It is a scene like this which appals the sailor’s heart. It is not the range of hammocks on the main-deck, tenanted by pale forms, with their bandages steeped in gore; for such is the chance of war, and the blood has flowed from hearts boiling with ardour and devotion. If not past cure, the smiles and congratulations of their shipmates alleviate the anguish and fever of the wound: if past all medical relief; still the passage from this transitory world is soothed by the affectionate sympathy of their messmates, by the promise to execute their last wishes, by the knowledge that it was in their country’s defence they nobly fell. ’Tis not the chance of wreck, or of being consigned, unshrouded, to the dark wave, by the treacherous leak, or overwhelming fury of the storm. ’Tis not the “thought-executing fire.” Every and all of these they are prepared and are resigned to meet, as ills to which their devious track is heir. But when disease, in its most loathsome form and implacable nature, makes its appearance—when we contemplate, in perspective, our own fate in the unfortunate who is selected, like the struggling sheep, dragged from the hurdled crowd, to be pierced by the knife of the butcher—when the horror of infection becomes so strong that we hold aloof from administering the kind offices of relief to our dearest friends; and, eventually prostrated ourselves, find the same regard for self pervades the rest, and that there is no voluntary attendance—then the sight of the expiring wretch, in his last effort, turning his head over the side of his hammock, and throwing off the dreadful black vomit, harbinger of his doom—’tis horrible! too horrible!
And the anxiety which we would in vain suppress—the reckless laugh of some, raised but to conceal their fear from human penetration—the intoxicating draught, poured down by others to dull the excited senses—the follies of years reviewed in one short minute—our life, how spent—how much to answer for!—a world how overvalued—a God how much neglected!—the feeling that we ought to pray, the inclination that propels us to do so, checked by the mistaken yet indomitable pride which puts the question to our manhood, “Will ye pray in fear, when ye neglected it in fancied security?” Down, stubborn knees! Pride is but folly towards men—insanity towards God!
But why dwell upon such a scene? Let it suffice to state, that seventy of the Aspasia’s men fell victims to the baneful climate, and that many more, who did recover, were left in such a state of exhaustion, as to require their immediate return to their native shores. Except O’Keefe, the purser, all the officers whom I have introduced to the reader escaped. Three, from the midshipmen’s berth, who had served their time, and who for many months had been drinking the toast of “A bloody war and sickly season,” fell a sacrifice to their own thoughtless and selfish desire; and the clerk, who anticipated promotion when he heard that the purser was attacked, died before him.
When all was over, Jerry observed to Prose, “Well, Prose, ‘it’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.’ We have had not one single thrashing during the sickness; but I suppose, now that their courage is returned, we must prepare for both principal and interest.”
“Well now, Jerry, I do declare that’s very likely, but I never thought of it before.”
The large convoys of merchantmen that came out supplied the men that were required to man the disabled ships; and transports brought out cargoes from the depôts to fill up the skeleton ranks of the different companies. Among the various blessings left us in this life of suffering is forgetfulness of past evils; and the yellow fever was in a short time no longer the theme of dread, or even of conversation.
“Well, Tom, what sort of a place is this here West Hinges?” inquired a soldier who had been just landed from a transport, of an old acquaintance in the regiment, whom he encountered.
“Capital place, Bill,” returned the other to his interrogation; “plenty to drink, and always a-dry.”
But as I do not wish to swell my narrative, and have no doubt but the reader will be glad to leave this pestilential climate, I shall inform him, that for three years the Aspasia continued on the station, daily encountering the usual risks of battle, fire, and wreck; and that at the end of that period the health of Captain M— was so much injured, by the climate and his own exertions, that he requested permission to quit the station.