The ship steers wildly, and we have continually to ease her
when she pitches; yet, do what we can, the grumbling mate has many a
complimentary word for us, flatteringly intimating his opinion, that
we 'know no more about steering than our grandmother; but _he'll_ work
our old iron up to some tune, before he's done with us!' Ere our trick
is out, our arms feel as stiff as iron bars, from the violent and
unremitting strain on their muscles. The mate has steaming hot coffee
brought him; but there's not a drop for poor Jack, if it would save
his life. Oh, how we long to hear eight bells strike! At length they
_do_ strike, and the watch below are bid to 'tumble up, Beauties, and
have a look at the lovely scenery!' We are then relieved at the wheel,
and go below with our watch, hoping to enjoy four hours of blessed
oblivion.
We swing ourself into our hammock (or berth, as it may happen), and
are fast asleep in a minute. But we have not been an hour in the Land
of Nod, ere three heavy blows from a handspike are struck on the
forecastle hatch, which is then slid back, and a hoarse voice bawls:
'All ha-ands a-ho-oy! tumble up to reef tops'ls!' Out we bundle, and
grope for our clothes (the forecastle being as dark as a dog's mouth),
get them on somehow, and hurry-scurry on deck.
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