Originally published: 1861?
Genres: Historical
Dime Novel Bibliography: https://dimenovels.org/Item/32635/Show
Gutenberg link: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/47290
Chapters: 17
Warning: This may include outdated and derogatory language and attitudes.
CHAPTER I
THE SHIP AND HER CREW
It was upon a bright morning of the month of May 1813, as I, a sailor just paid off from my last ship, was wandering along the wharves of Boston, that I was hailed by an old messmate, named Tony Trybrace.
"Ship ahoy!" cried Tony.
"The Barney Blake," I responded. "Out of employment, with compass gone, and nothing to steer by."
"What!" cried Tony, giving me his flipper. "Do you want a ship? A strange wish to go unsatisfied in these times."
"Yes," I hesitatingly rejoined, "but, you see, I've never been in the navy—always sailed in a merchantman—and—"
"Nonsense!" cried Tony. "That kind of blarney won't do for these times. I shipped the other day on as cracky a craft as ever and kicked the spray behind her. Come and join us."
"What! on a man-o'-war?"
"Better than that. On a bold privateer! Look out there to windward," said Tony, directing my attention with his pointing hand, "and tell me what you think of her. That's her, the brigantine, with her r'yals half furled."
The vessel indicated to me by my friend did not go back on his off-hand description of her.
"She's a splendid ship!" I exclaimed. "What name does she go by?"
"The Queer Fish," was the reply. "She has six guns—eighteen-pounders—three on each side—with the prettiest thirty-pound brass swivel at her starn, this side of Davy Jones. She starts tomorrow for a year's cruise. Will you go?"
"Yes."
"Spoken like a Yankee tar. Come."
A boat of the privateer was in waiting, and in a few moments, we were in it.
Scarcely had we pulled halfway before a funny-looking old fellow, squint-eyed, red-whiskered, and enormously wide-mouthed, whom they called Old Nick—a Norwegian by birth, was detected by the second mate attempting to take a pull at a green bottle, which he slyly whisked from the inside breast pocket of his pea-jacket. He was rowing at the time, and it required much sleight of hand to disengage one of his hands for the purpose in view. Nevertheless, he succeeded, took a long pull at the bottle, thinking no one saw him, corked it up again, and was about to return it to his pocket, when, at a wink from the second mate, Tony Trybrace, accidentally on purpose, skipped the plunge of his oar and brought it up against the old fellow with such a jostle that overboard flew the bottle, where it bobbed about.
Everyone who saw the trick burst into fits of laughter. For a moment Old Nick seemed undetermined what course to pursue. Then nature vindicated her sway. He dropped his oar, rose in his seat, and plunged overboard after the green bottle and its precious contents!
He made straight for the bottle, recovered it, took a long pull at it while he trod water, returned it to his bosom, and made a backtrack to the yawl.
"You'll git up early in de morgen to rob ein Deitcher of his schnapps," he growled, as he clambered over the gunwale.
So, with many a laugh and jeer at the old fellow's expense, we pulled the balance of the way without further incident and were soon upon the deck of the Queer Fish Privateer.
I was pleased with her more than ever upon a closer acquaintance. Everything was trim and tidy. Her decks were almost spotless, and nothing could exceed the beauty of her long bright swivel. She was polished up like a looking glass, and I longed to hear her speak, with an iron pill in her throat.
Tony Trybrace had told nothing but the truth when he had said that the people of the privateer were the jolliest afloat. They were a comical set from Captain Joker down to Peter Pun, the cabin boy. Tony was the boatswain, and, as soon as we were aboard, he escorted me down to the cabin, to see the captain and sign the ship's papers.
I shall never forget the impression created upon me by my first introduction to the captain. I thought him the funniest-looking little man I had ever seen. He was a dried-up, weazen-faced, bald-headed little fellow, of fifty or thereabouts, with a red, gin-loving nose, twinkling gray eyes, so small that they were usually almost out of sight, and the expression of his mouth was so intensely humorous, that his lips always seemed to be fighting back a burst of laughter. To add to this, he was every inch a seaman, with the freshness of the ocean breathing from every pore of his wiry frame, and every seam of his weather-beaten face giving evidence of stormy service in sun and clime.
By a great effort, Captain Joker put on a severe expression of countenance as I entered, eyed me with those quick professional eyes of his, and emptied, at a draught, the tumbler of old Santa Cruz which stood at his side on the cabin table.
Upon Tony's saying that I wished to ship on the Queer Fish, the captain, by a still greater effort, put on a still severer expression and began to catechize me, while a wink from Tony told me which way the land lay.
"Where do you hail from?" demanded the captain pompously.
"From Salem, sir."
Captain. (With a sly twinkle in his eyes, in spite of himself.) What are the chief staples of Salem?
I. Shoemakers, old maids, and sharks' teeth.
Captain. What is your name?
I. Barney Blake, sir.
Captain. Who was your mother?
I. Never had any.
Captain. (With his eyes twinkling more than ever.) Who are you the son of?
I. I'm the son of a sea cook, was weaned on salt water, reared on sea biscuits, and am thirsty for prize money.
"You'll do!" cried the captain, shaking with merriment like a bowl of bonnyclabber, and striking the table with his fat fist. "Boatswain, enter him on the books as Barney Blake, son of a sea cook; give him a cutlass and two pistols, and make him stand around. Avast, you vagabond, and look sharp, or I'll be down on you with a cat and spread-eagle!"
The laughter of the captain, as we left him, was anything but in accordance with this monstrous threat.
"Good for you!" whispered Tony, encouragingly, as we ascended the companion ladder.
He then brought me forward and introduced me to the entire forecastle. His words, upon this occasion, were somewhat characteristic, and here they are:
"Look yer', messmates, this 'ere cove is a perticklar chum o' mine. I've know'd him fer ten year—ran away from school with him, fell in love with the same gal, and cruised with him on the Constitution for three year. All I got ter say is, treat him well, or some o' yer'll git a eye so black yer own mother won't know yer, unless she's a black woman with a sore head: for he's as lively on his pins as a four-year-old cater-mountain, plucky as a Mexican gamecock, and the sweep of his fist is like the flounder of a ground-shark's fluke. Messmates, this 'ere is Barney Blake, Son of a Sea-Cook."
Although I could not consistently endorse this opinion of my abilities, the gusto with which it was received by my future messmates rendered it poor policy to deny it, so I went forward, and a general handshake was the result.
How shall I describe the crew of the Queer Fish? They numbered one hundred and twenty-five men, all told, and were as motley a set as were ever grouped together under hatches.
The majority were American-born, but there were four Hollanders, two Englishmen, six Frenchmen, two Malays, one Norwegian (Old Nick), and half a score of Irishmen. Each one was a character, but to describe each separately, and do him justice, would alone require a thousand pages; so I must be content with sketching the few who most prominently figured in the scenes I am about to narrate.
I have already mentioned Tony Trybrace and Old Nick, as well as the second mate, whose name was Pat Pickle, at least, so-called—a capital fellow as ever spoke through a trumpet, and brave as steel. Next in importance to these worthies was, perhaps, Dicky Drake, the butt of the whole crew. He was a green chap from somewhere down in Pennsylvania—had never been to sea before, except as a cod-fisher—and was the subject of a great number of practical jokes some of which will be duly recorded.
Probably the next worthy to be considered was our cook, a gigantic black man from the Virginia swamps, who went by the name of Snollygoster. I verily believe he was seven feet high, if an inch, and was possessed of the most prodigious strength.
I never saw the celebrated Milo of old. He must have been considerable in his way, but all I have got to say is that I would pit Snollygoster against him any day in the week and have no fear of my money. I have seen him raise a barrel of Santa Cruz and drink from the bunghole as easily as a common mortal would lift a box of cheese, and he was said to have felled an ox by a single blow of his fist. He was as good-humored a fellow as ever lived and stood any amount of practical joking. The queerest inconsistency in his character was his peaceable disposition. Although no one could accuse him of downright cowardice, he was as timid as a hare and would go a long way out of his way to avoid a fight. But, if this was shown in his intercourse with men, it did not appear, it seems, in any other description of danger. He was the merriest man on board the ship in a tempest, and one of the Malays who had shipped with him in the Indian Ocean, swore that he had no more fear of sharks than of so many flying fish.
There was another queer fellow by the name of Roderick Prinn, who hailed from Southampton. There was nothing very funny about him, either. He had a sad, puritanical aspect, never drank, smoked or even chewed, and had very little to say. The most singular thing was his extraordinary attachment to another of the crew. This was a boy, and a very pretty little fellow to boot, named Willie Warner. They had both shipped at Philadelphia, and there was a thread of mystery between them, which was quite incomprehensible. They would associate together almost entirely, and would frequently converse together in the low tones of a language which no one else could understand. Nevertheless, they did their work well, and, although they were considerably reserved with the rest of the crew, they were generally so kindly and agreeable in what they had to say, that no one could find fault.
Then there was an old salt, just such another as Old Nick, who was full of an innumerable quantity of stories. I don't know what his real name was, but we called him Bluefish, and he liked the name. The amount of yarn that was wound around somewhere inside that old fellow's jaw was somewhat marvelous. He was a regular old spool and had only to open his mouth to let out the longest and wildest lies on record, this or the other side of the Equator. Many a night, I can tell you, did we sit, gaping, round that old man of the sea, when the gale was blowing through the rigging a boreal tune, and all was snug below, to listen to his wild, weird, and, sometimes, humorous tales. Perhaps the reader will have one or two of them before we get through—who knows?
Well, I must let up on these descriptions, or our story will go a-begging.
I must say a few words about our first mate, and then I shall be all ready for the story, with royals spread, rigging taut, and everything trim to scud before the wind.
There wasn't anything funny about our first mate. He was, on the whole, an ugly, ill-natured dog, and thoroughly hated by everyone on the ship, except the captain, who generally stuck to him through thick and thin. He was a Scotchman—one of your low-browed, lantern-jawed, gaunt-boned, mean-livered Scotchmen—a regular Sawney all over, from the top of his red head to the sole of his bunioned feet. He had a voice like a cracked bugle and a heart as hard as the hardest flint on Ben Inverness, with never anything pleasant to say or do. We detested him and only waited for our chance to play a joke on him.
That will suffice for the men. As for the ship, she was as stanch and pretty a craft as ever plowed the blue waters, was built at Portland, masted at Bangor, and rigged at Boston, with an armament the best that money could procure. She was also a very swift sailer, and we calculated to play hob with John Bull's East Indiamen and whalers before we got through with the cruise.
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