THE A.B. (HIS ROUTINE).
Nautical routine, although in certain broad features alike in all ships
of all nations, varies almost indefinitely in detail, not merely in
ships belonging to different countries, but in ships of the same flag
and of the same character. And this is not only true of the details of
duties to be performed, but of the method of rigging, sail-setting,
etc. The master, having a free hand, may, and does, use his own
discretion as to how and when he will have work done. There is no one
to gainsay him, although his fads will certainly be keenly criticized
in the fo'c'sle. But where a certain routine is fixed and universal
there are no exceptions to its rule; as, for instance, the incidence
of the watches. The first thing to be done after a vessel has cleared
her home-port outward bound is to muster the crew by their names. Then
the mate and second mate face the assembled seamen and draw each a man
alternately, the mate beginning, until each has a moiety. If there is
an odd man the mate gets him, unless some private arrangement is come
to between the two officers. The number of men under each officer is
called his watch, and for further convenience of definition the mate's
is called the "port" watch and the second mate's the "starboard" watch,
the left side of the ship, looking towards the bows, being the port
side, and the right the starboard. Thus divided, the crew select their
bunks on the side of the forecastle answering to their watches, and so
they remain throughout the voyage.
Now, there is an unwritten sea law which says that "the cap'n takes
her out, and the mate brings her home," which, being interpreted, only
means that the starboard watch have the eight hours out on the first
night of the outward passage, and the port watch the first eight hours
out on the homeward passage: which again needs explaining. A simple
method of dividing the twenty-four hours into watches would be to have
six of four hours each, but it would have the demerit that the same men
would be on watch for the greater part of every night. So a simple plan
was long ago devised for the continual change of watches. The day was,
indeed, divided into six watches of four hours each, but the last watch
of each working day, viz. that from 4 to 8 p.m., was subdivided into
two "dog" watches of two hours each. Nearly all the pleasant memories
of fo'c'sle life cluster around the second of these. From 4 to 6 p.m.
(I speak of an ordinary British ship) the watch on deck round up the
day's work, put things away, sweep up decks, etc., preparing for the
night. The men of the watch below get their tea (supper it is called
on shipboard), and at four bells (6 o'clock p.m.) the members of the
other watch go below and get their evening meal. The watch that have
relieved them have now no work, unless sails require trimming, with the
exception of the helmsman, and when supper is finished all hands can,
and do, foregather on deck or in the forecastle, according to the state
of the weather, and exchange yarns or read. All smoke if they list. It
is the time of the day when all hands meet, and it is looked forward
to with a good deal of interest in every ship where things are as they
should be. At eight bells (8 p.m.) the night begins. The watch that
have the eight hours out, that is, the watch that cleared up decks from
four till six, begin their vigil, which will last till midnight; the
watch below turn in.
In every decent ship the bell is struck every half-hour, increasing by
single strokes, _i.e._ half-past eight, one bell; nine o'clock, two
bells; and so on up till four, when the helmsman and the look-out man
are relieved; then five, six, seven, until five minutes to twelve,
when "little one bell" is struck, and the watch below are called to be
ready for appearance at eight bells (midnight), when they are mustered
by the appearing officers. The watch going below then turn in, and the
bells begin again and go on up till 4 a.m., eight bells again. Then the
"eight hours' out" men reappear, and at two bells (5 a.m.) "coffee" is
called. At four bells "wash decks" begins, and with it the "secular"
work as distinguished from the mere handling of the ship's sails, etc.,
steering, and look-out. At seven bells (7.20 a.m., really 7.30, the ten
minutes being slipped in for "coming up," as we say) the watch below
are called for breakfast, and at eight bells (8 a.m.) they come on deck
ready for work, the retiring watch going to breakfast and afterwards to
bunk, or whatever they think fit, until seven bells (11.20 a.m.). Then
they rise for dinner, and at noon, which is made by the sun, and never
by the clock, unless the sun is obscured, they come on deck for the
afternoon's work, while the other watch retire. With their going below
again at eight bells (4 p.m.) the twenty-four-hours' day is completed.
And it will be found that at 8 p.m. the watch coming on deck are the
watch that on the previous night were at that time turning in.
Now, this routine of watch-keeping is universal, but not so by any
means the distribution of work. I have just sketched the outlines of
duty in a commonplace sailing ship or tramp steamer under the British
flag. But when we come to a smart liner or an American ship this
humdrum, jog-trot round is shattered like a bubble. In the former it is
necessary for the comfort of the passengers that their promenade decks
shall be clean and dry at an early hour, therefore the deck-scouring,
paint-washing, etc., must be got through before the time at which work
is usually commenced in a non-passenger-carrying ship. I do not suppose
that any one can be so thoughtless as to wonder "what on earth the
sailors find to do" who has ever made a passage across the Atlantic
in a big liner. Such a foolish question is often asked about ships in
general, but surely even the dullest must comprehend that the splendid
cleanliness and order on board those floating hotels means a vast
amount of work done while the passengers are sleeping, since it is
never obtruded upon them in their waking hours. It must also occur
to the more thoughtful among them that the modern sailors duties are
largely made up of housemaid's work. Yet, with so little opportunity
for keeping up his acquaintance with the higher duties of his calling,
he is expected to rise to the fullest heights of a sailor's duty at the
first call. I submit that the meagre drill he gets in boat-handling and
fire stations can hardly be sufficient for that purpose, _i.e._ the
keeping him up to "sailor" pitch.
In American ships, on the other hand, sailing ships, that is to say,
no such easy-going precession of duties is allowed. The first thing
that a seaman learns when introduced to an American ship is that
his time belongs to the ship, that if he is allowed to have any for
himself at all it is a matter of grace, not of right. He must at all
times hold himself at the disposal of his officers, and whatever work
they consider it necessary to undertake he must, on the word being
given, throw himself into it as if it were a matter of life or death.
Theoretically this is the case in all ships, but it is nowhere carried
out as it is in American vessels. It is their tradition, and they
have a pride in its maintenance. What it means to the sailor under
the despotic rule of a bowelless master and iron-fisted officers it
is impossible to convey to any one who has not seen the process. It
sometimes happens in British ships that all hands will be kept at work
in the afternoons at sea, usually on the passage home, when the vessel
is being thoroughly overhauled and renovated, but where this is done a
great deal of laxity is permitted at night. The watch on deck during
the hours of darkness, with the exception of the man at the wheel and
one on the look-out, are allowed to sleep, unless the sails require
trimming, and even this very necessary work is performed with a great
deal of grumbling and bad language. But in American ships it is often
the proud boast of a skipper that he keeps his men at work in the watch
on deck throughout the voyage, by day or night, in gale or calm; and
as for an afternoon watch below--absurd, makes men fat and lazy! No
grumbling is permitted, no dilatoriness of movement, and due attention
to all these severe rules is enforced by blows, and, if necessary, by
shooting. It is the other extreme of the scale. We are much too slack
in our discipline; the Americans, as a rule, are far too severe. Of
course there are exceptions on both sides, but I speak of the rule.
Sailors often wonder whether landsmen realize what it means for a ship
to be always watched and tended, from the time she leaves port until
she arrives at her destination; whether, when coming on board a ship
in harbour, and looking curiously at the deserted wheel aft, they
appreciate the fact that for every minute of perhaps five or six months
there is a man at that wheel, steering the ship over the trackless
sea, guided alone by the compass. This ceaseless care of the vessel
has always struck me as a very impressive thing, especially where, as
in an ordinary sailing ship, every man in the fo'c'sle takes his turn,
or "trick," as it is called. At the commencement of the voyage the
men settle among themselves, in an informal manner, the order in which
they shall follow each other at the wheel, and, subject to alterations
in their number, this order is preserved throughout the voyage. Some
curious terms are current among them about the steering turns. For
instance, when a man has neither "wheel" nor look-out occurring in a
watch he solemnly announces he is a "farmer;" when it happens that his
"wheel" occurs from 4 to 6 a.m. he growls at the idea of his having the
"gravy-eye" wheel, a coarse but most expressive designation for that
sleepiest of watches. This is the time when more accidents, through
lack of watchfulness, occur than any other in the twenty-four hours.
His duty of steering varies greatly with the ship and the man. Some
vessels are beautifully docile, responsive to the lightest touch on
the wheel, and actually sympathetic--I can use no other word--to a
good helmsman. I have been in vessels that one could almost steer
blindfold by the feel of the wheel, where the making of a serpentine
course was a certain proof that the helmsman was either a bungler
or grossly careless. It is popularly supposed that a ship is always
steered by the apparent movement of the compass, and this is fairly
true of steamships, but it is ridiculous when applied to sailing
ships. The compass must be watched, of course; but the man who keeps
his eye fixed upon it will soon find that not only must he work like a
slave, but that no amount of wheel-twisting will keep his ship steady
on her course. He must watch the movement of the ship's head against
the sky, the clouds, the stars, for he can then see instantly what
amount of helm she requires, whereas the compass does not tell him
until too late, or it is so lively that it is no guide at all, except
that its average swing from side to side of the point he is told to
steer by will be approximately the same. I have often been steering a
large iron ship running before a heavy westerly gale in high southern
latitudes when the compass has swung continuously round through its
whole thirty-two points. Some men get so bewildered by this that they
are useless as helmsmen. Others, again, when steering before a heavy
following sea, will lose their nerve. The mighty waves thundering up
astern like ravening monsters, only to be satisfied by the overwhelming
of the vessel, are terrible to see, and a prudent officer who notices
the helmsman looking astern at such times, with a wild eye and a
blanched face, will have him relieved at once, before that appalling
disaster "broaching to" takes place. This occurs when a ship running
dead before a gale of wind, with her yards square, is suddenly caught
a little on one side by a furiously rushing wave and whirled round
until her sails get caught aback, the sea thunders over her broadside,
and she is in the greatest danger of being dismasted, turned over,
or smashed up altogether. Many a ship posted as missing has thus
been destroyed; she has disappeared from the face of the sea in five
minutes, without giving any one on board the slightest chance of life.
As far as the A.B.'s workaday duties are concerned, the same rules that
apply to other workmen ashore do not apply, for obvious reasons. If a
carpenter, for instance, were employed in the building of a house,
and it were found that he could only boil glue, sweep up the shop,
or turn a grindstone, he would be discharged on the instant. But you
cannot discharge a sailor until his return home, unless he is willing
to go, and, in a foreign country, unless the consul is also willing to
allow him to be discharged. He may be absolutely worthless from the
seaman's point of view, which, as I have shown, must be considered
in relation to the ship, whether she is a steamer or a sailing ship,
but unless he is unable to steer, it is almost impossible to reduce
his wages. I well remember a case, years ago, tried before the late
Mr. Raffles, where the master of a ship had reduced one of his A.B.'s
wages for the voyage by £1 a month, that is to the level of an O.S.
(ordinary seaman). There was no doubt whatever as to the kind of man
the quondam A.B. was. He had never been to sea before that voyage, but
some enterprising boarding-master had supplied him with another man's
discharge, rigged him up like a seafarer, and got him shipped in a
big southern-going sailing ship as an A.B., at £3 a month. But he had
the wit to put his case into the hands of a smart lawyer, who bullied
the master to the verge of desperation. Among other things, he said,
"Did you have your ship's decks washed, Mr. Brown?" "Of course I did,"
replied the sorely-tried skipper. "Oh, you did. Was this man able to
assist in washing decks?" "Oh, well, I suppose he could do _that_."
"I don't require any of your supposing, sir; could he do his duty in
this respect, or could he not?" thundered the counsel. "Yes, he could."
"Thank you" (ironically). "Now, did you carry any pigs?" "Yes,"
answered the bewildered commander; "there was----" "That is sufficient.
Kindly answer my questions without comment. I suggest to you that those
pigs required their sty to be cleaned occasionally." "Yes; and it----"
said the skipper, getting redder in the face as the lawyer stopped him
again. "Could this man clean out the pig-sty? Yes or no?" "Yes, he
could; but----" "_Answer_ my questions in a proper manner," roared the
lawyer.
And so on, until, in triumphant tones, the legal gentleman exclaimed,
"Then I submit that you have no right at all to deduct one penny from
my client's miserable earnings. By your own admission he could perform
all those duties, very necessary duties, about which I have questioned
you. They had to be performed by some one, and surely you do not expect
to get the work of your ship done for nothing," etc. In the result the
man got his wages in full, and the skipper went away in the belief
that the law was a dangerous thing to meddle with, even if you knew
you were right. But every sailor worth his salt knows what it means to
get a few of these yokels foisted upon a ship. They can be, and they
are, put upon the dirty work, the unskilled labour, of which there is
so much to be done; but, in addition to the fact that they cannot do
even that work in sailor fashion, all the work which they cannot do
at all falls upon their shipmates who can. This often means terrible
overwork and suffering for everybody on first leaving home, before
"useless articles" have been taught their work aloft. I know of no more
difficult position to be in than aloft on a top-gallant yard, for
instance, in a snowstorm in the Channel, with three other men, for the
purpose of furling the sail, and finding that two of them are not only
useless, but helplessly in the way. Poor wretches, they are suffering,
too, no doubt, clinging to the yard in an agony lest they shall fall,
sick with fright; but the men who _must_ do their work are the ones
deserving of pity. They get neither pity nor pence for the extra work
they do.
Of all the injustice from which the sailor suffers, I know of none
that he feels more keenly than this. To be shipmates with half a dozen
wasters who are getting the same pay and treatment as himself, to be
overworked because they cannot do the first thing at sailorizing, and
as likely as not obliged to keep very quiet in the fo'c'sle, because
of them being in the majority, is a bitter pill to swallow. One very
unpleasant recollection of my own is of a ship where I was an A.B. In
my watch, besides myself, there was a Swede, a very good man; a little
Frenchman from St. Nazaire, who was also a smart sailor-man; a Finn,
who knew how to do his work, but was so slow and stupid that he was
very little good; another Frenchman from the vicinity of Nice, who,
strange to say, was useless, and, in addition, knew only about half
a dozen words of English; a big, brutal bully of a fellow, who was a
Briton, I grieve to confess, and one of the basest sort; also a negro
ordinary seaman. With such a watch, those of us who could do what we
were asked had a very hard time of it; and, to make matters worse, the
big Briton was, although as worthless an animal as ever stepped on a
ship's deck, the "boss" of the forecastle. I was working hard for my
certificate, and did not care to complain; until at last, in Hong Kong,
while that great loafer was quietly sitting in the shade, toying with
the task of chipping the iron rust off the cable, I was sent over with
the negro to scrape the ship's side in the blazing sun. I went, feeling
very hard done by; but presently the fine dry dust of coal tar which I
scraped off the planks stuck to my sweating face and began to blister
it, just as a mustard-plaster would have done.
Then I felt that, under these conditions, life was not worth living,
so I left my job and sought the mate. I appealed to his sense of
justice. "Here is a man," I said, "who has not been able to do a single
job of sailor-work, except take his trick at the wheel (and he's a
gorgeous helmsman), since we left Cardiff. I, on the other hand, have
been continuously at work, splicing, serving, sailorizing in all its
details, with never a complaint of my work. Yet because this man is
a truculent beast, who growls blasphemously whenever he is put on a
job, he is allowed to carry things so pleasantly that he might as well
be on a perpetual picnic. Is it fair or just?" To the mate's credit I
record it that the champion loafer was immediately sent overside to
scrape, and I went below to poultice my blistered visage. But even
there he scored, for he quietly shifted his stage under the counter,
where he could not be seen, and there sat in the shade and smoked his
pipe. Still, the business did not suit him, and two days after, to the
delight of every one on board, he deserted. He had the assurance to
come back for his kit; but he was not allowed to come on board, so I
lowered it over the bows to him. He knew that the skipper was too glad
to be rid of him to prosecute.