SELVAGEE CONTRASTED WITH MAD-JACK.
Having glanced at the grand divisions of a man-of-war, let us now
descend to specialities: and, particularly, to two of the junior
lieutenants; lords and noblemen; members of that House of Peers,
the gun-room. There were several young lieutenants on board; but
from these two--representing the extremes of character to be
found in their department--the nature of the other officers of
their grade in the Neversink must be derived.
One of these two quarter-deck lords went among the sailors by a
name of their own devising--Selvagee. Of course, it was intended
to be characteristic; and even so it was.
In frigates, and all large ships of war, when getting under
weigh, a large rope, called a _messenger_ used to carry the
strain of the cable to the capstan; so that the anchor may be
weighed, without the muddy, ponderous cable, itself going round
the capstan. As the cable enters the hawse-hole, therefore,
something must be constantly used, to keep this travelling chain
attached to this travelling _messenger_; something that may be
rapidly wound round both, so as to bind them together. The
article used is called a _selvagee_. And what could be better
adapted to the purpose? It is a slender, tapering, unstranded
piece of rope prepared with much solicitude; peculiarly flexible;
and wreathes and serpentines round the cable and messenger like
an elegantly-modeled garter-snake round the twisted stalks of a
vine. Indeed, _Selvagee_ is the exact type and symbol of a tall,
genteel, limber, spiralising exquisite. So much for the
derivation of the name which the sailors applied to the Lieutenant.
From what sea-alcove, from what mermaid's milliner's shop, hast
thou emerged, Selvagee! with that dainty waist and languid cheek?
What heartless step-dame drove thee forth, to waste thy fragrance
on the salt sea-air?
Was it _you_, Selvagee! that, outward-bound, off Cape Horn,
looked at Hermit Island through an opera-glass? Was it _you_, who
thought of proposing to the Captain that, when the sails were
furled in a gale, a few drops of lavender should be dropped in
their "bunts," so that when the canvas was set again, your
nostrils might not be offended by its musty smell? I do not _say_
it was you, Selvagee; I but deferentially inquire.
In plain prose, Selvagee was one of those officers whom the sight
of a trim-fitting naval coat had captivated in the days of his
youth. He fancied, that if a _sea-officer_ dressed well, and
conversed genteelly, he would abundantly uphold the honour of
his flag, and immortalise the tailor that made him. On that rock
many young gentlemen split. For upon a frigate's quarter-deck, it
is not enough to sport a coat fashioned by a Stultz; it is not
enough to be well braced with straps and suspenders; it is not
enough to have sweet reminiscences of Lauras and Matildas. It is
a right down life of hard wear and tear, and the man who is not,
in a good degree, fitted to become a common sailor will never
make an officer. Take that to heart, all ye naval aspirants.
Thrust your arms up to the elbow in pitch and see how you like
it, ere you solicit a warrant. Prepare for white squalls, living
gales and typhoons; read accounts of shipwrecks and horrible
disasters; peruse the Narratives of Byron and Bligh; familiarise
yourselves with the story of the English frigate Alceste and the
French frigate Medusa. Though you may go ashore, now and then, at
Cadiz and Palermo; for every day so spent among oranges and
ladies, you will have whole months of rains and gales.
And even thus did Selvagee prove it. But with all the intrepid
effeminacy of your true dandy, he still continued his Cologne-
water baths, and sported his lace-bordered handkerchiefs in the
very teeth of a tempest. Alas, Selvagee! there was no getting the
lavender out of you.
But Selvagee was no fool. Theoretically he understood his
profession; but the mere theory of seamanship forms but the
thousandth part of what makes a seaman. You cannot save a ship by
working out a problem in the cabin; the deck is the field of
action.
Well aware of his deficiency in some things, Selvagee never took
the trumpet--which is the badge of the deck officer for the time--
without a tremulous movement of the lip, and an earnest
inquiring eye to the windward. He encouraged those old Tritons,
the Quarter-masters, to discourse with him concerning the
likelihood of a squall; and often followed their advice as to
taking in, or making sail. The smallest favours in that way were
thankfully received. Sometimes, when all the North looked
unusually lowering, by many conversational blandishments, he
would endeavour to prolong his predecessor's stay on deck, after
that officer's watch had expired. But in fine, steady weather,
when the Captain would emerge from his cabin, Selvagee might be
seen, pacing the poop with long, bold, indefatigable strides, and
casting his eye up aloft with the most ostentatious fidelity.
But vain these pretences; he could not deceive. Selvagee! you
know very well, that if it comes on to blow pretty hard, the
First Lieutenant will be sure to interfere with his paternal
authority. Every man and every boy in the frigate knows,
Selvagee, that you are no Neptune.
How unenviable his situation! His brother officers do not insult
him, to be sure; but sometimes their looks are as daggers. The
sailors do not laugh at him outright; but of dark nights they
jeer, when they hearken to that mantuamaker's voice ordering _a
strong pull at the main brace_, or _hands by the halyards!_
Sometimes, by way of being terrific, and making the men jump,
Selvagee raps out an oath; but the soft bomb stuffed with
confectioner's kisses seems to burst like a crushed rose-bud
diffusing its odours. Selvagee! Selvagee! take a main-top-man's
advice; and this cruise over, never more tempt the sea.
With this gentleman of cravats and curling irons, how strongly
contrasts the man who was born in a gale! For in some time of
tempest--off Cape Horn or Hatteras--_Mad Jack_ must have entered
the world--such things have been--not with a silver spoon, but
with a speaking-trumpet in his mouth; wrapped up in a caul, as in
a main-sail--for a charmed life against shipwrecks he bears--and
crying, _Luff! luff, you may!--steady!--port! World ho!--here I am!_
Mad Jack is in his saddle on the sea. _That_ is his home; he
would not care much, if another Flood came and overflowed the
dry land; for what would it do but float his good ship higher and
higher and carry his proud nation's flag round the globe, over
the very capitals of all hostile states! Then would masts
surmount spires; and all mankind, like the Chinese boatmen in
Canton River, live in flotillas and fleets, and find their food
in the sea.
Mad Jack was expressly created and labelled for a tar. Five feet
nine is his mark, in his socks; and not weighing over eleven
stone before dinner. Like so many ship's shrouds, his muscles and
tendons are all set true, trim, and taut; he is braced up fore
and aft, like a ship on the wind. His broad chest is a bulkhead,
that dams off the gale; and his nose is an aquiline, that divides
it in two, like a keel. His loud, lusty lungs are two belfries,
full of all manner of chimes; but you only hear his deepest bray,
in the height of some tempest--like the great bell of St. Paul's,
which only sounds when the King or the Devil is dead.
Look at him there, where he stands on the poop--one foot on the
rail, and one hand on a shroud--his head thrown back, and his
trumpet like an elephant's trunk thrown up in the air. Is he
going to shoot dead with sounds, those fellows on the main-
topsail-yard?
Mad Jack was a bit of a tyrant--they _say_ all good officers are--
but the sailors loved him all round; and would much rather stand
fifty watches with him, than one with a rose-water sailor.
But Mad Jack, alas! has one fearful failing. He drinks. And so do
we all. But Mad Jack, _He_ only brinks brandy. The vice was
inveterate; surely, like Ferdinand, Count Fathom, he must have
been suckled at a puncheon. Very often, this bad habit got him
into very serious scrapes. Twice was he put off duty by the
Commodore; and once he came near being broken for his frolics. So
far as his efficiency as a sea-officer was concerned, on shore at
least, Jack might _bouse away_ as much as he pleased; but afloat
it will not do at all.
Now, if he only followed the wise example set by those ships of
the desert, the camels; and while in port, drank for the thirst
past, the thirst present, and the thirst to come--so that he
might cross the ocean sober; Mad Jack would get along pretty
well. Still better, if he would but eschew brandy altogether; and
only drink of the limpid white-wine of the rills and the brooks.