CLEANING HOUSE AND A CELEBRATION
The rough passage around the Horn--seagoing with the bark on--worked
the discontent out of our systems, and with the return of fine weather,
all hands cheered up and life became more and more worth living. The
dog watches were lively, with hotly contested arguments on all topics
under heaven. The less the debaters knew about a subject, the more they
would have to say about it; resembling in this regard large numbers
of more sophisticated folk ashore. Some of the discussions would
last for days, being carried on as a serial story, from dog watch to
dog watch, with overflow sessions on deck at night. As none of the
contenders would ever budge an inch from their positions, the points at
issue always remained undecided except in the fish argument, which was
settled by the mate.
For a long time Martin, Joe and Scouse indulged in heated discussion
as to whether fish was meat, or whether it was something else. Joe
contended for the negative, that fish was not meat, while Martin and
Scouse insisted that fish and meat were the same thing.
Joe had two against him, but being quicker with his tongue he was able
to hold Scouse and Martin pretty well in check.
"If fish ain't meat, wot is it?" demanded Martin. "Is it wegetables, or
wot?"
This always stumped Joe, but he stuck to his guns and came back
stronger each time: "It's fish, that's wot it is, F-I-S-H--FISH!" his
voice rising above everything else in the heat of argument.
The debate finally closed in a particularly violent session that
continued as our side went aft to muster in the second dog watch.
"Fish you say!" shouted the mate at the unheard of disrespect on the
part of Joe, who was frothing at the mouth in the defense of his
contention. "I'll fish you, you thick-headed ass," and as Joe woke up
to the fact that a new champion had come into the field, the whole
watch broke into a laugh at the sequel. "Fish, is it? Well, I'll
fish you good and proper. Get a pot of slush and rub down the mizzen
topmast. Drop a spot, and you stay on deck tomorrow forenoon, _you
fisherman!_" The last with biting sarcasm.
Joe lay aloft with his slush pot, and as a bright moon gave him plenty
of light at his work, it also enabled the mate to watch him closely.
However, this ended the argument, much to the satisfaction of all of
us, for it was a bit wearing.
Jimmy Marshall had a large dog-eared Bible in his possession; a red
stamp on the title page read as follows: "Property of Seamen's Bethel,
Sydney. _Do not take from chapel._" While lying up with his arm in a
sling, having been tossed between the spare main yard and the after
bitts, by a sea, he delved industriously into the lore of the good
book; and when he was back on deck again Jimmy refused to chantey to
the tune of "Whiskey," and his verses, when singing a rope to "Molly
Brown," were painfully proper.
Each night in the dog watch he insisted on reading from the Old
Testament, starting at the very beginning. Jimmy had a pair of
steel-rimmed spectacles, and to further his missionary work, he changed
bunks with Scouse, so that he could be directly under the lamp, while
the big red-head moved into the best bunk in the fo'c'sle right next to
an open port.
Jimmy worked his way through Genesis and got well started on Exodus
by the time we picked up the S. E. trades. His pronunciation of the
hard names was truly wonderful and required much careful wiping of his
spectacles. By the time he was within hailing distance of Leviticus we
were again approaching the doldrums and once more we unbent our storm
canvas and shifted into the easy weather sails.
Australia, one of the most consistent chronologists of the fo'c'sle,
working by the brad-hole-and-peg method, using the stumps of burnt
matches, pegged a hole around which he had scratched a circle.
"The 'dead horse' is worked off," announced Australia, as we turned out
for breakfast one morning, springing a surprise, as it had been more
than a week since the subject was broached last in the fo'c'sle. March
5th, three months since leaving the wharf at South Street! It seemed a
year in point of experiences.
"Well," ventured Martin, "the boarding masters are smiling today."
"Yes, the lousy squeezers, I'll bet the Front Street House has a good
dinner for the boss on my advance."
"I hope he chokes, Joe," chipped in Fred.
"Choking is too good for them; burning is wot they want," went on Joe,
almost forgetting his breakfast in the heat of his indignation. "They
take in Australia and Martin and Fred and me, and wot do we get? Wot do
we get? Why, a few days' grub and a lousy, dirty bed, wot ain't fit to
sleep on, and then they send us out. We go down and sign, and the next
day out to sea for us in this bloody hell wagon. A half a kit of dog's
wool and oakum slops, took from some dead sailor, maybe, and rotten
poor oilskins, and sea boots that is no good. A big bargain, and all
for six quid--that's all--only six quid for the lot; a mess of fine
wearin' rags. And today they collect their hard earned money and all we
has to do is to ride down here on a yachtin' toor round Cape Stiff."
"It ain't right. It's hell, that's it--hell!" agreed Australia. "Lookit
me and Fred, and Mike, we was only in port two days. Just two days
board and no advance money. Said the British Consul would get us sent
back to the _Ettrick_. And that cost us six quid!"
"Nothing ain't right," it was Jimmy who spoke. "You booze, and worse,
you sells out your manhood an' your rights to low livin' pigs wot
lives off o' the likes o' us. Its principles wot you needs. Young men,
take my advice and get principles. 'Ard? O' course it's 'ard to get
principles, but they saves you a lot o' trouble an' you can put away a
bit. I say live right and you'll be right."
"How old are you, anyway?" demanded Brenden.
"Old enough to know my own bloody business," rejoined Jimmy, scenting a
comeback on his reform precepts.
"Well, now that _your_ dead horse is worked off you can start in and
save until _you_ hit New York again."
"Well, if I do save a bit, it's none o' the likes o' a Dutchman like
you wot'll 'elp me spend it," and Jimmy hopped out of the fo'c'sle at
eight bells sharp. The mate was so surprised to see him leading the
watch aft that he promptly sent him up to the fore skysail to loose
sail, for the night had been squally and the second mate had taken in
the kites, a thing he was prone to do, while the mate always promptly
set them again.
After the argument about the advance, we all made up our minds to work
off no more dead horses. As Australia put it, "A year at sea and a week
in port, and nothing to show for it."
Most of us had slop accounts to clear off with the skipper, and then
the velvet would pile up at the rate of eighteen dollars a month, at
that time standard wages out of the port of New York for deepwater
sailors.
None of the men had shaved for at least a month, and the crew forward
presented a truly deep sea appearance; "Rooshin Jews on a ocean
picnic," was the comment of Jimmy, who never shaved, and whose whiskers
also failed to increase but rather diminished in their moth-eaten way.
On the first Sunday of real fine weather, when the bushes were
beginning to get uncomfortable, the fo'c'sle barbers got busy in both
watches. Frenchy and Australia were the tonsorialists of our watch and
after taking on all hands, Frenchy shaved Australia and trimmed his
mustache. Hair cuts were had by all and the effect was good. Perhaps
the feeling of cleanliness due to the trimming had something to do with
the desire for a "field day"; at any rate, two of the men, Old Smith,
of starboard, and Frenchy, went aft and got permission from the mate to
have a celebration.
The coming Wednesday was named, and as we were then on the edge of the
S. E. trades, the day broke fine. Accordingly after breakfast that
morning the watch on deck, all but the helmsman, were allowed to go
forward and assist in removing the contents of the fo'c'sle.
The watch below also turned to, and green and blue sea chests with
wonderful "tumble home" sides and fancy canvas tops; plain canvas
bags, "the sailor's round-bottomed trunk"; bags with fancy eyelets and
elaborate grommets; well-worn blankets; knobby straw mattresses, the
"donkey's breakfast" of the sea; and all of the humble furnishings of
the fo'c'sle of a deepwater merchantman, were hauled out on deck in
the light of day. The fore rigging, the bottoms of the upturned boats
on the forward house and the fo'c'sle head, were littered with these
things as box and bag yielded up their contents to the purifying action
of the sun. All of our salt encrusted gear was rinsed out in a barrel
of rain water, saved for the purpose, until free from salt, as most of
our clothing was so highly hygroscopic that the least fall of dew would
make them damp and clammy.
We then rigged the water spar, and with a liberal supply of sand and
canvas and with "_ki-yi_" brooms we scrubbed our home until the place
fairly radiated. The scuttle butt was cleaned out and re-charred, the
fo'c'sle lamp taken down and polished, and two hands got busy and gave
the ceiling a fresh coat of white paint, brightening up things to a
wonderful extent, for this had not been done for some years.
All doors and ports were left open to allow the fo'c'sle to dry out,
and at noon both watches lunched together, "al fresco," under the
shade of the fores'l. A hamper of chicken sandwiches, a case of cold
beer, and a box of cigars would have delightfully rounded out our
dinner of pork and pea soup. However, we were in a merry mood and
the unaccustomed company of the other watch made the simple fare and
weevil-ridden tack taste particularly good. Besides, relations with the
after-guard were becoming more and more pleasant. The fight between
Tony and Mr. Stoddard had faded from mind in the trying weeks that had
intervened and the feeling of anticipation, as we neared the end of the
passage, helped to make us receptive to better things.
By gradual stages, without in any way compromising their dignity, our
experienced officers assumed a less harsh way of speaking; orders were
mandatory to the last degree, of course, but less liberally spiced with
profanity. An occasional joke on the part of those aft would send a
ripple of laughter among the men pulling at sheet or halyard. The cook
also felt the mysterious balmy influence of the Pacific sunshine, and
every other day we would be delighted with a big pan of ginger bread in
the fo'c'sle. On Sundays we would have duff with real raisins in it.
Honolulu was drawing near; none of us had more than a few dollars of
pay on the books, and crews among the island and coast traders were
hard to get, with pay correspondingly high. Perhaps this had something
to do with the change of atmosphere. Even those who had the most reason
to complain were beginning to cheer up and forget their troubles of the
past.
A clean fo'c'sle, dry, well aired bedding, and smiling skies, ushered
us into the region of the equatorial rains. The flying fish began to
zip through the air again with increasing frequency and the mates as
usual gathered them up, but, strangest of strange things, the cook was
told to send half of the catch forward. The daily thunderstorms came
with their accustomed regularity. At about eight bells in the afternoon
watch it would cloud up suddenly, any sails spread out on deck, in the
course of repair, would be hastily dragged to the sail locker or under
the fo'c'sle head, and presto!--a rumble of thunder would follow the
first faint flashes of lightning. Then several bright jagged discharges
would come in quick succession, a clap of Jove's artillery, and a
douse of rain, followed by the golden rays of the sun streaming through
such rainbows as are seldom seen anywhere but in those latitudes.
During a tropic storm at night, just after leaving the trades, we were
roused out at midnight and ordered aloft to take in the t'gans'ls. The
yards and rigging were soaked with rain, and, as we got to the tops,
St. Elmo's fires started to flicker on the yard arms with a pale blue
light. The night was black, and oppressive with the hot humid wind, we
were wet and clammy, and the sleep was in our eyes when----
"And sudden breaking on their raptured sight,
Appeared the splendor of St. Elmo's light."
Jimmy Marshall, fear clutching at his heart, refused to mount the
futtock shrouds; springing to the forward leg of the main topmast
backstays, he slid to the deck while the rest of us went aloft. The
stoutest of us, however, were touched with superstitious feelings.
The "corposants," as the men called them, started us on a series of
ghost stories in the night watches on deck. A few days later we were
becalmed in a dense fog, such as sometimes is encountered in the warm,
damp region bordering the line. Joe went aft to relieve the wheel just
after listening to a gruesome tale. A giant man out in the fog over
the quarter reached for Joe when abreast of the open door of the wheel
house. Joe nearly fainted with fright, at the sight of his own shadow
thrown on the fog wall by the naked binnacle light that the helmsman
had taken from the cowl to trim.