“Where is he?”
“Oh, sir, we must not forget that it is Christmas-day: so if you please, sir, we will not scrutinise very particularly.”
“But we will scru—scrutinise very particularly: remember me of scru—scrutinise, Mister Rattlin—a good word that scru—screws—trenails—tenpenny nails—hammers—iron—clamps, and dog-fastenings—what were we all talking about. Mr Farmer? Oh; sobriety! we will—assuredly (hiccup) find out the drunken man.”
So, with a large cortège of officers, the master-at-arms, and the ship’s corporals, Captain Reud leaning his right arm heavily upon my left shoulder—for he was cunning enough, just then, to find that the gout was getting into his foot—we proceeded round the ship on our voyage of discovery. Now, it is no joke for a man half drunk to be tried for drunkenness by one wholly so. It was a curious and a comic sight, that examination—for many of the examined were conscious of a cup too much. These invariably endeavoured to look the most sober. As we approached the various groups around each gun, the different artifices of the men to pass muster were most amusing. Some drew themselves stiffly up, and looked as rigid as iron-stanchions; others took the examination with an easy, debonair air, as if to say, “Who so innocent as I?” Some again, not exactly liking the judge, quietly dodged round, shifting places with their shipmates, so that when the captain peered into the eyes of the last for the symptoms of ebriety, the mercurial rascals had quietly placed themselves first.
To the sharp, startling accusation, “You are drunk, sir,” the answers were beautifully various. The indignant “No, sir!”—the well-acted surprise, “I, sir?”—the conciliatory “God bless your honour, no, sir!”—the logical “Bill Bowling was cook to-day, sir,”—and the sarcastic “No more than your honour’s honour,” to witness, were, as we small wits say, better than a play.
The search was almost unavailing. The only fish that came to the net was a poor idiotic young man, that, to my certain knowledge, had not tasted grog for months; for his messmates gave him a hiding whenever he asked for his allowance. To the sudden, “You’re drunk, sir,” of Captain Reud, the simple youth, taken by surprise, and perhaps thinking it against the articles of war to contradict the captain, said, “Yes, sir; but I haven’t tasted grog since—”
“You got drunk, sir; take him aft, master-at-arms, and put him in irons.”
The scrutiny over, our temperate captain went aft himself, glorifying that, in all the ship’s company, there was only one instance of intoxication on Christmas-day; and thus he delivered himself; hiccupping on the gratifying occasion:
“I call that discipline, Mr Farmer. The only drunken man in his Majesty’s vessel, under my command, aft on the poop, in irons, and that fellow not worth his salt.”
“I quite agree with you,” said the sneering purser, “that the only fellow who has dared to get disgracefully drunk to-day, is not worth his salt, but he is not in irons, aft on the poop.”