Olla Podrida

“No—I care for nothing except a Nor-wester.”

“I’ll never call for one again,” replied Jack; “it is but making my grog a little stronger; in future it shall be half-and-half.”

“That’s a dear! Now I’m off—don’t forget me;” and away went the wind in a great hurry.

It was about three months after this short visit, the fleet being off Corsica, that our hero was walking the deck, thinking that he soon should see the object of his affections, when a privateer brig was discovered at anchor a few miles from Bastia. The signal was made for the boats of the fleet to cut her out; and the Admiral, wishing that his nephew should distinguish himself somehow, gave him the command of one of the finest boats. Now Jack was as brave as brave could be; he did not know what danger was; he hadn’t wit enough to perceive it, and there was no doubt but he would distinguish himself. The boats went on the service. Jack was the very first on board, cheering his men as he darted into the closed ranks of his opponents. Whether it was that he did not think that his head was worth defending, or that he was too busy in breaking the heads of others to look after his own this is certain, that a tomahawk descended upon it with such force as to bury itself in his skull (and his was a thick skull too). The privateer’s men were overpowered by numbers, and then our hero was discovered, under a pile of bodies, still breathing heavily. He was hoisted on board, and taken into his uncle’s cabin: the surgeon shook his head when he had examined that of our hero.

“It must have been a most tremendous blow,” said he to the Admiral, “to have penetrated—”

“It must have been, indeed,” replied the Admiral, as the tears rolled down his cheeks; for he loved his nephew.

The surgeon having done all that his art would enable him, left the cabin to attend to the others who were hurt; the Admiral also went on the quarter-deck, walking to and fro for an hour in a melancholy mood. He returned to the cabin, and bent over his nephew; Jack opened his eyes.

“My dear fellow,” said the Admiral, “how’s your head now?”

“South West and by West three-quarters West,” faintly exclaimed our hero, constant in death, as he turned a little on one side and expired.

It was three days afterwards, as the fleet were on a wind, making for Malta, that the bell of the ship tolled, and a body, sewed up in a hammock and covered with the Union Jack, was carried to the gangway by the Admiral’s bargemen. It had been a dull cloudy day, with little wind; the hands were turned up, the officers and men stood uncovered; the Admiral in advance with his arms folded, as the chaplain read the funeral service over the body of our hero,—and as the service proceeded, the sails flapped, for the wind had shifted a little; a motion was made, by the hand of the officer of the watch, to the man at the helm to let the ship go off the wind, that the service might not be disturbed, and a mizzling soft rain descended. The wind had shifted to our hero’s much loved point, his fond mistress had come to mourn over the loss of her dearest, and the rain that descended were the tears which she shed at the death of her handsome but not over-gifted lover.

Chapter Forty Three

Ill-Will

Dramatis Personae.

Mr Cadaverous, An old miser, very rich and very ill.

Edward, A young lawyer without a brief.

Mr Haustus Gumarabic, Apothecary.

Seedy, Solicitor.

Thomas Montague, John Montague, Nephews to Mr Cadaverous.

James Sterling, William Sterling, nephews twice removed to Mr Cadaverous.

Clementina Montagu, Niece to Mr Cadaverous.

Mrs Jellybags, Housekeeper and nurse.

Act One

Scene.—A sick room.—Mr Cadaverousin an easy chair asleep, supported by cushions, wrapped up in his dressing-gown, a night-cap on his head.—A small table with phials, gallipots, etcetera.—Mrs Jellybagsseated on a chair close to the table.

(Mrs Jellybagslooks at Mr Cadaverous, and then comes forward.) He sleeps yet—the odious old miser! Mercy on me, how I do hate him,—almost as much as he loves his money! there’s one comfort, he cannot take his money-bags with him, and the doctor says that he cannot last much longer. Ten years have I been his slave—ten years have I been engaged to be married to Sergeant Major O’Callaghan of the Blues—ten years has he kept me waiting at the porch of Hymen,—and what thousands of couples have I seen enter during the time! Oh dear! its enough to drive a widow mad. I think I have managed it;—he has now quarrelled with all his relations, and Dr Gumarabic intends this day to suggest the propriety of his making his last will and testament. (Mr Cadaverous, still asleep, coughs.) He is waking, (Looks at him.) No, he is not. Well, then, I shall wake him, and give him a draught, for, after such a comfortable sleep as he is now in, he might last a whole week longer. (Goes up to Mr Cadaverous, and shakes him.)

Mr Cad. (starting up.) Ugh ugh! ugh! (coughs violently.) Oh! Mrs Jellybags, I’m so ill. Ugh! ugh!

Jel. My dear, dear sir! now don’t say so. I was in hopes, after such a nice long sleep you would have found yourself so much better.

Cad. Long sleep! oh dear!—I’m sure I’ve not slept ten minutes.

Jel. (aside.) I know that. (Aloud.) Indeed, my dear sir, you are mistaken. Time passes very quick when we are fast asleep. I have been watching you and keeping the flies off. But you must now take your draught, my dear sir, and your pill first.

Cad. What! more pills and more draughts! Why, there’s no end to them.

Jel. Yes, there will be, by and by, my dear sir. You know Doctor Gumarabic has ordered you take one pill and one draught every half hour.

Cad. And so I have—never missed one for the last six weeks—woke up for them day and night. I feel very weak—very weak, indeed! Don’t you think I might eat something, my dear Mrs Jellybags?

Jel. Eat, my dear Mr Cadaverous!—how can you ask me, when you know that Doctor Gumarabic says that it would be the death of you?

Cad. Only the wing of a chicken,—or a bit of the breast—

Jel. Impossible!

Cad. A bit of dry toast, then; any thing, my dear Mrs Jellybags. I’ve such a gnawing—Ugh! ugh!

Jel. My dear sir, you would die if you swallowed the least thing that’s nourishing.

Cad. I’m sure I shall die if I do not. Well, then, a little soup—I should like that very much indeed.

Jel. Soup! it would be poison, my dear sir! No, no. You must take your pill and your draught.

Cad. Oh dear! oh dear!—Forty-eight pills and forty-eight draughts every twenty-four hours!—not a wink of sleep day or night.

Jel. (soothingly.) But it’s to make you well, you know, my dear Mr Cadaverous. Come, now. (Hands him a pill and some water in a tumbler.)

Cad. The last one is hardly down yet;—I feel it sticking half-way. Ugh! ugh!

Jel. Then wash them both down at once. Come, now, ’tis to make you well, you know.

Cadaveroustakes the pill with a wry face, and coughs it up again.

Cad. Ugh! ugh! There—it’s up again. Oh dear! oh dear!

Jel. You must take it, my dear sir. Come, now, try again.

Cad. (coughing.) My cough is so bad. (Takes the pill.) Oh, my poor head! Now I’ll lie down again.

Jel. Not yet, my dear Mr Cadaverous. You must take your draught;—it’s to make you well, you know.

Cad. What! another draught? I’m sure I must have twenty draughts in my inside, besides two boxes of pills!

Jel. Come, now—it will be down in a minute.

(Cadaveroustakes the wine-glass in his hand, and looks at it with abhorrence.)