THE BUILDING OF THE "SNARK"
The morning after my arrival in Oakland, I met the other members of
the _Snark_ crew--the _Snarkites_, as Mrs. London called them. Stolz
certainly lived up to his description. He was then about twenty-one
years of age, and a stronger fellow for his years I have never seen
anywhere, nor one so possessed of energy. Paul H. Tochigi, the
Japanese cabin-boy, was a manly little fellow of twenty, who had
only been in America one year. Captain Eames was a fine, kindly old
man, the architect and superintendent of construction of the
_Snark_, and was booked to be her navigator.
At the time of my coming to California, the _Snark_ had already been
several months in the building. And her growth promised to be a slow
one. Everything went wrong. More than once, Jack shook his head and
sighed: "She was born unfortunately."
Planned to cost seven thousand dollars, by the time she was finished
she cost thirty thousand. To a ship-wise man, this will seem an
impossible amount to spend on so small a craft. But everything was
of the highest quality on the _Snark_; labour and materials the very
best that money could buy. I really believe she was the strongest
boat ever built.
The idea of the trip had first come to Jack and Captain Eames up at
Jack's ranch near Glen Ellen. While in the swimming pool one day,
their conversation turned to boats. Jack cited the case of Captain
Joshua Slocum, who left Boston one fair day in a little thirty-foot
boat, _Spray_, went round the world, by himself, and came back on
another fair day, three years later, and made fast to the identical
post from which he had cast loose on the day of his start. This led
to some speculation; and out of it all, the idea of a forty-foot
yacht emerged. Later, of course, the idea took on tangible
dimensions, and a few more feet, evolving at last into the _Snark_.
At one time, Jack had thought of calling the yacht the _Wolf_--a
nickname applied to him by his friends--but afterward found the name
_Snark_ in one of Lewis Carroll's nonsense books, and forthwith
adopted it.
The start had originally been planned for October 1, 1906. But she
did not sail on October 1, because she was not yet finished. She was
promised on November 1; again she was delayed--because not finished.
It was then deemed advisable to postpone sailing until November 15;
but when that date rolled around and the _Snark_ was still in the
process of construction, December 1 was decided on as the auspicious
time for a start. And still the _Snark_ grew and grew, and was never
ready. In his letter to me, Jack had set December 15 as the
sailing-date; but on December 15 we did not sail.
During the next three months, I lived at the London home, and my
principal occupation was watching the building of the _Snark_ at
Anderson's Ways, in San Francisco, right across the bay from
Oakland. Anderson's Ways was about one mile from the Union Iron
Works, where the big battleships for the American navy are built.
There were several reasons for the trouble experienced in getting
the _Snark_ ready for her long sea-bath. To begin with, San
Francisco was just beginning to rise anew from wreck and ashes, and
the demand for workmen was urgent. Wages soared skyward; it was
almost impossible to hire carpenters, or workmen of any sort. And
things that Jack ordinarily could have bought in San Francisco, he
was obliged to order from New York. Then, too, so many freight-cars
were heading for the ruined city that a terrible tangle resulted,
and it was difficult to find the consignments of goods needed for
the _Snark_. One freight-car, containing oak ribs for the boat, had
arrived the day after the earthquake, but it had taken a full month
to find it. Nothing went right. To cap matters, the big strike
closed down the shipbuilding plants that furnished us with supplies.
The _Snark_ seemed indeed born into trouble!
All this time, Jack was toiling continually at his desk, earning
money; and all this time Roscoe Eames was spending money freely to
make the _Snark_ come up to their idea of what a boat should be.
Jack was obliged to borrow in the neighbourhood of ten thousand
dollars, for the _Snark's_ bills came pouring in faster than he
could earn money to pay them. He was determined to make of the
_Snark_ a thing of beauty and strength--something unique in the
history of ocean-going vessels.
Some hundreds of persons wrote to Jack, begging him to let them go
with him on the cruise. Every mail contained such letters. They
continued to pour in almost up to the day we sailed out of the
Golden Gate. Most of these letters Jack showed to me. Here was a
chef in a big hotel in Philadelphia, a man getting over two hundred
dollars a month, who offered his services free. A college professor
volunteered to do any kind of work, and give one thousand dollars
for the privilege. Another man, the son of a millionaire, offered
five hundred dollars to go along. Still another declared that he
would put up any amount of money if Jack would allow his son to be
one of the crew. And there were offers and solicitations from
schoolteachers, draftsmen, authors, photographers, secretaries,
stenographers, physicians, surgeons, civil engineers, cooks,
typists, dentists, compositors, reporters, adventurers, sailors,
valets, "lady companions" for Mrs. London, stewards, machinists,
engineers, high-school and university students, electricians--men
and women of every imaginable trade, profession or inclination. I
began to have misgivings when I thought of the fine chefs who had
applied. I contrasted their skilled ability with the little that I
had learned from the cook-book! It was just such things as these
that made me feel how lucky I was to be a member of the crew of the
_Snark_.
There was much protest from the Londons' friends. Many freely
expressed the sentiment that they could not see how sensible people
would even think of such a trip. And they all knew, with profound
certitude, that we were to be drowned. But we paid very little
attention to their ominous head-shakings and pessimistic
predictions. We who were setting out in search of Adventure were not
to be balked by mere words. Also, a number of Jack's Socialist
friends wrote letters, urging him to abandon what they evidently
considered folly. On every side of us, the conviction was openly
aired that we were on our way to the bottom of the sea.
Jack was still spending long hours at his desk. Just then, he was
writing his story, "Goliah." One day he read me the first part of
it, in which he destroyed the Japanese navy.
"And to-day I destroy the American navy," he told me, gleefully.
"Oh, I haven't a bit of conscience when my imagination gets to
working."
"Well, I guess you are rather destructive," I ventured, laughing.
"Now I may write a story with you and Bert for heroes," he went on,
whimsically; and when I assured him that would be fine--
"But of course I'd have to kill you off at the end; and how would
you like that?"
January 12 was Jack's thirty-first birthday. It was also one of our
numerous sailing dates, but despite the best of intentions, we were
obliged to celebrate it on land. During my long stay in Oakland, I
had ample opportunity to get intimately acquainted with both Jack
and Mrs. London; indeed, we were all like one big happy family. Fame
and popularity have not spoiled them. Jack is just like a big
schoolboy, good-natured, frank, generous, and Mrs. London is just a
grown-up schoolgirl. They are good comrades, always helping each
other in their work. Mrs. London I found to be as full of grit as
any of us--as we were later to discover, there was hardly a thing on
board that any of the men could do that she couldn't do; and she was
a practised swimmer, and could ride on horseback with grace--a gift
not vouchsafed all women. And they were both amiable Bohemians.
Often, when Jack was not busy, he and I compared notes on England.
We found that we had snooped around much the same places in the East
End of London. Immediately, I took up his "People of the Abyss,"
which read almost like a passage out of my own life. For seven days,
I had been one of those wretched people who are forever on the move
in the slums of this great city, eternally searching for a scrap of
food and for sufficient ground-space on which to lay down their
weary frames in sleep. All was vividly described in the book. But
while the men and women of the abyss spend their whole lives in this
torment, I was there only until I could get to Liverpool and take a
cattle-boat back to the States.
Once, after reading "The Sea Wolf," I told Jack that I had always
been under the impression that the Scandinavians were of a peaceable
disposition. But he assured me that most of the events of "The Sea
Wolf" were from his own experiences--Wolf Larsen drawn largely from
life. He told me that while up North, he had run across some of the
most bloodthirsty people he had ever seen, and they were
Scandinavians.
Also, I got better acquainted with Tochigi and Bert and Captain
Eames. The captain was a stately old man, grey of hair and grey of
beard; and what he didn't know about yachts was really hardly worth
knowing. In fact, the _Snark_ was built according to his plans.
Captain Eames' room was next to the galley, a place that would be
almost unbearably hot in the tropics; but of course, we planned to
sleep on deck, once we got into the real South Seas.
Tochigi taught me a smattering of Japanese during the wait. True, I
never mastered the language, but I did become proficient enough to
distinguish some of the words he used when in conversation with his
Jap friends. Tochigi was a fine fellow, his manners were the most
perfect I have ever seen, and he was clever and quick to learn. His
English was limited, but every word he did use was the right one.
And he always talked in such a low, well-modulated voice that it
was a pleasure to listen to him. We took a great liking to each
other.
Stolz was away quite a bit. Jack explained to me that he was working
his way through Stanford University. If sheer strength counts for
anything, Stolz is a fellow who will never want for much. He was
always the best swimmer at the swimming pools we went to; he could
always dive from higher and turn more somersaults in the air than
anyone; and Jack found, by experience, that Bert knew every trick in
boxing. He was really more than I expected by Jack's description of
him--an "all-around athlete."
Hardly a day went by without someone's rapping at the door and
asking if the _Snark's_ complement was secured, and if there was not
room for just one more. Over at the boat, I was constantly beset by
cranks, with all sorts of schemes and ideas and inventions; and
there were other people who came simply out of curiosity, wanting to
be shown over the boat. Some of their contrivances were very
ingenious. There were "old schoolmates of Mr. London," and "girlhood
chums of Mrs. London," and there were "distant relatives of the
Londons"; some even claimed to be special correspondents of
magazines or newspapers. But no one got aboard the _Snark_ unless he
had written permission from Jack. Interest was widespread; and
shortly after, Jack increased it by delivering a lecture on
Socialism to over fifteen thousand people in Berkeley.
[Illustration: A SOLOMON ISLAND ARMY]
Since the destruction of San Francisco, Chinatown had moved to
Oakland. On several occasions we went to its theatres, and to the
Chinese social gatherings. Early in January the Chinese celebrate
their New Year. It was my good luck to see such a celebration. On
every side of me, Chinks of every age, men, women and children, shot
off fire-crackers, and flung up packs of multi-coloured papers,
perforated quite thickly with various-shaped holes. It is their
belief that the devil has to come through all these holes before he
can get to sinners; and to stave off the enemy and render his
progress tortuous, they make the holes small and numerous. Again, I
visited secret opium dens, and saw pasty-coloured Chinks lie for
hours under the influence of the drug. Much of the deviltry of
Chinatown, however, had come to an end with the destruction of San
Francisco, as many of the yellow rascals saw in that wholesale
catastrophe the workings of an outraged deity.
As for Frisco itself, it looked hopeless. Hundreds of tons of the
wreckage had been cleared away, but hundreds of tons still remained.
Some few buildings had already been erected. Most of them were
stores, little wooden affairs, knocked together until better could
be built. The fire and quake had ruined the pavements, and the
streets were nothing but great pools of water and mud. A man was
actually drowned in one of these pools while walking down Market
street. There were constant deaths by accidents; walls, frail and
fissured, had a trick of collapsing and letting down their bushels
of brick and stone on the heads of such as were in the streets; the
street-car service was badly muddled, and several persons were
killed while riding the precarious conveyances. As I have said,
wages were sky-high; yet workmen still complained and struck for
more. At the time I was there, the bricklayers, who were getting ten
dollars a day, struck for twelve dollars and a half. Each of the ten
men working on the _Snark_ received five dollars a day, and only
worked until half-past four in the afternoon.
Having been practically raised in a jewellry store, I was pretty
efficient at engraving, and I employed my talent in adding to the
decorations of the _Snark_. Just over the companionway was a big
piece of finest brass. On it I drew the word "SNARK" in Old English
charactery, and the carpenters filled it in with brass-headed nails.
Mrs. London was so pleased that she later had me engrave the
capstan-head. After that, Captain Eames and I oversaw the painters
while they spread a preliminary coat of white paint over the
_Snark's_ hull and picked out the name "SNARK" in gold.
On rainy days, I stayed at the London home, reading books and
magazines. The manuscript of "The Iron Heel," Jack's Socialistic
novel, had not yet been sent to the publishers, and I spent some
exciting hours poring over it. Jack had evidently let his
imagination have full rein in this story, for he had gone far
beyond the destruction of a mere navy, as in "Goliah," and had put
an end to the entire city of Chicago, and allotted to her
inhabitants the most gory deaths imaginable. But the story was one
of the most impressive I have ever read; and like Jack's Socialistic
speech before the students of a great Eastern university, it later
created a sensation.
And still we planned to go, and yet did not go. We set sailing-dates
and cancelled them. The time was not yet. Puzzled by the delay,
editors and publishers with whom Jack had contracts began to write
him for explanations, but Jack could only shake his head and wonder
how he was to explain to them when he couldn't even explain to
himself. When questioned, Captain Eames would do his best to cheer
Jack up by solemnly engaging to have the _Snark_ ready for sailing
within two weeks from the date of promising, but always the time had
to be extended.
The _Snark_ was a trim little yacht, forty-five feet on the
water-line, fifty-five over all, with a width of fourteen feet eight
inches. Her draft was seven feet eight inches. She was of ketch-rig,
which means that she was a two-master, with the largest sail on the
forward mast--just the reverse of a schooner-rig. Jack had seen
boats of a similar design extensively used in the Northern Seas and
also on the Dogger Bank in England; as he explained, the ketch-rig
was a compromise between the yawl and the schooner, which, while
retaining the cruising virtues of the one, embraced some of the
sailing virtues of the other.
Never was there another such boat! Despite the delays and the other
troubles, not one of the _Snarkites_ had lost his enthusiasm. Even
with all their vexations and the ruinous expense, Mrs. London and
Jack were always smiling and happy. Often the crew would go over the
Bay and gather on the _Snark's_ deck to discuss possible
improvements and to anticipate some of the delights of the voyage
that lay ahead of us.
And still the _Snark_ was in the building. Her lines were marvels of
strength and beauty. As an indication of the way she was built, I
need only enumerate a few particulars as to specifications of
material. Her iron keel weighed five tons. Her greatest beam was
fifteen feet, with tumble-home sides. Her planking was specially
ordered Oregon Pine, without butts; men were actually sent to search
the Oregon pines to select natural elbows--in other words, timbers
grown by nature in the exact form required to fit the angles of the
boat, and thus give the maximum strength of each fibre of the wood.
The planking was two and one-half inches thick under the water-line,
two inches thick above the water-line. The ribs were of specially
ordered Indiana Oak, and were set ten inches apart. Angle irons, the
full length of the boat, connected the ribs with the keel; these
were of the best galvanised iron, each made according to pattern.
The _Snark's_ copper was the finest man-o'-war copper; its cost was
over five hundred dollars, to say nothing of the cost of having it
put on. For that matter, the boat was copper-fastened throughout;
not a nail or screw that was not copper. The only iron used in the
_Snark_ was the best galvanised iron; all other metal was brass and
bronze. She was crown-decked and flush-decked, and had six feet of
head-room below. Three water-tight bulkheads divided her length into
four water-tight compartments.
"If we stove in one compartment," Jack explained to me, "we can
still bear up with the other three compartments. I just think we'll
fool some of the birds of ill omen, after all. The _Snark_ is
dependable. She's built to sail all seas, face all storms, and to go
around the world."
The _Snark_ was intended from the first to be a sailing vessel. But
because it was felt that cases of sudden emergency might arise,
where speed was an absolute necessity, a gasolene engine,
seventy-horse-power, was installed. Had Jack adhered to his original
idea of a forty-foot boat, there would have been no room for such an
appurtenance; but forty-five feet gave plenty of space for both it
and a small bath-room. This latter was carefully fitted up with
levers and pumps and sea-valves, some of them of Jack's own
invention. After the engine, a dynamo was put in; and then Jack
decided to light the boat with electricity, and to have a
searchlight which would give sharp detail at a half-mile distance.
But we did not trust entirely to electrical apparatus for
illumination, for if it should break down, it might cost us our
lives. For the binnacle light, the anchor light, and the sidelights,
which were indispensable, we supplied kerosene lamps. Nor was the
use of the engine yet exhausted. We finally planned a giant windlass
to be placed on deck, by means of which the anchor could be hoisted
without trouble.
The _Snark_ had neither house nor hold. The deck was unbroken except
for the hatchway forward, and two companionways. The cockpit, large
and high-railed, so built as to be self-bailing, made a comfortable
place in which to sit, whether in fair weather or foul. The rail,
companionways, hatches, skylights, and other finishings were of
finest teak; the deck-knees, deck-timbers, etc., of the best oak.
There were two bronze propellers; a patent steering-gear; one
hundred and five fathoms of extra heavy best galvanised chain; two
patent galvanised anchors, and one galvanised kedge-anchor. The
_Snark_ carried flying-jib, jib, fore-staysail, mainsail, mizzen and
spinnaker, also extra storm-jibs, and gaff-headed trysails. Her
garboard strake was three inches thick. In the last compartment, in
the stern of the boat, were tanks for over a thousand gallons of
gasolene. Because of the tightness of the bulkhead which marked off
this compartment, we felt reasonably certain that none of this very
dangerous fluid could escape; and to reassure us doubly, we were
informed that the tanks themselves were non-leakable.
After a time, we added more accessories to the _Snark_. Jack ordered
a five-horse-power engine, for running pumps and dynamo;
accumulators, electric light globes, and electric fans. Then came
the consideration of navigation instruments. These consisted of a
Steering Compass, a best Standard Compass, a best Sextant, a best
Octant, a best Pelorus, a best Barometer, a best ship's clock; and
their cost was five hundred dollars. At the last, Jack added to our
equipment what no prudent man would go to sea without--life-boats.
These were a fourteen-foot very seaworthy launch, with gasolene
engine, and an eighteen-foot life-boat, with air-tanks and other
appliances.
During all my stay in Oakland, I enjoyed myself immensely. Jack was
continually inviting me out to theatres, prize-fights, and social
gatherings. One of the most amusing fights I ever saw took place in
Oakland, when a Chinaman and a negro entered the ropes and began to
bang and biff each other. The difference in make-up between the two
types was considerable, and their methods of fighting were entirely
dissimilar. All rules of the game seemed suspended. It was give and
take, give and take; but the Chink was getting the worst of it. Both
the combatants indulged in lip-fighting, the Chinaman execrating his
dusky opponent in strange pigeon-English, and the negro responding
with deep, throaty epithets well calculated to stir the ire of even
an equable celestial. The fight went some rounds, with the Chink
getting the worst of it all the time. But in the end he amazed us.
Venting a perfect torrent of abuse upon the negro, he managed to
deliver almost simultaneously a blow that must have echoed inside
the coon's thick head, and a sweeping punch in the abdomen. Both
these little reminders did the work. The negro doubled up and fell
senseless to the floor, and when the referee called ten he was still
lying there; and the Chinaman, with chest thrown out and head erect,
was strutting about the ropes exulting over the conquest. I never
could understand it--it was such a big negro, and he went down like
a stick of wood!
Often, on bright days, I would take one of my cameras--I now had
four--and go over to San Francisco to photograph streets where new
buildings were going up. Then there was the Bay--it furnished
endless material for good photographic studies, as all manner of
queer crafts were forever coming and going. And then, the
_Snarkites_ would take pictures of one another, and of the boat.
Jack used to have fun telling me that when we got to the cannibal
islands, I could take my camera and go ashore to get pictures, and
that would be Exhibit A; then, if some of the omnivorous natives
came and made a meal of me, he would take pictures of the feast--and
that would be Exhibit B.
But not all my time was devoted to recreation. That cooking
proposition was lying heavy on my mind. I couldn't forget all those
fine chefs who had applied. Going over to Frisco on the ferry, I
buried my nose assiduously in the cook-book again, searching for
details which might have escaped my previous study, and doing my
best to memorise every recipe in the book. It was now the rainy
season, and of evenings Jack and Mrs. London and I would play cards.
Sometimes George Sterling, the poet, who lived at Carmel-by-the-Sea,
and who was a frequent caller at the London home, would join us.
Oftentimes, Jack and I would wrangle and argue as to which of us was
the better player at hearts; but the truth of the matter was that he
and I always won and lost about the same number of games. But though
Jack and I had these disputes, there was never any doubt as to where
poor Mrs. London stood. When it came to playing hearts, she had
undisputed title to being the most unfortunate. A good deal of her
time, however, was spent at the typewriter; she has typed all of
Jack's manuscripts since their marriage; and just now, both were
toiling double tides, that they might have a little work on hand.
They knew that once on the ocean, they would have a spell of
seasickness during which they could not even think of writing or
typing.
The Oakland Elks also helped to make my stay in their city pleasant.
Before I left, they gave me a letter to put with the one the
Independence Elks had given me, so that now I felt doubly armed with
credentials. Old Mammy Jenny, Jack's negro nurse, gave me much
valuable instruction in cooking, telling me things that no cook-book
in the world could have told me. Jack had predicted a diet largely
of fish, when once we should be on the ocean. Mammy Jenny told me
all she knew about fish. I was considerably relieved, too, when I
discovered that most of our provisions would be tinned, and would
need little more than warming up to make them suitable for the
table. I found great consolation in this thought. It thinned the
clouds for me. I took new lease on life.
The weeks were passing, and still the _Snark_ was in the building!
Jack began to grow impatient. Roscoe Eames made promises. The old
captain meant well, but alas! his good intentions were just like all
the other good intentions. He tried his best to hurry things along,
but nothing could be induced to turn out right. Besides, even good
intentions won't build a boat. There were times when Jack vowed he'd
sail the shell of her to Honolulu, and finish building her there.
Soon Jack's friends began to make bets, some even wagering that the
_Snark_ would never sail at all. Every time he set a sailing-date,
they would bet against it. Everybody was betting. And everybody had
quit the head-shaking and the making of evil predictions. We were
not going to the bottom of the sea now, because we would never be on
the sea. Even the newspapers began a gentle ridicule, giving wide
publicity to a poem written by Kelly, the Sailor-Poet, in which the
_Snark_ was described as setting out on her long voyage--not yet,
but soon--and meeting with all sorts of strange adventures on the
deep--not yet, but soon; and it recounted somewhat of the things
that befell the voyageurs in the various countries they landed
at--not yet, but soon. And more letters came from editors and
publishers, demanding explanations. A big New York magazine, for
which Jack had contracted to write thirty-five thousand words
descriptive of the trip, flamboyantly announced that it was sending
Jack London, the well-known writer, round the world, especially for
itself. This article was so worded that a reader would suppose the
magazine was paying for everything, even for the building of the
_Snark_. Immediately, everyone who had dealings with Jack began to
charge him outrageously, explaining that the magazine had plenty of
money and that it might as well pay for its fun. Naturally, after
putting a small fortune into the boat, and being at almost
incredible trouble to plan and outfit her, Jack was incensed. Such
an article gave to the whole thing the colour of being a cheap
advertising scheme. Even now, most people believe that the magazine
paid for everything, and that Jack received liberal prices for the
things he wrote. But such was not the case. Jack built the boat and
paid for her; the plan was all his own, and the magazine mentioned
had nothing to do with it. For that matter, Jack saw to it that
they got no more articles from him descriptive of the cruise of the
_Snark_. He played the free-lance, sending his "copy" wherever he
chose.
At the beginning of March, 1907, things looked more desperate than
ever. Jack declared it was plain the boat could never be completed
in San Francisco. "She's breaking down faster than she can be
repaired," he said one day. "That's what comes of taking a year for
building. I'll sail her as she is, and finish her up in Honolulu. If
we don't go now, we'll never go."
But immediately the _Snark_ sprang a leak, and had to be repaired
before she could be moved from Anderson's Ways. This was finally
accomplished, and Jack ordered the boat brought across the Bay to
Oakland. On a bright Saturday morning in the middle of March,
Captain Eames and Bert and I went over to Anderson's Ways, and got
aboard. At nine o'clock Captain Eames yelled, "Let her go!" and the
_Snark_ slid off her ways as easily as could be desired, and took to
the Bay with the grace of a wild water-fowl. There was not so much
as a tremble. We created a great excitement as we were towing across
the Bay to what is known as the Oakland estuary. All the larger
vessels dipped their flags, and the smaller ones saluted by giving
three toots of the whistle. We lay anchored in the estuary three
weeks, while electricians did the wiring and a crew of riggers and a
crew of ship's carpenters worked on the deck and the rigging.
During this time, Bert and I took turns living on board, he
sleeping aboard one night and I the next. Meanwhile, Tochigi made
himself useful at the London home, and Mr. and Mrs. London continued
to turn out reading matter. Jack was writing his famous
tramp-stories, the ones now republished in the volume called "The
Road." Often, I sat on one side of the table at his house, writing a
letter, and he sat on the other side, writing his stories. And as he
finished them, he read them to us; and one and all voted him thanks
for the entertainment.
[Illustration: ON THE BALLASSONA RIVER, SOLOMON GROUP. NO WHITE MAN
HAS EVER BEEN TO THE HEAD WATERS OF THIS RIVER]
I shall never forget the day when the sails were unfurled for the
first time. For remember, up to this time I had never seen a real,
sea-going ship under sail, and the whole thing was mysterious to me.
I did not even know one sail from another, but I was so proud of the
little _Snark_ that I got in the dingy and made photographs of her
from every conceivable position, not caring if the canvas did hang
loose and wrinkled enough to make a sailor's heart sore. A few days
before the decks were finished, we drew up alongside the wharf, and
filled the gasolene tanks. Next day, all hands were down early for
the first trial trip. The _Snark's_ crew was aboard, and also little
Johnny London, Jack's nephew. On the trial trip we went twelve miles
out, and met as heavy a sea as will be encountered on an ocean
voyage, owing to a heavy ground-swell coming into the Golden Gate.
And we were seasick--oh! we were seasick! Everyone aboard was
seasick except little Johnny London, and he was not supposed to be a
sailor at all.
But Mr. and Mrs. London declared they were not seasick, not the
least bit sick. They were just rolled up on the deck enjoying
themselves! And poor little Tochigi said nothing, because he had
nothing to say. He did his best to smile, but force as he would, the
smile wouldn't come. I asked Jack for the honour of bringing the
_Snark_ into the Golden Gate, and he granted the request, but I
noticed that he sat close by and kept watch on me to see that I
didn't run into the Cliff House. As we came back to the
starting-point, we saw, in the mouth of the Oakland River, a mass of
freakish yellow, green and other coloured lights, something on the
order of Japanese lanterns hung out on the lawn during a summer
church-festival. We made port that night, satisfied that we had seen
something, we knew not what. Next day, we found that the Chinese
battleship, the _Whang-Ho_, had anchored in the harbour, and I went
with Jack and Mrs. London on board this most interesting craft. The
_Whang-Ho_ was over two hundred years old, and carried wooden
cannons and torture implements of various kinds, that had been used
on captives of war in the centuries gone by--such as a bird-cage and
a back tickler.
During the short time that elapsed between the trial trip and the
real voyage, many interesting things occurred. When it was my turn
to sleep aboard, I would sit for hours on the _Snark's_ deck,
looking out over the Bay; when tired of that, I would go below, and
lying in my bunk, with a good-sized light over my head, would write
letters home, or read and smoke. It seemed strange to feel the
_Snark_ tumbling and rolling with the wash of the sea. Sometimes it
seemed as if she were tugging at her moorings, longing to be off on
the long, long cruise. Because of her smallness, she responded to
the heave and lunge of the ocean much more freely than would the
ordinary ship. Even a tug-boat, passing many feet away, would jostle
the _Snark_ with its wash. Lying in my bunk, I could look up through
a skylight and see the masts, and, higher yet, the scintillating
stars. At last, after all my hopes and fears, after all the
vexatious troubles and delays, the dream was coming true! The time
was near at hand, when we should really shake the dust of California
from our feet, and ride the little _Snark_ round and about the
earth!
And then, crash! bump! bump! the dream was rudely shattered. The
noise was on every side of me. Two large lumber-scows had dragged
their anchors and laid up against the sides of the _Snark_, nearly
making a sandwich of our little boat. Nothing could be done. They
bumped away at the _Snark_ all night long, and when morning came the
rail was flattened two inches on one side and bulged out rather more
than two inches on the other side; and wherever she is, the _Snark_
is lop-sided to this day.
On another night, when I was alone on board, I went to my bunk
early and fell asleep. About three in the morning I was awakened by
the sound of the anchor-chain paying out of the hawsepipes, and I
rushed up on deck to see what was happening. A terrible storm was
raging, and the boat was just like a cork, bobbing and rolling on
the waves. I made fast the chains and went back to bed. At
four-thirty I again started up from my bunk. Something told me that
all was not well with the _Snark_. When I went on deck, I found the
boat was within a hundred yards of a pile wharf, heading straight
for it, and travelling fast. I knew the anchor had slipped, and if
the boat got on the piles it would be good-bye to our cruise. It was
blowing a gale, and the rain was coming down in sheets. I lowered
the kedge-anchor and stopped the boat for the time being, but knew
she would not hold long. I ran below to start the engine, but could
not do so because one of the machinists had taken it apart in one
place to clean it, and so put it out of commission. I worked for
half an hour, with desperate haste, to put the engine into running
order; then started her, and went on deck. The kedge-anchor was now
slipping, and again we started for the piles. Running to the
cockpit, I turned on the propeller, and away went the boat out into
the Bay, with the anchors dragging. When I stopped her, she started
drifting back; and so I had it, back and forth, toward the piles and
then out into the Bay, all the rest of the night, until eight
o'clock brought the workmen in a rowboat. The fight for life had
continued nearly four terrible hours, but it had been worth it.
About twenty-five vessels, many of them larger than the _Snark_, had
been wrecked in that storm. Mr. London's remarks to me that morning
were quite gratifying, and I felt I had made up for my mistake in
letting the lumber-scows bump the _Snark_ lop-sided.
There were always so many water-thieves around the Bay that it was
necessary to keep a sharp lookout. One night when I was in my bunk I
heard a noise, and crept up in my stocking feet to the deck, armed
with a big 38-calibre revolver. But I could find no cause for alarm.
The night was dark. Far over the Bay was San Francisco, from which
the busy ferry-boats were plying, back and forth; and every few
minutes, a revolving light from a lighthouse stationed on a nearby
rock flooded the deck, making everything bright as day. As a rule,
there were a number of large vessels, from various ports, within a
short distance of the _Snark_, and I could see their lights, and
hear their sailors singing as they worked. During the day, I would
go aboard these ships and engage the sailors in conversation, as I
was always desirous of hearing something about the places which
later I would see.
The galley was now very nearly finished, and many hours I spent in
it practising cooking. I made bread and cakes and pies, and fed them
to the workmen. These products were of varying degrees of
excellence, but the workmen seemed to be able to get away with
them, and so I baked all they could eat. I don't believe the men's
digestions were very seriously deranged, either. Jack bought a
bread-mixing machine a few days later, and then I was able to do in
about thirty minutes what before I could only do in several hours.
Before the buying was finished, there were few luxuries or
facilities we did not have aboard the _Snark_.
Once when I was in the galley, the boat was invaded by the Famous
Fraternity. The Famous Fraternity was a group of celebrated authors
and artists, all hailing from California and most of them resident
there. Among those who came were George Sterling, the man whom the
Londons had pronounced one of the greatest of living poets,
Martinez, the artist, Dick Partington, another artist, Johannes
Reimers, writer, and Jimmie Hopper, famous first as a football hero
and then as a writer of short stories, and others, whose names I
have now forgotten. I did my very best to prepare them a good
dinner; and if their expressions of satisfaction were any
indication, I succeeded. I served up a whole gunny-sack full of
steamed mussels, and some of my bread, which one and all declared
the finest they had ever tasted. They almost beat the workmen
eating. I began to think more than ever of my prowess as a cook. In
such a glow of pride as possessed me, my misgivings disappeared
utterly.
Now let me skim lightly over the troubles that followed up to the
very day of our sailing. I don't want this narrative to shape itself
as a mere record of mishaps and vexations, for such a record would
not reflect things truly. Taken all in all, our troubles were as
nothing at all to our delights. But truth compels me to say that in
the month preceding our departure, things that before had gone
casually and desultorily wrong seemed to take on fresh energy in
ill-doing, and to go systematically and diabolically wrong. Had a
malevolent intelligence been directing events, they could not have
been more discomfiting to the impatient crew of the _Snark_. When
the boat was nearly ready for our sailing, she was placed upon the
ways for a final overhauling. The ways spread, and the _Snark_ fell
stern-first into the mud. In the crash, the bedplate of the big
engine splintered, and the engine, in falling, smashed some of its
connections. When the windlass was tried out, its gears ground each
other flat, and the castings which connected it with the engine
broke into fragments. It took two steam-tugs a week, pulling on the
_Snark_ every high tide night and day, to get her out of the mud and
into the water alongside the Oakland City Wharf. We gave up all hope
of both engine and windlass until we should have reached Honolulu;
and we packed away the broken parts as best we could, and lashed the
engine tight to its foundations.
April 18 was now set for the sailing. We began provisioning and
buying all kinds of photographic supplies, done up in tropical
form--that is, with the film wrapped in tin-foil and sealed in tins,
and the paper triple-wrapped and protected with foil. There were a
thousand and one things bought toward the last, which it is needless
to enumerate here. We bought clothing, and we bought fishing tackle,
and harpoons, and guns, and pistols, and we bought paper, paper for
Jack's writing, and paper for the typewriter, hundreds of reams of
it. I spent a whole day packing this paper behind sliding panels in
the two staterooms forward, which were set aside for Jack and Mrs.
London. We spent money like water; it took dray after dray to bring
down to the wharf the things we purchased. Then there were
dray-loads of the things brought from the London home, wood and
coal, provisions, vegetables, blankets, other things, and still
other things, and above all, books--five hundred of them, on every
conceivable topic, selected from Jack's library of ten thousand
volumes. The _Snark_ was fairly ballasted with books. Mrs. London
busied herself in directing the work, and showed a knowledge of
stevedoring that astonished us. At last, after hours of toil and
sweat, everything was safely aboard. But so much still had to be
done that we decided to put off leaving until Sunday, April 21.
And then came one of the worst blows of all. It was Saturday
afternoon, and Jack and Bert and I were on the _Snark_, packing
things away. All about us, on the wharf, were reporters and
photographers and sightseers. Jack had brought his checque-book and
several thousand dollars in paper money and gold, and was wishing
Roscoe would hurry and come with the accounts of the various firms
to which he was indebted, that he might make payment. Without any
warning whatever, a United States marshal stepped aboard and pasted
a little five-by-seven slip of paper to one of the masts. It was an
attachment, issued from the office of the Marshal of the United
States, of the Northern District of California, and stated that any
person who removed or attempted to move the schooner-yacht, _Snark_,
without the written permission of the marshal, would be prosecuted
to the full extent of the law.
We were all astounded. What could it mean? Jack hastened over to San
Francisco to investigate. We had planned to sail at eleven o'clock
on the morrow, so haste was imperative. After several hours Jack
came back, accompanied by Mrs. London, and told us what had
happened.
It seemed that a man named L. H. Sellers, of San Francisco, who was
a ship-chandler, had placed the attachment on the _Snark_. Jack owed
him something like two hundred and fifty dollars, and Sellers'
account was one of those Jack had intended to close that very day.
"It is just a petty trick of a tradesman in a panic," Jack declared,
as he gazed at the writ of attachment pasted on the mast of the
_Snark_. "But it will not delay me one minute in getting away on
the trip I have planned. If the bill were one thousand dollars, I
would pay it and feel the same way about it. I have done several
thousands of dollars' worth of business with this L. H. Sellers, and
with other firms, and this is the first time I have ever been
attached. I do not dispute the bill of Sellers. I owe the claim, and
intended to pay it. I never received a bill for the amount of the
attachment, and suppose that when L. H. Sellers learned that I was
about to sail, he became panic-stricken at the thought of not
receiving what was due him. I have been endeavouring to communicate
with some officer of the United States district court and settle the
matter as soon as possible."
But the matter was not so easily to be settled. Someone had spread
the word around that Jack London and his crew were preparing to
sneak out of the Bay that night, leaving the statute of limitations
to cancel all debts. Representatives of three other big firms, with
claims aggregating nearly three thousand dollars, descended upon the
_Snark_, and Jack promptly paid them. After that came a drove of
smaller tradesmen--"All in a panic," Jack said--and each and every
one received his money without delay.
Jack sent agents and lawyers all over San Francisco and Oakland, but
the United States marshal could not be found. Then a search was made
for the United States judge, but he, too, had disappeared; and after
all hope was given up of discovering them, Jack set out to find Mr.
L. H. Sellers, but Mr. L. H. Sellers was nowhere to be found, nor
Mr. Sellers' attorney. It was plain that the embargo could not be
lifted that night.
A little old man, a deputy United States marshal, had been left in
charge; and never did miser guard his treasure as that little old
man guarded the _Snark_. He stayed on her constantly, to see that
Jack London did not whisk her out of the Bay and start on the trip.
Of course, we did not sail Sunday, April 21, as planned. The little
old man would not allow it. The funny part of it was that Jack was
obliged to pay this deputy marshal three dollars a day for his
zealous custodianship of the _Snark_. But the old man earned it. He
stuck to the boat like glue, even going without meals that the vigil
might not be interrupted.
Saturday night all the _Snarkites_ walked out on an opposite pier to
take a look at the _Snark_ and to make plans. Jack and Mrs. London
were still smiling. It seemed impossible to dash their spirits.
From where we stood, the _Snark_ showed up bravely. She was a little
floating palace. Jack could not refrain from bragging to Mrs. London
about her bow.
"Isn't it a beauty?" he asked again and again. "That bow was made to
punch storms with! It laughs at the sea! Not a drop can come over
her! We'll be as dry and comfortable as any craft afloat, with such
a bow as that!" And Mrs. London would laugh her assent, and find
new virtues in the boat and in that bow.
"Well," I said at last. "We'll get away Tuesday, anyway."
"Yes, we'll get away Tuesday. Think of that!" Mrs. London cried in
response. "It will be worth all the trouble, and all the expense.
Once we're out on the ocean, we'll forget all our little worries,
the accidents, and the Sellerses, and all the rest. Glorious?
Glorious doesn't express it."
"And think of what we can do when we get the engine to running
again," Jack went on. "Think of the inland work. With such an
engine, there isn't a river in the world with current stiff enough
to baffle us. We can see so much more by inland voyaging than we
could by merely hanging around ports. Think of the people, and the
natural scenery! The things we won't know about the various
countries through which we pass won't be worth knowing."
"That reminds me," I broke in. "What do you think you'll write
about?"
He smiled.
"Well, if we're boarded by pirates and fight it out until our deck
becomes a shambles, I don't think I'll write about it. And if we're
wrecked at sea, and are driven by starvation into eating one another
I'll keep it quiet for the sake of our relatives. And if we're
killed and eaten by cannibals, of course I shan't let the American
public get an inkling of it."
[Illustration: A TE MOTU ROUND HOUSE. SANTA CRUZ GROUP]
"You won't starve," I assured him. "Think of all the food we have
aboard--over three months' supply. And think of your cook! No, you
will never starve aboard the _Snark_."
"The thing that's worrying me," Bert here broke in, "is how we're
going to find room to get around on the boat. Since that windlass
was set up, and the launch and life-boat lashed on deck, there is
hardly room to turn around in." And Tochigi, who was always very
quiet, said nothing at all.
For days, Jack and Captain Eames had been engaged in one of the most
laughable arguments I have ever heard. Roscoe Eames stoutly
maintained that the earth is concave of surface, and that we would
all sail round on the inside of a hollow sphere; while Jack, who was
willing to stick to orthodox cosmology, just as stoutly maintained
that Roscoe was mistaken, and that we would sail round on the
outside. Each had a number of proofs, which he adduced in the
argument; and neither was to be shaken in his confidence. To this
day, I think they hold divergent opinions on the subject. Captain
Eames was also a vegetarian; and it was this fact that made me
wonder how he was to get along satisfactorily on the _Snark_.
Though Jack had answered my question jestingly, I knew that he
contemplated writing an extended series of articles on the home-life
of the various peoples among whom we were to sojourn. He would treat
of their domestic problems; social structures; problems of living;
cost of living as compared with the cost in the United States;
education; opportunities for advancement; general tone of peoples;
culture; morals; religion; how they amuse themselves; marriage and
divorce problems; housekeeping, and a hundred other topics.
When we left the wharf that night, we felt more cheerful than ever.
Mrs. London was right. That boat was well worth all the trouble and
expense. "Barring wreck and worms," said Jack, "she'll be sailing
the seas a hundred years from now."
All day Monday we worked on the _Snark_, besieged constantly by
reporters and photographers. Jack paid Mr. L. H. Sellers his two
hundred and fifty dollars, and lifted the embargo. In the afternoon
we were towed out in the Bay, and an expert adjusted our compasses
and other instruments for us. It was essential that these be in
proper trim, the more so as not one of us knew anything about
navigation except Captain Eames, and even his knowledge was of the
experimental sort. Jack declared that the rest of us could learn
after we were afloat. Thousands of people visited the wharf that day
to take a look at us; and the photographers were busy taking
snap-shots of the boat. Out in the Bay, we had with us a reporter
for the Hearst papers. When he left, he took with him my last
message ashore, a telegram to be sent to Independence announcing the
imminence of our departure. We worked all that night, stowing and
packing, and getting things shipshape for our cruise to Hawaii. At
high tide the next morning we were to up-anchor and away.
Daylight broke at last. That 23rd of April, 1907, I shall never
forget. Thousands came down to the wharf to bid us good-bye and to
wish us a pleasant and successful voyage. Photographers from a
popular western magazine took what they announced would be the last
views of the _Snark_ and her crew. Among the dozens of telegrams I
received was one from an Independence friend, which read: "Good-bye.
Hope I may see you again." Surrounded by hundreds of people who were
prophesying that we would never reach Honolulu, this telegram had a
rather gruesome sound to me. Strangely enough, I never did see this
friend again. I did not meet my death in the water, but he did. He
drowned in one of the rivers near Independence.
Among those who came down to say the farewells were many members of
the Bohemian Club of San Francisco, to which Jack belonged. There
were writers and artists and newspaper men. George Sterling and
James Hopper were on hand, as was also Martinez, the artist. Mrs.
London's friends came in a body. Then there were Oakland Elks, and
San Francisco Elks, and friends of Tochigi, and Bert's friends, and
all the friends of the Eames', and others who came merely out of
curiosity to see the world-famous author and his crew sail off in
one of the most unique little boats that ever rode the waves.
It was a beautiful, bright, sunshiny day when we passed out of the
Golden Gate, with hundreds of whistles tooting us a farewell salute,
passed the Seal Rocks, and turned her bow to the westward. My duties
on the smallest boat, with only one or two exceptions, that ever
crossed the Pacific Ocean, had begun; but instead of getting busy
cooking meals, I sat in the stern looking gloomily toward the land,
which was the last I would see of good old American soil for nearly
three years. I was thinking of the friends and the home I was
leaving, and wondering if we were really bound for the bottom of the
sea as so many had foretold; and I could not altogether down a
feeling that I would just a little rather be on the full-rigged ship
that passed us on her way into the harbour. But on the _Snark_ I was
and on the _Snark_ I must remain. Gloomy dreams soon ended, and we
settled down to life on the high seas.
So it was that we put forth into the wide Pacific, in a mere cork of
a boat, without a navigator, with no engineer, no sailors, and for
that matter, no cook. This lack of a cook did not bother much just
then, however, for soon we were all too seasick to care to eat.
When night came, land was out of sight, darkness wrapped us about on
every side, and the _Snark_ rose and fell rhythmically, the sport of
every wave.