“Man killed saluting her Majesty,” as we read in the papers t’other day:  poor fellow, told off at the rammer he was, and for want of proper sponging out; when he drove in the great cartridge, it exploded before he could leap back, and in a moment he was gone.  How it brought up all my old sea life, and the days on board the fifty-gun frigate that I’ll call here the Lysander, so as to say nothing about names that might be unsavoury in some people’s nostrils.  There I was again at gun drill, or ball practice, down on the main-deck.  Now I was numbered to ram, or sponge; now at the lanyard to fire; now one thing and now another; and I could see it all so plainly:  the big cartridge, the twisted wheel of a wad, the shot in the racks, and the little quills full of powder for the touch-hole.  Why, I could even fancy my ears ringing and singing again after the heavy report; and as I sat at my window, there was I fancying it was a port-hole, and shading my eyes to look out and see the shot go skipping and ricochetting along from wave to wave.  Now, again, it was examining day for the shells, and there we were, two of us, slung outside the ship on a platform, and the shells in their little wood boxes handed over the side and down to us; for it was a very dangerous job, and the officers kindly arranged that if in unscrewing the fuse one of the shells exploded, why only us two would be in for it.  I didn’t half like the job for my part, but the old master at arms had done it so often that he thought no more of it than going down to mess, and more than once I’ve heard him wish for a pipe, while I believe he would have smoked it.

Four years out in the Pacific we were, and more than one brush we had with the Rooshians up there at Petropaulovski, but mostly it was very dull cruising about.  True, we used to get a change now and then; once or twice we had a turn in Vancouver’s Island, and had a shooting party or two after the pretty little quails, handsome little birds with a crest, and prime eating.  Then, one night, we sailed into the beautiful harbour at Nukuheva, in the Marquesas, as lovely a spot as it is possible to imagine; and as I saw it then by moonlight, such a sight as I can never forget ­all moonlight on the beautiful trees, with cascades falling from the larger rocks; just in front the belt of white sand, and the sea gently wash-wash and curling over in creamy breakers.  Another time it would be the Sandwich Islands, and when some of us were ashore there, I’m blest if it wasn’t as good as a play, and you couldn’t hardly believe it.  Why, there was a regular civilised town, with the names of the streets up in their lingo; and as to the shops, they were as right as could be, ’specially where they sold prog; while the chemist’s was quite the thing, all glass, and varnish, and coloured bottles; and Charley Gordon, my mate, actually went in and bought two ounces of Epsom salts, and the man asked him if he didn’t want any senny.

It quite knocked a man over, you know, for you went there expecting to meet with nothing but savages of the same breed as killed Captain Cook; but though he was killed there, let me tell you it’s a precious sore subject with them, and they won’t talk about it if they can help it; and I believe, after all, it was through a mistake that the poor fellow was killed.

Now again we’d go to Callao, or Valparaiso, or Juan Fernandez, and lying idle off one of the ports, see them bring out their convicts and chaps to punish.  One dodge they had was to put so many of ’em into a leaky boat right out in the harbour, and there they’d have to keep on pump ­ pump ­pump ­and work hard, too, to keep themselves afloat; for if they hadn’t kept at it, down they must have gone, and as my mate said ­“Life was sweet, even to a convict.”  Sometimes we’ve seen them punish men by lashing ’em to a spar, and then sousing ’em overboard till they’re half drowned, when up they’d come again, choking and sputtering to get their breath; then down again once more, and then up, till one of our chaps began to swear, and be as savage as could be, at what he called such cowardly humbugging ways.

“Why,” says he ­“Why can’t they give a fellow his four dozen and done with it?  But it’s just like them beggarly chattermonkey furreneering coves.  I should just like ter ­”

And here he began squaring about, Tom Sayers fashion, as if he’d have liked to have a set to with some of ’em.

Now just about that time we used to have a wonderful sight of flogging on board our ship.  For two years I don’t believe there was a chap had up; and for why? because our captain was one of the right sort, and I believe loved his men.  He was a Tartar, too, and he’d have everything right up to the mark, and done like lightning, stamping up and down there with a trumpet under his arm; but then he’d a way with him which the men liked, and they’d do anything for him.  Why, I don’t believe there was a smarter ship and crew in the service; and though we never had a regular set to with a Russian, except boat service on shore, I’m thinking we should have shown what the Lysander could do if called upon.  There was no flogging then, for a bit of grog stopping did nearly always, and the men used to take a pride in themselves and their ship, as is the case everywhere when the officers are gentlemen.

When I say a gentleman, I don’t mean a silver-spoon man, but one who, having men under him, treats them as they should be treated, and though strict and stern, knows when a kind word’s right, and after making them work like trumps, sees that they’re comfortable and well-fed.  Why, I’ve known our captain and first lieutenant do anything sooner than get the men wet if it rained ­keeping sail on till it was really obliged to be taken in.

Capital prime beef and biscuit we always had, and first-class old rum, and what dodges we used to have to get a drop extra sometimes.  Charley, my mate, used to be generally pretty wide-awake; and taking notice how the rum used to be pumped out of the cask by the purser’s steward with a bright brass pump, he says to him one day ­

“Why don’t you save a drop of rum, Tom, in the pump?”

“How can I?” he says, “when it all runs out.”

Charley says something to him, though, and very next day, while the purser was looking on, Tom pumps out the regular quantity into the grog tub, and then forgets to push the handle of the pump down, but pulls it out of the tub, and runs down below with it, and when he pushed the handle down again, out came about a pint of strong rum.

That was one way; but another dodge was this.  The grog used to be mixed in a tub, and then there was the serving out, when nearly always there’d be a lot left, perhaps a gallon, or a gallon and a half, after the ship’s company had been all served.  Now, I don’t know why this wasn’t saved; but after every man had had his “tot” under the officer’s eye, this “plush,” as we used to call it, was poured down one of the scuppers, the officer always seeing it done.

“That’s thundering wasteful, mate,” says Charley; and I nodded and wished my mouth was under the scupper; for a little extra grog to a sailor’s a great treat, ’specially as he can’t do like another man ashore ­go and buy a drop whenever he likes.  So, half an hour after, we were down along with the armourer, and what with a bit of nous, a couple of tin-canisters, and a lanyard, we soon had a long tin affair that we could let down the scupper, where we tied it with the lanyard and left it.

Now, perhaps, every one don’t know that what we call the scupper is a sort of sink, or gulley-hole, by the ship’s side, to let off the water when the decks are washed, or a wave comes aboard; and though it may sound queer to catch rum and water that is sent down a sink-hole, you must understand that well out at sea the deck of a man-of-war is as clean and white as washing and scrubbing can make it ­a drop of salt water being the foulest thing that passes down a scupper.

Well, our machine answered first-rate, and though it didn’t catch only half of the stuff thrown down, yet we often got a quart of good grog, and had a pleasant half-hour down the main-deck drinking it.

But things soon turned unpleasant; we had a fresh captain, whom I’ll call Captain Strangeways, and very soon the cat began to be at work.  Times were, of course, that men would buy each other’s grog, and have a little more than they should, and then, instead of a mild punishment, and a trial at reforming such men, it was flogging; and instead of this doing any good, it made the men worse, and drunkenness more frequent, till the floggings used to be constant, and instead of our ship being about the smartest afloat, I believe she grew to be one of the most slovenly, and the men took a delight in annoying the captain and officers.

In the very low latitudes, where the heat is sometimes terribly hard to bear, it is the custom to have what we call a windsail, that is a regular great canvas pipe, hung so that one end goes down the hatchways, while the other is tied up to the rigging; and of a hot night the cool current that came down would be delightful.  But down on the main-deck, with perhaps four hundred men sleeping, even this would not be enough, and we used to sleep with the ports open.  But this displeased the captain; for in other latitudes the custom was to shut the ports down at eight o’clock at night, and he, accordingly, gave orders that this should be kept up; so at eight o’clock one night, watch was set, and all the ports were closed.

Phew!  I can almost feel it now.  Why, it was stifling.  We could hardly breathe; and first one and then another jumped out of his hammock, and opened a port, and then we had no end of palavering, for the men were regularly unanimous over it, that we could not bear the heat; and the consequence was, that we made our arrangements for a bit of a breeze next night.

Eight o’clock came, and we were lying at anchor off Callao.  Gun-fire ­ and then at the order down went the ports, and then all was darkness; but at the next moment, there was the chirping of the whistles of the boatswain’s mates; and so well had the men worked together, and made their plans, that up flew all the ports again directly.

Then the row began; the officers got alongside the captain, the marines were called aft, and then lanterns ranged along the quarter deck, and the men summoned and ranged across in a gang several deep.  The captain raged and stormed.  He’d flog every man on board, and ­

“Crash!” There was a lantern down; some one out of the tops had thrown a big ball of spunyarn of the size of a Dutch cheese, and knocked the light over.

­He’d have the man in irons that threw that ball.

“Crash ­crash ­crash!” there came a regular volley, and every lantern was knocked off and rolled about the deck.

“Marines! up the rigging, there, into the mizen and main tops!” shouted the captain, “and bring those men down.”  When up went the Johnnies, of course, very slowly, for they couldn’t climb a bit, while the men were down the sheets in an instant, and behind the others on deck.

Then the captain had a few words with the first lieutenant, and the men were piped down; and the ports not being touched, all seemed to be pretty quiet, when the officers collected together in the gun-room, and began talking the matter over ­some at chess, and some at their grog; but the game was not quite over, for the men were just ripe for a bit of mischief, and fast working themselves up into that state when mutinies take place.  All at once, when everything seemed at its quietest, there was a shrill chirrup; and then a number of the biggest shot were set rolling out of their racks right along the deck, as it sloped down towards the gun-room door.

“Rumble ­rumble ­rumble; bang ­crash ­crash!” they went, dashing open the door where the officers in dismay were sitting in all positions:  with their legs drawn up, or sticking out at right angles, and then came another volley, but this time it was one of laughter, and by the time the sentries had called up the relief, and had the shots replaced in the racks, all was still and quiet, while the next night the captain left the ports untouched.