NEVERSINK.
While lying in the harbour of Callao, in Peru, certain rumours had come
to us touching a war with England, growing out of the long-vexed
Northeastern Boundary Question. In Rio these rumours were increased;
and the probability of hostilities induced our Commodore to authorize
proceedings that closely brought home to every man on board the
Neversink his liability at any time to be killed at his gun.
Among other things, a number of men were detailed to pass up the rusty
cannon-balls from the shot-lockers in the hold, and scrape them clean
for service. The Commodore was a very neat gentleman, and would not
fire a dirty shot into his foe.
It was an interesting occasion for a tranquil observer; nor was it
altogether neglected. Not to recite the precise remarks made by the
seamen while pitching the shot up the hatchway from hand to hand, like
schoolboys playing ball ashore, it will be enough to say that, from the
general drift of their discourse—jocular as it was—it was manifest
that, almost to a man, they abhorred the idea of going into action.
And why should they desire a war? Would their wages be raised? Not a
cent. The prize-money, though, ought to have been an inducement. But of
all the “rewards of virtue,” prize-money is the most uncertain; and
this the man-of-war’s-man knows. What, then, has he to expect from war?
What but harder work, and harder usage than in peace; a wooden leg or
arm; mortal wounds, and death? Enough, however, that by far the
majority of the common sailors of the Neversink were plainly concerned
at the prospect of war, and were plainly averse to it.
But with the officers of the quarter-deck it was just the reverse. None
of them, to be sure, in my hearing at least, verbally expressed their
gratification; but it was unavoidably betrayed by the increased
cheerfulness of their demeanour toward each other, their frequent
fraternal conferences, and their unwonted animation for several clays
in issuing their orders. The voice of Mad Jack—always a belfry to
hear—now resounded like that famous bell of England, Great Tom of
Oxford. As for Selvagee, he wore his sword with a jaunty air, and his
servant daily polished the blade.
But why this contrast between the forecastle and the quarter-deck,
between the man-of-war’s-man and his officer? Because, though war would
equally jeopardize the lives of both, yet, while it held out to the
sailor no promise of promotion, and what is called _glory_, these
things fired the breast of his officers.
It is no pleasing task, nor a thankful one, to dive into the souls of
some men; but there are occasions when, to bring up the mud from the
bottom, reveals to us on what soundings we are, on what coast we
adjoin.
How were these officers to gain glory? How but by a distinguished
slaughtering of their fellow-men. How were they to be promoted? How but
over the buried heads of killed comrades and mess-mates.
This hostile contrast between the feelings with which the common seamen
and the officers of the Neversink looked forward to this more than
possible war, is one of many instances that might be quoted to show the
antagonism of their interests, the incurable antagonism in which they
dwell. But can men, whose interests are diverse, ever hope to live
together in a harmony uncoerced? Can the brotherhood of the race of
mankind ever hope to prevail in a man-of-war, where one man’s bane is
almost another’s blessing? By abolishing the scourge, shall we do away
tyranny; _that_ tyranny which must ever prevail, where of two
essentially antagonistic classes in perpetual contact, one is
immeasurably the stronger? Surely it seems all but impossible. And as
the very object of a man-of-war, as its name implies, is to fight the
very battles so naturally averse to the seamen; so long as a man-of-war
exists, it must ever remain a picture of much that is tyrannical and
repelling in human nature.
Being an establishment much more extensive than the American Navy, the
English armed marine furnishes a yet more striking example of this
thing, especially as the existence of war produces so vast an
augmentation of her naval force compared with what it is in time of
peace. It is well known what joy the news of Bonaparte’s sudden return
from Elba created among crowds of British naval officers, who had
previously been expecting to be sent ashore on half-pay. Thus, when all
the world wailed, these officers found occasion for thanksgiving. I
urge it not against them as men—their feelings belonged to their
profession. Had they not been naval officers, they had not been
rejoicers in the midst of despair.
When shall the time come, how much longer will God postpone it, when
the clouds, which at times gather over the horizons of nations, shall
not be hailed by any class of humanity, and invoked to burst as a bomb?
Standing navies, as well as standing armies, serve to keep alive the
spirit of war even in the meek heart of peace. In its very embers and
smoulderings, they nourish that fatal fire, and half-pay officers, as
the priests of Mars, yet guard the temple, though no god be there.