Once in a hundred years is a book written that lives not alone for its
own century but which becomes a document for the future centuries. Such
a book is Dana's. When Marryat's and Cooper's sea novels are gone to
dust, stimulating and joyful as they have been to generations of men,
still will remain "Two Years Before the Mast."
Paradoxical as it may seem, Dana's book is the classic of the sea, not
because there was anything extraordinary about Dana, but for the precise
contrary reason that he was just an ordinary, normal man, clear-seeing,
hard-headed, controlled, fitted with adequate education to go about the
work. He brought a trained mind to put down with untroubled vision what
he saw of a certain phase of work-a-day life. There was nothing
brilliant nor fly-away about him. He was not a genius. His heart never
rode his head. He was neither overlorded by sentiment nor hag-ridden by
imagination. Otherwise he might have been guilty of the beautiful
exaggerations in Melville's "Typee" or the imaginative orgies in the
latter's "Moby Dick." It was Dana's cool poise that saved him from being
spread-eagled and flogged when two of his mates were so treated; it was
his lack of abandon that prevented him from taking up permanently with
the sea, that prevented him from seeing more than one poetical spot, and
more than one romantic spot on all the coast of Old California. Yet
these apparent defects were his strength. They enabled him magnificently
to write, and for all time, the picture of the sea-life of his time.
Written close to the middle of the last century, such has been the
revolution worked in man's method of trafficking with the sea, that the
life and conditions described in Dana's book have passed utterly away.
Gone are the crack clippers, the driving captains, the hard-bitten but
efficient foremast hands. Remain only crawling cargo tanks, dirty
tramps, greyhound liners, and a sombre, sordid type of sailing ship. The
only records broken to-day by sailing vessels are those for slowness.
They are no longer built for speed, nor are they manned before the mast
by as sturdy a sailor stock, nor aft the mast are they officered by sail-
carrying captains and driving mates.
Speed is left to the liners, who run the silk, and tea, and spices.
Admiralty courts, boards of trade, and underwriters frown upon driving
and sail-carrying. No more are the free-and-easy, dare-devil days, when
fortunes were made in fast runs and lucky ventures, not alone for owners,
but for captains as well. Nothing is ventured now. The risks of swift
passages cannot be abided. Freights are calculated to the last least
fraction of per cent. The captains do no speculating, no bargain-making
for the owners. The latter attend to all this, and by wire and cable
rake the ports of the seven seas in quest of cargoes, and through their
agents make all business arrangements.
It has been learned that small crews only, and large carriers only, can
return a decent interest on the investment. The inevitable corollary is
that speed and spirit are at a discount. There is no discussion of the
fact that in the sailing merchant marine the seamen, as a class, have
sadly deteriorated. Men no longer sell farms to go to sea. But the time
of which Dana writes was the heyday of fortune-making and adventure on
the sea--with the full connotation of hardship and peril always
attendant.
It was Dana's fortune, for the sake of the picture, that the _Pilgrim_
was an average ship, with an average crew and officers, and managed with
average discipline. Even the _hazing_ that took place after the
California coast was reached, was of the average sort. The _Pilgrim_
savoured not in any way of a hell-ship. The captain, while not the
sweetest-natured man in the world, was only an average down-east driver,
neither brilliant nor slovenly in his seamanship, neither cruel nor
sentimental in the treatment of his men. While, on the one hand, there
were no extra liberty days, no delicacies added to the meagre forecastle
fare, nor grog or hot coffee on double watches, on the other hand the
crew were not chronically crippled by the continual play of
knuckle-dusters and belaying pins. Once, and once only, were men flogged
or ironed--a very fair average for the year 1834, for at that time
flogging on board merchant vessels was already well on the decline.
The difference between the sea-life then and now can be no better
epitomised than in Dana's description of the dress of the sailor of his
day:
"The trousers tight around the hips, and thence hanging long and loose
around the feet, a superabundance of checked shirt, a low-crowned, well-
varnished black hat, worn on the back of the head, with half a fathom of
black ribbon hanging over the left eye, and a peculiar tie to the black
silk neckerchief."
Though Dana sailed from Boston only three-quarters of a century ago, much
that is at present obsolete was then in full sway. For instance, the old
word _larboard_ was still in use. He was a member of the _larboard_
watch. The vessel was on the _larboard_ tack. It was only the other
day, because of its similarity in sound to starboard, that _larboard_ was
changed to _port_. Try to imagine "All larboard bowlines on deck!" being
shouted down into the forecastle of a present day ship. Yet that was the
call used on the _Pilgrim_ to fetch Dana and the rest of his watch on
deck.
The chronometer, which is merely the least imperfect time-piece man has
devised, makes possible the surest and easiest method by far of
ascertaining longitude. Yet the _Pilgrim_ sailed in a day when the
chronometer was just coming into general use. So little was it depended
upon that the _Pilgrim_ carried only one, and that one, going wrong at
the outset, was never used again. A navigator of the present would be
aghast if asked to voyage for two years, from Boston, around the Horn to
California, and back again, without a chronometer. In those days such a
proceeding was a matter of course, for those were the days when dead
reckoning was indeed something to reckon on, when running down the
latitude was a common way of finding a place, and when lunar observations
were direly necessary. It may be fairly asserted that very few merchant
officers of to-day ever make a lunar observation, and that a large
percentage are unable to do it.
"Sept. 22nd., upon coming on deck at seven bells in the morning we found
the other watch aloft throwing water upon the sails, and looking astern
we saw a small, clipper-built brig with a black hull heading directly
after us. We went to work immediately, and put all the canvas upon the
brig which we could get upon her, rigging out oars for studding-sail
yards; and contined wetting down the sails by buckets of water whipped up
to the mast-head . . . She was armed, and full of men, and showed no
colours."
The foregoing sounds like a paragraph from "Midshipman Easy" or the
"Water Witch," rather than a paragraph from the soberest, faithfullest,
and most literal chronicle of the sea ever written. And yet the chase by
a pirate occurred, on board the brig _Pilgrim_, on September 22nd,
1834--something like only two generations ago.
Dana was the thorough-going type of man, not overbalanced and erratic,
without quirk or quibble of temperament. He was efficient, but not
brilliant. His was a general all-round efficiency. He was efficient at
the law; he was efficient at college; he was efficient as a sailor; he
was efficient in the matter of pride, when that pride was no more than
the pride of a forecastle hand, at twelve dollars a month, in his
seaman's task well done, in the smart sailing of his captain, in the
clearness and trimness of his ship.
There is no sailor whose cockles of the heart will not warm to Dana's
description of the first time he sent down a royal yard. Once or twice
he had seen it done. He got an old hand in the crew to coach him. And
then, the first anchorage at Monterey, being pretty _thick_ with the
second mate, he got him to ask the mate to be sent up the first time the
royal yards were struck. "Fortunately," as Dana describes it, "I got
through without any word from the officer; and heard the 'well done' of
the mate, when the yard reached the deck, with as much satisfaction as I
ever felt at Cambridge on seeing a 'bene' at the foot of a Latin
exercise."
"This was the first time I had taken a weather ear-ring, and I felt not a
little proud to sit astride of the weather yard-arm, past the ear-ring,
and sing out 'Haul out to leeward!'" He had been over a year at sea
before he essayed this able seaman's task, but he did it, and he did it
with pride. And with pride, he went down a four-hundred foot cliff, on a
pair of top-gallant studding-sail halyards bent together, to dislodge
several dollars worth of stranded bullock hides, though all the acclaim
he got from his mates was: "What a d-d fool you were to risk your life
for half a dozen hides!"
In brief, it was just this efficiency in pride, as well as work, that
enabled Dana to set down, not merely the photograph detail of life before
the mast and hide-droghing on the coast of California, but of the
untarnished simple psychology and ethics of the forecastle hands who
droghed the hides, stood at the wheel, made and took in sail, tarred down
the rigging, holystoned the decks, turned in all-standing, grumbled as
they cut about the kid, criticised the seamanship of their officers, and
estimated the duration of their exile from the cubic space of the hide-
house.
JACK LONDON
Glen Ellen, California,
August 13, 1911.
A WICKED WOMAN
(Curtain Raiser)
BY JACK LONDON
Scene--California.
Time--Afternoon of a summer day.