On Board the Esmeralda

On Board the Esmeralda; or, Martin Leigh's Log
by John Conroy Hutcheson
CHAPTER ONE.
EARLY DAYS.
It is strange what trifling events--little things apparently in
themselves--seem to have the power of shaping our different destinies,
and colouring, so to speak, the whole course of our subsequent life!
To illustrate this, I may state without exaggeration that, had it not been
for Dr Hellyer's hat--taken in connection with the mischievous
promptings of that madcap Tom Larkyns, my special chum at the
time--it is more than probable that the grand climax which so abruptly
brought my school-days to a close might have been averted; and, in that
case, following out the argument, I should not have gone to sea; have
never started on that disastrous voyage round Cape Horn which nearly
terminated my then newly-commenced nautical career as summarily as
my whilom academical studies had been put a stop to just previously;
and, as a natural consequence, I should most certainly have never had
the opportunity or necessity for spinning the present yarn. But, perhaps,
the best plan for me to pursue, in order to make you fully understand
the matter in all its bearings, will be to "begin at the beginning," as
your regular 'longshore professional storytellers say, in the good old-
fashioned way, without any more backing and filling, and veering and
hauling, which mode of progression, as every decent sailor knows, only
tends to take a craft off her proper true course, and make lots of leeway;
whereas, if we sail on free, with a fair wind and a steady helm, you'll
soon be able to follow in my wake and form a correct opinion of your
own as to the merits of my logical conclusions.

I will now, therefore, put back again and select a fresh point of
departure after this little bit of sea lawyering; so, here goes for a start in
earnest!
My name is Martin Leigh, and my mother died shortly after I was born,
worse luck for me! My father, who was a lieutenant in the Royal Navy,
being within a year or two subsequently killed in action up the Niger
river on the west coast of Africa, I was left an orphan at a very early
age, without having ever experienced, even in my most remote childish
recollections, those two greatest of all blessings--a mother's love and
parental guidance--which many who have been more fortunate than
myself to possess are, as I have frequently noticed in after-life, but too
often in the habit of undervaluing and making light of.
At the time of my birth, my father was abroad on service in the exercise
of his profession, having no private fortune or other resources which
would have enabled him to live at home on his half-pay; and on my
mother's early death I was taken charge of at his request by his brother,
a man considerably older than himself, with a wife and family of his
own. Of course, while my father lived he made over a portion of the
honorarium given him by a grateful country in return for exposing his
life at the call of duty; but, on his suddenly succumbing to the effects of
a murderous slug shot through the lungs, fired from the old flint musket
of one of the King of Abarri's adherents, in the pestilential African
stream up which he had gone to demolish a native stronghold that had
defied the fetish of the British flag, this allowance for my support
ceased, and I was thenceforth left a poor pensioner on my uncle's
bounty. I will do my relative the justice of stating that I do not believe
he would have grudged the extra expense I entailed on his already
well-populated household, had it not been for my aunt. This lady,
however, affectionately regarded me as an interloper from the very first;
and I have a vivid memory, even now, of the aggravating way she had
of talking about the food I ate and the clothes I wore out--although,
goodness knows, my tailor's bill could not have amounted to much in
those days, as I was invariably made the residuary legatee of my elder
cousin Ralph's cast-off jackets and trousers, which, when pretty nearly
dilapidated, used to be made over to my use, after being first cut down

by my Aunt Matilda's own fair hands to suit my more juvenile
proportions.
To make a long story short, I could plainly perceive, young as I was,
long before I had cut my eye teeth, that I was looked upon as an
uncalled-for incumbrance by my relatives, senior and junior
alike--Aunt Matilda never being dissuaded, by any fear of hurting my
feelings, from continually speaking of my pauper condition, and
throwing it, as it were, in my face, wondering in her