Clinch was still a handsome man, though exposure and his habits had made some inroads on a countenance that by nature was frank, open, and prepossessing.  It now expressed the anguish that occasionally came over his heart, as the helplessness of his situation presented itself fully to his mind.  Cuffe’s feelings were touched, for he remembered the time when they were messmates, with a future before them that promised no more to the one than to the other, the difference in the chances which birth afforded the captain alone excepted.  Clinch was a prime seaman, and as brave as a lion, too; qualities that secured to him a degree of respect that his occasional self-forgetfulness had never entirely forfeited.  Some persons thought him the most skilful mariner the Proserpine contained; and, perhaps, this was true, if the professional skill were confined strictly to the handling of a ship, or to taking care of her on critical occasions.  All these circumstances induced Cuffe to enter more closely into the master’s-mate’s present distress than he might otherwise have done.  Instead of shoving the bottle to him, however, as if conscious how much disappointed hope had already driven the other to its indiscreet use, he pushed it gently aside, and taking his old messmate’s hand with a momentary forgetfulness of the difference in rank, he said in a tone of kindness and confidence that had long been strangers to Clinch’s ears: 

“Jack, my honest fellow, there is good stuff in you yet, if you will only give it fair play.  Make a manly rally, respect yourself for a few months, and something will turn up that will yet give you your Jane, and gladden your old mother’s heart.”

There are periods in the lives of men, when a few kind words, backed by a friendly act or two, might save thousands of human beings from destruction.  Such was the crisis in the fate of Clinch.  He had almost given up hope, though it did occasionally revive in him whenever he got a cheering letter from the constant Jane, who pertinaciously refused to believe anything to his prejudice, and religiously abstained from all reproaches.  But it is necessary to understand the influence of rank on board a man-of-war, fully to comprehend the effect which was now produced on the master’s-mate by the captain’s language and manner.  Tears streamed out of the eyes of Clinch, and he grasped the hand of his commander almost convulsively.

“What can I do, sir?  Captain Cuffe, what can I do?” he exclaimed.  “My duty is never neglected; but there are moments of despair, when I find the burden too hard to be borne, without calling upon the bottle for support.”