to any patron, immigrant or otherwise, voicing a just protest, and
especially not to an unprotected lady traveling alone, subject to the
care and courtesy of the transportation company she was traveling
with.
Indignant? Oh my! I should say so.
If indignation could sink a ship, we'd never have got across.
As Chairman of the Protest and Indignation Committee, all that
indignation was poured into me. I didn't know I could hold so much.
And still it came. One woman wanted to sue the company when she got
home for a million dollars, and she came and asked my advice about it.
I told her I wasn't a lawyer, but being Chairman of the Committee on
Protest and Indignation, I told her to state her case. She said she
was going down a darkened stairway to the noisome, filthy quarters
where they had to sleep; the stairway wasn't lighted and in
consequence she fell down stairs and was picked up for dead, jarred,
bruised, broken and bleeding profusely. The ship's doctor attended her
injuries and charged her two dollars, and she wanted her two dollars
back and a million on top of it.
Speaking from underneath the load of other people's woes I had aboard,
to say nothing of those of my own, I told her she had, in my opinion,
a just claim. To sue the company when she got home--this last advice I
threw over my shoulder at her, as another woman was dragging me off to
investigate the "awful condition" below deck where they were herded to
spend the nights.
And still the indignation grew and grew. Our petition hadn't bettered
matters.
We were steerage passengers--just that and nothing more, and if there
wasn't some new, fresh, sensational bit of steerage news to tell there
was always "Beef" and his insults to discuss.
One evening as curfew rule was being enforced (it seems there is a law
that demands that female immigrants en route to the United States
shall be ordered below deck at 9 o'clock), as this rule was being
applied to our steerage passengers, both Americans and immigrants, and
as they were being driven to the filth and stench and vermin below,
indignation boiled over again.
One young fellow whose wife was driven from his side, swore like a
pirate, but had to submit--we were steerage passengers.
"Beef" was boss of the steerage, and as he was standing near, to voice
our indignation, I said to the men who were allowed to stay on deck:
"Men, if any of us catch an officer on this ship insulting a woman,
whether she is American or an immigrant, no matter how many shoulder
straps or brass buttons he wears, I propose we knock him down, and if
he is too big to handle with our fists, take a club." That little
speech was for "Beef's" benefit--but things didn't mend.
[Illustration: He swore like a pirate]
The well deck was the outdoor privilege for steerage passengers, set
nine feet down in the hull of the ship, forward the poop deck and aft
second cabin promenade deck, with a railing across the latter to
prevent cabin passengers falling off into the well deck. All view
available for steerage passengers on the well deck was up into the
sky--whence we might look and pray for deliverance. We could sit on
the bulkheads that formed a part of the floor and lean our backs
against the wall, which our women folk did.
Cabin passengers up top side would lean on that rail and _spit on us_!
And they complained to _me_ about it--of course they did--to whom else
should they tell their troubles?--wasn't I Chairman of Committee on
Complaints? I was, and it was another case of "Let George do it."
There was no one to appeal to but "Beef." Captain and purser held
aloof and wouldn't answer our petition.
I didn't have much hope in approaching "Beef" after my proposition of
the night before at curfew--"Beef" knew I was driving at him--but I
thought of Moses and how he had to appeal to Pharaoh, of the stony
heart--what little I knew of the career of Moses was especially
comforting to me--but since I'd been purged of the streak of yellow in
me that prompted me to try and shake my steerage friends I was
willing to do anything; so I went to "Beef" and said: "Say, those
low-brow cabin passengers along the rail up top side are _spittin'_ on
the ladies and gentlemen down here in the steerage!"
The enormity of the outrage didn't faze "Beef." Cabin passengers had
the privilege to spit on steerage. He wouldn't do anything. All the
attention he paid to the complaint was to look at me and say: "I don't
consider _you're_ a gentleman."
And I told him if in _his_ opinion I was a gentleman I'd go and hang
myself.
And the indignation grew and grew.
All the comfort there was on hand was to lodge complaints with me and
to express the hope that I'd do justice to the situation when I got
home.
"Don't forget to tell about the rats, Allen," a man from Maryland
piped up.
"Yes, touch up the rats," a man from Iowa admonished me, while a man
from Kentucky said he had become so innured to hardship he didn't mind
the rats so much, he could stand their running over his face nights,
if they would only hurry across.
"Yes," a man from Massachusetts plaintively wailed, "it _is_ hard when
they loiter, isn't it?" While a man from Florida said that he didn't
mind their feet so much--it was the dragging their tails across his
face that got onto _his_ nerves.
[Illustration: "It _is_ hard when they loiter, isn't it?"]
"And don't forget to tell how they served us those little, pithy
oranges that day, Allen," a man from California broke in.
This was hardly worthy. The man who lodged that complaint ought to
have been ashamed of himself, and his ingenuity for finding things to
kick about was of a low order--he was straining at a gnat and
swallowing camels.
It's true the stewards brought them on in their dirty aprons and
pitched them at us--not the stewards' fault, they were doing the best
they could with the tools furnished them--but steerage passengers
ought to be grateful for any kind of oranges, served in any shape.
While it's quite true, in my adolescent years, as a boy on the farm I
have fed apples to hogs with the same courtesy, the complaint was too
trivial to be spread on the minutes of the meeting. But it was voted
to spread it, hence the mention.
Before the meeting adjourned, under the head of "New Business," a
portly judge advised that the petition sent to the captain be
rewritten and signed again with the home addresses of all signers
opposite their names, and that I take the resigned petition home with
me. Some of the ship's letterheads were pasted together until we had a
sheet nearly five feet long on which to rewrite the petition, and on
both sides of the paper there was not enough space to hold the
signers' names, and an overflow sheet had to be supplied.
The next day all steerage passengers were subjected to a medical
examination. Americans examined on deck--immigrants in the dining
saloon.
A brother-in-tribulation, "New York," and I, after we were released
from the examination, started down a noisome alleyway to go to our
cabins, and we had to pass through the dining-room, where immigrants
were being examined. We were in "New York's" cabin when a dining-room
steward came to us and told us he had been sent to tell us to go on
deck; that we were holding up the medical examination. No steerage
passengers were allowed in the cabins until medical examinations were
completed, he told us, and that he was ordered to tell us to go on
deck.
We had gotten so used to being ordered up and down and in and out that
we obeyed like dumb driven cattle. As we were about to pass through a
companionway to get on deck, dining-room stewards guarded it and told
us we couldn't go on deck. "New York" was ahead, and paid no attention
to the contradictory order. They let him pass, but when I followed,
one of the guards took hold of my arm to stop me, and I brushed past
him. He fell down and began to howl before he struck the deck. I
joined "New York" on deck and told him I suspected a frame-up, and
that I would hear of it later.
Sure enough, in about half an hour "Beef" hove in sight and told me
the captain wanted to see me in the purser's room.
"Glory be, 'New York'," I said, "let's shake the nether regions and go
up first and see the captain. I've an invitation to meet him in the
purser's room. We've been wanting to see that fellow ever since we
left Liverpool, and I invite you to go with me as my guest."
"Only Mr. Allen is wanted," "Beef" vouchsafed, but "New York" didn't
pay any more attention to him than if he'd been a toadstool--I was
going to say mushroom, but I like mushrooms--and together we went to
pay our respects to his nibs, the captain, "Beef" following on behind.
As we neared the purser's room we passed the entrance to first-cabin
dining-saloon, and as we saw the luscious fruits and viands prepared,
and took in the luxurious surroundings, we clasped our hands and
simultaneously exclaimed: "Is this heaven?"
I was ushered into the purser's room, "New York" sticking to me closer
than a brother. There sat his nibs, the captain, togged out with
enough gold braid to scare a horse. The purser stood at his side, and
"Beef" came in. There were some chairs in the room.
My! but those chairs did look good to "New York" and me. Neither of us
had sat on anything soft for nearly a week.
An irresistible impulse to sit down on something soft seized us, and,
unabashed in the presence of all that gold braid confronting us, we
were about to sink into their luxurious depths when his royal gazooks,
with an imperious wave of his hand, bade us remain standing in his
presence. It was really an awful break on our part--we should have
waited for him to have invited his guests to take a seat, but we were
so dazzled and dazed by the sudden transition from steerage to first
that we were momentarily shy a few buttons on the niceties--and
besides, we wanted to sit on a cushioned chair--we _ached_ to sit on a
cushioned chair, I'm telling you, but we didn't--I thought of Lal and
stood.
It was up to _me_ to stand--I was up for trial before the most
absolute monarch in the world, the commander of a ship at sea.
He asked me my name, and I told him.
"You are charged with assaulting an officer in the discharge of his
duty," he said. "What have you to say for yourself?"
[Illustration: And "Beef" came in]
I told him the circumstances, "And, captain," I said, "that chap fell
down mighty easy, and began to howl before he struck the deck."
The captain ordered the damaged steward to be produced.
The purser and "Beef" had him on tap, around the corner somewhere, and
"Beef" led him in limping and sniveling.
"Did this man assault you?" the captain asked, pointing to me.
"Yes, sir, captain, 'e did, sir, thank you, sir. Hi was guardin' a
door accordin' to horders, sir, and 'e pushed me over and I got an
awful bruise, sir, thank you, sir."
According to the evidence, I was the one to thank, but I guess he got
his thanks bestowed where they belonged, all right.
"Beef" explained that the man was badly hurt and under the doctor's
care, and he turned him tenderly around so the captain could see where
his pants had come in contact with the deck.
And those pants did look bad, there was no doubt about that.
"Yes, yes," the captain said, in a commiserating tone, "the man is
undoubtedly severely injured."
[Illustration: And those pants did look bad. There was no doubt about
that]
"Yes, captain," "Beef" said, "and the other night at curfew, out on
the well deck, Mr. Allen made a speech and advised a lot of steerage
passengers to knock down officers on the ship, no matter how many
shoulder straps they wore."
This was a serious charge--mutiny on shipboard--and punishable, I am
informed, with instant death.
With a shuddering gasp at the enormity of my crime--or was it ghoulish
glee at having sufficient evidence to have me drawn and quartered--I
credit him with the latter sentiment--a human being who would keep two
free-born American citizens standing in his presence--men whom he knew
had been living steerage on his ship for nearly a week--with those
chairs standing tantalizingly, invitingly empty--the wearer of all
that gold braid, lolling luxuriously in an easy chair, filled with
such viands as "New York" and I had seen coming through--I'll never
believe that man would shudder at crime. Rather, I think he was
gloating over my ignoble end, and devising ways of still more horrible
torture--that's the kind of a man I think that captain was, and I'll
bet on it.
But according to the rules he didn't dare pass sentence without giving
me a hearing. While he was judge, jury and prosecuting attorney, he
had to give me a chance to clear myself, so he asked me what answer I
had to make to the charge.
"Well, captain," I said, "'Bee--'--I mean your chief of steerage,
hasn't got the story straight. At an indignation meeting out on the
well deck the other night, as he has insulted women on this voyage,
after he had ordered the women below decks at what you call your
curfew time, I voiced the sentiments of the male portion of your
steerage passengers by advising that if any of them caught an officer
of the ship insulting a woman, whether she was an immigrant or an
American, no matter how many brass buttons or shoulder straps he wore,
to knock him down; and if he was too big to handle with the fist, to
use a club."
"Beef" jumped up and shook his fist at me and bellowed: "If Mr. Allen
says I've insulted women, he's a liar."
Right here is where "New York" shone.
"I would like a word here, captain," he said. "Mr. Allen is stating
facts. Your chief of steerage _has_ insulted women on this voyage."
That "impartial" judge, that embellished emblem of authority, said he
had known "Beef" for a good many years, and he knew he wouldn't do
such a thing, so, according to "Beef" and the captain, "New York" and
I were both liars.
[Illustration: "If Mr. Allen says I have insulted women, he's a
liar"]
Then that bedizened judge turned on "New York" and said: "You look
like a clean-cut, up-standing man" (this last was the unkindest cut
of all; it's a compliment to have some men call you a liar, but he
needn't have used that word "up-standing"; Lord knows, "New York"
didn't _want_ to stand up)--"how do you explain your associating with
such a person as this man Allen?"
And then "New York" shone some more. He told the captain that he had
found Mr. Allen a most agreeable and congenial companion on this
voyage.
Oh, my! How this story does string out. I suppose "New York" saved my
life. With "New York's" testimony the captain didn't pass the death
sentence--he dismissed us with a magnificent wave of his embroidered
coat-sleeve--the steward didn't die, but peeled potatoes, and I'm in
New York, and Clinton only five hours away.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's A Yankee in the Far East, by George Hoyt Allen