“There sat auld Nick in shape o’ beast,”
at least in the shape of Tom the cat, who would not have missed the fun for all the world. There on the bulwark he would sit, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, his mouth squared, and his beard all a-bristle. He seemed to count every dull thud of his nine-tailed namesake, and emitted short sharp mews of joy when, towards the middle of the third dozen, the blood began to trickle and get sprinkled about on sheet and shroud. Though I never disliked Tom, still, at times such as these, I really believed he was the devil himself as reputed, and would have given two months’ pay for a chance to brain him. When the flogging was over, Tom used to jump down and, purring loudly, rub his head against his master’s leg.
By at least one half of the crew, Tom was assuredly believed to be—if not old Nick himself—possessed of an evil spirit. A good deal of mumbo jumbo work therefore went on, for the men tried to find favour in Tom’s eyes, and many a dainty morsel did this cat of evil repute thus receive; so that he grew and flourished like a green bay-tree, while his coat got glossier and his figure plumper every day.
How Tom used to Fish.
Although well fed and cared for, Tom at times used to forage for himself, not that I ever heard he was a thief—to his honour be it written; but he fished, and very successfully too, without so much as wetting the soles of his beautiful pumps. His modus operandi was as follows.
On dark nights in the tropical seas, he used to perch himself on the bulwarks aft, and bend his glittering eyes downwards into the sea. He never sat long thus without a flying-fish, sometimes two, jumping past him or over him, and alighting on deck. Then Tom would descend, and have a delightful supper, and if not fully satisfied resume his seat and continue the sport. Tom must have gained his knowledge from experience, although the success of his method of fishing is easily explained. It is well known that these fish always fly towards a light, which is therefore often used by the sailors to catch them. The cat required no other light save the glimmering of his two eyes, which in the dark shone like a couple of koh-i-noors.
Tom Takes Charge of a Gun.
Tom was in the habit of going to sleep, in the large pivot gun we used for shelling running-away slavers. For a forenoon nap nothing could have suited him better; it combined the pleasures of solitude with retirement, and moreover was both dark and cool. One fine sunny day, we were in chase of a particularly fast dhow, which, taking no heed of our signal howitzers, evinced a strong disposition to edge in towards the shore, the order was accordingly given to fire at her with our Big Ben. Before loading, the gunner keeked in to see that all was clear, and sure enough there was Tom, by no means pleased at being disturbed in his siesta. Neither could any amount of “cheety-pussying” entice him from his snuggery, while tickling with the end of a ramrod only made him spit and sputter, and make use of bad language.
“What’s the delay?” cried the captain.
“Cat in possession of gun, sir,” was the reply.