Peter Simple. Фредерик Марриет

have offended him, and then, if he’s a good Christian, as I believe him to be, he’ll not refuse it.”

      I thought this was very good advice, and I waited under the bulwark on the lee-side. I observed that the master made shorter and shorter turns every time, till at last he stopped at the capstan and looked at the grog. He waited about half a minute, and then he took up the tumbler, and drank about half of it. It was very strong, and he stopped to take breath. I thought that this was the right time, and I went up to him. The tumbler was again to his lips, and before he saw me, I said, “I hope sir, you’ll forgive me; I never heard of a night telescope, and knowing that you had walked so long, I thought you were tired, and wanted something to drink to refresh you.”

      “Well, Mr Simple,” said he, after he had finished the glass, with a deep sigh of pleasure, “as you meant kindly, I shall let you off this time; but recollect, that whenever you bring me a glass of grog again, it must not be in the presence of the captain or first lieutenant.”

      At last our watch was over, and about two bells I was relieved by the midshipman of the next watch. It is very unfair not to relieve in time, but if I said a word, I was certain to be thrashed the next day upon some pretence or another. On the other hand, the midshipman whom I relieved was also much bigger than I was, and if I was not up before one bell, I was cut down and thrashed by him: so that between the two I kept much more than my share of the watch, except when the master sent me to bed before it was over.

      Chapter Thirteen

      The first lieutenant prescribes for one of his patients, his prescriptions consisting of “draughts” only—O’Brien finishes the history of his life, in which the proverb of “the more the merrier” is sadly disproved—“Shipping” a new pair of boots causes the “unshipping” of their owner—Walking home after a ball; O’Brien meets with an accident

      The next morning I was on deck at seven bells, to see the hammocks stowed, when I was witness to Mr Falcon, the first lieutenant, having recourse to one of his remedies to cure a mizen-top-boy of smoking, a practice to which he had a great aversion. He never interfered with the men smoking in the galley, or chewing tobacco; but he prevented the boys, that is, lads under twenty or thereabouts, from indulging in the habit too early. The first lieutenant smelt the tobacco as the boy passed him on the quarter-deck. “Why, Neill, you have been smoking,” said the first lieutenant. “I thought you were aware that I did not permit such lads as you to use tobacco.”

      “If you please, sir,” replied the mizen-top-boy, touching his hat, “I’se got worms, and they say that smoking be good for them.”

      “Good for them!” said the first lieutenant; “yes, very good for them but very bad for you. Why, my good fellow, they’ll thrive upon tobacco until they grow as large as conger eels. Heat is what the worms are fond of; but cold—cold will kill them. Now I’ll cure you. Quarter-master, come here. Walk this boy up and down the weather gangway, and every time you get forward abreast of the main-tack block, put his mouth to windward, squeeze him sharp by the nape of the neck until he opens his mouth wide, and there keep him and let the cold air blow down his throat, while you count ten; then walk him aft, and when you are forward again proceed as before.—Cold kills worms, my poor boy, not tobacco—I wonder that you are not dead by this time.”

      A few nights afterwards, when we had the middle watch, O’Brien proceeded with his story.

      “Where was it that I left off?”

      “You left off at the time that you were taken out of confinement.”

      “So I did, sure enough; and it was with no goodwill that I went to my duty. However, as there was no help for it, I walked up and down the deck as before, with my hands in my pockets, thinking of old Ireland, and my great ancestor, Brien Borru. And so I went on behaving myself like a real gentleman, and getting into no more scrapes, until the fleet put into the Cove of Cork, and I found myself within a few miles of my father’s house. You may suppose that the anchor had hardly kissed the mud before I went to the first lieutenant and asked leave to go on shore. Now the first lieutenant was not in the sweetest of tempers, seeing as how the captain had been hauling him over the coals for not carrying on the duty according to his satisfaction. So he answered me very gruffly, that I should not leave the ship. ‘O bother!’ said I to myself, ‘this will never do.’ So up I walked to the captain, and touching my hat, reminded him that ‘I had a father and mother, and a pretty sprinkling of brothers and sisters, who were dying to see me, and that I hoped that he would give me leave.’ ‘Ax the first lieutenant,’ said he turning away. ‘I have, sir,’ replied I, ‘and he says that the devil a bit shall I put my foot on shore.’ ‘Have you any fault to find with Mr O’Brien?’ said the captain to the first lieutenant, as he came aft. ‘No more than I have with midshipmen in general; but I believe it is not the custom for officers to ask leave to go on shore before the sails are furled and the yards squared.’ ‘Very true,’ replied the captain; ‘therefore, Mr O’Brien, you must wait until the watch is called, and then, if you ask the first lieutenant, I have no doubt but you will have leave granted to you to go and see your friends.’

      “I thought myself very clever in this business, but I was never a greater fool in my life; for there was no such hurry to have gone on shore, and the first lieutenant never forgave me for appealing to the captain—but of that by-and-bye, and all in good time. At last I obtained a grumbling assent to my going on shore, and off I went like a sky rocket. Being in a desperate hurry, I hired a jaunting car to take me to my father’s house. ‘Is it the O’Brien of Ballyhinch that you mane?’ inquired the spalpeen who drove the horse. ‘Sure it is,’ replied I; ‘and how is he, and all the noble family of the O’Briens?’ ‘All well enough, bating the boy Tim, who caught a bit of confusion in his head the other night at the fair, and now lies at home in bed quite insensible to mate or drink; but the doctors give hopes of his recovery, as all the O’Briens are known to have such thick heads.’ ‘What do mane by that, bad manners to you?’ said I; ‘but poor Tim—how did it happen—was there a fight?’ ‘Not much of a fight—only a bit of a skrummage—three crowner’s inquests, no more.’ ‘But you are not going the straight road, you thief,’ said I, seeing that he had turned off to the left. ‘Is your honour in a hurry to get home? Then I’ll be thinking they’ll not be in such a hurry to see you.’ ‘And who told you that my name was O’Brien, you baste?—and do you dare to say that my friends won’t be glad to see me?’ ‘Plase your honour, it’s all an idea of mine—so say no more about it. Only this I know; Father McGrath, who gives me absolution, tould me the other day that I ought to pay him and not run in debt, and then run away, like Terence O’Brien, who went to say without paying for his shirts, and his shoes, and his stockings, nor anything else, and who would live to be hanged, as sure as St. Patrick swam over the Liffey with his head under his arm.’ ‘Bad luck to that Father McGrath,’ cried I; ‘devil burn me, but I’ll be revenged upon him!’

      “By that time we had arrived at the door of my father’s house. I paid the rapparee, and in I popped. There was my father and mother, and all my brothers and sisters (bating Tim, who was in bed sure enough, and died next day), and that baste, Father McGrath, to boot. When my mother saw me she ran to me and hugged me as she wept on my neck, and then she wiped her eyes and sat down again; but nobody else said, ‘How d’ye do?’ or opened their mouths to me. I said to myself, ‘Sure there’s some trifling mistake here,’ but I held my tongue. At last they all opened their mouths with a vengeance. My father commenced—‘Ar’n’t you ashamed on yourself, Terence O’Brien?’—‘Ar’n’t you ashamed on yourself, Terence O’Brien?’ cried Father McGrath. ‘Ar’n’t you ashamed on yourself?’ cried out all my brothers and sisters in full chorus, whilst my poor mother put her apron to her eyes and said nothing. ‘The devil a bit for myself, but very much ashamed for you all,’ replied I, ‘to treat me in this manner. What’s the meaning of all this?’ ‘Haven’t they seized my two cows to pay for your toggery, you spalpeen?’ cried my father. ‘Haven’t they taken the hay to pay for your shoes and stockings?’ cried Father McGrath. ‘Haven’t they taken the pig to pay for that ugly hat of yours?’ cried my eldest sister. ‘And haven’t they taken my hens to pay for that dirk of yours?’ cried another. ‘And all our best furniture to pay