47. CHAPTER XLVII.
AN AUCTION IN A MAN-OF-WAR.
Some allusion has been made to the weariness experienced
by the man-of-war's-man while lying at anchor; but there
are scenes now and then that serve to relieve it. Chief among
these are the Purser's auctions, taking place while in harbor.
Some weeks, or perhaps months, after a sailor dies in an
armed vessel, his bag of clothes is in this manner sold, and
the proceeds transferred to the account of his heirs or executors.
One of these auctions came off in Rio, shortly after the sad
accident of Baldy.
It was a dreamy, quiet afternoon, and the crew were listlessly
lying around, when suddenly the Boatswain's whistle
was heard, followed by the announcement, “D'ye hear there,
fore and aft! Purser's auction on the spar-deck!”
At the sound, the sailors sprang to their feet and mustered
round the main-mast. Presently up came the Purser's steward,
marshaling before him three or four of his subordinates,
carrying several clothes' bags, which were deposited at the
base of the mast.
Our Purser's steward was a rather gentlemanly man in his
way. Like many young Americans of his class, he had at
various times assumed the most opposite functions for a livelihood,
turning from one to the other with all the facility of a
light-hearted, clever adventurer. He had been a clerk in a
steamer on the Mississippi River; an auctioneer in Ohio; a
stock actor at the Olympic Theatre in New York; and now
he was Purser's steward in the Navy. In the course of this
diversified career his natural wit and waggery had been highly
spiced, and every way improved; and he had acquired the
last and most difficult art of the joker, the art of lengthening
his own face while widening those of his hearers, preserving
the utmost solemnity while setting them all in a roar. He
was quite a favorite with the sailors, which, in a good degree,
was owing to his humor; but likewise to his off-hand, irresistible,
romantic, theatrical manner of addressing them.
With a dignified air, he now mounted the pedestal of the
main-top-sail sheet-bitts, imposing silence by a theatrical wave
of his hand; meantime, his subordinates were rummaging the
bags, and assorting their contents before him.
“Now, my noble hearties,” he began, “we will open this
auction by offering to your impartial competition a very superior
pair of old boots;” and so saying, he dangled aloft one
clumsy cowhide cylinder, almost as large as a fire bucket, as
a specimen of the complete pair.
“What shall I have now, my noble tars, for this superior
pair of sea-boots?”
“Where's t'other boot?” cried a suspicious-eyed waister.
“I remember them 'ere boots. They were old Bob's the
quarter-gunner's; there was two on 'em, too. I want to see
t'other boot.”
“My sweet and pleasant fellow,” said the auctioneer, with
his blandest accents, “the other boot is not just at hand, but
I give you my word of honor that it in all respects corresponds
to the one you here see—it does, I assure you. And I solemnly
guarantee, my noble sea-fencibles,” he added, turning
round upon all, “that the other boot is the exact counterpart
of this. Now, then, say the word, my fine fellows. What
shall I have? Ten dollars, did you say?” politely bowing toward
some indefinite person in the background.
“No; ten cents,” responded a voice.
“Ten cents! ten cents! gallant sailors, for this noble pair
of boots,” exclaimed the auctioneer, with affected horror; “I
must close the auction, my tars of Columbia; this will never do.
But let's have another bid; now, come,” he added, coaxingly
and soothingly. “What is it? One dollar? One dollar,
then—one dollar; going at one dollar; going, going—going.
Just see how it vibrates”—swinging the boot to and fro—
“this superior pair of sea-boots vibrating at one dollar;
wouldn't pay for the nails in their heels; going, going—
gone!”
And down went the boots.
“Ah, what a sacrifice! what a sacrifice!” he sighed, tearfully
eyeing the solitary fire-bucket, and then glancing round
the company for sympathy.
“A sacrifice, indeed!” exclaimed Jack Chase, who stood
by; “Purser's Steward, you are Mark Antony over the body
of Julius Cæsar.”
“So I am, so I am,” said the auctioneer, without moving
a muscle. “And look!” he exclaimed, suddenly seizing the
boot, and exhibiting it on high, “look, my noble tars, if you
have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this
boot. I remember the first time ever old Bob put it on.
'Twas on a winter evening, off Cape Horn, between the starboard
carronades—that day his precious grog was stopped.
Look! in this place a mouse has nibbled through; see what
a rent some envious rat has made; through this another filed,
and, as he plucked his cursed rasp away, mark how the bootleg
gaped. This was the unkindest cut of all. But whose
are the boots?” suddenly assuming a business-like air; “yours?
yours? yours?”
But not a friend of the lamented Bob stood by.
“Tars of Columbia,” said the auctioneer, imperatively,
“these boots must be sold; and if I can't sell them one way, I
must sell them another. How much a pound, now, for this
superior pair of old boots? going by the pound now, remember,
my gallant sailors! what shall I have? one cent, do I
hear? going now at one cent a pound—going—going—going
—gone!”
“Whose are they? Yours, Captain of the Waist? Well,
my sweet and pleasant friend, I will have them weighed out
to you when the auction is over.”
In like manner all the contents of the bags were disposed
of, embracing old frocks, trowsers, and jackets, the various
sums for which they went being charged to the bidders on
the books of the Purser.
Having been present at this auction, though not a purchaser,
and seeing with what facility the most dismantled old garments
went off, through the magical cleverness of the accomplished
auctioneer, the thought occurred to me, that if ever I
calmly and positively decided to dispose of my famous white
jacket, this would be the very way to do it. I turned the
matter over in my mind a long time.
The weather in Rio was genial and warm, and that I
would ever again need such a thing as a heavy quilted jacket
—and such a jacket as the white one, too—seemed almost
impossible. Yet I remembered the American coast, and that
it would probably be Autumn when we should arrive there.
Yes, I thought of all that, to be sure; nevertheless, the ungovernable
whim seized me to sacrifice my jacket and recklessly
abide the consequences. Besides, was it not a horrible
jacket? To how many annoyances had it subjected me?
How many scrapes had it dragged me into? Nay, had it not
once jeopardized my very existence? And I had a dreadful
presentiment that, if I persisted in retaining it, it would do so
again. Enough! I will sell it, I muttered; and, so muttering,
I thrust my hands further down in my waistband, and
walked the main-top in the stern concentration of an inflexible
purpose. Next day, hearing that another auction was
shortly to take place, I repaired to the office of the Purser's
steward, with whom I was upon rather friendly terms. After
vaguely and delicately hinting at the object of my visit, I
came roundly to the point, and asked him whether he could
slip my jacket into one of the bags of clothes next to be sold,
and so dispose of it by public auction. He kindly acquiesced,
and the thing was done.
In due time all hands were again summoned round the
main-mast; the Purser's steward mounted his post, and the
ceremony began. Meantime, I lingered out of sight, but
still within hearing, on the gun-deck below, gazing up, unperceived,
at the scene.
As it is now so long ago, I will here frankly make confession
that I had privately retained the services of a friend—
Williams, the Yankee pedagogue and peddler—whose business
it would be to linger near the scene of the auction, and, if the
bids on the jacket loitered, to start it roundly himself; and if
the bidding then became brisk, he was continually to strike in
with the most pertinacious and infatuated bids, and so exasperate
competition into the maddest and most extravagant
overtures.
A variety of other articles having been put up, the white
jacket was slowly produced, and, held high aloft between the
auctioneer's thumb and fore-finger, was submitted to the inspection
of the discriminating public.
Here it behooves me once again to describe my jacket; for,
as a portrait taken at one period of life will not answer for a
later stage; much more this jacket of mine, undergoing so
many changes, needs to be painted again and again, in order
truly to present its actual appearance at any given period.
A premature old age had now settled upon it; all over it
bore melancholy scars of the masoned-up pockets that had
once trenched it in various directions. Some parts of it were
slightly mildewed from dampness; on one side several of the
buttons were gone, and others were broken or cracked; while,
alas! my many mad endeavors to rub it black on the decks
had now imparted to the whole garment an exceedingly untidy
appearance. Such as it was, with all its faults, the auctioneer
displayed it.
“You venerable sheet-anchor-men! and you, gallant fore-top-men!
and you, my fine waisters! what do you say now for
this superior old jacket? Buttons and sleeves, lining and
skirts, it must this day be sold without reservation. How
much for it, my gallant tars of Columbia? say the word, and
how much?”
“My eyes!” exclaimed a fore-top-man, “don't that 'ere
bunch of old swabs belong to Jack Chase's pet? Arn't that
the white jacket?”
“The white jacket!” cried fifty voices in response; “the
white jacket!” The cry ran fore and aft the ship like a
slogan, completely overwhelming the solitary voice of my
private friend Williams, while all hands gazed at it with
straining eyes, wondering how it came among the bags of
deceased mariners.
“Ay, noble tars,” said the auctioneer, “you may well stare
at it; you will not find another jacket like this on either
side of Cape Horn, I assure you. Why, just look at it! How
much, now? Give me a bid—but don't be rash; be prudent,
be prudent, men; remember your Purser's accounts,
and don't be betrayed into extravagant bids.”
“Purser's Steward!” cried Grummet, one of the quarter-gunners,
slowly shifting his quid from one cheek to the other,
like a ballast-stone, “I won't bid on that 'ere bunch of old
swabs, unless you put up ten pounds of soap with it.”
“Don't mind that old fellow,” said the auctioneer. “How
much for the jacket, my noble tars?”
“Jacket!” cried a dandy bone-polisher of the gun-room.
“The sail-maker was the tailor, then. How many fathoms
of canvass in it, Purser's Steward?”
“How much for this jacket?” reiterated the auctioneer,
emphatically.
“Jacket do you call it!” cried a captain of the hold.
“Why not call it a white-washed man-of-war schooner?
Look at the port-holes, to let in the air of cold nights.”
“A reg'lar herring-net,” chimed in Grummet.
“Gives me the fever-nagur to look at it,” echoed a mizzentop-man.
“Silence!” cried the auctioneer. “Start it now—start it,
boys; any thing you please, my fine fellows! it must be
sold. Come, what ought I to have on it, now?”
“Why, Purser's Steward,” cried a waister, “you ought to
have new sleeves, a new lining, and a new body on it, afore
you try to shove it off on a green-horn.”
“What are you busin' that 'ere garment for?” cried an
old sheet-anchor-man. “Don't you see it's a `uniform mustering
jacket'—three buttons on one side, and none on t'other?”
“Silence!” again cried the auctioneer. “How much, my
sea-fencibles, for this superior old jacket?”
“Well,” said Grummet, “I'll take it for cleaning-rags at
one cent.”
“Oh, come, give us a bid! say something, Columbians.”
“Well, then,” said Grummet, all at once bursting into
genuine indignation, “if you want us to say something, then
heave that bunch of old swabs overboard, say I, and show
us something worth looking at.”
“No one will give me a bid, then? Very good; here,
shove it aside. Let's have something else there.”
While this scene was going forward, and my white jacket
was thus being abused, how my heart swelled within me!
Thrice was I on the point of rushing out of my hiding-place,
and bearing it off from derision; but I lingered, still flattering
myself that all would be well, and the jacket find a purchaser
at last. But no, alas! there was no getting rid of it,
except by rolling a forty-two-pound shot in it, and committing
it to the deep. But though, in my desperation, I had
once contemplated something of that sort, yet I had now
become unaccountably averse to it, from certain involuntary
superstitious considerations. If I sink my jacket, thought I,
it will be sure to spread itself into a bed at the bottom of the
sea, upon which I shall sooner or later recline, a dead man.
So, unable to conjure it into the possession of another, and
withheld from burying it out of sight forever, my jacket stuck
to me like the fatal shirt on Nessus.
