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.”