The Story of a Bad Boy
Chapter Three--On Board the Typhoon
I do not remember much about the voyage to Boston, for after the firstfew hours at sea I was dreadfully unwell.
The name of our ship was the "A No. 1, fast-sailing packet Typhoon."I learned afterwards that she sailed fast only in the newspaperadvertisements. My father owned one quarter of the Typhoon, and that iswhy we happened to go in her. I tried to guess which quarter of the shiphe owned, and finally concluded it must be the hind quarter--the cabin,in which we had the cosiest of state-rooms, with one round window in theroof, and two shelves or boxes nailed up against the wall to sleep in.
There was a good deal of confusion on deck while we were getting underway. The captain shouted orders (to which nobody seemed to pay anyattention) through a battered tin trumpet, and grew so red in the facethat he reminded me of a scooped-out pumpkin with a lighted candleinside. He swore right and left at the sailors without the slightestregard for their feelings. They didn't mind it a bit, however, but wenton singing--
"Heave ho! With the rum below, And hurrah for the Spanish Main O!"
I will not be positive about "the Spanish Main," but it was hurrah forsomething O. I considered them very jolly fellows, and so indeed theywere. One weather-beaten tar in particular struck my fancy--a thick-set,jovial man, about fifty years of age, with twinkling blue eyes and afringe of gray hair circling his head like a crown. As he took off histarpaulin I observed that the top of his head was quite smooth and flat,as if somebody had sat down on him when he was very young.
There was something noticeably hearty in this man's bronzed face, aheartiness that seemed to extend to his loosely knotted neckerchief. Butwhat completely won my good-will was a picture of enviable lovelinesspainted on his left arm. It was the head of a woman with the body of afish. Her flowing hair was of livid green, and she held a pink comb inone hand. I never saw anything so beautiful. I determined to know thatman. I think I would have given my brass pistol to have had such apicture painted on my arm.
While I stood admiring this work of art, a fat wheezy steamtug, withthe word AJAX in staring black letters on the paddlebox, came puffing upalongside the Typhoon. It was ridiculously small and conceited, comparedwith our stately ship. I speculated as to what it was going to do. In afew minutes we were lashed to the little monster, which gave a snort anda shriek, and commenced backing us out from the levee (wharf) with thegreatest ease.
I once saw an ant running away with a piece of cheese eight or ten timeslarger than itself. I could not help thinking of it, when I found thechubby, smoky-nosed tug-boat towing the Typhoon out into the MississippiRiver.
In the middle of the stream we swung round, the current caught us, andaway we flew like a great winged bird. Only it didn't seem as if we weremoving. The shore, with the countless steamboats, the tangled rigging ofthe ships, and the long lines of warehouses, appeared to be gliding awayfrom us.
It was grand sport to stand on the quarter-deck and watch all this.Before long there was nothing to be seen on other side but stretches oflow swampy land, covered with stunted cypress trees, from which droopeddelicate streamers of Spanish moss--a fine place for alligators and Congosnakes. Here and there we passed a yellow sand-bar, and here and there asnag lifted its nose out of the water like a shark.
"This is your last chance to see the city, To see the city, Tom," saidmy father, as we swept round a bend of the river.
I turned and looked. New Orleans was just a colorless mass of somethingin the distance, and the dome of the St. Charles Hotel, upon whichthe sun shimmered for a moment, was no bigger than the top of old AuntChloe's thimble.
What do I remember next? The gray sky and the fretful blue waters of theGulf. The steam-tug had long since let slip her hawsers and gone pantingaway with a derisive scream, as much as to say, "I've done my duty, nowlook out for yourself, old Typhoon!"
The ship seemed quite proud of being left to take care of itself, and,with its huge white sails bulged out, strutted off like a vain turkey.I had been standing by my father near the wheel-house all this while,observing things with that nicety of perception which belongs onlyto children; but now the dew began falling, and we went below to havesupper.
The fresh fruit and milk, and the slices of cold chicken, looked verynice; yet somehow I had no appetite There was a general smell of tarabout everything. Then the ship gave sudden lurches that made it amatter of uncertainty whether one was going to put his fork to his mouthor into his eye. The tumblers and wineglasses, stuck in a rack over thetable, kept clinking and clinking; and the cabin lamp, suspended by fourgilt chains from the ceiling, swayed to and fro crazily. Now the floorseemed to rise, and now it seemed to sink under one's feet like afeather-bed.
There were not more than a dozen passengers on board, includingourselves; and all of these, excepting a bald-headed old gentleman--aretired sea-captain--disappeared into their staterooms at an early hourof the evening.
After supper was cleared away, my father and the elderly gentleman,whose name was Captain Truck, played at checkers; and I amused myselffor a while by watching the trouble they had in keeping the men in theproper places. Just at the most exciting point of the game, the shipwould careen, and down would go the white checkers pell-mell among theblack. Then my father laughed, but Captain Truck would grow very angry,and vow that he would have won the game in a move or two more, ifthe confounded old chicken-coop--that's what he called the ship--hadn'tlurched.
"I--I think I will go to bed now, please," I said, laying my band on myfather's knee, and feeling exceedingly queer.
It was high time, for the Typhoon was plunging about in the mostalarming fashion. I was speedily tucked away in the upper berth, whereI felt a trifle more easy at first. My clothes were placed on a narrowshelf at my feet, and it was a great comfort to me to know that mypistol was so handy, for I made no doubt we should fall in withPirates before many hours. This is the last thing I remember with anydistinctness. At midnight, as I was afterwards told, we were struck bya gale which never left us until we came in sight of the Massachusettscoast.
For days and days I had no sensible idea of what was going on around me.That we were being hurled somewhere upside-down, and that I didn't likeit, was about all I knew. I have, indeed, a vague impression that myfather used to climb up to the berth and call me his "Ancient Mariner,"bidding me cheer up. But the Ancient Mariner was far from cheering up,if I recollect rightly; and I don't believe that venerable navigatorwould have cared much if it had been announced to him, through aspeaking-trumpet, that "a low, black, suspicious craft, with rakingmasts, was rapidly bearing down upon us!"
In fact, one morning, I thought that such was the case, for bang! wentthe big cannon I had noticed in the bow of the ship when we came onboard, and which had suggested to me the idea of Pirates. Bang! wentthe gun again in a few seconds. I made a feeble effort to get at mytrousers-pocket! But the Typhoon was only saluting Cape Cod--thefirst land sighted by vessels approaching the coast from a southerlydirection.
The vessel had ceased to roll, and my sea-sickness passed away asrapidly as it came. I was all right now, "only a little shaky in mytimbers and a little blue about the gills," as Captain Truck remarked tomy mother, who, like myself, had been confined to the state-room duringthe passage.
At Cape Cod the wind parted company with us without saying as muchas "Excuse me"; so we were nearly two days in making the run which infavorable weather is usually accomplished in seven hours. That's whatthe pilot said.
I was able to go about the ship now, and I lost no time in cultivatingthe acquaintance of the sailor with the green-haired lady on his arm.I found him in the forecastle--a sort of cellar in the front part of thevessel. He was an agreeable sailor, as I had expected, and we became thebest of friends in five minutes.
He had been all over the world two or three times, and knew no end ofstories. According to his own account, he must have been shipwreckedat least twice a year ever since his birth. He had served under Decaturwhen that gall
ant officer peppered the Algerines and made them promisenot to sell their prisoners of war into slavery; he had worked a gunat the bombardment of Vera Cruz in the Mexican War, and he had been onAlexander Selkirk's Island more than once. There were very few things hehadn't done in a seafaring way.
"I suppose, sir," I remarked, "that your name isn't Typhoon?"
"Why, Lord love ye, lad, my name's Benjamin Watson, of Nantucket. ButI'm a true blue Typhooner," he added, which increased my respect forhim; I don't know why, and I didn't know then whether Typhoon was thename of a vegetable or a profession.
Not wishing to be outdone in frankness, I disclosed to him that my namewas Tom Bailey, upon which he said he was very glad to hear it.
When we got more intimate, I discovered that Sailor Ben, as he wishedme to call him, was a perfect walking picturebook. He had two anchors, astar, and a frigate in full sail on his right arm; a pair of lovely bluehands clasped on his breast, and I've no doubt that other parts of hisbody were illustrated in the same agreeable manner. I imagine he wasfond of drawings, and took this means of gratifying his artistic taste.It was certainly very ingenious and convenient. A portfolio mightbe misplaced, or dropped overboard; but Sailor Ben had his pictureswherever he went, just as that eminent person in the poem,
"With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes"--was accompanied bymusic on all occasions.
The two bands on his breast, he informed me, were a tribute to thememory of a dead messmate from whom he had parted years ago--and surely amore touching tribute was never engraved on a tombstone. This caused meto think of my parting with old Aunt Chloe, and I told him I should takeit as a great favor indeed if he would paint a pink hand and a blackhand on my chest. He said the colors were pricked into the skin withneedles, and that the operation was somewhat painful. I assured him, inan off-hand manner, that I didn't mind pain, and begged him to set towork at once.
The simple-hearted fellow, who was probably not a little vain of hisskill, took me into the forecastle, and was on the point of complyingwith my request, when my father happened to own the gangway--acircumstance that rather interfered with the decorative art.
I didn't have another opportunity of conferring alone with Sailor Ben,for the next morning, bright and early, we came in sight of the cupolaof the Boston State House.