But
when, after several weary years, I got away in the dear old Torch, on a
separate cruise, incidents came fast enough with a vengeance--stem,
unyielding, iron events, as I found to my heavy cost, which spoke out
trumpet--tongued and fiercely for themselves, and whose tremendous
simplicity required no adventitious aid in the narration to thrill through
the hearts of others. So, to avoid yarn--spinning, I shall evaporate my
early Logs, and blow off as much of the froth as I can, in order to
present the residuum free of flummery to the reader--just to give him a
taste here and there, as it were, of the sort of animal I was at that
time. Thus:
Thomas Cringle, his log--book.
Arrived in Portsmouth by the Defiance at ten, A.M. on such a day.
Waited on the Commissioner, to whom I had letters, and said I was
appointed to the Breeze. Same day, went on board and took up my berth;
stifling hot; mouldy biscuit; and so on. My mother's list makes it
fifteen shirts, whereas I only have twelve.
Admiral made the signal to weigh, wind at S.W. fresh and squally.
Stockings should be one dozen worsted, three of cotton, two of silk; find
only half a dozen worsted, two of cotton, and one of silk.
Fired a gun and weighed.
Sailed for the Fleet off Vigo, deucidly sea--sick was told that fat pork
was the best specific, if bolted half raw; did not find it much of a tonic
passed a terrible night, and for four hours of it obliged to keep watch,
more dead than alive.
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