Olla Podrida

“Will you take your oath, Moonshine, that you did not drink any last night?”

“No, Massa Cockle, because I gentleman, and neber tell lie—me drink, because you gib it to me.”

“Then I must have been drunk indeed. Now, tell me, how did I give it to you?—tell me every word which passed.”

“Yes, Massa Cockle, me make you recollect all about it. When Massa Piper go away, you look at bottel and den you say, ‘’Fore I go up to bed, I take one more glass for coming up.’—Den I say, ‘’Pose you do, you nebber be able to go up.’ Den you say, ‘Moonshine, you good fellow (you always call me good fellow when you want me), you must help me.’ You drink you grog—you fall back in de chair, and you shut first one eye, and den you shut de oder. I see more grog on the table: so I take up de bottel and I say, ‘Massa Cockle, you go up stairs?’ and you say, ‘Yes, yes—directly.’ Den I hold de bottel up and say to you, ‘Massa, shall I help you?’ and you say, ‘Yes, you must help me.’ So den I take one glass of grog, ’cause you tell me to help you.”

“I didn’t tell you to help yourself though, you scoundrel!”

“Yes, Massa, when you tell me to help you with de bottel, I ’bey order, and help myself. Den, sar, I waits little more, and I say, ‘Massa now you go up ’tairs,’ and you start up and you wake, and you say, ‘Yes, yes;’ and den I hold up and show you bottel again, and I say, ‘Shall I help you massa?’ and den you say ‘Yes.’ So I ’bey order again, and take one more glass. Den you open mouth and you snore—so I look again and I see one little glass more in bottel, and I call you, ‘Massa Cockle, Massa Cockle,’ and you say, ‘high—high!’—and den you head fall on you chest, and you go sleep again—so den I call again and I say; ‘Massa Cockle, here one lilly more drop, shall I drink it?’ and you nod you head on you bosom, and say noting—so I not quite sure, and I say again, ‘Massa Cockle, shall I finish this lilly drop?’ and you nod you head once more. Den I say, ‘all right,’ and I say, ‘you very good helt, Massa Cockle;’ and I finish de bottel. Now, Massa, you ab de whole tory, and it all really for true.”

I perceived that Cockle was quite as much amused at this account of Moonshine’s as I was myself, but he put on a bluff look.

“So, sir, it appears that you took advantage of my helpless situation, to help yourself.”

“Massa Cockle, just now you tell Massa Farren dat you drink so much, all for good nature Massa Piper—I do same all for good nature.”

“Well, Mr Moonshine, I must have some grog,” replied Cockle, “and as you helped yourself last night, now you must help me;—get it how you can, I give you just ten minutes—”

“’Pose you give gib me ten shillings, sar,” interrupted Moonshine, “dat better.”

“Cash is all gone. I havn’t a skillick till quarter-day, not a shot in the locker till Wednesday. Either get me some more grog, or you’ll get more kicks than halfpence.”

“You no ab money—you no ab tick—how I get grog, Massa Cockle? Missy O’Bottom, she tells me, last quarter day, no pay whole bill, she not half like it; she say you great deceiver, and no trust more.”

“Confound the old hag! Would you believe it, Bob, that Mrs Rowbottom has wanted to grapple with me these last two years—wants to make me landlord of the Goose and Pepper-box, taking her as a fixture with the premises. I suspect I should be the goose and she the pepper-box;—but we never could shape that course. In the first place, there’s too much of her; and, in the next, there’s too much of me. I explained this to the old lady as well as I could; and she swelled up as big as a balloon, saying, that, when people were really attached, they never attached any weight to such trifling obstacles.”

“But you must have been sweet upon her, Cockle?”

“Nothing more than a little sugar to take the nauseous taste of my long bill out of her mouth. As for the love part of the story, that was all her own. I never contradict a lady, because it’s not polite; but since I explained, the old woman has huffed, and won’t trust me with half a quartern—will she, Moonshine?”

“No, sar: when I try talk her over, and make promise, she say dat all moonshine. But, sar, I try ’gain—I tink I know how.” And Moonshine disappeared, leaving us in the dark as to what his plans might be.

“I wonder you never did marry, Cockle,” I observed.

“You would not wonder if you knew all. I must say, that once, and once only, I was very near it. And to whom do you think it was—a woman of colour.”

“A black woman?”

“No: not half black, only a quarter—what they call a quadroon in the West Indies. But, thank Heaven! she refused me.”

“Refused you? hang it, Cockle, I never thought that you had been refused by a woman of colour.”

“I was, though. You shall hear how it happened. She had been the quadroon wife (you know what that means) of a planter of the name of Guiness; he died, and not only bequeathed her her liberty, but also four good houses in Port Royal, and two dozen slaves. He had been dead about two years, and she was about thirty, when I first knew her. She was very rich, for she had a good income and spent nothing, except in jewels and dress to deck out her own person, which certainly was very handsome, even at that time, for she never had had any family. Well, if I was not quite in love with her, I was with her houses and her money; and I used to sit in her verandah and talk sentimental. One day I made my proposal. ‘Massa Cockle,’ said she, ‘dere two ting I not like; one is, I not like your name. ’Pose I ’cept your offer, you must change you name.’

“‘Suppose you accept my offer, Mistress Guiness, you’ll change your name. I don’t know how I am to change mine,’ I replied.

“‘I make ’quiry, Massa Cockle, and I find that by act and parliament you get another name.’

“‘An act of parliament!’ I cried.

“‘Yes, sar; and I pay five hundred gold Joe ’fore I hear people call me Missy Cockle—dat shell fish,’ said she, and she turned up her nose.

“‘Humph!’ said I, ‘and pray what is the next thing which you wish?’

“‘De oder ting, sar, is, you no ab coat am arms, no ab seal to your watch, with bird and beast ’pon ’em; now ’pose you promise me dat you take oder name, and buy um coat am arms; den, sar, I take de matter into ’sideration.’

“‘Save yourself the trouble, ma’am,’ said I, jumping up; ‘my answer is short—I’ll see you and your whole generation hanged first!’

“Well, that was a very odd sort of a wind-up to a proposal; but here comes Moonshine.”

The black entered the room, and put a full bottle down on the table.

“Dare it is, sar,” said he, grinning.

“Well, done, Moonshine, now I forgive you; but how did you manage it?”

“Me tell you all de tory, sar—first I see Missy O’Bottom, and I say, ‘How you do, how you find himsel dis marning? Massa come, I tink, by an bye, but he almost fraid,’ I said. She say, ‘What he fraid for?’ He tink you angry—not like see him—no lub him any more: he very sorry, very sick at ’art—he very much in lub wid you.”

“The devil you did!” roared Cockle; “now I shall be bothered again with that old woman; I wish she was moored as a buoy to the Royal George.”

“Massa no hear all yet. I say, ‘Miss O’Bottom, ’pose you no tell?’ ‘I tell.’—‘Massa call for clean shirt dis morning, and I say, it no clean shirt day, sar;’ he say, ‘Bring me clean shirt;’ and den he put him on clean shirt and he put him on clean duck trowsers, he make me brush him best blue coat. I say, ‘What all dis for, massa?’ He put him hand up to him head, and he fetch him breath and say—‘I fraid Missy O’Bottom, no hear me now—I no hab courage;’ and den he sit all dress ready, and no go. Den he say, ‘Moonshine, gib me one glass grog, den I hab courage.’ I go fetch bottle, and all grog gone—not one lilly drop left; den massa fall down plump in him big chair, and say, ‘I neber can go.’ ‘But,’ say Missy O’Bottom, ‘why he no send for some?’ ‘’Cause,’ I say, ‘quarter-day no come—money all gone.’—Den say she, ‘If you poor massa so very bad, den I trust you one bottel—you gib my compliments and say, I very appy to see him, and stay at home,’—Den I say, ‘Missy O’Bottom pose massa not come soon as he take one two glass grog cut my head off.’ Dat all, sar.”

“That’s all, is it? A pretty scrape you have got me into, you scoundrel! What’s to be done now?”

“Why, let’s have a glass of grog first, Cockle,” replied I, “we’ve been waiting a long while for it, and we’ll then talk the matter over.”

“Bob, you’re sensible, and the old woman was no fool in sending the liquor—it requires Dutch courage to attack such a Dutch-built old schuyt; let’s get the cobwebs out of our throats, and then we must see how we can get out of this scrape. I expect that I shall pay ‘dearly for my whistle’ this time I wet mine. Now, what’s to be done, Bob?”

“I think that you had better leave it to Moonshine,” said I.

“So I will.—Now, sir, as you have got me into this scrape, you must get me out of it.—D’ye hear?”

“Yes, Massa Cockle, I tink—but no ab courage.”

“I understand you, you sooty fellow—here, drink this, and see if it will brighten up your wits. He’s a regular turnpike, that fellow, every thing must pay toll.”

“Massa Cockle, I tell Missy O’Bottom dat you come soon as you hab two glass grog; ’pose you only drink one.”

“That won’t do, Moonshine, for I’m just mixing my second; you must find out something better.”

“One glass grog, massa, gib no more dan one tought—dat you ab—”

“Well, then, here’s another.—Now recollect, before you drink it, you are to get me out of this scrape; if not, you get into a scrape, for I’ll beat you as—as white as snow.”

“’Pose you no wash nigger white, you no mangle him white, Massa Cockle,” added Moonshine.

“The fellow’s ironing me, Bob, ar’n’t he?” said Cockle, laughing. “Now, before you drink, recollect the conditions.”