderly man, with a slight touch of paralysis in his head, was christened Old Steady in the West, because he never kept his head still; so, whether some of the names of the present party were real or fictitious I really cannot tell.

  First, there was Mr Seco, a very neat gentleman-like little man, perfectly well-bred, and full of French phrases. Then came Mr Eschylus Stave, a tall, raw-boned, well-informed personage; a bit of a quiz on occasion, but withal a pleasant fellow. Mr Isaac Shingle, mine host, a sallow, sharp, hatchet-faced, small homo, but warm-hearted and kind, as I often experienced during my sojourn in the West, only sometimes a little peppery and argumentative. Then came Mr Jacob Bumble, a sleek fat-pated Scotchman. Next I was introduced to Mr Alonzo Smoothpate, a very handsome fellow, with an uncommon share of natural good-breeding and politeness. Again I clapper-clawed, according to the fashion of the country, a violent shake of the paw being the Jamaica infeftment to acquaintanceship, with Mr Percales, whom I took for a foreign Jew somehow or other at first, from his uncommon name, until I heard him speak, and perceived he was an Englishman; indeed, his fresh complexion, very neat person, and gentleman-like deportment, when I had time to reflect, would of themselves have disconnected him from all kindred with the sons of Levi. Then came a long, dark-complexioned, curly-pated slip of a lad with white teeth and high strongly marked features, considerably pitted with smallpox. He seemed the great promoter of fun and wickedness in the party, and was familiarly addressed as the Don, although I believe his real name was Mr Lucifer Longtram. Then there was Mr Aspen Tremble, a fresh-looking, pleasant, well-informed man, but withal a little nervous, his cheeks quivering when he spoke like shapes of calf’s-foot jelly; after him came an exceedingly polite old gentleman, wearing hair-powder and a queue, ycleped Nicodemus; and a very devil of a little chap of the name of Rubiochico, a great ally in wickedness with Master Longtram; the last in this eventful history being a staid, sedate-looking, elderly-young man, of the name of Onyx Steady, an extensive foreign merchant, with a species of dry caustic readiness about him that was dangerous enough.—We sat down, Isaac Shingle doing the honours, confronted by Eschylus Stave, and all was right and smooth and pleasant, and in no way different from a party of well-bred men in England.

  When the second course appeared I noticed that the blackie, who brought in two nice tender little ducklings, with the concomitant green peas, both just come in season, was chuckling and grinning, and showing his white teeth most vehemently, as he placed both dishes, right under Jacob Bumble’s nose. Shingle and Longtram exchanged looks. I saw there was some mischief toward, and presently, as if by some preconcerted signal, everybody asked for duck, duck, duck. Bumble, with whom the dish was a prime favourite, carved away with a most stern countenance, until he had got half through the second bird, when some unpleasant recollection seemed to come over him, and his countenance fell; and lying back on his chair, he gave a deep sigh. But, “Mr Bumble, that breast, if you please—thank you.”

  “Mr Bumble, that back, if you please,”—succeeded each other rapidly, until all that remained of the last of the ducklings was a beautiful little leg, which, under cover of the following story, Jacob cannily smuggled on to his own plate.

  “Why, gentlemen, a most remarkable circumstance happened to me while dressing for dinner. You all know I am next-door neighbour to our friend Shingle—our premises being only divided by a brick wall, about eight feet high. Well, my dressing-room window looks out on this wall, between which and the house, I have my duck-pen—”

  “Your what?” said I.

  “My poultry-yard—as I like to see the creatures fed myself—and I was particularly admiring two beautiful ducklings which I had been carefully fattening for a whole week” (here our friend’s voice shook, and a tear glistened in his eye)—”when first one and then another jumped out of the little pond, and successively made a grab at something which I could not see, and immediately began to shake their wings, and struggle with their feet, as if they were dancing, until, as with one accord—deuce take me!” (here he almost blubbered aloud)—”if they did not walk up the brick wall with all the deliberation in the world, merely helping themselves over the top by a small flaff of their wings; and where they have gone, none of Shingle’s people know.”

  “I’ll trouble you for that leg, Julius,” said Longtram, at this juncture, to a servant
, who whipped away the plate from under Bumble’s arm, before he could prevent him, who looked after it as if it had been a pound of his own flesh. It seemed that Longtram, who had arrived rather early, had found a fishing-tackle in the piazza, and knowing the localities of Bumble’s premises, as well as his peculiarities, he, by way of adding his quota to the entertainment, baited two hooks with pieces of raw potatoes, and throwing them over the wall, had, in conjunction with Julius the black, hooked up the two ducklings out of the pen, to the amazement of Squire Bumble.

  By-and-by, as the evening wore on, I saw the Longtram lad making demonstrations to bring on a general drink, in which he was nobly seconded by Rubiochico; and, I grieve to say it, I was noways loth, nor indeed were any of the company. There had been a great deal of mirth and frolic during dinner—all within proper bounds however—but as the night made upon us, we set more sail—more, as it turned out, than some of us had ballast for—when lo! towards ten of the clock, up started Mr Eschylus to give us a speech. His seat was at the bottom of the table, with the back of his chair close to the door that opened into the yard; and after he had got his breath out, on I forget what topic, he sat down, and lay back on his balanced chair, stretching out his long legs with great complacency. However, they did not prove a sufficient counterpoise to his very square shoulders, which, obeying the laws of gravitation, destroyed his equilibrium, and threw him a somersault, when exit Eschylus Stave, Esquire, head foremost, with a formidable rumble-tumble and hurry-scurry, down the back steps, his long shanks disappearing last, and clipping between us and the bright moon like a pair of flails. However, there was no damage done; and, after a good laugh, Stave’s own being loudest of all the Don and Rubiochico righted him, and helped him once more into his chair.

  Jacob Bumble now favoured us with a song that sounded as if he had been barrelled up in a puncheon, and was cantando through the bunghole; then Rubiochico sang, and the Don sang and we all sang and bumpered away; and Mr Seco got on the table and gave us the newest quadrille step; and, in fine, we were all becoming dangerously drunk. Longtram, especially, had become uproarious beyond all bounds, and getting up from his chair, he took a short run of a step or two, and sprang right over the table, whereby he smashed the epergne, full of fruit and flowers, scattering the contents all about like hail, and driving a volley of preserved limes like grapeshot, in all their syrup and stickiness, slap into my face—a stray one spinning with a sloppy whit into Jacob Bumble’s open mouth as he sang, like a musket-ball into a winter turnip; while a fine preserved pine-apple flew bash on Isaac Shingle’s sharp snout, like the bursting of a shrapnel shell.

  “D——n it,” hiccuped Shingle, “I won’t stand this any longer, by Ju-Ju-Jupiter! Give over your practicals, Lucifer. Confound it, Don, give over—do, now, you mad long-legged son of a gun!” Here the Don caught Shingle round the waist, and whipping him bodily out of his chair, carried him, kicking and spurring, into the hall, now well lit up, and laid him on a sofa, and then returning, coolly installed himself in his seat.

  In a little we heard the squeaking of a pig in the street, and our friend Shingle’s voice high in oath. I sallied forth to see the cause of the uproar, and found our host engaged in single combat with a drawn sword-stick that sparkled blue and bright in the moonbeam, his antagonist being a strong porker that he had taken for a town-guard, and had hemmed into a corner formed by the stair and the garden wall, which, on being pressed, made a dash between his spindle-shanks, and fairly capsized him into my arms. I carried him back to his couch again; and, thinking it was high time to be off, as I saw that Smoothpate and Steady and Nicodemus, and the more composed part of the company, had already absconded, I seized my hat, and made sail in the direction of the former’s house, where I was to sleep, when that devil Longtram made up to me.

  “Hillo, my little man of war—heave-to a bit, and take me with you. Why, what is that? what the deuce is that?” We were at this time staggering along under the dark piazza of a long line of low wooden houses, every now and then thundering against the thin boards, or bulkheads, that constituted the side next the street, making, as we could distinctly hear, the inmates start and snort in the inside, as they turned themselves in their beds. In the darkest part of the piazza there was the figure of a man in the attitude of a telescope levelled on its stand, with its head, as it were, countersunk or mortised into the wooden partition. Tipsy as we both were we stopped in great surprise.

  “D——n it, Cringle,” said the Don, his philosophy utterly at fault, “the trunk of a man without a head!—How is this?”

  “Why, Mr Longtram,” I replied, “this is our friend Mr Smoothpate, or I mistake greatly.”

  “Let me see,” said Longtram; “if it be him, he used to have a head somewhere, I know.—Let me see.—Oh, it is him; you are right, my boy; and here is his head after all, and a devil of a size it has grown to since dinner-time, to be sure. But I know his features—bald pate—high forehead and cheekbones.”

  Nota Bene.—We were still in the piazza, where Smoothpate was unquestionably present in the body, but the head was within the house, and altogether, as I can avouch, beyond the Don’s ken.

  “Where?” said I, groping about—”very odd, for deuce take me if I can see his head. Why, he has none—a phenomenon—four legs and a tail, but no head, as I am a gentleman—lively enough, too, he is—don’t seem to miss it much.” Here poor Smoothpate made a violent walloping in a vain attempt to disentangle himself.

  We could now hear shouts of laughter within, and a voice that I was sure belonged to Mr Smoothpate, begging to be released from the pillory he had placed himself in, by removing a board in the wooden partition, and sliding it up, and then thrusting his caput from without into the interior of the house, to the no small amazement of the brown fiddler and his daughter who inhabited the same, and who had immediately secured their prize by slipping the displaced board down again, wedging it firmly on the back of his neck, as if he had been fitted for the guillotine, thus nailing him fast, unless he had bolted, and left his head in pawn.

  We now entered, and perceived it was really Don Alonzo’s flushed but very handsome countenance that was grinning at us from where it was fixed, like a large peony rose stuck against the wall. After a hearty laugh we relieved him, and being now joined by Percales, who came up in his gig, with Mr Smooth-pate’s following in his wake, we embarked for an airing at half-past one in the morning—Smoothpate and Percales, Longtram and Tom Cringle. Amongst other exploits we broke into a proscribed conventicle of drunken negroes—but I am rather ashamed of this part of the transaction, and intended to have held my tongue, had Aaron managed his, although it was notorious as the haunt of all the thieves and slight ladies of the place; here we found Parson Charley, a celebrated black preacher, three parts drunk, extorting, as Mawworm says, a number of devotees, male and female, all very tipsy, in a most blasphemous fashion, the table being covered with rummers of punch and fragments of pies and cold meat; but this did not render our conduct more excusable, I will acknowledge. Finally, as a trophy, Percales, who was a wickeder little chap than I took him for, with Longtram’s help, unshipped the bell of the conventicle from the little belfry, and fastening it below Smoothpate’s gig, we dashed back to Mr Shingle’s with it clanging at every jolt. In our progress the hone took fright, and ran away, and no wonder.

  “Zounds, Don, the weather-rein has parted—what shall we do?” said I.

  “Do I?” rejoined Lucifer, with drunken gravity,—”haul on the other, to be sure—there is one left, ain’t there?—so hard a-port, and run him up against that gun at the street corner, will ye?—That will stop him, or the devil is in it.”

  Crash—it was done—and over the horse’s ears we both flew like skyrockets; but, strange to tell, although we had wedged the wheel of the ketureen fast as a wreck on a reef, with the cannon that was stuck into the ground postwise between it and the body, there was no damage done beyond the springing of the starboard shaft; so, with the assistance of t
he negro servant, who had been thrown from his perch behind, by a shock that frightened him out of his wits, we hove the voiture off again, and arrived in safety at friend Shingle’s once more. Here we found the table set out with devilled turkey, and a variety of high-spiced dishes; and, to make a long story short, we had another set-to, during which, as an interlude, Longtram capsized Shingle out of the sofa he had again lain down on, in an attempt to jump over it, and broke his arm; and, being the soberest man of the company, I started off, guided by a negro servant, for Doctor Greyfriars. On our return, the first thing that met our eyes was the redoubted Don himself, lying on his back where he had fallen at his leap, with his head over the step at the door of the piazza. I thought his neck was broken; and the doctor, considering that he was the culprit to be carved, forthwith had him carried in, his coat taken off, and was about striking a phleme into him, when Isaac’s voice sounded from the inner apartment, where he had lain all the while below the sofa like a crushed frog; the party in the background, who were boosing away, being totally unconscious of his mishap, as they sat at table in the room beyond, enjoying themselves, impressed apparently with the belief that the whole affair was a lark.

  “Doctor, doctor,” shouted he in great pain,—”here, here—it is me that is murdered—that chap is only dead drunk, but I am really dead, or will be, if you don’t help.”

  At length the arm was set, and Shingle put to bed, and the whole crew dispersed themselves, each moving off as well as he could towards his own home.

  But the cream of the jest was richest next day. Parson Charley, who, drunk as he had been overnight, still retained a confused recollection of the parties who had made the irruption, in the morning applied to Mr Smoothpate to have his bell restored, when the latter told him, with the utmost gravity, that Mr Onyx Steady was the culprit, who, by the by, had disappeared from Shingle’s before the bell interlude, and, in fact, was wholly ignorant of the transaction. “Certainly,” quod Smoothpate, with the greatest seriousness, “a most unlikely person, I will confess, Charley, as he is a grave, respectable man; still, you know, the most demure cats sometimes steal cream, Charley; so, parson, my good man, Mr Onyx Steady has your bell, and no one else.”