July Fourth found us nearing the end of our southing. We experienced a moderation in the weather, and set the fore and main t'gans'ls. The fore t'gans'l split during a squall that blew up before it had been set an hour, and we at once got busy in sending down this rag and bending another sail which went with a loud "bang!" during the midwatch, Second Mate Tom being on deck and Captain Nichols pacing up and down on the forward side of the wheelhouse. "There she goes again!" we heard them shouting out on deck, amid the din of wind and the booming of the seas as they fanned away from the flare of our bows, when her head doused down into the back of a roller. The report as the new canvas split was sharp and characteristic, waking most of us, as it was directly overhead. "I hope they don't call us out," was the thought expressed by all; we plunked down in our blankets with a will as though we were going to wring every last fraction of sleep out of each precious second of the few hours of the watch. Our days were becoming more than merely strenuous, they were of that dead level of sustained hardship where the senses cease to register the added kicks, but go on in a sort of merciful anesthesia, no doubt brought about by the toxic action of prolonged fatigue. On the glorious Fourth, Chow had spread himself to the extent of favoring the fo'c'sle mess with two large pans of gingerbread, nicely cut into squares, so that everyone would get his lawful whack. This gingerbread was a special stunt in baking such as I have never seen its like before or since. The top crust was flexible, and leathery, of a deep seal brown. The bottom was hard and usually well burnt. By grabbing the top crust and the bottom, the middle portion could be made to stretch at least twice its size and then broken apart, but long strings like cobwebs would connect the two halves. We blamed it for the boils that appeared on most of us toward the end of each passage, for Chow liked to bake it, and we had it at least once a week or oftener. Poor Frenchy was taken sick during those dismal days, and when he mustered aft one dog watch, and promptly swooned, we picked our shipmate up and carried him to his bunk with heavy hearts. If gloom could kill a man, Frenchy would have cashed in his record during the next few days. The fo'c'sle was as sad a hole as a man could think of. Captain Nichols came forward and examined Frenchy during our watch on deck. This was a sort of concession to the proprieties, as he only came forward of the main hatch one other time on the voyage that I can recall. After his professional visit the steward called me aft and handed me a large tumbler full of a dark liquid called "black draft" by Australia; it had marvelous cathartic power. I was instructed to give this to Frenchy at one dose. What it did to him in his weakened state can be imagined.