THE COOK AND STEWARD
It was on a Sunday we made the Banks of Newfoundland; a drizzling,
foggy, clammy Sunday. You could hardly see the water, owing to the mist
and vapor upon it; and every thing was so flat and calm, I almost
thought we must have somehow got back to New York, and were lying at
the foot of Wall-street again in a rainy twilight. The decks were
dripping with wet, so that in the dense fog, it seemed as if we were
standing on the roof of a house in a shower.
It was a most miserable Sunday; and several of the sailors had twinges
of the rheumatism, and pulled on their monkey-jackets. As for Jackson,
he was all the time rubbing his back and snarling like a dog.
I tried to recall all my pleasant, sunny Sundays ashore; and tried to
imagine what they were doing at home; and whether our old family
friend, Mr. Bridenstoke, would drop in, with his silver-mounted
tasseled cane, between churches, as he used to; and whether he would
inquire about myself.
But it would not do. I could hardly realize that it was Sunday at all.
Every thing went on pretty much the same as before. There was no church
to go to; no place to take a walk in; no friend to call upon. I began
to think it must be a sort of second Saturday; a foggy Saturday, when
school-boys stay at home reading Robinson Crusoe.
The only man who seemed to be taking his ease that day, was our black
cook; who according to the invariable custom at sea, always went by the
name of _the doctor._
And _doctors,_ cooks certainly are, the very best medicos in the world;
for what pestilent pills and potions of the Faculty are half so
serviceable to man, and health-and-strength-giving, as roasted lamb and
green peas, say, in spring; and roast beef and cranberry sauce in
winter? Will a dose of calomel and jalap do you as much good? Will a
bolus build up a fainting man? Is there any satisfaction in dining off
a powder? But these doctors of the frying-pan sometimes loll men off by
a surfeit; or give them the headache, at least. Well, what then? No
matter. For if with their most goodly and ten times jolly medicines,
they now and then fill our nights with tribulations, and abridge our
days, what of the social homicides perpetrated by the Faculty? And when
you die by a pill-doctor’s hands, it is never with a sweet relish in
your mouth, as though you died by a frying-pan-doctor; but your last
breath villainously savors of ipecac and rhubarb. Then, what charges
they make for the abominable lunches they serve out so stingily! One of
their bills for boluses would keep you in good dinners a twelve-month.
Now, our doctor was a serious old fellow, much given to metaphysics,
and used to talk about original sin. All that Sunday morning, he sat
over his boiling pots, reading out of a book which was very much soiled
and covered with grease spots: for he kept it stuck into a little
leather strap, nailed to the keg where he kept the fat skimmed off the
water in which the salt beef was cooked. I could hardly believe my eyes
when I found this book was the Bible.
I loved to peep in upon him, when he was thus absorbed; for his smoky
studio or study was a strange-looking place enough; not more than five
feet square, and about as many high; a mere box to hold the stove, the
pipe of which stuck out of the roof.
Within, it was hung round with pots and pans; and on one side was a
little looking-glass, where he used to shave; and on a small shelf were
his shaving tools, and a comb and brush. Fronting the stove, and very
close to it, was a sort of narrow shelf, where he used to sit with his
legs spread out very wide, to keep them from scorching; and there, with
his book in one hand, and a pewter spoon in the other, he sat all that
Sunday morning, stirring up his pots, and studying away at the same
time; seldom taking his eye off the page. Reading must have been very
hard work for him; for he muttered to himself quite loud as he read;
and big drops of sweat would stand upon his brow, and roll off, till
they hissed on the hot stove before him. But on the day I speak of, it
was no wonder that he got perplexed, for he was reading a mysterious
passage in the Book of Chronicles. Being aware that I knew how to read,
he called me as I was passing his premises, and read the passage over,
demanding an explanation. I told him it was a mystery that no one could
explain; not even a parson. But this did not satisfy him, and I left
him poring over it still.
He must have been a member of one of those negro churches, which are to
be found in New York. For when we lay at the wharf, I remembered that a
committee of three reverend looking old darkies, who, besides their
natural canonicals, wore quaker-cut black coats, and broad-brimmed
black hats, and white neck-cloths; these colored gentlemen called upon
him, and remained conversing with him at his cookhouse door for more
than an hour; and before they went away they stepped inside, and the
sliding doors were closed; and then we heard some one reading aloud and
preaching; and after that a psalm was sung and a benediction given;
when the door opened again, and the congregation came out in a great
perspiration; owing, I suppose, to the chapel being so small, and there
being only one seat besides the stove.
But notwithstanding his religious studies and meditations, this old
fellow used to use some bad language occasionally; particularly of
cold, wet stormy mornings, when he had to get up before daylight and
make his fire; with the sea breaking over the bows, and now and then
dashing into his stove.
So, under the circumstances, you could not blame him much, if he did
rip a little, for it would have tried old Job’s temper, to be set to
work making a fire in the water.
Without being at all neat about his premises, this old cook was very
particular about them; he had a warm love and affection for his
cook-house. In fair weather, he spread the skirt of an old jacket
before the door, by way of a mat; and screwed a small ring-bolt into
the door for a knocker; and wrote his name, “Mr. Thompson,” over it,
with a bit of red chalk.
The men said he lived round the corner of _Forecastle-square,_ opposite
the _Liberty Pole;_ because his cook-house was right behind the
foremast, and very near the quarters occupied by themselves.
Sailors have a great fancy for naming things that way on shipboard.
When a man is hung at sea, which is always done from one of the lower
yard-arms, they say he _“takes a walk up Ladder-lane, and down
Hemp-street.”_
Mr. Thompson was a great crony of the steward’s, who, being a handsome,
dandy mulatto, that had once been a barber in West-Broadway, went by
the name of Lavender. I have mentioned the gorgeous turban he wore when
Mr. Jones and I visited the captain in the cabin. He never wore that
turban at sea, though; but sported an uncommon head of frizzled hair,
just like the large, round brush, used for washing windows, called a
_Pope’s Head._
He kept it well perfumed with Cologne water, of which he had a large
supply, the relics of his West-Broadway stock in trade. His clothes,
being mostly cast-off suits of the captain of a London liner, whom he
had sailed with upon many previous voyages, were all in the height of
the exploded fashions, and of every kind of color and cut. He had
claret-colored suits, and snuff-colored suits, and red velvet vests,
and buff and brimstone pantaloons, and several full suits of black,
which, with his dark-colored face, made him look quite clerical; like a
serious young colored gentleman of Barbados, about to take orders.
He wore an uncommon large pursy ring on his forefinger, with something
he called a real diamond in it; though it was very dim, and looked more
like a glass eye than any thing else. He was very proud of his ring,
and was always calling your attention to something, and pointing at it
with his ornamented finger.
He was a sentimental sort of a darky, and read the _“Three Spaniards,”_
and _“Charlotte Temple,”_ and carried a lock of frizzled hair in his
vest pocket, which he frequently volunteered to show to people, with
his handkerchief to his eyes. Every fine evening, about sunset, these
two, the cook and steward, used to sit on the little shelf in the
cook-house, leaning up against each other like the Siamese twins, to
keep from falling off, for the shelf was very short; and there they
would stay till after dark, smoking their pipes, and gossiping about
the events that had happened during the day in the cabin.
And sometimes Mr. Thompson would take down his Bible, and read a
chapter for the edification of Lavender, whom he knew to be a sad
profligate and gay deceiver ashore; addicted to every youthful
indiscretion. He would read over to him the story of Joseph and
Potiphar’s wife; and hold Joseph up to him as a young man of excellent
principles, whom he ought to imitate, and not be guilty of his
indiscretion any more. And Lavender would look serious, and say that he
knew it was all true—he was a wicked youth, he knew it—he had broken a
good many hearts, and many eyes were weeping for him even then, both in
New York, and Liverpool, and London, and Havre. But how could he help
it? He hadn’t made his handsome face, and fine head of hair, and
graceful figure. It was not _he,_ but the others, that were to blame;
for his bewitching person turned all heads and subdued all hearts,
wherever he went. And then he would look very serious and penitent, and
go up to the little glass, and pass his hands through his hair, and see
how his whiskers were coming on.