Under Sail 15

Under Sail 15

"By staying awake nights, sir," was his laconic reply.

 

At any rate, whatever his method, Captain Nichols knew pretty well

where we were at all times.

 

On the old ships, and the _Fuller_ was a very good example of her

class, the master was housed in truly palatial style. On our ship the

captain's quarters were spacious, taking up two-thirds of the cabin and

running the whole width of the vessel, and fore and aft from the mizzen

mast to the lazarette. The captain's stateroom was most commodious; he

enjoyed the comfort of slumber in a large mahogany bunk built after

the lines of a Dutch galiot, as broad as it was long. This room took

up the space of three ordinary staterooms on the starboard quarter. At

the foot of the companion was a cozy after cabin luxuriously paneled

in mahogany between fluted columns of the same wood picked out with

gold leaf at base and capital. Other rare woods of a lighter shade were

inlaid on the center panels, and the whole furnishing of cushioned

lockers, round table, and skylight, with its tell-tale compass, book

and chart cases, gave it the air of a costly yacht cabin.

 

His bathroom, connected with a large salt-water tank, filled each

morning by the deck washers, was on the port side, and two spare

staterooms opened into the after cabin from port. A bulkhead divided

these private quarters from the forward or mess cabin, off which were

the pantry, storeroom, steward's room and slop chest. The mates were

berthed in two staterooms on either side of the after cabin, but their

doors opened into a sort of thwart ship vestibule running the width of

the after cabin just below the break of the poop. The mizzen mast came

down through the after end of the mess cabin, and a large brass lamp

swung in gimbals just below the long skylight.

 

A repeating rifle in a rack above the captain's bunk, and two revolvers

on each side of the chart table, composed the offensive battery. A long

brass telescope reposed in a rack in the companion, and at the foot of

this was slung a very good mercurial barometer. Typical of the best

traditions of the sea, such were the quarters of the after guard.

 

Forward we were not done so well. The fo'c'sle took up the forward part

of the deck house and was sheltered from the force of the sea and wind

by the high break of the fo'c'sle head. These quarters were divided by

a bulkhead running fore and aft, to separate the watches, and plain

unpainted bunks lined the sides. Light was afforded by a poor lamp set

in a hole in the wall between the two sides, a cheap expedient thought

of, no doubt, by some thrifty soul who knew that this was far better

than the traditional whale oil, or slush dip, of the hoary days when

sailor men were shoved below decks in reeking quarters just over the

fore peak.

 

However, the fo'c'sle was home to us. We lived there and had our being

amid an atmosphere not altogether bad; what we lacked in conveniences

we made up for in ingenuity. Above a few of the bunks were rough

calendars marked on the woodwork, some of them from previous voyages.

Brenden kept track of our position by notching each day on the

scantling overhead. Under these marks he had signs that stood for the

N. E. trades, the Line, the S. E. trades, etc. All sorts of little

shelves were rigged up to hold tobacco, matches, ditty bags, well

thumbed books, old newspapers, and what not. Lines of marline were

stretched above the bunks for drying clothes.

 

The scheme of society within the sacred walls of our castle was a sort

of despotic democracy. The ruling class, the able seamen of the watch,

Marshall, Frenchy, Brenden, were the arbiters of all matters temporal

and mundane. This was by mutual consent and should be so. In addition

to this, Jimmy was the autocrat of the crowd and ruled us with an

iron hand, though there was not a man forward but could have hove him

overboard.

 

Scouse, after the balance of power had been reestablished in the

conflict with Joe, became one of the common folks again, and was

glad of it. The bunks were arranged in order of desirability, the

able seamen taking the best bunks on the upper tier and near the two

ports or the lamp. Australia and I were about on a par as far as

social standing went, and when it came to talking about the mines or

discussing matters other than those relating to the sea, we often took

the center of the stage.

 

Martin, who had been a wood turner in his youth, and Fred, who was a

good average sailor with a discharge from the Revenue Cutter Service,

generally acted as spear carriers in our little fo'c'sle comedy. They

were excellent eaters, both of them, standing well up in the forefront

with Scouse and Joe; the rottenest cracker hash or the most greasy

salt pork never phased them. To the mate these men were a constant

inspiration in his flights of blasphemy, and hardly a day passed but

that he vented his wrath on one of them.

 

Never once during the entire voyage did any member of the crew miss a

single bit of personal property. Add to this the fact that the general

moral tone of conversation among us was far above the average of men

who would consider themselves superior, and we have to at least respect

the crew of the _Fuller_ as they respected themselves.

 

Chips, a melancholy Norwegian, a long, lanky, cadaverous knight of the

caulking iron and the carpenter's bench, berthed in a little room next

to the lamp locker. He was kept busy sounding the well, and making

the constant repairs that a well groomed wooden ship requires. In the

intervals of this duty he looked after the hatch tarpaulins sheltering

the precious cargo, tended the running lights, served out the daily

whack of water, oiled the tiller tackles, and sat down to dinner with

the second mate. Poor Chips! A gentleman of the lower caste, eating aft

and living forward. He was a good fellow, but far too gloomy for us,

who were of the "people," light hearted ourselves and ready to crack a

joke at the least opportunity.

 

Chips had one other duty which he performed twice on our voyage round

the Horn. On these occasions he was called upon to "salt the masts." A

small plug was taken out of the lower mast heads, and salt filled into

the hollow core of these great "sticks." The fore and main masts were

"built up," that is, made up of four quadrantal pieces, scarfed full

length, and banded by stout iron hoops. At the outside juncture of the

built-up pieces they were beveled, forming the "chapels" of the mast,

the latter being painted white and giving the lower masts on the fore

and main a checkerboard appearance.

 

Each morning of the voyage, and particularly during the fair weather

part of it, we were exercised at the washdown. This is more than a mere

part of the work at sea; it is an established institution, a sacred

rite that is carried on through all conditions of wind and weather. In

the tropics the washdown is a pleasure, and also a necessity, as it

alone keeps the decks tight and the ship sanitary.

 

A "water spar" would be rigged over the side to leeward at a point in

the waist abreast of the main hatch. A clump block and a single whip

with a canvas water bucket, the rim weighted with a ring of lead, was

used to haul aboard the water which was dumped into a deck barrel. Coir

brooms, wooden buckets, and much slopping about in bare feet would

usher in the day, no part of the deck being neglected.

 

The routine was: At four o'clock in the morning, "Get your gear on

the pins," everything being laid up clear of the deck. "Rig water

spar," and then old Chow would run out of the galley with a bag of hard

bread and a big can of slops, while the Japanese steward would hurry

along the deck with a cup _and saucer_; coffee--cabin style, for the

refreshment of the mate, who would sing out: "Get your coffee," and for

a few minutes we would all sit on the main hatch, in fine weather, or

crowd in the lee of the forward house if it was stormy, and dip into

the steaming chicory.

 

Then--"Get out your washdeck gear! Wash down!" and the day's work would

begin.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XI

 

CLEANING HOUSE AND A CELEBRATION

 

 

The rough passage around the Horn--seagoing with the bark on--worked

the discontent out of our systems, and with the return of fine weather,

all hands cheered up and life became more and more worth living. The

dog watches were lively, with hotly contested arguments on all topics

under heaven. The less the debaters knew about a subject, the more they

would have to say about it; resembling in this regard large numbers

of more sophisticated folk ashore. Some of the discussions would

last for days, being carried on as a serial story, from dog watch to

dog watch, with overflow sessions on deck at night. As none of the

contenders would ever budge an inch from their positions, the points at

issue always remained undecided except in the fish argument, which was

settled by the mate.

 

For a long time Martin, Joe and Scouse indulged in heated discussion

as to whether fish was meat, or whether it was something else. Joe

contended for the negative, that fish was not meat, while Martin and

Scouse insisted that fish and meat were the same thing.

 

Joe had two against him, but being quicker with his tongue he was able

to hold Scouse and Martin pretty well in check.

 

"If fish ain't meat, wot is it?" demanded Martin. "Is it wegetables, or

wot?"

 

This always stumped Joe, but he stuck to his guns and came back

stronger each time: "It's fish, that's wot it is, F-I-S-H--FISH!" his

voice rising above everything else in the heat of argument.

 

The debate finally closed in a particularly violent session that

continued as our side went aft to muster in the second dog watch.

 

"Fish you say!" shouted the mate at the unheard of disrespect on the

part of Joe, who was frothing at the mouth in the defense of his

contention. "I'll fish you, you thick-headed ass," and as Joe woke up

to the fact that a new champion had come into the field, the whole

watch broke into a laugh at the sequel. "Fish, is it? Well, I'll

fish you good and proper. Get a pot of slush and rub down the mizzen

topmast. Drop a spot, and you stay on deck tomorrow forenoon, _you

fisherman!_" The last with biting sarcasm.

 

Joe lay aloft with his slush pot, and as a bright moon gave him plenty

of light at his work, it also enabled the mate to watch him closely.

However, this ended the argument, much to the satisfaction of all of

us, for it was a bit wearing.

 

Jimmy Marshall had a large dog-eared Bible in his possession; a red

stamp on the title page read as follows: "Property of Seamen's Bethel,

Sydney. _Do not take from chapel._" While lying up with his arm in a

sling, having been tossed between the spare main yard and the after

bitts, by a sea, he delved industriously into the lore of the good

book; and when he was back on deck again Jimmy refused to chantey to

the tune of "Whiskey," and his verses, when singing a rope to "Molly

Brown," were painfully proper.