KILLING TIME IN A MAN-OF-WAR IN HARBOUR.
Reading was by no means the only method adopted by my shipmates in
whiling away the long, tedious hours in harbour. In truth, many of them
could not have read, had they wanted to ever so much; in early youth
their primers had been sadly neglected. Still, they had other pursuits;
some were experts at the needle, and employed their time in making
elaborate shirts, stitching picturesque eagles, and anchors, and all
the stars of the federated states in the collars thereof; so that when
they at last completed and put on these shirts, they may be said to
have hoisted the American colors.
Others excelled in _tattooing_ or _pricking_, as it is called in a
man-of-war. Of these prickers, two had long been celebrated, in their
way, as consummate masters of the art. Each had a small box full of
tools and colouring matter; and they charged so high for their
services, that at the end of the cruise they were supposed to have
cleared upward of four hundred dollars. They would _prick_ you to order
a palm-tree, or an anchor, a crucifix, a lady, a lion, an eagle, or
anything else you might want.
The Roman Catholic sailors on board had at least the crucifix pricked
on their arms, and for this reason: If they chanced to die in a
Catholic land, they would be sure of a decent burial in consecrated
ground, as the priest would be sure to observe the symbol of Mother
Church on their persons. They would not fare as Protestant sailors
dying in Callao, who are shoved under the sands of St. Lorenzo, a
solitary, volcanic island in the harbour, overrun with reptiles, their
heretical bodies not being permitted to repose in the more genial loam
of Lima.
And many sailors not Catholics were anxious to have the crucifix
painted on them, owing to a curious superstition of theirs. They
affirm—some of them—that if you have that mark tattooed upon all four
limbs, you might fall overboard among seven hundred and seventy-five
thousand white sharks, all dinnerless, and not one of them would so
much as dare to smell at your little finger.
We had one fore-top-man on board, who, during the entire cruise, was
having an endless cable _pricked_ round and round his waist, so that,
when his frock was off, he looked like a capstan with a hawser coiled
round about it. This fore-top-man paid eighteen pence per link for the
cable, besides being on the smart the whole cruise, suffering the
effects of his repeated puncturings; so he paid very dear for his
cable.
One other mode of passing time while in port was cleaning and polishing
your _bright-work_; for it must be known that, in men-of-war, every
sailor has some brass or steel of one kind or other to keep in high
order—like housemaids, whose business it is to keep well-polished the
knobs on the front door railing and the parlour-grates.
Excepting the ring-bolts, eye-bolts, and belaying-pins scattered about
the decks, this bright-work, as it is called, is principally about the
guns, embracing the “_monkey-tails_” of the carronades, the screws,
_prickers_, little irons, and other things.
The portion that fell to my own share I kept in superior order, quite
equal in polish to Rogers’s best cutlery. I received the most
extravagant encomiums from the officers; one of whom offered to match
me against any brazier or brass-polisher in her British Majesty’s Navy.
Indeed, I devoted myself to the work body and soul, and thought no
pains too painful, and no labour too laborious, to achieve the highest
attainable polish possible for us poor lost sons of Adam to reach.
Upon one occasion, even, when woollen rags were scarce, and no
burned-brick was to be had from the ship’s Yeoman, I sacrificed the
corners of my woollen shirt, and used some dentrifice I had, as
substitutes for the rags and burned-brick. The dentrifice operated
delightfully, and made the threading of my carronade screw shine and
grin again, like a set of false teeth in an eager heiress-hunter’s
mouth.
Still another mode of passing time, was arraying yourself in your best
“_togs_” and promenading up and down the gun-deck, admiring the shore
scenery from the port-holes, which, in an amphitheatrical bay like
Rio—belted about by the most varied and charming scenery of hill, dale,
moss, meadow, court, castle, tower, grove, vine, vineyard, aqueduct,
palace, square, island, fort—is very much like lounging round a
circular cosmorama, and ever and anon lazily peeping through the
glasses here and there. Oh! there is something worth living for, even
in our man-of-war world; and one glimpse of a bower of grapes, though a
cable’s length off, is almost satisfaction for dining off a shank-bone
salted down.
This promenading was chiefly patronised by the marines, and
particularly by Colbrook, a remarkably handsome and very gentlemanly
corporal among them. He was a complete lady’s man; with fine black
eyes, bright red cheeks, glossy jet whiskers, and a refined
organisation of the whole man. He used to array himself in his
regimentals, and saunter about like an officer of the Coldstream
Guards, strolling down to his club in St. James’s. Every time he passed
me, he would heave a sentimental sigh, and hum to himself “_The girl I
left behind me_.” This fine corporal afterward became a representative
in the Legislature of the State of New Jersey; for I saw his name
returned about a year after my return home.
But, after all, there was not much room, while in port, for
promenading, at least on the gun-deck, for the whole larboard side is
kept clear for the benefit of the officers, who appreciate the
advantages of having a clear stroll fore and aft; and they well know
that the sailors had much better be crowded together on the other side
than that the set of their own coat-tails should be impaired by
brushing against their tarry trowsers.
One other way of killing time while in port is playing checkers; that
is, when it is permitted; for it is not every navy captain who will
allow such a scandalous proceeding, But, as for Captain Claret, though
he _did_ like his glass of Madeira uncommonly well, and was an
undoubted descendant from the hero of the Battle of the Brandywine, and
though he sometimes showed a suspiciously flushed face when
superintending in person the flogging of a sailor for getting
intoxicated against his particular orders, yet I will say for Captain
Claret that, upon the whole, he was rather indulgent to his crew, so
long as they were perfectly docile. He allowed them to play checkers as
much as they pleased. More than once I have known him, when going
forward to the forecastle, pick his way carefully among scores of
canvas checker-cloths spread upon the deck, so as not to tread upon the
men—the checker-men and man-of-war’s-men included; but, in a certain
sense, they were both one; for, as the sailors used their checker-men,
so, at quarters, their officers used these man-of-war’s men.
But Captain Claret’s leniency in permitting checkers on board his ship
might have arisen from the following little circumstance,
confidentially communicated to me. Soon after the ship had sailed from
home, checkers were prohibited; whereupon the sailors were exasperated
against the Captain, and one night, when he was walking round the
forecastle, bim! came an iron belaying-pin past his ears; and while he
was dodging that, bim! came another, from the other side; so that, it
being a very dark night, and nobody to be seen, and it being impossible
to find out the trespassers, he thought it best to get back into his
cabin as soon as possible. Some time after—just as if the belaying-pins
had nothing to do with it—it was indirectly rumoured that the
checker-boards might be brought out again, which—as a philosophical
shipmate observed—showed that Captain Claret was a man of a ready
understanding, and could understand a hint as well as any other man,
even when conveyed by several pounds of iron.
Some of the sailors were very precise about their checker-cloths, and
even went so far that they would not let you play with them unless you
first washed your hands, especially if so be you had just come from
tarring down the rigging.
Another way of beguiling the tedious hours, is to get a cosy seat
somewhere, and fall into as snug a little reverie as you can. Or if a
seat is not to be had—which is frequently the case—then get a tolerably
comfortable _stand-up_ against the bulwarks, and begin to think about
home and bread and butter—always inseparably connected to a
wanderer—which will very soon bring delicious tears into your eyes; for
every one knows what a luxury is grief, when you can get a private
closet to enjoy it in, and no Paul Prys intrude. Several of my shore
friends, indeed, when suddenly overwhelmed by some disaster, always
make a point of flying to the first oyster-cellar, and shutting
themselves up in a box with nothing but a plate of stewed oysters, some
crackers, the castor, and a decanter of old port.
Still another way of killing time in harbour, is to lean over the
bulwarks, and speculate upon where, under the sun, you are going to be
that day next year, which is a subject full of interest to every living
soul; so much so, that there is a particular day of a particular month
of the year, which, from my earliest recollections, I have always kept
the run of, so that I can even now tell just where I was on that
identical day of every year past since I was twelve years old. And,
when I am all alone, to run over this almanac in my mind is almost as
entertaining as to read your own diary, and far more interesting than
to peruse a table of logarithms on a rainy afternoon. I always keep the
anniversary of that day with lamb and peas, and a pint of sherry, for
it comes in Spring. But when it came round in the Neversink, I could
get neither lamb, peas, nor sherry.
But perhaps the best way to drive the hours before you four-in-hand, is
to select a soft plank on the gun-deck, and go to sleep. A fine
specific, which seldom fails, unless, to be sure, you have been
sleeping all the twenty-four hours beforehand.
Whenever employed in killing time in harbour, I have lifted myself up
on my elbow and looked around me, and seen so many of my shipmates all
employed at the same common business; all under lock and key; all
hopeless prisoners like myself; all under martial law; all dieting on
salt beef and biscuit; all in one uniform; all yawning, gaping, and
stretching in concert, it was then that I used to feel a certain love
and affection for them, grounded, doubtless, on a fellow-feeling.
And though, in a previous part of this narrative, I have mentioned that
I used to hold myself somewhat aloof from the mass of seamen on board
the Neversink; and though this was true, and my real acquaintances were
comparatively few, and my intimates still fewer, yet, to tell the
truth, it is quite impossible to live so long with five hundred of your
fellow-beings, even if not of the best families in the land, and with
morals that would not be spoiled by further cultivation; it is quite
impossible, I say, to live with five hundred of your fellow-beings, be
they who they may, without feeling a common sympathy with them at the
time, and ever after cherishing some sort of interest in their welfare.
The truth of this was curiously corroborated by a rather equivocal
acquaintance of mine, who, among the men, went by the name of
“_Shakings_.” He belonged to the fore-hold, whence, of a dark night, he
would sometimes emerge to chat with the sailors on deck. I never liked
the man’s looks; I protest it was a mere accident that gave me the
honour of his acquaintance, and generally I did my best to avoid him,
when he would come skulking, like a jail-bird, out of his den into the
liberal, open air of the sky. Nevertheless, the anecdote this _holder_
told me is well worth preserving, more especially the extraordinary
frankness evinced in his narrating such a thing to a comparative
stranger.
The substance of his story was as follows: Shakings, it seems, had once
been a convict in the New York State’s Prison at Sing Sing, where he
had been for years confined for a crime, which he gave me his solemn
word of honour he was wholly innocent of. He told me that, after his
term had expired, and he went out into the world again, he never could
stumble upon any of his old Sing Sing associates without dropping into
a public house and talking over old times. And when fortune would go
hard with him, and he felt out of sorts, and incensed at matters and
things in general, he told me that, at such time, he almost wished he
was back again in Sing Sing, where he was relieved from all anxieties
about what he should eat and drink, and was supported, like the
President of the United States and Prince Albert, at the public charge.
He used to have such a snug little cell, he said, all to himself, and
never felt afraid of house-breakers, for the walls were uncommonly
thick, and his door was securely bolted for him, and a watchman was all
the time walking up and down in the passage, while he himself was fast
asleep and dreaming. To this, in substance, the _holder_ added, that he
narrated this anecdote because he thought it applicable to a
man-of-war, which he scandalously asserted to be a sort of State Prison
afloat.
Concerning the curious disposition to fraternise and be sociable, which
this Shakings mentioned as characteristic of the convicts liberated
from his old homestead at Sing Sing, it may well be asked, whether it
may not prove to be some feeling, somehow akin to the reminiscent
impulses which influenced them, that shall hereafter fraternally
reunite all us mortals, when we shall have exchanged this State’s
Prison man-of-war world of ours for another and a better.
From the foregoing account of the great difficulty we had in killing
time while in port, it must not be inferred that on board of the
Neversink in Rio there was literally no work to be done, at long
intervals the _launch_ would come alongside with water-casks, to be
emptied into iron tanks in the hold. In this way nearly fifty thousand
gallons, as chronicled in the books of the master’s mate, were decanted
into the ship’s bowels—a ninety day’s allowance. With this huge Lake
Ontario in us, the mighty Neversink might be said to resemble the
united continent of the Eastern Hemisphere—floating in a vast ocean
herself, and having a Mediterranean floating in her.