She had to go into the open market, as it were, for the rest of her crew, like any ordinary ship about to sail on a trading voyage.
Such being the case, following the usual practice at the time, the “Earl Saint Vincent,” a tavern on Common Hard, was chosen for our rallying-place, or rendezvous.
A large broadsheet was exposed in the window of this tavern inviting able-bodied seamen and artificers to join the battleship; one of our lieutenants attending each day for a certain number of hours at the little shipping office which was established in the bar parlour of the tavern to inspect the discharge notices and certificates of any sailors or landsmen who might wish to join.
The officer relegated to this duty took care to satisfy himself that any candidates he selected should pass muster with the commander before sending them on board.
He knew well enough that if the men had previously served in the navy and their characters were marked “very good,” or even “good,” there was little doubt of their acceptance.
Up to the date of my going on board the ship, though, our recruiting agency had not been very successful.
Not half our required number of men, had, indeed, as yet volunteered for the Candahar; for, most of the old hands worth their salt fought shy of the station she was reported to be going to, on account less of its unhealthiness, which to Jack is of small account, than to the absence of any prize-money or extra pay, such as might be gained even on the deadly West Coast, with its malarial fever and pestiferous mangrove swamps that form the white man’s grave.
But, all of a sudden, public opinion, so far as the sailor world was concerned, veered round in our favour.
It had leaked out that there was a prospect of our having a scrimmage with the mandarins.
In this case, of course, there would be dollars and other sorts of “loot” knocking about.