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- whaleboats were gone: and of the four harpooners, only one was left, a
wild New Zealander, or “Mowree” as his countrymen are more commonly
called in the Pacific. But this was not all. More than half the seamen
remaining were more or less unwell from a long sojourn in a dissipated
port; some of them wholly unfit for duty, one or two dangerously ill,
and the rest managing to stand their watch though they could do but
little.
The captain was a young cockney, who, a few years before, had emigrated
to Australia, and, by some favouritism or other, had procured the
command of the vessel, though in no wise competent. He was essentially
a landsman, and though a man of education, no more meant for the sea
than a hairdresser. Hence everybody made fun of him. They called him
“The Cabin Boy,” “Paper Jack,” and half a dozen other undignified
names. In truth, the men made no secret of the derision in which they
held him; and as for the slender gentleman himself, he knew it all very
well, and bore himself with becoming meekness. Holding as little
intercourse with them as possible, he left everything to the chief
mate, who, as the story went, had been given his captain in charge.
Yet, despite his apparent unobtrusiveness, the silent captain had more
to do with the men than they thought. In short, although one of your
sheepish-looking fellows, he had a sort of still, timid cunning, which
no one would have suspected, and which, for that very reason, was all
the more active. So the bluff mate, who always thought he did what he
pleased, was occasionally made a fool of; and some obnoxious measures
which he carried out, in spite of all growlings, were little thought to
originate with the dapper little fellow in nankeen jacket and white
canvas pumps. But, to all appearance, at least, the mate had everything
his own way; indeed, in most things this was actually the case; and it
was quite plain that the captain stood in awe of him.
So far as courage, seamanship, and a natural aptitude for keeping
riotous spirits in subjection were concerned, no man was better
qualified for his vocation than John Jermin. He was the very beau-ideal
of the efficient race of short, thick-set men. His hair curled in
little rings of iron gray all over his round bullet head. As for his
countenance, it was strongly marked, deeply pitted with the small-pox.
For the rest, there was a fierce little squint out of one eye; the nose
had a rakish twist to one side; while his large mouth, and great white
teeth, looked absolutely sharkish when he laughed. In a word, no one,
after getting a fair look at him, would ever think of improving the
shape of his nose, wanting in symmetry as it was. Notwithstanding his
pugnacious looks, however, Jermin had a heart as big as a bullock’s;
that you saw at a glance.
Such was our mate; but he had one failing: he abhorred all weak
infusions, and cleaved manfully to strong drink.. At all times he was
more or less under the influence of it. Taken in moderate quantities, I
believe, in my soul, it did a man like him good; brightened his eyes,
swept the cobwebs out of his brain, and regulated his pulse. But the
worst of it was, that sometimes he drank too much, and a more
obstreperous fellow than Jermin in his cups, you seldom came across. He
was always for having a fight; but the very men he flogged loved him as
a brother, for he had such an irresistibly good-natured way of knocking
them down, that no one could find it in his heart to bear malice
against him. So much for stout little Jermin.
All English whalemen are bound by-law to carry a physician, who, of
course, is rated a gentleman, and lives in the cabin, with nothing but
his professional duties to attend to; but incidentally he drinks “flip”
and plays cards with the captain. There was such a worthy aboard of the
Julia; but, curious to tell, he lived in the forecastle with the men.
And this was the way it happened.
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