Stories like these were related as gospel truths, by those who declared themselves eye-witnesses.

  It is a circumstance not generally known, perhaps, that, among ignorant seamen, Finlanders, or Finns,6 as they are more commonly called, are regarded with peculiar superstition. For some reason or other, which I never could get at, they are supposed to possess the gift of second sight, and the power to wreak supernatural vengeance upon those who offend them. On this account they have great influence among sailors, and two or three with whom I have sailed at different times, were persons well calculated to produce this sort of impression, at least upon minds disposed to believe in such things.

  Now, we had one of these sea-prophets aboard; an old, yellow-haired fellow, who always wore a rude seal-skin cap of his own make, and carried his tobacco in a large pouch made of the same stuff. Van, as we called him, was a quiet, inoffensive man, to look at, and, among such a set, his occasional peculiarities had hitherto passed for nothing. At this time, however, he came out with a prediction, which was none the less remarkable from its absolute fulfillment, though not exactly in the spirit in which it was given out.

  The night of the burial he laid his hand on the old horse-shoe nailed as a charm to the foremast, and solemnly told us that, in less than three weeks, not one quarter of our number would remain aboard the ship—by that time they would have left her forever.

  Some laughed; Flash Jack called him an old fool; but among the men generally it produced a marked effect. For several days a degree of quiet reigned among us, and allusions of such a kind were made to recent events, as could be attributed to no other cause than the Finn’s omen.

  For my own part, what had lately come to pass was not without its influence. It forcibly brought to mind our really critical condition. Doctor Long Ghost, too, frequently revealed his apprehensions, and once assured me that he would give much to be safely landed upon any island around us.

  Where we were, exactly, no one but the mate seemed to know, nor whither we were going. The captain—a mere cipher—was an invalid in his cabin; to say nothing more of so many of his men languishing in the forecastle.

  Our keeping the sea under these circumstances, a matter strange enough at first, now seemed wholly unwarranted; and added to all, was the thought, that our fate was absolutely in the hand of the reckless Jermin. Were any thing to happen to him, we would be left without a navigator, for, according to Jermin himself, he had, from the commencement of the voyage, always kept the ship’s reckoning, the captain’s nautical knowledge being insufficient.

  But considerations like these, strange as it may seem, seldom or never occurred to the crew. They were alive only to superstitious fears; and when, in apparent contradiction to the Finn’s prophecy, the sick men rallied a little, they began to recover their former spirits, and the recollection of what had occurred insensibly faded from their minds. In a week’s time, the unworthiness of Little Jule, as a sea vessel, always a subject of jest, now became more so than ever. In the forecastle, Flash Jack, with his knife, often dug into the dank, rotten planks ribbed between us and death, and flung away the splinters with some sea joke.

  As to the remaining invalids, they were hardly ill enough to occasion any serious apprehension, at least for the present, in the breasts of such thoughtless beings as themselves. And even those who suffered the most, studiously refrained from any expression of pain.

  The truth is, that among sailors as a class, sickness at sea is so heartily detested, and the sick so little cared for, that the greatest invalid generally strives to mask his sufferings. He has given no sympathy to others, and he expects none in return. Their conduct, in this respect, so opposed to their generous-hearted behavior ashore, painfully affects the landsman on his first intercourse with them as a sailor.

  Sometimes, but seldom, our invalids inveighed against their being kept at sea, where they could be of no service, when they ought to be ashore and in the way of recovery. But—“Oh! cheer up—cheer up, my hearties!”—the mate would say. And after this fashion he put a stop to their murmurings.

  But there was one circumstance, to which heretofore I have but barely alluded, that tended more than any thing else to reconcile many to their situation. This was the receiving regularly, twice every day, a certain portion of Pisco, which was served out at the capstan, by the steward, in little tin measures called “tots.”

  The lively affection seamen have for strong drink is well known; but in the South Seas, where it is so seldom to be had, a thorough-bred sailor deems scarcely any price too dear which will purchase his darling “tot.” Nowadays, American whalemen in the Pacific never think of carrying spirits as a ration; and aboard of most of them, it is never served out even in times of the greatest hardships. All Sydney whalemen, however, still cling to the old custom, and carry it as a part of the regular supplies for the voyage.

  In port, the allowance of Pisco was suspended; with a view, undoubtedly, of heightening the attractions of being out of sight of land.

  Now, owing to the absence of proper discipline, our sick, in addition to what they took medicinally, often came in for their respective “tots” convivially; and, added to all this, the evening of the last day of the week was always celebrated by what is styled on board of English vessels, “The Saturday-night bottles.” Two of these were sent down into the forecastle, just after dark; one for the starboard watch, and the other for the larboard.

  By prescription, the oldest seaman in each claims the treat as his, and, accordingly, pours out the good cheer and passes it round like a lord doing the honors of his table. But the Saturday-night bottles were not all. The carpenter and cooper,7 in sea parlance, Chips and Bungs,8 who were the “Cods,” or leaders of the forecastle, in some way or other, managed to obtain an extra supply, which perpetually kept them in fine after-dinner spirits, and, moreover, disposed them to look favorably upon a state of affairs like the present.

  But where were the sperm whales all this time? In good sooth, it made little matter where they were, since we were in no condition to capture them. About this time, indeed, the men came down from the mast-heads, where, until now, they had kept up the form of relieving each other every two hours. They swore they would go there no more. Upon this, the mate carelessly observed, that they would soon be where lookouts were entirely unnecessary, the whales he had in his eye (though Flash Jack said they were all in his) being so tame, that they made a practice of coming round ships, and scratching their backs against them.

  Thus went the world of waters with us, some four weeks or more after leaving Hannamanoo.

  CHAPTER 13

  OUR DESTINATION CHANGED

  It was not long after the death of the two men, that Captain Guy was reported as fast declining, and in a day or two more, as dying. The doctor, who previously had refused to enter the cabin upon any consideration, now relented, and paid his old enemy a professional visit.

  He prescribed a warm bath, which was thus prepared. The skylight being removed, a cask1 was lowered down into the cabin, and then filled with buckets of water from the ship’s coppers. The cries of the patient, when dipped into this rude bath, were most painful to hear. They at last laid him on the transom, more dead than alive.

  That evening, the mate was perfectly sober, and coming forward to the windlass, where we were lounging, summoned aft the doctor, myself, and two or three others of his favorites; when, in the presence of Bembo the Mowree, he spoke to us thus:

  “I have something to say to ye, men. There’s none but Bembo here as belongs aft, so I’ve picked ye out as the best men for’ard to take counsel with, d’ye see, consarning the ship. The captain’s anchor is pretty nigh atrip;2 I shouldn’t wonder if he croaked afore morning. So what’s to be done? If we have to sew him up, some of those pirates there for’ard may take it into their heads to run off with the ship, because there’s no one at the tiller. Now, I’ve detarmined what’s best to be done; but I don’t want to do it unless I’ve good men to back me, and make things all fair and square if ever we get home again.”

  We all asked what his plan was.

  “I’ll tell ye what it is, men. If the skipper dies, all agree to obey my orders, and in less than three weeks I’ll engage to have five hundred barrels of sperm oil under hatches: enough to give every mother’s son of ye a handful of dollars when we get to Sydney. If ye don’t agree to this, ye won’t have a farthing coming to ye.”*

  Doctor Long Ghost at once broke in. He said that such a thing was not to be dreamt of; that if the captain died, the mate was in duty bound to navigate the ship to the nearest civilized port, and deliver her up into an English consul’s3 hands; when, in all probability, after a run ashore, the crew would be sent home. Every thing forbade the mate’s plan. “Still,” said he, assuming an air of indifference, “if the men say stick it out, stick it out say I; but in that case, the sooner we get to those islands of yours the better.”

  Something more he went on to say; and from the manner in which the rest regarded him, it was plain that our fate was in his hands. It was finally resolved upon, that if Captain Guy was no better in twenty-four hours, the ship’s head should be pointed for the island of Tahiti.

  This announcement produced a strong sensation—the sick rallied—and the rest speculated as to what was next to befall us; while the doctor, without alluding to Guy, congratulated me upon the prospect of soon beholding a place so famous as the island in question.

  The night after the holding of the council, I happened to go on deck in the middle watch, and found the yards braced sharp up on the larboard tack,4 with the South East Trades strong on our bow. The captain was no better; and we were off for Tahiti.

  CHAPTER 14

  ROPE YARN

  While gliding along on our way, I can not well omit some account of a poor devil we had among us, who went by the name of Rope Yarn,1 or Ropey.

  He was a nondescript who had joined the ship as a landsman. Being so excessively timid and awkward, it was thought useless to try and make a sailor of him; so he was translated into the cabin as steward; the man previously filling that post, a good seaman, going among the crew and taking his place. But poor Ropey proved quite as clumsy among the crockery as in the rigging; and one day when the ship was pitching, having stumbled into the cabin with a wooden tureen of soup, he scalded the officers so that they didn’t get over it in a week. Upon which, he was dismissed, and returned to the forecastle.

  Now, nobody is so heartily despised as a pusillanimous, lazy, good-for-nothing land-lubber; a sailor has no bowels of compassion for him. Yet, useless as such a character may be in many respects, a ship’s company is by no means disposed to let him reap any benefit from his deficiencies. Regarded in the light of a mechanical power, whenever there is any plain, hard work to be done, he is put to it like a lever; every one giving him a pry.

  Then, again, he is set about all the vilest work. Is there a heavy job at tarring to be done, he is pitched neck and shoulders into a tar-barrel, and set to work at it. Moreover, he is made to fetch and carry like a dog. Like as not, if the mate sends him after his quadrant,2 on the way he is met by the captain, who orders him to pick some oakum;3 and while he is hunting up a bit of rope, a sailor comes along and wants to know what the deuse he’s after, and bids him be off to the forecastle.

  “Obey the last order,” is a precept inviolable at sea. So the land-lubber, afraid to refuse to do any thing, rushes about distracted, and does nothing: in the end receiving a shower of kicks and cuffs from all quarters.

  Added to his other hardships, he is seldom permitted to open his mouth unless spoken to; and then, he might better keep silent. Alas for him! if he should happen to be any thing of a droll; for in an evil hour should he perpetrate a joke, he would never know the last of it.

  The witticisms of others, however, upon himself, must be received in the greatest good-humor.

  Woe be unto him, if at meal-times he so much as look sideways at the beef-kid4 before the rest are helped.

  Then he is obliged to plead guilty to every piece of mischief which the real perpetrator refuses to acknowledge; thus taking the place of that sneaking rascal, nobody, ashore. In short, there is no end to his tribulations.

  The land-lubber’s spirits often sink, and the first result of his being moody and miserable, is naturally enough an utter neglect of his toilet.

  The sailors perhaps ought to make allowances; but heartless as they are, they do not. No sooner is his cleanliness questioned, than they rise upon him like a mob of the Middle Ages upon a Jew; drag him into the lee-scuppers,5 and strip him to the buff. In vain he bawls for mercy; in vain calls upon the captain to save him.

  Alas! I say again, for the land-lubber at sea. He is the veriest wretch the watery world over. And such was Rope Yarn; of all land-lubbers, the most lubberly and the most miserable. A forlorn, stunted, hook-visaged mortal he was too; one of those, whom you know at a glance to have been tried hard and long in the furnace of affliction. His face was an absolute puzzle; though sharp and sallow, it had neither the wrinkles of age nor the smoothness of youth; so that for the soul of me, I could hardly tell whether he was twenty-five or fifty.

  But to his history. In his better days, it seems he had been a journeyman baker in London, somewhere about Holborn;6 and on Sundays wore a blue coat and metal buttons, and spent his afternoons in a tavern, smoking his pipe and drinking his ale like a free and easy journeyman baker that he was. But this did not last long; for an intermeddling old fool was the ruin of him. He was told that London might do very well for elderly gentlemen and invalids; but for a lad of spirit, Australia was the Land of Promise. In a dark day Ropey wound up his affairs and embarked.

  Arriving in Sydney with a small capital, and after a while waxing snug and comfortable by dint of hard kneading, he took unto himself a wife; and so far as she was concerned, might then have gone into the country and retired; for she effectually did his business. In short, the lady worked him woe in heart and pocket; and in the end, ran off with his till and his foreman. Ropey went to the sign of the Pipe and Tankard; got fuddled; and over his fifth pot meditated suicide—an intention carried out; for the next day he shipped as landsman aboard the Julia, South Seaman.

  The ex-baker would have fared far better, had it not been for his heart, which was soft and underdone. A kind word made a fool of him; and hence most of the scrapes he got into. Two or three wags, aware of his infirmity, used to “draw him out” in conversation, whenever the most crabbed and choleric old seamen were present.

  To give an instance. The watch below, just waked from their sleep, are all at breakfast; and Ropey, in one corner, is disconsolately partaking of its delicacies. Now, sailors newly waked are no cherubs; and therefore not a word is spoken, every body munching his biscuit, grim and unshaven. At this juncture an affable-looking scamp—Flash Jack—crosses the forecastle, tin can in hand, and seats himself beside the land-lubber.

  “Hard fare this, Ropey,” he begins; “hard enough, too, for them that’s known better and lived in Lun’nun. I say now, Ropey, s’posing you were back to Holborn this morning, what would you have for breakfast, eh?”

  “Have for breakfast!” cried Ropey, in a rapture. “Don’t speak of it!”

  “What ails that fellow?” here growled an old sea-bear, turning round savagely.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Jack; and then, leaning over to Rope Yarn, he bade him go on, but speak lower.

  “Well, then,” said he, in a smugged tone, his eyes lighting up like two lanterns, “well, then, I’d go to Mother Moll’s that makes the great muffins: I’d go there, you know, and cock my foot on the ’ob,7 and call for a noggin8 o’ somethink to begin with.”

  “And what then, Ropey?”

  “Why then, Flashy,” continued the poor victim, unconsciously warming with his theme; “why then, I’d draw my chair up and call for Betty, the gal wot tends to customers. Betty, my dear, says I, you looks charmin’ this mornin’; give me a nice rasher of bacon and h’eggs Betty my love; and I wants a pint of h’ale, and three nice ’ot muffins and butter—and a slice of Cheshire;9 and Betty, I wants—”

  “A shark-steak, and be hanged to you!” roared Black Dan, with an oath. Whereupon, dragged over the chests, the ill-starred fellow is pummeled on deck.

  I always made a point of befriending poor Ropey when I could; and, for this reason, was a great favorite of his.

  CHAPTER 15

  CHIPS AND BUNGS

  Bound into port, Chips and Bungs increased their devotion to the bottle; and, to the unspeakable envy of the rest, these jolly companions—or “the Partners,” as the men called them—rolled about deck, day after day, in the merriest mood imaginable.

  But jolly as they were in the main, two more discreet tipplers it would be hard to find. No one ever saw them take any thing, except when the regular allowance was served out by the steward; and to make them quite sober and sensible, you had only to ask them how they contrived to keep otherwise. Sometime after, however, their secret leaked out.

  The casks of Pisco were kept down the after-hatchway, which, for this reason, was secured with bar and padlock. The cooper, nevertheless, from time to time, effected a burglarious entry, by descending into the forehold;1 and then, at the risk of being jammed to death, crawling along over a thousand obstructions, to where the casks were stowed.

  On the first expedition, the only one to be got at lay among others, upon its bilge,2 with the bung-hole3 well over. With a bit of iron hoop, suitably bent, and a good deal of prying and punching, the bung was forced in; and then the cooper’s neck-handkerchief, attached to the end of the hoop, was drawn in and out—the absorbed liquor being deliberately squeezed into a small bucket.