CHAPTER VIII.

“ALL HANDS, UP ANCHOR!”

Jack Somers had a very correct idea of the interior of a man-of-war, and of the various officers and their duties, when he went on board the Harrisburg; but he was not a little confused by the many numbers he had to remember, which were used to indicate his various stations at the guns and the mess, on deck, in the top, in the boat, and in his hammock.

He was placed in the starboard watch, stationed in the mizzen-top, belonged to the third division of the battery, attached to gun No. 9, was first-loader, and second-boarder. In furling sails, he belonged on the starboard yard-arm of the mizzen-top-gallant yard. In reefing topsails, his place was on the port yard-arm of the mizzen-topsail yard. In tacking or wearing ship, his position was at the lee main-brace. In loosing sails, his place was the same as in furling. In getting up anchor, his duty was at the capstan. In boat, he pulled the bow-oar of the captain’s gig.

Jack Somers was a good boy, and was determined to know and do his duty. As soon, therefore, as he had a chance to sit down by himself, he began to think over and fix in his mind his various stations, and to rehearse all that had been said to him. But he found that he had already forgotten some of his numbers; yet, by the grace of the first-lieutenant, he was permitted to consult the station-bill, a document in which the position of every man in the ship is recorded. As perseverance always overcomes every obstacle, he soon made himself proficient in all his numbers.

While the ship remained at her moorings in the river, the crew were daily exercised in their various duties, and Jack soon became practically familiar with everything required of him. After he had been on board about a week, the proper signal was hoisted, every fire and light in the ship were extinguished, and the powder was taken in, and stowed in the magazine.

“Now, my little roisterer, we shall soon be in blue water,” said Tom Longstone, as they gathered around the mess-table that afternoon.

“The sooner the better,” replied Jack. “I want to stand by that gun No. 9 when she pours shot and shell into the rebels.”

“You will have a chance one of these days, my bantam, if you are patient.”

“We may be sent off on blockade duty,” said Ben Blinks, who, by some contrivance of interested parties, was in the same mess.

“Then we shall have a chance to gather up some prize-money,” added Bob Rushington, who, by the same contrivance, was a member of mess No. 4.

“I should like the prize-money very well,” continued Jack; “but I don’t like the idea of hugging a sand-bar for the next six months.”

“Well, my hearties, old Tom ain’t no prophet: but I really don’t think this ship is going on the blockade; and, if she don’t have some rebel shot through her in less than three months, I’m content to give half my grub to the jollies.”

“Where do you suppose we are bound?” asked Ben.

“Don’t know; don’t care: but this ship ain’t a-going to burrow in the mud, no how. Now, mind what old Tom says, and write it down in your log-book.”

It was quite impossible to tell whether Tom was right or wrong: but his words were accepted for all and more than they were worth; for the speaker was a kind of oracle among the seamen, on account of his long experience in the service. The next morning, the engineers and firemen were observed to be very busy; and soon the smoke was seen to issue from the smoke-stack. The fires roared for several hours in the furnaces, and the steam hissed in accord with the impatience of the crew to be off.

After Jack’s patience had been sorely tried by the long delay, he welcomed with a thrill of delight the pipe of the boatswain.

“All hands, up anchor!”

It seemed to him just as though the beginning of all things had come, and he sprang to his station at the capstan. The first-lieutenant was now in charge of the deck: he had received his orders from the captain, and was proceeding to the systematic execution of the details. The second-lieutenant was on the forecastle, with the boatswain near him. The third-lieutenant was in the waist, and the fourth on the quarter-deck, near the mizzen-mast. These were the stations which these officers took when any manœuvre which required all hands was to be executed.

“Ship the capstan-bars!” said the first-lieutenant.

The order was repeated by his subordinates; and all the sailors assigned to this duty seized the bars, and inserted them in the drum of the capstan.

“Bring-to, forward!” continued the executive officer; which order was repeated by his juniors as before.

Our non-nautical readers will not, perhaps, understand this command; and we will try to render it into English. The cable to which the anchor is attached, and which holds the ship to the bottom, is a very large iron chain. A rope, called the “messenger,” is attached to this chain by a contrivance called a “selvagee.” The messenger extends from the cable to the capstan, around which it is passed several times. When the capstan is turned by the men, of course it winds up the messenger, and hauls in the chain fastened to the anchor. “Bring-to, forward,” was the order requiring the men to attach the messenger to the cable, and pass it around the capstan.

“Are you ready forward?” shouted the first-lieutenant, after he had waited a sufficient time for his former order to be executed.

“All ready forward, sir!” responded the second-lieutenant.

“Walk round with the capstan!” added the first-lieutenant.

The men went round with a will; and Jack would fain have sung his “Yo-heave-oh!” as he had been accustomed to do at the windlass on board his father’s vessel: but the “people” of a man-of-war are required to execute their duties in silence. The music of a fife, playing Yankee Doodle, as an accompaniment to the movement, was, however, some consolation, and assisted him very much in keeping the needed “stopper on his jaw-tackle.”

“Anchor away, sir!” said the boatswain, who was on the forecastle, ready to report what progress the cumbrous anchor was making in its passage upward to the regions of daylight.

“Anchor away, sir!” repeated the second-lieutenant.

“Strike one bell!” continued the first-lieutenant, addressing the quartermaster, who was stationed at the wheel.

Old Tom Longstone, who was in charge of the wheel, struck one bell, which was the signal for the engineer on duty to “go ahead slowly.”

“Anchor’s up, sir!” added the boatswain, after the men had walked round the capstan a while longer.

“Anchor’s up, sir!” repeated the second-lieutenant.

“Pawl the capstan!” ordered the first-lieutenant; which meant that it was to be secured, so as to keep the anchor where it was. “Unship the capstan-bars!”

This order was repeated by the under-officers, and executed in good order by the men. There was no crowding or treading upon each other’s corns; but everyone knew his place, and did not get in anybody’s way.

“Cat the anchor!” said the first-lieutenant.

The ponderous anchor was now hanging at the hawse-hole; and the execution of the order last given would secure it upon the top of the bulwarks, ready to be dropped overboard when occasion should again require its use.

“Lay forward to the cat-falls!” said the boatswain; and those whose duty it was to do this work attached a purchase-block to the anchor, for the purpose of hoisting it up to the cat-head, which is a timber projecting out over the bow of the ship.

“All ready with the cat, sir!” reported the second-lieutenant.

“Walk away with the cat!” replied the executive officer.

On board a man-of-war, the ropes are not pulled hand over hand; but the men walk away with them: that is, they run along the deck with them as firemen do with the engine.

“Strike four bells!” continued the first-lieutenant to the quartermaster at the wheel; which meant, “Go ahead at full speed!”

The Harrisburg was now actually in motion, and gliding down the Delaware upon her mission of destruction among the rebels; if, indeed, such was her mission: for none of the crew had the remotest idea where the good ship was bound, or upon what kind of duty she was ordered. If the officers knew, they did not condescend to inform the men; for the “people” are as far removed from their superiors in social rank in the ship, as though they were not all equals before the democratic law of our land.

“Here we are!” said Jack enthusiastically, as he placed himself by the side of Bob Rushington, who was gazing through one of the open ports into the water.

“Yes, my lad, we are off,” replied the dandy sailor, who looked very sad and sentimental for the moment. “Has it occurred to you that not everyone who is full of life and hope to-day will return alive and well from this cruise?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought anything about it,” replied Jack with a smile, as he glanced at the wry face of his friend; “and, what’s more, I don’t mean to think anything about it.”

“You are a thoughtless boy,” sighed Bob. “Some of us will lose the number of our mess before many weeks have passed by.”

“Very likely, Bob: but we are going out to fight for our country; and, if we are not ready to die for her, we have no business here.”

“Very true, my lad; but the future is dark and uncommunicative.”

“Come, Bob, you splice too many syllables on your words. You are a brave fellow, and ready to do your duty.”

“I trust I am; but sad thoughts come like the autumn of the year.”

“Avast there, Bob!” said Ben Blinks. “Don’t frighten the lad.”

“He doesn’t frighten me,” added Jack. “I put my trust in God; and, come what may, I know it will be all right with me as long as I do my duty to my God and my country.”

“Why, darken my top-lights, if the lad don’t talk like a parson!” said Ben.

But, while they were laughing at Jack for his pious expression of faith, the drum beat to quarters; and, in a moment more, the great guns were belching forth the customary salute. This was a new experience to our sailor-boy; for, though he had been through with all the forms of firing the guns, he had not before heard them “speak.” The sound was perfectly stunning: but Jack was a lad of too much spirit to exhibit any signs of dislike; and, though he could not hear himself speak, he worked like an old man-of-war’s man at his post.

The Harrisburg continued on her course down the river under steam alone. The strict discipline of sea service commenced, and everything went along on board like clockwork. The regular watches were set; and the second-lieutenant, who was the officer of the deck, walked up and down on the weather-side, upon which no idlers, and no officers or men not on duty, were permitted to intrude.

In a ship-of-war, as in a merchant-vessel, the twenty-four hours are divided into watches of four hours each. Commencing at eight o’clock in the evening, the starboard watch is on duty till twelve. At half-past eight, one bell is struck; at nine, two bells; and so on till the end of the watch, when eight bells indicate the time for the port watch to relieve the other.

The port watch is then on duty till eight bells, or four o’clock in the morning. From four till eight is the morning watch; from eight till twelve is the forenoon watch; from twelve till four is the afternoon watch. From four till eight are the “dog-watches;” that is, the four hours are divided into two watches of two hours each. By this arrangement, the watch which came on duty at eight o’clock the preceding night will be below during the first part of the night. If it were not for the dog-watches, the starboard watch would be on duty every night during the cruise from eight till twelve, and again from four till eight in the morning, thus obtaining but four hours’ sleep each night; while the port watch would sleep every night from eight till twelve, and from four till seven in the morning. By the change which the half-watches introduce, every man obtains four hours’ sleep on watch-nights, and seven hours on other nights.

At four o’clock, when the hands were piped to supper, the Harrisburg was off Cape Henlopen, and standing out to sea.