LOADING SUGAR
Loading a deep water ship with sugar in the port of Honolulu during the
golden summer days of the young Republic was a lively business.
"Hi there! On the dock! Bear a hand with that sugar! Shake it up now!
Shake it up! Do you think we have a year to load this ship? By ----!
I'll shake you up! Yes, me! You lazy black ----!"
"_Pau! Pau! Kaliopoulie! kaue Ki! Ki! O ---- ooo maloue baue Pau. Likee
Pau ----! Pau! pau! pau! Oh--ee hakau! pau! pau!_" or words to that
effect, according to the phonetic rendering. A violent protest of many
tongues, bristling with exclamation points, and heated Kanaka epithets,
rose from the indignant dock gang. Glances of the utmost withering
scorn were shot up out of the hold at the mate standing abreast of
the main hatch, and all over the dock shirts were being slipped back
onto the silky brown backs, stripped in readiness for the work to
start, The uproar of indignation was spontaneous, and on the outskirts
of the racket the stocky Japanese coolies from the sugar plantation
gangs, and from the railroad gang, stood around in sullen enjoyment of
the situation. Aboard ship we of the crew were circumspect, but our
appreciation of the situation was keen.
"What's this?" A smart looking chap in a suit of khaki, and wearing a
panama hat, stepped out of the office on the dock. He was sun browned
and efficient; springy in his movements, a natural commander of men.
"_Pau_ ---- ---- ----!" cried a dark skinned perspiring stevy, pointing
at the mate, and sending forth another shower of island rhetoric. The
gang foreman of the shore crowd was explaining, brown face shining and
eyes flashing black and white.
"All right! I'll see about it." The railroad superintendent climbed
aboard and took Mr. Zerk aft, out of earshot, where they got things
settled. Then the superintendent went back on the dock, the gang
foreman got an earful of second hand apologies, explanations and
promises. Important details of same were passed on to independent
Kanaka citizens by their boss, and the steam winch started as the
shirts again were slipped off of the silky brown backs of the workers.
We are off. The first sling of sugar bags shot over the bulwark and
landed on the platform abreast the hatch and four Kanakas started
sending it down the chutes like lightning. Bing! Another sling dripped
on the platform, and down it went. The action became automatic, the
brown bodies swayed rapidly, surely, and on the wharf we heard them
shouting as the Jap coolies inched along another car with their crow
bars. I was stationed at a point where two chutes met at an angle, and
the yellow bags passed me in rapid succession, slapping the chute with
a smart patter as they jumped the corner. Soon the whole thing became
a matter of easy routine. This was living! What an easy job! The dusky
gang below, working in the half light of the hold, and assisted by the
crew, were placing a bottom layer of sugar bags and forward stacking
and stepping back the tiers, "boulking" it, as sailors say, for the
ends of the hold to be kept clear.
The Hawaiian sugar is only partly refined, and of a dull golden color
when the sun strikes it. It is largely granular, the particles being
almost the size of a small pea. The sacks, made of gunny, are stamped
with the names of the various plantations; Ewa, Laie, Halawa, Holua
Loa, Kilauea, Makee, Wailuku, and a dozen others, all of them the
mystic symbols spelling wealth to their fortunate owners.
They weigh in the neighborhood of one hundred and fifty pounds of the
limpest, deadest, weight in the world and without decent "ears" at the
end of the sack to afford a hold. Frequently a sack would break, and we
would help ourselves to the sugar. The taste is pleasant at first, and
we were remarkably liberal in our indulgence, perhaps no more so than a
crew of girls would be if they were loading a cargo of chocolate creams.
The sugar as it comes from the island refineries is about twice as
sweet as the white granulated article. To a crowd accustomed to
black jack molasses as a sweetener for their coffee, the sugar was a
wonderful delicacy, for a time. Soon we became cloyed with the taste,
and for weeks after my first gorging of sweets, I took my coffee and
tea without it, though we always had a small keg of the stuff on hand
forward during the remainder of the voyage. The sweet overpowering
smell of the sugar soon permeated the ship, and in the heat of midday,
became nauseating to us who were not used to it.
The Kanaka workers, splendid specimens, would toss the heavy sacks with
apparent ease, the muscles rippling under their smooth skins as they
worked. The greatest good feeling prevailed in the hold, and the men
constantly referred to our mate amid sallies of laughter for it was
considered a great victory for them when the superintendent smoothed
matters out.
On deck, at the hatch, and on the wharf, the tally men checked the
loading of every sling and bag of sugar that went into the hold. The
plantation, the railroad, and the ship's agents had their independent
checkers. These chaps, mostly sedate older men, well educated,
apparently well paid, kept the neatest tally books I have ever seen.
They made the cleanest little marks with very sharp pencils, which
they were always sharpening with very sharp pen knives; little marks
four in a row, and a cross for every fifth bag. Before the end of each
day's loading these very independent tally men would get together under
the fo'c'sle head, or behind a convenient freight car on the dock,
and reconcile all differences, thus proving themselves brothers under
their skins to independent folk in higher stations. Years afterward,
I recognized some of these same tally men, still at the job of making
very neat little marks and crosses, an easy job no doubt and well worth
while if it contributed toward the upkeep of a happy family; most of
them looked like settled benedicts.
As we cleaned out the warehouse, the sugar began to come in on the
railroad and was slung right aboard from the cars, the Japs sending
the loaded cars along by pushing, getting them started by short crow
bars, used as levers under the wheels. These Japs were a husky lot
with very able bodies, small heads, black cropped hair, often wound
with a red or white head band. Most of them had dazzling white teeth
which they constantly exposed by expansive grins; altogether they were
a testimonial to a rice and fish diet, so far as physical wellbeing is
concerned.
The days at the sugar wharf were among the most pleasant of our stay
in Honolulu, and like all good things they raced away with disquieting
swiftness. Having lighter duties to perform, we were not so dog tired
at night and enjoyed our leisure that much more. Peter continued to
make progress with the native population and on one eventful night was
presented with a large jug of swipes, as a token of esteem.
Brenden, Axel and I were up on Nuuanu Street, in the vicinity of
Merchant, watching the shifting crowds as we wandered aimlessly about.
Presently we spied Peter, coming toward us, carrying his jug. The
street was fairly crowded, and going ahead of us, toward Peter, was
a one-legged man; a pugnacious individual who brought down his iron
shod peg with loud determination. The wooden leg yawed badly, sailing
at least three sheets in the wind, and the flag sidewalk was none too
wide for him. Coming up to Peter, he lurched suddenly to port, taking
our shipmate squarely on the bow, and the three of them, all carrying
cargo, Peter, the Peg Leg, and the Jug of Swipes, rolled into the dusty
gutter.
A fight started right there. The Peg, to give him a proper name,
attacking, and Peter defending himself from the strange fury of the
indignant cripple.
"Separate 'em! Don't you see the man's got only one leg?"
"Hi! The bloat wi' the wooden pin is fightin'! Blarst 'im!--look at
'im!" Sailors, beach combers, natives, and Orientals were gathering and
taking voice.
We closed to render assistance as the crowd formed under the circle
of light from a street lamp. The two combatants sat back in the gutter
after a second exchange, both having fought sitting down.
"What are we fighting for?" cried Peter, covered with dirt and sweat.
"I dunno," admitted the stunned Peg.
"To hell with this, let's quit!"
"Naw. I wanna fight!" Peg was getting back his belligerent wind. "Wash
in that jug?" he demanded, seeing the prize.
"Swipes!" cried Peter, trying to retrieve the jug.
"Lesh fight fer swipsh. Al ri! Fight fer swipsh!" he screamed with
enthusiasm.
The Peg made another lunge at Peter, as our boy jumped up with
surprising energy, and we grabbed our shipmate and hauled him out of
the crowd of riff raff that was rapidly increasing. Some blue-jackets
from the _Bennington_ came up, scenting fun, and Axel was just in time
to beat them to the jug of swipes that lay neglected in the dust. He
passed this to a Kanaka standing near, a boy we recognized as one of
the loading gang, who rapidly departed with his unexpected present,
while we hurried off with Peter in the direction of Fort Street. What
became of Peg is unknown. On Fort Street we were attracted by the
melody of Salvation Army music, and to wind up the night, watched our
famous Jimmy rouse things up in his new uniform, his chest expanding
visibly as he ignored us and pounded his drum with added zest.
On nights such as this, warm and sultry, when the trade wind was not
over strong, the smell from the Chinese and Japanese stores would come
out into the streets with added intensity. The Chinese merchants, in
the shadow of their open front stores, would entertain their families
and friends of an evening with interminable jabberings that must
have been mighty interesting to them. I used to wonder what these
industrious law abiding citizens found to talk about; now I realize
that, except to those who were blind or deaf, the Honolulu nights could
hardly be long enough for them to discuss half of the peculiar doings
of the daffy white people residing in that busy little town, in those
stirring days of the Republic.
To a foremast hand, a common sailor in the fo'c'sle of a deepwaterman,
the point of view is almost on a level with that of the perpetually
unassimilated Oriental. The sailor sees, he hears, and if he is gifted
with brains that think, he must needs wonder at the strange ways of
folks who dress themselves so well, who live on the most appetizing
foods, perform very little hard work, and who do themselves to the
height of their ability. That we had a few philosophers among the crowd
forward goes without saying; men who had lived, and who had had their
fling, and for all I know to the contrary are having it again. I wager
Hitchen, if not killed by this time, has mounted to more enlightened
planes; perhaps back to a station from which he temporarily stepped
down to sign articles in the ship _A. J. Fuller_ for the voyage around
Cape Horn.
We did a lot of swapping of books and magazines among the craft in the
harbor. The poor starved crowd from the _British Monarch_ were first
over the side with bundles of old magazines, paper covered novels,
and mind destroying sheets called "Tit Bits," and "Snappy Bits,"
periodicals of a peculiar type. After reading one of them for an hour
(and the funny part is you keep on reading and reading), it is a sort
of mental dope, nothing remains but a vague idea of a lot of short
paragraphs full of piffle.
We got a number of Clark Russell stories in this exchange, though we
really had little to give in return. All hands read these yarns and
while there was much grumbling about "too much skirt," the sailor was
recognized.
Hitchen and Old Smith were the best read among the crowd, with
Australia a close second; leaving out of course that biblical student,
the dear departed Jimmy. Frenchy also was entitled to a place among
the intellectuals of the fo'c'sle; he read Voltaire, had several
copies of his works in the original, as well as shopworn copies of
Les Miserables, and the Toilers of the Sea. Frenchy read English with
difficulty. Axel also was handicapped in literary discussions by his
lack of English though he waded through books in that language, having
been taught it at school; of course he spoke English well, as indeed
all did, barring a bit of slack here and there, that merely served to
give the fo'c'sle individuality.
One thing I will always remember with a great deal of pleasure is the
fact that Axel was the first one to give me a definite story of the
Andree North Pole Expedition, he having tried for, and almost succeeded
in going along. A university professor took the place he wanted at the
last moment, the scholar going to perform the duties of a common jack
in order to be with Andree. I recall the fo'c'sle discussion of this
ill fated venture, the final outcome of which was still in doubt. I
felt at that time that Andree had a good chance to accomplish his end,
and I still think so; the luck simply ran against him. Nine years later
it was to be my fortune to have a part in a similar expedition under
Wellman, except that a dirigible balloon, of which I was navigator,
was employed. We were more fortunate in so far as we got back. Andree,
Strindberg, and Fraenkel were not fools as some think, but fearless
scientists who took a legitimate chance to explore the unknown polar
regions; fate was against them, but even so, they have left the memory
of a brave deed inscribed on the bright scroll of Swedish honor.
Old Smith had a dog-eared copy of Marcus Aurelius that had served its
noble duty in discussions with Jimmy Marshall, while the latter was
deep in the wisdom of King Solomon. I don't know what Brenden read,
but he was a great letter writer, and often received mail. When taking
pictures one day, Brenden asked me to take a picture of him reading a
letter from his girl Hilda. The Letters of One Brenden, Able Seaman
on the ship _A. J. Fuller_, would certainly make quaint reading,
could they be got at and translated, for Brenden conducted his
correspondence in German.
[Illustration: BRENDEN READING LETTER]
Mike, and Martin and Fred were mere fillers in. Beef on a rope, and
able eaters, they remain as memories, indistinct and still quite clear;
they never succeeded in making an impression on the life of the ship
but were the background of that distant time, seldom saying anything
that was listened to. Of Tommy, or the more dignified Tom, we will
learn more later on. He was a man with a past, and I hope a future,
for he certainly earned the right to a very bright one while on the
_Fuller_; that future, however, did not lie on the sea. As high admiral
of a pickle barge and fleet commander of a whole flotilla of shelf
jugs full of vinegar and preserved edibles, in his own delicatessen
store, he may have risen to success.
Scouse never read anything; he was too busy thinking, and as he did
less and less talking as the voyage lengthened, we concluded he must be
a very deep fellow. Scouse had points, and I have no doubt after all
the hazing afloat and skinning ashore, he learned and digested lessons
of the utmost value.
Peter, of whom so much has been said and so little told, was in a
way the most interesting character on board. He was, and no doubt
still is, one of the most generous souls alive. If he is rich, it is
certainly for no lack of a wild desire to share his last cent with any
unfortunate that might cross his path. Peter started to sea in deep
water sail for reasons that do him credit. He saw a way to recoup his
health and at the same time bring to a conclusion an intense amour that
seemed to lead directly to an early grave. He shipped on the _Fuller_,
leaving a large wash behind in the tender care of his sweetheart. No
boarding master captured part of his advance, and for a week afterward
at least, so Peter said, two coffee pots must have stood on a certain
N. Y. kitchen window, as a signal that his laundry was ready to be
taken away. The lady's husband was a night clerk in the post office.
The career of Peter would serve as a theme for a first class
psychological novel with the plots of half a dozen red-hot problem
plays added by way of good measure. He started life with the curse of
good looks, of the romantic type, dark and interesting, his rather long
silky locks, curled slightly, and his regular features were classic.
Deep brown eyes, and a very fine, rich voice completed his downfall.
As reporter on a country paper, Peter told us how he would write up
the stories of the socialist meetings, by sending a boy around to the
local hall to see if the lights were lit. His adventures as foreman
in a corset factory, as cadet in the American Line, and as a social
worker in the humble ranks of those who uplift the sailor ashore, were
chapters in the start of a busy life.