CHAPTER XI.
After the body of Byrne had been disposed of, the Stinger returned to Hong-Kong, where the men, one watch at a time, were permitted to visit the shore. Many of them deserted, and succeeded in making good their escape in American ships, which left the harbour about that time; others joined piratical Chinese vessels, and became notorious for their cruelty towards their captives; while the less cautious sailors, getting intoxicated and overstaying their leave of absence, were re-captured by the ship's corporal and sergeant of marines, who were paid the usual blood money for their activity in securing the deserters. When the ship was thoroughly refitted, and the vacancies in her crew had been filled by drafts from other vessels, Puffeigh was directed to proceed to sea in search of pirates; the admiral imagining that, if he sent the Stingers away for a time upon active service, their commander would be enabled to get them into something like discipline, they having been represented to him as "a lot of worthless wretches, who could only be kept in order by the cat-o'-nine tails."
During their cruise Crushe succeeded in bringing several of the new men to the gratings, and his general language and conduct towards the crew were as bad as ever.
After having searched the coast for over six months, during which time they captured and destroyed a great number of junks, lorchas, and other piratical craft, the Stinger returned to Hong-Kong, where her officers and crew received their letters and newspapers, which had accumulated at the Post-Office during their absence, the delivery to the crew taking place as follows. The ship's corporal and Sergeant Spine having obtained the sack of mails, proceeded forward with it, and upon reaching the forecastle shot the contents into a dry wash deck tub; then the boatswain piped, "Hands, lay forward for your letters." Every one was on the alert, and a dozen men who could read clustered round the tub, and assisted in the pleasing task of distributing the epistles.
"Bill Bowker!"
"Gone ashore. I'm his chum—here, chuck it over."
"Jerry Thompson!—one, two, three letters."
"Heave 'em here," cried the wag, who had brought up a bucket in which to receive his correspondence.