One of the visions of youth is, that the life of a sailor is all fun,
frolic, and happiness. Can there be anything more delightful, they
think, than sailing about on the wide ocean, visiting far-distant
regions of the earth, and seeing the strange manners of different
countries? Little are they aware of the constant toil to which the
poor mariner is exposed--the perils he encounters, the thankless life
he is generally doomed to lead. He is, in fact, compelled to endure
pretty much the lot of a slave; for, as is well known, government on
shipboard is a species of despotism, often a cruel tyranny.
Remonstrance in nearly every circumstance is in vain--it is mutiny. No
matter how roughly orders are issued; they must be implicitly obeyed.
'D'ye murmur? Hold your tongue, you rascal, or I'll put you in irons!'
Such is not a particularly uncommon form of address to the sailor, who
so far forgets his position as to even hint a difference of opinion.
Possibly, it is quite right, for the sake of discipline, and the
safety of all concerned, that severity should be employed. We merely
note the circumstance.
In the very best conducted ships, however, there must necessarily be
toils and trials of temper. The most tormenting thing in a sailor's
profession, is the want of that regular alternation of work through
the day, and repose through the night, which is enjoyed by ordinary
mortals. This is a matter on which so little is known, that we are
induced to expatiate upon it. Dear landsmen! would you like to know
how idly and jovially a foremast Jack gets through his twenty-four
hours at sea? Listen; and when we have 'said our say,' envy poor Jack
his romantic calling, and begrudge him his L.2, 10s. or L.3 per month,
as much as you can find in your hearts.
We are in the chief mate's watch (the larboard), and come on deck for
the middle watch--that is, at 12 P.M.--having had our spell below of
four hours during the first night-watch (8 P.M. to 12 P.M.) It is a
cold, dark, squally night, with frequent heavy showers of rain--in
fact, what seamen emphatically call 'dirty' weather, and our
pea-jackets and sou'-westers are necessary enough. Hardly have we got
on deck, ere the mate, who is a bit of a 'driver,' begins to order
this brace to be pulled, that yard to be squared, this sheet to be
belayed, that sail to be clewed up, and t'other set. The wind howls,
the rain beats, the ship staggers, the salt spray flies over us from
time to time. During the space of three bells, we have our hands
pretty full, and then the mate bawls: 'For'ard there! In with jib; lay
out, men!' The vessel is buried to her bight-heads every plunge she
takes, and sometimes the solid sea pours over her bowsprit as far as
the but-end of the flying jib-boom. But to hear is of course to obey;
and while some of our messmates spring to the downhaul of the jib, and
rattle it down the stay, we and another man get out along the
bowsprit, and with our feet resting on the slippery, knotted footrope
to windward, we clutch hold of the jib, which is hanging down and
lashing over to leeward. Pitch, pitch--splash, dash, go the bows; at
one moment we are tossed high in the air, and the next we sink so low
that the water reaches up to our knees as the ship settles down again,
only to rise for a plunge heavier than before. We have just got the
jib half-stowed, 'after a fashion,' when our messmate sings out: 'Hold
hard, Jack!' and we cling for dear life. The next instant, a wave
rolls a fathom high over our head, and we emerge, spluttering and
gasping from a genuine cold salt-water bath, such as the hydropathists
have no idea of. Before our nice little job is completed, we get two
or three more comfortable duckings, and finally crawl on board
half-drowned, and thankful that we were not altogether washed away, as
many better fellows have been, at that same blessed task of
jib-furling on a stormy night.
We have just given ourselves a good shake, like a Newfoundland dog,
when four bells (2 A.M.) strike, and the man at the wheel is of course
relieved, his time being up. It happens to be our turn, or 'trick,' at
the wheel, and we must at once take to it, all dripping and exhausted
as we are. The ship steers wildly, and we have continually to ease her
when she pitches; yet, do what we can, the grumbling mate has many a
complimentary word for us, flatteringly intimating his opinion, that
we 'know no more about steering than our grandmother; but _he'll_ work
our old iron up to some tune, before he's done with us!' Ere our trick
is out, our arms feel as stiff as iron bars, from the violent and
unremitting strain on their muscles. The mate has steaming hot coffee
brought him; but there's not a drop for poor Jack, if it would save
his life. Oh, how we long to hear eight bells strike! At length they
_do_ strike, and the watch below are bid to 'tumble up, Beauties, and
have a look at the lovely scenery!' We are then relieved at the wheel,
and go below with our watch, hoping to enjoy four hours of blessed
oblivion.
We swing ourself into our hammock (or berth, as it may happen), and
are fast asleep in a minute. But we have not been an hour in the Land
of Nod, ere three heavy blows from a handspike are struck on the
forecastle hatch, which is then slid back, and a hoarse voice bawls:
'All ha-ands a-ho-oy! tumble up to reef tops'ls!' Out we bundle, and
grope for our clothes (the forecastle being as dark as a dog's mouth),
get them on somehow, and hurry-scurry on deck. We find the weather and
sea altered much for the worse, and the Old Man (captain) himself on
the quarter-deck, giving orders to the mates, who are tearing about,
bawling and swearing like demons; while the 'idlers'--that is to say,
the carpenter, steward, cook, and boys, who keep no regular
watch--have all been roused up, to bear a hand, and 'pull their
pound.' Halliards are let go, reef-tackles hauled chock-a-block, and
we lay aloft helter-skelter, best man up first, and bend over the
yard, till the weather-earing is secured; and then comes the welcome
cry: 'Haul to leeward!' It is done, and then we all 'knot-away' with
the reef-points. The reef having been taken (or two, perchance), we
shin down again to mast-head the topsails, and get all in sailing
trim. A grog is now served out, and we go below, to sleep out the rest
of our four hours, one of which we have been deprived of by this
reefing job. Sometimes it happens, however, that we lose three, or all
four, when there is absolute necessity for all hands on deck.
Here, we pause a moment, to say a word on the serving of grog--a
composition of rum and water. The use of this stuff is of old date in
the navy, and would seem to be considered essential to navigation. In
what are called temperance ships, no grog is served, neither after
reefing topsails, nor at any other time; but what is very shameful, in
many instances no substitute is allowed. If sailors might have coffee
instead of rum, they would thankfully accept the substitute, for
coffee is incomparably a better stimulant. The invigoration from rum
is only momentary, and afterwards is perhaps rather pernicious; but
the wholesome effect of coffee is felt for an hour. So they very
excusably observe, 'Better grog than nothing!'
To resume the tenor of our narrative: at eight bells (8 A.M.) we are
summoned on duty again, and find that the squall has passed over, and
that it is now a fine sunshiny morning, with all available sail set,
and only a heavy swell of the sea to tell what the night has been. We
now get our breakfast (half an hour allowed for that), and the other
watch, which has been eight hours up to our four, gets a forenoon
watch below (8 A.M. to 12 A.M.) Alterations of sails and rigging, and
no end of small jobs, keep us hard at work till eight bells (noon)
once more strike, and we then get our luxurious dinner of a pound and
a half of salt junk, with biscuits. But junk is capital stuff for
sheathing material, when it _is_ good: unfortunately, however, it too
frequently is 'old horse;' and whatever its quality happens to be, all
the nice juicy pieces are invariably picked out for the cabin table.
Anything will do for poor Jack. His biscuits, too, are sometimes quite
alive with weevils, especially on a long voyage in hot latitudes.
After dinner, all hands are on deck, and kept there till dark. In very
large merchantmen, and all warships, this rule is departed from, and
the watch is not so torturing--so true is it that the servants in
small establishments, whether on sea or land, are always the worst
treated. However, we suppose that the hands are on deck. The breeze
has now almost died away, and the sea runs in long, low, slow swells;
the ship gently rocking, and the sails occasionally collapsing with a
crash against the creaking masts. Surely, thinks the landsman, there
is now nothing for Jack to do but turn his quid, crack his joke, smoke
his pipe, or overhaul his chest, and put the things to rights in the
forecastle, after the 'hurrah's nest' created by the squall in the
past night? Ah, friend, it is very evident that _you_ don't 'know the
ropes!' When on deck, a sailor is never idle in the day-time; even if
rain is pouring, something is found for him to do; and in fine
weather, like the day we are describing, there is a superabundance of
work. The carpenter has his bench out--for 'a ship is like a lady's
watch, always out of repair;' the steward is polishing the brass-work
of the quarter-deck; the cook is scouring his pots and pans; the
sailmaker is stitching away in the waist; and the crew are, one and
all, engaged in picking oakum, spinning yarns (not such yarns as those
amiable gentlemen, the naval novelists, talk so much about, but
rope-yarns, by the aid of spinning-winches), platting sinnet,
preparing chafing-gear, bowsing slack rigging taut, painting boats and
bulwarks, scraping yards and masts, fitting new running-rigging,
overhauling the spare sails, and fifty other things--doing, in fact,
everything but idling. And, mind, no conversation is allowed among the
men--not a word more than necessary for the performance of their
several duties. If they chat at all when on deck, it is 'on the sly,'
and out of sight and hearing of the vigilant officers, who have eyes
like the lynx, and ears as sharp as needles.
At 4 P.M. commences the dog-watch--that is, the ordinary watch of four
hours divided into two watches of half that length; and the use of
them is to shift the rotation of the night-watches. About 6 P.M. we
get supper, and all hands are on deck till eight bells (8 P.M.), when
the starboard-watch go below, and we, the larboard-watch, have the
first night-watch--just as they had it last night, and will the next
after. There is very probably plenty of work to do in shifting and
trimming sails and rigging till eight bells again strike (12 P.M.),
and then we summon the other watch with: 'Starbowlings, ahoy!' and go
below in turn; and so ends our day.
We have given a fair enough specimen of the twenty-four hours of a
sailor's life at sea; but of course he sometimes has an easier, and
sometimes a much harder life of it--depending on the kind of ship, the
nature of the voyage, the state of the weather, and the character of
the captain. Some sea-captains are excellent, kind-hearted men, and
make the unavoidably hard duties of their crew as easy as it is
possible; but others--and very many we fear--are terrible salt-water
tyrants. A captain is the absolute master of all on board--his
government, as we have said, is a despotism; and this ever-present
sense of his will being law while afloat, too often hardens and
brutalises an originally kind heart.
Landsmen! do you now envy and begrudge a living to the poor
blue-jackets, who risk limb and life to carry on your commerce with
the uttermost ends of the earth, and who man the wooden walls that
alone render Britain the invincible mistress of the world? Ladies!
dear, tender-hearted ladies! do _you_ feel indifferent to the hard lot
of the gallant fellows who sail the trackless ocean to supply you with
silks and diamonds, with sugar and tea, and every conceivable luxury
of dress and food? Be kind, we implore you, to Poor Jack, wherever you
meet him, for he would shed the last drop of blood in his veins to
defend you! Make every Christian allowance for his follies and his
sins when ashore. Do all you can--and we think you might do much if
you would--to ameliorate his physical condition, and you will improve
his moral one at the same time. For ourselves, we can only say that we
ever shall own Poor Jack as a messmate and a brother, and while we
have a shot in the locker, he shall freely share it, God help him!