49. CHAPTER XLIX.
RUMORS OF A WAR, AND HOW THEY WERE RECEIVED BY THE
POPULATION OF THE NEVERSINK.
While lying in the harbor of Callao, in Peru, certain
rumors had come to us touching a war with England, growing
out of the long-vexed Northeastern Boundary Question.
In Rio these rumors were increased; and the probability of
hostilities induced our Commodore to authorize proceedings
that closely brought home to every man on board the Neversink
his liability at any time to be killed at his gun.
Among other things, a number of men were detailed to
pass up the rusty cannon-balls from the shot-lockers in the
hold, and scrape them clean for service. The Commodore
was a very neat gentleman, and would not fire a dirty shot
into his foe.
It was an interesting occasion for a tranquil observer; nor
was it altogether neglected. Not to recite the precise remarks
made by the seamen while pitching the shot up the hatchway
from hand to hand, like schoolboys playing ball ashore,
it will be enough to say that, from the general drift of their
discourse—jocular as it was—it was manifest that, almost to
a man, they abhorred the idea of going into action.
And why should they desire a war? Would their wages
be raised? Not a cent. The prize-money, though, ought to
have been an inducement. But of all the “rewards of virtue,”
prize-money is the most uncertain; and this the man-of-war's-man
knows. What, then, has he to expect from war? What
but harder work, and harder usage than in peace; a wooden
leg or arm; mortal wounds, and death? Enough, however,
that by far the majority of the common sailors of the Neversink
were plainly concerned at the prospect of war, and were
plainly averse to it.
But with the officers of the quarter-deck it was just the reverse.
None of them, to be sure, in my hering at least,
verbally expressed their gratification; but it was unavoidably
betrayed by the increased cheerfulness of their demeanor toward
each other, their frequent fraternal conferences, and their
unwonted animation for several days in issuing their orders.
The voice of Mad Jack—always a belfry to hear—now resounded
like that famous bell of England, Great Tom of Oxford.
As for Selvagee, he wore his sword with a jaunty air,
and his servant daily polished the blade.
But why this contrast between the forecastle and the quarter-deck,
between the man-of-war's-man and his officer? Because,
though war would equally jeopardize the lives of both,
yet, while it held out to the sailor no promise of promotion,
and what is called glory, these things fired the breast of his
officers.
It is no pleasing task, nor a thankful one, to dive into the
souls of some men; but there are occasions when, to bring
up the mud from the bottom, reveals to us on what soundings
we are, on what coast we adjoin.
How were these officers to gain glory? How but by a
distinguished slaughtering of their fellow-men. How were
they to be promoted? How but over the buried heads of
killed comrades and mess-mates.
This hostile contrast between the feelings with which the
common seamen and the officers of the Neversink looked forward
to this more than possible war, is one of many instances
that might be quoted to show the antagonism of their interests,
the incurable antagonism in which they dwell. But can
men, whose interests are diverse, ever hope to live together in
a harmony uncoerced? Can the brotherhood of the race of
mankind ever hope to prevail in a man-of-war, where one
man's bane is almost another's blessing? By abolishing the
scourge, shall we do away tyranny; that tyranny which must
ever prevail, where of two essentially antagonist classes in perpetual
contact, one is immeasurably the stronger? Surely it
seems all but impossible. And as the very object of a man-of-war,
as its name implies, is to fight the very battles so naturally
averse to the seamen; so long as a man-of-war exists,
it must ever remain a picture of much that is tyrannical and
repelling in human nature.
Being an establishment much more extensive than the
American Navy, the English armed marine furnishes a yet
more striking example of this thing, especially as the existence
of war produces so vast an augmentation of her naval
force compared with what it is in time of peace. It is well
known what joy the news of Bonaparte's sudden return from
Elba created among crowds of British naval officers, who had
previously been expecting to be sent ashore on half-pay. Thus,
when all the world wailed, these officers found occasion for
thanksgiving. I urge it not against them as men—their feelings
belonged to their profession. Had they not been naval
officers, they had not been rejoicers in the midst of despair.
When shall the time come, how much longer will God
postpone it, when the clouds, which at times gather over the
horizons of nations, shall not be hailed by any class of humanity,
and invoked to burst as a bomb? Standing navies,
as well as standing armies, serve to keep alive the spirit of
war even in the meek heart of peace. In its very embers
and smoulderings, they nourish that fatal fire, and half-pay
officers, as the priests of Mars, yet guard the temple, though
no god be there.
