The master, Best, a
likely young man; his mate a fellow jabbering in some strange
gibberish, English I believe--or nearer that than anything else--but
gushing out all together--whole sentences confounded into one long,
unintelligible word. Irishmen shoveling the coal into the two Custom
House tubs, to be craned out of the hold, and others wheeling it away
in barrows, to be laden into wagons. The first day, I walked the
wharf, suffering not a little from cold; yesterday, I sat in the cabin
whence I could look through the interstices of the bulkhead, or
whatever they call it, into the hold. My eyes, what a cabin! Three
paces would more than measure it in any direction, and it was filled
with barrels, not clean and new, but black, and containing probably
the provender of the vessel; jugs, firkins, the cook's utensils and
kitchen furniture--everything grimy and sable with coal dust. There
were two or three tiers of berths; and the blankets, etc., are not to
be thought of. A cooking stove, wherein was burning some of the
coal--excellent fuel, burning as freely as wood, and without the
bituminous melting of Newcastle coal. The cook of the vessel, a grimy,
unshaven, middle-aged man, trimming the fire at need, and sometimes
washing his dishes in water that seemed to have cleansed the whole
world beforehand--the draining of gutters, or caught at sink-spouts.
In the cessations of labor, the Irishmen in the hold would poke their
heads through the open space into the cabin and call "Cook!"--for a
drink of water or a pipe--whereupon Cook would fill a short black
pipe, put a coal into it, and stick it into the Irishman's mouth.
Pages:
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51