The officers, I saw and knew, felt very
differently.
"My eye!" sung out an old quartermaster incur boat, perched well forward
with his back against the ring in the stem, and his arms crossed, after
having been busily employed rummaging in his bag, "my eye, what a pity--oh,
what a pity!"
Come, there is some feeling, genuine, at all events, thought I.
"My," said Bill Chestree, the captain of the foretop, "what is can't be
helped, old Fizgig; old Rayo has gone down, and"--"Old Rayo be d--d, Master
Bill," said the man; "but may I be flogged, if I han't forgotten half a
pound of negro head baccy in Dick Catgut's bag."
"Launch ahoy!" hailed a half drunken voice from one of the boats astern of
us. "Hillo," responded the coxswain. The poor skipper even pricked up his
ears. "Have you got Dick Catgut's fiddle among ye?" This said Dick Catgut
was the corporal of marines, and the prime instigator of all the fun
amongst the men. "No, no," said several voices, "no fiddle here." The hail
passed round among the other boats, "No fiddle." "I would rather lose three
days grog than have his fiddle mislaid," quoth the man who pulled the bow
oar.
"Why don't you ask Dick himself?" said our coxswain.
"Aye--true enough--Dick, Dick Catgut!" but no one answered. Alas! poor
Dick was nowhere to be found; he had been mislaid as well as his fiddle.
He had broken into the spirit room, as it turned out, and having got drunk,
did not come to time when the frigate sunk.
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