“From ocean’s mist, the white-sailed fleet arose!
First, a ridge of clouds it seemed; but brighter
Shone the sun—and the distant ships stood forth,
Their wet sides glittering in all his beams!”
“Heavens!
Must I renounce honour, reputation?”
As the Glorious anchored in Cawsand Bay, in company with a numerous fleet, the animated prospect which presented itself, especially in its combined effect with the state of the atmosphere, uniting a bright sunny glow with a fog, consequently, of a peculiar whiteness, possessed a degree and style of beauty not easily imagined by any one unaccustomed to harbour scenery.
It was the noon of a frosty day: the sun which, as we have observed, shone brightly, gave to the face of the waters the appearance of a sheet of light. The heights around, and all other distant objects, were covered with the smoky veil of white fog, already noticed, which reduced them to shades of the neutral tint; while, on the side of the nearest hill, the clumps of wood and undulations of ground were plainly visible, and along its topmost line some scattered trees stood curiously and beautifully traced against the pale, even mistiness of all behind. In the bay, too, the nearest range of ships, with all the varied and still varying forms of their floating canvass, (for almost all the fleet at this time were employed in furling their sails,) every mast, every cord, each figure standing beneath the picturesque canopy of a sail-boat, or stretching to the oars of a row-boat, were all strongly defined, and appeared, from contrast with the snowy whiteness of the fog behind them, black as ebony; while the more distant vessels, being deeper and deeper sunk in the shrouding atmosphere, were more and more faintly shown, till the farthest seemed but one degree more palpable than the mist itself. The wind, soon after the fleet anchored, died away entirely, and all that had been activity and bustle, changed to the most peculiar repose; as though the beautiful picture, once completed, was left to delight posterity; for nothing now moved as far as the eye could reach, except that, from time to time, a gleam reflected from the flat, wet oar of some row-boat, plying between ship and ship, shot, like a flash of summer lightning, across the still and shadowy scene.
During the anchoring of the fleet, one of the ships, by some mischance, got aground, and all the others were ordered to send boats immediately to her assistance. The task was laborious, and much disorder occurred in the tiers of the stranded vessel, where the sailors, taking advantage of the confusion which prevailed, had broken into the spirit-room, and were regaling themselves with rum. Towards evening, however, with the help of the tide, she was got off the rocks, and the signal being given for the boats which had been sent to her assistance to return alongside their respective ships, Edmund and Henry, with their boats and crews, did not obey the signal with their usual promptitude. Edmund, meanwhile, after going through great exertion the whole day, was still on board the vessel so lately got off, commanding his men in the most peremptory manner into his boat, when Henry observing that he appeared heated and fatigued, and thinking that, at such a time, a very little would overcome one not accustomed to excess, drew towards him a second glass, (for he had been drinking freely,) and filling both that and his own, said, “How heated you are, Montgomery! you will kill yourself, if you don’t take something!” at the same time offering him one of the glasses. Edmund answered instantly, and with indignation, that were it but water, and were he expiring with fatigue, it should not, in such a place, and at such a time, approach his lips! Henry stared at him, lifted the glass to his head, and, with a laugh, swallowed its contents. Edmund again remonstrated, and taking Henry, who was by this time very much intoxicated, by the arm, endeavoured to draw him away. Henry staggered, fell, dragged Edmund with him, and at the same time, seizing the handle of a can of spirits, which stood on the cask, trailed it after him, emptying its odoriferous contents on our hero’s breast and face, as he rolled with him on the floor.
At this unfortunate moment, a lieutenant, sent in search of the boats and midshipmen, which were missing, entered, and seeing both officers on the deck drenched in rum, two glasses on the barrel-head beside them, the spirit-can in their arms, and, apparently, the object of contention, as they struggled together on the floor while their men stood round them drinking, laughing, and swearing, he very naturally drew most unfavourable conclusions. Edmund, as soon as he could release himself from Henry’s grasp, arose; but so much heated, and so thoroughly ashamed of the situation in which he had been found, that he looked quite confused. He attempted to speak, but was silenced, and very harshly repulsed by the lieutenant to whom he addressed himself, who told him, with an air of the utmost contempt, at the same time holding a handkerchief to his nose, that while he smelt of spirits in so disgusting a manner, it was impossible to listen to him.
Our hero reddened with indignation, and repaired to his boat without further attempt at explanation, not doubting, however, that he should be able to justify himself ultimately. Henry was obliged to be carried to his boat, and thus did all return to the ship. The necessary report being made to Captain B., he was so much incensed, that he sent an order for both young men to quit the ship in half an hour, directing that, with their sea-chests beside them, they should be left on the nearest beach, to find their way home as they might.
Edmund begged to be heard. The captain refused, sending him word that it was impossible for him to permit gentlemen to remain in his ship, who had disgraced themselves by carousing among the common sailors. There was then no longer a hope! He must get into the boat. He did so; and, as they pushed off, another boat, in which sat a midshipman, (a stranger to Edmund,) passed them, and then ran alongside the ship, taking up the position they had just quitted.
The sun, a moment before, had dropped below the horizon. Edmund folded his arms, sighed, and resigned himself to his fate; then rested his eyes almost unconsciously on the scene before him. The water in the bay was still as a frozen lake, its face one sheet of cold transparent light, marking, by contrast, the pitchy darkness which twilight had already imparted to the hills that rose around it, and to every opaque object laying or moving on its peaceful surface. Perpetual, though imperceptibly wrought changes were each moment taking place in every thing around. The clouds near the horizon breaking, the still illumined western sky shed awhile a brilliant ray: the clouds closed again, and left all darker than before. The trees on the western hill stood for a few seconds strongly defined by the parting beam; then faded with the fading light. Some of the larger vessels, more lately arrived than the rest of the fleet, with majestic progress passed slowly to their places of anchorage. Single-masted boats, (warned by the approach of evening,) one by one drew smoothly towards the shore, changing, as they did so, at each moment, the disposition of their sails; and, finally, taking all down as they came to for the night under shelter of a projecting point. Alongside the same point, numerous row-boats, having shipped their oars as they drew near, fell silently; while the single figure that had guided each, might shortly after be traced wandering homeward along the extended beach.
When the boat in which our hero sat had gone about twenty yards, they were hailed from their own ship, and desired by the officer of the watch to lay on their oars till further orders. Some time of anxious suspense followed, during which the approaches of night were as rapid as they were silent, and all objects were visibly shrouding themselves in that mysterious gloom which imagination loves to people with shadowy forms, when the flash of the evening gun was seen from the admiral’s ship, followed by a report which, with startling effect, broke upon the universal stillness, then rolled along like distant thunder up the harbour. As the last sound died away, they were hailed again, ordered to come alongside, and Mr. Montgomery to come on board. Our hero obeyed the order, and was not a little surprised, on reaching the deck, to find all the ship’s company assembled there. In a few minutes, the captain and officers, preceded by lights, and accompanied by the strange midshipman who had passed the boat on its first quitting the ship, ascended the hatchway, and arranged themselves on the quarter-deck. Edmund was ordered to draw near. He did so; when the captain, addressing the stranger, in a tone which showed he wished to be heard by all present, said, “Lord Ormond, will you have the goodness to repeat, in the hearing of my officers and the whole ship’s company, the deposition you have made to me respecting Mr. Montgomery.”
The stranger, a mild-looking lad, about Edmund’s own age, came forward and said, that he had been in the tiers of the stranded vessel, calling off his own men, when Mr. Montgomery came in to collect his; that his attention had been fixed by that gentleman’s very proper conduct, which he here explained minutely, dwelling on our hero’s effort to rescue Henry; and his declaration, that were the beverage but water, he would not, for example sake, suffer a glass to be seen approach his lips, &c., till he came to where Edmund was pulled to the ground by the fall of Henry. He then proceeded to say, that he himself was about to go to his assistance, when, seeing the officer who came in search of both young men enter, he had hurried to his own boat, it being late.
Here the captain again spoke, saying, that as all had had reason to believe Mr. Montgomery’s conduct disgraceful, he had deemed it necessary that all should be thus publicly informed of his innocence, as well as made sensible of his, the captain’s, sufficient reasons for so sudden a change of measures towards him. He then turned to our hero, and expressed himself as highly gratified, to find the favourable opinion he had formed of his character thus justified. Captain B. here renewed the order to have Mr. St. Aubin immediately sent a-shore.
The stranger, Lord Ormond, who was the son of Admiral Lord Fitz-Ullin, got himself presented to Mr. Montgomery; and Edmund, anxious to express his gratitude, requested his new acquaintance to tell him by what fortunate circumstance he had become his deliverer.
“If any one deserves that title,” answered Ormond, “it is my father. I fear I was rather negligent in not remaining to assist you; but I had been already detained much too late. In my own justification, I described the scene I had just witnessed, and the consequent interest I could not avoid taking in what was passing; when, happening to say that the other gentleman called you Montgomery, my father repeated the name, and, after considering for a moment, exclaimed, ‘Why, that is the name of Lord L.’s young friend! If it be the same, he must be in the Glorious, Captain B., which came in this morning with the Cadiz fleet.’ I mentioned about what age you appeared to be; upon which my father started up, saying, ‘I could almost venture to affirm, that that young man has got into a serious scrape! You had better, Ormond,’ he continued, ‘go instantly on board the Glorious, present my compliments to Captain B., and recount all you witnessed of the business.’”
Before the young men parted, Ormond gave a message, of which he was the bearer, inviting Mr. Montgomery to dine with Lord Fitz-Ullin on the following day.
