 2. Dedication, Preface, and Chapter 1 of Dog Watches at Sea 2. Dedication, to the memory of my friend John Allen, late superintendent of the Sailors' Haven, Charleston, Massachusetts, in grateful recognition of his constant kindness and friendly help during the five years I was his assistant, this book is affectionately dedicated. Preface, I have written what this book contains from memory, not having kept a diary, and in most cases I have given the real names of ships and individuals, conscious of my inability to undertake the preparation of a book, and fearing that I had nothing adequate to offer the public, I hesitated for a long time to attempt it, but the encouragement of my friend, the Reverend Frederick B. Allen, has led me to set down some of my experiences at sea. The book is, in so large a measure, the outcome of his friendly interest that the hardiest acknowledgments are due him. I am glad of the opportunity to make them, and also to thank my friend, Lieutenant Colonel Alan C. Kelton, USMC, for many kindness has shown me during our cruise on the USS Alliance and since. Stanton H. King, Sailors' Haven, Mission for Seaman, Charlestown, Massachusetts. Chapter 1 Outward Bound It may seem ludicrous when I say I am one of twenty-nine children and the twenty-seventh child of my father. He was married three times. His first wife bore him eleven children. His second wife, who was a cousin to his first wife, bore him ten, and my mother, his third wife, who was a sister to his second wife, bore him eight. We were not only half brothers and sisters, but cousins all the way along. Of late years I have been trying to find out the birthplace of my forefathers, and have so far learned that my grandparents on my father's side were from Ireland, and on my mother's side they were from Scotland. How they came to Barbados, or what business brought them there, I know not. I know that my father was a highly respected man on this island in the Caribbean Sea. He was a commissioner of public roads and a government employee for many years. As far back as I can remember, I was the uncle of grown-up young men and women, the children of my father's first wife's children. The family roomifications are many through the marriages of my father's children, his grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. His brother's children and the relations on my mother's side make it possible for me to find some blood relationship in almost every part of the globe. Payne's Bay House, the name of our old home, was on the western slope of the island at joining the sea. From our back windows we could see the ship sail by. This, with living so close to the wash of the waves, created a desire in all but one of my brothers to follow the sea for a living. In those days it was a common sight to see their fully one hundred ships, among them a dozen or more East Indian men riding at anchor. Some were loading sugar, others awaiting orders from home. For Carlisle Bay, forming the harbor of Bridgetown, the capital city of Barbados, was before steam took full control of the sea, the anchorage for sailing ships bound to Europe or the United States, from ports the other side of the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn. I can now recall the delight that entered my whole being when, as a boy, I listened to the stories told by my sailor brothers, as they by chance called at Barbados in their ships, of foreign lands, of storms and gales, of adventure and shipwreck. A sailor's life appealed to me as the only life worth living, and with that longing to be a sailor, to have as my own some of my brothers' experiences, I told my mother that I wanted to go to sea. I can now see the expression of disappointment on her dear face. I was her last son, and her hopes were built on having me grow up and live in Barbados. She looked forward to my being a manager of some sugar plantation or preparing for some professional calling. Naturally she tried to persuade me to remain at school and went so far as to promise her consent for me to go to sea when I was sixteen. Being a stout robust lad, I felt as though I was man enough to start out in a life at sea, so I begged and coaxed, and at last threatened to run away. I gained the victory. One afternoon a carriage drove up to our house, in which was Capsan Dunskome, of the schooner meteor, a friend of my parents. He had that day arrived from Bermuda and was visiting us. That evening I begged my mother to let me go back with him to his ship. At last she yielded. In Bermuda there was a friend of my mother's, an old retired sea captain, George Hill. He had proved himself a friend to my brothers, so rather than have me leave her later on to go with strangers, she consented to my sailing on the meteor to Bermuda, where she hoped through the influence of Captain Hill I might be induced to continue my schooling. Captain Dunskome made several visits to us during his stay in Port, and during that time I afterward learned my mother asked him to make the voyage as disagreeable for me as he possibly could without doing me any bodily harm. She thought that by the time I reached Bermuda I would have had enough of a sailor's life. A negro carpenter was called in to make me a sailor's closed chest. I would not have a common trunk. I wanted one similar to those I had seen on ships I had visited. It must have a tail or shelf in it for needles and thread. No other would satisfy me. For two days I watched that negro playing the boards. I saw that every nail was driven insecurely and the hinges and lock put on. Then this good old negro lifted it on his head, saying to me, Come along, Massa Harry. The chest am finished. We'll take it to Massa Jean, meaning my father. It was a great day for me. As I walked by his side I boastfully told my play-fellows, both black and white, as they looked at my chest on the negro's head, that it was mine and that I was going to be a sailor. New clothes were made for me. Knee-breaches were discarded. My trunk was packed, placed on a cart and conveyed to town to be sent on board the meteor. The day of my departure at last arrived. It was in March 1880. I was not thirteen years old. I must confess that today, when I think of my mother and my early associations at home, the tears will gather in my eyes. When the carriage drove up to the door and the time came to say goodbye, my mother's grief was so great that she was thrown into hysteria. I cried and wept bitterly. Not that I was leaving her, but because she was crying. For as a child I had always cried if she manifested any signs of grief. Several minutes passed before she could regain her self-control, and throwing her arms around me, bathing my face with her tears, we parted. She, to return to her daily routine of life, waiting to hear from the absent one. I, followed by a train of colored men, women and children, some falling on my neck and kissing me, the rest shaking my hands and shouting, God bless you, Massahari. When on my way to begin my duties as boy, on board the schooner meteor, sailing to Bermuda. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 My First Gale As I drew near the wharf on the morning of my departure, I was surrounded by colored boatmen, some shouting, Here's the great admiral. Take my boat, Sah. She is young America. Disway, Sah, for de-undaunted, for the Barbadian boatmen, in doing their best to make a living, keep the waterfront in a state of constant uproar. It is their habit to tie their boats at the government landing, and as soon as a white man makes his appearance on the wharf, they gather round him like bees around a hive, shouting at the top of their voices, Want a boat, Sah? He is the Nancy Lee. There's the morning star, each man having some such name for his boat. They will pull at his coat and tire and provoke him with their vociferous yells. If he is not strong and determined in pushing them away, they will carry him bodily to a boat. I was saved from such a fate, for at this time Captain Dunskome made his appearance, and taking me under his care, he ordered his boatmen to haul up to the landing steps. We shoved off, and were rowed by two black Barbadians to the meteor. As the Captain gained the deck, he gave word to the mate to man the windlass and heave short. While the sailors were heaving on the windlass brakes, getting in the slack chain, I was rummaging every part of the deck. On both sides of our vessel were a lot of small boats, some of them mere dugouts, filled with naked Negro boys. They were manifesting their accomplishments in diving. Occasionally the sailors would toss a copper over the side. As soon as it reached the water, the boys would jump from their boats and find the copper. At times the money would be thrown some distance from the ship, where it would seem almost impossible for it to be found. Yet the naked boys would swim to the spot where the money had sunk, and diving, remaining under water, going, yes, four and five fathoms down, would bring the copper to the surface. With a broad grin showing their snow-white teeth they would yell, Heave another, and I'll dive, sir. Knowing the Captain was below, I ventured into his cabin. It was a small space, where, unprotected from the sight of anyone, were two bunks, one over the other, against the sides of the ship. In the forward bulkhead was a door leading into a very small room which was the Captain's. Fastened to the after bulkhead of the cabin was a table large enough to seat two persons. I was told by the Captain that there was no bunk for me. The two bunks in the cabin were used by the mate and steward, and as there was only one bunk in his room I would have to sleep in the sail locker on a spare main sail which was stowed there. It made no difference to me. I was bent on being a sailor and was willing to put up with anything. The odor and steam emanating from the cargo of molasses began to take effect on my head. Feeling weak and dizzy, I made for the companion way and hastened none too quickly on deck. The mate came aft and shouted to the Captain, she's hove short, sir. To which he responded as he came on deck, set the main sail and foresail. The sail set a few more heaves on the windlass breaks, and the meteor was sailing past the vessels at anchor in the bay. It being about an hour before sunset I was afforded daylight enough to watch every detail of work necessary in getting a vessel under way. I watched with keen interest the setting of the sails and the catting and fishing of the anchor. It was almost six o'clock when supper was served. I wanted no supper, and I knew I should be sick if I went below in that stuffy hole, so I remained on deck. The Captain and mate were the only white men on board. The steward, who performed the duties of both Cook and Steward, and the four sailors forward, were black Bermudians. No one seemed interested in me. While the daylight lasted, I continued my inspection of the deck. Close a bath the main hatch was a box about five feet square, lashed securely to four ring bolts in the deck. This was the galley, with sliding doors on both sides of it. In it were a stove and a box for coal. The box, when covered, was used as a seat for the Cook while preparing the meals. Forward, right above the windlass, was a small companion way leading down to the foxtel. I descended as far as the bottom step. What a sight! A three-cornered flat iron-shaped hole with four bunks in it, an oil lamp giving more smoke than light. Three black men, made blacker by the darkness of the place, were seated on a bench eating something from a pan which was at their feet on the floor. There I encountered that same vile odor of bilge water and steam from the molasses. Quickly getting on deck I went aft, and steadying myself on the top of the cabin watched the fading shores of my native land. Fully two hours I sat there and thought of my loving mother, my home, and the associations I had left. Then sauntered below to the sail-locker, where I cuddled up and fell fast asleep. It must have been about four o'clock the next morning when I awoke. I cannot find words to describe my feelings. There was a strong northeast trade wind blowing which created a fair-sized swell. The schooner bobbed up and down. So did I. How wretchedly uncomfortable I felt. All the misery of seasickness was upon me. You who have experienced seasickness will agree with me when I say, At such a time there is but little choice between life and death. I managed to get on deck. I heaved as though my heart would leave me. Then stretching myself on the deck by the lee side of the wheel longed to be home again. Could I have put my feet on shore at that time? It would have taken more than a Spanish windlass to get me to see again. When a person is seasick, his one desire is to lie down and go to sleep. This may do well enough for a short passage on a passenger steamer, but to be cured of seasickness one must keep moving about in misery until he masters it. Cold, weak, dizzy, and miserable, I remained in that semi-conscious state until seven bells, half past seven, at which time the captain came on deck. Seeing me coil down on the wet deck, he took hold of my coat collar and lifting me on my feet exclaimed in a gruff, sarcastic voice. You want to be a sailor, don't you? Oh, Captain, I am going to die. How, you moth, which is a Bermudian way of saying, close your mouth. I do not wish to tire my readers by relating the many ways this well-meaning friend kept me moving about. He tried to teach me to steer by the compass and did everything possible to keep me on my feet. Soon after eight bells, at noon, a trade wind squall struck our little vessel. There was a heavy gust of wind and a downpour of rain for about twenty minutes. The gaff top sail was hauled down and clued up. The captain shouted to me, Get up, Thar, and put a turn round that sail. It was a foreign language to me. I was making ready to coil myself on deck again. Lifting me clear of the rail, he stood me in the rigging, shouting, Get, get, get, I'll make a sailor of ye. I felt sure I should fall. As I write, the horror of that moment is present with me. Holding tightly to the shrouds, step after step over those tarry rat lines, I at last reached the main cross trees. Yet when holding on to the top mast rigging, my feet firmly planted on the outriggers, the gaff top sail slapping and banging around my head, I actually enjoyed the sight beneath and around me. Below me the schooner, keeled well over by the force of the squall, was cutting her way through the Caribbean sea. It was the first time I had been out of sight of land. The vast expanse of water and the grandeur of the immense blue circle, joined to the drooping blue canopy above, made our small craft seem an insignificant object. The squall was over, the gaff top sail set again, and in the course of an hour, I reached the deck wet through to the skin. Going below to the cabin, I devoured the remnants of the dinner table. My sea sickness was leaving me. I retained the food. I became accustomed to the pitching of the ship, and by night I was, with the exception of a bad headache, a seasoned sailor. This good friend of my mother's, in trying to carry out her wishes and make me sick of the sea, made me master of it. Had he allowed me to sleep and lie around the decks, I would have continued in that miserable state, and most likely would have given up all desire of being a sailor. There have been times during the first day at sea, after a long stay in port in days of dissipation on shore, that I have felt a nauseating sensation, but I have always been able to get about and do my work. Of all the men that I have been shipmates with during my six years in the Merchant Marine Service, there is only one man whose name I can remember. I remember them only by their given names or the nicknames by which they were called. Also of my shipmates for six years in the United States Navy, I can call to mind but a very few names. The names of the officers are fresh in my mind, as I was compelled to address them by their surnames, affixing the mister. So in writing of my shipmates, I can only name them as I did in days gone by, the common, familiar Jack, Bill, and Tom. My duties on board the meteor were very easy. No longer seasick, I assisted the cook in washing the dishes, keeping the cabin clean, and also took an occasional spell at the wheel to be perfect in my steering. All day on and all night in. At the close of the fourteenth day out, we were close to Bermuda. It began to darken in the northwest and at eight bells that evening, our schooner was hoved to under a close reef main cell and four stacel. About ten o'clock, the man on the lookout shouted, Light, oh! Sure enough, under our leak quarter was the revolving light of Gibbs Hill Lighthouse. This was my first gale. I did not know much about the hardships of the crew that night. Snugly coiled down in my cubby-hole, I could hear the voices of the men as they would wear ship, trying to keep off that dangerous coast of rocks and shoals. At two o'clock in the middle watch I heard the order given to wear ship. I could feel her rise to an even keel, and as though she had received some awful blow, stagger and tremble like a drunken man. In coming round she had poop to see. I thought we were sinking. The water came pouring down through the small opening in the sail-locker. I made a rush for the deck to find a stillness of death which lasted but a moment. A small house over the rudder-head, which was used as a boson's locker, was torn from its lashings. Jammed in the companion-way of the cabin and trying to climb over it to get out of the flooded cabin was the old-colored cook. It took but a few moments for the captain, who was a splendid sailor, to regain control of his ship. He got hold of me and pushed me down into the cabin, daring me to move from there. I climbed into the mate's bunk, clear of the wash of water, and listened to the tramping of the men overhead, getting the ship secured again. I had all faith in the captain, and a strong feeling that with him on deck all would be well with us. It must have been about an hour when the cook returned from the deck, where he had been lending a hand to begin the work of drying the cabin. I gained courage when he made his appearance. With buckets, rags, and mops we bailed out what water there was which had not found its way to the cargo. At daylight the coast of Bermuda was clear to our view. A whale boat, manned by six sturdy colored men, rode out to us, and rounding under our lee quarter they put a pilot on board. It is necessary for one to be nearing a dangerous coast on a lee shore to appreciate the sense of relief that comes over the ship when the pilot comes on board. At that time there is an ineffable satisfaction in one's security. The pilot and his boat's crew were acquainted with our crew. They called one another by name and inquired of their friends on shore. That evening shortly after sunset we tied up alongside the wharf in the smooth waters of Hamilton Harbor. Every man on board as soon as he could get ready left the ship. Not knowing my way to Captain Hill's house I made for the pantry. There I got hold of some hard biscuits, which I smothered with butter and sugar, and retired to my bed in the sail locker to eat my fill and pass the night on a water-soaked mainsail. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 on a lee shore In Barbados it is considered degrading for a white man to do manual labor. Occasionally you will find a white man working at a trade or serving on the police force or making a living by catching flying fish, but they are socially ostracized. They must associate with the Negroes who are expected to do all the laborious work on the island. A white man's work is to manage a sugar plantation, to be a clerk in an office or store, or to follow the profession of a minister, doctor, or lawyer. So also with the women, with the exception of a few who serve behind the counters of the largest clothing stores. They live lives of idleness with Negro servants at every beck and call. As a boy I was impressed with the idea that sailors were the only white men who were allowed to labor aboard their ships and were still thought respectable. Perhaps my brothers being sailors created the impression. How be it, the next morning after landing in Bermuda, when I started with a letter in my pocket from my mother to find Captain Hill's house, the strangest thing to me was to see the familiarity that existed between the white and black Bermudians. Colored men meeting white men on the streets would address them by their first names without prefixing the Barbados title of Massa. Along the road I could look over the stone walls and there see the whites and blacks working side by side in the onion and potato fields. To cap it all, after finding Captain Hill and receiving from him the welcome of his big fond heart, I was introduced to the Negro boys in that part of Port Royal Parish as only Harry King. I soon became acquainted with them and for five weeks I worked cheerfully with them weeding onions in Captain Hill's gardens. One morning when not yet six weeks in Bermuda I went with Captain Hill to the town of Hamilton. Before we started for home I had visited the Bermudian Brigantine Excelsior and had made arrangements with Captain Mayer, her master, to sail with him to New York as cabin boy. When I told Captain Hill of my intended trip I could see that it distressed this good old friend to have me leave him but his knowing the captain of the Excelsior helped to make him yield though he did so reluctantly. The following day I was on the sea again bound to New York City. There is not much to relate in a passage of this kind. It was spring and the weather was fine with the exception of a stiff blow in the Gulf Stream for 24 hours. We reached New York on the seventh day out from Bermuda when a towboat brought us safely to Pier 24 North River. Then it fully dawned upon me what activity meant in this world and that it was on a roll for a white man to work for his living. We remained eight days in New York and in that short time I was afforded the opportunity of visiting a sister in Brooklyn and of seeing a few of the sights of a large city. It was the first time I had seen a steam locomotive so that I could have the satisfaction of saying I had ridden on the railroad I walked to the battery and ascending to the platform station of the elevated road I traveled as far as my five cents would carry me. I supposed I must have been to Harlem. Anyhow the conductor told me this was the end of the line and passing out of the station I turned and paying another five cents rode back to the battery. We sailed away for Bermuda and in two months time we made two more such voyages to New York with onions and potatoes on each return trip taking back to Bermuda a cargo of bread stuff. At the end of the third voyage from New York the Excelsior was hauled into the middle of Hamilton Harbor and there moored till the following year. I remained at Captain Hill's house for eight months not only welcomed by him and his good wife but treated as though I were their own son. I had no desire to go to school so I passed the time working in the field running errands and trying to make myself of some service to my dear kind friends. Bermuda is rightly termed the refuge. Many vessels leaking or dismasted or in distress of some kind have found a refuge in the harbors of this cluster of numerous small islands in mid-atlantic. In the harbor of Hamilton as well as St. George there are old hawks along the shore washed by every tide and wave. These hawks were once fine sailing ships but in old age no longer able to battle with storm and gale they are shoved heartlessly aside. There is no picture more sad to me than to see what was once a thing of life mastering the storms and gales of ocean and sea reduced to a skeleton forsaken by friends its body left in some out-of-the-way place to be mercilessly and slowly torn to pieces by the waves on a foreign shore. On my way to Hamilton one morning in the following March I was surprised to see that the Excelsior had been moved from her mooring in the stream and was lying alongside of the wharf. Knowing it was too early for the onion season I hastened on board. Finding Captain Mayer there I inquired the reason of this change. He told me that his brigade been chartered to take grain from a Russian ship at anchor in a place called Murray's Anchorage on the coast of Bermuda. This Russian ship bound from New York to some port in France with grain had sprung a leak and had put in for repairs. Being so large a ship the greater part of her cargo must be lightened before she could cross the harbor bar of St. George. He wanted a cook and four sailors. I had been his cabin boy for three trips to New York and with a feeling of confidence in my knowledge of cooking I asked him to take me as cook. I can see the broad grin on his face and hear his merry laugh as he chokingly said, You be blowed. You couldn't keep water from burning. After coaxingly remonstrating with him he half-jokingly said, Yes, I'll take you to help the cook. I ventured to say, What's my pay, Captain? Pay, is it? We'll talk that over when I see what you can do. Of all the open roadsteads in which I have dropped anchor during my twelve years at sea I have never found any to equal Murray's anchorage for exposure and danger. There is a verse known to sailors. If Bermuda let you pass, then look out for Cape Hatteras. On a clear, calm morning in the month of March a towboat came alongside, took the end of our hauser, and that afternoon we were made fast alongside the Russian monster. All the gear had been made ready for hoisting the grain from one ship to the other, and the working of unloading and loading began. At sunset, when work was stopped for the day, we had taken four hundred bags of grain aboard. It was a calm, peaceful evening. The crews of both ships had turned into their bunks for the night, save one man on each ship who was keeping the anchor watch. It was close to midnight when I felt our brig moving and her tossing and pitching awakened me. I heard the deafening noise and uproar of timbers crashing. Hastily getting on deck, I found our ship grinding herself against the side of the Russian, and every man doing his best to save both vessels from drifting upon the rocks. A heavy gale had sprung up, a hateful norwester from Hatteras. With it had come a sea from the open Atlantic, which seemed to take the light in crushing the ships together. The Russian let go his second anchor, paid out all his chain, then cast our lines adrift. We quickly began to drop a stern, but in so doing we smashed a part of our bulwarks and carried with us as we scraped and thumped along his side the bumpkin for his port main brace and the boat hanging at his after-davids. It was well the yards of both vessels were braced in opposite directions. Had they been otherwise, so that we could have entangled each other's rigging, there is no telling what the result might have been. We kept going a stern for about three hundred yards when both our anchors were let go and all the chain in the lockers paid out. As the sternway was checked by the strain of the mooring chains, our break began to show her outies. Up and down she bobbed and curtsied. Her bow was buried in the sea at one moment, and in another was lifted high as though she were resting on her stern. The old-fashioned windlass began to show signs of weakness, as though it was being torn from the deck by the incessant jerking of the anchor chains. A new coil of rope was hauled up from the lazarette, and with blocks from the boson's locker we rove off two long tackles, wrapping strong straps on each anchor chain forward of the windlass, just inside the hose-pipes, under the small tegallant forkshole, we hooked on the falls, overhauling them till the after-blocks could reach the straps placed around the lower part of the main mast. As she buried her nose we got a strain on the tackles which relieved the windlass from the severe jerking of the chains. I was as busy as anyone in this work on deck, though a mere lad, not fourteen, I could hold a turn past this and the other thing and help in many ways. We were on deck the rest of the night, clearing up the wreck, and expecting every moment to see the chain tackles eased by the parting of the cables, and our ship dashed to pieces on the rocks of the shore. Fortunately we had some grain in our vessel, or surely she would have rolled over that night. At daylight, after a night of dreadful anxiety and suspense, we made fast the English ensign under the jib-boom, tying a piece of iron at the lower part to keep it hanging up and down, so that the man in the signal station on shore could see that we were calling for a tug to come to our assistance. It was blowing too hard, and too heavy a sea was running, however, for a tug to dare to come out, so that day and all the next night we had to endure the strain until the gale moderated. The following afternoon the wind shifted to the east and died out to a peaceful calm. We worked hard, and got our vessel straightened out again, hove in one of our anchors, and passed a quiet night. Next morning a rope was passed to the stern of the Russian, our anchor weighed, and we hauled alongside the full rigour, and loaded our brig to the hatches with bags of grain. The towboat got hold of us and safely docked us at the wharf in the harbor of St. George. Here the cook, through some trouble at home, had to leave the ship, and I was made cook for the rest of the time. We made four trips to the Russian, removing cargo enough to enable her to cross the bar in safety. We were then towed back to Hamilton, and made ready for taking on a cargo of onions for New York. If ever a boy felt rich in this world's goods, it was I, when Captain Mayer gave me four English sovereigns, all my own, for services during the time we were unloading the grain from the Russian ship. Better still, I felt as though I was of some importance when he told me I did very well. We made a trip to New York and back again, and then loaded onions for a second trip. In saying goodbye to Captain Hill this time, I told him that I should leave the Excelsior in New York this trip, and find something to do there, as she was expected to lay up in Hamilton for another year on her return. I shall always remember the farewell words of this uncommon friend as he shook my hand. He said, Boy, I like you. Come back whenever you want to. My home is yours. He made an impression on me that has been ever helpful in making me kindly toward young men who are friendless. We arrived in due time at New York. I had six English sovereigns, which I changed for American money, and saying goodbye to Captain Mayer, his mate Mr. Harvey White, the colored cook and colored sailors of the Excelsior, I started with my closed chest on an express wagon and made my way to my sisters in Brooklyn. The very next day, in my wanderings around the outskirts of this beautiful city, I called at the office on the grounds of the unexcelled fireworks factory, and asked the owner to give me work. Seeming satisfied with the answers I gave to his questions, he engaged me to charge Roman candles for three dollars and fifty cents a week, which was fair pay for a green boy. It being some two miles from where my sister lived, I made an agreement with the proprietress of a German boarding house to lodge and feed me and wash my clothes for three dollars and twenty-five cents a week. Living at home with his parents, a boy earning three dollars and a half a week can with his parents' help make his way. For five months I worked merely for my board. Nearly all of my earnings were used for living expenses. I had even at this early stage of my life acquired the tobacco habit. So with an occasional smoke, a new overcoat, and other necessary clothes, my ex-checker reached a low ebb. One evening after the factory was closed, I became involved in an argument with a boy of my own age and size. We came to blows, which ended for me with a pair of bloodshot eyes. This was my first real fight. Brought up tenderly by a loving mother and unfamiliar with the science of boxing, I did indeed get the worst of it. I hung my head with shame as I walked away from the crowd that had gathered, not because I had fought, but because I had been so easily whipped. I would have given anything to remain in my boarding-house until my face had lost its marks of the strife. But knowing no money, no E.T., as the Coolies would say, I made my way to the factory next morning. Without asking me any questions, the owner of the factory discharged me as soon as he saw the condition of my face. With half a week's wages in my pocket, I felt alone in this world as I stood outside the factory gate. What should I do? Oh, the refuge of a mother. I could plainly see her face before me. I decided to go home to her. Making my way to the East River wharves of New York City, where Trollbridge's West Indian sailing vessels were moored, I found a bark called the Atlantic, loading for Barbados. I reached her deck and begged the captain for a place as cabin boy. My hopes were blighted when he said, I don't carry a cabin boy. The cook does all the work himself. I begged to be shipped on deck as a deck-boy, and was told that he carried six sailors and no boy. I was too small to ship as able seaman. My disappointment was so great that I could no longer keep from crying. I had surely thought I could sail home to my mother on this ship. Captain Landfair, whose name I afterward learned, was a kind-hearted fatherly man, and seeing my grief question me as to my birthplace and parentage. I think I see him before me as standing erect. He took my face in his two sunburned hands, and with a smile that filled my whole soul with joy, told me he knew of my father and that I could go home with him. The Atlantic was to sail that evening. I hastened back to my German boarding house, settled with my boarding mistress, and engaged a junk dealer to take my closed chest to the ship for one dollar. It was about three o'clock that afternoon when I arrived at the ship. My clothes were put into the cabin. I settled with the junkman for conveying my chest on board, and then discovered I was yet the possessor of six scents, a nickel and one copper cent. Boy-like, I walked up the dock to the waterfront to invest my wealth at a peanut stand on South Street. I must have been gone an hour when, on reaching the wharf again, I found to my sorrow the Atlantic was gone. Standing on the edge of the pier, I could see her following in the wake of the towboat, being towed out to sea. There have been other times when I have felt the horror of loneliness in this world, but being older it was more easy to endure. What was I to do? Without clothes, without a scent in my possession, I felt the misery of being nobody in the world. The thought came to me to steal my way across the ferry and ask help of my sister in Brooklyn. But no! At that time, and in other times in my life, I have suffered severe privations rather than ask alms of a relative. My mother, when she was alive, was the sole refuge where I felt I was sincerely welcomed. I knew her love made what was hers mine. How much suffering I might have avoided if only I had trusted in the love of relatives and friends. It was in the fall of the year. My overcoat was gone with the rest of my clothes. Cold and hungry, I remained on the pier till long after dark, and it was entirely destitute of human life. I then made my way up the dock into the city whose very lights seemed to frighten me. Walking along Cherry Street, I heard the sound of music coming from the open door of a liquor saloon. I ventured to walk in. There was a bar where men and women were drinking. At the farther end of the room was a slightly raised platform on which four men were seated playing on some musical instruments. The only space in front of the bar between it and the musicians was crowded with noisy men and women dancing. This vile wretched den, filled with tobacco smoke and drunken men and women, was part of a sailor's boarding house. I must have been standing there some fifteen minutes when a fat, slovenly middle-aged woman approached me and, pointing to the door, said, Get the hay out of this. I could not move. Fear or something else held me as though I was glued to the floor. With a blow from her fist I was knocked to the ground. I kept quiet. Fearing if I moved, worse things would happen to me. Seeing my outstretched form on the floor, she, either suffering with remorse or thinking I was seriously hurt, told two men whom I afterward learned by experience were her bullies to carry me to the back room. I was taken to her sitting room in another part of the house where I was placed on an old worn sofa. Gradually I made believe I was regaining consciousness, and as soon as she thought I was in my right mind, in sentences of the coarsest blasphemy she questioned me as to my right on earth. After telling her all my trouble I merely said I was hungry. On a table close by she placed a dish of cold potatoes and a glass of lager beer, saying, Get on the outside of that, you debract. The beer, which was my first glass, and the potatoes quickly disappeared, and an agreement was made with her that I should stay in her house and work for my board till she could get me a ship. While staying within that incarnate devil's home, I existed more on kicks and cuffs than on anything else. 4. A Stowaway Strange as it may seem, sailors who have been plundered by these land sharks, on leaving their ship's will, childlike, forget the past and allow themselves to return to these vile resorts. The encouraging fact is that there are now in all large seaports clean, honest boarding houses for sailors, and that the large majority of seamen patronize them. Only a small minority of the men of the sea throw away their earnings in these dens of other days. Of late years, through the untiring efforts of philanthropic people, much good has been accomplished in eliminating from our large seaports some of the dives displaying signs as sailors' home and sailors' boarding houses. Still, even at the close of this 19th century, there are left a few of these places whose whole aim is to rob and plunder seamen. Here they are overcharged for everything and kept plentifully supplied with the worst kind of liquor as long as their money lasts. The sailors' resort, where I had bargained with the mistress to work for my board, was one of many so-called sailors' homes. After my meal of cold potatoes and beer had been finished, the boss, the title by which the boarding mistress was known, informed me what my duties were to be. I was to be up at five in the morning, shake down the fires in the bar room, the sailor's lounge room, and the kitchen, fill the stoves with coal from the pin in the yard, and sift the ashes. My immediate discharge was assured if she found any good coal among the ashes. Then, if the bartender had not come down, I was to scrub the floor of the lounge room and clean the spittoons. After giving me this list of duties, she called the lad about 16 years old and told him to show me the small bed in the big room upstairs. The sailors in this house were bullied by two men. I was bullied by everybody, including this same boy. He, being a true son of this uncouth mortal and knowing how readily his mother would believe what news he brought her, took every opportunity during my stay in that house to rob the seamen when they were drunk and then accuse me of the theft. There were a few small rooms upstairs with single beds where the homeward bound sailors slept as long as their money lasted. When that was gone, they were allowed to sleep in the large room, two men in a bed large enough for one person only. This was in hopes of an advance note paying their bills. There were seven beds in this room, not including the canvas cot which the boy said was my DOS. Being tired, I slept soundly and heard nothing until I felt the blows coming from the fists of my boarding mistress which quickly roused me to my feet. Curses and oaths were showered upon me. To keep warm, I had slept in my clothes and shoes, so jumping from the bed I made for the stairs, followed by this infuriated creature. She was too stout to descend quickly, so before she reached the ground floor I was filling the empty hod at the coal pin. By this time her temper was somewhat cooled and I was again instructed as to my duties and allowed to remain. For two weeks I cleaned and scrubbed and was compelled to do the dirtiest kind of work, laboring from early morning till late at night. Then I waited until the music in the saloon had ceased and the brawling dancers had retired to their haunts for the night. Although the saloon was separated from the main part of the house and seemed part of an adjoining building, yet through the door to the sailor's lounge room, oaths, curses, and the noise of occasional fights could plainly be heard. In fear and trembling I would remain crouched in some dark corner until all was quiet and the doors were closed for the night. Then I would go up to my cot which was covered with one well-worn quilt and stretch myself under it until all the drunks had come up to roost. When all were fast asleep and it was quiet downstairs, I would creep softly to the sailor's lounge room and on a wooden setee by the stove remain half awake that I might have some work done when the fiend should come below. I will credit this woman with giving me enough food to eat, such as it was, but in return I more than compensated her by the work I did. I had only my one suit of clothes which was receiving hard usage and becoming more soiled and filthy each day. I had heard the sailors talking about Thanksgiving day and the men were looking forward to it with pleasure. The morning of the eventful day dawned. My usual work had been done and I had taken my seat to begin my breakfast. A tooting of horns, screeching yells of children on the street and the clattering noise of horses feet. Mingled with the rumbling of carriage wheels made me leave everything in bolt for the street. It was a carnival. Some said they were greenbacks, a puzzle which has not been solved in my mind to this day. I saw a long line of carriages filled with people dressed in some heathenish manner, shouting, blowing horns, and followed by the street urchins of lower New York, their number augmented at every turn of the carriage wheels. Without a thought or care I ran with the crowd shouting as loudly as any boy amongst them. Occasionally the procession stopped for a moment and then off we went again. We had reached the battery before my mind drifted back to the boarding house. Then with a foreboding that a volley of oats was in store for me I made my way back. A sailor, a swede who had been in the house about two weeks, rushed at me as soon as he saw me enter. But for the ready help of a kind Irish woman who did the cooking in the house, my poor body would have suffered severely from the savage blows aimed at me. Throwing herself between me and the swede, she made him understand that she intended to fight my battles. I had worked hard beside this queen of the kitchen and had gained her good will. And indeed I felt grateful for the ready aid she rendered in saving me from the half-crazed creature. Jabbering away in his broken English I learned that, having missed his watch from his room, he had offered a reward of five dollars to any inmate of the house who would tell him where it was. Tom, the boarding mistress's son, said I had stolen it and put it between the folds of the quilt on my cot, where indeed it had been found. Of course I believed Tom the thief and loudly gave my opinion to that effect. No sooner said than the boarding mistress rushed at me, poker in hand, shouting as she applied it to my back. You call my son a thief. You do, do you? Get a hay out of this house. Running to save my life, I reached the street and kept going toward the waterfront, till I felt I was far from the clutches of the evil one. Not very long ago I visited New York City and walked along Cherry Street to see if, per chance, I might find this boarding house. I could not locate it. The old haunts of that part of lower New York seemed entirely changed and strange to me. The building which appeared most likely to be the house is now an ordinary tenement with a small grocer's shop on the street floor. For eight days I tramped the streets of New York, homeless and without a friend in the city, all the misery of those few days. Sleeping in doorways, picking ash barrels, feeding undecayed fruit and the refuse floating between the wharves, suffering hunger and a benumbed body, my clothes filthy and my shoes almost worn to the uppers, I existed as a homeless street dog. On the third evening after leaving the boarding house, somewhere in the vicinity of Catherine Street, I noticed several sailors going in and coming out of a building. Each time the door opened I could see that it was not a bar room. Neither had it the appearance of a boarding house. What could it be? Should I be allowed in there? Lately, while relating this bitter experience of my boyhood to a Christian woman, she remarked, Why didn't you go to the YMCA or the Siemens Institute? Why? Because I knew nothing of such places. Born and brought up where the church, in which people gathered once or twice a week to worship God, was the only benevolent institution, how was I to know that there were places and kind people to befriend the homeless and needy? And with whom had I associated, accepting Captain Hill, to learn that there were good people in this world who gave of what they had to help others? Personal benevolence was something unknown to me. I meekly walked in with others who were entering, and took a seat at a table on which a few papers and books were placed. I did not want to read. I cared more to look around, trying to form in my mind some idea of the object of this room. Texts of Scripture were hung on the walls, and near where I sat was another table at which men were writing letters. Up to the time of my discharge from the fireworks factory, I had written home to my mother, hearing from her at least once a month. Seated in this room, watching the men writing their letters, my thoughts flew back to my mother, and a desire came over me to write and let her know that I was still alive. But I supposed the writing material was their own, and as I had none, and besides was too timid to speak lest I be noticed, and driven from the warmth of the place, I kept quite still and watched the faces about me as the men entered and left. I must have been seated some fifteen minutes, expecting at any time to be sent out as an intruder when a kind-faced woman walked into the room. Coming up to where I was seated, she bade me good evening. After saying a few words to all at the table about the fine weather, she turned to me, and placing her hand on my shoulder said, My little boy, are you a Christian? I had been brought up to believe in God, and knew the church catechism and Ten Commandments. Every morning at home, I said my prayers with my brothers and sisters at the foot of my mother's bed. I had heard that in foreign lands there were savages who knew nothing of God, and were classed as heathen, but took it for granted that all people living in civilized lands were Christians. Therefore the first thought that entered my mind was that she knew all about my trouble at the boarding house, and wondered if I came from some savage land. So instead of answering her question, I began to say, Tom was the thief, and to apologize for being in so filthy a condition. As I started to leave the hall, this good soul took my hand and told me to follow her. We crossed the hall and opened a door leading into some dark space. The door was closed, and for about ten seconds all sorts of wild ideas floated through my mind. The treatment I had received from people on the streets made me suspicious of everybody, and I mistrusted this well-meaning woman. Turning to me as soon as the room was lighted, she said, Do you love Jesus? I meekly answered, I do. I do not mean to convey the impression that I had any special love in my heart for him just at that time. I had been taught something of the life of Christ in the Sunday school at home. It had never occurred to me that he could have anything to do with my present troubles, so I answered regarding him as if she had said, Do you love the Queen of England? I do. She then asked me to kneel in prayer with her. Anyone entering the room would have found her kneeling beside a cane-bottom chair, pouring out her soul to God for my redemption, and I, a trembling bit of humanity, kneeling at the opposite side of the chair, longing for an opportunity to get out of the place. The whole scene appeared to me as though I were known, and believing the story of the boarding house theft, in this way she would try to make me a better boy. I have often wondered what this kind missionary thought of me. The door of her closet was opened, and quickly crossing the hall, I opened the street door to continue my tramping until I could find some shelter in a doorway for the night. Many times I was shaken by a policeman and told to go home, and without a murmur I would start on to find another doorway or alley. My misery came to an end on a Friday evening, the eighth day away from the boarding house. With no object in view, I was walking along the streets of Lower New York, when I noticed small flakes of something white falling from the sky. I knew that this was snow, though I had never seen any before. I had read of snow storms in northern countries, and had seen a picture of a winter scene which had given me a vague idea of snow. So for the first hour I romped and played with the falling flakes, so glad was I that I had seen it. I forgot my misery. My fun was checked by the familiar sounds of an organ nearby, and listening I heard the voices of people singing. Yes, within a stone-strow of where I was standing I could see a church tower. I drew near the door the music was a strain I knew. I looked through the narrow space between the doors and saw the minister in his white surplus kneeling in his stall and heard his voice reading the prayers, the same that were read in the parish church at home. The whole appearance was familiar to me, and with a feeling of security I entered and slipped into a seat of a vacant pew near the back of the church. In that same pew separated from me by a wooden partition was an elderly lady, God bless her. I was so much occupied with comparing the seats and other things in this church with the parish churches in Barbados and Bermuda that I remember paying no attention to the sermon. But the rising of the people as the minister turned and said, and now to God the Father brought me to my feet with the rest. The closing hymn was announced, and as the first verse was being sung, this sweet angel of heaven moved toward the partition and smiling held out her book inviting me to share it with her. If I could pen my feelings that night, if I could tell the satisfaction and comfort it gave me to be in that house of prayer, gladly would I do it. My loving mother's face came before me, home associations were near, it seemed as though I stood once more by my mother's side in St. James Parish Church. I looked at the white delicate hand so near mine, so clean, so refined, so different from those I had seen for the past three weeks. I breathed once more the holy atmosphere of my child life. Before the close of the hymn I was sobbing as though my heart would break. With a feeling of shame to be seen crying, I started for the door there to be met by this Christian saint. Without asking me a question, she gave me her hand and in that blessed handshake took the opportunity of pressing a silver half-dollar into my palm. I do not remember thanking her. As I carry my mind back to that evening, I can see her watching me from the church door as I reach the street. Possessing a silver half-dollar, a new strength entered my being. Making my way through the falling snow, I reached a cheap lodging house. I entered and purchased a bed for ten cents, carefully tucking away the remaining forty cents in my well-worn trousers. No words of mine can describe the wretchedness of that lodging house. In the room where I lay were about twenty beds filled with men, whose clothes, like mine, were teeming with vermin and dirt. A place a trifle more comfortable than the gutter in the street. Still for that night I was out of the snow, away from the kicks and cuffs of the street boys, and sheltered under a roof. I resolved that I would, on the following day, make one more effort to find a ship sailing for Barbados. Every day, during the eight days I had walked the streets, I had visited not only ships sailing to the West Indies, but English and German East Indian men, ocean steamers, canal boats, tugs, and vessels of every description offering my services for my board. One captain would have taken me, as he wanted a cabin boy, but turning away said to the steward, He's too dirty looking, and to me you won't do. Sometimes I was of service to some of the cooks, helping them clean their galley pans and thereby earned a morsel of food. All the captains whom I asked to give me a birth on board gave me, instead, the discouraging answers, I don't want you, or you're too small. On reaching the street next morning, plowing my way through the snow, I entered a small eating-house, where I paid ten cents for a cup of coffee and a piece of custard pie. Then I wended my way once more to the wharves where Troll Bridges' West Indian ships were moored. At the wharf was a brigantine, on board of which the steam-doors were driving in single file a pack of mules. The animals were huddled together on the wharf near the side of the ship. Bales of hay and other things left on the wharf were covered with snow, and the ships rigging and the furl of the sails looked as though they had been painted white. As I stood gazing at these things and wondering how they could ever get the ship clear again, I noticed her name on the bow, though too much covered with snow to read at that distance. Drawing near, I saw in yellow letters the name Victoria. The sailors arrived, driven to the wharf in a wagon with their bags and chests. I saw them go on board, carry their things to the folksal, and watching them shaking hands and saying good-bye to a man called Mr. White. Though some made more familiar by drink addressed him as Dago White. Determined to find out something about the Victoria, I inquired of Mr. White where she was bound. He very kindly replied, Port of Spain, Trinidad. He was the first man I had met for three weeks who would answer my many inquiries without telling me I wanted to know too much and that I shouldn't ask so many questions. Finding him willing to talk, I got the cheering news that the Victoria was bound to Port of Spain to discharge her deckload of mules and thence to Barbados to discharge her cargo. I watched my chance while everyone seemed busy casting the lines adrift from the wharf, and the captain was talking with the captain of the towboat alongside his ship. I jumped on the rail of the vessel between the shrouds of the fore-rigging and made my way over the mule-pin down into the folksal. Once in, I saw in a top bunk a large sailor's clothes-bag. Springing up into the bunk, I lay down between the bag and the bulkhead of the folksal. My heart thumping and beating, I remained there for fully three hours. The galley was a small space, a part of this forward house divided off for such use. I could hear the cook coming and going, only the partition separating him from me. At times I thought he was in the folksal, so distinct were the sounds of his rustling and moving of pots and pans. I felt the motion of the brig as the towboat hauled to a stern, the noise of the men on deck clearing up and getting things secured, the setting of the top sails, and at last the welcome he-hawing of the men, as hand over hand they got in the tow-line. Then the soft rolling of the ship, speeding on before a fair northerly wind, told me I was at sea again. At noon the men came below to dinner. The sailor's pot-pan and spoon were in his bag. He moved it and jumped back when he saw a form and heard me scream. Word was taken to the captain that a stowaway was forward. The mate's voice shouting down, Send that fellow on deck. Brought me once more up into the free open air of heaven. I could see the highlands of the Jersey coast. Vessels of all kinds were going into New York and coming out. I was in a state of both happiness and fear as I walked after with the mate. Happy because I left behind me recollections of misery, fearful because of the reception that awaited me aft. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 OF DOG WATCHES AT SEA This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. DOG WATCHES AT SEA BY STANTON AGE KING Chapter 5 An Easy Packet Captain Spencer of the Brigantine Victoria was the sort of man with whom the children of the street would delight to romp and play and make their friend. Walking aft over the bales of hay which covered the top of the mule-pins, I was ushered into his presence by the mate, saying, Here he is, sir. And the kind manner in which he asked, What brought you here, my lad? Dispelled all fear of cuffs and oaths, which I had expected to be my reception. I felt the freedom in his presence and readily told him I was a native of Barbados and wanting to go home, I had stowed away in the folk-soul when the ship was leaving the wharf. I might have kept on talking and relating my troubles to him, so full of tenderness was his face, but seeing the cook walking forward from the cabin to the galley, he hailed him and said, Take this lad along with you and give him some dinner. And going down the steps of the after-companion way, he descended to his own meal. I was very hungry. The bit of custard pie was all I had eaten that day. The colored cook was both cook and steward, and being in a hurry to get aft again, where he could be on hand if wanted at the cabin table, hastily passed up to me while I was standing on the mule-pin, a black sauce-pin half filled with mutton stew, a fair-sized chunk of bread, and a large iron spoon which was used for cooking purposes, and told me to sail in. It was then the first week in December. The snow which had fallen the night before lay in undisturbed heaps upon the bales of hay, a keen piercing northerly wind was penetrating my thread-worn garments. The cook had no sooner gone aft than a voice coming up from the folksal door beneath my feet shouted, Come down here out of the cold and eat your grub. Holding my sauce-pan in one hand, the long handle of the spoon extending well over the top of the rim, and the bread in the other hand, I elbow myself down the pieces of wood nailed to the forward end of the mule-pin, safely reached the folksal door and entered. This, like the galley door, opened on the after-bulkhead of the forward house, facing the main hatch. Usually there would have been an unobstructed view to the cabin door, but on looking aft after entering the folksal I could see a line of mules on each side of the ship reaching from the forward house to the cabin-bulkhead. The mule-pins were so close to the folksal that they not only obstructed the light entering the doorway, but gave the forward mule on the port side of the ship an ample opportunity to sniff at the men as they went below. He was a vicious beast, but with many slaps on the face as each time he attempted to bite at us during the trip to Trinidad he lost considerable of his refractory spirit. There was enough daylight for me to dimly see the appearance of the folksal, and the three men who were in it. It was a small square room with four bunks, the light from a small window on the port-bulkhead revealed to me a bench. Seating myself with my back against the warm partition which separated the galley from the folksal, I made away the contents of the saucepan. The sailors were busy unpacking their bags, getting their donkeys breakfasts, straw beds, spread out in their bunks, and making their quarters comfortable. They had finished their dinner and were smoking their pipes, when their attention was drawn to me by the exclamation of the man nearest me. He, seeing the saucepan empty and the last bit of bread disappearing, declared in language of the strongest kind that I had the stomach of a horse. At his vehement outcry all attention was concentrated on me. For the next few moments I was the object of their jokes. They set to, to make me believe, the strangest and most unheard of stories of the captain and the ship, until the voice of the second mate shouting, "'Turn to below there!' put an end to their fun. I noticed as each man started from the folksal door that the mule was given a slap. Omitting this I started to follow, but when about halfway to the top of the mule-pin I felt a tug at my trouser's leg. I saw the mouth of the mule at my feet, and in fear of having his teeth reach my skin I stumbled and fell, cutting the back of my head, which struck against the iron ring in the folksal door. It was a mere scratch, from which the blood flowed freely, but sufficient to elicit the sympathy of all. They helped me to the top of the pin and there examined the bruise. On account of their gathering around me the captain came forward to see what was the trouble. This kind, good-hearted man invited me into his cabin to dress the cut. And coming into such close contact with me there he discovered the state of my clothes and body. That vicious mule had not only won for me the sympathy of the crew, but also given me an opportunity to be questioned by the captain as to who and what I was. I can now see the surprise on his face when, in answer to his question if I was related to Mr. John King of Paines Bay, I replied that I was his son. Like many other sea captains he had spent many an hour in my father's company in the Masonic Lodge and knew him very well. Oh, the joy of that moment when he told me my father was his friend. Only a few moments and my clothes were foiling far astern in the wake of the vessel, and I was being put through a thorough process of scrubbing and cleansing. After he had administered to me this much-needed bath he entered his room and returned with a bundle of clothes, socks, and shoes which he had taken from the ship's slop chest. It was not long before I was on deck again, my shoes many sizes too large, and my clothes having every appearance but that of fitting. At any rate I was clean and warm even though I appeared as the mate remarked like a scarecrow fit to be hung in the corn fields to frighten away the crows. I knew every rope on board and readily discovered that the Victoria had a throat and peak mainsail instead of the mutton-like mainsail and ring-tailed gaff top-sail of the Excelsior. With this exception in build and rig she was exactly like the old Bermudian. It seemed to please the captain when I told him of my observation of the rig of his ship. About four o'clock that afternoon I was told to come below with him. On reaching the cabin he opened a door leading into a room with two bunks, and told me that this was my state room. Left alone in the room I tried the bottom bunk, how soft and luxurious. My back had not touched so comfortable a spot for days. I fell asleep and did not waken until the next morning when the scrubbing of the men overhead as they washed down the top of the cabin roused me from my peaceful sleep. I went on deck and watched with exquisite pleasure the bubbling water along the side of the ship and the foaming wake she was leaving behind. The wind was dead aft which made only the square sails on the fore mast of any service in speeding us along. There was not much deck to wash down, only the top of the cabin and folks will head, which being done the pumps were manned. There were only three men on deck, the mate and two sailors, which was the whole of the port watch. One of the sailors was at the wheel, the other sailor and mate were jerking up and down, clankety bang, the one arm handle of the pump. It was a mean, clumsy contrivance at best, but more so at this time, for it was buried beneath the mule pin close a bath the main mast. I could see the back of their heads as they bobbed up and down at each bang of the pump handle, spellow and another try for a suck. I squeezed myself down on the ship's deck where I could get a hand on the handle and then I exercised myself enough to win a pleasant. That's the boy from the mate. The captain had just come on deck and calling me to him he gave me a pair of trousers which he had worked on himself during the night telling me I would find them short enough to move around in. I then learned from him that, against his wish, I must work during the trip, as it would displease the owners to know he had made a passenger of a stowaway. I wanted to be of service and asked to be allowed to work on deck and not in the cabin with the cook. Accordingly, I was detailed to wash the mule's faces and be around the deck all day on and all night in. Every morning I was called a half-pass-five to begin the day with pale and rag, going from mule to mule, washing the faces of all and sponging their eyes, while the mate or second mate, whosoever watch it might be, with the sailor of the watch, would follow with water and hay. This was my morning's duty while the mule's were on board. I would finish cleaning their faces by breakfast time, and the rest of the day would at times take a trick at the wheel, hold a turn of a rope, and lend a hand cleaning paintwork, doing whatever a boy of my size could around the deck. I then learned a deck load of mule's is not a very desirable freight on a small vessel in a heavy sea. On the third morning out we were in the gulf stream. The fair northwest wind was increasing in force, and by dinner time it was blowing a gale. Running before a large swell, and burying her rail at each roll on a line with the sea, our brake would at times receive the top of a following wave, which made it very risky as well uncomfortable for the mule's. If our decks had been clear, we could safely have run with the gale. After the watch had gone below, and had eaten their dinner, all hands were called to heave her to. The foresail was clued up in furrow, the mainsail close reefed and set, and the fore top mastacelle flattened aft. The helm put down gently, mainsheet in lee braces manned, our brake pointed her nose to the wind, and laid to like a duck. About seven o'clock that evening a noise as though the heavens were falling made our ship tremble from head to stern. It seemed as though we were a toy in the hands of a giant. Standing by the side of the man at the wheel, I heard the shout, fore top mastacelle carried away, sir. The odd man, title of all captains by virtue of their office, and not because of their age, came rushing on deck, shouting, call the watch. Following the mate forward to the folksal head, I could see the dark sail against the darkened sky, slatting and banging like some wild monster that had been just set free. The sailors were he-hawing, and pulling at the down-haul, trying to haul down to the boom the struggling resisting sail. The whip which had been roved through a block in the pennant, the hole forming a sheet for the sail, had parted. The slatting of the sail, after it had been hauled down to the boom, had twisted the pennant round and round the Bob's Day. Belling out like a balloon it was impossible to get the sail secured. I was standing with the mate, both of us holding on to the capstan on the folksal head, watching the men on the boom doing their best to smother the sail. Being of no service, and realizing that I would be safer aft than on the folksal head, I started to grope my way aft. Just then she buried her bow under. I felt myself scraping along the folksal head, and like falling in the descent of a waterfall, I was washed under the feet of the mules. Pulling myself out without a scratch, I met the mate going aft, shouting, The boy is overboard! How those five men held on to the bowsprit that night has ever been a mystery to me. The mate had a good grip on the capstan, which saved him from being washed along with me. Soaking wet, I went below and missed the seamanship of that night. Next morning I got into my half-dried clothes, which had been hanging by the cabin stove, and went on duck to begin my work as nursemaid for mules. The gale had moderated, and we were again running before a good-sized sea, making good weather of it. One of the mules had died during the night, so after breakfast a few of the planks were taken up from over his stall, and the dead carcass was hoisted up through the open space, and with a lee roll of the ship his body was let go, and went splashing into the sea a feast for sharks. During the four-noon watch I learned from Bob, one of the sailors, how the four top-mass stasel was secured. The brig was put before the wind so that the clue of the sail could be reached. The foul pennant unhooked, and the weather-pennant and whip hauled over the stay and used as a lee sheet. While this was being done, the brig was making better weather running than she had been at noon, when first hoved to, which made the old man decide to continue on his course. Going forward and looking over the bow I could see the foul pennant of the stay sail dragging from the Bob's Stays. The moderating gale carried us quickly across the Gulf Stream, and on the fifth morning, peacotes, mittens, and mufflers were left below being no longer needed in the warm southern latitude. For three days we sailed through masses of gulfweed. During my meal hours, and in the evening after the day's work was over, I would take my seat on the jib-boom end, and watch our brig cut our way through the beds of green stuff. The whole ocean resembled a cornfield. The blue water of the ocean could only occasionally be seen. We picked up a strong trade wind, which carried us well into the tropics, and then died out to a calm. On the eighteenth day out we made the land of Trinidad, and that night dropped anchor in the peaceful waters of Port of Spain Harbor. Next morning, after a good night's rest, all hands were called, coffee was served, and the word turn to came from the second mate. A purchase was rigged for getting the mules over the side into the empty lighters, which were to carry them to the shore. A canvas apron was passed under each mule, a pole on the fall, and he was in mid-air, kicking all four heels until landed in the lighter. This was the work of only a few hours. That night, Christmas Eve, we weighed our mud hook and sailed for Barbados. Although it is only a day's run from Barbados to Trinidad, it took us until the night of the 28th before we dropped anchor in Bridgetown Harbor. It is a deadbeat to winward against the northeast trades. We sailed full and by the wind, making St. Vincent and St. Lucia on our weather bow. Then using the trades as a leading wind passed Martinique and St. Lucia heading straight for Barbados and dropped our anchor in Carlisle Bay. How happy I felt as I looked once more on my native hills. On the windmills, on the sugar plantations, there are four large points revolving around and around, grinding the juice from the cane. On the boats sailing into the wharf with their freight of flying fish, and on the white sandy beach along the shore, the joy made me restless. The captain had gone on shore and had told me to remain on board until he returned. I could not, so anxious was I to reach my home. I hailed a flying fish boat to take me on shore, and bargained with its captain to give him for his trouble my thirty cents, the remnant of my good angel's gift. Shouting good-bye to the mate and to all on board, and promising to be back the next day, I got into the flying fish boat, and in a little while I was standing once more on my native soil after an absence of twenty-two months. Once landed I kept along the western side of the town, doing my best to shield myself from the eyes of the people. I felt the shame to be seen in the clothes which had seen much service and were hanging so loosely upon me. The peaked cap which the mate had given me the first day out from New York was pulled well over my eyes. So shunning everybody, I reached the sand beach outside the town. When within a mile from home I was forced to leave the beach and take the highway as the rocks along the shore extended to the water's edge. Before I could pass this stretch of rocks and reach the beach again, a negro from Payne's Bay, driving home in his donkey cart, recognized me. Whipping his donkey, he hurried along to carry the news of my coming to my mother. At last the old house hove in sight. I reached the street, walked quickly up the gap, and was once more in the fond embrace of my loving mother and father, and in the company of the dear ones at home. That evening, until bedtime, the friendly natives from all parts of the village called to shake hands and welcome me home. From the time I saw the Atlantic towing down the East River until I arrived at home, it never occurred to me that my closed chest would be sent home to my parents. Within the past four years to this time my mother had received word of the death of two of her foster children, whom she loved as her own. These two brothers of mine were sailors. One had died at sea, his body committed to the deep. The other had passed away in a hospital in Savannah, Georgia, and was buried on a foreign shore. Within a few weeks of my arrival she had also received the sad news that her firstborn had been washed off the flying jib-boom of the Schooner Ella Francis while on a passage from Jacksonville to New York. She was just recovering from this severe blow of the loss of my brother when Captain Landfair of the Atlantic called, bringing my clothes with him. He told her of my putting my clothes aboard his ship, and that no one on board could tell what had become of me. After the towboat had left his vessel, he thought of me, and the ship was searched from stem to stern, trying to find me. The only hope he could hold out to her was that I might have gone ashore again, unobserved by anyone, and missed the ship. When the negro brought word that I was coming down the road, she left her bed, forgetful of her neuralgia, and with the rest of the family at home watched eagerly for my appearance. It was some minutes before it dawned upon me what her tears of joy meant. Everybody thought I was at the bottom of the sea accepting my mother, who through those three weeks of suspense hoped that I might yet be alive and be spared to her. I soon got into a suit of my own clothes which had been aired and put away. Once more in a rig that fitted me, breathing the hallowed atmosphere of home life, I related my experience to my mother, keeping from her and all the family the bitter experiences of my stay in New York City which they never knew. Next morning I kept my word and was again on board the Victoria. Captain Spencer seemed annoyed with me for leaving the ship before he had returned aboard. The day we arrived, as soon as he had entered his vessel in the custom house, he went into D'Costa's clothing store and purchased a suit of boys clothes for me, and on arriving aboard, found that I had left. I gave him a letter from my mother inviting him to take dinner with our family on Sunday, which he accepted. And in a few moments we were good friends again. I wanted my mother to meet the sailors of the Victoria and therefore induced Captain Spencer to have them row him down to our house in his ship's boat, a distance of five miles. When Sunday comes after week of toil sailors expect to be given that day for rest. So when Captain Spencer said his men would growl if he had them row him that distance on Sunday, I readily told him I had talked it over with Bob and the rest, and they wanted to do it. Before seeing the captain when I got aboard that morning I had told these kind men my mother wanted them to come and put my plans of rowing the captain before them. Sunday noon Captain Spencer, rowed by his four seamen, made a landing on the beach at our back door. What an afternoon of pleasure for me. I can now call to my mind the picture of this good captain walking between my mother and father, the four sailors, with my sisters and myself, following close behind them on our way to evening service in the old parish church. Late that night they bade us good-bye, and loosing their boat from the beach they rowed back to their ship. At this time of my life my father was well on in age, entering his seventy-fourth year. His eyesight was rapidly failing which forced him to resign his position. What money he possessed had been lost by trusting too much to others, and it meant a struggle to meet the home necessities and maintain his dignity on the pension he received from the government for his faithful services. I remained at home restless, not wanting to go to school, and too young to be of any real use in the business life of Barbados. So with the feeling that I could earn some money and send it home if I were at sea, I expressed a desire to travel again. One afternoon, eight weeks after I had reached home, Captain Darrell of the Schooner-Meggy drove up to the door and spent the evening with us. He had arrived from Bermuda and had called to see us. That night I secured from him the promise of a passage on his ship to Bermuda. My mother was grieved, but her grief was mitigated by the thought that as I had pulled through for nearly two years without any accident befalling me, I would now, that I was a little older, get along safely. Had she known of my experience and of the habits I had acquired during my stay from her, I should not have gained her consent to leave again. She, like many other good mothers, had not the faintest idea of what a sailor's life is or what the temptations are that are placed in his way in the seaports of the world. On March 3, 1882, not then fifteen years old, I again said the good-bye, and with my chest well packed with clothes, joined the Maggie as a passenger, sailing away to visit my old friends in Bermuda. It was late in the evening when the Schooner got under way. Captain Darrell kept close to the shore, and about seven o'clock, to my surprise, he brought his vessel to, right opposite our old home, and dropped anchor about a stone's throw from the beach. Then lowering the boat, he, with his mate, Mr. Johnny Hill, who was a nephew of Captain George Hill, and myself, pulled for the shore, leaving the ship in charge of the cook and sailors. It was an evening that will ever be fresh in my memory. It was the last one I spent with my mother. What thoughts of danger, of storm, and of sickness will enter one's mind when we have to say good-bye to dear ones who are leaving us to cross the sea? Though steam has lessened much of that fear and dread, we still have to put forth every effort to dispel the gloom by making ourselves believe all will go well. I had said good-bye in the morning, and now, as the early morning hour of another day was dawning, I was saying good-bye again. It was close to midnight. The stars were shining brightly overhead. The whole family were standing on the beach, the boat rocking in the easy surf and wash of the waves. We could see the black hull of the Schooner riding at anchor. My mother held in her hand a large, old-fashioned candlestick, and the light of the candle cast its rays upon her face. Can a boy forget his mother's face? No, never. All through life that face has lived in my memory. I will confess that in days gone by, when indulging in almost every kind of sin, whenever she would enter my mind, a desire to be better came also. And I must say that it was an effort to think of other things and to drive all such noble longings from my heart and mine. Her presence, always with me, mingled with the thoughts of home, gained the victory as I launched into manhood, creating in me a desire to live as she would have had me live. That night, filled with grief because of my departure, she kissed me her last good-bye. Bermuda has for many years been a strong naval station in Great Britain's western possessions. There was always at least a regiment of soldiers there, sometimes two regiments stationed on the different parts of the island. The North Atlantic Fleet spends considerable time each year at the Government Dockyard. These soldiers and sailors are socially ostracized by the inhabitants of the island. While the white native Bermudians will work by the side of their fellow-colored countrymen, they still maintain a certain social distinction. But all classes, both white and black, regard the English soldier and man of war's man as a loathsome object whose company is undesirable. It may have been the conduct of these men that gave rise to this feeling. However, it was so. No respectable man will invite an English soldier to his home. The social law of the island forbids it. After I had arrived at Bermuda, I wanted to be at work where I could earn some money instead of wasting my time at Captain Hill's home. The onion season was over, and there was no freight for ships. I visited the dockyard one day, and there heard that an engineer's mess-servant was wanted. I applied for the position, passed the doctor's examination in the sick bay of the guard ship Irresistible, and donned the uniform of a mess steward of Her Majesty's Navy for a service of five years. I wrote to Captain Hill telling him of my enlistment. He did not reply, and when I called to see him, I noticed that he was displeased. I learned from him that as a servant in the Navy I had cut myself off from my friends at Port Royal Parish. To do an honest day's work in the field or shop, or to be a sailor on a merchantman, or any employment in civil life was considered respectable, but an enlistment in the army or Navy was degrading. I lived through six months of flunkyism on the Irresistible, and then, to please my old friend, I asked for my discharge, which was granted me as soon as I found a boy to take my place. Arrangements were then made with Mr. Thomas Greer, a blacksmith in Hamilton, to teach me his trade. I remained with him long enough to learn how to pump the bellows and remove an old shoe from a horse. At that point I was sent on board the bark ruby of Shoreham, England, with some ironwork which had been made for her. The ruby had brought a cargo of coal from Cardiff, and was taking on ballast for Haiti, where she was charted to load logwood for Antwerp. During that visit with the ironwork, I met the captain, and arranged to sail with him as deck-boy for the glorious sum of one pound and ten shillings a month. Captain Hill did his best to induce me to remain. I can now see him parading the floor of his dining-room, and can hear his voice bewailing my foolishness. What will your mother say, of all places for you to go, a pestle of yellow fever and smallpox? I don't mind that, I replied. Saying my last goodbye to this dear old friend, who since then has rounded his old ship into the landlocked harbor of rest, I made my way on board the ruby. I was a boy not sixteen years old, when, for the first time, I was to sail among strangers to begin on my own resources the life of a sailor. End of chapter 5