after a three months’ absence, i found myself in san francisco again, without a cent. when my credit was about exhausted, (for i had become too mean and lazy, now, to work on a morning paper, and there were no vacancies on the evening journals,) i was created san francisco correspondent of the enterprise, and at the end of five months i was out of debt, but my interest in my work was gone; for my correspondence being a daily one, without rest or respite, i got unspeakably tired of it. i wanted another change. the vagabond instinct was strong upon me. fortune favored and i got a new berth and a delightful one. it was to go down to the sandwich islands and write some letters for the sacramento union, an excellent journal and liberal with employees.

we sailed in the propeller ajax, in the middle of winter. the almanac called it winter, distinctly enough, but the weather was a compromise between spring and summer. six days out of port, it became summer altogether. we had some thirty passengers; among them a cheerful soul by the name of williams, and three sea-worn old whaleship captains going down to join their vessels. these latter played euchre in the smoking room day and night, drank astonishing quantities of raw whisky without being in the least affected by it, and were the happiest people i think i ever saw. and then there was “the old admiral—” a retired whaleman. he was a roaring, terrific combination of wind and lightning and thunder, and earnest, whole-souled profanity. but nevertheless he was tender- hearted as a girl. he was a raving, deafening, devastating typhoon, laying waste the cowering seas but with an unvexed refuge in the centre where all comers were safe and at rest. nobody could know the “admiral” without liking him; and in a sudden and dire emergency i think no friend of his would know which to choose—to be cursed by him or prayed for by a less efficient person.

his title of “admiral” was more strictly “official” than any ever worn by a naval officer before or since, perhaps—for it was the voluntary offering of a whole nation, and came direct from the people themselves without any intermediate red tape—the people of the sandwich islands. it was a title that came to him freighted with affection, and honor, and appreciation of his unpretending merit. and in testimony of the genuineness of the title it was publicly ordained that an exclusive flag should be devised for him and used solely to welcome his coming and wave him god-speed in his going. from that time forth, whenever his ship was signaled in the offing, or he catted his anchor and stood out to sea, that ensign streamed from the royal halliards on the parliament house and the nation lifted their hats to it with spontaneous accord.

yet he had never fired a gun or fought a battle in his life. when i knew him on board the ajax, he was seventy-two years old and had plowed the salt water sixty-one of them. for sixteen years he had gone in and out of the harbor of honolulu in command of a whaleship, and for sixteen more had been captain of a san francisco and sandwich island passenger packet and had never had an accident or lost a vessel. the simple natives knew him for a friend who never failed them, and regarded him as children regard a father. it was a dangerous thing to oppress them when the roaring admiral was around.

two years before i knew the admiral, he had retired from the sea on a competence, and had sworn a colossal nine-jointed oath that he would “never go within smelling distance of the salt water again as long as he lived.” and he had conscientiously kept it. that is to say, he considered he had kept it, and it would have been more than dangerous to suggest to him, even in the gentlest way, that making eleven long sea voyages, as a passenger, during the two years that had transpired since he “retired,” was only keeping the general spirit of it and not the strict letter.

the admiral knew only one narrow line of conduct to pursue in any and all cases where there was a fight, and that was to shoulder his way straight in without an inquiry as to the rights or the merits of it, and take the part of the weaker side.—and this was the reason why he was always sure to be present at the trial of any universally execrated criminal to oppress and intimidate the jury with a vindictive pantomime of what he would do to them if he ever caught them out of the box. and this was why harried cats and outlawed dogs that knew him confidently took sanctuary under his chair in time of trouble. in the beginning he was the most frantic and bloodthirsty union man that drew breath in the shadow of the flag; but the instant the southerners began to go down before the sweep of the northern armies, he ran up the confederate colors and from that time till the end was a rampant and inexorable secessionist.

he hated intemperance with a more uncompromising animosity than any individual i have ever met, of either sex; and he was never tired of storming against it and beseeching friends and strangers alike to be wary and drink with moderation. and yet if any creature had been guileless enough to intimate that his absorbing nine gallons of “straight” whiskey during our voyage was any fraction short of rigid or inflexible abstemiousness, in that self-same moment the old man would have spun him to the uttermost parts of the earth in the whirlwind of his wrath. mind, i am not saying his whisky ever affected his head or his legs, for it did not, in even the slightest degree. he was a capacious container, but he did not hold enough for that. he took a level tumblerful of whisky every morning before he put his clothes on—“to sweeten his bilgewater,” he said.—he took another after he got the most of his clothes on, “to settle his mind and give him his bearings.” he then shaved, and put on a clean shirt; after which he recited the lord’s prayer in a fervent, thundering bass that shook the ship to her kelson and suspended all conversation in the main cabin. then, at this stage, being invariably “by the head,” or “by the stern,” or “listed to port or starboard,” he took one more to “put him on an even keel so that he would mind his hellum and not miss stays and go about, every time he came up in the wind.”—and now, his state-room door swung open and the sun of his benignant face beamed redly out upon men and women and children, and he roared his “shipmets a’hoy!” in a way that was calculated to wake the dead and precipitate the final resurrection; and forth he strode, a picture to look at and a presence to enforce attention. stalwart and portly; not a gray hair; broadbrimmed slouch hat; semi-sailor toggery of blue navy flannel—roomy and ample; a stately expanse of shirt-front and a liberal amount of black silk neck-cloth tied with a sailor knot; large chain and imposing seals impending from his fob; awe-inspiring feet, and “a hand like the hand of providence,” as his whaling brethren expressed it; wrist-bands and sleeves pushed back half way to the elbow, out of respect for the warm weather, and exposing hairy arms, gaudy with red and blue anchors, ships, and goddesses of liberty tattooed in india ink. but these details were only secondary matters—his face was the lodestone that chained the eye. it was a sultry disk, glowing determinedly out through a weather beaten mask of mahogany, and studded with warts, seamed with scars, “blazed” all over with unfailing fresh slips of the razor; and with cheery eyes, under shaggy brows, contemplating the world from over the back of a gnarled crag of a nose that loomed vast and lonely out of the undulating immensity that spread away from its foundations. at his heels frisked the darling of his bachelor estate, his terrier “fan,” a creature no larger than a squirrel. the main part of his daily life was occupied in looking after “fan,” in a motherly way, and doctoring her for a hundred ailments which existed only in his imagination.

the admiral seldom read newspapers; and when he did he never believed anything they said. he read nothing, and believed in nothing, but “the old guard,” a secession periodical published in new york. he carried a dozen copies of it with him, always, and referred to them for all required information. if it was not there, he supplied it himself, out of a bountiful fancy, inventing history, names, dates, and every thing else necessary to make his point good in an argument. consequently he was a formidable antagonist in a dispute. whenever he swung clear of the record and began to create history, the enemy was helpless and had to surrender. indeed, the enemy could not keep from betraying some little spark of indignation at his manufactured history—and when it came to indignation, that was the admiral’s very “best hold.” he was always ready for a political argument, and if nobody started one he would do it himself. with his third retort his temper would begin to rise, and within five minutes he would be blowing a gale, and within fifteen his smoking-room audience would be utterly stormed away and the old man left solitary and alone, banging the table with his fist, kicking the chairs, and roaring a hurricane of profanity. it got so, after a while, that whenever the admiral approached, with politics in his eye, the passengers would drop out with quiet accord, afraid to meet him; and he would camp on a deserted field.

but he found his match at last, and before a full company. at one time or another, everybody had entered the lists against him and been routed, except the quiet passenger williams. he had never been able to get an expression of opinion out of him on politics. but now, just as the admiral drew near the door and the company were about to slip out, williams said:

“admiral, are you certain about that circumstance concerning the clergymen you mentioned the other day?”—referring to a piece of the admiral’s manufactured history.

every one was amazed at the man’s rashness. the idea of deliberately inviting annihilation was a thing incomprehensible. the retreat came to a halt; then everybody sat down again wondering, to await the upshot of it. the admiral himself was as surprised as any one. he paused in the door, with his red handkerchief half raised to his sweating face, and contemplated the daring reptile in the corner.

“certain of it? am i certain of it? do you think i’ve been lying about it? what do you take me for? anybody that don’t know that circumstance, don’t know anything; a child ought to know it. read up your history! read it up——-, and don’t come asking a man if he’s certain about a bit of abc stuff that the very southern niggers know all about.”

here the admiral’s fires began to wax hot, the atmosphere thickened, the coming earthquake rumbled, he began to thunder and lighten. within three minutes his volcano was in full irruption and he was discharging flames and ashes of indignation, belching black volumes of foul history aloft, and vomiting red-hot torrents of profanity from his crater. meantime williams sat silent, and apparently deeply and earnestly interested in what the old man was saying. by and by, when the lull came, he said in the most deferential way, and with the gratified air of a man who has had a mystery cleared up which had been puzzling him uncomfortably:

“now i understand it. i always thought i knew that piece of history well enough, but was still afraid to trust it, because there was not that convincing particularity about it that one likes to have in history; but when you mentioned every name, the other day, and every date, and every little circumstance, in their just order and sequence, i said to myself, this sounds something like—this is history—this is putting it in a shape that gives a man confidence; and i said to myself afterward, i will just ask the admiral if he is perfectly certain about the details, and if he is i will come out and thank him for clearing this matter up for me. and that is what i want to do now—for until you set that matter right it was nothing but just a confusion in my mind, without head or tail to it.”

nobody ever saw the admiral look so mollified before, and so pleased. nobody had ever received his bogus history as gospel before; its genuineness had always been called in question either by words or looks; but here was a man that not only swallowed it all down, but was grateful for the dose. he was taken a back; he hardly knew what to say; even his profanity failed him. now, williams continued, modestly and earnestly:

“but admiral, in saying that this was the first stone thrown, and that this precipitated the war, you have overlooked a circumstance which you are perfectly familiar with, but which has escaped your memory. now i grant you that what you have stated is correct in every detail—to wit: that on the 16th of october, 1860, two massachusetts clergymen, named waite and granger, went in disguise to the house of john moody, in rockport, at dead of night, and dragged forth two southern women and their two little children, and after tarring and feathering them conveyed them to boston and burned them alive in the state house square; and i also grant your proposition that this deed is what led to the secession of south carolina on the 20th of december following. very well.” [here the company were pleasantly surprised to hear williams proceed to come back at the admiral with his own invincible weapon—clean, pure, manufactured history, without a word of truth in it.] “very well, i say. but admiral, why overlook the willis and morgan case in south carolina? you are too well informed a man not to know all about that circumstance. your arguments and your conversations have shown you to be intimately conversant with every detail of this national quarrel. you develop matters of history every day that show plainly that you are no smatterer in it, content to nibble about the surface, but a man who has searched the depths and possessed yourself of everything that has a bearing upon the great question. therefore, let me just recall to your mind that willis and morgan case—though i see by your face that the whole thing is already passing through your memory at this moment. on the 12th of august, 1860, two months before the waite and granger affair, two south carolina clergymen, named john h. morgan and winthrop l. willis, one a methodist and the other an old school baptist, disguised themselves, and went at midnight to the house of a planter named thompson—archibald f. thompson, vice president under thomas jefferson,—and took thence, at midnight, his widowed aunt, (a northern woman,) and her adopted child, an orphan—named mortimer highie, afflicted with epilepsy and suffering at the time from white swelling on one of his legs, and compelled to walk on crutches in consequence; and the two ministers, in spite of the pleadings of the victims, dragged them to the bush, tarred and feathered them, and afterward burned them at the stake in the city of charleston. you remember perfectly well what a stir it made; you remember perfectly well that even the charleston courier stigmatized the act as being unpleasant, of questionable propriety, and scarcely justifiable, and likewise that it would not be matter of surprise if retaliation ensued. and you remember also, that this thing was the cause of the massachusetts outrage. who, indeed, were the two massachusetts ministers? and who were the two southern women they burned? i do not need to remind you, admiral, with your intimate knowledge of history, that waite was the nephew of the woman burned in charleston; that granger was her cousin in the second degree, and that the woman they burned in boston was the wife of john h. morgan, and the still loved but divorced wife of winthrop l. willis. now, admiral, it is only fair that you should acknowledge that the first provocation came from the southern preachers and that the northern ones were justified in retaliating. in your arguments you never yet have shown the least disposition to withhold a just verdict or be in anywise unfair, when authoritative history condemned your position, and therefore i have no hesitation in asking you to take the original blame from the massachusetts ministers, in this matter, and transfer it to the south carolina clergymen where it justly belongs.”

the admiral was conquered. this sweet spoken creature who swallowed his fraudulent history as if it were the bread of life; basked in his furious blasphemy as if it were generous sunshine; found only calm, even-handed justice in his rampart partisanship; and flooded him with invented history so sugarcoated with flattery and deference that there was no rejecting it, was “too many” for him. he stammered some awkward, profane sentences about the——-willis and morgan business having escaped his memory, but that he “remembered it now,” and then, under pretence of giving fan some medicine for an imaginary cough, drew out of the battle and went away, a vanquished man. then cheers and laughter went up, and williams, the ship’s benefactor was a hero. the news went about the vessel, champagne was ordered, and enthusiastic reception instituted in the smoking room, and everybody flocked thither to shake hands with the conqueror. the wheelman said afterward, that the admiral stood up behind the pilot house and “ripped and cursed all to himself” till he loosened the smokestack guys and becalmed the mainsail.

the admiral’s power was broken. after that, if he began argument, somebody would bring williams, and the old man would grow weak and begin to quiet down at once. and as soon as he was done, williams in his dulcet, insinuating way, would invent some history (referring for proof, to the old man’s own excellent memory and to copies of “the old guard” known not to be in his possession) that would turn the tables completely and leave the admiral all abroad and helpless. by and by he came to so dread williams and his gilded tongue that he would stop talking when he saw him approach, and finally ceased to mention politics altogether, and from that time forward there was entire peace and serenity in the ship.