Chapter 87

OLD USHANT AT THE GANGWAY.

The rebel beards, headed by old Ushant’s, streaming like a Commodore’s bougee, now stood in silence at the mast.

“You knew the order!” said the Captain, eyeing them severely; “what does that hair on your chins?”

“Sir,” said the Captain of the Forecastle, “did old Ushant ever refuse doing his duty? did he ever yet miss his muster? But, sir, old Ushant’s beard is his own!”

“What’s that, sir? Master-at-arms, put that man into the brig.”

“Sir,” said the old man, respectfully, “the three years for which I shipped are expired; and though I am perhaps bound to work the ship home, yet, as matters are, I think my beard might be allowed me. It is but a few days, Captain Claret.”

“Put him into the brig!” cried the Captain; “and now, you old rascals!” he added, turning round upon the rest, “I give you fifteen minutes to have those beards taken off; if they then remain on your chins, I’ll flog you—every mother’s son of you—though you were all my own god-fathers!”

The band of beards went forward, summoned their barbers, and their glorious pennants were no more. In obedience to orders, they then paraded themselves at the mast, and, addressing the Captain, said, “Sir, our muzzle-lashings are cast off!”

Nor is it unworthy of being chronicled, that not a single sailor who complied with the general order but refused to sport the vile regulation-whiskers prescribed by the Navy Department. No! like heroes they cried, “Shave me clean! I will not wear a hair, since I cannot wear all!”

On the morrow, after breakfast, Ushant was taken out of irons, and, with the master-at-arms on one side and an armed sentry on the other, was escorted along the gun-deck and up the ladder to the main-mast. There the Captain stood, firm as before. They must have guarded the old man thus to prevent his escape to the shore, something less than a thousand miles distant at the time.

“Well, sir, will you have that beard taken off? you have slept over it a whole night now; what do you say? I don’t want to flog an old man like you, Ushant!”

“My beard is my own, sir!” said the old man, lowly.

“Will you take it off?”

“It is mine, sir?” said the old man, tremulously.

“Rig the gratings?” roared the Captain. “Master-at-arms, strip him! quarter-masters, seize him up! boatswain’s mates, do your duty!”

While these executioners were employed, the Captain’s excitement had a little time to abate; and when, at last, old Ushant was tied up by the arms and legs and his venerable back was exposed—that back which had bowed at the guns of the frigate Constitution when she captured the Guerriere—the Captain seemed to relent.

“You are a very old man,” he said, “and I am sorry to flog you; but my orders must be obeyed. I will give you one more chance; will you have that beard taken off?”

“Captain Claret,” said the old man, turning round painfully in his bonds, “you may flog me if you will; but, sir, in this one thing I cannot obey you.”

“Lay on! I’ll see his backbone!” roared the Captain in a sudden fury.

“By Heaven!” thrillingly whispered Jack Chase, who stood by, “it’s only a halter; I’ll strike him!”

“Better not,” said a top-mate; “it’s death, or worse punishment, remember.”

“There goes the lash!” cried Jack. “Look at the old man! By G—-d, I can’t stand it! Let me go, men!” and with moist eyes Jack forced his way to one side.

“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.