[From Capt. B. Hall’s Fragments of Voyages and Travels. Second Series.]
I remember once, when cruising off Terceira in the Endymion, that a man
fell overboard and was drowned. After the usual confusion, and long
search in vain, the boats were hoisted up, and the hands called to make
sail. I was officer of the forecastle, and on looking about to see if
all the men were at the station, missed one of the foretop-men. Just at
that moment I observed some one curled up, and apparently hiding himself
under the bow of the barge, between the boat and the booms. “Hillo!” I
said, “who are you? What are you doing here, you skulker? Why are you
not at your station?” “I am not skulking, sir,” said the poor fellow,
the furrows in whose bronzed and weather-beaten cheek were running down
with tears. The man we had just lost had been his mess-mate and friend,
he told me, for ten years. I begged his pardon, in full sincerity, for
having used such harsh words to him at such a moment, and bid him go
below to his berth for the rest of the day. “Never mind, sir, never
mind,” said the kind-hearted seaman, “it can’t be helped. You meant no
harm, sir. I am as well on deck as below. Bill’s gone, sir, but I must
do my duty.” So saying, he drew the sleeve of his jacket twice or thrice
across his eyes, and smothering his grief within his breast, walked to
his station as if nothing had happened.
In the same ship, and nearly about the same time, the people were
bathing alongside in a calm at sea. It is customary on such occasions to
spread a studding-sail on the water, by means of lines from the fore and
main yard-arms, for the use of those who either cannot swim, or who are
not expert in this art, so very important to all seafaring people. Half
a dozen of the ship’s boys, youngsters sent on board by that admirable
and most patriotic of naval institutions, the Marine Society, were
floundering about in the sail, and sometimes even venturing beyond the
leech-rope. One of the least of these urchins, but not the least
courageous of their number, when taunted by his more skilful companions
with being afraid, struck out boldly beyond the prescribed bounds. He
had not gone much farther than his own length, however, along the
surface of the fathomless sea, when his heart failed him, poor little
man! and along with his confidence away also went his power of keeping
his head above water. So down he sank rapidly, to the speechless horror
of the other boys, who, of course, could lend the drowning child no
help.
The captain of the forecastle, a tall, fine-looking, hard-a-weather
fellow, was standing on the shank of the sheet-anchor with his arms
across, and his well-varnished canvass hat drawn so much over his eyes,
that it was difficult to tell whether he was awake, or merely dozing in
the sun, as he leaned his back against the fore-topmast backstay. The
seaman, however, had been attentively watching the young party all the
time, and rather fearing that mischief might ensue from their rashness,
he had grunted out a warning to them from time to time, to which they
paid no sort of attention. At last he desisted, saying they might drown
themselves if they had a mind, for never a bit would he help them; but
no sooner did the sinking figure of the adventurous little boy catch his
eye, than, diver-fashion, he joined the palms of his hands over his
head, inverted his position in one instant, and urging himself into
swifter motion by a smart push with his feet against the anchor, shot
head-foremost into the water. The poor lad sunk so rapidly that he was
at least a couple of fathoms under the surface before he was arrested by
the grip of the sailor, who soon rose again, bearing the bewildered boy
in his hand; and calling to the other youngsters to take better care of
their companion, chucked him right into the belly of the sail in the
midst of the party. The fore-sheet was hanging in the calm, nearly into
the water, and by it the dripping seaman scrambled up again to his old
berth on the anchor, shook himself like a great Newfoundland dog, and
then, jumping on the deck, proceeded across the forecastle to shift
himself.
At the top of the ladder he was stopped by the marine officer, who had
witnessed the whole transaction, as he sat across the gangway hammocks,
watching the swimmers, and trying to get his own consent to undergo the
labour of undressing and dressing. Said the soldier to the sailor, “That
was very well done of you, my man, and right well deserves a glass of
grog. Say so to the gun-room steward as you pass; and tell him it is my
orders to fill you out a stiff nor-wester.” The soldier’s offer was
kindly meant, but rather clumsily timed, at least so thought Jack; for
though he inclined his head in acknowledgment of the attention, and
instinctively touched his hat when spoken to by an officer, he made no
reply till out of the marine’s hearing, when he laughed, or rather
chuckled out to the people near him, “Does the good gentleman suppose
I’ll take a glass of grog for saving a boy’s life?”
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