Harry Milvaine Part 22

"Oh, it is all for the good of science. Shall I describe it?"

"No, no, no?" cried Harry.

"Then come below to breakfast, boys."

"Why," said Mavers, "you've almost taken away my appet.i.te."

"And mine too," said Harry Milvaine.

"Stay," exclaimed the doctor, "I will restore it. Listen."

He threw himself into an att.i.tude as he spoke.

"Sweetly, oh, sweetly the morning breaks With roseate streaks, Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks.

Alas! that ever so fair a sun As that which its course has now begun Should gild with rays, so light and free, That dismal dark-frowning gallows-tree."

"I'm not sure," said Mavers, laughing, "that you haven't made matters worse. But come along, we'll go below, anyhow."

The _Bunting_, as her name implies, was only a little bit of a gunboat, but to the slave-dealing dhows she became the scourge of the seas in the Indian Ocean, all the way south from Delagoa Bay, to Brava and Magadoxa in the north.

She was always appearing where least expected, sometimes far out at sea, at other times inland on rivers or wooded creeks. She could sail as well as any dhow, and that is saying a good deal, and she could steam well also.

Many a prize fell to her lot, many a cutting-out expedition the boats had, and right bravely they did their work. So the prize money that would fall to the share of even the ordinary seamen when the commission was completed, would be rather more than a trifle.

On Sat.u.r.day nights, when, after dancing for a time to the merry tunes the doctor played on his fiddle, the sailors would a.s.semble round the fo'c's'le to smoke their pipes and quaff the modest drop of rum they had saved to toast their sweethearts and wives in, they might be heard building castles in the air as to what they would do with their prize money.

Perhaps the conversation would be somewhat as follows:--

"I'm going to pour all my prize money into my old mother's lap straight away as soon as I gets it."

"Ah! well, Jack, you _have_ a mother, I hain't, but I'll give mine to my Soosie. My eye! maties, but she's a slick fine la.s.s. Talk about a figure! Soosie's is the finest ever you saw. Blow'd if two arms would meet round her waist, fact I tells ye, mates. I've seen a rye-nosser-oss with not 'arf so fine a figure as Soosie's got."

"But," another would say, "I'm going to keep all my prize money in the bank till I serves my time out in the service; then I'll take a public-house."

"That's my ambition too, Bill."

"Yes, and ain't it a proper ambition too?"

"That it be."

"And if ever any of you old chums drops round to see Jack behind his bar counter--ahem! my eye! maties, won't I be glad to see you just! Won't I get out the longest clay pipe in the shanty, and the best n.i.g.g.e.r head!

And won't I draw ye a drop o' summut as will make all the 'air on your 'eads stand straight up like a frightful porkeypine's! And maybe there won't be much to pay for it either?"

It will be noted from the above conversation that the aims in life of the British man-o'-war sailor are seldom of a very exalted character.

But even in the little ward-room prize money was not altogether left out of count in conversation on Sat.u.r.day nights.

"I believe," said the doctor once, "I shall have over a thousand pounds when I get home. I think I'll cut the service, buy a sh.o.r.e practice, and settle down."

"Bah!" cried Mavers, "you're too old a sailor for that, Mr Sawbones.

Don't talk twaddle. Take out your old fiddle and give us a tune."

The worthy medico never required two biddings to make him obey a behest like this.

Out would come the violin, and his messmates would speedily be in dreamland as they listened; for the doctor played well on that king of instruments.

Songs were sure to follow, during which very often the door would open, and there would be seen standing smiling the captain himself.

You may be sure that room was speedily made for him, and so these happy evenings would pa.s.s away till eight bells (twelve o'clock) rang out Ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding--that is the way they went, and this warned every one it was time to turn in.

The _Bunting_ could not be said to be a very well-found ship, as far as the officers' mess was concerned. There is as much difference usually between the mess in a gunboat and a flagship as between that of a humble cottage and a lord mayor's mansion.

So the _Buntings_, as the other ships called them, roughed it rather.

They _could_ have bought nice things about big towns like the city of the Cape, or even at Zanzibar, but they had only the ship's cook, and the steward was a half-caste Portuguese, whose only strong point was an excellent curry, into which, however, he often slipped more garlic that was palatable to English tastes.

For three more years the _Bunting_ carried it with a high hand among the slavers on the Eastern coast. Even Harry himself now began to long for home, and to see his dear mother and father again.

Letters came but about once in three months, and the mail never failed to bring Harry a bundle that kept him reading for a week, because he read them all over and over again, put them aside for days, took them out once more, and again read them.

His old friend Andrew's letters were always comical, and his good-natured, simple face invariably rose up before our hero's mind's eye as he perused them.

Even his old dominie did not forget Harry. By almost every mail now the _Buntings_ expected a letter from their lordships ordering them home.

It came at last, and, strange to say, it came on. Captain Wayland's birthday.

"Putting both events together, boys," said the doctor to his messmates, "I really don't think we can do better than invite the skipper to dinner."

"Good?" cried Harry.

"Hurrah!" cried another.

"Steward!" cried Dewar.

"Ess, sir; Ise here, sir."

"Well, come here, you dingy son of a Portuguese cook."

The steward threw his ap.r.o.n over his left shoulder and entered from the steerage.

"Can you give us a ripping good feed to-night, and have it all on the table smart at half-past six?"

"Let me see, sir," said the steward, placing a forefinger on the corner of his mouth and looking profoundly wise. "What I would propose, sir, would be diss ting."

"Well?--out with it."

"Der is French Charlie on sh.o.r.e here."