Frank Mildmay; Or, The Naval OfficerMarryat, Frederick
History
Frank Mildmay; Or, The Naval Officer
Marryat, Frederick
Great Britain -- History, Naval -- 19th century -- Fiction; Great Britain. Royal Navy -- Officers -- Fiction; Sea stories
"To-morrow, at nine
o'clock," he repeated; and I left him, much pleased with my interview.
I went back to my inn, thinking what a very fortunate fellow I was
to have such an honest, straight-forward, bold, British hero of a
captain, on my first appointment. I ordered my dinner at the George,
and then strolled out to make my purchases, and give my orders for a
few articles for sea service. I fell in with several old messmates;
they congratulated me on my promotion, and declared I should give them
a dinner to wet my commission, to which I readily consented. The day
was named, and Mr Billett was ordered to provide accordingly.
Having dined _solus_, I amused myself in writing a long letter to my
dear Emily; and with the assistance of a bottle of wine, succeeded in
composing a tolerably warm and rapturous sort of a document, which
I sealed, kissed, and sent to the post-office; after which, I built
castles till bed time; but not one castle did I build, in which Emily
was not the sole mistress. I went to bed, and slept soundly; and the
next morning, by seven o'clock, I was arrayed in a spick-span new
uniform, with an immensely large epaulette stuck on my right shoulder.
Having breakfasted, I sallied out, and, in my own conceit, was as
handsome a chap as ever buckled a sword belt. I skimmed with a light
and vigorous foot down High-street.
"Boat, your honour?" said a dozen voices at once, as I reached New
Sallyport; but I was resolved that Point-street should have a look
at me, as well as High-street; so I kept a profound and mysterious
silence, and let the watermen follow me to Point, just like so many
sucking fish after a shark. I had two or three offers for volunteers
to serve with me as I went along; but they were not of the right sex,
so I did not take them.
"Boat to Spithead, your honour?" said a tough old waterman.
"Ay, you'll do," said I; so I jumped into his wherry, and we shoved
off.
"What ship is your honour going to?" said the man.
"To the D---- brig."
"Oh, you are a-going to she, are you? To belong to her, mayhap?"
"Yes," I replied.
The waterman gave a sigh, feathered his oar, and never spoke another
word till we came alongside. I did not regret his taciturnity, for I
was always more amused with my own thoughts, than in conversing with
illiterate people.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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