officers, and with the iron despotism which they exercise among the
soldiers and sailors,[B] the bare mention of this fact is sufficient to
convince them of the unenviable situation of the apprentice. It is at
best but a gloomy transfer from the mercies of a slave driver, to the
justice of a military magistrate.

[Footnote B: We had a specimen of the stuff special magistrates are made
of in sailing from Barbadoes to Jamaica. The vessel was originally an
English man-of-war brig, which had been converted into a steamer, and
was employed by the English government, in conveying the island mails
from Barbadoes to Jamaica--to and fro. She was still under the strict
discipline of a man-of-war. The senior officer on board was a
lieutenant. This man was one of the veriest savages on earth. His
passions were in a perpetual storm, at some times higher than at others,
occasionally they blew a hurricane. He quarrelled with his officers, and
his orders to his men were always uttered in oaths. Scarcely a day
passed that he did not have some one of his sailors flogged. One night,
the cabin boy left the water-can sitting on the cabin floor, instead of
putting it on the sideboard, where it usually stood. For this offence
the commander ordered him up on deck after midnight, and made the
quarter-master flog him. The instrument used in this case, (the regular
flogging stick having been _used up_ by previous service,) was the
commander's cane--_a heavy knotted club_. The boy held out one hand and
received the blows. He howled most piteously, and it was some seconds
before he recovered sufficiently from the pain to extend the other.
"_Lay on_," stormed the commander. Down went the cane a second time. We
thought it must have broken every bone in the boy's hand. This was
repeated several times, the boy extending each hand alternately, and
recoiling at every blow. "Now lay on to his back," sternly vociferated
the commander--"give it to him--_hard_--_lay on harder_." The old
seaman, who had some mercy in his heart, seemed very loth to lay out his
strength on the boy with such a club. The commander became
furious--cursed and swore--and again yelled, "_Give it to him harder,
more_--MORE--MORE--there, stop." "you infernal villain"--speaking to the
quarter-master and using the most horrid oaths--"You infernal villain,
if you do not _lay on harder_ the next time I command you, I'll have you
put in irons." The boy limped away, writhing in every joint,