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Peter Simple

<h3>Chapter Forty One.</h3> <h4>Pompous obsequies—The reading of the will, not exactly after Wilkie—I am left a legacy—What becomes of it—My father, very warm, writes a sermon to cool himself—I join O’Brien’s brig, and fall in with Swinburne.</h4> On that day week I accompanied my father to Eagle Park, to assist at the burial of Lord Privilege. We were ushered into the room where the body had lain in state for three days. The black hangings, the lofty plumes, the rich ornaments on the coffin, and the number of wax candles, with which the room was lighted, produced a solemn and grand effect. I could not help, as I leaned against the balustrade before the coffin, and thought of its contents, calling to mind when my poor grandfather’s feelings seemed, as it were, inclined to thaw in my favour, when he called me “his child,” and, in all probability, had not my uncle had a son, would have died in my arms, fond and attached to me for my own sake, independently of worldly considerations. I felt that had I known him longer, I could have loved him, and that he would have loved me; and I thought to myself how little all these empty honours, after his decease, could compensate for the loss of those reciprocal feelings, which would have so added to his happiness during his existence. But he had lived for pomp and vanity; and pomp and vanity attended him to his grave. I thought of my sister Ellen, and of O’Brien, and walked away with the conviction that Peter Simple might have been an object of envy to the late Right Honourable Lord Viscount Privilege, Baron Corston, Lord Lieutenant of the county, and one of His Majesty’s most Honourable Privy Councillors. When the funeral, which was very tedious and very splendid, was over, we all returned in the carriages to Eagle Park, when my uncle, who had of course assumed the title, and who had attended as chief mourner, was in waiting to receive us. We were shown into the library, and in the chair so lately and constantly occupied by my grandfather, sat the new lord. Near to him were the lawyers, with parchments lying before them. As we severally entered, he waved his hand to unoccupied chairs, intimating to us to sit down; but no words were exchanged, except an occasional whisper between him and the lawyers. When all the branches of the family were present, down to the fourth and fifth cousins, the lawyer on the right of my uncle put on his spectacles, and unrolling the parchment, commenced reading the will. I paid attention to it at first; but the legal technicalities puzzled me, and I was soon thinking of other matters, until, after half-an-hour’s reading, I was startled at the sound of my own name. It was a bequest by codicil to me, of the sum of ten thousand pounds. My father, who sat by me, gave me a slight push, to attract my attention; and I perceived that his face was not quite so mournful as before. I was rejoicing at this unexpected intelligence. I called to mind what my father had said to me when we were returning from Eagle Park, that “my grandfather’s attentions to me were as good as ten thousand pounds in his will,” and was reflecting how strange it was that he had hit upon the exact sum. I also thought of what my father had said of his own affairs, and his not having saved anything for his children, and congratulated myself that I should now be able to support my dear sister Ellen, in case of any accident happening to my father, when I was roused by another mention of my name. It was a codicil dated about a week back, in which my grandfather, not pleased at my conduct, revoked the former codicil, and left me nothing. I knew where the blow came from, and I looked my uncle in the face; a gleam of malignant pleasure was in his eyes, which had been fixed on me, waiting to receive my glance. I returned it with a smile expressive of scorn and contempt, and then looked at my father, who appeared to be in a state of misery. His head had fallen upon his breast, and his hands were clasped. Although I was shocked at the blow, for I knew how much the money was required, I felt too proud to show it; indeed, I felt that I would not for worlds have exchanged situations with my uncle, much less feelings; for when those who remain meet to ascertain the disposition made, by one who is summoned away to the tribunal of his Maker, of those worldly and perishable things which he must leave behind him, feelings of rancour and ill-will might, for the time, be permitted to subside, and the memory of a “departed brother” be productive of charity and good-will. After a little reflection, I felt that I could forgive my uncle. Not so my father: the codicil which deprived me of my inheritance, was the last of the will, and the lawyer rolled up the parchment and took off his spectacles. Everybody rose; my father seized his hat, and telling me in a harsh voice to follow him, tore off the crape weepers, and then threw them on the floor as he walked away. I also took off mine, and laid them on the table, and followed him. My father called his carriage, waiting in the hall till it was driven up, and jumped into it. I followed him; he drew up the blind, and desired them to drive home. “Not a sixpence! By the God of heaven, not a sixpence! My name not even mentioned, except for a paltry mourning ring! And yours—pray, sir, what have you been about, after having such a sum left you, to forfeit your grandfather’s good opinion? Heh! sir—tell me directly!” continued he, turning round to me in a rage. “Nothing, my dear father, that I am aware of. My uncle is evidently my enemy.” “And why should he be particularly your enemy? Peter, there must be some reason for his having induced your grandfather to alter his bequest in your favour. I insist upon it, sir, that you tell me immediately.” “My dear father, when you are more calm, I will talk this matter over with you. I hope I shall not be considered wanting in respect, when I say, that, as a clergyman of the Church of England—” “Damn the Church of England, and those who put me into it!” replied my father, maddened with rage. I was shocked and held my tongue. My father appeared also to be confused at his hasty expressions. He sank back in his carriage, and preserved a gloomy silence until we arrived at our own door. As soon as we entered, my father hastened to his own room, and I went up to my sister Ellen, who was in her bed-room. I revealed to her all that had passed, and advised with her on the propriety of my communicating to my father the reasons which had occasioned my uncle’s extreme aversion towards me. After much argument, she agreed with me, that the disclosure had now become necessary. After the dinner-cloth had been removed, my sister left the room, and went upstairs, and I then communicated to my father the circumstances which had come to our knowledge relative to my uncle’s establishment in Ireland. He heard me very attentively, took out tablets, and made notes. “Well, Peter,” said he, after a few minutes’ silence, when I had finished, “I see clearly through this whole business. I have no doubt but that a child has been substituted to defraud you and me of our just inheritance of the title and estates; but I will now set to work and try if I cannot find out the secret; and, with the help of Captain O’Brien and Father McGrath, I think it is not at all impossible.” “O’Brien will do all that he can, sir,” replied I; “and I expect soon to hear from him. He must have now been a week in Ireland.” “I shall go there myself,” replied my father: “and there are no means that I will not resort to, to discover this infamous plot. No,” exclaimed he, striking his fist on the table, so as to shiver two of the wine-glasses into fragments—“no means but I will resort to.” “That is,” replied I, my dear father, “no means which may be legitimately employed by one of your profession.” “I tell you, no means that can be used by man to recover his defrauded rights. Tell me not of legitimate means, when I am to lose a title and property by a spurious and illegitimate substitution! By the God of heaven, I will meet them with fraud for fraud, with false swearing for false swearing, and with blood for blood, if it should be necessary! My brother has dissolved all ties, and I will have my right, even if I demand it with a pistol at his ear.” “For Heaven’s sake, my dear father, do not be so violent—recollect your profession.” “I do,” replied he bitterly; “and how I was forced into it, against my will. I recollect my father’s words, the solemn coolness with which he told me, ‘I had my choice of the Church, or—to starve.’—But I have my sermon to prepare for to-morrow, and I can sit here no longer. Tell Ellen to send me in some tea.” I did not think my father was in a very fit state of mind to write a sermon, but I held my tongue. My sister joined me, and we saw no more of him till breakfast the next day. Before we met, I received a letter from O’Brien. <blockquote> “My dear Peter,—I ran down to Plymouth, hoisted my pennant, drew my jollies from the dock-yard, and set my first lieutenant to work getting in the ballast and water-tanks. I then set off for Ireland, and was very well received as Captain O’Brien by my family, who were all flourishing. Now that my two sisters are so well married off, my father and mother are very comfortable, but very lonely; for I believe I told you long before that it had pleased Heaven to take all the rest of my brothers and sisters, except the two now married, and one who bore up for a nunnery, dedicating her service to God, after she was scarred with the small-pox, and no man would look at her. Ever since the family have been grown up, my father and mother have been lamenting and sorrowing that none of them would go off; and now that they’re all gone off one way or another, they cry all day because they are left all alone, with no one to keep company with them, except Father McGrath and the pigs. We never are to be contented in this world, that’s sartin; and now that they are comfortable in every respect, they find that they are very uncomfortable, and having obtained all their wishes, they wish everything back again; but as old Maddocks used to say, ‘A good growl is better than a bad dinner’ with some people; and the greatest pleasure that they now have is to grumble; and if that makes them happy, they must be happy all day long—for the devil a bit do they leave off from morning till night. “The first thing that I did was to send for Father McGrath, who had been more away from home than usual—I presume, not finding things quite so comfortable as they used to be. He told me that he had met with Father O’Toole, and had a bit of a dialogue with him, which had ended in a bit of a row, and that he had cudgelled Father O’Toole well, and tore his gown off his back, and then tore it into shivers,—that Father O’Toole had referred the case to the bishop, and that was how the matter stood just then. ‘But,’ says he, ‘the spalpeen has left this part of the country, and, what is more, has taken Ella and her mother with him; and, what is still worse, no one could find out where they were gone; but it was believed that they had all been sent over the water.’ So you see, Peter, that this is a bad job in one point, which is, that we have no chance of getting the truth out of the old woman; for now that we have war with France, who is to follow them? On the other hand, it is good news; for it prevents me from decoying that poor young girl, and making her believe what will never come to pass; and I am not a little glad on that score, for Father McGrath was told by those who were about her, that she did nothing but weep and moan for two days before she went away, scolded as she was by her mother, and threatened by that blackguard O’Toole. It appears to me, that all our hopes now are in finding out the soldier, and his wife the wet-nurse, who were sent to India—no doubt with the hope that the climate and the fevers may carry them off. That uncle of yours is a great blackguard, every bit of him. I shall leave here in three days, and you must join me at Plymouth. Make my compliments to your father, and my regards to your sister, whom may all the saints preserve! God bless her, for ever and ever. Amen. “Yours ever, “Terence O’Brien.” </blockquote> I put this letter into my father’s bands when he came out of his room. “This is a deep-laid plot,” said he, “and I think we must immediately do as O’Brien states—look after the nurse who was sent to India. Do you know the regiment to which her husband belongs?” “Yes, sir,” replied I; “it is the 33rd, and she sailed for India about three months back.” “The name, you say, I think, is O’Sullivan,” said he, pulling out his tablets. “Well, I will write immediately to Captain Fielding, and beg him to make the minutest inquiries. I will also write to your sister Lucy, for women are much keener than men in affairs of this sort. If the regiment is ordered to Ceylon, all the better: if not, he must obtain furlough to prosecute his inquiries. When that is done, I will go myself to Ireland, and try if we cannot trace the other parties.” My father then left the room, and I retired with Ellen to make preparations for joining my ship at Plymouth. A letter announcing my appointment had come down, and I had written to request my commission to be forwarded to the clerk of the cheque at Plymouth, that I might save a useless journey to London. On the following day I parted with my father and my dear sister, and, without any adventure, arrived at Plymouth Dock, where I met with O’Brien. The same day I reported myself to the admiral, and joined my brig, which was lying alongside the hulk with her topmasts pointed through. Returning from the brig, as I was walking up Fore-street, I observed a fine stout sailor, whose back was turned to me, reading the handbill which had been posted up everywhere, announcing that the Rattlesnake, Captain O’Brien (about to proceed to the West India station, where doubloons were so plentiful, that dollars were only used for ballast), was in want of a few stout hands. It might have been said, of a great many; for we had not entered six men, and were doing all the work with the marines and riggers of the dockyard; but it is not the custom to show your poverty in this world either with regard to men or money. I stopped, and overheard him say, “Ay, as for the doubloons, that cock won’t fight. I’ve served long enough in the West Indies not to be humbugged; but I wonder whether Captain O’Brien was the second lieutenant of the Sanglier. If so, I shouldn’t mind trying a cruise with him.” I thought that I recollected the voice, and touching him on the shoulder, he turned round, and it proved to be Swinburne. “What, Swinburne!” said I, shaking him by the hand, for I was delighted to see him, “is it you?” “Why, Mr Simple! Well, then, I expect that I’m right, and that Mr O’Brien is made, and commands this craft. When you meet the pilot-fish, the shark ain’t far off, you know.” “You’re very right, Swinburne,” said I, “in all except calling Captain O’Brien a shark. He’s no shark.” “No, that he ain’t except in one way; that is, that I expect he’ll soon show his teeth to the Frenchmen. But I beg your pardon, sir;” and Swinburne took off his hat. “Oh! I understand: you did not perceive before that I had shipped the swab. Yes, I’m lieutenant of the Rattlesnake, Swinburne, and hope you’ll join us.” “There’s my hand upon it, Mr Simple,” said he, smacking his great fist into mine so as to make it tingle. “I’m content if I know that the captain’s a good officer; but when there’s two, I think myself lucky. I’ll just take a boat, and put my name on the books, and then I’ll be on shore again to spend the rest of my money, and try if I can’t pick up a few hands as volunteers, for I know where they all be stowed away, I was looking at the craft this morning, and rather took a fancy to her. She has a damned pretty run; but I hope Captain O’Brien will take off her fiddle-head, and get one carved: I never knew a vessel do much with a fiddle-head.” “I rather think that Captain O’Brien has already applied to the Commissioner on the subject,” replied I; “at all events, it won’t be very difficult to make the alteration ourselves.” “To be sure not,” replied Swinburne; “a coil of four-inch will make the body of the snake; I can carve out the head; and as for a rattle be blessed if I don’t rob one of those beggars of watchmen this very night! So good-bye, Mr Simple, till we meet again.” Swinburne kept his word; he joined the ship that afternoon, and the next day came off with six good hands, who had been induced from his representations to join the brig. “Tell Captain O’Brien,” said he to me, “not to be in too great a hurry to man his ship. I know where there are plenty to be had; but I’ll try fair means first.” This he did, and every day almost he brought off a man, and all he did bring off were good able seamen. Others volunteered, and we were now more than half manned, and ready for sea. The admiral then gave us permission to send pressgangs on shore. “Mr Simple,” said Swinburne, “I’ve tried all I can to persuade a lot of fine chaps to enter, but they won’t. Now I’m resolved that my brig shall be well manned; and if they don’t know what’s good for them, I do, and I’m sure that they’ll thank me for it afterwards; so I’m determined to take every mother’s son of them.” The same night, we mustered all Swinburne’s men, and went on shore to a crimp’s house which they knew, surrounded it with our marines in blue jackets, and took out of it twenty-three fine able seamen, which nearly filled up our complement. The remainder we obtained by a draft from the admiral’s ship; and I do not believe that there was a vessel that left Plymouth harbour and anchored in the Sound, better manned than the Rattlesnake. So much for a good character, which is never lost upon seamen. O’Brien was universally liked by those who had sailed with him; and Swinburne, who knew him well, persuaded many, and forced the others, to enter with him, whether they liked it or not. This they in the event did, and, with the exception of those drafted from the flag-ship, we had no desertions. Indeed, none deserted whom we could have wished to retain, and their vacancies were soon filled up with better men. <hr></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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