8. CHAPTER VIII.
SELVAGEE CONTRASTED WITH MAD-JACK.
Having glanced at the grand divisions of a man-of-war, let
us now descend to specialities; and, particularly, to two of
the junior lieutenants; lords and noblemen; members of that
House of Peers, the gun-room. There were several young
lieutenants on board; but from these two—representing the
extremes of character to be found in their department—the
nature of the other officers of their grade in the Neversink
must be derived.
One of these two quarter-deck lords went among the sailors
by a name of their own devising—Selvagee. Of course, it
was intended to be characteristic; and even so it was.
In frigates, and all large ships of war, when getting under
weigh, a large rope, called a messenger, is used to carry the
strain of the cable to the capstan; so that the anchor may
be weighed, without the muddy, ponderous cable itself going
round the capstan. As the cable enters the hawse-hole,
therefore, something must be constantly used, to keep this
traveling chain attached to this traveling messenger; something
that may be rapidly wound round both, so as to bind
them together. The article used is called a selvagee. And
what could be better adapted to the purpose? It is a slender,
tapering, unstranded piece of rope; prepared with much
solicitude; peculiarly flexible; and wreathes and serpentines
round the cable and messenger like an elegantly-modeled garter-snake
round the twisted stalks of a vine. Indeed, Selvagee
is the exact type and symbol of a tall, genteel, limber,
spiralizing exquisite. So much for the derivation of the name
which the sailors applied to the Lieutenant.
From what sea-alcove, from what mermaid's milliner's shop,
hast thou emerged, Selvagee! with that dainty waist and languid
cheek? What heartless step-dame drove thee forth, to
waste thy fragrance on the salt sea-air?
Was it you, Selvagee! that, outward-bound, off Cape Horn,
looked at Hermit Island through an Opera-glass? Was it
you, who thought of proposing to the Captain, that when the
sails were furled in a gale, a few drops of lavender should
be dropped in their “bunts,” so that when the canvass was
set again, your nostrils might not be offended by its musty
smell? I do not say it was you, Selvagee; I but deferentially
inquire.
In plain prose, Selvagee was one of those officers whom the
sight of a trim-fitting naval coat had captivated in the days
of his youth. He fancied, that if a sea-officer dressed well,
and conversed genteelly, he would abundantly uphold the
honor of his flag, and immortalize the tailor that made him.
On that rock many young gentlemen split. For upon a frigate's
quarter-deck, it is not enough to sport a coat fashioned
by a Stultz; it is not enough to be well braced with straps
and suspenders; it is not enough to have sweet reminiscences
of Lauras and Matildas. It is a right down life of hard wear
and tear, and the man who is not, in a good degree, fitted to
become a common sailor will never make an officer. Take
that to heart, all ye naval aspirants. Thrust your arms up
to the elbow in pitch, and see how you like it, ere you solicit
a warrant. Prepare for white squalls, living gales and Typhoons;
read accounts of shipwrecks and horrible disasters;
peruse the Narratives of Byron and Bligh; familiarize yourselves
with the story of the English frigate Alceste, and the
French frigate Medusa. Though you may go ashore, now
and then, at Cadiz and Palermo; for every day so spent
among oranges and ladies, you will have whole months of
rains and gales.
And even thus did Selvagee prove it. But with all the intrepid
effeminacy of your true dandy, he still continued his
Cologne-water baths, and sported his lace-bordered handkerchiefs
in the very teeth of a tempest. Alas, Selvagee! there
was no getting the lavender out of you.
But Selvagee was no fool. Theoretically he understood his
profession; but the mere theory of seamanship forms but the
thousandth part of what makes a seaman. You can not save
a ship by working out a problem in the cabin; the deck is the
field of action.
Well aware of his deficiency in some things, Selvagee never
took the trumpet—which is the badge of the deck officer for
the time—without a tremulous movement of the lip, and an
earnest, inquiring eye to the windward. He encouraged those
old Tritons, the Quarter-masters, to discourse with him concerning
the likelihood of a squall; and often followed their
advice as to taking in, or making sail. The smallest favors
in that way were thankfully received. Sometimes, when all
the North looked unusually lowering, by many conversational
blandishments, he would endeavor to prolong his predecessor's
stay on deck, after that officer's watch had expired. But in
fine, steady weather, when the Captain would emerge from
his cabin, Selvagee might be seen, pacing the poop with long,
bold, indefatigable strides, and casting his eye up aloft with
the most ostentatious fidelity.
But vain these pretences; he could not deceive. Selvagee!
you know very well, that if it comes on to blow pretty
hard, the First Lieutenant will be sure to interfere with his
paternal authority. Every man and every boy in the frigate
knows, Selvagee, that you are no Neptune.
How unenviable his situation! His brother officers do not
insult him, to be sure; but sometimes their looks are as daggers.
The sailors do not laugh at him outright; but of dark
nights they jeer, when they hearken to that mantua-maker's
voice ordering a strong pull at the main brace, or hands
by the halyards! Sometimes, by way of being terrific, and
making the men jump, Selvagee raps out an oath; but the
soft bomb stuffed with confectioner's kisses seems to burst like
a crushed rose-bud diffusing its odors. Selvagee! Selvagee!
take a main-top-man's advice; and this cruise over, never
more tempt the sea.
With this gentleman of cravats and curling irons, how
strongly contrasts the man who was born in a gale! For in
some time of tempest—off Cape Horn or Hatteras—Mad
Jack must have entered the world—such things have been—
not with a silver spoon, but with a speaking-trumpet in his
mouth; wrapped up in a caul, as in a main-sail—for a charmed
life against shipwrecks he bears—and crying, Luff! luff,
you may!—steady!—port! World ho!—here I am!
Mad Jack is in his saddle on the sea. That is his home;
he would not care much, if another Flood came and overflowed
the dry land; for what would it do but float his good ship
higher and higher and carry his proud nation's flag round
the globe, over the very capitals of all hostile states! Then
would masts surmount spires; and all mankind, like the Chinese
boatmen in Canton River, live in flotillas and fleets, and
find their food in the sea.
Mad Jack was expressly created and labelled for a tar.
Five feet nine is his mark, in his socks; and not weighing
over eleven stone before dinner. Like so many ship's shrouds,
his muscles and tendons are all set true, trim, and taut; he
is braced up fore and aft, like a ship on the wind. His
broad chest is a bulk-head, that dams off the gale; and his
nose is an aquiline, that divides it in two, like a keel. His
loud, lusty lungs are two belfries, full of all manner of chimes;
but you only hear his deepest bray, in the height of some tempest—like
the great bell of St. Paul's, which only sounds when
the King or the Devil is dead.
Look at him there, where he stands on the poop—one foot
on the rail, and one hand on a shroud—his head thrown back,
and his trumpet like an elephant's trunk thrown up in the
air. Is he going to shoot dead with sound, those fellows on
the main-topsail-yard?
Mad Jack was a bit of a tyrant—they say all good officers
are—but the sailor's loved him all round; and would
much rather stand fifty watches with him, than one with a
rose-water sailor.
But Mad Jack, alas! has one fearful failing. He drinks.
And so do we all. But Mad Jack, he only drinks brandy.
The vice was inveterate; surely, like Ferdinand, Count Fathom,
he must have been suckled at a puncheon. Very often,
this bad habit got him into very serious scrapes. Twice was
he put off duty by the Commodore; and once he came near
being broken for his frolics. So far as his efficiency as a sea-officer
was concerned, on shore at least, Jack might bouse
away as much as he pleased; but afloat it will not do at all.
Now, if he only followed the wise example set by those
ships of the desert, the camels; and while in port, drank for
the thirst past, the thirst present, and the thirst to come—so
that he might cross the ocean sober; Mad Jack would get
along pretty well. Still better, if he would but eschew brandy
altogether; and only drink of the limpid white-wine of the
rills and the brooks.
