Harry Blew is a tar of the true man-o'-war type; this of the time when
sailors were sailors, and ships were oak, not iron. Such ships are
scarce now; but scarcer still the skilled men who handled their ropes,
and kept everything taut and trim--in short, the true tars.
Than Harry, a finer specimen of the foremast-man never reefed topsail,
or took his glass of grog according to allowance. Of dark complexion
naturally, exposure to sun, sea, and storm has deepened it, till his
cheeks and throat are almost copper-coloured; somewhat lighter in tint
upon Sundays, after they have had their hebdomadal shave. His face is
round, with features fairly regular, and of cheerful cast, their
cheerfulness heightened by the sparkle of keen grey eyes, and two rows
of sound white teeth, frequently, if not continuously shown in smile. A
thick shock of curling brown hair, with a well-greased ringlet drooping
down over each eyebrow, supports a round-rimmed, blue-ribboned hat, well
aback on his head. His shaven chin is pointed and prominent, with a
dimple below the lip; while the beardless jaws curve smoothly down to a
well-shaped neck, symmetrically set upon broad shoulders, that give
token of strength almost herculean. Notwithstanding an amplitude of
shirt-collar, which falls back full seven inches, touching the
shoulder-tips, the throat and a portion of the expansive chest are
habitually exposed to view; while on the sun-browned skin of the latter
may be seen a tattooed anchor. By its side, but not so openly
exhibited, is the figure of a damsel done in dark blue--no doubt a
souvenir, if not the exact similitude, of a sweetheart--some Poll of
past time, or perhaps far-off port.
But there is a doubt whether Harry's heart has been true to her.
Indeed, a suspicion of its having been false cannot fail to strike any
one seeing him with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, since upon the flat of
his right fore-arm is the image of another damsel, done more recently,
in lighter blue, while on the left is a Cupid holding an unbent bow, and
hovering above a pair of hearts, which his arrow has just pierced,
impaling them through and through!
All those amorous emblems would seem to argue our true tar inconstant as
the wind, with which he has so oft to contend. But no, nothing of the
kind. Those well acquainted with him and his history can vouch for it,
that he has never had a sweetheart save one--she represented in that
limning of light blue; and to her he has been true as steel, up to the
hour of her death, which occurred just as she was about to become Mrs
Blew.
And that sad event has kept him a bachelor up to the present hour of his
life. For the girl on his breast in dark blue is a merely mythical
personage, though indelibly stained into his skin by a needle's point
and a pinch of gunpowder--done by one of his man-o'-war shipmates while
he was still only a sailor-lad.
He is now forty years of age, nearly thirty of which he has passed upon
the sea, being off it only in short spells while his ship lay in port.
And he has seen service on several vessels--corvettes, frigates, double
and treble deckers--all men-of-war, in which he has thrice
circumnavigated the globe.
For all, he is yet hale, hearty, and in the perfect plenitude of his
strength; only with a slight stoop in the shoulders, as if caught from
continually swarming up shrouds, or leaning over the yard while stowing
sails. This gives him the appearance of being shorter than he really
is: for when straightened up, with back well braced, he stands six feet
in his stockings. And his limbs show symmetrical proportion. His duck
trousers, fitting tightly over the hips, display a pair of limbs supple
and muscular, with thighs that seem all sinew from skin to bone.
In spite of his sterling qualities as a seaman, and noble character as a
man, Harry has never risen to any rank in the service. With him has it
been literally true, "Once a sailor, still a sailor;" and though long
ago rated an A.B. of the first order, above this he has not ascended a
single step. Were he to complain, which he rarely ever does, he would
in all probability say, that his non-promotion has been due to
independence of spirit, or, shaping it in his own phraseology, owing to
his not having "bootlicked the swabs above him." And there is some
truth in this, though another reason might be assigned by those disposed
to speak slightingly of him; this, that although liking salt water, he
has a decided antipathy to that which is fresh, unless when taken with
an admixture of rum. Then he is too fond of it. But it is his only
fault, barring which, a better man than Harry Blew--and, when sober, a
steadier--never trod the deck of ship.
As already said, he has trod many, the latest being that of the
_Crusader_, in which vessel he has spent five years of his life. His
engagement terminating almost on the very day she dropt anchor before
San Francisco, he has been set free, either to stay in the ship, by
entering his name upon her books for a fresh period of service, or step
out of her, and go cruising on his own account, whithersoever he may
wish.
Taking into consideration the state of things in San Francisco just at
this time, it is not strange his having elected to leave the ship. It
would be stranger if he had even hesitated about it, though this he had
indeed done, for some days lingering with mind only half made up. But
the golden lure proved at length too temptingly attractive, and,
yielding to it, he took a last leave of his old shipmates, was rowed
ashore, and has since been sojourning at the "Sailor's Home"--for he is
still there, as Cadwallader rightly surmised--there in a very miserable
state of mind, not knowing how his wretchedness will be relieved.