Under Sail 7

Under Sail 7

After the labors of a busy day, the ship presented the comfortable

well-patched appearance of a man in the woods, free from the stiffness

of new white linen, and naturally fitting into the familiar folds of

old duds, unconventional but plenty good enough. The bright spars

still attested to her "smartness," but we were in easy trade wind

weather and dressed accordingly. The fores'l was particularly large,

with extra clothes in the leeches, made to catch and hold every breath

of wind blowing over the deck.

 

The sail locker was re-stowed with our "best suit," and between the

coils of canvas we liberally spread a bundle of old newspapers brought

out by the mate. "To give the rats something to chew on," he remarked,

as we ran the stiff new canvas in, tier upon tier.

 

One thing that Frenchy called my attention to in the stowing of the

locker was the fact that the storm canvas, lower tops'ls and stays'ls,

were placed handy for immediate removal, the mate assuring himself

of this fact by personal supervision; indeed he knew just where each

particular sail was located in the locker, and could go in and lay his

hand upon it in the darkest night, as he more than once demonstrated

during the course of the voyage.

 

That night a tired lot of men sat down to supper. The cold salt beef,

the hard bread and the can of tea came from the galley in their usual

order. Fred, who was mess cook for that week, went back to the galley,

after depositing the regulation Saturday night grub. As he left the

fo'c'sle door he turned back at us with a grin on his wide good natured

face, bristling with uneven outcroppings of yellow stubble. Fred

reminded me of an amiable plodder hulking out in his dungaree jacket,

while the watch fell to on the beef and tack.

 

"I guess he forgot to thank the cook for putting so many bugs in the

tea," ventured Brenden.

 

"Maybe he's going aft to take Christmas Dinner with the captain in the

cabin. They have a real plum pudding there; I saw it in the galley,"

said Joe.

 

Plum pudding! Christmas! The thoughts of loved ones far away, and of

those distant homes that perhaps were remembering some of us out on the

broad bosom of the deep waters, came as a pang. All of us, I believe,

felt this. For a moment or two silence ensued, then Fred burst through

the fo'c'sle door with the big surprise.

 

"_Pie, boys! Pie!_" he shouted, depositing three tin plates on the

fo'c'sle deck, for we dined with the deck as a table, sitting about

the kids on low benches. The precious pie was cut with the greatest

regard for equality by no less an expert hand than that of Frenchy,

assisted by Australia, who showed us how to cut a pie into three parts

by measuring across the diameter with a knife, adding a little to this,

and then this length went three times into the circumference.

 

Jimmy Marshall failed to agree with this theory, but was fairly beaten

in the result, for Australia was right. The pie certainly was cut into

three very equal parts.

 

"An engineer in the mines showed me this," said Australia. "He says,

'Pie times across the pie, is all the way around.' Mathematics is wot

he calls this." Australia was nearly right at that, and the marks he

made on the crust of the confections baked by Chow served as a reliable

guide for Frenchy, also bolstering him immensely in the eyes of the

more humble members of the port watch. That Australia chap certainly

knew a thing or two, even if he was not the best sailor in the world.

 

But Jimmy Marshall's comment was simply, "Rats!"

 

After supper, when pipes were glowing, and most of us sought our

bunks for the hour or so that remained to us in the last dog watch,

a discussion arose as to what kind of pie it was. Frenchy, the great

gastronomic authority, claimed it was English currant pie. "They taste

so bitter, that's why I know," he added with an air of finality.

 

Others differed with him. Scouse said it was red crabapple pie.

Martin claimed it was nothing but plum pie. I thought it tasted like

cranberry, but was not sure. At last, to settle the matter, and at the

earnest request of the crabbed Jimmy, Fred trudged aft to the galley to

consult Chow and wind up the argument. He returned in triumph with a

large tin can done up in a gaudy red label marked "Pie Fruit."

 

Shortly after entering the N. E. trades we encountered the region of

tropic rains, of daily thunder storms, and of abundant drinking and

washing water. We rigged an old sail over the gallows frame in the

main deck to catch the rain, which was teemed through a canvas pipe to

the main tank, a large upright iron cylinder standing on the keelson

blocks in the main hold just abaft of the main mast. Our allowance of

three quarts a day, per man, was anything but satisfying in the tropic

atmosphere of the torrid zone. At least half of this "whack" of water

went to the galley for use in the preparation of food and the rest

was divided between the scuttle butt and the water barrel, from which

it was drawn sparingly for washing purposes; usually a mere rinse to

clean off the salt of a sea water scrub.

 

In the extreme heat, during the frequent periods of calm, our suffering

through the lack of water became intense. The _Fuller_, like many other

ships sailing from New York, put to sea with her water tank barely a

quarter full, relying on the tropic rains to replenish the supply. When

the rains did finally come we fairly reveled in the luxury of abundant

fresh water, drinking, washing clothes, bathing, and just plain

wasteful wallowing in the refreshing element. With the first douse of

rain all hands turned out on deck to fill their pannikins under the

spouting drains from the forward house.

 

The conduct of a deep water sailing voyage in the old days of wooden

ships called for what today would be considered the highest type of

scientific management. In the maintenance of the vessel, each part of

the complicated fabric received its due attention at some particular

point in the voyage where the weather was favorable for that certain

operation. So in the entry to the rainy belt, that uncertain region

of the doldrums where almost constant precipitation takes turn about

with calm or light baffling winds, we were turned loose on the job of

scrubbing paintwork. The work was started aft and each watch did its

own side of the ship, there being much rivalry as to who was doing the

most work. Everybody took a hand in this and Brenden and Marshall would

curse unmercifully at the job when well out of earshot of the after

guard. Our hands became wrinkled with the constant wet, the calloused

flesh getting soft and cheesy, while our oilskins, in which we worked

during the worst downpours, became soaked and clammy through constant

use.

 

We were not allowed the bucket of classic "_sewgee_" of the steam

ship sailor, a mixture of caustic soda, soft soap and water, but

were provided with nothing but a small tin of brick dust and a rag

of burlap; a rope handled deck bucket and a small swab completed

the outfit. Add to this formula an abundance of "elbow grease," and

slithers of tropic rain, and you get paintwork polished smooth and

white as ivory. A week or so, with all hands on the paintwork, whenever

the working of the ship would permit, transformed her into a model of

neatness. Woe to the luckless wretch who by any chance marred the deck

or paintwork with a drop of grease or tar.

 

About this time we made our acquaintance with the flying fish, these

swift travellers often shooting over our deck at night and being

caught in the belly of one of the courses or the spanker. A flying

fish for breakfast is not bad, and many were caught by the men on deck

keeping a sharp lookout for them. The mates were also watching for the

bag of flying fish and whenever one landed on the poop or in the waist,

one or the other of the mates would call out and have a hand bring the

fish aft.

 

One night a fish landed somewhere in the waist. We could hear the

wet splatter of the flying fins, as it was calm and the deck quiet.

Mr. Zerk, who was leaning against the weather swifter of the mizzen

shrouds, roused himself and called out for someone to bring the fish

aft.

 

Several of the watch started to search for the visitor, for we also had

heard him land, but without success.

 

"How about that fish?" shouted the mate, after a decent interval, while

the search was going on.

 

"Can't find it, sir," Joe piped up.

 

"The hell you can't!" thundered the mate. "There he is," and again we

heard a faint "splash, splash" of the wings.

 

"Get a light, you damn fools," was the order, for it was mighty dark.

"Come now quick. _Pronto_!" and as Scouse banged on the door of the

deck room occupied by Chips, in order to get him to open the lamp

locker, we thought we heard the "splash, splash" again.

 

[Illustration: Joe]

 

With the aid of a lantern and all of the watch the entire deck was

searched. Finally, Jimmy Marshall let out a whoop, "_Here he was! Here

he was!_" Some water on the deck, near the coils of rope hanging from

the main pin rail, looked as though Jimmy was close to the flying fish.

 

"_Here he was!_" again shouted the excited Jimmy, grabbing the lantern

from the hand of Scouse.

 

"Here he _what_?" demanded the mate, coming down into the waist. The

mate bent over the wet spot and exploded in a string of oaths. "No

flying fish ever made that! Here, you!" and he grabbed Jimmy. "This is

some of your damn monkey shines, you old dried up bundle of sea tripe!

---- ---- your gray hairs, I'll flying fish you! Lay aloft to the main

skysail yard and watch the stars! I'll call you down on deck whenever

we need you!"

 

For several nights after that Jimmy spent his time climbing up and down

the main rigging, for no sooner would he get up than the mate would

think of something to do that required his presence on deck.

 

The flying fish episode furnished us with something to talk about in

the fo'c'sle, and while Jimmy always tried to leave the impression that

the joke was on the mate and the rest of us, we felt that his over

zeal in discovering the puddle of water in which his clever hand had

simulated the nervous flapping of the fins of a flying fish had turned

the tables. My idea was that Jimmy, after seeing how well the thing was

taking, could not resist the temptation to get the credit.

 

We also harpooned our first bonita, a very active, virile fish, shaped

like a short double ended spindle buoy, and striped lengthwise. These

fish are exceedingly lively and jump about with terrific energy when

brought on deck. Before taking this fish to the galley, Old Smith of

the other watch, and Frenchy, and of course Jimmy Marshall, tested the

meat with a silver coin, to see if it was of the poison variety.