Robert Michael Ballantyne - Blue Lights - Hot Work in the Soudan

“Then the Welcome is well patronised, I suppose?”

“Patronised!” exclaimed the seaman; “that’s so, an’ no mistake. Why, mate—But what’s your name? I’ve forgot to ax you that all this time!”

“Call me Miles,” said our hero, with some hesitation.

“ Call you Miles! Ain’t you Miles?”

“Well, yes, I am; only there’s more of my name than that, but that’s enough for your purpose, I daresay.”

“All right. Well, Miles, you was askin’ how the house is patronised. I’ll tell ’ee. They make up about two hundred an’ twenty beds in it altogether, an’ these are chock-full a’most every night. One way or another they had forty-four thousand men, more or less, as slep’ under this roof last year—so I’ve bin told. That’s patronisin’, ain’t it? To say nothin’ o’ the fellers as comes for—grub, which, as you’ve found, is good for the money, and the attendants is civil. You see, they’re always kind an’ attentive here, ’cause they professes to think more of our souls than our bodies—which we’ve no objection to, d’ee see, for the lookin’ arter our souls includes the lookin’ arter our bodies! An’ they don’t bother us in no way to attend their Bible-readin’s an’ sitchlike. There they are in separate rooms; if you want ’em you may go; if you don’t, you can let ’em alone. No compulsion, which comes quite handy to some on us, for I don’t myself care much about sitchlike things. So long’s my body’s all right, I leaves my soul to look arter itself.”

As the seaman said this with a good-natured smile of indifference, there sprang to the mind of his young companion words that had often been impressed on him by his mother: “What shall it profit a man if he should gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” but he made no reference to this at the time.

“Hows’ever,” continued Molloy, “as they don’t worrit us about religion, except to give us a good word an’ a blessin’ now an’ again, and may-hap a little book to read, we all patronises the house; an it’s my opinion if it was twice as big as it is we’d fill it chock-full. I would board as well as sleep in it myself—for it’s full o’ conveniences, sitch as lockers to putt our things in, an’ baths, and what not, besides all the other things I’ve mentioned—but the want o’ drink staggers me. I can’t git along without a drop o’ drink.”

Miles thought that his nautical friend appeared to be unable to get along without a good many drops of drink, but he was too polite to say so.

“Man alive!” continued Jack Molloy, striking his huge fist on his thigh with emphasis; “it’s a wonderful place is this Welcome ! An’ it’s a lively place too. Why, a fellow hanged his-self in one o’ the bunks overhead not long ago.”

“You don’t mean that?” exclaimed Miles, rather shocked.

“In course I does. But they heard ’im gaspin’, an cut him down in time to save him. It was drink they say as made him do it, and they got him to sign the pledge arterwards. I believe he’s kep’ it too. Leastwise I know many a hard drinker as have bin indooced to give it up and stuck to it—all through comin’ here to have a snooze in a comfortable hunk. They give the bunks names—cubicles they calls ’em in the lump. Separately, there’s the ‘Commodore Goodenough Cot,’ an’ the ‘Little Nellie Cot,’ an’ the ‘Sunshine Cot’—so called ’cause it hain’t got a port-hole to let in the daylight at all; and the ‘Billy Rough ’un’—”

“The what?”

“‘The Billy Rough ’un’—arter the ship o’ that name, you know—”

“Oh! you mean the Bellerophon .”

“Well, young man, an’ didn’t I say the ‘Billy Rough ’un’? Then there’s the— But what’s your hurry?” said the seaman, as Miles rose.

“It’s getting late now, friend. If I’m to find another lodging I must be off. Doubtless, I’ll find some respectable house to take me in for the night.” Miles suppressed a yawn as he put on his cap.

“I don’t believe you will,” returned Molloy, also rising, and giving full vent to a sympathetic and vociferous yawn. “Hows’ever, w’en a young feller insists on havin’ his way, it’s best to give him plenty of cable and let him swing. He’s sure to find out his mistake by experience. But look ye here, Miles, I’ve took a fancy to you, an’ I’d be sorry to think you was in difficulties. If,” he continued, thrusting a hand into his breeches-pocket, and bringing up therefrom a mass of mixed gold, silver, and copper—“if you don’t objec’ to accep’ of a loan of—”

“Thank you—no, my friend. It is very kind of you,” said Miles quickly; “but I have quite enough for present necessities. So good-night.”

“All right,” returned the sailor, thrusting the money back into his pocket. “But if you should ever want a jaw with Jack Molloy while you’re in this here port you’ve only got to hail him at the Sailors’ Welcome , an’ if he should happen to be out, they always can tell you where he’s cruisin’. Good-night, an’ luck go wi’ ye!”

Another tremendous yawn finished the speech, and next moment Miles found himself in the street, oppressed with a strange and miserable sensation which he had never before experienced. Indeed, he had to lean against the house for a few minutes after coming out into the fresh air, and felt as if the power of connected thought was leaving him.

He was aroused from this condition by the flashing of a light in his eyes. Opening them wide, he beheld a policeman looking at him earnestly.

“Now, then, young fellow,” said the guardian of the night; “d’you think you can take care of yourself?”

“Oh! yes, quite well. It’s only a giddy feeling that came over me. I’m all right,” said Miles, rousing himself and passing on.

He staggered slightly, however, and a short “Humph!” from the policeman showed that he believed the youth to be something more than giddy.

Ashamed to be even unjustly supposed to be intoxicated, Miles hurried away, wondering very much what could be the matter with him, for he had not tasted a drop of strong drink, except the half-glass of beer he had swallowed before Molloy chanced to knock it out of his hand. Suddenly he remembered that the sailor had said the beer was drugged. If he could have asked the barman who had served him, that worthy could have told him that this was true; that the whole glassful, if swallowed, would, ere long, have rendered him insensible, and that what he had already taken was enough to do him considerable damage.

As he walked onward, he became rapidly worse; the people and the streets seemed to swim before him; an intense desire to sleep overpowered every other feeling, and at last, turning into a dark entry, he lay down and pillowed his head on a door-step. Here he was found by a policeman; a stretcher was fetched, and he was conveyed to the station as “drunk and incapable!”

When brought before the Inspector the following morning, shame and reckless despair were the tenants of his breast. Those tenants were not expelled, but rather confirmed in possession, when the Inspector—after numerous questions, to which Miles returned vague unsatisfactory replies—adopted the rôle of the faithful friend, and gave him a great deal of paternal advice, especially with reference to the avoidance of strong drink and bad companions.

Miles had the wisdom, however, to conceal his feelings, and to take the reproof and advice in good part. Afterwards, on being set free, he met a recruiting sergeant, who, regarding him as a suitable subject for the service of her Majesty, immediately laid siege to him. In his then state of mind the siege was an easy one. In short, he capitulated at once and entered the Queen’s service, under the name of John Miles.