we thought we had seen them all in the course of the first three
days--but on the fourth, we heard the captain say to one of the waiters,
"Juba, ask that gentleman if I shall have the pleasure of taking wine
with him." My eyes now involuntarily followed the direction of Juba's
movements, feeling some curiosity to know who "that gentleman" was, as I
now recollected having frequently heard the epithet within the last few
days. For instance, when almost every one was confined by sea-sickness
to their state-rooms, I had seen the captain despatch a servant to
inquire of that gentleman if he would have anything sent to him from the
table. Also, I had heard Hamilton, the steward, call out,--"There, boys,
don't you hear that gentleman ring his bell--why don't you run
spontaneously--jump, one of you, to number eleventeen." I was puzzled
for a moment to divine which state-room bore the designation of
eleventeen, but concluded it to be one of the many unmeaning terms that
characterize the phraseology of our coloured people. Once or twice I
wondered who that gentleman could be; but something else happened
immediately to divert my attention.
Now, when I heard Captain Santlow propose taking wine with him, I
concluded that, of course, that gentleman must be visible in _propriâ
personâ_, and, casting my eyes towards the lower end of the table, I
perceived a genteel-looking man whom I had not seen before. He was
apparently of no particular age, and there was nothing in his face that
could lead any one to guess at his country. He might have been English,
Scotch, Irish, or American; but he had none of the characteristic marks
of either nation. He filled his glass, and bowing his head to Captain
Santlow, who congratulated him on his recovery, he swallowed his wine in
silence. There was an animated conversation going on near the head of
the table, between Miss Audley and two of her beaux, and we thought no
more of him.
At the close of the dessert, we happened to know that he had quitted the
table and gone on deck, by one of the waiters coming down and requesting
Mr. Overslaugh (who was sitting a-tilt, while discussing his walnuts,
with his chair balanced on one leg, and his head leaning against the
wainscot) to let him pass for a moment, while he went into No.
eleventeen for that gentleman's overcoat. I now found that the servants
had converted No. 13 into eleventeen. By-the-bye, that gentleman had a
state-room all to himself, sometimes occupying the upper and sometimes
the under berth.
"Captain Santlow," said Mr. Fenton, "allow me to ask you the name of
that gentleman."
"Oh! I don't know"--replied the captain, trying to suppress a smile--"at
least I have forgotten it--some English name; for he is an
Englishman--he came on board at Plymouth, and his indisposition
commenced immediately. Mrs. Cummings, shall I have the pleasure of
peeling an orange for you?"
I now recollected a little incident which had set me laughing soon after
we left Plymouth, and when we were beating down the coast of Devonshire.
I had been trying to write at the table in the Ladies' Cabin, but it was
one of those days when
"Our paper, pen and ink, and we
Roll up and down our ships at sea."
And all I could do was to take refuge in my berth, and endeavour to
read, leaving the door open for more air. My attention, however, was
continually withdrawn from my book by the sound of things that were
dislodged from their places, sliding or falling, and frequently
suffering destruction; though sometimes miraculously escaping unhurt.
While I was watching the progress of two pitchers that had been tossed
out of the washing-stand, and after deluging the floor with water, had
met in the Ladies' Cabin, and were rolling amicably side by side,
without happening to break each other, I saw a barrel of flour start
from the steward's pantry, and running across the dining-room, stop at a
gentleman that lay extended in a lower berth with his room door open,
and pour out its contents upon him, completely enveloping him in a fog
of meal. I heard the steward, who was busily engaged in mopping up the
water that had flowed from the pitchers, call out, "Run, boys, run, that
gentleman's smothering up in flour--go take the barrel off him--jump, I
tell you!"
How that gentleman acted while hidden in the cloud of flour, I could not
perceive, and immediately the closing of the folding doors shut out the
scene.
For a few days after he appeared among us, there was some speculation
with regard to this nameless stranger, whose taciturnity seemed his
chief characteristic. One morning while we were looking at the gambols
of a shoal of porpoises that were tumbling through the waves and
sometimes leaping out of them, my husband made some remark on the clumsy
antics of this unsightly fish, addressing himself, for the first time,
to the unknown Englishman, who happened to be standing near him. That
gentleman smiled affably, but made no reply. Mr. Fenton pursued the
subject--and that gentleman smiled still more affably, and walked away.
Nevertheless, he was neither deaf nor dumb, nor melancholy, but had only
"a great talent for silence," and as is usually the case with persons
whose genius lies that way, he was soon left entirely to himself, no one
thinking it worth while to take the trouble of extracting words from
him. In truth, he was so impracticable, and at the same time so
evidently insignificant, and so totally uninteresting, that his
fellow-passengers tacitly conveyed him to Coventry; and in Coventry he
seemed perfectly satisfied to dwell. Once or twice Captain Santlow was
asked again if he recollected the name of that gentleman; but he always
replied with a sort of smile, "I cannot say I do--not exactly, at
least--but I'll look at my manifest and see"--and he never failed to
turn the conversation to something else.
The only person that persisted in occasionally talking to that
gentleman, was old Mrs. Cummings; and she confided to him her perpetual
alarms at "the perils of the sea," considering him a good hearer, as he
never made any reply, and was always disengaged, and sitting and
standing about, apparently at leisure while the other gentlemen were
occupied in reading, writing, playing chess, walking the deck, &c.
Whenever the ship was struck by a heavy sea, and after quivering with
the shock, remained motionless for a moment before she recovered herself
and rolled the other way, poor Mrs. Cummings supposed that we had run
against a rock, and could not be convinced that rocks were not dispersed
every where about the open ocean. And as that gentleman never attempted
to undeceive her on this or any other subject, but merely listened with
a placid smile, she believed that he always thought precisely as she
did. She not unfrequently discussed to him, in an under tone, the
obstinacy and incivility of the captain, who she averred, with truth,
had never in any one instance had the politeness to stop the ship, often
as she had requested, nay implored him to do so even when she was
suffering with sea-sickness, and actually tossed out of her berth by the
violence of the storm, though she was holding on with both hands.
One day, while we were all three sitting in the round-house (that very
pleasant little saloon on the upper deck, at the head of the
cabin-staircase), my attention was diverted from my book by hearing Mrs.
Cummings say to that gentleman, "Pray, sir, can you tell me what is the
matter with that poor man's head? I mean the man that has to stand
always at the wheel there, holding it fast and turning it. I hear the
captain call out to him every now and then (and in a very rough voice
too, sometimes), 'How is your head?' and 'How is your head now?' I
cannot understand what the man says in answer, so I suppose he speaks
American; but the captain often tells him 'to keep it steady.' And once
I heard the captain call out 'Port--port,' which I was very glad of,
concluding that the poor fellow had nearly given out, and he was
ordering a glass of port wine to revive him. Do you think, sir, that the
poor man at the wheel has a constant headache like my friend Mrs.
Dawlish of Leadenhall street, or that he has hurt his head somehow, by
falling out of the sails, or tumbling down the ropeladders--(there
now--we've struck a rock!--mercy on us--what a life we lead! I wish I
was on Ludgate Hill.) Talking of hurts, I have not escaped them myself,
for I've had my falls; and yet the captain is so rude as to turn a deaf
ear, and keeps sailing on all the same, even when the breath is nearly
knocked out of me, and though I've offered several times to pay him for
stopping, but he only laughs at me. By-the-bye, when I go back again to
dear old England, and I'm sorry enough that I ever left it (as Mr.
Stackhouse, the great corn-chandler in Whitechapel, told me I certainly
should be), I'll see and take my passage with a captain that has more
feeling for the ladies. As for this one, he never lets the ship rest a
minute, but he keeps forcing her on day and night. I doubt whether
she'll last the voyage out, with all this wear and tear--and then if she
_should_ give in, what's to become of us all? If he would only let her
stand still while we are at table, that we might eat our dinners in
peace!--though it's seldom I'm well enough to eat anything to speak
of--I often make my whole dinner of the leg and wing of a goose, and a
slice or two of plum-pudding; but there's no comfort in eating, when we
are one minute thrown forward with our heads bowing down to the very
table-cloth, and the next minute flung back with them knocking against
the wall."
"There was the other day at breakfast you know, we had all the cabin
windows shut up at eight o'clock in the morning, which they called
putting in the dead-lights--(I cannot see why shutters should be called
lights)--and they put the lid on the skylight, and made it so dark that
we had to breakfast with lamps. There must have been some strange
mismanagement, or we need not have been put to all that inconvenience;
and then when the ship almost fell over, they let a great flood of sea
come pouring down among us, sweeping the plates off the table, and
washing the very cups out of our hands, and filling our mouths with salt
water, and ruining our dresses. I wonder what my friend Mrs. Danks, of
Crutched Friars, would say if she had all this to go through--she that
is so afraid of the water, she won't go over London Bridge for fear it
should break down with her, and therefore visits nobody that lives in
the Borough--there now--a rock again! I wish I was in St. Paul's Church
Yard! Dear me!--what will become of us?"
"Upon my word I can't tell," said that gentleman, as he rose and walked
out on deck.
I then endeavoured to set the old lady right, by explaining to her that
the business of the man at the wheel was to steer the vessel, and that
he was not always the same person, the helmsman being changed at regular
periods. I also made her understand that the captain only meant to ask
in what direction was the head of the ship--and that "port--port,"
signified that he should put up the helm to the larboard or left side.
I could not forbear repeating to Captain Santlow the ludicrous mistake
of Mrs. Cummings, and her unfounded sympathy for the man at the wheel.
He laughed, and said it reminded him of a story he had heard concerning
an old Irish woman, a steerage passenger, that early in the morning
after a stormy night, was found by the mate, cautiously creeping along
the deck and looking round at every step, with a bottle of whiskey
half-concealed under her apron. On the mate asking her what she was
going to do with the whiskey, she replied, "I'm looking for that cratur
Bill Lay, that ye were all calling upon the whole night long, and not
giving him a minute to rest himself. I lay in my bed and I heard ye
tramping and shouting over head!--'twas nothing but Bill Lay[82] here,
and Bill Lay there, and Bill Lay this, and Bill Lay that--and a weary
time he's had of it--for it was yourselves that could do nothing without
him, great shame to ye. And I thought I'd try and find him out, the
sowl, and bring him a drop of comfort, for it's himself that nades it."
[Footnote 82: Belay--a sea-term, signifying to secure or make fast a
rope.]
Mrs. Cummings's compassion for the helmsman was changed into a somewhat
different feeling a few days after. The captain and Mr. Fenton were
sitting near the wheel earnestly engaged in a game of chess. The wind
had been directly ahead for the last twenty-four hours, and several of
the passengers were pacing the deck, and looking alternately at the
sails and the dog-vane--suddenly there was an exclamation from one of
them, of "Captain--captain--the wind has changed--it has just gone
about!" Captain Santlow started up, and perceived that the little flag
was apparently blowing in another direction; but on looking at the
compass, he discovered the truth--it was now found that the steersman,
who happened to understand chess, was so interested with the game which
was playing immediately before him, that he had for a moment forgotten
his duty, and inadvertently allowed the head of the ship to fall off
half a dozen points from the wind. The error was immediately rectified;
and Captain Santlow (who never on any occasion lost his temper) said
coolly to the helmsman, "For this, sir, your grog shall be stopped."
This little incident afforded an additional excitement to the ever-ready
fears of Mrs. Cummings, who now took it into her head that if (as she
phrased it) the wheel was turned the wrong way, it would overset the
ship. Upon finding that the delinquent was an American, she opined that
there could be no safety in a vessel where the sailors understood chess.
And whenever we had a fresh breeze (such as she always persisted in
calling a violent storm) she was very importunate with the captain not
to allow the chess-man to take the wheel.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Cummings, "I am sure there is no such thing in his
majesty's ships, as sailors knowing chess or any of those hard things
that are enough to set one crazy to think of. In my own dear country,
people are saving of their wits; but you Americans always know more of
everything than you ought to. I don't wonder so few of you look plump
and ruddy. You all wear yourselves out with head-work. Your eyes are not
half so big as ours, for they are fairly sunk in your heads with
thinking and contriving. To be sure, at our house in the Minories we
always kept a pack of cards in the parlour closet. But we never played
any but very easy games, for it was not our way to make a toil of
pleasure. Mercy on me!--what a rock!--I wish I was at the Back of St.
Clements--How I have seen the Potheridge family in Throgmorton street,
ponder and study over a game of whist as if their lives depended on
every card. I had to play whist whenever I drank tea there, for they
were never satisfied unless they were at it every night; and I hated it,
because I always happened to get old Miss Nancy for a partner, and she
was so sharp and so cross, and was continually finding fault with me for
something she called reneaging. Whenever I gave out that I was one by
honours, she always said it was no such thing; and she downright
scolded, when after she had played an ace I played a king; or when she
had trumped first and I made all sure by trumping too. Now what I say is
this--a trick can't be too well taken. But I'm not for whist--give me a
good easy game where you can't go wrong, such as I've been used to all
my life; though, no doubt when I get to America, I shall find my son
Jacky playing chess and whist and despising Beggar my neighbour."
In less than a fortnight after we left the British Channel, we were off
the Banks of Newfoundland; and, as is frequently the case in their
vicinity, we met with cold foggy weather. It cleared a little about
seven in the morning, and we then discovered no less than three
ice-bergs to leeward. One of them, whose distance from us was perhaps a
mile, appeared higher than the mainmast head, and as the top shot up
into a tall column, it looked like a vast rock with a light-house on its
pinnacle. As the cold and watery sunbeams gleamed fitfully upon it, it
exhibited in some places the rainbow tints of a prism--other parts were
of a dazzling white, while its sharp angular projections seemed like
masses of diamonds glittering upon snow.
The fog soon became so dense, that in looking over the side of the ship
we could not discern the sea. Fortunately, it was so calm that we
scarcely moved, or the danger of driving on the ice-bergs would have
been terrific. We had now no other means of ascertaining our distance
from them, but by trying the temperature of the water with a
thermometer.
In the afternoon, the fog gathered still more thickly round us, and
dripped from the rigging, so that the sailors were continually swabbing
the deck. I had gone with Mr. Fenton to the round-house, and looked a
while from its windows on the comfortless scene without. The only
persons then on the main-deck were the captain and the first mate. They
were wrapped in their watch-coats, their hair and whiskers dripping with
the fog-dew. Most of the passengers went to bed at an early hour, and
soon all was awfully still; Mrs. Cummings being really too much
frightened to talk, only that she sometimes wished herself in
Shoreditch, and sometimes in Houndsditch. It was a night of real danger.
The captain remained on deck till morning, and several of the gentlemen
bore him company, being too anxious to stay below.
About day-break, a heavy shower of rain dispersed the fog--"the
conscious vessel waked as from a trance"--a breeze sprung up that
carried us out of danger from the ice-bergs, which were soon diminished
to three specks on the horizon, and the sun rose bright and cheerfully.
Towards noon, the ladies recollected that none of them had seen that
gentleman during the last twenty-four hours, and some apprehension was
expressed lest he should have walked overboard in the fog. No one could
give any account of him, or remember his last appearance; and Miss
Audley professed much regret that now, in all probability, we should
never be able to ascertain his name, as, most likely, he had "died and
made no sign." To our shames be it spoken, not one of us could cry a
tear at his possible fate. The captain had turned into his berth, and
was reposing himself after the fatigue of last night; so we could make
no inquiry of him on the subject of our missing fellow-passenger.
Mrs. Cummings called the steward, and asked him how long it was since he
had seen anything of that gentleman. "I really can't tell, madam,"
replied Hamilton; "I can't pretend to charge my memory with such things.
But I conclude he must have been seen yesterday--at least I rather
expect he was."
The waiter Juba was now appealed to: "I believe, madam," said Juba--"I
remember something of handing that gentleman the bread-basket yesterday
at dinner--but I would not be qualified as to whether the thing took
place or not, my mind being a good deal engaged at the time."
Solomon, the third waiter, disclaimed all positive knowledge of this or
any other fact, but sagely remarked, "that it was very likely that
gentleman had been about all yesterday, as usual; yet still it was just
as likely he might not; and there was only one thing certain, which
was, that if he was not nowhere, he must, of course, be somewhere."
"I have a misgiving," said Mrs. Cummings, "that he will never be found
again."
"I'll tell you what I can do, madam," exclaimed the steward, looking as
if suddenly struck with a bright thought--"I can examine into No.
eleventeen, and see if I can perceive him there." And softly opening the
door of the state-room in question, he stepped back, and said with a
triumphant flourish of his hand--"There he is, ladies, there he is in
the upper berth, fast asleep in his double-cashmere dressing-gown. I
opinionate that he was one of the gentlemen that stayed on deck all
night, because they were afraid to go to sleep on account of the
icebergers.--Of course, nobody noticed him--but there he is _now_, safe
enough."
Instantly we proceeded _en masse_ towards No. eleventeen, to convince
ourselves: and there indeed we saw that gentleman lying asleep in his
double cashmere dressing-gown. He opened his eyes, and seemed surprised,
as well he might, at seeing all the ladies and all the servants ranged
before the door of his room, and gazing in at him: and then we all stole
off, looking foolish enough.
"Well," said Mrs. Cummings, "he is not dead, however,--so we have yet a
chance of knowing his name from himself, if we choose to ask him. But
I'm determined I'll make the captain tell it me, as soon as he gets up.
It's all nonsense, this making a secret of a man's name."
"I suspect," said Mr. Fenton, who had just then entered the cabin, "we
shall find it
----'a name unpronouncea_ble_,
Which nobody can speak and nobody can spell.'"
"I never," observed Mrs. Cummings, "knew but one name that could neither
be spoke nor spelt--and that was the great general's, that was so often
in the papers at the time people were talking about the Poles."
"Sczrynecki?" said Mr. Fenton.
"Oh! I don't know how _you_ call him," replied Mrs. Cummings; "but Mr.
Upshaw of Great Knight Rider street, said it was 'Screw him sky high.'
And Dr. Mangleman of Cateaton street (who was always to me a very
disagreeable person, because he always talked of disagreeable things),
said it was 'Squeeze neck and eyes out.' A very unpleasant person was
Dr. Mangleman. His talk was enough to make well people sick, and sick
people sicker--I'm glad he's not on board o' ship with us. He told us
one day at Mrs. Winceby's dinner-table, when some of us were eating
calf's head, and some roast pig, about his dissecting a man that was
hanged, and how he took his knife and--"
"I really believe," said I, wishing to be spared the story, "that we
have actually struck a rock this time."
"There now," exclaimed Mrs. Cummings, "you see I am right, after all. If
it is not a rock, it is one of those great hills of ice that has turned
about and is coming right after us--Mercy on us! I wish I was in Middle
Row, Holborn! Let us go on deck, and see."
We went on deck, and saw a whale, which was spouting at a distance.
While looking at it, we were joined by Captain Santlow, and the
conversation turning entirely on whales, that gentleman and his name
were again forgotten.
Among the numerous steerage passengers was a young man whose profession
was that of a methodist preacher. Having succeeded in making some
religious impressions on the majority of his companions, he one Sunday
obtained their consent to his performing divine service that evening in
the steerage: and respectfully intimated that he would be highly
gratified by the attendance of any of the cabin passengers that would
condescend to honour him so far. Accordingly, after tea, we all
descended to the steerage at early candle-light, and found everything
prepared for the occasion. A barrel, its head covered with a piece of
sail-cloth, served as a desk, lighted by two yellowish dip candles
placed in empty porter bottles. But as there was considerable motion, it
was found that the bottles would not rest in their stations; therefore,
they were held by two boys. The chests and boxes nearest to the desk,
were the seats allotted to the ladies and gentlemen: and the steerage
people ranged themselves behind.
A hymn was sung to a popular tune. The prayer and sermon were delivered
in simple but impressive language; for the preacher, though a poor and
illiterate man, was not deficient either in sense or feeling, and was
evidently imbued with the sincerest piety. There was something solemn
and affecting in the aspect of the whole scene, with all its rude
arrangement; and also in the idea of the lonely and insulated situation
of our little community, with "one wide water all around us." And when
the preacher, in his homely but fervent language, returned thanks for
our hitherto prosperous voyage, and prayed for our speedy and safe
arrival at our destined port, tears stood in the eyes of many of his
auditors. I thought, when it was over, how frequently such scenes must
have occurred between the decks of the May-flower, during the long and
tempestuous passage of that pilgrim band who finally
"moored their bark
On the wild New England shore,"
and how often
"Amid the storm they sung,
And the stars heard, and the sea--"
when the wise and pious Brewster lifted his voice in exhortation and
prayer, and the virtuous Carver, and the gallant Standish, bowed their
heads in devotion before him.