In many, if not in most, of the regiments of our army, there is to be found a sort of officer who is a privileged oddity,—who takes liberties with all his brethren of the mess with impunity, and who pockets every thing short of a blow with the best possible humour. In general, the individuals of this description are designated in the mess-room vocabulary, “Good-tempered Old Stagers,” and “Old Stickers,” meaning thereby, that they can “go” at the bottle, and “stick” at the table till “all’s blue.”

One of these, a Quartermaster of infantry, with a nose of the genuine Bardolph complexion, a rosy and eternal smile, a short figure, and a big head, having dined with a party of brother officers at the Three Cups, Harwich—the day on which his regiment marched into the barracks of that town—was in the best possible spirits: so much so, that he gave the bottle no rest until about eleven o’clock; and became “glorious,” just as the company broke up—right or wrong he would go along with three of the youngest subalterns to ramble by the sea-side in the moonshine, having been “so long i’ the sun.” They permitted him reluctantly; perhaps, indeed, because they could not prevent him; but when the party got down to the place where passengers and goods are usually embarked, the Quartermaster became totally overpowered, and sank senseless into a snore. The officers whom he accompanied could not think of carrying his corpus back to the inn; nor were there any persons near whom they could employ for the purpose: one of them, therefore, opened the door of a private carriage which stood near, “unshipped” from the wheels—ready for embarkation, and in a moment the sleeper was bundled into it, where he was left to his repose with the door fast shut upon him.

Next morning at daybreak (about three o’clock) the coach, with its contents, was put on board the Hamburg packet, and stowed away at the very bottom of the hold: in half an hour after this, the vessel put to sea.

For the whole of the day the packet had a brisk breeze, and at midnight was a good hundred miles away from Harwich: a dead calm set in. It was a beautiful night in July, and the passengers were not all gone to bed: some walked the deck, and others sat below at cards—every thing was silent, except the rattling of the ropes as the ship yielded to the smooth and gentle swell of the sleeping North Sea. About this time, the Quartermaster, it is supposed, awoke; at least he had not been heard before to utter his complaints, probably from the bustle consequent on the managing of the vessel in a stiff breeze. However, it was at this time that his cracked and buried voice first fell upon the ears of the crew; and for about twenty minutes the panic it created is indescribable. The whist company in the cabin, at first thought it was one of the sailors in a chest, and called the captain; who declared he had been that minute examining into the cause of the unearthly sounds, and had mustered his crew, all of whom were on deck, as much astonished as he was—nay, more so, for one of them, a Welshman, felt convinced that the voice proceeded from the speaking trumpet of the ghost of David Jones, his former shipmate, “who had died in ill will with him.”

“Hallo—o—o—o—o!”—“Murder!”—“Murder!” now rose upon all ears, as if the voice were at the bottom of the sea. The Welshman fell upon his knees, and begged forgiveness of his injured and departed friend, David Jones: the rest of the crew caught a slight tinge of his fears, and paced about in couples to and fro; some declaring the voice was below the rudder, and others that it was at the mast-head. The passengers, one and all, hurried on deck; in short, none on board, not even the Captain and the oldest seaman, were free from alarm: for they had searched every habitable place in the vessel without discovering the cause of their terrors, and the hold, it was evident, could not have contained an extra rat, it was so crammed with luggage, &c. “Let me out, you d——d rascals! let me out—let me out, I say!” screamed the voice with increased vigour. These exclamations the Welshman declared were addressed to devils, that were tormenting his deceased enemy David; and he uttered a fervent prayer for the peace of the wandering and unhappy soul: but a different idea was awakened in the mind of the Captain by the words “Let me out,” “There is somebody packed up in the hold,” exclaimed he; and instantly ordering the men to follow him down, all began to remove the upper layer of articles; which being done, the voice became louder and more distinct.

“Where are you?” bawled the Captain.

“I’m here in a coach, d——n you!” answered the Quartermaster.

The mystery was now solved, and the Welshman made easy; but no one could imagine how a human being could have got into the carriage. However, satisfaction on this point was not to be waited for; so the men fell to work, and after about half an hour’s hard exertion, succeeded in disincumbering the vehicle. They then proceeded to unpack the Quartermaster, whose astonishment amounted almost to madness, when he found that he had not only been confined in a coach, but in a ship, and that the said ship was then in the middle of the German Ocean!

It was impossible to put back to Harwich, so no remedy was left the little fat gentleman but to proceed to the end of the voyage, and to take a passage back from Hamburg as soon as possible. This was bad enough; but his hopes of an early return were almost destroyed by the setting in of adverse winds, which kept the vessel beating about in a most bile-brewing and stomach-stirring ocean, for ten days and nights; during which time, when not sea-sick, the Quartermaster was employed in profoundly meditating how he could have got into the coach; and even after having taken the opinion of the captain, the crew, and all the passengers, upon the matter, he felt himself as much in the dark as ever. The last thing he could recollect of “the land he had left,” was that he dined and wined at the “Three Cups,”—what followed was chaos.

But the worst of the affair, decidedly, was that the day on which he had been put to sea was the 22d of the month, and as it was impossible for him to make his appearance with his regiment on the 24th, he knew he must, as a matter of course, be reported “Absent without leave” at head quarters, and that he would most probably be superseded. This reflection was even worse than the weather to the Quartermaster, though the rough sea had already almost “brought his heart up.” However, he had great hopes of being able to join his regiment on the 10th of the following month—the next return-day—and, by due application, he thought he might contrive to prevent supersession. Ten days of this time was, however, consumed before he set a foot upon the German shore, and then only half of his excursion was over: all his hopes rested upon a quick passage back to Harwich. This, however, the Fates denied him; for having drawn on the agent—got the cash—engaged his passage to England—laid in sea-stock, and all things necessary—the packet, just as she was leaving Hamburg, was run foul of by a five-hundred-ton ship, and so much injured that she was obliged to put back, and the unfortunate Quartermaster was thus compelled to wait a fortnight for another opportunity of returning to England. He not only was delayed beyond the 10th (return-day) but beyond the following 24th, and when he did arrive, he found that he had been not only superseded by the Commander-in-chief, but considered dead by all his friends and relations!

However, on personally applying for reinstatement, he obtained it, and once more joined his old corps at Harwich, where he many a night amused the mess with the recital of his trip to sea in the coach; which was always given with most effect when he was half-seas-over.