Heavy weather-sails were sent down and fine weather canvas bent in place. Running gear re-rove, and heavy weather spare spar-lashings removed. All dunnage (Anglice, clothing and bedding) out on deck drying and airing. Everyone revelling in the sun and even welcoming the bubbling pitch, though it should stick to our toes.
The very ship herself seemed to spring into greater life as the flying kites were once again hoisted and set; each adding the urge and drive which a few weeks later carried us through the Golden Gates of San Francisco, on to the broad, smooth waters of the Sacramento.
CHAPTER THREE
'FRISCO IN THE EIGHTIES
What a strange mixture we found in that city of mushroom growth. Beautiful broad streets and magnificent buildings, but almost entirely without law or order, — unless you could pay for it. One section of the city, known as Chinatown, was literally a young China. Rarely, if ever did any white man attempt this locality at night time. We boys cared little about the reputation of the place; in fact we did not realise the perfectly appalling reputation it bore, and we spent lots of our time hunting up curios from John Chinaman. The great fire of San Francisco has cleared away this well-known landmark, and the Chinese are scattered to the four winds of heaven. Certainly one does not find them now in 'Frisco. Whether 'Frisco is any better off without her young Chinatown than with, is an open question. For my part I much prefer John Chinaman to many other races. At least his word is his bond, and you can rely on it to the bitter end. Get him to give you his brief "Can do" and you need no attorneys, stamps nor seals.
'Frisco at this time, had the honour of bearing the worst reputation of any sea port in the world for lawlessness, not excepting New York. It was bad enough for the landsman to be on the streets at night, if it was even suspected that he was carrying more than a very few dollars. Even in broad daylight it was no uncommon thing for a man to be sandbagged and robbed. Judge then, what it was for a sailor coming out of the shipping office, known to have his pay-day in his pocket. He was lucky if he could get as far as the nearest Post Office, always allowing he had the sense to go there, which was seldom.
The water front of 'Frisco was held and run by a lot of soulless crimps. These human vultures didn't wait for a man to get as far as the Shipping Office; in fact they were indifferent as to whether a man was even paying off or not. All they wanted was his body, and they would fight amongst themselves for possession. Red Jake for a long time held unquestioned sway. He derived his name from his lurid complexion and crimson nose; one might even include his language, — it suited his name.
A ship arriving within the Golden Gates (was there ever such a misnomer?) was at once overrun by a horde of these wretched crimps' runners. The men might be on the capstan heaving in the tow rope, and the crimps would just join up and heave round also on the capstan bars, hauling out of their pockets flasks of whisky, and once a man has accepted a drink, he is theirs, — and it was more than another crimp's life was worth to alienate that man's affections.
Red Jake would have perhaps half a dozen of the toughest runners to each ship, and so held a monopoly. After the drink, the sailor chap is given money. No receipt or anything, is asked in return, but now they have bought him, and he must be slick indeed, to get out of their toils. He goes ashore that night under the wing of the crimp's runner to have a good time. He has everything he asks for, and eventually goes to the boarding house that every crimp keeps.
If there is a ship ready to sail and short of a crew, he will be one of them. Heavily doped, his body is delivered on board and a receipt taken, which in turn, is cashed for a month's pay, deducted from the sailor boy's pay sheet; having already sacrificed all his earnings of the outward passage.
Who profits?
The crimp gets a month's pay. The shipowner gets the whole of the outward passage's pay, and the Captain gets his crew, and, let it be known, he will get them no other way.
Who should kick?
The skinflint shipowner, thousands of miles away, lining his pockets and increasing his dividends?
Not he.
Furthermore, the skipper with a conscience, who manages to keep his crew together, will get no bouquets when he arrives home and faces "ship's expenses" at the office.
The 'Frisco police also got their rake off, according to a printed and accepted schedule, agreed with the boarding house runners.
I am glad to say our Skipper was one with a conscience. I'll go further and say, such men were not difficult to find in British ships. He gave the crew to understand they would get money out of his own pocket the moment the ship was fast, and if they deserted that night, well, he would be the loser. He told them, "Go ashore, and have a good time. But for God's sake men don't let those crimps get hold of you." We did lose a couple of men before we left. Men we could afford to lose, as a matter of fact, but of the real good crowd, we lost none.
Of course it was good to be ashore for a time. To stretch our legs, and feed the inner man, and see the sights. What sights some of them were!!! Old Dupont Street with its green shutters and painted hags.
The Underground rabbit warren that honeycombed Chinatown.
Beach Street on the river edge with its rows of Dives, where more men went in than ever came out.
Hard, bitter hard, though ship life often was, yet we were glad to see the Golden Gates, with all they stood for, fading away and finally disappearing below the horizon. At least the sea was clean.
The only good thing about 'Frisco as far as I, a first voyager with an eternal hunger, could see, was the biscuits. "'Frisco biscuits" are known the world over.Big, crisp and eatable. A good six inches across, and even the ship's margarine could not altogether spoil their flavour. Why the food, supplied by the British shipowners should have been so notoriously bad, barely sufficient to keep body and soul lashed together, seems inconceivable. Ships were paying, and paying well, yet they screw the old salt horse shellback down to the last ounce — and a poor one at that. In fact, the outstanding feature of my first voyage seems to have been the state of semi-starvation we boys lived in, until we got the 'Frisco biscuits.
One of the squarest meals I ever remember enjoying was on an occasion, in the port we had just left. Standing outside a restaurant, a very small and very hungry boy, just thinking what I could do with a dollar and some of the good things in front of me — if I had the chance. When a voice with the broad, drawling Western accent spoke from away up above me, "Say, Sonny, could you go a feed?" I looked up to see a man about six feet five inches, and big in proportion, wearing the rough rig of a miner or rancher, just up to town. Could I go a feed! when money was doled out to all and sundry at the munificent rate of a dollar a week! A.B.'s, apprentices, or petty officers, it was just the same, though why on earth we should not have been allowed to have some of the money that was already ours, heaven and the owners alone knew.
He took me in and gave me the meal of my young life. Lashings of ham and eggs (a sailor's staple diet when ashore) cups of thick chocolate and apple pie. He just grinned as it all disappeared, till, at last, despite his earnest persuasion, I could eat no more.
Next day he was down on board with pockets full of apples, asking for "that youngster with the gaff-topsail collar." Western generosity!