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- CHAPTER XLVI.
THE COMMODORE ON THE POOP, AND ONE OF “THE PEOPLE” UNDER THE HANDS OF
THE SURGEON.
A day or two after the publication of Lemsford’s “Songs of the Sirens,”
a sad accident befell a mess-mate of mine, one of the captains of the
mizzen-top. He was a fine little Scot, who, from the premature loss of
the hair on the top of his head, always went by the name of _Baldy_.
This baldness was no doubt, in great part, attributable to the same
cause that early thins the locks of most man-of-war’s-men—namely, the
hard, unyielding, and ponderous man-of-war and navy-regulation
tarpaulin hat, which, when new, is stiff enough to sit upon, and
indeed, in lieu of his thumb, sometimes serves the common sailor for a
bench.
Now, there is nothing upon which the Commodore of a squadron more
prides himself than upon the celerity with which his men can handle the
sails, and go through with all the evolutions pertaining thereto. This
is especially manifested in harbour, when other vessels of his squadron
are near, and perhaps the armed ships of rival nations.
Upon these occasions, surrounded by his post-captain satraps—each of
whom in his own floating island is king—the Commodore domineers over
all—emperor of the whole oaken archipelago; yea, magisterial and
magnificent as the Sultan of the Isles of Sooloo.
But, even as so potent an emperor and Caesar to boot as the great Don
of Germany, Charles the Fifth, was used to divert himself in his dotage
by watching the gyrations of the springs and cogs of a long row of
clocks, even so does an elderly Commodore while away his leisure in
harbour, by what is called “_exercising guns_,” and also “_exercising
yards and sails;_” causing the various spars of all the ships under his
command to be “braced,” “topped,” and “cock billed” in concert, while
the Commodore himself sits, something like King Canute, on an arm-chest
on the poop of his flag-ship.
But far more regal than any descendant of Charlemagne, more haughty
than any Mogul of the East, and almost mysterious and voiceless in his
authority as the Great Spirit of the Five Nations, the Commodore deigns
not to verbalise his commands; they are imparted by signal.
And as for old Charles the Fifth, again, the gay-pranked, coloured
suits of cards were invented, to while away his dotage, even so,
doubtless, must these pretty little signals of blue and red spotted
_bunting_ have been devised to cheer the old age of all Commodores.
By the Commodore’s side stands the signal-midshipman, with a sea-green
bag swung on his shoulder (as a sportsman bears his game-bag), the
signal-book in one hand, and the signal spy-glass in the other. As this
signal-book contains the Masonic signs and tokens of the navy, and
would therefore be invaluable to an enemy, its binding is always
bordered with lead, so as to insure its sinking in case the ship should
be captured. Not the only book this, that might appropriately be bound
in lead, though there be many where the author, and not the bookbinder,
furnishes the metal.
As White-Jacket understands it, these signals consist of
variously-coloured flags, each standing for a certain number. Say there
are ten flags, representing the cardinal numbers—the red flag, No. 1;
the blue flag, No. 2; the green flag, No. 3, and so forth; then, by
mounting the blue flag over the red, that would stand for No. 21: if
the green flag were set underneath, it would then stand for 213. How
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_.”
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