Diary in America, Series One. Фредерик Марриет
under the cow?”
“No, ma’am; but the cow’s over the hatchway.”
“Now, then, my lads, forward to the windlass.”
“ ‘I went to town to get some toddy.’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown.’ ”
“ ‘T’wasn’t fit for any body.’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown.’ ”
“Out there, and clear away the jib.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Mr. Fisher, how much cable is there out?”
“Plenty yet, sir.—Heave away, my lads.”
“ ‘Sally is a bright mulattar.’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown.’ ”
“ ‘Pretty girl, but can’t get at her.’ ”
“Avast heaving; send the men aft to whip the ladies in.—Now, miss, only sit down and don’t be afraid, and you’ll be in, in no time.—Whip away, my lads, handsomely; steady her with the guy; lower away.—There, miss, now you’re safely landed.”
“Landed am I? I thought I was shipped.”
“Very good, indeed—very good, miss; you’ll make an excellent sailor, I see.”
“I should make a better sailor’s wife, I expect, Captain H—.”
“Excellent! Allow me to hand you aft; you’ll excuse me.—Forward now, my men; heave away!”
“ ‘Seven years I courted Sally.’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown.’ ”
“ ‘Seven more of shilley-shally.’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown.’ ”
“ ‘She won’t wed—’ ”
“Avast heaving. Up there, and loose the topsails; stretch along the topsail-sheets.—Upon my soul, half these children will be killed.—Whose child are you?”
“I—don’t—know.”
“Go and find out, that’s a dear.—Let fall; sheet home; belay starboard sheet; clap on the larboard; belay all that.—Now, then, Mr. Fisher.”
“Aye, aye, sir.—Heave away, my lads.”
“ ‘She won’t wed a Yankee sailor.’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown.’ ”
“ ‘For she’s in love with the nigger tailor.’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown.’ ”
“Heave away, my men; heave, and in sight. Hurrah! my lads.”
“ ‘Sally Brown—oh! my dear Sally!’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown!’ ”
“ ‘Sally Brown, of Buble Alley.’ ”
“ ‘Oh! Sally Brown.’ ”
“ ‘Sally has a cross old granny.’ ”
“ ‘Oh—!’ ”
“Heave and fall—jib-halyards—hoist away.”
“Oh! dear—oh! dear.”
“The clumsy brute has half-killed the girl!—Don’t cry, my dear.”
“Pick up the child, Tom, and shove it out of the way.”
“Where shall I put her?”
“Oh, any where just now; put her on the turkey-coop.”
“Starboard!”
“I say, clap on, some of you he chaps, or else get out of the way.”
“Sailor, mind my band-box.”
“Starboard!”
“Starboard it is; steady so.”
Thus, with the trifling matter of maiming half-a-dozen children, upsetting two or three women, smashing the lids of a few trunks, and crushing some band-boxes as flat as a muffin, the good ship Quebec was at last fairly under weigh, and standing out for St. Helen’s.
3 p.m.—Off St. Helen’s; ship steady; little wind; water smooth; passengers sure they won’t be sick.
3:20.—Apologies from the captain for a cold dinner on this day.
4 o’clock.—Dinner over; every body pulls out a number of “Pickwick;” every body talks and reads Pickwick; weather getting up squally; passengers not quite so sure they won’t be seasick.
Who can tell what the morrow may bring forth? It brought forth a heavy sea, and the passengers were quite sure that they were seasick. Only six out of thirty-eight made their appearance at the breakfast-table; and, for many days afterwards, there were Pickwicks in plenty strewed all over the cabin, but passengers were very scarce.
But we had more than sea-sickness to contend with—the influenza broke out and raged. Does not this prove that it is contagious, and not dependant on the atmosphere? It was hard, after having sniffled with it for six weeks on shore, that I should have another month of it on board. But who can control destiny? The ship was like a hospital; an elderly woman was the first victim—then a boy of twelve years of age. Fortunately, there were no more deaths.
But I have said enough of the passage. On the 4th of May, in the year of our Lord 1837, I found myself walking up Broadway, among the free and enlightened citizens of New York.
Volume One—Chapter Two.
A visit, to make it agreeable to both parties, should be well timed. My appearance at New York was very much like bursting into a friend’s house with a merry face when there is a death in it—with the sudden change from levity to condolence. “Any other time most happy to see you. You find us in a very unfortunate situation.”
“Indeed I’m very—very sorry.”
Two hundred and sixty houses have already failed, and no one knows where it is to end. Suspicion, fear, and misfortune have taken possession of the city. Had I not been aware of the cause, I should have imagined that the plague was raging, and I had the description of Defoe before me.
Not a smile on one countenance among the crowd who pass and repass; hurried steps, careworn faces, rapid exchanges of salutation, or hasty communication of anticipated ruin before the sun goes down. Here two or three are gathered on one side, whispering and watching that they are not overheard; there a solitary, with his arms folded and his hat slouched, brooding over departed affluence. Mechanics, thrown out of employment, are pacing up and down with the air of famished wolves. The violent shock has been communicated, like that of electricity, through the country to a distance of hundreds of miles. Canals, railroads, and all public works, have been discontinued, and the Irish emigrant leans against his shanty, with his spade idle in his hand, and starves, as his thoughts wander back to his own Emerald Isle.
The Americans delight in the hyperbole; in fact they hardly have a metaphor without it. During this crash, when every day fifteen or twenty merchants’ names appeared in the newspapers as bankrupts, one party, not in a very good humour, was hastening down Broadway, when he was run against by another whose temper was equally unamiable. This collision roused the choler of both.
“What the devil do you mean, sir?” cried one; “I’ve a great mind to knock you into the