We are in the chief mate’s watch (the larboard), and come on deck for the middle watch—­that is, at 12 P.M.—­having had our spell below of four hours during the first night-watch (8 P.M. to 12 P.M.) It is a cold, dark, squally night, with frequent heavy showers of rain—­in fact, what seamen emphatically call ‘dirty’ weather, and our pea-jackets and sou’-westers are necessary enough.  Hardly have we got on deck, ere the mate, who is a bit of a ‘driver,’ begins to order this brace to be pulled, that yard to be squared, this sheet to be belayed, that sail to be clewed up, and t’other set.  The wind howls, the rain beats, the ship staggers, the salt spray flies over us from time to time.  During the space of three bells, we have our hands pretty full, and then the mate bawls:  ’For’ard there!  In with jib; lay out, men!’ The vessel is buried to her bight-heads every plunge she takes, and sometimes the solid sea pours over her bowsprit as far as the but-end of the flying jib-boom.  But to hear is of course to obey; and while some of our messmates spring to the downhaul of the jib, and rattle it down the stay, we and another man get out along the bowsprit, and with our feet resting on the slippery, knotted footrope to windward, we clutch hold of the jib, which is hanging down and lashing over to leeward.  Pitch, pitch—­splash, dash, go the bows; at one moment we are tossed high in the air, and the next we sink so low that the water reaches up to our knees as the ship settles down again, only to rise for a plunge heavier than before.  We have just got the jib half-stowed, ‘after a fashion,’ when our messmate sings out:  ’Hold hard, Jack!’ and we cling for dear life.  The next instant, a wave rolls a fathom high over our head, and we emerge, spluttering and gasping from a genuine cold salt-water bath, such as the hydropathists have no idea of.  Before our nice little job is completed, we get two or three more comfortable duckings, and finally crawl on board half-drowned, and thankful that we were not altogether washed away, as many better fellows have been, at that same blessed task of jib-furling on a stormy night.

We have just given ourselves a good shake, like a Newfoundland dog, when four bells (2 A.M.) strike, and the man at the wheel is of course relieved, his time being up.  It happens to be our turn, or ‘trick,’ at the wheel, and we must at once take to it, all dripping and exhausted as we are.  The ship steers wildly, and we have continually to ease her when she pitches; yet, do what we can, the grumbling mate has many a complimentary word for us, flatteringly intimating his opinion, that we ’know no more about steering than our grandmother; but he’ll work our old iron up to some tune, before he’s done with us!’ Ere our trick is out, our arms feel as stiff as iron bars, from the violent and unremitting strain on their muscles.  The mate has steaming hot coffee brought him; but there’s not a drop for poor Jack, if it would save his life.  Oh, how we long to hear eight bells strike!  At length they do strike, and the watch below are bid to ’tumble up, Beauties, and have a look at the lovely scenery!’ We are then relieved at the wheel, and go below with our watch, hoping to enjoy four hours of blessed oblivion.