The old lieutenant and his son

Preface

Why should a man, who is ‘some fifty/ apolo¬ gize to the public for beginning to tell stories 1 Is not this a very common phenomenon ‘at his time of life?’ I have indeed no good reason to give for writing this tale, except one — which, after all, is no reason, but the mere statement of a fact, that I could not help it ! When I began to write about the Old Lieutenant, it was my intention merely to occupy a chapter or two of Good Words with a life -sketch gathered from memories of the past. But the sketch grew upon me. Persons, and things, and scenes, came crowding out of the darkness ; and while I honestly wished to mould them for practical good, I felt all the while more possessed by them than possessing them. My own half- creations became my tyrants ; and so I was driven on, and on, from chapter to chapter, until, fortunately for myself, and much more for my viii Preface.

readers, the end of the volume, and the end of the year, forced me to stop.

Having taken, however, the first bold step of pub¬ lishing the story in Good IVords, the second which I now take, of publishing it separately, can hardly make matters better or worse for me. An unautho¬ rized edition being issued in America, confirms me in my resolution to publish a corrected one here.

I have only further to state, that as the story was written and published month after month, amidst the grave and heavy labours of a large parish, a few changes are made, which would have been unneces¬ sary had it been first written as a whole before

publication.

With these explanations I send the ‘ Old Lieu¬ tenant and his Son’ once more on their voyage. May they do harm to none, out do good to many l

AND HIS SON.

Chapter I About Old Ned And His Household

I have an instinctive admiration for old officers of both services. There are, no doubt, ‘ old salts ’ and ‘ old roughs ’ among them, as there are in all professions individuals who, by their lives, contradict the spirit of their professions ; yet, as a class, they are gentlemen in the true sense of the word, considerate and courteous, with a quiet, dignified self-respect They look as if consciously representing a great body which had done noble deeds, and gained renown by sacrifices for the good of the country and of the world. I have observed, too, that old officers have a great sense of justice, not in its broad and palpable applications only, but when thes$ require the nice discernment of cultivated minds. I would sooner trust my life and honour to a jury of old officers, if they were able thoroughly to comprehend the facts of the case, than to one selected from any other body of ‘ professionals ’ on earth.

There is also something more or iess attractive to the fancy in those who have survive J the ‘great wars/ Dreams of the past hover around them. Look at that ‘ Navy-man !’ How much has he seen from the time he joined his ship at Plymouth or Portsmouth, long before the parents of most of us were married, until he left on half-pay ! what seas he has sailed over ; what days and nights of heat and cold, of gale and hurricane, he has experienced ; what watch¬ ings, anxieties, expeditions, and adventures he has shared in ; what strange characters he has met with ; what odd, out-of-the-way scenes and places he has visited ; and what a halo of romance invests his engagements, ‘ affairs, ’ chases, cuttings - out, and great sea-fights, in ships that have been like the watchful genii of our grand old nation, and whose names are historical ! Who can look at his weather¬ beaten face, shining with good -nature, his large hands, steady eye, and strong, active build, so hale and hearty, adorned with blue coat and brass but¬ tons, without feeling irresistibly drawn towards him 1 Brave old fellow ! with thy few shillings a day, how and his Son.

' 3

I honour thee above a score of mere money-makers with a thousand pounds for every button on that blue dress-coat, now getting tight for thee !

Look, too, at his worthy brother, the old soldier ; with more ceremony and manner than Jack; less of the ‘ stand at ease/ and more of the ‘ Mention !’ ‘eyes right!’ but most reliable in those emergen¬ cies of life where tact, judgment, and quiet un¬ demonstrative friendship are required ; and equally reliable for formal parties, marriages, baptisms, and funerals. The old soldier is clean, erect, tidy ; a delightful Captain Shandy, or Corporal Trim promoted. He, too, is full of rousing memories from the past, of marches, bivouacs, skirmishes, and ‘ hard pounding ’ in Spain and Portugal, culminating in the memorable Waterloo.

Alas ! ‘ the old guard’ by sea and land are vanish¬ ing from our sight like dreams ; but may we and our children’s children never forget what we owe to them, and to their comrades who have been long asleep on many a lonely battle-field, or lie buried * full many a fathom deep’ in the hidden caves of the old ocean.

While thus expressing my feelings of admiration for old officers, I am reminded of the fact, not a little remarkable, that every officer of the Roman army alluded to in the New Testament, is spoken of with respect There was the Centurion, whose servant was sick, of whom the Lord said, ‘I have not found such great faith, no, not in Israel ;’ the Centurion who stood by the cross, and who made the noble confession of Christ’s Divinity ; ‘ Cornelius the centurion, a devout man, and one who feared God with all his house, who gave much alms to the people, and prayed to God alway,’ and who had ‘a levout soldier who waited on him continually;’ the two centurions who conducted Paul to Caesarea ; and Julius the centurion, who ‘ courteously entreated Paul.’

And surely there are few finer specimens of manly, devoted Christians to be found than among those officers who have learned to ‘endure hardness’ as ‘good soldiers of Jesus Christ.’ The discipline which, as men, they have been subjected to; the temptations which they are compelled to resist and to overcome ; the confession which they must bear in trying circumstances, all combine to make them strong in faith, and able to ‘ quit themselves like men.’ We know few pictures more beautiful and purely heroic than that of Parry instructing his men in the love of God, amidst the constant dangers and utter desolation of the ‘howling North;’ or of Franklin in the last letter ever received from him, asking the prayers of his friend Parry, ‘ that the Almighty Power may guide and support us, and the teaching of His Holy Spirit rest upon us;’ or and his Son .

of Havelock at his peaceful devotions, never once omitted during that terrible march to Cawnpore, when every morning which heard his voice of prayer heard also the roar of battle ; Havelock say¬ ing to his heroic friend Outram, ere he died, ‘ I have for forty years so ruled my life, that when death comes I may face it without fear.’

I do not associate the old Lieutenant with such men, either as regards his fame or his piety. The former did not exist. What was the kind and degree of the latter must be determined by every reader for himself from such evidence as my reminiscences of him afford.

Edward Fleming was but a half-pay lieutenant of the Navy, though he was commonly called ‘ the Cap¬ tain’ by the inhabitants of the small seaport town in

Scotland where he resided.

He had seen a great deal of hard service, and by sheer bravery had worked his way from before the mast to the quarter-deck, and ended by settling down in the very town from which he had been pressed into the navy. His wife was the widow of an officer of Marines, who, on his dying bed, had commissioned old Ned to convey to her his last words. This he did on the first opportunity granted him — that being five years after she was a widow. The interview ended, some months afterwards, in a marriage ; and a happier one never took place. How well I see at this moment the neat clean white cottage where they lived ; the shaggy crag covered with heath, and crowned by birch-trees that rose behind it ; the green before the door, stretching to the sea, with its pebbly beach and deep clear water; the flag -staff ending the Cap¬ tain’s walk in the garden, or his quarter-deck, as he called it, where he daily promenaded ; the sittingroom with its engravings of sea-fights ; the crossed swords in the recess ; and the bit of the Santissima Trinidada’s bulwark, which he had pocketed as a memento of his having boarded her at Trafalgar !

Young Ned, or Neddy, was an only child, and at the time I speak of was about thirteen years of age. His mother said he was the image of his father, and his father returned the compliment by declaring he was the image of his mother. He was something of both, and that is saying much.

The only other inhabitant of the Captain’s dwell¬ ing, besides his wife and boy, was Barbara, alias Babby, the servant. She was short and dumpy, with a roll in her gait, as the Captain remarked, ‘ like a Dutch dogger in a sea-way;’ and with a large face, the life of which was concentrated in two large full moons of eyes, that seemed to be always receiving rather than giving ; for Babby’s giving was her work¬ ing life of domestic duty and family devotedness, from morning till night. She had been in the family pince its existence, and had originally come from the and his Son .

house of Mrs. Fleming’s motner. The family be¬ longed to Babby (she felt so at least) more than she to the family. Babby governed through obedience. She never rebelled, and yet it was questionable whether she ever yielded. Like a clew of worsted on the floor, she parted with her thread to the hand of master or mistress as they wound her up, to make her leave her position; but even when thus appa¬ rently * giving in,’ she always kept her position and rolled about on the floor. Every event in Ned’s life was associated with her. Her eyes gazing on him in his cot when a child were among his earliest im¬ pressions. She had been always his nurse in sick¬ ness, his considerate almoner at ‘piece’ time, his friend in little troubles, his adviser in difficulties, and the patient mender of his clothes and minor

morals.

I had almost forgotten to mention the cat and dog, beloved inmates too important to be overlooked, and whose presence was almost as real as Babby s in the establishment. The dog was a Highland terrier called Skye, with the usual characteristics of that famous and esteemed breed as to quantity of hair ; a most notable tail, which, when on important busi¬ ness, acted as a curled mainspring to his back ; and sagacious eyes, which twinkled, brown and deep, through his shaggy eye-brows, like those of an old judge ! Mause the cat belonged more to Babby’s department, but was received into the Captain's bosom as an expression of the softer domestic emo¬ tions.

The Only shadow of doubtful truthfulness, or rather benevolent delusion, I ever could discover in the Captain was with reference to his dog ; and I am obliged to confess that he could not be depended upon for strict accuracy of statement regarding that animal. He told stories of his sagacity, which were more than doubtful, to those at least not fully ini¬ tiated into the mysteries of dog life and intelligence. He even interpreted the dog’s thoughts. In the midst of some conversation about him, the Captain would suddenly stop and say — ‘ Look at him. He is following every word, sir ; every word ! He knows we intend to wash him. I’ll tell you a curious story about him. The other day,’ etc., and so he would proceed with his mythical narrative. ‘Yes, Skye, you know what I’m saying, though you pretend not ! ’ The dog hearing himself addressed by name would wag his tail without moving from his comfortable position before the fire. ‘ Ha ! ha ! friend, look at that,’ his delighted master would exclaim : ‘ I told you that he understood me.’ He was fond of re¬ marking that Lord Nelson was wonderfully attached to dogs and dogs to him.

I remember well the incident which first power¬ fully attracted my affections to young Ned, though we had been school companions from childhood. Did you ever, readers, in your youth, make a boat and rig it ? If so, you have one memorable fact to look back to ; one sunny hill-top in your life-jour¬ ney, which will always shine even amidst loftier and brighter summits. The whole process is delightful, from the hour when the square, shapeless mass of wood lies before the outer eye, as the inner eye shapes it into a comely form ; till the hull is carved into a good model with ‘ a fine run ’ and artistic * bow and the interior is scooped out ; and the deck fitted on; and the pure white sails, with ap¬ propriate tackle, flap on the tapering masts, tipped with flag or pennant. But never was such a per¬ fect lugger as Ned Fleming’s ! Dirk Hatteraick’s was nothing to her. The imagination magnified her into a daring smuggler or bloody pirate ! The day on which the races of our new boats were to come off across the small inlet of the bay, was looked for¬ ward to with intense anxiety. At early dawn most of the boys were examining their boats, with the conviction, however, that Ned Fleming’s ‘Nelson* was sure to win. She was at least two feet long, and such a shape, and painted too ! The Captain was understood also to have thrown a spell over her, and so secured the victory. But strange to say, on the famous morning there was no ‘Nelson’ there! Why no one could discover. Ned gave no explanaio The Old Lieutenant

tion beyond saying that she was not fit to app ir. But he was himself as cheerful as ever, eager to oblige and to make every one happy, and to see fair play done. It was some time before I acci¬ dentally heard the cause from Babby, who let it out in a private conversation.

‘ Ye see, his mother was ill, and so was I ; she was taken suddent — a sort of Coleric Forbes, or whatever ye ca’ it — but she needed het water, and the kin’lin’ coal on the fire had burnt down, for it was weel on to morning, and there was nae het water, nor sticks to make up the fire, as accident wad have it. Wha can hinder thae accidents ? I’m sure accidents and mishanters hae been the plague o’ my life ! I’m never in ony diffeeculty but an accident is sure to happen, as if to kill me oot o’ spite. Weel, as I was saying, what does our Neddy do but bring down his braw new boat, the daft laddie — for I might hae got sticks if I only had time — and before I could cry Jack Robison, he had her in the fire, masts an’ a’, and the kettle singing like a tap in five minutes ! Did ye ever hear tell the like o’t 1 A boy like him to bum his bonnie boat for till get het water for his auld mitherB And Babby threw herself back in the chair, and seemed to absoib me into her eyes. ‘ But the laddie is extraordinar fond o’ his mither,’ she continued ; ‘ and nae wunner. But the Captain was awfu’ proud about that boat. Ye ken he ’s no himsel wi’oot saut water and ships. He’s no like me : I canna thole them.’

When the Captain heard this story, he said no¬ thing to Ned himself, but he was observed to pace longer than usual up and down the room. After Babby had narrated the circumstances as a matter almost of complaint, he took extra pinches of snuff, laughing quietly to himself ; and kissing Neddy be¬ fore going to bed (which seldom happened since he was a child), he said, ‘ God keep you, my boy ; your poor mother is better — much better. That hot water saved her life, I do believe.’

When I alluded to the circumstance, Neddy cut me short by saying, ‘ Old Babby is an . ass and then ran off to throw stones at a crow. He never himself referred to the circumstance ; but I never forgot it, as it gave me my first vivid idea of self-sacrifice.

Ned was one of the most ‘plucky’ boys I ever knew ; calm, quiet, 4 undemonstrative,’ yet incapable of fear. He became thus a defender of the weak in the school, although he seldom had recourse at any time to the rude display of fists, and never, no never, on the side of injustice or selfishness. These weapons were called forth only on the side of the weak, more especially when some of the ‘ shore-boys,’ strong sons of fishermen, with cod-like faces, and huge hands like flat fish, with red hair and broad chests, made raids on the playground to rob us of our marbles, tops, or balls. They had one notorious leader called, I know not why, Noddles. He was recognised as in¬ vincible, and never appeared except to perpetrate some great act of robbery. On one occasion a sort of Waterloo in the school — this Napoleon of sea-sharks, followed by several less powerful aidesde-camp, suddenly rushed into the playground to seize on our only earthly treasures. Young Ned, who was not half the size of Noddles, flew at him like a tiger-cat, and, amidst the wonder and breath¬ less silence of all, at last inflicted upon him meet punishment. With bleeding mouth and nose Nod¬ dles ran off, pursued by Ned. This secured to us a long period of peace, and of fame to Ned, while the memory of the great deed survived in the school. Ned was described to new-comers as ‘ the chap who smashed Noddles.’ But, as Babby said, ‘He’s as quiet as a lamb, and maks nae mair cheep in the house than a mouse in the meal-gimal.’

I must return, however, to the Captain himself. If old Ned had a weakness, it was his endless story¬ telling about the Navy, when any one happened to touch the right spring, and was willing to listen patiently ; but to interrupt him, or to be inattentive, was dangerous, not from a particle of vanity on his part— for I believe he never for a moment thought of himself — but from the more than love he had for and his Son.

the navy and its heroic deeds. The country seemed to him to belong to the navy, and to be protected by it alone, as a parent protects a child. I am not sure that he considered the dry land as possessing any higher function than that of supplying victualling and timber for the ships. The sea was, of course, the inalienable property of His Majesty’s navy, and all vessels making use of that element did so by permis¬ sion only of the fleet — its lawful sovereign. There was, therefore, a certain reverential air with which he spoke of the navy and its admirals.

Some person one evening happened, I remember, to compare the relative merits of ‘ God save the King,’ and ‘Rule Britannia,’— giving preference, of course, to the latter ; for who, in the Captain’s pre¬ sence, would have dared a less favourable criticism ? « Yes,’ said the Captain, rising and pacing slowly back¬ ward and forward, as was his wont, ‘ it is, no doubt, my dear sir,’ — he spoke fondly to such a man — ‘the finest tune ever composed. But I have heard it, sir, in circumstances which never can be forgotten— never — never !’

‘ What were these, Captain V

•It was in the year ’95,’ began the Captain. But though the story, like all those I heard from my old friend — and which, by the by, nearly sent me to the navy, and made me a comfortable Greenwich pen¬ sioner — seems to be vividly impressed on my mind, fresh as when I first heard it, it is more than likely other thoughts, during the last thirty years, have altered some of the facts. I may be wrong, but not the Captain, who was as correct as the despatches — perhaps more so.

‘ It was in the year ’95/ he continued, ‘ that I heard Rule Britannia played as I never expect to hear it again. I was then on board the old Captain , 74, commanded by Sam Reeve. We were attached to Hotham’s squadron, and in pursuit of the French fleet, fifteen sail of the line, which were beating up to get back to Toulon, having been scared away by us from Corsica. It was a breezy morning, with heavy squalls, and we were trying, as hard as we could, in full chase, to make up to the Frenchmen, who were some miles to the windward of us. A French 80- gun ship, the Qa-ira , fell foul of a companion of the same size, and carried away her fore and maintop masts. But the Qa-ira was gallantly taken in tow, first by the Vestale , and afterwards by the Censeur. Well, these two ships, the Censeur with Qa-ira in tow, fell a good way to leeward of the French line. The breeze next day died away. Both fleets lay like logs rolling on the water. But, while look¬ ing to windward, I saw a squall — one of those cat’spaws so common in the Mediterranean — strike a Neapolitan vessel, half a mile from us. By and by the squall reached us, and, without touching the rest and his Son.

*5

of the fleet, it carried the old Captain , sir, right up to the Frenchmen, and left her there ! There we were, sir, right between the Qa-ira and Censeur , each an 80-gun line -of- battle ship. To it we went, with hearty goodwill, the two fleets looking on ! For fif¬ teen minutes, however, we had to sustain both their broadsides before we could, from our position, return a single shot. That’s what tries a man. And after we opened fire, we fought for upwards of an hour alone, without any assistance. It was hot work, I assure you. Every sail was at last torn to tatters, — stays shot away — topmasts knocked over — a large shot in the mainmast — boats broken — guns over¬ thrown — and our friends looking on, their sails flap¬ ping to their masts, and not a breath of air to fill them ! Old Goodall, the admiral of our division, was, I heard afterwards, in a state of great excite¬ ment, flying about the deck with his drawn sword, ordering every stitch to be set ; but in vain. u My poor Captain ,” he cried, “will be knocked to pieces before I can assist her !” We were at last compelled to send up a signal upon the stump of the foremast — “in want of immediate assistance;” but no assist¬ ance came ! I was watching the old Princess Char¬ lotte , Admiral Goodall’s ship. Minutes were pre¬ cious. We would sooner sink than give in; but sink we must, if not soon relieved. But every glimpse I caught of our fleet through the smoke, showed the sails hanging to the masts, without a breath of wind. Suddenly, to my joy, I thought I saw the royals of the Princess Charlotte begin¬ ning to fill — then the foretopsails to belly out a bit — then a white line of foam like a ring to gather round her bows ! It was all right ! On she came with a glorious breeze that had sprung up. We gave three cheers ! What a sight it was to see her bearing down on us, when we were fighting in despair against such odds ! Down she came, sir ; and as she ran between us and the enemy, her band struck up, “Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves !” That was the time when ’ — But the lips of old Ned began to tremble at the recollection, and then he laughed, as he took a pinch of snuff, and blew his nose with extraordinary vehemence.

The Captain had a custom which his wife once— « but only once — attempted to make him give up. The experiment almost proved fatal to their do¬ mestic happiness, for a forenoon at least — I do not believe any longer period of contention between them could have been imagined, for not even one such dark day was recorded in the family log-book. The custom to which I allude was that of old Ned’s keeping the anniversaries of all his battles. And the way he did it was this. He dressed himself in what remained of his old uniform; in nankeen trousers, white kersey waistcoat, the blue coat with the brass and his Son.

*7 buttons, ruffled shirt, and shoes with buckles. A bottle of port — few of which were in his cellars— was always drawn for the occasion of a great battle ; while he made a tumbler of whiskey - toddy serve for less important actions. Mrs. Fleming was also obliged to appear with some festal sign. She gener¬ ally dressed in her Sunday clothes. Mr. Freeman, an old boatswain, then a custom-house officer, was always invited to be present on such occasions. Young Ned was there, of course ; and I nad once the privilege, as his companion, to be present also. It was a law that, from the time the enemy hove in sight — at which moment an old Union Jack, which had seen service, was hoisted by Freeman on the flagstaff — until victory was proclaimed, no one was to leave the room. The bottle of port being drawn and glasses filled, the Captain placed his large gold watch, with its ponderous chain and seals, on the table ; and after pacing up and down, with his hands behind his back, ever and anon casting his look at the watch, he would at last make the important announcement, which fairly began the day : ‘ The enemy have hove in sight, and are bearing downsignal made by the admiral for close action. Hoist away, Freeman ! — we shall drink success !’ — which was done with due decorum by all. As the action proceeded, the Captain became more and more animated, yet calm. Every ship that struck was i8 announced at the right minute, and some port accompanied the cheers which still echoed in his memory.

‘ Freeman/ he would say, ‘ we shall never see the like again.’

‘ Never, Captain, never — them days are past — the men are gone.’

‘ And the officers, Freeman.’

‘ Nobody cares about them times, Captain. Shops is all the glory of the land, and smuggling of the sea now.’

‘ You and I, Freeman, as long as we live, will remember them — even him above all !’ — that memory was never omitted — ‘the bravest, the best, the truest man that ever trod the quarter-deck of a man-of-war, — the immortal Nelson.’

* Towards the same, Captain.*

The Captain found it convenient at such a crisis to go and pat Skye, and direct his attention to some event outside the house. He did not like that any one should see his weakness.

There were other events in the engagement, which were always interpreted by the Captain with a grave and solemn look, such as, ‘ My poor old friend Scott was struck down at this period of the day;’ and then the circumstances attending his fall were biographi¬ cally touched upon — until finally the victory was won, when the Captain summed up the gain, and l9 spoke the praises of the mighty dead. What re¬ mained in the decanter was kept for bringing the enemy next day into harbour, and securing the prizes. But all was ended for the present by his wife playing Rule Britannia upon the old spinnet, the Captain joining to the best of his ability.

Neddy, as I said, was always present on these occasions. ‘You see, my boy,’ the Captain would add, ‘we always did our duty, and what was right for king and country;’ and then, as he wiped his moist eyes with the back of his rough hand, he wouid express his hearty thanks to a higher power than man’s, for having preserved him. Don’t sup pose, reader, the good old fellow exceeded by a single glass. These days were his only holidays, and happy ones they were, and good ones too ; the sunniest days also in poor old Freeman’s life. ‘You will always notice,’ Mrs. Fleming used to say to her son, ‘ how heartily your father reads the thanksgiving at prayers on the evenings of our battle-days,’ as these were termed in the family.