BLACK TOM, THE SKIPPER’S IMP.

Tom’s Introduction.

No one in the ship had the slightest idea how Tom came on board, or who brought him, or where he came from. He made his first appearance in public while, outward bound, we were crossing the Bay of Biscay—that strange mysterious sea, beneath whose waves the bones of so many of our bravest countrymen lie bleaching. It was a roughish night, squally rather, without much sea on, but the wind changing its mind every minute, whisking into foam the crests of the inky waves, and carrying the spray far into the rigging. It was a night to try the sea-legs of any one, so jerky and uncertain was the vessel’s motion; and the oldest sailors staggered like drunken men, and were fain to cling to rigging or shrouds. I was smoking on the quarter-deck just before turning in,—it had gone six bells[13] in the first watch, and everything was snug for the night, when something black as Erebus whisked past me, visible but for a moment in the binnacle’s light, and disappeared in the darkness forward. I looked inquiringly at the man at the wheel, a serious old seamen, who, in answer to my mute appeal, turned his quid twice in his mouth and, addressing the compass, “That’s the devil, sir,” said he, “begging your pardon, sir. Came on board to-night when we close-reefed topsails durin’ a squall.”

There was nothing disrespectful in the man’s tone or bearing; indeed he spoke almost with an air of solemnity.

“Usual accompaniment, I suppose,” said I, laughing; “blue fire, and a perfume not Rimmelian.”

“Dunno what ship that is, sir,” said he somewhat curtly; “but there was a flash, young gentleman.”

Seeing the man was disinclined to continue the subject, I went below, and, thanks to the ship’s motion, was soon in the land of dreams.

Next day broke bright and clear; both wind and cloud had fled; the sea had gone down, and the vessel was under easy sail. A flock of gulls were circling in the morning air, screaming with delight as they picked the crumbs that floated astern; and all went merrily oh!

Presently the commander[14] came up, looking anything but sweet; and all hands were immediately summoned aft for a speech. “Officers and men of Her Majesty’s gunboat Tickler, contrary to the customs and rules of the service, and without my knowledge, to say nothing of sanction, I find that a cat has been brought on board. Will the officer or man who owns the animal kindly step forward?”

Here the officers, verbally, and the men, by their silence, disclaimed all ownership of poor puss.

“Then,” continued the commanding officer, “as no one seems to own it, I have but one course. Bring up the cat.”All eyes were instantly turned towards the stern grating, which naturally caused the captain to wheel round; and there, sure enough, as mim as a mouse, with his tail curled round his legs for warmth, and looking on the very best of terms with himself and all creation, sat a large black Tom cat. He lowered his brows as he returned the skipper’s glance, and his eyes sparkled crimson and green. “Midshipman of the watch,” was the order, “see that cat overboard.”

“Ay ay, sir,” sang out the middy. “Forenoon watch, cat walks the plank, heave with a will—cheerily does it.”

Puss was on his legs in a moment, back erect, hair on end, and tail like a bottle-brush, spitting, sputtering, and behaving altogether in a “highly mutinous and insubordinate” manner. This conduct very nearly led to a fatal termination, by a whole shower of belaying-pins, which, however, hurtled harmlessly over his head. “An inch of a miss is as good as a mile,” thought Tom; “while there’s life there’s hope, and I’ll give you a race for it, my lads.” And he cleared the deck at three bounds, and dived below, followed by the whole watch. Three minutes’ trampling and howling below, then up through the fore hatch came pursuers and pursued, pussy leading and the sailors astern. Up the rigging shinned the cat.

“Follow your leader,” roared the men.

The chase now became general and most exciting; and with a cheer all hands joined, evidently more for the fun of the thing, than with any intention of harming the cat. Up the rigging and down the stays, alow and aloft, out on the flying jib-boom and along the hammock nettings. Sure never before were such feats of agility seen on board a British Man o’ War; the men seemed monkeys, the cat the devil incarnate. With a strength seemingly supernatural, Tom at length scrambled up, and took refuge above the main truck where the Dutch Admiral of old hoisted the broom, swearing, as only Dutchmen can, that he would sweep the English from the sea; and the men returned to the deck, gasping and red from their futile exertions, to await further orders.

Black Tom speaks a Piece.

“Curses on the brute!” muttered the commander. “Am I to sail the seas with a black cat on my main-truck? Steward, bring my revolver.” The revolver was brought, but the captain’s aim seemed unsteady; he fired all the six chambers, without any further result than chipping the main-top-gallant yard. Poor Tom, seeing the serious turn matters had taken, and that his death was compassed, determined to speak a few words in his own behalf; and with this intention he lifted up his fore-paw, and, now looking below, now appealing to heaven, he delivered an harangue, the like of which none of us had ever listened to on shore, much less afloat. His meaning, however, was perfectly plain.

Around him, he said, behold a waste of waters; he was far from land; he had no boat; and though he knew he could swim, although he never tried, he would rather die than wet his feet. Had we no compassion, no bowels of mercies? He wanted to harm nobody. What good could shooting him do? He was willing to remain where he then stood for the rest of the voyage, in fact to do anything or everything, if his life were only spared.

The captain smiled. “I thought,” said he, “I was a better shot; however, give the devil his due.” And he ordered all hands to treat the cat kindly, if ever he came below again. Tom retained his elevated seat for fully two hours, and finally fell sound asleep. Waking calm and refreshed, and perhaps somewhat dizzy, he stretched himself a leg at a time, for he hadn’t much room, yawned, did an attitude, and came slowly down on deck. He walked at once to the quarter-deck; and, to show that he harboured no ill-feeling, he actually went and rubbed his big black head against the captain’s leg.

Tom becomes Ship’s Cat.

Henceforward Tom was no longer a mere passenger on board; his name was borne on the ship’s books, and he was tolerated both by officers and men. Somehow, Tom became no favourite. The questionable manner in which he had made his first appearance, and the latent devil that seemed to lurk in his eye, acted like a spell on the natural superstitions of the sailors, more than one of whom was heard to express an opinion that “That black——(alliterative term of endearment used by British seamen) will bring the ship no good luck.”

Now, whether out of gratitude for having his life spared, or for some other feline motive known only to puss, certain it is, that Tom attached himself to our commander, and to no one else on board; for whenever that officer came on deck, so did the cat, trotting by his side and enlivening his walk by a song. When any other gentleman happened to be walking with the captain, Tom used to take his station on the hammock nettings and follow every motion of his beloved adopted master with eyes that beamed with admiration. This show of affection was at first indignantly resented by the skipper, and many a good kick Tom used to have for his pains; but the more he was kicked the louder he sang, so at long last, yielding to the force of circumstances, the skipper ceased to mind him, and the two became inseparable.

Tom Goes on Shore for a Walk.

Nothing very unusual happened during our long voyage to the Cape. Tom went on shore at St. Helena, like any other officer, and it was fondly hoped he would take up his abode on that beautiful island. But having visited the principal places of interest, nearly murdered a poor little dog in James Town, and—this is only conjecture—taken a rat or two at Napoleon’s tomb, Tom came off again in the officers’ boat.

On Board Again.

The cat might in time have come to be a general favourite in the ship; but he suffered no advances to be made by “any man Jack,” as the saying is, and scowled so unmistakably when any one attempted to stroke him, that he was unanimously voted to Coventry, and allowed to do what he liked. Tom had a regular allowance of ship’s provisions, like any one else, but his greatest treat was milk (preserved) and rum thickened with oatmeal. For this he used to come regularly once, and often twice a-day, to the dispensary. His favourite seat was on the weather bulwarks; and there he would often remain for hours, gazing thoughtfully down in the blue clear depths of the tropical ocean.

“He do be counting the jelly-fish and looking for sharks,” one man remarked.

“Nay,” said another, “he’s a-thinking o’ home. May-be, he has left a wife and babies in old England.”

“Then,” said the first speaker, “what a tarnation fool he was, not to stop on shore. Sure, no one sent for him.”

“Hush,” said the first, “he’s an evil spirit, Bill, as sure as a gun; and he belongs to—

The Skipper.”

You may easily guess from the foregoing conversation, that the captain himself was no great favourite. He was a little red-haired foxy-faced man, a Scotchman (save the luck), but a Scotchman who hated the land of his forefathers,—

“Whose heart had ne’er within him burned,” etc., etc.,in fact, retaining but one trait of Scottish character, namely his love for Scotch drink. Once round the Cape, and north on our cruising ground—the Mozambique Channel, the skipper shone out in his true colours. His face and nose got daily redder; and the sinister smile that seemed printed there never left his lips. Such a smile I have never seen before nor since, except on the face of a Somali Indian. The first victims to the skipper’s wrath were the poor black Kroomen, one of whom was always stationed at the mast head, to look out for strange sails. Now the commander had an eye like a fish-hawk, and generally managed to sight a vessel before even the out-look. God help the out-look when this occurred. He was ordered down at once, and in one minute more was lashed to the rigging by both wrists, and writhing and shrieking for mercy under the infliction of two dozen with a rope’s end, laid on by the sturdy arms of a fellow Krooman. The men, for the slightest offence, had their grog stopped for a week or weeks; and as the proceeds went to swell the sick-fund—a fund to purchase comforts for the patients—I had usually more money in my hands than I knew how to expend, until I happily thought of a plan to get rid of the surplus cash.

“Brown,” I would say to an officer, after the cloth had been removed, “you look unusually seedy to-day; in fact,” looking round the mess, “you all look rather pale; effects of climate, poor devils. I am afraid I have hardly done my duty towards you. Steward, bring in those bananas from the sick-bay, bring also the pineapples, the mangoes, the oranges, the ground nuts, a pomola, and a bottle of madeira. Liquor up, my lads, let us drink the skipper’s health. The sick-bay fund is unusually flourishing, so don’t forget in every port we come to, to ask me for honey for your rum, milk for your tea, and orange-blossom to perfume your cabins withal.”

Anything approaching insubordination among the boys or men or board was punished with flogging—four dozen lashes, with a different bo’swain’s mate to each dozen, was the usual dose.

Tom at a Flogging.

Tuesday was flogging day; and to add, if possible, to the terror of the condemned wretch, after the gratings were rigged and the man stripped and lashed thereto, sawdust was sprinkled on the deck all round, to soak up the blood. But at every flogging match

“There sat auld Nick in shape o’ beast,”

at least in the shape of Tom the cat, who would not have missed the fun for all the world. There on the bulwark he would sit, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, his mouth squared, and his beard all a-bristle. He seemed to count every dull thud of his nine-tailed namesake, and emitted short sharp mews of joy when, towards the middle of the third dozen, the blood began to trickle and get sprinkled about on sheet and shroud. Though I never disliked Tom, still, at times such as these, I really believed he was the devil himself as reputed, and would have given two months’ pay for a chance to brain him. When the flogging was over, Tom used to jump down and, purring loudly, rub his head against his master’s leg.By at least one half of the crew, Tom was assuredly believed to be—if not old Nick himself—possessed of an evil spirit. A good deal of mumbo jumbo work therefore went on, for the men tried to find favour in Tom’s eyes, and many a dainty morsel did this cat of evil repute thus receive; so that he grew and flourished like a green bay-tree, while his coat got glossier and his figure plumper every day.

How Tom used to Fish.

Although well fed and cared for, Tom at times used to forage for himself, not that I ever heard he was a thief—to his honour be it written; but he fished, and very successfully too, without so much as wetting the soles of his beautiful pumps. His modus operandi was as follows.

On dark nights in the tropical seas, he used to perch himself on the bulwarks aft, and bend his glittering eyes downwards into the sea. He never sat long thus without a flying-fish, sometimes two, jumping past him or over him, and alighting on deck. Then Tom would descend, and have a delightful supper, and if not fully satisfied resume his seat and continue the sport. Tom must have gained his knowledge from experience, although the success of his method of fishing is easily explained. It is well known that these fish always fly towards a light, which is therefore often used by the sailors to catch them. The cat required no other light save the glimmering of his two eyes, which in the dark shone like a couple of koh-i-noors.

Tom Takes Charge of a Gun.

Tom was in the habit of going to sleep, in the large pivot gun we used for shelling running-away slavers. For a forenoon nap nothing could have suited him better; it combined the pleasures of solitude with retirement, and moreover was both dark and cool. One fine sunny day, we were in chase of a particularly fast dhow, which, taking no heed of our signal howitzers, evinced a strong disposition to edge in towards the shore, the order was accordingly given to fire at her with our Big Ben. Before loading, the gunner keeked in to see that all was clear, and sure enough there was Tom, by no means pleased at being disturbed in his siesta. Neither could any amount of “cheety-pussying” entice him from his snuggery, while tickling with the end of a ramrod only made him spit and sputter, and make use of bad language.

“What’s the delay?” cried the captain.

“Cat in possession of gun, sir,” was the reply.

“Dear me! dear me!” whined the captain. “Rouse him out, and be quick about it.”

After a pause.

“He won’t rouse out no-how, sir,” said the gunner.

“I’m hanged” roared the skipper, “if that rascally dhow isn’t landing her slaves inshore. Rouse him out I say. Fire a fuse—confound the cat.”

“Shoal water ahead, sir,” from the man at the mast-head.

“Hard a port, stand by both anchors,” and round we went just in time to save us. In the meantime a fuse had been inserted in the touch-hole of the gun. Bang! and thus attacked in rear, Tom came out of the gun faster than ever he had done in his life, and took to the rigging, with hair on-end and eyes all a-flame.

“Lower away the first and second cutters,” was now the order. “It shan’t be said, that a cursed cat kept us from capturing a lawful prize. D—— the beast.”

(For the benefit of those who love strong language alias swearing, it must here be stated, that in courtesy to my lady readers I abstain from giving the skipper’s language verbatim, for in that respect he would have pleased a Lancashire coal-heaver; he was a don in the use of expletives, although, to his credit be it recorded, while freely launching forth anathemas at the limbs of his men, and consigning their eyes to perpetual punishment, he just as freely let his own eyes have it. Oh, he wasn’t particular by any means; he gave it to us all alike—officers and men, cat and Kroo-boys.)He captured that slaver though—went in the boats personally to do it, and that night the sea was lighted up for miles with a blaze, that spoiled pussy’s fishing for once. It was a caution to slavers on shore and sharks at sea. At a good mile’s distance we could see to read our last letters from home, by the light of that burning dhow. We were not surprised to see the captain come on board, black with smoke and begrimed with gunpowder, for we had heard desultory firing, but we were slightly taken aback to see Tom meet him in the gangway, and to observe the captain stoop down and tenderly caress him. Perhaps he wanted to make up to him, for his former roughness.

“I’ve given that chap Carrickfergus,” he remarked, in a sort of a general way to us officers; and to me he added, “I suppose the men may have a glass of grog, doctor.”

“Certainly,” I said. “Steward, splice the main brace.” Then the skipper dived below and got drunk, which he had the knack of doing on the very shortest notice.

The Cat’s “Cantrips.”

Of Tom’s adventures on board the saucy little Tickler, very much could be written. Somehow, he never was safely out of one scrape till into another. A dear wee mongoose was once brought on board, and would doubtless have become a great pet, if Tom had not broken its back on the first night of its arrival. A monkey was received as a visitor, and with him Tom at once declared war, and kept it up to the bitter end. The monkey’s favourite mode of attack, was to run aloft with a belaying-pin, and biding his time, let it drop as if by accident on poor pussy’s head. But Tom let him have it sharp and fierce, whenever he caught him. Once I remember the monkey was sitting on his hind-quarters on deck, stuffing his cheeks with cockroaches, and looking as serious as a judge. Tom spied him, and ran cautiously along the bulwarks, then springing on his foe, he seized him round the neck with one arm, and with the other administered such a drubbing, as the poor thing never had before in his life. The monkey with bleeding face, at length escaped to the maintop, and there cried itself asleep.

Whether or not Tom was the Jonas, who caused all the mishaps that fell upon our little vessel during that four years’ cruise, I shall not pretend to say, although all hands forward firmly believed he was. Like the witch-wife in Allan Ramsay’s Gentle Shepherd—Tom

“Got the wyte o’ a’ fell oot;”

and certainly Snarley-yow and his master were never more detested than that black cat, and the skipper eventually came to be.

“Life-Boat’s Crew, Ahoy!”

Once, I remember, we experienced a spell of weather so dark and unsettled, that a general gloom prevailed in the ship fore and aft. We were rounding the Cape in mid-winter. First we had a gale of wind, our bulwarks stove in forward, and a boat washed overboard. Then several days with no wind, but a heavy sea on, and the horizon close aboard of us on every side. The nights were pitchy dark, with thunder and lightning so appalling that no one thought of turning in, till far on in the middle watch. Scenes like these can never be described. They are painted with the finger of awe on the beholder’s memory, and time cannot efface them. I can see even now our little vessel, hanging bows on to the side of that dark wave, the hill of water rising above us, the inky gulph beneath, her wet and slippery decks, and the faces of the men that cling to the cordage, ghastly in the lightning’s glare. A moment more and we are on the brow of the wave, then down we drive into the very trough of the sea, where, for a few seconds, the ship lies trembling, as if every timber in her sides was instinct with life. On such a night as this Tom fell overboard. This may seem like a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous. It is a fact, however, and was a very disagreeable descent indeed for poor Tom. The life-buoy was almost instantly fired and let go by the commander himself, who alone saw the accident.“Ease her! stop her!” he roared. “Away life-boat’s crew!”

Up tumbled the crew, the boat was lowered, and in two minutes more they had dropped astern, and were pulling with might and main for the now distant life-buoy. The storm had by this time passed over, save an occasional flash of lightning. For fully ten minutes, each time we rose on the crest of a great wave, we could distinctly see the life-buoy’s light, burning bright and beacon-like, away to leeward of us; then it flickered feebly, and finally went out.

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed the Captain, “that light was never extinguished: it has gone out.” Five minutes, ten, fifteen minutes elapsed in dead silence. We leant over the bulwarks, and could feel our hearts throbbing against them, as we peered into the darkness and listened for the slightest sound; only an occasional glimmer played along the horizon, only now and then the splash of a breaking wave. Hours passed by, and still no signal from the deep, to tell us aught of life was there; and all that long dismal night, rockets were let off, bluelights burned, and big guns fired. But the sea gave never a sign. How anxious we all were! No one had a thought of retiring. The captain spent his time in alternately pacing frantically up and down the deck, and in diving down below,—we all knew for what. At last he wept like a child, and tore his hair out in handfuls. I felt sorry for him at first, until I heard him curse his own evil fate, because his fourteen years’ service would all be lost. It was self not the poor men he was thinking of.

But the longest time has an end, and morning came at last, and just as the horizon was becoming dimly visible through the rising mist, and silence was reigning fore and aft—for both men and officers were tired out with suspense and long watching—we were all startled and rendered as wide awake as ever we were in our lives. For, borne along on the morning air—breeze it could hardly be called—came a faint shout. One moment all hands listened: it was repeated.“Shout, my lads,” cried the captain, all his manhood returning at once; and such a ringing cheer was sent over the waters, as only could proceed from the lungs of Britain’s sailors.

[15]My! how every face brightened; and, my! how every eye glanced and glittered, as that boat loomed out from the fog. She was soon alongside, all hands were safe, and the first on board was the skipper’s imp. There was one old sailor who had been very quiet all the night, but who now burst into such sobbing as I never heard before. The poor man’s son had been in the boat.

Did we splice the main-brace? Rather. We spliced it on deck, and we went below to the ward-room and spliced it again; in fact that main brace took a good deal of splicing, then we turned in and slept till noon, and I dreamt I was spliced myself.

Ship on Fire.

If I remember rightly, we were somewhere in lat. 17° South, and a good way off land. We had been cracking on all the forenoon under steam, after a Northern slave-ship, which we had finally boarded, captured, and taken in tow. A fine pair of heels she had shown us too. We had to burn hams to get within shot of her. But we did at last, and there she was, with a prize crew on board, and the fiery old Arabs glaring like evil spirits at us as they leaned over her taffrail. A breeze had sprung up towards four o’clock, and the orders were given to bank fires and set sail. I was sitting in the ward-room reading, when—

“Look Jim!” I heard some one on deck remark. “Where is that thundering old cat going to now?”

“Bedad then,” said Jim, “but he’s taking the rigging like a good one anyhow. Shouldn’t wonder now if he was going to give us another spache.”

I ran up just in time to see the cat shin hand over hand up the main-top gallant mast, and seat himself on the very truck, in the exact spot he had occupied in his first adventure on board, when the captain fired at him.

It had gone three bells in the first dog watch;[16] we had just finished tea, and gone on deck to smoke our evening pipe. We were making ourselves very comfortable on the stern gratings, and our Scotch engineer—naval engineers for the most part are Scotch—was singing “For we are homeward bound;” not that we were homeward bound by a long chalk, but it gave us the idea we were, don’t you know? and made us feel all the jollier, when the quartermaster came aft, and addressing the officer of the watch—

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, leisurely, turning his quid in his mouth, “but I think, sir, there be a strong smell of fire right amidships.”

We went forward.

The second cutter lay bottom upwards, between the fore and main masts, and from under its gunnel were curling little puffs of light blue smoke, for all the world as if some one were smoking a cigar beneath the boat. But the smoke had the smell of burning wood.

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. Ah! had Edgar Allan Poe heard that bell, he might have added one other stanza to that strange wild poem of his. Ding, ding, ding, ding. You never heard it, did you reader? Well, it is a pleasure you still have before you. The breeze was freshening every minute, the sea was getting its back up, and darkness thickening around us. But what mattered darkness, we should soon light up old ocean with our burning ship.

Ding, ding, ding—up tumble the hands at the dread summons. The hoses are laid, the pumps rigged and manned as if by magic, and before the last sound of the bell is borne away on the breeze, every man is at quarters, steady, grave, and silent—waiting. Waiting? Aye; fancy having to wait for a single moment, with the fire crackling under the broiling deck, and tons of powder under hatches. But service is service—the captain alone has not responded to the alarm, and the officer of the watch has gone to call him. Worthy man, he was—

“Not fou, he just was glorious,
O’er a’ the ills of life victorious.”

“Oh!” he said; “ship’s on fire, is she. Then go you to blazes.”

He came up soon, however, and every man that night did his duty. Nothing in the world, save British pluck and coolness, could have conquered that fire. It was the padding at the back of the boiler that had caught, and burning through, had kindled the coals behind, and when the decks were scuttled, the scene below was like a red raging hell.

In less than two hours however, the flames were got under and the fire extinguished; and, saving the watch on deck, the crew, tired and bruised, and many of them scalded, had gone below, while the carpenters were busy repairing decks; for in a man-of-war every trace of recent danger, whether from wind or fire or foe, is speedily erased.

A shoal of sharks that had been following the ship expectant, disappointed, sought deeper water, and black Tom, the cat, came down from his perch on the main-truck, singing a song of deliverance.

Minor Mishaps.

It would take a long time indeed to narrate all the misadventures we had in that cruise. We got quite used to running on shore, being awakened any night, with that strange grating noise beneath our keel, and the sudden cessation of all motion, which tells the experienced sailor better than words can, that the ship has struck. One bright moonlight night, far on in the middle watch, we ran aground on the Lyra reef. Luckily the tide was not full nor the wind blowing. By next morning we had lowered the boats, and sent over the guns to lighten ship, and lay waiting for the tide. A bright sky, and a blue, blue sea all around, with never a sail in sight, nay, not even a bird. The waters so pellucid and clear, that leaning over the bulwarks we could see the yellow sand at the bottom, see forests and gardens of marine plants, and flowers pink-petalled or tender green, gently waving to and fro in the current; see the transparent medusÆ disporting their rainbow beauties, and see the thousand and one strange-looking tropical fishes, of colours so bright and shapes so grotesque, that they seemed the fishes of our dreams, or caricatures of animal life.

Fast and sure on that reef we lay for upwards of forty-eight hours, and it was only by lightening the ship of coals, and buoying her with empty rum casks that we got safely afloat at last. The men were in good spirits all the time, because forsooth, the cat, was “singing like all possessed.”

Nothing to Eat.

It was the last voyage of the cruise. We were steering from Zanzibar to the Cape, under orders home. We had on board with us no less a personage than the bishop of C—— A—— and his learned curate, Dr. Blank. Now we had not been to sea over three days when, lo and behold! one-half, at least, of the casks of beef and provisions, supposed to be full, were found to be mere dummies. It was nobody’s fault—it always is nobody’s fault in a case of that sort—but the upshot of it was, that all hands were put upon short allowance; and as our mess—having got into debt—was just then living on ship’s provisions, we officers had to suffer the same privations as the men. Besides, we had neither beer, wine, nor spirits on board, very little water, and no coals to spare to distil more.

This was a very pretty look out for a three weeks’ voyage, to the Cape, in mid-winter. And poor Tom came in for more cursing now than ever. Everybody cursed him everywhere; they cursed him below and cursed him aloft; cursed him on the quarter-deck, and cursed him in the cook’s galley. But Tom only sung the louder.

“It was all along of that blessed cat,” the sailors said; and they added, “that it was a good thing we had my lord bishop on board, to counteract the evil effects of the skipper’s imp.” The poor bishop suffered too, but mostly from sea-sickness. He kept his bed all the voyage. He was a stout man at Zanzibar, but he got considerably thinner, before we reached the Cape. But his curate was more to be pitied, he was a thin man, didn’t get sick, and had a stomach like a brewer’s horse; and the more sorrow for that same, there being so little to put into it. Our biscuit must, I think, have been baked before the flood, each morsel, while black with cockroaches’ filth outside, entertaining a whole colony of weevils inside; we ate the weevils, however, merely tapping each morsel on the table to get rid of the superabundant dust, before conveying it to our mouths. We had neither potatoes nor butter. We had white beans though, and black rice and fried sardines, to which latter we used to add a little turmeric and cayenne by way of flavouring. We actually got mean in our hunger, and used to say little snappish things to each other, about our share of the victuals; things which we would have been ashamed to say under any other circumstances. No one, I can assure you, was above helping himself, to the last spoonful of rice or beans, out of a delicate feeling of consideration for his neighbour. In good sooth, sometimes three or four spoons, would meet at the dish at once in most undignified haste.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” our little good-natured assistant paymaster would say; “better is a dinner of rice and fried sardines, where love is, than a stallËd ox and hatred therewith.”

We should just have liked to have seen the stallËd ox, that’s all. But this assistant paymaster was a stout bulky little chap, and didn’t suffer half what we did. I’m certain he lived on his own fat all the way to the Cape, just as the sheep in the Highlands do, when they have the misfortune to be buried in the snow for a week or two. Our conversation all the dinner hour—when we weren’t quarrelling—used to be about this glorious feed, and the next glorious feed, which we once had; and it would certainly have been amusing for an outsider—who wasn’t hungry himself mind you—to have heard us, enlarging on all the dainties that had been set before us in happier times.Our conversation would have been somewhat after the following fashion:—

S. “But, by George, when I was in the P. & O. Co.’s Service—ay, old fellows, that was the place to live—there is where we used to get the spreads.”

All. “Yes, yes; tell us, there’s a dear boy. What had you for dinner?”

S. “Well, you know, the bill of fare used to be two yards long, and a yard and a quarter wide. We had two soups, and then——”

All. “No, no; tell us first what the soups were?”

S. “Well, say vermicelli and macaro—Oh! hang it all, Moreton, that’s the third time to my certain knowledge, that you’ve helped yourself to rice.”

Moreton. “To-morrow’s pea-soup day, never mind.”

S. “But I do mind.”

All. “Go on with your yarn.”

S. “Well, vermicelli and macaroni, and then a bit of delicious white turbot, with oyster sauce and——”All. “Yes, yes; go on.”

S. “All very well to say go on; but I shall have those three beans, you greedy beggars. Well, then, after the fish came—” etc., etc., etc.

When S. had finished, R. would begin.

“That just reminds me of an hotel I was at in France,” etc., and so each one told his experiences, to the infinite delectation of his neighbours, and having locust-like devoured everything we came across, we used to get up hungry and haggard, and run on deck to smoke away the tail end of our appetite.

In those days, our grace before and after meat was rather a peculiar one. The president said the first; it was, “Curse the cat.” Then just before we rose from table, “Mr. Vice, will you kindly return thanks.”

“Confound the cat.”

The Last of the Skipper’s Imp.

No one ever saw the last of him, however; although a seaman, called Davis, swore point black, that he had seen the cat fly overboard in a sheet of blue flame; but then Davis was the biggest lubber and the greatest liar in the ship. The only thing known for certain is this: we were about three days’ sail from Symon’s Town, Cape of Good Hope. The night was dark and the weather squally, and poor Tom was last seen sitting, very quiet and pensive-like, on the hammock nettings aft. He was seen there, I say, in the middle watch; and he was never seen again alive or dead. The men swore roundly that he was a devil nothing more nor less, and that, being a devil, he couldn’t stomach my lord bishop on board, and consequently took French leave and went home. The truth, I suppose is, that the ship gave a nasty lee lurch, and Tom, half asleep, missed his footing, and tumbled overboard. I know the skipper was sorry.

We kept a good look out for the Flying Dutchman after Tom’s demise; but very much to my disappointment, we did not fall in with that ghostly ship. If I were merely writing a sailor’s yarn, I should certainly say we had seen her, and give a most photographic-like description of her; but such stories I leave landsmen to tell, for I think if a man has been for ten or a dozen years at sea, and kept his weather eye lifting all the time, it will take him the remainder of his life to tell the whole truth alone.

When we came down to the Cape, which we managed to do without any further adventures, there lay the new admiral’s ship, all spick and span from England’s shores, so all our fellows were turned over to, and went home in the old Admiral’s ship, all except our engineer and my unhappy self. We, much to our disgust, were reappointed to the saucy Tickler, which was to remain out for another commission, as tender to the new flagship. Now, however, we had a new captain, the jolliest little man alive; new officers, and a new crew, and we were all as jolly as sandboys. The new officers thought themselves tremendously clever chaps, and every night they used all to pull off their slippers and go pell mell at the unfortunate cockroaches; but the engineer and I sat like stoics, and let them crawl over us in scores, and if too many at one time came on the book we might be reading, we gently removed them. But before a month was over, our messmates found out the futility, of trying to diminish the number of cockroaches, and these interesting creatures had carte blanche all over the ship.

TORTOISESHELL.
First Prize—Owned by Mr. L. Smith.

SILVER, or BLUE TABBY.
First Prize—Owned by Mr. Reynolds.

We sailed for Bombay.

But though black Tom was no more, ill-luck seemed still to hover in the wake of that little vessel.

I would willingly narrate our further adventures in detail, but somehow I have no heart, now that the cat has left the story. But, how we were caught in a gale off the Cape and the ship taken aback (that, reader, is much more dreadful than it appears on paper), how we sprang a leak a week after—glass falling and weather stormy, on a rock bound coast—and, just as the ship was beginning to stagger like a drunk man, and the boats were got ready for lowering, the engineer—brave little man—dived below water in the engine-room, and found it was no leak at all, but the great sea-cock left open by a drunken stoker; how we ran on shore on that wild reef outside Johanna, and lay there for a whole week with our keel floating in splinters around us; how, finally we got off, and steamed to Bombay almost a wreck; the pumps going continually, and barely keeping her afloat; how we arrived safely through it all; how a liberal government paid rather more for repairing her, than would have bought a new one, and how she was sold three years after for an old song,—is it not all written in the log of Her Majesty’s saucy gunboat, Tickler.

“Zula,” the property of Mrs. Captain Barrett-Lennard. This cat was brought from Abyssinia at the conclusion of the war, fed on the way home on raw beef, and was long very wild. She is now very fond of her mistress, but has a great many eccentricities which other cats have not, and is altogether a wonderful specimen of cat-kind.