My commanding officer at the time of which I write was another oddity.  Imagine a thin little man, as hot as pepper, adorned with a hooked nose and chin, one as huge as the other.  A real old-fashioned gentleman, always tightly buttoned up in the most irreproachably correct of garments, and with all the exquisite and formal politeness of the old school.  Everybody was fond of the good old fellow, who heightened the oddity of his appearance on board his own ship by wearing a huge straw hat like the bell-crowned hat Eugene Sue puts on the head of M. Pipelet in the Mysteres de Paris, and a song had been composed about him, which we used to sing together and the chorus of which began “Bon! bon! de la Bretonniere!  Bon Bon!”—­la Bretonniere being his name.  This same officer saved Admiral Magon’s ship after Trafalgar, and later on he commanded the Breslaw at Navarino and showed the most consummate bravery there.  His flagship was the Didon, which ship, having run aground several times, had earned the nickname of “Dido the touching” (la touchante Didon).  Poor old Didon!  I had sailed with her before and the sight of her gave me the same feeling of grateful recollection that stirs within a man who meets an old love.  After a short cruise with the whole squadron the admiral led the way to the British island of Jamaica.

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We had hardly cast anchor before he sent to ask the British Governor when he would receive him, and, the appointment duly made, he sent for me to go with him.  An aide-de-camp received us at the landing-stage, silently pointed to the governor’s carriage, which awaited us, and disappeared.  The carriage in question was a phaeton with room for two people in it, and a little seat behind for the groom, who was standing at the horses’ heads with true British correctness.  Says the admiral to me, “Are we to go in that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But,” and he took two steps to the rear, “there isn’t any coachman.”

“You are to drive yourself, sir.”

With a half turn to the right he replied, “I!  Impossible!  I’ve never been able to get a horse to go in my life.  Do you know how to drive?”

“A little, sir.”

“Then take the reins, sir!”

Into the carriage then we got, to the great satisfaction of the groom, who had guessed rather than understood the misgivings of the French admiral in the cocked hat.  At first, things went pretty well.  The groom showed me the way to Spanish Town, saying “left” or “right” as the case might be, when, presently we came to a great market crowded with negresses with blue cotton stuffs twisted round their haunches, all screaming at the top of their voices.  The horses in our phaeton took fright at the noise, their alarm communicated itself to the negresses, who ran away, upsetting everything.  I lost command of the horses, which swerved to one side, knocking over the heaps of gourds and water melons and bananas.  There was a terrible scene of confusion.  The admiral clung on with both hands, never stopping shouting “Oh the devil! the devil! the devil!” However we got through without any serious accident.  On the return journey, conscious of my own incapacity, I offered to give up my place as whip to the admiral, but he refused with a most determined “No, no, no; oh no!”