CHAPTER XLV
PUBLISHING POETRY IN A MAN-OF-WAR
A day or two after our arrival in Rio, a rather amusing incident occurred to a particular acquaintance of mine, young Lemsford, the gun-deck bard.
The great guns of an armed ship have blocks of wood, called _tompions_, painted black, inserted in their muzzles, to keep out the spray of the sea. These tompions slip in and out very handily, like covers to butter firkins.
By advice of a friend, Lemsford, alarmed for the fate of his box of poetry, had latterly made use of a particular gun on the main- deck, in the tube of which he thrust his manuscripts, by simply crawling partly out of the porthole, removing the tompion, inserting his papers, tightly rolled, and making all snug again.
Breakfast over, he and I were reclining in the main-top-where, by permission of my noble master, Jack Chase, I had invited him- when, of a sudden, we heard a cannonading. It was our own ship.
"Ah!" said a top-man, "returning the shore salute they gave us yesterday."
"O Lord!" cried Lemsford, "my _Songs of the Sirens!_" and he ran down the rigging to the batteries; but just as he touched the gun-deck, gun No. 20-his literary strong-box-went off with a terrific report.
"Well, my after-guard Virgil," said Jack Chase to him, as he slowly returned up the rigging, "did you get it? You need not answer; I see you were too late. But never mind, my boy: no printer could do the business for you better. That's the way to publish, White-Jacket," turning to me-"fire it right into 'em; every canto a twenty-four-pound shot; _hull_ the blockheads, whether they will or no. And mind you, Lemsford, when your shot does the most execution, your hear the least from the foe. A killed man cannot even lisp."
"Glorious Jack!" cried Lemsford, running up and snatching him by the hand, "say that again, Jack! look me in the eyes. By all the Homers, Jack, you have made my soul mount like a balloon! Jack, I'm a poor devil of a poet. Not two months before I shipped aboard here, I published a volume of poems, very aggressive on the world, Jack. Heaven knows what it cost me. I published it, Jack, and the cursed publisher sued me for damages; my friends looked sheepish; one or two who liked it were non-committal; and as for the addle-pated mob and rabble, they thought they had found out a fool. Blast them, Jack, what they call the public is a monster, like the idol we saw in Owhyhee, with the head of a jackass, the body of a baboon, and the tail of a scorpion!"
"I don't like that," said Jack; "when I'm ashore, I myself am part of the public."
"Your pardon, Jack; you are not, you are then a part of the people, just as you are aboard the frigate here. The public is one thing, Jack, and the people another."
"You are right," said Jack; "right as this leg. Virgil, you are a trump; you are a jewel, my boy. The public and the people! Ay, ay, my lads, let us hate the one and cleave to the other."
CHAPTER XLVI
THE COMMODORE ON THE POOP, AND ONE OF "THE PEOPLE" UNDER THE HANDS OF THE SURGEON
A day or two after the publication of Lemsford's "Songs of the Sirens," a sad accident befell a mess-mate of mine, one of the captains of the mizzen-top. He was a fine little Scot, who, from the premature loss of the hair on the top of his head, always went by the name of _Baldy_. This baldness was no doubt, in great part, attributable to the same cause that early thins the locks of most man-of-war's-men-namely, the hard, unyielding, and ponderous man-of-war and navy-regulation tarpaulin hat, which, when new, is stiff enough to sit upon, and indeed, in lieu of his thumb, sometimes serves the common sailor for a bench.
Now, there is nothing upon which the Commodore of a squadron more prides himself than upon the celerity with which his men can handle the sails, and go through with all the evolutions pertaining thereto. This is especially manifested in harbour, when other vessels of his squadron are near, and perhaps the armed ships of rival nations.
Upon these occasions, surrounded by his post-captain sa-traps- each of whom in his own floating island is king-the Commodore domineers over all-emperor of the whole oaken archipelago; yea, magisterial and magnificent as the Sultan of the Isles of Sooloo.
But, even as so potent an emperor and Caesar to boot as the great Don of Germany, Charles the Fifth, was used to divert himself in his dotage by watching the gyrations of the springs and cogs of a long row of clocks, even so does an elderly Commodore while away his leisure in harbour, by what is called "_exercising guns_," and also "_exercising yards and sails;_" causing the various spars of all the ships under his command to be "braced," "topped," and "cock billed" in concert, while the Commodore himself sits, something like King Canute, on an arm-chest on the poop of his flag-ship.
But far more regal than any descendant of Charlemagne, more haughty than any Mogul of the East, and almost mysterious and voiceless in his authority as the Great Spirit of the Five Nations, the Commodore deigns not to verbalise his commands; they are imparted by signal.
And as for old Charles the Fifth, again, the gay-pranked, coloured suits of cards were invented, to while away his dotage, even so, doubtless, must these pretty little signals of blue and red spotted _bunting_ have been devised to cheer the old age of all Commodores.
By the Commodore's side stands the signal-midshipman, with a sea- green bag swung on his shoulder (as a sportsman bears his game- bag), the signal-book in one hand, and the signal spy-glass in the other. As this signal-book contains the Masonic signs and tokens of the navy, and would there-fore be invaluable to an enemy, its binding is always bordered with lead, so as to insure its sinking in case the ship should be captured. Not the only book this, that might appropriately be bound in lead, though there be many where the author, and not the bookbinder, furnishes the metal.
As White-Jacket understands it, these signals consist of variously-coloured flags, each standing for a certain number. Say there are ten flags, representing the cardinal numbers-the red flag, No. 1; the blue flag, No. 2; the green flag, No. 3, and so forth; then, by mounting the blue flag over the red, that would stand for No. 21: if the green flag were set underneath, it would then stand for 213. How easy, then, by endless transpositions, to multiply the various numbers that may be exhibited at the mizzen- peak, even by only three or four of these flags.
To each number a particular meaning is applied. No. 100, for instance, may mean, "_Beat to quarters_." No. 150, "_All hands to grog_." No. 2000, "_Strike top-gallant-yards_." No. 2110, "_See anything to windward?_" No. 2800, "_No_."
And as every man-of-war is furnished with a signal-book, where all these things are set down in order, therefore, though two American frigates-almost perfect strangers to each other-came from the opposite Poles, yet at a distance of more than a mile they could carry on a very liberal conversation in the air.
When several men-of-war of one nation lie at anchor in one port, forming a wide circle round their lord and master, the flag-ship, it is a very interesting sight to see them all obeying the Commodore's orders, who meanwhile never opens his lips.
Thus was it with us in Rio, and hereby hangs the story of my poor messmate Bally.
One morning, in obedience to a signal from our flag-ship, the various vessels belonging to the American squadron then in harbour simultaneously loosened their sails to dry. In the evening, the signal was set to furl them. Upon such occasions, great rivalry exists between the First Lieutenants of the different ships; they vie with each other who shall first have his sails stowed on the yards. And this rivalry is shared between all the officers of each vessel, who are respectively placed over the different top-men; so that the main-mast is all eagerness to vanquish the fore-mast, and the mizzen-mast to vanquish them both. Stimulated by the shouts of their officers, the sailors throughout the squadron exert themselves to the utmost.