Bennie Ben Cree | Page 8

when edging along in some peculiar and perilous
circumstance, and that he would go far out of his way to find that

circumstance. It is a secret hid in the nature of many that they love
nothing better than the chance to fight skilfully for their own lives, and
seek this chance by jungles, glaciers, and high seas. But I never knew
one who sought it more inquisitively than Calhoun.
In January Cavarly went away, and was gone, it might be, a week, but
whether to Washington or Baltimore he did not say. Morgan said he
was "after a list of Southern cities desirable to bombard."
And it was the 17th of February when we stood out into the river at last.
My father was among a crowd of people cheering on the dock in the
Wallabout Canal.
The wind was blowing bitter and cold, and cakes of ice were floating
about us, as we slid into the bay after a tug that made a great swash and
tumult in front. But the sky was as clear as if it were the first and
newest of all days.

CHAPTER III.
DOWN THE COAST--CAVARLY'S PLAN.
The Octarara might have ranked as a gunboat or a second-class cruiser,
and it might be the Government did not rank her very high, for the only
regular military aboard were three gunners and Simpson, chief gunner.
Cavarly made Simpson master-at-arms, and set him drilling the crew,
and left him mostly alone at it. Himself and Morgan, who ranked as
mate, seemed to take no part in it, but to look on in a pleased kind of
way, and find it quite amusing. They sailed the ship, with the other two
Baltimore men, Gerry and Still, steersmen, and the engineers and
stokers did nothing but oil cranks and polish brass. For Cavarly
appeared to be in no hurry, nor anxious to use up coal, and nobody
minded that, except Simpson. I did not like Simpson. Neither did
Simpson like the Octarara, nor anything about her, and this with his
falling foul of me immediately made me think him a person impossible
to please.

"Cap'n Cavalry," said Simpson, "beggin' your pardon, does that there
boy belong fore or aft?"
"I reckon he belongs to you," said Cavarly cheerfully. "Discipline.
Tha's it. Discipline."
"Git for'ard, you young pup!" cried Simpson, "ef you'll 'low me, cap'n.
Pick up them lanyards. You hear me!"
"Haw, haw!" said Cavarly softly, and, looking back with furtive eyes
from a safe distance, I saw Dan Morgan also and Calhoun by the
taffrail laughing, and I thought it treacherous and unfriendly.
The next four days and nights I was hating Simpson busily, and
wishing the deep sea between him and me. We were ever and again up
to "repel boarders," and nothing in sight but the blank sea, or maybe a
glimpse of the low peaceful Jersey coast. Seeing me idle or in any way
happy put Simpson in a mad rage; but I could wish that gruff warrant
officer no worse ill luck than such a raw and mixed crew as ours to put
in shape, with a captain and mate appearing to regard him as a joke and
taking no responsibility themselves. What could be more distressful to
such a man than to have for superior officers Dan Morgan, playing his
banjo half the day; Cavarly, looking on with an everlasting cigar, and a
mysterious gentleman supercargo like Calhoun?
The wind was clean and steady, and Cavarly kept the Octarara close
reefed, at half her speed; she crept down the coast with little shift of sail
day or night, and on the 20th passed some fifteen miles to seaward of
Delaware Bay. Except for Simpson drilling and roughing, it was an idle
enough crew.
I was not so ignorant of sailing--what with knocking about wharves and
handling catboats on the river--as not to know that Cavarly was
purposely taking his time; and if I had been, the talk in the forecastle
would have set me thinking, though for that matter I did not know that
the forecastle always criticizes the cabin, as one of the rights of labour.
I did not think much of Simpson's opinion, through simple dislike,
beginning things with such general misjudgment of men as maybe is

the case with most; but Simpson was not alone in thinking the conduct
of the cabin peculiar.
After the morning drill exercise on the 20th there were more black-clay
pipes going around the small safety stove in the forecastle than could
be counted in the smoke. A dingy place, the forecastle, at best, but one
that a man may grow to like well enough, if not over-squeamish.
Simpson was there, and Gerry, and the bos'en, Hames, and an Irishman
named Tobin, whose hair was