XVI. THE BEGINNING OF CHARLIE'S SEA-LIFE.

When the Bouncing Betsey was fairly out to sea, Captain Brace, anticipating, with the malicious delight which a petty tyrant feels in the sufferings of those subject to him, the grief and terror of our young hero, ordered Charlie to be released from his bonds and brought before him.

This order the mate chose to execute in person.

The pressure of the cords, with which he had been bound, had chafed his limbs, and the constraint of his position had made them ache.

As the mate busied himself in unbinding him, Charlie inquired, with a glimmering of hope, "Are you going to let me go?"

[142]

"Where?" asked Randall.

"On shore."

"Perhaps you don't know that, by this time, we are at least forty miles from Boston."

"Could you send me back?" asked Charlie, his heart sinking within him.

"I suppose we might turn the ship about, and go back for your accommodation," said the mate, with a sneer; "but I don't think Capt. Brace would consent."

"Is there no way?" implored Charlie. "Couldn't you put me on board some ship going back?"

"You can speak to the captain about that. He has sent for you. Come along, and don't be all day about it."

Charlie stretched himself with the intent of gaining some relief from the stricture he had suffered, and prepared to do what he knew there was no means of evading, he followed Randall to the presence of Capt. Brace.

"Well, Jack," said Capt. Brace, showing his teeth in an unpleasant manner, "how do you like life on shipboard?"

"My name is not Jack," was our hero's reply.

[143]

"Indeed! Perhaps you will do me the favor to tell me what is it."

"My name," said our hero, not liking the captain's tone, "is Charlie Codman."

"So you pretend to be wiser than your uncle," said Capt. Brace, looking towards the mate.

"He is not my uncle," said Charlie, boldly. If he had felt it to be prudent, he would have added that he had no desire for a relationship to Randall, but he knew that it would not be wise.

"Do you dare to contradict my first officer?" demanded the captain, with a frown.

"I am only telling the truth," said Charlie, undauntedly.

"Silence!" roared the captain, in a passion. "If he chooses to call you his nephew, you shall be so; do you hear that? I say, do you hear that?" he repeated, pounding with his clenched fist upon the table before him.

"Yes, sir," said our hero.

"Take care that you remember it then. Your name, henceforth, is Jack Randall,—at any rate, as long as you remain aboard this ship."

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"How long am I to remain on board, sir?" Charlie could not help asking.

"How long?" repeated the captain. "Forever, if I choose. And now as this is the last conversation which I intend to hold with you on this point, you will bear in mind that you are shipped on board this vessel as a boy, and that, if you don't do your duty you'll get——"

We suppress the word with which the captain closed his sentence, not being willing to soil our pages with it.

This was rather a hard trial for our young hero, accustomed to a mother's gentle and affectionate words. Had he been less manly, he would have burst into tears; but he only turned pale a little, and bit his lips.

"Take him on deck, Mr. Randall, and set him to work," said the captain; "and mind, Jack, that I don't hear any complaints of you."

Charlie followed the mate to the deck. He had made up his mind that he must stay in the ship during the voyage, or, at all events until they reached land somewhere,[145] and resolved that, since it was forced upon him, he would do his duty as well as he could, and so afford as little advantage as possible to those who seemed determined to persecute him.

He was set to work by Randall, who told him, in a sharp tone, to "mind his eye and keep to work, if he knew what was best for himself."

The work was not difficult, but Charlie's fingers were unpractised, and he might very soon have incurred the wrath of the captain and mate, if Bill Sturdy, the sailor whose friendly advances to our hero have already been noticed, had not approached him, the mate being temporarily out of earshot, and given him a little instruction.

"Well, my lad, what news?" inquired Bill. "Shipped for the voyage, are you?"

"That's what the captain and mate say," returned Charlie.

"They're a pair of precious rascals," said Bill, lowering his voice, "and it's my opinion they're well matched, so far as villainy goes."

"What made you ship on board the vessel?" inquired Charlie.

[146]

"Bless your soul, boy, I wouldn't a done it if I'd known who was in command; leastways, if I had known a little more about him. But I didn't ask any questions. I had just got in from a v'y'ge to Calcutta, and happened to see one of my old shipmates, Jim Davis, walking on the wharf. 'Bill,' says he, 'why won't you ship along of me?' I asked him where he was bound, and he telled me to Valparaiso, on board the Bouncing Betsey. Well, I've been most everywhere else, but I had never been there, and reckoned I should like to see it. Besides, I'd got tired of going to Calcutta. I've been there, man and boy, six or eight times. It's too hot to live there some parts of the year. So I just told him I was in for it if he was, provided there was a vacancy. I asked him if he knew anything about the officers. He said he didn't, but he guessed they would pass. So I just stepped into the office and shipped. There, lad, that's the whole story. I don't mind it much myself. They don't generally meddle much with me."

"Have you sailed with bad captains before?" inquired our hero.

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"Yes, my lad, sometimes. One captain I sailed with—I was a young man then—was Captain Maguire. He was a sort of an Irishman, I surmise, and mighty fond of drink. He was pleasant enough when he was sober, but that wasn't often. When he was drunk, he got into a regular fury. He would tear round the deck like as he was crazy, and so he was after a fashion, for he didn't seem to know, after he had got out of his fits, what he had done when he was in 'em. One day, I remember, as I was at work, he came up to me, and gave me a terrible thwack side of the head, swearing like a trooper all the time."

"What did you do?" asked Charlie, looking up with interest into the weather-beaten face of the old sailor.

"I'll tell you," said Sturdy; "you see, I'm pretty strong," glancing at his brawny arms and herculean frame with pardonable complacency; "I don't often meet a man I can't manage as easily as the mate can manage you. Now the captain wasn't a large man, by any means, nor very strong, either. As to the mates,—one of them was sick in his berth,[148] and the other was in another part of the ship; so I just took the captain up in my arms, and carried him down to the cabin, kickin' and cursin', as might be expected, and laid him down there. The officers did not see what was goin' on, or there'd have been trouble. As for the crew, they enjoyed it, and wouldn't a man of 'em tell; and as the captain didn't remember anything about it the next day, I didn't get punished."

"Did you ever get punished?" asked Charlie.

"Never since I grew up, and had these to fight my way with," said Bill Sturdy, showing his fists, which looked as if a blow from either of them would have felled an ox. "No, my lad, these are what I call my sledge-hammers, and I'd as lives have them to rely upon as a pair of pistols."

At this point in the conversation Bill was called off to some other part of the vessel, and the mate coming up discovered, somewhat to his disappointment, that our hero had discharged his task in a manner which did not admit of censure.