2. CHAPTER II.
SOME ACCOUNT OF THE SHIP.
First and foremost, I must give some account of the Julia
herself; or “Little Jule,” as the sailors familiarly styled her.
She was a small barque of a beautiful model, something more
than two hundred tons, Yankee-built and very old. Fitted for
a privateer out of a New England port during the war of
1812, she had been captured at sea by a British cruiser, and,
after seeing all sorts of service, was at last employed as a government
packet in the Australian seas. Being condemned,
however, about two years previous, she was purchased at auction
by a house in Sydney, who, after some slight repairs, dispatched
her on the present voyage.
Notwithstanding the repairs, she was still in a miserable
plight. The lower masts were said to be unsound; the standing
rigging was much worn; and, in some places, even the
bulwarks were quite rotten. Still, she was tolerably tight, and
but little more than the ordinary pumping of a morning served
to keep her free.
But all this had nothing to do with her sailing; at that, brave
Little Jule, plump Little Jule, was a witch. Blow high, or
blow low, she was always ready for the breeze; and when she
dashed the waves from her prow, and pranced, and pawed the
sea, you never thought of her patched sails and blistered hull.
How the fleet creature would fly before the wind! rolling, now
and then, to be sure, but in very playfulness. Sailing to windward,
no gale could bow her over: with spars erect, she looked
right up into the wind's eye, and so she went.
But after all, Little Jule was not to be confided in. Lively
enough, and playful she was, but on that very account the
more to be distrusted. Who knew, but that like some vivacious
old mortal all at once sinking into a decline, she might,
some dark night, spring a leak and carry us all to the bottom.
However, she played us no such ugly trick, and therefore, I
wrong Little Jule in supposing it.
She had a free, roving commission. According to her
papers she might go whither she pleased—whaling, sealing,
or any thing else. Sperm whaling, however, was what she
relied upon; though, as yet, only two fish had been brought
alongside.
The day they sailed out of Sydney Heads, the ship's company,
all told, numbered some thirty-two souls; now, they
mustered about twenty; the rest had deserted. Even the
three junior mates who had headed the whale boats were
gone; and of the four harpooners, only one was left, a wild
New Zealander, or “Mowree,” as his countrymen are more
commonly called in the Pacific. But this was not all. More
than half the seamen remaining were more or less unwell from
a long sojourn in a dissipated port; some of them wholly unfit
for duty, one or two dangerously ill, and the rest managing to
stand their watch though they could do but little.
The captain was a young cockney, who, a few years before,
had emigrated to Australia, and, by some favoritism or other,
had procured the command of the vessel, though in no wise competent.
He was essentially a landsman, and though a man of education,
no more meant for the sea than a hair-dresser. Hence
every body made fun of him. They called him “The Cabin
Boy,” “Paper Jack,” and half a dozen other undignified names.
In truth, the men made no secret of the derision in which
they held him; and as for the slender gentleman himself, he
knew it all very well, and bore himself with becoming meekness.
Holding as little intercourse with them as possible, he
left every thing to the chief mate, who, as the story went,
had been given his captain in charge. Yet, despite his apparent
unobtrusiveness, the silent captain had more to do with
the men than they thought. In short, although one of your
sheepish-looking fellows, he had a sort of still, timid cunning,
which no one would have suspected, and which, for that very
reason, was all the more active. So the bluff mate, who
always thought he did what he pleased, was occasionally made
a tool of; and some obnoxious measures which he carried out,
in spite of all growlings, were little thought to originate with
the dapper little fellow in nankeen jacket and white canvas
pumps. But, to all appearance, at least, the mate had every
thing his own way; indeed, in most things this was actually
the case; and it was quite plain that the captain stood in awe
of him.
So far as courage, seamanship, and a natural aptitude for
keeping riotous spirits in subjection were concerned, no man
was better qualified for his vocation than John Jermin. He
was the very beau-ideal of the efficient race of short, thickset
men. His hair curled in little rings of iron gray all
over his round, bullet head. As for his countenance, it was
strongly marked, deeply pitted with the small-pox. For the
rest, there was a fierce little squint out of one eye; the nose
had a rakish twist to one side; while his large mouth, and
great white teeth, looked absolutely sharkish when he laughed.
In a word, no one, after getting a fair look at him, would
ever think of improving the shape of his nose, wanting in
symmetry if it was. Notwithstanding his pugnacious looks,
however, Jermin had a heart as big as a bullock's; that you
saw at a glance.
Such was our mate; but he had one failing: he abhorred all
weak infusions, and cleaved manfully to strong drink. At all
times he was more or less under the influence of it. Taken in
moderate quantities, I believe, in my soul, it did a man like
him good; brightened his eyes, swept the cobwebs out of his
brain, and regulated his pulse. But the worst of it was, that
sometimes he drank too much, and a more obstreperous fellow
than Jermin in his cups, you seldom came across. He was
always for having a fight; but the very men he flogged loved
him as a brother, for he had such an irresistibly good-natured
way of knocking them down, that no one could find it in his
heart to bear malice against him. So much for stout little
Jermin.
All English whalemen are bound by law to carry a physician,
who, of course, is rated a gentleman, and lives in the cabin,
with nothing but his professional duties to attend to; but incidentally
he drinks “flip” and plays cards with the captain.
There was such a worthy aboard of the Julia; but, curious to
tell, he lived in the forecastle with the men. And this was the
way it happened.
In the early part of the voyage the doctor and the captain
lived together as pleasantly as could be. To say nothing of
many a can they drank over the cabin transom, both of them had
read books, and one of them had traveled; so their stories never
flagged. But once on a time they got into a dispute about politics,
and the doctor, moreover, getting into a rage, drove home an
argument with his fist, and left the captain on the floor literally
silenced. This was carrying it with a high hand; so he was
shut up in his state-room for ten days, and left to meditate on
bread and water, and the impropriety of flying into a passion.
Smarting under his disgrace, he undertook, a short time after
his liberation, to leave the vessel clandestinely at one of the
islands, but was brought back ignominiously, and again shut
up. Being set at large for the second time, he vowed he would
not live any longer with the captain, and went forward with
his chests among the sailors, where he was received with open
arms, as a good fellow and an injured man.
I must give some further account of him, for he figures largely
in the narrative. His early history, like that of many other heroes,
was enveloped in the profoundest obscurity; though he
threw out hints of a patrimonial estate, a nabob uncle, and an
unfortunate affair which sent him a-roving. All that was known,
however, was this. He had gone out to Sydney as assistant-surgeon
of an emigrant ship. On his arrival there, he went back
into the country, and after a few months' wanderings, returned
to Sydney penniless, and entered as doctor aboard of the Julia.
His personal appearance was remarkable. He was over six
feet high—a tower of bones, with a complexion absolutely colorless,
fair hair, and a light, unscrupulous gray eye, twinkling
occasionally with the very devil of mischief. Among the crew,
he went by the name of the Long Doctor, or, more frequently
still, Doctor Long Ghost. And from whatever high estate
Doctor Long Ghost might have fallen, he had certainly at some
time or other spent money, drunk Burgundy, and associated
with gentlemen.
As for his learning, he quoted Virgil, and talked of Hobbes
of Malmsbury, beside repeating poetry by the canto, especially
Hudibras. He was, moreover, a man who had seen the world.
In the easiest way imaginable, he could refer to an amour he
had in Palermo, his lion hunting before breakfast among the
Caffres, and the quality of the coffee to be drunk in Muscat;
and about these places, and a hundred others, he had more anecdotes
than I can tell of. Then such mellow old songs as he sang,
in a voice so round and racy, the real juice of sound. How
such notes came forth from his lank body was a constant marvel.
Upon the whole, Long Ghost was as entertaining a companion
as one could wish; and to me in the Julia, an absolute
godsend.
