The Betsey remained some weeks at the levee at New Orleans before Mr.
Ware could fix upon a voyage. In the mean time Ricker remained on board
as master of the brig; and for several days after our arrival in port
his habits were correct and his conduct without reproach. Gradually,
however, he strayed from the paths of sobriety. He was of a social turn;
frank, honest cheerful, and liberal-minded. He possessed other valuable
traits of character; was a good sailor and a skilful navigator, but he
could not resist the fascinations of the intoxicating cup.
Intemperance disqualifies a man from employments where the exercise of
cool judgment, and clear, undisturbed reasoning faculties are required;
and no person addicted to habits of intemperance should be intrusted
with the command of a ship, where property to a large amount and lives
of incalculable value, are, as it were, given into his hands. If records
of disasters could be faithfully (here the page is torn and cannot be
read) and unfolded, we should have an appalling list of easy (torn page)
quarrels, mutinies, and shipwrecks which have (torn page) caused by
intemperance on the part of the (torn page.)
Mr. Ware, the commercial agent of Mr. Gray (torn page) the brig had seen
Ricker more than once intoxicated which roused his suspicions that
all was not (torn page) unlucky afternoon he found him in a helpless
condition, which convinced him that Mr. Ricker, notwithstanding his
excellent qualities, was not a (torn page) could be safely given the
control of (torn page) the high seas.
Ricker was mortified at losing, through (torn page) the command of the
brig. He (torn page) however, of harsh or unjust treatment on the part
of Mr. Ware; and consented to remain as mate, promising to refrain
entirely from the use of spirituous liquors. The command was given to
an officer in the United States navy, Lieutenant Rapp; and in this way
I was ousted from the berth which Ricker was so desirous I should fill.
There was no longer a home for me in the cabin of the Betsey, and I
shipped as an ordinary seaman on board the brig Casket, of New York,
Captain Mott, bound on a voyage to Havre.
The Casket was a large and handsome brig, and besides the captain, mate,
boatswain, and cook, carried six hands before the mast. The chief mate
was a hard-looking customer, somewhat advanced in years, rough in his
manners, and profane and coarse in his language. But the captain was a
fine-looking man, about thirty years old, rather dignified and reserved.
His appearance spoke volumes in his favor, and the crew who joined the
ship in New Orleans rejoiced in this opportunity of shipping in a fine
vessel, with a whole-souled captain, and bound on a European voyage!
Before we reached the Gulf of Mexico, however, the (torn page) sang a
different tune. They found the mate more (torn page) unreasonable, and
every way disagreeable, if (torn page) than he looked; and the captain
evidently re-- (torn page) sailor as a piece of machinery to be wound up
(torn page) for the performance of certain duties, but (torn page) human
attributes. Whether a heart beat (torn page) bosom, and his head was
furnished with (torn page) Mott knew not, neither did he care. The (torn
page) of any one of the crew were never (torn page) If a man was sick
and incapacitated (torn page) was told, with an oath, to "bear a hand
(torn page) not be skulking in the forecastle;" and (torn page) his
duties, he was regaled with stern (torn page) language, and sent upon
missions at times, and under circumstances, which showed that Captain
Mott thought a few sailors, more or less, in the world, were of no
manner of consequence.
In former days every Yankee shipmaster was not a live, wide-awake,
pushing, driving, web-footed Jehu, who disregarded fogs, was reckless
of collisions with ships, fishing vessels, or icebergs, and cared little
whether he strained the ship and damaged cargo, provided he made a short
passage, as is the case in this enlightened age when "Young America" is
in the ascendant. An "old fogy" was occasionally met with, who, being
well paid for his services by the month, prided himself more upon the
STRENGTH of his ship's sailing than her rapidity. This appears from the
following scene which once took place on board a Boston ship:
Captain Jarvis was lying in his berth, dreaming of a long passage and
plenty of money at the end of it, when he was awakened by the unwonted
noise of water under the counter, giving rise to the suspicion that
the officer of the watch was carrying more sail than was expedient. He
jumped out of his berth, rushed up the steps, popped his head out of the
companion-way, and sharply exclaimed,
"Mr. Popkins, heave the log."
Mr. Popkins: Ay ay, sir!
Captain Jarvis: How fast does the old ship go, Mr. Popkins?
Mr. Popkins: Nine knots, sir!
Captain Jarvis: Nine knots! Julius Caesar! I am astonished. Take in some
of that canvas immediately, Mr. Popkins. I can't afford to sail so fast
as nine knots.
Mr. Popkins: Ay, ay, sir.
The studding sails were hauled in, and the main royal and fore and
mizzen top-gallant sails furled.
Captain Jarvis: How fast does she go now, Mr. Popkins?
Mr. Popkins (after heaving the log.) Seven knots and a half, sir!
Captain Jarvis: Too fast, sir much too fast! Take in more sail. Why, Mr.
Popkins, we shall be at the end of our voyage before we know it, at this
rate.
Mr. Popkins, with the men of the larboard watch, went to work, and in a
few minutes the ship was running along quietly under her three topsails,
jib, and spanker.
Captain Jarvis: Throw the log, Mr. Popkins.
Mr. Popkins: She is now going six knots, sir.
Captain Jarvis: Six knots! Very well very well indeed, Mr. Popkins.
Always bear in mind that we are not paid by "the run," or the voyage;
and six knots is very fair sailing between man and man. It is better to
sail strong than to sail fast. Don't let me catch you running off at the
rate of nine knots again. Stick to six and you will do, otherwise
there will be no wages coming to us when we get home. Do you hear, Mr.
Popkins?
Mr. Popkins, gruffly, (he had a sprinkling of Young America in his
composition.) Ay, ay, sir!
Although Captain Mott was sometimes deficient in judgment, and on more
than one occasion narrowly escaped losing overboard some of the crew,
or wrecking the brig, he was, nevertheless, an excellent seaman, managed
his vessel with skill, and navigated her with unusual correctness.
Not being paid by the month but by primage on the freight, he was a
veritable "driver," and lost no opportunity to urge his vessel ahead,
even at the risk of starting a butt, springing a spar, or losing a
man. Being always willing to work, on hand in any emergency, and
never shrinking from danger, I was often a sufferer from his go-ahead
instincts, as well as from his arbitrary mandates and unfeeling
disposition. And were it not that there is,
"A sweet little cherub which sits up aloft,
And looks out for the life of poor Jack,"
I should have become food for fishes long before we reached the
longitude of the Western Islands.
One afternoon, before we left the Gulf Stream, a thunder squall arose
from the south-east. It came towards us rapidly, as if borne on the
wings of the Genius of Storms. Its whole aspect was "wicked" in the
extreme, and every man on board knew that prudence required sail to be
taken in and preparations made for the reception of the tornado. The
captain was on deck, but the boatswain unfortunately remarked, "That
squall looks like an ugly customer, sir, and it will soon be necessary
to shorten sail."
This remark, made in the most respectful manner, roused the captain's
ire. He chose to consider it an unauthorized and impertinent
interference on the part of the petty officer; the squall, as well as
the boatswain, was denounced in language not often heard in a drawing
room, and both were consigned to a hotter place than the craters of
Mauna Loa.
The clouds spread over the zenith, the thunder rattled as if it would
rend the welkin, the wind began to blow in short-lived puffs, as if
making preparations for a regular "blowout;" the men were stationed at
the halliards, fore and aft, waiting with intense anxiety the result,
and the captain was pacing the quarter-deck, looking as savage as a
hungry bull-dog, and determined to show that he was not to be frightened
by squibs, but would carry sail in spite of the squall.
At that time we were under courses, topsails, top-gallant-sails, and
a main-royal; our fore-royal mast was snugly stowed alongside the
long-boat on deck, where, at that tempestuous season, the main one
should also have been. The order at length was given, "Clew up the
main-royal! Let a hand go aloft and furl it."
The sail was clewed up, and in a few seconds I was clinging to the
sliding gunter royal mast, and gathering in the canvas, while
the captain was denouncing me for a lubber, for not accomplishing
impossibilities. The lightning was flashing around ne, and the peals of
thunder were deafening; the rain was beginning to fall, and the wind to
blow with alarming violence, before I could spill the sail and pass the
gaskets. Suddenly I heard a tumultuous noise as of the roar of angry
breakers. I cast my eye to windward, and beheld the whole surface of the
sea covered with a sheet of snow-white foam. At the same moment I heard
the voice of the captain, who was now really alarmed, in a tone which
could be heard above the roar of the hurricane, shouting, with frantic
energy, "Hard up your helm! Hard up, I say. Let go all the halliards,
fore and aft! Haul up the mainsail! Lower away that try-sail! Clew down
the top-gallant sails! Why don't you put the helm hard up?"
I was sensible of the danger of my situation, standing on "the hounds"
of the top-gallant mast, and almost within reach of the truck, while
the brig, with all sail set, was exposed to the fury of this terrible
thunder gust. Obeying an irresistible impulse to take care of "number
one," I slid down the topmast cross-trees, caught hold of the weather
top-gallant backstay, and came on deck much faster than I went aloft! My
feet had hardly touched the deck when a gust struck the brig with a fury
which I have seldom seen surpassed. It rushed upon us like an avalanche
on a hamlet in an Alpine valley. Halliards, sheets, and tacks were
let go, but the yards were still braced up, and the sails could not be
clewed down. Before the vessel could get before the wind her lee side
was buried in the water. The conviction seized every mind that a
capsize was inevitable, and there was a general rush towards the weather
gunwale, and a desperate clutching at the shrouds. At this critical
moment the main-topmast snapped off like a pipe stem, just above the
cap, and carried with it the fore-top-gallant mast. The brig righted,
fell off before the wind, scudded like a duck, dragging the broken
spars, and her sails torn to ribbons; and a cold shudder crept over me
when I thought of the appalling danger from which by sliding down the
backstay, I had so narrowly escaped.
When we struck soundings off the English Channel, the word was given to
the boatswain to bend the cables and get the anchors over the bows. The
wind was blowing hard from the northward, with violent squalls and a
short head sea, and Captain Mott showed no disposition to reduce the
canvas in order to lighten our labors, but carried sail and drove the
vessel as if he was running from a pirate. The brig frequently plunged
her knight-heads under water, deluging every man on the forecastle with
sheets of salt water. In the mean time the captain, and also the mate,
dry-shod on the quarter-deck, grinned, and winked at each other, at
witnessing our involuntary ablutions, with the mercury at the freezing
point, while subjected to this severe course of hydropathic treatment,
and doing work which, under ordinary circumstances, could have been
accomplished in a few hours.
Reefing a topsail in a gale is an evolution simple in itself; and when
the sail is placed by the skill of the officer of the deck in a proper
condition, the work aloft can be accomplished in five minutes, even by
a bungling crew. But Captain Mott seemed to take pleasure in placing
obstacles in the way of the ready performance of any important duty, and
held the crew accountable for any extraordinary delay. Thus in reefing
topsails, the men were sometimes half an hour on the yard, endeavoring
in vain to do a work which his own obstinacy or ignorance rendered
impracticable, and he, all the while, cursing and swearing at the crew
for their inefficiency, in a style which would have done credit to the
leader of a press-gang.
The men, generally, were good seamen, and able and willing to do their
work, and with proper treatment would have proved first rate sailors;
but it is an old and true saying that bad officers make a bad crew.
When a man's best efforts are rewarded with abuse, it is unreasonable
to expect that he will perform his various duties with alacrity and
cheerfulness. It was customary, at that period, for rum to be served out
to the crew, and the minimum allowance, in nearly all American vessels,
was a glass of rum at dinner, with an extra glass during exposure to
inclement weather, or when engaged in unusually fatiguing labors.
This extra glass was generally served out by the steward at the
companion-way, and the men were summoned to partake of this indulgence
by a call to "splice the main brace."
Captain Mott, however, refused to furnish the crew of the Casket with
the usual daily allowance of grog. This refusal, there was reason to
believe, was caused, not by a commendable wish to promote temperance,
and break up habits of intoxication, but from a desire to gratify a
surly and unamiable disposition, and deprive the men of an enjoyment
which they highly prized. With such a captain and mate, and regulations
of the most arbitrary and stringent character, it may be imagined that
the grumbling at hard treatment, and the muttered curses against the
inmates of the cabin, were neither few, nor far between.
But the captain, while he refused the DAILY allowance of grog, did not
deem it advisable to withhold the usual allowance on Saturday night,
when every true sailor loved to meet his shipmates around a flowing
bowl, and pass a happy hour in lively conversation, singing sea songs,
spinning yarns, and drinking with heartfelt emotion the toast of all
others the dearest and best "Sweethearts and Wives."
"Of all the nights that grace the week,
There's none can equal this;
It binds the mind in friendship's bonds;
It heightens social bliss.
For though far distant from the land,
At home our thoughts shall be,
Whilst, shipmates, joining heart and hand
Hail Saturday Night at Sea."
No one can imagine the tender, thrilling, and holy associations which
cluster round those words, "Sweethearts and Wives," unless he has been
long separated from those he loves, a wanderer on a distant sea. That
Saturday night toast came home to the bosom of every man who carried a
heart beneath a blue jacket. The gallantry of the sailor has often been
spoken of. His devotion to woman is proverbial. With few opportunities
to mingle in female society, he can, nevertheless, truly estimate its
value, and appreciate its advantages. Indeed, I have known old sailors,
whose rough and wrinkled visages, blunt and repulsive manners, coarse
and unrefined language, were enough to banish gentle Cupid to an
iceberg, exhibit the kindest and tenderest feelings when speaking of
WOMAN, whom in the abstract they regarded as a being not merely to be
protected, cherished, and loved, but also to be adored.
I shall never forget the well-deserved rebuke I once received from
a sturdy old tar for an ill-timed comment on a woman's personal
appearance. It was in St. Salvador. The captain of a Portuguese ship was
going on shore accompanied by his wife. The boat crossed the bows of
the ship I was in; the feminine garments attracted the attention of all
hands, who suspended their work and gazed upon the charming object as if
they beheld something more than mortal. As the boat passed onward, and
we resumed labors which the glimpse of a petticoat had interrupted, with
a want of gallantry which I trust is foreign to my character, for
which I cannot even now account, and of which I was afterwards heartily
ashamed, I casually remarked, "Well, there's nothing wonderful about
her, after all; she's HOMELY enough, in all conscience!"
"Hawser," said my old shipmate, in a solemn and impressive manner,
gracefully waving the marlinspike which he held in his hand, "THERE IS
NO SUCH THING IN NATER AS A HOMELY WOMAN!"
"Saturday Night" in olden times was not only devoted to reminiscences of
home and affectionate associations, but was also the time selected
for indulgence in the songs of the forecastle. After the usual toast,
"Sweethearts and Wives," had been drunk with enthusiasm, some one of
the crew was called on for a song, and the call was responded to without
affected reluctance; and the beams, carlines, and bulkheads of the old
forecastle rang again with stirring songs or ballads poured forth from
manly and musical throats, in praise of beauty, descriptive of life at
sea, recording deeds of heroism, or inculcating lessons of patriotism.
To these songs of the forecastle, sung on the land as well as on the
ocean, in beauty's bower as well as in the sailor's sanctuary or the
stifled cabin, in days when accompaniments to vocal music were not
considered necessary, when the full melodious sound of the human
voice, THE NOBLEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD, was not strangled, drowned, or
travestied by the noise of the everlasting piano, played with artistic
skill to these spirit-stirring songs of the forecastle was commerce
indebted for many of the finest and best sailors ever sprinkled with
salt water.
The well known songs of "the Bay of Biscay," "Black Eyed Susan," and
"Cease, Rude Boreas," once listened to with emotion and delight at the
cottage fireside, or the fashionable drawing room, and the many songs
long since forgotten of a similar character, written by salt water
poets, and sung by mariners at home and abroad, have transformed
enthusiastic and adventurous landsmen into sailors by scores, as by the
touch of an enchanter's wand. Dibdin did more to man the "wooden walls
of old England" with brave and effective men than all the press-gangs
that ever infested the banks of the Thames.
There was one man on board the Casket who, more than all others, aided
to keep the crew cheerful and happy. He was the life and soul of the
forecastle. Not all the oppressive and unfeeling acts of the captain,
and rough and unjust treatment from the mate, which would naturally
excite indignation and a discontented spirit, such as sometimes will
lead to insubordination on the part of the crew, followed by the
free use of handspikes, rope's ends, and manacles, on the part of the
officers, could repress the spirits of Jonas Silvernail, spoil his
jokes, or lessen the volume of his hearty and sonorous laugh. Jonas was
a native of Hudson, in New York; a young, active, intelligent sailor,
who, always good-humored, was never more happy than when singing a sea
song, spinning a merry yarn, or playing off a practical joke. Jonas
was one of those jovial mortals who seemed determined to make sure of
present enjoyment, and let the future take care of itself; to bask in
the sunshine of life, while others despondingly wilt in the shade.
Good humor is contagious; and it was owing to the cheerful, contented
spirit, infused among the crew of the Casket by Silvernail's example,
that they forbore from insolent remonstrances, and wisely resolved to
bear the ills they had, rather,
"Than fly to others which they knew not of."
Such a man in the forecastle of a ship and in my seafaring days such men
were not rare is a treasure. He lightens the labors of a crew, adds to
the harmony and happiness of all on board, shortens a passage, and, as a
natural consequence, promotes the interests of the owner.
On one occasion, however, Silvernail's fondness for fun threatened to
disturb the harmony which was wont to reign in the forecastle. Among
the crew was a big, clumsy Dutchman, through whose thick cranium no joke
could penetrate, and whose feet were of proportions as huge as his
head, each resembling, in size and shape, a Brazilian catamaran. The
men conversing one day of the dangers of the seas, and the best means
of preserving life in cases of shipwreck, or when accidentally falling
overboard, Hans, who cherished a strong attachment to his own dear
person, expressed a regret that he had no cork jacket, by whose aid he
could float above the waves.
"Be under no concern on that account," remarked Jonas. "If you were in
the water, a cork jacket would be of no more use to you than a pair of
curling tongs to Cuffy, the black cook. But don't try to swim. TREAD
WATER lustily with those mud scows (pointing to his feet) and you will
never go to the bottom."
"You just let my foot alone," said Hans, his face glowing with
indignation. "You are always poking fun at my foot, and I don't half
like it. My foot is one very good foot, (holding it up, and swaying it
backwards and forwards;) just fit to kick an impudent vagabone with and
teach him better manners."
"That may be true," said Silvernail, with a provoking grin; "but if you
should chance to miss the vagabone, as you call him, YOUR FOOT WOULD FLY
OFF!"
This, and the loud laugh from his shipmates, with which it was attended,
was more than even the phlegmatic Dutchman could bear. He made a furious
pass at Jonas with his much-abused foot, which, if it had taken effect,
would have demolished the joker in a twinkling. But Jonas stepped aside,
caught the ponderous foot in his hand, and the next moment Hans was
sprawling on his back. He arose, breathing guttural but incomprehensible
denunciations against his tormentor, who escaped from his clutches by
nimbly running up the ratlines to the foretop, where he could safely
indulge his merriment over the wrath of the Dutchman.
I was often amused at the ingenious manner in which Jonas managed to get
over a difficulty. One day when, with the wind abaft the beam, blowing
a strong breeze, we were carrying a main-topmast studding sail, the
boatswain very properly undertook to get up a preventer-brace on the
weather main yard-arm. A rope was procured, which had already been
considerably worn, and the boatswain expressed some apprehension that it
was hardly strong enough for the service required. "O," said Jonas in
an off-hand, decided manner, "it will hold on until it breaks; and if it
was ever so strong it could do no more."
The boatswain appeared favorably struck with the unanswerable logic
embraced in the remark, and made no further objection to the rope.
On this voyage I had one source of pleasure, of an elevated character,
which was denied to the rest of my shipmates. This was my attachment to
books. Before I left New Orleans, I purchased a variety of second-hand
volumes; a miscellaneous collection, which enabled me to pass many
pleasant hours on our passage to Havre, and at the same time lay in a
stock of information which might prove of great value at a future day.
In books I found biographies of good men, whose example fortified my
mind against the temptations to vice and immorality, which beset the
sailor on every side. They furnished me with an interesting occupation
in an idle hour, acted as a solace for disappointment, and a faithful
friend and consoler in anxiety and trouble; inspired me with a feeling
of emulation, and bade me look forward with hope. Many is the hour when,
after a hard day's work, or an exciting scene of peril or suffering,
by the dim light of a tallow candle, or a lamp manufactured by my own
hands, while others were lamenting their hard fate, or pouring out their
indignation in unavailing grumblings, I have, while poring over a book,
lost all sense of unhappiness, and been transported far away to other
and happier scenes; sometimes exploring with Barrow the inhospitable
wastes of Africa; accompanying Christian on his journey to the Celestial
City; sympathizing with the good Vicar of Wakefield in his domestic
misfortunes; sharing the disquietudes of Rasselas in the "Happy Valley;"
tracing, with almost breathless interest, the career of some ancient
hero whom Plutarch has immortalized, or lingering over the thrilling
adventures and perils of "Sindbad the Sailor."
A sailor before the mast, as well as the inmates of the cabin, has many
hours on every voyage, which may be and should be, devoted to reading
and study. When a resident of the forecastle, I have by my example,
and by urgent appeals to the pride, the ambition, and good sense of my
shipmates, induced them to cultivate a taste for reading, and awakened
in their minds a thirst for information. Some of these men, by dint of
hard study, and a determination, even at a late day, to shake off all
profligate habits, and be something more than a common sailor, qualified
themselves for a different station, and eventually became respectable
shipmasters and merchants.
We lost one of our crew overboard, on this passage, in a manner somewhat
singular. He was an Italian, called Antonio, and remarkable for a love
of cleanliness a priceless virtue, when not carried to excess. He was
continually washing his face and hands, as if to get rid of impurities
communicated by the atmosphere. One Sunday afternoon, with a strong
breeze on the quarter, the brig was reeling it off at the rate of eight
or nine knots, and a rough and turbulent sea was helping her along.
Notwithstanding the wind was three or four points abaft the beam,
Captain Mott insisted on carrying main-topmast and middle staysails,
and occasionally when the vessel was a little off of her course, the
main-topmast staysail sheet, which was fastened to a cleat in the main
deck, would give a "slat," with great violence. Antonio had just left
the helm, and, according to his usual custom, proceeded to draw a bucket
of water from alongside, in which to immerse his face and hands. But
while he was stooping, in the very act of performing his ablutions, the
brig, through the inattention of the helmsman, was run off her course
nearly before the wind, the staysails were becalmed and the main-topmast
staysail sheet, that is, the rope which kept the sail in its proper
position, give a terrible jerk, caught the unfortunate Italian behind,
lifted him from his feet, and actually tossed him over the gunwale. The
thing was so sudden, he had not time to struggle, or even to scream, as
he sank beneath the billows, while the brig swept onward, leaving him
far astern. The cry, "A man's overboard!" was instantly raised by
those who witnessed the sad event. One man sprang into the weather main
shrouds in order to keep an eye on the poor fellow who became a martyr
to cleanliness. The helm was put down, the brig rounded to, and sails
laid aback. But attempts to rescue him were fruitless. He was not seen
after he struck the water.
After having been about forty-five days at sea, we got sight one morning
of "the Caskets," in the middle of the English Channel, about thirty
miles west of Cape LaHogue, and on the following day entered the harbor
of Havre, the seaport of Paris, situated at the mouth of the Seine.