There is a "Sailor's Home," or "Snug Harbour" tavern in every seaport
town, often anything but home, or harbour, in a pleasant sense. This of
San Francisco, 1849, is a hostelry, half eating-house, half
drinking-saloon, of somewhat unpretentious appearance--being a rough,
weather-boarded building, without planing, or paint, and only two
storeys in height. But if low in stature, it is high enough in its
charges, as Harry Blew has learnt long since; these being out of all
proportion to the outside appearance of the place, or its interior
accommodation; though quite in keeping with the prices of other like
houses of entertainment in the Pacific seaport.
Harry's original intention was to make only a short stay at the
"Sailor's Home"--just long enough to put him through a bit of a spree;
for which twelve months' pay, received from the frigate's purser at
parting, had amply provided him. Then he would start off for the
Feather River, or some other tributary stream of the Sacramento, where
gold was being gathered, or dug for.
The first part of this programme he has already carried out, with
something besides; that something being the complete expenditure of all
his pay--every shilling he received from the ship, and in an incredibly
short space of time. He had been scarcely six days ashore when he
discovers his cash exchequer quite cleared out. As for credit, there is
no such thing in San Francisco. A shop parcel sent home always comes
conspicuously marked C.O.D.--"Cash on Delivery."
Since landing, he has not very carefully kept his dead-reckoning, and is
at first somewhat surprised to find himself so far out in it. He has
plunged his hands into his pockets without encountering coin. He
searches in his sea-chest and every other receptacle where he has been
accustomed to carry, with similar disappointing result. What can have
become of his twelve months' wage, drawn on the day he left the
_Crusader_? It has all disappeared!
No wonder he is unable to account for its disappearance; for ever since
that day he has been anything but himself--in short, has given way to
dissipation of longer continuance than ever before in his life. It has
lasted six days, with most part of six nights, at the end of which time
he has only pulled up for want of the wherewith to continue it--credit
being denied him at the very counter over which he has passed all his
pay.
Impecuniosity is an unpleasant predicament in any country, and at all
times; but in the San Francisco of 1849 it was a positive danger--where
six dollars were demanded, and obtained, for the most meagre of meals;
the same for sleeping on a blanketless bed, in a chilly night, within a
rough weather-boarded room, or under the yet thinner shelter of a canvas
tent. It was a boon to be allowed to lie on the lee-side of a
wooden-walled stable; but cost money for the privilege of sleeping in a
stall, with straw litter for couch, and the radiating heat from the
horses in lieu of coverlet.
In the necessity of seeking some such indifferent accommodation, Harry
Blew finds himself, on the seventh night after having received his
discharge from the _Crusader_. And as he has now got somewhat sobered,
with brain clear enough to think, it occurs to him that the time is come
for carrying out the second part of his programme--that is, going on to
the gold-diggings.
But how to get off, and get there? These are separate questions, to
neither of which can he give a satisfactory answer. Passage to
Sacramento, by steamer, costs over a hundred dollars, and still more by
stage-coach. He has not a shilling--not a red cent; and his sea-kit
sold would not realise a sum sufficient to pay his fare, even if it (the
kit) were free. But it is not. On the contrary, embargoed, "quodded,"
by the keeper of the "Sailor's Home," against a couple of days' unpaid
board and lodging--with sundry imbibings across the counter, scored on
the slate.
The discharged man-o'-war's man sees himself in a nasty dilemma--all the
more from its having a double horn. He can neither go to the
gold-diggings, nor stay in the "Sailor's Home." Comparatively cheap as
may be this humble hostelry, it is yet dear enough to demand ten dollars
a day for indifferent bed and board. Both have been thought bad enough
by Harry Blew, even though only a foremast-man. But he is threatened
with a still worse condition of things. Inappropriate the title
bestowed on his house, for the owner of the "Home" has not the slightest
hospitality in his heart. He has discovered that his English guest is
"dead broke," drawing his deductions from the two days' board, and as
many nights' bed, remaining unpaid.
There is a notice conspicuously posted above the bar that "scores must
be settled daily." And Harry having disregarded this, has received
private, but positive, notice of another kind; to the effect that he is
forthwith to discontinue taking a seat at the _table-d'hote_, as also to
surrender up his share of the bed he has been occupying, for he has not
had a complete couch to himself. At this the discharged man-o'-war's
man has shown no anger, nor does he feel in any way affronted. He has
that correct sense common to sailors, with most others trained by travel
in strange lands, and knows that when cash is not forthcoming, credit
cannot be expected. In California, as elsewhere, such is the universal
and rigorous custom, to which man must resign himself. The English
sailor is only a bit sorry to think he has expended his cash so freely;
a little repentant at having done it so foolishly; and, on the whole, a
good deal downhearted.
But there is a silver lining to the cloud. The _Crusader_ is still in
port, and not expected to sail for some days. He may once more place
his name upon the frigate's books, and rejoin her. He knows he will not
only be received back by her commander, but welcomed by all his old
officers and shipmates. A word spoken to the first boat coming ashore,
and all will be well. Shall he speak such word? That has become the
question. For in this, as every other step in life, there is a _pro_
and _contra_. Humiliating the thought of going back to service on the
ship, after taking leave of everybody aboard; returning to a dingy
forecastle hard, and the handling of tarry ropes, after the bright
dreams he had been indulging in; to forego the gathering of gold-dust,
and the exchanging it for doubloons or dollars; in short, turning his
back upon fortune--the prospect of a life competence, perhaps plenitude
of wealth, with its resulting ease and idleness--and once more facing
stormy seas, with only hard knocks and laborious work in store for him
the remainder of his life!
While the sovereigns were still clinking in his pockets, this was the
dark side of the picture--towards Sacramento, the bright one. Now that
the pockets are empty, everything seems changed, and the golden sheen
lies on the side of the ship.
Still the sailor hesitates how to decide. Despite the pressure upon
him, he ponders and reflects; as he does so, plunging his hands into his
pockets, apparently searching for coin. It is merely mechanical, for he
knows he has not a shilling.
While thus occupied, he is seated in the little sanded bar-room of the
"Home" alone with the bar-keeper; the latter eyeing him with anything
but a sympathetic air. For the book is before him, showing that
indebtedness for bed and board--to say nothing of the unsettled
bar-score--and the record makes a bar-sinister between them. Another
drink could not be added now, even though but a bottle of ginger-beer.
The door of credit is closed, and only cash could procure an extension
of that hospitality hitherto scant enough.
The sailor thinks. Must he surrender? Give up his dreams of fingering
yellow gold, and return to clutching black shrouds? A glance at the
grim, unrelaxed, and unrelenting visage of the bar-keeper decides him.
His decision is expressed in characteristic speech, not addressed to the
drink-dispenser, nor aloud, but in low, sad soliloquy:
"Wi' me, I see, the old sayin's to stan' good--`Once a sailor, still a
sailor.' Harry Blew, there be no help for't, ye maun steer back for the
_Crusader_!"