John Smith's Funny Adventures on a Crutch: Or The Remarkable Peregrinations of a One-legged Soldier after the WarHill, A. F. (Ashbel Fairchild)
History
John Smith's Funny Adventures on a Crutch: Or The Remarkable Peregrinations of a One-legged Soldier after the War
Hill, A. F. (Ashbel Fairchild)
Disabled veterans -- United States -- Fiction; United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Veterans -- Fiction
We anchored near Hart’s Island, and I got on the little steamer, with
Captain Collins, and went up to the city. We landed at the foot of
Catharine street, and my glad heart never before bounded as it did when,
after the perils of the past three weeks, I stepped upon _terra firma_
once more. I felt that I wouldn’t care if somebody would knock a hole in
the bottom of the nasty old sea and let all the salty water run out. It
isn’t of any use, anyhow, only to raise sharks, and whales, and
mermaids, and porpoises, and sea-horses, and sea-serpents, and such like
hideous creatures, to float iron-clads and drown people; and for idiots
that never saw it to write pretty verses about. I am not habitually a
fighting man; on the contrary, quite a peaceably-disposed citizen of the
United States; but if I ever come across the cuss that wrote,
“A life on the ocean wave,
A home on the rolling deep;
Where the scattered waters rave,
And the winds their revels keep,”
I’ll lick him or he’ll lick me!
CHAPTER XLV.
HO! FOR CALIFORNIA!
ABOUT the middle of April, a little more than a year after my fearful
experience on board the BREWSTER, I might have been seen, (if anybody
had been watching), in the vicinity of the Pacific Steamship Company’s
buildings, at the foot of Canal street, New York, making inquiry as to
the rates of passage from New York to San Francisco. I had about
recovered from my maritime scare.
“One hundred dollars, first cabin,” said the clerk; “seventy-five
dollars second; and forty dollars steerage. The cabin tickets, however,
are all sold. We have but a few steerage tickets left.”
“The deuce!” I exclaimed, forgetting my good manners, in the agony of
disappointment.
It was two days prior to the sailing of the _Ocean Queen_. I did not
like the idea of going in the steerage, for I had been informed that it
was “rough,” and that even a soldier would find it so; nor did I relish
waiting eight days for the next steamer.
“Pshaw!” I ejaculated.
“You wanted a cabin ticket, I suppose?”
“Couldn’t think of going in the steerage; I have distant relations who
have been in Congress.”
“You might,” he said, with some hesitation, “be crowded into the cabin,
but I have no cabin ticket to sell you. If you will take a steerage
ticket, I am confident you can arrange it with the purser to get
transferred to the cabin.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Then I will take one.”
I paid forty dollars, and the clerk filled out a steerage ticket for
me—which I took with thanks, and walked away, fancying I had learned a
great secret.
It _was_ a great secret, for I afterward discovered that it was
necessary to intrust it to a great many people in order to have it well
kept.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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