a comprehensive scheme of ocean currents all over the watery surface
of the globe, but in the great majority of cases the guidance
is delusive, the advice untrustworthy, through no fault of the
compilers. They have done their best, but mean results can never
help particular needs. And so the wary mariner, as far as may be,
trusts to the old-fashioned three “L’s,”--lead, log, and look-out;
knowing full well how little reliance is to be placed in the majority
of cases upon any advice soever concerning the mystery of ocean
currents.
THE UNDYING ROMANCE OF THE SEA
Some of the greatest among men have spoken and written regarding the
material progress of mankind as if every new invention for shortening
distance, for economising time or labour, and increasing production
were but another step in the direction of eliminating romance from
the weary world.
Especially has this been said of sea traffic. We are asked to believe
that in the tiny vessels of Magalhaens, the pestilential hulls
of Anson’s squadron, or the cumbrous wooden walls of Trafalgar,
there dwelt a romance which is now non-existent at sea--that the
introduction of the steam-driven ship has been fatal to a quality
which in truth belongs not at all to material things, but holds
its splendid court in the minds of men. Do they, these mourners
over departed romance, hold, then, that misery is essential to
romance? Is it essential to romantic interest at sea that because
of the smallness of the ships, their lack of healthful food, their
clumsiness of build and snail-like progress, men should suffer
horribly and die miserably? Truly, if these things are necessary in
order that romance shall flourish, we may find them still amongst us
both at sea and on land, though happily in ever lessening proportion
to an improved order of things.
But sober consideration will surely convince us that as far as true
romance is concerned the modern ironclad warship, for instance,
need abate no jot of her claim to the three-decker of last century
or the _Great Harry_ of our infant Navy. The sight of a 15,000-ton
battleship cleared for action and silently dividing the ancient sea
in her swift rush to meet the foe, not a man visible anywhere about
her, but all grim, adamantine, and awe-inspiring--in what is she
less romantic than the _Victory_ under all canvas breaking the line
at Trafalgar? As an incentive to the exercise of the imagination,
the ironclad certainly claims first place. Like some fire-breathing
dragon of ancient fable she comes, apparently by her own volition,
armed with powers of destruction overtopping all the efforts of
ancient story-tellers. Yet to the initiated she is more wonderful,
more terror-striking, than to the unknowing observer. For the former
pierce with the eye of knowledge her black walls of steel, and see
within them hundreds of quiet, self-possessed men standing calmly by
gun-breech, ammunition-hoist, fire-hose, and hospital. Deep under
the water-line are scores of fiercely toiling slaves to the gigantic
force that actuates the whole mass. Hardly recognisable as human,
sealed up in stokeholes under abnormal air pressure, the clang of
their weapons never ceases as they feed the long row of caverns
glowing white with fervent heat. All around them and beneath them
and above, clearly to be discerned through all the diabolical clamour
of engines and roaring of furnaces, is that sense of invisible
forces subdued by the hand of man, yet ferociously striving against
restraint, a sense that makes the head of the new-comer throb and
beat in sympathy until it seems as if the brain must burst its
containing bone.
Just abaft these chambers of accumulating energy are the giants
being fed thereby. Unhappy the man who can see no romance in the
engine-room! Nothing exalting, soul-stirring, in the rhythmical race
of weariless pistons, no storm-song in their magnificent voices as
they dash round the shaft at ninety revolutions per minute. Standing
amid these modern genii, to which those of “The Thousand and One
Nights” are but puny weaklings, the sight, the senses are held
captive, fascinated by so splendid a manifestation of the combination
of skill and strength. And when unwillingly the gazer turns away,
there are the men; the grimy, greasy, sweat-stained men. Watchful,
patient, cat-like. Ready at the first hint, either from the racing
Titans themselves or from the soaring bridge away up yonder in the
night, to manipulate lever, throttle-valve, and auxiliaries as
swiftly, deftly, and certainly as the great surgeon handles his tools
in contact with the silent, living form under his hands.
What a lesson on faith is here. Faith in the workmanship of the
complicated monsters they control, faith in one another to do
the right thing at the right moment when a mistake would mean
annihilation, faith in the watcher above who is guiding the whole
enormous mass amidst dangers seen and unseen. This, too, is no
blind faith, no mere credulity. It is born of knowledge, and the
consequences of its being misplaced must be constantly in mind in
order to insure effective service in time of disaster. It would
surely be a good thing if more poetry were written on the lines of
“McAndrew’s Hymn,” always supposing the poets could be found; greater
efforts made to acquaint us who lead comfortable lives ashore with
the everyday heroism of, the continual burnt-offering rendered by,
the engineer, fireman, and trimmer. Perhaps we might then begin to
discern dimly and faintly that so far from the romance of the sea
being destroyed by the marine engine, it has been strengthened and
added to until it is deeper and truer than ever.
And as with the men in the bowels of the ship so with those above.
Commanding such a weapon of war as hinted at in the preceding
lines, see the central figure in his tower of steel, surrounded by
telephones, electric bells, and voice-tubes. Every portion of the
ship, with its groups of faithful, waiting men, is within reach of
his whisper. Behind him stands a man like a statue but for the brown
hands grasping the spokes of the tiny wheel which operates the 150
horse-power engines far away in the run, which in their turn heave
the mighty steel rudder this way or that, and so guide the whole
fabric. This man in command wields a power that makes the mind reel
to consider. A scarcely perceptible touch upon a button at his side
and away speeds a torpedo; another touch, and two guns hurl 850 lbs.
of steel shell filled with high explosive to a distance of ten miles
if necessary. Obedience instant, perfect, yet intelligent is yielded
to his lightest touch, his faintest whisper. So too his subordinates,
each in their turn commanding as well as being commanded, and each
saturated with the idea that not merely obedience, but obedience
so swift as to be almost coincident with the order, is essential.
Yet above and beyond all this harmony of discipline is the man who
controls in the same perfect way the working, not only of one ship,
but of a whole fleet. He speaks, and immediately flags flutter if
by day, or electric lights scintillate if by night. Each obedient
monster replies by fulfilling his will, and the sea foams as they
swoop round each other in complicated evolutions, or scatter beyond
the horizon’s rim to seek the common enemy. It is the triumph of
discipline, organisation, and power under command.
As it is in the Navy so it is in the Mercantile Marine. Here is a
vessel of a capacity greater than that costly experiment born out
of due time, the _Great Eastern_. Her lines are altogether lovely,
curves of beauty unexcelled by any yacht afloat. With such perfect
grace does she sit upon the sea that the mere mention of her size
conveys of it no conviction. Her decks are crowded with landward
folk, for whose benefit naval architects and engineers have been
busy devising ways and means of bridging the Atlantic. Every comfort
and convenience for the poor, every luxury for the rich, is there.
Majestically, at the stroke of the hour, she moves, commences her
journey. Amid all the hubbub of parting friends, the agony of
breaking up home bonds, the placid conductors of this floating city
attend to their work. Theirs it is to convey on scheduled time from
port to port across the trackless, unheeding ocean all this multitude
of units, each a volume of history in himself or herself of most
poignant interest could it be unfolded. And oh, the sinuous grace,
the persistent speed, the co-partnership of affinity held between
man’s newest and God’s oldest work. Its romance is beyond all power
of speech to describe. Silent, speechless marvel only can be tendered
unto it. The very regularity and order which prevails, the way in
which arrivals may be counted on, these are offences in the eyes of
some would-be defenders of romance. They are not apparently offended
at the unerring regularity of natural phenomena. How is it that
the same quality manifested by man’s handiwork in relation to the
mutable sea gives occasion of stumbling? A hard question. Not that
the mere regularity alone is worthy of admiration, but the triumph
of mind over matter, manifested as much in the grimiest little tug
crouching behind a storm-beaten headland watching, spider-like, for a
homeward-bound sailing-ship, or in the under-engined, swag-bellied
tramp creeping stolidly homeward, bearing her quota of provision for
a heedless people who would starve without her, is everywhere to be
held in admiration as fragrant with true romance, the undying romance
of the sea.
SAILORS’ PETS
Whether there be anything in their surroundings at sea that makes
animals more amenable to the taming process is, perhaps, not a
question to be easily answered. But one thing is certain: that
nowhere do animals become tame with greater rapidity than they do
on board ship. It does not seem to make a great deal of difference
what the animal is, whether bird or beast, carnivore or herbivore,
Jack takes it in hand with the most surprising results, evident in so
short a time that it is often difficult to believe that the subject
is not merely simulating tameness in order to exercise his powers
upon his master or masters in an unguarded moment.
Of course, on board merchant ships the range of variety among pets
is somewhat restricted. Cats, dogs, monkeys, pigs, sheep, goats,
musk-deer, and birds (of sorts) almost exhaust the list; except among
the whale-ships, where the lack of ordinary subjects for taming lead
men to try their hand upon such queer pets as walruses, white bears,
and even seal-pups, with the usual success. Few pets on board ship
ever presented a more ungainly appearance than the walrus. Accustomed
to disport its massive bulk in the helpful wave, and only for very
brief intervals hooking itself up on to a passing ice-floe as if to
convince itself that it really is one of the amphibia, the change in
its environment to the smooth deck-planks of a ship is truly radical.
And yet it has often been known not only to survive such a change,
but to appear contented and happy therein. Its uncouth gambols with
the sailors are not to be described; but they are so funny that no
one could witness them without laughter, especially when the sage,
hoary appearance of even the most youthful walrus is remembered--and,
of course, only very young specimens could possibly be obtained
alive. But, after all, the morse has its limitations as a pet. Tamed
as it often has been, and affectionate as it undoubtedly becomes,
it never survives for a great while its privation of sea-bathing,
and to the grief of its friends generally abandons the attempt to
become permanently domesticated before the end of the season. The
white bear, on the other hand, when caught sufficiently young is
a great success as a pet, and develops a fund of quaint humour as
well as intelligence that one would certainly never suspect from the
appearance of the animal’s head. Bears are notably the humorists of
the animal kingdom, as any one may verify for himself who chooses to
watch them for a few days at the Zoological Gardens, but among them
all for pure fun commend us to _Ursa Polaris_. Perhaps to appreciate
the play of a pet white bear it is necessary to be a rough and tough
whaleman, since with the very best intentions his bearship is apt to
be a little heavy-pawed. And as when his claws grow a very slight
mistake on his part is apt to result in the permanent disfigurement
of his playmate, his days of pethood are always cut suddenly short
as he approaches full growth. Seal-pups have no such drawbacks. They
are pretty, affectionate, and domestic, while an occasional douche
of salt water from the wash-deck tub will suffice to keep them in
good health and spirits for a long time. Such favourites do they
become that it is hard to understand how the same men, who will
spend much of their scanty leisure playing with the gentle, amiable
creatures, can at a moment’s notice resume the crude barbarity of
seal-slaughtering with all its attendant horrors of detail. Apart
from his cumbrous movements on deck, the seal seems specially adapted
for a ship’s pet. He is so intelligent, so fully in touch with his
human playmates, that after a short acquaintance one ceases to be
surprised at his teachability; it is taken as a matter of course.
Ordinary merchant ships are, as before noted, confined to a limited
range of pets. Chief among them is the harmless necessary cat, about
which the present writer has written at considerable length in a
recent number of the _Spectator_. But the cat’s quiet domesticity
never seems to take such a firm hold upon seamen’s affections as does
the livelier friendship of the dog. A dog on board ship is truly a
favoured animal. So much so that dogs will give themselves almost
as many airs and graces as the one unmarried young lady usually
does in the midst of a number of male passengers, and with much
the same results. Once, indeed, the presence of two dogs on board
of a large ship on an East Indian voyage nearly led to a mutiny.
They were both retrievers, the property of the master. But almost
from the commencement of the voyage one of them, a fine black dog,
“Sailor,” deliberately cast in his lot with the men “forrard,” where
he was petted and spoiled, if a dog can be spoiled by petting. The
other dog, a brown, dignified animal called “Neptune,” kept to the
officers’ quarters. And presently the two pets by some sort of
tacit understanding divided the deck between them, the main hatch
constituting a sort of neutral ground beyond which neither might
pass without a fight. Now, there were also some pets on board of a
totally different kind, to wit, three fine pigs, who, contrary to
the usual custom, were allowed to roam unpenned about the decks.
A fellow-feeling, perhaps, led “Sailor,” the forecastle dog, to
fraternise with the genial swine, and the antics of these queerly
assorted playmates gave many an hour’s uproarious amusement. But the
pigs loved to stray aft, far beyond their assigned limits. Whenever
they did so, but a short time would elapse before “Neptune” would
bound off the poop, and seizing the nearest offender by the ear,
gallop him “forrard” in the midst of a perfect tornado of squeals and
clatter of sliding hoofs. This summary ejectment of his friends was
deeply resented by “Sailor,” who, with rigid back and gleaming eyes,
looked on as if ready to interfere if “Neptune” should overstep the
boundaries of his domain. One day the foreseen happened. In the fury
of his gallop “forrard” Neptune reached the galley door before he
released the pig he had been dragging, then suddenly recollecting
himself, was trotting back with deprecatory demeanour, when he met
“Sailor” coming round the after end of the house. The two heroes eyed
one another for a moment, but only a moment. “Sailor” felt doubtless
that this sort of thing had gone far enough, and with a snarl full
of fury they joined battle. The skipper was “forrard” promptly,
armed with a belaying-pin, and seizing “Sailor” by the neck, began
to belabour him heavily. It was too much for the men, who by this
time had all gathered around. They rushed to the rescue of their
favourite, forgetting discipline, rights of ownership, everything but
the unfairness of the proceeding. The belaying-pin was wrested from
the captain’s grasp, the dogs torn apart, and with scowling faces
the men stood confronting the raging skipper, who for some moments
was hardly able to speak. When he was, he said many things, amongst
others that he would shoot “Sailor” on sight; but it is perfectly
certain that had he carried out his threat he would have had a
complete mutiny on his hands. The matter blew over, but it was a long
time before things had quite resumed their normal calm. A keen watch
was kept over “Sailor” by the men for the rest of the voyage, lest
evil should befall him.
Monkeys are, as might be expected, popular as pets. Unfortunately,
they disturb the harmony of a ship more than any other animal that
could be obtained. For their weird powers of mischief come to
perfection where there are so many past masters in the art of animal
training, and nothing affords greater amusement to everybody but the
sufferer when “Jacko” takes it into his impish head to get loose
and ravage the contents of some fellow’s bunk or chest. So much is
this the case that many captains will not allow a monkey on board
their ship at all, feeling sure that, however peaceable a lot of
men he may have found his crew to be before, one monkey passenger
is almost sure to be the fountain and origin of many fights after
his advent. The things that monkeys will do on board ship are almost
beyond belief. One instance may be noted where a monkey in a ship
named the _Dartmouth_ gave signal proof of his reasoning powers. He
was a little black fellow from Sumatra, and from the time of his
coming on board had seemed homesick, playing but few tricks, and only
submitting passively to the petting he received. Passing through
Sunda Straits he sat upon the forecastle head looking wistfully at
the distant land with quite a dejected pose of body. As we drew near
the town of Anjer (it was before the awful convulsion of Krakatoa)
he suddenly seemed to make up his mind, and springing up he covered
his face with his hands and leapt shoreward. We were only going about
two knots an hour, happily for him. He struck out vigorously for the
shore, but suddenly realised the magnitude of his task apparently,
for he turned sharply round and swam back. One of the officers threw
him the end of the main-topsail brace, which he grasped and nimbly
climbed on board, a wiser monkey. Thenceforward his behaviour was
quite cheerful and tricky, until his lamented demise from a chill
caught off the Cape. Goats, again, are great favourites on board
ship, when they have been taught to let the running gear alone.
But their inveterate habit of gnawing everything largely discounts
their amiability. The pretty little mongoose, too, until he begins
to fraternise with his natural enemies, the rats, is a most pleasant
companion, full of play, and cleanly of habit. So is the musk-deer,
but it is so delicate that few indeed of them reach home that are
bought by sailors among the islands of the East Indian Archipelago.
The same fate overtakes most of the birds, except canaries, that
sailors buy abroad, and teach on the passage home no end of tricks.
Yet deeply as these exotic pets are loved by forecastle Jack, and
great as is the pleasure he undoubtedly derives from them, the
majority of them fall into the hands of Jamrach and Cross, or other
keen dealers in foreign birds and beasts, when the ship reaches home.
For it is seldom poor Jack has a home whereto he may bring his pets.
THE SURVIVORS