‘Hands to tack ship,’ he heard below him, and the shrilling of the bo’suns’ calls, as the Centurion paid off to gather the little extra way that should carry her through stays, and he saw the hands race aft.
He watched them with a kindly interest, as ignorant as a child unborn of his duty, which was to proceed with all possible despatch to his station. He watched them as they hauled the lee tacks, weather sheets and lee bowlines through the slack and stretched along the weather braces in readiness for putting her about.
‘The brace, you crimson beast,’ came the despairing bellow of a bo’sun’s mate, and Peter guessed that some frantic landsman had clapped on to a lanyard, or perhaps a stay. Then he heard the cry ‘Helm’s a-lee!’ and the Centurion began to come up into the wind. There was a steady succession of orders—‘Fore-sheet—fore top-bowline—jib and staysail sheets let go—off tacks and sheets’—and the yards groaned in their slings as the braces brought them round, while the blocks made their wooden shriek, leaping up and down under the unsteady pull of inexpert hands. The staysails shivered, the main and mizzen square sails lay becalmed by the headsails, her backed forecourse and foretopsail clapped untidily against the mast and shrouds, and now the whole array of canvas, so taut, orderly and beautiful a few minutes ago, was a mass of vaguely flapping, meaningless cloth, like Bridget Hanlon’s washing-day magnified a hundred times. The Centurion was in stays.
Her impetus tended to carry her round, and her backed head-sails had something of the same turning effect; but at the same time they checked her advance, giving her stern-way, and it was possible that she might ignominiously fall off again, back on to the old tack. In his anxiety Peter stood on tiptoe, gauging her state by glancing now at the vane and now at the line of her deck: they were no longer exactly parallel—she was beyond the wind’s eye. At the same moment he heard the strong voice of the officer of the watch cry ‘Mainsail haul!’ and again the main and mizen yards creaked round: her stern-way increased, and now came the word ‘Let go and haul!’ followed by a sharp and indeed somewhat tense ‘Bear a hand there, damn your eyes.’ Now the head yards came round, the hands at the braces singing out ‘Hey yo, one for Jo; hey yo, hey yo, haul-o the blackamoor, haul-o the blackamoor,’ and at the third blackamoor the jib and fore-staysail filled together, and she was round. Immediately afterwards the square sails filled and the hands were called to brace them up sharp and haul on the bowlines. The Centurion heeled to the wind again and gathered way on the starboard tack: Peter relaxed—it would have been dreadful for the Centurion to have disgraced herself in the sight of all the squadron. But still there was a flapping somewhere aft, and angry voices were to be heard desiring various works to be accomplished with very great rapidity: however, in spite of the united efforts of the quarterdeck, the warrant-officers, the petty-officers and the blue-water sailormen, it was a long while before the Centurion was moving under well-trimmed sails—a much longer time than seemed to please Mr Saunders, who had now joined Mr Brett on the quarter-deck, and whose displeasure could be heard a mile away. The ship was undercanvassed; but for all that she had twelve sails abroad—no, thirteen, Peter corrected himself, catching sight of a corner of the mizzen-topsail staysail, which had been set since his disgrace—and handling them with instant exactness was impossible when half the crew was still incapable of telling a halliard from a horse.
It was some time, then, before Peter resumed his familiar easy swoop. ‘Suppose this is a roll of twenty degrees,’ he said to himself, settling comfortably on the cross-trees, ‘and suppose she is pitching five degrees, and suppose I am a hundred and fifty feet up, I ought to be able to work out how far I travel sideways and how far I go to and fro,’ for some primitive notions of trigonometry were beginning to dawn. ‘But,’ he thought, having ruminated for some time, ‘I should have to look at the tables.’ He tried to make a rough estimate by facing aft and then leaning forwards to look as perpendicularly as he could between his feet as they dangled in space. In the middle of the roll the main-topgallant stay came just between his shoes; then he saw the main-topmast stay, the main-stay below it and below that the deck, sweeping steadily away to the right, then the ship’s side, the fore-chains, and after that the sea—a great deal of sea. Deliberately the Centurion began her backward roll: the sea moved to the left, the side of the ship reappeared between his feet, the deck, the stays, in reverse order: the mast, and Peter with it, reached the vertex, passed it, and leant over to the lee, where his clear view was spoilt by the sails.
‘Probably fifty feet,’ he thought, ‘with some to add, of course, on the leeward, seeing that the wind lays her over.’ He gazed down for some time longer, for the pendulum-like motion had a curious fascination for one who was impervious to sea-sickness and the dread of height; and he might have gazed indefinitely if he had not been aroused by four bells and the piping up of the watch below. He leant out, seized a backstay, wrapped his legs round it and slid down without a stop, reaching the deck with something of a thump and with his stocking worn through where the rope had rubbed it. He talked with FitzGerald for a moment at the gangway, and then went below to attack their private ham, for he found that his airing had given him a violent appetite.
He was darning his stocking when FitzGerald came in. ‘I say, Palafox,’ he said, ‘you’re in a pretty high state of grease.’
‘I have been eating the ham,’ said Peter.
‘Anyone would think that you had been sleeping with it,’ said FitzGerald. ‘What are those stripes in the fat?’ he asked, absent-mindedly cutting himself a slice.
‘That’s where I drew my wool through it,’ said Peter, ‘to make it pass into the eye of the needle, you know.’
‘You should have licked the wool,’ said FitzGerald, stowing the ham away. ‘I have just come from the surgeon.’
‘Oh? What did he say?’
‘He said I was fit for duty, which is what I have been telling him for days. Tomorrow I shall turn up with the larboard watch. But I tell you what it is, Palafox,’ he said, sitting next to Peter and speaking in a low voice. ‘Now that these fellows are so cursed unpleasant, upon my word I hate the idea of displaying my ignorance. I may not be here very much longer, but even so I should hate to be a laughing-stock for these oafs. I have been reading in this,’ he said, tapping the manual that protruded from his pocket, ‘and I would take it very kindly if you would hear me and tell me when I am wrong.’
‘Of course,’ said Peter, putting down his stocking directly.
‘I’ll begin at the front of the ship,’ said FitzGerald. ‘Just the essentials, you understand. What I want to avoid are the absurd, ludicrous errors like—like—’
‘Like taking a sheet for a tack?’ suggested Peter.
‘Exactly so,’ said FitzGerald. ‘By the way, the sheet is the thing on the right and the tack the one on the left, isn’t it?’
‘Well, no. Not really,’ said Peter. ‘It depends on the wind.’
‘But it is in this,’ said FitzGerald, pointing to the diagram in his book. ‘Look: it says sheet and tack.’
‘Yes, but in this picture she is sailing with her larboard tacks aboard. The wind is coming from that side, you see? Now when she goes about they brace round the yard, like this, and then the sheet is this side and the tack over there.’
‘Oh.’
‘Look, the sheet always goes aft.’
‘Towards the flag at the blunt end?’
‘That’s right. It holds the after end of the sail tight round to the wind, when the wind comes sideways. And the tack holds the other end of the sail tight for’ard—the tack must go from the clew—the bottom corner—of the sail for’ard, you see?’
‘Yes. Oh, I understand now. So whichever side the wind is blowing from, those tacks are aboard. Why didn’t the dunderhead say so in the book? What a capital teacher you are, Peter: I puzzled over that for hours. Now what are these—’
Bailey, Preston and one of the master’s mates came in: FitzGerald broke off, and a m
oment later he said, ‘Shall we take a turn on deck?’
Five minutes later Peter was saying, ‘… you can’t see it properly from here. The foretop would be much better—let’s go up there. An’t you coming?’ he asked, hanging in the ratlines.
‘It scarcely seems worth while,’ said FitzGerald.
‘You do not mind the climb, do you?’ asked Peter, looking down at him.
‘What the devil do you mean?’ said FitzGerald, with an anger that surprised Peter very much. ‘Do you mean to imply that I am afraid? If you think you may presume, because you happen to be able to climb, you will find yourself mistaken. It is an accomplishment common to every monkey born, after all.’
Ignoring this civil reflection, Peter said, ‘Come on, then,’ and ran up the shrouds. When he had been in the top for some minutes he saw FitzGerald’s face appear; he was pale, and he was breathing hard.
‘You have come through the lubber-hole,’ said Peter. FitzGerald made no reply for a while, but stood looking about him. The roll of the ship, exaggerated by the height, sent him staggering off his balance against a swivel-gun. He held on to it with both hands. ‘What other way is there of getting here?’ he asked. His face was expressionless; his tone unnatural: Peter wondered why on earth he had become suddenly so unfriendly.
‘You ought to come up by the futtock-shrouds. These ones,’ said Peter, walking to the edge of the broad platform and leaning over to point out the ropes that ran in a sharp diagonal from the edge to the upper part of the foremast. ‘It is quite simple going down: you hang by your hands, wait for the roll and then bring your feet up and feel for the hold. Look,’ he added, pointing up at the topmast, ‘those are the futtocks, coming out from the ordinary shrouds at the top.’
‘What is the point of hanging upside down,’ said FitzGerald, not looking up, ‘when there is a square hole specially made to allow for a much safer passage? At this height it is madness.’
‘Well, I cannot say, I am sure,’ said Peter, but I know they make game of you if you use the lubber-hole. And as for the height, this is nothing. You should have been where I spent my watch, in the fore-to’garn crosstrees. Mr Brett mast-headed me. Shall we go up there? You get the view of the world, for seeing the headsails.’
‘You are showing away, Palafox,’ cried FitzGerald. ‘You always do. Or at least, you always have since the Commodore took notice of you. With your futtocks and crosstrees. You are a confident scrub.’
‘I am not,’ cried Peter squeaking with indignation. ‘And you asked me yourself to show you the things. You are a scrub yourself to say so, and so you are too.’
He swung himself over and shot down on deck in a fuming huff. There was a grain of truth in what FitzGerald said: Peter had played second fiddle on land, and now that they were at sea, where he was so much more at home than FitzGerald, he rather enjoyed the reversal, and he was somewhat free with his nautical terms; but it had nothing to do with his being distinguished by Mr Anson, and the manner of the accusation was unjust and wounding.
Peter went below in a rage, tripped over the cat and fell heavily on his nose.
‘What a clumsy brute that Teague is,’ said Preston.
‘You will not call me Teague,’ cried Peter, getting up and dusting himself.
‘Why not, Teague?’ asked Preston. ‘And you ought not to blunder about, Teague, disturbing your seniors’ rest. Why do you do it, Teague?’
By way of reply Peter drove his left fist into Preston’s face and followed it with a right hook that flattened that young gentleman’s ear against his skull.
‘Ow,’ said Preston, retreating, ‘I’ll pay you for that.’
‘A mill,’ cried Hope and Keppel simultaneously, swinging out of the hammocks in the dog-hole where they spent their watches below.
‘Let him get his coat off,’ said Hope.
‘Let me go,’ cried Peter, struggling madly.
‘Come, mill in decently if you must,’ said Hope, restraining him still. ‘Here, I’ll be your second.’
They stripped to their shirts while Keppel and the grinning Marine sentry cleared the ground.
‘Now, young cock,’ said Hope, ‘go in and win.’
There was never any doubt of the outcome. Preston was only fooling: Peter was in furious earnest. He battered poor Preston to a standstill in two minutes, knocked him flat, and with a murderous shriek leapt upon him and hit him sharply in the stomach.
‘Hey, wo, the man’s down,’ cried Keppel and they both tried to prise Peter off. But the notions of fair play current in England at that time had not yet penetrated to the West of Ireland, and Peter would not let go. He had Preston’s throat, and he was determinedly throttling that unfortunate youth when Clowes, a young Marine officer who had come running at the sound of a fight, added his strength to that of Keppel and Hope, and wrenched Preston away.
‘What a fellow you are,’ he exclaimed. ‘You should have retired to your corner.’
‘T’hanam an Dial,’ cried Peter, spitting in his eye, ‘come on, the three of you. Blackguards. I’ll rip out your heart,’ he cried, banging the redcoat’s nose.
‘Cool off, Teague,’ began Keppel, but Peter was on him, and they went down in a flurry of arms and legs.
‘Lash him into a hammock,’ said Keppel, nursing his jaw while the others sat on Peter and he threshing about under their weight with tears of rage in his eyes.
‘God help us, what a fury,’ said Hope, ‘Keppel, sit on his legs.’
‘Is Mr Palafox here?’ asked Mr Walter in the doorway.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Hope. ‘I beg pardon for not getting up, but he will be the death of us if we cease to oppress him.’
‘For shame,’ cried the chaplain, seizing Hope by the collar, ‘four against one? Where’s the sport in that?’ He heaved the midshipman aside with unclerical vigour and grappled the next, but Peter, getting to his feet, called out, ‘It was only a game, sir.’
‘A game? Do you call this a game?’ said Mr Walter, pointing to Preston, still dazed and white, sitting on a locker, and to Clowes, with a scarlet handkerchief to his nose. ‘I believe you have been fighting,’ he said sternly.
‘Oh no, sir,’ mumbled Peter.
‘Come with me,’ He preceded Peter to his cabin, and there he said, ‘Peter, I charge you directly with having been fighting.’
‘Sir,’ replied Peter, his wits sharpened by the battle. ‘“An, si quis atro dente me petiverit, inultus ut flebo puer?”’
‘Ha, ha,’ laughed the chaplain, ‘very well answered, my boy. But do not let it occur again. It is not a bullying mess, I know; and you must not get yourself a fire-eater’s reputation, like your unfortunate friend. Never forget that you will in all probability be cooped up with these young men for a year or more: there must be give and take in all parts of the ship, and nowhere more than in the cockpit.’
‘I won’t be called Teague,’ said Peter, sullenly.
‘What is this?’ cried the chaplain with an ominous frown. ‘How do you come to speak so petulantly to me, sir, as to say, “I won’t be called Teague”?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir. I meant no disrespect.’
‘For the sake of a foolish name, will you sow discord? Will you show malignant, unworthy resentment?’
‘I won’t be called Teague,’ said Peter.
‘For shame,’ said the chaplain. ‘Such doggedness does you no credit. Go away. Leave the room, sir. And I do not wish to see you again until you show a far more amenable disposition in every way.’
‘The Teagues have parted brass-rags,’ said the midshipmen’s berth; and it appeared to be true. Peter and FitzGerald were barely on speaking terms, and very uncomfortable Peter found it.
‘He can be such an amiable creature,’ said Peter to himself, thinking of his companion, ‘but in some ways he is such a jackass. He has been aboard for ages now, and over a month at sea, but he knows nothing—seems to have observed nothing at all. And then he is as proud as Lucifer.’
It was an uncomfortable time altogether that followed, with baffling winds that destroyed their hopes of a quick passage to Madeira and kept both watches heavily at work, sometimes for no more gain than a league of southing in four and twenty hours of strict attention.
An uncomfortable period, with tempers getting frayed and many hands up for punishment: there were days when the mastheads were quite festooned with midshipmen, and sometimes, when he was aloft with a glass, Peter could see that it was the same with the other ships in company, for his telescope would show him disconsolate colleagues arranged, like ornaments, high above the sails of the Gloucester and the Severn.
However, the wind came fair at last, and they ran three days and nights under a press of canvas before it fell into a dead calm. Here, in the silent sea the Commodore had a chance to engage the crew in one of his favourite exercises: at the break of the quarter-deck the seamen, division by division, took their turn at blazing away at a bottle hanging from the fore yard-arm.
‘It is very well,’ said Colonel Cracherode, ‘but if I may be permitted to say so, it would not do in the Army.’
‘Why not, Colonel?’ asked the Commodore.
‘Why, sir—not that I imply the least criticism of naval methods—’ said the Colonel, meaning that he condemned them root and branch, ‘but we consider a musket too deadly a weapon to be handled as any fellow takes it into his head. Like that, for example,’ he cried, instinctively ducking as the foretopmen took up their arms.
‘Mr Palafox,’ said the Commodore.
‘Sir?’ cried Peter, turning round.
‘Do not point your musket at Colonel Cracherode. Point it at a midshipman, Mr Palafox. They can better be spared.’
‘Hor hor hor,’ went Peter’s division, like a lot of false traitors.
‘You was pointing it into his stomach over your shoulder, sir,’ whispered Hairy Amos, the ablest seaman in the division.
‘So we do it by numbers,’ said the Colonel, ‘obtaining thereby safety for ourselves, and the effect of a concentrated fire upon the enemy.’
The Golden Ocean Page 9
