“Well,” he continued, “there is no use denying it—I am not a sailor. The captain knows this; but I have promised soon to become one, and I want to keep my promise. Will you help me to do so, by teaching me all I want to know?”
I told him I would do all I could for him, but that, as this was my first voyage in a whaler, I could not help him much about whaling matters.
“Oh, that will soon come,” he answered. “I seldom see a thing done once that I cannot do afterwards; but I want you to help me in seamanship. I have been constantly on the water, and know how to handle a boat, but never before made a voyage.”
I was so pleased with the frank way in which he acknowledged his ignorance, and the hearty desire he showed to learn, that I resolved to instruct him in everything I knew.
I never found anybody pick up information so rapidly as he did. It was only necessary to show him once how to do a thing, while he kept his sharp eye fixed on the work, and ever after he did it almost if not quite as well. He very soon dropped the nautical phraseology he had assumed when he came on board, and which was clearly not habitual to him; and though he picked up all our phrases, he made use of them more in a joking way than as if he spoke them without thought, as we did.
From the way he spoke, or from his manner when he addressed any of his messmates or the officers, or from the way he walked the deck, it was difficult to suppose him anything else than a gentleman-born, or a gentleman by education, whatever he had now become, and he at once got the name forward of “Gentleman Ned.” I asked him his name the day after he came on board.
“Oh, ay. I forgot that,” he answered, quickly. “Call me Newman—Ned Newman. It’s not a bad name, is it?” So Ned Newman he was called; but I felt pretty certain from the first that it was not his real name.
He was good-looking, with fair hair and complexion, and a determined, firm expression about the mouth. He seemed to put perfect confidence in me, and we at once became great friends—not that we had at first many ideas in common, for I was very ignorant, and he knew more than I supposed it possible for any man to know. He showed me his chest, which surprised me not a little. Most of his clothes were contained in his bag. He had not a large kit, but everything was new and of the best materials, calculated to outlast three times the quantity of sailors’ common slops. Instead of clothes, his chest contained a spy-glass, a quadrant, just like those of the officers, and a good stock of books, which I found were in a variety of languages, and some even, I afterwards learned, were in Greek. Then he had all sorts of drawing-materials—papers, and pencils, and sketch-books, and a colour-box, and mathematical instruments, and even a chronometer. He had a writing-case, and a tool-box, and a flute and violin, and some music-books. I asked him if he could use the quadrant.
“I never took an observation in my life; but I can work a day’s work as well as a lunar, so I think that I may soon learn the practical part of the business,” he answered.
I pointed to his musical instruments. “Yes; I play occasionally, when I wish to dispel an evil spirit; but books are my great resource. Jack, you lose much pleasure from your ignorance of the rudiments of learning. Take my advice and study. It’s not too late to begin. Nonsense! difficult! everything worth doing is difficult! There’s pleasure in overcoming difficulties. Come, you have begun to teach me seamanship—to knot and splice—to reef and steer. I’ll teach you to read, and then the way is open to you to teach yourself whatever you like. Navigation! certainly. Why, you would have been master of a vessel by this time if you had known that.” In the interval of Newman’s remarks I was making excuses for my ignorance; but he would listen to none of them, and I promised, old as I was, to put myself under his instruction, and to endeavour to be as apt a pupil to him as he was to me.