THE END OF THE VOYAGE
A gray dawn broke to seaward, and as the flash of the Navesink Light
dimmed, and the bulk of the land defined itself in the lifting haze to
the west, we picked up our pilot. In past the low spit of the Hook, up
through the main ship channel and past the Narrows, we labored aloft,
furling sail, giving it a harbor stow, while Mr. Zerk watched us with
critical eyes.
The day was fine, warm sunshine welcoming us, and a strange unnatural
brightness seeming to radiate from every nook and corner of the
_Fuller_--she was groomed, polished, and triple polished for this very
day. We brought up near Bedloe's Island, under the lee of the great
statue, anchoring shortly after noon. The glitter of the tall buildings
on Manhattan, and the busy harbor scenes, constantly called to our sea
weary eyes. All hands went forward to a dinner of cracker hash, and a
pale looking duff to which Chow had added an extra ration of molasses,
black like tar, and a huge can of coffee; all of the tack in the bread
barge was broken and mealy as if it had been searched for weevils
before coming forward.
"To hell with this grub," growled Old Smith, as he filled his pannikin
with coffee and lit his pipe. "I'm eating white man's tucker tonight.
To hell with this, I can wait."
However, most of us were too hungry to wait; but the near approach of
human victuals made our mouths water. All about the fo'c'sle bags and
chests were hauled out from under bunks and benches and were being
stowed.
"That looks like them!" Australia at the starboard fore channels was
scanning several small boats coming out toward the ship. "I bet old
pedlar O'Brien is coming out to make me a present of a watch," he said,
at which we all laughed.
"Where are they?" a half dozen got up to watch the boats coming out
from the Battery with interest.
"Are you going to stay by?" asked Frenchy. "If you've got any place to
go to, don't leave, but stay by."
"Guess I'll stick," I said, "as I am going to my uncle's house. Why
don't you stay by?"
"They make it tough for you if you do," said Frenchy, nodding at the
boats which were now coming alongside with a spurt, the runners, for it
was they, racing to see who would get over the side first.
At that time there was a gentlemen's agreement--if we may call it
such--between the boarding house keepers, in the business of fleecing
sailors in the port of New York, whereby all victims were parcelled out
according to an impartial schedule, so many sailors to each house. When
a rich deep waterman came in, the boarding houses in the combine would
each get two or three men, stripping them of the greater part of their
payday. When a crew was wanted for a vessel outward bound, they would
supply the men in the same manner, taking the advance notes in payment
for board, clothes, and what not. Sometimes a sailor beat a boarding
master but not often, for Jack generally came in fat and went out under
bare poles, with nothing but a kit of second hand slops, as the sole
increment from his previous voyage.
As the runners bumped alongside, with a great show of rivalry and
cheery greetings, for they all knew just who was on board, we were
treated to an exhibition of rapid fire generosity and open-handed
welcome, by gentlemen of the waterfront, men wearing derby hats and
stiff shiny collars, watch chains, and flashy pins stuck into bright
neckties. These worthies scrambled up the fore channels like monkeys
and onto the deck. The game was to get a sailor to accept a card. As
soon as one of the boarding house cards was in the horny fist, that man
was marked and belonged to that particular house. This rushing at first
consisted in a scramble for the most desirable victims, that is the
weakest and most easily fleeced.
An evil-looking, pimply-faced runner backed me against the forward
house and thrust a card into my hand. He insisted, and I protested.
He had a breath that was strong, and told me how well his house could
take care of me. Good grub, a good crowd there, and he even mentioned
other advantages. He tried to put a five dollar bill into my hands. He
was most insistent; finally he saw that he was wasting precious time,
and darted after an easier victim. The runners swarmed about the decks,
two and three men from each house. In the two sides of the fo'c'sle the
crimps were assisting the men in the final roping of their dunnage,
bottles of whisky were being sampled. Some of the men proudly handled
showy watches, Australia surely got his watch, a big gilt turnip which
he showed me with pride.
"See, I got it."
"How much?" I asked.
"Only ten dollars--take it off my pay day. This watch is worth half of
that," and Australia winked at me. He had a bottle of whisky in his
jacket pocket.
All hands were becoming hilarious. The runners seemed uneasy, for
the _Fuller_ was known as a bit of a rough ship, and it was strictly
against the law for them to be on board. But a pay-off of close to
three thousand dollars forward was too tempting to allow around loose
in the harbor.
"No more of this work wagon for me," shouted Australia. Snatches of
song were interrupted by an order of unmistakable force.
"Lay aft, all hands!" It was Mr. Zerk who came forward and bellowed at
the gang about the fore fife rail.
We mustered aft, the shore harpies watching us from the sides of the
forward house.
"All here?"
"All aft, sir," Old Smith answered.
Captain Nichols stepped out on the break of the poop.
"Men," he began, "the voyage is over, but we will lay in the bay and
strike t'gallant masts before we go under the bridge. You can do this
if you want to, or you can go ashore now. I have found you a good
crew, ready, and sober. Those who want to go ashore step over to port."
All hands did, including Second Mate Tom, who now stood with his old
messmates, after a brief four months as an officer aft.
"Peter, come back, and you, Felix. You two stay aboard till we dock.
The rest of you can go. I want to say 'good-bye' and wish you good
luck. Be careful where you go and what you do."
As the skipper finished the longest speech we had ever heard him make,
he turned sharply and walked aft to the companion. We felt like giving
a cheer, but the cold eye of the mate was on us. There was a shuffle
and hesitation as to what was next.
"Lay forward and get your dunnage, mind that paintwork when you go over
the side." Mr. Zerk had given his last order to our crowd.
With discipline a thing of the past, with the hasty donning of wrinkled
shore clothes, and the ever present tempters, plying them with whisky,
the crew became a strange, wild-eyed crowd. Old Smith, Hitchen, and
Axel seemed to know what they were about. Scouse was belligerent, half
tipsy, and wild with the knowledge that he was at last to step from
those hated decks. Frenchy, of all the gang, showed the most sense.
"I am saving all I can out of this," he said. "I will ship across to
England or France, as soon as possible."
"Come on, stay aboard," I urged.
"If I do, I'll never get a ship out of New York," and he knew what he
was talking about.
Brenden was frankly drunk, _soused_ was his condition, and as fine
a sailor-man as there was. I had a lump in my throat when the boats
pulled away. There was much hand shaking and waving. Peter and I stood
on the fo'c'sle head watching them row ashore. Scouse got up in his
boat time and again and shook his fist at the ship.
Among the departed ones, Kahemuku and Black Joe were in tow of a
colored mission that had sent a boat for them. These poor Kanakas had
very little coming to them, and they offered no temptation to the
greedy runners. On the other hand, Tommy, for a brief term second
mate, at thirty dollars per month, presented the juiciest picking,
and strangely enough fell to the lot of the most inexperienced of the
crimps who picked him up by accident after the struggle was supposed to
be over as he emerged from his exalted cabin under the poop. Tom also
departed from the immaculate decks with a feeling of genuine relief.
"Well, they're gone," said Peter.
"I wish they were back," I said.
"Me too," was his reply.
When the last boat had vanished beyond the South Ferry slip, we entered
the deserted fo'c'sle. The disorder incident to such hurried departure
was everywhere evident. Small personal belongings of no intrinsic
value, but speaking eloquently of their owners on the long voyage past,
were scattered about, Brenden's calendar over his bunk attracted my
eye, and I saw that he had carried it along to the last day and had
evidently made a calculation of his payday on the beam over his bunk.
Names were scratched over most of the bunks. Frenchy, always neat, had
left behind a small canvas pouch in which he kept his tobacco and pipe,
this was empty, however; a few old burnt pipes, easily identified, were
abandoned in favor of the more effluvious five cent cigars so liberally
passed around by the runners. In the starboard fo'c'sle, Charlie Horse
and Tony had cleaned up their bunks before leaving, but Old Smith left
his a sight. Odd playing cards were scattered about, and the smell of
whisky, from recent spillings, gave this austere den the air of a
blind pig. Old oilskins that had been cast off, by the advice of some
of the crimps, were all missing. Peter remembered seeing one of the
shore gang bundle these up and take them, no doubt to help outfit the
poor fellows again in exchange for their advance; not an item seemed to
have escaped the plundering crowd from the beach. The fo'c'sle on my
side was populated with ghosts; I was glad when the mate called us aft
and ordered the decks swept down.
"Cabin grub for supper tonight," announced Peter, coming from the
galley. Sure enough, we were given two plates of corned beef hash,
made with real potatoes, while some letters that had come aboard were
sent forward. I was happy to learn that my folks were well and knew
of our arrival, having received the report from Delaware Breakwater.
We were particularly happy in all this, but in spite of good news, of
good food, and our approaching liberty, we were sad. The _Fuller_ was
peopled with the spirits of those so recently departed. Somewhere on
shore among the twinkling lights that began to flicker as the dusk
crept over the bay, our shipmates were carousing in the wicked city,
laying the foundation for another voyage of endless hardship and
privation.
Peter and I, with Chips, who remained on board, were told off as anchor
watch during the night, each taking a three-hour shift; three hours
that to me passed very quickly as I tramped the decks of memory on that
haunted ship, and thought of that first night watch when Frenchy and I
paired off to stump from the pin rail to the forward house, and spin
our yarns, and lay the foundation for a friendship that I have never
forgotten.
In the morning the shore riggers came on board, taking complete charge.
Mr. Zerk walked the deck but never gave an order, and those rough and
ready men struck the topgallant masts in jig time, lowering the skysail
masts so the tall trucks of the _Fuller_ would clear the span of the
Brooklyn Bridge. How they went rough-shod over the decks with their
spiked boots, while we had to submit all of our shoes to the mate for
inspection before wearing them so he could satisfy himself that no
nails remained in the soles.
By two that afternoon, the topgallant masts were lowered and a tug came
alongside, making fast to our quarter; we slowly headed up the East
River, past the South Ferry, and our starting berth at the foot of
Maiden Lane, then under the Brooklyn Bridge. The rattle of the trains,
the near approach of the life and hum of the great city filled me
with a strange wonder. As we came alongside at Williamsburgh, Mr. Zerk
said we might pack up and go when we pleased. Captain Nichols called
Peter and me aft and handed us each a letter; mine was to serve me two
years later--when I was twenty-one--as part of the required service
testimonials for admission to the examination for second mate in sail
and steam vessels. The letter read:
NEW YORK, Sept. 24th, 1898.
This is to certify that Felix Riesenberg has made the voyage in the
Ship _A. J. Fuller_ from New York to Honolulu and back to New York,
and I have found him to be a smart, steady, and faithful young man.
C. M. NICHOLS,
Master, Ship _A. J. Fuller_.
I am as proud of this letter now as I was on the day it was given me,
and with this precious paper in pocket, our chests trundling along
behind on an express wagon, Peter and I walked up the wharf, two
sea-tanned, hard-fisted youngsters in a land of strange activity,
noise, cobblestones, and freedom. We parted at the Brooklyn Bridge,
he going to friends in Brooklyn, and I to the home of my uncle in
Manhattan. Behind us lay one of life's great experiences--a voyage
around Cape Horn in an American three skysail yarder, a last proud
example of the fine sailing ships that once carried the starry ensign
to the four quarters of the globe.