Chapter 78

DISMAL TIMES IN THE MESS.

It was on the first day of the long, hot calm which we had on the Equator, that a mess-mate of mine, by the name of Shenly, who had been for some weeks complaining, at length went on the sick-list.

An old gunner’s mate of the mess—Priming, the man with the hare-lip, who, true to his tribe, was charged to the muzzle with bile, and, moreover, rammed home on top of it a wad of sailor superstition—this gunner’s mate indulged in some gloomy and savage remarks—strangely tinged with genuine feeling and grief—at the announcement of the sickness of Shenly, coming as it did not long after the almost fatal accident befalling poor Baldy, captain of the mizzen-top, another mess-mate of ours, and the dreadful fate of the amputated fore-top-man whom we buried in Rio, also our mess-mate.

We were cross-legged seated at dinner, between the guns, when the sad news concerning Shenly was first communicated.

“I know’d it, I know’d it,” said Priming, through his nose. “Blast ye, I told ye so; poor fellow! But dam’me, I know’d it. This comes of having thirteen in the mess. I hope he arn’t dangerous, men? Poor Shenly! But, blast it, it warn’t till White-Jacket there comed into the mess that these here things began. I don’t believe there’ll be more nor three of us left by the time we strike soundings, men. But how is he now? Have you been down to see him, any on ye? Damn you, you Jonah! I don’t see how you can sleep in your hammock, knowing as you do that by making an odd number in the mess you have been the death of one poor fellow, and ruined Baldy for life, and here’s poor Shenly keeled up. Blast you, and your jacket, say I.”