Pretty high handed, I'll admit, but the British were both feared and respected in those days.
Another time, the Port Authorities refused, for some reason to give the Thetis, a full rigged British ship, her papers, and after delaying her for a week, the Captain threatened to take her out without papers. The authorities ashore told him that they would blow her out of the water, if he attempted to pass the forts. He threatened to go and fetch the British Fleet (consisting of these two small cruisers) and turn them loose. Their reply was that they would blow the British Fleet out of the water also.
This appeared to be good enough to be getting on with, so, commandeering a steam launch, the Captain carried the glad tidings to the Admiral — who was cruising outside the harbour, not wishing to get mixed up in a revolution then in progress, and by which they hoped to unseat Don Pedro. The two British cruisers came in; made fast on either side of the British sailing ship, and told the Captain to heave up his anchor. Then steamed with him out of the harbour. We cheered ourselves pretty well hoarse at the success of this manoeuvre. Needless to say, not a shot was fired from the forts.
A common form of amusement amongst us boys, in which the Holt Hill played a leading part, was swimming around "ship visiting." In most ships swimming over the side was absolutely prohibited; in others, only allowed for half an hour or so in the evening, with very strict precautions, such as boats in the water, and look-outs for sharks. Old Jock Sutherland was a sport to his finger tips, and simply left us to use our own good common sense. So when the work of the day was over, decks had been washed, — and ourselves — tea finished, then, in the cool of the evening, over the side we would go and swim away to the next ship. If nobody was watching, their boys would come over the side and join us, and so we would go on from ship to ship, until perhaps close on fifty of us, would be swimming and singing round the harbour, in water like warm milk. Sharks are cowards, anyway, always excepting tiger sharks, and as it turned out we were perfectly safe and never lost a soul.
As a matter of fact, a fish that is far more dangerous than a shark in Rio harbour is a Blanket Fish, often called a Sun Fish; sometimes misnamed a Devil Fish. It frequently lies asleep on the surface, covering an area of anything up to ten or fifteen square yards. One of these fish is apt to heave itself almost bodily out of the water, and land on top of its objective, which may be a man swimming. They have only one motion, and that is forward, so there is not much danger really, — providing that you are fairly quick in the uptake, dodge sideways, and don't lose your head.
Coming off in the gig one night, we ran right up one of these chaps, much to the annoyance of the Skipper. It was shortly after midnight and pitch dark. I think the Skipper had had a pretty good time; anyhow, he was feeling quite pleased with himself. We pulled six oars, and the custom is to judge your distance from the gangway, say a hundred feet, and on the order "give her weigh" get in about a half a dozen good strokes, then smartly toss the oars, while the boat with her own impetus, runs alongside. We had just given her the half dozen, when she ran her nose high and dry on one of these great slabs of sleeping fish, lying on the surface. He awakened in a hurry, and, tossing his stern, dived down. Being a long narrow boat, our stern was already well down, and as the result of the Sun Fish's kick up, the skipper found himself sitting up to his armpits in water. On our lives, we dared not laugh, so we just hustled him up on board, out of the way, and howled our heads off.
Another amusement for the boys forming the boats' crews from the different ships in harbour, was to muster up at the landing steps ashore, and, leaving one in charge of all the boats, do a cruise round the market, buying what we couldn't steal. I dare say we were a bit of a trial, and the natives certainly did not overtax their patience with us; in fact they often used to turn out en masse and kick us out of the market. I don't blame them altogether, but when, on occasions, they drew knives, then it got beyond a joke. One time they chased us half way across the square before we got reinforcements from the boats with stretchers, and we were able to return their good wishes — and quite a good account we gave. This time I not only collected two very nice little cuts, but actually left a small piece of flesh, off one hand, on the ground. Several of us had got cut about, when, to add insult to injury, the mounted police turned up, but charged us boys, if you please, instead of charging the mob!
Rio is also rather noted for its podgy little bum-boats, which cruise round the harbour visiting the ships, and are anxiously looked for by the hungry hordes of apprentices. In exchange for money, or a shirt if you hadn't cash — as was usually the case, you got glorious bread, coffee, oranges, bananas, and "alligator" pears, as they are now known, though their proper name is Avocada. This sort of trading is stopped by the Mates if it can possibly be detected. But when the sun shines, and a fellow is hungry, seaboots and thick underclothing seem quite superfluous. Many's the chap that has left Rio, bound round the Horn, with barely enough clothes for tropical weather, let alone the rigours of Cape Stiff. To have been round the Horn a few times you are a "sailor," but to have been round without seaboots, you are a real "hard case."
We rigged up stump t'gallant masts in Rio for the simple reason, I suppose, they had no spars long enough for t'gallant, royal, and skysail masts. They were terrible misfits, but the best we could get from a town in the turmoil of eternal revolutions. The sails were of No.1 canvas and had forty-two feet of a drop. Lowered down and clewed up. At least they were supposed to lower down, but when needed never would, so it was usually a case of "lower away t'gallant halyards," and, as nothing ever happened, "Haul taut and clew up." Finally we would have to take up a downhaul, and pull the infernal yard down by brute force, on to the lifts. That done, it was "up aloft and furl them" — a sixty by forty sail, No. 1 canvas, and wet at that. It was more like trying to roll up a piece of rhino hide than anything else I can imagine. You manage to beat a crinkle in the belly, so that you can get all your fingers fastened on to it, then, all together, you haul and tuck that particular bit of sail under your stomach and lie on it hard. All this time the sail is banging and thrashing about, and you are balanced on the foot rope, so named because it is under your feet, and all else there is under you is the deep blue sea, or worse still, the deck, if you do come down. After two or three bights of the sail have been tucked under each man, someone may inadvertantly ease up, or the sail will give an extra kick, and away goes the whole damn lot, and you start all over again — if you've been lucky enough to catch the jackstay in front of you as the sail went bellying up over your head. How heartily we cursed those sails!
Finally, with all our ballast on board, a round thousand tons of sharp edged granite, every ounce of which we had man-handled from lighters to the hold, we were ready for sea. With sails bent, tug alongside, we hove up and said "so long" to them and their oranges, their cholera and their revolutions.