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- 6004
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.591Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 5917
- text
- men were in companies allotted to particular places and functions.
Therefore, to escape final detection, Israel must some way get himself
recognized as belonging to some one of those bands; otherwise, as an
isolated nondescript, discovery ere long would be certain, especially
upon the next general muster. To be sure, the hope in question was a
forlorn sort of hope, but it was his sole one, and must therefore be
tried.
Mixing in again for a while with the general watch, he at last goes on
the forecastle among the sheet-anchor-men there, at present engaged in
critically discussing the merits of the late valiant encounter, and
expressing their opinion that by daybreak the enemy in chase would be
hull-down out of sight.
“To be sure she will,” cried Israel, joining in with the group, “old
ballyhoo that she is, to be sure. But didn’t we pepper her, lads? Give
us a chew of tobacco, one of ye. How many have we wounded, do ye know?
None killed that I’ve heard of. Wasn’t that a fine hoax we played on
’em? Ha! ha! But give us a chew.”
In the prodigal fraternal patriotism of the moment, one of the old
worthies freely handed his plug to our adventurer, who, helping
himself, returned it, repeating the question as to the killed and
wounded.
“Why,” said he of the plug, “Jack Jewboy told me, just now, that
there’s only seven men been carried down to the surgeon, but not a soul
killed.”
“Good, boys, good!” cried Israel, moving up to one of the
gun-carriages, where three or four men were sitting—“slip along, chaps,
slip along, and give a watchmate a seat with ye.”
“All full here, lad; try the next gun.”
“Boys, clear a place here,”, said Israel, advancing, like one of the
family, to that gun.
“Who the devil are _you_, making this row here?” demanded a
stern-looking old fellow, captain of the forecastle, “seems to me you
make considerable noise. Are you a forecastleman?”
“If the bowsprit belongs here, so do I,” rejoined Israel, composedly.
“Let’s look at ye, then!” and seizing a battle-lantern, before thrust
under a gun, the old veteran came close to Israel before he had time to
elude the scrutiny.
“Take that!” said his examiner, and fetching Israel a terrible thump,
pushed him ignominiously off the forecastle as some unknown interloper
from distant parts of the ship.
With similar perseverance of effrontery, Israel tried other quarters of
the vessel. But with equal ill success. Jealous with the spirit of
class, no social circle would receive him. As a last resort, he dived
down among the _holders_.
A group of them sat round a lantern, in the dark bowels of the ship,
like a knot of charcoal burners in a pine forest at midnight.
“Well, boys, what’s the good word?” said Israel, advancing very
cordially, but keeping as much as possible in the shadow.
“The good word is,” rejoined a censorious old _holder_, “that you had
best go where you belong—on deck—and not be a skulking down here where
you _don’t_ belong. I suppose this is the way you skulked during the
fight.”
“Oh, you’re growly to-night, shipmate,” said Israel, pleasantly—“supper
sits hard on your conscience.”
“Get out of the hold with ye,” roared the other. “On deck, or I’ll call
the master-at-arms.”
Once more Israel decamped.
Sorely against his grain, as a final effort to blend himself openly
with the crew, he now went among the _waisters_: the vilest caste of an
armed ship’s company, mere dregs and settlings—sea-Pariahs, comprising
all the lazy, all the inefficient, all the unfortunate and fated, all
the melancholy, all the infirm, all the rheumatical scamps,
scapegraces, ruined prodigal sons, sooty faces, and swineherds of the
crew, not excluding those with dismal wardrobes.
An unhappy, tattered, moping row of them sat along dolefully on the
gun-deck, like a parcel of crest-fallen buzzards, exiled from civilized
society.
- title
- Chunk 3