I Am So
Glad I Was Not Persuaded Out Of My Cot; It Is The Whole Difference
Between Rest, And Holding On For Life.
No one in a bunk slept at
all on Monday night; but then it blew as heavy a gale as it can
blow, and we had the Cornish coast under our lee.
So we tacked and
tumbled all night. The ship being new, too, has the rigging all
wrong; and the confusion and disorder are beyond description. The
ship's officers are very good fellows. The mizen is entirely
worked by the 'young gentlemen'; so we never see the sailors, and,
at present, are not allowed to go forward. All lights are put out
at half-past ten, and no food allowed in the cabin; but the latter
article my friend Avery makes light of, and brings me anything when
I am laid up. The young soldier-officers bawl for him with
expletives; but he says, with a snigger, to me, 'They'll just wait
till their betters, the ladies, is looked to.' I will write again
some day soon, and take the chance of meeting a ship; you may be
amused by a little scrawl, though it will probably be very stupid
and ill-written, for it is not easy to see or to guide a pen while
I hold on to the table with both legs and one arm, and am first on
my back and then on my nose. Adieu, till next time. I have had a
good taste of the humours of the Channel.
29th July, 4 Bells, i.e. 2 o'clock, p.m. - When I wrote last, I
thought we had had our share of contrary winds and foul weather.
Ever since, we have beaten about the bay with the variety of a
favourable gale one night for a few hours, and a dead calm
yesterday, in which we almost rolled our masts out of the ship.
However, the sun was hot, and I sat and basked on deck, and we had
morning service. It was a striking sight, with the sailors seated
on oars and buckets, covered with signal flags, and with their
clean frocks and faces. To-day is so cold that I dare not go on
deck, and am writing in my black-hole of a cabin, in a green light,
with the sun blinking through the waves as they rush over my port
and scuttle. The captain is much vexed at the loss of time. I
persist in thinking it a very pleasant, but utterly lazy life. I
sleep a great deal, but don't eat much, and my cough has been bad;
but, considering the real hardship of the life - damp, cold, queer
food, and bad drink - I think I am better. When we can get past
Finisterre, I shall do very well, I doubt not.
The children swarm on board, and cry unceasingly. A passenger-ship
is no place for children. Our poor ship will lose her character by
the weather, as she cannot fetch up ten days' lost time.
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