Moreover, he is made to fetch and
carry like a dog. Like as not, if the mate sends him after his
quadrant, on the way he is met by the captain, who orders him to pick
some oakum; and while he is hunting up a bit of rope, a sailor comes
along and wants to know what the deuce he's after, and bids him be
off to the forecastle.
"Obey the last order," is a precept inviolable at sea. So the
land-lubber, afraid to refuse to do anything, rushes about
distracted, and does nothing: in the end receiving a shower of kicks
and cuffs from all quarters.
Added to his other hardships, he is seldom permitted to open his mouth
unless spoken to; and then, he might better keep silent. Alas for
him! if he should happen to be anything of a droll; for in an evil
hour should he perpetrate a joke, he would never know the last of it.
The witticisms of others, however, upon himself, must be received in
the greatest good-humour.
Woe be unto him, if at meal-times he so much as look sideways at the
beef-kid before the rest are helped.
Then he is obliged to plead guilty to every piece of mischief which
the real perpetrator refuses to acknowledge; thus taking the place of
that sneaking rascal nobody, ashore. In short, there is no end to his
tribulations.
The land-lubber's spirits often sink, and the first result of his
being moody and miserable is naturally enough an utter neglect of his
toilet.
The sailors perhaps ought to make allowances; but heartless as they
are, they do not. No sooner is his cleanliness questioned than they
rise upon him like a mob of the Middle Ages upon a Jew; drag him into
the lee-scuppers, and strip him to the buff. In vain he bawls for
mercy; in vain calls upon the captain to save him.
Alas! I say again, for the land-lubber at sea. He is the veriest
wretch the watery world over. And such was Bope Tarn; of all
landlubbers, the most lubberly and most miserable. A forlorn,
stunted, hook-visaged mortal he was too; one of those whom you know
at a glance to have been tried hard and long in the furnace of
affliction. His face was an absolute puzzle; though sharp and sallow,
it had neither the wrinkles of age nor the smoothness of youth; so
that for the soul of me, I could hardly tell whether he was
twenty-five or fifty.
But to his history. In his better days, it seems he had been a
journeyman baker in London, somewhere about Holborn; and on Sundays
wore a Hue coat and metal buttons, and spent his afternoons in a
tavern, smoking his pipe and drinking his ale like a free and easy
journeyman baker that he was.
