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.