to cruise off Carthagena, where three Spanish line of battle ships
were lying ready for sea.

On our way thither we anchored in Oran roads to procure bullocks for the
squadron. As soon as the sails were furled a Turkish officer, dressed
something like that figure of fun called Punch, came on board us, as we
were the nearest ship, to inquire if the fort saluted us what number of
guns would be fired in return. We referred him to the flag-ship; he took
his departure with his interpreter who spoke broken English. About 1 P.M.,
whack came a large shot from the fort nearly into the bow, and presently
several more. At first, as shot were fired so close to us, we could not
exactly tell what was intended until the nineteenth shot was fired, when
the battery was silent. The flag-ship returned seventeen guns. On inquiry
we found that these barbarians always salute with shot, and endeavour to
send them as near you as possible by way of compliment.

About 3 P.M. three principal Turkish officers came on board, the youngest
of whom was the commander or governor of the town. The purser, who had
been eyeing him with a wicked look, said to us, "I'll make that fellow
drunk before he leaves the ship." He had expressed a wish to see the ship,
and I offered to take him round the decks. In the meanwhile the purser
went to his cabin, mixed some strong punch, and made some sherbet. "Now,"
said he to me, "when you show him the cockpit, hand him into my cabin."
The Pacha admired the ship and the guns, and said it was the largest
vessel he had seen. He spoke a little broken English. At length we came to
the purser's cabin which was neatly fitted up and well lighted. The Turk
was requested to repose himself on the sofa, and to take some sherbet.
"First of all," whispered the purser to me, "we will try him with the
punch." A glass was accordingly handed to him, and we filled others for
ourselves. It went down his throat like mother's milk. He declared it was
the best sherbet he had ever drunk, and asked for another glass of it.
Down that went without a pause. "He'll do," whispered the purser, "he is a
true Mussulman; he prefers stiff punch to cobbler's punch." A tureen was
now filled with yet stronger punch, of which he took three more tumblers,
and down he fell. He was laid on the sofa until his friends were ready to
leave the ship. When they came from the captain's cabin, where they had
been taking refreshments, they inquired for the sub-governor.