ONE OF “THE PEOPLE” HAS AN AUDIENCE WITH THE COMMODORE AND THE CAPTAIN
ON THE QUARTER-DECK.
We had not lain in Rio long, when in the innermost recesses of the
mighty soul of my noble Captain of the Top—incomparable Jack Chase—the
deliberate opinion was formed, and rock-founded, that our ship’s
company must have at least one day’s “_liberty_” to go ashore ere we
weighed anchor for home.
Here it must be mentioned that, concerning anything of this kind, no
sailor in a man-of-war ever presumes to be an agitator, unless he is of
a rank superior to a mere able-seaman; and no one short of a petty
officer—that is, a captain of the top, a quarter-gunner, or boatswain’s
mate—ever dreams of being a spokesman to the supreme authority of the
vessel in soliciting any kind of favor for himself and shipmates.
After canvassing the matter thoroughly with several old quarter-masters
and other dignified sea-fencibles, Jack, hat in hand, made his
appearance, one fine evening, at the mast, and, waiting till Captain
Claret drew nigh, bowed, and addressed him in his own off-hand,
polished, and poetical style. In his intercourse with the quarter-deck,
he always presumed upon his being such a universal favourite.
“Sir, this Rio is a charming harbour, and we poor mariners—your trusty
sea-warriors, valiant Captain! who, with _you_ at their head, would
board the Rock of Gibraltar itself, and carry it by storm—we poor
fellows, valiant Captain! have gazed round upon this ravishing
landscape till we can gaze no more. Will Captain Claret vouchsafe one
day’s liberty, and so assure himself of eternal felicity, since, in our
flowing cups, he will be ever after freshly remembered?”
As Jack thus rounded off with a snatch from Shakspeare, he saluted the
Captain with a gallant flourish of his tarpaulin, and then, bringing
the rim to his mouth, with his head bowed, and his body thrown into a
fine negligent attitude, stood a picture of eloquent but passive
appeal. He seemed to say, Magnanimous Captain Claret, we fine fellows,
and hearts of oak, throw ourselves upon your unparalleled goodness.
“And what do you want to go ashore for?” asked the Captain, evasively,
and trying to conceal his admiration of Jack by affecting some
haughtiness.
“Ah! sir,” sighed Jack, “why do the thirsty camels of the desert desire
to lap the waters of the fountain and roll in the green grass of the
oasis? Are we not but just from the ocean Sahara? and is not this Rio a
verdant spot, noble Captain? Surely you will not keep us always
tethered at anchor, when a little more cable would admit of our
cropping the herbage! And it is a weary thing, Captain Claret, to be
imprisoned month after month on the gun-deck, without so much as
smelling a citron. Ah! Captain Claret, what sings sweet Waller:
‘But who can always on the billows lie?
The watery wilderness yields no supply.’
compared with such a prisoner, noble Captain,
‘Happy, thrice happy, who, in battle slain,
Press’d in Atrides’ cause the Trojan pain!’
Pope’s version, sir, not the original Greek.”
And so saying, Jack once more brought his hat-rim to his mouth, and
slightly bending forward, stood mute.
At this juncture the Most Serene Commodore himself happened to emerge
from the after-gangway, his gilded buttons, epaulets, and the gold lace
on his chapeau glittering in the flooding sunset. Attracted by the
scene between Captain Claret and so well-known and admired a commoner
as Jack Chase he approached, and assuming for the moment an air of
pleasant condescension—never shown to his noble barons the officers of
the ward-room—he said, with a smile, “Well, Jack, you and your
shipmates are after some favour, I suppose—a day’s liberty, is it not?”
Whether it was the horizontal setting sun, streaming along the deck,
that blinded Jack, or whether it was in sun-worshipping homage of the
mighty Commodore, there is no telling; but just at this juncture noble
Jack was standing reverentially holding his hat to his brow, like a man
with weak eyes.
“Valiant Commodore,” said he, at last, “this audience is indeed an
honour undeserved. I almost sink beneath it. Yes, valiant Commodore,
your sagacious mind has truly divined our object. Liberty, sir; liberty
is, indeed, our humble prayer. I trust your honourable wound, received
in glorious battle, valiant Comodore, pains you less today than
common.”
“Ah! cunning Jack!” cried the Commodore, by no means blind to the bold
sortie of his flattery, but not at all displeased with it. In more
respects than one, our Commodore’s wound was his weak side.
“I think we must give them liberty,” he added, turning to Captain
Claret; who thereupon, waving Jack further off, fell into confidential
discourse with his superior.
“Well, Jack, we will see about it,” at last cried the Commodore,
advancing. “I think we must let you go.”
“To your duty, captain of the main-top!” said the Captain, rather
stiffly. He wished to neutralise somewhat the effect of the Commodore’s
condescension. Besides, he had much rather the Commodore had been in
his cabin. His presence, for the time, affected his own supremacy in
his ship. But Jack was nowise cast down by the Captain’s coldness; he
felt safe enough; so he proceeded to offer his acknowledgments.
“‘Kind gentlemen,’” he sighed, “‘your pains are registered where every
day I turn the leaf to read,’—Macbeth, valiant Commodore and
Captain!—what the Thane says to the noble lords, Ross and Angus.”
And long and lingeringly bowing to the two noble officers, Jack backed
away from their presence, still shading his eyes with the broad rim of
his hat.
“Jack Chase for ever!” cried his shipmates, as he carried the grateful
news of liberty to them on the forecastle. “Who can talk to Commodores
like our matchless Jack!”