CHRISTMAS DAY ON THE HIGH SEAS
Life was not always so pleasant on board the _Fuller_. Hard words were
the common run of things and the most frightful and artistic profanity
often punctuated the working of the ship. Given a ship's company barely
strong enough to handle a two thousand five hundred ton three-skysail
yarder, even had they all been seasoned able seamen, our officers had
to contend with a crew over half of which rated below that of the
"ordinary" classification of seamanship, thick skinned clodhoppers,
all thumbs on a dark night, and for many weeks after leaving port,
as useless as so much living ballast. The kicking and moulding into
form of this conglomerate mass of deep sea flotsam, gathered for the
ship by the boarding masters, and duly signed on the ship's articles
as A.B., called for all but superhuman efforts. The curse is far more
potent than the gentle plea, especially when hard fists and hobnailed
sea boots are backed by all of the age old authority of the sea. To
work a ship of the proportions of the _Fuller_, with seventeen hands
forward, called for man driving without thought of anything but the
work required.
The latter days of the sailing ship as a carrier, before invoking the
aid of steam auxiliary apparatus, in the hoisting and hauling, brought
forth the brute sea officer aft, and the hardened fo'c'sle crowd, half
sailor and half drudge, forward. The "bucko mate" walked her decks,
and the jack tar, stripped of his pigtail, his bell mouthed canvas
trousers, his varnished sailor hat, and his grog, remained in plain
dungaree and cotton shirt to work the biggest sailing craft in the
history of the world on the last hard stages of their storm tossed
voyages.
Mixed with our real sailors were the worthless (so far as sea lore
went) scrapings of the waterfront. Shipped by the boarding masters for
the benefit of their three months' "advance," and furnished for sea
with rotten kits of dunnage, as unreliable and unfitted for the work
as the poor unfortunate dubs who were forced by an unkind fate to wear
them.
On the other hand, the real sailor-men of the crew were valued
accordingly, and I can hardly remember an instance where either one
of the mates singled out for abuse those men who had shipped as A.B.
and were so in fact. My schoolship training (_St. Mary's_ '97) stood
by me, and though barely turned eighteen, I was saved from most of the
drudgery meted out to the farmers of the watch.
After washing through the heavy seas we encountered for the first few
weeks of the voyage, while beating off the coast on the long reach
eastward to the Azores, the long hard pine sweep of the main deck
became slippery with a deposit of white salt-water slime. The sheen
of this scum, in the moonlight, under a film of running water, gave
the decks a ghastly "Flying Dutchman" like appearance, and the footing
became so precarious that something had to be done.
"They have the 'bear' out," Scouse announced, as he trudged into the
fo'c'sle carrying a "kid" of cracker hash, ditto of burgoo, a can of
coffee, and a bag of hard tack, this cargo of sustenance being our
regulation breakfast menu.
"The bear?" I asked, as we gathered about this appetizing spread.
"Yes, the bear," volunteered Brenden, grinning with the rest of the
sailors. "The bear for Scouse, and Joe, and Martin, and Fred."
At eight bells, as we mustered aft, a subdued banter went on among
the men. The starboard watch were all grinning, and as they went below
four sheepish looking fellows of the other side turned the "bear" over
to the farmers of our watch. "Keep that jackass baby carriage moving
now. D'ye hear me? Keep it moving!" bellowed the mate, for there was
some reluctance in taking hold, and as Scouse and Martin tailed on,
opposed to Joe and Fred, the doleful scrape of the bear mingled with
the general laughter at the mate's sally.
The bear consisted of a heavy box, a thick thrum mat lashed on the
bottom of it, and the inside loaded with broken holy stones and charged
with wet sand. Four stout rope lanyards were rigged to the corners and
served to haul the thing back and forth while the sand filtered down
through the mat, providing the necessary scouring agent. A day or two
with the bear in constant service, both day and night, cleaned up the
decks and provided us with considerable amusement, that is, those of us
who were lucky enough to be kept at more dignified jobs.
Ships leaving the Atlantic Coast in the winter months bend their best
suit of sails. The severe weather usually encountered in working clear
of the land, and the chance of having to ratch off from a lee shore,
make this precaution one of great importance. The fact that green crews
are bound to be more or less slow in taking in sail during squalls may
also account for the "storm suit" under which we sailed from port.
[Illustration: Fred]
On our first night out, shortly before one bell in the mid watch,
our crowd having just gone below, the fore topmast stays'l blew from
the bolt ropes with the report of a cannon. We had already clambered
into our bunks, dog tired, when this occurred, and muttered oaths,
anticipating a call of "all hands," came from untold depths of
weariness within the fo'c'sle. On deck there was the hurried tramping
of feet, and the shouting of the second mate. We could hear the long
wail of the men at brace and downhaul, the "Ah-hee-Oh-hee-ah-Ho!" with
all of its variation as the slaves of the ropes launched their age-old
complaint on the whipping winds. I lapsed into slumber with the dim
consciousness that the second mate was handling the situation alone,
and a heartfelt thanks for the warmth of the blankets in my narrow
bunk; a foot above me the cold rain pattered against the roof of the
fo'c'sle house, its music mingling with the swish of the water under
the fore channels.
After three weeks of beating to the eastward, having fetched almost as
far across as the Azores, and being in the region of the northern limit
of the N. E. trades, the captain hauled his wind and squared away for
the run through the trade wind belt to the doldrums and the line. Fine
weather became the order of the day and life on board settled down to a
more regular routine.
On a Saturday morning, the day having broken remarkably fine, a
brilliant red sunset followed by a cold grey dawn, assuring us of the
settled weather that the steady "glass" made more certain, all the
world seemed ready to rejoice, for it was Christmas Day. Word was
passed into the fo'c'sle by the other watch, as we turned out for our
breakfast, "We shift sail today."
"All hands on deck for us, me boys!" piped Australia. "An' the first
watch on deck tonight," chipped in Jimmy Marshall, "an' a hell of a
Christmas Day!"
Jimmy lit his pipe for a morning puff; climbing into his bunk, he
dangled his short legs over the frowsy head of big Scouse who sat with
his dejected poll bent under the upper bunk board, a fair sample of the
despondent crowd of farmers who faced a Christmas Day of labor.
"A hell of a Christmas Day, boys,
A hell of a Christmas Day,
For we are bound for the bloody Horn
Ten thousand miles away."
Jimmy rendered this little ditty of cheerfulness as Fred picked up the
breakfast kids and started for the galley, while we turned out on the
sun-splashed planks as the last of eight bells vibrated over the ship.
She lay still in a near calm like a scene by Turner, all of her canvas
hanging in picturesque festoons from the jackstays, where the starboard
watch had cast off the courses and tops'ls, leaving them depending in
their gear. The decks had not been washed down, in order to keep them
dry, and the mate himself had turned out at four bells to start the
ball rolling.
Long bundles of the fine weather canvas were stretched on the decks
ready for swaying aloft. Working like demons in the forenoon, and with
all hands on deck after dinner, which was dispatched in haste, we had
the courses, and in turn the tops'ls and light sails, lowered to the
deck, and the gantlines rigged to hoist the summer canvas; this we
sent aloft in record time. These old sails, soft and mellow, veterans
of a dozen voyages, patched and repatched, with whole new cloths of
a lighter grade here and there streaking the dull white-weathered
surface, were as smooth and pliable as a baby's bonnet.
On some of them, the fore upper tops'l especially, we found records of
the many crews who had handled them before. "James Brine, Liverpool. On
his last voyage," was one inscription. I hope Brine achieved his end
and stayed ashore. A date under this was hardly decipherable but may
have been Jan., June, or July, the day the eighth, and the year 1893.
Bending a sail calls for the nicest knowledge; the passing of the head
earing must be done in a certain manner, so the head of the sail will
hold well up on the yard arm; the gear, consisting of tacks, sheets,
clew garnets, and buntlines, in the case of a "course," not to mention
the leechlines, and bowlines, must all be rove and rigged just so. The
"robands" or pieces of rope yarn, are all looped through the "head
holes" ready for bending the sail to the iron jackstay on the yard, and
when a sailor does the job, all goes as smooth as a wedding when the
parson knows his job.
After the labors of a busy day, the ship presented the comfortable
well-patched appearance of a man in the woods, free from the stiffness
of new white linen, and naturally fitting into the familiar folds of
old duds, unconventional but plenty good enough. The bright spars
still attested to her "smartness," but we were in easy trade wind
weather and dressed accordingly. The fores'l was particularly large,
with extra clothes in the leeches, made to catch and hold every breath
of wind blowing over the deck.
The sail locker was re-stowed with our "best suit," and between the
coils of canvas we liberally spread a bundle of old newspapers brought
out by the mate. "To give the rats something to chew on," he remarked,
as we ran the stiff new canvas in, tier upon tier.
One thing that Frenchy called my attention to in the stowing of the
locker was the fact that the storm canvas, lower tops'ls and stays'ls,
were placed handy for immediate removal, the mate assuring himself
of this fact by personal supervision; indeed he knew just where each
particular sail was located in the locker, and could go in and lay his
hand upon it in the darkest night, as he more than once demonstrated
during the course of the voyage.
That night a tired lot of men sat down to supper. The cold salt beef,
the hard bread and the can of tea came from the galley in their usual
order. Fred, who was mess cook for that week, went back to the galley,
after depositing the regulation Saturday night grub. As he left the
fo'c'sle door he turned back at us with a grin on his wide good natured
face, bristling with uneven outcroppings of yellow stubble. Fred
reminded me of an amiable plodder hulking out in his dungaree jacket,
while the watch fell to on the beef and tack.
"I guess he forgot to thank the cook for putting so many bugs in the
tea," ventured Brenden.
"Maybe he's going aft to take Christmas Dinner with the captain in the
cabin. They have a real plum pudding there; I saw it in the galley,"
said Joe.
Plum pudding! Christmas! The thoughts of loved ones far away, and of
those distant homes that perhaps were remembering some of us out on the
broad bosom of the deep waters, came as a pang. All of us, I believe,
felt this. For a moment or two silence ensued, then Fred burst through
the fo'c'sle door with the big surprise.
"_Pie, boys! Pie!_" he shouted, depositing three tin plates on the
fo'c'sle deck, for we dined with the deck as a table, sitting about
the kids on low benches. The precious pie was cut with the greatest
regard for equality by no less an expert hand than that of Frenchy,
assisted by Australia, who showed us how to cut a pie into three parts
by measuring across the diameter with a knife, adding a little to this,
and then this length went three times into the circumference.
Jimmy Marshall failed to agree with this theory, but was fairly beaten
in the result, for Australia was right. The pie certainly was cut into
three very equal parts.
"An engineer in the mines showed me this," said Australia. "He says,
'Pie times across the pie, is all the way around.' Mathematics is wot
he calls this." Australia was nearly right at that, and the marks he
made on the crust of the confections baked by Chow served as a reliable
guide for Frenchy, also bolstering him immensely in the eyes of the
more humble members of the port watch. That Australia chap certainly
knew a thing or two, even if he was not the best sailor in the world.
But Jimmy Marshall's comment was simply, "Rats!"
After supper, when pipes were glowing, and most of us sought our
bunks for the hour or so that remained to us in the last dog watch,
a discussion arose as to what kind of pie it was. Frenchy, the great
gastronomic authority, claimed it was English currant pie. "They taste
so bitter, that's why I know," he added with an air of finality.
Others differed with him. Scouse said it was red crabapple pie.
Martin claimed it was nothing but plum pie. I thought it tasted like
cranberry, but was not sure. At last, to settle the matter, and at the
earnest request of the crabbed Jimmy, Fred trudged aft to the galley to
consult Chow and wind up the argument. He returned in triumph with a
large tin can done up in a gaudy red label marked "Pie Fruit."
Shortly after entering the N. E. trades we encountered the region of
tropic rains, of daily thunder storms, and of abundant drinking and
washing water. We rigged an old sail over the gallows frame in the
main deck to catch the rain, which was teemed through a canvas pipe to
the main tank, a large upright iron cylinder standing on the keelson
blocks in the main hold just abaft of the main mast. Our allowance of
three quarts a day, per man, was anything but satisfying in the tropic
atmosphere of the torrid zone. At least half of this "whack" of water
went to the galley for use in the preparation of food and the rest
was divided between the scuttle butt and the water barrel, from which
it was drawn sparingly for washing purposes; usually a mere rinse to
clean off the salt of a sea water scrub.
In the extreme heat, during the frequent periods of calm, our suffering
through the lack of water became intense. The _Fuller_, like many other
ships sailing from New York, put to sea with her water tank barely a
quarter full, relying on the tropic rains to replenish the supply. When
the rains did finally come we fairly reveled in the luxury of abundant
fresh water, drinking, washing clothes, bathing, and just plain
wasteful wallowing in the refreshing element. With the first douse of
rain all hands turned out on deck to fill their pannikins under the
spouting drains from the forward house.
The conduct of a deep water sailing voyage in the old days of wooden
ships called for what today would be considered the highest type of
scientific management. In the maintenance of the vessel, each part of
the complicated fabric received its due attention at some particular
point in the voyage where the weather was favorable for that certain
operation. So in the entry to the rainy belt, that uncertain region
of the doldrums where almost constant precipitation takes turn about
with calm or light baffling winds, we were turned loose on the job of
scrubbing paintwork. The work was started aft and each watch did its
own side of the ship, there being much rivalry as to who was doing the
most work. Everybody took a hand in this and Brenden and Marshall would
curse unmercifully at the job when well out of earshot of the after
guard. Our hands became wrinkled with the constant wet, the calloused
flesh getting soft and cheesy, while our oilskins, in which we worked
during the worst downpours, became soaked and clammy through constant
use.
We were not allowed the bucket of classic "_sewgee_" of the steam
ship sailor, a mixture of caustic soda, soft soap and water, but
were provided with nothing but a small tin of brick dust and a rag
of burlap; a rope handled deck bucket and a small swab completed
the outfit. Add to this formula an abundance of "elbow grease," and
slithers of tropic rain, and you get paintwork polished smooth and
white as ivory. A week or so, with all hands on the paintwork, whenever
the working of the ship would permit, transformed her into a model of
neatness. Woe to the luckless wretch who by any chance marred the deck
or paintwork with a drop of grease or tar.
About this time we made our acquaintance with the flying fish, these
swift travellers often shooting over our deck at night and being
caught in the belly of one of the courses or the spanker. A flying
fish for breakfast is not bad, and many were caught by the men on deck
keeping a sharp lookout for them. The mates were also watching for the
bag of flying fish and whenever one landed on the poop or in the waist,
one or the other of the mates would call out and have a hand bring the
fish aft.
One night a fish landed somewhere in the waist. We could hear the
wet splatter of the flying fins, as it was calm and the deck quiet.
Mr. Zerk, who was leaning against the weather swifter of the mizzen
shrouds, roused himself and called out for someone to bring the fish
aft.
Several of the watch started to search for the visitor, for we also had
heard him land, but without success.
"How about that fish?" shouted the mate, after a decent interval, while
the search was going on.
"Can't find it, sir," Joe piped up.
"The hell you can't!" thundered the mate. "There he is," and again we
heard a faint "splash, splash" of the wings.
"Get a light, you damn fools," was the order, for it was mighty dark.
"Come now quick. _Pronto_!" and as Scouse banged on the door of the
deck room occupied by Chips, in order to get him to open the lamp
locker, we thought we heard the "splash, splash" again.
[Illustration: Joe]
With the aid of a lantern and all of the watch the entire deck was
searched. Finally, Jimmy Marshall let out a whoop, "_Here he was! Here
he was!_" Some water on the deck, near the coils of rope hanging from
the main pin rail, looked as though Jimmy was close to the flying fish.
"_Here he was!_" again shouted the excited Jimmy, grabbing the lantern
from the hand of Scouse.
"Here he _what_?" demanded the mate, coming down into the waist. The
mate bent over the wet spot and exploded in a string of oaths. "No
flying fish ever made that! Here, you!" and he grabbed Jimmy. "This is
some of your damn monkey shines, you old dried up bundle of sea tripe!
---- ---- your gray hairs, I'll flying fish you! Lay aloft to the main
skysail yard and watch the stars! I'll call you down on deck whenever
we need you!"
For several nights after that Jimmy spent his time climbing up and down
the main rigging, for no sooner would he get up than the mate would
think of something to do that required his presence on deck.
The flying fish episode furnished us with something to talk about in
the fo'c'sle, and while Jimmy always tried to leave the impression that
the joke was on the mate and the rest of us, we felt that his over
zeal in discovering the puddle of water in which his clever hand had
simulated the nervous flapping of the fins of a flying fish had turned
the tables. My idea was that Jimmy, after seeing how well the thing was
taking, could not resist the temptation to get the credit.
We also harpooned our first bonita, a very active, virile fish, shaped
like a short double ended spindle buoy, and striped lengthwise. These
fish are exceedingly lively and jump about with terrific energy when
brought on deck. Before taking this fish to the galley, Old Smith of
the other watch, and Frenchy, and of course Jimmy Marshall, tested the
meat with a silver coin, to see if it was of the poison variety.
"If the silver turns black the fish is poison," explained Frenchy. In
this case the bonita was pronounced "good to eat," and a great feast
was on that night; however, I never cared much for fish anyway and
did not touch it. Chow had certainly made an ill looking mess of it,
garnished with broken tack, and basted with pork fat.
"You'll wisht you had a bit of this tucker afore we get to Honolulu,"
was the comment of Joe, who proceeded to help himself liberally.