Читать книгу The Mutiny of the Flying Spray - Arthur Hunt Chute - Страница 4
ОглавлениеTHE GOLD RUSH
After a long and discouraging quest, I at last obtained a job as shipping clerk at the office of N. L. & G. Gertridge, an established house in the China trade, with offices at the foot of South Street.
My application was made to Nathaniel Gertridge himself, the head of the firm, reputed to be incredibly rich and incredibly stingy, but no slouch at smelling chances in outward and inward cargoes. The firm had tried their hand at opium smuggling, at the Coolie trade, and every other maritime venture with large return.
Their place of business, filled with the fragrant aroma of spices and teas, carried one away to shadowy visions of strange lands, of pagodas, of hoary cities, and of ancient temples. But whatever implications were in his house, there was nothing romantic about Nathaniel Gertridge, a meager, wizened-up individual, who had lost the last spark of humanity in his lust for gain. Widows and orphans of many a ship on the “Missing List” had reason to curse the name of N. L. & G. Gertridge, which was popularly translated, “No Loss and Great Gain Gertridge.” The old man did not leave me long in doubt as to the appropriateness of that title.
“So you’re the son of Benjamin Curtis. Well, I’m especially glad to see you on account of your father.” (My father and he were bitterest rivals.) “And what can we do to serve you?”
“I’ve come to apply for a job.”
“Why didn’t you go to your father?”
“He wouldn’t accept me.”
“Sooner have you learn at some one else’s expense, eh?”
“Very likely, Sir.”
“Well, since you’re so truthful, we’ll take you on. They generally charge fifty guineas to teach a youth the shipping business, but as you are the son of Benjamin Curtis, we’ll take you on for nothing. How would that suit?”
“Wouldn’t suit, I’ve got to have the price of my board.”
“Not living at home?”
“I live in a boarding house at five dollars per.”
“Been kicked out by your old man, eh? That’s certainly in your favor. Very well, we’ll pay you six dollars a week.”
“But, Sir——”
“Tut, tut, if you want to get a start, report to Mr. Scraters, our head clerk. And if you want to keep the job, see that you are never late in the mornings. Shipping clerks report at seven.”
I was hardly enthusiastic, as I went out to look for Mr. Scraters, but after fruitless searching, this at least was a job, Mr. Scraters, office factotum, who looked like a dried up mummy out of the Cairo museum, told me that I could report the following morning.
“Sharp seven,” he croaked, looking over his glasses with unsmiling eyes that I hated at sight. The worst master at Andover would have been a prince compared to that miserable stiff, and I went out anything but elated.
With nothing else to do for the rest of the day, I started to walk aimlessly along the foreshore. My thoughts were gloomy, at first, but who could withstand the magic of that waterfront.
Passing along the East River, everywhere I saw splendid ships in all stages of construction. The shipyards were great hives of industry, where hundreds of caulking mallets rang out a mighty chorus, while a fresh odor of hewn timber, and boiling pitch filled the air with healthful fragrance.
“Why are they building so many ships?” I inquired of a friendly policeman.
“For California, me son.”
“And why such terrific rush?”
“An’ haven’t ye heard the news? California’s the place for sure, where they’re pickin’ up gold by the cartload. They tell me it’s nothin’ to go out before breakfast and dig a couple o’ thousand dollars worth o’ them nuggets. California’s the place, me son; that’s where ye ought to be.”
At Piers Nine and Ten, I found a couple of California clippers loading at top speed. There was something catching in the very air of that place, while the songs and chanteys ran through one’s blood like fire.
Everyone I talked with had some new story of that fabulous West. I had often heard of California, Father’s ships brought occasional cargoes of hides from here. The place had been a kind of meaningless bog to me. Now, with the touch of gold, it had become another El Dorado.
Everybody along the waterfront seemed to be bound for California. I suppose I met half a dozen who had run away from inland farms, and were now searching for jobs as cabin boy.
One of these young hopefuls, from Vermont, said:
“I’m not wantin’ very much. I just intend to stay out there fer a few days, jus’ long enough to pick up sixty thousand. Then I’m comin’ right straight back.”
“Whatcher want sixty thousan’ fer, bud?” inquired an old shellback.
“To buy up all the farms round home,” replied the youth, pushing on hurriedly, too impatient to waste time on idle chatter.
Of course, I didn’t believe all I heard that morning. But there was something in the restless impatience of that hustling foreshore, that hot, young blood could not withstand.
Coming down to Castle Garden, I stood there looking out at a clipper that had finished loading, and had just dropped down the East River and anchored off Battery Park.
“What’s the name of that vessel?” I inquired.
“The Phantom, one of No Loss and Great Gain Gertridge’s.”
“Where’s she bound?”
“ ’Frisco, of course.”
It was a wonderful morning to be putting out to sea. There was a crisp, northeasterly breeze, setting the whitecaps dancing down the harbor, and keeping the blue-peter flying out straight against the sky.
Already, some of the hands were aloft throwing off the gaskets. As the crew began to tail onto sheets and halyards, the mate sang out:
“Strike a light on the for’rard hatch there, she’s dead as an old graveyard.”
At this, the chanteyman took off his boots, jumped onto the capstan, and burst out:
“I asked a maiden at my side,
Who sighed and looked at me forlorn,
Where is your heart? She quick replied,
Round Cape Horn.
“I said I’ll let your father know,
To boys in mischief on the lawn.
They all replied, then you must go
Round Cape Horn.
“In fact I asked a little boy
If he could tell me where he was born.
He answered with a mark of joy,
Round Cape Horn.”
A clipper getting under weigh is always a thrilling sight, but this morning, coupled with the songs and fever of the gold rush, it enthralled me. Unmindful of passing time, I watched the canvas set fore and aft, topsails, to’gallantsails, royals, and skysails, were sheeted home as flat as boards.
To another burst from the chanteyman, the inner and outer jibs were run up, the sheets hauled to windward, the main and after yards were braced sharp to the wind. The topsails were mastheaded, and the Phantom began to look like some great white-winged sea-bird, fluttering before its flight.
While the anchor was being hove up, I heard again those words, destined to become so memorable throughout the stampeding years:
“Round Cape Horn in the month of May,
To me hoodah! To me hoodah!
Round Cape Horn in the month of May,
To me hoodah! Hoodah, hay!
So blow boys, blow,
For Cali-forn-ee-O!
They’s plenty o’ gold,
So I am told,
On the banks of the Sacremento!”
As the clipper gathered way in the slack water, the onlooking crowd joined with gusto in the chorus. Swept off of my feet with the crowd spirit, I found myself singing “Round Cape Horn” as loud as the best.
Just at the height of the chorus, next to me in the crush, I caught sight of a pair of mighty shoulders and a bull-like neck that called to mind our football days at Andover. It could not be? But, yes, sure enough! There was old Tug Wilson, singing that gold-seekers’ chantey with a zest which left no doubt that he, too, had caught the fever.
On recognizing me, he exclaimed:
“Why, hullo, Laurie. No one on earth I’d sooner see than yourself. Where ye bound?”
Instinctively, and without the slightest premeditation, I answered.
“Round Cape Horn.”
The usual flippant expression on Tug’s face became momentarily serious.
“D’ye really and truly mean that?”
“I never meant anything more serious.”
“All right, old man, I’m with ye.”
