THE CURLEW.
Preparations are going on this morning to get the New York
across the bar. We were transferred to the steam ferry-boat Curlew, and are now
anchored in the sound. The New York is to be lightened of everything on board,
and it is thought, with a full sea and some help, she may be able to cross. We
are in the most disagreeable and uncomfortable quarters we have yet been in.
Every change seems to bring some new hardship, and with a few more changes for
the worse we shall be able to learn how great are our powers of endurance. We
are packed in here as thick as bees with scarcely standing room, and the old
craft is open at both ends, admitting the cold winds and rains, besides being
as wet and dirty as a stable. If it should rain hard enough to drive us in from
the ends of the boat and from off the deck, a part of us would have to lie down
in our bunks to give standing room for the rest. I should think the water casks
were a cemetery for dead rats by the way the water tastes; condensed sea water
is a luxury to it, and byway of encouragement we are told that we are to have
some tomorrow. There are, however, a few casks of good water aboard, but we are
not allowed any of it. I reckon the boys will manage to get some of it. If they
don't, it will be an exception to their general smartness. The officers and
crew of the old hulk are cross and crabbed, and unless they alter their
tactics, I fear they will get enough of us before we have been here many days.
SOURCE: David L. Day, My Diary of Rambles with the
25th Mass. Volunteer Infantry, p. 28-9
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