“Now, young gentlemen, you are both in the wrong,” said the captain. “You, Mr Spellman, should not have struck the boy for his heedlessness, and you, Mr Merry, should not have taken the law into your own hands. You will both of you go to the mast-head, and remain there till Mr Lukyn calls you down; Mr Merry to the foremast, Mr Spellman to the mainmast.”
We thought that we had got off very easily; and we should, had not the first-lieutenant gone below and forgotten all about us. Hour after hour passed by: we had had no dinner: I was almost starved, and could scarcely have held on longer, when my eye fell on a sail to the southward. We were in the chops of the channel, with the wind from the northward. “Sail, O!” I shouted in a shrill tone. Fortunately Mr Lukyn was on deck, and when I had told him the direction in which I had seen the stranger, he called me down, it having probably occurred to him that I had been mast-headed rather longer than he intended.
When I got on deck I went up to him, and, touching my hat, said, “Please, sir, Spellman is still at the mast-head.”
“Oh, is he? ah!” he answered, taking a turn.
I guessed from this that he did not think I was much to blame. Still I was anxious to get poor Miss Susan out of this unpleasant predicament, for I knew he was almost dead with hunger. I had resolved to go up to Mr Lukyn to tell him so, when he hailed my late antagonist, and ordered him on deck.
“You have to thank Mr Merry that you are not up still,” observed the first-lieutenant, walking away.
Meantime the helm had been put up, and sail made in chase of the stranger. All hands earnestly hoped that she might prove an enemy. A sharp look-out was kept on her. One thing soon became evident—that we must have been seen, and that she was not inclined to fly.
“Now, Mr Merry, we’ll show you what fighting is,” observed Mr Johnson, the boatswain, as I stood near him on the forecastle. “You’ll soon see round-shot, and langrage, and bullets rattling about us, thick as hail; and heads, and arms, and legs flying off like shuttle-cocks. A man’s head is off his shoulders before he knows where he is. You’ll not believe it, Mr Merry, perhaps; but it’s a fact. I once belonged to a frigate, when we fell in with two of the enemy’s line-of-battle ships, and brought them to action. One, for a short time, was on our starboard beam, and the other right aft; and we were exposed to a terrible cross and raking fire: it’s only a wonder one of us remained alive, or that the ship didn’t go down. It happened that two men were standing near me, looking the same way—athwart ships, you’ll understand. The name of one was Bill Cox—the other, Tom Jay. Well, a round-shot came from our enemy astern, and took off the head of Bill Cox, who was on the larboard side; while at that identical moment a chain-shot from the ship abeam cut off Tom Jay’s head, who was nearest the starboard side, so cleanly—he happened to have a long neck—that it was jerked on to the body of Bill Cox, who, very naturally, putting up his hands to feel what had become, of his own head, kept it there so tightly that it stuck—positively stuck; and, the surgeon afterwards plastering it thickly round, it grew as firmly as if it had always belonged to the body. The curious thing was, that the man did not afterwards know what to call himself; when he intended to do one thing he was constantly doing another. There was Bill Cox’s body, d’ye see, and Tom Jay’s head. Bill Cox was rather the shorter of the two, and had had a very ugly mug of his own; while Tom Jay was a good-looking chap. Consequently, Bill used sometimes to blush when he heard his good looks spoken of, and sometimes to get angry, thinking people were making fun of him. At first, Bill never knew who was hailed, and used to sing out, ‘Which of us do you want?’ However, it was agreed that he was and should be Bill Cox; because the head belonged to the body by right of capture; for if Bill’s arms hadn’t sprung up and caught it, the head would have gone overboard, and been no use to nobody. So the matter was settled, as far as the public was concerned. D was put against Tom Jay’s name, and his disconsolate widow was written to, and told she might marry some one else as soon as she liked. But Bill wasn’t at all comfortable about himself. He was fond of fat bacon, which Tom Jay could never abide; and when Bill put it into his new mouth, why, you see, the mouth that was Tom’s spit it out again, and wouldn’t let it, by no manner of means, go down his throat. Then Tom was fond of a chaw, and seldom had had a quid out of his cheeks. Bill, for some reason, didn’t like baccy, and though his mouth kept asking for it, nothing would ever tempt his hands to put a quid inside. ‘I’m very miserable, that I be,’ groaned poor Bill; ‘I sometimes almost wishes I hadn’t caught Tom’s head—that I do.’
“You see, Mr Merry, people seldom know when they are well off, and that I used to tell him. More came of it when Bill got back home. When poor Tom Jay’s widow caught sight of him there was a terrible to do, seeing she was already married to another man; but I’ll tell you all about that by and by. There’s the captain about to speak.”
The captain’s speech was very brief: “Clear ship for action,” he exclaimed, as he placed himself on one of the after guns; “and now, lads, let me see what you are made of.”