THE MATTER-OF-FACT SAILOR
I always feel inclined to break the law when I see a West
End or any other dandy on a theatrical stage libelling the
sailor by his silly personification: hitching his breeches,
slapping his thigh, lurching his body, and stalking about in
a generally ludicrous fashion, at the same time using
phrases which the real sailor would disdain to use: such as
"my hearty," "shiver-my-timbers," and other stupid
expressions that Jack of to-day never thinks of giving
utterance to. If theatrical folk would only take the trouble
to acquaint themselves with the real characteristics of the
sailor, and caricature him accurately, they would find, even
in these days, precious material to make play from. Even
Jack's culpable vagaries, if reproduced in anything like
original form, might be utilised to entertaining effect; but
the professional person insists upon making him appear with
a quid rolling about in his mouth and his stomach brimful
of slang, which he empties as occasion may require. It may
or may not go down with their audiences, but the tar himself
cannot stand it. I was seated beside a typical sailor in a
London theatre not very long ago, and a few gentlemen in
nautical attire came one after the other strutting on to the
stage. Their performances were quite unsailorly, so much so
that my neighbour said to me: "If this goes on much longer I
shall have to go. Just fancy," said he, "a matter-of-fact
sailor making such a d----fool of himself!" I reminded him
that this achievement was not so rare an occurrence. But he
was not to be appeased! The sailor of the olden times never
used tinsel nautical terms. His dialect was straight and
strong, and his peculiar dandyism very funny. His hair used
to be combed behind his ears, he wore a broad, flat cap
cocked to one side, and his ears were adorned with light
drops of gold or silver; and when he went forth to do his
courting he seemed to be vastly puzzled as to the form his
walk should take. Alas! all this has passed away, and our
eyes shall see it never more; but the fascination of it is
fixed in one's memory, and it is pleasant to think of even
now.
The average seaman has always expressed himself with
unmistakable clearness on matters pertaining to his
profession. I was walking down the main street of a
seafaring town some years ago, when I saw a group of people
standing at a window looking at an oil-painting of a large,
square-rigged ship which had been caught in a squall. The
royals and top-gallant sails had been let fly, and they were
supposed to be flapping about as sails will in a squall if
the yards are not trimmed so as to keep them quiet. There
were two sailors in the group who were criticising the
painting with some warmth: the ropes were not as they should
be, the braces and stays were not properly regulated, and
"Whoever saw sails flying about like that!" said the more
voluble of the two. The other dryly retorted, "I don't know,
mister, what _you_ think, but I want to say that I have seen
them cut some d---- funny capers at times!" This very
sailor-like sally both tickled the audience and convinced it
that the sails were really correctly drawn.
On another occasion, during the prevalence of one of the
most terrible easterly gales that ever visited the
north-east coast, a multitude of people had congregated on
the south pier at the mouth of the Tyne to witness the
vessels making for the great Northern Harbour. The sight was
awful in its peculiar beauty, the foam fluted and danced on
the troubled air until it found a resting place far up the
inner reaches of the harbour. There were seen in the
distance two sailing vessels labouring amid a wrathful
commotion of roaring seas. As they approached the harbour
the excitement became universal. Women stood there
transfixed with dread lest the storm-tossed vessels should
be conveying some of their beloved relations to a tragic
doom. Two gentlemen of clerical voice and appearance
conversed with obvious agitation, one of whom audibly spoke
of the grandeur and picturesque charm of the flurry of wild
waters. "Look at them," said he, "as they curtsey and rustle
along to the kiss of the tempest. Oh, it is a magnificent
sight!" A few burly, weather-beaten sailors stood hard by.
It soon became apparent that their professional pride had
been touched by the poetic babble to which they had
listened. One of them took upon himself the task of
interjecting what the practical opinion of himself and
friends was by addressing the aesthetic dreamer in accents
of stern reproof: "_You_," said he, "may call it grandeur
and picturesque and magnificent and curtseying, but we call
it a damned dirty business. If you were aboard of one of
them, you wouldn't talk about rustling through the cloven
sea to the kiss of the tempest, you would be too tarnation
keen on getting ashore!"
The orator had just finished his harangue when one of the
vessels, a brigantine, was crossing the bar. The supreme
moment had come. All eyes and minds were fixed on the doomed
vessel; men were seen clinging to the rigging, and one
solitary figure stood at the wheel directing her course
through a field of rushing whiteness. She was supposed to
have crossed the worst spot, when a terrific mountain of
remorseless liquid was seen galloping with mad pace until it
lashed over her and she became reduced to atoms. Nothing but
wreckage was seen afterwards. The crew all perished. It was
a heartrending sight, which sent the onlookers into
uncontrollable grief. The sailor was right: "It was a dirty
business."
The sporting instinct in the _bonâ-fide_ British seaman was
always very strong. The white-washed Yankee--that is to say,
not a real American, but a Blue-nose, _i.e._, a Nova
Scotiaman--was never very popular, because of his
traditional bullying and swaggering when all was going well,
and his cowardice in times of danger. Once a vessel was
coming from 'Frisco, and when off Cape Horn she ran into an
ice-berg which towered high above the sailors' heads. There
was great commotion and imminent peril. A Blue-nose was
chief mate, and he became panic-stricken, flopped on to his
knees, and piteously appealed for Divine interposition to
save them from untimely death. The second mate, who was a
real John Bull, believed in work rather than prayer, at
least so long as their position threatened sudden
extinction. He observed the petitioner in the undignified
position of kneeling in prayer beside the mainmast. It
angered him so that he put a peremptory stop to his
pleadings by bringing his foot violently in contact with the
posterior portion of his body, simultaneously asking him,
"Why the h--- he did not pray before? It's not a damned bit
of good praying now the trouble has arisen! Get on to your
pins," said the irate officer, "and do some useful work!
This is no time for snivelling lamentations. Keep the men in
heart!" There was pretty fair logic in this rugged outburst
of enlightenment. But while this striking flow of opposition
to prayer under such circumstances was proceeding, the
thought of peril was briefly obscured by the sight of a
pretty little girl, a daughter of one of the passengers,
frollicking with the ice which had tumbled on the deck, in
innocent oblivion of the danger that encompassed her. What a
beautiful picture! By skilful manoeuvring the vessel was
extricated from an ugly position, and the unhappy first mate
who had neglected to put himself into communication with the
Deity before the accident happened, became the object of
poignant dislike for having broken one of the most important
articles of nautical faith by doing so afterwards!