A LEAKY OLD TUB AND RETRIBUTION OR VILLAINY REWARDED
AFTER staying on shore in Newcastle for three weeks, during which time
I had a good holiday and spent most of the money I possessed, I joined
the barque “Edinburgh” bound for Wellington, New Zealand, with a cargo
of coals. Well, of all the old tubs that ever sailed on salt water,
this old craft was the worst. Every two hours we had a twenty minutes’
spell on the pumps, night and day the game went on, in fact we could
truly say we carried the leaky old basket on our arms.
There was no time lost in painting these colonial ships. There was
plenty of other work to do without that, nearly all the passage was
spent in fitting and roping new cargo baskets ready to discharge the
coal on our arrival at Wellington. The weather was just splendid all
the way across, which was fortunate for us, just a gentle seven knot
breeze, with a smooth sea and a perfectly cloudless sky. The sea, when
we had time to notice it, was a beautiful ultra-marine, and at night
the stars were reflected like diamonds in a sea of glass. The waters
were simply alive with fish, and at night, as they moved about in the
star-lit waters, they left a phosphorescent trail behind them, like a
design drawn upon a blackboard with a silver pencil.
Captain Saunders, or “Black Saunders” as he was called by colonial
seamen, was a sturdy, well-built man, with jet black curly hair and
beard. He was a thorough seaman, and never so happy as when he was
paddling about in salt water. The mate, Archie McLeod, was a Scotchman
and hailed from Glasgow, but had been sailing out of Sydney for a
number of years. He was, without a doubt, one of the finest specimens
of physical manhood I ever saw, quite six feet in height, trained and
proficient in all kinds of athletic sports, and a first rate boxer
for sport, but in general a very quiet, amiable sort of shipmate. The
second mate was a young native of Sydney, not much of a sailor, but
that was from want of experience and not from want of ability. Our crew
consisted of eight able seamen--three English and three colonials--and
two Swedes. The pay was seven pounds a month, and we signed to work
eight hours per day in port, but when unloading coal the crew were
given the privilege of working all night and were paid extra, so that
we made very good money indeed.
After we had finished unloading our coals at Wellington, news spread
around the town that gold had been found on the Thames river near
Auckland, and that hundreds of people were flocking there. At once
there was a rush, and four of our sailors cleared out and joined the
throng _en route_ for the gold fields. To replace them, the captain
picked up four men who had just run away from a ship in Wellington, and
who wanted to get over to Australia. They were not long on board before
they began to bully the sailors in the forecastle. Evidently they were
a set of scoundrels that the ship they had left was well clear of.
We hauled away from the jetty after tea, and anchored in the bay ready
to sail in the morning. At daylight the mate called all hands out to
heave up the anchor. None of the crew turned out, saying they were
sick. The mate quietly told them that he would give them five minutes
to get out on deck, if they were not out in that time he would kick
them out.
“All right, Mr. Mate,” one of them answered, “try it, we’ll soon take
the kick out of you.”
Just then I went into the forecastle to light a lamp for the chain
locker.
“Drop that lamp, you son of a b---- sea cook,” snarled one of them, “or
I’ll jolly well jump the stuffing out of you.”
“Were you speaking to me?” I asked him.
“Yes, blast you, I was,” he replied.
In an instant my blood was up, and I sprang over to him. Thrusting
the lighted lamp into his face, I poured the oil over him, and set
fire to his bed, as he tried to get up I beat him back with the lamp
until his bed was all in a wild blaze. His three mates came to his
assistance and the two Swedes came to mine, and for a few minutes there
was a frightful pandemonium. The mate rushed forward when he heard
the row, and called out to us to put the fire out at once. This was
soon done, and we were ordered to heave up the anchor immediately. The
newcomers looked sulky and inclined to refuse, but as there was no boat
alongside, and they were likely to get roughly handled, they thought
better of it, and turned to, though with a bad grace, and we were soon
under weigh with all sail set, heading for Cook’s Straits.
That evening the breeze freshened into a living gale, and we had a dead
beat down to Cape Farewell, which headland we passed on the fifth day
out. To make matters worse the vessel was leaking like a basket, and
the pumps had to be kept going night and day.
After rounding Cape Farewell, the barque was headed south, and was soon
wallowing in a heavy cross sea. We were fagged out with pumping, and as
we drew near to Foveaux Straits, all hands walked aft and begged the
captain to put into the Bluff Harbour for shelter until the weather
moderated. The captain, however, hoping to run out of the bad weather
when he got south of the Straits, refused to put back. We refused to
work the pumps any longer, and walked forward in a body.
The captain looked at us and said quietly: “All right, my lads,” and
calmly went on smoking his pipe under the weather cloth.
The mate wanted to go forward and force us to the pumps, but Captain
Saunders said: “Oh, no, let them alone, they will turn to sharp enough
directly.”
The barque carried two of her boats in the davits on the poop, out of
the way of the cargo gear, so the captain told the mate and second mate
to see that there was fresh water and food put in one of them ready for
use.
We had been in the forecastle about an hour, smoking and grumbling,
when a heavy sea broke on board, smashing the lifeboat and cutter, and
washing the cook-house clean over the side. Luckily for the cook, he
was aft in the cabin at the time. A few of the pots and pans that had
been scattered about the deck were picked up. We were now thoroughly
terrified at the amount of water in the ship, which was causing her to
roll heavily to windward, thus exposing her deck and hatches to the
sea, so again we went aft and complained to the captain that the vessel
was sinking, and asked him to run back to the Bluff.
“I know she is sinking,” he replied coolly, “and I think you had better
pump her out.”
“We want our tea, and we want some rest, it’s nothing else but pumping
since we left Wellington,” replied the men.
“Aye, you want your tea do you? So do I, but the galley’s gone
overboard, and as for the rest--well, I promise you good long rest in a
few hours, if the water is not pumped out. It is six o’clock now,” he
continued, looking at his watch, “and I give her just another two hours
to float upright, after that, you will not need any tea, and you will
get all the rest you want.”
Just then, as though to verify the captain’s words, the vessel gave
a dangerous lurch to the leeward, and in the weather roll the two
lower topsails were blown to bits, leaving the fore, main, and mizzen
staysail only on the vessel. The men, who were holding on to the mizzen
rigging to save themselves from being washed overboard, looked at the
captain, and then at each other, and without a word made their way
to the pumps. The officers and cook joined them, and they all pumped
away for dear life. The barque had a powerful set of pumps, and after
working for four hours, at times up to the waist in water, they found
the soundings were considerably reduced.
In the meantime, Captain Saunders had got some food ready on the cabin
stove, and at midnight they all went into the cabin and had a good meal
and a stiff glass of grog each. Afterwards the watch was set and there
was no more trouble about the work. The men had found their master, and
they worked all the better for the experience.
The following day the gale moderated and the sea went down. The wreck
of the lower topsails was sent down, and fresh sails were bent, and
with all sail set we had a good run over to the Australian coast.
The day before we made the coast the wind hauled into the north, and
was soon blowing a stiff gale, and the leaky old craft had to be
reduced to lower topsails again. The short choppy sea met with on the
Australian coast caused the old barque to leak at an alarming rate,
and the pumps had to be kept continually going to keep her afloat.
It seemed as though the vessel was doomed not to reach port. To make
matters worse, at midnight the gale backed into the south-west and at
the same time the man on the look-out reported breakers on the lee-bow.
“Loose the upper topsail!” cried the captain. “We must force her off or
under.”
A few men left the pumps and sprang aloft. As soon as they reached the
topsail yard they called out:
“Breakers all along the lee!”
“Shut your mouth, and loose the sails!” replied the captain grimly.
“You’ll know all about the breakers when she strikes.”
“Hoist away,” came from aloft, and the pumps were stopped a few minutes
while the sails were set.
The old barque staggered along under the increased pressure, and seemed
to be heading just along the coast, but fortunately for us the current
setting to the S.S.W. just counteracted the leeway the ship was making,
and when the welcome daylight appeared she just cleared Port Stevens
and squared away for Newcastle.
When the yards were squared and all the danger past, the captain
called all hands aft and congratulated them on having been enabled
to bring the ship safely across under such terrible conditions, and
gave each man a good glass of grog. Then, as we looked at him, to our
astonishment we saw that Captain Saunders could never again be called
“Black Saunders,” for his hair and beard had turned quite grey during
the preceding night, and in his eyes was the look of one who had
touched shoulders with death. Those terrible twelve hours of anxiety
had left a mark that time would never efface.
We arrived in Newcastle that evening and the barque was moored at
Bullock Island Dyke. The following day the crew were paid off. None of
us had any inclination to make another trip in the leaky old basket.
A few days afterwards she was being overhauled for repairs when a
discoloured patch was noticed under the spider band, on the main mast
where the mizzin stay sets up. It was tested with a sheath-knife and
found to be completely rotten. How it had stood the strain of that last
trip was a mystery, for on the mast being condemned it was found unsafe
even to lift it out whole, and it had to be cut in two for safety, and
half of it hoisted out at one time, and a fine new pitch pine lower
mast was put into its place before the vessel sailed again.
Now Newcastle, New South Wales, in those days was a busy thriving
little seaport. The harbour was full of large sailing vessels, loading
and waiting to load coal. They were bound, principally, for China,
San Francisco, and Pacific coast ports. Very few of these ships had
their full complement of seamen on board, for most of the sailors
had deserted during the ship’s stay in port, and one could not blame
them, when we consider that the pay in these ships from the British
Isles was two pound ten shillings per month, and the poorest quality
of food that it was possible for the ship-owner to buy, and then only
just sufficient to keep body and soul together. The pay out of the
Australian ports was five pound ten shillings for homeward bound ships,
and seven pound per month in the coast and intercolonial trades, with
a sufficiency of good, nourishing food. In addition to this, there was
plenty of work to be found ashore, for the Queensland, Victorian, and
South Australian gold fields were in full swing. The consequence was
there was great difficulty in getting men for the ships when they were
ready for sea.
Like most seaports in those days of sailing ships, the town was full of
sailors’ boarding-houses. Their tactics and methods of procuring men
were not such as could stand the light of day, but, nevertheless, they
did a thriving business.
One of the most noted characters in the town was a boarding-house
keeper, named Dan Slagan a thorough scoundrel to the backbone. He was
notorious for the number of men he had “shanghaied” out of the port,
but, strange to say, he had gained a certain amount of power in the
town, and shipmasters requiring men were, under the circumstances,
compelled to deal with him, although at the same time many of them had
the utmost contempt for the fellow.
Slagan kept a low-class drinking saloon with a free-and-easy
dancing-room attached to it. The boarders lived in the rooms overhead.
This was the only dancing saloon in the town, and was thronged with
sailors every night. Needless to say that the liquor sold there was
vile stuff, but men who have been living for months on “salt horse”
and weevily biscuit have very little taste left in their mouths, and,
as long as the decoction was hot and came out of a bottle, it passed
muster.
Slagan was an adept at drugging liquor, and he always kept materials
at hand for that purpose. Just a little tobacco ash dropped in the
glass when pouring out the drinks, and the thing was done. When he
required a few sailors for a ship ready to sail, he picked out the
likeliest men in the room--usually strangers--and when the seamen, hot
and thirsty with dancing, ordered drinks through the women, who acted
as waitresses, these Delilahs would bring the prepared stuff, and very
soon the men would feel muddled and sleepy and would go into the side
room and sink down on the benches. Slagan would then slip in among them:
“Halloa, mates! What’s the matter? Feel queer, eh? Ah, it’s the dancing
and the hot weather. I’ll send you a good tot that will put you all
right.” He would then send one of the girls in with a good glass of hot
whisky, drugged, of course, and that would be all the men would know
for some time. When they came to their senses they found themselves
in a strange ship, out of sight of land, without a stitch of clothes
beyond what they stood up in. Of course, there was generally a row, but
it invariably ended in their turning to work and making the best of a
bad bargain.
One day in February, 18--, it happened that there were three British
ships lying at the buoys, loaded and ready to sail, but each in need
of a few seamen to make up her complement. Not a man could be got at
the shipping office for love or money--the news of a fresh gold field
on the Barrington had reached Newcastle that morning, and all the
disengaged had made tracks for that district, so the only possible way
to get hands for the vessels ready to sail, was to obtain them from the
ships that had lately arrived, and which would have some time to wait
for a loading berth.
The captains of the ships at the buoys sent for Slagan, and arranged
with him to supply them with four men each that night, as the trio
would sail at the turn of the tide. When Slagan got back to shore he
sent some of his runners to quietly let the crews of the ships in the
harbour know there was to be a free concert and dance at his place,
with plenty of whisky into the bargain.
When night came the saloon was packed with seamen, and among them six
fine young American sailors from the ship “Jeremiah Crawford,” of New
Bedford. Now, New Bedford ships are very often “family ships,” that is
to say, the captain, officers, and seamen are related to each other. Of
the six young fellows who went to this dance, two were nephews of the
captain, one was a relative of the mate, and the others were related to
members of the crew.
Long before the dance was over there were several seamen lying
helplessly drugged in the side room. Just before midnight, and while
the dance was still going on, Slagan and his fellow crimps removed the
helpless men down to a boat, and took them off to the ships at the
buoys. Then Slagan pocketed his blood money and before daylight the
vessels were at sea under all plain sail.
The following day, when the six American seamen did not turn up on
board the “Jeremiah Crawford” enquiries were quietly made, and it was
soon found out what had become of them; they had been among the twelve
men “shanghaied” aboard the three waiting ships. The men’s shipmates,
boiling with anger, wanted to go and wreck Slagan and his saloon, but
the captain called all hands aft, and told them from the poop that they
must not let it be known that they knew where their shipmates were.
“I know how you feel over it,” he said, “and I know how I feel, too,
but I intend to pay that rascal in his own coin. Those Britishers are
off to ’Frisco, and we are bound there, too, and you can bet your
bottom dollar I mean to make the ship move when we start. And what is
more, I intend to take that rascal Slagan with me!”
“All right, captain,” answered the men, “mum’s the word. We will wait
events.”
Two days afterwards Captain Monk, of the “Jeremiah Crawford,” told
Slagan to get him six men by the time the ship was loaded. He agreed,
on condition he was paid three pounds per man. This, Captain Monk
agreed to, and when the ship was finished and hauled out to the buoys,
Slagan sent word to the captain he would bring the men off about 8 p.m.
Now, that day, a young Irish police constable had been transferred from
Sydney to Newcastle, and promoted. He was appointed to this district
with a view to watching the goings-on at Slagan’s, rumours of which
had reached police headquarters. The constable was married to a fine
strapping Irish lass, who was a great help to her husband. She wore
her hair short like a man, and was no stranger to the wearing of men’s
clothes. In fact, it was partly owing to her that her husband had got
his position.
The constable knew he was there to get proof of Slagan’s shady doings,
and it was accordingly arranged that his wife should disguise herself
as a seaman, as she had done before, and watch the inside, while
her husband watched the outside of the saloon. The policeman’s wife
was a splendidly built woman, as straight as a reed, muscular as
well, and absolutely fearless. So it happened that when Slagan was
picking out the men he wanted for his purpose that night, he saw this
likely-looking young fellow among them. But he was not taking any
liquor--only a bottle of ginger ale. Slagan very obligingly opened a
bottle for him, and it was a simple matter, as the stuff fizzled out,
to knock the ash from his cigar into the glass with his little finger,
and the mischief was done. Presently one of his spies came in and
cautioned the crimp that there was a constable knocking about in the
street.
“We must get the beggar out of the way, Mike,” said Slagan. “I’ll soon
settle him, you watch him.”
Going outside, he walked up the street past the constable, smoking
a splendid cigar. The constable got a whiff and wished he had one
like it. In a few minutes the crimp returned, still puffing away at
the cigar, as he passed the policeman he quietly dropped his cigar
case. The constable, just behind him, saw the case and picked it up,
and seeing there were two or three fine cigars in it, succumbed to
temptation and put it in his pocket. He could not long resist the mute
appeal of those cigars, so slipping into the shadow behind some houses,
he lit one, and was soon enjoying a good smoke. It had a wonderfully
soothing influence, and he leaned up against the wall, thinking of the
sharp bit of work that had brought him promotion. He felt that already
he had Slagan in his power and he saw himself in imagination with his
sergeant’s stripes. Then all of a sudden he smiled a sickly smile, his
head fell forward, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank in a heap
on the ground. A few minutes afterwards the spy, who had been watching
him all the time, cautiously approached. He took the cigar case out of
the unconscious man’s tunic, removed the remains of the drugged cigar
from his mouth, and left him there.
The night was very dark, and about 8 p.m., while the dancing and
singing were still in full swing, Slagan and his tools got the selected
men off in a boat. The tug was ahead of the ship, all ready to start;
when the crimp got alongside with his men the “Jeremiah Crawford” was
hanging to a slip rope, and the captain was in his cabin waiting for
Slagan and the sailors.
“Hurry up and get those chaps on board,” the mate called out, “I want
to get under way.”
“All right, Mister Mate,” answered one of the crimps, “we’ll soon have
them on board. Get out of that you brutes!” he added, giving one of
the dazed men a savage lack.
Slogan and his men soon got their victims on board, but on getting on
deck one of the fellows, a fine-built young Swede, seemed to partly
recover his senses.
“I don’t belong to this ship,”’ he said, and made for the gangway. With
an oath Slagan sprang at him. A terrific blow on the side of the head,
and the poor fellow dropped senseless on the deck. They then bundled
the lot forward.
Finding no light in the forecastle he and his men stepped inside, and
were in the act of striking matches, when each of them was knocked
senseless with a blow behind the ear from a knuckle duster. They were
then dropped into the fore-peak and the hatches fastened down, while
the new men were lifted into berths to sleep off the effects of the
drugged liquor.
In the meantime the second mate slipped down the gangway, and standing
on one side of Slagan’s boat, capsized her. When she filled with water
he cast her off and let her drift up river.
The tug boat dropped down, the tow-rope was secured, the buoy cast off,
and before midnight the ship was outside the Nobbies and under all
sail. At day light the “shanghaied” men were getting over the effects
of the drug and the captain called all hands aft and gave them a good
stiff glass of grog. The new men were in a terrible state when they
came to their senses and found they had been “shanghaied.” One young
fellow in particular sat down on the hatch, and placing his head on
his hands, seemed to give way to despair. He took no heed of what was
going on, and spoke no word to anyone. The young Swede, who had been so
brutally struck by Sullivan stepped up to the captain:
“Who brought us on board?” he asked.
“Dan Slagan,” replied the mate, “he said you were his boarders. I saw
him come alongside, and then I went forward, and have not seen him
since.”
“Did you pay him any advance for us, captain?”
“No, I have not seen him,” said the skipper. “He must have gone on
shore again. I cannot understand it. I do not know the man,” he added.
“I wrote him to get me six men, and told him I would sign them on
board. I heard him come alongside with you, but when I came out of the
cabin I saw no boat alongside, and we got under weigh at once.”
“Thank you, captain,” said the Swede, “Slagan and I will meet again
some day.”
“Halloa, halloa, there! What’s all this row about?” sang out from the
forecastle accompanied by a heavy thumping.
The mate started to ran forward, and all hands turned to behold a
remarkable sight.
Out of the forecastle bolted three men. Casting their eyes in the
direction of the land, they rushed aft, passed the seamen, and were
about to mount the poop-ladder, when the mate barred the way.
“Get down out of this, you skunks!” he roared, “who are you fellows,
and where do you come from?”
“You know jolly well who I am,” roared the biggest of the three, “and
you had better land us as quick as you can, or it will be a bad job for
you, so I tell you.”
The mate looked at him in silence for a moment, then the skipper chimed
in.
“Who the deuce are you?” demanded Captain Monk, “and what are you doing
aboard my ship?”
“What are you trying to get at, captain?” cried the crimp furiously.
“You know very well who I am; I’m Dan Slagan. I brought you six men
last night, and when we took them into the forecastle----”
There was a shuffle among the men, and the next minute the young Swede
had sprung at the crimps throat and the two were tossing about the deck
battering each other like wild beasts.
“Stand back everybody!” cried the mate. “Let them have it out.”
Slagan was the bigger and heavier man, but the Swede was a perfect
young athlete, and had a cruel wrong to wipe out. The muscles of his
arms and neck stood out like strong cords as the two rolled from side
to side.
Not a word was uttered by the officers or crew, who stood calmly
looking on. Suddenly, by a quick movement, the Swede pinned Slagan
against the fife-rail around the mainmast, and with his right hand
battered his face unmercifully. Then seizing him by the throat, he
flung him into the lee-scupper, where he lay without movement. The
Swede looked at his foe for a moment, then coolly walked over and wiped
his feet on him. Next, turning to the poop where Captain Monk and the
officers stood, he touched his cap and said:
“I am second mate of the Swedish ship ‘Oscar Branch,’ and my father is
the captain. I went on shore for a walk, and hearing the music I went
into the saloon for a drink. I sat down to watch the dancers, and knew
no more until I found myself on board this ship. What will my father
think? What will my employers say?” He stopped abruptly, and walked
forward with his head bent, overwhelmed with shame and grief.
Within another minute the two remaining crimps were hotly engaged with
two of the ship’s crew, whose relatives had been “shanghaied” aboard
the Britishers. The sailors made short work of the crimps, and fairly
wiped the deck with them. Captain Monk then ordered the hapless three
to be locked up in separate cabins and fed on bread and water for a few
days.
“It will give them time to repent,” he said to the mate. “It won’t do
to put them with the crew yet awhile--there would be murder done. In
a few days they can go forward, and the crew will save us dirtying
our hands with them, the scoundrels. Our chaps will lead them a dance,
and they’ll wish to heaven they had never laid hands on my crew.”
Just then the mate noticed the young fellow sitting on the hatch with
his head in his hands. He seemed utterly dejected and oblivious of
everything about him. The rest of the men had gone forward, and were
excitedly discussing the matter of Slagan and his mates being on board,
each of them swearing to have his pound of flesh out of the hated
“shanghaiers.” The captain and mate walked along to the young fellow
on the hatch. Putting his hand kindly on the bowed head, Captain Monk
said: “Come, come, young man, you must not give way like this. Sailors
should always make the best of everything.”
Lifting his head at the kindly touch and words, the young fellow
replied:
“Oh, captain, whatever shall I do? I am not a sailor.”
“Oh, never mind that, you’ll soon learn here, so go forward with the
others.”
“Oh, captain, take pity on me!” cried the supposed young seaman,
tremulously. “For heaven’s sake take pity on me, I am a respectable
married woman! My husband is Police Constable Hogan of the Newcastle
Police.”
The captain and mate were astounded, and for a moment could do nothing
but stare at her. Then, seeing some of the men forward looking at
them, Captain Monk said: “Come aft to the saloon and I will hear your
story.”
When they got into the cabin Mrs. Hogan told how the authorities at
Sydney had heard something of the doings of Slagan and his crimps, and
had sent her husband to the district to get evidence against him. She
had assisted her husband before, and on this occasion had dressed up in
her present clothes and joined the sailors in the dancing room to watch
Slagan and his satellites.
“I called for a bottle of ginger ale,” she added. “I watched him open
the bottle and I am sure there was nothing in the glass, for I saw
it standing upside down on the counter, but I had not drunk it many
minutes before I felt my head getting light, and I remembered no more
until I found myself on board this ship. I have abundant evidence
against that blackguard now, but it is no good, as he is on board here.
What shall I do? I have no clothes but these. I cannot go among those
men.”
“Steamer ahead, sir! Coming this way,” rang out the cry.
“Aye, aye!”
Captain Monk took a look at her through the telescope.
“Run up the ‘Urgent’ signal at once!” he shouted. “It’s the Union
Company’s boat bound to Melbourne. I will send a letter and this woman
on board. Back the mainyard, and get the boat out quick.”
Up went the signal, and the steamer bore down towards the ship. Her
decks were crowded with passengers.
“You will go in the boat, Mrs. Hogan,” said the skipper, “and you had
better explain things to the captain at once. My letter will tell him
also. Mr. Potter, you go with the boat, and take four of our hands with
you. As soon as you give the letter to the captain, put this woman on
board and return at once.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Ship your oars! Let go forward.”
The boat shot away and was soon alongside the steamer, and the mate
and Mrs. Hogan climbed on board. Going along to the bridge, Mr. Potter
handed the letter to the captain, who read it and said:
“All right. Tell Captain Monk that I will take the woman to Melbourne.
I am glad he has that blackguard on board. Good-bye.”
The mate got back into his boat, the engines were rung ahead, the
ensign was dipped three times and before the boat was on board again,
the steamer was out of sight.
Then the sails were filled once more and the “Jeremiah Crawford” stood
on her course.
Five days afterwards Slagan and his mates were released and sent to
live in the forecastle. Slagan was put into the mate’s watch, and the
two crimps in the second mate’s watch.
There was another row at once, and again the blackguards got a good
thrashing, they were put to the most menial work, were made to wait on
the others, and do all the dirty work about the deck, in fact their
lives were made a misery to them from morning to night. Hardly a day
passed that one or other of the scoundrels did not get a licking. They
had a taste of the misery they had caused many another man, and the
captain said they had time to repent of their misdeeds.
When the “Jeremiah Crawford” arrived at San Francisco the pilot
informed them that two British ships had just gone to anchorage, adding
that he noticed they were from Newcastle. This was good news to all but
Slagan and his crimps. As they moved up the harbour to their anchorage
they passed close to the “Commonwealth.” On board were some of the
“Jeremiah Crawford’s” crew, and as they passed one of the sailors
called out: “We have Slagan on board.” After the sails were unbent, all
the running gear triced up, and the decks washed down the crew were
dismissed.
“Pay off to-morrow,” said the mate.
“Aye, aye!” answered the crew.
All hands went on shore, and Slagan was forced, much against his will,
to go with them. On the wharf where they landed stood the six American
sailors, whom he and his men had “shanghaied” from Newcastle. Let us
mercifully draw a veil over the crimps’ punishment.
None of the three blackguards turned up when the crew were paid off,
no questions were asked, and no explanations given, but two years
afterwards Slagan appeared again in Newcastle, New South Wales--not the
unscrupulous bully and braggart, but a broken, decrepit, feeble old
man.