Jack in the Forecastle; or, Incidents in the Early Life of Hawser Martingale

by John Sherburne Sleeper

We cast loose from the wharf the following day, about the 20th of April, 1812, and proceeded down the harbor. But the wind coming from the eastward, we anchored above the Narrows. I was soon convinced that Captain Thompson was no driver. Although originally a Massachusetts man, he had lived long enough in southern climates to acquire indolent habits. When the wind was ahead, if on anchorage ground, he would let go an anchor, rather than take the trouble of beating to windward for what he considered the trifling object of saving a day or two in the passage! "Have patience and the wind will change," was his motto. He was not the only shipmaster I have met with who was in the habit of looking after his own comfort as well as the interest of his employer.

The wind was favorable the next day, and we glided past Sandy Hook and entered on the broad ocean. Away we went to the southward with the wind abeam, blowing a strong breeze from the westward. The captain took the helm, and all hands were employed in clearing the decks and putting things in order; Mr. Pierce being particularly active in the work, saying but little, and looking unusually solemn.

I was on the weather side of the main deck, securing the lashings of the long-boat, when I heard a splash in the water to leeward; at the same moment the cook shouted out, with all the power of his African lungs, "Goramity! Mr. Pierce is fell overboard!"

"The mate is overboard! The mate is overboard!" was now the cry from every mouth.

"Hard-a-lee!" screamed the skipper, and at the same instant executed the order himself by jamming the tiller hard down to leeward. "Haul the fore sheet to windward! Clear away the long-boat! Be handy, lads! We'll save the poor fellow yet."

And then the captain shouted to the unfortunate man, as he was seen not far off in the wake, "Be of good cheer! Keep your head up! No danger! We'll soon be alongside!"

I seized the cook's axe and cut away the lashings of the boat, and in a space of time incredibly brief, the boat was lifted from the chocks by main strength and launched over the side. We were about to shove off to the struggling mate, when Captain Thompson, who had not taken his eyes from the man after he had fallen overboard, and kept making signs and giving him words of encouragement, exclaimed, in a mournful tone, "Avast there with the boat! 'Tis no use. He's gone he's sunk, and out of sight. We shall never see him again! Poor fellow poor fellow! May the Lord have mercy on him!"

It appeared that Mr. Pierce had stepped on the lee gunwale for the purpose of grasping a rope that was loose. His left hand was on one of the main shrouds, when a sudden lurch disengaged his grasp and precipitated him into the water. He was not a hundred yards from the schooner when he disappeared. Whether his body struck against the side of the vessel as he fell and he was thus deprived of the full use of his limbs, whether he was panic-struck at the fate which appeared to await him, or unable to swim, we could never learn. The simple, solemn fact, however, was before us in all its terrible significance. The man who, a few moments before, stood on the deck of the Schooner Mary, strong, healthy, and in the meridian of life, was no longer with us. He was removed without warning; buried in the depths of the ocean; cut off by some mysterious agency, "And sent to his account With all his imperfections on his head."

Soon after this sad accident, when we had taken in the long-boat, trimmed the sails, and were pursuing our way towards Cape Hatteras, the captain, with a solemn look, called me to the helm and went into the cabin, where he undoubtedly found consolation in the embrace of an intimate but treacherous friend. Indeed, on his return to the deck, a few minutes afterwards, I had olfactory demonstration that he and the brandy bottle had been in close communion! Captain Thompson had hardly spoken to me since we left the wharf in New York. He had now got his "talking tacks" on board, and was sociable enough.

"Hawser," said he, with a sigh, "this is a serious and sad thing, this death of poor Pierce. It might be your fate or mine at any time as easily as his. He was just from Liverpool, having been shipwrecked on the English coast, and on his way home to Washington, expecting to see his wife and children in a few days. Poor fellow! This will be a terrible blow to his family and friends. His fate, so sudden, is enough to make any man who IS a man, think seriously of his 'better end' of what may become of him hereafter!" He clinched this remark, which he delivered with much energy, with an oath that almost made my hair stand on end, and struck me at the time as being singularly out of place in that connection.