the Commodore left the poop; but during these many hours he spoke to no one, but continued now pacing the deck in much perturbation of mind, now hanging on the weather-bulwark in bitter abstraction. The man was not content with himself. CHAPTER VI. "Ira, furor brevis est. The truth of which we oft must test, SENSIBLE SAM. I am just approaching the first catastrophe. Indignation is a feeling that now seldom trembles along my nerves. I can feel pity, and contempt, and regret, yet with me, they are no longer passions, but sensations. And yet, when I remember the sad falling off of my respectable and very redoutable hero, the fires of youth blaze up fitfully in my bosom, and I shudder whilst I record. Ten days after the Commodore had crammed the chaplain with excellent advice, on the twenty-seventh of March-yes, it was the twenty-seventh,-after four-and-twenty hours of deep fog, not far from the Race of Alderney, the long-pursued French squadron was discovered close in shore, on the Norman coast, with Cherbourg under its lee-SAFE. As the mist slowly folded up its fleecy curtains, and ship after ship appeared with the hated tricolor streaming to the wind, the surgeon was sent for on the poop, for it was thought that Sir Octavius had been struck with an apoplectic fit, his features were so fixed, his position so motionless, his single eye so bloodshot, and the veins in his temples and forehead so turgid. When the surgeon approached him, and endeavoured to possess himself of his wrist, in order to feel his pulse, he flung him from him with violence, and exclaimed, "I am not ill, but mad." And of a verity he was so. Master, pilot, signal officers, and men, all fell under his rage. The sight before him was certainly sufficient to try the philosophy of a much calmer and better regulated mind than that of the old Commodore. As the enemy's force, now increased by another line of battle ship, stood in under easy sail, between them and the shore, was crowded together a perfect fleet of captured English West-Indiamen. As the French ships-of-war ran along shore, they hauled more and more to the wind, approaching in idle bravado within gun-shot of the English squadron, well knowing that it would have been insanity on the part of the Commodore to have engaged them with half a gale of wind blowing dead on the shore, lined with ranges of terrible batteries. When the French men-of-war had got directly opposite the harbour's mouth, they hove to, and the English had the mortification of seeing merchant ship after merchant ship, the French colours flying over the English, file into Cherbourg, gradually disappearing behind that enormous fort, Pelée. These operations seemed lengthened out purposely, in order to prolong the torture of the old Commodore. It was dangerous to approach him; he raved, he swore-how terrible he swore! Certainly, at that hour, he should have been relieved from his command. He was in that state in which Henry the Eighth has been described to have been in by his historians during his last illness, and before any one had dared to tell him that it was his last. Evening was coming on, and both fleets were drawing into the harbour's mouth; and, as the flood-tide would soon set in strongly, it became a matter of absolute necessity for the English squadron to make sail and get a good offing before dark. At the time, when it was already dusk, and the numerous fishing-boats were running in unnoticed between the two threatening fleets, orders were given to make sail, and the carpenter ordered to rig the gratings at the same time. The Commodore, not knowing how to contain his wrath, chose to work the ship himself. Never was the duty performed more instantaneously, never more accurately. But Sir Octavius saw in everything disobedience of orders, mutiny, and rebellion. No sooner were the weather-braces hauled taut, and the ropes coiled down, than he put three of his lieutenants and his master under arrest, broke half-a-dozen of his petty officers, and then sending for his boatswain, went into his cabin, and flogged two of his midshipmen. From thence, he repaired to the gangway and flogged every man on the black list, and every man against whom a fault could be imagined. Am I relating an extravagant fiction? Am I even drawing an overcharged picture? Alas! for poor human nature! Go read the records of the times. What my hero did under the worst of exasperations, in comparative moderation, other gallaut officers have done in sport and mockery; for who does not know, that is at all acquainted with naval matters, of the boast of a gallant captain, who, when he went on shore, used to say that he had left his ship's company the happiest set of men alive, for he had just flogged one half of them (hundreds of men,) and they were happy it was over, and the other half were equally happy that they were not to catch it till next day? If, notwithstanding the dictates of morality, the denunciations of religion, and the march of refinement, there be a process by which men are to be made Caligulas, Caligulas will surely be made. Alas, for dreadful human nature! Now, however, we may thank God that this machinery, working unto evil, of which arbitrary power was the momentum, exists no longer in the navy. But our dear old hero did not act thus passionately and thus cruelly with impunity. He had certain dreadful twinges of conscience, combined with other checks still more annoying. His nephew, silly boy that he was, from time to time, cast upon him all manner of looks, from pity up to indignation; the very worst method that the young and high-spirited moralist could have adopted. Even whilst the Commodore was inflicting the lash upon his men, some one whispered distinctly into his ear, "Coward and tyrant!" but when he looked round every one seemed occupied by the unpleasant duty then going on, though young Astell stood most suspiciously near to his infuriated uncle. The last man had been flogged, and the hands piped down, but the wrath of Sir Octavius neither pipe nor tabor could allay, and his one eye scowled fearfully around for other objects to make as miserable as himself; and now, for the first time, his bosom burned to fix a quarrel openly on his nephew, he had read his looks, and gave him full credit for the accusing whisper. There was the victim close to him, but, as yet, there were no sticks with which to make the sacrificial fire. For a few fatal moments he forgot that he had a sister. I am sure that God generally punishes us most by granting us our wicked wishes, and that the devil has always a large assortment of our favourite sins at hand, all ticketed, witth nice new names, to clap into our fists the moment that we ask for them. Do we want revenge? there it is for us-only ask and have, called justice, -hate, contempt of wickedness, etc. etc. 66 "Oh! that I had a specious opportunity of venting my wrath on that proud young contemner of my weakness," thought Sir Octavius. 'My dear, dispassionate, kind-hearted sir," said Beelzebub, "do not call things by their wrong names. Wrath, indeed! you only want to vindicate your legal authority; permit me to hand you over the opportunity. Don't you remember, that, about a couple of nights since, the worthy chaplain hinted to you that Mr. Astell's hammock-man was drunk, and that the young gentleman, who must have known it, never reported him." Now, the Commodore didn't know that the devil was doing all this, but he thought that he was acting on the suggestions of his own good sense; so he stopped, started, and cried,-"Hah!" quite terrifically, "come here, Mr. Astell,-come here, sir. Do you know that I would as soon flog you, sir, if you deserved it, as I just have Mr. Thompson and Mr. Johnson, notwithstanding your lady mother and your sanctified looks?" "I hope not, sir; I trust that you would not think that I deserved it, and if you did think that I did, that you would not do it." "I would, by G-d! and now, sir, mark you me!—speak the truth." "We do not lie, Sir Octavius, in our family." "Was, or was not, John Sunninghill, your hammock-man, drunk on the evening before last?" "He was drunk, Sir Octavius." "And you screened him, sir?” "Pardon me, sir; I did not screen him, I only did not report him." "And why, sir-answer, why?" "Truly and frankly, Sir Octavius?" "Aye, sir, truly and frankly; do you think I fear truth and frankness?" "Because he is the son of one of my mother's tenants, and followed me to sea through affection-because I promised, solemnly promised, his mother and mine to be kind to him-and, because I knew that the punishment would far exceed the offence." "You did, aye? Do you not know that you yourself have committed an offence-a very great offence-in not reporting drunkenness?" "If you think so, sir, I am ready, willingly, to undergo a suitable punishment for it; that is, such a one as a gentleman should inflict upon a gentleman. I thought-—” "I think and I thought! what the devil do you mean? Pray, sir, who gave you leave to think?" This was formerly a favourite expression from a superior to an inferior officer. "The great God that gave you leave to breathe." "Dare you tell me this to my face?-insolent puppy!" "Uncle, this violence—" "Uncle me no uncles-there's no such word in the articles of war. Under that broad pennant, sir, there's no other relation between us than that which demands of you the extremest subordination. It would serve you right if I flogged you as I have just done your messmates." Now I am not sure whether the devil did not serve the nephew the same trick that he had served the uncle; for no sooner had young Astell said to himself, "If it were not foolishly tempting a wild man's anger, and forgetting a respect that ought always to be paid to authority" "What do you mean," said the satanic deceiver, "by calling things by wrong names? It is all a proper pride, and a noble spirit, -just dare him to flog you." "You would never flog me," said the boy, tossing up his head, proudly; "because, sir, the attempt would disgrace you, and disgrace me; and because that attempt you dare not make." "Darn't?-by the living G-d! Then by that sacred name, I swear, if you and I are permitted to breathe another hour, I will flog you even if you were twenty times my nephew,-twenty, a hundred times, my son. Down to your berth, sir; the oath is recorded-you are a prisoner until the punishment is inflicted; another word and the manacles shall be on your hands." The poor Augustus went below almost stupefied. He had heard his death-warrant-now he pretended to no fortitude, he despaired, and he confessed it. He could not even act the Christian; he could not forgive his uncle. But there was dreadful calmness in his despair; his messmates offered him spirits and water, but he would take nothing. He merely asked for a sheet of paper, on which he wrote these few words. "MOTHER, "When you see this, go and demand from your brother your murdered son. I am praying to God to bless you. "AUGUSTUS ASTELL." He then wept so passionately, that the writing on the paper, had it not been removed from before him, would have been totally obliterated. Then there came a rumour into the berth that the master-at-arms was coming for him, and then he dried up his tears hastily, and sealed the letter. He then turned to one of his messmates and said, "Danvers, the tyrant shall never flog me. I will try him to the last moment. If anything should happen to me, convey with your own hand this letter to Lady Astell; you may tell her that I never disgraced her; and now, in the will of God be the issue." He then shook hands with all of them, bidding them tenderly farewell, and followed the master-at-arms into the presence of his commander into the cabin. The Commodore's countenance was more darkly stern than before; two or three of the officers were with him, and the chaplain also. The boatswain stood ready with the cat, and the quartermaster with the seizings. The officers had been interceding, but injudiciously, with him; and when nephew and uncle met face to face, the latter only said, with a hoarse voice, "Strip." I could not write, for very tears, the pathetic pleadings of the poor boy to his uncle; all his pride had given way; he offered every atonement, every humiliation, even to the going down on his knees and asking pardon for his contumacy; but the Commodore only gnashed out from between his teeth," My oath, my oath." Every one in the cabin was weeping but the relatives; even the gruff old boatswain, who had not shed a tear since the last of his little ones had died, and those tears grudgingly, was dashing his |