THE HOME PORT
"The wind is from the south-southeast, sir," sang out Swanson from the
wheel. Riley gave voice to my impulse when he said, "Thank God, it is
the southeast trades again, sir."
The days that followed brought us fine weather and a gentle breeze. We
were fortunate enough to escape the doldrums. The southeast trades
carried us into the northeast trade winds. In latitude 30° north we
struck the westerly winds that blow fair for the Pacific coast of the U.
S. A. Fifty-six days from Suva we rounded Lime Point, sailed up Frisco
Bay, and dropped the hook off Goat Island.
The owner welcomed me at his office, and was pleased indeed to know that
his favorite schooner was once again in her home port.
Later, when we were towed alongside the wharf, the good ship "Wampa" was
the object of much speculation among the old hard-shelled water-front
men, not so much from her battered condition, although she was minus
port bulwarks, foretopmast and flying jibboom, as from some air of
mystery which in a conscious way seemed to emanate from the very hull of
her. Veterans of the deep who were in port loading new cargoes, would
come and go, walking in silence like pallbearers.
Possibly this was due to the appearance of the Hindoo stowaway, or it
may have been that the occult voyage of the "Wampa" had been aired in
Rooney's Steam Beer Joint which was at the end of the wharf. Yet with
all this hushed solemnity, I do believe that it was I who most sincerely
mourned our Captain and the two honest, simple sailormen whose lives had
been so unprotestingly given to their duty. Many a voyage have I had
since then, but at no time have I ever felt at once so near to Humanity,
and to the Infinite. The Hindoo, who had picked up and grown fat on the
cook's pea-soup and salt-horse, went to a home which I found for him
with a hotel man, who advanced the entry-fee, and put him to work as a
porter. He saved his money and, after familiarizing himself with the
customs and conventions of the Western people, he moved north to the
State of Oregon, where he went into the real estate business, acquiring,
up to eight years ago, a goodly sum of money.
The Socialist cook exchanged his greasy dungarees for a pair of
hand-me-down creaseless serge pants. With these and a much-worn
broadcloth coat that had long withstood gales from the critics of equal
distribution, he entered once more the harness of Socialism. With him he
took Toby, the black cat, to a life ashore. I believe, though, that his
voyage on the "Wampa" had changed his materialistic ideas.
Riley swore that he had made his last trip on windjammers, but that
should necessity compel him to take again to the sea, he would sail in a
gentleman's yacht. There he would be sure of frequent home ports, each
with its black-eyed Susan reigning supreme. But conditions were not as
Riley had planned. The steam beer was as plentiful as ever, but the
dinero was running low, and he had to take the first thing that offered
that would reef and steer. Since then I have met him many times.
Swanson, the most daring and best sailor of the "Wampa's" crew, went to
a navigation school in San Francisco. With his second mate's papers he
put off on a long Southern voyage, and after a few years he became
captain.
For my services the owner of the "Wampa" promised me the command of a
vessel that was overdue from South America, and which was expected any
day. After two weeks had passed without news from the South American
wanderer, I headed North. The Yukon was calling for men of endurance and
men of red blood to come and uncover her hidden treasures.