The Second Cat Megapack: Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New

by Pamela Sargent

  Well no, not so much that perhaps, but the morning was bright and clear, every puff of white smoke, with its tongue of fire, made me jump a little, but the smoke itself was borne quickly to leeward on the wings of a cool breeze. Then on shore were the low wicked-looking forts, and the greenery of trees, and the Persian horsemen in splendid uniform dashing hither and thither, and the ships themselves, with the loosely hanging canvas and their flags, on the river, glittering in the rays of the spring sunshine. All was beautiful.

  Then further on in the day began the disembarkation, and I saw my dear master among his hilted warriors going on shore, and my heart sank with fear, as I thought he might be shot.

  I even began to descend the rigging to go with him, but then I thought I could be of no use, and so remained.

  All the while the troops were leaving, the battle of great guns raged on between ships and shore, and I was dreadfully alarmed once at a fearful explosion that took place on shore, for the enemy’s magazine blew up, and masses of masonry and timber, and mangled human beings were thrown straight into the air amidst sheets of flame and rolling clouds of smoke.

  Well, Cracker, I did not see my dear master again for three or four days, and very anxious I was; but I had heard that the British arms had been everywhere successful, and that the town and all the forts were in our possession. The army of the Shah had fled far away.

  When my master came back at last, and honest Jock McNab with him, how loudly I sang as I ran to meet them! It was one of the happiest days in my life.

  But a strange adventure now gave hope and happiness to my dear master once more.

  One beautiful afternoon there he was, walking on the ramparts of one of the half-ruined ports of Mohammerah, in company with Jock McNab, his faithful Scottish servant. Today, all being safe, I myself was permitted to come on shore with them, and I was seated on Jock’s shoulder. After gazing for a short time down into the silver, silent river—his thoughts, I felt, were very faraway—the surgeon of the ship came round.

  “Ah! Edgar,” he said, “have you seen the ruins of the exploded magazine yet?”

  “No, my friend. Is it worth beholding?”

  “Well, yes, if you are not too nervous. But a sight so ghastly and awful I have never yet clapped eyes upon.”

  “I’ll go,” said master. “Mac, just wait here for me a few minutes.”

  Jock saluted, and seating himself on a block of masonry, took me off my perch, and began to play with me.

  While so engaged, a footstep fell upon our ears, and we both looked up.

  Before us stood a tall and handsome dark-bearded man, in a semi-clerical garb, which, however, was sadly soiled with mud and blood, and very much torn in several places. The man was in the prime of life, but the paleness of his face contrasted strangely with the depth of color in his beard. No wonder he looked wan and weary, for his left arm was in a sling, and there was a wound across one temple, which seemed to have been received but recently.

  “Man!” said Jock, rising from his seat, “you’ve got a sad cloot (knock) there. I hope you felled the chiel that dang you.”

  “He isn’t alive today,” said the stranger, smiling sadly.

  “I have just come from Akwaz,” he continued. “Mine has been a remarkable escape. I am safe now, however, and would seek the assistance of your General Outram. I am told he is both brave and gallant.”

  “Well, sir,” said Jock, “I can answer for it, he is baith. Just let him in front of the foe, and a braver man never swung a claymore, so early in the morning; but place him alongside laddies and bairnies, and he is the kindest, mildest lad that ever lived.”

  “I am glad to hear so good a character of your great General, but an English lady is in great distress at Bagdad. I thought it possible he might help me. With one hundred men, if they could but be spared, I would take in hand to secure her release.”

  “Pussy, pussy,” cried Jock, in some alarm, for I had been wistfully gazing at the new arrival since he began to speak, and now sprang lightly from the soldier’s shoulder on to his, and began to sing, and rub my head against his ear.

  “Can it be possible?” cried the stranger, taking me down and looking at my mouth. “Ruby and all,” he added, as if speaking to himself.

  You see, Warlock, that I had known the stranger at a glance. He was the good, kind priest who had nursed my master back to health, when wounded by the bandits in the wild forest.

  “Soldier,” he said excitedly, “this is Shireen.”

  “She’s nobody else,” said Jock. “But wha in a’ the warl’ are ye, that seems so weel acquaint wi’ the dear auld cat?”

  But now the stranger had seen my master and the surgeon returning, and hurried off to meet them, I still retaining my place in the priest’s arms.

  The recognition had been mutual and simultaneous.

  “This is indeed a happy meeting,” both exclaimed.

  Then hand met hand in a hearty shake.

  “But you are wounded, my friend. Come, let our good surgeon attend to you at once.”

  The priest was led to the doctor’s tent, and master would not let him speak until he had quaffed some refreshment, and had the ugly wound in the forehead attended to.

  “And now I must speak to you at once, and alone,” said master’s friend.

  “I am rejoiced to meet you, and I hope it will all end well. But Beebee and Miss Morgan—”

  “Yes, yes. Speak! Tell me the worst.”

  “They have both been removed, under an escort, from her father’s palace, and are prisoners near Bagdad.”

  “In a prison! Good heavens!”

  “No, friend, no. Not in a prison. Their home is a beautiful villa on the outskirts of Bagdad. Their jailers are women and eunuchs.”

  “And the father?”

  “It is the father who has done this, and at the conclusion of the war, or it may be before it, Beebee will be removed to the Shah’s palace, and Miss Morgan will be made a slave, if no worse fate befall her. I have escaped and come to tell the tale. It seems to me providential that I have found you.”

  “It would appear so; but I am indeed in great distress of mind. We cannot, I know, spare a man, for an expedition is just on the eve of starting up the river Karoon to Akwaz. The enemy are falling back in force on that town, and the General wishes to be beforehand with him.”

  The priest-surgeon put his hand on my master’s shoulder.

  “Do not be afraid,” he said, pointing with a finger skywards. “There is One who rules all things for good. Trust Him. Be patient. All will yet be well.”

  “Pray Heaven your words may soon come true!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: “Have Heart and Hope, my Friend”

  Far away up the river Karoon, my children, lies the city of Akwaz, and it was for this place our three little gunboats, the Comet, the Planet, and the Assyria, now started.

  But for the anxiety that I could not help noticing was depicted on my dear master’s face, this expedition would have been altogether as nice as a picnic.

  We—my master, the priest, Jock and I—went in the Comet, with one hundred Highlanders.

  Our whole force did not amount to much over three hundred men, and yet with this little mite of an army we were going to attack a town, the size and strength of which we were not even sure of.

  I, however, felt no fear, because I heard master say that whatever men dare, they can do.

  Well, in due time we reached the town, and we landed, attacked and captured it.

  Persians are not cowards. They can fight well, and this army of about nine thousand men would, doubtless, soon have destroyed our bold little force, had it not been so arranged as to look like three invading armies.

  Then, of course, we had the support of the gunboats, and, as master said, it was but right to give the Persian general his due. He must have thought that our troops were but the advance-guard of General Outram’s whole force. And so he and his army ran away.

  “Did much fur fly
, Shireen?” asked Cracker.

  Not much, said Shireen. You see, Cracker, we didn’t get so near to the enemy as you did to the butcher’s dog that day you saved my life, else brave Jock McNab and master would have made plenty of fur fly.

  From the river, the town of Akwaz and the broad sheet of water, with its beautiful wooded islands, and the wild and rugged mountains far behind, formed a scene which was lovely in the extreme.

  On the evening after the day on which our gallant force had routed the enemy, and captured the town with all their stores, the priest and my master sat long on deck, talking of the past. I sit on the priest’s knee. There was a calm or repose about this man that to me was very delightful, and as he smoothed me while he talked to master, I purred and sang with my eyes half closed.

  I was not asleep, however, and I could hear every word they said.

  I noticed, too, that this good priest spoke ne’er a word about himself, or his own affairs. He seemed to interest himself in master and in him only. This I thought was very unselfish and considerate of him. It was kind of him, too, to keep master and me company at all, for he was still very weak from his wounds, and a less brave-hearted man would have been confined to his hammock.

  At last we got up steam and departed for the camp at Mohammerah, and not only our General Sir James Outram, but all our soldier and sailor companions-in-arms were rejoiced to see us, and hailed us as the heroes of Akwaz, which we undoubtedly were, despite the fact that we had suffered but little loss.

  But that same day news came which delighted some of us, but grievously disappointed most.

  Peace had been proclaimed, and we were to fight no more. This was looked upon by our brave soldiers as a downright shame. Just as the campaign was opening out so hopefully, and there was every prospect that we would, in course of time, conquer the whole of Persia.

  But two of our number were very glad of the news, and these were that dear, big priest, and my own beloved master.

  They went out together at sunset to talk matters over, as they wandered slowly up and down among the shady date trees. Jock McNab accompanied them at a little distance, and I trotted quietly between the two.

  At last they sat down at a spot which afforded them a beautiful view of the river.

  “War is a terrible thing, my friend,” began the priest. “Are you not glad that peace is concluded?”

  “War is, as you say, a terrible thing,” replied my soldier-master; “yet I fear we redcoats like it. You see, we all look forward to honor and glory. Every private carries a marshal’s baton in his knapsack, figuratively speaking, and yet, for one reason, I am glad this war is over.”

  “Ah! I knew,” said the priest smiling, “that I should soon reach down to that which is next your heart.”

  “How true and good you are!” said Edgar.

  “And do you know what I have done?” continued the priest. “What I have dared to do?”

  My master turned quickly round to him.

  “You have been to see the General!” he said quickly.

  “Indeed I have.”

  “And you have told him all the story?”

  “I have told him almost all.”

  “And he—”

  “He is going to help us.”

  “Heaven bless you, dear friend, all your life.”

  Edgar extended his hand, which the priest shook right cordially.

  “Now, you know,” the priest said, “I had to tell the General that you were interested indirectly in this affair, and then he at once told me that you and I could go to Bagdad in the Comet, which was going there on state business. That he would gladly give an asylum and all assistance to the English lady, Miss Morgan, and to her maid, if she had one, no matter whether she were English or not. Then he shook hands with me and told me to go and talk the whole matter over with you.”

  My master sat thoughtfully looking at the river for a time, then he turned once more to the priest.

  “I can see exactly how the land lies,” he said smiling. “How good and thoughtful of the General.”

  “Yes, he is our friend.”

  “His horror,” added the priest, “at the villainy displayed by a father, who would sell his young and beautiful daughter to the Shah against her will, was plainly discoverable in the manner in which he stamped his foot, and cried, ‘Scandalous! Shameful!’”

  “And the allusion to the maid—” began Edgar.

  “That, you know,” said the priest, “is left for you and for me to interpret, as best we may. Miss Morgan must have a maid, must she not?”

  “Certainly. Every English lady must have a maid,” said my master, smiling a happy smile.

  “And it wouldn’t do, would it, for the English General to be implicated in the abduction of a Persian noble’s daughter?”

  “No, certainly not.”

  “And so you see that—”

  “Yes, yes, I see,” cried master, laughing right heartily now. “Beebee must, for the time being, become Miss Morgan’s lady’s-maid. Ha! Ha! Ha! It is droll.”

  “Yes, it is droll.”

  But then master’s face fell.

  “Ah! My dearest friend,” he said, “we may, after all, be counting our chickens before they are hatched.”

  “Nay, nay, nay,” cried the priest. “I have set my heart upon having this strange adventure end well, and end well it must and shall.”

  “Unless—”

  “I know what you would say, captain. Unless Beebee has already been taken off. But I do not think this is at all likely. They do not do things very rapidly in Persia. They are a calm, contemplative kind of people. But, nevertheless, Beebee is doomed to a fate too horrible to think of if we do not rescue her.”

  “Do you think,” said Edgar eagerly, “it will be very, very difficult?”

  “I do think it will be somewhat difficult. But have heart and hope, my friend. Let me recall to you a motto that I have heard from your own lips.”

  “And that is?”

  “‘Whate’er a man dares he can do.’”

  “And now,” said Shireen, “I am going to reserve the last part of my story till we meet again, for, Cracker, your folks must think you are lost, and I can see that the cockatoo yonder is standing on one foot and half asleep.”

  “Cockie wants to go to bed,” cried Uncle Ben’s pet, arousing himself, and lifting his great white, yellow-lined wings as if he would fly.

  “As for me,” said Cracker, “I’d sit and hear you talk all night, you bet.”

  “And so would I,” said Warlock.

  “The more I see and learn of cats,” continued Cracker, “the more I respects them like, and I don’t care a rat’s tail what the other dogs say about me. There’s that butcher’s rag of a bull-terrier, for instance, goin’ and tellin’ the whole village that I’m often seen in cats’ company, and that I’m half a cat myself. Well, I says, says I, I might be something worse. But, bless you, Shireen, next time I meets he, I’m going to let him out.”

  “I wouldn’t kill him quite,” said Shireen.

  “Oh, no. I’ll just shake him like. They kind o’ dogs can be killed over and over again, and don’t take much hurt. Besides, you know,” he added knowingly, “it will teach the varmint manners.”

  “I say, you know,” said Warlock, “I think the quarrel with the butcher’s cur should be mine.”

  “Nonsense, Warlock, he would swallow you up.”

  “Ah! You don’t know how much fight there is in me when I’m fairly angered. Well, I keep company with Tabby here. We hunt together, don’t we, Tab?”

  “That we do.”

  “And fish together. So just let that butcher’s dog come across me.”

  “Tse, tse, tse!” said the starling, admiringly. The chameleon simply warmed his other hand before the fire.

  I’m not sure, that as far as that goes, Chammy wasn’t the wisest in that group of friends. Catch Chammy fighting! He would take a hundred years to make up his mind to do it, and then he would
n’t.

  “By-the-bye,” said Shireen, “though human folk will have it that dogs and cats don’t agree, there is plenty of true stories told by naturalists to prove that when a dog and a cat, indeed, I might say any dog and any cat are brought up together, they agree like lambs upon a lea. They will wander about together just as Warlock and Tabby do. Eat out of the same dish without quarrelling, and sleep together on the same mat at night.

  “I see,” added Shireen, “that master and Uncle Ben haven’t quite finished their game yet, so while we wait I may as well tell you a little story about cat and dog life. It is mentioned and authenticated in a book called Friends in Fur.” (Same author.)

  This story is told of a cat called the “Czar,” and a doggie whose name was “Whiskey.” And it is doubly à propos because, like Warlock yonder, Whiskey was a Scotch terrier, and he lived in a country village far away in the north of bonnie Scotland. In the same house dwelt the Czar, a splendid, large, rough-haired cat, who, it was said, had been imported from Russia—hence his name.

  (My friend, Harrison Weir, once owned a cat of this breed, and a very handsome cat it must have been. He speaks of it thus in his book called Our Cats, page 30; “The mane, or frill, was very large, long and dense, and more of a woolly texture, with coarse short hairs among it, the color was a dark tabby. The eyes were large and prominent, of a bright orange, slightly tinted with green; the ears large by comparison, with small tufts full of long woolly hair; the limbs stout and short, the tail being very dissimilar, as it was short, very woolly, and thickly tipped with hair, the same length from base to tip, and much resembled in form that of the British wild cat. Its motion was not so agile as that of other cats, nor did it apparently care for warmth, as it liked being out of doors in the coldest weather. Another peculiarity being that it seemed to care little in the way of watching birds for food, neither were its habits like those of the short-haired cats that were its companions.

  (“It attached itself to no person, as was the case with some of the others, but curiously took a particular fancy to one of my short-haired silver tabbies; the two appeared always together. In front of the fire they sat side by side. If one left the room the other followed. Adown the garden paths they were still companions; and at night they slept in the same box; they drank milk from the same saucer, and fed from the same plate, and, in fact, only seemed to exist for each other. In all my experience I never saw a more devoted couple.”)