The Three Cutters

Let us go on board. You observe the guns are iron, and painted black, and her bulwarks are painted red; it is not a very becoming colour, but then it lasts a long while, and the dockyard is not very generous on the score of paint—or lieutenants of the navy troubled with much spare cash. She has plenty of men, and fine men they are; all dressed in red flannel shirts and blue trousers; some of them have not taken off their canvas or tarpaulin petticoats, which are very useful to them, as they are in the boats night and day, and in all weathers. But we will at once go down into the cabin, where we shall find the lieutenant who commands her, a master’s mate, and a midshipman. They have each their tumbler before them, and are drinking gin-toddy, hot, with sugar—capital gin, too, ’bove proof; it is from that small anker standing under the table. It was one that they forgot to return to the custom-house when they made their last seizure. We must introduce them.

The elderly personage, with grizzly hair and whiskers, a round pale face, and a somewhat red nose (being too much in the wind will make the nose red, and this old officer is very often “in the wind,” of course, from the very nature of his profession), is a Lieutenant Appleboy. He has served in every class of vessel in the service, and done the duty of first-lieutenant for twenty years; he is now on promotion—that is to say, after he has taken a certain number of tubs of gin, he will be rewarded with his rank as commander. It is a pity that what he takes inside of him does not count, for he takes it morning, noon, and night. He is just filling his fourteenth glass; he always keeps a regular account, as he never exceeds his limited number, which is seventeen; then he is exactly down to his bearings.

The master’s mate’s name is Tomkins; he has served his six years three times over, and has now outgrown his ambition; which is fortunate for him, as his chances of promotion are small. He prefers a small vessel to a large one, because he is not obliged to be so particular in his dress—and looks for his lieutenancy whenever there shall be another charity promotion. He is fond of soft bread, for his teeth are all absent without leave; he prefers porter to any other liquor, but he can drink his glass of grog, whether it be based upon rum, brandy or the liquor now before him.

Mr Smith is the name of that young gentleman whose jacket is so out at the elbows; he has been intending to mend it these last two months; but is too lazy to go to his chest for another. He has been turned out of half the ships in the service for laziness; but he was born so—and therefore it is not his fault. A revenue-cutter suits him, she is half her time hove to; and he has no objection to boat-service, as he sits down always in the stern-sheets, which is not fatiguing. Creeping for tubs is his delight, as he gets over so little ground. He is fond of grog, but there is some trouble in carrying the tumbler so often to his mouth; so he looks at it, and lets it stand. He says little because he is too lazy to speak. He has served more than eight years; but as for passing—it has never come into his head. Such are the three persons who are now sitting in the cabin of the revenue-cutter, drinking hot gin-toddy.

“Let me see, it was, I think, in ninety-three or ninety-four. Before you were in the service, Tomkins—”

“Maybe, sir; it’s so long ago since I entered, that I can’t recollect dates—but this I know, that my aunt died three days before.”

“Then the question is, when did your aunt die?”

“Oh! She died about a year after my uncle.”

“And when did your uncle die?”

“I’ll be hanged if I know!”

“Then, d’ye see, you’ve no departure to work from. However, I think you cannot have been in the service at that time. We were not quite so particular about uniform as we are now.”

“Then I think the service was all the better for it. Now-a-days, in your crack ships, a mate has to go down in the hold or spirit-room, and after whipping up fifty empty casks, and breaking out twenty full ones, he is expected to come on quarter-deck as clean as if he was just come out of a band-box.”

“Well, there’s plenty of water alongside, as far as the outward man goes, and iron dust is soon brushed off. However, as you say, perhaps a little too much is expected; at least, in five of the ships in which I was first-lieutenant, the captain was always hauling me over the coals about the midshipmen not dressing properly, as if I was their dry-nurse. I wonder what Captain Prigg would have said if he had seen such a turn-out as you, Mr Smith, on his quarter-deck.”

“I should have had one turn-out more,” drawled Smith.

“With your out-at-elbows jacket, there, eh!” continued Mr Appleboy.

Smith turned up his elbows, looked at one and then at the other; after so fatiguing an operation, he was silent.

“Well, where was I? Oh! It was about ninety-three or ninety-four, as I said that it happened—Tomkins, fill your glass and hand me the sugar—how do I get on? This is Number 15,” said Appleboy, counting some white lines on the table by him; and taking up a piece of chalk, he marked one more line on his tally. “I don’t think this is so good a tub as the last, Tomkins, there’s a twang about it—a want of juniper; however, I hope, we shall have better luck this time. Of course you know we sail to-morrow?”

“I presume so, by the leg of mutton coming on board.”

“True—true; I’m regular—as clock-work. After being twenty years a first-lieutenant one gets a little method. I like regularity. Now the admiral has never omitted asking me to dinner once, every time I have come into harbour, except this time. I was so certain of it, that I never expected to sail; and I have but two shirts clean in consequence.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?—and the more so, because he has had such great people down here, and has been giving large parties every day.”

“And yet I made three seizures, besides sweeping up those thirty-seven tubs.”

“I swept them up,” observed Smith.

“That’s all the same thing, younker. When you’ve been a little longer in the service, you’ll find out that the commanding officer has the merit of all that is done; but you’re green yet. Let me see, where was I? Oh!—It was about ninety-three or ninety-four, as I said. At that time I was in the Channel fleet—Tomkins, I’ll trouble you for the hot water; this water’s cold. Mr Smith, do me the favour to ring the bell.—Jem, some more hot water.”

“Please, sir,” said Jem, who was bare-footed as well as bare-headed, touching his lock of hair on his forehead, “the cook had capsized the kettle—but he has put more on.”

“Capsized the kettle! Hah!—very well—we’ll talk about that to-morrow. Mr Tomkins, do me the favour to put him in the report: I may forget it. And pray, sir, how long is it since he has put more on?”

“Just this moment, sir, as I came aft.”

“Very well, we’ll see to that to-morrow. You bring the kettle aft as soon as it is ready. I say, Mr Jem, is that fellow sober?”

“Yees, sir, he be sober as you be.”

“It’s quite astonishing what a propensity the common sailors have to liquor. Forty odd years have I been in the service, and I’ve never found any difference. I only wish I had a guinea for every time that I have given a fellow seven-water grog during my servitude as first-lieutenant, I wouldn’t call the king my cousin. Well, if there’s no hot water, we must take lukewarm; it won’t do to heave-to. By the Lord Harry! Who would have thought it?—I’m at number sixteen! Let me count, yes!—surely I must have made a mistake. A fact, by Heaven!” continued Mr Appleboy, throwing the chalk down on the table. “Only one more glass, after this; that is, if I have counted right—I may have seen double.”

“Yes,” drawled Smith.

“Well, never mind. Let’s go on with my story. It was either in the year ninety-three or ninety-four that I was in the Channel fleet: we were then abreast of Torbay—”

“Here be the hot water, sir,” cried Jem, putting the kettle down on the deck.

“Very well, boy. By-the-bye, has the jar of butter come on board?”

“Yes, but it broke all down the middle. I tied him up with a ropeyarn.”

“Who broke it, sir?”

“Coxswain says as how he didn’t.”

“But who did, sir.”

“Coxswain handed it up to Bill Jones, and he says as how he didn’t.”

“But who did, sir.”

“Bill Jones gave it to me, and I’m sure as how I didn’t.”

“Then who did, sir, I ask you.”

“I think it be Bill Jones, sir, ’cause he’s fond of butter, I know, and there be very little left in the jar.”

“Very well, we’ll see to that to-morrow morning. Mr Tomkins, you’ll oblige me by putting the butter-jar down in the report, in case it should slip my memory. Bill Jones, indeed, looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Never mind. Well, it was, as I said before—it was in the year ninety-three or ninety-four, when I was in the Channel fleet; we were then off Torbay, and had just taken two reefs in the top-sails. Stop—before I go on with my story, I’ll take my last glass; I think it’s the last—let me count. Yes, by heavens! I make out sixteen, all told. Never mind, it shall be a stiff one. Boy, bring the kettle, and mind you don’t pour the hot water into my shoes, as you did the other night. There, that will do. Now, Tomkins, fill up yours; and you, Mr Smith. Let us all start fair, and then you shall have my story—and a very curious one it is, I can tell you, I wouldn’t have believed it myself, if I hadn’t seen it. Hilloa! What’s this? Confound it! What’s the matter with the toddy? Heh, Mr Tomkins?”

Mr Tomkins tasted; but, like the lieutenant, he had made it very stiff; and, as he had also taken largely before, he was, like him, not quite so clear in his discrimination. “It has a queer twang, sir: Smith, what is it?”

Smith took up his glass, tasted the contents.

“Salt-water,” drawled the midshipman.

“Salt-water! So it is by heavens!” cried Mr Appleboy.

“Salt as Lot’s wife! By all that’s infamous!” cried the master’s mate.

“Salt-water, sir!” cried Jem in a fright, expecting a salt eel for supper.

“Yes, sir,” replied Mr Appleboy, tossing the contents of the tumbler in the boy’s face, “salt-water. Very well, sir,—very well!”

“It warn’t me, sir,” replied the boy, making up a piteous look.

“No, sir, but you said the cook was sober.”

“He was not so very much disguised, sir,” replied Jem.

“Oh! Very well—never mind. Mr Tomkins, in case I should forget it, do me the favour to put the kettle of salt-water down in the report. The scoundrel! I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but there’s no means of having any more gin-toddy. But never mind, we’ll see to this to-morrow. Two can play at this; and if I don’t salt-water their grog, and make them drink it too, I have been twenty years a first-lieutenant for nothing, that’s all. Good night, gentlemen; and,” continued the lieutenant, in a severe tone, “you’ll keep a sharp look-out, Mr Smith—do you hear, sir?”

“Yes,” drawled Smith, “but it’s not my watch: it was my first watch: and, just now, it struck one bell.”

“You’ll keep the middle watch, then, Mr Smith,” said Mr Appleboy, who was not a little put out; “and, Mr Tomkins, let me know as soon as it’s daylight. Boy, get my bed made. Salt-water, by all that’s blue! However, we’ll see to that to-morrow morning.”

Mr Appleboy then turned in; so did Mr Tomkins; and so did Mr Smith, who had no idea of keeping the middle watch because the cook was drunk and had filled up the kettle with salt-water. As for what happened in ninety-three or ninety-four, I really would inform the reader if I knew; but I am afraid that that most curious story is never to be handed down to posterity.

The next morning Mr Tomkins, as usual, forgot to report the cook, the jar of butter and the kettle of salt-water; and Mr Appleboy’s wrath had long been appeased before he remembered them. At daylight, the lieutenant came on deck, having only slept away half of the sixteen, and a taste of the seventeenth salt-water glass of gin-toddy. He rubbed his grey eyes, that he might peer through the grey of the morning; the fresh breeze blew about his grizzly locks, and cooled his rubicund nose. The revenue-cutter, whose name was the Active, cast off from the buoy, and, with a fresh breeze, steered her course for the Needles’ passage.

Chapter Three

Cutter the Third

Reader! Have you been to Saint Malo? If you have, you were glad enough to leave the hole; and if you have not, take my advice, and do not give yourself the trouble to go and see that or any other French port in the Channel. There is not one worth looking at. They have made one or two artificial ports, and they are no great things; there is no getting out or getting in. In fact, they have no harbours in the Channel, while we have the finest in the world; a peculiar dispensation of Providence, because it knew that we should want them, and France would not. In France, what are called ports are all alike,—nasty, narrow holes, only to be entered at certain times of tide and certain winds; made up of basins and backwaters, custom-houses, and cabarets; just fit for smugglers to run into, and nothing more; and, therefore they are used for very little else.

Now, in the dog-hole called Saint Malo there is some pretty land, although a great deficiency of marine scenery. But never mind that. Stay at home, and don’t go abroad to drink sour wine, because they call it Bordeaux, and eat villainous trash, so disguised by cooking that you cannot possibly tell which of the birds of the air, or beasts of the field, or fishes of the sea, you are cramming down your throat. “If all is right, there is no occasion for disguise,” is an old saying; so depend upon it that there is something wrong, and that you are eating offal, under a grand French name. They eat everything in France, and would serve you up the head of a monkey who has died of the smallpox, as singe à la petite vérole—that is, if you did not understand French; if you did, they would call it, tête d’amour à l’Ethiopique, and then you would be even more puzzled. As for their wine, there is no disguise in that; it’s half vinegar. No, no! Stay at home; you can live just as cheaply, if you choose; and then you will have good meat, good vegetables, good ale, good beer, and a good glass of grog; and, what is of more importance, you will be in good company. Live with your friends, and don’t make a fool of yourself.

I would not have condescended to have noticed this place, had it not been that I wish you to observe a vessel which is lying along the pier-wharf, with a plank from the shore to her gunwale. It is low water, and she is aground, and the plank dips down at such an angle that it is a work of danger to go either in or out of her. You observe that there is nothing very remarkable in her. She is a cutter, and a good sea-boat, and sails well before the wind. She is short for her breadth of beam, and is not armed. Smugglers do not arm now—the service is too dangerous; they effect their purpose by cunning, not by force. Nevertheless, it requires that smugglers should be good seamen, smart active fellows, and keen-witted, or they can do nothing. This vessel has not a large cargo in her, but it is valuable. She has some thousand yards of lace, a few hundred pounds of tea, a few bales of silk, and about forty ankers of brandy—just as much as they can land in one boat. All they ask is a heavy gale or a thick fog, and they trust to themselves for success.

There is nobody on board except a boy; the crew are all up at the cabaret, settling their little accounts of every description—for they smuggle both ways, and every man has his own private venture. There they are all, fifteen of them, and fine-looking fellows, too, sitting at that long table. They are very merry, but quite sober, as they are to sail to-night.

The captain of the vessel (whose name, by-the-bye, is the Happy-go-lucky,—the captain christened her himself) is that fine-looking young man, with dark whiskers meeting under his throat. His name is Jack Pickersgill. You perceive at once that he is much above a common sailor in appearance. His manners are good, he is remarkably handsome, very clean, and rather a dandy in his dress. Observe how very politely he takes off his hat to that Frenchman, with whom he had just settled accounts; he beats Johnny Crapeau at his own weapons. And then there is an air of command, a feeling of conscious superiority, about Jack; see how he treats the landlord, de haut en bas, at the same time that he is very civil. The fact is, that Jack is of a very good, old family, and received a very excellent education; but he was an orphan, his friends were poor, and could do but little for him: he went out to India as a cadet, ran away, and served in a schooner which smuggled opium into China, and then came home. He took a liking to the employment, and is now laying up a very pretty little sum: not that he intends to stop: no, as soon as he has enough to fit out a vessel for himself, he intends to start again for India, and with two cargoes of opium he will return, he trusts, with a handsome fortune, and re-assume his family name. Such are Jack’s intentions; and, as he eventually means to reappear as a gentleman, he preserves his gentlemanly habits: he neither drinks, nor chews, nor smokes. He keeps his hands clean, wears rings, and sports a gold snuff-box; notwithstanding which, Jack is one of the boldest and best of sailors, and the men know it. He is full of fun, and as keen as a razor. Jack has a very heavy venture this time—all the lace is his own speculation, and if he gets it in safe, he will clear some thousands of pounds. A certain fashionable shop in London has already agreed to take the whole off his hands.

That short, neatly-made young man is the second in command, and the companion of the captain. He is clever, and always has a remedy to propose when there is a difficulty, which is a great quality in a second in command. His name is Corbett. He is always merry—half-sailor, half-tradesman; knows the markets, runs up to London, and does business as well as a chapman—lives for the day and laughs at to-morrow.

That little punchy old man, with long grey hair and fat face, with a nose like a note of interrogation, is the next personage of importance. He ought to be called the sailing-master, for, although he goes on shore in France, off the English coast he never quits the vessel. When they leave her with the goods, he remains on board; he is always to be found off any part of the coast where he may be ordered; holding his position in defiance of gales, and tides, and fogs; as for the revenue-vessels, they all know him well enough, but they cannot touch a vessel in ballast, if she has no more men on board than allowed by her tonnage. He knows every creek, and hole, and corner of the coast; how the tide runs in—tide, half-tide, eddy, or current. That is his value. His name is Morrison.

You observe that Jack Pickersgill has two excellent supporters in Corbett and Morrison; his other men are good seamen, active, and obedient, which is all that he requires. I shall not particularly introduce them.

“Now you may call for another litre, my lads, and that, must be the last; the tide is flowing fast, and we shall be afloat in half an hour, and we have just the breeze we want. What d’ye think, Morrison, shall we have dirt?”

“I’ve been looking just now, and if it were any other month in the year I should say, yes; but there’s no trusting April, captain. Howsomever, if it does blow off, I’ll promise you a fog in three hours afterwards.”

“That will do as well. Corbett, have you settled with Duval?”

“Yes, after more noise and charivari than a panic in the Stock Exchange would make in England. He fought and squabbled for an hour, and I found that, without some abatement, I never should have settled the affair.”

“What did you let him off?”

“Seventeen sous,” replied Corbett, laughing.

“And that satisfied him?” inquired Pickersgill.

“Yes—it was all he could prove to be a surfaire: two of the knives were a little rusty. But he will always have something off; he could not be happy without it. I really think he would commit suicide if he had to pay a bill without a deduction.”

“Let him live,” replied Pickersgill. “Jeannette, a bottle of Volnay of 1811, and three glasses.”

Jeannette, who was the fille de cabaret, soon appeared with a bottle of wine, seldom called for, except by the captain of the Happy-go-lucky.

“You sail to-night?” said she, as she placed the bottle before him.

Pickersgill nodded his head.

“I had a strange dream,” said Jeannette; “I thought you were all taken by a revenue-cutter, and put in a cachot. I went to see you, and I did not know one of you again—you were all changed.”

“Very likely, Jeannette; you would not be the first who did not know their friends again when in misfortune. There was nothing strange in your dream.”

“Mais, mon Dieu! Je ne suis pas comme ça, moi.”

“No, that you are not, Jeannette; you are a good girl, and some of these fine days I’ll marry you,” said Corbett.

“Doit être bien beau ce jour là, par exemple,” replied Jeannette, laughing; “you have promised to marry me every time you have come in these last three years.”

“Well, that proves I keep to my promise, anyhow.”

“Yes; but you never go any further.”

“I can’t spare him, Jeannette, that is the real truth,” said the captain: “but wait a little,—in the meantime, here is a five-franc piece to add to your petite fortune.”

“Merci bien, monsieur le capitaine; bon voyage!” Jeannette held her finger up to Corbett, saying, with a smile, “méchant!” and then quitted the room.

“Come, Morrison, help us to empty this bottle, and then we will all go on board.”

“I wish that girl wouldn’t come here with her nonsensical dreams,” said Morrison, taking his seat; “I don’t like it. When she said that we should be taken by a revenue-cutter, I was looking at a blue and a white pigeon sitting on the wall opposite; and I said to myself, Now, if that be a warning, I will see: if the blue pigeon flies away first, I shall be in jail in a week; if the white, I shall be back here.”

“Well?” said Pickersgill, laughing.

“It wasn’t well,” answered Morrison, tossing off his wine, and putting the glass down with a deep sigh; “for the cursed blue pigeon flew away immediately.”

“Why, Morrison, you must have a chicken-heart to be frightened at a blue pigeon!” said Corbett, laughing and looking out of the window; “at all events, he has come back again, and there he is sitting by the white one.”

“It’s the first time that ever I was called chicken-hearted,” replied Morrison, in wrath.

“Nor do you deserve it, Morrison,” replied Pickersgill; “but Corbett is only joking.”

“Well, at all events, I’ll try my luck in the same way, and see whether I am to be in jail: I shall take the blue pigeon as my bad omen, as you did.”

The sailors and Captain Pickersgill all rose and went to the window, to ascertain Corbett’s fortune by this new species of augury. The blue pigeon flapped his wings, and then he sidled up to the white one; at last, the white pigeon flew off the wall and settled on the roof of the adjacent house. “Bravo, white pigeon!” said Corbett; “I shall be here again in a week.” The whole party, laughing, then resumed their seats; and Morrison’s countenance brightened up. As he took the glass of wine poured out by Pickersgill, he said, “Here’s your health, Corbett; it was all nonsense, after all—for, d’ye see, I can’t be put in jail, without you are. We all sail in the same boat, and when you leave me you take with you everything that can condemn the vessel—so here’s success to our trip.”

“We will all drink that toast, my lads, and then on board,” said the captain; “here’s success to our trip.”

The captain rose, as did the mates and men, drank the toast, turned down the drinking-vessels on the table, hastened to the wharf, and, in half an hour, the Happy-go-lucky was clear of the port of Saint Malo.

Chapter Four

Portland Bill

The Happy-go-lucky sailed with a fresh breeze and a flowing sheet from Saint Malo, the evening before the Arrow sailed from Barn Pool. The Active sailed from Portsmouth the morning after.