There is an old saying, rhymed into an old saw, written by some one
familiar with life at sea:
“Six days shalt thou labour
An’ do all ye are able,
The seventh thou shalt NOT rest
But holystone the deck--
An’ scrape the cable.”
It is comprehensive of a sailor’s life, for there is little time for
play for a man at sea. But sailors are not going to the dogs. The man
who has made a voyage and listened to some old grumbling seaman who has
seen his best days will doubtless come ashore and write how seamen are
no longer what they used to be, but the man who knows the sea knows
better. The seagoing portion of the human race has not retrograded any
more than the land portion. There are stout men yet, as stout and strong
as any that ever trod the slanting deck of the old-time packet, and
they are just as intelligent, and they are just as able.
The amusements of all men are naturally governed by their surroundings.
The farmer or well-appointed stock-raiser will naturally take to
developing such games as golf. It is fitted to his surroundings. The man
confined to a ship’s deck will develop a series of amusements which bear
directly upon the peculiar affairs in his life and which appeal to him
most strongly. Life at sea is more or less rough. The sailor has a rough
comprehension of the humourous, and he will indulge in games such as
“paying the footing” and “swinging the sluggard” with the zest that
comes only to natures which have felt privation the victim might
mitigate.
On American deep-water ships games of a romping nature are seldom
indulged in to any extent, but there is no rule. A ship is like a face.
It reflects usually the mind of its master. Some captains encourage
games, but the danger of fighting among mixed races in the forecastle is
too great to encourage anything of a romping kind except under certain
circumstances. If you ask an American sailor what he did on a deep-water
voyage upon an American ship to amuse himself, he will look blankly at
you and smile. After that it will be hard to engage him in conversation,
for he will be convinced that he is talking to a mild sort of lunatic.
Work and sleep--mostly the former--with a few moments to eat, are what
he contents himself with, and if, by any chance, the officers let slip a
little time and there is any vitality left in him, the chances are that
the “holiday” will be spent in mending his much-needed clothes.
Upon men-of-war, where there is a townfull of landsmen and sailors
crowded together, life is entirely different. There they will take every
opportunity for a frolic and indulge in all the time-worn games peculiar
to men-o’-wars’ men. Nearly every one knows of the tropical games, such
as receiving “Father Neptune on the Line,” and the toll exacted from all
who have never crossed before. This frolic is quite impressive upon a
man-of-war when the men have taken the trouble to dress for the
occasion. The old bo’s’n, with a voice like a bull whale in distress,
will come over the bows some warm, quiet morning. His whiskers, a full
fathom long, made of rope-yarn and dripping brine, will give him a most
nautical appearance, and his crowd of retainers, in all sorts of
grotesque rigs, will follow him. Shaving seems to be the most slighted
part of the seaman’s toilet at sea, and it will be necessary to shave
all who have not been initiated. The razor usually consists of a barrel
hoop a couple of feet long and of the usual keenness, and the lather a
mixture which for peculiar and sticky ingredients is limited solely by
the knowledge of the sea-barbers. The mop, or brush, generally gets into
the customer’s mouth the first time he opens it to answer a question
roared at him in a tone which leaves no chance for silence, and, amid
the yells of the sea-demons, he is tossed backward into a tub, or canvas
basin, concealed behind him for the occasion.
But the larks of the “windjammer” of the merchant service have very
little of the old-fashioned fun left in them. This is because the ships
are manned by crews about one-quarter as large as formerly. Their fun is
even more practical.
For instance, the fact that a sailor is lazy awakens a grim form of
amusement among his fellows which often takes evidence in their jerking
him bodily out of his bunk by the leg, and hoisting him high as the
mainyard arm. “Swinging the sluggard” is a proper game, for it teaches
him that he must turn to when the watch is called. He may not be much
account as a man, but there are cold and tired men on deck who need all
the help they can get. If he does not turn to and the mates are easy,
some one will probably have to do his work for a few minutes. On
American ships, however, when a man hangs back, the mate usually comes
right into the forecastle to find out why. He sometimes gets a bad name
in the newspapers for this, but it worries him not at all.
The old-fashioned way to amuse the rest of the watch is to rig a
gantline and make it fast to the sluggard’s leg as he lies in his bunk.
Then the rest tail on to the line, and up he goes, either through the
scuttle above or through the door, either way leaving some cuticle
behind, and accumulating a few black and blue spots in places, while the
men whang him with ropes’ ends. He will probably reach the mainyard feet
foremost, and will be wide-awake when he descends. Once is enough for
the average lazy and selfish sailor of the bunk-loving habit. The
amusement it affords the watch can only be appreciated by one who has
handled frozen lines in the early morning when it was clearly the other
fellow’s place to do so.
In some ships where the sailors’ union is recognized, and the American
element is predominant, the watch will sometimes start a dance, or
march, to the exhilarating tune of the old “shanty:”
“The mate, he got drunk and went below--
He broke the long-necked bottle, oh--oh--oh--oh--
So early in the morning--so early in the morning,
The sailor loves his whiskey,--oh--oh, boy--oh.”
Or they will swing into “Blow a Man Down,” that song which may be
shifted to any old tune to suit the occasion.
In the _Arrow_ it was my duty, as mate, to see that things went well
forward, and I went through the men’s outfits pretty thoroughly. I
always hated to find that a dago had a hidden knife of a dangerous
length when I expected him to do some uncongenial work which might call
for sudden suasion on an officer’s part.
A big Swede met me at the forecastle door, and grinned at me as I
entered. “I tank youse’ll find us a good crew, Mr. Gore. Aye tank youse
a good mate, sir,” said he.
“You mustn’t tank, Yohn,” I answered. “I’ll do the thinking for you. Let
me take a look into your chest.”
His face fell, but he knew better than to refuse, so I opened it for him
and disclosed two bottles of liquor and a heavy pistol, of all of which
I carefully relieved him. The rest of the dunnage proved almost barren
of spoil, and after giving the room a careful survey, I went out again.
The smell of the fresh, salt sea was now in my nostrils and the gloomy
life of the shore left behind. Ahead was the excitement and hope of a
prosperous voyage in company of whom I began to suspect would prove
pleasant passengers. The smells of the rigging, the tar, grease, and
even the bilge as it was stirred up and came through the opening in the
forward hatchway, recalled me to the life as of old, and the melancholy
thoughts I had recently indulged in gave place to the most exhilarating
ones.
“Sing, Dutchy,” I cried to a squat sailor, who was hauling doggedly upon
a royal brace.
“I don’t got no tune, den, what?” said he, grinning.
“Aye tank I kin sing him,” said a Norwegian sailor, tailing on the line
just ahead of him.
“Turn him loose, then,” I cried.
“Sing ye, Jezebel, sing,” cried O’Toole, coming up panting with the
exertion of trying to break a topsail brace. “Sing, an’ stretch th’
line,” and he led off with “Whiskey Johnnie,” into which the rest roared
a chorus.
Four men grabbed the mainskysail halyard and sent the light yard
whisking up the masthead. The fellow who had loosed the sail had not
left the yard and was sent aloft along with it, the men below trying to
send him skyward with a rush.
Suddenly the halyard broke. The man on the yard gave a spring as it
dropped under him. He shot outward, fell headlong downward, and just as
we thought he would plunge headlong to the deck, a hundred feet below,
he reached the backstay with one hand. With a power born of desperation,
he grasped the line. His body swung around with the sweep of a
whip-lash, but he hung on. Then his other hand reached the stay, and he
slid quickly to the crosstrees. Down the ratlines he came on the run.
Reaching the lanyard, he sprang upon the deck and dashed into the crowd
of men who still stood gazing spellbound at his performance.
“Vat you do, hein? Vill you kill me, den?” he screamed, and he lashed
out with a right good-will, knocking two of the men down.
I saw O’Toole grinning, and as I was the mate, it was not my place to
see too much. The big Irishman would take care of the fracas when the
time came to interfere. I made my way around the deck-house out of
sight, and sent a man after a new halyard.
The moke in the galley was hard at it in an argument with the steward. I
saw and heard nothing. The work forward had been started, and all was
well.