Chapter 17

comes on deck and pipes._

All hands ahoy--hand a rope, some of you Tories, forward there, for his worship's reg'ment of black guards to come aboard.

_Enter NEGROES._

BOATSWAIN. Your humble servant, Gentlemen, I suppose you want to see Lord Kidnapper?--Clear the gangway there of them Tyburn tulips. Please to walk aft, brother soldiers, that's the fittest birth for you, the Kidnapper's in the state-room, he'll hoist his sheet-anchor presently, he'll be up in a jiffin--as soon as he has made fast the end of his small rope athwart Jenny Bluegarter and Kate Common's stern posts.

FIRST SAILOR. Damn my eyes, but I suppose, messmate, we must bundle out of our hammocks this cold weather, to make room for these black regulars to stow in, tumble upon deck, and choose a soft berth among the snow?

SECOND SAILOR. Blast 'em, if they come within a cable's length of my hammock, I'll kick 'em to hell through one of the gun ports.

BOATSWAIN. Come, come, brothers, don't be angry, I suppose we shall soon be in a warmer latitude--the Kidnapper seems as fond of these black regulars (as you call 'em, Jack) as he is of the brace of whores below; but as they come in so damn'd slow, I'll put him in the humour of sending part of the fleet this winter to the coast of Guinea, and beat up for volunteers, there he'll get recruits enough for a hogshead or two of New-England rum, and a few owld pipe-shanks, and save poor Owld-England the trouble and expense of clothing them in the bargain.

FIRST SAILOR. Aye, BOATSWAIN, any voyage, so it's a warm one--if it's to hell itself--for I'm sure the devil must be better off than we, if we are to stay here this winter.

SECOND SAILOR. Any voyage, so it's to the southward, rather than stay here at lazy anchor--no fire, nothing to eat or drink, but suck our frosty fists like bears, unless we turn sheep-stealers again, and get our brains knock'd out. Eigh, master cook, you're a gentleman now--nothing to do--grown so proud, you won't speak to poor folks, I suppose?

COOK. The devil may cook for 'em for me--if I had any thing to cook--a parcel of frozen half-starv'd dogs. I should never be able to keep 'em out of the cook room, or their noses out of the slush-tub.

BOATSWAIN. Damn your old smoky jaws, you're better off than any man aboard, your trouble will be nothing,--for I suppose they'll be disbursted in different messes among the Tories, and it's only putting on the big pot, cockey. Ha, ha, ha.

COOK. What signifies, Mr. Boatswain, the big pot or the little pot, if there's nothing to cook? no fire, coal or wood to cook with? Blast my eyes, Mr. Boatswain, if I disgrease myself so much, I have had the honour, damn me (tho' I say it that shou'dn't say it) to be chief cook of a seventy-four gun ship, on board of which was Lord Abel-Marl and Admiral Poke-Cock.

BOATSWAIN. Damn the liars--old singe-the-devil--you chief cook of a seventy-four gun ship, eigh? you the devil, you're as proud as hell, for all you look as old as Matheg'lum, hand a pair of silk stockings for our cook here, d' ye see--lash a handspike athwart his arse, get a ladle full of slush and a handful of brimstone for his hair, and step one of you Tories there for the devil's barber to come and shave and dress him. Ha, ha, ha.

COOK. No, Mr. Boatswain, it's not pride--but look 'e (as I said before), I'll not disgrease my station, I'll throw up my commission, before I'll stand cook for a parcel of scape gallows, convict Tory dogs and run-away Negroes.

BOATSWAIN. What's that you say? Take care, old frosty face--What? do you accuse his worship of turning kidnapper, and harbouring run-away Negroes?--Softly, or you'll be taken up for a Whig, and get a handsome coat of slush and hog's feathers for a christmas-box, cockey: Throw up your commission, eigh? throw up the pot-halliards, you mean, old piss-to-windward? Ha, ha, ha.

COOK. I tell you, Mr. Boatswain--I--

BOATSWAIN. Come, come, give us a chaw of tobacco, Cook--blast your eyes, don't take any pride in what I say--I'm only joking, d' ye see----

COOK. Well, but Mr. Boatswain----

BOATSWAIN. Come, avast, belay the lanyards of your jaws, and let's have no more of it, d' ye see. [_BOATSWAIN pipes._] Make fast that boat along side there.

[_Exeunt ev'ry man to his station._