“Tim,” I answered; “Tim Taycox.”
“A good name,” he said. “I had a shipmate named Tim once, but he did no credit to the name. My name ’s Peter Bottom.” That was how I found out his name, although I have used it already. “A queer name, Bottom, but it ’s none of my responsibility, my name. You ’ll call me Peter, and so we ’ll get rid of it. Now, tell me what you know about whaling, so I ’ll know where to begin. There ’s no sense in telling you what you know a’ready. And then you might tell what you know of ships and of sailing, for I s’pose you ’ve knocked about some in small boats, living in New Bedford.”
Now, what I really knew about whaling was nothing at all, although I had always heard it talked about, and had absorbed as much in that way as a boy can who has seen nothing but the shore end of it. So I told Peter just that, and I told him of my experiences in boats.
“What ’s your lay?” asked Peter Bottom suddenly.
“My lay?” I stammered. “I—I don’t know.”
“Don’t you know what I mean?” he pursued. “Every man on board has a part o’ the voyage—the catch—instead o’ wages.”
I am afraid I interrupted him rather indignantly. Of course I knew that, but I had not the least idea what the share of each man was. He enlightened me. First he told me that the share of the boy was one two-hundredth. That would give me, if our take of whales amounted to fifty thousand dollars, the princely sum of two hundred and fifty dollars for four years’ work. That did not seem very much, but Peter comforted me by saying that Captain Nelson was a good master, and had the reputation of making good voyages, and it was likely that I would get more than that. He told me that the owners took two thirds of the take for their share, and furnished the vessel and fitted her, and fed the crew throughout the voyage, and made whatever advances were necessary. If the ship made a “broken voyage,” as an unprofitable voyage was called, it might easily result in considerable loss to the owners, while the crew at least could not lose on it. Such unprofitable voyages were few, however. It was everything to get a lucky master. Captain Nelson had the reputation of being a very lucky master, and the Clearchus had always been a fairly lucky ship. Peter had satisfied himself on those points before signing, and he supposed that all the best men of the crew had been equally particular. It was easy to get a good crew for a ship and a captain known to be lucky, and often very hard to get any kind of a crew for a captain without that reputation.
He told me further that Captain Nelson’s lay was one tenth, which is the largest that was given to a captain; the mate’s one twentieth, for our mate, Jehoram Baker, was also a good man. A first mate’s lay ranges from one eighteenth to one twenty-fifth. Our second mate, Alonzo Wallet, was “nothin’ to brag on,” as Peter whispered, but he got the regular second mate’s lay of one thirty-fourth. The third mate, John Brown, had a lay of one forty-fifth; the fourth and fifth mates got a little less than that; and the five boatsteerers got from one one-hundred-and-eighteenth to one one-hundred-and-fiftieth. Five mates may seem an excessive number. I know it seemed so to me, but the Clearchus was a five-boat ship, and needed five boatheaders. How Peter found out the amount of the captain’s and the mates’ lays I never knew; possibly it was only gossip. Then he gave me the lays of the rest of the crew.
The cooper got one sixty-third; the steward one ninetieth; the cook one one-hundred-and-twentieth and half the slush; what the slush was I did not know at the time, although anybody of any intelligence ought to have been able to guess that it was the refuse from the galley. I became familiar enough with slush before I got home again, and a bucket of slush will come nearer to turning my stomach than anything else. It consists chiefly of grease, often turned rancid. Many a bucket of it have I carried to the masthead, and have applied it generously and rapidly to the mast all the way down, for I was always anxious to get that job done and to get rid of my slush bucket as soon as possible.
But to come back to Peter Bottom and the lays. The lays of foremast hands varied according to their ability from one one-hundred-and-fiftieth to one two-hundredth, but Peter’s own lay was one one-hundred-and-twenty-fifth. This was without doubt in recognition of his skill as a seaman, and his record. He was a better man than our second mate. He had sailed all the seas over and over, could navigate a vessel, and could easily have got a post in the cabin but that his long years as seaman had unfitted him for the command of men, and he was too old to begin that now. But his ability was recognized—owners were always very ready to recognize ability—and he was greatly trusted by Captain Nelson and Mr. Baker, the mate. The second mate was not a great friend of Peter’s. It is not to be supposed that Peter himself told me all this while we stood there by the windlass. He was a modest man, and he knew better than to brag about himself even if he had been inclined to. I did not add up the fractions—the lays—to see if they came out right. Probably they did not.