Every encroachment upon the time allowed for
rest appeared unnecessary. Every shifting of the studding-sails
was only to ``haze''[1] the crew.
In the midst of this state of things, my messmate Stimson and I
petitioned the captain for leave to shift our berths from the
steerage, where we had previously lived, into the forecastle.
This, to our delight, was granted, and we turned in to bunk and
mess with the crew forward. We now began to feel like sailors,
which we never fully did when we were in the steerage. While
there, however useful and active you may be, you are but a
mongrel,-- a sort of afterguard and ``ship's cousin.'' You are
immediately under the eye of the officers, cannot dance, sing,
play, smoke, make a noise, or growl, or take any other sailor's
pleasure; and you live with the steward, who is usually a
go-between; and the crew never feel as though you were one of
them. But if you live in the forecastle, you are ``as independent
as a wood-sawyer's clerk'' (nautice), and are a sailor. You hear
sailors' talk, learn their ways, their peculiarities of feeling as
well as speaking and acting; and, moreover, pick up a great deal
of curious and useful information in seamanship, ship's customs,
foreign countries, &c.
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