[Illustration: A FIRST RATE BOARDING-SCHOOL.]
It's not much to boast of; but as soon as I could bear the weight of a
cockade and a dirk, uncle got me a berth as midshipman on board his own
ship. So there I was, _Mr._ Bellophron Box. I didn't like the sea or the
service, being continually disgusted at the partiality shown towards me,
for in less than a month I was put over the heads of all my superior
officers. You may stare--but it's true; for _I was mast-headed_ for a week
at a stretch. When we put into port, Captain ---- called me into his cabin,
and politely informed me that if I chose to go on shore, and should find it
inconvenient to return, no impertinent inquiries should be made after me. I
availed myself of the hint, and exactly one year and two months after
setting foot on board the Bellophron, I was _Master_ Bellophron Box again.
Well, now for my story. There was one Tom Johnson on board, a _fok'sell_
man, as they called him, who was very kind to me; he tried to teach me to
turn a quid, and generously helped me to drink my grog. As I was
unmercifully quizzed in the cockpit, I grew more partial to the society of
Tom than to that of my brother middies. Tom always addressed me,'Sir,' and
they named me Puddinghead; till at last we might be called friends. During
many a night-watch, when I have sneaked away for a snooze among the
hen-coops, has Tom saved me from detection, and the consequent pleasant
occupation of carrying about a bucket of water on the end of a capstan bar.
I had been on board about a month--perhaps two--when the order came down
from the Admiralty, for the men to cut off their tails. Lord, what a scene
was there! I wonder it didn't cause a mutiny! I think it would have done
so, but half the crew were laid up with colds in their heads, from the
suddenness of the change, though an extra allowance of rum was served out
to rub them with to prevent such consequences; but the purser not giving
any definite directions, whether the application was to be external or
internal, the liquor, I regret to say, for the honour of the British navy,
was applied much lower down. For some weeks the men seemed half-crazed, and
were almost as unmanageable as ships that had lost their rudders. Well, so
they had! It was a melancholy sight to see piles of beautiful tails with
little labels tied to them, like the instructions on a physic-bottle; each
directed to some favoured relative or sweetheart of the _curtailed_ seamen.
What a strange appearance must Portsmouth, and Falmouth, and Plymouth, and
all the other mouths that are filled with sea-stores, have presented, when
the precious remembrances were distributed! I wish some artist would
consider it; for I think it's a shame that there should be no record of
such an interesting circumstance.
One night, shortly after this visitation, it blew great guns. Large black
clouds, like chimney-sweepers' feather-beds, scudded over our heads, and
the rain came pouring down like--like winking. Tom had been promoted, and
was sent up aloft to reef a sail, when one of the horses giving way, down
came Tom Johnson, and snap went a leg and an arm. I was ordered to see him
carried below, an office which I readily performed, for I liked the
man--and they don't allow umbrellas in the navy.
"What's the matter?" said the surgeon.
"Nothing particular, sir; on'y Tom's broke his legs and his arms by a fall
from the yard," replied a seaman.
Tom groaned, as though he _did_ consider it something _very_ particular.
He was soon stripped and the shattered bones set, which was no easy matter,
the ship pitching and tossing about as she did. I sat down beside his
berth, holding on as well as I could. The wind howled through the rigging,
making the vessel seem like an infernal Eolian harp; the thunder rumbled
like an indisposed giant, and to make things more agreeable, a gun broke
from its lashings, and had it all its own way for about a quarter of an
hour. Tom groaned most pitiably. I looked at him, and if I were to live for
a thousand years, I shall never forget the expression of his face. His lips
were blue, and--no matter, I'm not clever at portrait painting: but imagine
an old-fashioned Saracen's Head--not the fine handsome fellow they have
stuck on Snow Hill, but one of the griffins of 1809--and you have Tom's
phiz, only it wants touching with all the colours of a painter's palette. I
was quite frightened, and could only stammer out, "Why T-o-o-m!"
"It's all up, sir," says he; "I must go; I feel it."
"Don't be foolish," I replied; "Don't die till I call the surgeon." It was
a stupid speech, I acknowledge, but I could not help it at the time.
"No, no; don't call the surgeon, Mr. Box; he's done all he can, sir. But
it's here--it's here!" and then he made an effort to thump his heart, or
the back of his head, I couldn't make out which.
I trembled like a jelly. I had once seen a melodrama, and I recollected
that the villain of the piece had used the same action, the same words.
"Mr. Box," groaned Tom, "I've a-a-secret as makes me very uneasy, sir,"
"Indeed, Tom," I replied; "hadn't you better confess the mur--" murder, I
was a going to say, but I thought it might not be polite, considering Tom's
situation.
The ruffian, for such he looked then, tried to raise himself, but another
lurch of the Bellophron sent him on his back, and myself on my beam-ends.
As soon as I recovered my former position, Tom continued--
"Mr. Box, dare I trust you, sir? if I could do so, I'm sartin as how I
should soon be easier."
"Of course," said I, "of course; out with it, and I promise never to betray
your confidence."
"Then come, come here," gasped the suffering wretch; "give us your hand,
sir."