I do not suppose that Flint could help himself, and it is always best, I think, to say all one can for even bad men. Now, whisper—the commander's wine-cellar was far too big for him. I do not think anybody ever saw the little man intoxicated, on deck at all events, but that curse of our nation—alcohol—made him crabbed and peevish, and he did not care then whom he insulted.
One or two instances of how Flint carried on may serve to show my readers what a tyrant even the commander of a Royal Navy screw gunboat may make himself, on a lonely coast like that of the western shores of Africa.
Please remember that I am not depending on my imagination for my facts, the experiences were my own.
The surgeon of the Rattler—and there was but one—for the craft was only 800 tons, was a sturdy Scot, who did his duty, and did not care a pin-head for anyone. His very independence annoyed Flint.
"I'll bring that saucy Scot to his senses," he said one night to his first lieutenant, who was dining with him.
The first luff, laughing, told the doctor next morning that he was to be brought down a peg, and asked him how he would like it.
The surgeon—Grant, let us call him—merely laughed and said quietly:
"It won't be that little skin-Flint that will do it. Why, Lacy, I could take him up with one hand and hold him overboard while I shook his teeth out into the sea. I could mop up the quarter-deck with him, then stand him on his head on the top of the capstan."
Everyone laughed, because everyone liked the surgeon.
But as the commander had said he would make the surgeon haul down his flag, he determined to act, and went to bed grinning to himself.