“Ef yew fink Ise goin’ t’ be yer nuss yous way off.”
So he went aft, where his instinct told him he should find the officer of the watch, and when he discovered that functionary, a thickset taciturn Yankee from Providence, Rhode Island, he courteously asked him if he might be told what to do. Mr. Spurrell gave a snort, being in a middle-watch humour, but he was a man of the most inflexible justice, and his leading principle compelled him to answer the honest question straightforwardly, instead of as so often happens overwhelming the novice with contumely for asking. He informed C. B. that his only duty was to keep on the alert, going forward occasionally to see if the lookout was being properly kept by the man, and if any sail-trimming had to be done to try and master the details of it, the how and why, so that presently in case of an emergency he might be able to take the watch himself.
C. B. thanked the officer gravely, and then, a happy thought striking him, asked if he might put in his first watch on deck learning to steer the ship. Steering a boat he was as we know an adept at, but using a ship’s wheel and compass is a very different matter, and he was unwilling to remain ignorant of anything for a moment longer than was necessary for him to learn it. Fortunately there was an able Kanaka from Samoa at the wheel, who spoke reasonably understandable English and was delighted to show C. B. all he knew. Thus it came about that at four bells, that is at the end of the Samoan’s trick at the wheel, C. B. could steer almost as well as his teacher. For there are some men born helmsmen, who learn with astounding ease and rapidity, others who to the last day of their lives never seem to be able to keep a ship, a sailing ship that is, anywhere near her course. Of course steering steamships is, like so many other things at sea in steamers, a purely mechanical process, and if a man does not do it well it argues that he is careless or lazy or both.
The wind held steady, so that the new-comer had no opportunity of learning anything about sail handling this watch, but it had passed away very rapidly and pleasantly, and when eight bells struck C. B. felt more contented than he had been since coming on board. Also he recognized how much he would have to learn, and was correspondingly eager to get on with that learning. But now he had to face the hole below, for the work of cleansing the ship for the day was beginning, the Eliza Adams being, like all those old-time south-seamen from New England, kept as spick and span as any yacht, quite contrary to generally accepted notions, and also in great contrast to the condition in which our English whalers used to be allowed to remain.
The foul atmosphere caught him by the throat as he entered, but he set his teeth and persevered, climbing into his bunk and lying there suffering until he went off into an almost drugged slumber. From this he was aroused at seven bells, 7.20 a.m., to breakfast, which was good and plentiful; but he was not able to eat a morsel, and had to rush on deck for relief. As soon as he appeared the captain saw him, and immediately noticed that there was something wrong with him. Calling him, the skipper inquired in kindly fashion after his health, and on being told what was the matter, raised his eyebrows wonderingly, for the complaint was new to him. And indeed it is nothing short of miraculous to me how men could live at all in such foul dens, reeking with stench and disease-laden air as they were. But of course the poisoning process did not go on long enough to kill, and the strong pure air of heaven when they came on deck soon acted as an antidote to the evil in the blood. A greater mystery still is the way in which our peasantry deliberately choose thus to poison themselves. Working all day in the strong pure breath of the fields, they will go to their cottages and, in company with a large family, close up every cranny whereby a little fresh air can creep in, and soak in that foul fug until the morning. Ugh!
So all the consolation the skipper could give C. B. was that he would soon get used to it as everybody else had to. And with that poor comfort C. B. had to be content. Now while the captain went on talking to him about the island life there was a cry from aloft, “Porps, porps.” A school of porpoises had joined the vessel, and were indulging in their graceful sinewy gambols under the bows as usual.
“Now, my boy,” cried the skipper, “is your time to show your shipmates what you can do with the iron. Your shot yesterday was a fancy one, I’ll admit, but this is a different matter. Come along forrard.”
Already a harpoon had been passed out to the bowsprit and attached to a stout line, which was rove through a block secured there in readiness and the other end passed in on deck. At the skipper’s direction C. B. slid down the martingale on to the guys and stood there, his shoulders braced against the martingale or dolphin-striker, while the old ship plunged along, occasionally bringing his feet within a few inches of the waves.
Beneath him the graceful agile sea-creatures rolled and sprang and plunged like mad things in the seething foam from the bluff bows of the advancing ship. C. B. poised his iron, pointed it at one of the rising porpoises, and at the moment it broke the water beneath him the iron flew from his hands. It struck the creature fairly in the middle of the back and sank through him as C. B. shouted—
“Haul up!”