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The King's Own. Frederick Marryat
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Автор произведения Frederick Marryat
Жанр Зарубежная классика
Издательство Public Domain
“Indeed, Miss!” replied old Hornblow, whom the reader may recognise as the patron of our smuggling captain.
“Well, father, there’s no harm in saying so. I want freedom. I feel as if I could not be too free; I should like to be blown about in a balloon. Oh, why don’t you give up business, go down to the sea-side, take a pretty little cottage, and make yourself and me happy? I fancy the sea-breeze is blowing in my face, and all my ringlets out of curl. I shall die if I stay here much longer — I shall indeed, father.”
Repeated attacks of this nature had already sapped the foundation; and a lovely and only daughter had the influence over her father’s heart, to which she was entitled.
“Well, well, Susan, let McElvina wind up the accounts of this vessel, and then I will do as you wish; but I cannot turn him adrift, you know.”
“Turn Captain McElvina adrift! No — if you did, father — ”
“I presume that you would be very much inclined to take him in tow — eh, Miss?”
“I shall never act without attending to your advice, and consulting your wishes, my dear father,” answered Susan, the suffusion of her unusually pale cheeks proving that she required but colour to be perfectly beautiful.
And here the conversation dropped. Old Hornblow had long perceived the growing attachment between his daughter and McElvina; and the faithful and valuable services of the latter, added to the high opinion which the old man had of his honesty — which, to do McElvina justice, had been most scrupulous — had determined him to let things take their own course. Indeed, there was no one with whom old Hornblow was acquainted to whom he would have entrusted his daughter’s happiness with so much confidence as to our reformed captain.
A sharp double tap at the street door announced the post, and in a few minutes after this conversation the clerk appeared with a letter for old Hornblow, who, pursuant to the prudent custom of those days, had his counting-house on the ground floor of his own residence, which enabled him to go to his dinner, and return to his business in the evening. Nowadays we are all above our business, and live above our means (which is in itself sufficient to account for the general distress that is complained of); and the counting-house is deserted before dusk, that we may arrive at our residences in Russell-square, or the Regent’s-park, in time to dress for a turtle dinner at six o’clock, instead of a mutton chop, or single joint, en famille, at two.
But to return. Old Hornblow put on his spectacles (which were on the table since they had been removed from his nose by Susan when she kissed him), and examined the post-mark, seal, and superscription, as if he wished to tax his ingenuity with a guess previously to opening the letter, which would have saved him all that trouble, and have decided the point of scrutiny — viz., from whom it came?
“McElvina, I rather think,” said he, musing; “but the postmark is Plymouth. How the deuce — !” The two first lines of the letter were read, and the old man’s countenance fell. Susan, who had been all alive at the mention of McElvina’s name, perceived the alteration in her father’s looks.
“No bad news, I hope, my dear father?”
“Bad enough,” replied the old man, with a deep sigh; “the lugger is taken by a frigate, and sent into Plymouth.”
“And Captain McElvina — he’s not hurt, I hope?”
“No, I presume not, as he has written the letter, and says nothing about it.”
Satisfied upon this point, Susan, who recollected her father’s promise, was undutiful enough, we are sorry to say, to allow her heart to bound with joy at the circumstance. All her fond hopes were about to be realised, and she could hardly refrain from carolling the words of Ariel, “Where the bee sucks, there lurk I;” but fortunately she remembered that other parties might not exactly participate in her delight. Out of respect for her father’s feelings, she therefore put on a grave countenance, in sad contrast with her eyes, which joy had brilliantly lighted up.
“Well, it’s a bad business,” continued old Hornblow. “Wilmott!” (The clerk heard his master’s voice, and came in.) “Bring me the ledger. Let me see — Belle Susanne — I wonder why the fool called her by that name, as if I had not one already to take money out of my pocket. Oh! here it is — folio 59 continued, folio 100, 129, 147, — not balanced since April last year. Be quick, and strike me out a rough balance-sheet of the lugger.”
“But what does Captain McElvina say, father?”
“What does he say? Why, that he is taken. Haven’t I told you so already, girl?” replied old Hornblow, in evident ill-humour.
“Yes, but the particulars, my dear father!”
“Oh, there’s only the fact, without particulars — says he will write more fully in a day or two.”
“I’ll answer for him, that it was not his fault, father — he has always done you justice.”
“I did not say that he had not; I’m only afraid that success has made him careless — it’s always the case.”
“Yes,” replied Susan, taking up the right cue; “as you say, father, he has been very successful.”
“He has,” replied the old man, recovering his serenity a little, “very successful indeed. I dare say it was not his fault.”
The clerk soon made his appearance with the rough balance-sheet required. It did more to restore the good humour of the old man than even the soothing of his daughter.
“Oh! here we are — La Belle Susanne — Debtor to — . Total, 14,864 pounds, 14 shillings, 3 pence. Contra — Credit. 27,986 pounds, 16 shillings, 8 pence. Balance to profit and loss, 13,122 pounds, 2 shillings, 5 pence. Well, that’s not so very bad in less than three years. I think I may afford to lose her.”
“Why, father,” replied Susan, leaning over his shoulder, and looking archly at him, “’tis a fortune in itself; to a contented person.”
But as, independently of McElvina’s letter not being sufficiently explicit, there are other circumstances connected with his capture that are important to our history, we shall ourselves narrate the particulars.
For more than two years, McElvina, by his dexterity and courage, and the fast sailing of his vessel, had escaped all his pursuers, and regularly landed his cargoes. During this time, Willy had made rapid progress under his instruction, not only in his general education, but also in that of his profession. One morning the lugger was off Cape Clear, on the coast of Ireland, when she discovered a frigate to windward, — the wind, weather, and relative situations of the two vessels being much the same as on the former occasion, when McElvina, by his daring and judicious manoeuvre, had effected his escape. The frigate chased, and soon closed-to within a quarter of a mile of the lugger, when she rounded-to, and poured in a broadside of grape, which brought her fore-yard down on deck. From that moment such an incessant fire of musketry was poured in from the frigate, that every man on board of McElvina’s vessel, who endeavoured to repair the mischief; was immediately struck down. Any attempt at escape was now hopeless. When within two cables’ length, the frigate hove to the wind, keeping the lugger under her lee, and continued a fire of grape and musketry into her, until the rest of her sails were lowered down.
The crew of the smuggler, perceiving all chance in their favour to be over, ran down below to avoid the fire, and secure their own effects. The boats of the frigate were soon on board of the lugger, and despatched back to her with McElvina and the chief officers.