Olla Podrida

“No, no! say not so, with your own Andrew pressing you to his bosom.”

“Your bitter curse!”

“’Twas madness—nothing—I knew not what I said.” But the iron had entered into her soul. Her heart was broken.

“You had better give orders for them to look out for the Bell Rock,” observed the man at the helm to M’Clise.

The Bell Rock! M’Clise shuddered, and made no reply. Onward went the vessel, impelled by the sea and wind: one moment raised aloft, and towering over the surge; at another, deep in the hollow trough, and walled in by the convulsed element. M’Clise still held his Katerina in his arms, who responded not to his endearments, when a sudden shock threw them on the deck. The crashing of the timbers, the pouring of the waves over the stern, the heeling and settling of the vessel, were but the work of a few seconds. One more furious shock,—she separates, falls on her beam ends, and the raging seas sweep over her.

M’Clise threw from him her whom he had so madly loved, and plunged into the wave. Katerina shrieked, as she dashed after him, and all was over.

When the storm rises, and the screaming sea-gull seeks the land, and the fisherman hasten his bark towards the beach, there is to be seen, descending from the dark clouds with the rapidity of lightning, the form of Andrew M’Clise, the heavy bell to which he is attached by the neck, bearing him down to his doom.

And when all is smooth and calm, when at the ebbing tide, the wave but gently kisses the rock, then by the light of the silver moon, the occupants of the vessels which sail from the Firth of Tay, have often beheld the form of the beautiful Katerina, waving her white scarf as a signal that they should approach, and take her off from the rock on which she is seated. At times, she offers a letter for her father, Vandermaclin; and she mourns and weeps as the wary mariners, with their eyes fixed on her, and with folded arms, pursue their course in silence and in dread.

Chapter Fifty One

Moonshine

Those who have visited our West India possessions must have often been amused with the humour and cunning which occasionally appear in a negro more endowed than the generality of his race, particularly when the master also happens to be a humourist. The swarthy servitor seems to reflect his patron’s absurdities; and having thoroughly studied his character, ascertains how far he can venture to take liberties without fear of punishment.

One of these strange specimens I once met with in a negro called Moonshine, belonging to a person equally strange in his own way, who had, for many years, held the situation of harbour-master at Port Royal, but had then retired on a pension, and occupied a small house at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. His name was Cockle, but he had long been addressed as Captain Cockle; and this brevet rank he retained until the day of his death. In person he was very large and fat—not unlike a cockle in shape: so round were his proportions, and so unwieldy, that it appeared much easier to roll him along from one place to another, than that he should walk. Indeed, locomotion was not to his taste: he seldom went much farther than round the small patch of garden which was in front of his house, and in which he had some pinks and carnations and chrysanthemums, of which he was not a little proud. His head was quite bald, smooth, and shining white; his face partook of a more roseate tint, increasing in depth till it settled into an intense red at the tip of his nose. Cockle had formerly been a master of a merchant-vessel, and from his residence in a warm climate had contracted a habit of potation, which became confirmed during the long period of his holding his situation at Port Royal. He had purchased Moonshine for three hundred dollars, when he was about seven years old, and, upon his return to England, had taken him with him.

Moonshine was very much attached to his master, very much attached to having his own way, and was, farther, very much attached to his master’s grog bottle.

The first attachment was a virtue: the second human nature; and the third, in the opinion of old Cockle, a crime of serious magnitude. I very often called upon Captain Cockle, for he had a quaint humour about him which amused; and, as he seldom went out, he was always glad to see any of his friends. Another reason was, that I seldom went to the house without finding some entertainment in the continual sparring between the master and the man. I was at that time employed in the Preventive Service, and my station was about four miles from the residence of Cockle. One morning I stalked in, and found him, as usual, in his little parlour on the ground-floor.

“Well, Cockle, my boy, how are you?”

“Why, to tell you the truth, Bob, I’m all wrong. I’m on the stool of repentance; to wit, on this easy chair, doing penance, as you perceive, in a pair of duck trousers. Last night I was half-seas over, and tolerably happy; this morning I am high and dry, and intolerably miserable. Carried more sail than ballast last night, and lost my head; this morning I’ve found it again, with a pig of ballast in it, I believe. All owing to my good nature.”

“How is that, Cockle?”

“Why, that Jack Piper was here last night; and rather than he should drink all the grog and not find his way home, I drank some myself—he’d been in a bad way if I had not, poor fellow!—and now, you see, I’m suffering all from good nature. Easiness of disposition has been my ruin, and has rounded me into this ball, by wearing away all my sharp edges, Bob.”

“It certainly was very considerate and very kind of you, Cockle, especially when we know how much you must have acted at variance with your inclinations.”

“Yes, Bob, yes, I am the milk punch of human kindness. I often cry—when the chimney smokes; and sometimes—when I laugh too much. You see, I not only give my money, as others will do, but, as last night, I even give my head to assist a fellow-creature. I could, however, dispense with it for an hour or two this morning.”

“Nay, don’t say that; for although you might dispense with the upper part, you could not well get on without your mouth, Cockle.”

“Very true, Bob; a chap without a mouth would be like a ship without a companion hatch;—talking about that, the combings of my mouth are rather dry—what do you say, Bob, shall we call Moonshine?”

“Why it’s rather broad daylight for Moonshine.”

“He’s but an eclipse—a total eclipse, I may say. The fact is, my head is so heavy, that it rolls about on my shoulders; and I must have a stiffener down my throat to prop it it up. So Moonshine, shine out, you black-faced rascal!”

The negro was outside, cleaning his knives:– he answered, but continued at his work.

“How me shine, Massa Cockle, when you neber gib me shiner?”

“No: but I’ll give you a shinner on your lower limb, that shall make you feel planet-struck, if you don’t show your ugly face,” replied Cockle.

“Massa Cockle, you full of dictionary dis marning.”

“Come here, sir!”

“Why you so parsonal dis marning, sar,” replied Moonshine, rubbing away at the knifeboard—“my face no shine more dan your white skull widout hair.”

“I pulled one out, you scoundrel, every time you stole my grog, and now they are all gone.—Hairs; what should I do with heirs when I’ve nothing to leave,” continued Cockle, addressing me—“hairs are like rats, that quit a ship as soon as she gets old. Now, Bob, I wonder how long that rascal will make us wait. I brought him home and gave him his freedom—but give an inch and he takes an ell. Moonshine, I begin to feel angry—the tip of my nose is red already.”

“Come directly, Massa Cockle.”

Moonshine gave two more rubs on the board, and then made his appearance.

“You call me, sar?”

“What’s the use of calling you, you black rascal?”

“Now sar, dat not fair—you say to me, Moonshine, always do one thing first—so I ’bey order and finish knives—dat ting done, I come and ’bey next order.”

“Well, bring some cold water and some tumblers.”

Moonshine soon appeared with the articles, and then walked out of the room, grinning at me.

“Moonshine, where are you going, you thief?—when did you ever see me drink cold water, or offer it to my friend?”

“Neber see you drink it but once, and den you tipsy, and tink it gin; but you very often gib notin but water to your friends, Massa Cockle.”

“When, you scoundrel?”

“Why, very often you say dat water quite strong enough for me.”

“That’s because I love you, Moonshine. Grog is a sad enemy to us.”

“Massa Cockle real fine Christian—he lub him enemy,” interrupted Moonshine, looking at me.

“At all events, I’m not ashamed to look mine enemy in the face—so hand us out the bottle.”

Moonshine put the bottle on the table.

“Now, Bob,” said Cockle, “what d’ye say to a seven bell-er? Why, hallo! what’s become of all the grog?”

“All drank last night, Massa Cockle,” replied Moonshine.

“Now, you ebony thief, I’ll swear that there was half a bottle left when I took my last glass; for I held the bottle up to the candle to ascertain the ullage.”

“When you go up tairs, Massa Cockle, so help me Gad! not one drop left in de bottle.”