Chapter Fifteen.
A Sea Breeze.
“Man killed saluting her Majesty,” as we read in the papers t’other day: poor fellow, told off at the rammer he was, and for want of proper sponging out; when he drove in the great cartridge, it exploded before he could leap back, and in a moment he was gone. How it brought up all my old sea life, and the days on board the fifty-gun frigate that I’ll call here the Lysander, so as to say nothing about names that might be unsavoury in some people’s nostrils. There I was again at gun drill, or ball practice, down on the main-deck. Now I was numbered to ram, or sponge; now at the lanyard to fire; now one thing and now another; and I could see it all so plainly: the big cartridge, the twisted wheel of a wad, the shot in the racks, and the little quills full of powder for the touch-hole. Why, I could even fancy my ears ringing and singing again after the heavy report; and as I sat at my window, there was I fancying it was a port-hole, and shading my eyes to look out and see the shot go skipping and ricochetting along from wave to wave. Now, again, it was examining day for the shells, and there we were, two of us, slung outside the ship on a platform, and the shells in their little wood boxes handed over the side and down to us; for it was a very dangerous job, and the officers kindly arranged that if in unscrewing the fuse one of the shells exploded, why only us two would be in for it. I didn’t half like the job for my part, but the old master at arms had done it so often that he thought no more of it than going down to mess, and more than once I’ve heard him wish for a pipe, while I believe he would have smoked it.
Four years out in the Pacific we were, and more than one brush we had with the Rooshians up there at Petropaulovski, but mostly it was very dull cruising about. True, we used to get a change now and then; once or twice we had a turn in Vancouver’s Island, and had a shooting party or two after the pretty little quails, handsome little birds with a crest, and prime eating. Then, one night, we sailed into the beautiful harbour at Nukuheva, in the Marquesas, as lovely a spot as it is possible to imagine; and as I saw it then by moonlight, such a sight as I can never forget—all moonlight on the beautiful trees, with cascades falling from the larger rocks; just in front the belt of white sand, and the sea gently wash-wash and curling over in creamy breakers. Another time it would be the Sandwich Islands, and when some of us were ashore there, I’m blest if it wasn’t as good as a play, and you couldn’t hardly believe it. Why, there was a regular civilised town, with the names of the streets up in their lingo; and as to the shops, they were as right as could be, ’specially where they sold prog; while the chemist’s was quite the thing, all glass, and varnish, and coloured bottles; and Charley Gordon, my mate, actually went in and bought two ounces of Epsom salts, and the man asked him if he didn’t want any senny.
It quite knocked a man over, you know, for you went there expecting to meet with nothing but savages of the same breed as killed Captain Cook; but though he was killed there, let me tell you it’s a precious sore subject with them, and they won’t talk about it if they can help it; and I believe, after all, it was through a mistake that the poor fellow was killed.
Now again we’d go to Callao, or Valparaiso, or Juan Fernandez, and lying idle off one of the ports, see them bring out their convicts and chaps to punish. One dodge they had was to put so many of ’em into a leaky boat right out in the harbour, and there they’d have to keep on pump—pump—pump—and work hard, too, to keep themselves afloat; for if they hadn’t kept at it, down they must have gone, and as my mate said—“Life was sweet, even to a convict.” Sometimes we’ve seen them punish men by lashing ’em to a spar, and then sousing ’em overboard till they’re half drowned, when up they’d come again, choking and sputtering to get their breath; then down again once more, and then up, till one of our chaps began to swear, and be as savage as could be, at what he called such cowardly humbugging ways.
“Why,” says he—“Why can’t they give a fellow his four dozen and done with it? But it’s just like them beggarly chattermonkey furreneering coves. I should just like ter—”
And here he began squaring about, Tom Sayers fashion, as if he’d have liked to have a set to with some of ’em.