The Curlew.
Jan. 27. 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.