I told him of my experience on that ship. I remarked that it must be
very hard for those men who had worked on deck in the cold to have to
spend their evenings in such a miserable den. My heart even went out
more in sympathy for the firemen than for the sailors, for they had
been doing their work down in the bowels of the ship, with greasy hands
and arms, half choked and black as negroes with cold dust. They must
bathe on deck in a wash deck bucket, and make the best of what was
given them.
“True enough, Mr. King,” he replied, “I admit that things could be
better, but if you knew it all you would agree with me when I say they
don’t deserve anything better. These men don’t and won’t appreciate
anything else. Some steamship companies have tried their best to
improve the surroundings of the crew, but they have so abused what
has been done for them that they are given up by most companies as a
hopeless lot.”
I know that many of the men going to sea have to learn the meaning
of new conditions before they can value them; the failure of some to
appreciate an improvement only shows more clearly the need of the
improvement. Their very faculties for appreciating better conditions
are nearly dead, and must be quickened and developed. We have to
face the ignorance of those who need our help, and gradually carry
on our reforming movements. The clean, respectable seamen will help
the untidy, careless fellows to appreciate what is being done for
them, and will join hands with the ship owners in making the sailor’s
calling desirable. A ship’s forecastle is not a temporary place for
some college student who is working his passage across the Atlantic
during his summer vacation. It is the permanent home of the sailor.
Therefore, if we are to have good men on our vessels, we must offer
them comfortable quarters. The mechanic or laborer on land leaves his
work at the close of the day, and goes to his home. There is a change,
a new atmosphere greets him; not so with the sailor. The forecastle is
his home. Debarred as he is from the society and companionship of his
own people, he above all men should have the greatest comfort and the
best of treatment when off duty.
I could endure the forecastle for a trip across, I could do the work
on deck, or shovel coal in the fireroom, but I could not follow the
sea for a living to-day and think that until my hair turns gray, and
my hands tremble through age, I must eke out such an existence. Yes,
a thousand times let me break the stones on the streets for a mere
pittance, so that when my day’s work was over, I could find a shelter
of warmth and cleanliness, even though it were poor and humble.
Now and again we find a steamer whose owners have given considerable
thought to the crew. I call to mind a certain steamer which was in
Boston not very long ago. In this vessel the twelve sailors had four
large rooms. There was a good-sized mess-room near these quarters.
Everything was neat and clean and manifested a spirit of cleanliness.
Pictures of loved ones were hung up, there was a spirit of content
prevailing on that vessel. Men lose all interest in keeping a place
clean when they are huddled together like sheep in a pen.
The strongest and best of men are influenced by their surroundings.
We shamefully admit this weakness, for we know as men we should be
strong enough to master all our circumstances, and not they us. How
then can we expect men who are ignorant of the laws governing their
health to rise up and not be influenced by their circumstances? How do
we expect our men in the engine room and on deck to be otherwise than
they are? The hopeful sign is to find so many dissatisfied with their
surroundings.
Not long ago I visited the firemen on a steamer. It was supper time.
The room was dark, even though the sun was shining on deck. I thought
one of my feet was in something slippery, and, going to the door of the
forecastle, I discovered I had stepped into the “black pan.” This was a
pan of food which consisted of the leavings of the cabin and engineers’
mess-room. The men, seeing I was embarrassed, said: “That’s all right,
Mr. King; we have had all we want of it.” I have lived in forecastles
where the conditions were almost as bad as this, but that was twenty
years ago, but even then there were not so many of us huddled in one
room. Suppose we go on board some of the finest and best steamers; go
forward and visit the forecastles. You will find a large, undivided
space, a place where a dozen men may be able to move around in comfort,
containing from twenty to forty men. Their clothes are hung on lines
around their bunks. At its best you will say: “What a gloomy den!”
I have never witnessed such a miserable condition on board ship as I
encountered in the forecastle of an ocean steamer one Sunday morning. I
went on board to invite the men to the services at the Mission. About
thirty-five men were in a room filled with bunks, with a narrow passage
between them. The men were asleep. Just then a fireman entered with
a large black pan and a kettle, and calling at the top of his voice
“Hash!” he placed the pan and kettle on the dirty floor. The call of
“hash” made the men roll over and think of getting up. The odor of that
room was villainous. The night through, these men had smoked and slept,
and in that same atmosphere they were called to eat their breakfast.
One man tried to light his pipe as he was turning out, and shouting to
me said, “Mr. King, can’t you do something for us? Look, sir, the match
won’t burn, the air is so thick in here.” I did indeed feel sorry for
him. Were I in his place, I would climb on deck, be it hot or cold, and
in God’s pure air eat my meals. It is fortunate they have an abundance
of fresh air on deck to help counteract the impure atmosphere of the
forecastles.
On some of the ships the petty officers are put four and six men in a
room; they keep their quarters clean and enjoy the comfort of being
somewhat private in their lives on shipboard. The interest they take
in keeping neat and clean where four are placed in a room is very
noticeable. All of these petty officers were once in the forecastle,
and, having left it, and appreciating something better, show that those
in the forecastle to-day are capable of properly receiving improvements.
Before I close let me say what I think would improve the situation.
First, abolish the forecastle as it is built to-day in one large room;
put in its place fair-sized rooms, each to accommodate at the most
four men. Let these rooms be known as the men’s quarters. Put in each
room a clothes locker, in which clothes can be put away. Have these
rooms sheathed, so as to protect them from the ice coated iron of the
ship’s side and iron deck above. Also have a good ventilator and a
comfortable steam heater in each room. Have a mess-room that will seat
every man when the ship is in port, when all the crew are eating at
the same hour. Have it put away from the men’s quarters. Let there be
a man shipped to be known as the forward mess steward, his duty at sea
and in port to care for the dishes, knives and forks which the ship
should provide; hold him responsible for all the utensils, having him
turn them over to the chief steward at the end of the voyage. Have him
keep the mess-room and men’s quarters clean. Have a large bathroom
and lavatory far away from the men’s quarters and mess-room, put in
it lockers for oilskins and sea-boots--as many lockers as there are
rooms; men in room No. 1 to use the corresponding numbered locker in
the bathroom. The forward mess steward, or two stewards, if needed,
must keep this bath clean and sweet. If the ship should be built for
carrying cattle, have the cattlemen’s quarters in some part of the ship
where they cannot interfere with the regular crew. Then there will be
no danger of oilskins and clothing hung out to dry being stolen by the
cattlemen.
I might write of some officers’ and engineers’ quarters, yes, and of
captains also, and tell how miserably they are housed on some ships. On
some of the steamers the officers and engineers find it a hard matter
to get in and out of their rooms when the cattle are on board. May the
day soon dawn when a sailor going on his ship will not have to think of
pots, pans and spoons for use in a kennel, but will go expecting the
treatment of the workingman ashore. Then the owners of vessels will be
blessed by them where now they are cursed.
SUPERSTITIONS OF SEAMEN
Superstitions of Seamen
Although the ocean steamer has removed some of the superstitious
ideas among seamen, still to this day there are hosts of sailors on
steamships as well as on sailing vessels, who are filled with them.
It is necessary to mingle freely with seamen to win from them their
experiences of the strange apparitions they have seen and of the many
Jonahs with whom they have been shipmates.
The landlubber has his superstitions as well as the sailor. Many of
my strange notions came to me long before I started to sea. Born and
brought up among the negroes in Barbados, rocked in a mammy’s arms,
one of the first things I remember is the story of the obeah man told
me by the faithful colored servants of my father. This ubiquitous obeah
man was called on at all times by my nurse to help her in bringing me
into a state of subjection. I believe such a being did exist. Often
when a child I have listened to stories of the duppy (a ghost) and
believing them I was afraid of the least noise I heard at night. Even
to this day I find it difficult to overcome these superstitious ideas
of my early boyhood days.
Some time ago a friend almost induced me to live in Everett,
Massachusetts. I had made up my mind to pack my traps and move out
there, but dear me! when I saw the trees in Woodlawn Cemetery through
the back windows so close to the house, no amount of favorable
reasoning could persuade me to live there. No wealth could entice me to
walk alone through a graveyard at night. Not that I believe the dead
can harm me, but simply there is a feeling that comes over me which
I cannot master. I was told that if I were to point my hand or throw
a stone at a ghost, the arm would stiffen and remain so forever. I
believed this and had not the pluck to throw anything in the direction
of a rustling noise at night. Fright and anger forced me to overcome it.
While serving on the U. S. S. _Alliance_, one of our shipmates died in
“Rio”. His body was taken aft on the quarter deck and placed on boards
resting on two ward room chairs. The American Ensign was spread over
the whole. It was my anchor watch from twelve o’clock midnight, to four
in the morning. There were four of us on watch, one from each part of
the ship; namely, a forecastle man, a foretopman, a maintopman and an
afterguard. The officer of the deck was lenient and allowed us to sleep
on deck providing one man remained awake and watched near the corpse.
The forecastle man, as he belonged to the forward end of the ship, was
detailed to keep the first watch and we were to relieve each other
hourly until our four hours were ended.
Being a maintopman it was my watch from two to three o’clock. At four
bells the foretopman roused me from my slumbers where I had coiled
myself on deck between the fife rail and mainmast. The officer of the
deck was on the poop with the quartermaster; the Captain’s orderly had
gone forward; I was standing forward of the corpse in close proximity
to the after eight inch gun. I tried to think of everything except my
duty. The very thought of being alone with a dead man, though there
were living mortals close at hand, made me feel uneasy.
I had scarcely been ten minutes on watch when I observed the ensign
covering the dead body move as though a cat or a dog were under it.
A cold feeling came over me, my heart began to thump, I expected to
see my departed shipmate stand up and hail me. The cold perspiration
fell from my brow. I started to edge my way forward taking a backward
step, when I saw a head peep out from under the flag. The handspikes
belonging to the gun were under the gun carriage. I was tempted to haul
one of them out and throw it at the ghost, but fearing my hand and
arm would stiffen, I hesitated. Just then I heard a tittering on the
opposite side of the deck, and looking in that direction I saw my watch
mates and the Captain’s orderly laughing at my expense. I realized
that a joke had been played on me, and angered through fright beyond
self control, I quickly hauled out the heavy handspike and struck at
the would be ghost. My aim was poor. I struck the chair at the foot of
the corpse and the whole thing rolled over on deck. The anchor watch
and Captain’s orderly quickly arranged the body on the boards and had
just re-covered it with the flag, when the officer of the deck reached
the break of the poop and inquired the cause of the disturbance. The
forecastle man who had played the spectre, readily replied, “We’re
catching a rat, sir!” My arm did not stiffen and since then I have
thrown stones where I have heard strange noises at night, and struck at
uncertain objects in the dark.
It is readily seen that, brought up in such an atmosphere of fetichism
I credited all the stories of superstition any sailor cared to relate.
I have known men relate yarns about ghosts in which they implicitly
believed.
While in a sailor’s boarding house in Antwerp, some of the crew of
an American ship which had arrived from San Francisco with grain,
declared that the ship was haunted. Every man had a story to tell of
his encountering a ghost on that voyage. It was said that while the men
were asleep this creature of another world would enter the forecastle
and rub its cold hands over the faces of the men. It was rumored in the
grog shops that the apparition in the form of a man would walk aft on
a stormy night just as the bell was struck at the close of a watch, and
relieve the wheel. The officer of the watch would be annoyed to find
the ship off her course, and looking aft, would find the ship without
an helmsman. This occurred so often, the men declaring a man clothed in
oilskins had relieved them, that the Captain ordered his officers to be
present and hear for themselves the disembodied soul repeat the course
as it relieved the wheel. So ended the tricks of this goblin, who was
afraid to encounter more than one man.
There is a vast difference between the sailors of a wind-jammer and
those of a steamer. The fireman and coal passers of these iron monsters
began their sea careers as men and have not spent their youthful days
in the forecastle. They hear nothing of the superstition of the sea,
except what are told by the few remaining “old shell backs.”
I have sailed with a Captain who would dare do anything, but had not
the courage to sail on Friday. No favorable weather could induce him
to start his mudhook on this day. He told the story of losing his
first command; how he sailed on that unlucky day from London to the
Colonies and on the following Sunday his ship was run into and sank
in the English Channel. This day on which “Our Saviour” was crucified
has lost its horror among the majority of the English speaking seamen.
The steamer is the cause of the change. There is no time lost in
loading and discharging these iron hulks. As soon as their hatches
are filled, be it Friday or any other day, they stir a lather under
their sterns and speed away for another port. There is an old Captain
on our coast who told me that he uses every device and frames all
excuses, to avoid sailing on Friday. Now and again we meet a few old
salts who still cling to the belief in the ill luck that comes from
sailing on this unlucky day, but to most seamen the idea is too absurd
to be entertained. Still among the Italian and other Southern European
sailing vessels, it is yet held in superstitious fear. Once while
in the harbor of Montevideo, I witnessed a carnival held on board a
Spanish gun-boat, the _Infanta Isabel_, on Good Friday. The yards were
cockbilled and at dinner the crew hauled an effigy of Judas out to
the end of the jib-boom and hanging it just clear of the water, they
subjected it to every abuse their imaginations could invent. Even the
officers stood on the forecastle head and riddled it with shot from
their revolvers. The effigy remained there till dark; finally besmeared
with tar and oil, they set it alight and let it blaze away. With all
discipline relaxed they ended the day with a lively fandango.
Another form of superstition is that of catching birds at sea. I have
sailed with a Captain who allowed no one on his ship to meddle with
birds of any kind even though they were from _terra firma_ blown from
their native soil and were resting on his vessel. He had a horror of
some evil attending his voyage if any feathered creature was caught or
disturbed while perched upon his craft.
Another captain, though not quite so strict, forbade our catching the
albatross. We were in Southern Latitudes, where they were plentiful
and seemingly hungry. One of our crew, a South African half breed,
secretly hooked a large one. He took the bird under the forecastle
head, wrung its neck, plucked it, and disposing of the feathers so that
no one aft could see them, with hard tack, salt and pepper, dressed
it for cooking. That night as soon as he knew the old colored cook was
soundly sleeping, he quietly slipped into the galley and baked it. It
being cold, the cook kept his fire all night to warm his room which
opened into his kitchen. It was fortunate the wind was dead aft, for
the man on the forecastle head, standing his lookout, declared the
sweet smelling savor emanating from the oven gave him a gnawing at the
bottom of his stomach. At eight bells when the watch went below, they
rallied around the feast; but to their disappointment and surprise, the
albatross proved an unpleasant diet. The flesh was rancid and fishy.
It rather pleased the Peruvian Spaniard, however, for clothed in his
oilskins and seated on the forecastle deck he hauled the pan between
his legs and without stirring, devoured the whole bird. Next day it
began to blow harder, the old ship rocked and rolled, we lost several
watches furling and reefing sail, and the blame of all the bad weather
was heaped upon Joe for killing the albatross. No one aft ever knew
about it. Fortunately for Joe they did not, or he would have been half
murdered.
Another superstition is about the disobedient prophet Jonah. No
sooner does the head wind greet the wind-jammer, than there is a Jonah
declared on board. If many misfortunes overtake a ship it is felt by
all, both forward and aft, that someone who has inherited the prophet’s
ill luck, is among the ship’s company. I once saw a captain strike a
seaman and in the vilest language call him a “d-- Jonah,” because the
wind hauled ahead as soon as he, poor fellow, took the wheel. During
his next watch below he was made to stand on the forward house and
scratch the foremast till he brought a fair wind. Good luck was on his
side, for the wind soon hauled aft again and remained steady for some
days. He was no longer declared the Jonah.
A sailor once told me that while making a trip to the West Indies from
New York, the second mate of his vessel rushed on deck in the night,
and running forward, pointed to leeward shouting, “She’s calling for
me, I must go to her.” They had to struggle severely to hold him from
jumping over the side. He declared he saw his wife on the ocean calling
to him for help. He quieted down, but his vision troubled him. He
remembered the date and hour he had seen the apparition, and when the
ship arrived in Trinidad, he received word from New York of the death
of his wife. She had passed away the very day and hour he heard her
calling to him. Is this superstition? Every sailor to whom he told this
story, implicitly believed it was the spirit of his dead wife calling
to him.
I had a friend, an old sea captain, who is now dead, having lost his
life by being washed overboard in a heavy gale. Often he related this
story in my hearing:
“I was on a Norwegian bark coming around the Horn, bound to Liverpool
from ’Frisco. One night the old bark was hove to. The lookout man
had to stand his watch on the after house, where he was safe from
being washed overboard. About three o’clock in the middle watch the
lookout reported to the mate that a woman was coming over the bow.
Sure enough. There stood a woman in white by the lee cat head, waving
something in her hand as though she were calling them. Every time the
ship courtesied and dipped, the woman waved the thing in her hand
violently. We managed to get the watch on deck at eight bells, but not
a man would dare go forward of the poop. When daylight came the woman
disappeared. For two days the crew kept aft in fear declaring the ship
was haunted, but on the third day when the gale had weakened and the
sea subsided, a man was sent to loose the jib. While on the jib-boom he
discovered from whence the creation came.
“Our old vessel had a splendid figure head. It was a woman painted
white, holding a wand in her hand. The heavy seas broke it away from
its fastenings and jammed it erect between the jib-boom guys while
the pitching of the vessel made the wand seem as though someone was
beckoning. It was a difficult matter even then for the old skipper to
make some of his men believe the apparition they saw was the figure
head jammed between the guys.”
It is a known fact that men have refused to sail in ships because the
rats were leaving. When a youngster, suffering privation in New York
City, I saw four apprentices and the steward desert from an English
full rigger because they claimed the ship would be lost at sea, for
the rats were jumping into the river they were so anxious to leave the
vessel. I do not know if she reached another port but I know that I
felt grateful to the rats. One of the boys having more clothes than he
cared to carry, gave me an old coat which was a God-send to me at that
time. I needed it badly.
There are many other superstitions of which I could write. Every sailor
has at some time whistled for a breeze. Most of us have objected to
having a parson on board, believing he would prove a Jonah. We have
seen sharks persistently follow the ship when there has been a dead
body on board in anticipation of a great feast.
Are you superstitious, dear reader? Then know that your great-great-
grandfather or some other relative was an old salt.
THE LUCKY BAG
The Lucky Bag
It always seemed to me that the lucky bag on a man-of-war was wrongly
named. To the few it was a lucky bag, but to the large majority of
seamen it was the unlucky bag.
What is the lucky bag? It is the place where the young recruit is
taught that there is a place for everything, and everything must be in
its place at certain times.
While serving on the U. S. S. _Alliance_, we shipped a landsman in Cape
Town. He had passed the doctor’s examination and was served with an
outfit of clothing from the paymaster’s stores. He was a strong young
fellow, clean and neat in appearance, but his one great trouble was his
carelessness in leaving his clothes, ditty box and other things around
the decks when they should have been put in their proper places.
The very next day after his enlistment he went below on the berth deck
after the forenoon’s exercises, to find his clothes bag. He searched
and overhauled all the bags hanging on the jackstay near the mess chest
belonging to his part of the ship, but could not find a bag with his
number on it. The cook was a short, wiry cockney, who had just come
below from infantry drill on the spar deck. He had not much time to
waste, as in an hour all hands would be piped to dinner, and he must
hasten and put his potatoes in the ship’s cook’s coppers and be ready
to draw his boiling water when the ship’s cook shouted, “Get your
coffee water.” He also had two coal passers who were going on watch
at twelve o’clock. At seven bells (11.30) they would be making their
appearance for dinner so that they could relieve their mates below, on
time.
We all knew the necessary hustling it took for the mess cook to get our
dinners ready. Therefore, we who wanted our bags, took them quickly
from the jackstay on the side of the ship and moved out of the cook’s
way. It was not thus with our Cape Town “joskin.” Not realizing that
he was in the cook’s way, he kept on tossing the bags over in search
of his own. The cook was impatient, so taking the greenhorn by the
shoulders, he twisted him around, almost pushed him down the fore hatch
on the head of old Bill Ried, the captain of the hold, and vehemently
said, “Blast your blooming eyes. D’ye think I can get the grub ready
with you a flying around ’ere like a feather in a gale of wind? Get to
blazes out of my way.”