A Gunner Aboard the Yankee | Page 7

would be innocent amusement, so I laid by and waited, keeping my eye on "Bill."
"Bill," by the way, was the captain of our mess, a jolly good fellow, popular, and always in evidence when there was any skylarking on foot.
Hammocks were piped down at seven bells (7:30 p.m.), and, as it was our first experience on board the "Yankee," there was some confusion. A number of new recruits had joined that afternoon, and their efforts to master the mysteries of the sailor's sleeping outfit were amusing. A naval hammock differs largely from those used ashore. A hammock aboard ship is of canvas, seven feet long, with holes a few inches apart at each end, through which are reeved pieces of strong cord. The latter are called clews, and they meet at an iron ring, which is attached to the hooks in the carline beams when the hammock is in position for use. When a hammock is properly slung it hangs almost straight, with very little sagging. To get in properly, one grasps two hoops near the head, and, with an agile spring, throws body and feet into the canvas bed. This requires a knack, and is learned only after a more or less painful experience. A three-inch mattress and two blankets go with each outfit. For sheets a bag-like mattress cover is used, and, in lieu of the downy pillows of home, the sailor must be content with his shoes rolled up inside his trousers or flannel shirt. With it all, however, the naval hammock is very comfortable. There is the advantage of being able to not only wash your blankets and sheets, but your bed as well. Once each month clean hammocks are issued and the old ones scrubbed.
While I was below, rigging up my clews, I saw a commotion on the other side of the deck. The master-at-arms was expostulating with one of the new recruits who had reported that afternoon. Suddenly the latter called out, angrily, "I'll see if I have to, durn you!" and bolted for the upper deck. The master-at-arms followed him at once, and several of us followed the master-at-arms to see the excitement. We reached the quarter-deck just as the recruit came to a stop in front of the officer on watch.
[Illustration: "THAT FAT MAN IN THE CELLAR WANTS ME TO SLEEP IN A BAG----".]
"What's the matter with you?" demanded the latter, curtly. "What's up?"
"Th-th-that m-m-man down in the--the cellar wants me to sleep in a bag, durn him," gasped the recruit, waving his lanky arms, "and I won't do it for him or no one else."
"Cellar?" Then the officer shouted with laughter.
The recruit was sent back to the "New Hampshire" next day, but it was long before the master-at-arms was known by any other name or title than "the man in the cellar."
A few minutes before tattoo, "Bill" and "Stump" came up and intimated by signs that I was to accompany them to the forward part of the berth deck. On reaching the extreme end, which was occupied by an immense hawser reel, "Bill" indicated a hammock which was swinging with the forward clews directly above the great spool, or reel.
"If young Potter doesn't think this old hooker is haunted I'll never play another joke," he chuckled. "Get in and show him, 'Stump.'"
The latter grasped two hooks, gave himself a swing, landed in the hammock, and in an instant struck the deck with a thump, the hammock under him. As he rolled out I rubbed my eyes. The hammock had swiftly returned to its former position!
"It isn't hoodooed," grinned "Bill." "Just look here."
He hauled up on the head clews and presently a five-inch shell appeared above the top of the reel. The shell was fastened to the end of the hammock lashing, at the other end of which was attached the ring. The lashing led over the hook, and the weight of the shell was just sufficient to keep the hammock in its place. As I finished inspecting the clever contrivance, the boatswain's mate piped tattoo.
We hurried away to watch from a distance. Laughing and singing, the fellows trooped down to prepare for turning in; the hard labor of the day had not dampened their spirits. The deck soon presented an animated scene. A number of us had slept long enough on board the "New Hampshire" to become accustomed to man-o'-war style, but the new recruits were like so many cats in a strange garret. They stood about, glancing doubtfully at their hammocks and then at their clothes. They did not know just what to do with either.
"How do you get into the thing, I wonder?" asked the fellow from Harlem, eyeing his suspended bed.
"Borrow the navigator's step-ladder," suggested the coxs'n of the gig. "He keeps it in the chart room."
The greatest