Chapter 17

THE COOK AND STEWARD

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

serviceable 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 jakp 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 loll 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 I 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 twelve-month.

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 n***o 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 cookhouse 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 sting 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 Barbados, about to take orders.

He wore an uncommon large pursy ring on his forefinger, 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.