A LONG WAY HOME.
Chase remained in his concealment for a long time, trying to make
up some plausible story to tell the captain in reply to the rigid
cross-examination which he knew he would have to undergo when he first
appeared before that gentleman. The captain would, of course, want to
know how he came to be in Cuba, and why he was in so great a hurry to
leave it, and Chase did not expect him to believe the story he had
to tell. The captain of the revenue cutter had refused to believe it
when Walter told it to him; Don Casper had pronounced it false; and
it was reasonable to suppose that the master of the ship would do the
same. But it was all true, no matter whether people thought so or not;
and Chase finally making up his mind that truth would hold its own
with falsehood any day, abandoned the idea of making up a story, and
resolved to tell just what had occurred, leaving the captain to do as
he pleased about believing it. He would do it at once, too. The sooner
it was over and he knew what was to be done with him, the better he
would feel.
With this thought in his mind Chase arose quickly from his concealment,
bumping his head against the side of the boat as he did so, and when he
got upon his feet, found himself standing face to face with the second
mate, who started back and looked at him, being too surprised to speak.
Believing that when the officer recovered himself the first words he
uttered would be a volley of oaths, Chase hastened to account for his
presence by saying:
“You told me that if I didn’t go ashore I would have to sail with you,
and I thought, from the way you said it, that you wouldn’t be very
angry if I _should_ go with you. I want to work my passage home.”
“Well, here’s a go,” said the officer, looking all around the vessel
and then fastening his eyes on Chase again.
“I shan’t be any expense to you,” continued the boy, “for I am able to
earn the food I eat. I don’t know anything about square-rigged vessels,
but I know something about schooner-rigged yachts, and I can stand my
trick at the wheel with almost anybody.”
While Chase was talking the mate had time to collect himself. He walked
to the side of the vessel, threw out his quid of tobacco, and then came
back. His words were not very reassuring, but the tone in which they
were uttered delighted Chase, for it satisfied him that if all the
officers of the ship were like this one, he had nothing to fear.
“I suppose I ought to throw you overboard,” said the mate. “You ran
away from home to be a sailor, did you? And you’re sick of your bargain
too, are you? It serves you just right,” he added, with a glance at the
boy’s white hands and broadcloth suit, the latter beginning to show
the effects of the hard treatment it had received during the last few
days. “You’ll stay at home with your mother when you get there again,
won’t you?”
“I didn’t run away,” said Chase, as soon as he saw a chance to speak.
“I have a good home, and I am anxious to get back to it.”
“Ah! yes,” said the mate, with a nod that spoke volumes. “Home looks
very comfortable and pleasant after one has been away from it a while,
don’t it? Well, the old man’s turned in, and you can’t see him till
to-morrow. I don’t know what to do with you, so you had better go
below, and if you can find an empty bunk, turn in and go to sleep.”
“Thank you,” said Chase, gratefully. “I shall be very glad to do it.”
The boy made his way to the forecastle, feeling as if a heavy burden
had been removed from his shoulders. Like most people who get their
ideas of men and things solely from books, he had formed some very
erroneous opinions. He had believed that all sailors, and especially
all mates, were brutes, who asked no better amusement than swearing at
somebody or knocking him down with a handspike. But here was a mate who
was a very different sort of person, and he was glad indeed that he had
fallen in with him.
The forecastle—a dark, badly-ventilated apartment in the forward part
of the vessel, smelling of tar and bilge-water, and dimly lighted by a
smoky lantern—was not quite as inviting a place to sleep as his airy
room at home, or even the cosy, nicely-furnished cabin of the Banner;
but it was better than no shelter at all, and Chase thought he could
stand it during the five or six days that would probably elapse before
he reached New Orleans. Several of the bunks were occupied by the men
belonging to the watch below, and the beds that were made up in the
others showed that they belonged to the sailors who were on deck. There
were two empty ones, however, in the lowest tier and in the farthest
corner of the forecastle, and of one of these Chase took possession,
blessing his lucky stars that at last he had an opportunity to rest
his tired limbs. The pine boards that composed the bottom of the bunk
were rather hard, but he was among his own countrymen, and Mr. Bell and
Cuba were being left farther behind every moment. Of course he had no
bedding, that being something that every sailor is expected to furnish
for himself. He had his hat for a pillow, and while he was arranging
it under his head, and trying to find a board in the bottom of the
bunk soft enough to sleep upon, he became aware that a sailor in the
opposite berth was greatly interested in his movements. Indeed, when he
came to look about him, he found that the eyes of all the men in the
forecastle were directed toward his bunk.
“Well, mates,” said Chase, in an off-hand, easy manner, which he
thought becoming to a sailor, “is this the first time you ever saw a
stowaway?”
“That’s how you came aboard, is it?” said one of the men. “I thought I
hadn’t seen you before.”
“Yes, I have stolen my passage,” replied Chase. “I wanted to ship, but
they told me they had all the men they needed. I was bound to leave
Cuba, however, so I hid under the long boat till the ship was well out
to sea. The mate sent me down here till the captain gets ready to see
me.”
Chase expected to be the butt of a good many jokes and smart remarks
from the sailors, so when they began upon him he was prepared to
submit. But, after all, they had nothing very aggravating to say, and
finding that he received their pleasantries very good-naturedly, they
finally desisted and left him to sleep in peace—all except the sailor
in the opposite bunk, who seemed to have a larger share of curiosity
than his companions, and showed a desire to know something of the boy’s
history. He smiled and nodded his head, just as the mate had done,
while he listened to Chase’s account of his recent adventures, and when
the boy finished his story, asked him where he lived.
“In Bellville, Louisiana,” replied Chase.
“Well, seems to me you’re taking a long way to get home,” said the
sailor, as he pulled the blankets over his shoulders and turned his
face to the bulkhead preparatory to going to sleep.
“How is that? One of the crew told me that the ship is bound for the
States.”
“So she is; but she is going by the way of the Horn and Good Hope.”
“Great goodness! Around the world!” exclaimed Chase, as soon as he
could speak.
The sailor replied that that was what some people called a voyage of
that kind, and then settled himself between the blankets, while Chase
sat bolt upright in his bunk, staring blankly about him.
“Around the world!” he kept saying to himself, as if he could not quite
understand the words. He had not bargained for any such extended tour
as that, and he was not prepared for it. Could he live for long months,
and perhaps years, without any bedding to sleep on, and no clothes
except those he then wore? And what would the folks at home think had
become of him? Poor Chase was almost overwhelmed at the thought of
so long a separation from his friends, and appalled by the dangers,
both real and imaginary, which he saw looming up before him; and he
wished now, when it was too late, that he had not been in so great
a hurry to get out of Cuba. He would willingly have gone back to the
Don’s wine-cellar—he was almost willing to say that he would rather
be a prisoner in the hands of the Spaniards than be in his present
situation. He never closed his eyes in sleep. All the night long he
rolled about in his bunk, thinking over his troubles; and he was glad
when the morning dawned, and the mate came into the forecastle to tell
him that the captain wanted to see him on the quarter-deck.
Almost too weak and dispirited to move, Chase managed to follow the
officer up the ladder, and in a few seconds more he was standing, hat
in hand, before the master of the vessel—a gray-headed old gentleman,
who reminded Chase of Uncle Dick Gaylord. He proved to be like Uncle
Dick, too, in more respects than one, which was a fortunate thing for
the stowaway. He was evidently prepared to say something severe, for
his forehead wore a threatening scowl; but when his eyes rested on the
crying youth before him, his face softened at once.
“Well, my lad,” said he, “don’t you know that you have no business
here?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Chase.
“What have you to say for yourself?”
The boy had a good deal to say for himself, and it took him some time
to say it, although he related his story with all haste, touching only
on such portions of it as he thought would interest the captain. The
latter listened patiently, but with evident surprise, and when Chase
ceased speaking, said:
“I saw the yacht you describe, and noticed that there was a good deal
going on aboard of her. Were you the boy who jumped overboard?”
“No, sir,” replied Chase, wondering what the captain meant.
“Were you on her when she was under the fire of the fort?”
The boy began to open his eyes now. These questions made it plain to
him that he and Wilson were not the only ones who had seen excitement
and been in perilous situations during the afternoon. The rest of the
yacht’s company had come in for a share, but of course Chase knew
nothing about it, for he was ten miles away in the country, and part of
the time locked up in the Don’s wine-cellar.
“As you are here and I can’t well put you ashore, I shall do the best I
can by you,” said the captain. “Of course you have no outfit?”
“Nothing except the clothes I stand in,” replied Chase.
“Then you had better sign articles at boy’s wages, and after that you
can go to the slop-chest.”
“Very well, sir,” replied Chase, who did not quite catch the captain’s
meaning. “I suppose I can do no better.”
“I will discharge you at San Francisco, which will be the first port in
America at which we shall touch.”
So saying the captain walked down into his cabin, followed by Chase.
The boy signed his name to the shipping articles, and was then turned
over to the steward, who was told to conduct him to the slop-chest and
give him what he wanted.
“I was in hopes I should be allowed to mess with the men,” said Chase,
as the steward led him away. “I am one of the crew now, and I don’t
think I ought to be fed on slops.”
The steward stared at him a moment, and then broke out into a hearty
fit of laughter.
“Did you ever see a ship before?” he asked.
“O, yes,” replied Chase. “I live in a seaport town.”
“Well, did you never hear that greenhorns always mess in the
crow’s-nest, and that their skouse and dough-boy are cooked in tar and
bilge-water?”
“No, I never did.”
“Well, it is a fact, as you will find. It hardens their muscles and
makes them water-proof.”
Chase simply smiled his disbelief, and followed the steward below,
where the ship’s supplies were kept. Then he found that the slop-chest
was not a chest after all. It was the ship’s variety store—a little
locker in which were stowed away an abundance of mattresses, blankets,
trowsers, shirts, pea-jackets, needles, thread, tobacco and other
articles of necessity and luxury which go to make up a sailor’s kit.
“O, things are not so bad after all,” thought Chase, as he gazed at the
well-filled shelves. “They might be a great deal worse. I shall not
freeze while going around the Horn, and neither shall I starve; and
when I am once safe ashore at San Francisco, it will not be much of a
task to work my way home across the plains. I shall see something of
life and of the world, too. I believe I’d rather be here than in the
Don’s wine-cellar.”
The steward assisted him in making his selections, charging each
article to his account at rather higher prices than he would have had
to pay ashore, and when he had got all he wanted he carried them to the
forecastle and stowed them away in his bunk. After that he was ordered
into the cabin to assist the steward, and in two days more was fairly
settled in his new position, and knew how to scour knives and bang
dishes as well as the other cabin-boy.
Before many days had passed over his head, Chase was effectually cured
of some very foolish notions, just as many another deluded boy has been
cured. It may be all very well for those who go to sea as passengers to
write in glowing terms of the ease and romance of a sailor’s life, but
one who is before the mast, and has the work to do, must of necessity
look at it in a different light. Chase found it one of drudgery and
toil. There was always something to do, for shipmasters believe that
men cannot be kept in a proper state of discipline unless they are
constantly busy. Chase had his duties on deck to perform as well as
his work in the cabin; for when sail was made or shortened, all hands
and the cook were called upon to assist. Then, too, the position he
occupied was menial—he was emphatically a servant of servants, as
every greenhorn is at sea. The men in the forecastle called upon him
to wait on them, and even the other cabin-boy, who, although a year
younger than himself, had made one voyage in the ship, exercised
authority over him, and shifted upon his shoulders the responsibility
of keeping the captain’s boots well blacked. He had to wait at table,
and stand behind the captain’s chair while that gentleman was eating
his meals, just as one of his own father’s negro servants had done
during the days of slavery.
All this was extremely galling to Chase, who was a high-spirited,
aristocratic young fellow; but he had too much good sense to make his
situation worse by rebelling. He performed his duties carefully and
patiently, acting on a hint his sensible father had once given him,
and which he constantly bore in mind. “Henry,” said Mr. Chase, on one
occasion, “if it is your fortune in life to be a bottle-cleaner, see to
it that you make the bottles _shine_.”
Chase made the plates and the knives and forks shine, but he chafed
inwardly while he was doing it, and told himself over and over again
that he could not think of any combination of circumstances that would
ever induce him, of his own free will, to go to sea as a foremast hand
or a cabin-boy.
With some of his surroundings Chase was agreeably surprised. While he
was on board the Petrel—that was the name of the ship—he did not
hear an oath uttered by either officers or men, or see a blow struck.
The captain was a man who did not permit such things. In this respect
Chase’s experience was very different from that of another of his
friends, whose adventures in the forecastle we have yet to relate.
During the voyage scarcely an incident happened that was worthy of
notice. The first port in which the Petrel dropped her anchor was
Callao, where she remained nearly a month. The next was Honolulu,
in the Sandwich Islands. Here another long and, to Chase, extremely
vexatious delay occurred; but the cargo was discharged at last, a new
one taken aboard, and the Petrel spread her wings for California.
Propelled by favoring breezes she made a quick run, and finally the
Golden Gate was passed, and the anchor dropped in the harbor of San
Francisco. One of the boats was called away to take the captain ashore,
and just as it was ready to start, Chase was summoned into the cabin
and presented with his discharge, and a five-dollar bill. The money
was a present from the captain, and was something he did not expect. He
had kept a strict run of his accounts, and knew that the articles he
had drawn from the slop-chest footed up a dollar or two more than his
wages.
With a light heart Chase gathered up his clothes and blankets, leaving
his mattress, which was too bulky to go in his bundle, as a gift to
one of the sailors, and taking his seat in the captain’s boat was soon
landed on the wharf. He was alone in a strange city, with scarcely more
than money enough in his pocket to take him fairly out of its limits,
and the whole world was before him.