Journal of an African Cruiser | Page 4

certain point upon the sea.
13.--Wind still fair, and weather always fine. We have not tacked ship

once since leaving Sandy Hook, and are almost ready to quarrel with
the continual fair wind. There is nothing else to find fault with, except
the performances of our French cook in the wardroom, who came on
board just before we left New York, and made us believe that we had
obtained a treasure. He told us that he had cooked for a French Admiral.
We swore him to secrecy on that point, lest the Commodore should be
disposed to engage the services of so distinguished an artist for his own
table. But our self-congratulations were not of long continuance. The
sugared omelet passed with slight remark. The beefsteak smothered in
onions was merely prohibited in future. But when, on the second day,
the potatoes were served with mashed lemon-peel, the general
discontent burst forth; and we scolded till we laughed again at the
dilemma in which we found ourselves. Next to being without food, is
the calamity of being subjected, in the middle of the Atlantic, to the
diabolical arts of the French Admiral's cook. At sea, the arrangements
of the table are of far more importance than on shore. There are so few
incidents, that one's dinner becomes, what Dr. Johnson affirmed it
always to be, the affair of which a man thinks oftenest in the course of
the day.
16.--All day, the wind has been ahead, and very light. This evening, a
dead calm is upon the sea; but the sky is cloudless, and the air pure and
soft. All the well are enjoying the fine weather. The commodore and
captain walk the poop-deck; the other officers, except the lieutenant
and young gentlemen of the watch, are smoking on the forecastle, or
promenading the quarter-deck. A dozen steady old salts are rolling
along the gangways; and the men are clustered in knots between the
guns, talking, laughing, or listening to the yarns of their comrades--an
amusement to which sailors are as much addicted as the Sultan in the
Arabian Nights. But music is the order of the evening. Though a band
is not allowed to a ship of our class, there are always good musicians to
be found among the reckless and jolly fellows composing a
man-of-war's crew. A big landsman from Utica, and a dare-devil
topman from Cape Cod, are the leading vocalists; Symmes, the ship's
cook, plays an excellent violin; and the commodore's steward is not to
be surpassed upon the tambourine. A little black fellow, whose
sobriquet is Othello, manages the castanets, and there is a tolerable

flute played by one of the afterguard. The concerts usually commence
with sentimental songs, such as "Home, sweet Home," and the
Canadian Boat Song: but the comic always carries off the palm; "Jim
along Josey," "Lucy Long," "Old Dan Tucker," and a hundred others of
the same character, are listened to delightedly by the crowd of men and
boys collected round the fore-hatch, and always ready to join in the
choruses. Thus a sound of mirth floats far and wide over the twilight
sea, and would seem to indicate that all goes well among us.
But the delicious atmosphere, and the amusements of the ship, bring
not joy to all on board. There are sick men swinging uneasily in their
hammocks; and one poor fellow, whose fever threatens to terminate
fatally, tosses painfully in his cot. His messmates gently bathe his hot
brow, and, watching every movement, nurse him as tenderly as a
woman. Strange, that the rude heart of a sailor should be found to
possess such tenderness as we seldom ask or find, in those of our own
sex, on land! There, we leave the gentler humanities of life to woman;
here, we are compelled to imitate her characteristics, as well as our
sterner nature will permit.
22.--The sick man died last night, and was buried to-day. His history
was revealed to no one. Where was his home, or whether he has left
friends to mourn his death, are alike unknown. Dying, he kept his own
counsel, and was content to vanish out of life, even as a speck of foam
melts back into the ocean. At 11 A.M., for the first time, in a cruise
likely to be fatal to many on board, the boatswain piped "all hands to
bury the dead!" The sailor's corpse, covered with the union of his
country's flag, was placed in the gangway. Two hundred and fifty
officers and men stood around, uncovered, and reverently listened to
the beautiful and solemn burial service, as it was read by one of the
officers. The body was committed to the deep, while the ship dashed
onward, and had left the grave far behind, even before the