The Honour of the Flag | Page 3

landing from the frigate out of which he
had been paid, Mr. Joseph Westlake was again afloat, but now in a
smart little vessel of his own. She had been newly sheathed with copper,
and when she heeled over from the breeze as she stretched through the
winding reaches of the river the metal shone like gold above the
wool-white line of foam through which the cutter washed, and lazy
men in barges would turn their heads to admire her, and red-capped
cooks in the cabooses of "ratching" colliers would step to the rail to
look, and sometimes a party of gay and gallant Cockneys, male and
female, taking their pleasure in a wherry, would salute the passing Tom
Bowling with a flourish of hands and pocket handkerchiefs.

Never had old Joe been so happy in all his life. Of a night he'd bring up
in some secure nook, and after having seen everything all safe, he'd go
below with Peter Plum, and in the cosy interior of the little cabin,
whose atmosphere was rendered speedily fragrant with the perfume of
rum punch, which Joe, whilst in the West Indies, had learnt the art of
brewing to perfection, the two sailors would sit smoking their yards of
pipe-clay whilst they discoursed on the past, one incident recalling
another, one briny recollection prompting an even salter memory, until
their eyes grew moist and their vision dim in their balls of sight;
whereupon they would turn in and make the little ship vocal with their
noses.
It happened, according to the usual methods of time, that an Easter
Monday came round, which, as we know, was the joyful anniversary of
the death of the wife of the retired tailor, Sloper, whose villa, called
Labour's Retreat, stood upon the banks of the Thames near Erith. To
fitly celebrate this happy day Mr. Sloper had invited three friends to
dine with him. It was in the year 1851, when the class of society in
which Mr. Sloper belonged was not so genteel in its habits as it has
since become; in other words, Sloper dined at two o'clock. Had he
survived into this age he would not have dreamt of dining at an earlier
hour than seven.
His friends were of his own sex. Sloper did not like the ladies. His
friends' calling matters not. They did business in the east end of
London, and were all three thoroughly respectable tradesmen in a small
way, wanting, perhaps, in the muscle and depth of chest and hurricane
lungs of Joe Westlake and Peter Plum, but all of them able to pay
twenty shillings in the pound, to give good value for prompt cash, and
desirous not only of fresh patronage, but determined to a man to merit
the continuance of the same.
When Sloper and his friends had dined, and the bottle had circled until,
like quicksilver in the eye of a hurricane, the contents had sunk out of
sight, the party went on to the lawn to fire off the guns there in
completion of the triumphant celebration of the ever-memorable
anniversary of Sloper's release.

It was precisely at this hour that the Tom Bowling, with Plum at the
helm and Joe Westlake in full rig, marching up and down the
quarter-deck, came leisurely rounding down Halfway Reach before a
pleasant northerly breeze of wind blowing over the flat, fat levels of
Barking. The Tom Bowling, opening Jenningtree Point, ported her helm
and floated in all her pride of white canvas and radiant metal and
fathom and a half of shining bunting at her masthead into Erith Reach.
Just as she came abreast of Labour's Retreat a gun was fired; the white
powder-smoke clouded the tailor's lawn; the thunder of the ordnance
smote the ear of Joe Westlake, who, dilating his nostrils and directing
his eyes at Sloper's villa, bawled out: "Peter! that's meant for us, my
heart! Down hellum! slacken away fore and aft! pipe all hands for
action!"
A second gun roared upon the lawn that sloped from the tailor's house;
and almost as loud was the shout that Westlake delivered to all hands to
look alive and bring the guns to bear. The Tom Bowling was thrown
into the wind and brought to a stand abreast of Labour's Retreat; Plum
took a turn with the helm and went to help at the guns, and in a few
minutes the three of a crew, with Westlake continuously bawling out
orders to bear a hand and load again, were actively engaged in firing
blank at the enemy on the lawn.
It might have been that Mr. Sloper and his friends were a little tipsy; it
might have been that they were irritated by their feu de joie being
interrupted and complicated, so to speak, by