The clocks of Portsmouth are striking nine as the yeoman-farmer's son
enters the suburbs of the famous seaport. He lingers not there, but
presses on to where he may find the ships--"by the Hard, Portsea," as he
learns on inquiry. Presently a long street opens before him, at whose
farther end he descries a forest of masts, with their network of spars
and rigging, like the web of a gigantic spider. Ship he has never seen
before, save in pictures or miniature models; but either were enough for
their identification, and the youth knows he is now looking with waking
eyes at what has so often appeared to him in dreams.
Hastening on, he sees scores of vessels lying at anchor off the Hard,
their boats coming and going. But they are men-of-war, he is told, and
not the sort for him. Notwithstanding his ambitious hope of one day
becoming a naval hero, he does not quite relish the idea of being a
common sailor--at least on a man-of-war. It were too like enlisting in
the army to serve as a private soldier--a thing not to be thought of by
the son of a yeoman-farmer. Besides, he has heard of harsh discipline
on war-vessels, and that the navy tar, when in a foreign port, is
permitted to see little more of the country than may be viewed over the
rail or from the rigging of his ship. A merchantman is the craft he
inclines to--at least, to make a beginning with--especially one that
trades from port to port, visiting many lands; for, in truth, his
leaning toward a sea life has much to do with a desire to see the world
and its wonders. Above all, would a whaler be to his fancy, as among
the most interesting books of his reading have been some that described
the "Chase of Leviathan," and he longs to take a part in it.
But Portsmouth is not the place for whaling vessels, not one such being
there.
For the merchantmen he is directed to their special harbour, and
proceeding thither he finds several lying alongside the wharves, some
taking in cargo, some discharging it, with two or three fully freighted
and ready to set sail. These last claim his attention first, and,
screwing up courage, he boards one, and asks if he may speak with her
captain.
The captain being pointed out to him, he modestly and somewhat timidly
makes known his wishes. But he meets only with an offhand denial,
couched in words of scant courtesy.
Disconcerted, though not at all discouraged, he tries another ship; but
with _no_ better success. Then another, and another with like result,
until he has boarded nearly every vessel in the harbour having a
gangway-plank out. Some of the skippers receive him even rudely, and
one almost brutally, saying, "We don't want landlubbers on this craft.
So cut ashore--quick!"
Henry Chester's hopes, high-tide at noon, ere night are down to lowest
ebb, and, greatly humiliated, he almost wishes himself back on the old
farmstead by Godalming. He is even again considering whether it would
not be better to give it up and go back, when his eyes chance to stray
to a flag on whose corner is a cluster of stars on a blue ground, with a
field of red and white bands alternating. It droops over the taffrail
of a barque of some six hundred tons burden, and below it, on her stern,
is lettered the _Calypso_. During his perambulations to and fro he has
more than once passed this vessel, but the ensign not being English, he
did not think of boarding her. Refused by so many skippers of his own
country, what chance would there be for him with one of a foreign
vessel? None whatever, reasoned he. But now, more intelligently
reflecting, he bethinks him that the barque, after all, is not so much a
foreigner, a passer-by having told him she is American--or "Yankee," as
it was put--and the flag she displays is the famed "Star-spangled
Banner."
"Well," mutters the runaway to himself, "I'll make one more try. If
this one, too, refuses me, things will be no worse, and then--then--
home, I suppose."
Saying which, he walks resolutely up the sloping plank and steps on
board the barque, to repeat there the question he has already asked that
day for the twentieth time--"Can I speak with the captain?"
"I guess not," answers he to whom it is addressed, a slim youth who
stands leaning against the companion. "Leastways, not now, 'cause he's
not on board. What might you be wantin', mister? Maybe I can fix it
for you."
Though the words are encouraging and the tone kindly, Henry Chester has
little hopes that he can, the speaker being but a boy himself. Still,
he speaks in a tone of authority, and though in sailor garb, it is not
that of a common deck hand.
He is in his shirt-sleeves, the day being warm; but the shirt is of fine
linen, ruffled at the breast, and gold-studded, while a costly Panama
hat shades his somewhat sallow face from the sun. Besides, he is on the
quarter-deck, seeming at home there.
Noting these details, the applicant takes heart to tell again his
oft-told tale, and await the rejoinder.
"Well," responds the young American, "I'm sorry I can't give you an
answer about that, the cap'n, as I told you, not being aboard. He's
gone ashore on some Custom House business. But, if you like, you can
come again and see him."
"I would like it much; when might I come?"
"Well, he might be back any minute. Still, it's uncertain, and you'd
better make it to-morrow morning; you'll be sure to find him on board up
till noon, anyhow."
Though country born and bred, Henry Chester was too well-mannered to
prolong the interview, especially after receiving such courteous
treatment, the first shown him that day. So, bowing thanks as well as
speaking them, he returns to the wharf. But, still under the influence
of gratitude, he glances back over the barque's counter, to see on her
quarter-deck what intensifies his desire to become one of her crew. A
fair vision it is--a slip of a girl, sweet-faced and of graceful form,
who has just come out of the cabin and joined the youth, to all
appearance asking some question about Chester himself, as her eyes are
turned shoreward after him. At the same time a middle-aged ladylike
woman shows herself at the head of the companion-ladder, and seems
interested in him also.
"The woman must be the captain's wife and the girl his daughter,"
surmises the English youth, and correctly. "But I never knew that
ladies lived on board ships, as they seem to be doing. An American
fashion, I suppose. How different from all the other vessels I've
visited! Come back to-morrow morning? No, not a bit of it. I'll hang
about here, and wait the captain's return. That will I, if it be till
midnight."
So resolving, he looks around for a place where he may rest himself.
After his thirty miles' trudge along the king's highway, with quite ten
more back and forth on the wharves, to say nought of the many ships
boarded, he needs rest badly. A pile of timber here, with some loose
planks alongside it, offers the thing he is in search of; and on the
latter he seats himself, leaning his back against the boards in such a
position as to be screened from the sight of those on the barque, while
he himself commands a view of the approaches to her gangway-plank.
For a time he keeps intently on the watch, wondering what sort of man
the _Calypso's_ captain may be, and whether he will recognise him amidst
the moving throng. Not likely, since most of those passing by are men
of the sea, as their garb betokens. There are sailors in blue jackets
and trousers that are tight at the hip and loose around the ankles, with
straw-plaited or glazed hats, bright-ribboned, and set far back on the
head; other seamen in heavy pilot-cloth coats and sou'-westers; still
others wearing Guernsey frocks and worsted caps, with long points
drooping down over their ears. Now, a staid naval officer passes along
in gold-laced uniform, and sword slung in black leathern belt; now, a
party of rollicking midshipmen, full of romp and mischief.
Not all who pass him are English: there are men loosely robed and
wearing turbans, whom he takes to be Turks or Egyptians, which they are;
others, also of Oriental aspect, in red caps with blue silk tassels--the
fez. In short, he sees sailors of all nations and colours, from the
blonde-complexioned Swede and Norwegian to the almost jet-black negro
from Africa.
But while endeavouring to guess the different nationalities, a group at
length presents itself which puzzles him. It is composed of three
individuals--a man, boy, and girl, their respective ages being about
twenty-five, fifteen, and ten. The oldest--the man--is not much above
five feet in height, the other two short in proportion. All three,
however, are stout-bodied, broad-shouldered, and with heads of goodly
size, the short slender legs alone giving them a squat diminutive look.
Their complexion is that of old mahogany; hair straight as needles,
coarse as bristles, and crow-black; eyes of jet, obliqued to the line of
the nose, this thin at the bridge, and depressed, while widely dilated
at the nostrils; low foreheads and retreating chins--such are the
features of this singular trio. The man's face is somewhat forbidding,
the boy's less so, while the countenance of the girl has a pleasing
expression--or, at least, a picturesqueness such as is commonly
associated with gipsies. What chiefly attracts Henry Chester to them,
however, while still further perplexing him as to their nationality, is
that all three are attired in the ordinary way as other well-dressed
people in the streets of Portsmouth. The man and boy wear broadcloth
coats, tall "chimney-pot" hats, and polished boots; white linen shirts,
too, with standing collars and silk neckties, the boy somewhat foppishly
twirling a light cane he carries in his kid-gloved hand. The girl is
dressed neatly and becomingly in a gown of cotton print, with a bright
coloured scarf over her shoulders and a bonnet on her head, her only
adornment being a necklace of imitation pearls and a ring or two on her
fingers.
Henry Chester might not have taken such particular notice of them, but
that, when opposite him, they came to a stand, though not on his
account. What halts them is the sight of the starred and striped flag
on the _Calypso_, which is evidently nothing new to them, however rare a
visitor in the harbour of Portsmouth. A circumstance that further
surprises Henry is to hear them converse about it in his own tongue.
"Look, Ocushlu!" exclaims the man, addressing the girl, "that the same
flag we often see in our own country on sealing ships."
"Indeed so--just same. You see, Orundelico?"
"Oh, yes!" responds the boy, with a careless toss of head and wave of
the cane, as much as to say, "What matters it?"
"'Merican ship," further observes the man. "They speak Inglis, same as
people here."
"Yes, Eleparu," rejoins the boy, "that true; but they different from
Inglismen--not always friends; sometimes they enemies and fight.
Sailors tell me that when we were in the big war-ship."
"Well, it no business of ours," returns Eleparu. "Come 'long." Saying
which he leads off, the others following, all three at intervals
uttering ejaculations of delighted wonder as objects novel and unknown
come before their eyes.
Equally wonders the English youth as to who and what they may be. Such
queer specimens of humanity! But not long does he ponder upon it. Up
all the night preceding and through all that day, with his mind
constantly on the rack, his tired frame at length succumbs, and he falls
asleep.