The Two Admirals (38 page)

The leave-taking, a scene in which joyousness and sadness were strangely
mingled, succeeded, and then the captains disappeared. From that moment
every mind was bent on sailing.

Although Bluewater did not witness the scene in the Plantagenet's cabin,
he pictured it, in his mind's eye, and remained on the cliffs to watch
the succeeding movements. As Wycherly had disappeared in the house, and
Dutton clung to his flag-staff, the rear-admiral had no one but Lord
Geoffrey for a companion. The latter, perceiving that his relation did
not seem disposed to converse, had the tact to be silent himself; a task
that was less difficult than common, on account of the interest he felt
in the spectacle.

The boats of the different captains were still shoving off from the
starboard side of the Plantagenet, whither etiquette had brought them
together, in a little crowd, when her three top-sails fell, and their
sheets steadily drew the clews towards the ends of the lower yards. Even
while this was in process, the yards began to ascend, and rose with that
steady but graduated movement which marks the operation in a man-of-war.
All three were fairly mast-headed in two minutes. As the wind struck the
canvass obliquely, the sails filled as they opened their folds, and, by
the time their surfaces were flattened by distension, the Plantagenet
steadily moved from her late berth, advancing slowly against a strong
tide, out of the group of ships, among which she had been anchored. This
was a beautiful evolution, resembling that of a sea-fowl, which lazily
rises on its element, spreads its wings, emerges from the water, and
glides away to some distant and unseen point.

The movement of the flag-ship was stately, measured, and grand. For five
minutes she held her way nearly due east, with the wind on her starboard
quarter, meeting the tide in a direct line; until, having drawn
sufficiently ahead of the fleet, she let fall her courses, sheeted home
top-gallant-sails and royals, set her spanker, jibs, and stay-sails, and
braced up sharp on a wind, with her head at south-southeast. This
brought the tide well under her lee fore-chains, and set her rapidly off
the land, and to windward. As she trimmed her sails, and steadied her
bowlines, she fired a gun, made the numbers of the vessels in the offing
to weigh, and to pass within hail. All this did Bluewater note, with the
attention of an
amateur
, as well as with the critical analysis of a
connoisseur
.

"Very handsomely done, Master Geoffrey—very handsomely done, it must be
allowed! never did a bird quit a flock with less fuss, or more
beautifully, than the Plantagenet has drawn out of the fleet. It must be
admitted that Greenly knows how to handle his ship."

"I fancy Captain Stowel would have done quite as well with the Cæsar,
sir," answered the boy, with a proper esprit-de-
ship
. "Don't you
remember, Admiral Bluewater, the time when we got under way off
l'Orient, with the wind blowing a gale directly on shore? Even Sir
Gervaise said, afterwards, that we lost less ground than any ship in the
fleet, and yet the Plantagenet is the most weatherly two-decker in the
navy; as every body says."

"Every body!—She is certainly a weatherly vessel, but not more so than
several others. Whom did you ever hear give that character to this
particular ship?"

"Why, sir, her reefers are always bragging as much as
that
; and a
great deal
more
, too."

"Her reefers!—Young gentlemen are particularly struck with the charms
of their first loves, both ashore and afloat, my boy. Did you ever hear
an
old seaman
say that much for the Plantagenet?"

"I think I have, sir," returned Lord Geoffrey, blushing. "Galleygo, Sir
Gervaise's steward, is commonly repeating some such stuff or other. They
are furious braggarts, the Plantagenet's, all round, sir."

"That comes honestly," answered Bluewater, smiling, "her namesakes and
predecessors of old, having some such characteristic, too. Look at that
ship's yards, boy, and learn how to trim a vessel's sails on a wind. The
pencil of a painter could not draw lines more accurate!"

"Captain Stowel tells us, sir, that the yards ought not to be braced in
exactly alike; but that we ought to check the weather-braces, a little,
as we go aloft, so that the top-sail yard should point a little less
forward than the lower yard, and the topgallant than the top-sail."

"You are quite right in taking Stowel's opinion in all such matters,
Geoffrey: but has not Captain Greenly done the same thing in the
Plantagenet? When I speak of symmetry, I mean the symmetry of a seaman."

The boy was silenced, though exceedingly reluctant to admit that any
ship could equal his own. In the mean time, there was every appearance
of a change in the weather. Just about the time the Plantagenet braced
up, the wind freshened, and in ten minutes it blew a stiff breeze. Some
time before the admiral spoke the vessels outside, he was compelled to
take in all his light canvass; and when he filled, again, after giving
his orders to the frigate and sloop, the topgallant sheets were let fly,
a single reef was taken in the top-sails, and the lighter sails were set
over them. This change in the weather, more especially as the night
threatened to be clouded, if not absolutely dark, would necessarily
bring about a corresponding change in the plan of sailing, reducing the
intervals between the departures of the vessels, quite one-half. To such
vicissitudes are all maritime operations liable, and it is fortunate
when there is sufficient capacity in the leaders to remedy them.

In less than an hour, the Plantagenet's hull began to sink, to those on
a level with it, when the Carnatic tripped her anchor, opened her
canvass, shot out of the fleet, hauled by the wind, and followed in the
admiral's wake. So accurate was the course she steered, that, half an
hour after she had braced up, a hawse-bucket, which had been dropped
from the Plantagenet in hauling water, was picked up. We may add, here,
though it will be a little anticipating events, that the Thunderer
followed the Carnatic; the Blenheim the Thunderer; the Achilles the
Blenheim; the Warspite the Achilles; the Dover the Warspite; the York
the Dover; the Elizabeth the York; the Dublin the Elizabeth; and the
Cæsar the Dublin. But hours passed before all these ships were in
motion, and hours in which we shall have some occurrences to relate that
took place on shore. Still it will aid the reader in better
understanding the future incidents of our tale, if we describe, at once,
some of the circumstances under which all these ships got in motion.

By the time the Plantagenet's top-sails were beginning to dip from the
cliffs, the Carnatic, the Thunderer, the Blenheim, the Achilles, and the
Warspite were all stretching out in line, with intervals of quite two
leagues between them, under as much canvass as they could now bear. The
admiral had shortened sail the most, and was evidently allowing the
Carnatic to close, most probably on account of the threatening look of
the sky, to windward; while he was suffering the frigate and sloop, the
Chloe and Driver, to pass ahead of him, the one on his weather, and the
other on his lee bow. When the Dover weighed, the admiral's upper sail
was not visible from her tops, though the Warspite's hull had not yet
disappeared from her deck. She left the fleet, or the portions of it
that still remained at anchor, with her fore-course set, and hauled by
the wind, under double-reefed top-sails, a single reef in her main-sail,
and with her main-topgallant sail set over its proper sail. With this
reduced canvass, she started away on the track of her consorts, the
brine foaming under her bows, and with a heel that denoted the heavy
pressure that bore on her sails. By this time, the York was aweigh, the
tide had turned, and it became necessary to fill on the other tack in
order to clear the land to the eastward. This altered the formation, but
we will now revert to the events as they transpired on the shore, with a
view to relate them more in their regular order.

It is scarcely necessary to say that Bluewater must have remained on, or
about the cliffs several hours, in order to witness the departure of so
many of the vessels. Instead of returning to the Hall at the dinner
hour, agreeably to promise, he profited by the appearance of Wycherly,
who left the cottage with a flushed, agitated manner, just as he was
thinking of the necessity of sending a message to Sir Reginald, and
begged the young man to be the bearer of his excuses. He thought that
the change in the weather rendered it necessary for him to remain in
sight of the sea. Dutton overheard this message, and, after a private
conference with his wife, he ventured to invite his superior to appease
his appetite under his own humble roof. To this Bluewater cheerfully
assented; and when the summons came to the table, to his great joy he
found that his only companion was to be Mildred, who, like himself, for
some reason known only to her own bosom, had let the ordinary dining
hour pass without appearing at table, but whom her mother had now
directed to take some sustenance.

"The late events at the Hall have agitated the poor child, sir," said
Mrs. Dutton, in the way of apology, "and she has not tasted food since
morning. I have told her you would excuse the intrusion, and receive her
carving and attentions as an excuse for her company."

Bluewater looked at the pallid countenance of the girl, and never before
had he found the resemblance to Agnes Hedworth so strong, as that
moment. The last year or two of his own sweet friend's life had been far
from happy, and the languid look and tearful eyes of Mildred revived the
recollection of the dead with painful distinctness.

"Good God!" he murmured to himself; "that two such beings should exist
only to suffer! my good Mrs. Dutton, make no excuses; but believe me
when I say that you could not have found in England another that would
have proved as welcome as my present little messmate."

Mildred struggled for a smile; and she did succeed in looking extremely
grateful. Beyond this, however, it exceeded her powers to go. Mrs.
Dutton was gratified, and soon left the two to partake of their neat,
but simple meal, by themselves; household duties requiring her presence
elsewhere.

"Let me persuade you to take a glass of this really excellent port, my
child," said Bluewater. "If you had cruised as long as I have done, on
the coast of Portugal, you would know how to value a liquor as pure as
this. I don't know of an admiral that has as good!"

"It is probably
our
last, sir," answered Mildred, shaking a tear from
each of her long dark lashes, by an involuntarily trembling motion, as
she spoke. "It was a present from dear, old, Sir Wycherly, who never
left my mother wholly unsupplied with such plain delicacies, as he
fancied poverty placed beyond our reach. The wine we can easily forget;
not so easily the donor."

Bluewater felt as if he could draw a cheque for one-half the fortune he
had devised to his companion; and, yet, by a caprice of feeling that is
not uncommon to persons of the liveliest susceptibility, he answered in
a way to smother his own emotion.

"There will not soon be another
old
Sir Wycherly to make his
neighbours comfortable; but there is a
young
one, who is not likely to
forget his uncle's good example. I hope you all here, rejoice at the
sudden rise in fortune, that has so unexpectedly been placed within the
reach of our favourite lieutenant?"

A look of anguish passed over Mildred's face, and her companion noted
it; though surprise and pity—not to say resentment—prevented his
betraying his discovery.

"We
endeavour
to be glad, sir," answered Mildred, smiling in so
suffering a manner, as to awaken all her companion's sympathies; "but it
is not easy for us to rejoice at any thing which is gained by the loss
of our former valued friend."

"I am aware that a young follow, like the present Sir Wycherly, can be
no substitute for an old fellow like the last Sir Wycherly, my dear; but
as one is a sailor, and the other was only a landsman, my professional
prejudices may not consider the disparity as great as it may possibly
appear to be to your less partial judgment."

Bluewater thought the glance he received was imploring, and he instantly
regretted that he had taken such means to divert his companion's
sadness. Some consciousness of this regret probably passed through
Mildred's mind, for she rallied her spirits, and made a partially
successful effort to be a more agreeable companion.

"My father thinks, sir," she said, "that our late pleasant weather is
about to desert us, and that it is likely to blow heavily before
six-and-thirty hours are over."

"I am afraid Mr. Dutton will prove to be too accurate an almanac. The
weather has a breeding look, and I expect a dirty night. Good or bad, we
seamen must face it, and that, too, in the narrow seas, where gales of
wind are no gales of Araby."

"Ah, sir, it is a terrible life to lead! By living on this cliff, I have
learned to pity sailors."

"Perhaps, my child, you pity us when we are the most happy. Nine seamen
in ten prefer a respectable gale to a flat calm. There are moments when
the ocean is terrific; but, on the whole, it is capricious, rather than
malignant. The night that is before us promises to be just such a one as
Sir Gervaise Oakes delights in. He is never happier than when he hears a
gale howling through the cordage of his ship."

"I have heard him spoken of as a very daring and self-relying commander.
But
you
cannot entertain such feelings, Admiral Bluewater; for to me
you seem better fitted for a fireside, well filled with friends and
relatives, than for the conflicts and hardships of the sea."

Mildred had no difficulty now in forcing a smile, for the sweet one she
bestowed on the veteran almost tempted him to rise and fold her in his
arms, as a parent would wrap a beloved daughter to his heart.
Discretion, however, prevented a betrayal of feelings that might have
been misinterpreted, and he answered in his original vein.