The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  Mr Witherington rang the bell, and Jonathan made his appearance.

  “What is all this, Jonathan?” said he; “cook angry—Mary crying—both going away—what’s it all about?”

  “Why, sir, they were told by William that it was your positive order that the two black people were to sleep with them; and I believe he told Mary that the man was to sleep with her.”

  “Confound that fellow! he’s always at mischief; you know, Jonathan, I never meant that.”

  “I thought not, sir, as it is quite contrary to custom,” replied Jonathan.

  “Well, then, tell them so, and let’s hear no more about it.”

  Mr Witherington then entered into a consultation with his butler, and acceded to the arrangements proposed by him. The parties arrived in due time, and were properly accommodated. Master Edward was not troubled with the stomach-ache, neither did he wake Mr Witherington at five o’clock in the morning; and, after all, it was not very uncomfortable. But, although things were not quite so uncomfortable as Mr Witherington had anticipated, still they were not comfortable; and Mr Witherington was so annoyed by continual skirmishes with his servants, complaints from Judy, in bad English, of the cook, who, it must be owned, had taken a prejudice against her and Coco, occasional illness of the child, et cetera, that he found his house no longer quiet and peaceable. Three months had now nearly passed, and no tidings of the boats had been received; and Captain Maxwell, who came up to see Mr Witherington, gave it as his decided opinion that they must have foundered in the gale. As, therefore, there appeared to be no chance of Mrs Templemore coming to take care of her child, Mr Witherington at last resolved to write to Bath, where his sister resided, and acquaint her with the whole story, requesting her to come and superintend his domestic concerns. A few days afterwards he received the following reply:—

  “Bath, August.

  “My dear Brother Antony,

  “Your letter arrived safe to hand on Wednesday last, and I must say that I was not a little surprised at its contents; indeed, I thought so much about it that I revoked at Lady Betty Blabkin’s whist-party, and lost four shillings and sixpence. You say that you have a child at your house belonging to your cousin, who married in so indecorous a manner. I hope what you say is true; but, at the same time, I know what bachelors are guilty of; although, as Lady Betty says, it is better never to talk or even to hint about these improper things. I cannot imagine why men should consider themselves, in an unmarried state, as absolved from that purity which maidens are so careful to preserve; and so says Lady Betty, with whom I had a little conversation on the subject. As, however, the thing is done, she agrees with me that it is better to hush it up as well as we can.

  “I presume that you do not intend to make the child your heir, which I should consider as highly improper; and, indeed, Lady Betty tells me that the legacy-duty is ten percent, and that it cannot be avoided. However, I make it a rule never to talk about these sort of things. As for your request that I will come up and superintend your establishment, I have advised with Lady Betty on the subject, and she agrees with me that, for the honour of the family, it is better that I should come, as it will save appearances. You are in a peck of troubles, as most men are who are free-livers and are led astray by artful and alluring females. However, as Lady Betty says, ‘the least said, the soonest mended.’

  “I will, therefore, make the necessary arrangements for letting my house, and hope to join you in about ten days; sooner, I cannot, as I find that my engagements extend to that period. Many questions have already been put to me on this unpleasant subject; but I always give but one answer, which is, that bachelors will be bachelors; and that, at all events, it is not so bad as if you were a married man: for I make it a rule never to talk about, or even to hint about, these sort of things, for, as Lady Betty says, ‘Men will get into scrapes, and the sooner things are hushed up the better.’ So no more at present from your affectionate sister,

  “Margaret Witherington.

  “PS. Lady Betty and I both agree that you are very right in hiring two black people to bring the child into your house, as it makes the thing look foreign to the neighbours, and we can keep our own secrets.

  “M.W.”

  “Now, by all the sins of the Witheringtons, if this is not enough to drive a man out of his senses!—Confound the suspicious old maid! I’ll not let her come into this house. Confound Lady Betty, and all scandal-loving old tabbies like her! Bless me!” continued Mr Witherington, throwing the letter on the table with a deep sigh, “this is anything but comfortable.”

  But if Mr Witherington found it anything but comfortable at the commencement, he found it unbearable in the sequel.

  His sister Moggy arrived, and installed herself in the house with all the pomp and protecting air of one who was the saviour of her brother’s reputation and character. When the child was first brought down to her, instead of perceiving at once its likeness to Mr Templemore, which was very strong, she looked at it and at her brother’s face with her only eye, and shaking her finger, exclaimed—

  “Oh, Antony! Antony! and did you expect to deceive me?—the nose—the mouth exact—Antony, for shame! fie, for shame!”

  But we must hurry over the misery that Mr Witherington’s kindness and benevolence brought upon him. Not a day passed—scarcely an hour, without his ears being galled with his sister’s insinuations. Judy and Coco were sent back to America; the servants, who had remained so long in his service, gave warning one by one, and afterwards, were changed as often almost as there was a change in the moon. She ruled the house and her brother despotically; and all poor Mr Witherington’s comfort was gone until the time arrived when Master Edward was to be sent to school. Mr Witherington then plucked up courage, and after a few stormy months drove his sister back to Bath, and once more found himself comfortable.

  Edward came home during the holidays, and was a great favourite; but the idea had become current that he was the son of the old gentleman, and the remarks made were so unpleasant and grating to him, that he was not sorry, much as he was attached to the boy, when he declared his intention to choose the profession of a sailor.

  Captain Maxwell introduced him into the service; and afterwards, when, in consequence of ill health and exhaustion, he was himself obliged to leave it for a time, he procured for his protégé other ships. We must, therefore, allow some years to pass away, during which time Edward Templemore pursues his career, Mr Witherington grows older and more particular, and his sister Moggy amuses herself with Lady Betty’s remarks and her darling game of whist.

  During all this period no tidings of the boats, or of Mrs Templemore and her infant, had been heard; it was therefore naturally conjectured that they had all perished, and they were remembered but as things that had been.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Midshipman

  The weather side of the quarter-deck of H.M. frigate Unicorn was occupied by two very great personages: Captain Plumbton, commanding the ship, who was very great in width if not in height, taking much more than his allowance of the deck, if it were not that he was the proprietor thereof, and entitled to the lion’s share. Captain P was not more than four feet ten inches in height; but then he was equal to that in girth: there was quite enough of him, if he had only been rolled out. He walked with his coat flying open, his thumbs stuck into the arm holes of his waistcoat, so as to throw his shoulders back and increase his horizontal dimensions. He also held his head well aft, which threw his chest and stomach well forward. He was the prototype of pomposity and good nature, and he strutted like an actor in a procession.

  The other personage was the first lieutenant, whom Nature had pleased to fashion in another mould. He was as tall as the captain was short—as thin as his superior was corpulent. His long, lanky legs were nearly up to the captain’s shoulders; and he bowed down over the head of his superior, as if he were the crane to hoist up, and the captain the bale of goods to be hoisted. He carried his hands behind his back, with two fin
gers twisted together; and his chief difficulty appeared to be to reduce his own stride to the parrot march of the captain. His features were sharp and lean as was his body, and wore every appearance of a cross-grained temper.

  He had been making divers complaints of divers persons, and the captain had hitherto appeared imperturbable. Captain Plumbton was an even-tempered man, who was satisfied with a good dinner. Lieutenant Markitall was an odd-tempered man, who would quarrel with his bread and butter.

  “Quite impossible, sir,” continued the first-lieutenant, “to carry on the duty without support.”

  This oracular observation, which, from the relative forms of the two parties, descended as it were from above, was replied to by the captain with a “Very true.”

  “Then, sir, I presume you will not object to my putting that man in the report for punishment?”

  “I’ll think about it, Mr Markitall.” This, with Captain Plumbton, was as much as to say, No.

  “The young gentlemen, sir, I am sorry to say, are very troublesome.”

  “Boys always are,” replied the captain.

  “Yes sir: but the duty must be carried on, and I cannot do without them.”

  “Very true—midshipmen are very useful.”

  “But I am sorry to say, sir, that they are not. Now sir, there’s Mr Templemore; I can do nothing with him—he does nothing but laugh.”

  “Laugh!—Mr Markitall, does he laugh at you?”

  “Not exactly, sir; but he laughs at everything. If I send him to the mast-head, he goes up laughing; if I call him down, he comes down laughing; if I find fault with him, he laughs the next minute: in fact, sir, he does nothing but laugh. I should particularly wish, sir, that you would speak to him, and see if any interference on your part—”

  “Would make him cry—eh? better to laugh than cry in this world. Does he never cry, Mr Markitall?”

  “Yes, sir, and very unseasonably. The other day, you may recollect, when you punished Wilson the marine, whom I appointed to take care of his chest and hammock, he was crying the whole time; almost tantamount—at least an indirect species of mutiny on his part, as it implied—”

  “That the boy was sorry that his servant was punished; I never flog a man but I’m sorry myself, Mr Markitall.”

  “Well, I do not press the question of his crying—that I might look over; but his laughing, sir, I must beg that you will take notice of that. Here he is, sir, coming up the hatchway. Mr Templemore, the captain wishes to speak to you.”

  Now the captain did not wish to speak to him, but, forced upon him as it was by the first-lieutenant, he could do no less. So Mr Templemore touched his hat, and stood before the captain, we regret to say, with such a good-humoured, sly, confiding smirk on his countenance, as at once established the proof of the accusation, and the enormity of the offence.

  “So, sir,” said Captain Plumbton, stopping in his perambulation, and squaring his shoulders still more, “I find that you laugh at the first-lieutenant.”

  “I, sir?” replied the boy, the smirk expanding into a broad grin.

  “Yes; you, sir,” said the first-lieutenant, now drawing up to his full height; “why you’re laughing now, sir.”

  “I can’t help it, sir—it’s not my fault; and I’m sure it’s not yours, sir,” added the boy, demurely.

  “Are you aware, Edward—Mr Templemore, I mean—of the impropriety of disrespect to your superior officer?”

  “I never laughed at Mr Markitall but once, sir, that I can recollect, and that was when he tumbled over the messenger.”

  “And why did you laugh at him then, sir?”

  “I always do laugh when any one tumbles down,” replied the lad; “I can’t help it, sir.”

  “Then, sir, I suppose you would laugh if you saw me rolling in the lee-scuppers?” said the captain.

  “Oh!” replied the boy, no longer able to contain himself, “I’m sure I should burst myself with laughing—I think I see you now, sir.”

  “Do you, indeed! I’m very glad that you do not; though I’m afraid, young gentleman, you stand convicted by your own confession.”

  “Yes, sir, for laughing, if that is any crime; but it’s not in the Articles of War.”

  “No, sir; but disrespect is. You laugh when you go to the mast-head.”

  “But I obey the order, sir, immediately—Do I not, Mr Markitall?”

  “Yes, sir, you obey the order; but, at the same time, your laughing proves that you do not mind the punishment.”

  “No more I do, sir. I spend half my time at the mast-head, and I’m used to it now.”

  “But, Mr Templemore, ought you not to feel the disgrace of the punishment?” inquired the captain, severely.

  “Yes, sir, if I felt I deserved it I should. I should not laugh, sir, if you sent me to the mast-head,” replied the boy, assuming a serious countenance.

  “You see, Mr Markitall, that he can be grave,” observed the captain.

  “I’ve tried all I can to make him so, sir,” replied the first-lieutenant; “but I wish to ask Mr Templemore what he means to imply by saying, ‘when he deserves it.’ Does he mean to say that I have ever punished him unjustly?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied the boy, boldly; “five times out of six, I am mast-headed for nothing—and that’s the reason why I do not mind it.”

  “For nothing, sir! Do you call laughing nothing?”

  “I pay every attention that I can to my duty, sir; I always obey your orders; I try all I can to make you pleased with me—but you are always punishing me.”

  “Yes, sir, for laughing, and, what is worse, making the ship’s company laugh.”

  “They ‘haul and hold’ just the same, sir—I think they work all the better for being merry.”

  “And pray, sir, what business have you to think?” replied the first-lieutenant, now very angry. “Captain Plumbton, as this young gentleman thinks proper to interfere with me and the discipline of the ship, I beg you will see what effect your punishing may have upon him.”

  “Mr Templemore,” said the captain, “you are, in the first place, too free in your speech, and, in the next place, too fond of laughing. There is, Mr Templemore, a time for all things—a time to be merry, and a time to be serious. The quarter-deck is not a fit place for mirth.”

  “I’m sure the gangway is not,” shrewdly interrupted the boy.

  “No—you are right, nor the gangway; but you may laugh on the forecastle, and when below with your messmates.”

  “No, sir, we may not; Mr Markitall always sends out if he hears us laughing.”

  “Because, Mr Templemore, you’re always laughing.”

  “I believe I am, sir; and if it’s wrong I’m sorry to displease you, but I mean no disrespect. I laugh in my sleep—I laugh when I awake—I laugh when the sun shines—I always feel so happy; but though you do mast-head me, Mr Markitall, I should not laugh, but be very sorry, if any misfortune happened to you.”

  “I believe you would, boy—I do indeed, Mr Markitall,” said the captain.

  “Well, sir,” replied the first-lieutenant, “as Mr Templemore appears to be aware of his error, I do not wish to press my complaint—I have only to request that he will never laugh again.”

  “You hear, boy, what the first-lieutenant says; it’s very reasonable, and I beg I may hear no more complaints. Mr Markitall, let me know when the foot of that foretopsail will be repaired—I should like to shift it tonight.”

  Mr Markitall went down under the half-deck to make the inquiry.

  “And, Edward,” said Captain Plumbton, as soon as the lieutenant was out of ear-shot, “I have a good deal more to say to you upon this subject, but I have no time now. So come and dine with me—at my table, you know, I allow laughing in moderation.”

  The boy touched his hat, and with a grateful, happy countenance, walked away.

  We have introduced this little scene, that the reader may form some idea of the character of Edward Templemore. He was indeed the soul of mirth,
good-humour, and kindly feelings towards others; he even felt kindly towards the first-lieutenant, who persecuted him for his risible propensities. We do not say that the boy was right in laughing at all times, or that the first-lieutenant was wrong in attempting to check it. As the captain said, there is a time for all things, and Edward’s laugh was not always seasonable; but it was his nature, and he could not help it. He was joyous as the May morning; and thus he continued for years, laughing at everything—pleased with everybody—almost universally liked—and his bold, free, and happy spirit unchecked by vicissitude or hardship.

  He served his time—was nearly turned back when he was passing his examination for laughing, and then went laughing to sea again—was in command of a boat at the cutting-out of a French corvette, and when on board was so much amused by the little French captain skipping about with his rapier, which proved fatal to many, that at last he received a pink from the little gentleman himself, which laid him on deck. For this affair, and in consideration of his wound, he obtained his promotion to the rank of lieutenant—was appointed to a line-of-battle ship in the West Indies—laughed at the yellow-fever—was appointed to the tender of that ship, a fine schooner, and was sent to cruise for prize-money for the admiral, and promotion for himself, if he could, by any fortunate encounter, be so lucky as to obtain it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sleeper’s Bay

  On the western coast of Africa, there is a small bay, which has received more than one name from its occasional visitors. That by which it was designated by the adventurous Portuguese, who first dared to cleave the waves of the Southern Atlantic, has been forgotten with their lost maritime pre-eminence; the name allotted to it by the woolly-headed natives of the coast has never, perhaps, been ascertained; it is, however, marked down in some of the old English charts as Sleeper’s Bay.

  The mainland which, by its curvature, has formed this little dent on a coast possessing, and certainly at present requiring few harbors, displays, perhaps, the least inviting of all prospects; offering to the view nothing but a shelving beach of dazzling white sand, backed with a few small hummocks beat up by the occasional fury of the Atlantic gales—arid, bare, and without the slightest appearance of vegetable life. The inland prospect is shrouded over by a dense mirage, through which here and there are to be discovered the stems of a few distant palm-trees, so broken and disjoined by refraction that they present to the imagination anything but the idea of foliage or shade. The water in the bay is calm and smooth as the polished mirror; not the smallest ripple is to be heard on the beach, to break through the silence of nature; not a breath of air sweeps over its glassy surface, which is heated with the intense rays of a vertical noonday sun, pouring down a withering flood of light and heat: not a sea-bird is to be discovered wheeling on its flight, or balancing on its wings as it pierces the deep with its searching eye, ready to dart upon its prey. All is silence, solitude, and desolation, save that occasionally may be seen the fin of some huge shark, either sluggishly moving through the heated element, or stationary in the torpor of the mid-day heat. A site so sterile, so stagnant, so little adapted to human life, cannot well be conceived, unless, by flying to extremes, we were to portray the chilling blast, the transfixing cold, and “close-ribbed ice,” at the frozen poles.