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In a gale of wind, when all hands are called and the deck swarms with men, the little «middies» ru
As the only way to learn to command, is to learn to obey, the usage of a ship of war is such that the midshipmen are constantly being ordered about by the Lieutenants; though, without having assigned them their particular destinations, they are always going somewhere, and never arriving. In some things, they almost have a harder time of it than the seamen themselves. They are messengers and errand-boys to their superiors.
"Mr. Pert," cries an officer of the deck, hailing a young gentleman forward. Mr. Pert advances, touches his hat, and remains in an attitude of deferential suspense. "Go and tell the boatswain I want him." And with this perilous errand, the middy hurries away, looking proud as a king.
The middies live by themselves in the steerage, where, nowadays, they dine off a table, spread with a cloth. They have a castor at di
In frigates, the ward-room-the retreat of the Lieutenants- immediately adjoining the steerage, is on the same deck with it. Frequently, when the middies, waking early of a morning, as most youngsters do, would be kicking up their heels in their hammocks, or ru
Having now descended from Commodore to Middy, we come lastly to a set of nondescripts, forming also a «mess» by themselves, apart from the seamen. Into this mess, the usage of a man-of-war thrusts various subordinates-including the master-at-arms, purser's steward, ship's corporals, marine sergeants, and ship's yeomen, forming the first aristocracy above the sailors.
The master-at-arms is a sort of high constable and school-master, wearing citizen's clothes, and known by his official rattan. He it is whom all sailors hate. His is the universal duty of a universal informer and hunter-up of delinquents. On the berth-deck he reigns supreme; spying out all grease-spots made by the various cooks of the seamen's messes, and driving the laggards up the hatches, when all hands are called. It is indispensable that he should be a very Vidocq in vigilance. But as it is a heartless, so is it a thankless office. Of dark nights, most masters-of-arms keep themselves in readiness to dodge forty-two pound balls, dropped down the hatchways near them.
The ship's corporals are this worthy's deputies and ushers.
The marine sergeants are generally tall fellows with unyielding spines and stiff upper lips, and very exclusive in their tastes and predilections.
The ship's yeoman is a gentleman who has a sort of counting-room in a tar-cellar down in the fore-hold. More will be said of him anon.
Except the officers above enumerated, there are none who mess apart from the seamen. The "_petty officers_," so called; that is, the Boatswain's, Gu
Thus it will be seen, that the di
CHAPTER VII
BREAKFAST, DINNER, AND SUPPER
Not only is the di
Thus it will be seen, that while the two estates of sea-kings and sea-lords dine at rather patrician hours-and thereby, in the long run, impair their digestive functions-the sea-commoners, or _the people_, keep up their constitutions, by keeping up the good old-fashioned, Elizabethan, Franklin-warranted di
Twelve o'clock! It is the natural centre, key-stone, and very heart of the day. At that hour, the sun has arrived at the top of his hill; and as he seems to hang poised there a while, before coming down on the other side, it is but reasonable to suppose that he is then stopping to dine; setting an eminent example to all mankind. The rest of the day is called _afternoon_; the very sound of which fine old Saxon word conveys a feeling of the lee bulwarks and a nap; a summer sea-soft breezes creeping over it; dreamy dolphins gliding in the distance. _Afternoon!_ the word implies, that it is an after-piece, coming after the grand drama of the day; something to be taken leisurely and lazily. But how can this be, if you dine at five? For, after all, though Paradise Lost be a noble poem, and we men-of-war's men, no doubt, largely partake in the immortality of the immortals yet, let us candidly confess it, shipmates, that, upon the whole, our di
Again: twelve o'clock is the natural hour for us men-of-war's men to dine, because at that hour the very time-pieces we have invented arrive at their terminus; they can get no further than twelve; when straightway they continue their old rounds again. Doubtless, Adam and Eve dined at twelve; and the Patriarch Abraham in the midst of his cattle; and old Job with his noon mowers and reapers, in that grand plantation of Uz; and old Noah himself, in the Ark, must have gone to di