Under Sail 3

Under Sail 3

Some of the shore crowd from the boarding houses helped to pass up the

chests and bags of dunnage, and the bundles of "donkey's breakfast"

as we clambered to the ice-encrusted deck of the ship _A. J. Fuller_,

lying at her wharf near the foot of Maiden Lane. A flickering light,

and the rattle of stove lids in the galley, as we passed forward to the

fo'c'sle, told us that the cook was stirring, and the snorting of a tug

under the starboard quarter gave notice of an early start.

 

It was dark when we came aboard; a cold December wind rippled the black

waters of the East River, chilling to the marrow those few stragglers

who walked the cobble stones of South Street at that early morning hour.

 

An odd lot of humanity dumped their few belongings on the fo'c'sle

deck; strangers all, excepting a few who had just deserted from the

British bark _Falls of Ettrick_, men jumbled together by strange fate,

and destined to long months of close companionship, of hard knocks, and

endless days and nights of unremitting labor.

 

No time was lost, however, in sentimental mooning; the chill morning

air was charged with activity, the "after guard" was all astir and an

ebb tide flowed, ready to help us on our way. Gulping down the "cafay

nore" that presently was passed forward in a bucket, all hands dipping

in with hook pots and pannikins, hastily dug from chest and bag, we

were barely able to stow away this refreshment before a heavy fist

thumped the fo'c'sle doors.

 

"Turn to! Turn to! This ain't a private yachting tour!" was the

sarcastic invitation that sent us scrambling to the deck.

 

"Here! You, I mean!" yelled the mate, "come forward!" for I had headed

aft, and, at this command, I found myself with some others hauling a

heavy water-soaked hawser aboard the fo'c'sle head.

 

"All clear?" came the query from aft.

 

"Aye, aye! All clear!"

 

A long whistle sounded from our tug, as we backed slowly from the

wharf; the escort of boarding house runners shivering on the string

piece of the dock, gave us a dismal cheer, and the voyage around Cape

Horn had fairly begun.

 

The first level rays of morning light began to filter over the house

tops on the Brooklyn side, the misty span of the bridge loomed above

the river, and a dozen bloodshot eyes among the crew forward cast their

farewell glances at the Tom and Jerry signs in the saloon windows on

historic South Street.

 

We were a lumbering lot, pushed and cuffed from station to station, our

best men acting like dolts, until the exercise and crisp morning air,

zipping above the river, wore off the effects of a last night spent at

the Atlantic Garden. South Street, at that day still a forest of spars,

with here and there a bald spot marking the advent of the coastwise

steamers, slid past us, Governor's Island, the Statue, the Narrows, and

the Hook, were passed unnoticed in the ceaseless hustle on our decks.

The running gear, left by the shore riggers in a hopeless tangle, had

to be put to rights, and the mates worked us like demons to get things

in some sort of shape before we should be called upon to work the

vessel under sail.

 

Gradually order of some sort issued from the chaos, and as the day wore

on we set our fores'l, all tops'ls, main t'gan'sl, jib and stays'ls,

before a stiff off-shore breeze that caused the towline to slacken, and

orders were given to cast off the tug.

 

The new steam pilot boat _New York_ rode the swell ahead of us, ready

to take off the pilot.

 

"Weather main braces!" came the order; the yards were braced aback,

a yawl from the _New York_ touched our side for an instant, as we

surged ahead slowly against the back push from the main, and the pilot,

hanging from a Jacob's ladder, dropped into his boat.

 

"See you in Liverpool!" shouted the pilot, standing in the yawl and

waving a final farewell to Captain Nichols.

 

"Brace up main yards, sir!" ordered the skipper, addressing the mate,

and we swung them around with a will.

 

The day was well advanced by then, a low bank of cloud over the land

shut in the sunset, and a spanking breeze from no'east by nor' brought

our port tacks to the deck. The _Fuller_ heeled easily beneath the

force of the wind. Off to leeward, and rapidly falling astern, was the

American ship _Tam O'Shanter_, bound for China; we heard afterward that

she was lost.

 

Up to the first dog watch all hands had labored without a moment's

rest, and at eight bells in the afternoon the courses and all plain

sail to royals were drawing nicely. As soon as the gear was shipshape

and coiled on the pins, all hands were mustered aft. There was a

feeling of uncertainty among the crew as we filed aft to the waist,

standing in an awkward group about the main fife rail, a nondescript,

hard-fisted, weatherbeaten lot of men.

 

Above towered the vast expanse of snowy canvas, looming out of all

proportion in the dark half light of the winter evening; beneath us

was the rolling, palpitating sweep of deck, yielding and swaying in

the constant balance 'tween the wind and sea. To windward, above the

line of bulwark, a ragged mackerel sky drove across the cloud rack of

scattered cirrus, touched with dull red from the high shafts of the

setting sun. The black backs of the shoreward rollers swept to leeward

and astern, passing us as if frightened by the lofty figure of the ship.

 

The watches were about to be chosen. The two mates came down into the

waist, and Captain Nichols stood at the break of the poop to observe

this time-honored ceremony of the sea. For better or for worse, in

sunshine or in storm, we were to be parceled off to our respective

task-masters for the long months of the voyage ahead. The fate of

friendships was to be decided, for watchmates are far closer than mere

shipmates, and a general desire to escape the clutches of the mate made

all of us anxious for the ordeal to be concluded. Most of the men were

in favor of the second mate, Mr. Stoddard. The mate, Mr. Zerk, was a

driver, a bully, and what not, but the second mate seemed to be easier,

in spite of the fact that he lost no opportunity to bawl out everyone

that came across his path.

 

"He'll be all right when we get outside," was the remark that voiced

the general opinion. Old Smith, perhaps the wisest of the real

sailor-men on board, came as near to hitting the relative values of the

mates as was possible. "I don't see no choice between them," he said.

"One may be easier, but give me the best sailor. A good sailor aft

saves work for his watch forward. See if I don't figger it right. Take

it any way you like, there's no choosing between them rotten apples

aft, and let it go at that."

 

Mr. Zerk, a man of about forty, medium in height, broad shouldered,

bull necked, with close cropped yellow hair--grey eyes set in a very

red, smooth-shaven face, except for a sweeping blond mustache, was a

native of Nova Scotia, brought up in "blue nose" ships. He eyed us with

the cold look of a surgeon about to amputate. Walking up to the group

just abaft of the mainmast, he made his first choice without a moment's

hesitation.

 

"Frenchy, come here," and Victor Mathes, of Dunkirk, went to the port

watch, chosen by the mate.

 

"Smith," was the laconic reply of Mr. Stoddard to the first choice of

the mate. Honors were even, for it was a toss up between the two men.

 

Brenden, a husky, well-set-up sailor, trained in the sailing ships out

of Hamburg, with plenty of beef and a good head, was the next choice of

the mate. [Illustration: Old Smith]

 

"Axel," said the second mate, scoring the first advantage in the

choosing of the watches. Axel proved to be one of the best men in the

crew, a big, boyish Swede, a sailor and a gentleman.

 

"Roth, come here," and John Roth, late of the opal mines in Australia,

one of the deserters from the _Falls of Ettrick_, and the artist of

the crew, went to port. We soon dubbed him "Australia." The mate sent

"Australia" to relieve the wheel, and the second mate paused a moment

weighing the merits of the remaining men.

 

"Tom," was his choice, and another sailor, Tom Morstad, also a deserter

from the _Ettrick_, went to starboard.

 

Things were fining down, and the remaining victims in this heartless

process of elimination were becoming increasingly apprehensive, while

those who had been chosen grinned at us with aggravating humor. The

mates were getting less and less sure of their choice as the pickings

became more and more undesirable. It was getting to be a question of

brains versus brawn. Husky young clodhoppers shipped as A.B. by the

greedy boarding masters; young mules with nothing but their thick

hides and an abundance of main strength and stupidity to recommend

them, placed in the balance with such old fellows as Jimmy Marshall and

Jack Hitchen. Jimmy, who claimed to be sixty-five, a wizened little old

sea-horse, but a wonderful "chantey man," won the next choice and was

taken by the mate.

 

Hitchen was called to starboard, and the honors still remained about

even in the contest of wit and experience, for both mates had studied

the paces of each individual with critical eyes during that eventful

day.

 

The next choice was a painful one. There was a short pause; it seemed

to us that "Charlie Horse," who had once been mate on a coaster in the

oyster trade, or Dago Tony, would surely be chosen next.

 

"Felix, come here," said the mate, running his eye over the Dago and

Charlie, and lighting on me. I stepped over to the boys lined up on the

lee side, a weight lifted from my mind, as Frenchy, destined to be my

chum, moved near me.

 

It was getting on by then. Chips went aft carrying the side lights, and

Captain Nichols was stumping the poop with some impatience, as a hint

to his officers to bring things to a close.

 

The second mate chose Charlie, and George Krug, or "Scouse" as we

called him, was taken by the mate. Dago Tony went to the second mate,

and Fred Erricson, a good sailor, also an _Ettrick_ deserter, went to

port.

 

Mike, the wood turner, went to starboard, and Joe Johnson, one time

a cobbler's apprentice, and general all round husky favorite of

misfortune, was taken by the mate.

 

The left-overs, Martin, and Peter the boy, were divided by the call

of Peter to the starboard watch, and Martin fell to the mate. Peter,

an American, ex-reporter on a Worcester paper, one time foreman in

a corset factory, and a bright, wideawake boy of something over

twenty-one, had shipped for eight dollars a month _and his health_. The

voyage netted him his payday many times over, for he was endowed with

brains and, starting out a wreck, he came back a toughhanded deepwater man.