Sketches by Boz Page 45

  The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it continued to be. Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became unusually fidgety—rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of the Holborn cabmen. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy Noakes knew no bounds. He was every instant running to the window, to look out for clouds; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by practising a new comic song for the occasion, in the chairman's chambers.

  Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night; he tossed and tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter-past nine, and the ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat's side, and grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move. He made a violent effort to get on board, and awoke. The bright sun was shining cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams realised.

  It was just five o'clock. He calculated the time—he should be a good half-hour dressing himself; and as it was a lovely morning, and the tide would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to Strand-lane, and have a boat to the Custom-house.

  He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied forth. The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if they had been crowded, overnight, for the last time. Here and there, an early apprentice, with quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the shutters of a shop; and a policeman or milkwoman might occasionally be seen pacing slowly along; but the servants had not yet begun to clean the doors, or light the kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of desolation. At the corner of a by-street, near Temple-bar, was stationed a “street-breakfast.” The coffee was boiling over a charcoal fire, and large slices of bread and butter were piled one upon the other, like deals in a timber-yard. The company were seated on a form, which, with a view both to security and comfort, was placed against a neighbouring wall. Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered dress bespoke the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating three “ladies” and an Irish labourer. A little sweep was standing at a short distance, casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies; and a policeman was watching the group from the opposite side of the street. The wan looks and gaudy finery of the thinly-clad women contrasted as strangely with the gay sunlight, as did their forced merriment with the boisterous hilarity of the two young men, who, now and then, varied their amusements by “bonneting” the proprietor of this itinerant coffee-house.

  Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down Strandlane, and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought he had never felt so important or so happy in his life.

  “Boat, sir?” cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their boats, and all whistling. “Boat, sir?”

  “No,” replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; for the inquiry was not made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity.

  “Would you prefer a wessel, sir?” inquired another, to the infinite delight of the “Jack-in-the-water.”

  Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt.

  “Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir?” inquired an old fireman-waterman, very confidentially. He was dressed in a faded red suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court-guide.

  “Yes, make haste—the Endeavour—off the Custom-house.”

  “Endeavour!” cried the man who had convulsed the “Jack” before. “Vy, I see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.”

  “So did I,” said another; “and I should think she'd gone down by this time, for she's a precious sight too full of ladies and gen'lemen.”

  Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and stepped into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scrambling, and shoving, and grating, had brought up to the causeway. “Shove her off!” cried Mr. Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river; Mr. Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at the stairs offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he'd never reach the “Custum-us.”

  “Here she is, by Jove!” said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside the Endeavour.

  “Hold hard!” cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes jumped on board.

  “Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. She looks uncommon well this morning.”

  “She does, indeed,” replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it is impossible to describe. The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing, and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning; and then Mr. Percy Noakes bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook's men, and the steward's wife, laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of the cabin; and then Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat and rushed backwards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was assisting everybody; and the steward's wife laughed till she cried, and Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions. And then the bell at London-bridge wharf rang; and a Margate boat was just starting; and a Gravesend boat was just starting, and people shouted, and porters ran down the steps with luggage that would crush any men but porters; and sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were placed between the outside boat and the inside boat; and the passengers ran along them, and looked like so many fowls coming out of an area; and then, the bell ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the boats started, and the whole scene was one of the most delightful bustle and confusion.

  The time wore on; half-past eight o'clock arrived; the pastrycook's men went ashore; the dinner was completely laid out; and Mr. Percy Noakes locked the principal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in order that it might be suddenly disclosed, in all its magnificence, to the eyes of the astonished company. The band came on board, and so did the wine.

  Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body. There was Mr. Hardy, in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk stockings, and pumps—in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his head, and an immense telescope under his arm; and there was the young gentleman with the green spectacles, in nankeen inexplicables, with a ditto waistcoat and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul—not the saint, but he of Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee, dressed in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and trousers, looked something between waiters and West India planters.

  Nine o'clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals. Mr. Samuel Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a smart private wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark green cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat, accompanied by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at least a week's incessant playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived at the same moment with more music, and a lion—a gentleman with a bass voice and an incipient red moustache. The colours of the Taunton party were pink; those of the Briggses a light blue. The Tauntons had artificial flowers in their bonnets; here the Briggses gained a decided advantage—they wore feathers.

  “How d'ye do, dear?” said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The word “dear” among girls is frequently synonymous with “wretch. “)

  “Quite well, thank you, dear,” replied the Misses Taunton to the Misses Briggs; and then, there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and shaking of hands, as might have induced one to suppose that the two families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing the other overboard, as they most sincerely did.

  Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was. This was just what Mrs. Taunton wanted. Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggses.

  “Oh! I beg your pardon,” said the general of the Taunton party, with a careless air.—“Captain Helves—Mr. Percy Noakes—Mrs. Briggs—Captain Helves.”

  Mr. Perc
y Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with all due ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome.

  “Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming,” resumed Mrs. Taunton, “I did myself the pleasure of bringing the captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition.”

  “In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to offer you welcome, sir,” replied Percy. (Here the scraping was renewed.) “But pray be seated—won't you walk aft? Captain, will you conduct Miss Taunton?—Miss Briggs, will you allow me?”

  “Where could they have picked up that military man?” inquired Mrs. Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party.

  “I can't imagine,” replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation; for the very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company, had impressed her with a high sense of his importance.

  Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived. The invites had been excellently arranged: Mr. Percy Noakes having considered it as important that the number of young men should exactly tally with that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on board should be in precise proportion to the forks.

  “Now, is every one on board?” inquired Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee (who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going to be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they might safely start.

  “Go on!” cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the paddle-boxes.

  “Go on!” echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatchway to pass the directions down to the engineer; and away went the vessel with that agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting.

  “Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!” shouted half-a-dozen voices from a boat, a quarter of a mile astern.

  “Ease her!” cried the captain: “do these people belong to us, sir?”

  “Noakes,” exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object far and near, through the large telescope, “it's the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields—and two children with them, by Jove!”

  “What a shame to bring children!” said everybody; “how very inconsiderate!”

  “I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see “em, wouldn't it?” suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally. A council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the newcomers should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy solemnly pledging himself to tease the children during the whole of the day.

  “Stop her!” cried the captain.

  “Stop her!” repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert. They were only appeased by the assurance of the martial Helves, that the escape of steam consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great loss of human life.

  Two men ran to the side; and after some shouting, and swearing, and angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield, and Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck. The girl was about six years old, the boy about four; the former was dressed in a white frock with a pink sash and dog's-earedlooking little spencer: a straw bonnet and green veil, six inches by three and a half; the latter, was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the bottom of which, and the top of his plaid socks, a considerable portion of two small mottled legs was discernible. He had a light blue cap with a gold band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his countenance.

  The boat once more started off; the band played “Off she goes:” the major part of the company conversed cheerfully in groups; and the old gentlemen walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and gravely as if they were doing a match against time for an immense stake. They ran briskly down the Pool; the gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames Police-office, and other elegant public edifices; and the young ladies exhibited a proper display of horror at the appearance of the coal-whippers and ballast-heavers. Mr. Hardy told stories to the married ladies, at which they laughed very much in their pocket-handkerchiefs, and hit him on the knuckles with their fans, declaring him to be “a naughty man—a shocking creature”—and so forth; and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of battles and duels, with a most bloodthirsty air, which made him the admiration of the women, and the envy of the men. Quadrilling commenced; Captain Helves danced one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasies. The victory appeared to be complete; but alas! the inconstancy of man! Having performed this necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with whom he danced no less than three sets consecutively, and from whose side he evinced no intention of stirring for the remainder of the day.

  Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the Jews'-harp, and having frequently repeated the exquisitely amusing joke of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their musical friends would oblige the company by a display of their abilities.

  “Perhaps,” he said in a very insinuating manner, “Captain Helves will oblige us?” Mrs. Taunton's countenance lighted up, for the captain only sang duets, and couldn't sing them with anybody but one of her daughters.

  “Really,” said that warlike individual, “I should be very happy, “but—”

  “Oh! pray do,” cried all the young ladies.

  “Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet?”

  “Oh! not the slightest,” returned the young lady, in a tone which clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection.

  “Shall I accompany you, dear?” inquired one of the Miss Briggses, with the bland intention of spoiling the effect.

  “Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,” sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton, who saw through the manoeuvre; “my daughters always sing without accompaniments.”

  “And without voices,” tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone.

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of the observation, though she had not heard it clearly—“Perhaps it would be as well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible as they are to other people.”

  “And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some persons” daughters, had not sufficient discernment to pay attention to other persons” daughters,” returned Mrs. Briggs, “some persons would not be so ready to display that ill-temper which, thank God, distinguishes them from other persons.”

  “Persons!” ejaculated Mrs. Taunton.

  “Persons,” replied Mrs. Briggs.

  “Insolence!”

  “Creature!”

  “Hush! hush!” interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few by whom this dialogue had been overheard. “Hush!—pray, silence for the duet.”

  After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the captain began the following duet from the opera of “Paul and Virginia,” in that grunting tone in which a man gets down, Heaven knows where, without the remotest chance of ever getting up again. This, in private circles, is frequently designated “a bass voice.”

  “See (sung the captain) from o-ce-an ri-sing Bright flames the or-b of d-ay. From yon gro-ove, the varied so-ongs—”

  Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of the starboard paddle-box.

  “My child!” screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. “My child! it is his voice—I know it.”

  Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror burst from the company; the general impression being, that the little innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the machinery.

  “What is the
matter?” shouted the agonised father, as he returned with the child in his arms.

  “Oh! oh! oh!” screamed the small sufferer again.

  “What is the matter, dear?” inquired the father once more—hastily stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining whether the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces.

  “Oh! oh!—I'm so frightened!”

  “What at, dear?—what at?” said the mother, soothing the sweet infant.

  “Oh! he's been making such dreadful faces at me,” cried the boy, relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection.

  “He!—who?” cried everybody, crowding round him.

  “Oh!—him!” replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the most concerned of the whole group.

  The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all present, with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The facetious Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to a remote part of the vessel, and, suddenly appearing before him with the most awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of terror. Of course, he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him to deny the accusation; and the unfortunate little victim was accordingly led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head from both his parents, for having the wickedness to tell a story.

  This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. The duet was loudly applauded, and, certainly, the perfect independence of the parties deserved great commendation. Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest reference to the captain; and the captain sang so loud, that he had not the slightest idea what was being done by his partner. After having gone through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore, he acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self-denial which men usually assume when they think they have done something to astonish the company.