University of Virginia Library

46. CHAPTER XLVI.

A DAY or two after the publication of Lemsford's “Songs
of the Sirens,” a sad accident befell a mess-mate of mine, one
of the captains of the mizzen-top. He was a fine little Scot,
who, from the premature loss of the hair on the top of his
head, always went by the name of Baldy. This baldness
was no doubt, in great part, attributable to the same cause
that early thins the locks of most man-of-war's-men—namely,
the hard, unyielding, and ponderous man-of-war and navy-regulation
tarpaulin hat, which, when new, is stiff enough to
sit upon, and indeed, in lieu of his thumb, sometimes serves
the common sailor for a bench.

Now, there is nothing upon which the Commodore of a
squadron more prides himself than upon the celerity with
which his men can handle the sails, and go through with all
the evolutions pertaining thereto. This is especially manifested
in harbor, when other vessels of his squadron are near, and
perhaps the armed ships of rival nations.

Upon these oceasions, surrounded by his post-captain satraps—each
of whom in his own floating island is king—the
Commodore domineers over all—emperor of the whole oaken
archipelago; yea, magisterial and magnificent as the Sultan
of the Isles of Sooloo.

But, even as so potent an emperor and Cæsar to boot as
the great Don of Germany, Charles the Fifth, was used to
divert himself in his dotage by watching the gyrations of the
springs and cogs of a long row of clocks, even so does an
elderly Commodore while away his leisure in harbor, by what
is called “exercising guns,” and also “exercising yards and

sails;” causing the various spars of all the ships under his
command to be “braced,” “topped,” and “cock billed” in
concert, while the Commodore himself sits, something like
King Canute, on an arm-chest on the poop of his flag-ship.

But far more regal than any descendant of Charlemagne,
more haughty than any Mogul of the East, and almost mysterious
and voiceless in his authority as the Great Spirit of
the Five Nations, the Commodore deigns not to verbalize his
commands; they are imparted by signal.

And as for old Charles the Fifth, again, the gay-pranked,
colored suits of cards were invented, to while away his dotage,
even so, doubtless, must these pretty little signals of blue and
red spotted bunting have been devised to cheer the old age
of all Commodores.

By the Commodore's side stands the signal-midshipman,
with a sea-green bag swung on his shoulder (as a sportsman
bears his game-bag), the signal-book in one hand, and the
signal-spy-glass in the other. As this signal-book contains the
Masonic signs and tokens of the navy, and would therefore be
invaluable to an enemy, its binding is always bordered with
lead, so as to insure its sinking in case the ship should be
captured. Not the only book this, that might appropriately
be bound in lead, though there be many where the author,
and not the bookbinder, furnishes the metal.

As White-Jacket understands it, these signals consist of
variously-colored flags, each standing for a certain number.
Say there are ten flags, representing the cardinal numbers—
the red flag, No. 1; the blue flag, No. 2; the green flag, No.
3, and so forth; then, by mounting the blue flag over the
red, that would stand for No. 21: if the green flag were set
underneath, it would then stand for 213. How easy, then,
by endless transpositions, to multiply the various numbers
that may be exhibited at the mizzen-peak, even by only three
or four of these flags.

To each number a particular meaning is applied. No.
100, for instance, may mean, “Beat to quarters.” No. 150,

“All hands to grog.” No. 2000, “Strike top-gallant-yards.”
No. 2110, “See any thing to windward?” No.
2800, “No.”

And as every man-of-war is furnished with a signal-book,
where all these things are set down in order, therefore, though
two American frigates—almost perfect strangers to each other
—came from the opposite Poles, yet at a distance of more than
a mile they could carry on a very liberal conversation in the air.

When several men-of-war of one nation lie at anchor in one
port, forming a wide circle round their lord and master, the
flag-ship, it is a very interesting sight to see them all obeying
the Commodore's orders, who meanwhile never opens his lips.

Thus was it with us in Rio, and hereby hangs the story of
my poor mess-mate Baldy.

One morning, in obedience to a signal from our flag-ship,
the various vessels belonging to the American squadron then
in harbor simultaneously loosened their sails to dry. In the
evening, the signal was set to furl them. Upon such occasions,
great rivalry exists between the First Lieutenants of
the different ships; they vie with each other who shall first
have his sails stowed on the yards. And this rivalry is shared
between all the officers of each vessel, who are respectively
placed over the different top-men; so that the main-mast is
all eagerness to vanquish the fore-mast, and the mizzen-mast
to vanquish them both. Stimulated by the shouts of their
officers, the sailors throughout the squadron exert themselves
to the utmost.

“Aloft, top-men! lay out! furl!” cried the First Lieutenant
of the Neversink.

At the word the men sprang into the rigging, and on all
three masts were soon climbing about the yards, in reckless
haste, to execute their orders.

Now, in furling top-sails or courses, the point of honor, and
the hardest work, is in the bunt, or middle of the yard; this
post belongs to the first captain of the top.

“What are you 'bout there, mizzen-top-men?” roared the

First Lieutenant, through his trumpet. “D—n you, you are
clumsy as Russian bears! don't you see the main-top-men
are nearly off the yard? Bear a hand, bear a hand, or I'll
stop your grog all round! You, Baldy! are you going to sleep
there in the bunt?”

While this was being said, poor Baldy—his hat off, his face
streaming with perspiration—was franticly exerting himself,
piling up the ponderous folds of canvass in the middle of the
yard; ever and anon glancing at victorious Jack Chase, hard
at work at the main-topsail-yard before him.

At last, the sail being well piled up, Baldy jumped with
both feet into the bunt, holding on with one hand to the chain
“tie,” and in that manner was violently treading down the
canvass, to pack it close.

“D—n you, Baldy, why don't you move, you crawling caterpillar?”
roared the First Lieutenant.

Baldy brought his whole weight to bear on the rebellious
sail, and in his frenzied heedlessness let go his hold on the tie.

“You, Baldy! are you afraid of falling?” cried the First
Lieutenant.

At that moment, with all his force, Baldy jumped down
upon the sail; the bunt-gasket parted; and a dark form
dropped through the air. Lighting upon the top-rim, it rolled
off; and the next instant, with a horrid crash of all his
bones, Baldy came, like a thunder-bolt, upon the deck.

Aboard of most large men-of-war there is a stout oaken
platform, about four feet square, on each side of the quarter-deck.
You ascend to it by three or four steps; on top, it is
railed in at the sides, with horizontal brass bars. It is called
the Horse Block; and there the officer of the deck usually
stands, in giving his orders at sea.

It was one of these horse blocks, now unoccupied, that
broke poor Baldy's fall. He fell lengthwise across the brass
bars, bending them into elbows, and crushing the whole oaken
platform, steps and all, right down to the deck in a thousand
splinters.

He was picked up for dead, and carried below to the surgeon.
His bones seemed like those of a man broken on the
wheel, and no one thought he would survive the night. But
with the surgeon's skillful treatment he soon promised recovery.
Surgeon Cuticle devoted all his science to this case.

A curious frame-work of wood was made for the maimed
man; and placed in this, with all his limbs stretched out,
Baldy lay flat on the floor of the Sick-bay, for many weeks.
Upon our arrival home, he was able to hobble ashore on
crutches; but from a hale, hearty man, with bronzed cheeks,
he was become a mere dislocated skeleton, white as foam; but
ere this, perhaps, his broken bones are healed and whole in
the last repose of the man-of-war's-man.

Not many days after Baldy's accident in furling sails—in this
same frenzied manner, under the stimulus of a shouting officer—
a seaman fell from the main-royal-yard of an English line-of-battle
ship near us, and buried his ankle-bones in the deck, leaving
two indentations there, as if scooped out by a carpenter's gouge.

The royal-yard forms a cross with the mast, and falling from
that lofty cross in a line-of-battle ship is almost like falling from
the cross of St. Paul's; almost like falling as Lucifer from
the well-spring of morning down to the Phlegethon of night.

In some cases, a man, hurled thus from a yard, has fallen
upon his own shipmates in the tops, and dragged them down
with him to the same destruction with himself.

Hardly ever will you hear of a man-of-war returning home
after a cruise, without the loss of some of her crew from aloft,
whereas similar accidents in the merchant service—considering
the much greater number of men employed in it—are comparatively
few.

Why mince the matter? The death of most of these man-of-war's-men
lies at the door of the souls of those officers, who,
while safely standing on deck themselves, scruple not to sacrifice
an immortal man or two, in order to show off the excelling
discipline of the ship. And thus do the people of the gun-deck
suffer, that the Commodore on the poop may be glorified.