Rattlin the Reefer

by Edward Howard

Paving-stones sometimes prove stumbling-blocks—A disquisition on the figurative, ends by Ralph figuring at the mast-head, thus extending his views upon the subject.

The next morning at daylight we weighed, and, by the aid of much firing of guns, and the display of unmeasured bunting, we got the whole of the convoy out of the cove by noon, with two men-of-war brigs bringing up the rear. Shortly after losing sight of land, bad weather came on, in which poor Gubbins was drowned, as I have before narrated.

By the time that we had reached Madeira, the ship’s company had settled into good order, and formed that concentrated principle which enabled them to act as one man. It was a young and a fine crew, made up of drafts of twenties and thirties from different vessels, thanks to the nepotism of the treasurer of the navy.

We also began to understand each other’s characters, and to study the captain’s. Mischief was his besetting sin. Naturally malignant he was not, but inconsiderate to a degree that would make you think that his heart was really bad. One of his greatest pleasures was that of placing people in awkward and ludicrous situations. He very soon discovered the fattest men among the masters of the merchant vessels; and, when we had run far enough to the southward to make sitting in an open boat very unpleasant, he would in light winds, make a signal for one of his jolly friends to come on board, the more especially if he happened to be far astern. Then began Captain Reud’s enjoyment. After two hours’ hard pulling, the master would be seen coming up astern, wiping his brows, and, when within hail, Reud would shout to him to give away—and, just as he reached the stern ladder, the main-topsail of the frigate would be shivered, and the boat again be left half a mile astern. Another attempt, and another failure, the captain meanwhile gloating over the poor man’s misery with the suppressed chuckle of delight, in which you would fancy a monkey to indulge after he had perpetrated some irreparable mischief.

However, he would generally tease his victim no longer than dinner-time. The ship would then be effectively hove-to, the half-melted skipper would get on board, and the captain receive him with studied politeness. Much would I admire the gravity with which he would deplore the impossibility of stopping his Majesty’s ship Eos by anything short of an anchor and good holding ground. No, she would not be hove-to—go a-head or go astern she must—but stand still she could not. During this harangue, the mystified mariner would look at his commodore, much wondering which of the two was the fool.

“But, Mister Stubbs,” the tormentor would continue, “it is now nearly six bells—you have not dined, I presume; how long have you been making this little distance, Mister Stubbs?” with a slow accent on the word Mister. “Six hours!—bless me—I would certainly rope’s—end those lubbers in your boat. You must be hungry—so must they, poor fellows! Here, Mr Rattlin, call them up, put a boat-keeper in the boat, and let her drop astern—tell my steward to give them a good tuck—out and a glass of grog. Mister Stubbs, you’ll dine with me;” and the affair would end by the gratified hoaxed one being sent on board his own vessel about the end of twilight, seeing more stars in the heavens than astronomers have yet discovered.

But these skippers were, though very plump, but very humble game for our yellow-skinned tormentor. He nearly drove the third lieutenant mad, and that by a series of such delicate persecutions, annoyances so artfully veiled, and administered in a manner so gentlemanly, that complaint on the part of the persecuted, instead of exciting commiseration, covered him with ridicule. This officer was a Portuguese nobleman of the name of Silva—the Don we could never bring our English mouths to use—who had entered our service at a very early age, and consequently spoke our language as naturally as ourselves. He was surnamed the “Paviour,” and, when off duty, generally so addressed. It must not be supposed that he acquired this soubriquet on account of the gentlemen in corduroys laying by their hammers when he walked the street, bidding God bless him, for he was a very light and elegant figure, and singularly handsome. At this time I was the youngster of his watch, and a great favourite with him. The misfortune of his life was, that he had written a book—only one single sin—but it never left him,—it haunted him through half the ships in the service, and finally drove him out of it. He had written this book, and caused it to be printed—and he published it also, for nobody else could. His bookseller had tried, and failed lamentably. Now, Don Silva was always publishing, and never selling. His cabin was piled up with several ill-conditioned cases of great weight, which cases laboured under the abominable suspicion of containing the unsold copies.

As much as ever I could learn of the matter, no one ever got farther than the middle of the second page of this volume, excepting the printer’s devils, the corrector of the press, and the author. The book was lent to me, but, great reader as I am, I broke down in attempting to pass the impassible passage. The book might have been a good book, for aught I, or the world, knew to the contrary: but there was a fatality attending this particular part that was really enough to make one superstitious—nobody could break the charm, and get over it. I wish that the thought had occurred to me at that time of beginning it at the end, and reading it backwards; surely, in that manner, the book might have been got through. It was of a winning exterior, and tolerable thickness. Never did an unsound nut look more tempting to be cracked, than this volume to be opened and read. It had for its title the imposing sentence of, “A Naval and Military Tour up and down the Rio de la Plate, by Don Alphonso Ribidiero da Silva.”

I have before stated that my shipmates were all strangers to each other. We had hardly got things to rights after leaving Cork, when Mr Silva began, “as was his custom in the afternoon,” to publish his book. He begged leave to read it to his messmates after dinner, and leave was granted. With bland frankness, he insisted upon the opinions of the company as he proceeded. He began—but the wily purser at once started an objection to the first sentence—yea, even to the title. He begged to be enlightened as to what sort of tour that was that merely went up and down. However, the doctor came at this crisis to the assistance of the Don, and suggested that the river might have turns in it. The reader sees how critical we are in a man-of-war.

However, in the middle of the second page appeared the fatal passage, “After having paved our way up the river;” upon which, issue was immediately joined, and hot argument ensued. The objector, of course, was the purser; and, on this point, the doctor went over to the enemy. All the lieutenants followed, the master stood neuter, and the marine officer fell asleep—thus poor Silva stood alone in his glory, to fight the unequal battle; and in doing so, after the manner of authors, lost his temper.