Under Sail. Felix Riesenberg
chap certainly knew a thing or two, even if he was not the best sailor in the world.
But Jimmy Marshall's comment was simply, "Rats!"
After supper, when pipes were glowing, and most of us sought our bunks for the hour or so that remained to us in the last dog watch, a discussion arose as to what kind of pie it was. Frenchy, the great gastronomic authority, claimed it was English currant pie. "They taste so bitter, that's why I know," he added with an air of finality.
Others differed with him. Scouse said it was red crabapple pie. Martin claimed it was nothing but plum pie. I thought it tasted like cranberry, but was not sure. At last, to settle the matter, and at the earnest request of the crabbed Jimmy, Fred trudged aft to the galley to consult Chow and wind up the argument. He returned in triumph with a large tin can done up in a gaudy red label marked "Pie Fruit."
Shortly after entering the N. E. trades we encountered the region of tropic rains, of daily thunder storms, and of abundant drinking and washing water. We rigged an old sail over the gallows frame in the main deck to catch the rain, which was teemed through a canvas pipe to the main tank, a large upright iron cylinder standing on the keelson blocks in the main hold just abaft of the main mast. Our allowance of three quarts a day, per man, was anything but satisfying in the tropic atmosphere of the torrid zone. At least half of this "whack" of water went to the galley for use in the preparation of food and the rest was divided between the scuttle butt and the water barrel, from which it was drawn sparingly for washing purposes; usually a mere rinse to clean off the salt of a sea water scrub.
In the extreme heat, during the frequent periods of calm, our suffering through the lack of water became intense. The Fuller, like many other ships sailing from New York, put to sea with her water tank barely a quarter full, relying on the tropic rains to replenish the supply. When the rains did finally come we fairly reveled in the luxury of abundant fresh water, drinking, washing clothes, bathing, and just plain wasteful wallowing in the refreshing element. With the first douse of rain all hands turned out on deck to fill their pannikins under the spouting drains from the forward house.
The conduct of a deep water sailing voyage in the old days of wooden ships called for what today would be considered the highest type of scientific management. In the maintenance of the vessel, each part of the complicated fabric received its due attention at some particular point in the voyage where the weather was favorable for that certain operation. So in the entry to the rainy belt, that uncertain region of the doldrums where almost constant precipitation takes turn about with calm or light baffling winds, we were turned loose on the job of scrubbing paintwork. The work was started aft and each watch did its own side of the ship, there being much rivalry as to who was doing the most work. Everybody took a hand in this and Brenden and Marshall would curse unmercifully at the job when well out of earshot of the after guard. Our hands became wrinkled with the constant wet, the calloused flesh getting soft and cheesy, while our oilskins, in which we worked during the worst downpours, became soaked and clammy through constant use.
We were not allowed the bucket of classic "sewgee" of the steam ship sailor, a mixture of caustic soda, soft soap and water, but were provided with nothing but a small tin of brick dust and a rag of burlap; a rope handled deck bucket and a small swab completed the outfit. Add to this formula an abundance of "elbow grease," and slithers of tropic rain, and you get paintwork polished smooth and white as ivory. A week or so, with all hands on the paintwork, whenever the working of the ship would permit, transformed her into a model of neatness. Woe to the luckless wretch who by any chance marred the deck or paintwork with a drop of grease or tar.
About this time we made our acquaintance with the flying fish, these swift travellers often shooting over our deck at night and being caught in the belly of one of the courses or the spanker. A flying fish for breakfast is not bad, and many were caught by the men on deck keeping a sharp lookout for them. The mates were also watching for the bag of flying fish and whenever one landed on the poop or in the waist, one or the other of the mates would call out and have a hand bring the fish aft.
One night a fish landed somewhere in the waist. We could hear the wet splatter of the flying fins, as it was calm and the deck quiet. Mr. Zerk, who was leaning against the weather swifter of the mizzen shrouds, roused himself and called out for someone to bring the fish aft.
Several of the watch started to search for the visitor, for we also had heard him land, but without success.
"How about that fish?" shouted the mate, after a decent interval, while the search was going on.
"Can't find it, sir," Joe piped up.
"The hell you can't!" thundered the mate. "There he is," and again we heard a faint "splash, splash" of the wings.
"Get a light, you damn fools," was the order, for it was mighty dark. "Come now quick. Pronto!" and as Scouse banged on the door of the deck room occupied by Chips, in order to get him to open the lamp locker, we thought we heard the "splash, splash" again.
With the aid of a lantern and all of the watch the entire deck was searched. Finally, Jimmy Marshall let out a whoop, "Here he was! Here he was!" Some water on the deck, near the coils of rope hanging from the main pin rail, looked as though Jimmy was close to the flying fish.
"Here he was!" again shouted the excited Jimmy, grabbing the lantern from the hand of Scouse.
"Here he what?" demanded the mate, coming down into the waist. The mate bent over the wet spot and exploded in a string of oaths. "No flying fish ever made that! Here, you!" and he grabbed Jimmy. "This is some of your damn monkey shines, you old dried up bundle of sea tripe!———— your gray hairs, I'll flying fish you! Lay aloft to the main skysail yard and watch the stars! I'll call you down on deck whenever we need you!"
For several nights after that Jimmy spent his time climbing up and down the main rigging, for no sooner would he get up than the mate would think of something to do that required his presence on deck.
The flying fish episode furnished us with something to talk about in the fo'c'sle, and while Jimmy always tried to leave the impression that the joke was on the mate and the rest of us, we felt that his over zeal in discovering the puddle of water in which his clever hand had simulated the nervous flapping of the fins of a flying fish had turned the tables. My idea was that Jimmy, after seeing how well the thing was taking, could not resist the temptation to get the credit.
We also harpooned our first bonita, a very active, virile fish, shaped like a short double ended spindle buoy, and striped lengthwise. These fish are exceedingly lively and jump about with terrific energy when brought on deck. Before taking this fish to the galley, Old Smith of the other watch, and Frenchy, and of course Jimmy Marshall, tested the meat with a silver coin, to see if it was of the poison variety.
"If the silver turns black the fish is poison," explained Frenchy. In this case the bonita was pronounced "good to eat," and a great feast was on that night; however, I never cared much for fish anyway and did not touch it. Chow had certainly made an ill looking mess of it, garnished with broken tack, and basted with pork fat.
"You'll wisht you had a bit of this tucker afore we get to Honolulu," was the comment of Joe, who proceeded to help himself liberally.
CHAPTER IV
THE FIGHT
An undercurrent of trouble had been running for some time, finding expression in much subdued comment and criticism, at odd moments, when small groups of the watch would foregather about the fo'c'sle during the dog watch below. These dog watch hours were, during fine