A VAG BY CHOICE.
A good many of these unappointed attaches of the stevedores have once
been sailors and still have a hankering for the water side. A few days
ago I met a good specimen of this class, who, although dressed in a
dilapidated suit of “hodden gray,” had the unmistakeable look of the
sailor about him which needed not the “foul anchor” tattooed on the back
of his right hand, nor the mermaid and other devices on his arms to
confirm. I managed after a time to get into conversation with him, but
the man seemed reticent, not to say surly. When I asked him if he had
ever been to sea he replied, “Go to blazes and find out.” I then told him
that I meant no impertinence or harm by the question. I told him that I
had a son now at sea, and consequently I took an interest in everything
in the maritime line. To keep up the unities I took a plug of tobacco
with which I had supplied myself with a view to just such an emergency,
and offered the ancient mariner a chew, which he accepted and began to
look a little more pleasant, and showed some signs of loquacity. I then
proposed that we should go and have a glass of grog, a proposition which
appeared to strike him as being correct. So we went to a water-side
tavern sitting room where we each took what seamen call a throat season.
I then suggested that we should have a smoke, to which the ex-mariner
agreed, and another “throat season,” which proposal also met his views.
By this time my quondam friend began to wax merry, and went so far as
to volunteer to sing a favorite song of his entitled “The Cumberland’s
Crew,” a lyric based on the sinking of the United States war ship
Cumberland by the improvised Confederate ironclad Merrimac at Hampton
Roads during the Yankee “rebellion.” I told him that, glad as I would
be to listen to the heroic verse, yet it being rather early in the day
to burst into song, I would much prefer to hear him tell me some of his
doubtless many adventures that he had met with at sea. My ancient mariner
at this stage of the seance began to get lachrymose, even unto the verge
of tears.
“I don’t like to speak or think of my past life,” said he, “but if I tell
you anything I may as well tell you all.”
“Do so,” said I. “I know it will be interesting,” so I ordered some more
grog and sat down again comfortably to listen to the story of the sailor
tramp.
My partner drank his grog, laid down his pipe, took a huge chew of
tobacco, and commenced his yarn. “I am neither a sailor or a sojer now. I
am
NOTHING BUT A TRAMP,
although, by rights, I ought to be a gentleman. You needn’t smile. I only
said I ought to be one, but I am not. Yes, my father was a clergyman in
the west of England. I won’t exactly say where. However, he was rector
of the parish, and I was his eldest son, and consequently the hope of
his house. I had a younger brother who, I suppose, is at home doing
well, at least he was when I last heard from him, but that’s a good many
years ago. Well, I may safely say that in all the west, east, north, or
south of England, or, for the matter of that, any other country, there
never grew up a more mischievous or incorrigible boy than I was. From
the time I was first put in trousers until I got the bounce for good
from my reverend father, I did nothing that I could help but rob birds’
nests, upset bee-hives, and abet poachers and other bad characters in
the neighborhood. I ran away and stayed with a gang of gipsies for six
months, and the vagabond proclivities of my nature were remarkably well
developed, as you can readily understand, in their company. A slight
flirtation with a young woman, the particulars of which I need not
mention, occasioned my hasty departure from the tribe, and I returned
home a prodigal son indeed. I was then sent to Eton, where I attained a
smattering of classics and mathematics, but as I unfortunately took the
liberty of putting a quantity of cobbler’s wax in one of the tutor’s
boots, and was convicted of divers other peccadilloes of like nature, I
got my conge from my alma mater, and returned home again. My father, good
man, got out of all patience with me, for my language was occasionally
of the vilest, and I swore like our army in Flanders at the servants on
all possible occasions. I was given a £50 note with a request that I
would go forth and seek my fortune, which I did in London, but didn’t
find it. I spent all my money, and as a last resource shipped as boy on a
drogher bound to Newcastle for coals. I was just turned sixteen then, and
bitterly did I curse the day I tried the sea for a living. I was ropes
ended by the skipper, thrashed by the mate, and kicked and cuffed by all
the crew. This didn’t suit me at all, so I stole the boat one night when
I was on anchor watch, and sculled myself ashore, letting the boat go
adrift when I landed, and tramped my way to Liverpool. I shipped as boy
again on a Packet ship for New York, and on the passage I got it lively
from all hands, they leading me the life of a dog. Well, we were all
discharged in New York, and I shipped again, this time for Marseilles as
ordinary seaman.
THE CAPTAIN WAS A TYRANT,
and the mates were even worse. All hands were pelted with belaying pins,
and besides we were half starved. There happened to be a “tender” for
a British man-of-war drumming up recruits for the English navy in the
harbor, so I and two others put our shirts in the fire rigging (a sign
that the officers of the tender well knew.) They sent an armed boat
aboard, and I, together with about a dozen others, said we were British
seamen, and volunteered to fight for the “widow,” as the sailors call
the Queen. We left in the tender for Malta, and were enrolled among the
crew of the line-of-battle ship Brunswick, where we were put through our
facings I can tell you. We commenced by giving cheek, but they soon took
the nonsense out of us with the cat-o’-nine-tails. Well, to make a long
story as short as possible. I was drafted into a corvette going home to
Liverpool. I deserted on the first opportunity, and shipped again for
New York. This was during the rebellion. I then joined the Yankee navy
and arose to the high position of captain of the foretop on the United
States frigate Essex. At Baton Rouge I was struck by a piece of shell in
the leg, and sent to hospital, where I remained until the war was over,
when I was mustered out of the service. I had a right to a grant of land
from the government, but I sold it to a broker and spent the money for
whisky. Since that time I’ve been knocking around through the States on
the tramp. I can’t ship before the mast, for my leg is so stiff that I am
unable to go aloft. The only comfortable time I have is when I can manage
to get into some hospital, where I get plenty of nourishment and a good
bed to sleep in. However, here I am now, but where I’ll be to-morrow the
Lord only knows.”
“Do you ever think of going home?” asked the scribe.
“Home! Well, I should think not. They, of course, think me dead long ago,
and I don’t want to disgrace them, anyway. My old father used to say, ‘As
ye make your bed, so shall ye lie,’ or something like that. I’ve found
it so, and must take the consequence.” “Oh, I tell you,” added the jolly
tar, “there are thousands like me knocking around at sea.”
“Take another bowl?” asked I.
“Don’t care if I do,” said the sailor. “There’s no use being poor when a
half a pint of
WHISKY MAKES YOU RICH.”
“Well, see here, old fellow,” said I, “I don’t wish to be impertinent,
but don’t you think grog has been at the bottom of all your troubles?”
“No I don’t,” was his reply. “I never was much of a swizzer until lately.
It’s my own inherent vagabond nature that has made me the tramp I am.
Whisky has been the ruin of many a good man, but I don’t blame it in my
case.”
“Well, good-bye old fellow,” said I; “I hope you’ll strike luck some of
these days.”
“Good-bye,” said the ancient mariner, and as I departed I heard him order
another glass of the ardent to be drank au solitaire.
Here is one tramp, I mused, who appears candid enough, in all conscience,
and who, strange to say, does not charge his decline and fall to the
demon, drink. I could not help feeling a pity for this unfortunate,
who, born in comfort and luxury, brought up at home and given every
chance to get on in the world and lead a respectable life, had thrown
himself away and become a miserable waif and wanderer. Mais chacun à
son goût—Everybody to his taste. Some people have honors thrust upon
them, but here is a fellow who deliberately heaps dishonor on his own
unfortunate head. How many young men in the city of Toronto are, after
a fashion, like this poor sailor? I know not their number, but I see
samples of them every day.
Thus musing I strayed along the Esplanade,
While I chewed the end of a sweet and bitter fancy,
Until brought up all standing by the voice loud and commanding
Of a drunken seamen in a woolen “gansy.”
I was about to tackle the seamen in the guernsey, or “gansy,” as he would
call it, with a view of learning something of his history, but as he, in
answer to my polite enquiry as to the state of his health, told me to go
to Halifax—or somewhere—and not liking his hostile looks, I concluded
that I had enough of “Sailor town” for that day, and took a lateral
traverse in the direction of the St. Lawrence market.