IN BRITISH WATERS
_Monday, 25th December._--Truly Christmas day dawned a merry one for us
_Royalshires_.
Soon after four this morning a light gleamed on the blackness of the
horizon, and we knew that we were being welcomed by the “Coastwise
Lights of England,” as Kipling so graphically puts it--
“Come up, come in from eastward,
From the guard-ports of the morn!
Beat up, beat in from southerly,
O Gipsies of the Horn!
Swift shuttles of an Empire’s loom
That weave us main to main,
The Coastwise Lights of England
Give you welcome back again.”
It was my wheel from 6 to 8, and as it got lighter, the rugged,
forbidding coast of Ireland showed itself on our port bow.
Day broke clear and frosty, with a fresh whole sail breeze, and the way
we smoked through it showed that the girls had got hold of the towrope.
At 7.15 we hove-to outside Queenstown, and made our number.
All was excitement on board. Where should we be sent? Would we get our
orders outside, or have to go in and wait?
Presently a signal went up ashore, and four flags blew out.
It soon leaked round the ship that the word “Birkenhead” was flying
ashore.
Hurrah! without doubt this must be our destination. The old man
signalled for it to be confirmed, and then round went the main-yard,
and off we went again.
All was joy on board. With this wind and a good tug we ought to get
into the Mersey some time to-morrow.
There was a small pilot cutter bobbing about to leeward of us, and soon
after we got going she sent a boat alongside with a pilot.
“Merry Christmas, cap’n,” were the first words he said, and down below
the pair of them went, whilst we interrogated the crew and asked
eagerly for papers.
“Who won the America Cup?” was the first question asked by us, as there
had been a good deal of betting on board between the Americans and
Britishers.
“Columbia.”
And we patriotic Britishers knew that we had lost our money.
“Did the Shamrock make a race of it?”
“No, she bean’t no good at all,” answered the boatman, as if it was too
painful a subject to be discussed further.
“Any news?” asked someone casually.
“Two thousand more men captured by the Boers.”
“Captured by the Boers! what the blazes do you mean?”
“What I say,” grumbled the man.
“Why, are we at war?”
“Been at war since October!”
Gee wiz! Here was news if you like--whilst we had been out “at the back
of beyond,” as Australians say, our country had been struggling in the
throes of deadly war!
The two papers we got from the boatman were almost torn to bits in the
competition for them, each man reading aloud the news of the war to an
audience almost wild with excitement.
“Why, we might have been held up by a Boer cruiser!”
“Guess they ain’t got any.”
“Hurrush! but I’m off to the fight!” screeched Mac, throwing his arms
about above his head, and dancing the wildest of wild Highland flings.
“So am I; I’m going to be a horse sodger, fol-de-rol de-riddle-le-i!”
shouted Don. “Give us the mouth-organ!”
He immediately struck up “The British Grenadiers,” Loring joining
in with the penny whistle, and away we tramped round and round the
after-hatch.
It was lucky that we only got this news of the war at the end of the
passage, as with the number of dagos and Dutchmen on board, who would
of course take the side of the Boers, it would have been a regular
stand-up fight the whole time.
Presently the cunning old pilot came on deck loaded down with tobacco,
two bottles of whisky, a bag of hard-tack, and sundry other gleanings
from the steward.
This was the real reason why he had boarded us, though he pretended it
was to tell us we were to go to Birkenhead, which was, of course, stale
news.
They weren’t shy of asking, those Irishmen.
“Got any salt beef?” was one of their first questions.
When told that we were short of grub, they remarked,
“Hungry ship, ain’t she?”
Presently they sheared off, having reaped a plentiful harvest.
Hardly had they gone before another piece of news began to get round.
We were the first ship in of the Frisco grain fleet, except the
_Talus_, Loring’s old ship, which had sailed thirty-two days before us,
and only got into Queenstown three days ago.
Scar and Mac were jubilant over this news, and gloated over Don.
The old man is all smiles to-day, as well he may be, for the
_Royalshire_ has acquitted herself right nobly, and well borne out her
reputation.
Loring and the steward are at a loss what to give us for our Christmas
dinner, as all the stores have run out, even the cabin ones, and there
is not much left but flour and hard-tack.
They had, however, some mouldy old dried apples, and these did the
trick.
We did not even get pea-soup, only our ordinary allowance of salt
horse, and a small pie for each watch, composed of break-jaw crust and
stewed apples.
I don’t believe anybody got through his go of pie. I made a valiant
attempt, but failed. The nipper lost a couple of teeth over the job,
the crust was too much for him. Mac as usual kept some on his plate for
tea; he was not particular, and ate alternate mouthfuls of apple pie,
salt horse, and all manner of queer tit-bits on his plate, which always
reminded me of the queer things Chinamen eat on the top of their
little heaps of rice--rats’ tails, snails, slugs, etc. I believe they
are eaten by the Chinese chiefly as appetisers.
The apple pie worked havoc with the insides of most of the crew during
the afternoon, and men were to be seen lying about the decks in all
directions in all the contortions of cramp in the stomach. It truly was
a fine Christmas dinner.
Notwithstanding this, at tea-time Mac and I were not to be beat, and it
seemed a sin to leave the good food, so we made a second attack on the
terrible stuff, but again were defeated, and Mac had to retire to the
side of the vessel.
We have got a whole holiday to-day, being Christmas. As there is no
champagne to be got out of the old man--nor even a “Grog ho!”--for rum,
the bosun brought forth his home-grown Californian claret and gave us
each a tot.
Poor old Taylor is in high spirits, as he may perhaps save his hand
now, as we ought to be into Liverpool to-morrow.
Little Yoko is in his bunk helpless from rheumatism, as are a few
others of both watches, but they are the victims of the unconquerable
apple pie.
The weather is propitious: a keen English winter day, cold but
clear, with the sun poking forth, and a fine breeze blowing from the
south-west.
_Tuesday, 26th December._--To-day is our last day at sea, and we are
plunging through a choppy sea, going 10 knots.
The _Sarah Joliffe_, one of the finest tugs out of Liverpool, turned
up off the coast of Wales. She came up under our lee quarter, and had
all she could do to keep up with us, plunging and rolling about like a
porpoise in the rough sea.
Now began a great bargaining and haggling between the two skippers, and
our old man proved himself quite equal to the tugman.
It was well towards noon before a bargain was struck, and we took her
line.
We should have gone on much further without her, if the wind had not
shown signs of dropping and hauling ahead off Holyhead.
It was a case of all hands on deck this afternoon, as for the last time
we furled sail.
The port watch started on the fore and we on the mizen.
A great race began, and a harbour stow was the order of the day, but
we were down to the main-topsails before the other watch had finished
furling the sails on the foremast.
All sail was taken off her except the staysails, as the wind had gone
ahead.
For the rest of the afternoon we were busy at various jobs, getting
ready for going into port.
Yoko and myself were up aloft the whole time sending down sheets.
Presently a very dandy young pilot stepped aboard, and took charge of
the ship.
It was my wheel in the dog watch, and I found it was not such an easy
job as it looked, steering after a tug.
I was told to keep her on the port bow, and it took me all my time to
keep her steady.
As is usual on board a deep-waterman on approaching port, every jack
was talking of what he was going to do: how he was going to save his
money this time, and keep clear of the landsharks. Everybody made good,
wise resolutions; I wonder who kept to them!
My friend Bower has a queer idea of a pleasant lodging. When I asked
him what he was going to do, he said--
“Get into jug as soon as I can; no more sea for me. I’d rather spend
the rest of my life in gaol than put foot on a ship’s deck again.”
Don is going to the war, he says.
Scar wants to make a voyage out East again in a steamer.
Sails is off to his native Cardiff, and the bosun for the “Fatherland.”
The poor nipper can make no rosy plans for the future, as he has to
stay by the ship.
As a matter of fact, I expect the greater part of both watches will be
outward bound in less than a fortnight after landing.
This evening an anchor watch was set, consisting of two men on the
lookout, whilst of course the mates continued to keep watch and watch
as usual.
At 10 P.M. I was turned out of my bunk, and had to go and relieve the
wheel, though it wasn’t my wheel but old Foghorn’s; but apparently we
now want two men at the wheel, as we are entering the Mersey.
For about an hour and a half we steered after the tug, until we were
pretty nearly up to the “landing stage.”
It was a lovely frosty night, and the lights ashore sparkled in long
rows of red and white on each side of us.
Suddenly, without any warning, just before midnight, a dense fog rolled
down upon us; first the lights ashore were blotted out, then the ships
anchored and moving round us were enveloped, and we could hardly see
the dim form of the tug ahead.
The pilot did not dare go any farther, and so we let go the anchor
just opposite the landing stage and slightly on the Birkenhead side.
We could do nothing more until the fog cleared, so the tug let go and
cleared off, leaving us to our own devices.
_Wednesday, 27th December._--Well, here we are, the mudhook is in the
ground, and the shore within a comfortable swim; but it seems that the
Fates do not intend us to part company just yet, as the fog is too
thick to dock, which we can only do on the top of the tide.
So here we lie in the dense fog, sailing-ship bells and steamers’
whistles going all round us, but nothing to be seen.
We are right in the line of the ferry-boats, which have to make a
detour round our stern; they have precious nearly run us down several
times, and though we keep the big bell forward on the continual tinkle,
they are constantly hailing us and complaining that they can’t hear it.
This is quite exciting. We certainly are not safe yet from the perils
of the deep; every moment we may be cut in half, and depart to the
bottom of the Mersey.
The Isle of Man steamer just grazed our stern early this morning,
amidst wild excitement.
We could see them rushing about on the steamer, casting loose
lifebuoys, and someone on the bridge halloa’d out,
“Where are we?”
“Opposite the landing stage!”
“Thank you, thank you; pretty thick, ain’t it; guess we’re going to
have a spell of it!”
She had groped her way up the Mersey, and had not the remotest idea of
where she was.
This fog is very trying to the temper. Here we are, on a bleak, raw,
damp morning, instead of speeding homewards in the train, hard at work
washing down decks.
This done, all hands were turned to swabbing all the paint-work. This
is cold work on a bitter December day, as you have got your hands in a
bucket of icy water the whole time.
Tinkle, tinkle, go the bells of the wind-jammers, whilst sirens and
steam whistles fairly hum all round us.
To our joy, the fog cleared off a bit towards 8 P.M., and we could see
the lights on either shore.
Two tugs came alongside to take us into dock, and with joy we responded
to the hurricane shout of
“Man the capstan!”
Round we tramped, making the Mersey ring with our chanties.
We started the ball with “Sally Brown.”
CHANTY.--“SALLY BROWN.”
_Solo._ “I love a maid across the water,”
_Chorus._ “Aye, aye, roll and go!”
_Solo._ “She is Sal herself, yet Sally’s daughter,”
_Chorus._ “Spend my money on Sally Brown.”
_Solo._ “Seven long years I courted Sally,”
_Chorus._ “Aye, aye, roll and go!”
_Solo._ “She called me ‘boy, and Dilly Dally,’”
_Chorus._ “Spend my money on Sally Brown.”
_Solo._ “Seven long years and she wouldn’t marry,”
_Chorus._ “Aye, aye, roll and go!”
_Solo._ “And I no longer cared to tarry,”
_Chorus._ “Spend my money on Sally Brown.”
_Solo._ “So I courted Sal, her only daughter,”
_Chorus._ “Aye, aye, roll and go!”
_Solo._ “For her I sail upon the water,”
_Chorus._ “Spend my money on Sally Brown.”
_Solo._ “Sally’s teeth are white and pearly,”
_Chorus._ “Aye, aye, roll and go!”
_Solo._ “Her eyes are blue, her hair is curly,”
_Chorus._ “Spend my money on Sally Brown.”
_Solo._ “The sweetest flower of the valley,”
_Chorus._ “Aye, aye, roll and go!”
_Solo._ “Is my dear girl, my pretty Sally,”
_Chorus._ “Spend my money on Sally Brown.”
And so it runs on into a number of verses. How we did sing it out! It
is something to hear a deep-water crew, in high spirits at getting
into port, ring out a chanty. The tugmen came aboard and watched our
enthusiasm as we almost ran round the capstan at times.
Then old Foghorn struck up, “Leave her, Johnnie,” a great chanty.
CHANTY.--“LEAVE HER, JOHNNIE.”
_Solo._ “I thought I heard the skipper say,”
_Chorus._ “Leave her, Johnnie, leave her!”
_Solo._ “To-morrow you will get your pay,”
_Chorus._ “It’s time for us to leave her.”
_Solo._ “The work was hard, the voyage was long,”
_Chorus._ “Leave her, Johnnie, leave her!”
_Solo._ “The seas were high, the gales were strong,”
_Chorus._ “It’s time for us to leave her.”
_Solo._ “The food was bad, the wages low,”
_Chorus._ “Leave her, Johnnie, leave her!”
_Solo._ “But now ashore again we’ll go,”
_Chorus._ “It’s time for us to leave her.”
_Solo._ “The sails are furled, our work is done,”
_Chorus._ “Leave her, Johnnie, leave her!”
_Solo._ “And now on shore we’ll have our fun,”
_Chorus._ “It’s time for us to leave her.”
Presently came the cry, “Hove short!” and then a long wait occurred,
and gradually--so gradually--the fog rolled down again and blotted out
the shore lights.
No chance of docking to-night. Alas! for disappointed hopes. With a
rush and a roar the cable ran out again, and with a toot of farewell
the tugs left us to our gloomy reflections.
_Thursday, 28th December._--We in the half-deck had a long lie in, the
men in the forecastle taking the lookout in turn.
At 4 A.M. we were turned out to get up the anchor; it was not so thick,
and this time the mudhook was catheaded.
Two tugs took hold of us until we got to the dock gates, when lo! and
behold! there was no one to run our lines; there was no time to get
anybody, and the gates had to be shut in a few moments.
Our old man stormed and raved to no purpose; the gates shut upon us,
and we were left stranded again.
As a matter of fact, the dockkeeper was afraid to let us through, as he
thought there might not be enough water, and he would not risk it, so
he brought this forward as an excuse.
So back we went, and anchored again. Every soul on the ship turned in
except myself, who was left to pace the poop in solitary glory from 9
A.M. till 1 P.M.
It was very cold work, as it was snowing hard, and a miserable day.
Last night, Don, the bosun, and Sails slipped ashore in one of the
tugs. The bosun and Sails got off by the tug this morning in time to
man the capstan; but Don missed it, but presently came off in another
tug, having evidently had a high old time of it. He gave me an Egyptian
cigarette, though--a terrific luxury, which I had been without for
many, many months. I don’t know to this day whether he ever got into a
row for this escapade.
Mac and Scar have been busy the whole morning making boxes down in the
fore ’tween-decks for their curios.
This evening we hove up the anchor again, and this time got safely into
the dock; and soon after midnight we lay all fast alongside the quay.
The last thing to be done was to cat and fish the anchors; and then at
last came the long-awaited order from the mate--which means that your
duty is done, that you are free once more, and have only got to go at
the proper time and get your pay--
“That’ll do, men!” were the magic words, and we quietly walked off to
our various bunks.
I determined to fly off by Board of Trade that very night; and doing
a very hurried pack, said good-bye to all, and, with Sails and old
Foghorn Wilson, caught the 2.35 train for London, where I burst in
upon my people about breakfast-time, clad in a pilot coat, sea cap and
boots--altogether a very rough-looking individual--and it was many
weeks before I got the last of the tar out of my hands.
In due course I got my money and “discharge” paper, on which I
found “very good” against both character and ability, to my great
satisfaction.
Little remains to be said. Of course, Johnsen and his threats came to
nothing.
I have only come across one member of the crew since, and that was one
day in Cape Town I met the mate, who told me he was captain of a fine
barque lying in Table Bay.
He had been twice round the world since I had seen him last, and told
me of the sad end of the _Royalshire_.
“What’s happened to the old ship?” I asked.
“Burnt off the coast of Australia, having a cargo of coal on board.
Wasn’t it a pity! Such a fine ship as she was!”
“And Captain Bailey?”
“Left her, as did we all, at Birkenhead that time, and took a billet
ashore.”
I expect at the present moment my messmates on the _Royalshire_ are
in every part of the world. Whilst fighting in the late Boer War, I
wondered if I would meet Mac, Don, or Loring, but our courses did not
cross; perhaps in the future--who knows--but some day again I may cross
the trail of an old shipmate, and have a yarn about the good old days
on the gallant but ill-fated _Royalshire_.
“You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,
And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;
You have heard the song--how long! how long!
Put out on the trail again!
Its North you may run to the rime-ringed sun,
Or South to the blind Horn’s hate;
Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
Or West to the Golden Gate,
Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
And the wildest tales are true,
And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail;
And life runs large on the Long Trail--the trail that is always new.”
Printed by
Oliver and Boyd
Edinburgh
[Illustration: Map to illustrate AUTHOR’S VOYAGE round CAPE HORN]
Transcriber’s Notes
• Italics represented by surrounding _underscores_.
• Small capitals converted to ALL CAPS.
• Illustrations moved close to relevant content. Also, printer’s
instructions for the page placement of plates removed.
• The illustration on p. 132 (Clinching the Crossjack Leechline)
was missing from the original List of Illustrations and has been
added.
• Footnote moved close to relevant paragraph.
• Obvious typographic errors corrected silently, but unusual
spellings, non-standard and variable punctuation, and unique word
choices kept to reflect the epistolary nature of the text. In
some cases it’s hard to tell a typo from a unique spelling, and
the transcriber has tendend toward keeping what’s printed in the
original.