The wind was blowing bitter and cold, and cakes of ice were floating about us, as we slid into the bay after a tug that made a great swash and tumult in front. But the sky was as clear as if it were the first and newest of all days.
CHAPTER III.—DOWN THE COAST—CAVARLY'S PLAN.
The Octarara might have ranked as a gunboat or a second-class cruiser, and it might be the Government did not rank her very high, for the only regular military aboard were three gunners and Simpson, chief gunner. Cavarly made Simpson master-at-arms, and set him drilling the crew, and left him mostly alone at it. Himself and Morgan, who ranked as mate, seemed to take no part in it, but to look on in a pleased kind of way, and find it quite amusing. They sailed the ship, with the other two Baltimore men, Gerry and Still, steersmen, and the engineers and stokers did nothing but oil cranks and polish brass. For Cavarly appeared to be in no hurry, nor anxious to use up coal, and nobody minded that, except Simpson. I did not like Simpson. Neither did Simpson like the Octarara, nor anything about her, and this with his falling foul of me immediately made me think him a person impossible to please.
“Cap'n Cavarly,” said Simpson, “beg-gin' your pardon, does that there boy belong fore or aft?”
“I reckon he belongs to you,” said Cavarly cheerfully. “Discipline. Tha's it. Discipline.”
“Git for'ard, you young pup!” cried Simpson, “ef you'll 'low me, cap'n. Pick up them lanyards. You hear me!”
“Haw, haw!” said Cavarly softly, and, looking back with furtive eyes from a safe distance, I saw Dan Morgan also and Calhoun by the taffrail laughing, and I thought it treacherous and unfriendly.
The next four days and nights I was hating Simpson busily, and wishing the deep sea between him and me. We were ever and again up to “repel boarders.” and nothing in sight but the blank sea, or maybe a glimpse of the low peaceful Jersey coast. Seeing me idle or in any way happy put Simpson in a mad rage; but I could wish that gruff warrant officer no worse ill luck than such a raw and mixed crew as ours to put in shape, with a captain and mate appearing to regard him as a joke and taking no responsibility themselves. What could be more distressful to such a man than to have for superior officers Dan Morgan, playing his banjo half the day; Cavarly, looking on with an everlasting cigar, and a mysterious gentleman supercargo like Calhoun?