Mowett's Greatest Epic 
The following poem is  reputed to have been found among the papers of

 

James Mowett, RN: 

 

"Stephen on the Pitch" 

author: unknown

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Leopard eleven that day;
The score  stood forty-six with a single out to play.
And then when Byron got a duck,  and Holles came up scratch,
A sickly quiet fell upon the watchers of the  match. 
A sober few got up to leave in deep despair. The rest
Had lost the hope  which dwells within the Malay maiden's breast,
And thought that only Aubrey could win their hearts' release -

We'd put up even money with our Captain at  the crease. 
But Doudle came 'fore Aubrey, as did Doctor Maturin,
And the former was a  cipher and the latter was akin;
So on that stricken multitude the death-like  silence sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Aubrey's getting to the  bat. 

 
Now Doudle stepped upon the pitch, a tremor in every limb,
The Cumberlands  all certain they would make quick work of him.
Their Admiral bowled a wicked  lob which took a devilish twist;
That awkward lubber Doudle hit it, straight  to the Admiral's fist. 
Then from a hundred throats or so there rose a doubtful roar;
It rumbled  through the ulas trees and across the sandy shore.
Where is the barky's  surgeon, does not anybody know?
Where oh where, they ask distraught, did this  'not quite' fellow
go? 

Young Forshaw raced to search the town - hospital, brothel and ditch -
To  summon, to beg, to drag the errant doctor to the pitch.
He found his man all  cool as ice, his manner still unrattled.
So Stephen strode out from the  jungle to where his team now
battled. 

Hold up your end, they bade, as bat in hand the doctor took his 
place;

Defiance gleamed in Maturin's eye, a reptilian glare upon his  face.
The Admiral held the ball to nose, his Cumberlands on alert;
And he  bowled the sphere, a humming orb, to graze across the dirt. 
The Leopards watched, all mute with awe, as Stephen danced ahead.
He  checked the ball and dribbled it back - in the quiet they heard
his tread.

The surgeon scooped it up and hurled the globe with a terrible Irish 
screech;
He shattered the stump and scattered the bits full halfway to the 
beach! 

Oh, somewhere o'er those sunlit seas the cheerful mermaids swim;
The  sloths are dozing somewhere, and wombats eat gold trim;
And somewhere  squeakers skylark, and bosuns grin, no doubt;
But there is no joy in Pulo  Batang - Stephen was called out.