December 19th, 1775
Again, I take up the pen, with nought else to occupy my hands. Word from a midshipman: ’Tis said that yesterday, there was a skirmish on the river when two warships attempted to seize upon fresh water at a distillery; they left unprotected a snow, which could not follow on so fast, and it was taken by the enemy.
This morning, Serjeant Clippinger grew drunk upon rum and became loud, complaining of his command over Negroes, and that he was cursed to be thrown onto a hulk where every private stank like a pit and not a man could speak decent English, but he was like to hear a babble of Guinea tongues and the fiddle-faddle of murderous Coromantees; and that even his own Corporal (by which he meant Corporal Craigie) spake a blithering stew of English and Scots, and that never should he receive preferment, trapped in this damned Regiment rather than in one of those founded and numbered by our sovereign; and that he should have stayed a poor Spitalfields prentice toiling at the loom; and there ain’t no hope; no hope at all, boys, so we might as well drown and go to the Devil; and more to this effect. The Company’s captain, hearing of his stupor, sent for him to be removed and slapped; but by that time, he had around his form recumbent a ring of men — Will, Slant, and me among them — and we had all heard his vile opinions. We know now the quality of our command.
This, then, from our own ranks.
And from the enemy: When we were above-decks taking our recreation in the afternoon, one of the rebels called from the shore, “Boy! You, boy! Do you have a fine Negro soldier name of Major-General Quash on board? Major-General Quash Andrews? You acquainted with the Major-General? Could you tell him I need my laundry done snip-snap? He left it soaking.”
A great laugh went up among the rebels.
“Tell him come home, and I need the shit be cleaned out my breeches.”
We stood silently and did not meet the eyes of the enemy; nor each other’s eyes.
We await some confrontation.