Читать книгу The Boy Whaleman - George Fox Tucker - Страница 3

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When I was a boy, New Bedford was not, as it is now, a great manufacturing city, but the best known and largest whaling port in the world. The wharves were then busy places; there vessels were “fitted”, as they used to say, and sent out on their long voyages; other vessels returned and discharged their cargoes. Great casks of oil were arranged in rows on the wharves; those that were sold were carted off on curious old trucks called gears, and those that were to await a better market were given a thick covering of seaweed. Everybody talked ships and oil. One would hear people say, “The Janet is reported in the Indian Ocean, clean,” that is, had taken no oil; “The Adeline is heard from in the Pacific, having made a ‘good cut’,” that is, had taken a lot of oil; “There is news from the Marcella from the other side of land, having done well.” “The other side of land” meant the other side of the world, as Australia and New Zealand, in the waters round which many whalers used to cruise.

My father, when a young man, went whaling for a single voyage which lasted for more than three years. He was a sailor, or, to use the regular phrase, a foremast hand, and at the end of two years he became a boat-steerer or harpooner. When I was a little boy he used to take me on his knee and tell me stories about the life of the whalemen,—of chasing whales and harpooning them; of angry whales smashing boats and chewing them to bits; of towing whales to the ship and cutting them in and trying them out; of losing the ship and remaining all night in the open boats; of encountering great storms and riding them out in safety; of meeting after many months another New Bedford vessel, and getting the latest news from home, and of visiting in the Pacific Ocean islands inhabited by savages.

At an early age I made up my mind to go to sea. On Saturday afternoons I used to roam about the wharves and sometimes ventured into the ships, only to be ordered out. But one day a man, called a shipkeeper, was very kind to me. The shipkeeper was the man who had charge of the wharf and the ships moored to it. He was a kind of general manager. They were taking out the cargo from a vessel.

“Haven’t I seen you around here before?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, many times. I’ve been down here on the wharves nearly every Saturday afternoon for several years.”

“How old are you?”

“Twelve.”

“What is your name?”

“Homer Bleechly.”

“I suppose you would like to go to sea—wouldn’t you?”

“Indeed, I would.”

“As cabin boy?”

“Yes.”

Then he said thoughtfully, “Not yet, boy, not yet. It’s a hard life, so you’d better wait awhile.”

“That was what my father said.”

The shipkeeper continued, “You go home and get a basket and a pail, and I’ll take you up into the loft and give you something that will make you happy.”

I did as he said, and on my return he took me to a building at the head of the wharf, in the front part of which was the merchant’s office, and in the story above, a great loft full of whaling gear and a great many other things which the vessels had brought home from far islands in the Pacific Ocean. There was a boat like a canoe, only larger and better shaped. It was different from anything I had ever seen, and was made by savages on distant shores. Then there were paddles beautifully made, with carvings done, the shipkeeper told me, with shark’s teeth and bits of sea shells. There were lots of war clubs and spears and strange-looking tools and utensils. I wanted to ship on a vessel at once and sail for the Pacific Ocean.

“Here, boy,” said the shipkeeper, “give me your basket and pail.”

He reached down into a great cask set on end and took out three large objects, each about the size of a football. “These are coconuts with the husks on. When you get home take a hatchet and cut off the husks and you’ll find the coconut.”

Then he put a big dipper down into another cask and took up a lot of pickled limes and poured them into the pail. This he repeated several times. “There, boy,” he said, “now take them things home, if you can carry them. But don’t you tell any other boys that you got them things here, for, if you do, we’ll be pestered by all the boys in town.”

When I reached home with my prizes and showed them to my mother, the good woman looked troubled. I had often told her that I wanted to go to sea and she had done all she could to discourage me. I now renewed my desire, and, when my father came home, she took the matter up with him, and they both told me how hard the sailor’s life was and how little money there was in it.

“Yes, I know, father,” I said, “but haven’t you taken me on your knee and told me all about your own voyage and the strange places you went to?”

“Yes, my dear son, but I didn’t tell you about the unpleasant things and the hardships a sailor has to put up with.”

My home was a happy one, and I was the only child. No one ever had a better mother. My father was a good man and a model parent. He earned fair wages and provided well for his little family. Why should I be discontented? Because, like many a boy, I was unreasonable. Yet, was I wholly to blame? Life in a seaport town appeals to the fancy of a boy. Longfellow wrote,

I remember the black wharves and the slips,

And the sea-tides tossing free;

And Spanish sailors with bearded lips

And the beauty and mystery of the ships,

And the magic of the sea,

And the voice of that wayward song

Is singing and saying still:

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

I determined to hide on some vessel, and, when she was well out to sea, show myself and apply for the position of cabin boy. As I look back upon my foolish purpose, I deeply regret my ingratitude to my parents and the pain I caused them. In one sense it was a simple thing to run away, but quite another to succeed in it. Before sailing, a whaler would drop about three miles down the harbor and remain there at anchor for several days in charge of the shipkeeper. Then captain, officers and crew would go down in boats, weigh anchor, and off the ship would go on her long voyage.

Soon a vessel owned by the merchant who employed my friend the shipkeeper was all ready for sea. In the late afternoon I made up a bundle of clothes and went down on the wharf and walked aboard the vessel in a free and easy way. No attention was paid to me, and fortunately the shipkeeper was at the farther end of the wharf. I went down into the cabin, and I recall how clean everything was with the coating of fresh paint. I crawled into a berth, feeling sure that at six o’clock the shipkeeper would lock the door without coming into the cabin. By this time I was getting a little afraid and almost wished that I was at home. At last I heard the town clock ring out the hour of six, and then came a footstep nearer and nearer, and lo! it was the shipkeeper. He was startled when he saw me, and for a moment appeared angry. Then he said:

“I didn’t expect to see you here. Didn’t you know that I would have to lock up the cabin every night until the vessel sails, and that you would surely get caught?”

“Yes, but I want to go as cabin boy, and I thought that they wouldn’t ship me in the office.”

“Does your mother know you are here?”

“No.”

“Don’t you see how foolish this all is? Now get out and I’ll take you home.”

I objected and he insisted. I was ashamed and did not want to go home—not that I feared punishment, but because I shrank from facing my parents. The shipkeeper took me along with him and left me with my mother. I am not going to dwell on what happened at home. I have only to say that I had a long talk with my parents that evening, and I promised that I would never attempt to run away again and that I never would ship for a voyage without their consent.

But the sea continued to call me, and Saturdays I still visited the wharves. I read every volume I could get on the life of the sailor, and was particularly delighted with such books as Dana’s “Two Years before the Mast”, and Melville’s “Moby Dick.” With the aid of my friend, the shipkeeper, I collected all kinds of articles brought home on the ships until I had a veritable little museum.

And here, let me say that my parents took the proper course. My mother was apparently troubled, but she conferred with my father, and it was agreed that when I was old enough I might go to sea. “When I was old enough” was not very definite. I felt that I was old enough then, but I knew that my parents thought otherwise. At thirteen I entered the High School and at fifteen I felt that I had sufficient education, at least for a sailor, and I implored my parents to let me go.

“You aren’t old enough,” said my mother.

“But yesterday, mother, you said that I was large and strong for my age—as large and strong as a man of eighteen.”

My mother made no reply, but there were tears in her eyes.

It was July and vacation. I was restless and impatient. Hitherto I had worked during vacations for a cooper, doing odd jobs, but now the cooper sent me home with the statement that I was of no use to him. Years afterward my mother told me that she and my father conferred and decided that it was the best course to let me ship, provided my age was not against me.

In the fifties of the last century, whaling was at its height. In the warm weather ships were constantly coming and going. There was no lack of vessels, but would they ship a boy of fifteen who was as large and strong as a man of eighteen? Of course my father’s consent was necessary. I went to my old friend, the shipkeeper. One of his employer’s vessels named the Seabird was to sail in a few weeks, and I was anxious to go in her.

The shipkeeper said, “You are big for your years and as strong as a man, but a sailor’s life is a hard one. But, if your folks are willing you should go, I’ll see the old gentleman and find out what he says about your going in the Seabird. Sailors are shipped through the outfitters, sometimes called ‘sharks.’ The outfitters provide the men with their clothes and various articles, and the owners pay the outfitters and, at the end of the voyage, the owners take the amount out of the sailor’s shares. If the old gentleman is willing to take you, don’t have anything to do with an outfitter, but have your mother provide the outfit, and I’ll give her a list of the things you’ll have to take with you.”

In a few days the shipkeeper said that his employer would see me with my father, and in the late afternoon we appeared at his office. The merchant was a Quaker, and he appeared at first a little stern. He declared that it was unusual for one so young to be taken on a whaler as a foremast hand, but my size seemed to justify an exception; that I could ship only with my father’s consent; that my parents must see to it that I had a good outfit; and that my share or lay would be 1/180. On whalers captain, officers and crew shipped on shares or lays, and my share or lay was to be one barrel of oil for every one hundred and eighty barrels stowed down, and one pound of whalebone for every one hundred and eighty pounds taken.

And now my parents were busy fitting me out. The whaleman, who was to be away for several years, required clothing suited to about every climate, and an abundance of it. I was provided with needles, linen thread, spools of sewing cotton, a shaving outfit, several knives and forks with wooden handles, several combs, two pairs of scissors, lots of buttons, plenty of soap, a couple of tin plates and a large dipper, a sheath knife and belt, three thick blankets, a bedtick and pillow filled with feathers, a dozen shirts and undershirts, three suits for light weather and a heavy suit with a large overcoat for the Arctic, two pairs of thick mittens, four pairs of brogans, one light and one heavy cap, two so’westers, two large straw hats and two oilcloth suits. My father added a roll of cotton cloth which he said might come handy for trade with the natives. Did ever a whaleman have so good an outfit?

The shipkeeper told me that he would give me some points before sailing, so, on the last Saturday afternoon, he pointed to the bow of the Seabird and said:

“You see that heavy oak on the bow, and the iron shoe on the fore foot? When you see them things you may be sure a ship’s bound to the Arctic, for you have to put her in good shape to battle with the ice. Now you stand off a few feet and look at the Seabird. She ain’t as sharp and slick as a merchantman, but she ain’t bad looking. Ain’t she nice and clean? She’s been well painted, the boats are hanging at the davits, the rigging’s been tarred and slushed, topmast spar and yard put in place and sails bent on. But, say, she’ll look different from this in a few years when she comes home with the paint scratched off, the sails black and patched and the old hull greasy from stem to stern. Now you come on board.”

He showed me the spare spars lashed to the deck and told me of the extra cables stowed away. Then he took me to the hatchway, and told me to look down into the hold. I could see that it was packed with a lot of things. The shipkeeper said:

“On a whaler you live together for a long time and you have to carry loads of things with you—stores, trade, slop chest, sails and duck, sundries, hardware, copper ware, crockery, provisions, casks, staves, lumber, wood, etc. Some of the casks are filled with water, and others are packed with provisions, clothing, and so forth. As the provisions are used up and the clothing and other articles are called for, the casks are ready for the oil. The greatest things on the ship are the whaleboats. There are no such boats anywhere in the world. You’ll find that’s so before you come back. Now I’ll show you the little house you are to live in for many long months.”

He took me into the forecastle. I went down the little steep stairway into a gloomy space largely filled with bunks. I wasn’t so cheerful when I came up, and, as I walked home, I thought of the nice little room in which I had slept from infancy.

I have said that this was Saturday. In the evening my schoolmates came in. I did not betray my feelings. One of them said, “You look as happy as if you had just returned from a voyage.” On the following day my parents and I attended service as usual, in the Bethel. This little church was founded especially for sailors and was located on what was named “Johnny Cake Hill.” It still stands, looking just as it did sixty years ago. On the walls of the interior are cenotaphs erected to those who lost their lives on the deep. These had never interested me, but this morning, surrounded by sailors and realizing that this was my last Sunday at home, I thought of the perils in store for me as I read the following:—

In Memory of

Capt. William Swain

Associate Master

of the Christopher Mitchell of Nantucket

This Worthy Man after Fastening to a whale

Was Carried Overboard by the Line and Drowned

May 19th 1844

In the 49th Yr. of his Age

Be Ye Also Ready, for in Such an Hour as Ye

Think Not the Son of Man Cometh

The ship was at her anchorage in the lower harbor. In a few days came the hour of departure. Hitherto I had thought little about parting with my mother. Now the thought of it was distressing and the actual leave-taking heart-breaking.

My parents had provided me with a sea chest which was better looking and more costly than that of the average sailor. My father accompanied me to the wharf, where we found a large gathering, composed of sailors and their friends, who had come to bid them good-by. My father showed much feeling in his parting words, and like most fathers, he enjoined obedience, faithful discharge of duty and exemplary habits. The realization of the life upon which I was about to enter came upon me with full force. My chest and I were taken aboard of a large catboat, and, as we slipped away, I saw my father standing on the wharf and was not conscious of the presence of any one else. An incident added to my discomfiture. Among all the chests mine was the most noticeable, and this fact elicited unkind remarks from some of my companions.

“It’s a boy’s box,” said one.

“Full of baby’s things,” observed another.

“Call it a fancy chest,” remarked a third.

“Call the young chap himself, ‘Fancy Chest,’” cried a fourth.

“So we will,” they exclaimed.

Then one of the men scraped his feet along the chest as if to remove the paint.

Immediately a large, powerfully built man thundered, “Take your feet off that box, and all of you let the young fellow alone.”

They obeyed, and my heart went out to my new friend. I didn’t know who he was, but I soon found out. It was three miles to the ship, and as we approached her she did look fine, and her appearance cheered up my rather faint heart. When we were aboard we were told to get our chests into the forecastle, which I had visited before with the shipkeeper. The forecastle was supposed to accommodate eighteen, and the bunks were arranged around the sides in a double tier. The gloom seemed to deepen and, as I was told to take a bunk forward, which was one of the poorest, I thought of my mother and wished that I was at home. In a short time came the cry, “All hands on deck.”

When we emerged some one told me to go forward and help work the windlass.

“It’s time to weigh anchor,” he said.

A “greenie” remarked, “I don’t see how they are going to weigh the anchor; they ain’t got no scales.”

A general laugh followed. We set to work and one of the men started a rude chantey, and the old hands joined in. Chanteys are the songs sailors sing when at work, and the mere singing seems to make labor lighter.

At last the anchor came up. In the meantime men had been sent aloft to shake out the sails, and the vessel started on her long voyage. As I caught a glimpse of land and historic land, too, often spoken of by the early voyagers, I felt as if I had sundered the last tie with home, and I found it difficult to keep back the tears.

Just then the shipkeeper came to me and said, “I’m going out in the vessel and coming back in the pilot boat. Now let me tell you something. Even if things don’t go right, keep a civil tongue in your head. Do what you’re told to do, and be respectful to those over you, and never try to be familiar with them. If you do, you’ll find it won’t pay. Now let me tell you something more. The first mate’s name is Coster Lakeum. He sailed in this very vessel on the former voyage as third mate. He’s a man who doesn’t talk much, but he’s a fine seaman. I’ve told him that while you look to be eighteen you’re only fifteen. Don’t ever try to be familiar with him, and he may prove your best friend in the ship. You’ll be a lucky boy if he should take you for stroke oar in his boat.”

We had to beat out to sea as there was a head wind. As the vessel tacked I was bewildered and wondered how any one could learn the names of all the ropes and how to handle them.

“Get out of my way and get to work,” said a hard-looking, burly fellow, jostling me as he said it. He was an American of almost repulsive countenance, and a man for whom then and there I conceived a strong dislike. Well, I couldn’t work, for I didn’t know how to, and I noticed that all the greenies seemed stupid, like myself, and were at a loss what to do. The old sailors were handling the ship, and in a couple of hours we reached the offing, the pilot boat came up, and my good friend, the shipkeeper, shook me by the hand, and he and the pilot stepped aboard the little craft and were soon far astern. On our port were the islands, on one of which Gosnold made a temporary settlement eighteen years before the Mayflower anchored in Provincetown Harbor. While the islands bear the name of Gosnold’s Queen, their individual Indian names are still retained, and furnish a curious and interesting rhyme:

Naushon, Nonamesset,

Onkatonka and Wepecket,

Nashawena, Pasquinese,

Cuttyhunk and Penikese.