CHAPTER IX.

While I was yet a little school-boy, there came about my father’s house and premises a plague of rats. They came in their thousands, as if summoned by the trumpet-tones of a rodentine Bradlaugh or Odger. They took the farm-yard and outhouses by storm, laid siege to the dwelling-house, and, from the thoroughly business-like manner they conducted their operations, and went into winter quarters, it was quite evident they meditated a stay of some duration. Sappers and miners, or royal engineers, were employed to drive tunnels and galleries under every floor, with passages leading to the grain-lofts above. Foraging parties were appointed to every stack of corn and rick of hay. The henhouse was laid under contribution to furnish eggs and feathers, and black-mail was levied from the very cows. The eaves of the well-thatched barns and byres were apportioned to their wives, their aged, and infirm, while the poor sparrows were dislodged from their comfortable, well-lined nests to make room for little naked baby rats; and so effectually was every department worked, and so well did every branch of the service do its duty, that Cardwell himself, nay, even Bismarck, Moltke & Co., could not have suggested anything in the way of improvement.

At all these doings my honest father looked very blue, and employed his time principally in expending various sums of money in vermin-killers, and in reading works on toxicology. The result of his study was, that many tempting morsels and savoury tit-bits were placed in convenient corners, for the benefit of the invaders. It seemed indeed for their benefit: they didn’t care a straw for tartar-emetic, appeared to get fat on arsenic, while strychnia only strengthened their nervous systems, and morphia made them fierce.

Now Gibbie was the house cat, a very large and beautiful red tabby. In his prime he had been a perfect Nimrod of the feline race. Scorning such feeble game as the domestic mouse, his joy was to ramble free and unfettered among the woods and forests, by the loneliest spots at the river’s brink, and among the mountains and rocks; often prolonging his hunting excursions for days together, but never returning without a leveret or fine young rabbit. These fruits of the chase he did not always bring home, but often presented to his various human friends in the adjoining village; for Gibbie was known far and near, and even his lordship’s surly old gamekeeper, though he raised his gun at the sight of the cat, forbore to fire when he saw who the bold trespasser was. Many a rare and beautiful bird did Gibbie carry home alive, among others, I remember, a beautiful specimen of the corn-crake; nor can I forget pussie’s manifest disgust, when the bird was allowed to fly away. Just two days after, he brought home a crow, but this time the head was wanting. By the banks of the Denburn he one day fought and slew a large pole-cat; this he carefully skinned, and dragged home. Gibbie was as well-known in the country-side as the witch-wife, or the pack-merchant, and more respected than either; and people often came to our house to beg for “ae nicht o’ Gibbie,” as “the rottens (rats) at their town (farm) were gettin’ raither thrang and cheeky.”

The loan was always granted.

“Gibbie, go,” was all my mother would say, and off trotted puss by the party’s side, with his tail gaily on the perpendicular; for he knew, as well as cat could, that rare sport and a rich treat of the sweetest cream, would be the reward of his compliance.

But Gilbert did not confine himself to hunting only; he was an expert fisher. For hours he would watch at one spot on the banks of a river, with his eyes riveted on the water, until some unhappy trout came out to bask in the sun’s rays. This was Gibbie’s opportunity. For a moment only his lips and tail quivered with extreme anxiety, then down, swift as Solan goose, he had dived with aim unerring, and seized his finny prey, with which he came quietly to bank, and trotted off homewards, to enjoy the delicious morsel in some quiet corner all to himself. Rabbits, hares, and game of all kinds, Gibbie parted with freely; but a trout was a treat, and he never shared it with man or mortal.

But Gibbie was now old. Nineteen summers had come and gone since he had sky-larked with his mother’s tail, and his limbs had waxed stiff, and his once bright eyes were dimmed. He seldom went to the woods now, and when he did he returned sorrowfully and minus. He preferred to dose by the parlour fire, or nurse his rheumatism before the kitchen grate; and while nodding over the embers, many a scene, I warrant, of his earlier years came to his recollection, and many a stirring adventure by flood and field stole vividly back to memory, and thus he’d fight his battles o’er again, and kill his rabbits thrice.

“Gibbie,” said my father one day, thoughtfully removing his pipe from his mouth; “Gibbie, you’ve got some game in you yet, old boy.”

“Oh, aye,” said Gibbie, for he was the pink of politeness, and never failed to reply when civilly addressed.

“Well,” continued my father, “you shall have a good supper, and a night among the rats in the grain-loft.”

“Wurram!” replied the cat, which doubtless meant that he was perfectly willing, and that it would be a bad job for the rats. So the programme was duly carried out, and Master Gilbert was shut up among the foe.

Early in the morning, my father, who had not closed an eye all the night, opened the door, and, lame and bleeding, out limped his old favourite, shaking his poor head—raw with wounds—in the most pitiful manner possible. The brave beast had fought like a tiger all the night long, nearly two score of rats lay dead around, while the blood lay in pools on the decks, with as much hair and fluff, as if a dozen Kilkenny cats had been contending for victory—and got it. That night’s ratting proved fatal to old Gibbie. The dreadful wounds he had received never healed, and after much deliberation it was determined that an end should be put to the poor animal’s sufferings.

So honest Hughoc, the stable-boy, was sent with Gibbie in a bag to drown him.

“Is he gone?” said my mother anxiously, when he returned. And we bairns were all in tears.

“Gone, ma’am?” replied Hughoc; “aye, if he had been a horse, and, beggin’ your pardon, a deevil forbye, the river would hae ta’en him doon,—sic a spate (flood) I never saw in my born days.”

Notwithstanding all this, Gibbie was at that moment finishing the contents of his saucer, and drying his wet sides before the sitting-room fire, and when we entered, he was singing a song to himself, like the ancient philosopher he was. But the poor cat lived but one short week longer. He died, as bardie Burns has it, “a fair strae death” in his own nook, and was slowly and sadly laid to rest, beneath an aged rowan tree at the end of the garden. And the berries on that tree grew redder ever after, at least we thought so; but we never dared to taste or touch them, they were sacred to the memory of poor dead and gone Gibbie.

In the meantime the plague of rats continued unabated, and their ravages seemed rather to increase than diminish. But their reign was nearly at an end. One day my father received the joyful intelligence that a splendid young lady-kitten, was in need of a comfortable home—salary no object.

Away with a basket trudged my little brother and self, and after a long walk came to young pussy’s residence, and had the satisfaction of finding both kitten and mistress at home. The former, indeed a beauty, and faultlessly marked, was engaged alternately in drinking butter-milk, and washing her face before a small looking-glass.

“Aye, my bonnie bairn,”—I was the bonnie bairn, not my brother,—“she’s a perfect wee angel, and ye maun be good till her; ye maunna pu’ her by the tail, and ye maun gie her lots o’ milk, and never let her want for a lookin’-glass.”

We promised to grudge her nothing that could in any way conduce to her happiness and comfort, and were allowed to carry her off. Before we reached home, we had taken her from the basket, and with all the solemnity the occasion demanded, baptized her in a running stream, and called her name Muffie. Once fairly established in her new quarters, the kit lost no time in commencing hostilities against the rats, and blood, not butter-milk, became her war-cry. One day as she sat admiring herself in the glass, a large rat unexpectedly appeared in the kitchen; and although but little larger than himself, Kittie at once gave chase, not only to his hole, but into his hole. For the next three minutes the squeaking was quite harrowing to listen to; but presently pussy re-appeared stern foremost, and dragging with her the rat—dead. This she deposited before the fire, growling whenever any one went near it, as much as to say, “Lay but a finger on it, and you yourself may expect to pay the same penalty for your rashness.” The little thing, indeed, seemed swelling with pride and importance, and must have felt considerably bigger than an ordinary sized ox, and as fierce as a Bengal tiger. In one moment she had bounded from kit to cat-hood. Buttermilk and a looking-glass! Bah! Blood alone could satisfy her ambition now.

Little Muffie was left that night in sole charge of the kitchen, and next morning, no less than five large rats, lay side by side on the hearth, as if waiting a post mortem, and wee pussie, with her white breast dabbled in gore, exhausted and asleep, lay beside them. In less than a week, she had bagged upwards of forty, and no doubt wounded twice that number. And now fear and consternation began to spread in the enemies’ camp. Such doings had never been heard of among them, even traditionally. The oldest inhabitant shook his grey muzzle, and gave it up; but added,—

“Friends, brethren, rodents! it is time to shift. No one knows whose turn may come next. True, it is a pity to leave such jolly quarters, when everything was going on so pleasantly. We have seen our fattest wives and our biggest braves borne off; our helpless babes have not been safe from the clutches of that dreaded monster, with the ferocity of a fiend in the skin of a mouse, and lest worst befall us, go we must.”

And go they did.

Old Tom Riddle, the parish clerk, who might have been seen any night, staggering homewards in the short hours, was well-nigh scared out of the little wits that remained to him, by meeting, as he said,—

“Thoosands upon thoosands o’ rottens, haudin’ up the road in the direction o’ the farm o’ Brockenclough.”

“Confoond it,” he added, when some one ventured to cast a doubt on his statement; “wasn’t it bright moonlicht, and didn’t I see them wi’ my ain een, carryin’ their wee anes in their mooths, and leadin’ their blin’ wi’ a strae?”

Whether old Tom exaggerated or not is hard to say; but sure enough, next morning there was not a rat to be seen or heard about my father’s premises; and it is likewise correct that about the same time, the honest farmer of Brockenclough, began to complain loudly of the destruction by these gentry of his straw and oats. “He liked,” he said, “to see a few o’ the beasties rinnin’ aboot a farm-toon. That was a sign o’ plenty; but when they could be counted by the score, it fairly beat cock-fechtin.”

For the next twelve months of her existence, Muffie led a very quiet and peaceful life. She was now in her prime—and a more beautifully marked tabby it would have been difficult to imagine—but, as yet, no male of her species had gained her youthful affections. But her time soon came, for strolling one day in the woods, trying to pick up a nice fat linnet for her dinner, Muffie met her fate, and her fate followed her home even to the garden gate, then darted off again to his native woodland. His history was briefly this. He was not born of respectable parentage, and I question, too, whether his parents, were at all more honest than they ought to have been. His mother was a half-wild animal, brought by a half-cracked colonel from the West Indies, and she bore him in the woods, and there she suckled and reared him, and it was no doubt owing to the wild gipsy life he led, and the amount of freedom and fresh air he enjoyed, that he grew so fine an animal. At any rate, I never have seen his match. An immense red tabby he was, with short ears on a massive head, splendid eyes, and a tail that no wild cat need have been ashamed of. Muffie and her lover used to hold their meetings in the ruins of an old house near a wood, and my brothers and I made a rash vow, to attempt the capture of the beautiful stranger in this same building. Accordingly, one fine moonlight night, missing Lady Muff, and guessing she was on the spoon, we sallied out and made our way to the ruin. My brothers were told off to guard the door and windows, and on me alone devolved the somewhat unpleasant duty, of bagging the cat. With this intention I entered as cautiously as a mouse, and sure enough there sat the happy pair, contentedly, on the cold hearthstone. So engrossed were they in looking at each other, that they never perceived me until quite close upon them. With the agility of a young monkey, I threw myself on the Tom-cat and seized him by the back. That is exactly what I did. His proceedings were somewhat different, and considerably more to the point, for after making his four teeth meet in the fleshy part of my middle finger, he slid from my grasp like a conger-eel, and went hand over hand up the chimney, followed by the justly indignant Lady Muff,—and I was left lamenting. For the next six weeks, I had the satisfaction of going to school with my arm in a sling. I say satisfaction, because my misfortune was the cause of a great alteration, in the manner of the schoolmaster towards me. Previously it was usual with me to be thrashed “ter die, and well shaken,” which was not at all nice on a winter’s day; but now all this was changed, and I was not beaten at all. The pedagogue spoke to me subduedly, and with a certain amount of conciliatory awe in his manner, and I observed that he always kept a chair or form between my person and his, lest I should at any time take hydrophobia without giving sufficient warning, and bite the poor man. Seeing how well the sling worked, I did not hesitate to wear it, for fully a month after my hand was quite healed, with the exception of the cicatrices, which the grave only will obliterate.

Although beaten in our first efforts, we did not give up the idea of capturing this vagabond Tom-tabby, yet it was only through the instrumentality of Muffie, we eventually succeeded. We kept her at home, put a saucer-full of creamy milk in a shady nook of the garden for her lover, and whenever he appeared, which he always did at the hour of gloaming, his betrothed was permitted to meet him, and although he invariably beseeched her to fly with him, she was prevented from acceding to his very reasonable request, by being tethered to a gooseberry bush by a long string. Love and time tamed this feline Ingomar. He left his abode in the forest, exchanged the wild-wood’s shade for the stable’s roof, bartered his freedom for the ties of matrimony, or catrimony,—in short, he married Muffie, adopted civilisation, and became barn-cat par excellence. But no amount of persuasion could ever entice him into the dwelling-house, nor did he ever suffer a human finger to pollute his fur.

I am sorry to say that Ingomar did not at all times behave well to his wife; in fact, at times he was a brute. It was his pleasure that she should sit for hours together in the garden, simply that he might look at her; if she as much as hinted at retiring, he treated her exactly as the Lancashire clod-hoppers do their wives,—he knocked her down and jumped upon her. Muffie had five bonnie kittens, and she put them to bed on the parlour sofa. Ingomar detested refinement as much as Rob Roy did.

“The sons of McGregor, weavers! Bring those kittens forth, and place them here on straw; I will see to their rearing.”

That is what Ingomar said, and Muffie mutely complied; and those kittens grew up as wild as himself. From sparrows they got to chickens, from chickens to grouse and game generally, and then got into trouble with the keeper, and had the worst of the argument, which on his part was double-barrelled. In the early days of his betrothal, Ingomar threw daisies at his beloved, and gambolled with her in mimic strife, but latterly his song was hushed at eventide, and spits and clouts and flying fluff were too often the order of the day.

Poor Ingomar! He was cut down in his prime—slain by a wretched collie-dog. Slowly and sadly we bore him in, his beautiful fur all dabbled in blood, and his once bright eyes fast glazing in death, and tenderly laid him at the widowed Muffie’s feet. Now listen to the remarkable behaviour of that lady. The widowed Muffie did not weep, neither, in consequence of not weeping, did she die; she did an attitude though, then growled and spat, and spitting growled again, and finally gave vent to her feelings by springing through the parlour window and escaping to the woods. And here with shame and sorrow for female inconstancy, but in the interests of truth be it written, not only did Muffie not remain long a widow, but that brief widowhood even, was stained by many acts of levity to the memory of the murdered Ingomar. His skin beautifully preserved (by—[12]), that skin she did not hesitate to use as a mat, nay, she even gambolled with the tail of it; and although she often paid a visit to her husband’s grave, it was not to weep she went there, no! but literally to dance on the top of it. Such is life! Such are relicts!!

The rest of this pussy’s life was entirely uneventful. One circumstance only deserves relating. She was exceedingly fond of me, in fact quite adored me. Oh! that is nothing, other females have done the same; but Muffie did, what I daresay other females wouldn’t,—she at any time would eat a little bit of the end of a candle, or a bit of greased peat from my hand, while refusing beef-steak or cream from any one else. When I was sent to a distant school, and could only visit my home once a week or fortnight, the house bereft of me had no longer any charms for poor Muffie, and she took to the woods. Perhaps she enjoyed rambling amid scenes hallowed by the recollection of her early love. She seldom returned home until the day of my accustomed arrival, when she was always there to welcome me. Now that she should have known the usual day for my appearance was nothing remarkable, but it was strange that, if anything interfered with my coming, puss was also absent, nor did my arrival on any other day prevent her from being at home at least an hour before me. One day—alas! that one day that must come to all created things—my Muffie was not there to meet me, and she never came again. After a long search I found her beneath a tree, stark and stiff. Her gentle eyes were closed for aye! I would never feel again her soft caress, nor hear her low loving purr—dear Muffie was dead.

But dry your eyes, gentle lady, and listen to the story of

MUFFIE THE SECOND.

I call my present cat Muffie, partly in remembrance of my old favourite, and partly because I think it such a cosy little name for a pet puss. Bless her little heart, she is sitting on my shoulder while I write, and no slight burden either, her fighting weight being something over twelve pounds. A splendid tabby, she is evenly and prettily marked; her lovely face vandyked with white, and her nose tipped with crimson, like a mountain daisy. She is six years of age, and the mother of over one hundred kittens. Three-fourths of these have found respectable homes,—most of them were bespoken before birth,—and if they have only been half as prolific as their mother, Muffie must be progenitor of thousands.

WHITE.
First Prize—Owned by R. H. Young, Esq.

BLACK.
First Prize—Owned by Mr. J. Harper.

A very ambitious kitten you were, too, my pretty Muff. I first picked you up at an hotel, when no bigger than a ball of worsted. Your brothers and sisters, and even your big ugly mother turned and fled, but you stood and spat—didn’t you, puss? and that fetched me. Your favourite seat, too, was the top of the parlour door; and during the first twelve months of your existence, sure didn’t you tear to pieces three sets of window curtains? didn’t you smash all the flowerpots? weren’t you constantly clutching down the table-cloth and breaking the china and glass, running along the key-board of the piano, and jumping down the stool? What chance did a silk umbrella stand with you? What hope of existence had my patent-leather boots? Was it fair to catch flies on my “Sunset on Arran” before the paint was dry? Was it right to upset my ink-bottle on the table-cloth, or to break the head off my praying Samuel, which head you coolly made a mouse of, and finally hid in my shoe? Or was it at all proper to make such earnest, though happily unsuccessful, endeavours to hook your master’s eyes out as soon as he opened them in the morning? But marriage sobered you, Muffie; and I never can forget the extreme joy you manifested on the birth of your first kittens. Your first idea, I’m told, was to make “mousies” of them; then you thought of eating them. But how anxiously you waited my arrival on that auspicious morning. You came twice to my bedroom to hurry me down, and I dared not stop to shave. Then each kitten in succession was held up between your forepaws to receive its just meed of admiration. But I hardly think, Miss Muff, your song of joy would have been quite so loud and jubilant, had you known I was selecting two to drown. And each succeeding period since then, you have tried to have your kittens in my bed, and twice you have been only too successful. There, now, go down, my shoulder aches; besides, I have to address the British public.

Muffie, like her master, has been a wanderer,—and she prefers it. To her, home and master are synonymous terms. Were I to make my bed in the midst of a highland moor, she would not desert me. If I were to place my sea-chest on the top of dark Loch-na-gar,—and that would be no easy matter,—and leave it there for a month, I should find Muffie on the top of it when I returned.

It might very naturally be supposed, that a cat would form but a poor travelling companion, and be rather troublesome. It is all custom, I suppose. Miss Muff, at the smallest computation, must have travelled nearly 20,000 miles with me; and she can always take care of herself much better than a dog can. From constant experience, she has become quite cosmopolitan in her habits. On the evening before “flitting day” she is more than usually active, ambling round and snuffing at each box as it is being packed, and rubbing her shoulder against it, singing all the while in a most exhilarating manner. As night closes, she, as a rule, with few exceptions, disappears for a time, going most likely to bid good-bye to her friends, whom she seldom sees again in this world, but never fails to be back early in the morning, when, after a hurried breakfast, she curls herself up in her little travelling “creel,” and goes quietly off to sleep. In a railway-carriage or steam-boat, she is allowed to roam about at her own sweet will; but by night her place is by her master’s side, and a more faithful watch he could not have. On arriving at an hotel, after dinner pussy is permitted to go out to see the place. The first night of her sojourn in a strange town, is always spent by Muffie in the open air; and, wonderful to relate, she always enters in the morning by the front door, although put out at the back. How she can find her way round with accuracy, sometimes a distance of half a mile of strange streets, or how she can tell the hotel door from any other, I cannot say; but she does. Once I gave her basket in charge of a railway porter at a London station, to take upstairs while I got my own ticket and the dog’s. The poor fellow soon returned with bleeding face and hands, to say that the cat had escaped and disappeared in the crowd. There was no time to wait to look for her, my luggage was on board, and the train about to start, so I hurried off to take my seat. Very much to my surprise, I was hailed from a first-class carriage by my pet herself, who appeared rejoiced to see me, and indeed was much more calm and self-possessed, under the circumstances, than her master.

Once, in a strange town—Liverpool,—Muffie disappeared in the most mysterious manner, and was absent for three whole weeks. From some words that I had heard the landlady’s son drop, I suspected foul play; so I went straight to the offices of the City Scavengering Department to prefer a very modest request, viz., to have all the ashpits cleaned out within a certain radius of my lodgings.

“All this work for a cat!” said the chief inspector. “Why, such a thing has no precedent;” and he smiled at my cheek, I suppose.

“But,” said I, “you can make this case the precedent; and it is so valuable a cat, you know.”

Aid came from an unexpected quarter. One of the officers was a Scotchman, and took my part like everything. Valuable property, he argued, had been stolen and destroyed; and if we should wait until the usual time for cleaning the ashpits, all hope of putting the blame on the right party, would be lost for ever.

“What chance,” said his good-natured chief, “have I against two of you?” So the order was given, and the ash-pits emptied. This took two or three mornings’ work, and many dead cats were found; in fact, every day I held a post-mortem examination on one or two poor brutes, and of course the men wanted a glass of grog; so that the business cost me “a power” of rum. But no dead Muffie appeared. In the meantime I had to go to London without my puss; and a few days after, Lady Muff likewise arrived by train. She had returned to my rooms at Liverpool, exactly three weeks from the day she disappeared, and had kittens one hour after.

Muffie I do not think ever killed a mouse, although very fond of catching them. All she cares for is the sport. She invariably brings her little victim into my room, and placing it on the hearth-rug, looks up in my face, and mews, as much as to say,—

“Just observe, master, the fun I shall have with this little cuss; and see what a clever mouser your Muff is.”

While she is saying this, the mouse has escaped, but is speedily recaptured and returned to the rug. After throwing it up in the air two or three times, and catching it before it falls, the wee “cowering timorous beastie” is left to its own freedom, Muffie walking away in a careless, meditative sort of mood, and the mousie makes good his escape. Not finding a hole, it hides below something, from under which something it is soon raked out again; and so the cruel game goes on, till the trembling little creature, with its shiny eyes, grows sick with hope deferred, and faints away. Seeing this, pussy, after turning it over once or twice with mittened paw, jumps on my shoulder with a fond “purr-rn,” and begins to sing. The play is over, and by-and-by the mouse revives, and is graciously permitted to retire, which it sets about doing with becoming modesty, and an air at once subdued and deprecatory. Muffie is still on my shoulder, benignly singing. Their eyes meet, and a little dialogue ensues. Mousie says, with hers,

“Oh! please, your ladyship, may I go, ma’am? I feel so all-overish; your claws are so sharp, and your teeth so dreadful; and I’m but a little, little mouse.”

To which pussy replies,—

“Yes; you may go. I shan’t eat you to-day; only don’t do it again.”

But why, you ask, should I permit such cruel sport? Because, intelligent and gentle reader, any interference of mine would change the play from a comedy in the parlour to a tragedy in the cellar.

I have neither fishing nor hunting exploits to tell of about Muffie. She is celebrated only as a great traveller, for her faithful devotion to her master, and for her care over even his property.

Last summer I spent a month in a beautiful sequestered village in Yorkshire. My companions were, as usual, my Newfoundland, Muffie, a pet starling, and another dog. Muffie is very much attached to this birdie, allowing it to hop about her, like a crow on a water buffalo. This starling, I think, is the most amusing little chap in all creation. He is a good linguist and an accomplished musician, and is never silent—if he is, he is either asleep or doing mischief. As he says whatever comes into his head, and interlards his discourse with fragments of tunes and Bravos! the effect is at times startling. The way he jumbles his nouns together, and trots out every adjective he knows, to qualify every noun, is something worth listening to. In the summer evenings, we used to go out for long rambles in the country lanes. The dog—Theodore Nero—felt himself in duty bound on these occasions, not only to look after his master, but even to take the cat under his protection. The starling stalked flies from my shoulder. Sometimes he would stay longer snail-hunting, behind a hedge, than I deemed prudent; a glance from me was all Muffie wanted, to be after him. I would wait and listen; and presently I would hear Dick excitedly exclaiming, “Eh? eh? What is it?”—a favourite expression of his: “What is it? You rascal! you rascal!” and back he would fly to his perch, apparently quite thunderstruck at the impudence of the cat.

Muffie bids me say she is quite happy and all alive. And I would add, she is very much all alive, most interestingly so, in fact. But that did not prevent her, last night, from preparing for me, what was doubtless meant for a very pretty surprise and a high compliment. The cats in the neighbourhood, hearing that I was writing a book in their favour, with Lady Muff as chief musician, resolved to serenade me; and they did. Being Christmas eve, I took them for the waits at first. I am sorry now that I so far forgot myself, as to throw cold water over the assembly; but I sincerely trust that they did not know, that the gentleman in white, who appeared on the balcony, and so unceremoniously checked their harmony, was the illustrious author of “Cats.”

CHAPTER X.

No one in the ship had the slightest idea how Tom came on board, or who brought him, or where he came from. He made his first appearance in public while, outward bound, we were crossing the Bay of Biscay—that strange mysterious sea, beneath whose waves the bones of so many of our bravest countrymen lie bleaching. It was a roughish night, squally rather, without much sea on, but the wind changing its mind every minute, whisking into foam the crests of the inky waves, and carrying the spray far into the rigging. It was a night to try the sea-legs of any one, so jerky and uncertain was the vessel’s motion; and the oldest sailors staggered like drunken men, and were fain to cling to rigging or shrouds. I was smoking on the quarter-deck just before turning in,—it had gone six bells[13] in the first watch, and everything was snug for the night, when something black as Erebus whisked past me, visible but for a moment in the binnacle’s light, and disappeared in the darkness forward. I looked inquiringly at the man at the wheel, a serious old seamen, who, in answer to my mute appeal, turned his quid twice in his mouth and, addressing the compass, “That’s the devil, sir,” said he, “begging your pardon, sir. Came on board to-night when we close-reefed topsails durin’ a squall.”

There was nothing disrespectful in the man’s tone or bearing; indeed he spoke almost with an air of solemnity.

“Usual accompaniment, I suppose,” said I, laughing; “blue fire, and a perfume not Rimmelian.”

“Dunno what ship that is, sir,” said he somewhat curtly; “but there was a flash, young gentleman.”

Seeing the man was disinclined to continue the subject, I went below, and, thanks to the ship’s motion, was soon in the land of dreams.

Next day broke bright and clear; both wind and cloud had fled; the sea had gone down, and the vessel was under easy sail. A flock of gulls were circling in the morning air, screaming with delight as they picked the crumbs that floated astern; and all went merrily oh!

Presently the commander[14] came up, looking anything but sweet; and all hands were immediately summoned aft for a speech. “Officers and men of Her Majesty’s gunboat Tickler, contrary to the customs and rules of the service, and without my knowledge, to say nothing of sanction, I find that a cat has been brought on board. Will the officer or man who owns the animal kindly step forward?”

Here the officers, verbally, and the men, by their silence, disclaimed all ownership of poor puss.

“Then,” continued the commanding officer, “as no one seems to own it, I have but one course. Bring up the cat.”

All eyes were instantly turned towards the stern grating, which naturally caused the captain to wheel round; and there, sure enough, as mim as a mouse, with his tail curled round his legs for warmth, and looking on the very best of terms with himself and all creation, sat a large black Tom cat. He lowered his brows as he returned the skipper’s glance, and his eyes sparkled crimson and green. “Midshipman of the watch,” was the order, “see that cat overboard.”

“Ay ay, sir,” sang out the middy. “Forenoon watch, cat walks the plank, heave with a will—cheerily does it.”

Puss was on his legs in a moment, back erect, hair on end, and tail like a bottle-brush, spitting, sputtering, and behaving altogether in a “highly mutinous and insubordinate” manner. This conduct very nearly led to a fatal termination, by a whole shower of belaying-pins, which, however, hurtled harmlessly over his head. “An inch of a miss is as good as a mile,” thought Tom; “while there’s life there’s hope, and I’ll give you a race for it, my lads.” And he cleared the deck at three bounds, and dived below, followed by the whole watch. Three minutes’ trampling and howling below, then up through the fore hatch came pursuers and pursued, pussy leading and the sailors astern. Up the rigging shinned the cat.

“Follow your leader,” roared the men.

The chase now became general and most exciting; and with a cheer all hands joined, evidently more for the fun of the thing, than with any intention of harming the cat. Up the rigging and down the stays, alow and aloft, out on the flying jib-boom and along the hammock nettings. Sure never before were such feats of agility seen on board a British Man o’ War; the men seemed monkeys, the cat the devil incarnate. With a strength seemingly supernatural, Tom at length scrambled up, and took refuge above the main truck where the Dutch Admiral of old hoisted the broom, swearing, as only Dutchmen can, that he would sweep the English from the sea; and the men returned to the deck, gasping and red from their futile exertions, to await further orders.

Black Tom speaks a Piece.

“Curses on the brute!” muttered the commander. “Am I to sail the seas with a black cat on my main-truck? Steward, bring my revolver.” The revolver was brought, but the captain’s aim seemed unsteady; he fired all the six chambers, without any further result than chipping the main-top-gallant yard. Poor Tom, seeing the serious turn matters had taken, and that his death was compassed, determined to speak a few words in his own behalf; and with this intention he lifted up his fore-paw, and, now looking below, now appealing to heaven, he delivered an harangue, the like of which none of us had ever listened to on shore, much less afloat. His meaning, however, was perfectly plain.

Around him, he said, behold a waste of waters; he was far from land; he had no boat; and though he knew he could swim, although he never tried, he would rather die than wet his feet. Had we no compassion, no bowels of mercies? He wanted to harm nobody. What good could shooting him do? He was willing to remain where he then stood for the rest of the voyage, in fact to do anything or everything, if his life were only spared.

The captain smiled. “I thought,” said he, “I was a better shot; however, give the devil his due.” And he ordered all hands to treat the cat kindly, if ever he came below again. Tom retained his elevated seat for fully two hours, and finally fell sound asleep. Waking calm and refreshed, and perhaps somewhat dizzy, he stretched himself a leg at a time, for he hadn’t much room, yawned, did an attitude, and came slowly down on deck. He walked at once to the quarter-deck; and, to show that he harboured no ill-feeling, he actually went and rubbed his big black head against the captain’s leg.

Tom becomes Ship’s Cat.

Henceforward Tom was no longer a mere passenger on board; his name was borne on the ship’s books, and he was tolerated both by officers and men. Somehow, Tom became no favourite. The questionable manner in which he had made his first appearance, and the latent devil that seemed to lurk in his eye, acted like a spell on the natural superstitions of the sailors, more than one of whom was heard to express an opinion that “That black——(alliterative term of endearment used by British seamen) will bring the ship no good luck.”

Now, whether out of gratitude for having his life spared, or for some other feline motive known only to puss, certain it is, that Tom attached himself to our commander, and to no one else on board; for whenever that officer came on deck, so did the cat, trotting by his side and enlivening his walk by a song. When any other gentleman happened to be walking with the captain, Tom used to take his station on the hammock nettings and follow every motion of his beloved adopted master with eyes that beamed with admiration. This show of affection was at first indignantly resented by the skipper, and many a good kick Tom used to have for his pains; but the more he was kicked the louder he sang, so at long last, yielding to the force of circumstances, the skipper ceased to mind him, and the two became inseparable.

Tom Goes on Shore for a Walk.

Nothing very unusual happened during our long voyage to the Cape. Tom went on shore at St. Helena, like any other officer, and it was fondly hoped he would take up his abode on that beautiful island. But having visited the principal places of interest, nearly murdered a poor little dog in James Town, and—this is only conjecture—taken a rat or two at Napoleon’s tomb, Tom came off again in the officers’ boat.

On Board Again.

The cat might in time have come to be a general favourite in the ship; but he suffered no advances to be made by “any man Jack,” as the saying is, and scowled so unmistakably when any one attempted to stroke him, that he was unanimously voted to Coventry, and allowed to do what he liked. Tom had a regular allowance of ship’s provisions, like any one else, but his greatest treat was milk (preserved) and rum thickened with oatmeal. For this he used to come regularly once, and often twice a-day, to the dispensary. His favourite seat was on the weather bulwarks; and there he would often remain for hours, gazing thoughtfully down in the blue clear depths of the tropical ocean.

“He do be counting the jelly-fish and looking for sharks,” one man remarked.

“Nay,” said another, “he’s a-thinking o’ home. May-be, he has left a wife and babies in old England.”

“Then,” said the first speaker, “what a tarnation fool he was, not to stop on shore. Sure, no one sent for him.”

“Hush,” said the first, “he’s an evil spirit, Bill, as sure as a gun; and he belongs to—

The Skipper.”

You may easily guess from the foregoing conversation, that the captain himself was no great favourite. He was a little red-haired foxy-faced man, a Scotchman (save the luck), but a Scotchman who hated the land of his forefathers,—

“Whose heart had ne’er within him burned,” etc., etc.,

in fact, retaining but one trait of Scottish character, namely his love for Scotch drink. Once round the Cape, and north on our cruising ground—the Mozambique Channel, the skipper shone out in his true colours. His face and nose got daily redder; and the sinister smile that seemed printed there never left his lips. Such a smile I have never seen before nor since, except on the face of a Somali Indian. The first victims to the skipper’s wrath were the poor black Kroomen, one of whom was always stationed at the mast head, to look out for strange sails. Now the commander had an eye like a fish-hawk, and generally managed to sight a vessel before even the out-look. God help the out-look when this occurred. He was ordered down at once, and in one minute more was lashed to the rigging by both wrists, and writhing and shrieking for mercy under the infliction of two dozen with a rope’s end, laid on by the sturdy arms of a fellow Krooman. The men, for the slightest offence, had their grog stopped for a week or weeks; and as the proceeds went to swell the sick-fund—a fund to purchase comforts for the patients—I had usually more money in my hands than I knew how to expend, until I happily thought of a plan to get rid of the surplus cash.

“Brown,” I would say to an officer, after the cloth had been removed, “you look unusually seedy to-day; in fact,” looking round the mess, “you all look rather pale; effects of climate, poor devils. I am afraid I have hardly done my duty towards you. Steward, bring in those bananas from the sick-bay, bring also the pineapples, the mangoes, the oranges, the ground nuts, a pomola, and a bottle of madeira. Liquor up, my lads, let us drink the skipper’s health. The sick-bay fund is unusually flourishing, so don’t forget in every port we come to, to ask me for honey for your rum, milk for your tea, and orange-blossom to perfume your cabins withal.”

Anything approaching insubordination among the boys or men or board was punished with flogging—four dozen lashes, with a different bo’swain’s mate to each dozen, was the usual dose.

Tom at a Flogging.

Tuesday was flogging day; and to add, if possible, to the terror of the condemned wretch, after the gratings were rigged and the man stripped and lashed thereto, sawdust was sprinkled on the deck all round, to soak up the blood. But at every flogging match

“There sat auld Nick in shape o’ beast,”

at least in the shape of Tom the cat, who would not have missed the fun for all the world. There on the bulwark he would sit, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction, his mouth squared, and his beard all a-bristle. He seemed to count every dull thud of his nine-tailed namesake, and emitted short sharp mews of joy when, towards the middle of the third dozen, the blood began to trickle and get sprinkled about on sheet and shroud. Though I never disliked Tom, still, at times such as these, I really believed he was the devil himself as reputed, and would have given two months’ pay for a chance to brain him. When the flogging was over, Tom used to jump down and, purring loudly, rub his head against his master’s leg.

By at least one half of the crew, Tom was assuredly believed to be—if not old Nick himself—possessed of an evil spirit. A good deal of mumbo jumbo work therefore went on, for the men tried to find favour in Tom’s eyes, and many a dainty morsel did this cat of evil repute thus receive; so that he grew and flourished like a green bay-tree, while his coat got glossier and his figure plumper every day.

How Tom used to Fish.

Although well fed and cared for, Tom at times used to forage for himself, not that I ever heard he was a thief—to his honour be it written; but he fished, and very successfully too, without so much as wetting the soles of his beautiful pumps. His modus operandi was as follows.

On dark nights in the tropical seas, he used to perch himself on the bulwarks aft, and bend his glittering eyes downwards into the sea. He never sat long thus without a flying-fish, sometimes two, jumping past him or over him, and alighting on deck. Then Tom would descend, and have a delightful supper, and if not fully satisfied resume his seat and continue the sport. Tom must have gained his knowledge from experience, although the success of his method of fishing is easily explained. It is well known that these fish always fly towards a light, which is therefore often used by the sailors to catch them. The cat required no other light save the glimmering of his two eyes, which in the dark shone like a couple of koh-i-noors.

Tom Takes Charge of a Gun.

Tom was in the habit of going to sleep, in the large pivot gun we used for shelling running-away slavers. For a forenoon nap nothing could have suited him better; it combined the pleasures of solitude with retirement, and moreover was both dark and cool. One fine sunny day, we were in chase of a particularly fast dhow, which, taking no heed of our signal howitzers, evinced a strong disposition to edge in towards the shore, the order was accordingly given to fire at her with our Big Ben. Before loading, the gunner keeked in to see that all was clear, and sure enough there was Tom, by no means pleased at being disturbed in his siesta. Neither could any amount of “cheety-pussying” entice him from his snuggery, while tickling with the end of a ramrod only made him spit and sputter, and make use of bad language.

“What’s the delay?” cried the captain.

“Cat in possession of gun, sir,” was the reply.

“Dear me! dear me!” whined the captain. “Rouse him out, and be quick about it.”

After a pause.

“He won’t rouse out no-how, sir,” said the gunner.

“I’m hanged” roared the skipper, “if that rascally dhow isn’t landing her slaves inshore. Rouse him out I say. Fire a fuse—confound the cat.”

“Shoal water ahead, sir,” from the man at the mast-head.

“Hard a port, stand by both anchors,” and round we went just in time to save us. In the meantime a fuse had been inserted in the touch-hole of the gun. Bang! and thus attacked in rear, Tom came out of the gun faster than ever he had done in his life, and took to the rigging, with hair on-end and eyes all a-flame.

“Lower away the first and second cutters,” was now the order. “It shan’t be said, that a cursed cat kept us from capturing a lawful prize. D—— the beast.”

(For the benefit of those who love strong language alias swearing, it must here be stated, that in courtesy to my lady readers I abstain from giving the skipper’s language verbatim, for in that respect he would have pleased a Lancashire coal-heaver; he was a don in the use of expletives, although, to his credit be it recorded, while freely launching forth anathemas at the limbs of his men, and consigning their eyes to perpetual punishment, he just as freely let his own eyes have it. Oh, he wasn’t particular by any means; he gave it to us all alike—officers and men, cat and Kroo-boys.)

He captured that slaver though—went in the boats personally to do it, and that night the sea was lighted up for miles with a blaze, that spoiled pussy’s fishing for once. It was a caution to slavers on shore and sharks at sea. At a good mile’s distance we could see to read our last letters from home, by the light of that burning dhow. We were not surprised to see the captain come on board, black with smoke and begrimed with gunpowder, for we had heard desultory firing, but we were slightly taken aback to see Tom meet him in the gangway, and to observe the captain stoop down and tenderly caress him. Perhaps he wanted to make up to him, for his former roughness.

“I’ve given that chap Carrickfergus,” he remarked, in a sort of a general way to us officers; and to me he added, “I suppose the men may have a glass of grog, doctor.”

“Certainly,” I said. “Steward, splice the main brace.” Then the skipper dived below and got drunk, which he had the knack of doing on the very shortest notice.

The Cat’s “Cantrips.”

Of Tom’s adventures on board the saucy little Tickler, very much could be written. Somehow, he never was safely out of one scrape till into another. A dear wee mongoose was once brought on board, and would doubtless have become a great pet, if Tom had not broken its back on the first night of its arrival. A monkey was received as a visitor, and with him Tom at once declared war, and kept it up to the bitter end. The monkey’s favourite mode of attack, was to run aloft with a belaying-pin, and biding his time, let it drop as if by accident on poor pussy’s head. But Tom let him have it sharp and fierce, whenever he caught him. Once I remember the monkey was sitting on his hind-quarters on deck, stuffing his cheeks with cockroaches, and looking as serious as a judge. Tom spied him, and ran cautiously along the bulwarks, then springing on his foe, he seized him round the neck with one arm, and with the other administered such a drubbing, as the poor thing never had before in his life. The monkey with bleeding face, at length escaped to the maintop, and there cried itself asleep.

Whether or not Tom was the Jonas, who caused all the mishaps that fell upon our little vessel during that four years’ cruise, I shall not pretend to say, although all hands forward firmly believed he was. Like the witch-wife in Allan Ramsay’s Gentle Shepherd—Tom

“Got the wyte o’ a’ fell oot;”

and certainly Snarley-yow and his master were never more detested than that black cat, and the skipper eventually came to be.

“Life-Boat’s Crew, Ahoy!”

Once, I remember, we experienced a spell of weather so dark and unsettled, that a general gloom prevailed in the ship fore and aft. We were rounding the Cape in mid-winter. First we had a gale of wind, our bulwarks stove in forward, and a boat washed overboard. Then several days with no wind, but a heavy sea on, and the horizon close aboard of us on every side. The nights were pitchy dark, with thunder and lightning so appalling that no one thought of turning in, till far on in the middle watch. Scenes like these can never be described. They are painted with the finger of awe on the beholder’s memory, and time cannot efface them. I can see even now our little vessel, hanging bows on to the side of that dark wave, the hill of water rising above us, the inky gulph beneath, her wet and slippery decks, and the faces of the men that cling to the cordage, ghastly in the lightning’s glare. A moment more and we are on the brow of the wave, then down we drive into the very trough of the sea, where, for a few seconds, the ship lies trembling, as if every timber in her sides was instinct with life. On such a night as this Tom fell overboard. This may seem like a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous. It is a fact, however, and was a very disagreeable descent indeed for poor Tom. The life-buoy was almost instantly fired and let go by the commander himself, who alone saw the accident.

“Ease her! stop her!” he roared. “Away life-boat’s crew!”

Up tumbled the crew, the boat was lowered, and in two minutes more they had dropped astern, and were pulling with might and main for the now distant life-buoy. The storm had by this time passed over, save an occasional flash of lightning. For fully ten minutes, each time we rose on the crest of a great wave, we could distinctly see the life-buoy’s light, burning bright and beacon-like, away to leeward of us; then it flickered feebly, and finally went out.

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed the Captain, “that light was never extinguished: it has gone out.” Five minutes, ten, fifteen minutes elapsed in dead silence. We leant over the bulwarks, and could feel our hearts throbbing against them, as we peered into the darkness and listened for the slightest sound; only an occasional glimmer played along the horizon, only now and then the splash of a breaking wave. Hours passed by, and still no signal from the deep, to tell us aught of life was there; and all that long dismal night, rockets were let off, bluelights burned, and big guns fired. But the sea gave never a sign. How anxious we all were! No one had a thought of retiring. The captain spent his time in alternately pacing frantically up and down the deck, and in diving down below,—we all knew for what. At last he wept like a child, and tore his hair out in handfuls. I felt sorry for him at first, until I heard him curse his own evil fate, because his fourteen years’ service would all be lost. It was self not the poor men he was thinking of.

But the longest time has an end, and morning came at last, and just as the horizon was becoming dimly visible through the rising mist, and silence was reigning fore and aft—for both men and officers were tired out with suspense and long watching—we were all startled and rendered as wide awake as ever we were in our lives. For, borne along on the morning air—breeze it could hardly be called—came a faint shout. One moment all hands listened: it was repeated.

“Shout, my lads,” cried the captain, all his manhood returning at once; and such a ringing cheer was sent over the waters, as only could proceed from the lungs of Britain’s sailors.

[15]My! how every face brightened; and, my! how every eye glanced and glittered, as that boat loomed out from the fog. She was soon alongside, all hands were safe, and the first on board was the skipper’s imp. There was one old sailor who had been very quiet all the night, but who now burst into such sobbing as I never heard before. The poor man’s son had been in the boat.

Did we splice the main-brace? Rather. We spliced it on deck, and we went below to the ward-room and spliced it again; in fact that main brace took a good deal of splicing, then we turned in and slept till noon, and I dreamt I was spliced myself.

Ship on Fire.

If I remember rightly, we were somewhere in lat. 17° South, and a good way off land. We had been cracking on all the forenoon under steam, after a Northern slave-ship, which we had finally boarded, captured, and taken in tow. A fine pair of heels she had shown us too. We had to burn hams to get within shot of her. But we did at last, and there she was, with a prize crew on board, and the fiery old Arabs glaring like evil spirits at us as they leaned over her taffrail. A breeze had sprung up towards four o’clock, and the orders were given to bank fires and set sail. I was sitting in the ward-room reading, when—

“Look Jim!” I heard some one on deck remark. “Where is that thundering old cat going to now?”

“Bedad then,” said Jim, “but he’s taking the rigging like a good one anyhow. Shouldn’t wonder now if he was going to give us another spache.”

I ran up just in time to see the cat shin hand over hand up the main-top gallant mast, and seat himself on the very truck, in the exact spot he had occupied in his first adventure on board, when the captain fired at him.

It had gone three bells in the first dog watch;[16] we had just finished tea, and gone on deck to smoke our evening pipe. We were making ourselves very comfortable on the stern gratings, and our Scotch engineer—naval engineers for the most part are Scotch—was singing “For we are homeward bound;” not that we were homeward bound by a long chalk, but it gave us the idea we were, don’t you know? and made us feel all the jollier, when the quartermaster came aft, and addressing the officer of the watch—

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, leisurely, turning his quid in his mouth, “but I think, sir, there be a strong smell of fire right amidships.”

We went forward.

The second cutter lay bottom upwards, between the fore and main masts, and from under its gunnel were curling little puffs of light blue smoke, for all the world as if some one were smoking a cigar beneath the boat. But the smoke had the smell of burning wood.

Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. Ah! had Edgar Allan Poe heard that bell, he might have added one other stanza to that strange wild poem of his. Ding, ding, ding, ding. You never heard it, did you reader? Well, it is a pleasure you still have before you. The breeze was freshening every minute, the sea was getting its back up, and darkness thickening around us. But what mattered darkness, we should soon light up old ocean with our burning ship.

Ding, ding, ding—up tumble the hands at the dread summons. The hoses are laid, the pumps rigged and manned as if by magic, and before the last sound of the bell is borne away on the breeze, every man is at quarters, steady, grave, and silent—waiting. Waiting? Aye; fancy having to wait for a single moment, with the fire crackling under the broiling deck, and tons of powder under hatches. But service is service—the captain alone has not responded to the alarm, and the officer of the watch has gone to call him. Worthy man, he was—

“Not fou, he just was glorious,
O’er a’ the ills of life victorious.”

“Oh!” he said; “ship’s on fire, is she. Then go you to blazes.”

He came up soon, however, and every man that night did his duty. Nothing in the world, save British pluck and coolness, could have conquered that fire. It was the padding at the back of the boiler that had caught, and burning through, had kindled the coals behind, and when the decks were scuttled, the scene below was like a red raging hell.

In less than two hours however, the flames were got under and the fire extinguished; and, saving the watch on deck, the crew, tired and bruised, and many of them scalded, had gone below, while the carpenters were busy repairing decks; for in a man-of-war every trace of recent danger, whether from wind or fire or foe, is speedily erased.

A shoal of sharks that had been following the ship expectant, disappointed, sought deeper water, and black Tom, the cat, came down from his perch on the main-truck, singing a song of deliverance.

Minor Mishaps.

It would take a long time indeed to narrate all the misadventures we had in that cruise. We got quite used to running on shore, being awakened any night, with that strange grating noise beneath our keel, and the sudden cessation of all motion, which tells the experienced sailor better than words can, that the ship has struck. One bright moonlight night, far on in the middle watch, we ran aground on the Lyra reef. Luckily the tide was not full nor the wind blowing. By next morning we had lowered the boats, and sent over the guns to lighten ship, and lay waiting for the tide. A bright sky, and a blue, blue sea all around, with never a sail in sight, nay, not even a bird. The waters so pellucid and clear, that leaning over the bulwarks we could see the yellow sand at the bottom, see forests and gardens of marine plants, and flowers pink-petalled or tender green, gently waving to and fro in the current; see the transparent medusæ disporting their rainbow beauties, and see the thousand and one strange-looking tropical fishes, of colours so bright and shapes so grotesque, that they seemed the fishes of our dreams, or caricatures of animal life.