We gathered in the wardroom, a glum group—Dunbar nursing his cold, Danenhower with his black patch looking like a pirate in distress, Ambler, De Long, Chipp, Newcomb, and myself. Only Collins was missing. That his presence would have added any gaiety was questionable, but that he saw fit to stay locked in his stateroom keeping the wardroom bulkhead between himself and us, certainly added to the general gloom. And gloomy it certainly was in that room—a smoky oil lamp the only illumination, the warped wood panels of the bulkheads the only decoration, overhead the deck beams heavily covered with insulating layers of felt and canvas, dismally sagging under the weight of the combination of frost and moisture with which they were saturated, and beneath our feet the sloping wood deck, wet from the condensate dripping off the cold forward bulkhead.
I did the best I could to lighten matters up. Back at the Mare Island Navy Yard before we left, Paymaster Cochran had thoughtfully presented me with a bottle of fine old Irish whiskey which I had so far carefully hoarded. Now I broke it out from beneath my berth, scraped together some other ingredients, and with all hands watching, mixed a punch in the soup tureen. In the damp chill of the barren wardroom, we filled our glasses, lifted them.
“To Cochran!” I proposed. “May he yet be Paymaster General!”
With no disagreement to this, we all downed Cochran’s whiskey, and warmed a little by the fiery Irish spirits, promptly refilled our glasses. There was just enough for a second round. I looked questioningly at De Long for him to propose the second and (of necessity) last toast. Whom would he choose, James Gordon Bennett, the sponsor of our venture; the President; someone more personal, perhaps?
But Danenhower gave him no chance. Lifting his glass, he waved it over the empty bowl, swept us all with his one uncovered eye, and sang out,
“To our old shipmates, Emma De Long and Sylvie—may they never have cause to worry over us!”
That also I could heartily endorse, so wasting no regrets over the amenities due Bennett or the President, I raised my glass to drink as did the others, when Dunbar alongside me poked me in the ribs. I leaned over toward him.
“Mrs. De Long’s all right with me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from his cold, “but who’s this Sylvie?”
“Captain De Long’s daughter,” I hissed. “You old fool! Drink it down before he knocks you down!”
“Oh, all right,” mumbled Dunbar. “I thought maybe she might be Newcomb’s sweetheart.” He drank his whiskey at a gulp.