“I’ll have no preachers aboard my ship,” says Dawkins, with an oath.
“You’ll have to talk to the captain about that,” I said.
“Ah, but it’s me that has to sail the ship,” returned Dawkins. “I’m sailing-master. I been shipmates with a clergyman before, and never again, says I to myself. Cross-currents, squalls, baffling winds, dead calms, water rotten—why, time and again, I would as lief as not a-run the blessed ship nose under, just to fetch up at the Golden Gates with my two hands on that there preachers’ neck-band. ‘Lord God,’ I’d say, humble on the quarterdeck, ‘I am but a sinful man, but grant me to take this Thy servant and toss him overboard off of a good lofty star, and I’ll go out of heaven quiet and orderly—ay, and glad to go.’”
“Well, why didn’t you, Mr Dawkins?”
“We keelhauled the holy man, and I reckon that was a surer way,” said Dawkins.
Now, to keelhaul a man is to lower him from the yard-arm on one side of the ship, haul him under the keel, and hoist him on the other side, several times. If he lose his senses, his executioners kindly wait until he recovers them, lest he should miss the full benefit of the discipline. After these expressions of animosity, I was surprised to remark Mr Dawkins consorting with the Reverend Jeremiah, apparently on the most friendly terms; and, with less astonishment, that upon several occasions the clergyman came aboard with a glazed eye and an uncertain footstep. But when, upon the day we were to sail, he was nowhere to be found, I understood. And Mr Dawkins kindly volunteered to take a search-party round the taverns, and if the parson were still undiscovered, the churches of Bristol city.
“What, and lose the tide?” quoth the captain. “And to-morrow Friday? No, sir. I’ve never cut sail on a Friday yet, and I wouldn’t do it for the Archbishop of Canterbury. With a Bible and a flag and the Church of England Prayer-Book, we’ll try to make out, Mr Dawkins.”
So that zealous officer had his way; we sailed without Mr Ramsbottom.
At eight o’clock of a fine summer evening the bells were chiming in the steeple of the great church, the town was wrapt in a golden haze, and the quays were moving with people, as we dropped down the river with the tide. Suddenly, the old city, changing its aspect and gesture as we receded, put on an expression of home. It was as though a piece of herself were detached and sent floating away—away to the inhospitable wilderness of the sea. The little group on the wharf that watched our departure dwindled to an indistinguishable blot, their waving kerchiefs tiny specks of white; the sound of the bells fell fainter and farther, rose and sank, and died away; the Blessed Endeavour was forth to seek her fate.
The second day out, a council of officers was held, to determine the port of call on the way to Yucatan. Our instructions were to proceed directly thither, leaving all attempt to take prizes until the question of the hidden silver was settled. Dawkins broke out at once, in his loud, domineering manner.