CHAPTER LXXVI.
THE CHAINS.
When wearied with the tumult and occasional contention of the gun-deckof our frigate, I have often retreated to a port-hole, and calmedmyself down by gazing broad off upon a placid sea. After the battle-dinof the last two chapters, let us now do the like, and, in thesequestered fore-chains of the Neversink, tranquillise ourselves, if wemay.
Notwithstanding the domestic communism to which the seamen in aman-of-war are condemned, and the publicity in which actions the mostdiffident and retiring in their nature must be performed, there is yetan odd corner or two where you may sometimes steal away, and, for a fewmoments, almost be private.
Chief among these places is the _chains_, to which I would sometimeshie during our pleasant homeward-bound glide over those pensivetropical latitudes. After hearing my fill of the wild yarns of our top,here would I recline--if not disturbed--serenely concocting informationinto wisdom.
The chains designates the small platform outside of the hull, at thebase of the large shrouds leading down from the three mast-heads to thebulwarks. At present they seem to be getting out of vogue amongmerchant-vessels, along with the fine, old-fashioned quarter-galleries,little turret-like ap-purtenances, which, in the days of the oldAdmirals, set off the angles of an armed ship's stern. Here a navalofficer might lounge away an hour after action, smoking a cigar, todrive out of his whiskers the villainous smoke of the gun-powder. Thepicturesque, delightful stern-gallery, also, a broad balconyoverhanging the sea, and entered from the Captain's cabin, much as youmight enter a bower from a lady's chamber; this charming balcony,where, sailing over summer seas in the days of the old Peruvianviceroys, the Spanish cavalier Mendanna, of Lima, made love to the LadyIsabella, as they voyaged in quest of the Solomon Islands, the fabulousOphir, the Grand Cyclades; and the Lady Isabella, at sunset, blushedlike the Orient, and gazed down to the gold-fish and silver-huedflying-fish, that wove the woof and warp of their wakes in bright,scaly tartans and plaids underneath where the Lady reclined; thischarming balcony--exquisite retreat--has been cut away by Vandalicinnovations. Ay, that claw-footed old gallery is no longer in fashion;in Commodore's eyes, is no longer genteel.
Out on all furniture fashions but those that are past! Give me mygrandfather's old arm-chair, planted upon four carved frogs, as theHindoos fabled the world to be supported upon four tortoises; give mehis cane, with the gold-loaded top--a cane that, like the musket ofGeneral Washington's father and the broadsword of William Wallace,would break down the back of the switch-carrying dandies of thesespindle-shank days; give me his broad-breasted vest, coming bravelydown over the hips, and furnished with two strong-boxes of pockets tokeep guineas in; toss this toppling cylinder of a beaver overboard, andgive me my grandfather's gallant, gable-ended, cocked hat.
But though the quarter-galleries and the stern-gallery of a man-of-warare departed, yet the _chains_ still linger; nor can there be imagineda more agreeable retreat. The huge blocks and lanyards forming thepedestals of the shrouds divide the chains into numerous littlechapels, alcoves, niches, and altars, where you lazily lounge--outsideof the ship, though on board. But there are plenty to divide a goodthing with you in this man-of-war world. Often, when snugly seated inone of these little alcoves, gazing off to the horizon, and thinking ofCathay, I have been startled from my repose by some old quarter-gunner,who, having newly painted a parcel of match-tubs, wanted to set them todry.
At other times, one of the tattooing artists would crawl over thebulwarks, followed by his sitter; and then a bare arm or leg would beextended, and the disagreeable business of "_pricking_" commence, rightunder my eyes; or an irruption of tars, with ditty-bags orsea-reticules, and piles of old trowsers to mend, would break in uponmy seclusion, and, forming a sewing-circle, drive me off with theirchatter.
But once--it was a Sunday afternoon--I was pleasantly reclining in aparticularly shady and secluded little niche between two lanyards, whenI heard a low, supplicating voice. Peeping through the narrow spacebetween the ropes, I perceived an aged seaman on his knees, his faceturned seaward, with closed eyes, buried in prayer. Softly rising, Istole through a port-hole, and left the venerable worshipper alone.
He was a sheet-anchor-man, an earnest Baptist, and was well known, inhis own part of the ship, to be constant in his solitary devotions inthe _chains_. He reminded me of St. Anthony going out into thewilderness to pray.
This man was captain of the starboard bow-chaser, one of the two longtwenty-four-pounders on the forecastle. In time of action, the commandof that iron Thalaba the Destroyer would devolve upon _him_. It wouldbe his business to "train" it properly; to see it well loaded; thegrape and cannister rammed home; also, to "prick the cartridge," "takethe sight," and give the word for the match-man to apply his wand;bidding a sudden hell to flash forth from the muzzle, in widecombustion and death.
Now, this captain of the bow-chaser was an upright old man, a sincere,humble believer, and he but earned his bread in being captain of thatgun; but how, with those hands of his begrimed with powder, could hebreak that _other_ and most peaceful and penitent bread of the Supper?though in that hallowed sacrament, it seemed, he had often partakenashore. The omission of this rite in a man-of-war--though there is achaplain to preside over it, and at least a few communicants topartake--must be ascribed to a sense of religious propriety, in thelast degree to be commended.
Ah! the best righteousness of our man-of-war world seems but anunrealised ideal, after all; and those maxims which, in the hope ofbringing about a Millennium, we busily teach to the heathen, weChristians ourselves disregard. In view of the whole present socialframe-work of our world, so ill adapted to the practical adoption ofthe meekness of Christianity, there seems almost some ground for thethought, that although our blessed Saviour was full of the wisdom ofheaven, yet his gospel seems lacking in the practical wisdom ofearth--in a due appreciation of the necessities of nations at timesdemanding bloody massacres and wars; in a proper estimation of thevalue of rank, title, and money. But all this only the more crowns thedivine consistency of Jesus; since Burnet and the best theologiansdemonstrate, that his nature was not merely human--was not that of amere man of the world.