“Dear me! dear me!” whined the captain. “Rouse him out, and be quick about it.”
After a pause.
“He won’t rouse out no-how, sir,” said the gunner.
“I’m hanged” roared the skipper, “if that rascally dhow isn’t landing her slaves inshore. Rouse him out I say. Fire a fuse—confound the cat.”
“Shoal water ahead, sir,” from the man at the mast-head.
“Hard a port, stand by both anchors,” and round we went just in time to save us. In the meantime a fuse had been inserted in the touch-hole of the gun. Bang! and thus attacked in rear, Tom came out of the gun faster than ever he had done in his life, and took to the rigging, with hair on-end and eyes all a-flame.
“Lower away the first and second cutters,” was now the order. “It shan’t be said, that a cursed cat kept us from capturing a lawful prize. D—— the beast.”
(For the benefit of those who love strong language alias swearing, it must here be stated, that in courtesy to my lady readers I abstain from giving the skipper’s language verbatim, for in that respect he would have pleased a Lancashire coal-heaver; he was a don in the use of expletives, although, to his credit be it recorded, while freely launching forth anathemas at the limbs of his men, and consigning their eyes to perpetual punishment, he just as freely let his own eyes have it. Oh, he wasn’t particular by any means; he gave it to us all alike—officers and men, cat and Kroo-boys.)
He captured that slaver though—went in the boats personally to do it, and that night the sea was lighted up for miles with a blaze, that spoiled pussy’s fishing for once. It was a caution to slavers on shore and sharks at sea. At a good mile’s distance we could see to read our last letters from home, by the light of that burning dhow. We were not surprised to see the captain come on board, black with smoke and begrimed with gunpowder, for we had heard desultory firing, but we were slightly taken aback to see Tom meet him in the gangway, and to observe the captain stoop down and tenderly caress him. Perhaps he wanted to make up to him, for his former roughness.
“I’ve given that chap Carrickfergus,” he remarked, in a sort of a general way to us officers; and to me he added, “I suppose the men may have a glass of grog, doctor.”