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- 6328
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:05.591Z
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- 6213
- text
- “Were it not,” said the officer, now turning gravely upon his juniors,
“were it not that such a supposition were on other grounds absurd, I
should certainly conclude that this man, in some unknown way, got on
board here from the enemy last night.”
“How could he, sir?” asked the sailing-master.
“Heaven knows. But our spanker-boom geared the other ship, you know, in
manoeuvring to get headway.”
“But supposing he _could_ have got here that fashion, which is quite
impossible under all the circumstances, what motive could have induced
him voluntarily to jump among enemies?”
“Let him answer for himself,” said the officer, turning suddenly upon
Israel, with the view of taking him off his guard, by the matter of
course assumption of the very point at issue.
“Answer, sir. Why did you jump on board here, last night, from the
enemy?”
“Jump on board, sir, from the enemy? Why, sir, my station at general
quarters is at gun No. 3, of the lower deck, here.”
“He’s cracked—or else I am turned—or all the world is;—take him away!”
“But where am I to take him, sir?” said the master-at-arms. “He don’t
seem to belong anywhere, sir. Where—where am I to take him?”
“Take him-out of sight,” said the officer, now incensed with his own
perplexity. “Take him out of sight, I say.”
“Come along, then, my ghost,” said the master-at-arms. And, collaring
the phantom, he led it hither and thither, not knowing exactly what to
do with it.
Some fifteen minutes passed, when the captain coming from his cabin,
and observing the master-at-arms leading Israel about in this
indefinite style, demanded the reason of that procedure, adding that it
was against his express orders for any new and degrading punishments to
be invented for his men.
“Come here, master-at-arms. To what end do you lead that man about?”
“To no end in the world, sir. I keep leading him about because he has
no final destination.”
“Mr. Officer-of-the-deck, what does this mean? Who is this strange man?
I don’t know that I remember him. Who is he? And what is signified by
his being led about?”
Hereupon the officer-of-the-deck, throwing himself into a tragical
posture, set forth the entire mystery; much to the captain’s
astonishment, who at once indignantly turned upon the phantom.
“You rascal—don’t try to deceive me. Who are you? and where did you
come from last?”
“Sir, my name is Peter Perkins, and I last came from the forecastle,
where the master-at-arms last led me, before coming here.”
“No joking, sir, no joking.”
“Sir, I’m sure it’s too serious a business to joke about.”
“Do you have the assurance to say, that you, as a regularly shipped
man, have been on board this vessel ever since she sailed from
Falmouth, ten months ago?”
“Sir, anxious to secure a berth under so good a commander, I was among
the first to enlist.”
“What ports have we touched at, sir?” said the captain, now in a little
softer tone.
“Ports, sir, ports?”
“Yes, sir, _ports_”
Israel began to scratch his yellow hair.
“What _ports_, sir?”
“Well, sir:—Boston, for one.”
“Right there,” whispered a midshipman.
“What was the next port, sir?”
“Why, sir, I was saying Boston was the _first_ port, I believe; wasn’t
it?—and”—
“The _second_ port, sir, is what I want.”
“Well—New York.”
“Right again,” whispered the midshipman.
“And what port are we bound to, now?”
“Let me see—homeward-bound—Falmouth, sir.”
“What sort of a place is Boston?”
“Pretty considerable of a place, sir.”
“Very straight streets, ain’t they?”
“Yes, sir; cow-paths, cut by sheep-walks, and intersected with
hen-tracks.”
“When did we fire the first gun?”
“Well, sir, just as we were leaving Falmouth, ten months
ago—signal-gun, sir.”
- title
- Chunk 7