course. When the vessel drifted slowly up, the yawl nosed the great
black side and drifted back by the ladder. One of the steamer’s crew
threw down a rope, which the oarsman of the yawl caught. This held the
yawl still, close to the ladder, and the pilot, jumping for a good
hold, began slowly to climb upward. No sooner had he seized the rope
ladder than the engines started and the steamer moved off. The little
yawl, left alone like a cork on a thrashing sea, headed toward us. The
schooner tacked and came round in a half circle to pick it up, which
was done with safety.
This was a busy morning. Before breakfast another ship had appeared,
a tramp steamer, and a pilot was dressing to board her. Down the fore
hatch could be seen the cook, frying potatoes and meat, and boiling
coffee. The change in weather was pleasing to him, too, for he was
singing as he clattered the dishes and set the table. In the cabin the
pipes of the pilots were on, and the two old salts were at pinochle
harder than ever.
Another pilot left before breakfast, and after he was gone another
steamer appeared, this time the _Paris_. It looked as though we would
soon lose all our pilots and have to return to New York. After the
pilot had gone aboard the _Paris_, however, the wind died down and we
sailed no more. Gradually the sea grew smoother, and we experienced a
day of perfect idleness. Hour after hour the boat rocked like a cradle.
Seagulls gathered around and dipped their wings in charming circles.
Flocks of ducks passed northward in orderly flight, honking as they
went. A little land-bird, a poor, bedraggled sparrow, evidently blown
to sea by adverse winds, found rest and salvation in our rigging.
Now it was perched upon the main boom, and now upon the guy of the
gaff-topsail, but ever and anon, on this and the following day it could
be seen, sometimes attempting to fly shoreward, but always returning
after a fruitless quest for land. No vessel appeared, however. We
merely rocked and waited.
The sailors in the forecastle told stories. The pilots in the rear
talked New York politics and criminal mysteries. The cook brewed and
baked. Night fell upon one of the fairest skies that it is given us
earthlings to behold. Stars came out and blinked. The lightship at
Sandy Hook cast a far beacon, but no steamer took another pilot that
day.
Once during the watch that night it seemed that a steamer far off to
the southeastward was burning a blue light, the signal for a pilot.
The man at the wheel scanned the point closely, then took a lighted
torch made of cotton and alcohol and circled it slowly three times in
the air. No answering blue light rewarded him. Another time there grew
upon the stillness the far-off muffled sound of a steamer’s engine. You
could hear it distinctly, a faint “Pump, pump, pump, pump, pump.” But
no light could be seen. The signal torch was again waved, but without
result. The distinct throb grew less and less, and finally died away.
Some of the pilots commented as to this but could not explain it. They
could not say why a vessel should travel without lights at night.
At midnight a little breeze sprang up and the schooner cruised about.
In one direction appeared a faint glimmer, which when approached,
proved to be the riding light of a freight steamer at anchor. All was
still and dark aboard her, save for two or three red and yellow lights,
which gleamed like sleepless eyes out of the black hulk. The man at the
wheel called a sailor.
“Go forward, Johnnie,” he said, “and hail her. See if she wants a
pilot.”
The man went to the prow and stood until the schooner drew quite near.
“Steamer, ahoy!” he bellowed.
No answer.
“Steamer, ahoy!” he called again. A light moved in the cabin of the
other vessel. Finally a voice answered.
“Want a pilot?” asked our sailor.
“We have one,” said the dim figure, and disappeared.
“Is it one of the pilots of your association that they have?” I asked.
“Yes; they couldn’t have any other. They probably picked him up from
one of our far-out boats. Every incoming steamer must take a pilot, you
know. That’s the law. All pilots belong to this one association. It’s
merely a question of our being around to supply them.”
It turned out from his explanation that the desire of the pilots to get
a steamer was merely to obtain their days off. When a pilot brings in a
steamer it is not likely that he will be sent out again for three days.
Each one puts in about the same number of days a month, and all get the
same amount of pay. There is no rivalry for boats, and no loss of money
by missing a steamer. If one boat misses her, another is sure to catch
her farther in. If she refuses to take a pilot the Government compels
her owners to pay a fine of fifty dollars, the price of a pilot to take
her in.
On the third day now breaking we were destined to lose another pilot.
It was one of the two inveterate pinochlers.
That night we anchored off Babylon, Long Island, in the stillest of
waters. The crew spent the evening lounging in their bunks and reading,
while the remaining pilots amused themselves as usual. Two of them
engaged for a time in a half-hearted game of cards. One told stories,
but with the departure of so many the spirits of the company drooped.
There was no breeze. The flap-flap of the sails went on monotonously.
Breakfast came, and then nine o’clock, and still we rocked in one
spot. Then a steamer appeared. As usual, it was announced long before
my untrained eyes could discern it. But, with the first word, the
remaining valiant pinochler went below to pack. He was back in a few
minutes, very much improved in spirits and appearance.
“Does she starboard any?” he asked the man at the wheel.
The latter used the telescope and then said:
“Don’t seem to, sir.”
“Think she sees us?”
“Can’t tell, sir,” said the boatman gravely.
“Spec’ we’d better fire the gun, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You strip the gun. I’ll take the wheel.”
So a little gun--a tiny cannon, no less--was made ready and while it
was being put in place at the lee rail, Germond, the oldest of the
pilots, came on deck and took the wheel.
“Going to fire the gun, eh?” he observed, in deep bass tones.
“Yes,” said the pinochler.
“Well, that’s right. Blaze away.”
The boatman, who had superintended the charging of the gun, now pulled
a wire attached to a cap and the little cannon spat out a flame with a
roar that shook the boat.
“Do they do this often?” I asked the footman.
“Not very. When fogs are on and boats can’t find us it comes in handy.
There’s hardly any use in this case. I guess she sees us.”
Germond, at the wheel, seemed to enjoy playing warship, for he called
out: “Fire again, Johnnie!”
“Won’t she turn?” asked the restless pinochler.
“Don’t seem to.”
“Then,” said he, and cast a droll look of derision upon the midget
cannon and the immense steamer, “sink her!”
With the third shot, however, we could see the steamer begin to turn,
and in a little while she was headed toward us. We could not move
and so we waited, while the anxious pinochler walked the deck. Long
before she was near he ordered the yawl ready, and when she was yet
three-quarters of a mile off, cast over and jumped aboard. He seemed
somewhat afraid the yawl would not be seen, and so took along with
him a pilot flag, which was a square of blue cloth fastened to a long
bamboo pole. This he held aloft as the men rowed, and away they went
far over the green sea.
The cook served coffee at three, and was preparing supper when another
steamer was sighted. She came up rapidly, a great liner from Gibraltar,
with a large company of Italians looking over the rail.
“No supper for you,” said Germond. “You’ll have to eat with the Dagos.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” returned the other, smiling. “I want to get back to
New York.”
Just before supper, and when the sun was crimsoning the water in the
west, a “catspaw” came up and filled our sails. The boat moved slowly
off. At supper Germond announced:
“Well, I go now.”
“Is there a steamer?”
“No, but I go on the other pilot-boat. I see her over there. The last
man always leaves his boat and goes on one with more men. That allows
this boat to go back for another crew.”
“Do you get the first steamer in, on the other boat?”
“Yes, I have the first turn.” I understood now why our crew, at the
outset, objected to any pilots being taken on our boat. It delayed
the return of those on board to New York. “Steward!” called Germond,
finally, “tell one of the men back there to run up a signal for the
other boat.”
“Ay! Ay! sir!” called back the steward.
At half after six the other pilot-boat drew near and Germond packed his
sea clothes and came up on deck.
“Well, here she is, boys,” he said. “Now I leave you.”
They put out the yawl and he jumped in. When he had gone we watched him
climbing aboard the other schooner.
“Now for New York!” exclaimed McLaughlin, the boatswain, and master of
the crew in the absence of any pilot.
“Do we sail all night?”
“To get there by morning we’ll have to.”
All sails were then hoisted, and we bore away slowly. Darkness fell.
The stars came out. Far away the revolving light of the Highlands
of Navesink was our guide. Far behind, the little pilot-boat which
had received Germond was burning a beacon for some steamer which had
signaled a blue light. Gradually this grew more and more dim, and the
gloom enveloped all.
We sat with subdued spirits at the prow, discussing the dangers of
the sea. McLaughlin, who had been five years in the service, told of
accidents and disappearances in the past. Once, out of the night had
rushed a steamer, cutting a boat such as ours in two. One pilot-boat
that had gone out two years ago had never returned. Not a stick or
scrap was found to indicate what had become of her fifteen men. He
told how the sounding of the fog-horns had chilled his heart the first
year of his service, and how the mournful lapping of the waters had
filled him with dread. And as we looked and saw nothing but blackness,
and listened and heard nothing but the sipping of the still waters, it
did seem as though the relentless sea merely waited its time. Some day
it might have them all, sailor and cook, and where now were rooms and
lockers would be green water and strange fishes.
That night we slept soundly. A fine wind sprang up, and when morning
came we were scurrying home over a thrashing sea. We raced past Sandy
Hook and put up the bay. By eight o’clock we were at the Narrows, with
the Battery in sight. The harbor looked like a city of masts. After the
lonely sea it seemed alive with a multitude of craft. Tugs went puffing
by. Scows and steamers mingled. Amid so much life the sea seemed safe.
BUMS
Whenever I think of them I think of the spectacle that genius of
the burlesque world of my day, Nat Wills, used to present when, in
fluttering rags and tatters, his vestless shirt open at the breast,
revealing no underwear, his shoes three times too big, and torn and
cracked, a small battered straw hat, from a hole in which his hair
protruded, his trousers upheld by a string, and that indefinable smirk
of satisfaction of which he was capable flickering over his dirty and
unshaven face he was wont to strike an attitude worthy of a flight
of oratory, and exclaim: “Fifteen years ago to-day I was a poor,
dispirited, broken-down tramp sitting on a bench in a park, not a shirt
to my back. Not a decent pair of shoes on my feet. A hat with a hole in
it. No money to get a shave or a bath or a place to sleep. No place to
eat. Not a friend in the world to turn to. My torn and frayed trousers
held up by a string. Yet” (striking his chest dramatically) “look at me
now!” And then he would lift one hand dramatically, as much as to say,
“Could any change be greater?”
The humor was not only in the contrast which his words implied and
his appearance belied, but in a certain definite and not unkindly
characterization of the bum as such, that smug and even defiant
disregard of the conventions and amenities which characterizes so many
of them and sets them apart as a species quite distinct from the body
social--for that they truly are. And for that very reason they have
always had a peculiar interest for me, even a kind of fascination,
such as an arrestingly different animal might have for others. And
here in the great city, from time to time I have encountered so many
of them, suggesting not poverty or want but a kind of devil-may-care
indifference and even contempt for all that society as we know it
prizes so highly--order, cleanliness, a job, a good suit of clothes,
marriage, children, respected membership in various orders, religion,
politics--anything and everything that you will. And yet, by reason of
their antithesis and seeming antipathy to all this, interesting.
For, say what you will, it does take something that is not social,
and most certainly independent, either in the form of thought or
temperament, to permit one to thus brazenly brave the notions and
the moods, to say nothing of the intellectual convictions, of those
who look upon the things above described as essential and permanent.
These astonishingly strange men, with their matted hair over their
eyes, their dirty skins, their dirty clothes, their large feet encased
in torn shoes, their hats with holes in them and their hair actually
protruding--just as though there were rules or conventions governing
them in the matter of dress. Along railroad tracks and roads outside
the large cities of the country I have seen them (curiously enough, I
have never seen a woman tramp), singly or in groups, before a fire,
the accredited tin can at hand for water, a degenerate pail brought
from somewhere in which something is being cooked over a fire. And
on occasion, as a boy, I have found them asleep in the woods, under
a tree, or in some improvised hole in a hay or straw stack, snoring
loudly or resting as only the just and the pure in heart should rest.
But here in the great city I have always thought them a little strange
and out of place. They consort so poorly with the pushing, eager,
seeking throngs. And arrayed as they are, and as unkempt and unwashed,
not even the low-priced lodging houses of the Bowery would receive
them, and most certainly they would not pay the price of fifteen or
twenty cents which would be required to house them, even if they had
it. They are not of that kidney. And as for applying to a police
station at any time, it were better that they did not. In bitter
weather an ordinary citizen might do so with safety and be taken care
of, but these, never. They would be driven out or sent to the Island,
as the work-house here is called. Their principal lodging resource in
times of wintry stress appears to be some grating covering a shaft
leading to an engine room of some plant operative the night through,
from which warm air pours; or some hallway in a public building, or the
ultra-liberal and charitable lodging house of some religious mission.
Quite often on an icy night I have seen not a few of them lying over
the gratings of the subway at Fourteenth Street and at other less
conspicuous points, where, along with better men than themselves,
they were trusting to the semi-dry warm air that poured up through to
prevent death from freezing. But the freeze being over, they would go
their ways, I am sure, and never mend them from any fear of a like
experience.
And it is exactly that about them which has always interested me. For,
by and large, I have never been able to feel that they either craved or
deserved the need of that sympathy that we so freely extend to others
of a less sturdy and different character. In truth, they are never as
poor physically and nervously as many of those who, though socially
fallen, yet appear to be better placed in the matter of clothes, food
and mood. They are, in the main, neither lean nor dispirited, and they
take life with too jaunty an air to permit one to be distressed about
them. They remind me more of gulls or moles, or some different and
unsocial animal that still finds in man his rightful prey or source
of supply. And I am positive that theirs is a disposition, either
inherited or made so by circumstances, which has not too much chemic
opposition to their lackadaisical state, that prefers it even to some
other forms of existence. Summer or winter I have seen them here and
there, in the great city, but never in those poorer neighborhoods,
frequented by those who are really in need, and always with the air
of physical if not material comfort hovering about them, and that in
the face of garments that would better become an ashcan than a man.
The rags. The dirt. And yet how often of a summer’s evening have I not
seen them on the stones of doorways and the planks of docks and lumber
yards, warm and therefore comfortable, resting most lazily and snoring
loudly, as though their troubles or irritations, whatever they were,
were far from them.
And in these same easier seasons have I not seen them making their
way defiantly or speculatively among the enormous crowds on the
principal streets of the city, gazing interestedly and alertly into
the splendid shopwindows, and thinking what thoughts and contemplating
what prospects! It is not from these that the burglars are recruited or
the pickpockets, as the police will tell you. And the great cities do
not ordinarily attract them; though they come, occasionally, drawn, I
suppose, by the hope of novelty, and interested, quite as is Dives in
Egypt or India, by what they see. Now and then you will behold one, as
have I, being “ragged” by one of those idle mischievous gangs of the
city into whose heartless clutches he has chanced to fall. His hat will
be seized and pulled or crushed down over his eyes, his matted hair
or beard pulled, straws or rags or paper shoved between his back and
his coat and himself made into a veritable push-ball or punching-bag
to be shoved here and there, before he is allowed to depart. And
for no offense other than that he is as he is. Yet whether they are
spiritually outraged or depressed by this I would not be able to say.
To me they have ever appeared to be immune to what would spiritually
degrade and hence torture and depress another.
Their approach to life, if anything, appears to be one of hoyden
contempt for conventional processes of all kinds, a kind of parasitic
indifference to anything save their own comfort, joined with a not
unadmirable love for the out-of-doors and for change. So often, as
I have said, I have seen them about the great city, asleep in the
cool recesses of not-much-frequented doors and passageways, and in
lumberyards and odd corners, anywhere where they were not likely to be
observed. And my observation of them has led me to conclude that they
do not feel and hence do not suffer as do other and more sensitive men.
They are not interested in material prosperity as such, and they will
not work. If any one has ever seen one with that haunted look which
at times characterizes the eye of those who take life and society so
desperately and seriously, and that betokens one whom life is able to
torture, I have yet to hear of it.
But what an interesting and amazing spectacle they present, and what
amusing things are to be related of them! I personally have seen a
group of such rowdies, such as characterize some New York street
corners even to this day pouring wood-alcohol on one of these fellows
whom they chanced to find asleep, and then setting fire to it in order
to observe what would be the effect of the discovery by the victim of
himself in flames. And subsequently pursuing him down the street with
shouts and ribald laughter. On another occasion, in Hudson Street, the
quondam home of the Hudson Dusters, I have seen six or eight of such
youths pushing another one such about, carrying him here and there by
the legs and arms and tossing him into the air above an old discarded
mattress, until an irate citizen, not to be overawed himself, and of
most respectable and God-fearing mien, chose to interfere and bring
about a release. And in another part of this same good city, that part
of the waterfront which lies east of South Ferry and south of Fulton
Street, I have seen one such most persistently and thoroughly doused by
as many as ten playful wags, all in line, yet at different doors, and
each discharging a can or a bucket of water upon the fleeing victim,
who sought to elude them by running. But, following this individual
to see what his mood might be, I could not see that he had taken the
matter so very much to heart. Once free of his pursuers, he made his
way to a dock, where, seated behind some boxes in the sun, he made
shift to dry himself and rest without appearing to fret over what had
occurred.
On one occasion I remember standing on the forward end of a ferry boat
that once plied between New York and Jersey City, the terminal of one
of the great railways entering the city, when one of these peculiar
creatures took occasion to make his very individual point of view
clear. It was late afternoon, and the forerunners of the homeward
evening rush of commuters were already beginning to appear. He was
dirty and unkempt and materially degraded as may be, but not at all
cast down or distrait. On the contrary. Having been ushered to the
dock by a stalwart New York policeman and put on board and told never
to return on pain of arrest, he was still in an excellent mood in
regard to it all. Heigh-ho! The world was not nearly so bad as many
made out. His toes sticking out, the ragged ends of his coat flapping
about him, a wretched excuse for a hat on his head, he still trotted
here and there, a genial and knowing gleam in his eye, to say nothing
of a Mona Liza-like leer about his mouth. He surveyed us all, kempt
and worthy exemplars of the proprieties, with the air of one who says:
“Well, well! Such decent and such silly people. All sheep who know only
the conventional ways and limitations of the city and nothing else,
creatures who look on me as a wastrel, a failure and a ne’er-do-well.
Nevertheless, I am not as hopeless or as hapless as they think, the
sillies.” And to make this clear he strode defiantly to and fro,
smirking now on one and now on another, and coming near to one and
again to another, thereby causing each and every one to retreat for
the very simple reason that the odor of him was as unconventional as
himself.
Finding himself thus evaded and rather scorned for this procedure, he
retired to the forward part of the deck for a time and communed with
himself; but not for long. For, deciding after all, I presume, that
this was a form of defeat and that he was allowing himself to be unduly
put upon or outplaced, at least, by conventionalists, for whom he had
absolutely no respect, he whirled, and surveying the assembled company
of commuters who had by now gathered in a circle about him, like sheep
surveying some unwonted spectacle, he waved one hand dramatically and
announced: “I’m a dirty, drunken, blue-nosed bum, and I don’t give a
damn! See? See? I don’t give a damn!” and with that he caroled a little
tune, whistled, twiddled his fingers at all of us, did a light gay
step here and there, and then, lifting his torn coat-tails, shook them
defiantly and contemptuously in the face of all of us.
There were of course a few terrified squeaks from a few horrified and
sanctified maidens, old and young, who retreated to the protection of
the saloon behind. There were also dark and reproving frowns from a
number of solid and substantial citizens, very well-dressed indeed, who
pretended not to notice or who even frowned on others for noticing.
Incidentally, there were a few delighted and yet repressed squeals from
various youths and commonplace nobodies, like myself, and eke a number
of heavy guffaws from more substantial citizens of uncertain origin and
who should have, presumably, known better.
Yet, after all, as I told myself, afterward, there was considerable to
be said for the point of view of this man, or object. It was at least
individual, characterful and forceful. He was, decidedly, out of step
with all those about him, but still in step, plainly, with certain
fancies, moods, conditions more suited to his temperament. Decidedly,
his point of view was that of the box-car, the railroad track, the
hay-pile and the roadside. But what of it? Must one quarrel with a crow
for being a crow, or with a sheep for being a sheep? Not I.