" Souse him and let him hang there to dry!" says he, and then he addressed the unconscious victim. "And let me catch you at your filthy tricks again, you scum, so help me G-d I'll hang you — d'ye hear!"
He glared at us with his madman's eyes, and my heart was in my mouth for a moment. Then his scar faded, and he said in his normal bark:
"Dismiss the hands, Mr Comber. Mr Sullivan, and you, supercargo, come aft. Mrs Spring is serving tea."
There were a few curious glances at me as I followed Spring and the Yankee mate — I was new to the crew, of course-and as we went down the ladder to his cabin, Spring looked me over. "Go and put on a jacket," he growled. "G-d d—n you, don't you know anything?" so I scudded off smartly, and when I came back they were still waiting. He examined me — and in a flash of memory I thought of waiting with Wellington to see the Queen, and being fussed over by flunkeys — and then he threw open the door.
"I trust we don't intrude, my dear," says he. "I have brought Mr Sullivan to tea, and our new supercargo, Mr Flashman."
I don't know what I expected — the Queen of Sheba wouldn't have surprised me, aboard the Balliol College — but it wasn't the mild-looking, middle-aged woman sitting behind a table, picking at a sampler, who turned to beam at us pleasantly, murmured something in greeting, and then set to pouring tea. Presently Comber came in, smoothing his hair, and the grizzled old second mate, Kinnie, who ducked his head to me when Spring made us known to each other. Mrs Spring handed over cups, and we stood round sipping, and nibbling at her biscuits, while she beamed and Spring talked — she had little to say for herself, but he paid her as much respect as though it had been a London drawing-room. I had to pinch myself to believe it was reaclass="underline" a tea-party aboard a slaver, with this comfortable woman adding hot water to the pot while a flogged man was bleeding all over the deck above our heads, and Spring, his cuff specked with the victim's gore, was laying it off about Thucydides and Horace.
"Mr Flashman has had the beginning of an education, my dear," says he. "He was with Dr Arnold at Rugby School."
She turned a placid face in my direction. "Mr Spring is a classical scholar," says she. "His father was a Senior Fellow."
"Senior Tutor, if you please, my dear," says Spring. "And it's my belief he achieved that position by stealing the work of better men. Scholarship is merely a means to an end these days, and paucis carior est fides quam pecunia.*[* Few do not set a higher value on money than on good faith.] You remember Sallust, Mr Comber? No? There seems to be little to choose between the ignorance of Rugby and that of Winchester College." (Oho, thinks I, Winchester, that accounts for a lot.) "However, if we have some leisure on this voyage, we may repair these things, may we not, Mr Flashman?"
I mumbled something about being always eager to learn.
"Aye," says he, "pars sanitatis velle sanari fuit,*[* The wish to be cured is itself a step towards health.] we may hope. But I imagine Seneca is yet another among the many authors with whom you are not acquainted." He munched on a biscuit, the pale blue eyes considering me. "Tell me, sir, what do you know?"
I stole a glance at the others; Kinnie had his head down over his cup, and Sullivan, the big, raw-boned Yankee, was gazing bleakly before him. Comber was looking nervous.
"Well, sir," says I, "not very much …" And then, like a fool, I added, toady-like: "Not as much as a Fellow of Oriel College, I'm sure."
Comber's cup clattered suddenly. Spring says, very soft: "I am not a Fellow, Mr Flashman. I was dismissed."
Well, it didn't surprise me. "I'm very sorry, sir," says I.
"You well may be," says he. "You well may be. You may come to wish that I was in my rightful place, sir, instead of here!" His voice was rising, and his scar going crimson. He set his cup down with a force that rattled the table. "Herding with the carrion of the sea, sir, instead of … of … d—n your eyes, man, look at me! You think it a matter for contempt, don't you, that a man of my intellect should be brought to this! You think it a jest that I was flung into the gutter by jealous liars! You do! I see it in your…"
"No, no indeed, sir!" cries I, quaking. "I was expelled myself … I don't …"
"Hold your confounded tongue!" he bawled. "You can't do right for doing wrong, can you? No, by G-d! Well, I warn you, Mister Flashman — I'll remind you of another text from Seneca, whom you don't b––y well read, d—n your ignorance! Gravis ira regum sem per*[* The anger of kings is always severe.] Mr Comber will construe it for you — he's heard it before, and digested it! He'll tell you that a captain is to be feared as much as a king!" He thumped the table. "Mrs Spring, you'll excuse me!" And he burst past me, slamming the door behind him.
He left me shaking, and then we heard his voice on deck, bawling at the man at the wheel, and his feet stamping overhead. I felt the sweat starting on my forehead.
"May I give you some more tea, Mr Sullivan?" says Mrs Spring. "Mr Comber, a little more?" She poured for them in silence. "Have you been to sea before, Mr Flashman?"
God knows what I said; it was too much for me, and it's quite likely I answered nothing at all. I know we stood about a little longer, and then Sullivan said we must be about our duties, and we thanked Mrs Spring, and she inclined her head gravely, and we filed out.
Outside, Sullivan turned to me, glanced up the ladder, sighed, and rubbed his jaw. He was a youngish, hard-case sailor, this one, with a New England figurehead and a slantendicular way of looking at you. At last he says:
"He's mad. So's she." He thought for a moment. "It don't matter, though. Much. Sane or silly, drunk or dry, he's the best d––d skipper on this coast, or any other. You follow me?"
I stood there, nodding.
"Well and good," says he. "You'll be in Mr Comber's watch — just tail on to the rope and keep your eyes open. And when the skipper starts talkin' Latin, or whatever it is, just shut up, d'ye hear?"
That was one piece of advice which I didn't need. If I'd learned one thing about the Balliol College, it was that I had no wish to bandy scholarship with John Charity Spring — or anything else, for that matter.
3
By now you will have some idea of what life at sea was like when Uncle Harry was a boy. I don't claim that it was typical — I've sailed on many ships since the Balliol College, and never struck one like it, thank G-d — but although it was often like cruising in an asylum, I'll say one thing: that ship and crew were d—-d good at their work, which was kidnapping niggers and selling them in the Americas.
I can say this now, looking back; I was hardly in a position to appreciate their qualities after that first day of flogging and tea parties. All I could think of then was that I was at the mercy of a dangerous maniac who was h—l bent on a dangerous criminal expedition, and I didn't know which to be more scared of — him and his Latin lectures or the business ahead. But as usual, after a day or two I settled down, and if I didn't enjoy the first weeks of that voyage, well, I've known worse.
At least I had an idea of what I was in for — or thought I had — and could hope to see the end of it. For the moment I must take care, and so I studied to do my duties well — which was easy enough — and to avoid awakening the wrath of Captain J. C. Spring. This last wasn't too difficult, as it proved: all I had to do in his presence was listen to his interminable prosing about Thucydides and Lucan, and Seneca, whom he particularly admired, for he dearly loved to display his learning. (In fact, I heard later that he had been a considerable scholar in his youth, and would have gone far had he not assaulted some dignitary at Oxford and been kicked out. Who knows? he might have become something like Head at Rugby — which prompts the thought that Arnold would have made a handy skipper for an Ivory Coast pirate.)