Peter Simple

“It appears to be a dream, almost,” said Celeste.

I could not make any reply, but continued to gaze upon her—she had grown up into such a beautiful creature. Her figure was perfect, and the expression of her countenance was so varied—so full of intellect and feeling—it was angelic. Her eyes, suffused with tears, beamed so softly, so kindly on me, I could have fallen down and worshipped her.

“Come,” said General O’Brien; “come, my dear friend, now that you have seen Celeste, the surgeon must see you.”

“The surgeon!” cried Celeste with alarm.

“Yes, my love; it is of no consequence—only a couple of ribs broken.”

I followed General O’Brien out of the room, and as I came to the door, I turned round to look at Celeste. She had retreated to the sofa, and her handkerchief was up to her eyes. The surgeon was waiting for me; he bandaged me, and applied some cooling lotion to my side, which made me feel quite comfortable.

“I must now leave you,” said General O’Brien; “you had better lie down for an hour or two, and then, if I am not back, you know your way to Celeste.”

I lay down as he requested; but as soon as I heard the clatter of the horses hoofs, as he rode off, I left the room, and hurried to the drawing room. Celeste was there, and hastened to inquire if I was much hurt. I replied in the negative, and told her that I had come down to prove it to her; we then sat down on the sofa together.

“I have the misfortune never to appear before you, Celeste, except in a very unprepossessing state. When you first saw me, I was wounded; at our next meeting I was in woman’s clothes; the last time we met I was covered with dirt and gunpowder; and now I return to you, wounded and in rags. I wonder wether I shall ever appear before you as a gentleman.”

“It is not the clothes which make the gentleman, Peter. I am too happy to see you to think of how you are dressed. I have never yet thanked you for your kindness to us when we last met. My father will never forget it.”

“Nor have I thanked you, Celeste, for your kindness in dropping the purse into the hat, when you met me trying to escape from France. I have never forgotten you, and since we met the last time, you have hardly ever been out of my thoughts. You don’t know how thankful I am to the hurricane for having blown me into your presence. When we cruised in the brig, I have often examined the town with my glass, trying to fancy that I had my eye upon the house you were in; and have felt so happy when we were close in-shore, because I knew that I was nearer to you.”

“And, Peter, I am sure I have often watched the brig, and have been so glad to see it come nearer and then so afraid that the batteries would fire at you. What a pity it is that my father and you should be opposed to each other—we might be so happy!”

“And may be yet, Celeste,” replied I.

We conversed for two hours, which appeared to be but ten minutes. I felt that I was in love, but I do not think that Celeste had any idea at the time that she was—but I leave the reader to judge, from the little conversation I have quoted, wether she was not, or something very much approaching to it.

The next morning, I went out early to look for the brig, and, to my great delight, saw her about six miles off the harbour’s mouth, standing in for the land. She had now got up very respectable jury-masts, with topgallants for topsails, and appeared to be well under command. When she was within three miles of the harbour, she lowered the jolly boat, the only one she had left, and it pulled in-shore with a flag of truce hoisted at the bows. I immediately returned to my room, and wrote a detailed account of what had taken place, ready to send to O’Brien, when the boat returned, and I, of course, requested him to send me my effects, as I had nothing but what I stood in. I had just completed my letter when General O’Brien came in.

“My dear friend,” said he, “I have just received a flag of truce from Captain O’Brien, requesting to know the fate of his boats’ crews, and permission to send in return the clothes and effects of the survivors.”

“I have written down the whole circumstances for him, and made the same request to him,” replied I; and I handed him my letter. He read it over, and returned it.

“But, my dear lad, you must think very poorly of us Frenchmen, if you imagine that we intend to detain you here as a prisoner. In the first place, your liberation of so many French subjects, when you captured the Victorine, would entitle you to a similar act of kindness; and, in the next place, you have not been fairly captured, but by a visitation of Providence, which, by the means of the late storm, must destroy all natural antipathies, and promote that universal philanthropy between all men, which your brave fellows proved that they possess. You are, therefore, free to depart with all your men, and we shall still hold ourselves your debtors. How is your side to-day?”

“Oh, very bad, indeed,” replied I; for I could not bear the idea of returning to the brig so soon, for I had been obliged to quit Celeste very soon after dinner the day before, and go to bed. I had not yet had much conversation with her, nor had I told General O’Brien how it was that we escaped from France. “I don’t think I can possibly go on board to-day, but I feel very grateful to you for your kindness.”

“Well, well,” replied the general, who observed my feelings, “I do not think it is necessary that you should go on board to-day. I will send the men and your letter, and I will write to Captain O’Brien to say that you are in bed, and will not bear moving until the day after to-morrow. Will that do?”

I thought it but a very short time, but I saw that the general looked as if he expected me to consent; so I did.

“The boat can come and return again with some of your clothes:” continued the general; “and I will tell Captain O’Brien that if he comes off the mouth of the harbour the day after to-morrow, I will send you on board in one of our boats.”

He then took my letter, and quitted the room. As soon as he was gone, I found myself quite well enough to go to Celeste, who waited for me, and I told her what had passed. That morning I sat with her and the general, and narrated all my adventures, which amused the general very much. I did not conceal the conduct of my uncle, and the hopes which I faintly entertained of being able, some day or another, to discover the fraud which had been practised, or how very unfavourable were my future prospects if I did not succeed. At this portion of my narrative, the general appeared very thoughtful and grave. When I had finished it was near dinner-time, and I found that my clothes had arrived with a letter from O’Brien, who stated how miserable he had been at the supposition of my loss, and his delight at my escape. He stated, that on going down into the cabin after I had shoved off, he, by chance, cast his eyes on the barometer, and, to his surprise, found that it had fallen two inches, which he had been told was the case previous to a hurricane. This, combined with the peculiar state of the atmosphere, had induced him to make every preparation, and that they had just completed their work when it came on. The brig was thrown on her beam ends, and lay there for half-an-hour, when they were forced to cut away the masts to right her. That they did not weather the point the next morning by more than half a cable’s length; and concluded by saying, that the idea of my death had made him so unhappy, that if it had not been for the sake of the men, it was almost a matter of indifference to him whether he had been lost or not. He had written to General O’Brien, thanking him for his kindness: and that, if fifty vessels should pass the brig, he would not capture one of them, until I was on board again, even if he were dismissed the service for neglect of duty. He said, that the brig sailed almost as fast under jury-masts as she did before, and that, as soon as I came on board, he should go back to Barbadoes. “As for your ribs being so bad, Peter, that’s all bother,” continued he; “I know that you are making arrangements for another sort of rib, as soon as you can manage it; but you must stop a little, my boy. You shall be a lord yet, as I always promised you that you should. It’s a long lane that has no turning—so good-bye.”

When I was alone with Celeste, I showed her O’Brien’s letter. I had read the part of it relative to his not intending to make any capture while I was on shore to General O’Brien, who replied, that “under such circumstances he thought he should do right to detain me a little longer; but,” said he, “O’Brien is a man of honour and is worthy of his name.”

When Celeste came to that part of the letter in which O’Brien stated that I was looking after another rib, and which I had quite forgotten, she asked me to explain it; for although she could read and speak English very well, she had not been sufficiently accustomed to it to comprehend the play upon words. I translated, and then said—“Indeed, Celeste, I had forgotten that observation of O’Brien’s, or I should not have shown you the letter; but he has stated the truth. After all your kindness to me, how can I help being in love with you? and need I add, that I should consider it the greatest blessing which Heaven could grant me, if you could feel so much regard for me, as one day to become my wife. Don’t be angry with me for telling you the truth,” continued I, for Celeste coloured up as I spoke to her.

“O no! I am not angry with you, Peter; far from it. It is very complimentary to me—what you have just said.”

“I am aware,” continued I, “that at present I have little to offer you—indeed, nothing. I am not even such a match as your father might approve of; but you know my whole history, and what my desires are.”

“My dear father loves me, Peter, and he loves you too, very much—he always did, from the hour he saw you—he was so pleased with your candour and honesty of character. He has often told me so, and very often talked of you.”

“Well, Celeste, tell me, may I, when far away, be permitted to think of you, and indulge a hope that some day we may meet never to part again?” And I took Celeste by the hand, and put my arm round her waist.

“I don’t know what to say,” replied she, “I will speak to my father, or perhaps you will; but I will never marry anybody else if I can help it.”

I drew her close to me, and kissed her. Celeste burst into tears, and laid her head upon my shoulder. When General O’Brien came in, I did not attempt to move, nor did Celeste.

“General,” said I, “you may think me to blame, but I have not been able to conceal what I feel for Celeste. You may think that I am imprudent, and that I am wrong in thus divulging what I ought to have concealed, until I was in a situation to warrant my aspiring to your daughter’s hand; but the short time allowed me to be in her company, the fear of losing her, and my devoted attachment, will, I trust, plead my excuse.”

The general took one or two turns up and down the room, and then replied—“What says Celeste?”

“Celeste will never do anything to make her father unhappy,” replied she, going up to him and hiding her face in his breast, with her arm round his neck.

The general kissed his daughter, and then said, “I will be frank with you, Mr Simple. I do not know any man whom I would prefer to you as a son-in-law; but there are many considerations which young people are very apt to forget. I do not interfere in your attachment, which appears to be mutual; but at the same time, I will have no promise, and no engagement. You may never meet again. However, Celeste is very young, and I shall not put any constraint upon her; and at the same time you are equally free, if time and circumstances should alter your present feelings.”

“I can ask no more, my dear sir,” replied I, taking the general by the hand: “it is candid—more than I had any reason to expect. I shall now leave you with a contented mind; and the hopes of one day claiming Celeste shall spur me to exertion.”

“Now, if you please we will drop the subject,” said the general. “Celeste, my dear, we have a large party to dinner, as you know. You had better retire to your room and get ready. I have asked all the ladies that you liberated, Peter, and all their husbands and fathers, so you will have the pleasure of witnessing how many people you made happy by your gallantry. Now that Celeste has left the room, Peter, I must beg that, as a man of honour, you do not exact from her any more promises, or induce her to tie herself down to you by oaths. Her attachment to you has grown up with her unaccountably, and she is already too fond of you for her peace of mind, should accident or circumstances part you for ever. Let us hope for the best, and, depend upon it, that it shall be no trifling obstacle which will hinder me from seeing you one day united.”

I thanked the general with tears: he shook me warmly by the hand as I gave my promise, and we separated.

How happy did I feel when I went into my room, and sat down to compose my mind, and think over what had happened. True, at one moment, the thought of my dependent situation threw a damp over my joy; but in the next I was building castles, inventing a discovery of my uncle’s plot, fancying myself in possession of the title and property, and laying it at the feet of my dear Celeste. Hope sustained my spirits, and I felt satisfied for the present with the consideration that Celeste returned my love. I decked myself carefully, and went down, where I found all the company assembled. We had a very pleasant, happy party, and the ladies entreated General O’Brien to detain me as a prisoner—very kind of them—and I felt very much disposed to join in their request.

Chapter Fifty

Peter Simple first takes a command, then three West Indiamen, and twenty prisoners—One good turn deserves another—The prisoners endeavour to take him, but are themselves taken in

The next day I was very unhappy. The brig was in the offing waiting for me to come on board. I pointed her out to Celeste as we were at the window, and her eyes met mine. An hour’s conversation could not have said more. General O’Brien showed that he had perfect confidence in me, for he left us together.

“Celeste,” said I, “I have promised your father—”

“I know what has passed,” interrupted she; “he told me everything.”

“How kind he is! But I did not say that I would not bind myself, Celeste.”

“No! but my father made me promise that you should not—that if you attempted, I was immediately to prevent you—and so I shall.”

“Then you shall keep your word, Celeste. Imagine everything that can be said in this—” and I kissed her.

“Don’t think me forward, Peter, but I wish you to go away happy,” said Celeste; “and therefore, in return, imagine all I could say in this—” and she returned my salute, kissing my cheek.

After this, we had a conversation of two hours; but what lovers say is very silly, except to themselves, and the reader need not be troubled with it. General O’Brien came in, and told me the boat was ready. I rose up—I was satisfied with what had passed, and with a firm voice, I said, “Good-bye, Celeste; God bless you!” and followed the general, who, with some of his officers, walked down with me to the beach. I thanked the general, who embraced me, paid my adieus to the officers, and stepped into the boat. In half-an-hour I was on board of the brig, and in O’Brien’s arms. We put the helm up, and in a short time the town of St. Pierre was shut out from my longing sight, and we were on our way to Barbadoes. That day was passed in the cabin with O’Brien, giving me a minute detail of all that had passed.

When we anchored once more in Carlisle Bay, we found that the hurricane had been much more extensive in the Windward Islands than we had imagined. Several men-of-war were lying there, having lost one or more of their masts, and there was great difficulty in supplying the wants of so many. As we arrived the last, of course we were last served; and, there being no boats left in store, there was no chance of our being ready for sea under two or three months. The Joan d’Arc schooner privateer was still lying there, but had not been fitted out for want of men; and the admiral proposed to O’Brien that he should man her with a part of his ship’s company, and send one of his lieutenants out to cruise in her. This was gladly assented to by O’Brien, who came on board and asked me whether I should like to have her, which I agreed to, as I was quite tired of Barbadoes and fried flying fish.