Two Years Before the Mast

into the sand as soon as the horse stopped. This put an end to their pretensions, and they never heard the last of it from the rest of the men. On the night of the entertainment at the Rosa’s house, I saw old Schmidt (that was the Austrian’s name) standing up by a hogshead, holding on by both hands, and calling out to himself⁠—“Hold on, Schmidt! hold on, my good fellow, or you’ll be on your back!” Still, he was an intelligent, good-natured old fellow, and had a chestful of books, which he willingly lent me to read. In the same house with him was a Frenchman and an Englishman; the latter a regular-built “man-of-war Jack”; a thorough seaman; a hearty, generous fellow; and, at the same time, a drunken, dissolute dog. He made it a point to get drunk once a fortnight (when he always managed to sleep on the road, and have his money stolen from him), and to battle the Frenchman once a week. These, with a Chilean, and a half a dozen Kanakas, formed the addition to our company.

In about six weeks from the time when the Pilgrim sailed, we had got all the hides which she left us cured and stowed away; and having cleared up the ground, and emptied the vats, and set everything in order, had nothing more to do until she should come down again, but to supply ourselves with wood. Instead of going twice a week for this purpose, we determined to give one whole week to getting wood, and then we should have enough to last us half through the summer. Accordingly, we started off every morning, after an early breakfast, with our hatchets in hand, and cut wood until the sun was over the point⁠—which was our only mark of time, as there was not a watch on the beach⁠—and then came back to dinner, and after dinner, started off again with our handcart and ropes, and carted and “backed” it down, until sunset. This, we kept up for a week, until we had collected several cords⁠—enough to last us for six or eight weeks⁠—when we “knocked off” altogether, much to my joy; for, though I liked straying in the woods, and cutting, very well, yet the backing the wood for so great a distance, over an uneven country, was, without exception, the hardest work I had ever done. I usually had to kneel down and contrive to heave the load, which was well strapped together, upon my back, and then rise up and start off with it up the hills and down the vales, sometimes through thickets⁠—the rough points sticking into the skin, and tearing the clothes, so that, at the end of the week, I had hardly a whole shirt to my back.

We were now through all our work, and had nothing more to do until the Pilgrim should come down again. We had nearly got through our provisions too, as well as our work; for our officer had been very wasteful of them, and the tea, flour, sugar, and molasses, were all gone. We suspected him of sending them up to the town; and he always treated the squaws with molasses, when they came down to the beach. Finding wheat-coffee and dry bread rather poor living, we dubbed together, and I went up to the town on horseback with a great salt-bag behind the saddle, and a few reals in my pocket, and brought back the bag full of onions, pears, beans, watermelons, and other fruits; for the young woman who tended the garden, finding that I belonged to the American ship, and that we were short of provisions, put in a double portion. With these we lived like fighting-cocks for a week or two, and had, besides, what the sailors call “a blowout on sleep”; not turning out in the morning until breakfast was ready. I employed several days in overhauling my chest, and mending up all my old clothes, until I had got everything in order⁠—patch upon patch, like a sand barge’s mainsail. Then I took hold of Bowditch’s Navigator, which I had always with me. I had been through the greater part of it, and now went carefully through it, from beginning to end working out most of the examples. That done, and there being no signs of the Pilgrim, I made a descent upon old Schmidt, and borrowed and read all the books there were upon the beach. Such a dearth was there of these latter articles, that anything, even a little child’s storybook, or the half of a shipping calendar, appeared like a treasure. I actually read a jest-book through, from beginning to end, in one day, as I should a novel, and enjoyed it very much. At last, when I thought that there were no more to be got, I found, at the bottom of old Schmidt’s chest, Mandeville, a Romance, by Godwin,171 in five volumes. This I had never read, but Godwin’s name was enough, and after the wretched trash I had devoured, anything bearing the name of a distinguished intellectual man, was a prize indeed. I bore it off, and for two days I was up early and late, reading with all my might, and actually drinking in delight. It is no extravagance to say that it was like a spring in a desert land.

From the sublime to the ridiculous⁠—so with me, from Mandeville to hide curing, was but a step; for

Wednesday, July 8th, brought us the brig Pilgrim from the windward. As she came in, we found that she was a good deal altered in her appearance. Her short topgallant masts were up; her bowlines all unrove (except to the courses); the quarter boom irons off her lower yards; her jack crosstrees sent down; several blocks got rid of; running rigging rove in new places; and numberless other changes of the same character. Then, too, there was