SELVAGEE CONTRASTED WITH MAD-JACK.
Having glanced at the grand divisions of a man-of-war, let us now
descend to specialities: and, particularly, to two of the junior
lieutenants; lords and noblemen; members of that House of Peers, the
gun-room. There were several young lieutenants on board; but from these
two—representing the extremes of character to be found in their
department—the nature of the other officers of their grade in the
Neversink must be derived.
One of these two quarter-deck lords went among the sailors by a name of
their own devising—Selvagee. Of course, it was intended to be
characteristic; and even so it was.
In frigates, and all large ships of war, when getting under weigh, a
large rope, called a _messenger_ used to carry the strain of the cable
to the capstan; so that the anchor may be weighed, without the muddy,
ponderous cable, itself going round the capstan. As the cable enters
the hawse-hole, therefore, something must be constantly used, to keep
this travelling chain attached to this travelling _messenger_;
something that may be rapidly wound round both, so as to bind them
together. The article used is called a _selvagee_. And what could be
better adapted to the purpose? It is a slender, tapering, unstranded
piece of rope prepared with much solicitude; peculiarly flexible; and
wreathes and serpentines round the cable and messenger like an
elegantly-modeled garter-snake round the twisted stalks of a vine.
Indeed, _Selvagee_ is the exact type and symbol of a tall, genteel,
limber, spiralising exquisite. So much for the derivation of the name
which the sailors applied to the Lieutenant.
From what sea-alcove, from what mermaid’s milliner’s shop, hast thou
emerged, Selvagee! with that dainty waist and languid cheek? What
heartless step-dame drove thee forth, to waste thy fragrance on the
salt sea-air?
Was it _you_, Selvagee! that, outward-bound, off Cape Horn, looked at
Hermit Island through an opera-glass? Was it _you_, who thought of
proposing to the Captain that, when the sails were furled in a gale, a
few drops of lavender should be dropped in their “bunts,” so that when
the canvas was set again, your nostrils might not be offended by its
musty smell? I do not _say_ it was you, Selvagee; I but deferentially
inquire.
In plain prose, Selvagee was one of those officers whom the sight of a
trim-fitting naval coat had captivated in the days of his youth. He
fancied, that if a _sea-officer_ dressed well, and conversed genteelly,
he would abundantly uphold the honour of his flag, and immortalise the
tailor that made him. On that rock many young gentlemen split. For upon
a frigate’s quarter-deck, it is not enough to sport a coat fashioned by
a Stultz; it is not enough to be well braced with straps and
suspenders; it is not enough to have sweet reminiscences of Lauras and
Matildas. It is a right down life of hard wear and tear, and the man
who is not, in a good degree, fitted to become a common sailor will
never make an officer. Take that to heart, all ye naval aspirants.
Thrust your arms up to the elbow in pitch and see how you like it, ere
you solicit a warrant. Prepare for white squalls, living gales and
typhoons; read accounts of shipwrecks and horrible disasters; peruse
the Narratives of Byron and Bligh; familiarise yourselves with the
story of the English frigate Alceste and the French frigate Medusa.
Though you may go ashore, now and then, at Cadiz and Palermo; for every
day so spent among oranges and ladies, you will have whole months of
rains and gales.
And even thus did Selvagee prove it. But with all the intrepid
effeminacy of your true dandy, he still continued his Cologne-water
baths, and sported his lace-bordered handkerchiefs in the very teeth of
a tempest. Alas, Selvagee! there was no getting the lavender out of
you.
But Selvagee was no fool. Theoretically he understood his profession;
but the mere theory of seamanship forms but the thousandth part of what
makes a seaman. You cannot save a ship by working out a problem in the
cabin; the deck is the field of action.
Well aware of his deficiency in some things, Selvagee never took the
trumpet—which is the badge of the deck officer for the time—without a
tremulous movement of the lip, and an earnest inquiring eye to the
windward. He encouraged those old Tritons, the Quarter-masters, to
discourse with him concerning the likelihood of a squall; and often
followed their advice as to taking in, or making sail. The smallest
favours in that way were thankfully received. Sometimes, when all the
North looked unusually lowering, by many conversational blandishments,
he would endeavour to prolong his predecessor’s stay on deck, after
that officer’s watch had expired. But in fine, steady weather, when the
Captain would emerge from his cabin, Selvagee might be seen, pacing the
poop with long, bold, indefatigable strides, and casting his eye up
aloft with the most ostentatious fidelity.
But vain these pretences; he could not deceive. Selvagee! you know very
well, that if it comes on to blow pretty hard, the First Lieutenant
will be sure to interfere with his paternal authority. Every man and
every boy in the frigate knows, Selvagee, that you are no Neptune.
How unenviable his situation! His brother officers do not insult him,
to be sure; but sometimes their looks are as daggers. The sailors do
not laugh at him outright; but of dark nights they jeer, when they
hearken to that mantuamaker’s voice ordering _a strong pull at the main
brace_, or _hands by the halyards!_ Sometimes, by way of being
terrific, and making the men jump, Selvagee raps out an oath; but the
soft bomb stuffed with confectioner’s kisses seems to burst like a
crushed rose-bud diffusing its odours. Selvagee! Selvagee! take a
main-top-man’s advice; and this cruise over, never more tempt the sea.
With this gentleman of cravats and curling irons, how strongly
contrasts the man who was born in a gale! For in some time of
tempest—off Cape Horn or Hatteras—_Mad Jack_ must have entered the
world—such things have been—not with a silver spoon, but with a
speaking-trumpet in his mouth; wrapped up in a caul, as in a
main-sail—for a charmed life against shipwrecks he bears—and crying,
_Luff! luff, you may!—steady!—port! World ho!—here I am!_
Mad Jack is in his saddle on the sea. _That_ is his home; he would not
care much, if another Flood came and overflowed the dry land; for what
would it do but float his good ship higher and higher and carry his
proud nation’s flag round the globe, over the very capitals of all
hostile states! Then would masts surmount spires; and all mankind, like
the Chinese boatmen in Canton River, live in flotillas and fleets, and
find their food in the sea.
Mad Jack was expressly created and labelled for a tar. Five feet nine
is his mark, in his socks; and not weighing over eleven stone before
dinner. Like so many ship’s shrouds, his muscles and tendons are all
set true, trim, and taut; he is braced up fore and aft, like a ship on
the wind. His broad chest is a bulkhead, that dams off the gale; and
his nose is an aquiline, that divides it in two, like a keel. His loud,
lusty lungs are two belfries, full of all manner of chimes; but you
only hear his deepest bray, in the height of some tempest—like the
great bell of St. Paul’s, which only sounds when the King or the Devil
is dead.
Look at him there, where he stands on the poop—one foot on the rail,
and one hand on a shroud—his head thrown back, and his trumpet like an
elephant’s trunk thrown up in the air. Is he going to shoot dead with
sounds, those fellows on the main-topsail-yard?
Mad Jack was a bit of a tyrant—they _say_ all good officers are—but the
sailors loved him all round; and would much rather stand fifty watches
with him, than one with a rose-water sailor.
But Mad Jack, alas! has one fearful failing. He drinks. And so do we
all. But Mad Jack, _He_ only drinks brandy. The vice was inveterate;
surely, like Ferdinand, Count Fathom, he must have been suckled at a
puncheon. Very often, this bad habit got him into very serious scrapes.
Twice was he put off duty by the Commodore; and once he came near being
broken for his frolics. So far as his efficiency as a sea-officer was
concerned, on shore at least, Jack might _bouse away_ as much as he
pleased; but afloat it will not do at all.
Now, if he only followed the wise example set by those ships of the
desert, the camels; and while in port, drank for the thirst past, the
thirst present, and the thirst to come—so that he might cross the ocean
sober; Mad Jack would get along pretty well. Still better, if he would
but eschew brandy altogether; and only drink of the limpid white-wine
of the rills and the brooks.