However, to make a long story short, Whitney, or Rivetts, as he was called, weathered the storm that day, but went down the next, leaving me the sole occupant of the examination room, and no one was filled with more amazement. Furthermore, I may say, there was some amazement on board — not all complimentary — when it was found out that I, of all people, had stuck it out and got through.
Officers were scarce in those days, so, with my chest thrown out like a man, and a real deep sea roll, I went on board a big four master bound for New York, as a fully fledged Second Mate.
I will pass over the awful blunders I made before I gained any sort of confidence, and I also will not dwell on the perfectly poisonous time I experienced that passage. We had a particularly dirty bit of work as a skipper, and for this reason I am neither going to mention his name nor the ship’s; suffice to say, that the instant she made fast in New York I hopped ashore and never saw either him or his ship again. As a matter of fact, she was lost next voyage with all hands, and I’m not surprised for although an accomplished bully, he was only a “fine weather” sailor.
It was getting on for Christmas, so I wanted to get home, but I also wanted to see New York, as I had heard so much about it. Fortunately, I was wise enough to visit a post office first, and send my money, such as it was, home, keeping just sufficient — as I thought — to see me through.
I got in tow with a chap putting up at the same hotel, who had been sailing out of New York for many years, and what he didn’t know about the under life there, was not worth knowing.
Of course, all this undertow was well known to the police, likewise, it was common property that you could buy almost anyone in the force or out of it, from the highest to the lowest. They used to call the places “dives,” and, believe me, entering one of these night haunts, was a dive, morally, intellectually, and physically. In one place, the piиce de resistance was a butting match between a goat and a negro. Each was placed on his own side of a ring, the negro on all fours, facing the goat (very much like a dog fight is staged) and the goat induced to attack the Negro. At a word, the billy goat was released, and each bounded towards the other, to meet in the middle of the ring. The goat broke his neck, and the Negro fell unconscious to the ground; to the thunderous cheers and shouts of approval from the onlookers.
Knives, pistols and knuckle dusters were in common use, and applied on the impulse any moment; or in staged incidents, — which are best left to the imagination.
I soon got heartily sick of it all.
After the clean breath of the sea, where everything is open and above board, where men settle their differences in their bare feet, on a white deck, with a perfectly good pair of fists, all this gouging, twisting, and bone breaking left me thoroughly disgusted with the so called “high spots” of New York. Anyway, I soon found myself without money, as I had, to a certain extent, financed my initiator.
For two days I managed to survive on ten cents, the last of my wealth.
I had friends in New Jersey, who, having heard that I was putting up in Brooklyn, had sent me a cordial invitation, but I, little fool that I was, wanted to see the high lights, so made some half-baked excuses, which let me out. However, I ate humble pie later on, when, having expended my last two nickels, on two free lunches, I was left completely broke. Then I just had to write to these friends and ask them for a loan.
Previous to this, I had my marching orders from my hotel, and only saved the situation there by realising that there were such things as pawnbrokers. In a few minutes I had deposited a very precious telescope with “uncle,” and with the proceeds I laid in one enormous dinner.
My friends, of course, sent me money at once, but by this time, I was completely fed up with New York, and everything connected with it, so I returned the loan, picked up my bag, walked on board the first British ship that I could see, and, with amazing cheek, asked the Captain to take me home.
He was certainly amused, and pointed out that in the first place, he was not a passenger ship, and in the second, I didn’t look like a passenger!
I said “No, I wanted to work my passage home in time for Christmas.”
He talked to me very kindly, and we had a long yarn about where I had been, and what I had been doing and I also told him on what ship I had been Second Mate. He said he knew both the ship and her captain’s reputation, and in the end he got up, said nothing, and walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the deck. I thought, “Now, what does that mean?” and then it dawned on me that it was a clear invitation to go and bury myself away in some nook or corner until the ship got to sea. I seized my bag, and made the best time down to the fo’c’sle; rolled myself up in a corner, shoved the bag up in front of me, and hoped for the best.
I must have gone to sleep, for the next thing I remembered was a voice roaring down the hatchway, “All hands on deck.”
Joy. Oh Joy! that did not include me, and I went to sleep again. Next thing I heard a voice saying “that chap must have gone ashore. He’s left a lot of stuff here, what are we going to do with it?” I stuck my head out and replied, “You are not going to do anything with it. You are going to be very nice and leave it all alone.”
“Hullo, young fellow, you’ll be in for it now. You’d better go and report yourself.”
Along many decks. Up many ladders. At last I found myself standing stiffly to attention in front of the Captain who looked very stern and unsympathetic. “This young man has stowed himself away, sir,” said the Chief Officer. Glowering at me from under his bushy eyebrows, the Captain barked: “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Not by the flicker of an eyelid did he admit recognition, and, of course, I played up. Told my little tale of being paid off in New York, and going broke; my anxiety to get home and so forth. Then, when the Captain realised that I was going to make no reference to our meeting and subsequent long yarn of yesterday, I saw a friendly glint appear in his eye.
Much to the Chief’s astonishment, the Captain’s tone moderated noticeably, as he said, in a resigned tone of voice, “Oh well, I suppose we shall have to take him.”
We were bound for Glasgow, and that trip was my fist taste of “Steam.” Frankly, I didn’t like it. Good times, good food. Always sure of your watch below. Yet I loathed the smoke and the smell, and longed for the towering tiers of bellying canvas, the sound of water rushing past the scupper holes; in place of the monotonous clank and bang of machinery. I sadly missed the feel of something living under my feet. This ship seemed wooden in comparison. Still, I was not going to grumble on that account. She did me a good turn — a very good turn — and fourteen days later saw us docked in Glasgow. Without a cent to my name, there was nothing for it, but to sink my pride and borrow half a crown from my friendly skipper, and send a telegram home asking for money for my railway fare. This, after an eighteen months’ voyage! Such is life at sea. Still, I had a few pounds tucked away safely in the Post Office at home, but with a sailor, money is merely earned to spend, and as long as one gets a reasonable amount of clean enjoyment out of it, what better use can it be put to?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FIRE AT SEA
Next voyage saw me Third Mate of the last of Greenshield, Cowie and Company’s sailing ships. Another big four masted barque, the Knight of St. Michael. Like so many other firms, they were being forced into steam.