“Hush,” said the first, “he’s an evil spirit, Bill, as sure as a gun; and he belongs to—
The Skipper.”
You may easily guess from the foregoing conversation, that the captain himself was no great favourite. He was a little red-haired foxy-faced man, a Scotchman (save the luck), but a Scotchman who hated the land of his forefathers,—
“Whose heart had ne’er within him burned,” etc., etc.,
in fact, retaining but one trait of Scottish character, namely his love for Scotch drink. Once round the Cape, and north on our cruising ground—the Mozambique Channel, the skipper shone out in his true colours. His face and nose got daily redder; and the sinister smile that seemed printed there never left his lips. Such a smile I have never seen before nor since, except on the face of a Somali Indian. The first victims to the skipper’s wrath were the poor black Kroomen, one of whom was always stationed at the mast head, to look out for strange sails. Now the commander had an eye like a fish-hawk, and generally managed to sight a vessel before even the out-look. God help the out-look when this occurred. He was ordered down at once, and in one minute more was lashed to the rigging by both wrists, and writhing and shrieking for mercy under the infliction of two dozen with a rope’s end, laid on by the sturdy arms of a fellow Krooman. The men, for the slightest offence, had their grog stopped for a week or weeks; and as the proceeds went to swell the sick-fund—a fund to purchase comforts for the patients—I had usually more money in my hands than I knew how to expend, until I happily thought of a plan to get rid of the surplus cash.
“Brown,” I would say to an officer, after the cloth had been removed, “you look unusually seedy to-day; in fact,” looking round the mess, “you all look rather pale; effects of climate, poor devils. I am afraid I have hardly done my duty towards you. Steward, bring in those bananas from the sick-bay, bring also the pineapples, the mangoes, the oranges, the ground nuts, a pomola, and a bottle of madeira. Liquor up, my lads, let us drink the skipper’s health. The sick-bay fund is unusually flourishing, so don’t forget in every port we come to, to ask me for honey for your rum, milk for your tea, and orange-blossom to perfume your cabins withal.”
Anything approaching insubordination among the boys or men or board was punished with flogging—four dozen lashes, with a different bo’swain’s mate to each dozen, was the usual dose.
Tom at a Flogging.
Tuesday was flogging day; and to add, if possible, to the terror of the condemned wretch, after the gratings were rigged and the man stripped and lashed thereto, sawdust was sprinkled on the deck all round, to soak up the blood. But at every flogging match