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<h3>Chapter Thirteen.</h3> <h4>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.</h4> 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 for your white shirts and black cravats?’ cried Murdock, my brother. ‘And haven’t we been starved to death ever since?’ cried they all. ‘Och hone!’ said my mother. ‘The devil they have!’ said I, when they’d all done. ‘Sure I’m sorry enough, but it’s no fault of mine. Father, didn’t you send me to say?’ ‘Yes, you rapparee; but didn’t you promise—or didn’t I promise for you, which is all one and the same thing—that you’d pay it all back with your prize-money—and where is it? answer that, Terence O’Brien.’ ‘Where is it, father? I’ll tell you—it’s where next Christmas is—coming, but not come yet.’ “‘Terence O’Brien,’ said Father McGrath, ‘its absolution that you’ll be wanting to-morrow, after all your sins and enormities; and the devil a bit shall you have—take that now.’ “‘Father McGrath,’ replied I very angrily, ‘it’s no absolution that I’ll want from you, any how—take that now.’ “‘Then you have had your share of heaven; for I’ll keep you out of it, you wicked monster!’ said Father McGrath—‘take that now.’ “‘If it’s no better than a midshipman’s berth,’ replied I, ‘I’d just as soon stay out; but I’ll creep in in spite of you—take that now, Father McGrath.’ “‘And who is to save your soul, and send you to heaven, if I don’t, you wicked wretch? but I’ll see you damned first—so take that now, Terence O’Brien.’ “‘Then I’ll turn Protestant and damn the Pope—take that now, Father McGrath.’ “At this last broadside of mine, my father and all my brothers and sisters raised a cry of horror, and my mother burst into tears. Father McGrath seized hold of the pot of holy water, and dipping in the little whisk, began to sprinkle the room, saying a Latin prayer, while they all went on squalling at me. At last, my father seized the stool, which he had been seated upon, and threw it at my head. I dodged, and it knocked down Father McGrath, who had just walked behind me in full song. I knew that it was all over after that, so I sprang over his carcase and gained the door. ‘Good morning to ye all, and better manners to you next time we meet,’ cried I, and off I set as fast as I could for the ship. “I was very sorry for what I had said to the priest, for my conscience thumped me very hard at having even pretended that I’d turn Protestant, which I never intended to do, nor never will, but live and die a good Catholic, as all my posterity have done before me, and, as I trust, all my ancestors will for generations to come. Well, I arrived on board, and the first lieutenant was very savage. I hoped he would get over it, but he never did; and he continued to treat me so ill, that I determined to quit the ship, which I did as soon as we arrived in Cawsand Bay. The captain allowed me to go, for I told him the whole truth of the matter, and he saw that it was true; so he recommended me to the captain of a jackass frigate, who was in want of midshipmen.” “What do you mean by a jackass frigate?” inquired I. “I mean one of your twenty-eight-gun ships, so called, because there is as much difference between them and a real frigate, like the one we are sailing in, as there is between a donkey and a race-horse. Well, the ship was no sooner brought down to the dock-yard to have her ballast taken in, than our captain came down to her—a little, thin, spare man, but a man of weight nevertheless, for he brought a great pair of scales with him, and weighed everything that was put on board. I forget his real name, but the sailors christened him Captain Avoirdupois. He had a large book, and in it he inserted the weight of the ballast, and of the shot, water, provisions, coals, standing and running rigging, cables, and everything else. But I didn’t remain long; for one day I brought on board a pair of new boots, which I forgot to report, that they might be put into the scales, which swung on the gangway; and whether the captain thought that they would sink his ship, or for what I cannot tell, but he ordered me to quit her immediately—so there I was adrift again. “One day I was in the dock-yard, looking at a two-decker in the basin, just brought forward for service, and I inquired who was to be the captain. They told me that his name was O’Connor. Then he’s a countryman of mine, thought I, and I’ll try my luck. So I called at Goud’s Hotel, where he was lodging, and requested to speak with him. I was admitted, and told him, with my best bow, that I had come as a volunteer for his ship, and that my name was O’Brien. As it happened, he had some vacancies, and liking my brogue, he asked me in what ships I had served. I told him, and also my reason for quitting my last—which was, because I was turned out of it. I explained the story of the boots, and he made inquiries, and found that it was all true: and then he gave me a vacancy as master’s mate. We were ordered to South America; and the trade winds took us there in a jiffy. I liked my captain and officers very much, and what was better, we took some good prizes. But somehow or other, I never had the luck to remain long in one ship, and that by no fault of mine; at least not in this instance. All went on as smooth as possible, until one day, the captain took us on shore to a ball, at one of the peaceable districts. We had a very merry night of it; but as luck would have it, I had the morning watch to keep, and see the decks cleaned, and, as I never neglected my duty, I set off about three o’clock in the morning, just at break of day, to go on board of the ship. I was walking along the sands, thinking of the pretty girl I’d been dancing with, and had got about half-way to the ship, when three rapparees of Spanish soldiers come from behind a rock, and attacked me with their swords and bayonets. I had only my dirk, but I was not to be run through for nothing, so I fought them as long as I could, I finished one fellow, but at last they finished me; for a bayonet passed through my body, and I forgot all about it. Well, it appears—for I can only say to the best of my knowledge and belief—that after they had killed me, they stripped me naked and buried me in the sand, carrying away with them the body of their comrade. So there I was—dead and buried.” “But, O’Brien—” said I. “Whist—hold your tongue—you’ve not heard the end of it. Well, I had been buried about an hour—but not very deep it appears, for they were in too great a hurry—when a fisherman and his daughter came along the beach, on their way to the boat; and the daughter, God bless her! did me the favour to tread on my nose. It was clear that she had never trod upon an Irishman’s nose before, for it surprised her, and she looked down to see what was there, and not seeing anything, she tried it again with her foot, and then she scraped off the sand, and discovered my pretty face. I was quite warm and still breathing, for the sand had stopped the blood, and prevented my bleeding to death. The fisherman pulled me out and took me on his back to the house where the captain and officers were still dancing. When he brought me in, there was a great cry from the ladies, not because I was murdered, for they are used to it in those countries, but because I was naked, which they considered a much more serious affair. I was put to bed, and a boat despatched on board for our doctor; and in a few hours I was able to speak, and tell them how it happened. But I was too ill to move when the ship sailed, which she was obliged to do in a day or two afterwards, so the captain made out my discharge, and left me there. The family were French, and I remained with them for six months before I could obtain a passage home, during which I learnt their language, and a very fair allowance of Spanish to boot. When I arrived in England, I found that the prizes had been sold, and that the money was ready for distribution. I produced my certificate, and received 167 pounds for my share. So it’s come at last, thought I. “I had never had such a handful of money in my life. I thought of my mother, and of the cows, and the pig, and the furniture, all gone; and of my brothers and sisters wanting praties, and I made a vow that I’d send every farthing of it to them, after which Father McGrath would no longer think of not giving me absolution. So I sent them every doit, only reserving for myself the pay which I had received, amounting to about 30 pounds: and I never felt more happy in my life than when it was safe in the post-office, and fairly out of my hands. I wrote a bit of a letter to my father at the time, which was to this purpose:— “‘Honoured Father,—Since our last pleasant meeting, at which you threw the stool at my head, missing the pigeon and hitting the crow, I have been dead and buried, but am now quite well, thank God, and want no absolution from Father McGrath, bad luck to him. And what’s more to the point, I have just received a batch of prize-money, the first I have handled since I have served His Majesty, and every farthing of which I now send to you, that you may get back your old cows, and the pig, and all the rest of the articles seized to pay for my fitting-out; I’m a true O’Brien, tell my mother, and don’t mane to turn Protestant, but uphold the religion of my country; although the devil may take Father McGrath and his holy water to boot. I sha’n’t come and see you, as perhaps you may have another stool ready for my head, and may take better aim next time. So no more at present from your affectionate son, “‘Terence O’Brien.’ “About three weeks afterwards I received a letter from my father, telling me that I was a real O’Brien, and that if any one dared hint to the contrary, he would break every bone in his body: that they had received the money, and thanked me for a real gentleman as I was; that I should have the best stool in the house next time I came, not for my head, but for my tail; that Father McGrath sent me his blessing, and had given me absolution for all I had done, or should do for the next ten years to come; that my mother had cried with joy at my dutiful behaviour: and that all my brothers and sisters (bating Tim, who had died the day after I left them) wished me good luck, and plenty more prize-money to send home to them. “This was all very pleasant; and I had nothing left on my mind but to get another ship; so I went to the port-admiral, and told him how it was that I left my last; and he said, that being dead and buried was quite sufficient reason for any one leaving his ship, and that he would procure me another, now that I had come to life again. I was sent on board of the guardship, where I remained about ten days, and then was sent round to join this frigate—and so my story’s ended; and there’s eight bells striking—so the watch is ended too.” <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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