It was about the middle of the dog watch in the same day—when, according to the theory of the Norwegian marine, everybody is supposed to be on deck for his own pleasure, and, according to matter of fact, everybody is below, sleeping, or talking, or cooking, or mending his clothes,—when the Parson, whose time began to hang a little weary on his hands, was yawning about the Haabet’s quarter-deck, with his hands in his pockets.
The Norwegian dog watch must not be confounded with the English watches of the same name. In the Swedish or Norwegian navy, the twenty-four hours are divided into five watches instead of seven, as with us. These, beginning at 8 p.m., are called the first watch, the night watch, the morning watch, the forenoon watch, and the dog watch, respectively, of which the first four consist of four hours each, and the last of eight. The dog watch comprehends the time from noon to 8 p.m. It is, of course, impossible for human strength and human endurance to keep it properly, but it is permitted to be kept in a slack sort of way by the whole ship’s company conjointly, one watch being indeed responsible for the duty, but not being forbidden to go below, provided their place, for the time, be taken by amateurs.[66] The natural effect of this is, that the whole watch is kept very slackly indeed, even in men-of-war; in fact, at the particular time specified, there was no one whatever on the deck of the Haabet, except Torgensen, who, as before, was steering, and the Parson, who had come on deck because the Captain was snoring so loud, and who, as luck would have it, was looking over the bulwarks to windward.
The day had continued calm and hot, as September days often are, and the ship was not many miles from the place in which she had missed stays in the morning. She was close hauled, but carrying everything that would draw.
“Torgensen,” said he, “I think you had better look out; there is something coming down upon us, that looks very like an invitation from your friends the mermaids.[67] I should like to send an excuse.”
“O, The Thousand!” said Torgensen: “God forgive me for swearing, at such a time;” and shoving the helm into the Parson’s hands, he seized a handspike, and began to belabour the deck.
On all ordinary occasions there had been a good deal of republican slackness on board the Haabet, the men doing what they were told, but doing it leisurely, and in a nonchalant sort of way. It did not much signify, for in blue water and calm weather, it makes little difference whether the manœuvres are performed smartly or not.[68] But assuming the handspike was like taking up the dictatorship; there was no want of smartness now; the men buzzed out from their hurricane-house, like bees out of a hive, some half dressed, some stuffing a handful of plok fiske into their mouths, but all rushing to their stations, as if the very tautest-handed boatswain in the British service was at their heels.
It so happened that Torgensen had been fitting up a fore-sail of his own, which he called a fok; a stoutish spar held the place of foot rope, which, though it diminished the area of the sail, certainly had the effect of making it stand better when close hauled; but that which he prided himself most upon, was his substitute for clue-garnets, which consisted of two ropes, which, rove through blocks at the quarter of the yard, led before the sail through a block at the clue, then to the yard-arm, and then along the yard; thus, embracing the sail, acting as spilling-lines and clue-garnets at once, and hauling it up, as it were, like a curtain in a theatre.
The square main-sail was by this time clewed up, and, had not Torgensen’s head been full of this invention, he probably would have seen the necessity of casting off the sheet of the fore and aft main-sail, as he passed, supposing he had not time or hands to man the brails; as it was, the fore-sail came in most sweetly, and Torgensen, forgetting his captainship, skipped up the rigging, and was out at the weather earring, like a monkey up a cocoa-nut tree.
Just then the squall struck her. Naturally the brig carried a lee helm, but at this moment, relieved of her fore-sail, and at the same time pressed upon by the whole force of the squall in her main-sail, she griped obstinately,—a propensity which the Parson had originated by steering as near as he could, in order to shake the wind out of the top-sails while the men were reefing. Things began to look serious; not a soul was on deck, every man being out on the yards, which, so soon as the sails began thrashing in the wind, jumped and jerked so furiously, that it was as much as any of them could do to hold on; the brig lay over, so that the water not only bubbled through her scuppers, but came pouring in over her bulwarks, and the Parson, with both hands clutching the bulwarks, was driving the helm a-weather with his stomach, while his feet were slipping one after the other on the wet and slanting deck.