Читать книгу Snarleyyow; or, The Dog Fiend - Фредерик Марриет - Страница 19

It may readily be supposed, that the first question asked by Mr. Vanslyperken, on his gaining the quarter-deck, was, if Snarleyyow were on board. He was received with the military salute of Corporal Van Spitter, for Obadiah Coble, having been left commanding officer, had given himself leave, and, with a few men, had joined Bob Short and the first party at the Lust Haus, leaving the corporal as the next senior officer in charge. The answer in the negative was a great mortification to Mr. Vanslyperken, and he descended to his cabin in no very good humour, and summoned Smallbones. But before Smallbones was summoned, he had time to whisper to one or two of the conspirators—“He’s gone.” It was enough; in less than a minute the whisper was passed throughout the cutter. “He’s gone,” was siffilated above and below, until it met the ears of even Corporal Van Spitter, who had it from a marine, who had it from another marine, who had it from a seaman, who—but it was, however, soon traced up to Smallbones by the indefatigable corporal—who considered it his duty to report the report to Mr. Vanslyperken. Accordingly he descended to the cabin and knocked for admission.

In the meantime Vanslyperken had been venting his ill-humour upon Smallbones, having, as he took off from his person, and replaced in his drawers, his unusual finery, administered an unusual quantity of kicks, as well as a severe blow on the head with his sheathed cutlass to the unfortunate lad, who repeated to himself, by way of consolation, the magic words—“He’s gone.”

“If you please, sir,” said Corporal Van Spitter, “I’ve discovered from the ship’s company that the dog is gone.”

“I know that, corporal,” replied Vanslyperken.

“And, sir, the report has been traced to Smallbones.”

“Indeed! Then it was you that said that the dog is gone—now, you villain, where is he?”

“If you please, I did say that the dog was gone, and so he is: but I didn’t say that I knew where he was—no more I don’t. He’s runned away, and he’ll be back to-morrow; I’m sure he will.”

“Corporal Van Spitter, if the dog is not on board again by eight o’clock to-morrow morning, you will get all ready for keel-hauling this scoundrel.”

“Yes, mynheer,” replied the corporal, delighted at having something to do in the way of punishment.

Smallbones made up a lachrymal face.

“It’s very hard,” said he; “suppose the dog has fallen into the canal, is that my fault? If he’s a-gone to the bottom of the canal, that’s no reason why I’m to be dragged under the bottom of the cutter.”

“Yes, yes,” replied Vanslyperken, “I’ll teach you to throw paving-stones off the wharf. Leave the cabin, sir.”

Smallbones, whose guilty conscience flew into his pallid face at the mention of the paving-stones, immediately made a hasty retreat; and Vanslyperken turned into his bed and dreamt of vengeance.

We must now return to the Lust Haus, and the party on shore; and our first task must be, to give the reader an idea of what a Lust Haus may be. It is, as its name imports, a resort for pleasure and amusement; and in this respect the Dutch are certainly very much in advance of the English, who have, in the pot-houses and low inns resorted to by seamen, no accommodation of the kind. There is barely room for Jack to foot it in a reel, the tap-room is so small; and as Jack is soon reeling after he is once on shore, it is a very great defect. Now, the Lust Haus is a room as large as an assembly-room in a country town, well lighted up with lamps and chandeliers, well warmed with stoves, where you have room to dance fifty reels at once, and still have plenty of accommodation at the chairs and tables ranged round on each side. At the end of the room is a raised chair, with a protecting railing, on which the musicians, to the number of seven or eight, are posted, and they continue during the evening to play when requested. The people of the Lust Haus furnish wine and spirits of every description, while cakes, nuts, walnuts, oranges, etcetera, are supplied from the baskets of numerous young women, who hand them round, and press their customers to purchase. Police-officers superintend these resorts, to remove those who are violent and interfere with the amusements of others. On the whole, it is a very gay scene, and is resorted to by seamen of all nations, with a sprinkling of those who are not sailors, but who like amusement, and there are plenty of females who are ready to dance with them, and to share their beer or grog. Be it further known, that there is a great deal of decorum in a Lust Haus, particularly among the latter sex; and altogether it is infinitely more rational and less debasing than the low pot-houses of Portsmouth or Plymouth.

Such was the place of amusement kept by the Frau Vandersloosh, and in this large room had been seated, for some hours, Dick Short, Coble, Jansen, Jemmy Ducks, and some others of the crew of his Majesty’s cutter Yungfrau.

The room was now full, but not crowded; it was too spacious well to be so. Some sixteen couples were dancing a quadrille to a lively tune played by the band, and among the dancers were to be seen old women, and children of tea or twelve; for it was not considered improper to be seen dancing at this humble assembly, and the neighbours frequently came in. The small tables and numerous chairs round the room were nearly all filled, beer was foaming from the mouths of the opened bottles, and there was the ringing of the glasses as they pledged each other. At several tables were assemblages of Dutch seamen, who smoked with all the phlegm of their nation, as they gravely looked upon the dancers. At another were to be seen some American seamen, scrupulously neat in their attire, and with an air distinguée, from the superiority of their education, and all of them quiet and sober. The basket-women flitted about displaying, their stores, and invited every one to purchase fruit, and particularly hard-boiled eggs, which they had brought in at this hour, when those who dined at one might be expected to be hungry. Sailors’ wives were also there, and perhaps some who could not produce the marriage certificates; but as these were not asked for at the door, it was of no consequence. About the centre of the room, at two small tables joined together, were to be seen the party from the Yungfrau; some were drinking beer, some grog, and Jemmy Ducks was perched on the table, with his fiddle as usual held like a bass viol. He was known by those who frequented the house by the name of the Mannikin, and was a universal object of admiration and good-will. The quadrille was ended, and the music stopped playing.

“Come now,” said Coble, tossing off his glass, “spell oh!—let’s have a song while they take their breath. Jemmy, strike up.”

“Hurrah, for a song!” cries Jemmy. “Here goes.”

Jemmy then tuned one string of his fiddle, which was a little out, and accompanying his voice, sang as follows: all those who were present immediately keeping silence, for they were used to Jemmy’s melody.

’Twas on the twenty-fourth of June I sail’d away to sea,

I turn’d my pockets in the lap of Susan on my knee;

Says I, my dear, ’tis all I have, I wish that it was more.

It can’t be help’d, says Susan then, you know we’ve spent galore.

You know we’ve spent galore, my Bill,

And merry have been we,

Again you must your pockets fill,

For Susan on your knee.

“Chorus, my boys—!”

For Susan on my knee, my boys,

With Susan on my knee.

The gale came on in thunder, lads, in lightning, and in foam,

Before that we had sail’d away three hundred miles from home;

And on the Sunday morning, lads, the coast was on our lee,

Oh, then I thought of Portsmouth, and of Susan on my knee.

For howling winds and waves to boot,

With black rocks on the lee,

Did not so well my fancy suit,

As Susan on my knee.

Chorus.—With Susan on my knee, my boys, With Susan on my knee. Next morning we were cast away upon the Frenchman’s shore, We saved our lives, but not our all, for we could save no more; They march’d us to a prison, so we lost our liberty, I peep’d between the bars, and sigh’d for Susan on my knee. For bread so black, and wine so sour, And a sou a-day to me, Made me long ten times an hour, For Susan on my knee. Chorus.—For Susan on my knee, my boys, For Susan on my knee. One night we smash’d our jailer’s skull, and off our boat did steer, And in the offing were pick’d up by a jolly privateer; We sail’d in her the cruise, my boys, and prizes did take we, I’ll be at Portsmouth soon, thinks I, with Susan on my knee. We shared three hundred pounds a man, I made all sail with glee, Again I danced and toss’d my can, With Susan on my knee. Chorus—With Susan on my knee, my boys, With Susan on my knee.

“That’s prime, Jemmy. Now, my boys, all together,” cried Obadiah Coble.

Chorus.—Very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one; We are all here for mirth and glee, We are all here for jollity. Very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one; Put your hats on to keep your beads warm, A little more grog will do us no harm.

“Hurrah! Now, Bill Spurey, suppose you tip us a stave. But I say, Babette, you Dutch-built galliot, tell old Frank Slush to send us another dose of the stuff; and, d’ye hear, a short pipe for me, and a paper o’ baccy.”

The short, fat Babette, whose proportions all the exercise of waiting upon the customers could not reduce, knew quite enough English to require no further explanation.

“Come, Jemmy, my hearty, take your fingers off your fiddle, and hand in your pot,” continued Coble; “and then, if they are not going to dance, we’ll have another song. Bill Spurey, wet your whistle, and just clear the cobwebs out of your throat. Here’s more ’baccy, Short.”

Short made no reply, but he shook out the ashes, and filled his pipe. The music did not strike up again, so Bill Spurey sang as follows:—

Says the parson one day, as I cursed a Jew,

Do you know, my lad, that we call it a sin!

I fear of you sailors there are but few,

St. Peter, to heaven, will ever let in.

Says I, Mr. Parson, to tell you my mind,

No sailors to knock were ever yet seen,

Those who travel by land may steer ’gainst wind,

But we shape a course for Fiddler’s Green.

For Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true,

When here they’ve done their duty,

The bowl of grog shall still renew

And pledge to love and beauty.

Says the parson, I hear you’ve married three wives,

Now do you not know that that is a sin?

You sailors, you lead such very bad lives,

St. Peter, to heaven, will ne’er let you in.

Parson, says I, in each port I’ve but one, And never had more, wherever I’ve been; Below I’m obliged to be chaste as a nun, But I’m promised a dozen at Fiddler’s Green. At Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true, When here they’ve done their duty, The bowl of grog shall still renew, And pledge to love and beauty. Says the parson, says he, you’re drunk, my man, And do you not know that that is a sin? If you sailors will ever be swinging your can, To heaven you surely will never get in. (Hiccup.) Parson, you may as well be mum, ’Tis only on shore I’m this way seen; But oceans of punch, and rivers of rum, Await the sailor at Fiddler’s Green. At Fiddler’s Green, where seamen true, When here they’ve done their duty, The bowl of grog shall still renew And pledge to love and beauty.

“Well reeled off, Billy,” cried Jemmy Ducks finishing with a flourish on his fiddle and a refrain of the air. “I don’t think we shall meet him and his dog at Fiddler’s Green—heh!”

“No,” replied Short, taking his pipe from his lip.

“No, no, Jemmy, a seaman true means one true in heart as well as in knowledge; but, like a blind fiddler, he’ll be led by his dog somewhere else.”

“From vere de dog did come from,” observed Jansen.

The band now struck up again, and played a waltz—a dance new to our country, but older than the Heptarchy. Jansen, with his pipe in his mouth, took one of the women by the waist, and steered round the room about as leisurely as a capstan heaving up. Dick Short also took another made four turns, reeled up against a Dutchman who was doing it with sang froid, and then suddenly left his partner, and dropped into his chair.

“I say, Jemmy,” said Obadiah Coble, “why don’t you give a girl a twist round?”

“Because I can’t, Oby; my compasses ain’t long enough to describe a circle. You and I are better here, old boy. I, because I’ve very little legs, and you, because you havn’t a leg to stand upon.”

“Very true—not quite so young as I was forty years ago. Howsomever I mean this to be my last vessel. I shall bear up for one of the London dockyards as a rigger.”

“Yes, that’ll do; only keep clear of the girt-lines, you’re too stiff for that.”

“No, that would not exactly tell; I shall pick my own work, and that’s where I can bring my tarry trousers to an anchor—mousing the mainstay, or puddening the anchor, with the best of any. Dick, lend us a bit of ’baccy.”

Short pulled out his box without saying a word. Coble took a quid, and Short thrust the box again into his pocket.

In the meantime the waltz continued, and being a favourite dance, there were about fifty couple going round and round the room. Such was the variety in the dress, country, language, and appearance of the parties collected, that you might have imagined it a masquerade. It was, however, getting late, and Frau Vandersloosh had received the intimation of the people of the police who superintend these resorts, that it was the time for shutting up; so that, although the widow was sorry on her own account to disperse so merry and so thirsty a party as they were now becoming, so soon as the waltz was ended the musicians packed up their instruments and departed.

This was a signal for many, but by no means for all, to depart; for music being over, and the house doors closed, a few who remained, provided they made no disturbance, were not interfered with by the police. Among those who stayed were the party from the Yungfrau, one or two American, and some Prussian sailors. Having closed up together—“Come,” cried Jemmy, “now that we are quiet again, let’s have another song; and who is it to be—Dick Short?”

“Short, my boy, come, you must sing.”

“No,” replied Short.

“Yes, yes—one verse,” said Spurey.

“He never sings more,” replied Jemmy Ducks, “so he must give us that. Come, Short.”

“Yes,” replied Short, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and wetting his lips with the grog.

Short stay apeak was the anchor, We had but a short minute more, In short, I no longer could hanker, For short was the cash in my store. I gave one short look, As Poll heaved a short sigh, One short hug I took, Short the matter cut I, And off I went to sea.

“Go on, Bob.”

“No,” replied Short, resuming his pipe.

“Well, then, chorus, my boys.”

Very good song, and very well sung,

Jolly companions every one;

We all are here for mirth and glee,

We all are here for jollity.

Very good song, and very well sung,

Jolly companions every one;

Put your hats on, and keep your heads warm,

A little more liquor will do us no harm.

“Now then, Jemmy Ducks, it’s round to you again. Strike up, fiddle and all.”

“Well, here goes,” said Jemmy Ducks.

The captain stood on the carronade—first lieutenant, says he,

Send all my merry men aft here, for they must list to me:

I haven’t the gift of the gab, my sons—because I’m bred to the sea;

That ship there is a Frenchman, who means to fight with we.

Odds blood, hammer and tongs, long as I’ve been to sea,

I’ve fought ’gainst every odds—but I’ve gain’d the victory.

That ship there is a Frenchman, and if we don’t take she, ’Tis a thousand bullets to one, that she will capture we; I havn’t the gift of the gab, my boys; so each man to his gun; If she’s not mine in half an hour, I’ll flog each mother’s son. Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I’ve been to sea, I’ve fought ’gainst every odds—and I’ve gain’d the victory. We fought for twenty minutes, when the Frenchman had enough; I little thought, said he, that your men were of such stuff; The captain took the Frenchman’s sword, a low bow made to he; I havn’t the gift of the gab, monsieur, but polite I wish to be. Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long as I’ve been to sea, I’ve fought ’gainst every odds—and I’ve gain’d the victory. Our captain sent for all of us; my merry men, said he, I haven’t the gift of the gab, my lads, but yet I thankful be: You’ve done your duty handsomely, each man stood to his gun; If you hadn’t, you villains, as sure as day, I’d have flogg’d each mother’s son. Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as long as I’m at sea, I’ll fight ’gainst every odds—and I’ll gain the victory. Chorus.—Very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one; We all are here for mirth and glee, We all are here for jollity. Very good song, and very well sung, Jolly companions every one; Put your hats on to keep your heads warm, A little more grog will do us no harm.

“Now, Coble, we must have yours,” said Jemmy Ducks.

“Mine! well, if you please; but half my notes are stranded. You’ll think that Snarleyyow is baying the moon. Howsomever, take it as it is.”

Oh, what’s the use of piping, boys, I never yet could larn,

The good of water from the eyes I never could disarn;

Salt water we have sure enough without our pumping more;

So let us leave all crying to the girls we leave on shore.

They may pump,

As in we jump

To the boat, and say, “Good bye;”

But as for men,

Why, I say again,

That crying’s all my eye.

I went to school when quite a boy, and never larnt to read,

The master tried both head and tail—at last it was agreed

No larning he could force in me, so they sent me off to sea;

My mother wept and wrung her hands, and cried most bitterly.

So she did pump,

As I did jump

In the boat, and said, “Good bye;”

But as for me,

Who was sent to sea,

To cry was all my eye.

I courted Poll, a buxom lass; when I return’d A.B.,

I bought her ear-rings, hat, and shawl, a sixpence did break we;

At last ’twas time to be on board, so, Poll, says I, farewell;

She roar’d and said, that leaving her was like a funeral knell.

So she did pump,

As I did jump

In the boat, and said, “Good bye;”

But as for me,

With the rate A B,

To cry was all my eye.

I soon went back, I shoved on shore, and Polly I did meet,

For she was watching on the shore, her sweetheart for to greet;

She threw her arms around me then, and much to my surprise,

She vow’d she was so happy that she pump’d with both her eyes.

So she did pump,

As I did jump

To kiss her lovingly;

But, I say again,

That as for men,

Crying is all my eye.

Then push the can around, my boys, and let us merry be;

We’ll rig the pumps if a leak we spring, and work most merrily;

Salt water we have sure enough, we’ll add not to its store,

But drink, and laugh, and sing, and chat, and call again for more.

The girls may pump,

As in we jump

To the boat, and say, “Good bye;”

But as for we,

Who sailors be,

Crying is all my eye.

“Bravo, Obadiah! now one more song, and then we’ll aboard. It won’t do to bowse your jib up too tight here,” said Jemmy; “for it’s rather dangerous navigation among all these canals—no room for yawing.”

“No,” replied Dick Short.

“Then,” said Jemmy, jumping off the table with his fiddle in his hand. “Let’s have the roarer by way of a finish—what d’ye say, my hearties?”

Up they all rose, and gathered together in the centre of the room, save Jemmy Ducks, who, flourishing with his fiddle, commenced—

Jack’s alive, and a merry dog,

When he gets on shore

He calls for his glass of grog,

He drinks, and he calls for more.

So drink, and call for what you please,

Until you’ve had your whack, boys;

We think no more of raging seas,

Now that we’ve come back, boys.

“Chorus, now—”

With a whip, snip, high cum diddledy, The cog-wheels of life have need of much oiling; Smack, crack—this is our jubilee: Huzza, my lads! we’ll keep the pot boiling.

All the seamen joined in the chorus, which they accompanied both with their hands and feet, snapping their fingers at whip and snip, and smacking their hands at smack and crack, while they danced round in the most grotesque manner, to Jemmy’s fiddle and voice; the chorus ended in loud laughter, for they had now proved the words of the song to be true, and were all alive and merry. According to the rules of the song, Jemmy now called out for the next singer, Coble.

Jack’s alive and merry, my boys,

When he’s on blue water,

In the battle’s rage and noise,

And the main-deck slaughter.

So drink and call for what you please,

Until you’ve had your whack, boys;

We’ll think no more of angry seas,

Until that we go back, boys.

Chorus—With a whip, snip, high cum diddledy, The cog-wheels of life have need of much oiling; Smack, crack—this is our jubilee: Huzza, my lads! we’ll keep the pot boiling.

Jansen and Jemmy Ducks, after the dancing chorus had finished—

Yack alive and merry my boys,

Ven he get him frau And he vid her ringlet toys, As he take her paw. So drink, and call for vat you please, Until you hab your vack, boys; Ve’ll think no more of angry seas, Till ve standen back, boys.

Chorus and laughter.

With a whip, snip, high cum diddledy, The cog-wheels of life have need of much oiling; Smack, crack—this is our jubilee Huzza, my lads, we’ll keep the pot boiling.

Bill Spurey—

Jack’s alive and merry, boys,

When he’s got the shiners;

Heh! for rattle, fun, and noise,

Hang all grumbling whiners.

Then drink, and call for what you please

Until you’ve had your whack, boys;

We think no more of raging seas,

Now that we’ve come back, boys.

Chorus.—With a whip, snip, high cum diddledy, The cog-wheels of life have need of much oiling; Smack, crack—this is our jubilee; Huzza, my lads we’ll keep the pot boiling.

“Dick Short must sing.”

“Yes,” replied Dick.

Jack’s alive and full of fun,

When his hulk is crazy,

As he basks in Greenwich sun

Jolly still, though lazy.

So drink, and call for what you please,

Until you’ve had your whack, boys;

We’ll think no more of raging seas,

Now that we’ve come back, boys.

Chorus—With a whip, snip, high cum diddledy. The cog-wheels of life have need of much oiling; Smack, crack—this is our jubilee; Huzza, my lads! we’ll keep the pot boiling.

As this was the last chorus, it was repeated three or four times, and with hallooing, screaming, and dancing in mad gesticulation.

“Hurrah, my lads,” cried Jemmy, “three cheers and a bravo.”

It was high time that they went on board; so thought Frau Vandersloosh, who trembled for her chandeliers; so thought Babette, who had begun to yawn before the last song, and who had tired herself more with laughing at it; so thought they all, and they sallied forth out of the Lust Haus, with Jemmy Ducks having the advance, and fiddling to them the whole way down to the boat. Fortunately, not one of them fell into the canal, and in ten minutes they were all on board; they were not, however, permitted to turn into their hammocks without the important information being imparted to them, that Snarleyyow had disappeared.