CHAPTER XXXI.
"And they came for the buried king that lay At rest in that ancient fane; For he must be armed on the battle day, With them to deliver Spain!-- Then the march went sounding on, And the Moors by noontide sun, Were dust on Tolosa's plain."
MRS. HEMANS.
It remains only to give a rapid sketch of the fortunes of our principalcharacters, and of the few incidents that are more immediately connectedwith what has gone before. The death of Bluewater was announced to thefleet, at sunrise, by hauling down his flag from the mizzen of theCaesar. The vice-admiral's flag came down with it, and re-appeared at thenext minute at the fore of the Plantagenet. But the little white emblemof rank never went aloft again in honour of the deceased. At noon, itwas spread over his coffin, on the main-deck of the ship, agreeably tohis own request; and more than once that day, did some rough old tar useit, to wipe the tear from his eyes.
In the afternoon of the day after the death of one of our heroes, thewind came round to the westward, and all the vessels lifted theiranchors, and proceeded to Plymouth. The crippled ships, by this time,were in a state to carry more or less sail, and a stranger who had seenthe melancholy-looking line, as it rounded the Start, would have fanciedit a beaten fleet on its return to port. The only signs of exultationthat appeared, were the jacks that were flying over the white flags ofthe prizes; and even when all had anchored, the same air of sadnessreigned among these victorious mariners. The body was landed, with theusual forms; but the procession of warriors of the deep that followedit, was distinguished by a gravity that exceeded the ordinary aspects ofmere form. Many of the captains, and Greenly in particular, had viewedthe man[oe]uvring of Bluewater with surprise, and the latter notaltogether without displeasure; but his subsequent conduct completelyerased these impressions, leaving no other recollection connected withhis conduct that morning than the brilliant courage, and admirablehandling of his vessels, by which the fortunes of a nearly desperate daywere retrieved. Those who did reflect any longer on the subject,attributed the singularity of the course pursued by the rear-admiral, tosome private orders communicated in the telegraphic signal, as alreadymentioned.
It is unnecessary for us to dwell on the particular movements of thefleet, after it reached Plymouth. The ships were repaired, the prizesreceived into the service, and, in due time, all took the sea again,ready and anxious to encounter their country's enemies. They ran thecareers usual to English heavy cruisers in that age; and as ships formcharacters in this work, perhaps it may not be amiss to take a generalglance at their several fortunes, together with those of theirrespective commanders. Sir Gervaise fairly wore out the Plantagenet,which vessel was broken up three years later, though not until she hadcarried a blue flag at her main, more than two years. Greenly lived tobe a rear-admiral of the red, and died of yellow-fever in the Island ofBarbadoes. The Caesar, with Stowel still in command of her, foundered atsea in a winter's cruise in the Baltic, every soul perishing. Thiscalamity occurred the winter succeeding the summer of our legend, andthe only relieving circumstance connected with the disaster, was thefact that her commander got rid of Mrs. Stowel altogether, from that dayforward. The Thunderer had her share in many a subsequent battle, andFoley, her captain, died rear-admiral of England, and a vice-admiral ofthe red, thirty years later. The Carnatic was commanded by Parker, untilthe latter got a right to hoist a blue flag at the mizzen; which wasdone for just one day, to comply with form, when both ship and admiralwere laid aside, as too old for further use. It should be added,however, that Parker was knighted by the king on board his own ship; acircumstance that cast a halo of sunshine over the close of the life ofone, who had commenced his career so humbly, as to render this happyclose more than equal to his expectations. In direct opposition to this,it may be said here, that Sir Gervaise refused, for the third time, tobe made Viscount Bowldero, with a feeling just the reverse of that ofParker's; for, secure of his social position, and careless of politics,he viewed the elevation with an indifference that was a naturalconsequence enough of his own birth, fortune, and high character. Onthis occasion,--it was after another victory,--George II. personallyalluded to the subject, remarking that the success we have recorded hadnever met with its reward; when the old seaman let out the true secretof his pertinaciously declining an honour, about which he mightotherwise have been supposed to be as indifferent to the acceptance, asto the refusal. "Sir," he answered to the remark of the king, "I am dulysensible of your majesty's favour; but, I can never consent to receive apatent of nobility that, in my eyes, will always seem to be sealed withthe blood of my closest and best friend." This reply was remembered, andthe subject was never adverted to again.
The fate of the Blenheim was one of those impressive blanks that dot thepages of nautical history. She sailed for the Mediterranean alone, andafter she had discharged her pilot, was never heard of again. This didnot occur, however, until Captain Sterling had been killed on her decks,in one of Sir Gervaise's subsequent actions. The Achilles was sufferedto drift in, too near to some heavy French batteries, before the treatyof Aix-la-Chapelle was signed; and, after every stick had been again cutout of her, she was compelled to lower her flag. His earldom and hiscourage, saved Lord Morganic from censure; but, being permitted to go upto Paris, previously to his exchange, he contracted a matrimonialengagement with a celebrated _danseuse_, a craft that gave him so muchfuture employment, that he virtually abandoned his profession.Nevertheless, his name was on the list of vice-admirals of the blue,when he departed this life. The Warspite and Captain Goodfellow bothdied natural deaths; one as a receiving-ship, and the other as arear-admiral of the white. The Dover, Captain Drinkwater, was lost inattempting to weather Scilly in a gale, when her commander, and quitehalf her crew, were drowned. The York did many a hard day's duty, beforeher time arrived; but, in the end, she was so much injured in a generalaction as to be abandoned and set fire to, at sea. Her commander waslost overboard, in the very first cruise she took, after that related inthis work. The Elizabeth rotted as a guard-ship, in the Medway; andCaptain Blakely retired from the service with one arm, a yellow admiral.The Dublin laid her bones in the cove of Cork, having been condemnedafter a severe winter passed on the north coast. Captain O'Neil waskilled in a duel with a French officer, after the peace; the latterhaving stated that his ship had run away from two frigates commanded bythe _Chevalier_. The Chloe was taken by an enemy's fleet, in the nextwar; but Captain Denham worked his way up to a white flag at the main,and a peerage. The Druid was wrecked that very summer, chasing inshore,near Bordeaux; and Blewet, in a professional point of view, neverregained the ground he lost, on this occasion. As for the sloops andcutters, they went the way of all small cruisers, while their namelesscommanders shared the usual fates of mariners.
Wycherly remained at Wychecombe until the interment of his uncle tookplace; at which, aided by Sir Reginald's influence and knowledge, and,in spite of Tom's intrigues, he appeared as chief mourner. The affair ofthe succession was also so managed as to give him very little trouble.Tom, discovering that his own illegitimacy was known, and seeing thehopelessness of a contest against such an antagonist as Sir Reginald,who knew quite as much of the facts as he did of the law of the case,was fain to retire from the field. From that moment, no one heard anything more of the legacies. In the end he received the L20,000 in thefive per cents, and the few chattels Sir Wycherly had a right to giveaway; but his enjoyment of them was short, as he contracted a severecold that very autumn, and died of a malignant fever, in a few weeks.Leaving no will, his property escheated; but it was all restored to histwo uterine brothers, by the liberality of the ministry, and out ofrespect to the long services of the baron, which two brothers, it willhe remembered, alone had any of the blood of Wychecombe in their veinsto boast of. This was disposing of the savings of both the baronet andthe judge, with a very suitable regard to moral justice.
Wycherly also appeared, though it was in company with Sir GervaiseOakes, as one of the princip
al mourners at the funeral obsequies ofAdmiral Bluewater. These were of a public character, and took place inWestminster Abbey. The carriages of that portion of the royal personageswho were not restrained by the laws of court-etiquette, appeared in theprocession; and several members of that very family that the deceasedregarded as intruders, were present incog. at his last rites. This,however, was but one of the many illusions that the great masquerade oflife is constantly offering to the public gaze.
There was little difficulty in establishing the claims of Mildred, to beconsidered the daughter of Colonel Bluewater and Agnes Hedworth. LordBluewater was soon satisfied; and, as he was quite indifferent to thepossession of his kinsman's money, an acquisition he neither wished norexpected, the most perfect good-will existed between the parties. Therewas more difficulty with the Duchess of Glamorgan, who had acquired toomany of the notions of very high rank, to look with complacency on aniece that had been educated as the daughter of a sailing-master in thenavy. She raised many objections, while she admitted that she had beenthe confidant of her sister's attachment to John Bluewater. Her secondson, Geoffrey, did more to remove her scruples than all the rest united;and when Sir Gervaise Oakes, in person, condescended to make a journeyto the Park, to persuade her to examine the proofs, she could not welldecline. As soon as one of her really candid mind entered into theinquiry, the evidence was found to be irresistible, and she at onceyielded to the feelings of nature. Wycherly had been indefatigable inestablishing his wife's claims--more so, indeed, than in establishinghis own; and, at the suggestion of the vice-admiral--or, admiral of thewhite, as he had become by a recent general promotion--he consented toaccompany the latter in this visit, waiting at the nearest town,however, for a summons to the Park, as soon as it could be ascertainedthat his presence would be agreeable to its mistress.
"If my niece prove but half as acceptable in appearance, as my _nephew_,Sir Gervaise," observed the duchess, when the young Virginian wasintroduced to her, and laying stress on the word we haveitalicised--"nothing can be wanting to the agreeables of this newconnection. I am impatient, now, to see my niece; Sir WycherlyWychecombe has prepared me to expect a young woman of more than commonmerit."
"My life on it, duchess, he has not raised your expectations too high.The poor girl is still dwelling in her cottage, the companion of herreputed mother; but it is time, Wychecombe, that you had claimed yourbride."
"I expect to find her and Mrs. Dutton at the Hall, on my return, SirGervaise; it having been thus arranged between us. The sad ceremoniesthrough which we have lately been, were unsuited to the introduction ofthe new mistress to her abode, and the last had been deferred to a morefitting occasion."
"Let the first visit that Lady Wychecombe pays, be to this place," saidthe duchess. "I do not command it, Sir Wycherly, as one who has someslight claims to her duty; but I solicit it, as one who wishes topossess every hold upon her love. Her mother was an _only_ sister; andan _only_ sister's child must be very near to one."
It would have been impossible for the Duchess of Glamorgan to have saidas much as this before she saw the young Virginian; but, now he hadturned out a person so very different from what she expected, she hadlively hopes in behalf of her niece.
Wycherly returned to Wychecombe, after this short visit to Mildred'saunt, and found his lovely bride in quiet possession, accompanied by hermother. Dutton still remained at the station, for he had the sagacity tosee that he might not be welcome, and modesty enough to act with acautious reserve. But Wycherly respected his excellent wife tooprofoundly not to have a due regard to her feelings, in all things; andthe master was invited to join the party. Brutality and meanness united,like those which belonged to the character of Dutton, are not easilyabashed, and he accepted the invitation, in the hope that, after all, hewas to reap as many advantages by the marriage of Mildred with theaffluent baronet, as if she had actually been his daughter.
After passing a few weeks in sober happiness at home, Wycherly felt itdue to all parties, to carry his wife to the Park, in order that shemight make the acquaintance of the near relatives who dwelt there. Mrs.Dutton, by invitation, was of the party; but Dutton was left behind,having no necessary connection with the scenes and the feelings thatwere likely to occur. It would be painting the duchess too much _enbeau_, were we to say that she met Mildred without certain misgivingsand fears. But the first glimpse of her lovely niece completely putnatural feelings in the ascendency. The resemblance to her sister was sostrong as to cause a piercing cry to escape her, and, bursting intotears, she folded the trembling young woman to her heart, with a fervourand sincerity that set at naught all conventional manners. This was thecommencement of a close intimacy; which lasted but a short time,however, the duchess dying two years later.
Wycherly continued in the service until the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle,when he finally quitted the sea. His strong native attachments led himback to Virginia, where all his own nearest relatives belonged, andwhere his whole heart might be said to be, when he saw Mildred and hischildren at his side. With him, early associations and habits had morestrength, than traditions and memorials of the past. He erected aspacious dwelling on the estate inherited from his father, where hepassed most of his time; consigning Wychecombe to the care of a carefulsteward. With the additions and improvements that he was now enabled tomake, his Virginian estate produced even a larger income than hisEnglish, and his interests really pointed to the choice he had made. Butno pecuniary considerations lay at the bottom of his selection. Hereally preferred the graceful and courteous ease of the intercoursewhich characterized the manners of James' river. In that age, they wereequally removed from the coarse and boisterous jollity of the Englishcountry-squire, and the heartless conventionalities of high life. Inaddition to this, his sensitive feelings rightly enough detected that hewas regarded in the mother-country as a sort of intruder. He was spokenof, alluded to in the journals, and viewed even by his tenants as the_American_ landlord; and he never felt truly at home in the country forwhich he had fought and bled. In England, his rank as a baronet was notsufficient to look down these little peculiarities; whereas, inVirginia, it gave him a certain _eclat_, that was grateful to one of themain weaknesses of human nature. "At home," as the mother-country wasthen affectionately termed, he had no hope of becoming a privycouncillor; while, in his native colony, his rank and fortune, almost asa matter of course, placed him in the council of the governor. In aword, while Wycherly found most of those worldly considerations whichinfluence men in the choice of their places of residence, in favour ofthe region in which he happened to be born, his election was made morefrom feeling and taste than from any thing else. His mind had taken anearly bias in favour of the usages and opinions of the people among whomhe had received his first impressions, and this bias he retained to thehour of his death.
Like a true woman, Mildred found her happiness with her husband andchildren. Of the latter she had but three; a boy and two girls. The careof the last was early committed to Mrs. Dutton. This excellent woman hadremained at Wychecombe with her husband, until death put an end to hisvices, though the close of his career was exempt from those scenes ofbrutal dictation and interference that had rendered the earlier part ofher life so miserable. Apprehension of what might be the consequences tohimself, acted as a check, and he had sagacity enough to see that thephysical comforts he now possessed were all owing to the influence ofhis wife. He lived but four years, however. On his death, his widowimmediately took her departure for America.
It would be substituting pure images of the fancy for a picture of soberrealities, were we to say that Lady Wychecombe and her adopted mothernever regretted the land of _their_ birth. This negation of feeling,habits, and prejudices, is not to be expected even in an Esquimaux. Theyboth had occasional strictures to make on the _climate_, (and this toWycherly's great surprise, for _he_ conscientiously believed that ofEngland to be just the worst in the world,) on the fruits, the servants,the roads, and the difficulty of procuring various little comforts. But
,as this was said good-naturedly and in pleasantry, rather than in theway of complaint, it led to no unpleasant scenes or feelings. As allthree made occasional voyages to England, where his estates, and moreparticularly settlements with his factor, compelled the baronet to goonce in about a lustrum, the fruits and the climate were finally givenup by the ladies. After many years, even the slip-shod, careless, buthearty attendance of the negroes, came to be preferred to the doggedmannerism of the English domestics, perfect as were the latter in theirparts; and the whole subject got to be one of amusement, instead of oneof complaint. There is no greater mistake than to suppose that thetraveller who passes _once_ through a country, with his home-bred, andquite likely _provincial_ notions thick upon him, is competent todescribe, with due discrimination, even the usages of which he isactually a witness. This truth all the family came, in time, todiscover; and while it rendered them more strictly critical in theirremarks, it also rendered them more tolerant. As it was, few happierfamilies were to be found in the British empire, than that of SirWycherly Wychecombe; its head retaining his manly and protectingaffection for all dependent on him, while his wife, beautiful as amatron, as she had been lovely as a girl, clung to him with the tenacityof the vine to its own oak.
Of the result of the rising in the north, it is unnecessary to say much.The history of the _Chevalier's_ successes in the first year, and of hisfinal overthrow at Culloden, is well known. Sir Reginald Wychecombe,like hundreds of others, played his cards so skilfully that he avoidedcommitting himself; and, although he lived and eventually died asuspected man, he escaped forfeitures and attainder. With Sir Wycherly,as the head of his house, he maintained a friendly correspondence to thelast, even taking charge of the paternal estate in its owner's absence;manifesting to the hour of his death, a scrupulous probity in matters ofmoney, mingled with an inherent love of management and intrigue, inthings that related to politics and the succession. Sir Reginald livedlong enough to see the hopes of the Jacobites completely extinguished,and the throne filled by a native Englishman.
Many long years after the events which rendered the week of its openingincidents so memorable among its actors, must now be imagined. Time hadadvanced with its usual unfaltering tread, and the greater part of ageneration had been gathered to their fathers. George III. had been onthe throne not less than three lustrums, and most of the importantactors of the period of '45, were dead;--many of them, in a degree,forgotten. But each age has its own events and its own changes. Thosecolonies, which in 1745 were so loyal, so devoted to the house ofHanover, in the belief that political and religious liberty depended onthe issue, had revolted against the supremacy of the parliament of theempire. America was already in arms against the mother country, and thevery day before the occurrence of the little scene we are about torelate, the intelligence of the battle of Bunker Hill had reachedLondon. Although the gazette and national pride had, in a degree,lessened the characteristics of this most remarkable of all similarcombats, by exaggerating the numbers of the colonists engaged, andlessening the loss of the royal troops, the impression produced by thenews is said to have been greater than any known to that age. It hadbeen the prevalent opinion of England--an opinion that was then generalin Europe, and which descended even to our own times--that the animalsof the new continent, man included, had less courage and physical force,than those of the old; and astonishment, mingled with the forebodings ofthe intelligent, when it was found that a body of ill-armed countrymenhad dared to meet, in a singularly bloody combat, twice their number ofregular troops, and that, too, under the guns of the king's shipping andbatteries. Rumours, for the moment, were rife in London, and thepolitical world was filled with gloomy anticipations of the future.
On the morning of the day alluded to, Westminster Abbey, as usual, wasopen to the inspection of the curious and interested. Several partieswere scattered among its aisles and chapels, some reading theinscriptions on the simple tablets of the dead which illustrate anation, in illustrating themselves; others listening to the names ofprinces who derived their consequence from their thrones and alliances;and still other sets, who were wandering among the more elaboratememorials that have been raised equally to illustrate insignificance,and to mark the final resting-places of more modern heroes andstatesmen. The beauty of the weather had brought out more visiters thancommon, and not less than half-a-dozen equipages were in waiting, in andabout Palace Yard. Among others, one had a ducal coronet. This carriagedid not fail to attract the attention that is more than usually bestowedon rank, in England. All were empty, however, and more than one party ofpedestrians entered the venerable edifice, rejoicing that the view of aduke or a duchess, was to be thrown in, among the other sights,gratuitously. All who passed on foot, however, were not influenced bythis vulgar feeling; for, one group went by, that did not even cast aglance at the collection of carriages; the seniors of the party beingtoo much accustomed to such things to lend them a thought, and thejuniors too full of anticipations of what they were about to see, tothink of other matters. This party consisted of a handsome man offifty-odd, a lady some three or four years his junior well preserved andstill exceedingly attractive; a young man of twenty-six, and two lovelygirls, that looked like twins; though one was really twenty-one, and theother but nineteen. These were Sir Wycherly and Lady Wychecombe,Wycherly their only son, then just returned from a five years'peregrination on the continent of Europe, and Mildred and Agnes, theirdaughters. The rest of the family had arrived in England about afortnight before, to greet the heir on his return from the _grand tour_,as it was then termed. The meeting had been one of love, though LadyWychecombe had to reprove a few innocent foreign affectations, as shefancied them to be, in her son; and the baronet, himself, laughed at thescraps of French, Italian, and German, that quite naturally mingled inthe young man's discourse. All this, however, cast no cloud over theparty, for it had ever been a family of entire confidence and unbrokenlove.
"This is a most solemn place to me," observed Sir Wycherly, as theyentered at the Poets' corner, "and one in which a common man unavoidablyfeels his own insignificance. But, we will first make our pilgrimage,and look at these remarkable inscriptions as we come out. The tomb weseek is in a chapel on the other side of the church, near to the greatdoors. When I last saw it, it was quite alone."
On hearing this, the whole party moved on; though the two lovely youngVirginians cast wistful and curious eyes behind them, at the wonders bywhich they were surrounded.
"Is not this an extraordinary edifice, Wycherly?" half whispered Agnes,the youngest of the sisters, as she clung to one arm of her brother,Mildred occupying the other. "Can the whole world furnish such another?"
"So much for hominy and James' river!" answered the young man,laughing--"now could you but see the pile at Rouen, or that at Rheims,or that at Antwerp, or even that at York, in this good kingdom, oldWestminster would have to fall back upon its little tablets and bignames. But Sir Wycherly stops; he must see what he calls his land-fall."
Sir Wycherly had indeed stopped. It was in consequence of having reachedthe head of the _ch[oe]ur_, whence he could see the interior of therecess, or chapel, towards which he had been moving. It still containedbut a single monument, and that was adorned with an anchor and othernautical emblems. Even at that distance, the words "RICHARDBLUEWATER, REAR-ADMIRAL OF THE WHITE," might be read. But thebaronet had come to a sudden halt, in consequence of seeing a party ofthree enter the chapel, in which he wished to be alone with his ownfamily. The party consisted of an old man, who walked with totteringsteps, and this so much the more from the circumstance that he leaned ona domestic nearly as old as himself, though of a somewhat sturdierframe, and of a tall imposing-looking person of middle age, who followedthe two with patient steps. Several attendants of the cathedral watchedthis party from a distance with an air of curiosity and respect; butthey had been requested not to accompany it to the chapel.
"They must be some old brother-officers of my poor uncle's, visiting histomb!" whispered Lady Wychecombe. "Th
e very venerable gentleman hasnaval emblems about his attire."
"_Do_ you--_can_ you forget him, love? 'Tis Sir Gervaise Oakes, thepride of England! yet how changed! It is now five-and-twenty years sincewe last met; still I knew him at a glance. The servant is old Galleygo,his steward; but the gentleman with him is a stranger. Let us advance;_we_ cannot be intruders in such a place."
Sir Gervaise paid no attention to the entrance of the Wychecombes. Itwas evident, by the vacant look of his countenance, that time and hardservice had impaired his faculties, though his body remained entire; anunusual thing for one who had been so often engaged. Still there wereglimmerings of lively recollections, and even of strong sensibilitiesabout his eyes, as sudden fancies crossed his mind. Once a year, theanniversary of his friend's interment, he visited that chapel; and hehad now been brought here as much from habit, as by his own desire. Achair was provided for him, and he sat facing the tomb, with the largeletters before his eyes. He regarded neither, though he bowedcourteously to the salute of the strangers. His companion at firstseemed a little surprised, if not offended at the intrusion; but whenWycherly mentioned that they were relatives of the deceased, he alsobowed complacently, and made way for the ladies.
"This it is as what you wants to see, Sir Jarvy," observed Galleygo,jogging his master's shoulder by way of jogging his memory. "Them 'erecables and hanchors, and that 'ere mizzen-mast, with a rear-admiral'sflag a-flying, is rigged in this old church, in honour of our friendAdmiral Blue, as was; but as is now dead and gone this many a longyear."
"Admiral of the Blue," repeated Sir Gervaise coldly. "You're mistaken,Galleygo, I'm an admiral of the white, and admiral of the fleet in thebargain. I know my own rank, sir."
"I knows that as well as you does yourself, Sir Jarvy," answeredGalleygo, whose grammar had rather become confirmed than improved, bytime, "or as well as the First Lord himself. But Admiral Blue was onceyour best friend, and I doesn't at all admire at your forgettinghim--one of these long nights you'll be forgetting _me_."
"I beg your pardon, Galleygo; I rather think not. I remember _you_, whena very young man."
"Well, and so you mought remember Admiral Blue, if you'd just try. Iknow'd ye both when young luffs, myself."
"This is a painful scene," observed the stranger to Sir Wycherly, with amelancholy smile. "This gentleman is now at the tomb of his dearestfriend; and yet, as you see, he appears to have lost all recollectionthat such a person ever existed. For what do we live, if a few briefyears are to render our memories such vacant spots!"
"Has he been long in this way?" asked Lady Wychecombe, with interest.
The stranger started at the sound of her voice. He looked intently intothe face of the still fair speaker, before he answered; then he bowed,and replied--
"He has been failing these five years, though his last visit here wasmuch less painful than this. But are our own memories perfect?--Surely,I have seen that face before!--These young ladies, too--"
"Geoffrey--_dear_ cousin Geoffrey!" exclaimed Lady Wychecombe, holdingout both her hands. "It is--it must be the Duke of Glamorgan, Wycherly!"
No further explanations were needed. All the parties recognised eachother in an instant. They had not met for many--many years, and each hadpassed the period of life when the greatest change occurs in thephysical appearance; but, now that the ice was broken, a flood ofrecollections poured in. The duke, or Geoffrey Cleveland, as we preferto call him, kissed his cousin and her daughters with frank affection,for no change of condition had altered his simple sea-habits, and heshook hands with the gentlemen, with a cordiality like that of oldtimes. All this, however, was unheeded by Sir Gervaise, who sat lookingat the monument, in a dull apathy.
"Galleygo," he said; but Galleygo had placed himself before SirWycherly, and thrust out a hand that looked like a bunch of knuckles.
"I knows ye!" exclaimed the steward, with a grin. "I know'd ye in theoffing yonder, but I couldn't make out your number. Lord, sir, if thisdoesn't brighten Sir Jarvy up, again, and put him in mind of old times,I shall begin to think we have run out cable to the better end."
"I will speak to him, duke, if you think it advisable?" said SirWycherly, in an inquiring manner.
"Galleygo," put in Sir Gervaise, "what lubber fitted that cable?--he hasturned in the clench the wrong way."
"Ay--ay, sir, they _is_ great lubbers, them stone-cutters, Sir Jarvy;and they knows about as much of ships, as ships knows of them. But hereis _young_ Sir Wycherly Wychecombe come to see you--the _old_ 'un'snevy."
"Sir Wycherly, you are a very welcome guest. Bowldero is a poor placefor a gentleman of your merit; but such as it is, it is entirely at yourservice. What did you say the gentleman's name was, Galleygo?"
"Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, the _young_ 'un--the _old_ 'un slipped thenight as we moored in his house."
"I hope, Sir Gervaise, I have not entirely passed from yourrecollection; it would grieve me sadly to think so. And my poor uncle,too; he who died of apoplexy in your presence!"
"_Nullus, nulla, nullum._ That's good Latin, hey! Duke? _Nullius,nullius, nullius._ My memory _is_ excellent, gentlemen; nominative,_penna_; genitive, _pennae_, and so on."
"Now, Sir Jarvy, since you're veering out your Latin, _I_ should likesto know if you can tell a 'clove-hitch' from a 'carrick-bend?'"
"That is an extraordinary question, Galleygo, to put to an old seaman!"
"Well, if you remembers _that_, why can't you just as reasonablyremember your old friend, Admiral Blue?"
"Admiral of the blue! I do recollect _many_ admirals of the blue. Theyought to make me an admiral of the blue, duke; I've been a rear-admirallong enough."
"You've _been_ an admiral of the blue _once_; and that's enough for anyman," interrupted Galleygo, again in his positive manner; "and it isn'tfive minutes since you know'd your own rank as well as the Secretary tothe Admiralty himself. He veers and hauls, in this fashion, on an idee,gentlemen, until he doesn't know one end of it from t'other."
"This is not uncommon with men of great age," observed the duke. "Theysometimes remember the things of their youth, while the whole of laterlife is a blank. I have remarked this with our venerable friend, inwhose mind I think it will not be difficult, however, to revive therecollection of Admiral Bluewater, and even of yourself, Sir Wycherly.Let _me_ make the effort, Galleygo."
"Yes, Lord Geoffrey," for so the steward always called the quondamreefer, "you does handle him more like a quick-working boat, than any onus; and so I'll take an hopportunity of just overhauling our oldlieutenant's young 'uns, and of seeing what sort of craft he has setafloat for the next generation."
"Sir Gervaise," said the Duke, leaning over the chair, "here is SirWycherly Wychecombe, who once served a short time with us as alieutenant; it was when you were in the Plantagenet. You remember thePlantagenet, I trust, my dear sir?"
"The Plantagenets? Certainly, duke; I read all about them when a boy.Edwards, and Henrys, and _Richards_--" at the last name he stopped; themuscles of his face twitched; memory had touched a sensitive chord. Butit was too faintly, to produce more than a pause.
"There, now," growled Galleygo, in Agnes' face, he being just thenemployed in surveying her through a pair of silver spectacles that werea present from his master, "you see, he has forgotten the old Planter;and the next thing, he'll forget to eat his dinner. It's _wicked_, SirJarvy, to forget _such_ a ship."
"I trust, at least, you have not forgotten Richard Bluewater?" continuedthe Duke, "he who fell in our last action with the Comte de Vervillin?"
A gleam of intelligence shot into the rigid and wrinkled face; the eyelighted, and a painful smile struggled around the lips.
"What, _Dick_!" he exclaimed, in a voice stronger than that in which hehad previously spoken. "_Dick!_ hey! duke? _good, excellent Dick?_ Wewere midshipmen together, my lord duke; and I loved him like a brother!"
"I _knew_ you did! and I dare say now you can recollect the melancholyoccasion of his death?"
"Is Dick _dead_?"
asked the admiral, with a vacant gaze.
"Lord--Lord, Sir Jarvy, you knows he is, and that 'ere marvelconstructure is his monerment--now you _must_ remember the old Planter,and the County of Fairvillian, and the threshing we guv'd him?"
"Pardon me, Galleygo; there is no occasion for warmth. When I was amidshipman, warmth of expression was disapproved of by all the elderofficers."
"You cause me to lose ground," said the Duke, looking at the steward byway of bidding him be silent: "is it not extraordinary, Sir Wycherly,how his mind reverts to his youth, overlooking the scenes of latterlife! Yes, _Dick is_ dead, Sir Gervaise. He fell in that battle in whichyou were doubled on by the French--when you had le Foudroyant on oneside of you, and le Pluton on the other--"
"_I remember it!_" interrupted Sir Gervaise, in a clear strong voice,his eye flashing with something like the fire of youth--"I remember it!Le Foudroyant was on our starboard beam; le Pluton a little on ourlarboard bow--Bunting had gone aloft to look out for Bluewater--no--poorBunting was killed--"
"Sir Wycherly Wychecombe, who afterwards married Mildred Bluewater,Dick's niece," put in the baronet, himself, almost as eager as theadmiral had now become; "Sir Wycherly Wychecombe _had_ been aloft, butwas returned to report the Pluton coming down!"
"So he did!--God bless him! A clever youth, and he _did_ marry Dick'sniece. God bless them _both_. Well, sir, you're a stranger, but thestory will interest you. There we lay, almost smothered in the smoke,with one two-decker at work on our starboard beam, and another hammeringaway on the larboard bow, with our top-masts over the side, and the gunsfiring through the wreck."
"Ay, now you're getting it like a book!" exclaimed Galleygo exultingly,flourishing his stick, and strutting about the little chapel; "that'sjust the way things was, as I knows from seeing 'em!"
"I'm quite certain I'm right, Galleygo?"
"Right! your honour's righter than any log-book in the fleet. Give it to'em, Sir Jarvy, larboard and starboard!"
"That we did--that we did"--continued the old man earnestly, becomingeven grand in aspect, as he rose, always gentleman-like and graceful,but filled with native fire, "that did we! de Vervillin was on ourright, and des Prez on our left--the smoke was choking usall--Bunting--no; young Wychecombe was at my side; he said a freshFrenchman was shoving in between us and le Pluton, sir--God forbid! I_thought_; for we had enough of them, us it was. There she comes! See,here is her flying-jib-boom-end--and there--hey! Wychecombe?--_That's_the _old Roman_, shoving through the smoke!--Caesar himself! and therestands Dick and young Geoffrey Cleveland--_he_ was of your family,duke--there stands Dick Bluewater, between the knight-heads, waving hishat--_HURRAH!_--He's true, at last!--He's true, at last--_HURRAH!HURRAH!_"
The clarion tones rose like a trumpet's blast, and the cheering of theold sailor rang in the arches of the Abbey Church, causing all withinhearing to start, as if a voice spoke from the tombs. Sir Gervaise,himself, seemed surprised; he looked up at the vaulted roof, with a gazehalf-bewildered, half-delighted.
"Is this Bowldero, or Glamorgan House, my Lord Duke," he asked, in awhisper.
"It is neither, Admiral Oakes, but Westminster Abbey; and this is thetomb of your friend, rear-admiral Richard Bluewater."
"Galleygo, help me to kneel," the old man added in the manner of acorrected school-boy. "The stoutest of us all, should kneel to God, inhis own temple. I beg pardon, gentlemen; I wish to pray."
The Duke of Glamorgan and Sir Wycherly Wychecombe helped the admiral tohis knees, and Galleygo, as was his practice, knelt beside his master,who bowed his head on his man's shoulders. This touching spectaclebrought all the others into the same humble attitude. Wycherly, Mildred,and their children, with the noble, kneeling and praying in company. Oneby one, the latter arose; still Galleygo and his master continued on thepavement. At length Geoffrey Cleveland stepped forward, and raised theold man, placing him, with Wycherly's assistance, in the chair. Here hesat, with a calm smile on his aged features, his open eyes rivetedseemingly on the name of his friend, perfectly dead. There had been areaction, which suddenly stopped the current of life, at the heart.
Thus expired Sir Gervaise Oakes, full of years and of honours; one ofthe bravest and most successful of England's sea-captains. He had livedhis time, and supplied an instance of the insufficiency of worldlysuccess to complete the destiny of man; having, in a degree, survivedhis faculties, and the consciousness of all he had done, and all hemerited. As a small offset to this failing of nature, he had regained aglimmering view of one of the most striking scenes, and of much the mostenduring sentiment, of a long life, which God, in mercy, permitted to beterminated in the act of humble submission to his own greatness andglory.
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