THERE has been a time when a ship’s chief mate, pocket-book in hand and
pencil behind his ear, kept one eye aloft upon his riggers and the other
down the hatchway on the stevedores, and watched the disposition of his
ship’s cargo, knowing that even before she started he was already doing
his best to secure for her an easy and quick passage.
The hurry of the times, the loading and discharging organization of the
docks, the use of hoisting machinery which works quickly and will not
wait, the cry for prompt despatch, the very size of his ship, stand
nowadays between the modern seaman and the thorough knowledge of his
craft.
There are profitable ships and unprofitable ships. The profitable ship
will carry a large load through all the hazards of the weather, and, when
at rest, will stand up in dock and shift from berth to berth without
ballast. There is a point of perfection in a ship as a worker when she
is spoken of as being able to _sail_ without ballast. I have never met
that sort of paragon myself, but I have seen these paragons advertised
amongst ships for sale. Such excess of virtue and good-nature on the
part of a ship always provoked my mistrust. It is open to any man to say
that his ship will sail without ballast; and he will say it, too, with
every mark of profound conviction, especially if he is not going to sail
in her himself. The risk of advertising her as able to sail without
ballast is not great, since the statement does not imply a warranty of
her arriving anywhere. Moreover, it is strictly true that most ships
will sail without ballast for some little time before they turn turtle
upon the crew.
A shipowner loves a profitable ship; the seaman is proud of her; a doubt
of her good looks seldom exists in his mind; but if he can boast of her
more useful qualities it is an added satisfaction for his self-love.
The loading of ships was once a matter of skill, judgment, and knowledge.
Thick books have been written about it. “Stevens on Stowage” is a portly
volume with the renown and weight (in its own world) of Coke on
Littleton. Stevens is an agreeable writer, and, as is the case with men
of talent, his gifts adorn his sterling soundness. He gives you the
official teaching on the whole subject, is precise as to rules, mentions
illustrative events, quotes law cases where verdicts turned upon a point
of stowage. He is never pedantic, and, for all his close adherence to
broad principles, he is ready to admit that no two ships can be treated
exactly alike.
Stevedoring, which had been a skilled labour, is fast becoming a labour
without the skill. The modern steamship with her many holds is not
loaded within the sailor-like meaning of the word. She is filled up.
Her cargo is not stowed in any sense; it is simply dumped into her
through six hatchways, more or less, by twelve winches or so, with
clatter and hurry and racket and heat, in a cloud of steam and a mess of
coal-dust. As long as you keep her propeller under water and take care,
say, not to fling down barrels of oil on top of bales of silk, or deposit
an iron bridge-girder of five ton or so upon a bed of coffee-bags, you
have done about all in the way of duty that the cry for prompt despatch
will allow you to do.