THE MASTER'S DUTIES.
As pointed out at the beginning of the last chapter, the primary duty
of a shipmaster is to get his ship from port to port in the speediest
and safest manner possible. And it may not be amiss to indicate here,
in the briefest and most popular way, the broad principles upon which
this is done. I wish to disarm criticism by experts by disclaiming any
intention of giving more than an idea of the process by which vessels
are taken across the trackless ocean to those who do not know, and are
daunted by a mathematical treatise.
Every school child that has reached the third standard knows that
the globe is represented as criss-crossed by a large number of lines
running from pole to pole, that is from north to south, and others
right round the globe in the opposite direction, or from east to west.
These lines cross each other at right angles. The up and down ones,
from pole to pole, are meridians of longitude; the East-West ones are
parallels of latitude. Now, since these are all numbered as degrees,
the space between them being 1°, the latitudes from the Equator to
the poles on either side of it as 1° to 90°, and the meridians from
Greenwich to its opposite point on the other side of the world 1° to
180°, it follows that if a seafarer can ascertain at the same time what
particular degree of both latitude and longitude he is in, a glance at
his chart or sea-map shows him the position of his ship. This operation
(finding the latitude and longitude) is performed in a variety of ways,
but the simplest, and consequently the most universally used at sea,
is by measuring the sun's height above the horizon at noon for the
latitude, and about three hours before or after noon for the longitude.
This is done by means of a pretty instrument called a sextant with
the greatest ease and speed. At noon, the moment the sun reaches his
highest point for the day, it is twelve o'clock, and a calculation,
made in one minute, shows exactly how far the ship is north or south of
the Equator. The observations for longitude take a little longer. From
the sun's height, at the moment of observation, is calculated the exact
time at the ship. And as a chronometer, which every ship carries, shows
the exact time at Greenwich, the difference between the two expresses
in hours and minutes (easily convertible into degrees and miles) the
distance east or west of Greenwich, the first meridian of longitude;
for every degree (60 miles) is equal to four minutes of time. Having
found the latitude and longitude, the master makes a little dot upon
the chart at the exact point where the lines of latitude and longitude
which he is on cross one another, and sees as plainly as if he were
standing at a well-known street-crossing where he is.
From the position thus obtained he shapes his course in the direction
best calculated to reach his destination; that is, if the way in which
the wind is blowing will allow him to do so (in a sailing ship). This
is done by bringing the desired point of the compass in a line with
a mark drawn upon the side of the round box in which the compass
swings, which mark really represents the ship's head. And if, as is
popularly supposed, the compass needle always pointed true to the
north, navigation would be very simple. But, alas! this instrument is
full of vagaries. Apart altogether from such harassing complications as
the attraction of the iron in the ship produces, there is the variation
of the compass itself from the north, which changes continually as
the vessel goes on her way. Then there is bad steering, and, worse
still, the effect of unknown currents, which sweep the ship away in
some direction which cannot be calculated until after it has occurred.
The speed of the ship is known by the use of a beautiful instrument,
called a patent log, which, towed behind the ship, registers her rate
of progress with an accuracy unobtainable by any cyclometer. Where, for
economical reasons, the patent log is not used, the mariner must rely
upon a primitive instrument, called a "logship," which, being used once
every hour or two hours, cannot, however good it may be, give such true
results as the patent log, which records every foot of the distance
travelled.
When, however, the heavenly bodies, which are always faithful and
reliable, are obscured by bad weather, and the master has to depend
upon a position obtained by a calculation of the course made by
compass and the distance run by log, he may well be uneasy if he be
in difficult waters near land. For the compass can only be corrected
by the aid of the sun, moon, or stars when at sea, and if _they_ are
invisible it may be a very unsafe guide, although an indispensable one.
Roughly, these are the principles upon which a ship is navigated,
modifications and extensions of which go to make up the perfect
navigator. And no matter how perfect a navigator a master may be, he
will always, if he be wise, see that the officers work out the ship's
position independently, so that a comparison may be made between the
various workings, and any errors detected.
This business of navigating the ship in deep waters is, however, always
looked upon by masters as the lightest part of all their duties,
although I have been shipmate with masters who had grown too lazy to
attend even to that, leaving it to the mate. When the ship comes to the
tortuous passages of, say, the East Indian Archipelago, or threads the
mazy ways of the West Indian islands, the master has an opportunity
to show what metal he is made of. Or, reaching the vicinity of our
own dangerous coasts in the long stormy or foggy nights of winter,
his anxieties become great. Steamship masters have here a tremendous
advantage over their brethren in sailing ships, whose best intentions
are often frustrated, their best seamanship rendered of none effect, by
the perverseness of the wind. This is especially the case near home,
where the sea traffic is great and the appalling danger of collision is
added to the perils of rocks, quicksands, and derelicts.
These are but few and feeble words wherein to outline the
responsibilities of a shipmaster for the safe conduct of his vessel,
responsibilities which weigh so heavily upon some men that for several
days and nights together they are unable to take the rest their
bodies imperiously demand, but they may serve to indicate them to
the sympathetic reader. And when the exceedingly small percentage of
casualties is taken into consideration, all will surely admit that the
standard of ability among this splendid body of men is satisfactorily
high.
The shipmaster's duty as a trustee of an enormous amount of valuable
property and, in a passenger ship, of valuable lives, is a most
important one. While he must see to it that there is no delay in their
conveyance to their destination, he must remember that safety is the
first consideration. Recklessness is really unpardonable, and must
sooner or later end in his ruin. He represents not only his owners, but
the owners of his cargo and the underwriters who insure that cargo. He
should be thoroughly well up in those sections of maritime law--and
they are many--which affect the traffic; know how to deal with grasping
brokers in foreign ports into which he may be driven by distress; be
able to make good bargains and keep accurate accounts, since none but
the finest passenger steamers carry pursers and clerks to take these
onerous duties off his hands. In passenger ships he must see that
his charges are made comfortable, bear with their often unreasonable
complaints, be courteous and genial, and generally exert himself
to make his ship, and consequently the line to which she belongs,
popular, since popularity spells dividends.
In cargo ships he must be something of a doctor, for on a long passage
there will certainly be many ailments among his crew, and probably
some fractures. Ignorance of how to deal with these means a terrible
amount of misery to the hapless sufferer lying groaning for assistance
which is not forthcoming. The present generation of shipmasters are
greatly in advance of what smattering of leech-craft was possessed by
their predecessors, but even now there is a plentiful lack of this most
humane and necessary knowledge. One would hardly now expect to find
a shipmaster so ignorant as he of whom the story runs that finding a
dose out of No. 7 bottle prescribed for a supposed ailment, he made up
the draught out of Nos. 4 and 3, upon finding that No. 7 was empty!
Or such a rough customer as the skipper of whom it is told in ships'
forecastles that when it was reported to him that a man had broken his
leg, replied, "Oh, give him a bucket of salts." But in one vessel where
I was a foremast hand, several of us caught severe colds upon coming
into a lonely New Zealand port, where no doctor was to be obtained. The
skipper diagnosed our complaint as bronchitis, and exhibited tartar
emetic with peculiar and painful results.
Still, it cannot be denied that among the old school there were some
wonderfully skilful, if rough, surgeons--men of iron who, if need
arose, could and did practise the art upon their own bodies under
circumstances of suffering that might well have reduced the stoutest
frame to piteous helplessness. Such a case, for instance, as that
of Captain Samuels of the _Dreadnought_ American packet-ship. I
have not his book by me, so must quote from memory; but the picture
he drew was so vivid that I do not think any one could forget its
essential details. He relates how, in one of his passages from New
York to England, he was midway across the Atlantic when during a heavy
gale a sea was shipped which dashed him against the bulwarks with
such force that one of his legs was broken above the knee. It was a
compound fracture; and although such attention as was possible under
his direction was given him at once, in a few days he recognized the
necessity for having the leg cut off. Mortification had set in. His
mate was absolutely unable to attempt the job from sheer physical
incapacity, although in other respects a most able, strenuous man. So
the sufferer, in superhuman fashion, rose to the occasion and performed
the operation upon himself. Successfully, too, for when a few days
after the vessel arrived at the Azores, there was nothing left for a
surgeon to do.
Another anecdote, this time from the log of a whaleship, the _Union_
of Nantucket, Captain (?) Gardiner. While pursuing his calling off
the West Coast of South America, the sperm whale he was fighting with
flung its jaw upwards and across the boat, catching him by the head and
shoulders. The blow did not sweep him overboard, but laid his scalp
back from his skull; broke his right jaw, tearing out five teeth; broke
his left arm and shoulder-blade, and crushed the hand on the same
side between the whale's jaw and the gunwale of the boat. In this
deplorable state he was carried on board his ship. His young officers,
naturally bewildered by the appearance of his broken body, did not know
what to do for him. They may well have been excused for considering his
case hopeless. His brave spirit, however, did not recognize defeat. He
gave directions, mostly by signs, for the preparation of bandages and
splints, and instructed his willing but ignorant helpers in the way of
using them. When all had been done that he wished or could think of,
he ordered the vessel to be taken into port, and, although apparently
at the point of death, he lay on deck in a commanding position and
piloted his ship in. A Spanish surgeon was brought on board, who, as
soon as he saw the sufferer, advised sending for a priest, as the case
was hopeless. This advice was lost upon the valiant Yankee, who sent
a messenger a distance of thirty miles for another doctor--a German.
This gentleman hastened down to the ship, dressed the skipper's wounds,
and had him transported on an improvised ambulance slung between two
mules up to the healthy highlands of the interior. In six months' time
he was fit to resume command of his ship, which meanwhile had made a
most successful cruise under the mate. His left hand, unhappily, had
been so badly mangled that it was hardly more than a stump, the first
two fingers being so twisted in the palm that he was afterwards always
obliged to wear a thick mitten to keep them from being entangled in
a lance-warp while he was lancing a whale. This good man was for a
quarter of a century master of a whaler, and lived to be nearly ninety
years old.
So prolific is the source whence these anecdotes are drawn, that I
am embarrassed where to choose. However, I cannot help thinking that
for a fitting close to this subject, it would hardly be possible to
select a story more thrilling than the following. During a whale hunt
the line kinked and dragged a man entangled by one arm and one leg
deep under the sea. He was released by the imprisoned members giving
way under the frightful strain. Rising to the surface, and floating
there unconscious, he was picked up and taken on board the ship. There
it was found that a portion of the hand, including four fingers, had
been torn away, while a foot was twisted off at the ankle, leaving
only the lacerated stump with its tangle of sinews hanging loosely.
From the knee downward the muscles had been dragged away by the line,
leaving the almost bare bone with just a veil of tendons and leaking
blood-vessels; so that it appeared as if the poor wretch had only been
saved from drowning to die more cruelly, unless some one should have
the nerve to perform so radical an operation. No surgical instruments
were on board. But Captain James Huntling was not the man to allow any
one to perish without a great effort on his part to save them. He had
a carving-knife, a hand-saw, and a fish-hook. The injury was so great,
and the poor fellow's cries so heartrending, that several of the crew
fainted while attempting to help the skipper, while others became sick.
So, unaided, the skipper lashed his patient to the carpenter's bench,
cut off what remained of the leg, and dressed the mangled hand; then,
making for the Sandwich Islands, he put the man in hospital, where he
recovered, and returning to America, passed the rest of his days in
comfort as a small shop-keeper.
There is one more reason why it is so necessary for the master of a
ship to have some medical knowledge, and this has a humorous side in
many cases. It is that he may be able to detect that curse of a ship's
company, the "malingerer." Often he is by no means easy to "bowl out,"
being, like most lazy people, of considerable inventive genius. And
although a humane man would much rather be imposed upon a dozen times
than send a suffering man to work while unfit once, it is intensely
galling to find that a scalawag, with absolutely nothing the matter
with him but a constitutional aversion to work, has been indulging
himself at the expense of his already hard-pressed shipmates for a week
or two. A little practical knowledge of medicine will in most cases
obviate this and enable the shipmaster to give the loafer a dose that,
while it will do him no harm, will make him so uncomfortable that work
will be a relief. But I find that the recapitulation of the master's
duties demands another chapter.