In less than two hours however, the flames were got under and the fire extinguished; and, saving the watch on deck, the crew, tired and bruised, and many of them scalded, had gone below, while the carpenters were busy repairing decks; for in a man-of-war every trace of recent danger, whether from wind or fire or foe, is speedily erased.
A shoal of sharks that had been following the ship expectant, disappointed, sought deeper water, and black Tom, the cat, came down from his perch on the main-truck, singing a song of deliverance.
Minor Mishaps.
It would take a long time indeed to narrate all the misadventures we had in that cruise. We got quite used to running on shore, being awakened any night, with that strange grating noise beneath our keel, and the sudden cessation of all motion, which tells the experienced sailor better than words can, that the ship has struck. One bright moonlight night, far on in the middle watch, we ran aground on the Lyra reef. Luckily the tide was not full nor the wind blowing. By next morning we had lowered the boats, and sent over the guns to lighten ship, and lay waiting for the tide. A bright sky, and a blue, blue sea all around, with never a sail in sight, nay, not even a bird. The waters so pellucid and clear, that leaning over the bulwarks we could see the yellow sand at the bottom, see forests and gardens of marine plants, and flowers pink-petalled or tender green, gently waving to and fro in the current; see the transparent medusæ disporting their rainbow beauties, and see the thousand and one strange-looking tropical fishes, of colours so bright and shapes so grotesque, that they seemed the fishes of our dreams, or caricatures of animal life.
Fast and sure on that reef we lay for upwards of forty-eight hours, and it was only by lightening the ship of coals, and buoying her with empty rum casks that we got safely afloat at last. The men were in good spirits all the time, because forsooth, the cat, was “singing like all possessed.”
Nothing to Eat.
It was the last voyage of the cruise. We were steering from Zanzibar to the Cape, under orders home. We had on board with us no less a personage than the bishop of C—— A—— and his learned curate, Dr. Blank. Now we had not been to sea over three days when, lo and behold! one-half, at least, of the casks of beef and provisions, supposed to be full, were found to be mere dummies. It was nobody’s fault—it always is nobody’s fault in a case of that sort—but the upshot of it was, that all hands were put upon short allowance; and as our mess—having got into debt—was just then living on ship’s provisions, we officers had to suffer the same privations as the men. Besides, we had neither beer, wine, nor spirits on board, very little water, and no coals to spare to distil more.
This was a very pretty look out for a three weeks’ voyage, to the Cape, in mid-winter. And poor Tom came in for more cursing now than ever. Everybody cursed him everywhere; they cursed him below and cursed him aloft; cursed him on the quarter-deck, and cursed him in the cook’s galley. But Tom only sung the louder.
“It was all along of that blessed cat,” the sailors said; and they added, “that it was a good thing we had my lord bishop on board, to counteract the evil effects of the skipper’s imp.” The poor bishop suffered too, but mostly from sea-sickness. He kept his bed all the voyage. He was a stout man at Zanzibar, but he got considerably thinner, before we reached the Cape. But his curate was more to be pitied, he was a thin man, didn’t get sick, and had a stomach like a brewer’s horse; and the more sorrow for that same, there being so little to put into it. Our biscuit must, I think, have been baked before the flood, each morsel, while black with cockroaches’ filth outside, entertaining a whole colony of weevils inside; we ate the weevils, however, merely tapping each morsel on the table to get rid of the superabundant dust, before conveying it to our mouths. We had neither potatoes nor butter. We had white beans though, and black rice and fried sardines, to which latter we used to add a little turmeric and cayenne by way of flavouring. We actually got mean in our hunger, and used to say little snappish things to each other, about our share of the victuals; things which we would have been ashamed to say under any other circumstances. No one, I can assure you, was above helping himself, to the last spoonful of rice or beans, out of a delicate feeling of consideration for his neighbour. In good sooth, sometimes three or four spoons, would meet at the dish at once in most undignified haste.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” our little good-natured assistant paymaster would say; “better is a dinner of rice and fried sardines, where love is, than a stallëd ox and hatred therewith.”