My secretary, T. G., a gentleman of colour, now accompanied me for the second time to the Crimea; and the contrast presented by us, myself being equipped in an Oriental costume, T. G. clothed in white, and my Zouave rigged in full feather, was very great; and my suite always created a sensation throughout the camp, more especially when accompanied by the invincible P. M., who was attired in nankeen, a very peculiar style, he being an extensive patronizer of the eminent firm of Messrs. Nicoll.
All on board the Ottawa had for some time retired to their berths. I can seldom sleep at sea; so I was sitting on deck, smoking my cigar, now and then addressing a word to the man at the wheel and the second mate. We praised the fineness of the weather: the upper deck was as steady as a drawing-room floor, and the ocean seemed to belong to us alone.
It was nearly one o’clock, and Morpheus, who generally deserts me on such occasions, stole upon me softly like a zephyr. I felt inclined to submit, and went below to lie down. Wrapped in deep repose, I seemed to quit this world of realities, and to wander in the regions of dream-land. This continued till seven in the morning, when a tremendous crash awoke me suddenly, and I perceived that we were dancing mountains high.
The crash was caused by two glasses and a bottle of soda-water, belonging to my companion P. M. in the upper berth. They had been left upon the wash-hand stand; both glasses were smashed, and the bottle broken, with a tremendous report, making me fear that in the night we had, by mistake, approached too near to Sebastopol, and were being fired into by the batteries. Turning round, I perceived the supposed enemy on the cabin floor in a fearful state of dilapidation—the bottom of the soda-water bottle rolling to and fro, according to the will of the waves, which, it appeared, had risen to that pitch in an incredibly short space of time—a thing common enough in the Euxine, or Black Sea.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed P. M., “where are we?”
“Don’t be alarmed,” said I. “We are under fire; every man to his gun; so let us go up on deck and fight like Britons.”
“The devil we are! Oh dear, I can’t fight, I am so sick.”
“Then you must swim or sink.”
In less than a minute he rushed from the cabin, and concealed himself under the large dinner-table.
As I was dressed, I went upon deck.