Part 26 (1/2)
”Nothing at all in itself--the marine officer is a bit of a gaby, and takes offence where none is meant. Mr Phillott has a foul tongue, but he has a good heart.”
”What a pity it is!”
”It is a pity, for he's a smart officer; but the fact is, Peter, that junior officers are too apt to copy their superiors, and that makes it very important that a young gentleman should sail with a captain who is a gentleman. Now, Phillott served the best of his time with Captain Ballover, who is notorious in the service for foul and abusive language.
What is the consequence?--that Phillott, and many others, who have served under him, have learnt his bad habit.”
”I should think, O'Brien, that the very circ.u.mstance of having had your feelings so often wounded by such language when you were a junior officer, would make you doubly careful not to make use of it to others, when you had advanced in the service.”
”Peter, that's just the _first_ feeling, which wears away after a time; but at last, your own sense of indignation becomes blunted, and becoming indifferent to it, you forget also that you wound the feelings of others, and carry the habit with you, to the great injury and disgrace of the service. But it's time to dress for dinner, so you'd better make yourself scarce, Peter, while I tidivate myself off a little, according to the rules and regulations of His Majesty's service, when you are asked to dine with the skipper.”
We met at the captain's table, where we found, as usual, a great display of plate, but very little else, except the s.h.i.+p's allowance. We certainly had now been cruising some time, and there was some excuse for it; but still, few captains would have been so unprovided. ”I'm afraid, gentlemen, you will not have a very grand dinner,” observed the captain, as the steward removed the plated covers off the dishes; ”but when on service we must rough it out how we can. Mr O'Brien, pea-soup? I recollect faring harder than this through one cruise, in a flush vessel.
We were thirteen weeks up to our knees in water, and living the whole time upon raw pork--not being able to light a fire during the cruise.”
”Pray, Captain Kearney, may I ask where this happened?”
”To be sure. It was off Bermudas: we cruised for seven weeks before we could find the Islands, and began verily to think that the Bermudas were themselves on a cruise.”
”I presume, sir, you were not sorry to have a fire to cook your provisions when you came to an anchor?” said O'Brien.
”I beg your pardon,” replied Captain Kearney; ”we had become so accustomed to raw provisions and wet feet, that we could not eat our meals cooked, or help dipping our legs over the side, for a long while afterwards. I saw one of the boat keepers astern catch a large barracouta, and eat it alive--indeed, if I had not given the strictest orders, and flogged half-a-dozen of them, I doubt whether they would not have eaten their victuals raw to this day. The force of habit is tremendous.”
”It is, indeed,” observed Mr Phillott, dryly, and winking to us-- referring to the captain's incredible stories.
”It is, indeed,” repeated O'Brien; ”we see the ditch in our neighbour's eye, and cannot observe the log of wood in our own;” and O'Brien winked at me, referring to Phillott's habit of bad language.
”I once knew a married man,” observed the captain, ”who had been always accustomed to go to sleep with his hand upon his wife's head, and would not allow her to wear a night-cap in consequence. Well, she caught cold and died, and he never could sleep at night until he took a clothes brush to bed with him, and laid his hand upon that, which answered the purpose--such was the force of habit.”
”I once saw a dead body galvanised,” observed Mr Phillott: ”it was the body of a man who had taken a great deal of snuff during his lifetime, and, as soon as the battery was applied to his spine, the body very gently raised its arm, and put its fingers to its nose, as if it were taking a pinch.”
”You saw that yourself, Mr Phillott?” observed the captain, looking the first lieutenant earnestly in the face.
”Yes, sir,” replied Mr Phillott, coolly.
”Have you told that story often?”
”Very often, sir.”
”Because I know that some people, by constantly telling a story, at last believe it to be true; not that I refer to you, Mr Phillott, but still I should recommend you not to tell that story where you are not well known, or people may doubt your credibility.”
”I make it a rule to believe everything myself,” observed Mr Phillott, ”out of politeness; and I expect the same courtesy from others.”
”Then, upon my soul! when you tell that story, you trespa.s.s very much upon our good manners. Talking of courtesy, you might meet a friend of mine, who has been a courtier all his life; he cannot help bowing. I have seen him bow to his horse, and thank him after he had dismounted-- beg pardon of a puppy for treading on his tail; and one day, when he fell over a sc.r.a.per, he took off his hat, and made it a thousand apologies for his inattention.”
”Force of habit again,” said O'Brien.
”Exactly so. Mr Simple, will you take a slice of this pork; and perhaps you'll do me the honour to take a gla.s.s of wine? Lord Privilege would not much admire your dinner to-day, would he, Mr Simple?”
”As a variety he might, sir, but not for a continuance.”
”Very truly said. Variety is charming. The negroes here get so tired of salt fish and occra broth, that they eat dirt by way of a relish.
Mr O'Brien, how remarkably well you played that sonata of Pleydel's this morning.”