Three in Charge.
By W. Clark Russell.
T is a little incident of ocean life now a good many years old; but human nature was the same then as it is now; and, indeed, the older I grow the more I find human nature the same now as it was then.
Business had carried me to the East Indies. I had visited Madras, whence I had proceeded to Calcutta, and from Calcutta I had made my way to Rangoon. I stayed in that place a month, by which time my health had suffered so greatly from the climate that I made up my mind to return to Europe in a sailing ship, that I might spend many long weeks among the fresh breezes of the sea, and get all the benefit I could out of the incessant changes of climate which a voyage down the Indian Ocean, and round the Cape of Good Hope, and up the two Atlantics provides you with.
There was a full-rigged ship lying at Rangoon, called the Biddy McDougal. I heard that she was to sail at much about a date that would suit my convenience, and as she looked a comfortable, stout ship, I inquired the name of the agent, called upon him, and asked if I could get a passage to England by the vessel. He answered "Yes;" she was bound to London; she was not a passenger ship, but the captain would no doubt be glad to accommodate me with a cabin. The charge would be so much—I forget the figure, but I recollect that it was moderate, something short of forty pounds. For this money I was to live on such provisions as were served up at the captain's table, but the spirits and wine I might need I must myself lay in.
Next day I went aboard the Biddy McDougal to inspect her cabin accommodation. On climbing over the gangway I was received by a tall, rather good-looking man, with a face remarkable for its expression of sternness. His skin was blackened by exposure to the sun and weather, and another shade of dye would have qualified him to pass for a native. He frowned as he surveyed me, and inquired my business on board.
"I am going to England in this ship," said I, "and I have come to see what sort of a cabin I am to sleep in."
"Oh, I beg pardon," he exclaimed, but without relaxing his stern expression. "I thought," he broke off and muttered behind his teeth.
"I was received by a tall, rather good-looking man."
"Who are you?" said I, "the mate?"
"No, sir, I am the captain."
"Oh, indeed," I exclaimed; "pray, what name?"
"Mr. Wilson," he answered. "It is a fashion among merchant seamen who obtain command to style themselves captain. It is a piece of impertinence. The only captains at sea are in the Royal Navy. A merchant skipper is a master
