The Flying Bo'sun: A Mystery of the Sea — Text and Context

CHAPTER I. OFF FOR THE SOUTH SEAS, WITH FEW CLOTHES BUT A STOUT HEART 3

CHAPTER II. THE STORM--TATTERED AND TORN BUT STILL ON THE OCEAN 13

CHAPTER III. BEECHAM'S PILLS ARE WORTH A GUINEA THOUGH THEY COST BUT EIGHTEEN PENCE 25

CHAPTER IV. PERSONALITIES--OMENS AND SUPERSTITIONS OF OLD CHARLIE 33

CHAPTER V. THE SHARK--"TO HELL WITH SHARK AND SHIP" 44

CHAPTER VI. THE TIN-PLATE FIGHT--ONE-EYED RILEY TRIUMPHS 52

CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH THE CAPTAIN WOUNDS HIS HAND 61

CHAPTER VIII. THE BO'SUN LIGHTS--THE CAPTAIN'S DEATH 68

CHAPTER IX. THE SHOWDOWN--SWANSON TAKES THE COUNT 76

CHAPTER X. BURIAL AT SEA--IN WHICH RILEY OFFICIATES 83

CHAPTER XI. ASTRAL INFLUENCES--THE CREW'S VERSION OF THE UNKNOWN 91

CHAPTER XII. THE COOK'S WATCH--MATERIALISM VERSUS ASTRALISM 100

CHAPTER XIII. HIGHER INTELLIGENCE--A VISIT FROM OUT THE SHADOWS 107

CHAPTER XIV. CHRISTMAS DAY--OUR UNWILLING GUEST THE DOLPHIN 117

CHAPTER XV. CRIMP AND SAILOR--THE COOK'S MARXIAN EFFORT 123

CHAPTER XVI. THE MONTANA COWBOY--A HORSE-MARINE ADVENTURE 130

CHAPTER XVII. THE FRAGRANT SMELL OF THE ALLURING PALMS 141

CHAPTER XVIII. SUVA HARBOR--THE REEF AND THE LIGHTHOUSES 146

CHAPTER XIX. INTRODUCING CAPTAIN KANE, MRS. FAGAN AND MRS. FAGAN'S BAR 151

CHAPTER XX. REMINISCENCES OF OLD CLIPPER DAYS 158

CHAPTER XXI. UNLOADING CARGO--AGAIN THE MASTER--NATIVE POLICE. 163

CHAPTER XXII. SHORE LEAVE--THE WEB-TOED SAILOR--THE MISSIONARY SHIP 173

CHAPTER XXIII. FIJI ROYALTY--LOCAL COLOR--VISITORS TO THE SHIP 187

CHAPTER XXIV. A DRIVE WITH CAPTAIN KANE--RAZORBACK RAMPANT 194

CHAPTER XXV. HOMEWARD BOUND--THE STOWAWAY 202

CHAPTER XXVI. THE MYSTERIOUS HINDOO 211

CHAPTER XXVII. THE HURRICANE 220

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE MASTER RETURNS 228

CHAPTER XXIX. THE HOME PORT 238

Hardship is a stern master, from whom we part willingly.

But it is often true that real men learn thereby to handle their fellow-men, to love them, and to make the most of their own manhood. In no class is this more marked than among those who have been formed by the training of the sea.

Hundreds have lost their lives there, hundreds more have been coarsened through ignorance and because of rough living, but the survivors, who have used what God gave them of brain and muscle to the best advantage, are a lot of men to be trusted mightily.

I am proud to have known such men, and to have lived the life that made them what they are, and, above all, proud to have sailed before the time when steam began to drive the square-rigger from the seas.

Therefore I have ventured to set before the public a narrative of my own experience, somewhat condensed, but little changed, even in some parts that may seem hard to believe, but sailors are known to be superstitious. Should this book fall into the hands of other sailors, I think it will interest them, and landsmen may care for the truthful record of a day that is almost gone.

OFF FOR THE SOUTH SEAS, WITH FEW CLOTHES BUT A STOUT HEART

Her name was the "Wampa," graceful to look at, with her tall and stately masts, rigged with fore and aft sails. She was known as one of the fastest schooners sailing to the Southern Seas.

That afternoon in December found her loading lumber in a rather quaint saw-mill town on the Puget Sound. Her Captain, who was a Swede, was tall and handsome and had none of the earmarks of the old salt. He seemed to be very nervous as he walked up and down the poop deck. Once he called out, "Olsen, put one more truck load on, then get your deck lashings ready. She is down now, she has eight inches of water on the after deck." With that he jumped ashore saying, "If I can find a mate we will sail this evening."

As I stood there viewing her yacht-like lines and noticing the shark's fin on her bowsprit, I was satisfied that she was in a class by herself.

As he turned to go I said, "Captain, do you need a mate?"

"Are you a mate? If you can get your trunk and bag on board we will sail within an hour."

"But I have neither bag nor trunk. If you want me you will have to take me as I stand."

"Have you a sextant?"

"No, but I can borrow one from the tug boat captain. He never leaves sight of land. I am sure he will rent it to me for this voyage."

"Very well," said he. "Get your sextant, and we will find some way of getting rubber boots and oil skins," and off he strolled up to the Company's office.

Two hours later, with the deck lashings set up, tug boat alongside, everything ready for our voyage, our Captain sang out "Let go forward, starboard your helm, Murphy,"--the tug boat gave a "toot, toot," and we were off for the open sea.

By this time I had a chance to size up the crew. The second mate was a short, thick, heavy-set Dane, seemingly a good sailor. Our cook was a greasy, dirty-looking German and, from what few words I had with him, showed that he was a Socialist. The sailors were Dagoes, Irish, Swedes and Russian Finns.

With the wind freshening as we neared the open sea, the Captain sang out, "Mr. Mate, loose and set the foresail and main jib." With the gaskets off I gave the order to hoist away. I noticed one very large Swede hardly pulling a pound. I say "large"; he stood six feet or more and weighed upwards of two hundred. "What is your name?" said I.

He looked me over and said, "Why?"

I said "You must pull some more or you will never know what your name was."

I decided that now was the time to take care of this sea lawyer. The foresail was about half up. I gave the order to make fast.

I said to this big Swede, "Come here, I have something to say to you."

"If you want me come and get me."

"Very good," and with that I caught him with a strangle hold and dragged him across the deck. Then I released him. "Now tell me what your name is."

He looked amazed and humiliated, and in a hoarse voice said, "Swanson."

I said, "Swanson, I want you to work, and work your share."

He said, "You ban good steerman."

Steerman is the Swedish for mate.

"Well then, Swanson, let us get those sails up."

Just then the Captain came forward saying, "What in Hell is the matter? Why don't you get those sails on her?"

"Captain," I replied, pointing to Swanson, "this man did not quite understand me. Hoist away on your throat and peak halyards."

Up went the foresail as if by magic, then the main jib and inner jib, the tug boat gave three long whistles, signalling "let go your hawser."

I heard the Captain sing out, "Mr. Mate, up with your mainsail and spanker."

In a few minutes all sail was set.

The Captain gave the course south one-half west and went down below. I immediately took my departure, and entered it in the log book. The wind was free, about two points abaft the beam. I put the taff-rail log over the side and settled down for our trip to the sunny south. As it was getting late in the evening, I went forward to talk to the second mate about picking our watches.

It is always customary for the mate to take the ship out, and the captain to bring her home. This meant that I would have eight hours watch the first night out. The mate has always the privilege of choosing the first man, and by doing this the big Swede fell to the second mate. Because I was sure I would have trouble with him, I tossed him into the starboard watch. After the watches were set, and the wheel relieved, I heard the supper bell ring.

As I was hungry I made for the cabin, and took a seat across from the Captain. Out of the pantry came the Socialist cook with two plates of soup.

The Captain was not very talkative, thinking I was a low-grade mate, since I was minus trunk and bag. The cook eyed me rather curiously when I passed up the onion soup. I understood later that it was only on rare occasions he ever gave way to cooking so delicate a dish. Should any one be so misguided as to refuse to eat it they might count the galley their enemy forever. With supper over I went on deck to relieve the second mate. He looked to me as if there would be no trouble between him and the cook and onion soup. As it was now my watch from eight to twelve, I had the side lights lit and my watch came on deck to relieve the wheel and lookout.

I may mention here some of the sailors in my watch. Well, Broken-Nose Pete took his turn at the wheel, and One-Eyed Riley took the lookout. Then there was Dago Joe and a Dane by the name of Nelson, who seemed rather quiet and unassuming. Also Charlie who was forever looking up at the clouds.

The wind was freshening up and she was listing over with the lee rail in the water. I went aft to take a look at the log. She was doing ten knots and doing it easy. "Well," thought I, "if she can do ten with lower sails and topsails, she will do twelve with the fisherman's staysails on." So I gave the order to bend and hoist away and no sooner were they set and sheets flattened aft than she began to feel them. It seemed that those staysails were all that were holding her back to show me she was worthy of the shark's fin on the flying jib boom. The Captain was walking up and down the poop deck smoking a cigar, seemingly in good humor with his new mate. As I was going aft, I noticed that she had broached to somewhat. She seemed to want to shake herself clear of all her canvas. I ran to the man at the wheel: "What in Hell is the matter with you? Can't you steer?" I cried.

"Yes, sir, I can steer very well, but since you put those staysails on her I can hardly hold her in the water."

"Keep her on her course," I warned him, "or you will hear from me." I went to the rail to look at the log. It was getting dark, and I had to strike a match to see. Sure enough, she was making twelve and a quarter.

Just then the Captain came up and told me to take in the staysails, as she was laboring too much. I was going to protest, but, on second thoughts, I bowed to the ways of deep-water captains: "Obey orders, if you break owners."

"Captain, you have a pretty smart little ship here."

"Yes," said he. "She passed everything on her last trip to Mayhew, New Caledonia, but one has got to know and understand her to get the best out of her."

Right here I knew he was giving me a dig for daring to set the staysails without his orders.

Tossing the butt of his cigar overboard, he started to go below saying "Call me if the wind freshens up or changes. But call me at eight bells anyway."

The night grew brighter. A half moon was trying to fight her way out from behind a cloud, ever-hopeful of throwing her silver rays on the good ship "Wampa." With the sound of the wash on the prow, and the easy balanced roll, with occasional spray from windward, I felt that after all the sea was the place for me.

Just then the lookout shouted, "Light on the starboard bow, sir."

I said, "All right," and reached for the binoculars. A full rigged ship was approaching on the port tack.

"Port your helm, let her come to." When we had her on the lee, I sang out, "Steady as she goes."

As we passed under her quarter, what a beautiful living thing she seemed in the shadows of the night,--and in my dreaming I was near forgetting to keep our ship on her course again. By this time hunger, that familiar genius of those who walk the decks, was upon me again. Nothing tastes better than the time-honored lunch late during the watches at night. I found for myself some cold meat, bread and butter, and coffee in the pantry.

I called the second mate as it was nearing eight bells, twelve o'clock. I felt tired and sleepy and knew that nothing short of a hurricane would awake me from twelve to four.

Up on deck Dago Joe struck eight bells, I took the distance run on the log, and was turning around to go down and call the Captain, when Swanson came aft to relieve the wheel. He looked me over very critically and muttered something to himself. As I went down the companion way to report to the Old Man, I saw the Socialist cook standing in my room.

"Here, Mr. Mate, is a blanket for you. I know you have no bedding."

I thanked him and thought, "Well, the Socialist cook is kind and observant and Socialism is not bad after all."

I called the Captain, then went to my room for a well-earned sleep.

THE STORM: TATTERED AND TORN BUT STILL ON THE OCEAN

Olsen, the second mate, called me at four o'clock. When I came on deck the sky was overcast, and looked like rain. From the log I found that she had made thirty-eight miles during the middle watch.

"If she keeps this up for forty-eight hours," I thought, "we shall be abreast of San Francisco." She could not travel fast enough for me, going South, for with only one suit of clothes and a Socialist blanket, latitude 46° north in December was no place for me.

The cook came aft with a mug of coffee that had the kick of an army mule. It is seldom the cook on a wind-jammer ever washes the coffee pot. Pity the sailor, forward or aft, who would criticize the cooking! One must always flatter the pea-soup, and the salt-horse, and particularly the bread-pudding, if one expects any consideration.

The Captain stuck his head out of the companion-way, and from his expression I knew that he was minus the mocha. "How is the wind?" said he.

"It has hauled a little aft, sir, about northwest."

"Get the staysails on and steer south," and he dived below, looking for the cook, I suppose.

I went forward to see if any sails needed sweating up. I called Broken-Nosed Pete and Riley to take a pull on the main boom topinlift.

"Pete, what happened to your nose?"

"It is a long yarn," said he, "and some night in the tropics I shall spin it."

It was now breaking day. The cook was coming forward to the galley, singing "Shall we always work for wages?" Behind him strolled Toby, the big black cat, who seemed very much in command of the ship. Seven bells, and breakfast, some of the same beefsteak, with the elasticity of a sling-shot, and other trimmings.

The Captain seemed more talkative. "I understand that we are bound for Suva, Fiji Islands," said I.

"Yes, and I expect to make it in about fifty days, for with this breeze and a smooth sea, we shall be with the flying-fish before long."

"That will be very convenient for me, Sir."

("No, no more coffee, thank you, Steward.")

("Steward" is more appropriate than "Cook," and gives him a dignity befitting his position in the presence of officers, while forward he is pleased to be called "Doctor." But that title is seldom used, as it depends upon the good-nature of the crew.)

"Warm sailing will indeed be convenient for you," said the Captain. "How did you lose your clothes? Shipwrecked? Here, Steward, take away this Bourbon brand," (handing him the condensed milk). "I see the flies have found it."

"No, sir, not shipwrecked. My last trip, from Guaymas, was full of incidents, especially in the Gulf of California. It took us six days, with light, baffling winds and thunder-storms, to make Cape St. Lucas. While we were rounding the Cape, lightning struck the mizzen-top, destroying the mutton-leg spanker and setting fire to the chafing gear. Luckily for us, the sails were damp. As it was the lightning ran forward on the tryatic stay, and broke our forestay at the night-head."--

"Steward," interrupted the Captain anxiously, "don't feed Toby too much. That old lime-juicer that was lying next to us at the loading dock was alive with rats, and I am afraid that we have our share. You say," turning to me, "that the forestay was carried away?"

"Yes, sir, and that was not all. When she pitched aft, the spring-stays buckled, and snapped our topmast clean out of her. We let all the halyards go by the run. I have been going to sea for many years, but never have I seen a mess like the old 'Roanoke.' With the topmast hanging in the cross-trees, sails, booms and gaffs swinging all over the deck, she looked as if she had been through a hurricane. But after cutting away the topmast rigging, and letting the topmast go by the run (watching the roll, of course, so that they would be sure to clear the bulwark rail), we got a ten-inch hawser from the lazarette to replace the one that had been carried away. With the deck cleared, and lower sails set, she was able to lay her course again, and after thirty-two days we crippled into port.

"While lying in Bellingham, our port of discharge, I was relating my experience to a few old salts, men with whom I had sailed in other seas. There happened to be a land-lubber who questioned my story. He called me a liar. I said, 'You beat it.' He reached for his hip pocket. Instantly I swung for his jaw. He went down and I walked away. Later I met the night policeman. 'You had better get across the line till this blows over,' he said. 'The doctor says that he has a broken jaw.'

"In Vancouver shipping was light, so I took a job in a logging-camp running an old ship's donkey-engine hauling logs. Wells, the logging company went broke, and I with them, and that is my reason for not having any clothes."

"What became of the man with the broken jaw?" asked the Captain.

"I heard that he bought a gas motor cycle; they were new in the East then. He had one shipped to Bellingham, and ran it without a muffler. It made such a noise that horses ran away, and chickens flew about, and eventually the townspeople ran him out of town."

It was now past eight bells, and from the angry sound of Olsen's feet on the deck above, I knew that he could take care of what steak was left.

"Well," said the Captain, "that reminds me of an experience I once had on the 'Glory of the Seas,' off River Plate. Not an electrical storm, but worse, a squall without warning. You have to relieve Olsen now, so I will finish some other time in your watch below."

The cook was in the pantry, humming his favorite song, omitting the words.

It was my watch below, but I remained long enough on deck for Olsen to finish his breakfast. Away towards the eastward the sky was blood red, and the northwest wind was dying out. If the old sailor's adage holds good, then "A red sky in the morning, sailors take warning." I had been familiar with those signs in the Northern Pacific for years. In the winter time it usually meant a gale. When Olsen returned, I laid out the work to be done during the forenoon. "Get together your reef-earrings, have your halyards coiled down ready for running," I said. "We may have a blow before long."

"Yaw," said the Dane, "I don't like the sky to the eastward."

In the cabin, the Captain was sorting over some old letters. "Here," said he, "is a picture of my two boys. They are living in Berkeley. Their mother died two years ago while I was in South America. The doctor said it was T. B." With tears in his eyes he said, "I suppose it had to be, but don't you know, they are quite happy. They are living with their aunt. Oh, children forget so soon, so soon." Picking up the pictures, and with a look of hatred in his eyes he said, "The sea is no place for a married man."