Posted on Friday, 25 January 2002, at 2:45 p.m.

When we clear for action boys, (beat to quarters on the drum)

Take a little prayer to Heaven and a good stiff swig of rum.

Pray for goodly afterlife for every dead sea dog.

Take a breath, and swear a bit, and pass along the grog.

When that French broadside swept the deck, I felt the shot hit me, belly and leg, and I went down. Made my sergeant hoist me back on my pins so I could order the musket fire from my Marines, but he took one in the neck, and I couldn't stand alone. Yelled for a private, but before one could get to me I was down again and don't remember a xxxxxx ###### thing until I woke up in sick bay with a ++++++++ butcher of a Navy surgeon carving at me with his bloody gut ripper. I damned him heartily, then thought maybe I wouldn't see the sun over the yardarm again, and muttered an old prayer, "Our Father," says I, and you know the rest of it, or anyhow you oughter.

Hankey, our old chaplain, God rest his good old soul, showed up just as the xxxxxx sawbones finished my gut and was starting on my leg. "Sam Price," says he, "Have ye said ye're prayers, man?"

"I have," says I, "And be damned to ye for thinkin' ye'd need to ask a good Christian."

He lugs a flask out of a pocket, and puts it to my gob. "Drink Old Jordan, Sam," says he, "And ye'll feel better." And I did.

The old boy stood by me while the loblolly boys (that's what we called the wound dressers when we warn't callin' them other things) wrapped their &&&&&&& rags around me, and he gave me more of his flask--count on old Hankey for the best, not gut rot Navy rum, but top hole Dutch gin--Hollands, or I'm a land lubber.

Before I passed out again, I swore at the dressers, and said another prayer with Hankey, and drained his flask. As I was going under, I heard him give me a blessing, and say, "Sam, when things are bad, swear a bit and pray a bit, and pass along the grog."

When the smoke is densest and the cannon smites your ears,

You're too busy fighting to think about your fears.

When a round ball breaks your bone, and your belly's in a fog,

That's the time to swear a bit, pray, and pass the grog.

Well, I've had advice aplenty, and took a little, and be damned to most of it, but Chaplain Hankey's was the best, and I never forgot it. There's chaplains and chaplains, and some of 'em ought to be put over the side, but old Hankey was the best--too bad we don't have bishops aboard. He'd have looked good in bishop's gear, and done credit to 'em, too. I remember him with a young midshipman once. We were in for action in a trice, and the younker had the wind, shaking like a loose sail. Old Hankey put a hand on his shoulder, and says, "Curse the Frenchies, boy, to open your throat, then say a fast prayer." The boy gulped, and brought a word or so--pretty mild, then said his Lord's prayer. Hankey had a flask ready, poured a good drain down the younker's gullet, and said, "Remember boy, the Lord takes care of sailors and marines. He has to, because nobody else will.: That boy stood to action like a good 'un and he's a commander now--all because Hankey knew when to swear a bit and pray a bit and pass along the grog.

When I make my Frances angry--happens now and then,

She don't shed no tears, but she does curse out all men.

Calls me good for nothing drunken dirty old sea dog.

Then she'll swear and say a prayer and pass along the grog.

Whatever made the lovely Frances Ward take me for her life's mate, I can't explain, not to you, not to anyone, not even to me, but she did. Now and then she does her share of swearing about it--Frances can wind her tongue around some salty words. Then she mutters a prayer for forgiveness (as if she needs any for swearing at me), and as often as not passes along the grog, having lowered the level herself. We rub along better than most--a lot better than one of her high and mighty nieces--and I don't think Frances would trade her limping, growling old devil of a disabled Marine for her stiff neck brother in law. I can't see old Tom the baronet as any great love--had four young 'uns, and I'd bet a gallon of good rum that it was once or twice a year that he applied himself to getting 'em. Now with mine, there were as many chances as lead balls in a broadside. Ask Frances and she'll tell you. She would, too--got over her fine lady finicking here in Portsmouth. I won't pretend it's always fair weather, but fair weather always comes back, and while we whistle for a fair wind, we swear a bit and say our prayers, and pass along the grog.

Somewhere in the Bible it says something about making a joyful noise to the Lord. I don't know where--only ever read the parts about the sea. I've gone down to the sea in ships and done business in the great waters and seen the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep. I've read the part about him stilling the storm and old Peter trying to walk on the water--I could have told him that don't work very often. Anyhow we go to Garrison Chapel here in Portsmouth every Sunday, and I can tell you we make a joyful noise to the Lord. I can roar with the best, and sometimes in tune, and young Sam can out roar me. Frances and Sue can sing well, and they do their best to drown out Sam and me. When Fan was here, she tried too. That girl was such a quiet little mouse I'd forget she was here half the time, but in the Chapel, she would go right along with her mother and sister to out sing Sam and me. Only time I'd ever hear the girl's voice loud enough to be heard in the next pew. I don't know where she got her ways, but it warn't from me nor her mother. Mice we ain't.

Sometimes some croaking parson asks me why I say I'm religious when I smoke all the time and guzzle the grog and use all those gundeck words. They don't ask me more than once, but I do tell them I remember the Lord was always passing around wine. That's before I tell them other things, and, as I say, they don't ask me twice.

There's old Sir Tom and Neddy, husband to my Fan,

And young Tom--now he could make a Portsmouth man.

Baronet and parson, each a dullish, dismal dog.

Count on Tom to swear a bit and pass along the grog.

Now take my son in law, and by XXXXXX you can have the moon faced swab, he can't preach a sermon for a sailorman or a Marine. I've heard him. Fall asleep after five minutes I do, and Frances prods me awake until she falls asleep herself, then we both sleep until it's time to make a joyful noise to the Lord again. But he's got Fan with child twice, so he's good for something. We'll take the grandson in hand, get him down to Portsmouth now and then, and make something of him. The little girl--I don't know. Maybe she'll be like 'Sue or her grandmama; I hope so. Once when Neddy was ranting away in his pulpit and I hadn't yet nodded off, I heard him tell us to count our blessings. Ten times he told us, when twice would have been enough, but that's his way. Well, I count mine--Frances, William (Commander now is William), Sue, and the rest, specially the grandchildren. Bless Fan and Neddy for them; I don't have any more that I know about, but I don't answer for what William and Sam are up to on the foreign stations, nor Dick up in London. Frances and I get to Mansfield now and then--stay at the Parsonage--how my old Marines would laugh at their old lieutenant in a parsonage. We don't stay long, and I have to say the only men around there I give a pinch of wet powder to spend time with are young Tom and old John Groom--him as taught Fan to ride. Why Neddy didn't teach her himself, I don't know. She would have loved it, more fool she, and what else did the young swab have to do around Mansfield.

Anyway, young Tom and old John Groom and I spend some good hours around the stables. We drink a bit--a good bit--of rum and water, and play cards for shillings, which of course gets to be pounds. Tom never wins, but John Groom and I line our pockets well--without cheating either. No need to. Tom's a right good spark, but no card sense after a drain or so of good strong grog.

Frances stays at the Park longer than I do--for the grandchildren. We don't fit there. Portsmouth's for us, and we know it. We made our bargain with the Lord and one another, and we keep it, and I wouldn't trade Frances for any woman I ever saw. For one thing, I wouldn't dare. Besides a tongue like a good sharp cutlass, she knows where my pistols are, and how to load 'em, and how to shoot 'em too. Counting blessings, I start with her and end with her.

When I drop anchor up in Heaven, and don't you think I can't,

Never mind the bloody preachers that wave their arms and rant,

My Frances will be there indeed to comfort her sea dog.

We won't swear, but we will pray, and pass along the grog.