Middy and Ensign Part 39

"To fetch my instrument," said Billy.

"What, yer fiddle? What do you want that 'ere for?"

"The young gents wants it," said Billy.

So with a nod he went into his quarters, to return with his beloved violin in its green baize bag, which he bore to where Bob and Tom were now seated at one of the tables beneath a shady tree.

On the strength of their adventure they were indulging themselves with bitter beer, into which they dropped lumps of ice, and as soon as Billy Mustard came, the violin was brought out, tuned, and the harmonious sound produced had the effect of soon gathering together an audience in the soft mellow hour before sunset.

Several officers seated themselves at the table, and followed the youngsters' example; soldiers and sailors gathered at a little distance beneath the trees; and unseen by the party below, Rachel Linton and Mary Sinclair appeared at a mat-shaded window.

"Tom Long's going to sing 'The Englishman,'" shouted Bob Roberts suddenly, and there was a loud tapping upon the rough deal table.

"No, no, I really can't, 'pon honour," said the ensign, looking very much more flushed than before.

"Yes, yes, he is," said Bob, addressing those around. "He is--in honour of the occasion; and gentlemen, let's sing out the chorus so loudly that those n.i.g.g.e.rs in the campong can hear our sentiments, and s.h.i.+ver in their shoes, where they've got any."

"Hear! hear!" said a young lieutenant.

"But really, you know, I hav'n't a voice," exclaimed the ensign in expostulation.

"Gammon!" cried Bob. "He can sing like a bird, gentlemen. Silence, please, for our national song, 'The Englishman'!"

"I can't sing it--indeed I can't," cried the ensign.

"Oh, yes, you can; go on," said the young lieutenant who had previously spoken.

"To be sure he will," cried Bob Roberts. "Heave ahead, Tom, and I'll help whenever I can. It's your duty to sing it, for the n.i.g.g.e.rs to hear our sentiments with regard to slavery!"

"Hear, hear!" cried several of the officers, laughing; and the men gave a cheer.

"Slavery and the British flag!" cried Bob Roberts, who was getting excited. "No man, or woman either, who has once sought protection beneath the folds of the glorious red white and blue, can ever return to slavery!"

"Hear, hear, hear!" shouted the officers again, and the men threw up their caps, cried "Hoorar!" and the sentry on the roof presented arms.

"Now then, play up, Private Mustard--'The Englishman,'" cried Bob Roberts. "Get ready, Tom, and run it out with all your might!"

"Must I?" said the ensign, nervously.

"To be sure you must. Wait a minute, though, and let him play the introduction."

Billy Mustard gave the bow a preliminary sc.r.a.pe, and the audience grew larger.

"What key shall I play it in, sir?" said Billy.

"Any key you like," cried Bob, excitedly. "Play it in a whole bunch of keys, my lad, only go ahead, or we shall forget all the words."

Off went the fiddle with a flourish over the first strain of the well-known song, and then, after a couple of efforts to sing, Tom Long broke down, and Bob Roberts took up the strain, singing it in a cheery rollicking boyish way, growing more confident every moment, and proving that he had a musical tenor voice. Then as he reached the end of the first verse, he waved his puggaree on high, jumped upon the table to the upsetting of a couple of gla.s.ses, and led the chorus, which was l.u.s.tily trolled out by all present.

On went Bob Roberts, declaring how the flag waved on every sea, and should never float over a slave, throwing so much enthusiasm into the song that to a man all rose, and literally roared the chorus, ending with three cheers, and one cheer more for the poor girls; and as Bob Roberts stood upon the table flushed and hot, he felt quite a hero, and ready to go on that very night and rescue half-a-dozen more poor slave girls from tyranny, if they would only appeal to him for help.

"Three cheers for Mr Roberts," shouted d.i.c.k, the sailor, as Billy Mustard was confiding to a friend that "a fiddle soon got outer toon in that climate."

"Yes, and three cheers for Mr Long," shouted Bob. "Come up here, Tom, old man; you did more than I did."

Tom Long was prevailed upon to mount the table, where he bowed again and again as the men cheered; when, as a lull came in the cheering, Billy Mustard, whose fiddle had been musically whispering to itself in answer to the well-drawn bow, suddenly made himself heard in the strain of "Rule Britannia," which was sung in chorus with vigour, especially when the singers declared that Britons never, _never_, NEVER should be slaves; which rang out far over the attap roofs of the drowsy campong.

So satisfied were the singers that they followed up with the National Anthem, which was just concluded when the resident sent one of his servants to express a hope that the noise was nearly at an end.

"Well, I think we have been going it," said Bob Roberts, jumping down.

"Come along, Tom. I've got two splendid cigars--real Manillas."

Tom Long, to whom this public recognition had been extremely painful, was only too glad to join his companion on a form beneath a tree, where the two genuine Manillas were lit, and for a quarter of an hour the youths smoked on complacently, when just as the exultation of the public singing was giving way to a peculiar sensation of depression and sickness, and each longed to throw away half his cigar, but did not dare, Adam Gray came up to where they were seated, gradually growing pale and wan.

"Ah, Gray," said the ensign, "what is it?"

"The major, sir, requests that you will favour him with your company directly."

"My company?" cried the ensign; "what's the matter?"

"Don't know, sir; but I think it's something about those slave girls.

And Captain Horton requested me to tell you to come too, sir," he continued, turning to Bob Roberts.

"We're going to get promotion, I know, Tom," said the middy.

"No, no," said the ensign, dolefully, "it's a good wigging."

Bob Roberts, although feeling far from exalted now, did not in anywise believe in the possibility of receiving what his companion euphoniously termed a "wigging," and with a good deal of his customary independent, and rather impudent, swagger he followed the orderly to a cool lamp-lit room, where sat in solemn conclave, the resident, Major Sandars, and Captain Horton.

"That will do, Gray," said Major Sandars, as the youths entered, and saluted the three officers seated like judges at a table, "but be within hearing."

"Might ask us to sit down," thought Bob, as he saw from the aspect of the three gentlemen that something serious was afloat.

But the new arrivals were not asked to sit down, and they stood before the table feeling very guilty, and like a couple of prisoners; though of what they had been guilty, and why they were brought there, they could not imagine.

"It's only their serious way," thought Bob; "they are going to compliment us."

He stared at the shaded lamp, round which four or five moths and a big beetle were wildly circling in a frantic desire to commit suicide, but kept from a fiery end by gauze wire over the chimney.

"What fools moths and beetles are!" thought Bob, and then his attention was taken up by the officers.

"Will you speak, Major Sandars?" said the resident.

"No, I think it should come from you, Mr Linton. What do you say, Captain Horton?"

"I quite agree with you, Major Sandars," said the captain stiffly.

"What the d.i.c.kens have we been doing?" thought Bob; and then he stared hard at the resident, and wished heartily that Rachel Linton's father had not been chosen to give him what he felt sure was a setting down for some reason or another.