Not a Drop of Water

August, eighteen twelve.
Boston Harbour.
Four hundred seventy-five men.
Forty-eight thousand gallons of water.
Seventy-nine thousand four hundred gallons of rum.
The quartermaster signed every figure.
The log shows no irregularities.

We sailed from Boston through the haze,
Old Ironsides beneath the stays.
Her live-oak hull was built for war,
her holds contained considerably more.
The captain said, “Preserve the stores.
No waste beneath these naval laws.”
We sealed the water, checked the rum,
then checked the rum when night had come.
The purser marked each measured share.
The master swore the count was fair.
No sailor took what was not due.
The crew agreed
to count anew.

Not a drop of water, lads,
bring the bottles to the rail.
No Christian throat should take its chance
with that bilge-corrupted pail.
Rum to port and rum to starboard,
let the sober men beware.
Old Ironsides sails by reason,
discipline,
and prudent care.

By week the third the water bloomed,
it sweated, rolled, and softly fumed.
The surgeon raised the wooden lid,
then stepped away, as surgeons did.
He sniffed the cask and scratched his chin.
He watched a small green creature swim.
He wrote, “Consumption not advised.”
The crew appeared unsurprised.
“The rum preserves,” the doctor said.
“The water may disturb the dead.”
We drank his cure with solemn grace
and left the water in its place.

Not a drop of water, lads,
bring the bottles to the rail.
No honest throat should take its chance
with that bilge-corrupted pail.
Rum to port and rum to starboard,
let the sober men beware.
Old Ironsides sails by reason,
discipline,
and prudent care.

Off Jamaica’s burning shore,
we found the British dressed for war.
Guerriere came through smoke and spray.
Old Ironsides declined to sway.
Her cannon struck our live-oak side.
The iron fell, the sailors cried:
“Her sides are made of iron, sir!”
We fired back
to reassure her.
Her masts came down, her colours fell.
We sent her wounded off as well.
Then left her burning on the tide
and drank to those who’d fought and died.

Medical spirits were issued.
For morale.

We visited the island stores
and rolled the barrels through the doors.
The local merchants named a price.
The boarding party asked them twice.
We took on rum from every quay,
then wine of Portuguese degree:
some sixty-four thousand gallons more,
properly entered,
more or less,
on shore.
The water barrels stayed below,
untouched by friend or British foe.
For naval prudence made it plain:
why drink the water
when it might rain?

No man would wash.
No man would shave.
No man would sip,
however brave.
The water rested,
green and great,
in perfect,
undisturbed estate.
The rum declined
from day to day.
The wine performed
the same strange way.
The captain asked
where it had gone.
The crew looked shocked
and carried on.

Not a drop of water, lads,
through the cannon, storm, and gale.
One hundred twenty-seven days
with judgment stronger than the ale.
Rum to port and wine to starboard,
let the harbour records show:
Old Ironsides returned to Boston
with every drop
of water below.
Not a drop of water, lads,

Not a drop of water, lads,
every rotten gallon there.
The spirits vanished in the service
of the nation,
crew,
and prudent care.

Upon arrival in Boston:

Forty-eight thousand gallons of water remained aboard.

The water was declared unfit for human consumption.

The rum was absent from inventory.

The Portuguese wine was also absent.

Cause of absence:

not recorded.

No cases of water poisoning were reported.

The log shows no irregularities.