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. Many a kid of beef have I seen rolling in
the scuppers, and the bearer lying at his length on the decks. I
remember an English lad who was always the life of the crew, but
whom we afterwards lost overboard, standing for nearly ten minutes
at the galley, with his pot of tea in his hand, waiting for a chance
to get down into the forecastle; and seeing what he thought was a
"smooth spell," started to go forward.
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