SOCIAL LIFE ON AN AMERICAN MAN-O'-WAR
Manly, Free Entertaining and Ever Fruitful of Self-Control--
Organization of the Ship's Company Into Messes--Chaff Keeps
the Wardroom Merry, but Never Passes the Bounds of Good Nature--
Something Better Than Romance in the Ships of To-Day--Ships of
To-Day--Man-o'-War Bill of Fare No Longer Includes Lobscouse
or Bargoo--Fine Libraries for All Hands--The Canteen.
_On Board U. S. S. Louisiana, U. S. Battle Fleet,_
AT SEA, OFF PANAMA, March 6.
Socially the modern man-o'-war houses a series of clubs, one large and
several small ones. They are called messes. The large club's membership,
the general mess, consists of the entire crew, with the exception of the
officers. Uncle Sam, through accredited agents on board, runs that club.
The small clubs' membership consists entirely of officers, and these
clubs are managed by the membership.
The officers' clubs are graded according to rank. On a flagship the
Admiral may form a club all by himself, or he may enlarge the
membership, as Admiral Evans does, by having his staff officers join his
mess. The Captain is also a club of one member. The commissioned
officers make up the wardroom mess. The midshipmen, junior paymaster,
junior officers of the marines and the pay clerk form the steerage mess.
The warrant officers--bos'n, carpenter, machinists, gunners and the
like--have another mess, and the largest of the small clubs is that of
the chief petty officers.
With the exception of the general mess all these clubs provide their own
supplies of food and drink. The Government used to allow every man on a
ship, no matter what his rank, the sum of 30 cents a day for rations.
The members of the crew in the old days formed various messes of from
twenty to forty members. Some of these messes drew provisions from the
ship's stores amounting to the value of 30 cents a day for each man.
Others drew only three-quarters of the ration and commuted the rest of
the 30 cents, to which they added more or less money of their own, and
purchased food luxuries from time to time. The allowance of 30 cents a
day to all hands was made just after the civil war, and Jack celebrated
the event by a song which closed:
They gave us thirty cents a day
And stopped our grog forever.
Jack's grog did stop, although other navies still serve out liquor
regularly to their sailors, but he got pretty good rations. There were
times, however, when he did not fare well. Sometimes the mess treasurer
would go ashore with the mess treasury and would fall into the hands of
the Philistines and the mess would have to go hungry or borrow from the
kindly disposed members of other messes.
Nearly ten years ago Congress cut off the 30 cents a day allowance for
the officers above the rank of midshipmen. The consequence is that every
commissioned officer on an American warship has to purchase his own food
and other household necessities. That act of Congress cost each officer
about $110 a year, a matter of at least three months board.
Naval officers must live well and must entertain when in various ports,
at home and abroad, and, being persons of extremely moderate salaries
and generally with families to support, they must exercise economy to
make both ends meet. It is no easy task, and the communal plan of paying
for food and the individual plan of paying for drinks is the best
solution of the problem. The navy regulations provide for the formation
of messes, tell how they shall be managed, and declare that they must
show clean financial sheets to the Captain at every quarter. They must
not contract debts which they cannot pay.
Suppose a new ship is going into commission. About fifteen officers
below the Captain must mess together. The Government provides certain
necessities, such as tables and chairs, and an allowance of crockery and
linen, but the officers must assemble their own food and wine supplies
for a cruise of say three years. It requires capital. Few officers are
so forehanded that they have sufficient money to lay in supplies then
for several months. They are not allowed to run in debt for them. They
must eat and drink, and what do they do? They take advantage of a clause
in the regulations, which shows that there are many ways to kill a cat,
especially if the cat is running-into-debt, and which says:
"When a vessel is in a United States port and preparing to proceed on a
cruise the commanding officer may sanction supplies for officers' messes
being received on board, at the risk of dealers, to be paid for as
consumed, in not less than quarterly instalments, provided the dealer
shall agree thereto in writing."
This means that as soon as an officers' mess is organized its treasurer
goes to certain dealers and contracts for a large quantity of food
supplies on condition that payments shall be made at certain intervals.
There are many large wholesale houses that are glad to get that kind of
trade because they know that ultimately they will receive every cent due
them. The members of the mess are assessed so much a month, according to
experience in such matters, and the result is that the food of a naval
officer costs him in the prepared state about $1 a day. A treasurer is
elected once every month. He must serve, and he sits at the foot of the
table, while in the wardroom mess the executive officer sits at the
head. The treasurer may be elected to serve a second month, but he
cannot be made to serve more than two months consecutively.
The organization of the other messes is similar to that of the wardroom
mess. The wine mess is composed of such officers as wish to join it.
They get their supplies from a dealer who backs them, and to make up for
breakage and loss they charge 10 per cent. more than the cost prices of
the wines, beers, waters and cigars consumed. The officers are not
allowed to have distilled spirits in the wine mess.
When you have a dozen or more men eating together three times a day and
for weeks confined to their clubrooms the social life of the company is
likely to be beset with pitfalls and shoals. You can imagine how it
would be on land, especially if military rule prevailed in a club and
every member was compelled to spend all his time in it and was superior
or inferior in rank to every other man. This matter of rank has to be
taken into consideration. The members of the mess are seated according
to rank. Still they are equal in the matter of membership of the mess,
and between this matter of rank and social equality some delicate
situations arise. The man who may cause you to be disciplined sits close
to you in the bonds of supposed good fellowship, and to preserve the
club feature of the mess calls for a display of restraint that develops
character.
It is a primary rule of the military service of the country that
an officer must be a gentleman. That means that good breeding,
consideration for the feelings of others, kindness, tact and all the
other well known qualifications used in defining the word gentleman must
govern the conduct of an officer. Good form also requires that there
must be no discussion of subjects in the mess that would lead to
discord, such as religion or politics. The result is that to the person
not familiar with the traditions an officers' mess on board a warship
seems to be a place for small talk or else for shop talk. Really there
are few places in the world where the word gentleman has a better
exemplification. The officers adapt themselves to the situation of
enforced close intimacy of months and months in a way that excites
admiration. You see, you've got to live with a person to find him out.
When you touch elbows with him all the time all his little peculiarities
stand out and all his annoyances of manner become conspicuous. The one
social task on a ship is to ignore all these things and try to have a
companionship as genial as if one's good points alone were on view for a
day or two.
Keeping in good humor is the trick. One way in which this is done on
ship is by a light chaffing that runs through the intercourse of the
members of the mess. Probably no more skilful skating on thin ice takes
place around any board than in the wardroom of a warship. Good natured
thrusts and parries are going on all the time, and just as the danger
point of going too far in personal matters is reached the talk is
shifted in some mysterious way, and a new tack is taken.
A favorite means of fun is to tackle the mess caterer, as the treasurer
is called, and tell him what poor food he is serving. Now, every man
knows he is trying to make the mess money go as far as possible, and
also to provide good food. He has a thankless job and the members of the
mess like to run him, as the expression goes. Suppose he serves up that
delightful concoction of domestic economy, meat balls. The running fire
of comment on such fare would make any ordinary man's hair gray in a
month. The members of the mess even go so far as to tell him that when
he dies his monument should be topped with a marble representation of a
dish of meat balls.
Let some man appear in evening dress after word has been passed that for
once such a costume may be omitted at dinner. The luckless one is howled
out of the wardroom and invited to set 'em up when he comes back. Let a
man make some wild or foolish statement or boast; he never hears the
last of it. Perhaps the chief engineer may get permission not to wear
evening dress for an evening or two while he is fixing up some dirty
work in the engine room. Some one will sing out:
"Captain, I work so hard; please excuse me from dressing for dinner."
Forthwith the Fourth Ward, as the lower end of the table is called, gets
up a yell and at a signal this is heard:
Bill Johnson! Bill Johnson! Bill Johnson!
I--work--so--hard!
Johnson, Johnson, Johnson!
Bill says it is on him and what'll ye have?
Let some one declare that he is on the water wagon and decline to join
in a friendly glass. Forthwith over his place at the table will appear
the H. T. T. banner, which, being interpreted, means Holier Than Thou,
and the man says he'll stay on the wagon if you don't object, but will
the others please order what they'd like at his expense.
Lovesick members of the mess get it unmercifully, but when the glasses
come on the table at dinner some evening and the lovelorn man smiles
and announces his marriage engagement, hearty, indeed, are the
congratulations and the girl's health is drunk with gusto. Let some
member have a birthday. Again good wishes predominate. All hands make
speeches. Poems are presented. Hits and grinds are got off. It all goes
to make the men of the mess forget that they are made of human clay, the
kind that grows brittle and crumbles upon close contact.
Various expedients for making social life delightful are tried. Take the
Kansas, for instance. Go over to dinner there some night and you will
find the usual good natured raillery going on all the time, but at the
end of nearly every course some one will get up and go to the piano and
sing a song, a good one, too. They have half a dozen singers on that
ship, and you can scarcely spend a more delightful evening anywhere.
Perhaps they have invited Father Gleeson of the Connecticut over, and
after suitable urging this accomplished chaplain priest will tell some
Irish stories or will sing "The Wearin' o' the Green" for you. And then
the ordnance officer will probably step up and sing some rare English
ballads, and you make him sing half a dozen times that old gypsy song
"Dip Your Fingers in the Stew."
Perhaps you go to the Minnesota. That ship has the prize runners. They
do josh a man for certain. There's Henry Ball, for instance, only that
isn't his name. Down at one corner some man will cry out:
"Who killed Cock Robin?"
At the far end another will respond:
"'I,' said the sparrow."
In the middle will come a voice:
"'With my bow and arrow.'"
And down and around will go the details of the dreadful tragedy of the
death of Cock Robin. It's a mournful tale, but as the details are set
forth loudly there comes a twinkle in the eyes of certain men, and then
after Cock Robin is buried decently a shout will come:
"Who knows it all?"
Another shout will answer:
"Henry Ball, Henry Ball!"
Another voice:
"He knows it all!"
Still another voice:
"With his brass and gall!"
Mr. Ball has been guilty of the assumption of too much knowledge and he
must take his medicine and grin.
The luckless newspaper man who is a passenger on a warship does not
escape. He's meat for these flesh eaters. The Sun man mentioned one day
that he was sorry he had missed a certain piece of news because it was
something that would interest everybody, millions of people, in fact.
"How many millions of people, for example?" asked an innocent voice.
"Well, there are more than three millions of people in New York city
alone," was the reply. It was a mistake. Scarcely a day has passed on
the cruise when some one at the wardroom table does not say in the
proper tone of voice and just at the psychological moment:
"Three millions of people made happy!"
That moment comes often in port after some one has asked the
correspondent if he has cabled such and such a piece of news. He usually
says he has.
Up rises the table and a 12-inch roar shakes things.
"Three millions of people made happy!"
A mess attendant drops a dish and the accident starts a discussion as to
the large amount of breakage of crockery. One member who has been
afflicting the mess with the recital of numerous details of his
household affairs, having been married only a year and a half, protests
against the carelessness of mess attendants. He says it is an outrage
the way the mess crockery is broken. There is no excuse for it.
Downright carelessness it is, and something ought to be done about it
right away.
"Why," he says, "do you know that in our married life we have had just
one servant and I give you my word, she has not broken one single piece
of crockery. That's a fact."
"What do you use in your home, Jackson--agate ware?" asks a rogue across
the way, and for the rest of the meal the mess is relieved from any more
details of Jackson's domestic affairs.
Just on the edge of the Fourth Ward is a Lieutenant who has a wonderful
baby. The mess hears all about that kid whenever a fresh mail arrives.
The child must be pretty fine and the mess puts up with the narration of
his superior points and cunning ways with a kindly indulgence and
restraint. The conversation drifts one evening to the case of a seaman
who was sick all night and unable to sleep and the big doctor, as the
ranking surgeon is called, is telling about the way the man must have
suffered before he complained. The father of the baby takes the matter
up at once and says:
"Doctor, Mrs. Williams writes me that the other night the baby cried all
night long. Neither she nor the baby got a wink of sleep. What do you do
for a baby who cries all night without stopping?"
"Take it out the next morning and choke it to death," growls the doctor.
Williams is puzzled at the shout that goes up and while he is trying to
fathom its meaning the mess rises up and, pointing its collective finger
at the big doctor, hurls this shout at him:
"Cruel man! Cruel man! Cruel man!"
Williams's baby never cries all night again for that mess.
Chaffing like this is going on in all the ships constantly. At every
opportunity the fun takes a wider scope. For example, on St. Valentine's
day every one on the Louisiana got a wireless message transmitted from
home in some mysterious way through the flagship; at least that is what
the messages said. The messages contained roasts that set the wardroom
in an uproar. The Sun man was notified by his managing editor that
"Three millions of people were made happy" by what he had written.
Peculiar messages signed Sweetheart and other endearing terms reached
some of the younger members. The proud father of a new baby got word of
the usual cutting of the first tooth. The man who was living on a "dead
horse" received word that the increased pay bill might fail.
Taken all in all, this chaffing is similar to a Clover Club, a Gridiron
Club, or an Amen Corner lambasting. It is given and taken in good part.
Years of skill have taught the naval officer how far to go and when to
stop to avoid pitfalls. The man who shows anger or resentment gets it
all the more. There is a delicacy of adjustment in it all that commands
admiration.
Occasionally there will be something formal in the roasting process.
For instance on the Vermont they have what they call Campfire No. 6 of
the Spanish War Veterans. Its members consist of a correspondent and
officers who served in the Spanish war. They meet at stated intervals.
They hold long sessions. These are supposed to consist of recitals of
heroism, hairbreadth escapes, devotion to duty and the like. They
had one of their meetings on December 31 last. The members of the
campfire were surprised to find a printed programme of the evening's
entertainment. The correspondent member is J. B. Connolly, the sea story
writer and the President's friend. This was the programme:
1. The old favorite
WILD BILL TARDY
familiarly known to theatregoers as the
BIG CHIEF OF MONOLOGUE
Mr. Tardy has consented to recite the touching poem "My Bullies
Shan't Play Ball To-day."
* * * * *
2. LITTLE ABE BRINSER
The peerless, precocious sharpshooter. The feature of this act
will be the shooting of a clay pigeon before it leaves the trap.
* * * * *
3. That wonderful Oriental Magician
RAJAH PALMER
In plain view of the audience, he will grow a horse chestnut
into a bull weighing 1,728 pounds.
N. B. First time on any stage.
* * * * *
4. The blacksmiths of Journalism
CONNOLLY and PATCHIN
This act is REALLY great, consisting of Novel writings and
rhetorical spasms.
P. S. Audience requested not to go to sleep.
* * * * *
5. STEVE ROWAN
The clever character sketch comedian.
Will faithfully portray, noted English characters, viz.:
BEAU BRUMMEL
LORD CHUMLEY
LAWRANCE D'ORSAY, &c.
* * * * *
6. Those smooth canteen idols
Jack HIGGINS and DOUGLASS Spike
In a screaming farce entitled
SKIN'EM AND CHEAT'EM
* * * * *
7. The Alexander Salvini of polite vaudeville
L. C. BERTOLETTE
The great emotional tragedian in the
BALCONY SCENE FROM ROMEO & JULIET
Positively pathetic, piercing and painful.
The names of these officers of the campfire were printed on the back:
"Roast Master," C. P. Snyder; "Libation Master," L. M. Overstreet;
"Keeper of the Logs," F. M. Furlong; "Keeper of the Alarm Clock," A. B.
Drum; "Bouncer," B. L. Canaga.
If there is any man who can write verse or jingles he has to exercise
his muse when any gala day comes. Here is what Mr. Connolly produced
when the Vermont crossed the line:
SUBPOENA.
Vale of Seaweed, Hall of Atlantus.
HEAR YE, HEAR YE.
In this my sacred realm, where lively dolphins leap
And beauteous mermaids round and round me sweep,
In this fair sea where warm south trades
Do toss the gentle ocean 'bove the whirling blades,
Has come, I learn, a battleship first rate,
And at her peak the flag of nation great great--
Her name Vermont, with many turret guns,
Of twenty thousand horse-power and sixteen thousand tons.
And learning this, I Neptunus, and of Ocean King,
Do don my trident and my signet ring
To mark which of her white clothed numerous crew
Are known to me, which to my realm are new.
Your name, strange sir, I find not on my roster--
A most disgraceful thing, and branding you imposter;
Appear you, then, that this foul blackest stain
By baptism be cleansed in our domain.
All ye firemen, water tenders and greasy oilers,
All ye mess lads, commissaries and chicken broilers,
All ye boat destroyers and gun busters,
All ye marines, signal boys and; jack-o'-dusters,
All ye topsiders, warrants and enlisted men,
No matter where ye shipped or when,
All ye who are not of the slush anointed
Appear, I say, before the Court appointed.
Fail to appear and ever rue the day
My kingly law you dared to disobey.
Attest: OCTOPUS, Executus Officerius.
January 4, 1908.
There is always a good deal of serious conversation, especially as to
naval matters. There was the everlasting discussion of the pay bill and
its chances before Congress. Always there was talk of naval history,
incidents of old cruises. Naval Academy reminiscences, and not a day
passed without earnest shop talk, how to improve this or that thing, how
to add to the fighting efficiency of the ship. All this talk is from a
lofty and patriotic standpoint and the one thing that impresses the
outsider is the intense loyalty to the flag.
By way of other diversion there is always harmless card playing of one
kind or another after dinner and the day's work is over. Chess and
checkers are played also. It is a mistake to think that there is
gambling on warships as a rule. Bridge has its devotees. Many people
believe that naval officers are inveterate poker players. They may have
been in the past, but if the cruise of the Louisiana is a criterion it
has disappeared. The Sun correspondent has been in a position to know
the facts and he asserts with the utmost positiveness that there has not
been a single game of poker played by the officers of this ship on the
present cruise. Heaven knows naval officers, just like other folks, have
enough of human frailties to answer for, but they rise superior to many
folks in that they have not the sin of poker playing to explain away,
at least not in the modern conditions of naval life at sea. This form of
gambling may exist on some ships but if what the officers of the
Louisiana say is true it is rarely nowadays that it is practised in the
navy.
Social amenities are observed most carefully by these men. Every mess
has its social secretary, who looks after social correspondence. The
mess has its social card. When a ship reaches port where there are other
ships of the navy or where there are foreign warships the niceties of
calling and entertaining etiquette are observed. A naval officer would
no more neglect observing all social proprieties than he would appear
without his proper uniform on the quarter deck.
Many officers spend a large part of their time in reading. They are an
unusually well-informed set of men. Their wide travel conduces to this.
Some of them are musically inclined and many an evening is spent in the
steerage where there is a piano. It takes only a few minutes to get up
an improvised orchestra of a couple of violins, a guitar, a mandolin and
a horn or two. Songs soon begin to be heard and the music fest often
develops into a story telling contest and all hands turn in late after a
jovial meeting.
Officers' club life on warships is run on good, wholesome lines. It is
manly, free, entertaining, fruitful of self-control and always in
keeping with the responsible station of men who have sworn to defend
with their lives the honor and integrity of their country.
There are those who lament that in these days of steel ships and
electrical appliances all the picturesque side of a sailorman's life on
a warship has disappeared. They talk of the old days of romance and
poetry and sentiment aboard ship. Well, things have changed for the
sailorman, but those who know how much his creature comforts have been
improved, how his health is safeguarded, how his mental necessities are
looked after, are glad with him that there has been a change. A warship
is not intended to be a poetry factory. It's a fighting machine and with
the best guns that you can get you need the best men available to shoot
them.
No longer is the navy the last refuge of the scum of town and country,
the receptacle of jailbirds temporarily at large, the resort of men not
fit for any decent toil on land. The navy needs men of intelligence and
good character, the bright boys from the farm; young lads from the city,
who otherwise would have to spend their lives in factories. The navy
needs these men, and it is getting them all the time. Why? Because
largely there have been many changes from the old methods, because no
workingmen in the world have better food, more comfortable clothes, more
sanitary housing, more opportunities for mental improvement, more
wholesome recreations.
It is true that Jack no longer has to do duty as a captain of a top, no
more does he receive orders to cockbill spars, square yards, man the
main clew garnets and buntlines, as in the old days. The old horse
block, as the platform where the officer of the deck formerly stood to
give his orders at sea was called, can be found no more on warships. The
old sports of head bumping, hammer and anvil and sparring, old style,
have gone. Here is what sparring used to be:
"Sparring consists of playing single stick with bone poles instead of
wooden ones. Two men stand apart and pummel each other with their fists
(a hard bunch of knuckles permanently attached to the arms and made
globular or extended into a palm at the pleasure of the proprietor) till
one of them, finding himself sufficiently thrashed, cries enough."
Pretty good swatting, that.
No more are Wednesdays and Saturdays the regular shaving days with every
man restricted to two shaves a week. No more are the sick bays the most
cramped and worst ventilated places in the ship. A lot of these things
have disappeared, just as flogging has disappeared, and if the romance
of the sea has gone with the passing of sailing ships and the
development of steel ships into great factories and arsenals the general
condition of Jack has improved in inverse proportion and the country can
say good-by to the old ways with no regrets.
When the general mess of the crew was formed in recent years there were
those who said it would never do. Croakers and obstructors of new things
abound in all walks of life and at all times. The result has been that
one wonders how a warship ever managed to get along without the mess.
One man now has charge of the feeding of all the men. There are no
longer thirty or forty messes with varying grades of food. The navy
regulations declare that so much material shall be fed to the crew for
each man. He gets that allowance, and it is as wholesome food as any
person can eat.
The Sun correspondent knows, for he has eaten with these men. Many a
time has he seen members of the wardroom mess send out for some of the
food the sailormen were eating at that moment, the officers preferring
it to the food of their own mess. Every man on a warship has his pound
and three-quarters of meat a day. He must be provided with it, the
regulations, say, no matter what the cost. He must have a certain
allowance of this and that, and a general steward sees that it is made
up into attractive dishes.
The sailorman no longer eats his meals sitting on a deck with the food
spread out before him on a piece of canvas. He has tables and benches
and plated knives and forks. His dishes are washed by machinery, his
tables scrubbed until they are as clean as any housewife could make
them. And when he is through his meal all are triced up out of the way,
in what a landsman would call the rafters, practically out of sight.
Gone are the days of scouse, lob scouse, skillagalee, burgoo, lob
dominion. Gone are the days when the men divided themselves up into
societies for the destruction of salt beef and pork. Slush, as the duff
made from large quantities of beef fat was called, is one of the absent
morsels of food. You don't hear anything more of dunderfunk. What was
dunderfunk? Well, it has been defined by sea sharks in this way: "As
cruel nice a dish as man ever put into him." It was made of hardtack
hashed and pounded, mixed with beef fat, molasses and water, and it was
baked in a pan. No, the men nowadays have cottage pudding, tapioca
pudding, ice cream, if you please. Their meats are of the finest. Every
article of food is the best that can be bought. It's plain food, true,
but no food was ever better than the best of plain food. Here is a menu
of one week picked at random from the collection:
SUNDAY.
_Breakfast._
Baked Pork and Beans.
Tomato Catsup.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Dinner._
Roast Pork.
Apple Sauce.
Brown Gravy.
Potatoes.
String Beans.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Supper._
Cold Corned Beef.
Tinned Fruit.
Cake.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
MONDAY.
_Breakfast._
Corn Meal Mush.
Milk.
Fried Pork Sausage.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Dinner._
Vegetable Soup.
Roast Beef.
Gravy and Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Supper._
Beef Pot Pie.
Jelly.
Bread and Butter.
Tea.
TUESDAY.
_Breakfast._
Ham Hash.
Tomato Catsup.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Dinner._
Fricassee of Veal.
Green Peas.
Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Supper._
Frankfurters.
Hot Slaw.
Bread and Butter.
Tea.
WEDNESDAY.
_Breakfast._
Baked Pork and Beans.
Tomato Catsup.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Dinner._
Tomato Soup.
Boiled Ham.
Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Supper._
Hamburg Steak.
Onion Gravy.
Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Tea.
THURSDAY.
_Breakfast._
Fried Pork Chops.
Onion Gravy.
Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Dinner._
Roast Beef.
Brown Gravy.
Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Supper._
Cold Corned Beef.
Fried Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Tea.
FRIDAY.
_Breakfast._
Oatmeal and Milk.
Fried Bacon.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Dinner._
Pot Roast Beef.
Brown Gravy.
Macaroni and Tomatoes.
Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Supper._
Tinned Salmon.
Potato Salad.
Bread and Butter.
Tea.
SATURDAY.
_Breakfast._
Beef Stew.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Dinner._
Bean Soup.
Boiled Pork.
Pickles.
Potatoes.
Bread and Butter.
Coffee.
_Supper._
Bologna Sausage.
Rice Pudding.
Jelly.
Bread and Butter.
Tea.
The menus of every ship have to be forwarded to the flagship every week
so that the Admiral may observe whether the men have had the proper kind
of food. No, Jack no longer kicks seriously about his food on a warship.
No workingman in the world gets better.
Take the libraries nowadays. There are two of them on every ship, the
ship's library and the crew's library. The officers use the ship's
library. It is scattered about the officers' quarters in various cases,
some in the wardroom, some in the Captain's or Admiral's quarters, some
in the steerage. There are about thirty classifications, dealing with
technical subjects, with history, travel, adventure, poetry, a limited
amount of fiction and so on. The crew's library is three times larger.
There is a great deal of history and travel and adventure and some
science in it, but the larger part is made up of as good fiction as the
English language provides. The classic authors are represented, but a
large amount of the newer fiction is also represented. You find Kipling,
Anthony Hope, E. W. Hornung, W. W. Jacobs, Jack London, Weir Mitchell,
Booth Tarkington, S. J. Weyman, along with Bret Harte, Mark Twain, R. L.
Stevenson, Scott, Thackeray, Charles Reade, Washington Irving,
Bulwer-Lytton and so on.
And the men read these books! Far into the night you will come across
some youngsters whose hammock is near a light and who cannot sleep
straining his eyes in reading some book. At any time when the smoking
lamp is lit and the men have knocked off work if you walk through the
ship you will probably find 150 men reading books. Their association
with the best fiction and best history is constant. They discuss these
books and they get a fund of information that no other grade of men in a
factory receive.
And how was it in the old days? Melville tells about it in his "White
Jacket," the book that relates to the old frigate United States in 1843.
He says:
"There was a public library on board paid for by Government and
entrusted to the custody of one of the marine corporals, a little, dried
up man of a somewhat literary turn. He had once been a clerk in a post
office ashore, and having been long accustomed to hand over letters when
called for he was now just the man to hand over books. He kept them in a
large cask on the berth deck, and when seeking a particular volume had
to capsize it like a barrel of potatoes. This made him very cross and
irritable, as most all librarians are. Who had the selection of these
books I do not know, but some of them must have been selected by our
chaplain, who so pranced on Coleridge's 'High German Horse.'"
"Mason Good's 'Book of Nature,' a very good book, to be sure, but not
precisely adapted to literary tastes, was one of these volumes; and
Macchiavelli's 'Art of War,' which was very dry fighting; and a folio of
Tillotson's sermons, the best of reading for divines indeed, but with
little relish for a main top man; and Locke's Essays, incomparable
essays, everybody knows, but miserable reading at sea; and Plutarch's
Lives--superexcellent biographies, which pit Greek against Roman in
beautiful style, but then, in a sailor's estimation, not to be mentioned
with the lives of the Admirals; and Blair's Lectures, University
Edition, a fine treatise on rhetoric, but having nothing to say about
nautical phrases, such as 'splicing the main brace,' 'passing a
gammoning,' 'puddin'ing the dolphin,' and 'making a carrick-bend,'
besides numerous invaluable but unreadable tomes that might have been
purchased cheap at the auction of some college professor's library."
The sailorman has lots of recreation nowadays. Three times a week,
Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday nights, the band plays for him on the
fo'c's'le deck. He seizes his mate and he dances wildly, madly or slowly
and gracefully, as he pleases. You see as fine dancing there as you can
see in a fashionable ballroom in any capital of the world. He has his
cards, his pets--dogs, cats, birds--and he foregathers from time to time
to sing. He likes to box and play baseball and to row, and the
Government provides for suitable athletic equipment for his sports. He
loves a boxing contest on the quarter deck with all the officers looking
on and the rules of the ring enforced rigidly. It gladdens his heart to
applaud and to hear others applaud, and he was much rejoiced in Callao
when several Peruvians who were the guests of the New Jersey's wardroom
at a boxing contest, sang out in their delight:
"Viva la box fight!"
Jack laughed at that long and hearty. He loves rowing contests and he
and his mates on a single ship frequently wager as much as $10,000 on
their own crew. Jack goes broke for months sometimes on these races.
Sometimes a man will bet from $500 to $1,000 or $1,200 on his crew and
he'll be all in for months afterward, but he likes a run for his money.
When he wins all hands know it at the next liberty and Jack and his
friends have trouble in toeing a scam, but Lord! what a good time
they've had!
Then there is the ship's canteen that ministers to Jack's comfort. The
canteen is not like what an army canteen used to be, a place where
drinks were served, but it's a country store. In it Jack can buy
tobacco, stationery, soap, little articles of clothing, thread and
needles, knickknacks--and above all things else, candy. You see, Jack
gets nothing to drink but water in various forms on ship and he runs to
sweets. Many a ship carries away with her on a cruise two or three tons
of candy in starting out. In less than six weeks the Louisiana's canteen
had sold more than $2,000 worth of candy to the crew.
The canteen makes a small profit so as to overcome losses by the
deterioration of goods, but all its wares are sold practically to Jack
at cost price. It is for his benefit exclusively that he gets the best
quality of goods at the lowest prices. It is under charge of the ship's
paymaster and it is financed much as the ship's messes are. What profits
there are go to swelling the athletic fund or perhaps to provide for a
minstrel show; anyhow, it all goes toward making Jack's life on ship as
comfortable as possible.
So Jack eats well and sleeps well and he works and plays with zest. He
sings and dances and perhaps he gets more fun out of a minstrel show on
board than any other thing. In Callao harbor the Louisiana had its
minstrel show. On the after part of the quarter deck was a stage about
twenty by twenty-five feet. It had flies and wings and all the upper and
lower entrances. It had three drop curtains, one of them with "Asbestos"
painted on it. It had footlights and spotlights. It had red lights with
"Exit" and "Fire Escape" lettered on them. Every bit of the stage
scenery was painted by expert men on the ship. Every bit of electric
lighting was done by the ship's crew. It was as creditable as most of
the scenic and stage work in a large theatre. The quarter deck was all
shut in and canopied and you could scarcely realize that you were not in
a modern theatre.
All the crew attended the show. Delegations of twenty-five men from
each of the battleships in the fleet came. They were met at the port
gangway by ushers who had reserved seats for them. Programmes, the
woodcuts for which were made on board--and the entire printing was done
there as well--were handed out to each person as he took his place. The
officers were given programmes at the starboard gangway by pages in
bolero and plush breeches and silk stockings. An old naval custom was
revived by having side boys with lanterns.
It was the old fashioned minstrel show, with end men and jokes and songs
for the first part and stunts and sketches for the second. More than
1,600 men looked on. Imagine 1,600 men seated in comfort on a quarter
deck! My, how the ships of the navy have grown! The 12-inch guns were
tilted down and seats covered with flags built on them. The turret was
utilized for a gallery. The after-bridge took the place of nigger
heaven. There was no sign of a warship about, all the implements of
trade being hidden. Only the uniforms of the men suggested the thought
of a navy; those and the grinds on the officers and ships.
The singing was quite as good as that of any travelling minstrel show.
The company had a manager, secretary, treasurer, pianist, electrician,
stage manager, master of properties, costumer, carpenter and all the
rest of a regular theatrical outfit, and all hands voted it as good as
anything you could see in that line on any stage.
And when it was all over, flags were dropped, ropes loosened and the
trappings came down in a jiffy, just as a circus packs up its effects.
The visitors were marched to certain gangways. They went down as their
boats, which were lying alongside, were called, and in thirty minutes
all the guests were gone, all the trappings put away and the routine of
ship life was in progress as if there never had been the slightest
interruption. But Jack had had a night of nights.
It is by making Jack happy and comfortable, giving him wholesome
pleasure as well as wholesome food, that the best fighting results are
obtained. There is no better sailor afloat, mentally or morally. He is
intelligent, willing and he loves his flag. Of course, he's human. He
will streak for a saloon when he gets liberty. He spends his money on
shore foolishly. He's a child in many respects, for Uncle Sam looks
after him on shipboard paternally, tells him what to wear and when,
gives him his food in scientific measure, looks after his health,
provides amusement and mental diversion for him. He gets in the brig
occasionally and he's mighty sorry for it. He gets scolded now and then,
but he tries to do his duty. Watch his enthusiasm when target practice
approaches and see him sneak out before breakfast and do extra work just
for the love of it and you'll appreciate what it means.
Growl? Lord bless your soul! he wouldn't be happy and the ship wouldn't
be happy and the officers would be alarmed if he didn't growl. But sulk!
Not on your life! He wants his ship to get the record in shooting,
rowing, boxing, economic consumption of coal, signal work, speed and
every other contest that enters into fleet life. He'll back his money on
his own ship and when he fights he's willing to go down fighting with
her if that's to be his fate.
Dibdin's ballads of the true English sailor are as true to-day as when
they were written, a century ago. And they are as true of the American
sailor as of the English. Here is one that sums up Jack's seagoing life:
Jack dances and sings and is always content;
In his vows to his lass he'll ne'er fail her.
His anchor's a-trip when his money's all spent;
And this is the life of a sailor.
And so you see that a warship may have guns and magazines and ponderous
engines and coal bunkers and deep recesses in her hold, and her purpose
may be to destroy and kill, but with it all there's good fellowship
abounding in her gradation of compartments, and perhaps on reading this
you get some indication of what was meant in the beginning of this
article by the statement that socially a warship houses a series of
clubs. Good clubs they are, too!
[Illustration: _Courtesy of Collier's Weekly_
Entering the Golden Gate]