AN AUCTION IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
Some allusion has been made to the weariness experienced by the
man-of-war’s-men while lying at anchor; but there are scenes now and
then that serve to relieve it. Chief among these are the Purser’s
auctions, taking place while in harbour. Some weeks, or perhaps months,
after a sailor dies in an armed vessel, his bag of clothes is in this
manner sold, and the proceeds transferred to the account of his heirs
or executors.
One of these auctions came off in Rio, shortly after the sad accident
of Baldy.
It was a dreamy, quiet afternoon, and the crew were listlessly lying
around, when suddenly the Boatswain’s whistle was heard, followed by
the announcement, “D’ye hear there, fore and aft? Purser’s auction on
the spar-deck!”
At the sound, the sailors sprang to their feet and mustered round the
main-mast. Presently up came the Purser’s steward, marshalling before
him three or four of his subordinates, carrying several clothes’ bags,
which were deposited at the base of the mast.
Our Purser’s steward was a rather gentlemanly man in his way. Like many
young Americans of his class, he had at various times assumed the most
opposite functions for a livelihood, turning from one to the other with
all the facility of a light-hearted, clever adventurer. He had been a
clerk in a steamer on the Mississippi River; an auctioneer in Ohio; a
stock actor at the Olympic Theatre in New York; and now he was Purser’s
steward in the Navy. In the course of this deversified career his
natural wit and waggery had been highly spiced, and every way improved;
and he had acquired the last and most difficult art of the joker, the
art of lengthening his own face while widening those of his hearers,
preserving the utmost solemnity while setting them all in a roar. He
was quite a favourite with the sailors, which, in a good degree, was
owing to his humour; but likewise to his off-hand, irresistible,
romantic, theatrical manner of addressing them.
With a dignified air, he now mounted the pedestal of the main-top-sail
sheet-bitts, imposing silence by a theatrical wave of his hand;
meantime, his subordinates were rummaging the bags, and assorting their
contents before him.
“Now, my noble hearties,” he began, “we will open this auction by
offering to your impartial competition a very superior pair of old
boots;” and so saying, he dangled aloft one clumsy cowhide cylinder,
almost as large as a fire bucket, as a specimen of the complete pair.
“What shall I have now, my noble tars, for this superior pair of
sea-boots?”
“Where’s t’other boot?” cried a suspicious-eyed waister. “I remember
them ’ere boots. They were old Bob’s the quarter-gunner’s; there was
two on ’em, too. I want to see t’other boot.”
“My sweet and pleasant fellow,” said the auctioneer, with his blandest
accents, “the other boot is not just at hand, but I give you my word of
honour that it in all respects corresponds to the one you here see—it
does, I assure you. And I solemnly guarantee, my noble sea-faring
fencibles,” he added, turning round upon all, “that the other boot is
the exact counterpart of this. Now, then, say the word, my fine
fellows. What shall I have? Ten dollars, did you say?” politely bowing
toward some indefinite person in the background.
“No; ten cents,” responded a voice.
“Ten cents! ten cents! gallant sailors, for this noble pair of boots,”
exclaimed the auctioneer, with affected horror; “I must close the
auction, my tars of Columbia; this will never do. But let’s have
another bid; now, come,” he added, coaxingly and soothingly. “What is
it? One dollar, one dollar then—one dollar; going at one dollar; going,
going—going. Just see how it vibrates”—swinging the boot to and
fro—“this superior pair of sea-boots vibrating at one dollar; wouldn’t
pay for the nails in their heels; going, going—gone!” And down went the
boots.
“Ah, what a sacrifice! what a sacrifice!” he sighed, tearfully eyeing
the solitary fire-bucket, and then glancing round the company for
sympathy.
“A sacrifice, indeed!” exclaimed Jack Chase, who stood by; “Purser’s
Steward, you are Mark Antony over the body of Julius Cesar.”
“So I am, so I am,” said the auctioneer, without moving a muscle. “And
look!” he exclaimed, suddenly seizing the boot, and exhibiting it on
high, “look, my noble tars, if you have tears, prepare to shed them
now. You all do know this boot. I remember the first time ever old Bob
put it on. ’Twas on a winter evening, off Cape Horn, between the
starboard carronades—that day his precious grog was stopped. Look! in
this place a mouse has nibbled through; see what a rent some envious
rat has made, through this another filed, and, as he plucked his cursed
rasp away, mark how the bootleg gaped. This was the unkindest cut of
all. But whose are the boots?” suddenly assuming a business-like air;
“yours? yours? yours?”
But not a friend of the lamented Bob stood by.
“Tars of Columbia,” said the auctioneer, imperatively, “these boots
must be sold; and if I can’t sell them one way, I must sell them
another. How much _a pound_, now, for this superior pair of old boots?
going by _the pound_ now, remember, my gallant sailors! what shall I
have? one cent, do I hear? going now at one cent a
pound—going—going—going—_gone!_”
“Whose are they? Yours, Captain of the Waist? Well, my sweet and
pleasant friend, I will have them weighed out to you when the auction
is over.”
In like manner all the contents of the bags were disposed of, embracing
old frocks, trowsers, and jackets, the various sums for which they went
being charged to the bidders on the books of the Purser.
Having been present at this auction, though not a purchaser, and seeing
with what facility the most dismantled old garments went off, through
the magical cleverness of the accomplished auctioneer, the thought
occurred to me, that if ever I calmly and positively decided to dispose
of my famous white jacket, this would be the very way to do it. I
turned the matter over in my mind a long time.
The weather in Rio was genial and warm, and that I would ever again
need such a thing as a heavy quilted jacket—and such a jacket as the
white one, too—seemed almost impossible. Yet I remembered the American
coast, and that it would probably be Autumn when we should arrive
there. Yes, I thought of all that, to be sure; nevertheless, the
ungovernable whim seized me to sacrifice my jacket and recklessly abide
the consequences. Besides, was it not a horrible jacket? To how many
annoyances had it subjected me? How many scrapes had it dragged me
into? Nay, had it not once jeopardised my very existence? And I had a
dreadful presentiment that, if I persisted in retaining it, it would do
so again. Enough! I will sell it, I muttered; and so muttering, I
thrust my hands further down in my waistband, and walked the main-top
in the stern concentration of an inflexible purpose. Next day, hearing
that another auction was shortly to take place, I repaired to the
office of the Purser’s steward, with whom I was upon rather friendly
terms. After vaguely and delicately hinting at the object of my visit,
I came roundly to the point, and asked him whether he could slip my
jacket into one of the bags of clothes next to be sold, and so dispose
of it by public auction. He kindly acquiesced and the thing was done.
In due time all hands were again summoned round the main-mast; the
Purser’s steward mounted his post, and the ceremony began. Meantime, I
lingered out of sight, but still within hearing, on the gun-deck below,
gazing up, un-perceived, at the scene.
As it is now so long ago, I will here frankly make confession that I
had privately retained the services of a friend—Williams, the Yankee
pedagogue and peddler—whose business it would be to linger near the
scene of the auction, and, if the bids on the jacket loitered, to start
it roundly himself; and if the bidding then became brisk, he was
continually to strike in with the most pertinacious and infatuated
bids, and so exasperate competition into the maddest and most
extravagant overtures.
A variety of other articles having been put up, the white jacket was
slowly produced, and, held high aloft between the auctioneer’s thumb
and fore-finger, was submitted to the inspection of the discriminating
public.
Here it behooves me once again to describe my jacket; for, as a
portrait taken at one period of life will not answer for a later stage;
much more this jacket of mine, undergoing so many changes, needs to be
painted again and again, in order truly to present its actual
appearance at any given period.
A premature old age had now settled upon it; all over it bore
melancholy sears of the masoned-up pockets that had once trenched it in
various directions. Some parts of it were slightly mildewed from
dampness; on one side several of the buttons were gone, and others were
broken or cracked; while, alas! my many mad endeavours to rub it black
on the decks had now imparted to the whole garment an exceedingly
untidy appearance. Such as it was, with all its faults, the auctioneer
displayed it.
“You, venerable sheet-anchor-men! and you, gallant fore-top-men! and
you, my fine waisters! what do you say now for this superior old
jacket? Buttons and sleeves, lining and skirts, it must this day be
sold without reservation. How much for it, my gallant tars of Columbia?
say the word, and how much?”
“My eyes!” exclaimed a fore-top-man, “don’t that ’ere bunch of old
swabs belong to Jack Chase’s pet? Aren’t that _the white jacket?_”
“_The white jacket!_” cried fifty voices in response; “_the white
jacket!_” The cry ran fore and aft the ship like a slogan, completely
overwhelming the solitary voice of my private friend Williams, while
all hands gazed at it with straining eyes, wondering how it came among
the bags of deceased mariners.
“Ay, noble tars,” said the auctioneer, “you may well stare at it; you
will not find another jacket like this on either side of Cape Horn, I
assure you. Why, just look at it! How much, now? _Give_ me a bid—but
don’t be rash; be prudent, be prudent, men; remember your Purser’s
accounts, and don’t be betrayed into extravagant bids.”
“Purser’s Steward!” cried Grummet, one of the quarter-gunners, slowly
shifting his quid from one cheek to the other, like a ballast-stone, “I
won’t bid on that ’ere bunch of old swabs, unless you put up ten pounds
of soap with it.”
“Don’t mind that old fellow,” said the auctioneer. “How much for the
jacket, my noble tars?”
“Jacket;” cried a dandy _bone polisher_ of the gun-room. “The
sail-maker was the tailor, then. How many fathoms of canvas in it,
Purser’s Steward?”
“How much for this _jacket_?” reiterated the auctioneer, emphatically.
“_Jacket_, do you call it!” cried a captain of the hold.
“Why not call it a white-washed man-of-war schooner? Look at the
port-holes, to let in the air of cold nights.”
“A reg’lar herring-net,” chimed in Grummet.
“Gives me the _fever nagur_ to look at it,” echoed a mizzen-top-man.
“Silence!” cried the auctioneer. “Start it now—start it, boys; anything
you please, my fine fellows! it _must_ be sold. Come, what ought I to
have on it, now?”
“Why, Purser’s Steward,” cried a waister, “you ought to have new
sleeves, a new lining, and a new body on it, afore you try to shove it
off on a greenhorn.”
“What are you, ‘busin’ that ’ere garment for?” cried an old
sheet-anchor-man. “Don’t you see it’s a ‘uniform mustering
jacket’—three buttons on one side, and none on t’other?”
“Silence!” again cried the auctioneer. “How much, my sea-fencibles, for
this superior old jacket?”
“Well,” said Grummet, “I’ll take it for cleaning-rags at one cent.”
“Oh, come, give us a bid! say something, Colombians.”
“Well, then,” said Grummet, all at once bursting into genuine
indignation, “if you want us to say something, then heave that bunch of
old swabs overboard, _say I_, and show us something worth looking at.”
“No one will give me a bid, then? Very good; here, shove it aside.
Let’s have something else there.”
While this scene was going forward, and my white jacket was thus being
abused, how my heart swelled within me! Thrice was I on the point of
rushing out of my hiding-place, and bearing it off from derision; but I
lingered, still flattering myself that all would be well, and the
jacket find a purchaser at last. But no, alas! there was no getting rid
of it, except by rolling a forty-two-pound shot in it, and committing
it to the deep. But though, in my desperation, I had once contemplated
something of that sort, yet I had now become unaccountably averse to
it, from certain involuntary superstitious considerations. If I sink my
jacket, thought I, it will be sure to spread itself into a bed at the
bottom of the sea, upon which I shall sooner or later recline, a dead
man. So, unable to conjure it into the possession of another, and
withheld from burying it out of sight for ever, my jacket stuck to me
like the fatal shirt on Nessus.