One of the visions of youth is, that the life of a sailor is all fun, frolic, and happiness. Can there be anything more delightful, they think, than sailing about on the wide ocean, visiting far-distant regions of the earth, and seeing the strange manners of different countries? Little are they aware of the constant toil to which the poor mariner is exposed—the perils he encounters, the thankless life he is generally doomed to lead. He is, in fact, compelled to endure pretty much the lot of a slave; for, as is well known, government on shipboard is a species of despotism, often a cruel tyranny. Remonstrance in nearly every circumstance is in vain—it is mutiny. No matter how roughly orders are issued; they must be implicitly obeyed. 'D'ye murmur? Hold your tongue, you rascal, or I'll put you in irons!' Such is not a particularly uncommon form of address to the sailor, who so far forgets his position as to even hint a difference of opinion. Possibly, it is quite right, for the sake of discipline, and the safety of all concerned, that severity should be employed. We merely note the circumstance.
In the very best conducted ships, however, there must necessarily be toils and trials of temper. The most tormenting thing in a sailor's profession, is the want of that regular alternation of work through the day, and repose through the night, which is enjoyed by ordinary mortals. This is a matter on which so little is known, that we are induced to expatiate upon it. Dear landsmen! would you like to know how idly and jovially a foremast Jack gets through his twenty-four hours at sea? Listen; and when we have 'said our say,' envy poor Jack his romantic calling, and begrudge him his L.2, 10s. or L.3 per month, as much as you can find in your hearts.
We are in the chief mate's watch (the larboard), and come on deck for the middle watch—that is, at 12 p.m.—having had our spell below of four hours during the first night-watch (8 p.m. to 12 p.m.) It is a cold, dark, squally night, with frequent heavy showers of rain—in fact, what seamen emphatically call 'dirty' weather, and our pea-jackets and sou'-westers are necessary enough. Hardly have we got on deck, ere the mate, who is a bit of a 'driver,' begins to order this brace to be pulled, that yard to be squared, this sheet to be belayed, that sail to be clewed up, and t'other set. The wind howls, the rain beats, the ship staggers, the salt spray flies over us from time to time. During the space of three bells, we have our hands pretty full, and then the mate bawls: 'For'ard there! In with jib; lay out, men!' The vessel is buried to her bight-heads every plunge she takes, and sometimes the solid sea pours over her bowsprit as far as the but-end of the flying jib-boom. But to hear is of course to obey; and while some of our messmates spring to the downhaul of the jib, and rattle it down the stay, we and another man get out along the bowsprit, and with our feet resting on the slippery, knotted footrope to windward, we clutch hold of the jib, which is hanging down and lashing over to leeward. Pitch, pitch—splash, dash, go the bows; at one moment we are tossed high in the air, and the next we sink so low that the water reaches up to our knees as the ship settles down again, only to rise for a plunge heavier than before. We have just got the jib half-stowed, 'after a fashion,' when our messmate sings out: 'Hold hard, Jack!' and we cling for dear life. The next instant, a wave rolls a fathom high over our head, and we emerge, spluttering and gasping from a genuine cold salt-water bath, such as the hydropathists have no idea of. Before our nice little job is completed, we get two or three more comfortable duckings, and finally crawl on board half-drowned, and thankful that we were not altogether washed away, as many better fellows have been, at that same blessed task of jib-furling on a stormy night.
We have just given ourselves a good shake, like a Newfoundland dog, when four bells (2 a.m.) strike, and the man at the wheel is of course relieved, his time being up. It happens to be our turn, or 'trick,' at the wheel, and we must at once take to it, all dripping and exhausted as we are. The ship steers wildly, and we have continually to ease her when she pitches; yet, do what we can, the grumbling mate has many a complimentary word for us, flatteringly intimating his opinion, that we 'know no more about steering than our grandmother; but he'll work our old iron up to some tune, before he's done with us!' Ere our trick is out, our arms feel as stiff as iron bars, from the violent and unremitting strain on their muscles. The mate has steaming hot coffee brought him; but there's not a drop for poor Jack, if it would save his life. Oh, how we long to hear eight bells strike! At length they do strike, and the watch below are bid to 'tumble up, Beauties, and have a look at the lovely scenery!' We are then relieved at the wheel, and go below with our watch, hoping to enjoy four hours of blessed oblivion.
We swing ourself into our hammock (or berth, as it may happen), and are fast asleep in a minute. But we have not been an hour in the Land of Nod, ere three heavy blows from a handspike are struck on the forecastle hatch, which is then slid back, and a hoarse voice bawls: 'All ha-ands a-ho-oy! tumble up to reef tops'ls!' Out we bundle, and grope for our clothes (the forecastle being as dark as a dog's mouth), get them on somehow, and hurry-scurry on deck. We find the weather and sea altered much for the worse, and the Old Man (captain) himself on the quarter-deck, giving orders to the mates, who are tearing about, bawling and swearing like demons; while the 'idlers'—that is to say, the carpenter, steward, cook, and boys, who keep no regular watch—have all been roused up, to bear a hand, and 'pull their pound.' Halliards are let go, reef-tackles hauled chock-a-block, and we lay aloft helter-skelter, best man up first, and bend over the yard, till the weather-earing is secured; and then comes the welcome cry: 'Haul to leeward!' It is done, and then we all 'knot-away' with the reef-points. The reef having been taken (or two, perchance), we shin down again to mast-head the topsails, and get all in sailing trim. A grog is now served out, and we go below, to sleep out the rest of our four hours, one of which we have been deprived of by this reefing job. Sometimes it happens, however, that we lose three, or all four, when there is absolute necessity for all hands on deck.
Here, we pause a moment, to say a word on the serving of grog—a composition of rum and water. The use of this stuff is of old date in the navy, and would seem to be considered essential to navigation. In what are called temperance ships, no grog is served, neither after reefing topsails, nor at any other time; but what is very shameful, in many instances no substitute is allowed. If sailors might have coffee instead of rum, they would thankfully accept the substitute, for coffee is incomparably a better stimulant. The invigoration from rum is only momentary, and afterwards is perhaps rather pernicious; but the wholesome effect of coffee is felt for an hour. So they very excusably observe, 'Better grog than nothing!'
To resume the tenor of our narrative: at eight bells (8 a.m.) we are summoned on duty again, and find that the squall has passed over, and that it is now a fine sunshiny morning, with all available sail set, and only a heavy swell of the sea to tell what the night has been. We now get our breakfast (half an hour allowed for that), and the other watch, which has been eight hours up to our four, gets a forenoon watch below (8 a.m. to 12 a.m.) Alterations of sails and rigging, and no end of small jobs, keep us hard at work till eight bells (noon) once more strike, and we then get our luxurious dinner of a pound and a half of salt junk, with biscuits. But junk is capital stuff for sheathing material, when it is good: unfortunately, however, it too frequently is 'old horse;' and whatever its quality happens to be, all the nice juicy pieces are invariably picked out for the cabin table. Anything will do for poor Jack. His biscuits, too, are sometimes quite alive with weevils, especially on a long voyage in hot latitudes.
After dinner, all hands are on deck, and kept there till dark. In very large merchantmen, and all warships, this rule is departed from, and the watch is not so torturing—so true is it that the servants in small establishments, whether on sea or land, are always the worst treated. However, we suppose that the hands are on deck. The breeze has now almost died away, and the sea runs in long, low, slow swells; the ship gently rocking, and the sails occasionally collapsing with a crash against the creaking masts. Surely, thinks the landsman, there is now nothing for Jack to do but turn his quid, crack his joke, smoke his pipe, or overhaul his chest, and put the things to rights in the forecastle, after the 'hurrah's nest' created by the squall in the past night? Ah, friend, it is very evident that you don't 'know the ropes!' When on deck, a sailor is never idle in the day-time; even if rain is pouring, something is found for him to do; and in fine weather, like the day we are describing, there is a superabundance of work. The carpenter has his bench out—for 'a ship is like a lady's watch, always out of repair;' the steward is polishing the brass-work of the quarter-deck; the cook is scouring his pots and pans; the sailmaker is stitching away in the waist; and the crew are, one and all, engaged in picking oakum, spinning yarns (not such yarns as those amiable gentlemen, the naval novelists, talk so much about, but rope-yarns, by the aid of spinning-winches), platting sinnet, preparing chafing-gear, bowsing slack rigging taut, painting boats and bulwarks, scraping yards and masts, fitting new running-rigging, overhauling the spare sails, and fifty other things—doing, in fact, everything but idling. And, mind, no conversation is allowed among the men—not a word more than necessary for the performance of their several duties. If they chat at all when on deck, it is 'on the sly,' and out of sight and hearing of the vigilant officers, who have eyes like the lynx, and ears as sharp as needles.
At 4 p.m. commences the dog-watch—that is, the ordinary watch of four hours divided into two watches of half that length; and the use of them is to shift the rotation of the night-watches. About 6 p.m. we get supper, and all hands are on deck till eight bells (8 p.m.), when the starboard-watch go below, and we, the larboard-watch, have the first night-watch—just as they had it last night, and will the next after. There is very probably plenty of work to do in shifting and trimming sails and rigging till eight bells again strike (12 p.m.), and then we summon the other watch with: 'Starbowlings, ahoy!' and go below in turn; and so ends our day.