The captain - a mere cipher - was an invalid in
his cabin; to say nothing more of so many of his men languishing in
the forecastle.
Our keeping the sea under these circumstances, a matter strange enough
at first, now seemed wholly unwarranted; and added to all was the
thought that our fate was absolutely in the hand of the reckless
Jermin. Were anything to happen to him, we would be left without a
navigator, for, according to Jermin himself, he had, from the
commencement of the voyage, always kept the ship's reckoning, the
captain's nautical knowledge being insufficient.
But considerations like these, strange as it may seem, seldom or never
occurred to the crew. They were alive only to superstitious fears;
and when, in apparent contradiction to the Finn's prophecy, the sick
men rallied a little, they began to recover their former spirits, and
the recollection of what had occurred insensibly faded from their
minds. In a week's time, the unworthiness of Little Jule as a sea
vessel, always a subject of jest, now became more so than ever. In the
forecastle, Flash Jack, with his knife, often dug into the dank,
rotten planks ribbed between us and death, and flung away the
splinters with some sea joke.
As to the remaining invalids, they were hardly ill enough to occasion
any serious apprehension, at least for the present, in the breasts of
such thoughtless beings as themselves. And even those who suffered
the most, studiously refrained from any expression of pain.
The truth is, that among sailors as a class, sickness at sea is so
heartily detested, and the sick so little cared for, that the
greatest invalid generally strives to mask his sufferings. He has
given no sympathy to others, and he expects none in return. Their
conduct, in this respect, so opposed to their generous-hearted
behaviour ashore, painfully affects the landsman on his first
intercourse with them as a sailor.
Sometimes, but seldom, our invalids inveighed against their being kept
at sea, where they could be of no service, when they ought to be
ashore and in the way of recovery. But - "Oh! cheer up - cheer up, my
hearties!" - the mate would say. And after this fashion he put a stop
to their murmurings.
But there was one circumstance, to which heretofore I have but barely
alluded, that tended more than anything else to reconcile many to
their situation. This was the receiving regularly, twice every day, a
certain portion of Pisco, which was served out at the capstan, by the
steward, in little tin measures called "tots."
The lively affection seamen have for strong drink is well known; but
in the South Seas, where it is so seldom to be had, a thoroughbred
sailor deems scarcely any price too dear which will purchase his
darling "tot." Nowadays, American whalemen in the Pacific never think
of carrying spirits as a ration; and aboard of most of them, it is
never served out even in times of the greatest hardships. All Sydney
whalemen, however, still cling to the old custom, and carry it as a
part of the regular supplies for the voyage.
In port, the allowance of Pisco was suspended; with a view,
undoubtedly, of heightening the attractions of being out of sight of
land.
Now, owing to the absence of proper discipline, our sick, in addition
to what they took medicinally, often came in for their respective
"tots" convivially; and, added to all this, the evening of the last
day of the week was always celebrated by what is styled on board of
English vessels "The Saturday-night bottles." Two of these were sent
down into the forecastle, just after dark; one for the starboard
watch, and the other for the larboard.
By prescription, the oldest seaman in each claims the treat as his,
and, accordingly, pours out the good cheer and passes it round like a
lord doing the honours of his table. But the Saturday-night bottles
were not all. The carpenter and cooper, in sea parlance, Chips and
Bungs, who were the "Cods," or leaders of the forecastle, in some way
or other, managed to obtain an extra supply, which perpetually kept
them in fine after-dinner spirits, and, moreover, disposed them to
look favourably upon a state of affairs like the present.
But where were the sperm whales all this time? In good sooth, it made
little matter where they were, since we were in no condition to
capture them. About this time, indeed, the men came down from the
mast-heads, where, until now, they had kept up the form of relieving
each other every two hours. They swore they would go there no more.
Upon this, the mate carelessly observed that they would soon be where
look-outs were entirely unnecessary, the whales he had in his eye
(though Flash Jack said they were all in his) being so tame that they
made a practice of coming round ships, and scratching their backs
against them.
Thus went the world of waters with us, some four weeks or more after
leaving Hannamanoo.
CHAPTER XIII.
OUR DESTINATION CHANGED
IT was not long after the death of the two men, that Captain Guy was
reported as fast declining, and in a day or two more, as dying. The
doctor, who previously had refused to enter the cabin upon any
consideration, now relented, and paid his old enemy a professional
visit.
He prescribed a warm bath, which was thus prepared. The skylight being
removed, a cask was lowered down into the cabin, and then filled with
buckets of water from the ship's coppers. The cries of the patient,
when dipped into his rude bath, were most painful to hear.
