The decks are loaded and piled up with oranges:—oranges in barrels and oranges in crates, filling all the wings and gangways, the barrels cut to let in air, and the crates with bars just close enough to keep in the oranges. The delays from want of lighters, and the great amount of freight, keep us through the day; and it is nearly sundown before we get underway. All day the fruit boats are alongside, and passengers and crew lay in stocks of oranges and bananas and sapotes, and little boxes of sweetmeats. At length, the last barrel is on board, the permits and passenger lists are examined, the revenue officers leave us, and we begin to heave up our anchor.
The harbor is very full of vessels, and the room for swinging is small. A British mail steamer, and a Spanish man-of-war, and several merchantmen, are close upon us. Captain Bullock takes his second mate aft and they have a conference, as quietly as if they were arranging a funeral. He is explaining to him his plan for running the warps and swinging the ship, and telling him beforehand what he is to do in this case, and what in that, and how to understand his signs, so that no orders, or as few as possible, need be given at the time of action. The engine moves, the warp is hauled upon, the anchor tripped, and dropped again, and tripped again, the ship takes the right sheer, clear of everything, and goes handsomely out of the harbor, the star and stripes at her peak, with a waving of hats from friends on the Punta wharf. The western sky is gorgeous with the setting sun, and the evening drums and trumpets sound from the encircling fortifications, as we pass the Casa Blanca, the Cabaña, the Punta, and the Morro. The sky fades, the ship rises and falls in the heave of the sea, the lantern of the Morro gleams over the water, and the dim shores of Cuba are hidden from our sight.
After tea, all are on deck. It is a clear night, and no night or day has been else thar clear at sea or on shore, since we first crossed the Gulf Stream, on our passage out. The Southern Cross is visible in the south, and the North Star is above the horizon in the north. No winter climate of Cuba, in mountain or on plain—the climate of no land, can be compared with the ocean—the clear, bracing, saline air of ocean! How one drinks it in! And, then, again, the rocking cradle that nurses one in sleep! Nothing but the necessity of sleep—the ultimate necessity of self preservation, can close one’s eyes upon such a night as this, in the equinoctial seas.
XXV
A day at sea—Beautiful night at sea—Coast of United States—Death of Mr. G⸺—Off the outer harbor of New York—Pilot, news, fishing boats—Sights on entering the harbor—The wharf—New York hackmen—Leave-takings, and separation of passengers—End of the voyage.
Thursday, March 3.—The open sea, fine weather, moderate breeze, and awnings spread, as it is still hot in the sun. The young gentleman who was at Mrs. Almy’s, Mr. G⸺ survived to be brought on board. His friends say, that after one day’s waiting, if the Cahawba had not arrived Tuesday night, he would not have lived till morning. He was brought on board in an armchair. The purser, though a stranger to him, has given up his room to him; and the second mate, who knows his family, treats him like a brother. His first wish being accomplished, he now says that if he can live to see his home and to receive the sacrament, he will be content to meet his end, which he knows is soon to come.
Friday, March 4.—Today, the sea is high and the vessel rolls and pitches, but the sky is clear and the air delightful. Awnings still up. Most of the passengers are seasick, and only one woman comes to dinner.
The body of the late Chief Justice Eustis, of Louisiana, is on board, about to be taken to the family tomb in Massachusetts. I wish we could, at least those of us who are from New England, in some proper way, testify our respect for the memory of a man of such learning and weight of character. But everything connected with the removal seems to be strictly private. The jumble of life has put on board Sheppard, the man who trained Morrissey for the famous fight with Heenan. He is a quiet, well-behaved man, among the passengers.
Glorious night. Walk deck with Captain Bullock until eleven o’clock. There is not an abuse in the navy, that we have not corrected, or a deficiency that we have not supplied. We have meted to each ship and hero in the war of 1812, with strictest justice, the due share of praise. We have given much better names to the new steam sloops-of-war, taking them from Indian rivers and lakes, and the battlefields of the revolutionary war, than the names of towns where the leading politicians of the government party reside, which the sycophancy or vanity of those in office has selected.
Saturday, March 5.—Fine breeze, clear cool weather, fresh blue sea, off the coast of North Carolina; but, as we keep in the Gulf Stream, we make no land. We are in the highway of the commerce of all the central part
