Bob shrugged up his shoulders, and removed his enormous quid into a convenient position for speaking, and then replied, “I can’t say but that I had a horn of malt.”
The captain looked thunder at the stalwart man, as he answered, “A horn of malt, you rascal! what do you call a horn of malt?”
“When I was in Bengal, Madras, and Batavia,” said he, “I used to get some stuff called arrack—we used to call it a horn of malt; but this was some good rum.”
Bob’s manner was so exquisitely ridiculous while delivering this harangue, that both officers and men broke out into an involuntary laugh. The captain looked confounded, but recovering himself, he said to Mr. Hope, the first lieutenant, “Put that rascal in irons; it is of no use to flog him.”
One of the peculiarities of Captain Carden was an ardent desire to have a crew of picked, first-rate men. The shiftless, slovenly seaman was his abhorrence. Had he dared, he would gladly have given all such their discharge; as it was, he never attempted their recovery, by offering a reward for their detection, if they ran away; while he spared no pains to catch an able, active, valuable man like Sadler. He even gave these drones opportunity to escape, by sending them on shore at Lisbon, to cut stuff to make brooms for sweeping the deck. The men sent out on these expeditions were nicknamed “broomers.” Now, although Bob Hammond was as expert a sailor as any man in the ship, yet his unconquerable audacity made the captain fear his influence, and wish to get rid of him; hence, a few days after this drunken spree, Bob was called on deck to go with the broomers. “You may go, Mr. Hammond,” said the captain, eyeing him in a very expressive manner, “with these fellows to cut broom.”
Bob understood the hint perfectly, and replied, “Aye, aye, sir, and I will cut a long handle to it.” I scarcely need remark that the broomers returned without Bob. Whether he remained on shore to cut the long handle, or for some other purpose, he never informed us: certain it is, however, that the presence of Bob Hammond never darkened the decks of the Macedonian again.
About this time the prevailing topic of conversation among our men and officers was the probability of a war with America. The prevailing feeling through the whole fleet was that of confidence in our own success, and of contempt for the inferior naval force of our anticipated enemies. Every man, and especially the officers, predicted, as his eye glanced proudly on the fine fleet which was anchored off Lisbon, a speedy and successful issue to the approaching conflict.
We now received orders to sail to Norfolk, Virginia, with despatches. The voyage was accomplished without any occurrence of note. We found ourselves on the American coast, with no very pleasant impressions. It was late in the fall, and the transition from the mild, soft climate of Spain and Portugal, to the bleak, sharp atmosphere of the coast of Virginia, was anything but delightful.
The most disagreeable duty in the ship was that of holy-stoning the decks on cold, frosty mornings. Our movements were never more elastic than when at this really severe task. As usual, it gave occasion to a variety of forecastle yarns about cold stations. Among these was one which was attested by many witnesses, and there can be no doubt of its truth:
A British frigate was once stationed in a cold climate. The first lieutenant was a complete tyrant, delighting in everything that caused the crew to suffer. Among other things, he took especial care to make the work of holy-stoning as painful as possible, by forcing them to continue at it much longer than was necessary. Although he had no watch on deck, he would contrive to be up in season to annoy the men with his hated presence. One morning, the weather being unusually severe, the men sprang to their task with unwonted agility, and contrived to finish it before the appearance of their persecutor. To their vexation, however, just as they had completed their work, he bounced on deck, with a peremptory order to wash the decks all over a second time.