I have alluded to our cook, and to his ineffable conceit, mock sentimentality, and Hibernian fertility of invention.
It was his opinion that the “low-lived fellows” on board ought to feel highly honored by the presence in their midst of at least one gentleman—a title which he continually arrogated to himself. I am sorry to say, that as a cook he was not “a success.” He cared very little about the quality of the food he served to us; and its preparation was usually a subordinate consideration, with him, to the indulgence of his master passion,—the perusal of highly-colored novels,—to which he devoted every possible moment.
In the hope of improving my wretched diet, I applied myself to the study of this man’s character, and, having soon discovered his assailable point, supplied him with some works of fiction more entrancing than any he had hitherto possessed. I bought them just before our leaving home, thinking that perhaps some such an opportunity might offer for making a friendship with some of my messmates. His delight at receiving them was extreme; and I received in exchange for my favors many a dish that added a zest to my food, which it had hitherto altogether lacked.
Whenever I wished to be entertained with some marvellous account of “life in the highest circles of Great Britain,” I had only to request from the sympathetic cook a passage or two from his eventful life. It was his constant lament that he had never kept a dialogue (diary) of his travels, which, according to his account, must have surpassed those of most mortals in adventure and interesting incidents.
Of our crew, his countryman, the “boy Jim,” was his favorite. This Jim was the red-shirted sailor who had promised to instruct me in all the “moves” of an experienced salt, before we had left the wharf at Boston. A very few days of our voyage, however, served to prove, that he not only had no claim to the title of “old salt,” but also that he had never learned to “steer a trick at the wheel.” The first order that he received from one of the mates was, “Boy Jim, lay aloft there, and slush down the foretop-gallant and royal masts!” Seizing a tar bucket, and pointing aloft, he exclaimed, “Shure, sir, and which of them sticks is it that ye mane?” thus laying bare his ignorance of all nautical matters, and bringing on himself the ridicule of the whole ship’s crew.
As with head winds we slowly drew near the variables, or horse latitudes, rainy weather, accompanied by squalls of wind, commenced, and for twenty-one days and nights we were wet to the skin: clothes, bedding, all were saturated from the effects of a leaky deck; and it was a common occurrence to find, on awakening from slumber, a respectable stream of water descending into the close and crowded forecastle. When on deck our oil clothes did not protect us, for from our having worked in them constantly, the oil coating had worn off: so, at the end of a watch, we wrung out our under garments, and turned into our narrow bunks, where we quickly fell asleep, and forgot our miseries and troubles, until we were aroused to them by the gruff voice of some sailor of the other watch, shouting down the companion-way, “Ay—you—Lar-bowlines—ahoy—there; eight—bells! Lay up here, bullies, and get your duff.” Or, perhaps, “Do those fellows down there ever intend to relieve the watch!” exclaimed in no pleasant tones by the captain of the other watch.
The rainy season was succeeded by as delightful weather as we could have desired. A fair wind sprang up a few days before crossing the line, and with straining canvas we sped on towards Buenos Ayres. The days passed pleasantly, and our duties became light and agreeable. Enjoyable as were these tranquil days, the nights were still lovelier in those latitudes. The moon seemed to shine with an unwontedly pure and spiritual light, and with a brightness known only to the clear atmosphere of the tropics.
As we glided along, night after night, under a firmament studded with countless lights, and over a broad expanse ruffled with short, dark waves curling crisply into foam, I could hardly conceive a scene of more quiet beauty. Standing upon the forecastle deck, a glorious vision frequently met our gaze: a phosphorescent light gleamed beneath the bows, and streamed along the sides and in the vessel’s wake, looking like a train of liquid gems to the imaginative observer. If we looked aloft to the white canvas of our wide-spread sails, we seemed borne along by some gigantic bird, of which the sails were the powerful wings, to the distant horizon, in which were the Southern Cross and other larger constellations, burning, like beacon lamps, leading us on to our destined port.
During these days and nights our attention was not unfrequently attracted to the dwellers in the deep, which were constantly sporting around us. Schools of black-fish and porpoises continually crossed our track; and large numbers of flying-fish often shot across our bows, sometimes leaving at our mercy a few stragglers upon the decks.
Upon such nights as I have described, when acting as lookout by the windlass bits, old Manuel frequently came to my side, and conversed upon the various topics connected with his past life, which had been an eventful one. He was born in Bordeaux. His mother died when he was an infant, leaving him to the care of his father, who owned and commanded a small vessel engaged in the coasting trade.