There is a singular superstition among some seamen that where there
is a Fin in the crew, you may be sure of bad luck. Had we been
superstitious, we might have augured ill for ourselves, because the
first entry on our shipping list was of John Reholm, Finland. Now
John Reholm was, as to behavior, blameless. He was short and stout,
about forty-five years old, always ready to go aloft, good at mending
old sails, quiet, always at Sabbath service, often betraying emotion,
which was noticeable in his moistened eye, his quivering lip. I do
not remember to have heard him speak a word, so that I doubt if he
could speak English, except a few indispensable sentences, though he
understood the spoken tongue. Yet when all hands were on deck in some
exigency, you would be attracted by his readiness to lead off in that
part of the work which called for a strong arm; he knew where to look
for the corner of the sail which the wind had torn then twisted. On
receiving at the wheel your salutation as you passed him, though his
hands might both be needed to keep the wheel straight he would be sure
to lift a hand to his cap, and acknowledge your attention. There was
no bad luck about him. He went the round voyage with us. Would that I
could hear of his welfare. If any one says a disparaging word about a
Fin, the image of a saint among sailors rises to my thoughts in the
person of John Reholm.