FOUL WEATHER.—CAPE ANGUILLE.—THE CLEARING OFF.—THE FROLIC OF
THE PORPOISES.—THE NEW COOKS.—THE SHIP’S CAT.
WEDNESDAY, _July 20_. We have a misty morning, and a contrary wind. If
there are any two words in English, that early fell in love and married,
and have a numerous progeny, those words are Patience and Progress. They
do not walk hand in hand, but, like the red Indians, in single file. If
Progress walk before, Patience is close behind, which order of march now
happens to prevail, and a good deal to our discomfort. In the mean time,
in company with this leisurely and quiet maid, we are beating in and out
from land, in long and tedious stretches, with large gains upon one
tack, and nearly as large losses on the other.
Peeping through the rainy atmosphere is Cape Anguille, the neighboring
heights of which are five hundred feet above the tide, and sweep off in
dim and lengthy lines. The strong head-wind is blowing away the mists,
the seas are up in arms, crested with snowy plumes, flashing and
sparkling. Clouds, in white uniform, at quick-time march in long
battalions, moving inland and leaving the defenceless shores to sunshine
and the dashing surf. The sails mutter a deep, low bass. The “puffpigs,”
classic name for porpoise, are playing a thousand pranks about us, and
we are partners in the frolic; watching, laughing at, and pelting them,
all of which they seem to regard as the merest nonsense of only a
tubfull of helpless creatures in the upper air. They appear to be in the
very highest glee, a party of fast young fellows, well bred and fed, and
in holiday fin and skin. Like swallows round a barn, they play about our
bows, wheeling, plunging, darting to the surface, spouting, splashing,
every tail and rolling back of them full of fun and laughter. After a
spell of this ground and lofty tumbling in the shadow of our jib, away
they trip it, like so many frisky buffalo calves, side by side, in
squads and couples, crossing and recrossing, kicking up their heels and
turning summersets—a kind of rollicking good-by. Not a bit of it: round
they come again, by tens and twenties, wild with merriment, on a perfect
gallop, and dive below the vessel. Up they pop with puff and snort on
all sides and ends, and dart away like shuttles, with a thread of light
behind them, to go over and over again the gamesome round.
Sandy, whose coarse good nature has been dropping from his very finger
ends in the way of stones thrown at the jolly fishes, has the smallest
possible aptitude for the domestic art he is practising. Neither does
his fancy take at all to the fair ways of neatness. Beyond frying pork
and fish in one pan, and boiling potatoes in one pot, and making tea in
one kettle, as a housewife steeps her simples, and every separate
vessel, fakir-like, to sit from meal to meal in undisturbed repose,
wrapped in the dingy mantle of its own defilement, Sandy has no
ambition. Indignant, his superiors have read him several homilies to the
point. But the lessons have fallen upon his attention like the first
drops of a shower upon a duck’s back. The painter even went so far as to
indulge himself in a brief, emphatic charge, in the end of which there
darted out a stinging threat, anent washing and scouring. Across the
cloud of Sandy’s unhappy brow a faint smile was, at length, seen to
pass, and charge and threat dropped like pebbles into the muddy deeps of
his forgetfulness. Sandy, therefore, has virtually been deposed, and now
occupies the lowly position of a mere lackey to cooks of character.
There are now, instead of one indifferent, three pre-eminent cooks: a
painter, a captain, and a writer. They employ, divert, and frequently
disappoint themselves in the several dishes they attempt. Not that the
dishes in themselves are so bad, but that they fall so far short of the
ideal of the excellent.
When I was a lad, spruce-beer and gingerbread were the nectar and
ambrosia at general trainings. I wanted some ambrosia. The cooking-stove
was instantly fired, and so was the painter, on the important occasion,
who, from his skill in combining pigments on his pallet, had suspicions
of ability in compounding ingredients for the pan and oven; and
therefore, nothing loth, was persuaded to undertake, with the secrecy of
some hoar alchemist of old, in the dim retirement of the cabin, the
conglomeration from flour and ginger, sugar, salt, soda and hot water,
of a tremulous mass that should emanate, under his plastic hand, in a
generous and tempting cake. To the large surprise of both mariner and
author, order at length arose out of that chaos in a milk-pan, and
appeared in upper day, when, with conscious but with a modest air of
triumph, it was passed into the hands of the chief-baker, who roasted
both it and himself, for a sultry and smoky hour, with entire success.
Hot as metal from a furnace, and of a rich Potawatomie red, it was
tasted, and found nearly as hot with ginger, and then prudently laid
away to cool and petrify. The history of the decline and fall of that
memorable loaf will probably never be written. It is enough to say,
that, although the disintegrating process was at first a little
difficult, owing to some doubt about the proper instrumentalities, yet
it is now easily dissected with a saw. It is unnecessary to remark, that
but one such batch of the ruddy bread is needed on a pleasure-voyage.
The painter has fresh reason to congratulate himself that in all his
works he succeeds in imparting an element of perpetuity.
Our great difficulty is the smallness of the caboose and the stove,
which will not permit the carrying on of all operations at the same
time—a circumstance which is apt to leave no more than a kindly warmth,
if not a decided coolness, in all dishes but the last in hand. We, the
landsmen of the culinary trio, have also a dreadful foe to fight, and,
in any thing like a severe battle, are sure to fall. It is ever lurking
near our outposts, and is sure to rush upon us in rough weather. They
called it sea-sickness, I dare say, as early as when they voyaged for
the golden fleece. Its effects are described in a language more
venerable than that of Greece: “They reel to and fro, and stagger like a
drunken man, and are at their wits’ end.” That describes our case
exactly. It lays both dishes and ourselves completely on the shelf.
Forthwith tea, cakes and coffee, meats, vegetables, fruits, and fish are
allowed a play-spell, perhaps a long yellow holiday, and may go on a
pic-nic, a bathing, or a fishing, or a shooting frolic under the table,
among the baggage, or around the cabin floor, as the bend of things
incline. The Captain, however, is apt to interpose in such disorders,
and discipline the wild wares much to his own, and often to our relief.
We are amused, annoyed, and distressed at the ship’s cat. She is an
incorrigible thief and pick-shelf, and bent on making the most of us
while we last. The painter is down upon her, and will not endure her for
a moment. The cabin was recently the field of a bloodless battle, the
din whereof was startling as far off as the caboose, in the smoke of
which I was weeping over the remains of the late breakfast. Loud
shouting, interspersed with shocks of irate bodies, boots, broom, cane,
against barrels and amongst boxes came upon the peaceful ear, and warned
me to hasten to the edge of things and look down. Tantæne animis
celestibus iræ! There was no consciousness of a spectator of the
militant manœuvres, but a mighty thrashing and furious thrusting, and
whipping of a scraggy spruce-bough among tubs, jugs, and cans, and away
behind. There was a steady fire in the face, and a pistol-shot sharpness
in the “scat.” Grimalkin answered with a terrible wauling, and finally
with fixed tail made a dash past the enemy, escaping up the steps into
my face and eyes almost, and retreating to the bowsprit. Puss is a bold
sailor. She skips upon the taffrail, climbs the shrouds, sits with ease
and dignity upon the boom, yawns and stretches among the rigging. Poor
Pussy, she is not a silken-haired, daintily-fed cat, but a creature of
backbone and ribs, coated with fur unlicked and scorched, indicative of
kicks and a meagre cupboard. She treads no downy bed, and purrs in no
loved daughter’s lap. As she comes mewing gingerly about my feet, and
coils herself in a sunny twist of rope, I think of our own household
tabby, and call her by all the feline names expressive of good-will and
tenderness.
How the breeze pipes! Hoarse music this, played upon the cordage of our
light little schooner. Old Saint Laurent, thy winds and waves are not
always symbols of a martyr’s gentleness. A few seasons ago, just here in
sight of yonder hills and valleys now dreaming under an atmosphere of
quiet, Captain Knight experienced a most appalling sea. While there is
nothing terrible in these now breaking over our barriers every few
minutes, yet they effectually upset the stomach, and hence all comfort.
We lie upon the slant deck in the sunshine, sheltered near the helm, and
see the spray fly over us, and watch the idle flourishing of the
topmast.