Daily Life on a Gunboat.
I found life on the Benton full of novelty. More than half of her crew were old salts, and the discipline was the same as on a man-of-war. Half-hour bells marked the passage of time. Every morning the deck was holystoned to its utmost possibilities of whiteness. Through each day we heard the shrill whistle of the boatswain, amid hoarse calls of "All hands to quarters," "Stand by the hammocks!" etc.
Even the negro servants caught the naval expressions. One of them, playing on the guitar and singing, broke down from too high a pitch.
"Too much elevation there," said he. "I must depress a little."
"Yes," replied another. "Start again on the gun-deck."
Exchanging shots with the enemy grew monotonous. Reading, writing, or playing chess in the ward-room, we carelessly noted the reports from the Rebel batteries, and some officer from the deck walked in, saying:
"There's another!"
"Where did it strike?" asked some one, quite care lesslycarelessly.
"Near us," or "Just over us in the woods," would be the reply; and the idlers returned to their employments.
My own state-room was within six feet of a thirty-two pounder, which fired every fifteen minutes during the day. The explosions in no wise disturbed my afternoon naps.