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- 14075
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.278Z
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- 14013
- text
- “You, boatswain’s mate,” cried the Captain, “you are favouring that
man! Lay on soundly, sir, or I’ll have your own _cat_ laid soundly on
you.”
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven,
twelve lashes were laid on the back of that heroic old man. He only
bowed over his head, and stood as the Dying Gladiator lies.
“Cut him down,” said the Captain.
“And now go and cut your own throat,” hoarsely whispered an old
sheet-anchor-man, a mess-mate of Ushant’s.
When the master-at-arms advanced with the prisoner’s shirt, Ushant
waved him off with the dignified air of a Brahim, saying, “Do you
think, master-at-arms, that I am hurt? I will put on my own garment. I
am never the worse for it, man; and ’tis no dishonour when he who would
dishonour you, only dishonours himself.”
“What says he?” cried the Captain; “what says that tarry old
philosopher with the smoking back? Tell it to me, sir, if you dare!
Sentry, take that man back to the brig. Stop! John Ushant, you have
been Captain of the Forecastle; I break you. And now you go into the
brig, there to remain till you consent to have that beard taken off.”
“My beard is my own,” said the old man, quietly. “Sentry, I am ready.”
And back he went into durance between the guns; but after lying some
four or five days in irons, an order came to remove them; but he was
still kept confined.
Books were allowed him, and he spent much time in reading. But he also
spent many hours in braiding his beard, and interweaving with it strips
of red bunting, as if he desired to dress out and adorn the thing which
had triumphed over all opposition.
He remained a prisoner till we arrived in America; but the very moment
he heard the chain rattle out of the hawse-hole, and the ship swing to
her anchor, he started to his feet, dashed the sentry aside, and
gaining the deck, exclaimed, “At home, with my beard!”
His term of service having some months previous expired, and the ship
being now in harbour, he was beyond the reach of naval law, and the
officers durst not molest him. But without unduly availing himself of
these circumstances, the old man merely got his bag and hammock
together, hired a boat, and throwing himself into the stern, was rowed
ashore, amid the unsuppressible cheers of all hands. It was a glorious
conquest over the Conqueror himself, as well worthy to be celebrated as
the Battle of the Nile.
Though, as I afterward learned, Ushant was earnestly entreated to put
the case into some lawyer’s hands, he firmly declined, saying, “I have
won the battle, my friends, and I do not care for the prize-money.” But
even had he complied with these entreaties, from precedents in similar
cases, it is almost certain that not a sou’s worth of satisfaction
would have been received.
I know not in what frigate you sail now, old Ushant; but Heaven protect
your storied old beard, in whatever Typhoon it may blow. And if ever it
must be shorn, old man, may it fare like the royal beard of Henry I.,
of England, and be clipped by the right reverend hand of some
Archbishop of Sees.
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