Chapter 1

Newton Forster, or the Merchant Service, by Captain Marryat.

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Captain Frederick Marryat was born July 10 1792, and died August 8 1848.
He retired from the British navy in 1828 in order to devote himself to
writing. In the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which are
among the very best of English literature, and some of which are still
in print.

Marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in his
stories. He says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, he
never knew what he was going to write. He certainly was a literary
genius.

"Newton Forster" was published in 1832, the third book to flow from
Marryat's pen. It was the first of his nautical books in which the hero
is not in the Royal Navy.

This e-text was transcribed in 1998 by Nick Hodson, and was reformatted
in 2003.

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NEWTON FORSTER, OR THE MERCHANT SERVICE, BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER ONE.

And what is this _new_ book the whole world makes such a rout about?--
Oh! 'tis out of all plumb, my lord,--quite an irregular thing; not one
of the angles at the four corners was a right angle. I had my rule
and compasses, my lord, in my pocket.--Excellent critic!

Grant me patience, just Heaven! Of all the cants which are canted in
this canting world--though the cant of hypocrites may be the worst,
the cant of criticism is the most tormenting! STERNE.

What authors in general may feel upon the subject I know not, but I have
discovered, since I so rashly took up my pen, that there are three
portions of a novel which are extremely difficult to arrange to the
satisfaction of a fastidious public.

The first is the beginning, the second the middle, and the third is the
end.

The painter who, in times of yore, exposed his canvass to universal
criticism, and found to his mortification that there was not a particle
of his composition which had not been pronounced defective by one
pseudo-critic or another, did not receive severer castigation than I
have experienced from the _unsolicited_ remarks of "damned good-natured
friends."

"I like your first and second volume," said a tall, long-chinned,
short-sighted blue, dressed in yellow, peering into my face, as if her
eyes were magnifying glasses, and she was obtaining the true focus of
vision, "but you fall off in your last, which is all about that _nasty_
line-of-battle ship."

"I don't like your plot, sir," brawls out in a stentorian voice an
elderly gentleman; "I don't like your plot, sir," repeated he with an
air of authority, which he had long assumed, from supposing because
people would not be at the trouble of contradicting his opinions, that
they were incontrovertible--"there is nothing but death."

"Death, my dear sir," replied I, as if I was hailing the look-out man at
the mast-head, and hoping to soften him with my intentional bull; "is
not death, sir, a true picture of human life?"

"Ay, ay," growled he, either not hearing or not _taking_; "it's all very
well, but--there's too much killing in it."

"In a novel, sir, killing's no murder, you surely will admit; and you
must also allow something for professional feeling--`'Tis my
occupation;' and after five-and-twenty years of constant practice,
whether I wield the sword or the pen, the force of habit--"

"It won't do, sir," interrupted he; "the public don't like it.
Otherwise," continued this hyper-critic, softening a little, "some of
the chapters are amusing, and on the whole, it may be said to be
rather--that is--not unpleasantly written."

"I like your first and third volume, but not your second," squeaked out
_something_ intended to have been a woman, with shoulder-blades and
collar-bones, as De Ville would say, most strongly developed.

"Well now, I don't exactly agree with you, my dear Miss Pegoo; I think
the second and third volumes are by far the most _readable_," exclaimed
_another thing_, perched upon a chair, with her feet dangling halfway
between her seat and the carpet.

"If I might presume upon my long-standing in the service, Captain ---,"
said a pompous general officer,--whose back appeared to have been
_fished_ with the kitchen poker--"If I might venture to offer you
advice," continued he, leading me paternally by the arm a little on one
side, "it would be, not again to attempt a defence of smuggling: I
consider, sir, that as an officer in his Majesty's service, you have
strangely committed yourself."

"It is not my defence, sir: they are the arguments of a smuggler."

"You wrote the book, sir," replied he, sharply; "I can assure you, that
I should not be surprised if the Admiralty took notice of it."

"Indeed, sir," replied I, with assumed alarm.

I received no answer, except a most significant nod of the head, as he
walked away.

But I have not yet arrived at the climax, which made me inclined to
exclaim with the expiring Lion in the fable--

A midshipman--yes, reader, a midshipman--who had formerly belonged to my
ship, and had trembled at my frown, ranged up alongside of me, and with
a supercilious air, observed--

"I have read your book, and--there are _one_ or _two_ good things in
it."

Hear this, admirals and captains on half-pay! hear this, port-admirals
and captains afloat! I have often heard that the service was
deteriorating, going to the devil, but I never became a convert to the
opinion before.

Gracious Heaven! what a revengeful feeling is there in the exclamation
"O that mine adversary had _written a book_!" To be snarled at, and
bow-wowed at, in this manner, by those who find fault, because their
intellect is not sufficient to enable them to appreciate! Authors, take
my resolution; which is, never to show your face until your work has
passed through the ordeal of the Reviews.--Keep your room for the month
after your literary labour. Reviews are like Jesuit father confessors--
guiding the opinions of the multitude, who blindly follow the
suggestions of those to whom they may have entrusted their literary
consciences. If your work is denounced and damned, still you will be
the gainer; for is it not better to be released at once from your
sufferings, by one blow from the paw of a tiger, than to be worried
piecemeal by creatures who have all the will, but not the power, to
inflict the _coup de grace_?

The author of "Cloudesley," enumerating the qualifications necessary to
a writer of fiction, observes, "When he introduces his ideal personage
to the public, he enters upon his task with a preconception of the
qualities that belong to this being, the principle of his actions, and
its necessary concomitants, etcetera, etcetera." That such preparation
ought to be made, I will not deny; but were I to attempt an adherence to
these rules, the public would never be troubled with any production of
mine. It would be too tedious a journey in prospective for my wayward
intellect; and if I calculated stages before I ordered my horses, I
should abandon the attempt, and remain quietly at home. Mine is not a
journey of that methodical description; on the contrary, it is a ramble
hand-in-hand with Fancy, with a light heart and a lighter baggage; for
my whole wallet, when I set off, contains but one single idea--but ideas
are hermaphrodite, and these creatures of the brain are most prolific.
To speak more intelligibly, I never have made any arrangement of plot
when I commenced a work of fiction, and often finish a chapter without
having the slightest idea of what materials the ensuing one is to be
constructed. At times I feel so tired that I throw down the pen in
despair; but it is soon taken up again, and, like a pigmy Antaeus, it
seems to have imbibed fresh vigour from its prostration.

I remember when the "King's Own" was finished, I was as happy as a
pedestrian who had accomplished his thousand miles in a thousand hours.
My voluntary slavery was over, and I was emancipated. Where was I then?
I recollect; within two days' sail of the Lizard, returning home, after
a six weeks' cruise to discover a rock in the Atlantic, which never
existed except in the terrified or intoxicated noddle of some master of
a merchant vessel. It was about half-past five in the evening, and I
was alone in my after-cabin, quite alone, as the captain of a man-of-war
must be, even when in presence of his ship's company. If being sent to
sea has been pronounced by the officers and men to be _transportation_,
being the captain of the ship may truly be designated as _solitary
confinement_.

I could not send for any one to whom I could impart the intelligence--
there was no one whom I could expect to sympathise with me, or to whom I
could pour out the abundance of my joy; for that the service prohibited.
What could I do? Why I could dance; so I sprung from my chair, and
singing the tune, commenced a Quadrille movement,--"Tal de ral la, tal
de ral la, lity, lity, lity, liddle-um, tal de ral ha, tal--"

"Three bells, sir," cried the first lieutenant, who had opened my door
unperceived by me, and showed evident surprise at my motions; "shall we
beat to quarters?"--"Certainly, Mr B---," replied I; and he
disappeared. But this interruption produced only a temporary cessation:
I was in the height of "Cavalier seul," when his head popped into the
cabin--

"All present, and sober, sir," reported he, with a demure smile.

"Except the captain, I presume you are thinking," replied I.

"Oh! no indeed, sir; I observed that you were very merry."

"I am, Mr B---, but not with wine; mine is a sort of intellectual
intoxication not provided for in the Articles of War."

"A what! sir?"

"Oh! something that you'll never get drunk upon, as you never look into
a book--beat a retreat."

"Ay, ay, sir," replied the first-lieutenant; and he disappeared.

And I also beat a retreat to my sofa; and as I threw myself upon it,
mentally vowed that, for two months at the least, I never would take up
a pen. But we seldom make a vow which we do not eventually break; and
the reason is obvious. We vow only when hurried into excesses; we are
alarmed at the dominion which has been acquired over us by our feelings
or by our habits. Checked for a time by an adherence to our
resolutions, they gradually recover their former strength, until they
again break forth, and we yield to their overpowering influence. A few
days after I had made the resolution, I found myself, like the sailor,
_rewarding_ it, by writing more indefatigably than ever.

So now, reader, you may understand that I continue to write, as Tony
Lumpkin says--not to please my good-natured friends, "but because I
can't bear to disappoint myself;" for that which I commenced as an
amusement, and continued as a drudgery, has ended in becoming a
_confirmed habit_.

So much for the overture. Now let us draw up the curtain, and our
actors shall appear upon the stage.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER TWO.

Boldly I venture on a naval scene,
Nor fear the critics' frown, the pedants' spleen.
Sons of the ocean, we their rules disdain.

Hark!--a shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock.
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair--While yet another stroke
With deep convulsion rends the solid oak,
Till like the mine in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder-torn, her frame divides,
And crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides.
FALCONER.

It was in the dreary month of fog, misanthropy, and suicide--the month
during which Heaven receives a scantier tribute of gratitude from
discontented man--during which the sun rises, but shines not--gives
forth an unwilling light, but glads us not with his cheerful rays--
during which large tallow candles assist the merchant to calculate his
gains or to philosophise over his losses--in short, it was one evening
in the month of November of the year 17---, that Edward Forster, who had
served many years in his Majesty's navy, was seated in a snug arm-chair,
in a snug parlour, in a snug cottage to which he had retired upon his
half-pay, in consequence of a severe wound which had, for many years,
healed but to break out again each succeeding spring.

The locality of the cottage was not exactly so snug as it has been
described in itself, and its interior; for it was situated on a hill
which terminated at a short distance in a precipitous clift, beetling
over that portion of the Atlantic which lashes the shores of Cumberland
under the sub-denomination of the Irish Sea. But Forster had been all
his early life a sailor, and still felt the same pleasure in listening
to the moaning and whistling of the wind, as it rattled the shutters of
his cottage (like some importunate who would gain admittance), as he
used to experience when, lying in his hammock, he was awakened by the
howling of the blast, and shrouding himself in his blankets to resume
his nap, rejoiced that he was not exposed to its fury.

His finances did not allow him to indulge in luxuries, and the
distillation of the country was substituted for wine. With his feet
upon the fender, and his glass of whisky-toddy at his side, he had been
led into a train of thought by the book which he had been reading; some
passage of which had recalled to his memory scenes that had long passed
away--the scenes of youth and hope--the happy castle-building of the
fresh in heart, invariably overthrown by time and disappointment. The
night was tempestuous; the rain now pattered loud, then ceased as if it
had fed the wind, which renewed its violence, and forced its way through
every crevice. The carpet of his little room occasionally rose from the
floor, swelled up by the insidious entrance of the searching blast; the
solitary candle, which from neglect had not only elongated its wick to
an unusual extent, but had formed a sort of mushroom top, was every
moment in danger of extinction, while the chintz curtains of the window
waved solemnly to and fro. But the deep reverie of Edward Forster was
suddenly disturbed by the report of a gun swept to leeward by the
impetuosity of the gale, which hurled it with violence against the door
and front windows of his cottage, for some moments causing them to
vibrate with the concussion. Forster started up, dropping his book upon
the hearth, and jerking the table with his elbow, so as to dash out the
larger proportion of the contents of his tumbler. The sooty coronal of
the wick also fell with the shock, and the candle, relieved from its
burden, poured forth a brighter gleam.

"Lord ha' mercy, Mr Forster; did you hear that noise?" cried the old
housekeeper (the only inhabitant of the cottage except himself), as she
bolted into the room, holding her apron in both hands. "I did, indeed,
Mrs Beazeley," replied Forster; "it's the signal of a vessel in
distress, and she must be on a dead lee-shore. Give me my hat!" and
draining off the remainder in his tumbler, while the old lady reached
his hat off a peg in the passage, he darted out from the door of his
tenement.

The door, which faced to seaward, flew open with violence, as Forster
disappeared in the darkness of the night.

The old housekeeper, on whom had devolved the task of securing it, found
it no easy matter; and the rain, blown in by the sweeping gale, proved
an effectual and unwelcome shower-bath to one who complained bitterly of
the rheumatics. At last her object was accomplished, and she repaired
to the parlour to re-light the candle which had been extinguished, and
await the return of her master. After sundry ejaculations and sundry
wonders, she took possession of his arm-chair, poked the fire, and
helped herself to a glass of whisky-toddy. As soon as her clothes and
her tumbler were again dry, she announced by loud snores that she was in
a happy state of oblivion; in which we shall leave her, to follow the
motions of Edward Forster.

It was about seven o'clock in the evening, when Forster thus exposed
himself to the inclemency of the weather. But a few weeks before how
beautiful were the evenings at this hour; the sun disappearing beyond
the distant wave, and leaving a portion of his glory behind him until
the stars, in obedience to the divine fiat, were lighted up to "shine by
night;" the sea rippling on the sand, or pouring into the crevices of
the rocks, changing its hue, as daylight slowly disappeared, to the more
sombre colours it reflected, from azure to each deeper tint of grey,
until darkness closed in, and its extent was scarcely to be defined by
the horizontal line.

Now all was changed, The roaring of the wind and the hoarse beating of
the waves upon the streaming rocks deafened the ears of Edward Forster.
The rain and spray were hurled in his face, as, with both hands, he
secured his hat upon his head; and the night was so intensely dark, that
but occasionally he could distinguish the broad belt of foam with which
the coast was lined. Still Forster forced his way towards the beach,
which it is now requisite that we should more particularly describe.

As we before observed, the cottage was built upon a high land, which
terminated in a precipitous clift about two hundred yards distant, and
running in a direct line to the westward. To the northward, the coast
for miles was one continual line of rocky clifts, affording no chance of
life to those who might be dashed upon them; but to the southward of the
clift which formed the promontory opposite to Forster's cottage, and
which terminated the range, there was a deep indent in the line of
coast, forming a sandy and nearly land-locked bay, small indeed, but so
sheltered that any vessel which could run in might remain there in
safety until the gale was spent. Its only occupant was a fisherman,
who, with his family, lived in a small cottage on the beach. He was an
ally of Forster, who had intrusted to his charge a skiff, in which,
during the summer months, he often whiled away his time. It was to this
cottage that Forster bent his way, and loudly knocked when he arrived.

"Robertson--I say, Robertson," called Forster, at the full compass of
his voice.

"He is not here, Mr Forster," answered Jane, the wife of the fisherman;
"he is out, looking for the vessel."

"Which way did he go?"

Before an answer could be returned, Robertson himself appeared. "I'm
here, Mr Forster," said he, taking off his fur cap, and squeezing out
with both hands the water with which it was loaded; "but I can't see the
vessel."

"Still, by the report of the gun, she must be close to the shore.--Get
some fagots out from the shed, and light as large a fire as you can;
don't spare them, my good fellow; I will pay you."

"That I'll do, sir, and without pay; I only hope that they'll understand
the signal, and lay her on shore in the cove. There's another gun!"

This second report, so much louder than the former, indicated that the
vessel had rapidly neared the land; and the direction from which the
report came, proved that she must be close to the promontory of rocks.

"Be smart, my dear fellow; be smart," cried Forster.

"I will go up to the clift, and try if I can make her out;" and the
parties separated upon their mutual work of sympathy and good will.

It was not without danger, as well as difficulty, that Forster succeeded
in his attempt; and when he arrived at the summit, a violent gust of
wind would have thrown him off his legs, had he not sunk down upon his
knees and clung to the herbage, losing his hat, which was borne far away
to leeward. In this position, drenched with the rain and shivering with
the cold, he remained some minutes, attempting in vain, with straining
eyes, to pierce through the gloom of the night, when a flash of
lightning, which darted from the zenith and continued its eccentric
career until it was lost behind the horizon, discovered to him the
object of his research. But a few moments did he behold it, and then,
from the sudden contrast, a film appeared to swim over his aching eyes,
and all was more intensely, more horribly dark than before; but to the
eye of a seafaring man, this short view was sufficient. He perceived
that it was a large ship, within a quarter of a mile of the land,
pressed gunnel under with her reefed courses, chopping through the heavy
seas--now pointing her bowsprit to the Heavens, as she rose over the
impeding swell; now plunging deep into the trough encircled by the foam
raised by her own exertions, like some huge monster of the deep,
struggling in her toils, and lashing the seas around in her violent
efforts to escape.

The fire burnt up fiercely in the cove, in defiance of the rain and
wind, which, after in vain attempting to destroy it in its birth, now
seemed to assist it with their violence.

"She may yet be saved," thought Forster, "if she will only carry on--Two
cables' lengths more, and she will be clear of the point."

Again and again was the vessel momentarily presented to his view, as the
forked lightning darted in every quarter of the firmament, while the
astounding claps of thunder bursting upon his ears before the lightning
had ceased to gleam, announced to him that he was kneeling in the very
centre of the war of the elements. The vessel reared the clift in about
the same proportion that she forged ahead. Forster was breathless with
anxiety, for the last flash of electricity revealed to him that two
moments more would decide her fate.

The gale now redoubled its fury, and Forster was obliged to cling for
his existence as he sank, from his kneeling posture, flat upon the wet
herbage. Still he had approached so near to the edge of the clift that
his view below was not interrupted by his change of posture--Another
flash of lightning.--It was enough! "God have mercy on their souls!"
cried he, dropping his face upon the ground as if to shut out the horrid
vision from his sight.

He had beheld the vessel within the surf, but a few yards distant from
the outer rocks, thrown on her beam-ends, with both foresail and
mainsail blown clear out of their bolt-ropes. The cry for succour was
raised in vain; the wail of despair was not heard; the struggles for
life were not beheld, as the elements in their wrath roared and howled
over their victim.

As if satiated with its devastation, from that moment the storm
gradually abated, and Forster taking advantage of a lull, slowly
descended to the cove, where he found Robertson still heaping fuel on
the fire.

"Save your wood, my good fellow; it's all over with her; and those who
were on board are in eternity at this moment," said Forster, in a
melancholy tone.

"Is she gone then, sir?"

"Right on the outer ledge; there's not a living soul to see your
beacon."

"God's will be done!" replied the fisherman; "then their time was come--
but He who destroys, can save if He pleases; I'll not put out the fire,
while there's a fagot left, for you know, Mr Forster, that if any one
should by a miracle be thrown into the smooth water on this side of the
point, he might be saved; that is, if he swam well:"--and Robertson
threw on more fagots, which soon flared up with a brilliant light. The
fisherman returned to the cottage to procure for Forster a red woollen
cap in lieu of the hat which he had lost; and they both sat down close
to the fire to warm themselves, and to dry their streaming clothes.

Robertson had once more replenished the fuel, and the vivid blaze glared
along the water in the cove, when the eye of Forster was attracted by
the appearance of something floating on the wave, and evidently nearing
to the shore. He pointed it out to the fisherman, and they descended to
the water's edge, awaiting its approach with intense anxiety.

"It's not a man, sir, is it?" observed Robertson, after a minute's
pause.

"I cannot make it out," replied Forster; "but I rather think that it is
an animal--something living, most assuredly."

In another minute or two the point was decided; they distinguished a
large dog bearing something white in its mouth, and making for the shore
where they were standing. Calling to the poor beast to cheer him, for
he evidently was much exhausted and approached but slowly, they soon had
the satisfaction of seeing him pass through the surf, which, even at
this time, was not heavy in the cove, and, with the water pouring from
his shaggy coat, stagger towards them, bearing in his mouth his burden,
which he laid down at Forster's feet, and then shook off the
accumulation of moisture from his skin. Forster took up the object of
the animal's solicitude--it was the body of an infant, apparently a few
months old.

"Poor thing!" cried Forster, mournfully.

"It's quite dead, sir," observed the fisherman.

"I am afraid so," replied Forster, "but it cannot have been so long; the
dog evidently bore it up clear of the water until it came into the surf.
Who knows but we might restore it?"

"If any thing will restore it, sir, it will be the warmth of woman's
breast, to which it hitherto hath clung--Jane shall take it in her bed
between her and the little ones;" and the fisherman entered the hut with
the child, which was undressed, and received by his wife with all the
sympathy which maternal feelings create, even towards the offspring of
others. To the delight of Forster, in a quarter of an hour Robertson
came out of the cottage with the intelligence that the child had moved
and cried a little, and that there was every chance of its recovery.

"It's a beautiful little girl, sir, Jane says; and if it lives, she will
halve her milk between it and our little Tommy."

Forster remained another half-hour, until he had ascertained that the
child had taken the breast and had fallen asleep. Congratulating
himself at having been the means of saving even one little life out of
the many which, in all probability had been swallowed up, he called to
the dog, who had remained passive by the fire, and rose up to return
home; but the dog retreated to the door of the cottage into which he had
seen the infant carried, and all attempts to coax him away were
fruitless.

Forster summoned Robertson, to whom he gave some further directions, and
then returned to his home, where, on his arrival, his old housekeeper,
who had never been awakened from her sound nap until roused by his
knocking at the door, scolded him not a little for being out in such
tempestuous weather, and a great deal more for having obliged her to sit
up and _watch_ all night until his return.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER THREE.

Creation smiles around; on every spray
The warbling birds exalt their evening lay:
Blithe skipping o'er you hill, the fleecy train
Join the deep chorus of the lowing plain:
The glassy ocean hush'd forgets to roar,
But trembling murmurs on the sandy shore.
FALCONER.

Forster was soon fast asleep after his night of exertion: his dreams
were confused and wild; but I seldom trouble people about dreams, which
are as nought. When Reason descends from her throne, and seeks a
transitory respite from her labour, Fancy usurps the vacant seat, and in
pretended majesty, would fain exert her sister's various powers. These
she enacts to the best of her ability, and with about the same success
as attends a monkey when he attempts the several operations connected
with the mystery of shaving:--and thus ends a very short and conclusive
dissertation upon dreams.

But, to use a nautical phrase, we must "heave to" in our narrative
awhile, as it is necessary that we should enter a little more into the
previous history of Edward Forster; which we can now do without
interruption, as the parties we have introduced to the reader are all
asleep.

The father of Edward Forster was a clergyman, who, notwithstanding he
could reckon up some twenty or thirty first, second, and third cousins
with high-sounding titles, officiated as curate in a district not far
from that part of the country where Forster at present was located. He
was one of the bees of the church, who are constantly toiling, while the
drones are eating up the honey. He preached three sermons, and read
three services, at three different stations every Sunday throughout the
year; while he christened, married, and buried a population extending
over some thousands of square acres, for the scanty stipend of one
hundred per annum. Soon after he was in possession of his curacy he
married a young woman, who brought him beauty and modesty as her dower,
and subsequently pledges of mutual love _ad lib_. But He that giveth,
taketh away; and out of nearly a score of these interesting but
expensive presents to her husband, only three, all of the masculine
gender, arrived at years of maturity.