The crew generally did not treat Archy as kindly as old Andrew had done. They attacked him, as soon as he got among them, with all sorts of questions, laughing and jeering at his folly. No one laughed at him more than Max Inkster. Archy felt inclined to retort, but he remembered his promise to Max, and gave him no sign of recognition, he was treated as one of the ship’s boys, and was put to do all sorts of drudgery and dirty work. Often and often he wished that he had remained at home, to look after his mother’s farm, and help Maggie in attending to her.
Several days passed by—Archy was beginning to find himself at home among the crew—Max at length spoke to him as if to a stranger.
“We must make a sailor of you, boy, as you have chosen to come to sea,” he said, when the order had just been given to reef topsails. “Lay out on the yard with me, and I’ll show you what to do.”
Archy had several times been aloft, but had never assisted in reefing. He now followed Max up the rigging. There was a heavy sea running, and the ship was pitching violently.
“Now, don’t be afraid—come out on the yard,” said Max. “There—lean over, and catch hold of those reef points. Cling tight though, with your knees and elbows, or you will pitch down on deck, and have your brains dashed out.”
Archy did as he was bid. He felt very nervous, though, and was thankful when he was safe off the yard. It was coming on to blow harder and harder, and the canvas was still further reduced. Max did not again invite him to go aloft—none but practised seamen could have ventured on the yards. At length, all the canvas was taken off the ship, except a close-reefed main-topsail, when the helm was put down, and she was hove-to. The wind whistled shrilly through the bare poles and rigging. It was blowing a perfect hurricane. All around appeared mountains of heaving water, each succeeding sea threatening to swallow up the labouring ship. Archy was surprised at the calmness of the officers and crew, when he expected every moment that one of those tremendous seas would come on board, and send the ship to the bottom. He wished that he could pray, as his mother had taught him to do, but he dared not; yet he trembled at the thought of what would happen.
Night came on—the gale seemed to increase. He, with all except the watch on deck, had gone below.
“What, lad, art afraid?” asked Max, who observed his pale countenance. “You thought a life at sea was all sunshine and calm.”
“I have found out what it is, and I wish that I had not been fool enough to come,” answered Archy, with some bitterness.
Max laughed. “Many a lad thinks like you,” he said. “They get accustomed to it, and so must you, though the training is not pleasant, I’ll allow.”