The Log of a Sea-Waif: Being Recollections of the First Four Years of My Sea Life
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Frank T. Bullen. The Log of a Sea-Waif: Being Recollections of the First Four Years of My Sea Life
PREFACE
CHAPTER I. MY FIRST SHIP
CHAPTER II. OUTWARD-BOUND
CHAPTER III. ARRIVAL AT DEMERARA
CHAPTER IV. THE MUTINY AND AFTER
CHAPTER V. THE LAND OF LIBERTY
CHAPTER VI. TO HAVANA AND AFTER
CHAPTER VII. OFF TO SEA AGAIN
CHAPTER VIII. STRUGGLES IN LIVERPOOL AND LONDON
CHAPTER IX. BOUND FOR JAMAICA
CHAPTER X. ADVENTURES OF A SHIPWRECKED CREW
CHAPTER XI. AN EVENTFUL PASSAGE HOME
CHAPTER XII. ADRIFT IN LIVERPOOL ONCE MORE
CHAPTER XIII. THE DAWN OF BETTER DAYS
CHAPTER XIV. DUE SOUTH
CHAPTER XV. EIGHT WEEKS' CALM
CHAPTER XVI. UP THE INDIAN OCEAN TO BOMBAY
CHAPTER XVII. ON THE COROMANDEL COAST
CHAPTER XVIII. HOMEWARD TO LONDON
CHAPTER XIX. A CHANGE OF NATIONALITY
CHAPTER XX. THE PASSAGE TO MELBOURNE
CHAPTER XXI. I BECOME A COLONIAL COASTER
CHAPTER XXII. PROSPERITY PALLS UPON ME
CHAPTER XXIII. ANOTHER QUEER SHIP
CHAPTER XXIV. DEEP-WATER AMENITIES
CHAPTER XXV. PROCEEDINGS AT RANGOON
CHAPTER XXVI. HOMEWARD-BOUND IN DIFFICULTIES
CHAPTER XXVII. DEEP-WATER COASTING
CHAPTER XXVIII. WHICH BRINGS US TO PORT AT LAST
CHAPTER XXIX. CONCLUSION
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Notwithstanding the oft-reiterated statement that the days of sea romance are over, it may well be doubted whether any period of our literary history has been more prolific in books dealing with that subject than the last twenty-five years. Nor does the output show any signs of lessening, while the quality of the work done is certainly not deteriorating. Writers like Kipling, Cutcliffe Hyne, Joseph Conrad, and Clark Russell, each in his own style, have presented us with a series of sea-pictures that need not fear comparison with any nautical writers' work of any day, although they deal almost exclusively with the generally considered unromantic merchant service. Having admitted this, the question perforce follows, "Who, then, are you, that presumes to compete with these master magicians?"
To that inevitable question I would modestly answer that the present book is in no sense a competitor with the works of any writers of nautical romance. But having been for fifteen years a seafarer in almost every capacity except that of a master, and now, by the greatest kindness and indulgence on the part of men holding high positions in the literary world, being permitted to cater for the reading public in sterling periodicals, it has often occurred to me how little landsmen really know of the seaman's actual life. "Two Years before the Mast," although written by an American, and of life on board an American merchantman, has long held undisputed sway as a classic upon the subject. And for the only reason, as it seems, that no serious attempt has been made by a Britisher to do the same thing for life in British ships.
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They made a funny little group. The sailors were in that happy state when nothing matters – least of all the discounter of an advance-note; hence the bodyguard of interested watchers, who would leave no stone unturned to see that their debtors went in the ship, although being under the vigilant eyes of the police, they dared not resort to violent means. The ladies, possessing but a fast-fading interest in outward bounders, were probably in evidence more from slackness of business than any more sentimental cause. But having cajoled or coerced Jack to the pierhead, he seemed unpersuadable to the final step of getting aboard. Again and again a sailor would break loose and canter waveringly shoreward, only to be at once surrounded by his escort and hurriedly hauled back again. At last, exasperated beyond endurance by the repetition of these aimless antics, the skipper sprang ashore followed by the pilot. Bursting in upon the squabbling crowd, they seized upon a couple of the maudlin mariners, hurling them on board as if they had been made of rubber. With like vigour the rest were embarked, their "dunnage" flung after them; the warps were immediately let go, and the ship began to move ahead.
Outside the dock-gate a larger tug was waiting in readiness to hook on as soon as we emerged, and tow us down the river. With a final shove, accompanied by a stifling belch of greasy smoke, our sooty satellite shook herself free of us, retreating hastily within the basin again, while, obedient to the increasing strain on our hawser ahead, we passed rapidly out into the crowded stream.
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