Last year it was my pleasant privilege to lay before the readers of the Spectator a few details upon the polity of a battleship, and from the amount of interest shown in that subject, it would seem acceptable to supplement it by a few more details upon the mechanical side. First, then, as to the ship herself. Complaints are often heard of the loss of beauty and ship-like appearance consequent upon the gain of combative strength in these floating monsters. And it cannot be denied that up till a few years ago in our own Navy, and at the present date among the cuirassés of France, the appearance of the vessels made such a complaint well founded—such ships as the Hoche and Charlemagne, for instance, from which it may truly be said that all likeness to a ship has been removed. But in our own Navy there has been witnessed of late years a decided return to the handsome contour of vessels built, not for war, but for the peaceful pursuits of the merchant service. And this has so far been attended by the happiest results. These mighty ships of the Majestic class, on board of one of which I am now writing, have won the unstinted praise of all connected with them. This means a great deal, for there are no more severe critics of the efforts of naval architects than naval officers, as would be[200] naturally expected. In these ships the eye is arrested at once by their beautiful lines, and the absence of any appearance of top-heaviness so painfully evident in ships like the Thunderer, the Dreadnought, and the Admirals. Their spacious freeboard, or height from the water-line to the edge of the upper deck, catches a seaman’s eye at once, for a good freeboard means not only a fairly dry ship, but also plenty of fresh air below, as well as a sense of security in heavy weather. It is not, however, until their testing time comes, in a heavy gale of wind on the wide Atlantic, that their other virtues appear. Then one is never weary of wondering at their splendid stability and freedom from rolling, which makes them unique fighting platforms under the worst weather conditions. They steer perfectly, a range of over three and a half degrees on either side of their course being sufficient to bring down heavy censure upon the quartermaster. They have not Belleville boilers, and so enjoy almost complete immunity from breakdowns, maintaining their speed in a manner that is not approached by any other men-of-war afloat. In addition to great economy of coal usage they have, for a ship of war, very large coal bunkerage. In fact, in this respect their qualifications are so high that there is danger of being disbelieved in giving the plain facts. On a coal consumption of 50 tons per day for all purposes a speed of eight knots per hour can be maintained for forty days. Of course, with each extra knot of speed the coal consumption increases enormously, reaching a maximum of 220 tons a day for a speed of fifteen knots with forced[201] draught. It is necessary to italicise all purposes, for it must always be remembered that there is quite a host of auxiliary engines always at work in these ships for the supply of electric light, ventilation, steering, distilling, &c. And this brings me to a most important detail of the economy of modern ships of war—their utter dependence for efficient working upon modern inventions, all highly complicated, and liable to get out of order. As, for instance, the lighting. It is quite true that the work of the ship can be carried on without electric light, but when one considers the bewildering ramifications of utterly dark passages in the bowels of these huge ships, and remembers how accustomed the workers become to the flood of light given by a host of electric lamps, it needs no active exercise of the imagination to picture the condition of things when that great illumination is replaced by the feeble glimmer of candles or colomb lights. Truly they only punctuate the darkness, they do not dispel it, and work is carried on at great risk because of its necessary haste. Then there is the steering. Under ordinary circumstances one man stands at a baby wheel upon a lofty bridge, whence he has a view from beam to beam of all that is going on, of the surrounding sea. At a touch of his hand the obedient monster of 150 horse-power, far down in the tiller-room aft, responds by exerting its great force upon the rudder, and the ship is handled with ridiculous ease. Use accustoms one to the marvel, and no wonder is ever evinced at the way in which one man can keep that giant of 15,000 tons so steady on her course.[202] But of late we have had an object-lesson upon the difference there is between steering by hand without the intervention of machinery and steering with its aid. In the next water-tight compartment forward of the tiller-room, there are four wheels, each 5 feet in diameter, and of great strength of construction. Some distance in front of these there is an indicator—a brass pointer moving along a horizontal scale marked in degrees. Forward of this again, but about 2 feet to port of it, there is a compass, and how any compass, however buttressed by compensators, can keep its polarity in the midst of such an immense assemblage of iron and steel furniture is almost miraculous. By the side of the compass is a voice-tube communicating with the pilot-bridge forward. To each of the wheels four men are allotted, sixteen in all. A quartermaster watches, with eyes that never remove their gaze, the indicator, which, actuated from the pilot-bridge 300 feet away, tells him how many degrees of helm are needed, and he immediately gives his orders accordingly. One man watches the compass, another attends the voice-tube, listening intently for orders that may come in that way from the officer responsible for the handling of the ship. Two men also watch in the tiller-room for possible complications arising there. Total, twenty-one men for the purpose of steering the ship alone, or a crew equal to that of a sailing-ship of 2000 tons, or the deck hands of a steamship of 6000 tons. Yet this steering crew is only for one watch. Of course, this steering by hand is a last resource. The engines which move the[203] rudder are in duplicate, and there are seven other stations from which they can be worked—viz., one on the upper bridge, one in each of the conning-towers, one at each steering-engine, and two others on different decks in the lower fore-part of the ship. It is certainly true that some of these wheels actuate the same connection, so that one break may disable two, or even three, wheels; but even granting that, there still remains a considerable margin of chances against the possibility of ever being compelled to use the hand steering-gear. Those awful weapons of war, the barbette guns, may also be handled by manual labour, but it is instructive to compare the swift ease with which they, their containing barbettes (each weighing complete 250 tons), their huge cartridges of cordite and 850 lb. shells, are handled by hydraulic power, and the same processes carried out by hand. And so with all other serious operations, such as weighing anchor, hoisting steamboats, &c. The masses of weight to be dealt with are so great that the veriest novice may see at one glance that to be compelled to use hand labour for their manipulation in actual warfare would be equivalent to leaving the ship helpless, at the mercy of another ship of any enemy’s not so situated. Yes, these ships are good, so good that it is a pity they are not better. In the opinion of those best qualified to know, they have still a great deal too much useless top-hamper—nay, worse than useless, because in action its destruction by shell-fire and consequent mass of débris would not only mean the needless loss of many lives, but would pile up a mountain of[204] obstacles in the way of the ship’s efficient working. Also, the amount of unnecessary woodwork with which these vessels are cumbered is very great, constituting a danger so serious that on going into action it would be imperative to put a tremendous strain upon the crew in tearing it from its positions and flinging it overboard. Upper works of course there must be, but they should be reduced to their simplest and most easily removable expression, and on no account should there be, as there now is, any battery that in action would be unworkable, and consequently only so much lumber in the way. Remembering the enormous cost of the flotilla of boats carried by these ships, three of them being steamers of high speed, it comes as somewhat of a shock to learn that upon going into action one of the first things necessary would be to launch them all overboard and let them go secured together so that they might possibly be picked up again, although not easily by the ship to which they belonged. It is only another lurid glimpse of the prospective horror of modern naval warfare. There will be no means of escape in case of defeat and sinking, for nothing will be left to float. Finally, after all criticisms have been made it remains to be said that it is much to be regretted that we have not double the number of these splendid battleships furnished with boilers that can be relied upon as the present boilers can. Other ships of their stamp are being built, but with Belleville boilers, of which the best that can be said is that our most dangerous prospective foe is using them exclusively also. But she, again, is rushing[205] blindly upon certain disaster in the direction of accumulating enormous superstructures which are certain to be destroyed early in any engagement, and being destroyed will leave the ship a helpless wreck. We have shown our wisdom by reducing these dreadfully disabling erections, and shall yet reduce them more. Why not go a step farther, and refuse longer to load our engineers with the horrible incubus of boilers that have not a single workable virtue but that of raising steam quickly, and have every vice that a vehicle for generating steam can possibly possess?
When Nathaniel D. Troop (of Jersey City, U.S.A.), presently A.B. on board the British ship Belle, solemnly announced his intention of investing in a monkey the next time old Daddy the Bumboatman came alongside, there was a breathless hush, something like consternation, amongst his shipmates. It was in Bombay and eventide, and all we of the foremast hands were quietly engaged upon our supper (tea is the name for the corresponding meal ashore), with great content resting upon us, for bananas, rooties, duck-eggs and similar bumboat-bought luxuries abounded among us. So that the chunk of indurated buffalo that had resisted all assaults upon it at dinner-time lay unmolested at the bottom of the beef-kid, no one feeling sufficiently interested to bestow a swear on it.
For some time after Nat’s pronouncement nobody spoke. The cool breeze whispered under the fo’c’s’le awning, the Bramley-kites wheeled around whistling hungrily and casting their envious watchful eyes upon our plates, and somewhere in the distance a dinghy-wallah intoned an interminable legend to his fellow-sufferers that sounded like the high-pitched drone of bees on a sultry afternoon among the[207] flowers. Then up and spake John de Baptiss: “Waffor, Nat? Wah we ben dween t’yo. Foh de Lawd sake, sah, ef yew gwain bring Macaque ’bord dis sheep you’se stockin trubble’ nough ter fill er mighty long hole.” “’Sides,” argued Cockney Jem, “’taint ’sif we ain’t got a monkey. ’Few wornt any monkey tricks played on us wot price th’ kid ’ere,” and he pointed to me.
“Naow jess yew hole on half a minnit,” drawled Nat, “’relse yew’ll lose your place. Djer ever know me ter make trubble sense I ben abord thishyer limejuice dog-basket? Naw, I’ve a learnt manners, I hev, ’n don’t never go stickin’ my gibbie in another man’s hash I don’t. But in kase this kermunity sh’d feel anyways hurt at my perposal, lemme ’splain. I s’pose I ain’t singler in bein’ ruther tired er these blame hogs forrad here. Hogs is all right, ez hogs, but they don’t make parler pets wuth a cent. N’wen I finds one biggern a porpuss a wallerin’ round in my bunk ’n rootin’ ’mong the clean straw my bed’s stuffed with, its kiender bore in erpon me that fresh pork fer dinner’s wut I ben pinin’ fer a long time. Naow I know thet I kin teach a monkey in about tew days ’nough ter make him scare the very chidlins er them hogs inter sossidge meat if they kum investigatin’ where he’s on dooty. ’N so I calkerlate to be a sorter bennyfactor ter my shipmates, though it seems ’sif yew ain’t overnabove grateful.”
By this time the faces of Nat’s audience had lost the look of apprehension they had worn at first. Everybody had an account to settle with those pigs,[208] which swarmed homelessly about the fore part of the deck, and never missed an opportunity of entering our domicile during our absence, doing such acts and deeds there as pigs are wont to perform. As they were a particular hobby of the skipper’s we were loth to deal with them after their iniquities, the more so as she was a particularly comfortable ship. And if Nat’s idea should turn out to be a good one we should all be gainers. Consequently when Daddy appeared in the morning Nat greeted him at once with the question, “Yew got monkey?” Promptly came the stereotyped answer, “No, Sahib. Eberyting got. Monkey no got. Melican war make monkey bery dear.” However, as soon as Daddy was persuaded that a monkey really was desired he undertook to supply one, and sure enough next morning he brought one with him, a sinister-looking beast about as large as a fox-terrier. He was secured by a leathern collar and a dog-chain to the fife-rail of the foremast for the time, and one or two of the men amused themselves by teasing him until he was almost frantic. Presently I came round where he was lurking, forgetting for the time all about his presence. Seeing his opportunity, he sprang on to my shoulder and bit me so severely that I carry his marks now. Smarting with the pain I picked up a small piece of coal and flung it at him with all the strength I could muster. Unfortunately for me it hit him on the head and made it bleed, for which crime I got well rope’s-ended by Nat. And besides that I made an enemy of that[209] monkey for the rest of his time on board—many months—an enemy who never lost a chance of doing me an ill turn.
He took to his master at once, and was also on nodding terms with one or two of the other men, but with the majority he was at open war. Nat kept him chained up near his bunk, only taking him out for an airing at intervals, and at once commenced to train him to go for the pigs. But one day Nat laid in a stock of eggs and fruit, stowing them as usual on the shelf in his bunk. We were very busy all the morning on deck, so that I believe hardly a chance was obtained by any one of getting below for a smoke. When dinner-time came Nat went straight to his bunk to greet his pet, but he was nowhere to be seen. The state of that bed though was something to remember. Jocko had been amusing himself by trying to make an omelette, and the débris of two dozen eggs was strewn and plastered over the bunk, intermingled with crushed bananas, torn up books, feathers out of Nat’s swell pillow, and several other things. While Nat was ransacking his memory for some language appropriate to the occasion, a yell arose from the other side of the forecastle where Paddy Finn, a Liverpool Irishman of parts, had just discovered his week’s whack of sugar and the contents of a slush-pot pervading all the contents of his chest. Other voices soon joined in the chorus as further atrocities were discovered, until the fo’c’s’le was like Bedlam broken loose.
“Pigs is it ye’d be afther complainin’ of, ye blatherin’ ould omadhaun. The divil a pig that iver lived ud be afther makin’ sich a hell’s delight ov a man’s dunnage as this. Not a blashted skirrick have oi left to cover me nakidness wid troo yure blood relashin. Only let me clap hands on him me jule, thet’s all, ye dhirty ould orgin-grinder you.”
High above all the riot rose the wail of Paddy Finn as above, until the din grew so great that I fled dismayed, in mortal terror lest I should be brought into the quarrel somehow. It was well that I did so, for presently there was what sailors call a regular “plug-mush,” a free fight wherein the guiding principle is “wherever you see a head, hit it.” The battle was brief if fierce, and its results were so far good that uproarious laughter soon took the place of the pandemonium that had so recently reigned. Happily I had not brought the dinner in when the riot began, so that still there was some comfort left. Making haste I supplied the food, and soon they were all busy with it, their dinner hour being nearly gone. The punishment of the miscreant was unavoidably deferred for want of time to look for him, for he had vanished like a dream. But while we ate a sudden storm of bad language rose on deck. Hurrying out to see what fresh calamity had befallen we found the nigger cook flinging himself about in a frenzy of rage, while half-way up the main-stay, well out of everybody’s reach, sat Jocko with a fowl that he had snatched[211] out of the galley while the cook’s back was turned, and was now carefully tearing into fragments. Rushing to the stay, the men shook it till the whole mainmast vibrated, but the motion didn’t appear to trouble the monkey. Holding the fowl tightly in one hand he bounded up into the main-top and thence to the mizen-topmast stay, where for the time he had to be left in peace.
As soon as knock-off time came a hunt was organised. It was a very exciting affair while it lasted, but not only were the men tired, but that monkey could spring across open spaces like a bird, and catching him was an impossible task. The attempt was soon given up, therefore, and the rest of the evening after supper devoted to repairing damages. For the next three days she was a lively ship. That imp of darkness was like the devil, he was everywhere. Like a streak of grey lightning he would slide down a stay, snatch up something just laid down, and away aloft again before the robbed one had realised what had happened. All sorts of traps were laid for him, but he was far too wise to be taken in any trap that ever was devised. I went in terror of him night and day, for I feared that now he was free he would certainly not omit to repay me for his broken pate. And yet it was I who caught him. For the moment I had forgotten all about him, when coming from aloft and dropping lightly with my bare feet upon the bottom of one of the upturned boats on the roof of our house, I saw something stirring in the folds of the main-topmast[212] staysail that was lying there loosely huddled together. Leaping upon the heap of canvas I screamed for help, bringing half-a-dozen men to the spot in a twinkling. Not without some severe bites, the rascal was secured, and by means of a stout belt round his waist effectually prevented from getting adrift again. I looked to see him summarily put to death, but no one seemed to think his atrocious behaviour merited any worse punishment than a sound thrashing except the cook and steward, and they being our natural enemies were of course unheeded. The fact is Jocko had, after his first performance, confined his attentions to the cabin and galley, where he had done desperate damage and made the two darkies lead a most miserable life. This conduct of his I believe saved his life, as those two functionaries were cordially detested by the men for many reasons. At any rate he was spared, and for some time led a melancholy life chained up on the forecastle head during the day, and underneath it at night. Meantime we had sailed from Bombay and arrived at Conconada, where the second mate bought a monkey, a pretty tame little fellow that hadn’t a bit of vice in him. He was so docile that when we got to sea again he was allowed to have the run of the ship. Petted by everybody, he never got into any mischief, but often used to come forward and sit at a safe distance from Jocko, making queer grimaces and chatterings at him, but always mighty careful not to get too near. Jocko never responded, but sat stolidly like a monkey of wood until the little fellow strolled[213] away, when he would spring up and tear at his chain, making a guttural noise that sounded as much like an Arab cursing as anything ever I heard. So little Tip went on his pleasant way, only meeting with one small mishap for a long time. He was sitting on deck one sunny afternoon with his back against the coamings of the after-hatch, his little round head just visible above its edge. One of the long-legged raw-boned roosters we had got in Conconada was prowling near on the never-ending quest for grub. Stalking over the hatch he suddenly caught sight of this queer little grey knob sticking up. He stiffened himself, craned his neck forward, and then drawing well back dealt it a peck like a miniature pick-axe falling. Well, that little monkey was more astonished than ever I saw an animal in my life. He fairly screamed with rage while the rooster stood as if petrified with astonishment at the strange result of his investigations.
Owing to the close watch kept upon Jocko he led a blameless life for months. Apparently reconciled to his captivity he gradually came to be regarded as a changed animal who had repented and forsaken his evil ways for life. But my opinion of him never changed. It was never asked and I knew better than to offer it, but there was a lurking devil in his sleepy eyes that assured me if ever he got loose again his previous achievements would pale into insignificance before the feats of diabolical ingenuity he would then perform. Still the days and weeks rolled by uneventfully until we were well into the fine weather[214] to the north’ard of the Line in the Atlantic. We had been exceptionally favoured by the absence of rain, and owing to the exertions of the second mate, who was an enthusiast over his paint-work, her bulwarks within and her houses were a perfectly dazzling white, with a satiny sheen like enamel. In fact I heard him remark with pardonable pride that he’d never seen the paint look so well in all his seven voyages as second of the Belle. Tenderly, as if it were his wife’s face, he would go over that paint-work even in his watch below, with bits of soft rag and some clean fresh water, wiping off every spot of defilement as soon as it appeared. Tarring down was accomplished without a spot or a smear upon the paint, and the decks having been holystoned and varnished, the second mate now began to breathe freely. No more dirty work remained to be done, and he would have a lot more time to devote to his beloved white paint. We had been slipping along pretty fast to the north’ard, and one afternoon the old man had all hands up to bend our winter suit of sails. Every mother’s son of them were aloft except me, and I was busy about the mainmast standing by to attend to the running gear, as I was ordered from above. As they had hoisted all the sails up before they had started aloft, they were there a long time, as busy as bees trying to get the job finished. At last all was ready and down they came. One of them went forrard for something, and immediately raised an outcry that brought all hands rushing to the spot, thinking that the ship[215] was on fire or something. The sight they saw was a paralysing one to a sailor. On both sides of the bulwarks and the lower panels of the house were great smears and splashes of Stockholm tar, while all along the nice blue covering-board the mess was indescribable. With one accord everybody shouted “That—— monkey.” Yes, as they spoke there was a dull thud and down from aloft fell a huge oakum wad saturated with tar. They looked up and there he sat, an infernal object, hardly distinguishable for a monkey, being smothered from head to tail-end with the thick glutinous stuff. But his white teeth gleamed and his wicked eye twinkled merrily as he thought of the heavenly time he’d been having, a recompense for what must have seemed years of waiting. Too late, the men now remembered that the tar barrel, its head completely out, had been left up-ended by the windlass where it had been placed for convenience during tarring down. It was there still, but leading from it in all directions were streams of tar where Jocko had dragged away the dripping wads he had fished out of its black depths. I was never revengeful, but if I had been I should have felt sorry for the second mate, my old tyrant, now. He drooped and withered like a scarlet runner under the first sharp frost. Not a word did he say, but he looked as if all the curses in every tongue that ever were spoken were pouring over his brain in a flood. Pursuit of the monkey was out of the question. Clambering over the newly tarred rigging was bad enough when done with all care, but in a chase,[216] especially over places where it had been freshly anointed by the fugitive, we should have had all hands captured like flies on a gummed string. They all stood and glared at the mess like men not knowing how to adjust their minds to this new condition of things, nor, when the skipper and mate came forrard to see what was the matter, did they contribute any words good, bad, or indifferent. Apparently they would have remained there till they dropped, fascinated by the horrible sight, but suddenly piercing screams aft startled everybody. Jocko had crept down the mizen rigging and pounced upon poor little Tip, who was delicately combing himself (he was as daintily clean as a cat) on the after hatch. And now Jocko was perched on the cro’jack yard vigorously wiping his tar-drenched fur with Tip as if he had been a dry wad. The second mate started from his lethargy and sprang aloft to the rescue of his screaming pet with an agility scarcely inferior to that of Jocko. Rage seemed to give him energy, for presently he pressed Jocko so hard (he let poor little Tip go as soon as he saw his pursuer) that he ran out along the mizen topsail brace, and, balancing himself for a moment, covered his eyes with his hands and sprang into the sea. Bobbing up like a cork, he struck out away from the ship which was only just moving, but in less than five minutes he repented his rashness and swam back. A line was flung to him, he promptly seized it and was at once a captive again. The men were so impressed by his prowess that they refused to allow the second[217] mate to touch him, nor did any of them even beat him lest they should have bad luck. But they replaced the chafed-through ring he had broken by a massive connecting-link, and when Jamrach’s man came aboard in London Jocko was sold to him for five shillings. Tip went to the Crystal Palace and met a worse fate.
Sportsmen of ample means and unlimited leisure often deplore the shrinkage which goes on at an ever-accelerating rate of such free hunting-grounds as still remain. Owing to the wonderful facilities for travel allied to increased wealth, they foresee, not, perhaps, the extinction of the great wild animals which alone they consider worthy of their high prowess, but such close preservation of them in the near future that the free delight of the hunter will surely disappear. Therefore it may be considered opportune to point out from the vantage ground of personal experience some aspects of sport at sea which will certainly not suffer by comparison with any hunting on land, no matter from what point we regard it. It will readily be conceded that one of the chief drawbacks to the full enjoyment of sport in wild lands is the large amount of personal suffering entailed upon the hunters by evil climates and transport difficulties. It is all very well to say that these things are part of the programme, and that taking the rough with the smooth is of the very essence of true sportsmanship. That need not be disputed while denying that there is anything attractive in the idea of becoming a permanent invalid from malaria or being harassed to the verge of madness by the unceasing[219] oversight of a gang of wily children of nature saturated with the idea that the white maniac is delivered over to them as a prey by “the gods of things as they are.” The fascination of sport consists in the dangers of the chase, the successful use of “shikar,” the elation of conscious superiority over the lords of the brute creation, and not, as some dull souls would assert, in the gratification of primitive instincts of blood-lust, or the exercise of cruelty to animals for its own sake. Neither does it consist in wading across fetid swamps, groping through steaming forests, or toiling with leathern tongue and aching bones over glowing sands, a prey to all the plagues of Egypt augmented by nearly every other ill that flesh is heir to. No; few of us need persuading that any of these horrors are the unavoidable necessary concomitants of sport, they are endured because to all appearance any hunting worthy the name is not to be obtained apart from them.
From all such miseries sport at sea is free. A well-appointed yacht, built not for speed but for comfort, need not be luxurious to afford as satisfactory a “hunting-box” as any sportsman could reasonably desire. And for the question of cost—it may be high enough to satisfy the craving for squandering felt by the most wealthy spendthrift, or so low as to become far cheaper than a hunting expedition to Africa or the Rockies. For a successful sporting voyage a sailing vessel, or at most an auxiliary screw-steamer of low power, is best, for the great game of the ocean is full of alarms, and[220] must needs be approached with the utmost silence and circumspection. As for the question of equipment, it seems hardly necessary to say that everything should be of the very best, but not by any means of the most expensive quality procurable. All such abominations as harpoon-guns, bombs, &c., should be strictly barred, the object being sport, not slaughter. Given sufficient outlay, with the resources of science now at the purchaser’s disposal, it is quite possible to reduce whaling, for instance, to as tame an affair as a hand-fed pheasant battue or tame-rabbit coursing, neither of which can surely by any stretch of courtesy be called sport. The old-fashioned hand harpoons, the long, slender lances that, except for excellence of workmanship and material, are essentially the same as used by the first followers of the vast sea-mammals, these should be the sportsman’s weapons still if he would taste in its integrity the primitive delight of the noblest of created beings in the assertion of his birthright, “Dominion over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth.”
The best type of vessel for a sporting cruise at sea is what is known to seamen as a “barquentine,” a vessel, that is to say, of some 250 tons register, with three masts, square-rigged at the fore—after the style of the well-known Sunbeam. In her davits she should carry three whaleboats, such as the Americans of New Bedford or Rhode Island know so well how to build, the handsomest and most sea-worthy of all boats ever built. The whaleboats built[221] in Scotland, though strong and serviceable, are less elegant and handy, being more fitted for rough handling among ice-floes, into which rough neighbourhoods the sea-sportsman need never go—should not go, in fact, for the best display of his powers. The whale-line, made in the old whaling ports of New England—tow-line as it is locally termed—cannot be beaten. It possesses all the virtues. Light, silky, and of amazing strength, it is a perfect example of what rope should be, and is as much superior to the unkind, harsh hemp-line of our own islands as could well be imagined. From the same place should be obtained the services of a few whaling experts, accustomed, as no other seafarers are, to the chase of the sperm-whale, the noblest of all sea-monsters. Advice as to fishing-tackle would be out of place, except the general remark that, as in the deep seas the angler will meet with the doughtiest opponent of his skill the ocean contains, he must needs lay in a stock of tackle of the very strongest and best. Tarpon fishing is a fairly good test of the trustworthiness of gear, but whoso meets the giant albacore in mid-ocean, and overcomes him, will have vanquished a fish to which the tarpon is but as a seven-pound trout to a lordly salmon. All the appliances known to naturalists for the capture and preservation of the smaller habitants of the deep sea ought to be carried, for, although not strictly sport, this work is deeply interesting and useful, besides affording a pleasant variety of occupation.
But, passing on to the actual conditions of conflict,[222] let us suppose the sportsman cruising in the North Atlantic between the Cape Verde Islands and the West Indies—a wide range, truly, but no part of it barren of the highest possibilities for pleasure. A school of sperm whales is sighted, the vessel is carefully manœuvred for the weather-gage of them, and this being obtained, the boats are softly lowered, sail is set, and, with the fresh trade-wind, away they go leaping to leeward. The utmost precaution against noise must be taken, because the natural susceptibility of the whale to sound is as delicate as the receiver of a telephone. No amount of oral instruction would here be of any avail without long experience, which, since it can be hired, there is no need to waste time and patience in acquiring. Assuming, therefore, that the preliminary difficulty of approach to the sensitive monsters has been overcome, and there remains but a few fathoms of rapidly lessening distance between the boat and the unconscious whale, who could satisfactorily describe the sensations crowded into those few remaining moments of absolute quiet, the tension of expectation, the uncertainty of the result of the approaching conflict? The object of attack is the mightiest of living animals, he is in his own element, to which the assailant is but a visitor on sufferance, and he may retaliate in so fierce and tremendous a fashion that no amount of skill, courage, or energy shall suffice to protect the aggressor from his fury. But there is no thought of drawing back, the swift-gliding boat rushes high up on to the broad bank of flesh, and with a long-pent-up yell the harpoon is hurled. It enters the[223] black mass noiselessly, the weight of its pole bends the soft iron shaft over as the attached line stretches out, and as the boat slowly, so slowly, backs away, the leviathan, amazed and infuriated, thrashes the quiet sea into masses of hissing foam, while the thunder of his blows resounds like the uproar of a distant cannonade. At this time certain necessary rearrangements, such as furling and stowing sail, make it impossible, even if it were wise, to approach the indignant whale, and as a general thing by the time these preparations are complete he has sought the shelter of the depths beneath, taking out flake after flake of the neatly coiled line. With ordinary care, especially where only one boat is engaged, it would seldom happen that all the line would run out, and the game be lost. Usually, after an interval of about twenty minutes, during which the line is slacked away as slowly and grudgingly as possible, it is felt to give, and the slack must be hauled in with the utmost smartness, a sharp look-out being kept meanwhile upon the surrounding surface for a sudden white glare beneath—the cavity of the whale’s throat, as he comes bounding to the surface with his vast jaws gaping wider than a barn-door. It is at this time that the true excitement, the joy of battle, begins. For in most cases the huge animal has come to fight, and being in his turn the aggressor, his enemies must exert all their skill in boatsmanship, preserve all their coolness and watchfulness, since a mistake in tactics or loss of presence of mind may mean the instant destruction of the boat, if not the sudden and violent death of some of her crew.[224] As a general rule, however, after a few savage rushes avoided by wary manœuvring on the part of the hunters, the whale starts off to windward at his best speed (from twelve to fourteen knots an hour), towing the boat or boats after him with the greatest ease. This is a most exhilarating experience. For the mighty steed, ploughing his strenuous way through the waves, seems the living embodiment of force, and yet he is, as it were, harnessed to his exulting foes, compelled to take them with him in spite of his evident desire to shake himself free. While he goes at his best speed a near approach to him is manifestly impossible; but, vast as his energies are, the enormous mass of his own body carried along so rapidly soon tires him, and he slows down to five or six knots. Then all hands, except the one in charge and the helmsman, “tail on” to the line, and do their best to haul up alongside the whale. The steersman sheers the boat clear of his labouring flukes as she comes close to him, and then allows her to point inward towards his broad flank, while the lance-wielder seeks a vulnerable spot wherein to plunge his long, slender weapon. It is of little use to dart the lance as the harpoon is flung; such an action is far more likely to goad the whale into a new exhibition of energy than to do him any disabling injury. Being at such close quarters, it is far more sportsmanlike, as well as effectual, to thrust the lance calmly and steadily into the huge mass of flesh so near at hand. If the aim has been well taken—say, just abaft and below the pectoral fin—more than one home-thrust will[225] hardly be needed, even in a whale of the largest size, and a careful watch must be kept upon the spout-hole for the first sign of blood discolouring the monster’s breath. For that is evidence unmistakable of the beginning of the end. It shows that some vital part has been pierced, and although the whale-fishers always continue their “pumping” with the lance up to the very verge of disaster, once the whale has begun to spout blood it is quite unnecessary to continue the assault. Still, at this stage of the proceedings the primitive instincts are usually fully aroused, and nothing seems to satisfy them but persistent fury of attack, until the actual commencement of the tremendous death-agony or “flurry” of the noble beast gives even the most excited hunter warning that it is time to draw off and endeavour to keep clear of the last Titanic convulsions of the expiring monster. No other created being ever furnishes such a display of energy. Involuntarily one compares it with the awful manifestations of the earthquake, the volcano, or the cyclone. And when at last the great creature yields up the dregs of his once amazing vitality, no one possessing a spark of imagination can fail to be conscious of an under-current of compunction mingling with the swelling triumph of such a victory.
But the seeker after big sea-game should attack the rorqual if he would see sport indeed. For this agile monster has such a reputation for almost supernatural cunning that even if he were as valuable as he really is valueless commercially, it is highly doubtful[226] if he would ever be molested. As it is, all the tribe are chartered libertines, since no whaleman is likely to risk the loss of a boat’s gear for the barren honour of conquest. And not only so, but the rorquals, whether “fin-back,” “sulphur-bottom,” or “blue-back,” as well as the “hump-back” and grampus, make it a point of honour to sink when dead, unlike the “cachalot” or “Bowhead,” who float awash at first, but ever more buoyantly as the progress of decay within the immense abdominal cavity generates an accumulating volume of gas. Any old whaleman would evolve in the interests of sport no end of dodges for dealing with the wily rorqual, such as a collection of strongly attached bladders affixed to the line to stay his downward rush, short but broad-barbed harpoons, to get a better hold upon the thin coating of blubber, &c. In this kind of whaling there is quite sufficient danger to make the sport exciting in the highest degree. Not, however, from the attack of the animal hunted, but because his evolutions in the effort to escape are so marvellously vivacious that only the most expert and cool-headed boatsmanship can prevent a sudden severance of the nexus between boat and crew. A splendid day’s sport can be obtained with a school of blackfish. Although seldom exceeding a ton and a half in weight, these small whales are quite vigorous enough to make the chase of them as lively an episode as the most enthusiastic hunter could wish, especially if two or even three are harpooned one after the other on a single line, as the whalers’ custom is. The sensation of being harnessed as it[227] were to a trio of monsters, each about 25 feet long, and 8 feet in girth, every one anxious to flee in a different direction at the highest speed he can muster, and in their united gambols making the sea boil like a pot, is one that, once experienced, is never likely to be forgotten. The mere memory of that mad frolic over the heaving bosom of the bright sea makes the blood leap to the face, makes the nerves twitch, and the heart long to be away from the placid round of everyday life upon the bright free wave again. Even a school of porpoises, in default of nobler game, can furnish a lively hour or two, especially if they be of a fair size, say up to three or four hundredweight each. But of a truth there need be no fear of a lack of game. The swift passage from port to port made by passenger vessels is apt to leave the voyager with the impression that the sea is a barren waste, but such an idea is wholly false. Even the sailing-ships, bound though they may be to make the shortest possible time between ports, are compelled by failure of wind to see enough of the everyday life of the sea-population to know better than that, and whoso gives himself up to the glamour of sea-study, making no haste to rush from place to place, but leisurely loitering along the wide plains of ocean, shall find each day a new world unfolding itself before his astonished eyes, a world of marvels, infinitely small, as well as wondrous great—from the thousand and one miracles that go to make up the “Plankton” to the antediluvian whale.
Fishing in its more heroic phases is obtainable[228] in deep-sea cruising as nowhere else. The hungry sailor, perched upon the flying jib-boom end, drops his line, baited with a fluttering fragment of white rag, and watches it with eager eyes as it skips from crest to crest of the foam-tipped wavelets, brushed aside by the advancing hull of his ship. And although his ideas are wholly centred upon dinner—something savoury, to replace the incessant round of salt beef and rancid pork—he cannot help but feel the zest of sport when upward to his clumsy lure come rushing eagerly dolphin, bonito, or skipjack. But if—putting all lesser fish to flight—the mighty albacore leaps majestically at his bait, prudence compels him to withdraw from the unequal contest; he knows that he stands not the remotest chance of hauling such a huge trophy up to his lofty perch, or of holding him there, should he be able to get a grip of him. To the scientific angler, however, equipped with the latest resources of fishing-tackle experts, and able to devote all the manipulation of his vessel to the capture of such a trophy, the fishing of the albacore would be the acme of all angling experiences. Good sport can be got out of a school of large dolphin or bonito, their vigorous full-blooded strife being a revelation to those who only know the lordly salmon or skittish trout, but the albacore is the supreme test of the angler’s ability. Shark-fishing is very tame after it. For the shark, though powerful, has none of the dash and energy which characterise the albacore, and would soon be an object of scorn to a fisherman who had succeeded in catching the monarch[229] of the mackerel tribe. But if the fisherman, cruising near the confines of the Caribbean Sea, should come across one of those nightmares known as alligator-guards or devil-fish, a species of ray often one hundred and twenty feet in area, he would find a new sensation in its chase and capture, besides being the possessor of such a marine specimen as is at present lacking to any museum in the world.
And this brings the reflection, which may fittingly draw this article to a close, that not the least of the delights which such a cruise must bring to one fortunate enough to enjoy it would be the incalculable service rendered to marine natural history. This branch of science offers an almost illimitable field to the student. It is nearly a new world awaiting its Columbus, and it is not difficult to foresee that before very long it will have found its votaries among men of wealth, leisure, and energy, delighted to enter into the joy of a happy hunting-ground of boundless extent and inexhaustible fecundity.
Night was unfolding her wings over the quiet sea. Purple, dark and smooth, the circling expanse of glassy stillness met the sky rim all round in an unbroken line, like the edge of some cloud-towering plateau, inaccessible to all the rest of the world. A few lingering streaks of fading glory laced the western verge, reflecting splashes of subdued colour half-way across the circle, and occasionally catching with splendid but momentary effect the rounded shoulder of an almost imperceptible swell. Their departure was being noted with wistful eyes by a little company of men and one woman, who, without haste and a hushed solemnity as of mourners at the burial of a dear one, were leaving their vessel and bestowing themselves in a small boat which lay almost motionless alongside. There was no need for haste, for the situation had been long developing. The brig was an old one, whose owner was poor and unable to spare sufficient from her scanty earnings for her proper upkeep. So she had been gradually going from bad to worse, not having been strongly built of hard wood at first, but pinned together hastily by some farmer-shipbuilder-fisherman up the Bay of Fundy, mortgaged strake by strake, like a suburban villa, and finally sold by auction for the price of the timber in her. Still, being a smart model and newly[231] painted, she looked rather attractive when Captain South first saw her lying in lonely dignity at an otherwise deserted quay in the St. Katharine’s Docks. Poor man, the command of her meant so much to him. Long out of employment, friendless and poor, he had invested a tiny legacy, just fallen to his wife, in the vessel as the only means whereby he could obtain command of even such a poor specimen of a vessel as the Dorothea. And the shrewd old man who owned her drove a hard bargain. For the small privilege of the skipper carrying his wife with him 50s. per month was deducted from the scanty wage at first agreed upon. But in spite of these drawbacks the anxious master felt a pleasant glow of satisfaction thrill him as he thought that soon he would be once more afloat, the monarch of his tiny realm, and free for several peaceful months from the harassing uncertainties of shore-life.
In order to avoid expense he lived on board while in dock, and made himself happily busy rigging up all sorts of cunning additions to the little cuddy, with an eye to the comfort of his wife. While thus engaged came a thunderclap, the first piece of bad news. The Dorothea was chartered to carry a cargo of railway iron and machinery to Buenos Ayres. Had he been going alone the thing would have annoyed him, but he would have got over that with a good old-fashioned British growl or so. But with Mary on board—the thought was paralysing. For there is only one cargo that tries a ship more than railway metal, copper ore badly stowed. Its effect upon a staunch steel-built ship is to make her motion[232] abominable—to take all the sea-kindness out of her. A wooden vessel, even of the best build, burdened with those rigid lengths of solid metal, is like a living creature on the rack, in spite of the most careful stowage. Every timber in her complains, every bend and strake is wrenched and strained, so that, be her record for “tightness” never so good, one ordinary gale will make frequent exercise at the pump an established institution. And Captain South already knew that the Dorothea was far from being staunch and well-built, although, happily for his small remaining peace of mind, he did not know how walty and unseaworthy she really was. A few minutes’ bitter meditation, over this latest crook in his lot, and the man in him rose to the occasion, determined to make the best of it and hope steadily for a fine run into the trades. He superintended her stowing himself, much to the disgust of the stevedores, who are never over particular unless closely watched, although so much depends upon the way their work is done. At any rate, he had the satisfaction of knowing that the ugly stuff was as handsomely bestowed as experience could suggest, and, with a sigh of relief, he saw the main hatches put on and battened down for a full due.
In the selection of his crew he had been unusually careful. Five A.B.’s were all that he was allowed, the vessel being only 500 tons burden, two officers besides himself, and one man for the double function of cook and steward. Therefore, he sought to secure the best possible according to his judgment, and really succeeded in getting[233] together a sturdy little band. His chief comfort, however, was in his second mate, who was a Finn—one of that phlegmatic race from the eastern shore of the Baltic who seem to inherit not only a natural aptitude for a sea life, but also the ability to build ships, make sails and rigging, do blacksmithing, &c.—all, in fact, that there is to a ship, as our cousins say. Slow, but reliable to the core, and a perfect godsend in a small ship. In Olaf Svensen, then, the skipper felt he had a tower of strength. The mate was a young Londoner, smart and trustworthy—not too independent to thrust his arms into the tarpot when necessary, and amiable withal. The other six members of the crew—two Englishmen and three Scandinavians—were good seamen, all sailors—there wasn’t a steamboat man among them—and, from the first day when in the dock they all arrived sober and ready for work, matters went smoothly and salt-water fashion.
It was late in October when they sailed, and they had no sooner been cast adrift by the grimy little “jackal” that towed them down to the Nore than they were greeted by a bitter nor’-wester that gave them a sorry time of it getting round the Foreland. The short, vicious Channel sea made the loosely-knit frame of the brig sing a mournful song as she jumped at it, braced sharp up, and many were the ominous remarks exchanged in the close, wedge-shaped fo’c’s’le on her behaviour in these comparatively smooth waters, coupled with gloomy speculations as to what sort of a fist she[234] would make of the Western Ocean waves presently. Clinkety-clank, bang, bang went the pumps for fifteen minutes out of every two hours, the water rising clear, as though drawn from overside, and a deeper shade settled on the skipper’s brow. For a merry fourteen days they fought their way inch by inch down Channel, getting their first slant between Ushant and Scilly in the shape of a hard nor’-easter, that drove them clear of the land and 300 miles out into the Atlantic. Then it fell a calm, with a golden haze all round the horizon by day, and a sweet, balmy feel in the air—a touch of Indian summer on the sea. Three days it lasted—days that brought no comfort to the skipper, who could hardly hold his patience when his wife blessed the lovely weather, in her happy ignorance of what might be expected as the price presently to be paid for it. Then one evening there began to rise in the west the familiar sign so dear to homeward-bounders, so dreaded by outward-going ships—the dense dome of cloud uplifted to receive the setting sun. The skipper watched its growth as if fascinated by the sight, watched it until at midnight it had risen to be a vast convex screen, hiding one-half of the deep blue sky. At the changing of the watch he had her shortened down to the two lower topsails and fore-topmast staysail, and having thus snugged her, went below to snatch, fully dressed, a few minutes’ sleep. The first moaning breath of the coming gale roused him almost as soon as it reached the ship, and as the watchful Svensen gave his[235] first order, “Lee fore brace!” the skipper appeared at the companion hatch, peering anxiously to windward, where the centre of that gloomy veil seemed to be worn thin. The only light left was just a little segment of blue low down on the eastern horizon, to which, in spite of themselves, the eyes of the travailing watch turned wistfully. But whatever shape the surging thoughts may take in the minds of seamen, the exertion of the moment effectually prevents any development of them into despair in the case of our own countrymen. So, in obedience to the hoarse cries of Mr. Svensen, they strove to get the Dorothea into that position where she would be best able to stem the rising sea, and fore-reach over the hissing sullenness of the long, creaming rollers, that as they came surging past swept her, a mile at a blow, sideways to leeward, leaving a whirling, broadside wake of curling eddies. Silent and anxious, Captain South hung with one elbow over the edge of the companion, his keen hearing taking note of every complaint made by the trembling timbers beneath his feet, whose querulous voices permeated the deeper note of the storm.
All that his long experience could suggest for the safety of his vessel was put into practice. One by one the scanty show of sail was taken in and secured with extra gasket turns, lest any of them should, showing a loose corner, be ripped adrift by the snarling tempest. By eight bells (4 a.m.) the brig showed nothing to the bleak darkness above[236] but the two gaunt masts, with their ten bare yards tightly braced up against the lee backstays, and the long peaked forefinger of the jibboom reaching out over the pale foam. A tiny weather-cloth of canvas only a yard square was stopped in the weather main rigging, its small area amply sufficing to keep the brig’s head up in the wind except when, momentarily becalmed by a hill of black water rearing its head to windward, it relaxed its steadfast thrust and suffered the vessel to fall off helplessly into the trough between two huge waves. Now commenced the long unequal struggle between a weakly-constructed hull, unfairly handicapped by the wrench of a dead mass of iron within that met every natural scend of her frame with unyielding brutality of resistance, and the wise old sea, kindly indeed to ships whose construction and cargo enable them to meet its masses with the easy grace of its own inhabitants, but pitiless destroyer of all vessels that do not greet its curving assault with yielding grace, its mighty stride with sinuous deference of retreat. The useless wheel, held almost hard down, thumped slowly under the hands of the listless helmsman with the regularity of a nearly worn-out clock, while the oakum began to bulge upward from the deck seams. As if weary even unto death, the brig cowered before the untiring onslaught of the waves, allowing them to rise high above the weather rail, and break apart with terrible uproar, filling the decks rail-high from poop to forecastle. Pumping was incessant, yet Svensen found each time he dropped the slender sounding-rod down the tube[237] a longer wetness upon it, until its two feet became insufficient, and the mark of doom crept up the line. And besides the ever-increasing inlet of the sea, men stayed by the pumps only at imminent risk of being dashed to pieces, for they were, as always, situated in the middle of the main deck, where the heaviest seas usually break aboard. There was little said, and but few looks exchanged. The skipper had, indeed, to meet the wan face of his wife, but she dared not put her fear into words, or he bring himself to tell her that except for a miracle their case was hopeless. He seldom left the deck, as if the wide grey hopelessness around had an irresistible fascination for him, and he watched with unspeculative eyes the pretty gambols of those tiny elves of the sea, the Mother Carey’s chickens, as they fluttered incessantly to and fro across the wake of his groaning vessel.
So passed a night and a day of such length that the ceaseless tumult of wind and wave had become normal, and slighter sounds could be easily distinguished because the ear had become attuned to the elemental din. Unobtrusively the impassive Svensen had been preparing their only serviceable boat by stocking her with food, water, &c. The skipper had watched him with a dull eye, as if his proceedings were devoid of interest, but felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the evidence of his second mate’s forethought. For all hope of the Dorothea’s weathering the gale was now completely gone. Even the blue patches breaking through the heavy cloud-pall to leeward could not revive it. For she[238] was now only wallowing, with a muffled roar of turbid water within as it sullenly swept from side to side with the sinking vessel’s heavy roll. The gale died away peacefully, the sea smoothed its wrinkled plain, and the grave stars peered out one by one, as if to reassure the anxious watchers. Midnight brought a calm, as deep as if wind had not yet been made, but the old swell still came marching on, making the doomed brig heave clumsily as it passed her. The day broke in perfect splendour, cloudless and pure, the wide heavens bared their solemn emptiness, and the glowing sun in lonely glory showered such radiance on the sea that it blazed with a myriad dazzling hues. But into that solitary circle, whereof the brig was the pathetic centre, came no friendly glint of sails, no welcome stain of trailing smoke across the clear blue. But the benevolent calm gave opportunity for a careful launching of the boat, and as she lay quietly alongside the few finishing touches were given to her equipment. As the sun went down the vessel’s motion ceased—she was now nearly level with the smooth surface of the ocean, which impassively awaited her farewell to the light. Hardly a word was spoken as the little company left her side and entered the boat. When all were safely bestowed the skipper said, “Cut that painter forrard there,” and his voice sounded hollowly across the burdening silence. A few faint splashes were heard as the oars rose and fell, and the boat glided away. At a cable’s length they ceased pulling, and with every eye turned upon the brig they[239] waited. In a painful, strained hush, they saw her bow as if in stately adieu, and as if with an embrace the placid sea enfolded her. Silently she disappeared, the dim outlines of her spars lingering, as if loth to leave, against the deepening violet of the night.
With one arm around his wife, the skipper sat at the tiller, a small compass before him, by the aid of which he kept her head toward Madeira, but, anxious to husband energy, he warned his men not to pull too strenuously. Very peacefully passed the night, no sound invading the stillness except the regular plash of the oars and an occasional querulous cry from a belated sea-bird aroused from its sleep by the passage of the boat. At dawn rowing ceased for a time, and those who were awake watched in a perfect silence, such as no other situation upon this planet can afford, the entry of the new day. Not one of them but felt like men strangely separated from mundane things, and face to face with the inexpressible mysteries of the timeless state. But it was Svensen who broke that sacred quiet by a sonorous shout of “Sail-ho!” With a transition like a wrench from death to life, all started into eager questioning; and all presently saw, with the vigilant Finn, the unmistakable outlines of a vessel branded upon the broad, bright semi-circle of the half-risen sun. No order was given or needed. Double-banked, the oars gripped the water, and with a steady rush the boat sped eastward towards that beatific vision of salvation. Even the skipper’s face lost its dull shade of hopelessness, in spite of his loss, as[240] he saw the haggard lines relax from Mary’s face. Quite a cheerful buzz of chat arose. Unweariedly, hour after hour, the boat sped onward over the bright smoothness, though the sun poured down his stores of heat and the sweat ran in steady streams down the brick-red faces of the toiling rowers. After four hours of unremitting labour they were near enough to their goal to see that she was a steamer lying still, with no trace of smoke from her funnel. As they drew nearer they saw that she had a heavy list to port, and presently came the suggestion that she was deserted. Hopes began to rise, visions of recompense for all their labour beyond anything they could have ever dreamed possible. The skipper’s nostrils dilated, and a faint blush rose to his cheeks. Weariness was forgotten, and the oars rose and fell as if driven by steam, until, panting and breathless, they rounded to under the stern of a schooner-rigged steamer of about 2000 tons burden, without a boat in her davits, and her lee rail nearly at the water’s edge. Running alongside, a rope trailing overboard was caught, and the boat made fast. In two minutes every man but the skipper was on board, and a purchase was being rigged for the shipment of Mrs. South. No sooner was she also in safety than investigation commenced. The discovery was soon made that, although the decks had been swept and the cargo evidently shifted, there was nothing wrong with the engines or boilers except that there was a good deal of water in the stokehold. She was evidently Italian by her name, without the addition of Genoa, the Luigi C., being painted on the harness[241] casks and buckets, and her crew must have deserted her in a sudden panic.
Like men intoxicated, they toiled to get things shipshape on board their prize, hardly pausing for sleep or food. And when they found the engines throbbing beneath their feet they were almost delirious with joy. Opening the hatches, they found that the cargo of grain had shifted, but not beyond their ability to trim, so they went at it with the same savage vigour they had manifested ever since they first flung themselves on board. And when, after five days of almost incessant labour, they took the pilot off Dungeness, and steamed up the Thames to London again, not one of them gave a second thought to the hapless Dorothea. Twelve thousand pounds were divided among them by the Judge’s orders, and Captain South found himself able to command a magnificent cargo steamer of more than 3000 tons register before he was a month older.
There was no gainsaying the fact that the Sarah Jane was a very fine barge. Old Cheesy Morgan, whose Prairie Flower she had outreached in the annual barge regatta by half a mile, owned up frankly that the Sarah Jane, if she had been built out of the wreckage of a sunken steamboat looted by the miserly old mudlark who owned her, could lay over any of his fleet, and when he gave in as far as that you might look upon the discussion as closed. Her skipper and mate, Trabby Goodjer and Skee Goss, were always ready (when in company) to punch any single man’s head who said a word against her, and many sore bones had been carried away from the “Long Reach House” in consequence. Not that these two worthies were ever sparing of their extensive vocabulary of abuse of their command when working up or down the Thames, especially when she missed stays and hooked herself up on a mudbank about the first of the ebb, making them lose a whole day.
Ever since her launching she had been regularly employed in the Margate trade from London with general merchandise and returning empty. Even this double expense for single freight paid the Margate shopkeepers better than submission to the[243] extortionate railway charges, while their enterprise was a golden streak of luck for the owner of the Sarah Jane, and her consorts. When she commenced the memorable voyage of which this is the veracious log, she had for crew, besides the two mariners already named, a youngster of some fifteen years of age as near as he could guess, but so stunted in growth from early hardships that he did not look more than twelve. He answered to any name generally that sounded abusive or threatening, from long habit, but his usual title was the generic one for boys in north-country ships—Peedee. He had already seen a couple of years’ service in deep-water vessels, getting far more than his rightful share of adventurous mishaps, besides having done a fairly comprehensive amount of vagabondage in the streets of London and Liverpool. But being so diminutive for his years he found it difficult to get a berth in a decent-sized ship, and in consequence it was often no easy matter for him to fill even his small belly, for all his precocious wits. Fate, supplemented by his own fears, had hitherto been kind enough to keep him out of a Geordie collier or a North Sea trawler, but on the day he met Trabby Goodjer outside the “King’s Arms” in Thames Street, and asked him if he wanted a boy, his evil genius must have been in the ascendant. He hadn’t tasted food for two days with the exception of a fistful of gritty currants he had raked out of a corner on Fresh Wharf, and as the keen spring wind shrieking round the greasy bacon-reeking warehouses searched his small body to the marrow he[244] grew desperate. Thus it was that he became the crew of the Sarah Jane. Properly, she should have carried another man, but following the example of their betters in the Mercantile Marine the skipper and mate trusted to luck, and found under-manning pay. The owner lived at Rochester, and rarely saw his vessel except through a pair of glasses at long intervals as she passed the entrance to the Medway. So the payment of the crew was in the skipper’s hands entirely, left to him by the London agent who “managed” her. By sailing her a man short, and giving a boy 10s. a month instead of a pound, Captain Goodjer and chief officer Goss were able to enjoy many cheap drunks, and have thrown in, as it were, the additional enjoyment of ill-using something that was quite unable to turn the tables unpleasantly.
Between this delightful pair therefore, whose luck in getting backwards and forwards to Margate and London was phenomenal, Peedee had a lively time. Especially so when, from some unforeseen delay or extra thirst, the supply of liquor in the big stone jar kept at the head of the skipper’s bunk ran short and they were perforce compelled to exchange their usual swinish condition of uncertain good-humour for an irritable restlessness that sought relief by exercising ingenious forms of cruelty upon their hapless crew. Occasionally they had a rough-and-tumble between themselves, once indeed they both rolled over the side in a cat-like scrimmage, but there was nothing like the solace to be got out of that amusement that there was in beating[245] Peedee. But he, preternaturally wise, was only biding his time. The score against his persecutors was growing very long, but a revenge that should be at once pleasant, enduring, and final, slowly shaped itself in his mind. Accident rather than design matured his plans prematurely, but still he showed real genius by rising to the occasion that thus presented itself and utilising it in a truly remarkable manner.
One Friday evening in the middle of October the Sarah Jane was loosed from the wharf where she had received her miscellaneous freight, and with the usual amount of river compliments and collisions with the motley crowd of craft all in an apparently hopeless tangle in the crowded Pool, began her voyage on the first of the ebb. The skipper and the mate were both more than ordinarily muzzy, but intuitively they succeeded in getting her away from the ruck without receiving more than her fair share of hard knocks. Once in the fairway the big sprit-sail and jib were hove up to what little wind there was, and away she went at a fairly good pace. Peedee did most of the steering as he did of everything else that was possible to him, receiving as his due many pretty bargee-compliments from his superiors as they sprawled at their ease by the bogie funnel. They reached Greenhithe at slack water, where, the wind veering ahead, they anchored for the night at no great distance from the reformatory ship Cornwall. The sails were furled after a fashion, and with many a blood-curdling threat to Peedee should he fail to keep a[246] good look-out, Trabby and his mate went below into their stuffy den to sleep. Somewhere about midnight the shivering boy awoke with a start, that nearly tumbled him off his perch on the windlass, to see two white figures clambering on board out of the river. Wide awake on the instant he saw they were boys like himself, and whispered, “All right, mates, here y’are.” Noiselessly he showed them the fo’c’s’le scuttle, where they might get below and hide. When they had disappeared he crept to the side of the darksome hole and held a whispered conversation with the visitors, finding that they were runaways from the Cornwall, and immediately his active brain saw splendid possibilities in this accession of strength if only he could conceal their presence from his enemies aft. For the present, however, there was nothing to be done but lie quietly and wait events. Daring the risk of awakening the “officers” he made a raid upon the grub-locker aft, securing half a loaf and a lump of Dutch cheese, which he carried forward to the shivering stowaways. His own wardrobe being on his back he could not lend them any clothes, but they comforted themselves with the thought that they would soon be dry. And assisted by Peedee they made a snug lair in the gritty convolutions of a worn-out mainsail that was stowed in their hiding-place, finding warmth and speedy oblivion in spite of their terrors.
The slack arrived some little time before the pale, cheerless dawn, and with it a small breeze fair for their passage down. Unwillingly enough Peedee[247] aroused his masters from their fetid hole, getting by way of reward for his vigilant obedience of orders a perfectly tropical squall of curses. Nevertheless they were soon on deck, having turned in like horses, “all standing.” Without speaking a word to each other, they proceeded to get the anchor, but so out of humour were they that Peedee had much more than his usual allowance of fresh cuts and bruises before the barge was fairly aweigh. Gradually the wind freshened as if assisted by the oncoming light, so that before the red disc of the sun peeped over the edge of London’s great gloom behind them, the Sarah Jane was making grand progress. Again Peedee took the wheel, while the skipper and mate retired to the cabin for a drink. Suddenly sounds of woe arose therefrom. The agonising discovery had been made that the precious jar was empty. It had been capsized during the night, and the bung, being but loosely inserted, had fallen out. Its contents now lay in a sticky pool behind the stove, mixed with the accumulated filth of two or three days. It was a sight too harrowing for ordinary speech. They glared at one another for a few seconds in silence, until Trabby with a vicious set of his ugly mouth growled, “Thet—— young mudlawk.” “Ar,” said the mate, with an air of having found what he wanted, “I’ll—— well skin ’im w’en I goo on deck.” But though the thought was pleasant and some relief to their feelings, they remembered, being sober, that if they were not a little less demonstrative in their attentions to the boy they would certainly have to do his work themselves.[248] That gave them pause, and they discussed with much gravity how they might deal with him without inconvenience to themselves, until breakfast time. When they had in hoggish fashion satisfied their hunger (their thirst no amount of coffee could quench) they lit their pipes and lay back to get such solace as tobacco could afford, and ruminate also upon the possibility of replenishing the stone jar. Peedee steered on steadily, breakfastless, and likely to remain so. Swiftly the barge sped down the reaches in company with a whole fleet of her fellows “cluttering up the river,” as an angry Geordie skipper, who had just shaved close by one of them, remarked, “like a school o’ fat swine in a tatty field.” So they fared for the whole forenoon without incident, until with a savage curse and a blow Trabby took the wheel from the hungry lad, bidding him go and get their dinner ready. While he was thus engaged a thick mist gradually closed in upon the crowded river, reducing its vivid panorama to an unreal expanse of white cloudiness through which phantom shapes slowly glided to an accompaniment of unearthly sounds. Suddenly to Peedee’s amazement the big sail overhead began to flap, the jib-sheet rattled on the “traveller,” and Skee Goss, striding forward, let go the anchor. Then the two men brailed in the mainsail, allowed the jib to run down, and without saying a word to the wondering boy, shoved the boat over the side, jumped into her, and were swallowed up in the fog. The instant they disappeared Peedee stood motionless, his ears acutely strained for the measured play of the oars[249] as the skipper and mate pulled lustily shorewards. When at last he could hear them no longer, he rushed to the scuttle forward, and dropping on his knees by its side, called down, “Below there! ’r y’ sleep? On deck with ye ’s quick ’s the devil’ll let ye.” Up they came, looking scared to death. Without wasting a word, under Peedee’s direction the three hove the anchor up, although Peedee was artful enough to lift the solitary pawl so that it could make no noise. By the time they got the anchor they were all three streaming with sweat, but without a moment’s pause Peedee dropped the pawl, and taking a turn with the chain round the windlass end in case of accidents, cast off the brails, letting the great brown sail belly out to the fresh breeze. Having got the sheet aft with a tremendous struggle, he took the wheel, saying, “Now you two fellers, git forrard ’n histe thet jib up, ’n look lively too ’less you want ter be dam well murdered.” In utter bewilderment as to what was happening the two lads blundered forward, and guided by the energetic directions of their self-appointed commander, soon got the sail set. Fully under control at last, the Sarah Jane sped away seaward before a breeze that, freshening every minute, bade fair to be blowing a gale before night.
But Peedee, transformed into a man by his sudden resolve and its successful execution, called his crew to him, and while he skilfully guided the barge down the strangely quiet river, endeavoured to explain to them what he had done and why; together with his[250] plans for the future. He was utterly contemptuous of their seafaring abilities, telling them that “he’d teach ’em more in two days than they’d learn aboard that ugly old hulk in a year,” and although they were each quite a head and shoulders taller than himself, he treated them as if they were mere infants and he was an old salt. And there was a light in his eye, an elasticity in his movements that impressed them more than all his words. Woe betide them had they dared to cross him! For in that small body was bubbling and fermenting the sweet must of satisfied revenge, strengthened by conscious power and utterly unadulterated by any sense of future difficulty or responsibility. Higher rose the wind, driving the mist before it and revealing the broad mouth of the river all white with foam as the conflicting forces of storm and tide battled over the labyrinth of banks. Obviously the first thing to do was the instruction of his crew in steering, for as soon as he found time to think of it he felt faint with hunger. Fortunately one of the runaways had been coxswain of a boat, and very little sufficed to show him the difference between a tiller and a wheel. And all untroubled by the rising sea, the deeply-laden barge ploughed on far steadier than many a vessel ten times her size would have done. Relieved from the wheel, Peedee hastened to the caboose and found some of the dinner he had been preparing still eatable. Supplementing it by such provisions as he could easily lay hands on in the cabin, the trio made a hearty meal, winding up with a smoke all round in genuine sailor fashion.
With hunger appeased and perfect freedom lapping them around, who shall say that they were not happy? Occasionally a queer little tremor, a premonition of a price by-and-by to be paid for their present adventure, thrilled up the spine of each of the two runaways, but when they stole a glance at the calm features of their commander they were comforted. So onward they sailed, through the tortuous channels of the Thames’ estuary, scudding before a stress of wind under whole canvas at a rate that made Peedee rejoice exceedingly, although every few minutes a green comber of a sea swept diagonally across the whole of the low deck, but never invaded the cabin top. Night fell, the side-lights were exhibited, and like any thousand-ton ship the Sarah Jane stood boldly out into mid-channel, Peedee shaping a course which would carry them down well clear of all the banks. Morning saw them off the Varne shoal, the objects of eager curiosity to the gaping crew of a huge four-masted barque that passed them within a cable’s length. And as the sun rose the weather cleared, the sky smiled down upon them, the keen wind and bright sea gave them a delicious sense of freedom, while the grand speed of their ship stirred them to almost delirious delight. This ecstatic condition lasted for two days until, no definite land being in sight, and passing vessels becoming fewer, the two new hands began to feel that dread of the unknown that might have been expected of them. Timidly they appealed to Peedee to tell them what he was going to do. But with bitter scorn of their fears, all the fiercer because he didn’t in the least know what was going to happen, he railed upon them for a pair of cowardly milksops, and suggested hauling up for some West-country port and dumping them on the beach. Truth to tell he was becoming somewhat anxious himself as to his whereabouts, for the stock of water was getting very low, although there was enough food in the hold to have lasted them round the world. Fate, however, served them better than design. When night fell a heavy bank of clouds which had been lowering in the west all day suddenly began to rise, and soon after dark, in a sudden squall, the wind shifted to that quarter with mist and rain. Under these new conditions Peedee lost his bearings and allowed his command to run away with him into the darkness to leeward. At about four o’clock in the morning he heard a dreadful sound, well known to him from experience, the hungry growl of breakers. But before he had time to get too frightened there was a sudden turmoil of foaming sea around them in place of the dark hollows and white summits of the deep water, and with a tipsy lurch or so the Sarah Jane came to a standstill. She lay so quietly that Peedee actually called his crew to brail up the mainsail and haul down the jib in sailor fashion. Daylight revealed the fact that she was high and dry, having run in past all sorts of dangers until she grounded under the lee of a beetling mass of rock and there remained unscathed. While they were having a last meal they were startled by seeing some uncouth-looking men coming at top speed over the rugged shore. But they lowered themselves down over the side and ran to meet them, finding them foreigners indeed. Before long the whole scanty population was down and busy with the spoil thus providentially provided, while the three boys were hailed as benefactors to their species, and made welcome to the best that the village contained. And two tides after the Sarah Jane was as though she had never been, while the wanderers, well provided with necessaries, were off for an autumn tour on foot through Southern Brittany.
Not the least of the mighty changes wrought by the advent of steam as a motive-power at sea is the alteration it has made in the superstitious notions current among seamen from the earliest days of sea-faring. In the hurry and stress of the steamboat-man’s life there is little scope for the indulgence of any fancies whatever, and the old sea-traditions have mostly died out for lack of suitable environment. Indeed, a new genus of seafarers have arisen to whom the name of sailors hardly applies; they themselves scornfully accept the designation of “sea-navvies”; and many instances are on record where, it having become necessary to make sail in heavy weather to aid the lumbering tramp in her struggle to claw off a lee-shore, or keep ahead of a following sea, the master has found to his dismay that he had not a man in his crew capable of tackling such a job.
Perhaps the first old belief to go was that sailing on a Friday was to court certain disaster. All old sailors dwell with unholy gusto upon the legend of the ship that was commenced on a Friday, finished on a Friday, named the Friday, commanded by Captain Friday, sailed on a Friday, and—foundered on the same luckless day with all hands, as a warning to all reckless shipowners and skippers never again[255] to run counter to the eternal decrees ordaining that the day upon which the Saviour of the world was crucified should be henceforth accursed or kept holy, according to the bent of the considering mind. But steam has changed all that. When a steamer’s time for loading or discharging began to be reckoned not in days but in hours, the notion of detaining her in port for a whole day in deference to an idea became too ridiculous for entertainment, and it almost immediately died a natural death. This, of course, had its effect upon the less hastily worked sailing vessels, although there are still to be found in British sailing ships masters who would use a good deal of artifice to avoid sailing on that day. Among the Spanish, Italian, Austrian, and Greek sailing vessels, however, Friday is still held in most superstitious awe. And on Good Friday there is always a regular carnival held on board these vessels, the yards being allowed to hang at all sorts of angles, the gear flung dishevelled and loose, while an effigy of Judas is subjected to all the abuse and indignity that the lively imaginations of the seamen can devise. Finally, the effigy is besmeared with tar, a rope attached to it which is then rove through a block at the main yard-arm, it is set alight, and amid the frantic yells and execrations of the seamen it is slowly swung aloft to dangle and blaze, while the excited mariners use up their remaining energies in a wild dance.
Another superstition that still survives in sailing vessels everywhere is, strangely enough, connected with the recalcitrant prophet Jonah. It is, however,[256] confined to his bringing misfortune upon the ship in which he sailed, and seldom is any allusion made to his miraculous engulphing by the specially prepared great fish. It does not take a long series of misfortunes overtaking a ship to convince her crew that a lineal descendant of Jonah and an inheritor of his disagreeable disqualifications is a passenger. So deeply rooted is this idea that when once it has been aroused with respect to any member of a ship’s company, that person is in evil case, and, given fitting opportunity, would actually be in danger of his life. This tinge of religious fanaticism, cropping up among a class of men who, to put it mildly, are not remarkable for their knowledge of Scripture, also shows itself in connection with the paper upon which “good words” are printed. It is an unheard-of misdemeanour on board ship to destroy or put to common use such paper. The man guilty of such an action would be looked upon with horror by his shipmates, although their current speech is usually vile and blasphemous beyond belief. And herein is to be found a curious distinction between seamen of Teutonic and Latin race, excluding Frenchmen. Despite the superstitious reverence the former pay to the written word, none of them would in time of peril dream of rushing to the opposite extreme, and after madly abusing their Bibles, throw them overboard. But the excitable Latins, after beseeching their patron saint to aid them in the most agonising tones, repeating with frenzied haste such prayers as they can remember, and promising the most costly gifts in the event of their safely reaching port[257] again, often turn furiously upon all they have previously been worshipping, and with the most horrid blasphemies, vent their rage upon the whilom objects of their adoration. Nothing is too sacred for insult, no name too reverend for abuse, and should there be, as there often is, an image of a saint on board, it will probably be cast into the sea.
But one of the most incomprehensible forms of sea-superstition is that which has for its object that most prosaic of all sea-going people, the Finns. Russian Finns, seamen always call them, although there is far more of the Swede than the Russian about them, and their tongue is Swedish also. They are perhaps the most perfect specimens of the ideal seafarer in the world, although the Canadian runs them closely. All things that appertain to a ship seem to come easily to their doing, from the time of first laying the vessel’s keel until, with every spar, sail, and item of running gear in its place, she trips her “kellick” and leaves the harbour behind her for the other side of the world. And even then the Finn will be found to yield to none in his knowledge of navigation. Although his hands may be gnarled and split with toil, and his square, expressionless face look as if “unskilled labourer” were imprinted upon it, much difficulty would be found in the search for a keener or more correct hand at trigonometrical problems, or a better keeper of that most useful document, a ship’s log-book.
Yet to these men, by common consent, a supernatural status has been assigned. Whether among the Latins the same idea holds is somewhat doubtful,[258] but certainly in British, American, and Scandinavian vessels Finns are always credited with characteristics which a century ago would have involved them in many unpleasantnesses. Chiefly harmless, no doubt, these weird powers, yet when your stolid shipmate is firmly believed to control the winds so masterfully as to supply his favoured friends with a quartering breeze while all the rest of the surrounding vessels have a “dead muzzler,” any affection you may have had for him is seriously liable to degenerate into fear. It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that from whatever the original idea of Finnish necromancy originally arose, a whole host of legends have grown up, many of them too trivial for print, some delightfully quaint, others not less original than lewd, but all evidently grafts of fancy upon some parent stock. Thus, while there is a rat in the ship no Finn was ever known to lose anything, because it is well known that any rat in the full possession of his faculties would be only too glad to wait upon the humblest Finn. And the reason why Finns are always fat is because they have only to go and stick their knives in the foremast to effect a total change in their meat to whatever they fancy most keenly at the time. It is well that they are mostly temperate men, since everybody knows that they can draw any liquor they like from the water-breaker by turning their cap round, and they never write letters home because the birds that hover round the ship are proud to bear their messages whithersoever they list. The catalogue of their privileges might be greatly extended[259] were it needful, but one thing always strikes an unbiassed observer—the Finn is, almost without exception, one of the humblest, quietest of seafarers, whose sole aim is to do what he is told as well as he can, to give as little trouble as possible, and where any post of responsibility is given him to show his appreciation of it by doing two men’s work, filling up his leisure by devising schemes whereby he can do more.
Of the minor superstitions there is little to be said. Few indeed are the old sailors now afloat who would cuff a youngster’s ears for whistling, fearing that his merry note would raise a storm. Whistling for wind, however, still persists, as much a habit as the hissing of a groom while rubbing down a horse, but a very sceptical laugh would meet any one who inquired whether the whistler believed that his sifflement would make any difference to the force or direction of the wind. Fewer still are those who would now raise any objections to the presence of a clergyman on board. But the belief that a death, whether of a man or an animal, must be followed by a gale of wind is perhaps more firmly held than any other, unless it be the notion that sharks follow any ship wherein is an ailing man or woman, with horrible anticipation.