Under Sail 4

Under Sail 4

It was close to six bells by that time. Chips had set out the running

lights and was getting the big pump ready, having sounded the well and

reported a foot of water.

 

"Starboard watch below for tucker!" ordered the mate; and then turning

to the men of his watch, he ordered, "Man the pump!"

 

It was dark as we bent to the cranks of the big pump, and with the

hum of wind and the swish of water in our ears we realized that we

were truly at sea, insignificant mortals riding on the low deck of a

vast fabric of wood and canvas, venturing far from land on the mighty

stretches of the Western Ocean.

 

That first night at the pump, forerunner of many, many other nights,

our little band of watch mates toiled in silence, except for a few

monosyllables. Four men to each crank, two on a side, facing each

other, our tired arms and backs reciprocated to the action of rotation

like so many toy figures actuated by some hidden clockwork; the new

labor was almost a rest after the constant pulling and hauling of the

day. Finally the low, raucous wheezing of the valves told us we were

sucking air, and the mate, from the darkness of the poop, called out,

"Belay pump!"

 

It is the custom of the sea, handed down from time immemorial, that

"The captain takes her out and the mate brings her back." That is,

the first regular watch at sea is taken by the captain's watch on the

outward passage, and the same watch is taken by the port, or mate's

watch, on the start for home. Of course the second mate stands the

starboard watch, except in case of emergency.

 

Accordingly, at four bells, we went below, and after a hasty supper

we sought our bunks for a brief rest before turning out for the watch

from eight to midnight. We were tired--some of us, to the point of

utter exhaustion--and a few of the older men claimed that we were being

cheated out of our right to the first four-hour watch below, ours

having merely been a dog watch of 2 hours from 6 to 8. Anyhow, whatever

we thought about that, nothing was said above a mild growling in the

fo'c'sle, and as we tumbled out at eight bells, and both watches lined

up in the waist to muster, the chill wind cut through us, and a moment

later we were greeted by an order from aft.

 

"Hands aloft to overhaul the t'gallant and royal buntlines!"

 

Up I went on the mizzen, never caring to lag behind on an order to

lay aloft, a piece of twine in my pocket. The gear was overhauled and

stopped just below the blocks, so the buntlines would not chafe the

sails, and at the same time the stops of cotton twine were frail enough

to be easily broken. When at times they were not, some unlucky wight

would clamber aloft at the critical moment of taking in sail amid the

slatting of canvas and the most profuse showers of artistic abuse.

 

Coming down from this task, I was in time to witness a burst of

profanity on the part of the mate. "Keep moving, you beach-combing

---- ---- ----! Every lousy ---- ---- ---- ----! I won't have no 'lime

juice' sleeping on deck this voyage. D'ye hear that?" All heard, for

there was a shuffle of weary feet about the main hatch, where several

of the watch had perched comfortably in the dark, and, after a moment

of indecision, sprinkled with derogatory mutterings, we paired off in

little groups of twos, walking the swaying deck wherever we could find

places free from the back draft of the sails.

 

Frenchy was my first chum on the _Fuller_, and though for periods we

drifted apart, through sheer mutual exhaustion of our interchangeable

ideas, yet we always came together again. Somehow, on the very start of

the voyage, when the crimps and runners bade us that sad farewell from

the port of New York, we were drawn together. The night that we paired

off, on our first watch at sea, it seemed natural that Frenchy and I

should elect to stump the deck in company. We preempted a path from the

lee main pin rail to the after end of the forward house. "It's better

here than anywhere," remarked Frenchy, and I soon found he was right,

as we missed the draft from the mains'l and were partly sheltered by

the house on the forward leg of our walk.

 

[Illustration: Frenchy]

 

Frenchy was a heavy-whiskered, ruddy specimen, sporting the square-cut

beard of the French sailor. He was an ex-naval man, and one time prison

guard in the penal settlement of New Caledonia. Trained to the sea

since boyhood, in the fishing fleet of Dunkirk, for many years a rigger

in the naval yards at Brest, a sailor man on every type of craft from

the Mediterranean ybeck to a ship. Victor Mathes was one of the finest

types of the Gallic seaman.

 

His life was a vague and many folded nebula of romance. He was full of

stories of the life in New Caledonia, of the discipline on the outlying

islands, of punitive expeditions, and of the intrigues and jealousies

among the checkered lives that wear themselves away in those distant

places.

 

Night after night we paced the deck during the long, cold watches,

and between the calls to man this rope or that, and the horsing and

rustling about that was always indulged in, we swapped information of

all kinds, related all sorts of experiences, truthful and otherwise,

and each man explored his mental storehouse for the amusement and

benefit of his chum. For hours at a time Frenchy would talk of good

things to eat; this was a hobby, in fact a sort of passion, with him

and often drove me to the verge of distraction. He would go into the

minutest detail of how his sister Madeleine, back in Dunkirk, prepared

some particular dish, telling not only of the delightful flavor and

succulent qualities, but he would go into the subject of the way things

smelled, roast fowl, with all sorts of fancy stuffing. My mouth would

water at these cruel recitals and I know that Frenchy suffered as much

as I did at the poignant recollections of gastronomic joys long past.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER II

 

THE OUTWARD PASSAGE

 

 

When well clear of the coast we roused the bower anchors up on the

fo'c'sle head and lashed them. "A sure sign, sonny, that you are off

soundings," said Brenden; "these wind wagons don't take no chances

till they get a safe offing." The cables were unshackled, and the ends

stoppered abaft the wildcats. Canvas coats were put on to them, just

over the chain pipes leading to the locker. "Jackasses" were then

bowsed into the hawse holes _for fair_, taking the "tails" to the

windlass. With the ground tackle secured, the "cat" and "fish" were

unrove, and this gear stowed away in the fore peak. We had entered upon

the real deepwater stage of the voyage, with lee shores, and soundings,

many miles away.

 

The _Fuller_[3] carried a complement of sixteen hands forward, and

a "boy," not counting the "idlers"--that is, the carpenter, cook and

cabin steward--a small enough crew for a vessel displacing in the

neighborhood of 2,500 tons, dead weight, a craft 229 feet between

perpendiculars, 41-1/2 feet beam and 23 feet depth of hold, ship

rigged, with skysails, royals, single t'gans'ls, double tops'ls, and

courses. Her main yard was 90 feet from tip to tip. A crojik was

carried as well as a spanker. On her stays, she carried flying jib,

jib tops'l, jib and fore topmast stays'l, main t'gallant stays'l, main

topmast stays'l. Mizzen t'gallant stays'l and a main spencer completed

her spread of canvas. When on a wind, in a whole-sail breeze, with

crojik furled, and spanker set, the ship _Fuller_ spread twenty-five

kites to the wind.

 

[3] Data re _A. J. Fuller_.

 

Ship _A. J. Fuller_.

Flint and Co. The California Clipper Line, Owners.

Signal letters J.V.G.B. International Code.

Built at Bath, Maine, 1881, of wood.

 

Gross tonnage 1,848.76

Net " 1,781.88

Length 229.3 ft.

Breadth 41.5 "

Draft (mean) 17.8 "

Depth of hold 23.0 "

 

Now think of the handsome way in which they manned their ships in the

olden days of the tea clippers when a vessel half her size would carry

_forty_ men forward! And a vessel of equal size would carry from 80 to

90 _seamen_. As it was, we were hard put to it in an emergency and "all

hands" was the rule on every occasion demanding quick work, in going

about, or in making or taking in sail. When tacking it was "all hands,

and the cook at the fore sheet." One watch could not hoist the main

upper tops'l, except in the finest kind of weather, and then only by

taking the halyards to the main deck capstan, and "inching" the great

yard up in slow and painful fashion with much singing and "_yo ho_"ing.

 

[Illustration:

 

SHIP A.J.FULLER OF NEW YORK

_Built at Bath Maine 1881_

 

DECK PLAN]

 

Captain Nichols shaped a course well to the eastward, fetching almost

to the Azores, before hauling his wind aft and squaring away for an

easy run through the N. E. trades. Skysails and flying jib were up and

down a score of times a day at this restless stage of the voyage, for

every rag was kept drawing to the last moment. In squally weather,

and we had plenty of it, the ship would race along, her lee scuppers

boiling in white water as she heeled to the blast, hands standing by

at the halyards, which were always flaked down clear for running, and

every mother's son keyed to a high pitch, ready for quick work at

braces, clewlines and buntlines.

 

To have a "wheel" or a "lookout" during the night watch was a rest,

although the trick at the helm was a wideawake job, whether on a

course, or "by the wind." I had a fondness for steering and often

stood the wheel for Frenchy or Brenden, especially during the daytime

when they were employed on sailor jobs that no one else of our watch

was able to do. The mate winked at this practice, and as they often

let me take their tricks at night, I was able to side step a lot of

the skysail climbing that would ordinarily have fallen to me as the

youngster of the watch.

 

My training on the old _St. Mary's_ now stood me in good stead, and by

remembering a lot of the advice given me by that prince of sailor-men,

old Bos'un Dreilick of the schoolship,[4] I found myself rated with the

best men in the ship, and far ahead of such fellows as Scouse, and Joe,

and Martin, who were strong as bulls, but knew nothing. In between us

ranged Australia and Fred, good ordinary sailors who knew the ropes,

could hand, reef, and steer, but lacked that finished technique so

essential to the proper able seaman. I must admit that in classing

myself with men like Marshall, Frenchy, and Brenden, I am doing so at

the tail end of this trio, and then only because of my skill at the

helm, at heaving the "blue pigeon," and at sailing and handling boats,

accomplishments that, except for steering, are rare among deep water sailors.