Meanwhile, the first lieutenant and boatswain were busy forward with the
forecastle hands, seeing to the catting and fishing of the anchor; and,
as soon as our port bower was properly secured by the aid of the cathead
stopper and shank painter, the courses, which were all ready to let
fall, were dropped and sheeted home, topgallants and royals spread, and
the jib and foretopmast staysail set, as well as the spanker aft, the
old _Candahar_ being presently under a cloud of canvas alow and aloft,
and slowly but surely making an offing and reaching out to sea.
We continued on the same tack until we had weathered the Nab Lightship,
some ten miles out, when, being favoured with a "sojer's wind," fair
both ways, we trimmed sails again and braced the yards up, wearing ship
and gradually altering course from a nearly due east direction to one
"west-half-south," fetching a compass down Channel.
We passed on our starboard hand within easy cannon shot of the Isle of
Wight, whose bold, projecting headlands and curving bays of white and
yellow sand we opened in turn every minute, with their purple hills
beyond and deep-shadowed valleys lit up ever and anon by a gleam of
sunshine as we sailed gaily on; the blue sky above our heads seeming in
the clear atmosphere to recede further and further back into the
immensity of space as we proceeded while the blue water around us became
bluer and, more intense in tone, except where here and there the crest
of a breaking wave flecked it with foam.
At Seven Bells, when the watch was set, we had given the snub-nosed
Dunose the go-by and were heading for Saint Catherine's Point, going
about eight knots under all plain sail, the wind freshening as we drew
away from under the lee of the land, and the ship getting livelier.
Just as I was looking over the side and noting this fact, while watching
the gull's circling in our wake, uttering their plaintive screams at
intervals that sounded like the ghost cries of drowned sailors buried
beneath the sea, Mr Quadrant, the master, who was on the poop, sextant
in hand, reported it was twelve o'clock; whereupon, the commander
telling him to "make it so," Eight Bells was struck, the men being piped
to dinner immediately afterwards in obedience to another order from
headquarters aft.
Not being wanted any longer on deck, and the crisp, bracing sea air
giving me a good appetite, I hurried down the hatchway to join my
messmates in the gunroom, mindful by my morning's experiences of the
disadvantage of being late for meals.
Quick as I was, I found the majority of the other fellows not on duty
had already forestalled me, chief among these early birds being my chum,
Tom Mills.
This young gentleman, all in his glory, was lording it over poor Dobb's,
the long-suffering steward, at a fine rate, I noticed, making Mr
Stormcock waxy with his remarks about the fare.
This, really, was not at all bad in quality nor scanty in quantity, as
the irate master's mate asseverated with considerable heat.
It was much better, indeed, than most of us youngsters had probably been
accustomed to when at school in our longshore days, no matter how we
might growl and turn up our noses at it now; but, cocksy Master Tommy,
of course, was incorrigible, treating such an innuendo as this, in spite
of the loud voice and pointed manner of Mr Stormcock, with the contempt
it deserved, the young rascal grinning and sticking his tongue in his
cheek in so provocative a fashion that the master's mate instantly
pitched a hot potato at him.
This caught Mr Fortescue Jones, the unoffending assistant-paymaster, in
the eye, and made all the purser's clerks yell with laughter.
When I went on deck again, shortly after Three Bells, we were pretty
well clear of the Isle of Wight, the Needles Rocks being off our weather
quarter and some miles distant, with the Dorset coast looming ahead.
As I stood listening to the quartermaster instructing the helmsmen, one
of whom was a young hand, telling them to keep the ship a couple of
points free, until, as time went on, it came close to the next hour, two
o'clock, or Four Bells; when, according to the routine of the service,
Adams, who was midshipman of the watch, hove the log and reported that
we were still only going eight knots, with the ebb tide in our favour.
At that moment, Captain Farmer came out of his cabin; and, hearing this,
directed the officer of the watch, Mr Bitpin, whose rightful turn of
duty it was, to set studding sails, not being satisfied, apparently,
with the old _Candahar's_ progress, although she was doing her best and
surging along in grand style, as I thought.
"Bosun's mate!" thereupon sang out the lieutenant. "Pipe watch to set
starboard topmast and to'gallant stu'ns'ls!"
"Ay, ay, sir," replied the boatswain's mate from his post by the
after-hatchway; and, almost in the same breath, his piercing shrill
whistle was heard, followed by his hoarse shout repeating Mr Bitpin's
gruff command. "Watch set starboard topmast and to'gallant stu'ns'ls!"
"Topmen aloft!"
"Jiggers at the tops'l lifts!"
"Clear away stu'ns'l gear!"
These successive orders were now jerked out in rapid rotation by Mr
Bitpin, who stood at the poop-rail bellowing away like a wild bull,
Captain Farmer remaining alongside him and surveying with critical eye
all that was done as the hands scrambled up the rigging and bustled
about the deck, casting off ropes and getting the booms prepared; until,
anon, the captains of the fore and maintops and the captain of the
forecastle, as well as the gunner's mate, whose task it was to see to
the main topmast studding sail, reported "All ready!"
Therefore the lieutenant, with a deeper bellow than before, shouted
"Sway away!"
In an instant, the watch on deck, bending on to the halliards with a
will, hoisted the gleaming white sails aloft and sheeted them home;
when, bellying out before the northerly breeze, they expanded their
folds, making the yardarms creak again, and looking like the wings of
some gigantic seabird, the ship herself bearing out the resemblance and
swooping away in a heavy lurch to leeward, after apparently preening her
pinions for a fresh flight, being now a perfect pyramid of canvas from
truck to deck.
"Mr Adams," called out Mr Bitpin presently from the poop, evidently in
obedience to some quiet order given by the captain, to the midshipman,
who of course stood immediately below his superior officer on the
quarter-deck, "heave the log again and tell me what she's going now!"
"Very good, sir," replied Frank Adams; and, after the necessary interval
of heaving the log-ship over the side to leeward and counting the knots
on the line while the fourteen-second glass held by the quartermaster
was running out, he sang out "She's going nearly ten, sir."
"Ah!" muttered Captain Farmer, who had come down the poop-ladder and was
waiting for the news before returning to his cabin, as he passed the
marine sentry before disappearing within the sliding door, expressing
his thoughts aloud, "That's better, much better--I thought she could do
it with this wind!" It was a beautiful afternoon; and, from its being
Sunday, several of the wardroom officers came on deck after luncheon,
having nothing especial to do below.
Amongst the lot were Dr Nettleby and Mr Nipper, the paymaster.
I also observed on the poop the Reverend Mr Smythe and "Joe" Jellaby,
who had contrived to secure sufficient snoozing, during the odd moments
when he was off duty since the morning, to make up for the sleep he had
lost by going to the admiral's ball and there meeting the witching houri
of his dreams, "that chawming gurl," who had subsequently prevented him
from taking his proper rest when he came aboard in the small hours of
the middle watch.
The chaplain seemed to have taken a fancy to "Joe," for he stuck on to
him as soon as he came up the hatchway; joining with some considerable
difficulty in the lieutenant's constitutional "quarter-deck walk." The
reverend gentleman had not got his sea legs yet, and did not find it an
easy matter to keep step, or indeed keep his footing sometimes.
This was more especially the case when the ship heeled over every now
and again before the force of the wind and then righted herself on an
even keel without warning, throwing Mr Smythe off his balance and
causing him to clutch frantically at _Joe's_ arm for support till he
recovered his lost centre of gravity.
The lieutenant's courtesy was put to a severe test in making him
preserve _his_ gravity; albeit, he had an itching inclination to burst
out into his jovial laugh at the reverend gentleman's ridiculous
contortions and praiseworthy attempts to sustain a sort of disjointed
conversation between the pauses of his grotesque sprawls and restoration
to a more dignified attitude.
As they were marching up and down the deck in this desultory way,
describing the while a series of irregular ellipses, Six Bells was
struck forwards, and the marine stationed by the taffrail at once
shouted out in a high key, "Life-buoy!"
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mr Smythe in a shrill tone of alarm, which his
squeaky voice was well calculated to express, bringing up suddenly
against one of the quarter boats which was swung inboard from the
davits; and knocking his head violently against the bottom planking,
through the ship lurching as he stopped. "What has happened--is anyone
lost overboard?"
"Oh, no," replied "Joe," laughing as usual. "It's only the jolly in
charge of the life-buoy. He has to sing out every time the bell is
struck to show that he's at his post, just as the sojers ashore on
sentry-go cry `All's well!' to tell their sergeant they're not napping,
that's all."
"Ah!" ejaculated the chaplain with a feeble smile, putting his hand to
his head as if in great pain from the blow he had received, "I see--ah,
I see."
"I hope you haven't hurt yourself," said "Joe," seeing that the other
kept his white cambric handkerchief still tightly pressed to his
forehead. "That was a rather nasty knock you got! Cut yourself, eh?"
"I--I--don't quite know, you know," answered the reverend gentleman,
removing the handkerchief after some hesitation and proceeding to
examine it carefully as if fearing the worst; but, finding now no trace
of blood on its snowy surface, he became reassured and said, in a more
cheery tone, "no, not cut, I think, only a severe contusion, thank you,
Mr Jellaby. The pain has nearly gone now!"
"That's right; I'm glad you've escaped so well," said "Joe," taking Mr
Smythe's arm again and wheeling him in line so as to resume their walk;
while I stood by, with my ears cocked, listening to the detached
fragments of their talk. "On board my last ship, the _Blanche_, we had
a rum start one day with our life-buoy sentry. Would you like me to
tell you the story?"
"Thanks, much," responded the chaplain; "I should be delighted."
"Well, you see," began the lieutenant, starting off with his yarn and
quarter-deck walk again simultaneously, "we had a lot of raw marine lads
who had just enlisted sent us from Forton to complete our complement;
and, one of these green hands, as luck would have it, was placed as
sentry on the poop by the sergeant of the guard, the first day he came
aboard, though he'd probably never seen a ship in his life before. You
see, eh?"
"Ah!" ejaculated the chaplain as "Joe" turned abruptly when close up to
the taffrail and nearly twisted him off his legs. "Yes, I--ah--see."
"When the poor jolly was put on sentry," continued the lieutenant,
bolstering up Mr Smythe with his arm and just saving him in the nick of
time from coming to grief again over a ringbolt on the deck, "the
sergeant told him he would have to call out when the bell was struck,
thinking, of course, he knew all about it. The poor fellow, though, as
you are aware, was quite ignorant of the custom; so, as soon as the
sergeant's back was turned, he asked one of the men of the starboard
watch standing by, `What am I to call out when they strike the bell?'
"`Life-buoy!' replied the other. `Life-buoy!'
"`All right, chummy, I thank you kindly,' said the young marine, full of
gratitude; and so, when, by-and-by, Two Bells were struck, he called out
in a voice that could be heard all over the ship, `Live boy!'"
"He--he--he!" chuckled the chaplain in his feeble way, he and Mr
Jellaby coming to a stop, I was glad to see, close to where I stood.
"That was funny! Very, very funny!"
"Nothing to what's coming," went on Mr Jellaby, pleased that his
efforts at comic narrative under such difficulties had been so far
successful, the chaplain not objecting to the secular amusement from any
conscientious scruples. "Well, as soon as the ignorant chaw-bacon chap
yelled out this, which naturally made everyone who heard it laugh,
although they put the mistake down to the poor fellow's provincial
pronunciation, he turns to the man who had previously instructed him and
asks in a proud sort of way, as if seeking praise for his performance,
`Say, how did I sing out that, chum?'
"`Very well,' replied the other, who, if he had advised him in good
faith in the first instance, on now seeing the result of his teaching
was anxious to take a rise out of the `stupid jolly,' as he thought him.
`But, chummy, you'll have to do different next time.'
"`Oh!' exclaimed the marine. `What shall I have to sing out, then?'
"`You called "Live boy" at Two Bells; and so it'll be "Dead boy" when it
strikes Three Bells. It's always turn and turn about aboard ship.'
"`Yes, that's fair enough and I thank you kindly,' answered the poor
marine, sucking in the other's gammon like milk, not perceiving for a
moment that the sailor was `pulling his leg'; and, the next time the
bell sounded, as sure as we both stand here, if you'll believe me, Mr
Smythe, the silly donkey shouted out, even louder than he had done
before, at the very pitch of his voice, `Dead boy.'"
"He, he, he!" cackled Mr Smythe again, while Dick Popplethorne, who had
joined me by the taffrail and was intently listening like myself to
"Joe's" yarn, burst out in a regular guffaw, which he had to choke his
fist into his mouth to suppress; for, any such violent expression of
merriment was totally at variance with the discipline of a man-of-war
and had to be checked at once for the good of the service! "But, what--
ah, happened, Mr Jellaby, to the poor fellow, eh?"
"Why, the officer of the watch sent for the sergeant of the guard with a
file of marines, and put the man under arrest for being drunk and
mutinous!"
"You don't--ah, mean to say he was punished?"
"No," replied "Joe," with a wink to us. "He certainly was brought up on
the quarter-deck before the captain, who had heard his queer shout, as
everybody did, indeed, who was on deck at the time; but, the bluejacket
who had misled him came forward at the last moment and got him released
from chokey, our captain, who was a good-tempered chap and enjoyed a
joke, letting them both off, although he read 'em a lecture and had to
bite his lip the while he spoke of the heinousness of their joint
offence, he being hardly able to speak seriously!"
"Ah, I see," said the Reverend Mr Smythe approvingly, though in a very
faint tone, walking off towards the poop-ladder with the lieutenant's
aid, having evidently had enough of the ship's rolling. He expressed a
wish to seek the seclusion of his own cabin, whereat I was not
surprised, both Dick Popplethorne and myself having observed his face
assume a greenish-yellowy-liver sort of look during the last few moments
of "Joe's" narrative; but he kept up his courage to the last, murmuring
yet more faintly as he tottered below. "Ve-wy good--ah! Ye-es, ve-wy
good--ah, indeed!"
"Funny, wasn't it?" said Dick Popplethorne to me as the two turned away,
laughing again, only more quietly now. "What a rum start for him to
sing out, `dead boy!'"