JACK IN RATCLIFF HIGHWAY
As soon as the vessel was moored in a home port, decks
cleared up and washed down, the mate intimated to the crew
that their services would not be required any longer; and
those who wanted it, received a portion of the balance of
wages due to them in advance until they signed clear of the
articles. There were few who did not take advantage of this,
and many of them had disbursed it in one way or another long
before the three days' grace, which was allowed the captain
to make up his accounts and pay off, had expired.
The villainous agencies at work in those days (and even in
these) to decoy poor Jack, could be counted by the score.
Their task was not a difficult one. They knew him to be a
complacent prey for their plans to drug and rob him. Many of
these poor fellows on the first night after landing would
allow the whole of a voyage's earnings to be bartered from
them, so that before they actually received their balance of
wages they had spent it, and they became ready for the first
ship, which oft-times, indeed, was long in turning up.
Meanwhile they were turned into the street without any
compunction, just as they stood. Of course they were to
blame; but what about the evil tribe who tempted them? They
should have been made to refund every penny that had been
extorted while their victims were under the influence of
drink, or should have been made to do six months in lieu of
refunding. This plan might be adopted with advantage to the
community even at the present time.
In these sailor circles there was once a well-known
incorrigible named Jimmie Hall, a native of Blyth, who for
the most part sailed out of London on long voyages. It did
not matter how long Jimmie had been away on a voyage, or how
much pay he had to take, he was never longer than a week in
funds, and more frequently only one or two days. This
half-tamed creature was walking up Ratcliffe Highway one
winter morning between two and three o'clock, and he met an
old shipmate of his. They greeted each other with some
warmth. Jimmie's friend related to him a tale of
destitution. He had been on the spree, spent all his money,
and two days before had been turned out of the boarding
house, and had slept out for two nights. Jimmie, with
sailor-like generosity, said, "I am glad to have met you.
It gives me an opportunity of asking you to share with me
rooms at my hotel."
"Hotel!" gasped the bewildered shipmate. "Have you had money
left you? You always were a good sort."
"No," said his companion; "I have had no money left me, but
I thought I would stay in an hotel this time. I can go out
and in whenever I like, and I find it an advantage to do so.
The doors are always open. Come along!"
The two friends walked up the highway arm in arm, Jimmie
observing a patronising silence while his companion covered
him with affectionate compliments. After they had walked a
considerable distance in meditation, the shipmate said--
"Where is the hotel? Are we far off?"
"No," said the accommodating Jimmie; "here it is. I must
make one condition with you before we get any nearer. You
must go in by the back door."
"I will go in by any b---- door you like. I am not a
particular chap in that way!"
"Very well," said Jimmie, pointing to an object in the
middle of the road; "then you go in there, and I will go in
by the front."
"But," said his shipmate, "that is a boiler."
"_You_" said the philanthropic James, "may call it what you
like, but, for the time being, it is my hotel! It has been
my residence for two weeks, and I offer you the end I do not
use. If you accept it, all that you require to make you
perfectly comfortable is a bundle of straw. We shall sit
rent free!"
Needless to say the offer was accepted, and the two "plants"
lived together until they got a ship.
Mr. Hall's knowledge of the Highway, as it was called,
enabled him to be of occasional service to the police, hence
he was on the most cordial terms of friendship with them. He
could swoop plain-clothes men through intricacies which
flashed with the flames of crime, without exciting the
slightest suspicion of the object he had in view. He could
talk, swear, and drink in accurate harmony with his
acquaintances, and was looked upon with favour by a circle
of estimable friends. Members of the constabulary were
always considerate and accommodating towards him during his
periodic outbursts of alcoholic craving. He owed much to the
care they took of him during his fits of debauchery; and he
was not unmindful of it when he had the wherewithal to
compensate them. Like most of those wayward inebriates who
followed the sea as a calling, he was a perfect sailor; and
even his capricious sensual habits did not prevent him being
sought to rejoin vessels he had sailed in.
Jimmie Hall was only one among thousands of fine fellows who
were encouraged to go to bestial excesses by gangs of
predatory vermin (men and women) who infested Wapping and
Ratcliffe Highway.
There was a tradition amongst sailors, which I am inclined
to give some credence to, that a certain barber who had a
shop in the Highway availed himself of the opportunity,
while cutting the hair or shaving his sailor
customers--mainly, it was thought, those who were sodden
with drink--to sever their wind-pipe, rob them of all they
had, and then pull the bolt of a carefully concealed
trap-door which communicated with the Thames, and drop their
weighted bodies out of sight! This system of sanguinary
murder is supposed to have been carried on for some years,
until a sailor of great physical power, suspecting foul play
to some of his pals, went boldly in, was politely asked to
take his seat, and assumed a drunken attitude which caused
the barber to think he had an easy victim. The barber wormed
his way into Jack's confidence, who was very communicative
as to the length of his voyage and the amount of money he
had been paid off with. He flattered him with loving
profusion, and was about to take the razor up and commence
his deadly work, when the sailor, who had discerned the
secret trap, jumped up, pulled a revolver from his pocket,
and demanded that the trap-door should be shown to him, or
his brains would be scattered all over the place! The barber
implored that his life should be spared, and piteously
denied the existence of a secret communication with the
river. Jack's attitude was threatening; the supplicant
pleaded that if his life was spared he would do what was
asked of him. The condition was agreed on, and the trap
opened. It disclosed a liquid vault. The sailor accused the
panic-stricken villain of foul murder, and of having this
place as a repository for his unsuspecting victims, and the
man shrieked alternate incoherent denials and confessions.
The sailor suspected the awful truth all along, but now he
became satisfied of it, and forcing the barber towards the
vault, he ordered him to jump down; he had to choose between
this and being shot. He preferred the former mode of
extinction, so plunged in. The hatch was then covered over
him, and there were no more murders.
Another of the many instances of the resourceful mariner's
irrepressible gaiety even under most embarrassing conditions
is contained in a story which I heard related aboard ship in
the early days of my sea-life many times, and the veracity
of it was always vouched for by the narrator whose personal
acquaintance with the gentlemen concerned was an
indispensable factor in the interest of the tale, and a
distinction he was proud of to a degree. I have said that
Ratcliffe Highway was the rendezvous of seafaring men. It
provided them with a wealth of facilities for the
expeditious disposal of money that had been earned at great
hazard, and not infrequently by the sweat of anguish. One
chilly November morning a sailor was walking down the
Highway. His step was jerky and uncertain, for his feet were
bare; his sole articles of dress consisted of a cotton shirt
and a pair of trousers that seemed large enough to take
another person inside of them. These were kept from dropping
off by what is known as a soul-and-body lashing--that is, a
piece of cord or rope-yarn tied round the waist. His manner
indicated that he felt satisfied with himself and at peace
with all creation, as he chanted with a husky voice the
following song:--
"Sing goodbye to Sally, and goodbye to Sue;
Away--Rio!
And you who are listening, goodbye to you,
For we're bound to Rio Grande!
And away--Rio, aye Rio!
Sing fare ye well, my bonny young girl,
We're bound for Rio Grande!"
He was met by a shipmate just then who had been searching
for him during several days. The song was cut short by the
mutual warmth of greeting.
"What ho, Jack!" interjected the faithful comrade, with a
gigantic laugh; "you are under very small canvas this
morning. Have you been in heavy weather?"
"Yes," said Jack, "I have; but there's a fellow coming up
astern must have had it worse than me. He _was_ under bare
poles, but I see he's got a suit of newspapers bent now, and
he's forging ahead very fast!"
There is a grim humour about this story which brings a
certain type of sailor vividly to mind.