While we lay in Boston harbor, Thanksgiving-day arrived. Some of our Salem men inquired if I was not going home to keep Thanksgiving, for they all supposed I belonged to Salem. What they meant by Thanksgiving, was a mystery to me, but, dissembling my ignorance, I obtained leave, determined to learn what it meant. The result of my visit was the idea that Thanksgiving was one in which the people crammed themselves with turkeys, geese, pumpkin-pies, &c.; for, certainly, that was the chief business of the day, so far as I could perceive. With too many people, I believe that this is the leading idea associated with the day even now. Our brig had before this taken in her guns, consisting of two long nine-pounders, twelve twenty-four pound carronades, and two forty-two pounders. Our crew was composed of some one hundred and twenty-five smart, active men. We were all supplied with stout leather caps, something like those used by firemen. These were crossed by two strips of iron, covered with bearskin, and were designed to defend the head, in boarding an enemy’s ship, from the stroke of the cutlass. Strips of bearskin were likewise used to fasten them on, serving the purpose of false whiskers, and causing us to look as fierce as hungry wolves. We were also frequently exercised in the various evolutions of a sea-fight; first using our cannon, then seizing our cutlasses and boarding-pikes, and cutting to the right and left, as if in the act of boarding an enemy’s ship. Thus we spent our time from early in the fall until after Christmas, when we received orders to hold ourselves in readiness for sea. [Illustration: (Decorative Separator)] CHAPTER IX As we lay waiting for our final orders, a report reached us that a large English brig of war, called the _Nimrod_, lay in a cove somewhere near Boston bay. Upon this information, our officers planned a night expedition for the purpose of effecting her capture. Our intended mode of attack was to run close alongside, pour a broadside upon her, and then, without further ceremony, board her, cutlass in hand. So we took in our powder, ground up our cutlasses, and towards night got under weigh. A change in the wind, however, defeated our designs, and we put into Salem harbor, with no other result than the freezing of a man’s fingers, which happened while we were furling our sails. Thus ended our first warlike expedition in the _Siren_. Shortly after this affair, we received orders to start on a cruise to the coast of Africa, and, in company with the _Grand Turk_,[19] a privateer, set sail from Salem. Passing the fort, we received the usual hail from the sentry, of “Brig ahoy! where are you bound to?”