The Battery and the Boiler: Adventures in Laying of Submarine Electric Cables

Somewhere about the middle of this nineteenth century, a baby boy was born on the raging sea in the midst of a howling tempest. That boy was the hero of this tale.
He was cradled in squalls, and nourished in squalor—a week of dirty weather having converted the fore-cabin of the emigrant ship into something like a pig-sty. Appreciating the situation, no doubt, the baby boy began his career with a squall that harmonised with the weather, and, as the steward remarked to the ship’s cook, “continued for to squall straight on end all that day and night without so much as ever takin’ breath!” It is but right to add that the steward was prone to exaggeration.
“Stooard,” said the ship’s cook in reply, as he raised his eyes from the contemplation of his bubbling coppers, “take my word for it, that there babby what has just bin launched ain’t agoin’ to shovel off his mortal coil—as the play-actor said—without makin’ his mark some’ow an’ somew’eres.”
“What makes you think so, Johnson?” asked the steward.
“What makes me think so, stooard?” replied the cook, who was a huge good-natured young man. “Well, I’ll tell ’ee. I was standin’ close to the fore hatch at the time, a-talkin’ to Jim Brag, an’ the father o’ the babby, poor feller, he was standin’ by the foretops’l halyards holdin’ on to a belayin’-pin, an’ lookin’ as white as a sheet—for I got a glance at ’im two or three times doorin’ the flashes o’ lightnin’. Well, stooard, there was lightnin’ playin’ round the mizzen truck, an’ the main truck, an’ the fore truck, an’ at the end o’ the flyin’ jib-boom, an’ the spanker boom; then there came a flash that seemed to set afire the entire univarse; then a burst o’ thunder like fifty great guns gone off all at once in a hurry. At that identical moment, stooard, there came up from the fore-cabin a yell that beat—well, I can’t rightly say what it beat, but it minded me o’ that unfortnit pig as got his tail jammed in the capstan off Cape Horn. The father gave a gasp. ‘It’s born,’ says he. ‘More like’s if it’s basted,’ growled Jim Brag. ‘You’re a unfeelin’ monster, Brag,’ says I; ‘an’ though you are the ship’s carpenter, I will say it, you ’aven’t got no more sympathy than the fluke of an anchor!’ Hows’ever the poor father didn’t hear the remark, for he went down below all of a heap—head, legs, and arms—anyhow. Then there came another yell, an’ another, an’ half a dozen more, which was followed by another flash o’ lightnin’ an’ drownded in another roar o’ thunder; but the yells from below kep’ on, an’ came out strong between times, makin’ no account whatever o’ the whistlin’ wind an’ rattlin’ ropes, which they riz above—easy.—Now, stooard, do you mean for to tell me that all that signifies nothink? Do you suppose that that babby could go through life like an or’nary babby? No, it couldn’t—not even if it was to try—w’ich it won’t !”