In the early part of May I was called upon to take up my quarters for a few months at our hide-house at San Diego.  In the twinkling of an eye I was transformed into a beach-comber and hide-curer, but the novelty and the comparative independence of the life were not unpleasant.  My companions were a Frenchman named Nicholas, and a boy who acted as cook; Four Sandwich Islanders worked and ate with us, but generally slept at a large oven which had been built by the men of a Russian discovery ship, and was big enough to hold six or eight men.  Mr. Russell, who was in charge, had a small room to himself.  On July 18 the Pilgrim returned with news.  Captain T------ had taken command of a larger vessel, the Alert, and the owners, at the request of my friends, had written to Captain T------ to take me on board should the Alert return to the States before the Pilgrim.

On September 8, I found myself on board the new vessel, and with her visited San Francisco, as well as other ports already named.  Our crew were somewhat diminished; we were short-handed for a voyage round Cape Horn in the depth of winter, and so cramped and deadened was the Alert by her unusually large cargo, and the weight of our five months stores, that her channels were down in the water; while, to make matters even more uncomfortable, the forecastle leaked, and in bad weather more than half the berths were rendered tenantless.  But “Never mind, we’re homeward bound!” was the answer to everything.

The crew included four boys, regarding two of whom an incident may here be chronicled.  There was a little boxing-match on board while we were at Monterey in December.  A broad-backed, big-headed Cape Cod boy, about sixteen, had been playing the bully over a slender, delicate-looking boy from one of the Boston schools.  One day George (the Boston boy) said he would fight Nat if he could have fair play.  The chief mate heard the noise, and attempted to make peace; but, finding it useless, called all hands up, ranged the crew in the waist, marked a line on the deck, brought the two boys up to it, and made them “toe the mark.”

Nat put in his double-fisters, starting the blood, and bringing the black-and-blue spots all over the face and arms of the other, whom we expected to see give in every moment.  But the more he was hurt the better he fought.  Time after time he was knocked nearly down, but up he came again and faced the mark, as bold as a lion, again to take the heavy blows, which sounded so as to make one’s heart turn with pity for him.  At length he came up to the mark the last time, his shirt torn from his body, his face covered with blood and bruises, and his eyes flashing with fire, and swore he would stand there until one or the other was killed.

And he set to like a young fury.  “Hurrah in the bow!” said the men, cheering him on.  Nat tried to close with him, but the mate stopped that.  Nat then came up to the mark, but looked white about the mouth, and his blows were not given with half the spirit of his first.  He was evidently cowed.  He had always been master, and had nothing to gain and everything to lose; whilst the other fought for honour and freedom, and under a sense of wrong.  It would not do.  It was soon over.  Nat gave in, not so much beaten as cowed and mortified, and never afterwards tried to act the bully on board.