Now just about that time we used to have a wonderful sight of flogging on board our ship. For two years I don’t believe there was a chap had up; and for why? because our captain was one of the right sort, and I believe loved his men. He was a Tartar, too, and he’d have everything right up to the mark, and done like lightning, stamping up and down there with a trumpet under his arm; but then he’d a way with him which the men liked, and they’d do anything for him. Why, I don’t believe there was a smarter ship and crew in the service; and though we never had a regular set to with a Russian, except boat service on shore, I’m thinking we should have shown what the Lysander could do if called upon. There was no flogging then, for a bit of grog stopping did nearly always, and the men used to take a pride in themselves and their ship, as is the case everywhere when the officers are gentlemen.
When I say a gentleman, I don’t mean a silver-spoon man, but one who, having men under him, treats them as they should be treated, and though strict and stern, knows when a kind word’s right, and after making them work like trumps, sees that they’re comfortable and well-fed. Why, I’ve known our captain and first lieutenant do anything sooner than get the men wet if it rained—keeping sail on till it was really obliged to be taken in.
Capital prime beef and biscuit we always had, and first-class old rum, and what dodges we used to have to get a drop extra sometimes. Charley, my mate, used to be generally pretty wide-awake; and taking notice how the rum used to be pumped out of the cask by the purser’s steward with a bright brass pump, he says to him one day—
“Why don’t you save a drop of rum, Tom, in the pump?”
“How can I?” he says, “when it all runs out.”
Charley says something to him, though, and very next day, while the purser was looking on, Tom pumps out the regular quantity into the grog tub, and then forgets to push the handle of the pump down, but pulls it out of the tub, and runs down below with it, and when he pushed the handle down again, out came about a pint of strong rum.
That was one way; but another dodge was this. The grog used to be mixed in a tub, and then there was the serving out, when nearly always there’d be a lot left, perhaps a gallon, or a gallon and a half, after the ship’s company had been all served. Now, I don’t know why this wasn’t saved; but after every man had had his “tot” under the officer’s eye, this “plush,” as we used to call it, was poured down one of the scuppers, the officer always seeing it done.
“That’s thundering wasteful, mate,” says Charley; and I nodded and wished my mouth was under the scupper; for a little extra grog to a sailor’s a great treat, ’specially as he can’t do like another man ashore—go and buy a drop whenever he likes. So, half an hour after, we were down along with the armourer, and what with a bit of nous, a couple of tin-canisters, and a lanyard, we soon had a long tin affair that we could let down the scupper, where we tied it with the lanyard and left it.
Now, perhaps, every one don’t know that what we call the scupper is a sort of sink, or gulley-hole, by the ship’s side, to let off the water when the decks are washed, or a wave comes aboard; and though it may sound queer to catch rum and water that is sent down a sink-hole, you must understand that well out at sea the deck of a man-of-war is as clean and white as washing and scrubbing can make it—a drop of salt water being the foulest thing that passes down a scupper.
Well, our machine answered first-rate, and though it didn’t catch only half of the stuff thrown down, yet we often got a quart of good grog, and had a pleasant half-hour down the main-deck drinking it.