A good song, and thank 'ee, Sir, for singing it! Time was, you'd never
miss hearing it in these parts, whether 'twas feast or harvest-supper
or Saturday night at the public. A virtuous good song, too; and the
merry fellow that made it won't need to cast about and excuse himself
when the graves open and he turns out with his fiddle under his arm.
My own mother taught it to me; the more by token that she came from
Saltash, and "Ye sexes, give ear" was a terrible favourite with the
Saltash females by reason of Sally Hancock and her turn-to with the
press-gang. Hey? You don't tell me, after singing the song, that you
never heard tell of Sally Hancock? Well, if----I Here, take and fill my
mug, somebody!
'Tis an instructive tale, too.... This Sally was a Saltash fishwoman,
and you must have heard of _them_ at all events. There was Bess Rablin,
too, and Mary Kitty Climo, and Thomasine Oliver, and Long Eliza that
married Treleaven the hoveller, and Pengelly's wife Ann; these made up
the crew Sally stroked in the great race. And besides these there was
Nan Scantlebury--she took Bess Rablin's oar the second year, Bess being
a bit too fond of lifting her elbow, which affected her health--and
Phemy Sullivan, an Irishwoman, and Long Eliza's half-sister Charlotte
Prowse, and Rebecca Tucker, and Susan Trebilcock, that everybody called
"Apern," and a dozen more maybe: powerful women every one, and proud of
it. The town called them Sally Hancock's Gang, she being their leader,
though they worked separate, shrimping, cockling, digging for lug and
long-lining, bawling fish through Plymouth streets, even a hovelling
job at times--nothing came amiss to them, and no weather. For a trip
to Plymouth they'd put on sea-boots belike, or grey stockings and
clogs: but at home they went bare-legged, and if they wore anything
'pon their heads 'twould be a handkerchief, red or yellow, with a man's
hat clapped a-top; coats too, and guernseys like men's, and petticoats
a short few inches longer; for I'm telling of that back-along time
when we fought Boney and while seafaring men still wore petticoats--in
these parts at any rate. Well, that's how Sally and her mates looked
on week-a-days, and that's how they behaved: but you must understand
that, though rough, they were respectable; the most of them Wesleyan
Methodists; and on Sundays they'd put on bonnet and sit in chapel,
and drink their tea afterwards and pick their neighbours to pieces
just like ordinary Christians. Sal herself was a converted woman, and
greatly exercised for years about her husband's condition, that kept
a tailor's shop half-way down Fore Street and scoffed at the word
of Grace; though he attended public worship, partly to please his
customers and partly because his wife wouldn't let him off.
The way the fun started was this. In June month of the year 'five
(that's the date my mother always gave) the Wesleyans up at the London
Foundry sent a man down to preach a revival through Cornwall, starting
with Saltash. He had never crossed the Tamar before, but had lived the
most of his life near Wolverhampton--a bustious little man, with a
round belly and a bald head and high sense of his own importance. He
arrived on a Saturday night, and attended service next morning, but
not to take part in it: he "wished to look round," he said. So the
morning was spent in impressing everyone with his shiny black suit of
West-of-England broadcloth and his beautiful neckcloth and bunch of
seals. But in the evening he climbed the pulpit, and there Old Nick
himself, that lies in wait for preachers, must have tempted the poor
fellow to preach on Womanly Perfection, taking his text from St. Paul.
He talked a brave bit about subjection, and how a woman ought to submit
herself to her husband, and keep her head covered in places of public
worship. And from that he passed on to say that 'twas to this beautiful
submissiveness women owed their amazing power for good, and he, for his
part, was going through Cornwall to tackle the women-folk and teach 'em
this beautiful lesson, and he'd warrant he'd leave the whole county a
sight nearer righteousness than he found it. With that he broke out
into axtempory prayer for our dear sisters, as he called them, dusted
his knees, and gave out the hymn, all as pleased as Punch.
Sal walked home from service alongside of her husband, very thoughtful.
Deep down in the bottom of his heart he was afraid of her, and she knew
it, though she made it a rule to treat him kindly. But knowing him for
a monkey-spirited little man, and spiteful as well as funny, you could
never be sure when he wouldn't break out. To-night he no sooner gets
inside his own door than says he with a dry sort of a chuckle--
"Powerful fine sermon, this evenin'. A man like that makes you _think_."
"Ch't!" says Sally, tossing her bonnet on to the easy-chair and groping
about for the tinder-box.
"Sort of doctrine that's badly needed in Saltash," says he. "But I'd
ha' bet 'twould be wasted on you. Well, well, if you can't understand
logic, fit and fetch supper, that's a good soul!"
"Ch't!" said Sally again, paying no particular attention, but wondering
what the dickens had become of the tinder-box. She couldn't find it on
the chimney-piece, so went off to fetch the kitchen one.
When she came back, there was my lord seated in the easy-chair--that
was hers by custom--and puffing away at his pipe--a thing not allowed
until after supper. You see, he had collared the tinder-box when he
first came in, and had hidden it from her.
Sal lit the lamp, quiet-like. "I s'pose you know you're sittin' 'pon my
best bonnet?" said she.
This took him aback. He jumped up, found the bonnet underneath him
sure enough, and tossed it on to the table. "Gew-gaws!" said he,
settling himself down again and puffing. "Gew-gaws and frippery! That
man'll do good in this country; he's badly wanted."
Sal patted the straw of her bonnet into something like shape and
smoothed out the ribbons. "If it'll make you feel like a breadwinner,"
said she, "there's a loaf in the bread-pan. The cold meat and pickles
are under lock and key, and we'll talk o' them later." She fitted the
bonnet on and began to tie the strings.
"You don't tell me, Sarah, that you mean to go gadding out at this time
of the evening?" cries he, a bit chapfallen, for he knew she carried
the keys in an under-pocket beneath her skirt.
"And you don't suppose," answers she, "that I can spare the time to
watch you play-actin' in my best chair? No, no, my little man! Sit
there and amuse yourself: what _you_ do don't make a ha'porth of odds.
But there's others to be considered, and I'm going to put an end to
this nonsense afore it spreads."
The time of the year, as I've told you, was near about midsummer, when
a man can see to read print out-of-doors at nine o'clock. Service over,
the preacher had set out for a stroll across the hayfields towards
Trematon, to calm himself with a look at the scenery and the war-ships
in the Hamoaze and the line of prison-hulks below, where in those days
they kept the French prisoners. He was strolling back, with his hands
clasped behind him under his coat-tails, when on the knap of the hill,
between him and the town, he caught sight of a bevy of women seated
among the hay-pooks--staid middle-aged women, all in dark shawls and
bonnets, chattering there in the dusk. As he came along they all rose
up together and dropped him a curtsey.
"Good evenin', preacher dear," says Sally, acting spokeswoman; "and a
very fine night for the time of year."
I reckon that for a moment the preacher took a scare. Monstrous fine
women they were to be sure, looming up over him in the dimmety light,
and two or three of them tall as Grenadiers. But hearing himself
forespoken so pleasantly, he came to a stand and peered at them through
his gold-rimmed glasses.
"Ah, good evening, ladies!" says he. "You are, I presoom, members
of the society that I've just had the privilege of addressin'?" And
thereupon they dropped him another curtsey altogether. "Like me, I dare
say you find the scent of the new-mown hay refreshingly grateful. And
what a scene! What a beautiful porch, so to speak, to the beauties of
Cornwall!--beauties of which I have often heard tell."
"Yes, Sir," answers Sal demurely. "Did you ever hear tell, too, why Old
Nick never came into Cornwall?"
"H'm--ha--some proverbial saying, no doubt? But--you will excuse me--I
think we should avoid speaking lightly of the great Enemy of Mankind."
"He was afraid," pursued Sal, "of being put into a pie." She paused at
that, giving her words time to sink in. The preacher didn't notice yet
awhile that Long Eliza Treleaven and Thomasine Oliver had crept round a
bit and planted themselves in the footpath behind him.
After a bit Sal let herself go in a comfortable smile, and says she, in
a pretty, coaxing voice, "Sit yourself down, preacher, that's a dear:
sit yourself down, nice and close, and have a talk!"
The poor fellow fetched a start at this. He didn't know, of course,
that everyone's "my dear" in Cornwall, and I'm bound to say I've seen
foreigners taken aback by it--folks like commercial travellers, not
given to shyness as a rule.
"You'll excuse me, Madam."
"No, I won't: not if you don't come and sit down quiet. Bless the man,
I'm not going to eat 'ee--wouldn't harm a hair of your dear little
head, if you had any! What? You refuse?"
"How dare you, Madam!" The preacher drew himself up, mighty dignified.
"How dare you address me in this fashion!"
"I'm addressin' you for your good," answered Sally. "We've been
talkin' over your sermon, me and my friends here--all very respectable
women--and we've made up our minds that it won't do. We can't have it
'pon our conscience to let a gentleman with your views go kicking up
Jack's delight through the West. We owe something more to our sex.
'Wrestlin'' with 'em--that was one of your expressions--'wrestlin' with
our dear Cornish sisters'!"
"In the spirit--a figure of speech," explained the poor man,
snappy-like.
Sal shook her head. "They know all about wrestlin' down yonder.
I tell you, 'twon't do. You're a well-meaning man, no doubt; but
you're terribly wrong on some points. You'd do an amazing amount
of mischief if we let you run loose. But we couldn't take no such
responsibility--indeed we couldn't: and the long and short of it is,
you've got to go."
She spoke these last words very firmly. The preacher flung a glance
round and saw he was in a trap.
"Such shameless behaviour----" he began.
"You've got to go back," repeated Sally, nodding her head at him. "Take
my advice and go quiet."
"I can only suppose you to be intoxicated," said he, and swung round
upon the path where Thomasine Oliver stood guard. "Allow me to pass,
Madam, if you please!"
But here the mischief put it into Long Eliza to give his hat a flip by
the brim. It dropped over his nose and rolled away in the grass. "Oh,
what a dear little bald head!" cried Long Eliza; "I declare I must kiss
it or die!" She caught up a handful of hay as he stooped, and--well,
well, Sir! Scandalous, as you say! Not a word beyond this would any of
them tell: but I do believe the whole gang rolled the poor man in the
hay and took a kiss off him--"making sweet hay," as 'tis called. 'Twas
only known that he paid the bill for his lodging a little after dawn
next morning, took up his bag, and passed down Fore Street towards the
quay. Maybe a boat was waiting for him there: at all events, he was
never seen again--not on this side of Tamar.
Sal went back, composed as you please, and let herself in by the
front-door. In the parlour she found her man still seated in the
easy-chair and smoking, but sulky-like, and with most of his
monkey-temper leaked out of him.
"What have you been doin', pray?" asks he.
Sal looked at him with a twinkle. "Kissin'," says she, untying her
bonnet: and with that down she dropped on a chair and laughed till her
sides ached.
* * * * *
Her husband ate humble pie that night before ever he set fork in the
cold meat: and for some days after, though she kept a close eye on
him, he showed no further sign of wanting to be lord of creation.
"Nothing like promptness," thought Sally to herself. "If I hadn't
taken that nonsense in hand straight off, there's no telling where it
wouldn't have spread." By the end of the week following she had put all
uneasiness out of her head.
Next Saturday--as her custom was on Saturdays--she traded in Plymouth,
and didn't reach home until an hour or more past nightfall, having
waited on the Barbican for the evening fish-auction, to see how prices
were ruling. 'Twas near upon ten o'clock before she'd moored her
boat, and as she went up the street past the Fish and Anchor she heard
something that fetched her to a standstill.
She stood for a minute, listening; then walked in without more ado,
set down her baskets in the passage, and pushed open the door of the
bar-room. There was a whole crowd of men gathered inside, and the place
thick with tobacco-smoke. And in the middle of this crew, with his back
to the door, sat her husband piping out a song--
_Ye sexes, give ear to my fancy;
In the praise of good women I sing,
It is not of Doll, Kate, or Nancy,
The mate of a clown nor a King--
With my fol-de-rol, tooral-i-lay!_
_Old Adam, when he was creyated,
Was lord of the Universe round;
Yet his happiness was not complated
Until that a helpmate he'd found._
_He had all things for food that was wanting,
Which give us content in this life;
He had horses and foxes for hunting,
Which many love more than a wife,--
With my fol-de-rol, tooral-i-lay!_
He had sung so far and was waving his pipestem for the chorus when the
company looked up and saw Sal straddling in the doorway with her fists
on her hips. The sight daunted them for a moment: but she held up a
finger, signing them to keep the news to themselves, and leaned her
shoulder against the door-post with her eyes steady on the back of her
husband's scrag neck. His fate was upon him, poor varmint, and on he
went, as gleeful as a bird in a bath--
_He'd a garden so planted by natur'
As man can't produce in this life;
But yet the all-wise great Creaytor
Perceived that he wanted a wife.
With his fol-de-rol, tooral-i-lay!_
"You chaps might be a bit heartier with the chorus," he put in. "A man
would almost think you was afraid of your wives overhearin'--
_Old Adam was laid in a slumber,
And there he lost part of his side;
And when he awoke in great wonder
He beyeld his beyeautiful bride._
_With_ my fol-de-rol, tooral--why, whatever's wrong with 'ee all?
You're as melancholy as a passel of gib-cats." [And with that he caught
the eye of a man seated opposite, and slewed slowly round to the door.]
I tell you that even Sal was forced to smile, and the rest, as you may
suppose, rolled to and fro and laughed till they cried. But when the
landlord called for order and they hushed themselves to hear more, the
woman had put on a face that made her husband quake.
"Go ahead, Hancock!" cried one or two. "'With transport he gazèd----'
Sing away, man!"
"I will not," said the tailor, very sulky. "This here's no fit place
for women: and a man has his feelin's. I'm astonished at you, Sarah--I
reely am. The wife of a respectable tradesman!" But he couldn't look
her straight in the face.
"Why, what's wrong with the company?" she asks, looking around. "Old,
young, and middle-aged, I seem to know them all for Saltash men:
faults, too, they have to my knowledge: but it passes me what I need
to be afeared of. And only a minute since you was singing that your
happiness wouldn't be completed until that a helpmate you'd found.
Well, you've found her: so sing ahead and be happy."
"I will not," says he, still stubborn.
"Oh, yes you will, my little man," says she in a queer voice, which
made him look up and sink his eyes again.
"Well," says he, making the best of it, "to please the missus,
naybours, we'll sing the whole randigal through. And after that,
Sarah"--here he pretended to look at her like one in command--"you'll
walk home with me straight."
"You may lay to that," Sal promised him: and so, but in no very firm
voice, he pitched to the song again--
_With transport he gazèd upon her,
His happiness then was complate;
And he blessèd the marvellous forethought
That on him bestowed such a mate_--
"I reckon, friends, we'll leave out the chorus!"
They wouldn't hear of this, but ri-tooralled away with a will, Sal
watching them the while from the doorway with her eyebrows drawn down,
like one lost in thought.
_She was not took out of his head,
To reign or to triumph o'er man;
She was not took out of his feet,
By man to be tramped upon._
_But she was took out of his side,
His equal and partner to be:
Though they be yunited in one,
Still the man is the top of the tree!
With my fol-de-rol, tooral-i-lay!_
"Well, and what's wrong wi' that?" Hancock wound up, feeling for his
courage again.
"Get along with 'ee, you ninth-part-of-a-man! _Me_ took out of _your_
side!"
"Be that as it may, the Fish and Anchor is no place for discussing of
it," the man answered, very dignified. "Enough said, my dear! We'll be
getting along home." He stood up and knocked the ashes out of his pipe.
But Sally was not to be budged. "I knew how 'twould be," she spoke up,
facing the company. "I took that preacher-fellow on the ground hop, as
I thought, and stopped his nonsense; but something whispered to me that
'twas a false hope. Evil communications corrupt good manners, and now
the mischief's done. There's no peace for Saltash till you men learn
your place again, and I'm resolved to teach it to 'ee. You want to know
how? Well, to start with, by means of a board and a piece o' chalk,
same as they teach at school nowadays."
She stepped a pace further into the room, shut home the door behind
her, and cast her eye over the ale-scores on the back of it. There were
a dozen marks, maybe, set down against her own man's name; but for the
moment she offered no remark on this.
"Mr. Oke," says she, turning to the landlord, "I reckon you never go
without a piece o' chalk in your pocket. Step this way, if you
please, and draw a line for me round what these lords of creation owe
ye for drink. Thank'ee. And now be good enough to fetch a chair and
stand 'pon it; I want you to reach so high as you can--Ready? Now take
your chalk and write, beginning near the top o' the door: 'I, Sarah
Hancock----'"
[Illustration: LANDLORD OKE GAVE A FLOURISH WITH HIS CHALK AND WROTE.]
Landlord Oke gave a flourish with his chalk and wrote, Sally
dictating,--
'I, Sarah Hancock--do hereby challenge all the men in Saltash
Borough--that me and five other females of the said Borough--will row
any six of them any distance from one to six statute miles--and will
beat their heads off--pulling either single oars or double paddles or
in ran-dan--the stakes to be six pound aside. And I do further promise,
if beaten, to discharge all scores below.'
"Now the date, please--and hand me the chalk."
She reached up and signed her name bold and free, being a fair scholar.
"And now, my little fellow," says she, turning to her husband, "put
down that pipe and come'st along home. The man's at the top of the
tree, is he? You'll wish you were, if I catch you at any more tricks!"
Well, at first the mankind at the Fish and Anchor allowed that Sal
couldn't be in earnest; this challenge of hers was all braggadoshy;
and one or two went so far as to say 'twould serve her right if she
was taken at her word. In fact, no one treated it seriously until four
days later, at highwater, when the folks that happened to be idling
'pon the Quay heard a splash off Runnell's boat-building yard, and,
behold! off Runnell's slip there floated a six-oared gig, bright as
a pin with fresh paint. 'Twas an old condemned gig, that had lain in
his shed ever since he bought it for a song off the _Indefatigable_
man-o'-war, though now she looked almost too smart to be the same boat.
Sally had paid him to put in a couple of new strakes and plane out a
brand-new set of oars in place of the old ashen ones, and had painted a
new name beneath the old one on the sternboard, so that now she was the
_Indefatigable Woman_ for all the world to see. And that very evening
Sally and five of her mates paddled her past the Quay on a trial spin,
under the eyes of the whole town.
There was a deal of laughing up at the Fish and Anchor that night, the
most of the customers still treating the affair as a joke. But Landlord
Oke took a more serious view.
"'Tis all very well for you fellows to grin," says he, "but I've been
trying to make up in my mind the crew that's going to beat these
females, and, by George! I don't find it so easy. There's the boat,
too."
"French-built, and leaks like a five-barred gate," said somebody. "The
Admiralty condemned her five year' ago."
"A leak can be patched, and the Admiralty's condemning goes for nothing
in a case like this. I tell you that boat has handsome lines--handsome
as you'd wish to see. You may lay to it that what Sal Hancock doesn't
know about a boat isn't worth knowing."
"All the same, I'll warrant she never means to row a race in that
condemned old tub. She've dragged it out just for practice, and painted
it up to make a show. When the time comes--if ever it do--she'll fit
and borrow a new boat off one of the war-ships. We can do the same."
"Granted that you can, there's the question of the crew. Sal has her
thwarts manned--or womanned, as you choose to put it--and maybe a
dozen reserves to pick from in case of accident. She means business,
I tell you. There's Regatta not five weeks away, and pretty fools we
shall look if she sends round the crier on Regatta Day 'O-yessing' to
all the world that Saltash men can't raise a boat's crew to match a
passel of females, and two of 'em"--he meant Mary Kitty Climo and Ann
Pengelly--"mothers of long families."
They discussed it long and they discussed it close, and this way and
that way, until at last Landlord Oke had roughed-out a crew. There was
no trouble about a stroke. That thwart went _nem. con._ to a fellow
called Seth Ede, that worked the ferry and had won prizes in his day
all up and down the coast: indeed, the very Plymouth men had been
afraid of him for two or three seasons before he gave up racing, which
was only four years ago. Some doubted that old Roper Retallack, who
farmed the ferry that year, would spare Seth on Regatta-day: but Oke
undertook to arrange this. Thwart No. 4 went with no more dispute to
a whackin' big waterman by the name of Tremenjous Hosken, very useful
for his weight, though a trifle thick in the waist. As for strength, he
could break a pint mug with one hand, creaming it between his fingers.
Then there was Jago the Preventive man, light but wiry, and a very
tricky wrestler: "a proper angle-twitch of a man," said one of the
company; "stank[1] 'pon both ends of 'en, he'll rise up in the middle
and laugh at 'ee." So they picked Jago for boat-oar. For No. 5, after
a little dispute, they settled on Tippet Harry, a boat-builder working
in Runnell's yard, by reason that he'd often pulled behind Ede in the
double-sculling, and might be trusted to set good time to the bow-side.
Nos. 2 and 3 were not so easily settled, and they discussed and put
aside half a score before offering one of the places to a long-legged
youngster whose name I can't properly give you: he was always called
Freckly-Faced Joe, and worked as a saddler's apprentice. In the end he
rowed 2: but No. 3 they left vacant for the time, while they looked
around for likely candidates.
[Footnote 1: Stank = tread.]
Landlord Oke made no mistake when he promised that Sally
meant business. Two days later she popped her head in at his
bar-parlour--'twas in the slack hours of the afternoon, and he happened
to be sitting there all by himself, tipping a sheaf of churchwarden
clays with sealing-wax--and says she--
"What's the matter with your menkind?"
"Restin'," says Oke with a grin. "I don't own 'em, missus; but, from
what I can hear, they're restin' and recoverin' their strength."
"I've brought you the stakes from our side," says Sally, and down she
slaps a five-pound note and a sovereign upon the table.
"Take 'em up, missus--take 'em up. I don't feel equal to the
responsibility. This here's a public challenge, hey?"
"The publicker the better."
"Then we'll go to the Mayor about it and ask his Worship to hold the
stakes." Oke was chuckling to himself all this while, the reason being
that he'd managed to bespeak the loan of a six-oared galley belonging
to the Water-Guard, and, boat for boat, he made no doubt she could show
her heels to the _Indefatigable Woman_. He unlocked his strong-box,
took out and pocketed a bag of money, and reached his hat off its peg.
"I suppose 'twouldn't do to offer you my arm?" says he.
"Folks would talk, Mr. Oke--thanking you all the same."
So out they went, and down the street side by side, and knocked at the
Mayor's door. The Mayor was taking a nap in his back-parlour with a
handkerchief over his face. He had left business soon after burying his
wife, who had kept him hard at work at the cheesemongering, and now he
could sleep when he chose. But he woke up very politely to attend to
his visitors' business.
"Yes, for sure, I'll hold the stakes," said he: "and I'll see it put in
big print on the Regatta-bill. It ought to attract a lot of visitors.
But lor' bless you, Mr. Oke!--if you win, it'll do _me_ no good.
She"--meaning his wife--"has gone to a land where I'll never be able to
crow over her."
"Your Worship makes sure, I see, that we women are going to be beat?"
put in Sal.
"Tut-tut!" says the Mayor. "They've booked Seth Ede for stroke." And
with that he goes very red in the gills and turns to Landlord Oke. "But
perhaps I oughtn't to have mentioned that?" says he.
"Well," says Sal, "you've a-let the cat out of the bag, and I see that
all you men in the town are in league. But a challenge is a challenge,
and I mustn't go back on it." Indeed, in her secret heart she was
cheerful, knowing the worst, and considering it none so bad: and after
higgling a bit, just to deceive him, she took pretty well all the
conditions of the race as Oke laid 'em down. A tearing long course it
was to be, too, and pretty close on five miles: start from nearabouts
where the training-ship lays now, down to a mark-boat somewheres off
Torpoint, back, and finish off Saltash Quay.
"My dears," she said to her mates later on, "I don't mind telling you I
was all of a twitter, first-along, wondering what card that man Oke was
holding back--he looked so sly and so sure of hisself. But if he've no
better card to play than Seth Ede, we can sleep easy."
"Seth Ede's a powerful strong oar," Bess Rablin objected.
"_Was_, you mean. He've a-drunk too much beer these four years past to
last over a five-mile course; let be that never was his distance. And
here's another thing: they've picked Tremenjous Hosken for one th'art."
"And he's as strong as a bullock."
"I dessay: but Seth Ede pulls thirty-eight or thirty-nine to the
minute all the time he's racing--never a stroke under. I've watched
him a score o' times. If you envy Hosken his inside after two miles o'
_that_, you must be like Pomery's pig--in love with pain. They've hired
or borrowed the Preventive boat, I'm told; and it's the best they could
do. She's new, and she looks pretty. She'll drag aft if they put their
light weights in the bows: still, she's a good boat. I'm not afeared of
her, though. From all I can hear, the _Woman_ was known for speed in
her time, all through the fleet. You can _feel_ she's fast, and _see_
it, if you've half an eye: and the way she travels between the strokes
is a treat. The Mounseers can build boats. But oh, my dears, you'll
have to pull and stay the course, or in Saltash the women take second
place for ever!"
"Shan't be worse off than other women, even if that happens," said
Rebecca Tucker, that was but a year married and more than half in love
with her man. Sally had been in two minds about promoting Rebecca to
the bow-oar in place of Ann Pengelly, that had been clipping the stroke
short in practice: but after that speech she never gave the woman
another thought.
Next evening the men brought out their opposition boat--she was called
the _Nonpareil_--and tried a spin in her. They had found a man for No.
3 oar--another of the Water-Guard, by name Mick Guppy and by nation
Irish, which Sal swore to be unfair. She didn't lodge any complaint,
however: and when her mates called out that 'twas taking a mean
advantage, all she'd say was: "Saltash is Saltash, my dears; and I
won't go to maintain that a Saltash crew is anyways improved by a chap
from Dundalk."
So no protest was entered. I needn't tell you that, by this time, news
of the great race had spread to Plymouth, and north away to Callington
and all the country round. Crowds came out every evening to watch
the two boats at their practising; and sometimes, as they passed one
another, Seth Ede, who had the reputation for a wag, would call out to
Sal and offer her the odds by way of chaff. Sal never answered. The
woman was in deadly earnest, and moreover, I daresay, a bit timmersome,
now that the whole Borough had its eyes on her, and defeat meant
disgrace.
She never showed a sign of any doubt, though; and when the great day
came, she surpassed herself by the way she dressed. I daresay you've
noticed that when women take up a man's job they're inclined to overdo
it; and when Sal came down that day with a round tarpaulin-hat stuck
on the back of her head, and her hair plaited in a queue like a Jack
Tar's, her spiteful little husband fairly danced.
"'Tis onwomanly," said he. "Go upstairs and take it off!"
"Ch't," said she, "if you're so much upset by a tarpaulin-hat, you've
had a narra escape; for 'tis nothing to the costume I'd a mind to
wear--and I'd a mind to make you measure the whole crew for it."
And as it was, I'm told, half the sightseers that poured into Saltash
that day in their hundreds couldn't tell the women's crew from the
men's by their looks or their dress. And these be the names and
weights, more or less--
The _Indefatigable Woman_: Bow, Ann Pengelly, something under eleven
stone; No. 2, Thomasine Oliver, ditto; No. 3, Mary Kitty Climo, eleven
and a half; No. 4, Long Eliza, thirteen and over, a woman very heavy
in the bone; No. 5, Bess Rablin, twelve stone, most of it in the ribs
and shoulders; Stroke, Sarah Hancock, twelve stone four; Coxswain, Ann
Pengelly's fourth daughter Wilhelmina, weight about six stone. The
_Indefatigable Woman_ carried a small distaff in the bows, and her crew
wore blue jerseys and yellow handkerchiefs.
The _Nonpareil_: Bow, T. Jago, ten stone and a little over; No. 2,
Freckly-faced Joe, twelve stone; No. 3, M. Guppy, twelve stone and
a half; No. 4, Tremenjous Hosken, eighteen stone ten; No. 5, Tippet
Harry, twelve stone eight; Stroke, Seth Ede, eleven six. And I don't
know who the boy was that steered. The _Nonpareil_ carried a red,
white, and blue flag, and her crew wore striped jerseys, white and blue.
They were started by pistol; and Seth Ede, jumping off with a stroke of
forty to the minute, went ahead at once. In less than twenty strokes
he was clear, the _Nonpareil_ lifting forward in great heaves that made
the spectators tell each other that though 'twas no race they had seen
something for their money. They didn't see how sweetly the other boat
held her way between the strokes, nor note that Sally had started at a
quiet thirty-four, the whole crew reaching well out and keeping their
blades covered to the finish--coming down to the stroke steadily, too,
though a stiffish breeze was with them as well as the tide.
I suppose the longest lead held by the _Nonpareil_ during the race
was a good forty yards. She must have won this within four minutes
of starting, and for half a mile or so she kept it. Having so much
in hand, Ede slowed down--for flesh and blood couldn't keep up such
a rate of striking over the whole course--and at once he found out
his mistake. The big man Hosken, who had been pulling with his arms
only, and pulling like a giant, didn't understand swinging out; tried
it, and was late on stroke every time. This flurried Ede, who was
always inclined to hurry the pace, and he dropped slower yet--dropped
to thirty-five, maybe, a rate at which he did himself no justice,
bucketting forward fast, and waiting over the beginning till he'd
missed it. In discontent with himself he quickened again; but now
the oars behind him were like a peal of bells. By sheer strength
they forced the boat along somehow, and with the tide under her she
travelled. But the _Indefatigable Woman_ by this time was creeping up.
They say that Sally rowed that race at thirty-four from the start to
within fifty yards of the finish; rowed it minute after minute without
once quickening or once dropping a stroke. Folks along shore timed her
with their watches. If that's the truth, 'twas a marvellous feat, and
the woman accounted for it afterwards by declaring that all the way she
scarcely thought for one second of the other boat, but set her stroke
to a kind of tune in her head, saying the same verse over and over--
_But she was took out of his side,
His equal and partner to be:
Though they be yunited in one,
Still the man is the top of the tree!
With my fol-de-rol, tooral-i-lay--We'll see about_ that!
The _Indefatigable Woman_ turned the mark not more than four lengths
astern. They had wind and tide against them now, and with her crew
swinging out slow and steady, pulling the stroke clean through
with a hard finish, she went up hand-over-fist. The blades of the
_Nonpareil_ were knocking up water like a moorhen. Tremenjous Hosken
had fallen to groaning between the strokes, and I believe that from the
markboat homeward he was no better than a passenger--an eighteen-stone
passenger, mind you. The only man to keep it lively was little Jago at
bow, and Seth Ede--to do him justice--pulled a grand race for pluck. He
might have spared himself, though. Another hundred yards settled it:
the _Indefatigable Woman_ made her overlap and went by like a snake,
and the Irishman pulled in his oar and said--
"Well, Heaven bless the leddies, anyway!"
Seth Ede turned round and swore at him vicious-like, and he fell to
rowing again: but the whole thing had become a procession. "Eyes in the
boat!" commanded Sal, pulling her crew together as they caught sight of
their rivals for the first time and, for a stroke or two, let the time
get ragged. She couldn't help a lift in her voice, though, any more
than she could help winding up with a flourish as they drew level with
Saltash town, a good hundred yards ahead, and heard the band playing
and the voices cheering. "Look out for the quicken!"--and up went a
great roar as the women behind her picked the quicken up and rattled
past the Quay and the winning-gun at forty to the minute!
They had just strength enough left to toss oars: and then they leaned
forward with their heads between their arms, panting and gasping out,
"Well rowed, Sal!" "Oh--oh--well rowed all!" and letting the delight
run out of them in little sobs of laughter. The crowd ashore, too, was
laughing and shouting itself hoarse. I'm sorry to say a few of them
jeered at the _Nonpareil_ as she crawled home: but, on the whole, the
men of Saltash took their beating handsome.
This don't include Sal's husband, though. Landlord Oke was one of the
first to shake her by the hand as she landed, and the Mayor turned over
the stakes to her there and then with a neat little speech. But Tailor
Hancock went back home with all kinds of ugliness and uncharitableness
working in his little heart. He cursed Regatta Day for an interruption
to trade, and Saltash for a town given up to idleness and folly. A
man's business in this world was to toil for his living in the sweat of
his brow; and so, half-an-hour later he told his wife.
The crowd had brought her along to her house-door: and there she left
'em with a word or two of thanks, and went in very quiet. Her victory
had uplifted her, of course; but she knew that her man would be sore in
his feelings, and she meant to let him down gently. She'd have done it,
too, if he'd met her in the ordinary way: but when, after searching the
house, she looked into the little back workshop and spied him seated on
the bench there, cross-legged and solemn as an idol, stitching away at
a waistcoat, she couldn't hold back a grin.
"Why, whatever's the matter with you?" she asked.
"Work," says he, in a hollow voice. "Work is the matter. I can't see
a house--and one that used to be a happy home--go to rack and ruin
without some effort to prevent it."
"I wouldn't begin on Regatta Day, if I was you," says Sal cheerfully.
"Has old Smithers been inquiring again about that waistcoat?"
"He have not."
"Then he's a patient man: for to my knowledge this is the third week
you've been putting him off with excuses."
"I thank the Lord," says her husband piously, "that more work gets put
on me than I can keep pace with. And well it is, when a man's wife
takes to wagering and betting and pulling in low boat-races to the
disgrace of her sex. _Someone_ must keep the roof over our heads: but
the end may come sooner than you expect," says he, and winds up with a
tolerable imitation of a hacking cough.
"I took three pairs of soles and a brill in the trammel this very
morning; and if you've put a dozen stitches in that old waistcoat,
'tis as much as ever! I can see in your eye that you know all about
the race; and I can tell from the state of your back that you watched
it from the Quay, and turned into the Sailor's Return for a drink.
Hockaday got taken in over that blue-wash for his walls: it comes off
as soon as you rub against it."
"I'll trouble you not to spy upon my actions, Madam," says he.
"Man alive, _I_ don't mind your taking a glass now and then in
reason--specially on Regatta Day! And as for the Sailor's Return, 'tis
a respectable house. I hope so, anyhow, for we've ordered supper there
to-night."
"Supper! You've ordered supper at the Sailor's Return?"
Sal nodded. "Just to celebrate the occasion. We thought, first-along,
of the Green Dragon: but the Dragon's too grand a place for ease, and
Bess allowed 'twould look like showing off. She voted for cosiness: so
the Sailor's Return it is, with roast ducks and a boiled leg of mutton
and plain gin-and-water."
"Settin' yourselves up to be men, I s'pose?" he sneered.
"Not a bit of it," answered Sal. "There'll be no speeches."
She went off to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and made him a dish of
tea. In an ordinary way she'd have paid no heed to his tantrums: but
just now she felt very kindly disposed t'wards everybody, and really
wished to chat over the race with him--treating it as a joke now that
her credit was saved, and never offering to crow over him. But the more
she fenced about to be agreeable the more he stitched and sulked.
"Well, I can't miss _all_ the fun," said she at last: and so, having
laid supper for him, and put the jug where he could find it and draw
his cider, she clapped on her hat and strolled out.
He heard her shut-to the front door, and still he went on stitching.
When the dusk began to fall he lit a candle, fetched himself a jugful
of cider, and went back to his work. For all the notice Sal was ever
likely to take of his perversity, he might just as well have stepped
out into the streets and enjoyed himself: but he was wrought up into
that mood in which a man will hurt himself for the sake of having a
grievance. All the while he stitched he kept thinking, "Look at me
here, galling my fingers to the bone, and that careless fly-by-night
wife o' mine carousin' and gallivantin' down at the Sailor's Return!
Maybe she'll be sorry for it when I'm dead and gone; but at present
if there's an injured, misunderstood poor mortal in Saltash Town, I'm
that man." So he went on, until by-and-by, above the noise of the drum
and cymbals outside the penny theatre, and the hurdy-gurdies, and the
showmen bawling down by the waterside, he heard voices yelling and
a rush of folks running down the street past his door. He knew they
had been baiting a bull in a field at the head of the town, and, the
thought coming into his head that the animal must have broken loose, he
hopped off his bench, ran fore to the front door, and peeked his head
out cautious-like.
What does he see coming down the street in the dusk but half-a-dozen
sailor-men with an officer in charge! Of course he knew the meaning
of it at once. 'Twas a press-gang off one of the ships in Hamoaze or
the Sound, that was choosing Regatta Night to raid the streets and
had landed at the back of the town and climbed over the hill to take
the crowds by surprise. They'd made but a poor fist of this, by reason
of the officer letting his gang get out of hand at the start; and by
their gait 'twas pretty plain they had collared a plenty of liquor up
the street. But while Hancock peeped out, taking stock of them, a nasty
monkey-notion crept into his head, and took hold of all his spiteful
little nature; and says he, pushing the door a bit wider as the small
officer--he was little taller than a midshipman--came swearing by--
"Beg your pardon, Sir!"
"You'd best take in your head and close the door upon it," snaps the
little officer. "These fools o' mine have got their shirts out, and are
liable to make mistakes to-night."
"What, _me_?--a poor tailor with a hackin' cough!" But to himself: "So
much the better," he says, and up he speaks again. "Beggin' your pardon
humbly, commander; but I might put you in the way of the prettiest
haul. There's a gang of chaps enjoyin' theirselves down at the Sailor's
Return, off the Quay, and not a 'protection' among them. Fine lusty
fellows, too! They might give your men a bit of trouble to start
with----"
"Why are you telling me this?" the officer interrupts, suspicious-like.
"That's my affair," says Hancock boldly, seeing that he nibbled. "Put
it down to love o' my country, if you like; and take my advice or leave
it, just as you please. I'm not asking for money, so you won't be any
the poorer."
"Off the Quay, did you say? Has the house a quay-door?"
"It has: but you needn't to trouble about that. They can't escape that
way, I promise you, having no boat alongside."
The little officer turned and whispered for a while with two of the
soberest of his gang: and presently these whispered to two more, and
the four of them marched away up the hill.
"'_HANCOCK--TAILOR_,'" reads out the officer aloud, stepping back into
the roadway and peering up at the shop-front. "Very well, my man,
you'll hear from us again----"
"I'm not askin' for any reward, Sir"
"So you've said: and I was about to say that, if this turns out to be
a trick, you'll hear from us again, and in a way you'll be sorry for.
And now, once more, take your ugly head inside. 'Tis my duty to act on
information, but I don't love informers."
For the moment the threat made the tailor uncomfortable: but he felt
pretty sure the sailors, when they discovered the trick, wouldn't be
able to do him much harm. The laugh of the whole town would be against
them: and on Regatta Night the press--unpopular enough at the best of
times--would gulp down the joke and make the best of it. He went back
to his bench; but on second thoughts not to his work. 'Twould be on the
safe side, anyway, to be not at home for an hour or two, in case the
sailors came back to cry quits: playing the lonely martyr, too, wasn't
much fun with this mischief working inside of him and swelling his
lungs like barm.[2] He took a bite of bread and a sup of cider, blew
out the candle, let himself forth into the street after a glance to
make sure that all was clear, and headed for the Fish and Anchor.
[Footnote 2: Barm=yeast.]
He found the bar-room crowded, but not with the usual Regatta Night
throng of all-sorts. The drinkers assembled were either burgesses like
himself or waterside men with protection-papers in their pockets: for
news of the press-gang had run through the town like wildfire, and the
company had given over discussing the race of the day and taken up with
this new subject. Among the protected men his eye lit on Treleaven the
hoveller, husband to Long Eliza, and Caius Pengelly, husband to Ann,
that had pulled bow in the race. He winked to them mighty cunning. The
pair of 'em seemed dreadfully cast down, and he knew a word to put them
in heart again.
"Terrible blow for us, mates, this woman's mutiny!" says he, dropping
into a chair careless-like, pulling out a short pipe, and speaking high
to draw the company's attention.
"Oh, stow it!" says Caius Pengelly, very sour. "We'd found suthin'
else to talk about; and if the women have the laugh of us to-day,
who's responsible, after all? Why, you--_you_, with your darned silly
song about Adam and Eve. If you hadn't provoked your wife, this here
wouldn't ha' happened."
"Indeed?" says the monkey-fellow, crossing his legs and puffing. "So
you've found something better to talk about? What's that, I'd like to
know?"
"Why, there's a press-gang out," says Treleaven. "But there! a fellow
with your shaped legs don't take no interest in press-gangs, I reckon."
"Ah, to be sure," says the little man--but he winced and uncrossed his
legs all the same, feeling sorry he'd made 'em so conspicuous--"ah, to
be sure, a press-gang! I met 'em; but, as it happens, that's no change
of subject."
"Us don't feel in no mood to stomach your fun to-night, Hancock; and so
I warn 'ee," put in Pengelly, who had been drinking more than usual and
spoke thick. "If you've a meaning up your sleeve, you'd best shake it
out."
Hancock chuckled. "You fellows have no invention," he said; "no
resource at all, as I may call it. You stake on this race, and, when
the women beat you, you lie down and squeal. Well, you may thank me
that I'm built different: I bide my time, but when the clock strikes
I strike with it. I never did approve of women dressing man-fashion:
but what's the use of making a row in the house? 'The time is bound
to come,' said I to myself; and come it has. If you want a good story
cut short, I met the press-gang just now and turned 'em on to raid the
Sailor's Return: and if by to-morrow the women down there have any crow
over us, then I'm a Dutchman, that's all!"
"Bejimbers, Hancock," says Treleaven, standing up and looking uneasy,
"you carry it far, I must say!"
"Far? A jolly good joke, _I_ should call it," answers Hancock, making
bold to cross his legs again.
And with that there comes a voice crying pillaloo in the passage
outside; and, without so much as a knock, a woman runs in with a face
like a sheet--Sam Hockaday's wife, from the Sailor's Return.
"Oh, Mr. Oke--Mr. Oke, whatever is to be done! The press has collared
Sally Hancock and all her gang! Some they've kilt, and wounded others,
and all they've a-bound and carried off and shipped at the quay-door.
Oh, Mr. Oke, our house is ruined for ever!"
The men gazed at her with their mouths open. Hancock found his legs
somehow; but they shook under him, and all of a sudden he felt himself
turning white and sick.
"You don't mean to tell me----" he began.
But Pengelly rounded on him and took him by the ear so that he
squeaked. "Where's my wife, you miserable joker, you?" demanded
Pengelly.
"They c-can't be in earnest!"
"You'll find that I am," said Pengelly, feeling in his breeches-pocket,
and drawing out a clasp-knife almost a foot long. "What's the name of
the ship?"
"I--I don't know! I never inquired! Oh, please let me go, Mr.
Pengelly! Han't I got my feelings, same as yourself?"
"There's a score of vessels atween this and Cawsand," put in Treleaven,
catching his breath like a man hit in the wind, "and half-a-dozen of
'em ready to weigh anchor any moment. There's naught for it but to take
a boat and give chase."
Someone suggested that Sal's own boat, the _Indefatigable Woman_, would
be lying off Runnell's Yard; and down to the waterside they all ran,
Pengelly gripping the tailor by the arm. They found the gig moored
there on a frape, dragged her to shore, and tumbled in. Half-a-dozen
men seized and shipped the oars: the tailor crouched himself in the
stern-sheets. Voices from shore sang out all manner of different
advice: but 'twas clear that no one knew which way the press-boat had
taken, nor to what ship she belonged.
To Hancock 'twas all like a sick dream. He hated the water; he had
on his thinnest clothes; the night began to strike damp and chilly,
with a lop of tide running up from Hamoaze and the promise of worse
below. Pengelly, who had elected himself captain, swore to hail every
ship he came across: and he did--though from the first he met with no
encouragement. "Ship, ahoy!" he shouted, coming down with a rush upon
the stern-windows of the first and calling to all to hold water. "Ahoy!
Ship!"
A marine poked his head over the taffrail. "Ship it is," said he. "And
what may be the matter with you?"
"Be you the ship that has walked off with half-a-dozen women from
Saltash?"
The marine went straight off and called the officer of the watch,
"Boat-load of drunk chaps under our stern, Sir," says he, saluting.
"Want to know if we've carried off half-a-dozen women from Saltash."
"Empty a bucket of slops on 'em," said the officer of the watch, "and
tell 'em, with my compliments, that we haven't."
The marine saluted, hunted up a slop-bucket, and poured it over with
the message. "If you want to know more, try the guard-ship," said he.
"That's all very well, but where in thunder be the guard-ship?" said
poor Pengelly, scratching his head.
Everyone knew, but everyone differed by something between a quarter
and half a mile. They tried ship after ship, getting laughter from
some and abuse from others. And now, to make matters worse, the wind
chopped and blew up from the sou'-west, with a squall of rain and a
wobble of sea that tried Hancock's stomach sorely. At one time they
went so far astray in the dark as to hail one of the prison-hulks, and
only sheered off when the sentry challenged and brought his musket down
upon the bulwarks with a rattle. A little later, off Torpoint, they
fell in with the water-police, who took them for a party rowing home to
Plymouth from the Regatta, and threatened 'em with the lock-up if they
didn't proceed quiet. Next they fell foul of the guard-ship, and their
palaver fetched the Admiral himself out upon the little balcony in his
nightshirt. When he'd done talking they were a hundred yards off, and
glad of it.
Well, Sir, they tried ship after ship, the blessed night through, till
hope was nigh dead in them, and their bodies ached with weariness and
hunger. Long before they reached Devil's Point the tumble had upset
Hancock's stomach completely. He had lost his oar; somehow it slipped
off between the thole-pins, and in his weakness he forgot to cry out
that 'twas gone. It drifted away in the dark--the night all round was
black as your hat, the squalls hiding the stars--and he dropped off his
thwart upon the bottom-boards. "I'm a dying man," he groaned, "and I
don't care. I don't care how soon it comes! 'Tis all over with me, and
I shall never see my dear Sally no more!"
So they tossed till day broke and showed Drake's Island ahead of them,
and the whole Sound running with a tidy send of sea from the south'ard,
grey and forlorn. Some were for turning back, but Pengelly wouldn't
hear of it. "We must make Cawsand Bay," says he, "if it costs us our
lives. Maybe we'll find half-a-dozen ships anchored there and ready for
sea."
So away for Cawsand they pulled, hour after hour, Hancock all the while
wanting to die, and wondering at the number of times an empty man could
answer up to the call of the sea.
The squalls had eased soon after daybreak, and the sky cleared and let
through the sunshine as they opened the bay and spied two sloops-of-war
and a frigate riding at anchor there. Pulling near with the little
strength left in them, they could see that the frigate was weighing for
sea. She had one anchor lifted and the other chain shortened in: her
top-sails and topgallant sails were cast off, ready to cant her at the
right moment for hauling in. An officer stood ready by the crew manning
the capstan, and right aft two more officers were pacing back and forth
with their hands clasped under their coat-tails.
"Lord!" groaned Pengelly, "if my poor Ann's aboard of she, we'll never
catch her!" He sprang up in the stern-sheets and hailed with all his
might.
Small enough chance had his voice of reaching her, the wind being dead
contrary: and yet for the moment it looked as if the two officers aft
had heard; for they both stepped to the ship's side, and one put up a
telescope and handed it to the other. And still the crew of the gig,
staring over their shoulders while they pulled weakly, could see the
men by the capstan standing motionless and waiting for orders.
"Seems a'most as if they were expectin' somebody," says Pengelly with a
sudden hopefulness: and with that Treleaven, that was pulling stroke,
casts his eyes over his right shoulder and gives a gasp.
"Good Lord, look!" says he. "The tender!"
And sure enough, out of the thick weather rolling up away over Bovisand
they spied now a Service cutter bearing across close-hauled, leaning
under her big tops'l and knocking up the water like ginger-beer with
the stress of it. When first sighted she couldn't have been much more
than a mile distant, and, pull as they did with the remains of their
strength, she crossed their bows a good half-mile ahead, taking in
tops'l as she fetched near the frigate.
"Use your eyes--oh, use your eyes!" called out Pengelly: but no soul
could they see on her besides two or three of the crew forward and a
little officer standing aft beside the helmsman. Pengelly ran forward,
leaping the thwarts, and fetched the tailor a rousing kick. "Sit up!"
he ordered, "and tell us if that's the orficer you spoke to last night!"
The poor creature hoisted himself upon his thwart, looking as yellow as
a bad egg. "I--I think that's the man," said he, straining his eyes,
and dropped his head overside.
"Pull for your lives, boys," shouted Pengelly. And they did pull, to
the last man. They pulled so that they reached the frigate just as
the tender, having run up in the wind and fallen alongside, began
uncovering hatches.
Two officers were leaning overside and watching--and a couple of the
tender's crew were reaching down their arms into the hold. They were
lifting somebody through the hatchway, and the body they lifted clung
for a moment to the hatchway coaming, to steady itself.
"Sally!" screamed a voice from the gig.
The little officer in the stern of the tender cast a glance back at
the sound and knew the tailor at once. He must have owned sharp sight,
that man.
"Oh, you've come for your money, have you?" says he. And, looking up at
the two officers overhead, he salutes, saying: "We've made a tidy haul,
Sir--thanks to that man."
"I don't want your money. I want my wife!" yelled Hancock.
"And I mine!" yelled Pengelly.
"And I mine!" yelled Treleaven.
By this time the gig had fallen alongside the tender, and the women in
the tender's hold were coming up to daylight, one by one. Sal herself
stood watching the jail-delivery; and first of all she blinked a bit,
after the darkness below, and next she let out a laugh, and then she
reached up a hand and began unplaiting her pigtail.
"Be you the Captain of this here ship?" asks she, looking up and
addressing herself to one of the officers leaning overside.
"Yes, my man; this here's the _Ranger_ frigate, and I'm her Captain.
I'm sorry for you--it goes against my grain to impress men in this
fashion: but the law's the law, and we're ready for sea, and if you've
any complaints to make I hope you'll cut'em short."
[Illustration: THE LITTLE OFFICER HAD TURNED WHITE AS A SHEET.]
"I don't know," says Sal, "that I've any complaints to make, except
that I was born a woman. That I went on to marry that pea-green tailor
yonder is my own fault, and we'll say no more about it."
By this time all the women on the tender was following Sal's example
and unshredding their back-hair. By this time, too, every man aboard
the frigate was gathered at the bulwarks, looking down in wonderment.
There beneath 'em stood a joke too terrible to be grasped in one moment.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Rogers," says the Captain in a voice cold as a
knife, "but you appear to have made a mistake."
The little officer had turned white as a sheet: but he managed to get
in his say before the great laugh came. "I have, Sir, to my sorrow,"
says he, turning viciously on Hancock; "a mistake to be cast up against
me through my career. But I reckon," he adds, "I leave the punishment
for it in good hands." He glanced at Sally.
"You may lay to that, young man!" says she heartily. "You may lay to
that every night when you says your prayers."