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- 12733
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.278Z
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- structure-extraction-lambda
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- 12681
- text
- tell you, is not good for the sick.
But, notwithstanding all this, notwithstanding the darkness and
closeness of the sick-bay, in which an alleged invalid must be content
to shut himself up till the Surgeon pronounces him cured, many
instances occur, especially in protracted bad weather, where pretended
invalids will submit to this dismal hospital durance, in order to
escape hard work and wet jackets.
There is a story told somewhere of the Devil taking down the
confessions of a woman on a strip of parchment, and being obliged to
stretch it longer and longer with his teeth, in order to find room for
all the lady had to say. Much thus was it with our Purser’s steward,
who had to lengthen out his manuscript sick-list, in order to
accommodate all the names which were presented to him while we were off
the pitch of Cape Horn. What sailors call the “_Cape Horn fever_,”
alarmingly prevailed; though it disappeared altogether when we got into
the weather, which, as with many other invalids, was solely to be
imputed to the wonder-working effects of an entire change of climate.
It seems very strange, but it is really true, that off Cape Horn some
“_sogers_” of sailors will stand cupping, and bleeding, and blistering,
before they will budge. On the other hand, there are cases where a man
actually sick and in need of medicine will refuse to go on the
sick-list, because in that case his allowance of _grog_ must be
stopped.
On board of every American man-of-war, bound for sea, there is a goodly
supply of wines and various delicacies put on board—according to
law—for the benefit of the sick, whether officers or sailors. And one
of the chicken-coops is always reserved for the Government chickens,
destined for a similar purpose. But, on board of the Neversink, the
only delicacies given to invalid sailors was a little sago or
arrow-root, and they did not get _that_ unless severely ill; but, so
far as I could learn, no wine, in any quantity, was ever prescribed for
them, though the Government bottles often went into the ward-room, for
the benefit of indisposed officers.
And though the Government chicken-coop was replenished at every port,
yet not four pair of drum-sticks were ever boiled into broth for sick
sailors. Where the chickens went, some one must have known; but, as I
cannot vouch for it myself, I will not here back the hardy assertion of
the men, which was that the pious Pelican—true to his name—was
extremely fond of poultry. I am the still less disposed to believe this
scandal, from the continued leanness of the Pelican, which could hardly
have been the case did he nourish himself by so nutritious a dish as
the drum-sticks of fowls, a diet prescribed to pugilists in training.
But who can avoid being suspicious of a very suspicious person?
Pelican! I rather suspect you still.
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