Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/136

4, 1860.] enjoying myself comfortably in that state of life in which it has pleased Providence to place me, and as I don’t intend any son of his to inherit the title and estates, if I can help it, it is my intention to marry as soon as I get on shore—and now, good-bye, my boy, and see if you can drop into the boat rather more cleverly than those two lubbers who were drowned a minute ago.

I felt that my fate was sealed, but I managed to drop into the boat.

“Good-bye, my boys,” cried the quartermaster, rising up in the boat, “it’s all over with us—if there’s a man amongst you, you will bring that old villain to a court-martial.”

“Fire into the boat!” sung out my uncle, “there’s a mutiny amongst them, by Gad!”

“Do it yourself,” replied the gunner, crossing his arms.

“Take that, you villain,” said my uncle, firing his pistol at him. Fortunately the shot missed the gunner, but lodged in the thick part of the purser’s thigh, which perhaps was the only thing Lord Tartar did which gave pleasure to the crew.

We had not gone a hundred yards from the ship before we lost all command of the boat—she was driven furiously against the side of the prize, and instantly foundered.

I have a dim recollection of going down fathoms deep and appearing again on the surface, and my last impression was that I saw my uncle standing on the quarter-deck rubbing his hands with glee.

I came to my senses, I found myself lying on a couch in a spacious half-darkened room. The couch I was lying on, and all the rest of the furniture were of solid silver, and the exquisitely polished mahogany floor was thickly inlaid with precious stones and mother-of-pearl. The sea-breeze was wafted through the window which opened down to the ground, and was fragrant with the perfumes of an orange-grove through which it rustled. Pictures of the best old masters were plentifully hung round the walls, many of which I was familiar with from having seen copies of them in our National Gallery. On rising from my couch I felt weak and languid, and on looking at myself in a mirror I found that my head had been shaved. My costume somewhat surprised me, as instead of my naval uniform I found myself attired in a pair of loose silk trousers and a velvet slashed jacket profusely ornamented with silver filagree buttons.

My first idea was to look for some one who could explain my metamorphosis, but the windows were all protected by bars, and I could find no door to the apartment. At last my eye lighted on a silver bell. No sooner had I sounded it than one of the panels of the wainscot opened, and closed as rapidly behind a black boy who entered.

“Ah, massa, you be a good sleeper, by gum; for four weeks you’ve been dozing and chattering and singing, but mostly sleeping.”

“Where am I? Whose house is this?” I eagerly asked.

“Yah! yah! yah! Walker!” grinned my sable friend, pointing significantly over his left shoulder.

Weak as I was I rushed at the nigger, and planted my foot, pretty satisfactorily, against that portion of his black carcass which could best resist a kick, and was about to repeat the dose when a second comer made his appearance in a similar manner to Pompey, which I afterwards found was the name of the boy.

“Halloa!” exclaimed the stranger. “Don’t kick poor Pompey, that’s my amusement, and Pompey gets a fair allowance without any one else’s assistance; don’t you, Pompey?”

“I believe you, massa,” said Pompey, who was rubbing the part affected much more than was necessary.

“Then get out,” laughingly replied his master, administering another kick: “there, you were shuffling a moment ago, so there’s something real for you to rub in.—Well,” turning to me, “and how is Mr. Bluejacket?”

I looked hard at the inquirer: he was a handsome, middle-aged man, and bore the stamp of Spanish blood in his face, which was finely chiselled—a profusion of black ringlets fell over his shoulders, and a restless eye and long drooping moustache gave somewhat of a fierce look to a countenance which I could not read.

“I feel as if I had been very ill,” I replied; “but how did you know my name?”

“Your affectionate mamma had cautiously marked your linen,” he answered, laughing, “in the first place, and, secondly, we have met before—now guess who I am?”

“You cannot be Don Skittleballos, the great anti-slavery agitator?”

“The same, my dear fellow; and now you will remember our meeting at the Duchess of Bijou’s, in Belgrave Square, at the breakfast given to Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe.”

The whole circumstance flashed across my mind like lightning. “But how came I here, and where are my companions?”

“You came here on a spar which drifted ashore, and, believe me, you have had a narrower escape from fever than from drowning; your companions were picked up by one of my cruisers, and a good pick up it was, I can tell you. They are all safe, and doing their duty in that station of life to which it has pleased Providence, or the chances of war, to call them.”

“But where are they?” I hurriedly asked.

“That is a secret,” he answered; “be content to know that you are safe, and will be well treated. You must pardon this necessary restraint, as you are my prisoner; if you try to escape, I rather imagine you will come to grief: if you are contented to stay where you are, in a few months you will be put on board an English ship. I wish well towards you, but if you do not attend to my injunctions, why the fault will be yours. You can go anywhere you please about the garden or grounds, but take my advice and don’t try to go beyond them, for there are some queer fellows in my establishment, who, you will