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GRAHAM'S MAGAZINE.

VOL. XXXII. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1848. No. 3.




THE CRUISE OF THE GENTILE.

BY FRANK BYRNE.


CHAPTER I.

_In which the reader is introduced to several of the dramatis personae._


On the evening of the 25th of March, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and thirty-nine, the ship Gentile, of Boston,
lay at anchor in the harbor of Valetta.

It is quite proper, gentle reader, that, as it is with this ship and
her crew that you will chiefly have to do in the following yarn, they
should be severally and particularly introduced to your notice.

To begin, then. Imagine yourself standing on the parapet of St. Elmo,
about thirty minutes past five o'clock on the evening above mentioned;
the Gentile lies but little more than a cable's length from the shore,
so that you can almost look down upon her decks. You perceive that she
is a handsome craft of some six or seven hundred tons burthen,
standing high out of water, in ballast trim, with a black hull, bright
waist, and wales painted white. Her bows flare very much, and are
sharp and symmetrical; the cut-water stretches, with a graceful curve,
far out beyond them toward the long sweeping martingal, and is
surmounted by a gilt scroll, or, as the sailors call it, a
fiddle-head. The black stern is ornamented by a group of white figures
in bas relief, which give a lively air to the otherwise sombre and
vacant expression, and beneath the cabin-windows is painted the name
of the ship, and her port of register. The lower masts of this vessel
are short and stout, the top-masts are of great height, the extreme
points of the fore and mizzen-royal poles, are adorned with gilt
balls, and over all, at the truck of the main sky-sail pole, floats a
handsome red burgee, upon which a large G is visible. There are no
yards across but the lower and topsail-yards, which are very long and
heavy, precisely squared, and to which the sails are furled in an
exceeding neat and seaman-like manner. The rigging is universally taut
and trim; and it is easy to perceive that the officers of the Gentile
understand their business. The swinging-boom is rigged out, and
fastened thereto, by their painters, a pair of boats, a yawl and gig,
float lovingly side by side; and instead of the usual ladder at the
side, a handy flight of accommodation steps lead from the water-line
to the gangway.

Now, dear reader, leaving the battlements of St. Elmo, you alight upon
the deck of our ship, which you find to be white and clean, and, as
seamen say, sheer--that is to say, without break, poop, or
hurricane-house--forming on each side of the line of masts a smooth,
unencumbered plane the entire length of the deck, inclining with a
gentle curve from the bow and stern toward the waist. The bulwarks are
high, and are surmounted by a paneled monkey-rail; the belaying-pins
in the plank-shear are of lignum-vitae and mahogany, and upon them the
rigging is laid up in accurate and graceful coils. The balustrade
around the cabin companion-way and sky-light is made of polished
brass, the wheel is inlaid with brass, and the capstan-head, the
gangway-stanchions, and bucket-hoops are of the same glittering metal.
Forward of the main hatchway the long-boat stands in its chocks,
covered over with a roof, and a good-natured looking cow, whose stable
is thus contrived, protrudes her head from a window, chews her cud
with as much composure as if standing under the lee of a Yankee
barn-yard wall, and watches, apparently, a group of sailors, who,
seated in the forward waist around their kids and pans, are enjoying
their coarse but plentiful and wholesome evening meal. A huge
Newfoundland dog sits upon his haunches near this circle, his eyes
eagerly watching for a morsel to be thrown him, the which, when
happening, his jaws close with a sudden snap, and are instantly agape
for more. A green and gold parrot also wanders about this knot of men,
sometimes nibbling the crumbs offered it, and anon breaking forth into
expressions which, from their tone, evince no great respect for some
of the commandments in the Decalogue. Between the long-boat and the
fore-hatch is the galley, where the "Doctor" (as the cook is
universally called in the merchant service) is busily employed in
dishing up a steaming supper, prepared for the cabin mess; the
steward, a genteel-looking mulatto, dressed in a white apron, stands
waiting at the galley-door, ready to receive the aforementioned
supper, whensoever it may be ready, and to convey it to the cabin.

Turning aft, you perceive a young man pacing the quarter-deck, and
whistling, as he walks, a lively air from La Bayadere. He is dressed
neatly in a blue pilot-cloth pea-jacket, well-shaped trowsers,
neat-fitting boots, and a Mahon cap, with gilt buttons. This gentleman
is Mr. Langley. His father is a messenger in the Atlas Bank, of
Boston, and Mr. Langley, jr. invariably directs his communications to
his parent with the name of that corporation somewhere very legibly
inscribed on the back of the letter. He is an apprentice to the ship,
but being a smart, handy fellow, and a tolerable seaman, he was deemed
worthy of promotion, and as his owner could find no second mate's
berth vacant in any of his vessels, the Gentile has rejoiced for the
last twelve months in the possession of a third mate in the person of
Mr. Langley. He is about twenty years of age, and would be a sensible
fellow, were it not for a great taste for mischief, romance, theatres,
cheap jewelry, and tight boots. He quotes poetry on the weather
yard-arm, to the great dissatisfaction of Mr. Brewster, (to whom you
will shortly be introduced,) who often confidentially assures the
skipper that the third mate would have turned out a natural fool if
his parents had not providentially sent him to sea.

But while you have been making the acquaintance of Mr. Langley, the
steward has brought aft the dishes containing the cabin supper. A
savory smell issues from the open sky-light, through which also
ascends a ruddy gleam of light, the sound of cheerful voices, and the
clatter of dishes. After the lapse of a few minutes the turns of Mr.
Langley in pacing the deck grow shorter, and at last, ceasing to
whistle and beginning to mutter, he walks up to the sky-light and
looks down into the cabin below. Gentle reader, place yourself by his
side, and now attend as closely as the favored student did to
Asmodeus.

The fine-looking seaman reclining upon the cushioned transom, picking
his teeth while he scans the columns of a late number of the Liverpool
Mercury, is Captain Smith, the skipper, a regular-built, true-blue,
Yankee ship-master. Though his short black curls are thickly sprinkled
with gray, he has not yet seen forty years; but the winds and suns of
every zone have left their indelible traces upon him. He is an
intelligent, well-informed man, though self-taught, well versed in the
science of trade, and is a very energetic and efficient officer.

The tall gentleman, just folding his doily, is the mate of the ship,
Mr. Stewart. You would hardly suppose him to be a sailor at the first
glance; and yet he is a perfect specimen of what an officer in the
merchant service should be, notwithstanding his fashionably-cut
broadcloth coat, white vest, black gaiter-pants, and jeweled fingers.
He is dressed for the theatre. Mr. Stewart is a graduate of Harvard,
and at first went to sea to recover the health which had been somewhat
impaired by hard study; but becoming charmed with the profession, he
has followed it ever since, and says that it is the most manly
vocation in the world. He is a great favorite with the owner of the
ship; and when he is at Boston, always resides with him. He will
command a ship himself after this voyage. His age is twenty-eight. Mr.
Stewart is a handsome man, a polite gentleman, an accomplished
scholar, a thorough seamen, a strict but kind officer, a most
companionable shipmate, and, in one word--a fine fellow.

Next comes Mr. Brewster, the second mate. That is he devouring those
huge slices of cold beef with so much gusto, while Langley mutters,
"Will he never have done!" He with the blue jacket, bedizzened so
plentifully with small pearl buttons, the calico shirt, and
fancifully-knotted black silk cravat around his brawny neck.

Mr. Micah Brewster hails from Truro, Cape Cod, and, like all Capemen,
is a Yankee sailor, every inch of him. He commenced going to sea when
only twelve years old, by shipping for a four months' trip in a
banker; and in the space of fourteen years, which have since elapsed,
he has not been on shore as many months. He is complete in every
particular of seamanship, and is, besides, a tolerably scientific
navigator. He knows the color and taste of the water all along shore
from Cape Farewell to the Horn, and can tell the latitude and
longitude of any place on the chart without consulting it. Bowditch's
Epitome, and Blunt's Coast Pilot, seem to him the only books in the
world worth consulting, though I should, perhaps, except Marryatt's
novels and Tom Cringle's Log. But of matters connected with the shore
Mr. Brewster is as ignorant as a child unborn. He holds all landsmen
but ship-builders, owners, and riggers, in supreme contempt, and can
hardly conceive of the existence of happiness, in places so far inland
that the sea breeze does not blow. A severe and exacting officer is
he, but yet a favorite with the men--for he is always first in any
emergency or danger, his lion-like voice sounding loud above the roar
of the elements, cheering the crew to their duty, and setting the
example with his own hands. He is rather inclined to be irritable
toward those who have gained the quarter-deck by the way of the
cabin-windows, but, on the whole, I shall set him down in the list of
good fellows.

That swarthy, curl-pated youngster, in full gala dress for the
theatre, drawing on his gloves, and hurrying Mr. Stewart, is, dear
reader, your most humble, devoted, and obedient servant, Frank Byrne,
_alias_, myself, _alias_, the ship's cousin, _alias_, the son of the
ship's owner. Supposing, of course, that you believe in Mesmerism and
clairvoyance, I shall not stop to explain how I have been able to
point out the Gentile to you, while you were standing on the bastion
of St. Elmo, and I all the while in the cabin of the good ship,
dressing for the theatre, and eating my supper, but shall immediately
proceed to inform you how I came there, to welcome you on board, and
to wish you a pleasant cruise with us.

About two years ago, (I am speaking of the 25th of March, A. D. 1839,
in the present tense,) I succeeded in persuading my father to gratify
my predilection for the sea, by putting me on board of the Gentile,
under the particular care of Captain Smith, to try one voyage--so I
became the ship's cousin. Contrary to the predictions of my friends,
I returned determined to go again, and to become a sailor. Now a
ship's cousin's berth is not always an enviable one, notwithstanding
the consanguinity of its occupant to the planks beneath him, for he,
usually feeling the importance of the relationship, is hated by
officers and men, who annoy him in every possible way. But my case was
an exception to the general rule. Although at the first I was
intimately acquainted with each of the officers, I never presumed upon
it, but always did my duty cheerfully and respectfully, and tried hard
to learn to be a good seaman. As my father allowed me plenty of
spending money, I could well afford to be open-handed and generous to
my shipmates, fore and aft; and this good quality, in a seaman's
estimation, will cover a multitude of faults, and endears its
possessor to his heart. In fine, I became an immense favorite with all
hands; and even Mr. Brewster, who at first looked upon my advent on
board with an unfavorable eye, was forced to acknowledge that I no
more resembled a ship's cousin than a Methodist class-leader does a
midshipman.

Mr. Stewart and myself had always been great friends before I went to
sea. When I first came on board, Mr. Langley, who had been my
school-mate and crony, was, though one of the cabin mess, only an
apprentice, and had not yet received his brevet rank as third
mate--Mr. Stewart, of course, stood his own watch, and chose Langley
and myself as part of it. The mate generally kept us upon the
quarter-deck with him, and many were the cozy confabs we used to hold,
many the choice cigars we used to smoke upon that handy loafing-place,
the booby-hatch, many the pleasant yarns we used to spin while pacing
up and down the deck, or leaning against the rail of the companion. As
I have said, Mr. Stewart was a delightful watch-mate--and Bill Langley
and I used to love him dearly, and none the worse that he made us toe
the line of our duty. He always, however, appeared to prefer me to
Langley, and to admit me to more of his confidence. Since Bill's
promotion we had not seen so much of the mate, but still, during our
late tedious voyage from Calcutta, he had often come upon deck in our
watch, and hundreds of long miles of the Indian Ocean had been
shortened in the old way.

Gentle reader, you are as much acquainted with the Gentile, and the
quint who compose her cabin mess, as you could hope to be at one
interview.




CHAPTER II.

_News from Home._


Mr. Langley had just commenced his supper with a ravenous appetite,
stimulated by the tantalizing view of our previous gastronomic
performances, which he had had through the sky-light, the mate and
myself were on the point of going on deck to go ashore, the captain
had just lighted a second cigar, when Mr. Brewster, who had relieved
poor Langley in the charge of the deck, made his appearance at the
cabin door, bearing in his hands a large packet.

"She's in, sir!" he shouted, "she came to anchor in front of the
Lazaretto while we were at supper, and Bill here didn't see her. The
quarantine fellows brought this along. Bill, you must be a bloody
fool, to let a ship come right under our stern, and sail across the
bay, and not know nothing about it."

Langley, whose regards for the supper-table had drawn his attention
from the arrival of a ship which had been expected by us for more than
a week, and by whom we had anticipated the receipt of the packet the
skipper now held in his hands, Langley, I say, blushed, but said
nothing, and turned toward the captain, who, with trembling hands, was
cutting the twine which bound the precious bundle together.

Now our last letters from Boston had been written more than a year
before, had been read at Calcutta, since then we had sailed fifteen
thousand miles from Calcutta to Trieste, and from Trieste to Valetta,
and here we had been pulling at our anchor for three weeks, waiting
orders from my father by the ship which had just arrived; it is not
wonderful, therefore, that the group which surrounded Capt. Smith were
very pale, eager, anxious-looking men. How much we were to learn in
ten minutes time; what bitter tidings might be in store for us in that
little packet.

At last it is open, and newspapers and letters in rich profusion meet
our gaze; with a quick sleight the captain distributes them, sends a
half dozen to their owners in the forecastle by the steward, and then
ensues a silence broken only by the snapping of seals, and the
rattling of paper. Suddenly Mr. Stewart uttered an exclamation of
surprise, and looking up from my letter, I noticed the quick exchange
of significant glances between the captain and mate.

"You've found it out, then," said the skipper.

The mate nodded in reply, and gathering up his letters, retired
precipitately to his state-room.

At this juncture, Mr. Brewster, who had just finished the perusal of a
very square, stiff-looking epistle, gave vent to a prolonged whistle.

"Beats thunder, I swear!" said he, "if the old woman haint got spliced
again--and she's every month of fifty-six years old."

"That's nothing," cried Langley, "only think, father has left the
Atlas Bank, and is now Mr. Byrnes' book-keeper; and they talk of
shutting up the Tremont theatre, and Bob here says that Fanny Ellsler
is--"

"Avast there!" interrupted the skipper, "clap a stopper over all that,
and stand by to hear where we are bound to-morrow, or next day. Have
any of you found out yet?"

"No, sir," cried Langley and I in a breath, "Home, I hope."

"Not so soon," replied Captain Smith, "as soon as maybe we sail for
Matanzas de Cuba,