"Well," said Peterson, "to make a long story short, I went in a China ship, and last year got the command of a vessel belonging to a Persian merchant, who trades to the Gulf. He was a bad owner, had no credit, and, what with that and the fear of the Arabs, I had a troublesome time of it. We parted; and he has got another captain, rather black to be sure, but he likes him all the better, I suppose, from being nearer his own vile colour than I was; and I, by this means, being along shore, having no money or credit, am glad to come as acting-master of this here ship. I thank God I have good health, and don't complain; many are worse off than I am."
Such was our master's[3] history. In a conversation I had with him, as we were walking the deck, the day we arrived at Muscat, I asked him if he had a wife? "No;" said he. "You were never married, then?" "I didn't say so," he replied. "I beg your pardon," said I. "Oh! no harm, no harm! the honest truth never need be hid: I was married: but taking a long voyage, being away seven years, and my letters (of which, by the by, I wrote but few) miscarrying, what does my wife do, but marries again. This I heard when I got home to England." "And what did you do?" said I; "did you inquire after her?" "Indeed I did not," said Peterson with great indifference; "I didn't think her worth so much trouble; she was glad, I suppose, to get rid of me, and, God knows, I was not sorry to be shot of her."
The vicissitudes to which sailors are subject train them to bear what are termed the ups and downs of life better than any other men in the world. They appear, when afloat, not only to leave all their cares on shore, but to forget the hardships incident to their condition. A remarkable instance of this was given by our captain, who told us that he went one day to see a tender, on board which there was a great number of men who had just been pressed, and who, though strictly confined in their floating prison, were, nevertheless, joining in the chorus of one of our patriotic airs, and singing with great glee the old song:--
"Who are so free as we sons of the waves?"
[1] The island of Bate is situated at the north-western extremity of the Gulf of Cutch.