John Ingerfield | Page 3

certain member of his ship's company, who, by
some means or another, has made himself objectionable to King's
friends, in order that he (the said objectionable person) may be
forthwith hanged from the yard-arm.
Captain Ingerfield returns polite answer to Captain of King's frigate
that he (Captain Ingerfield) will, with much pleasure, hang any member
of his ship's company that needs hanging, but that neither the King of
England nor any one else on God Almighty's sea is going to do it for
him. Captain of King's frigate sends back word that if objectionable
person be not at once given up he shall be compelled with much regret
to send Ingerfield and his ship to the bottom of the Atlantic. Replies
Captain Ingerfield, "That is just what he will have to do before I give
up one of my people," and fights the big frigate--fights it so fiercely
that after three hours Captain of King's frigate thinks it will be good to
try argument again, and sends therefore a further message, courteously
acknowledging Captain Ingerfield's courage and skill, and suggesting
that, he having done sufficient to vindicate his honour and renown, it
would be politic to now hand over the unimportant cause of contention,
and so escape with his treasure.
"Tell your Captain," shouts back this Ingerfield, who has discovered
there are sweeter things to fight for than even money, "that the Wild
Goose has flown the seas with her belly full of treasure before now, and
will, if it be God's pleasure, so do again, but that master and man in her
sail together, fight together, and die together."
Whereupon King's frigate pounds away more vigorously than ever, and
succeeds eventually in carrying out her threat. Down goes the Wild

Goose, her last chase ended--down she goes with a plunge, spit
foremost with her colours flying; and down with her goes every man
left standing on her decks; and at the bottom of the Atlantic they lie to
this day, master and man side by side, keeping guard upon their
treasure.
Which incident, and it is well authenticated, goes far to prove that the
Ingerfields, hard men and grasping men though they be--men caring
more for the getting of money than for the getting of love--loving more
the cold grip of gold than the grip of kith or kin, yet bear buried in their
hearts the seeds of a nobler manhood, for which, however, the barren
soil of their ambition affords scant nourishment.
The John Ingerfield of this story is a man very typical of his race. He
has discovered that the oil and tallow refining business, though not a
pleasant one, is an exceedingly lucrative one. These are the good days
when George the Third is king, and London is rapidly becoming a city
of bright night. Tallow and oil and all materials akin thereto are in ever-
growing request, and young John Ingerfield builds himself a large
refining house and warehouse in the growing suburb of Limehouse,
which lies between the teeming river and the quiet fields, gathers many
people round about him, puts his strong heart into his work, and
prospers.
All the days of his youth he labours and garners, and lays out and
garners yet again. In early middle age he finds himself a wealthy man.
The chief business of life, the getting of money, is practically done; his
enterprise is firmly established, and will continue to grow with ever
less need of husbandry. It is time for him to think about the secondary
business of life, the getting together of a wife and home, for the
Ingerfields have ever been good citizens, worthy heads of families,
openhanded hosts, making a brave show among friends and
neighbours.
John Ingerfield, sitting in his stiff, high-backed chair, in his stiffly, but
solidly, furnished dining-room, above his counting-house, sipping
slowly his one glass of port, takes counsel with himself.

What shall she be?
He is rich, and can afford a good article. She must be young and
handsome, fit to grace the fine house he will take for her in fashionable
Bloomsbury, far from the odour and touch of oil and tallow. She must
be well bred, with a gracious, noble manner, that will charm his guests
and reflect honour and credit upon himself; she must, above all, be of
good family, with a genealogical tree sufficiently umbrageous to hide
Lavender Wharf from the eyes of Society.
What else she may or may not be he does not very much care. She will,
of course, be virtuous and moderately pious, as it is fit and proper that
women should be. It will also be well that her disposition be gentle and
yielding, but that is of minor importance, at all events so far as he is
concerned: the Ingerfield