Our Cook's Revenge

by Sylvanus Cobb, Jr.

Early in the summer of 1843 I took passage on board the ship Hunter, at Smyrna, intending to run with her as far only as Gibraltar. The crew consisted of twenty-one men, who bunked in the forecastle, and there were eight of us aft in the cabin—the captain and his three mates, the supercargo, and three passengers of us. The captain’s name was John Martin. He was a native of the State of Maine, a stout, impulsive, true-hearted sailor, about forty years of age. His three mates were excellent sailors, the supercargo was a perfect gentleman and an extensive traveler, and my two passenger companions were men whose good qualities of heart and head I had long appreciated.

The crew of the ship were mostly good-looking men, but there was one who struck me unfavorably—that was the cook. He was an African, as black as night, and went by the name of Max Condor, a powerfully built fellow, with a breast and arms like the gear of a mill. But it was his head—his face—that most attracted my attention. The base of his skull was large, while the top dwindled away almost to the apex of a cone. His face was also peculiar, possessing all the special African characteristics, but it had a sort of vacant cunning, a recklessness and indifference of look seldom seen. But he was a good cook, and as yet no one had had difficulty with him.

The eighth day out we passed the southern cape of Sicily, Passaro, and before dark had left the land on our starboard quarter. At sundown the wind veered, and soon lulled away almost to a dead calm.

“Mr. Clarke,” said the captain, addressing his first mate, “we are going to have a blow out of this.”