One night in May, Murad sent word to me that we were to sail at four o'clock the next morning. I went to bed as usual, but before the hall clock struck three I was out of my window with my luggage and on my way to the ship. When I went aboard I found that all of the confusion of spare rigging, rope, sails, hawsers, oakum and merchandise that I had noted on the deck the day before, had been cleared away.

All of the crew were Baltimore men. Some of them were honest, goodhearted fellows. Others were ruffians. I recognized Steve Dunn and some of his gang among the crew. Baltimore had evidently become too hot to hold such rascals.

Samuel Childs, who had sailed under Commodore Barney, took me under his wing, although he swore that I should have been keelhauled for going to sea without asking the advice of the rector or the commodore.

"But," I protested, "they are both out of the city, and if they knew the reason I had for going, they would approve."

"I don't like to see the skipper taking such an interest in you," Samuel said with a shake of his head. "Mr. Bludsoe, the mate, is a fine man. You can trust him as you would a father. But these Orientals—I question their motives. True, Murad was a skipper in the Sultan's navy, but he's hiding something. He's more than a mere captain. We older men can take care of ourselves, but you've had no experience with men. You'd better stick close to me aboard ship, and closer still when we land!"

Samuel was our chantie man, and good service he did in stimulating us to work the windlass in hauling up the anchors—sometimes buried so deep in the mud at the sea's bottom that it needed the liveliest sort of chantie to inspire our hearts and strengthen our sinews. The secret of the swift way in which we heaved up the anchor, cleared away lashings, pumped the ship, unreeved the running gear, and mastheaded the topsails lay in the fact that the chantie caused us to work in unison. No matter how tired we were, our spirits rose and the blood coursed as we worked to the chantie Samuel roared forth:

There being a fine breeze from the shore, we made sail at the wharf and headed out to sea. As the wind increased, all sail was made, topmast stun'sail booms were run out, stun'sails spread, anchors secured, and all movable things on deck were made fast. When we hove the log it was seen that we were doing better than ten knot, a rate of speed that made Murad well satisfied with his ship.

We were mustered aft—watches were to be chosen. There were ten able seamen, three ordinary seamen, and one boy—myself. The men were divided between the port and starboard watches. Mr. Bludsoe, the chief officer, was in command of the port watch. Mr. French, the second officer, was in charge of the starboard watch. When we were not attending to the sails, we were kept busy scraping, painting, tarring and holy-stoning.

At four bells—six o'clock—the port watch came on deck to relieve the starboard. The starboard watch then went below for supper, and were allowed to remain off duty until eight o'clock—eight bells. The port watch was then relieved by them, and its members were allowed till midnight for resting. Short "dog" watches were provided for so that the port and starboard watch had eight hours off instead of four hours' duty every other night.

When the watch was changed, the man at the wheel was relieved, the lookout man climbed to the topgallant forecastle to relieve the weary lookout who in loneliness had faced exposure to the weather for four hours, while the rest of the men smoked their pipes in as comfortable places as they could find, and swapped yarns.

The cry that caused the most excitement aboard ship was "All hands shorten sail." This meant "going aloft." The order had no terrors for me, thanks to my early experiences on schooners in the Chesapeake Bay.

It is not much of a job to go up the masts in calm weather. Indeed, on a calm moonlight night, a place on the crosstrees was my favorite spot. One seems to be then on the top of a mountain looking out on an enchanted land. But when the seas are heavy it is a different matter. The force of the gale that leads the mate to bawl his command to shorten sail pins you against the mast. The rain lashes you, and sometimes there is sleet to prick you like swords' points. The man above you may kick you with his heel as he comes to grips with his task. The officers on deck and the boatswain on the yardarm have their eyes fixed on you and the rest of the watch. The canvas must be mastered and every man must do his part. Overhead the spars and yards pitch and reel. The yard you stand on seems almost as unstable as the waves that leap up to engulf you.

On the first day out, two of our men had a fist-fight due to trouble that arose between them while they were aloft. Wesley Burroughs had stopped in the shrouds as if he meant to go no farther. Giles Lake, who was behind him, thought to find favor with Bludsoe, the boatswain, and began to prick Wesley's legs with his knife.

The result, however, was not what he expected. Wesley continued his ascent, but when the task was done and the two had reached the deck, he went at Giles, who was much larger, like a thunderbolt. Under the eyes of the boatswain, who seemed to think Lake deserved the punishment, he knocked his tormentor down, seized his own sheath knife, and returned prick for prick.

An ordeal I feared was that of initiation by King Neptune. I was relieved when Samuel told me that Neptune's visit came only when a ship crossed the equator, and that The Rose of Egypt would not cross that imaginary line. He satisfied my curiosity by describing his own experience.

After breakfast on the morning the ship crossed the equator, he was ordered to prepare for shaving. The crew blindfolded him, led him on deck, and bound him in a chair.

A voice said:

"Neptune has just come over the bow to inquire if anyone here dares to cross his dominions without being properly initiated. Samuel Childs, prepare to be shaved by the King of the Seas, a ceremony that will make you a true child of the ocean!"

His shirt had been stripped off his back. A speaking-trumpet was held to his ear, through which a voice thundered:

"Are you, O landsman, prepared to become a true salt?"

"I am!" Samuel said boldly.

"Apply the brush!"

When the bandage was removed from the victim's eyes, someone stood before him dressed like Neptune, with gray hair and beard and long white robes. In his right hand he held a trident; in his left hand the speaking-trumpet. In a sailor's hand was a paint brush that had been dipped in tar. With this thin tar Samuel was lathered, the tar being later removed with fat and oakum.

Neptune then said: "You may now become an able seaman. You may rise to boatswain and to captain. If you are killed or drowned, you will be turned into a sea-horse, and will be my subject. You may now eat salt pork, mush, and weevilly bread. Do it without grumbling. I now depart!"

Samuel was again blindfolded. When the bandage was removed, Neptune had disappeared. It was told Samuel that he had dashed over the bow into his sea-chariot.

"I know better now," Samuel explained to me. "Neptune was impersonated by Jim Thorn, our oldest sailor. His long beard was made of unraveled rope and yarn. He perched under the bow and climbed aboard by the chains."

My first turn at the wheel, with Samuel standing by, was a curious experience. Told to steer southwest, I found that I swung the wheel too far, and that the direction was south southwest. When I tried to swing back to southwest I went too far in the other direction, and was steering southwest by west. In a few hours, however, I had mastered the trick. I loved to steer. It enabled me to escape the dirty work of tarring, painting and cleaning. Yet I never took the helm without thinking of how my father had been killed at the wheel of the Hyder Ally.

Whistling aboard ship was a custom disliked by the old sailors. They entertained a superstition that he who whistled was "whistling for the wind." On one of my first nights at sea, feeling lonesome, I puckered my lips and began to blow a tune. Along came Samuel. He paused beside my berth.

"My boy," said he, "there are only two kinds of people who whistle. One is a boatswain. The other is a fool. You are not a boatswain."

He passed on. I never whistled again aboard ship.

When we were within the vicinity of the capes, there came a calm spell in which our schooner barely moved. While we were fretting at this snail's pace, a frigate, enjoying a wind that had not come our way, overhauled us and hove to across our bows, displaying the British flag.

"Have your protections ready, lads," the mate said, squinting across the water, "that ship is looking for men to impress!"

A boat put out from the frigate's side and came towards us.

"On board the cutter, there," called our mate, "what do you want with us?"

"On board the schooner," came the reply, "we're looking for deserters from the British navy. Let drop your ladder!"

We obeyed. A spruce, slender, important, yet surprisingly youthful lieutenant came over the side.

"Compliments of Captain Van Dyke, of His Majesty's ship Elizabeth," he said to the skipper and the mate, "we desire to inspect your crew."

"It's a high-handed proceeding," said Murad, his black eyes snapping, "but since we are only slightly armed, I suppose we must submit. My men are all American citizens. Each has proof of it." He turned to the mate, "Mr. Bludsoe, have the men lined up."

The lieutenant passed down the line, scrutinizing the protection papers and asking searching questions. I was the last one, and as my turn came, I began to turn cold with dread, for, fearing that I would be kept from shipping, I had neglected to get a protection paper. Putting on as bold a front as I could muster, I looked up at the lieutenant. He had friendly blue eyes—he was not at all like the dreadful impressment officer of my imagination.

"Please sir," I said, "I shipped without taking the trouble to get a protection. I'm an American to the backbone, though. I was born in Baltimore and my father was killed fighting the British during the war of Independence. He was on the Hyder Ally when she captured the English ship, the General Monk. I don't want you to take me because I have a brother who is a prisoner in Algiers, and I expect to join the new American navy and go to fight for his release!"

He laughed. "If we robbed you of a father, I think it's due you to be allowed to go your own way. I should say that your brother requires your aid more than we do, so I'll take your word for it that you're a Yankee. Better not go to sea again without a protection paper. I happen to be a particularly tender-hearted officer."

He went down the side.

Samuel Childs gave me a slap on the back that took my breath away.

"Youngster," he said, "that's the first time I've seen a British officer pass by an American without papers. Blast them, if they would give their men better pay and stop flogging them through the fleet for offences hardly worth one lash, they wouldn't have to be taking us to fill the places of their deserters!"

It was a grand though often terrifying sight to see the ship in a storm flying beneath leaden clouds. With the main topsail and fore topmast staysail close reefed; with the masts tipping over as if they were going to plunge their tops into the sea; with spray showering upon us; with mountainous waves following us as if they would topple their full weight over our stern; it was a sight to make one both marvel and tremble.

In such a storm we lost James Murray, an ordinary seamen, well-liked by all.

We were in a heavy sea. The clouds were so low that they enveloped our mastheads. Tremendous waves beat against our bow, so that our plunging stem was like a knife cutting a way through them. All hands were called to shorten sail as the wind increased into a gale. The men who were light of weight went out along the yardarms, while the heavier men remained closer to the mast. The upper mizzen topsail was being furled when a sudden gust of wind blew the sail out of their grasp.

Murray, who was one of the outermost men, was thrown off the yard into the sea. As the great waves tossed him up, we saw him struggling to swim, handicapped as he was by his heavy oil-skins. A boat was cleared away and volunteers were called for to endeavor to rescue Murray. I stood forth with the rest of the crew—I saw no one hold back—but a crew of our strongest men was chosen, and all we could do was to stand on a yard and watch the progress of the little boat. The seas poured into her. We could see two of her men baling desperately. At last we lost sight of her in the mists. An hour later, when we were worrying greatly over the fate not only of Murray, but also of the boat's crew, the mist cleared and showed our location to the men struggling out there in the furious ocean. They gradually made their way towards us and were pulled on deck exhausted. They said that they had caught one glimpse of Murray, but as they pulled desperately to reach him the mist had drifted between him and them—a mist that was to him as a shroud.