- end_line
- 11538
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:14.843Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 11477
- text
- white foam of the wave-crests, like avalanches; while the seething and
boiling that ensued, seemed the swallowing up of human beings.
By the afternoon of the next day this heavy sea subsided; and we bore
down on the waves, with all our canvas set; stun’-sails alow and aloft;
and our best steersman at the helm; the captain himself at his
elbow;—bowling along, with a fair, cheering breeze over the taffrail.
The decks were cleared, and swabbed bone-dry; and then, all the
emigrants who were not invalids, poured themselves out on deck,
snuffing the delightful air, spreading their damp bedding in the sun,
and regaling themselves with the generous charity of the captain, who
of late had seen fit to increase their allowance of food. A detachment
of them now joined a band of the crew, who proceeding into the
steerage, with buckets and brooms, gave it a thorough cleansing,
sending on deck, I know not how many bucketsful of defilements. It was
more like cleaning out a stable, than a retreat for men and women. This
day we buried three; the next day one, and then the pestilence left us,
with seven convalescent; who, placed near the opening of the hatchway,
soon rallied under the skillful treatment, and even tender care of the
mate.
But even under this favorable turn of affairs, much apprehension was
still entertained, lest in crossing the Grand Banks of Newfoundland,
the fogs, so generally encountered there, might bring on a return of
the fever. But, to the joy of all hands, our fair wind still held on;
and we made a rapid run across these dreaded shoals, and southward
steered for New York.
Our days were now fair and mild, and though the wind abated, yet we
still ran our course over a pleasant sea. The steerage-passengers—at
least by far the greater number—wore a still, subdued aspect, though a
little cheered by the genial air, and the hopeful thought of soon
reaching their port. But those who had lost fathers, husbands, wives,
or children, needed no crape, to reveal to others, who they were. Hard
and bitter indeed was their lot; for with the poor and desolate, grief
is no indulgence of mere sentiment, however sincere, but a gnawing
reality, that eats into their vital beings; they have no kind
condolers, and bland physicians, and troops of sympathizing friends;
and they must toil, though to-morrow be the burial, and their
pallbearers throw down the hammer to lift up the coffin.
How, then, with these emigrants, who, three thousand miles from home,
suddenly found themselves deprived of brothers and husbands, with but a
few pounds, or perhaps but a few shillings, to buy food in a strange
land?
As for the passengers in the cabin, who now so jocund as they? drawing
nigh, with their long purses and goodly portmanteaus to the promised
land, without fear of fate. One and all were generous and gay, the
jelly-eyed old gentleman, before spoken of, gave a shilling to the
steward.
The lady who had died, was an elderly person, an American, returning
from a visit to an only brother in London. She had no friend or
relative on board, hence, as there is little mourning for a stranger
dying among strangers, her memory had been buried with her body.
But the thing most worthy of note among these now light-hearted people
in feathers, was the gay way in which some of them bantered others,
upon the panic into which nearly all had been thrown.
- title
- Chunk 5