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- 7558
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- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.274Z
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- 7483
- text
- easy, then, by endless transpositions, to multiply the various numbers
that may be exhibited at the mizzen-peak, even by only three or four of
these flags.
To each number a particular meaning is applied. No. 100, for instance,
may mean, “_Beat to quarters_.” No. 150, “_All hands to grog_.” No.
2000, “_Strike top-gallant-yards_.” No. 2110, “_See anything to
windward?_” No. 2800, “_No_.”
And as every man-of-war is furnished with a signal-book, where all
these things are set down in order, therefore, though two American
frigates—almost perfect strangers to each other—came from the opposite
Poles, yet at a distance of more than a mile they could carry on a very
liberal conversation in the air.
When several men-of-war of one nation lie at anchor in one port,
forming a wide circle round their lord and master, the flag-ship, it is
a very interesting sight to see them all obeying the Commodore’s
orders, who meanwhile never opens his lips.
Thus was it with us in Rio, and hereby hangs the story of my poor
messmate Bally.
One morning, in obedience to a signal from our flag-ship, the various
vessels belonging to the American squadron then in harbour
simultaneously loosened their sails to dry. In the evening, the signal
was set to furl them. Upon such occasions, great rivalry exists between
the First Lieutenants of the different ships; they vie with each other
who shall first have his sails stowed on the yards. And this rivalry is
shared between all the officers of each vessel, who are respectively
placed over the different top-men; so that the main-mast is all
eagerness to vanquish the fore-mast, and the mizzen-mast to vanquish
them both. Stimulated by the shouts of their officers, the sailors
throughout the squadron exert themselves to the utmost.
“Aloft, topmen! lay out! furl!” cried the First Lieutenant of the
Neversink.
At the word the men sprang into the rigging, and on all three masts
were soon climbing about the yards, in reckless haste, to execute their
orders.
Now, in furling top-sails or courses, the point of honour, and the
hardest work, is in the _bunt_, or middle of the yard; this post
belongs to the first captain of the top.
“What are you ’bout there, mizzen-top-men?” roared the First
Lieutenant, through his trumpet. “D——n you, you are clumsy as Russian
bears! don’t you see the main—top-men are nearly off the yard? Bear a
hand, bear a hand, or I’ll stop your grog all round! You, Baldy! are
you going to sleep there in the bunt?”
While this was being said, poor Baldy—his hat off, his face streaming
with perspiration—was frantically exerting himself, piling up the
ponderous folds of canvas in the middle of the yard; ever and anon
glancing at victorious Jack Chase, hard at work at the
main-top-sail-yard before him.
At last, the sail being well piled up, Baldy jumped with both feet into
the _bunt_, holding on with one hand to the chain “_tie_,” and in that
manner was violently treading down the canvas, to pack it close.
“D——n you, Baldy, why don’t you move, you crawling caterpillar;” roared
the First Lieutenant.
Baldy brought his whole weight to bear on the rebellious sail, and in
his frenzied heedlessness let go his hold on the _tie_.
“You, Baldy! are you afraid of falling?” cried the First Lieutenant.
At that moment, with all his force, Baldy jumped down upon the sail;
the _bunt gasket_ parted; and a dark form dropped through the air.
Lighting upon the _top-rim_, it rolled off; and the next instant, with
a horrid crash of all his bones, Baldy came, like a thunderbolt, upon
the deck.
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