THE LONG-LOOKED-FOR PAYDAY
On Monday, Sept. 26th, 1898, three days after our arrival in the bay,
we were paid off before the United States Shipping Commissioner, the
short interval having worked a deplorable change in the crew. Whoever
was responsible for a condition so well calculated to cause the
downfall of the returning deepwaterman, has a great weight of iniquity
resting against his eternal soul; no doubt this responsibility was so
well divided that each and every one of those guilty felt that his
individual part in the great scheme of debauchery would go unnoticed.
I like to believe that all of them, boarding masters, crimps, runners,
politicians, shipping officials, owners, managers, and masters who were
parties to the fate that befell the men of the _Fuller_, have long
since received their due reward in full consciousness of its meaning.
Nowadays things are managed better, thanks to the greater influence
of such noble establishments as the American Seamen's Friend Society,
the Seamen's Christian Association in West Street, and the Seamen's
Church Institute, on South Street, clubs where sailors are given room
and board, are outfitted, and are able to bank their payday. Healthful
amusements and recreation are provided, without that sanctimonious
atmosphere that seems to curdle many well-meaning attempts of this
sort and most of the shipping companies secure their crews through the
Institute.
But in 1898, the deepwater sailor was at the mercy of the hungry sharks
who had full sway in the vile business of ruining the souls and health
of sailors in order to rob them of the few dollars earned during a year
or more of cruel labor on the sea.
I have forgotten just where the shipping office was located, but it
was somewhere near Beaver Street and the waterfront. I was on hand
bright and early, anxious to see the crowd. The three days of rest and
good food, and wholesome amusement, those happy days at the home of my
uncle, had put me in fine condition; I never felt better in my life,
and I was looking forward to a visit with the old gang. I wanted to
take a trip around the waterfront with Frenchy and Australia, as we
had often planned, and have a good dinner ashore, such as Frenchy and
Tommy and I enjoyed in Honolulu.
The shipping office, as I remember it, had a dingy outer room in which
the crew to be paid off awaited the pleasure of the haughty officials.
One must be a sailor about to receive the scant reward for a year of
toil, to fully appreciate the high and mighty character of such minor
public officers as waited upon us on that bluest of all blue Mondays.
A gruff understrapper told me where to wait, and in the course of a
half hour the crew, in tow of the crimps, appeared on the scene; I
would like to draw a veil over this part of the story and leave the
reader the simple picture of the men rowing toward the Battery, with
Scouse shaking his fist at the ship, but realism, which in itself
constitutes the highest romance, bids me tell things as I saw them, and
the final tragedy is a part of the old days under sail that none of us
wish to see return.
I looked for Frenchy, but hardly knew him. His beard was trimmed
close to his chin, he wore his old cap but had on a cheap new suit of
clothes, wrinkled as though he had slept in them, and his eyes were
bloodshot. He seemed to avoid me, as he hung in the rear of the crowd.
For every man to be paid off, at least two crimps were on hand.
All were more or less under the weather, the smell of cheap whisky
permeated the room, and the ribald jests of the crimps, the constant
whooping up of an ill-sustained merriment, gave the gathering a ghastly
character that drove home to me with peculiar force. No doubt the close
approach to the money caused the robbers more than a passing thrill.
A couple of special bouncers from the inner office appeared when the
gathering became too obstreperous, and I had a chance to say "hello"
to the gang. Peter was there, sober, and wide-eyed with astonishment,
having come from the house of Mrs. Burdick, the good angel of the
waterfront. Australia, in a new rig, derby, watch, and soiled linen,
kept bursting into song; not the songs of the sea, but some cheap new
airs picked up along the Bowery.
"I owe them half of what's coming to me," he whispered, as if this was
something to be proud of; a crimp slid up, and he at once ceased his
confidences; all hands acted as though they were in charge of jailers,
which in fact they were.
Brenden, Charlie Horse, and Tommy sat in a corner, sullen, and I judge
partly sober.
Their attendants were anything but friendly. Martin, Fred, Tony, and
Old Smith had given themselves over body and soul. Smith was already
promised a ship, to sail in a week, so he had seven more days of
hilarious living to look forward to, and then another drill, around
the Horn or the Cape of Good Hope; another such voyage as we had just
passed through.
Axel and Hitchen were in their old clothes; they had seen the sights,
but seemed far steadier than the rest.
I cornered Frenchy. "What are you going to do when you get your pay?" I
asked.
"I will pay up what I owe and ship for England or France."
"Better buy a steerage passage for Havre," I reminded him, when the
crimp who owned him closed in, and a bull voice from the back room
ordered us to line up for our pay.
My name was one of the last to be called, and as I got my pay,
something over one hundred and twenty-five dollars, with slops and
allowance given in Honolulu deducted, I returned to the outer room and
found most of the men gone. As fast as they had got their money, the
crimps had hurried them off to their respective boarding houses. The
Kanakas came in, still in charge of the colored mission, or whatever
it was, that had them in tow, apparently the only honest people there,
and I bid those simple fellows good-bye; whether Kahemuku ever got to
"Pilladelpia," I don't know; I hope he did.
Presently I was on the street. The crew of the _Fuller_ had vanished.
I looked for Peter; he was gone. I stood alone and strangers passed,
bumping into me, no doubt thinking me a sunburned country yokel,
stranded in those busy, narrow streets.
That afternoon I saw Captain Shackford, of the American Line, and was
promised a billet as cadet on the _St. Louis_, just returned to the
passenger service after her brief career as an auxiliary cruiser during
the war with Spain. My service in sail was completed, and I was to
experience eighteen months, as quartermaster, for I was soon promoted,
on the _St. Louis_, during her golden age, when for a brief period it
looked as though the Stars and Stripes were again to come into their
own upon the Western Ocean.
Printed in the United States of America.
* * * * * *
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* * * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Obvious printer errors have been corrected. Otherwise, the author's
original spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been left intact.