17. CHAPTER XVII.
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 servicable 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 kill 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 twelvemonth.
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
cook-house 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
Barbadoes, about to take orders.
He wore an uncommon large pursy ring on his fore-finger,
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.
