There was no more attempt at sleeping for me: the ship resounded to the trampling. I huddled on some clothes and went on deck. A flat-footed but elaborate ballet was taking place, performed with what seemed random precision by the ship’s people, guided by strange words in a clarion voice from the Captain, repeated in even stranger language by the First Mate and retailed by Peter in some part and also by the Second, whose voice was shrill and agitated. I was pushed and trodden upon by many a seaman who had eyes only for his incomprehensible task; scuttling for refuge I narrowly escaped being sent up the foremast by a purple-visaged boatswain.
“Mr Van Cleef fined two shillings,” came the captain’s roar from the bridge, “for interfering with the working of the ship. Fined a further three shillings for being on deck without a neck-cloth and with his breeches unbuttoned.” I slunk aft through the throng of intent sailors. As I slunk I heard the Captain cry “Mr Lubbock! Mister, I say! Pray contain yourself with that down-East starter of yours, the men are working well enough.” I continued to slink. I did not, you understand, “know the ropes” at that time.
All this hubbub and bawling and trampling was of course quite incomprehensible to me, but it was not many weeks before I could tell what the men were about simply by cocking an ear out of my bunk, and could bandy such words as “garboard” and “halyard” with the best of them. At this particular time, all we were doing was hauling the ship out into the stream, heaving up the great anchor, singling-up and casting-off the shore lines and setting the fore-topsail, so that we could drop down-river to the Pool with accuracy and without feeing a pilot.
I, meanwhile, climbed sulkily back into my bunk and fell asleep again, only to start up, cracking my pate cruelly against the upper bunk, when a rattling shriek from the best-bower anchor chain betokened — to those who understood such things — that we were in the Pool of London and swinging round into the tideway.
Peter popped his head round the cabin door with a haggard grin and began to explain that — here he was interrupted by a bellow of “Cangcoxnlarbdquarboscrew” in Lubbock’s grating Yankee yell — the Mate was, in fact, summoning the Captain’s Coxswain and the crew of the larboard quarter-boat — Peter, I say, began to explain that the Captain and the First Officer would now be rowed around and around the ship and would study the trim of it. This was important, he said, for the phrase “on an even keel” is no mere form of words: a vessel down by the head is ill to steer and dangerous in heavy weather, while if it is down by the stern its sailing properties are impaired. A list to one side, too, however slight, can also slow the craft down and be a danger in heavy seas, especially when close-hauled. I nodded sagely.
Our John Coram, you understand, was a dainty and responsive ship, the men swore that she could almost talk and had a sweet and willing temperament, responding gaily to any little attentions but becoming unhappy if her trim was neglected. The consumption of stores, particularly water, as the voyage wore on, would call for many another of these rowings around the ship whenever we were in port or a dead calm.
Peter went on to give me astonishing figures about the weight of water a ship’s company can consume in a given period but I fear I must have yawned in his face for suddenly he laughed and went back to his duties.
I must have dozed. Peter aroused me in seamanlike fashion by kicking the edge of my bunk so vigorously that I started up and again cracked my head. He brought, in his own hands, our breakfast or nuncheon. It consisted of the sounds, cheeks and other delicate tidbits of fishes, fried up with pieces of onions and potatoes and anointed with the Doctor’s famous ketchup. Peter watched me narrowly, I could tell he expected me to display the signs of seasickness but I disappointed him. The sea is one of the few things which has never made me sick. I ate in an almost greedy fashion, wiping up the gravy with one or two little hot rolls which the Doctor had made. Peter, who was a poor eater, watched me with admiration.
“Well, now,” he cried when I had done, “come up on deck, there’s a place called Margate on our starboard beam and you needn’t go below again until we wear ship to round the North Foreland.”
I waved sentimentally to Margate in case the little chambermaid should be watching our bonny ship go sailing by: I much hoped that she had not foolishly allowed herself to become pregnant, because I had no recollection of her name except that it began with a “d” or perhaps a “b” and was therefore unable to help her.
Peter gave me a rude awakening the next day by emptying part of his shaving-water in a friendly fashion onto my sleeping face. I cried out many an obscene word in Dutch (and some in English which certain young persons had taught me) but when I could open my eyes I saw the pleasant, dissipated face of my friend, who was tying his neck-cloth and beaming at me kindly.
“Come, Karli,” he cried, “five minutes to wash, shave, dress and be on deck. Bustle about, do!”
“Is it pirates?” I mumbled, “Mutiny?” He laughed.
“Worse than that,” he scoffed. “It’s Sunday! Five minutes to be at the break of the poop or God forgive you, for the Captain won’t.”
I could make nothing of this, nor could I ask for explanations for he had whisked out of the cabin, but I took him at his word, except that I did not shave for my beard was light — I only needed to shave twice a week. I achieved the break of the poop in the very nick of time. The ship’s people were lined up in ranks and wearing their best slops; wearing looks, also, of pious respectability such as are proper to the English when worshipping their God, who speaks English Himself and prizes such clothes and looks. The Captain intoned many a resounding phrase, commending our voyage on this, its first Sunday, to both God and Her Britannic Majesty, but it seemed to me that his voice carried a certain irony, a want of true fervour. I observed, whilst his voice boomed sonorously over my bared head, that neither the First nor the Second Mate was present. Since the ship was hove-to this seemed strange to me but I was, of course, ignorant of the ways of sailormen. The Captain, his tone even more ironic, commanded the men to sing a certain hymn, calling for a man named Evans to “fugle a note”. The man Evans, sure enough, stepped forth from the ranks, threw back his head and delivered himself of a note approximating to that of “G” with all the brio of a barnyard fowl. He then turned about and waved his arms in such a way that the men instantly began to bellow
“All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small”
with every appearance of pleasure. It was, for me, a most unhappy experience for I have ever been a lover of music.
At the very moment that the hymn finished — the men had derived great comfort from it and, who knows, perhaps a tone-deaf God in an English heaven may have been relishing it, too — the First and Second Mates tramped aft, each carrying a cloth bundle.
“Searched forrard, Sir,” bawled Lubbock; “found one flint-lock, one cap-fire and three Bulldog pistols, several spring-loaded knives, three filthy books (one illustrated), eight flat and three square-face bottles of spirit-liquor and one copy of The Seaman’s Friend by Dana.”
The Captain’s visage took on a most convincing expression of sorrow and disgust. He raised his head to the heavens.
“Oh Lord,” he roared, “look down in mercy, we implore Thee, upon our erring brethren — chuck it all over the side, Mr Mate — and help us to shew them the paths of Thy witness — yes, chuck the liquor over too, Mister — and guide their steps to Thine ineffable salvation — hold your tongues, you dogs! — Amen. I said AMEN!” he added in a voice of thunder.