University of Virginia Library

51. CHAPTER LI.

We had not lain in Rio long, when in the innermost recesses
of the mighty soul of my noble Captain of the Top—incomparable
Jack Chase—the deliberate opinion was formed, and
rock-founded, that our ship's company must have at least one
day's “liberty” to go ashore ere we weighed anchor for home.

Here it must be mentioned that, concerning any thing of
this kind, no sailor in a man-of-war ever presumes to be an
agitator, unless he is of a rank superior to a mere able-seaman;
and no one short of a petty officer—that is, a captain
of the top, a quarter-gunner, or boatswain's mate—ever dreams
of being a spokesman to the supreme authority of the vessel
in soliciting any kind of favor for himself and shipmates.

After canvassing the matter throughly with several old
quarter-masters and other dignified sea-fencibles, Jack, hat in
hand, made his appearance, one fine evening, at the mast, and,
waiting till Captain Claret drew nigh, bowed, and addressed
him in his own off-hand, polished, and poetical style. In his
intercourse with the quarter-deck, he always presumed upon
his being such a universal favorite.

“Sir, this Rio is a charming harbor, and we poor mariners
—your trusty sea-warriors, valiant Captain! who, with you
at their head, would board the Rock of Gibraltar itself, and
carry it by storm—we poor fellows, valiant Captain! have
gazed round upon this ravishing landscape till we can gaze no
more. Will Captain Claret vouchsafe one day's liberty, and
so assure himself of eternal felicity, since, in our flowing cups,
he will be ever after freshly remembered?”

As Jack thus rounded off with a snatch from Shakspeare,

he saluted the Captain with a gallant flourish of his tarpaulin,
and then, bringing the rim to his mouth, with his head
bowed, and his body thrown into a fine negligent attitude,
stood a picture of eloquent but passive appeal. He seemed to
say, Magnanimous Captain Claret, we fine fellows, and hearts
of oak, throw ourselves upon your unparalleled goodness.

“And what do you want to go ashore for?” asked the Captain,
evasively, and trying to conceal his admiration of Jack
by affecting some haughtiness.

“Ah! sir,” sighed Jack, “why do the thirsty camels of the
desert desire to lap the waters of the fountain and roll in the
green grass of the oasis? Are we not but just from the
ocean Sahara? and is not this Rio a verdant spot, noble Captain?
Surely you will not keep us always tethered at anchor,
when a little more cable would admit of our cropping
the herbage! And it is a weary thing, Captain Claret, to be
imprisoned month after month on the gun-deck, without so
much as smelling a citron. Ah! Captain Claret, what sings
sweet Waller:

Compared with such a prisoner, noble Captain,
Pope's version, sir, not the original Greek.”

And so saying, Jack once more brought his hat-rim to his
mouth, and slightly bending forward, stood mute.

At this juncture the Most Serene Commodore himself happened
to emerge from the after-gangway, his gilded buttons,
epaulets, and the gold lace on his chapeau glittering in the
flooding sunset. Attracted by the scene between Captain
Claret and so well-known and admired a commoner as Jack
Chase, he approached, and assuming for the moment an air
of pleasant condescension—never shown to his noble barons
the officers of the ward-room—he said, with a smile, “Well,
Jack, you and your shipmates are after some favor, I suppose—a
day's liberty, is it not?”

Whether it was the horizontal setting sun, streaming along
the deck, that blinded Jack, or whether it was in sun-wor-shipping
homage of the mighty Commodore, there is no telling;
but just at this juncture noble Jack was standing reverentially
holding his hat to his brow, like a man with weak eyes.

“Valiant Commodore,” said he, at last, “this audience is
indeed an honor underserved. I almost sink beneath it. Yes,
valiant Commodore, your sagacious mind has truly divined
our object. Liberty, sir; liberty is, indeed, our humble prayer.
I trust your honorable wound, received in glorious battle,
valiant Commodore, pains you less to-day than common.”

“Ah! cunning Jack!” cried the Commodore, by no means
blind to the bold sortie of his flattery, but not at all displeased
with it. In more respects than one, our Commodore's wound
was his weak side.

“I think we must give them liberty,” he added, turning to
Captain Claret; who thereupon, waving Jack further off, fell
into confidential discourse with his superior.

“Well, Jack, we will see about it,” at last cried the Commodore,
advancing. “I think we must let you go.”

“To your duty, captain of the main-top!” said the Captain,
rather stiffly. He wished to neutralize somewhat the effect
of the Commodore's condescension. Besides, he had much
rather the Commodore had been in his cabin. His presence,
for the time, affected his own supremacy in his ship. But
Jack was noways cast down by the Captain's coldness; he felt
safe enough; so he proceeded to offer his acknowledgments.

“`Kind gentlemen,”' he sighed, “`your pains are registered
where every day I turn the leaf to read'—Macbeth, valiant
Commodore and Captain!—what the Thane says to the
noble lords, Rosse and Angus.”

And long and lingeringly bowing to the two noble officers,
Jack backed away from their presence, still shading his eyes
with the broad rim of his hat.

“Jack Chase forever!” cried his shipmates, as he carried
the grateful news of liberty to them on the forecastle. “Who
can talk to Commodores like our matchless Jack!”