The boatswain could not make his way aft till I was some rattlings up the main rigging, and thus, his intentional and kind dilatoriness saved me from the indignity of a blow. Twice I gazed upon the clear blue and transparent water, and temptation was strong upon me, for it seemed to woo me to rest; but when I looked inboard, and contemplated the diminutive, shrivelled, jaundiced figure beneath me, I said to myself, “Not for such a thing as that.”
Before I had got to the main-top, I thought, “This morning he loved me!—poor human nature!”—and when I got to the topmast cross-trees, I had actually forgiven him. It has been my failing through life, as Shakespeare expresses it, “to have always lacked gall.” God knows how much I have forgiven, merely because I have found it impossible to hate.
But it was to be tried still more. I had settled myself comfortably on the cross-trees, making excuses for the captain, and condemning my own want of caution, and anticipating a reconciliatory breakfast with my persecutor, when his shrill voice came discordantly upon my ears.
“Mast-head, there!”
“Sir.”
“Up higher, sir—up higher.”
I hesitated—the order was repeated with horrid threats and imprecations. There were no rattlings to the topgallant rigging. It had been tremendously hot all day, and the tar had sweated from the shrouds; and I was very loath to spoil my beautiful white jean trousers by swarming up them. However, as I perceived that he had worked himself into a perfect fury, up I went, and to the topgallant-mast-head, embracing the royal pole with one arm, and standing on the bights of the rigging. My nether apparel, in performing this feat, appeared as if it had been employed in wiping up a bucket of spilled tar.
But I was not long to remain unmolested in my stand on the high and giddy mast. My astonishment and dismay were unbounded at hearing Captain Reud still vociferate, “Up higher, sir.”
The royal pole stood naked, with nothing attached to it but the royal and the signal-halyards, the latter running through the truck. My lady readers must understand that the truck is that round thing at the top of all the masts that looks so like a button. I could not have got up the well-greased pole if I had attempted it. A practised seaman could, certainly, and, indeed, one of those worthies who climb for legs of mutton at a fair, might have succeeded to mount a few inches.
“What!” said I, half aloud, “does the tyrant mean? He knows that this thing I cannot do: and he also knows that if I attempt it, it is probable I shall lose my hold of this slippery stick, and be rolled off into the sea. If he wishes to murder me, he shall do so more directly. Forgive him—never. I’ll brave him first, and revenge myself after.”