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THE FLYING BO'SUN
A Mystery of the Sea
by
ARTHUR MASON
New York
Henry Holt and Company
1920
Copyright, 1920
By Henry Holt and Company
DEDICATED
TO THE MEMORY OF
MY MOTHER
WHOSE SYMPATHY MADE
IT POSSIBLE FOR ME
TO GO TO SEA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. OFF FOR THE SOUTH SEAS, WITH FEW CLOTHES
BUT A STOUT HEART 3
CHAPTER II. THE STORM--TATTERED AND TORN BUT STILL ON
THE OCEAN 13
CHAPTER III. BEECHAM'S PILLS ARE WORTH A GUINEA THOUGH
THEY COST BUT EIGHTEEN PENCE 25
CHAPTER IV. PERSONALITIES--OMENS AND SUPERSTITIONS OF
OLD CHARLIE 33
CHAPTER V. THE SHARK--"TO HELL WITH SHARK AND SHIP" 44
CHAPTER VI. THE TIN-PLATE FIGHT--ONE-EYED RILEY TRIUMPHS 52
CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH THE CAPTAIN WOUNDS HIS HAND 61
CHAPTER VIII. THE BO'SUN LIGHTS--THE CAPTAIN'S DEATH 68
CHAPTER IX. THE SHOWDOWN--SWANSON TAKES THE COUNT 76
CHAPTER X. BURIAL AT SEA--IN WHICH RILEY OFFICIATES 83
CHAPTER XI. ASTRAL INFLUENCES--THE CREW'S VERSION OF
THE UNKNOWN 91
CHAPTER XII. THE COOK'S WATCH--MATERIALISM VERSUS
ASTRALISM 100
CHAPTER XIII. HIGHER INTELLIGENCE--A VISIT FROM OUT THE
SHADOWS 107
CHAPTER XIV. CHRISTMAS DAY--OUR UNWILLING GUEST THE
DOLPHIN 117
CHAPTER XV. CRIMP AND SAILOR--THE COOK'S MARXIAN EFFORT 123
CHAPTER XVI. THE MONTANA COWBOY--A HORSE-MARINE ADVENTURE 130
CHAPTER XVII. THE FRAGRANT SMELL OF THE ALLURING PALMS 141
CHAPTER XVIII. SUVA HARBOR--THE REEF AND THE LIGHTHOUSES 146
CHAPTER XIX. INTRODUCING CAPTAIN KANE, MRS. FAGAN AND
MRS. FAGAN'S BAR 151
CHAPTER XX. REMINISCENCES OF OLD CLIPPER DAYS 158
CHAPTER XXI. UNLOADING CARGO--AGAIN THE MASTER--NATIVE
POLICE. 163
CHAPTER XXII. SHORE LEAVE--THE WEB-TOED SAILOR--THE
MISSIONARY SHIP 173
CHAPTER XXIII. FIJI ROYALTY--LOCAL COLOR--VISITORS TO THE
SHIP 187
CHAPTER XXIV. A DRIVE WITH CAPTAIN KANE--RAZORBACK
RAMPANT 194
CHAPTER XXV. HOMEWARD BOUND--THE STOWAWAY 202
CHAPTER XXVI. THE MYSTERIOUS HINDOO 211
CHAPTER XXVII. THE HURRICANE 220
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE MASTER RETURNS 228
CHAPTER XXIX. THE HOME PORT 238
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Hardship is a stern master, from whom we part willingly.
But it is often true that real men learn thereby to handle their
fellow-men, to love them, and to make the most of their own manhood. In
no class is this more marked than among those who have been formed by
the training of the sea.
Hundreds have lost their lives there, hundreds more have been coarsened
through ignorance and because of rough living, but the survivors, who
have used what God gave them of brain and muscle to the best advantage,
are a lot of men to be trusted mightily.
I am proud to have known such men, and to have lived the life that made
them what they are, and, above all, proud to have sailed before the time
when steam began to drive the square-rigger from the seas.
Therefore I have ventured to set before the public a narrative of my
own experience, somewhat condensed, but little changed, even in some
parts that may seem hard to believe, but sailors are known to be
superstitious. Should this book fall into the hands of other sailors, I
think it will interest them, and landsmen may care for the truthful
record of a day that is almost gone.
A. M.
THE FLYING BO'SUN
CHAPTER I
OFF FOR THE SOUTH SEAS, WITH FEW CLOTHES BUT A STOUT HEART
Her name was the "Wampa," graceful to look at, with her tall and stately
masts, rigged with fore and aft sails. She was known as one of the
fastest schooners sailing to the Southern Seas.
That afternoon in December found her loading lumber in a rather quaint
saw-mill town on the Puget Sound. Her Captain, who was a Swede, was tall
and handsome and had none of the earmarks of the old salt. He seemed to
be very nervous as he walked up and down the poop deck. Once he called
out, "Olsen, put one more truck load on, then get your deck lashings
ready. She is down now, she has eight inches of water on the after
deck." With that he jumped ashore saying, "If I can find a mate we will
sail this evening."
As I stood there viewing her yacht-like lines and noticing the shark's
fin on her bowsprit, I was satisfied that she was in a class by
herself.
As he turned to go I said, "Captain, do you need a mate?"
"Are you a mate? If you can get your trunk and bag on board we will sail
within an hour."
"But I have neither bag nor trunk. If you want me you will have to take
me as I stand."
"Have you a sextant?"
"No, but I can borrow one from the tug boat captain. He never leaves
sight of land. I am sure he will rent it to me for this voyage."
"Very well," said he. "Get your sextant, and we will find some way of
getting rubber boots and oil skins," and off he strolled up to the
Company's office.
Two hours later, with the deck lashings set up, tug boat alongside,
everything ready for our voyage, our Captain sang out "Let go forward,
starboard your helm, Murphy,"--the tug boat gave a "toot, toot," and we
were off for the open sea.
By this time I had a chance to size up the crew. The second mate was a
short, thick, heavy-set Dane, seemingly a good sailor. Our cook was a
greasy, dirty-looking German and, from what few words I had with him,
showed that he was a Socialist. The sailors were Dagoes, Irish, Swedes
and Russian Finns.
With the wind freshening as we neared the open sea, the Captain sang
out, "Mr. Mate, loose and set the foresail and main jib." With the
gaskets off I gave the order to hoist away. I noticed one very large
Swede hardly pulling a pound. I say "large"; he stood six feet or more
and weighed upwards of two hundred. "What is your name?" said I.
He looked me over and said, "Why?"
I said "You must pull some more or you will never know what your name
was."
I decided that now was the time to take care of this sea lawyer. The
foresail was about half up. I gave the order to make fast.
I said to this big Swede, "Come here, I have something to say to you."
"If you want me come and get me."
"Very good," and with that I caught him with a strangle hold and dragged
him across the deck. Then I released him. "Now tell me what your name
is."
He looked amazed and humiliated, and in a hoarse voice said, "Swanson."
I said, "Swanson, I want you to work, and work your share."
He said, "You ban good steerman."
Steerman is the Swedish for mate.
"Well then, Swanson, let us get those sails up."
Just then the Captain came forward saying, "What in Hell is the matter?
Why don't you get those sails on her?"
"Captain," I replied, pointing to Swanson, "this man did not quite
understand me. Hoist away on your throat and peak halyards."
Up went the foresail as if by magic, then the main jib and inner jib,
the tug boat gave three long whistles, signalling "let go your hawser."
I heard the Captain sing out, "Mr. Mate, up with your mainsail and
spanker."
"Aye, aye, sir."
In a few minutes all sail was set.
The Captain gave the course south one-half west and went down below. I
immediately took my departure, and entered it in the log book. The wind
was free, about two points abaft the beam. I put the taff-rail log over
the side and settled down for our trip to the sunny south. As it was
getting late in the evening, I went forward to talk to the second mate
about picking our watches.
It is always customary for the mate to take the ship out, and the
captain to bring her home. This meant that I would have eight hours
watch the first night out. The mate has always the privilege of choosing
the first man, and by doing this the big Swede fell to the second mate.
Because I was sure I would have trouble with him, I tossed him into the
starboard watch. After the watches were set, and the wheel relieved, I
heard the supper bell ring.
As I was hungry I made for the cabin, and took a seat across from the
Captain. Out of the pantry came the Socialist cook with two plates of
soup.
The Captain was not very talkative, thinking I was a low-grade mate,
since I was minus trunk and bag. The cook eyed me rather curiously when
I passed up the onion soup. I understood later that it was only on rare
occasions he ever gave way to cooking so delicate a dish. Should any
one be so misguided as to refuse to eat it they might count the galley
their enemy forever. With supper over I went on deck to relieve the
second mate. He looked to me as if there would be no trouble between him
and the cook and onion soup. As it was now my watch from eight to
twelve, I had the side lights lit and my watch came on deck to relieve
the wheel and lookout.
I may mention here some of the sailors in my watch. Well, Broken-Nose
Pete took his turn at the wheel, and One-Eyed Riley took the lookout.
Then there was Dago Joe and a Dane by the name of Nelson, who seemed
rather quiet and unassuming. Also Charlie who was forever looking up at
the clouds.
The wind was freshening up and she was listing over with the lee rail in
the water. I went aft to take a look at the log. She was doing ten knots
and doing it easy. "Well," thought I, "if she can do ten with lower
sails and topsails, she will do twelve with the fisherman's staysails
on." So I gave the order to bend and hoist away and no sooner were they
set and sheets flattened aft than she began to feel them. It seemed
that those staysails were all that were holding her back to show me she
was worthy of the shark's fin on the flying jib boom. The Captain was
walking up and down the poop deck smoking a cigar, seemingly in good
humor with his new mate. As I was going aft, I noticed that she had
broached to somewhat. She seemed to want to shake herself clear of all
her canvas. I ran to the man at the wheel: "What in Hell is the matter
with you? Can't you steer?" I cried.
"Yes, sir, I can steer very well, but since you put those staysails on
her I can hardly hold her in the water."
"Keep her on her course," I warned him, "or you will hear from me." I
went to the rail to look at the log. It was getting dark, and I had to
strike a match to see. Sure enough, she was making twelve and a quarter.
Just then the Captain came up and told me to take in the staysails, as
she was laboring too much. I was going to protest, but, on second
thoughts, I bowed to the ways of deep-water captains: "Obey orders, if
you break owners."
"Captain, you have a pretty smart little ship here."
"Yes," said he. "She passed everything on her last trip to Mayhew, New
Caledonia, but one has got to know and understand her to get the best
out of her."
Right here I knew he was giving me a dig for daring to set the staysails
without his orders.
Tossing the butt of his cigar overboard, he started to go below saying
"Call me if the wind freshens up or changes. But call me at eight bells
anyway."
The night grew brighter. A half moon was trying to fight her way out
from behind a cloud, ever-hopeful of throwing her silver rays on the
good ship "Wampa." With the sound of the wash on the prow, and the easy
balanced roll, with occasional spray from windward, I felt that after
all the sea was the place for me.
Just then the lookout shouted, "Light on the starboard bow, sir."
I said, "All right," and reached for the binoculars. A full rigged ship
was approaching on the port tack.
"Port your helm, let her come to." When we had her on the lee, I sang
out, "Steady as she goes."
As we passed under her quarter, what a beautiful living thing she seemed
in the shadows of the night,--and in my dreaming I was near forgetting
to keep our ship on her course again. By this time hunger, that familiar
genius of those who walk the decks, was upon me again. Nothing tastes
better than the time-honored lunch late during the watches at night. I
found for myself some cold meat, bread and butter, and coffee in the
pantry.
I called the second mate as it was nearing eight bells, twelve o'clock.
I felt tired and sleepy and knew that nothing short of a hurricane would
awake me from twelve to four.
Up on deck Dago Joe struck eight bells, I took the distance run on the
log, and was turning around to go down and call the Captain, when
Swanson came aft to relieve the wheel. He looked me over very critically
and muttered something to himself. As I went down the companion way to
report to the Old Man, I saw the Socialist cook standing in my room.
"Here, Mr. Mate, is a blanket for you. I know you have no bedding."
I thanked him and thought, "Well, the Socialist cook is kind and
observant and Socialism is not bad after all."
I called the Captain, then went to my room for a well-earned sleep.