Our Clothes
Were All Wet Through, And The Only Change Was From Wet To More Wet.
It Was In Vain To Think Of Reading Or Working Below, For We Were
Too Tired, The Hatchways Were Closed Down, And Everything Was Wet
And Uncomfortable, Black And Dirty, Heaving And Pitching.
We had
only to come below when the watch was out, wring out our wet clothes,
hang them up, and turn in and sleep as soundly as we could, until the
watch was called again.
A sailor can sleep anywhere - no sound of
wind, water, wood or iron can keep him awake - and we were always
fast asleep when three blows on the hatchway, and the unwelcome
cry of "All starbowlines ahoy! eight bells there below! do you
hear the news?" (the usual formula of calling the watch), roused us
up from our berths upon the cold, wet decks. The only time when we
could be said to take any pleasure was at night and morning, when we
were allowed a tin pot full of hot tea, (or, as the sailors significantly
call it, "water bewitched,") sweetened with molasses. This, bad as
it was, was still warm and comforting, and, together with our sea
biscuit and cold salt beef, made quite a meal. Yet even this meal
was attended with some uncertainty. We had to go ourselves to the
galley and take our kid of beef and tin pots of tea, and run the
risk of losing them before we could get below.
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