Once there lay in a certain haven a large number of vessels. They had
lain there very long, not exactly on account of storm, but rather
because of a dead calm; and at last they had lain there until they no
longer heeded the weather.
All the captains had gradually become good friends; they visited from
ship to ship, and called one another 'Cousin.'
They were in no hurry to depart. Now and then a youthful steersman might
chance to let fall a word about a good wind and a smooth sea. But such
remarks were not tolerated; order had to be maintained on a ship. Those,
therefore, who could not hold their tongues were set ashore.
Matters could not, however, go on thus for ever. Men are not so good as
they ought to be, and all do not thrive under law and order.
The crews at length began to murmur a little; they were weary of
painting and polishing the cabins, and of rowing the captains to and
from the toddy suppers. It was rumoured that individual ships were
getting ready for sailing. The sails of some were set one by one in all
silence, the anchors were weighed without song, and the ships glided
quietly out of the harbour; others sailed while their captains slept.
Fighting and mutiny were also heard of; but then there came help from
the neighbour captains, the malcontents were punished and put ashore,
and all moorings were carefully examined and strengthened.
Nevertheless, all the ships, except one, at last left the harbour. They
did not all sail with like fortune; one and another even came in again
for a time, damaged. Others were little heard of. The captain of one
ship, it was said, was thrown overboard by his men; another sailed with
half the crew in irons, none knew where. But yet they were all in
motion, each striving after its own fashion, now in storm, now in calm,
towards its goal.
As stated, only one ship remained in the harbour, and it lay safe and
sound, with two anchors at the bottom and three great cables attached to
the quay.
It was a strange little craft. The hull was old, but it had been newly
repaired, and they had given it a smart little modern figurehead, which
contrasted strangely with the smooth sides and the heavy stern. One
could see that the rigging had originally belonged to a large vessel,
but had been very hastily adapted to the smaller hull, and this still
further increased the want of proportion in the brig's whole appearance.
Then it was painted with large portholes for guns, like a man-of-war,
and always carried its flag at the main-mast.
The skipper was no common man. He himself had painted the sketch of the
brig that hung in the cabin, and, besides, he could sing--both psalms
and songs. Indeed, there were those who maintained that he composed the
songs himself; but this was most probably a lie. And it was certainly a
lie that they whispered in the forecastle: that the skipper had not
quite got his sea-legs. Young men always tell such stories to
cabin-boys, in order to appear manly. And, besides, there was a
steersman on the brig, who could, on a pinch, easily round the headlands
alone.
He had sailed as steersman for many years of our Lord, ever since the
time of the skipper's late father. He had become as if glued to the
tiller, and many could scarcely imagine the old brig with a new
steersman.
He had certainly never voyaged in distant waters; but as his trade had
always been the same, and as he had invariably been in the company of
others, the brig had sailed pretty fortunately, without special damage
and without special merit.
Therefore, both he and the skipper had arrived at the conviction that
none could sail better than they, and hence they cared little what the
others did. They looked up at the sky and shook their heads.
The men felt quite comfortable, for they were not used to better things.
Most of them could not understand why the crews of the other ships were
in such a hurry to be off; the month went round all the same, whether
one lay in port or sailed, and then it was better to avoid work. So long
as the skipper made no sign of preparation for sailing, the men might
keep their minds easy, for he must surely have the most interest in
getting away. And besides, they all knew what sort of fellow the
steersman was, and if such a capable and experienced man lay still, they
might be quite sure that he had good and powerful reasons.
But a little party among the crew--some quite youthful persons--thought
it was a shame to let themselves be thus left astern by everybody. They
had, indeed, no special advantage or profit to expect from the voyage,
but at last the inaction became intolerable, and they conceived the
daring resolve of sending a youth aft to beg the captain to fix a date
for sailing.
The more judicious among the crew crossed themselves, and humbly
entreated the young man to keep quiet; but the latter was a rash
greenhorn, who had sailed in foreign service, and therefore imagined
himself to be a 'regular devil of a fellow.' He went right aft and down
into the cabin, where the skipper and the steersman sat with their
whisky before them, playing cards.
'We would ask if the skipper would kindly set sail next week, for now we
are all so weary of lying here,' said the young man, looking the skipper
straight in the eyes without winking.
The latter's face first turned pale blue, and then assumed a deep violet
tint; but he restrained himself, and said, as was his invariable custom:
'What think you, steersman?'
'H'm,' replied the steersman slowly. More he never used to say at first,
when he was questioned, for he did not like to answer promptly. But when
he got an opportunity of speaking alone, without being interrupted, he
could utter the longest sentences and the very hardest words. And then
the skipper was especially proud of him.
However short the steersman's reply might seem, the skipper at once
understood its meaning. He turned towards the youth--gravely, but
gracefully, for he was an exceedingly well-bred man.
'You cursed young fool! don't you think I understand these things better
than you? I, who have thought of nothing but being a skipper since I was
knee-high! But I know well enough what you and the like of you are
thinking about. You don't care a d---- about the craft, and if you could
only get the power from us old ones, you would run her on the first
islet you came to, so that you might plunder her of the whisky. But
there will be none of that, my young whelp! Here we shall lie, as long
as I choose.'
When this decision reached the forecastle, it awoke great indignation
among the young and immature, which, indeed, was only to be expected.
But even the skipper's friends and admirers shook their heads, and
opined that it was a nasty answer; after all, it was only a civil
question, which ought not to compromise anybody.
There now arose a growing ill-humour--something quite unheard-of among
these peaceable fellows. Even the skipper, who was not usually quick to
understand or remark anything, thought he saw many sullen faces, and he
was no longer so well pleased with the bearing of the crew when he
stepped out upon deck with his genial 'Good-morning, you rogues.'
But the steersman had long scented something, for he had a fine nose and
long ears. Therefore, a couple of evenings after the young man's
unfortunate visit, it was remarked that something extraordinary was
brewing aft.
The cabin-boy had to make three journeys with the toddy-kettle, and the
report he gave in the forecastle after his last trip was indeed
disquieting.
The steersman seemed to have talked without intermission for two hours;
before them on the table lay barometer, chronometer, sextant, journal,
and half the ship's library. This consisted of Kingo's hymn-book and an
old Dutch 'Kaart-Boikje'; [Footnote: Chart-book.] for the skipper could
do just as little with the new hymns as the steersman with the new
charts.
The skipper now sat prodding the chart with a large pair of compasses,
while the steersman talked, using all his longest and hardest words.
There was one word in particular that was often repeated, and this the
boy learned by heart. He said it over and over again to himself as he
went up the cabin stairs and passed along the deck to the forecastle,
and the moment he opened the door he shouted:
'Initiative! Mind that word, boys! Write it down--initiative!'
_In-i-ti-a-tive_ was with much difficulty spelt out and written with
chalk on the table. And during the boy's long statement all these men
sat staring, uneasily and with anxious expectancy, at this long, mystic
word.
'And then,' concluded the cabin-boy at last--'then says the steersman:
"But we ourselves shall take the--" what is written on the table.'