“I say, doctor,” replied Pearce, “can you stop up the leak in that little gentleman’s liver? He’s not content to keep a hand-pump going to get rid of his bile when in harbour, but it seems that he requires the chain-pumps to be manned when he goes to sea.”

  “Chain-pumps!” exclaimed Courtenay, shuddering, and drawing back his head with a grimace at the idea of such a forcible discharge, and then looking round at his messmates with one of his serio-comic faces.

  “Pumps! ay,” said Price; “you remember Shakespeare in the ‘Tempest’ — he says — dear me, — I—”

  “Come, Price,” said Courtenay, “don’t make me sick before my time, — it’s unkind. You don’t know what an analogy there is between spouting and sea-sickness. In both cases you throw up what is nauseous, because your head or you stomach is too weak to retain it. Spare me, then, a quotation, my dear fellow, till you see me in the agony of Nature ‘aback,’ and then one will be of service in assisting her efforts to ‘box off.’ I say, Billy Pitt, did you stow away the two jars of pickled cabbage in my cabin?”

  We must here break off the conversation to introduce this personage to the reader. He was a black, who ran away, when quite a lad, from his master at Barbadoes, and entered on board of a man-of-war. Macallan, the surgeon, had taken a fancy to him, and he had been his servant for some years, following him into different ships. He was a very intelligent and singular character. Macallan had taught him to read and write, and he was not a little proud of his acquirements. He was excessively good-humoured, and a general favourite of the officers and ship’s company, who used to amuse themselves with his peculiarities, and allow him a greater freedom than usual. But Billy’s grand forte, in his own opinion, was a lexicographer. He had a small Entick’s dictionary, which he always carried in his jacket-pocket, and nothing gave him so much pleasure as any one referring to him for the meaning of a hard word, which, although he could not always explain correctly, he certainly did most readily. Moreover, he was, as may be supposed, very fond of interlarding his conversation with high-sounding phraseology, without much regard as to the context.

  Although Billy Pitt was the doctor’s servant, Courtenay, who had taken a great fancy to him, used to employ him as his own, to which, as the doctor was not a man who required much attendance himself, and was very good-natured, no objection had been raised.

  We must repeat the question —

  “I say, Billy Pitt, did you stow away the two jars of pickled cabbage in my cabin?”

  “No, sar, I no hab’em to stow. Woman say, that Mr Kartney not pay for the pickled onun — say quite incongrous send any more.”

  “Not pay for the onions! No, to be sure I didn’t; but I gave her a fresh order, which is the same thing.” (Price laid down the potato which he was in the act of peeling, and stared at Courtenay with astonishment.) “Well, to a London tradesman, it is, I can assure you.”

  “It may be, but I cannot conceive how. If you owe me ten shillings, I can’t consider borrowing ten more the same thing as paying the first.”

  “Pooh! you do not understand these things.”

  “I do not, most certainly,” replied the master, resuming his potato.

  “And so you haven’t got them?” resumed Courtenay to the servant.

  “No, sar. She say Massa Kartney owe nine shillings for onuns, and say I owe farteen for ‘baccy, and not trust us any more. I tell just as she say, sir. Gentleman never pay for anything. She call me damned nigger, and say, like massa like man. I tell her not give any more rhoromantade, and walk out of shop.”

  “Well, how cursed annoying! Now, I never set my mind upon anything but I’m disappointed. One might as well be Sancho in the Isle of Barataria. I think I’ll go up to the captain, and ask him to heave-to, while I send for them. Do you think he would, master, eh?” said Courtenay, in affected simplicity of interrogation.

  “You had better try him,” replied Pearce, laughing.

  “Well, it would be very considerate of him, and pickled cabbage is the only thing that cures my sea-sickness.” — (Perceiving Price about to speak)— “Stop now — it’s no use — there’s not a word about pickled cabbage in Shakespeare.”

  “I did not say that there was,” retorted Price; “but there’s ‘beef without mustard,’ and that will be your case now.”

  “And there’s ‘Write me down an ass,’” replied Courtenay, who was not a little vexed at the loss of his favourite condiment.

  “Did you hear what Courtenay said of you, O’Keefe?” continued Price, turning to the purser.

  “Yes — yes — I know — hand him over a glass; but this is not a clane one. Steward, will you bring a clane wine-glass?”

  The rest laughed, while Courtenay proceeded.

  “Why, O’Keefe, you hear better than ever. I say, doctor, you must put me in the sick list — I’m not fit to take charge of a watch.”

  “If you’ll prove that to me,” replied Macallan, “I certainly will report you.”

  “Well, I’ll prove it to you in five seconds. I’m just in that state, that if everything in the ship was to go overboard to the devil, I shouldn’t care. Now, with such a feeling of indifference, a person is not fit to be trusted with the charge of a watch.”

  “That you’re not fit to be trusted with the charge of a watch, as you state it yourself, I shall not deny,” replied Macallan; “but I consider that to be a complaint for which you ought rather to be put off the list that on it.”

  “Ha! ha! ha! I say, Courtenay, you know what Shakespeare says, ‘’Tis the curse of service,’ that — that—”

  “All hands, ‘bout ship!” now resounded through the ship as it was repeated in the variety of basses of the boatswain and his mates, at either hatchway — one of the youngsters of the watch running down at the same time to acquaint the officers, in his shrill falsetto, with that which had been roared out loud enough to startle even the deaf purser. The first-lieutenant, followed by the master, brushed by him, and was up the ladder before his supererogatory communication could be delivered.

  “How cursed annoying!” cried Courtenay. “I was just feeling a little better, and now I shall be worse than ever.”

  “You recollect in the ‘Tempest,’” said Price, “where Shakespeare says—”

  “Forecastle, there!” roared out Captain M — , from the quarter-deck, in a voice that was distinctly heard below.

  “By Jove, you’d better skip for it, or you’ll have what Captain M — says. He’s hailing your station,” said Courtenay, laughing — a piece of advice immediately acted upon by Price, who was up the ladder and on the forecastle in a few seconds.— “And I must go up too. How cursed annoying to be stationed in the waist! Nothing to do, except to stop my ears against the infernal stamp-and-go of the marines and after-guards, over my head; sweet music to a first-lieutenant, but to me discord most horrible. I could stamp with vexation.”

  “Had you not better go first and stamp afterwards?” observed the surgeon, drily.

  “I think I had, indeed,” replied Courtenay, as he bolted out of the gun-room door.— “Cursed annoying! but the captain’s such a bilious subject.”

  Chapter Twenty.

  This chair shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my crown.

  Henry IV. Part I.

  We must now descend to the steerage, where our hero is seated in the berth, in company with a dozen more (as they designated themselves, from the extreme heat of their domicile) perspiring young heroes, who were amusing themselves with crunching hard biscuits, and at the same time a due proportion of those little animals of the scaribee tribe, denominated weevils, who had located themselves in the unleavened bread, and which the midshipmen declared to be the only fresh meat which they had tasted for some time.

  Captain M— ‘s character stood so high at the Admiralty, that the major part of the young aspirants who had been committed to his charge were of good family and connections. At that time few of the aristocracy or gentry ventured to send their sons into the navy; whereas, at present, none but those classes can obtain admission.

  A better school for training young officers could not have been selected; and the midshipmen’s berth of the Aspasia was as superior to those in other ships, as Captain M — was himself to the generality of his contemporary captains in the service. But I cannot pay these young men the compliment to introduce them one by one, as I did the gun-room officers. It would be an anomaly unheard of. I shall, therefore, with every respect for them, describe them just as I want them. It was one bell after eight o’clock — a bottle of ship’s rum, a black jack of putrid water, and a tin bread-basket, are on the table, which is lighted with a tallow candle of about thirteen to the pound.

  “I say, Mr Jerry Sneak, what are you after there — what are you foraging for in that locker?” said one of the oldsters of the berth to a half-starved, weak-looking object of a youngster, whose friends had sent him to sea with the hopes of improving his stamina.

  “What for? — why, for my supper if you must know. D’ye think I look too fat? I stowed it away before I went on deck, that it might not fall into your ravenous maw.”

  “Mind your stops, my Jack of the Bonehouse, or I shall shy a biscuit at your head.”

  “Do, and prove your bravery; it will be so very courageous. I suppose you will expect to be gazetted for it.”

  The youngster who had been dignified with the above sobriquet, and who made these replies, was certainly a most miserable-looking object, and looked as if a top-gallant breeze would have blown him to atoms. But if his body was weak, his tongue was most powerful. He resorted to no other weapon, and used that skilfully. He was a species of Thersites, and no dread of punishment could control his railing. He offered no resistance, but bent down like the reed, and resumed his former position as soon as the storm was over. His keen and sarcastic remarks, although they occasionally subjected him to chastisement, to a certain degree served him as a defence, for he could always raise a laugh at the expense of the individual whom he attacked, with the formidable weapon which he had inherited direct from his mother.

  The oldster before mentioned put his hand into the breadbasket, and seized a handful of the biscuit. “Now I’ll bet you a glass of grog that you don’t throw a biscuit at my head,” cried Jerry, with a sneer.

  “Done,” replied the oldster, throwing the contents of his hand at Jerry with all his force.

  “I’ll just trouble you for that glass of grog, for you’ve lost,” said the youngster, taking it up from the table where it stood, before the oldster; “you’ve only thrown some pieces, and not a biscuit;” and following up his words with deeds, he swallowed down the whole contents of the tumbler, which he replaced very coolly before his opponent.

  “Fair bet, and fairly lost,” cried the rest of the berth, laughing.

  “You scarecrow! you’re not worth thrashing,” said the oldster, angrily.

  “Why, that’s exactly what I have been trying to impress upon your memory ever since I have joined the ship. There’s no credit to be gained by licking a half-starved wretch like I am; but there’s Bruce, now,” (pointing to one of the oldsters, between whom and his opponent a jealousy subsisted), “why don’t you lick him? There would be some credit in that. But you know better than to try it.”

  “Do I?” retorted the oldster, forgetting himself in the heat of the moment.

  “Yes, you do,” replied Bruce, jumping up in defiance; and there was every appearance of a disturbance, much to the delight of Jerry, who, provided that they fought, was quite indifferent which party was the victor. But a fortunate interruption took place, by the appearance of the master-at-arms.

  “Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please — the lights must be put out.”

  “Very well, master-at-arms,” replied one of the oldsters.

  The master-at-arms took his seat on a chest close to the door of the berth, aware that a second summons, if not a third, would be requisite, before his object was obtained. In a few minutes he again put his head into the berth. “Nine o’clock, gentlemen, if you please. I must report you to the first-lieutenant.”

  “Very well, Byfield — it shall be out in a minute.”

  The master-at-arms resumes his station on the chest outside.

  “Why, it’s Saturday night,” cried Bruce. “Sweethearts and wives, my boys, though I believe none of us are troubled with the latter. Forster, pass the rum.”

  “I’ll pass the bottle, and you may make a bull of it, if you choose.”

  “Confound it, no more grog — and Saturday night. I must drink ‘Auld lang syne,’ by Heavens.”

  The master-at-arms again made his appearance. “Gentlemen, you must put the light out.”

  “Stop one minute, Byfield. Let us see whether we can get any more rum.”

  The excuse appeared reasonable to the jack in office, and he disappeared.

  “Boy, tell Billy Pitt I want him.”

  Billy Pitt had turned in, but was soon roused out of his hammock, and made his appearance at the berth door, with only his shirt on that he was sleeping in.

  “You want me, Massa Bruce?”

  “Billy, my beau, you know everything. We sent for you to tell us what’s the meaning of a repartee?”

  “Repartee, sir — repartee! — stop a bit — Eh — I tell you, sir. Suppose you call me dam nigger — then I call you one dam dirty white-livered son of a b — ; dat a repartee, sir.”

  “Capital, Billy — you shall be a bishop. But Billy, has your master got any rum in his cabin?”

  “Which massa, sir? Massa Courtenay, or Massa Doctor?”

  “Oh! Courtenay, to be sure. The surgeon never has any.”

  “Yes, sar, I tink he have a little.”

  “Be quick, Billy; and fetch it. I will give it you back at the tub to-morrow.”

  “Suppose you forget, sar, you put me in very fine predicalament. Massa Courtenay look dam blue — no, he not look blue, but he look dam yellow,” replied Billy, showing his white teeth as he grinned.

  “But I won’t forget, Billy, upon my honour.”

  “Well, honour quite enough between two gentlemen. I go fetch the bottle.”

  Billy soon reappeared with a quart bottle of rum, just as three bells were struck. “By gad, I rattle the bottle as I take him out — wake Mr Courtenay — he say, dam black fellow he make everything adrift — cursed annoying, he say, and go to sleep again.”

  “Really, gentlemen, I cannot wait any longer,” resumed the master-at-arms; “the lights must be reported or I shall be in disgrace.”

  “Very true, Byfield; you are only doing your duty. Will you take a glass of grog?”

  “If you please,” replied Mr Byfield, taking off his hat, “Your health, gentlemen.”

  “Thank you,” replied the midshipmen.

  “Tank you, sir,” replied also Billy Pitt.

  “Well, Billy. What’s the last word you read in your dictionary?”

  “Last word? Let me see — Oh! commission, sar. You know dat word?”

  “Commission! We all know what that is, Billy, and shall be glad to get it too, by-and-bye.”

  “Yes, sar; but there are two kind of commission. One you want, obliged to wait for; one I want, always have at once, — commission as agent, sar.”

  “Oh, I understand,” replied Bruce; “five per cent on the bottle, eh?”

  “Five per cent not make a tiff glass of grog, Massa Bruce.”

  “Well, then, Billy, you shall have ten per cent,” replied the midshipman, pouring him out a north-wester. “Will that do?”

  The black had the politeness to drink the health of all the gentlemen of the berth separately, before he poured the liquor down his throat. “Massa Bruce, I tink doctor got a little rum in his cabin.”

  “Go and fetch it, Billy; you shall have it back to-morrow.”

  “Honour, Mr Bruce.”

  “Honour, Mr Pitt.”

  “Ten per cent, Massa Bruce,” continued Billy, grinning.

  “Ten per cent is the bargain.”

  “I go see.”

  Another quart bottle made its appearance; and the agent having received his commission, made his bow, and returned to his hammock.

  “I do — really — think — upon — my — word — that that — black — scoundrel — would — sell — his — own — mother — for — a — stiff — glass — of — grog,” observed a youngster, of the name of Prose, a cockney, who drawled out his words, which, “like a wounded snake, dragged their slow length along.”

  “The lights, gentlemen, if you please,” resumed the master-at-arms, putting his head again into the door.

  “Another commission,” said Jerry: “a tax upon light. Billy Pitt has the best right to it.”

  A second glass of grog was poured out, and the bribe disappeared down Mr Byfield’s gullet.

  “Now we’ll put the light out,” said one of the oldsters, covering the candlestick with a hat.

  “If you will put your candle into my lantern,” observed the obsequious master-at-arms, “I can then report the lights out. Of course you will allow it to remain there?”

  The suggestion was adopted; and the light was reported out to the first-lieutenant, at the very moment that it was taken out of the lantern again, and replaced in the candlestick. The duplicate supply began to have its effect upon our incipient heroes, who commenced talking of their friends. Bruce, a fine manly, honourable Scotchman, had the peculiarity of always allying himself, when half drunk, to the royal house who formerly sat upon the throne of England; but, when quite intoxicated, he was so treasonable as to declare himself the lawful King of Great Britain. Glass after glass increased his propinquity to the throne, till at last he seated himself on it, and the uproar of the whole party rose to that height, that the first-lieutenant sent out, desiring the midshipmen immediately to retire to their hammocks.

  “Send me to bed! ‘Proud man, dressed in a little brief authority.’ If the Lord’s anointed had been respected, he, with millions, would be now bending the knee to me. Well, if I can’t be King of all England, at least I’ll be king in this berth. Tell me,” cried Bruce, seizing the unfortunate Prose by the collar, “am I not king?”