OTHER SKETCHES
XXI
‘HOVELLING’[2]
What particular law of etymology has been evoked to produce the queer word standing at the head of this paper I am unable to imagine. Like Topsy, I “’spects it growed,” but my own private opinion is that it is the Kentish coast way of pronouncing the word “hovering,” since the hovellers are certainly more often occupied in hovering than in doing anything more satisfactory to themselves.
However strange the word may sound in a landsman’s ears, it is one of the most familiar to British seamen, especially among our coasters, although the particular form of bread-winning that it is used to designate is practically confined to the Kent and Sussex shores of the English Channel, having its headquarters at Deal. Briefly, a “hoveller” is a boatman who follows none of the steady orthodox lines of boatmanship, such as fishing, plying for passengers, etc., but hovers around the Channel, a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles, a pilot, a wrecker, or if a ghost of a chance presents itself, a smuggler.
[2] Whilst this reprint was in the press the writer received an ingenious explanation of the word from Mr. Charles Fleet, an old resident on the Sussex coast. He derives it from “Hoviler,” a sort of mounted militia raised during the Commonwealth, and so named from the “hovils” (leathern jackets) they wore.
Naturally, the poor hoveller does not bear the best of characters. The easy unconventional fit of his calling settles that for him as conclusively as the cryptic term “general dealer,” so often seen in police-court reports, does a man’s status ashore, but with far less reason. It must be admitted that he is not over-scrupulous or prone to regard too rigidly the laws of meum and tuum. The portable property which occasionally finds its way into his boat is, however, usually ownerless except for the lien held by the Crown upon all flotsam, jetsam, and ligan; which rights, all unjust as he in common with most seafarers consider them to be, he can hardly be blamed for ignoring.
But when the worst that can be alleged against the character of the hoveller has been said, a very large margin of good remains to his credit, good of which the general public never hears, or hearing of it, bestows the praise elsewhere.
They are the finest boatmen in the world. Doubtless this seems a large claim to make on their behalf, but it is one that will be heartily endorsed by all who know anything of the condition of the English Channel in winter, and are at the same time in a position to make comparisons. And it must also be remembered that the harvest of the hoveller is gathered when the wintry weather is at its worst, when the long, hungry snare of the Goodwins is snarling and howling for more and more of man’s handiwork to fill its for ever unsatisfied maw, when the whole width of the strait is like a seething cauldron, and the atmosphere is one weltering whirl of hissing spindrift; while the hooting syrens, shrieking whistles, and clanging bells from the benighted and groping crowd of unseen vessels blend their discord with the tigerish roar of the storm in one bewildering chaos of indescribable tumult.
Then, when the fishermen have all run for shelter, and even the hardy tugboats hug some sheltering spit or seaward-stretching point, the hoveller in his undecked clinker-built lugger, some thirty-five feet long and ten feet beam, square-sterned and sturdy-looking like himself, may be seen through the writhing drifts of fog and spray climbing from steep to steep of the foaming billows like a bat hawking along some jagged cliff.
She shows just a tiny patch of brown sail, a mere shred, but sufficient to keep her manageable with her head within five or six points of the wind and her stub-bow steadily pointed to the onrush of the toppling seas. Every other wave sends a solid sheet of spray right over her, hiding her momentarily from view, but the row of squat figures sitting motionless along the weather gunwale heed it no more than as if they were graven images. And thus they cruise, hungry and thirsty, their eyeballs burning with sleeplessness, throughout the weary hours of night and day, with every sense acutely strained and every moment balanced upon the very scythe-edge of death. Long practice makes them keen of sight as the wailing gulls overhead, and small indeed must be the floating object that escapes their unremitting scrutiny.
Homeward-bound sailing ships from oversea ports are what they principally lust after. The skippers of these vessels after their long absence from home usually feel more or less anxious as they near the narrows. The Trinity pilots in their trim cutters have their cruising ground definitely fixed for them by authority, extending no further west than Dungeness. But long before that well-known point, with its dazzling spear of electric radiance reflected from the gloomy pall of cloud above, is reached, the homeward-bound skipper’s anxiety becomes almost unbearable if the weather be thick and he has as yet made no landfall to verify his position. Then the sudden appearance of a hoveller emerging from the mirk around, and his cheery hail, “D’ye want a pilot, sir?” is heavenly in its relief. For these men, although regarded with no small contempt and disfavour by the aristocracy of pilotage licensed by the Trinity Brethren, know the Channel as a man knows the house he has lived in for years, know it at all times, whether in calm or storm, the blackness of winter midnight, the brilliance of summer noon, or the horrible uncertainty of enshrouding fog.
The hoveller can hardly be blamed if he take full advantage of the foulness of the weather to drive as hard a bargain as he can with the skipper of a hesitating homeward-bounder for the hire of his invaluable local knowledge. Full well he knows that when the skies are serene and the wind is favourable he may tender his services in vain, even at the lowest price. No master, in these days of fierce competition, dare make an entry of a hoveller’s fee in his bill of expenses, except under pressure of bad weather, on pain of being considered unfit for his post, and finding himself compelled to pay the charge out of his own scanty salary.
So that fine weather to the hoveller spells empty pocket and hungry belly. The long, bright days of summer bring to him no joy, though thoughtless passengers lounging at their ease upon the promenade deck of some palatial steamship may think his lot a lazy, lotus-eating way of drowsing through the sunny hours. Neither would they imagine from his wooden immobility of pose and the unbending appearance of his rig what fiery energy he is capable of displaying when opportunity arises.
On one occasion, when I was a lad of eighteen, we were homeward bound from Luzon to London. We sighted Corvo dimly through the driving mist of a fierce westerly gale, before which we bowled along at the rate of 300 miles a day. For nearly five days we fled thus for home, seeing nothing except an occasional dim shape of some vessel flitting silently past. Not a glimpse of the heavenly bodies was vouchsafed us whereby to fix our position, nor did we haul up once for a cast of the deep-sea lead. At last by “dead reckoning,” we were well up Channel, but the steady thrust of the gale never wavered in force or direction. The mist grew denser, the darkness more profound. By the various sounds of foghorns and whistles we knew that many vessels surrounded us, and that it was scarcely less dangerous to heave-to than to run. Presently, by the narrowest of shaves, we missed running down a light outward-bound barque, the incident leaving us with yards swinging every way and a general feeling of uncertainty as to what would happen next. Suddenly out of the gloom to leeward came the hoarse cry, “Want a pilot, sir?” It was the sweetest music imaginable. All eyes were strained in the direction of the voice. In a minute or two the well-known shape of a hovelling lugger became visible, under a double reefed lug, rushing towards us. He rounded to by our lee quarter, and in reply to our skipper’s query, “How much will you take me up to the Ness for?” came the prompt answer; “Ten pounds.” “Ten devils!” yelled our skipper; “why, you adjective hovelling pirate, it’s only about ten minutes’ walk.” “Better get out ’n walk it then, cap’n,” said the boatman; “can’t take you up for no less to-night.” The usual haggling began, but was cut short by the hoveller, who shouted, “So long, cap’n, time’s precious,” giving at the same time a pull at his tiller which sent the boat striding a cable’s length to leeward. “All right,” roared the old man, “come aboard, and be dam’d t’you,” and at the word the lugger was back alongside again. Launching his dinghy was out of the question in such a sea, for at one moment the boat was level with our shearpoles, the next she seemed groping under our keel. “Heave us a line, cap’n,” shouted he, and the mate hurled a coil of the lee main-brace at him. Quick as a wink he had cast a bowline round his waist with the end. “Haul away aboard,” he cried, and as his boat rose on the crest of a big sea he sprang at the ship and missed her. But he had hardly time to disappear in the smother of foam, before he was being dragged up the side like a bale of rags, and almost instantly tumbled on deck. Springing to his feet, he dashed the water out of his eyes, and as calmly as if nothing unusual had happened, said to the man at the wheel, “Put your hellum up, m’lad, square away the main-yard, haul aft the mainsheet,” and as if by magic the weather seemed to fine down and a great peace reigned. “Steady as she goes, m’lad,” said he to the helmsman, with a peep at the compass; and then turning to the skipper, in a wheedling voice, “You couldn’t spare my mates a bit o’ grub, I s’pose, sir, and a plug of terbacker?” “Oh yes,” replied the captain with alacrity. “Stooard! get a couple o’ pieces of beef out o’ the harness cask, and some bread in a bag, for the boatmen. I’ll go down and get them some tobacco.” Already the lugger was closing in on us again, and by the time the longed-for provisions were at hand, she was near enough for them to be hove on board. A further plea for a drop of rum could not be entertained, as we had none, but well pleased with the result of their visit the rovers sheered off and were swallowed up in the encircling darkness. Exactly three-quarters of an hour later we rounded the Ness and hove-to for the pilot, the lugger popping up under our lee again as if she had been towing astern, and receiving back the lucky hoveller with his fat fee in his pocket.
Years after, in a much larger ship, of which I was second mate, we were bound right round the coast to Dundee, and got befogged somewhere off Beachy Head. As on the previous occasion, the wind was strong, and blowing right up Channel. A hoveller came alongside and made a bargain to take us up to Dungeness for ten pounds. By the time he had scrambled on board, our captain began to wonder whether he might be available to pilot us right round to Dundee, not feeling very confident in his own knowledge of the navigation of the East coast. So he put the question to our visitor, who replied that he himself was not qualified, and indeed would not be allowed to take us if he were. But he could arrange to have a North Sea pilot out in Deal Roads awaiting us on our arrival there. This was too much for our skipper’s power of belief. That cockle-shell of a lugger able to outstrip his 1400-ton ship, with this breeze behind her, so much in forty miles! It couldn’t be done. “Never mind, sir,” said the hoveller, “you make my money thirteen pound for the whole job, and if you have to wait in the Downs for your pilot, you needn’t pay me more than ten.” “It’s a go,” answered the captain, fully satisfied.
Hailing his boat, the Dealman gave his instructions. Crowding on all sail, away she went, sheering in for the shore, and soon was lost to sight in the mist. Meanwhile we also set all the sail she could carry, and made a fairly rapid run to the Downs. Sure enough, there was a galley punt awaiting us, the men lying on their oars, and the pilot with his bag lounging in the stern. The skipper said not a word as he handed our hoveller his full money, but he looked like a man who had been badly beaten in a contest of wits.
But if one would see the hoveller at his best, it is when some hapless vessel has met her fate on the Goodwins during a gale. The silent suck of those never-resting sands makes the time of her remaining above water very short, without the certainty of her rapid breaking up under the terrible battering of the mighty seas. Gathering around the doomed fabric, like jackals round a carcass, the hardy beachmen perform prodigies of labour. The work which they will do, wrenching out cargo and fittings, and transferring them to their boats, while the straining, groaning hull threatens every moment to collapse beneath their eager feet, and the bitter tempest fills the air with salt spray, to say nothing of an occasional breaker which buries wreck and wreckers alike beneath its incalculable mass of foaming water, cannot be adequately described—it must be seen to be realised. As if mad with desire, they tear and strain and heave like Titans, apparently insensible to fatigue. For they know that at any moment their prize may vanish from beneath them, and with her all their hopes of gain. Weather has for them no terrors. Let but the cry of “wreck” go up, and though even the lifeboat be beaten back, the hoveller will get there somehow, not under any pretence of philanthropy, but in the hope of earning something, though it may be gratefully recorded that they never shirk the most terrible risks when there is a hope of saving life.
Such sudden and violent transitions from utter idleness to the most tremendous exertion as they continually experience do not seem to harm these toughened amphibia. Plenty of them do of course “go under,” in more or less distressing circumstances, but though their own tiny circle laments their loss, their tragic fate makes no more disturbance than the drop of a pebble outside of it. There are plenty to take their place. For even in so precarious a calling as hovelling there are grades. The poor possessors of only a four-oared galley hope to rise to the dignity of a lugger, so that they may quit scrabbling along the shores and get out to where, if the dangers are indefinitely increased, the chances of a good haul now and then are proportionately greater.
Another phase of their calling is the rescue of vessels who from various causes are drifting to destruction. Many a craft reaches port in safety with a couple of Dealmen on board, that but for their timely help would never have been heard of again. I know of one case where a large French chasse-marée, with a cargo of wine, lost her foremast off the Varne shoal. In its fall it crippled the skipper and one of the crew. Another one was frost-bitten, and the remaining two, both boys, were so paralysed with fright that they were quite useless. So in the grey of the New Year’s dawn, with a pitiless snowstorm raging from the N.W., she was drifting helplessly along the edge of the sand. Two hovellers saw her plight at the same time, and each strained every nerve to get up to her first, for she was a prize well worth the winning. At last they drew so near to her that it was anybody’s race. But the head man of the foremost lugger tore off his oilskins, sea-boots, and fear-nought jacket, and plunging into the boiling sea actually battled his way to her side, climbing on board triumphantly, and so making good his claim. It is satisfactory to be able to add that the dauntless rascal was completely successful in bringing the Trois Frères into Dover, and shared with his four mates £120 for salvage services. Not a bad twenty-four hours’ work, but for nearly two months before they had earned less than five shillings per man per week, and they all had wives and families dependent upon them.
Yet with all their hardships, they are free. No man is their master, for they always sail on shares, varied a little according to each individual’s monetary stake in the boat. And doubtless the wild life has a certain charm of its own, which goes far to counterbalance its severity and danger. “An’ anyhow,” as one of them said to me not long ago, “ourn’s a bizness the bloomin’ Germans ain’t likely to do us out of. There ain’t many left like that, is ther?”
XXII
THE LOSS OF THE ‘ST. GEORGE’ An Incident of the Anglo-German War of 19—
“Things is lookin’ pretty bad for the British sailor, Bill, don’t ye think?”
“Well, fur’s I c’n see, they can’t look much wuss, Joe. I know one thing: ’f I c’d a only got a billet ashore—even a bloomin’ dus’man’s job—I’d a never even smelt salt water agen. W’y, there ain’t no Henglish ships now ’ceptin’ fur the flag. But I will say this much; I never seen it quite so bad’s this afore.”
The speakers were the only two British seamen before the mast on board the four-masted steel sailing ship St. George, of Liverpool, bound from London to Melbourne with a general cargo of immense value, and nearly five thousand tons measurement. In the square of the main hatch was carefully stowed forty tons of blasting and rifle powder received at the “red buoy,” Gravesend, and earning a very high freight. The master was a German of Rostock, Friedrich Schwartz by name, who for the wage of £10 per month was filling this onerous position to the exclusion of an Englishman, who thought such a post deserved better pay. The chief officer, unfortunately for him, was a Liverpool man, with a little money of his own, who could therefore afford to cut rates as well as the Germans. Every other member of the ship’s company, except the two worthies above-mentioned and a couple of Warspite lads, was a “ja-for-yes man” as Jack impartially denominates Scandinavians and Teutons alike.
When the St. George left the East India Docks, the managing director (she belonged to a single-ship company whereof none of the shareholders knew anything of the shipping business) chuckled to himself to think how cheaply she was manned, and hurried back to Billiter Street to calculate his commission on the outward passage. The political outlook was very gloomy. Germany was growing more insolently aggressive every day, and the omniscient Kaiser smiled grimly as he read the latest report of the British Registrar-General of Seamen. He was naturally delighted to see how completely the British nation was handing over the control of its vast mercantile marine to foreign officers and seamen, all of whom were trained naval men, and capable of immediately utilising any sudden opportunity of dealing Britain a deadly blow.
At the time alluded to at the opening of this story, the St. George, under a towering mountain of canvas, was bowling rapidly through the north-east Trades towards the Line. Needless, perhaps, to say that the Britons on board were having an uncomfortable time of it. The mate was made to feel at every turn that he was an interloper. Although his country’s flag sheltered him, Captain Schwartz’s contempt for England and all that belonged to her was freely vented in his hearing. And all conversation on board, as well as most of the orders, being in German, Mr. Brown and his four compatriots felt that they were indeed aliens on sufferance. Like the majority of their countrymen, they knew no language but their own, which in the present instance was as well for their small remainder of mental peace. The two A.B.s had at least one advantage over the mate, they could talk to each other, though every “workup” job was sorted out to them, their treatment being just the same as the two boys.
So the days dragged wearily on until one morning a streak of smoke on the northern horizon gradually resolved itself into a splendid armoured cruiser that overhauled the St. George as if she were at anchor instead of logging twelve knots easy. With a bird-like swoop the flyer sheered up under her quarter, showing the white ensign at her standard. Up went the good old “blood and guts,” of Old England at the St. George’s peak in reply, and to the incisive sea-queries from the cruiser’s bridge, Mr. Brown shouted back the information required as to port of destination, length of passage, etc. Then came ringing across the startling message, “War is declared between England and Germany. But you’re all right, I hope. There is little danger to be apprehended from German warships. Still, be careful, and crack on all you know if you do see a suspicious-looking craft. Good-bye,” and the majestic vessel sheered off at top speed for the westward.
“Ha, mein verdammt Englischer schweinhund, dot ju are, hou ju feel yoost now, hein? Gott bewahr; ju haf komm to ein ent mit yourselluf, aind id? Ve schou ju somedings now, und tond ju forkedd id.” Thus the triumphant skipper, accompanying his jeers at the mate with a horrible grimace at the brilliant flag floating proudly overhead, and an emphatic expectoration on the white deck. Then, excited beyond measure, he rushed to the break of the poop and yelled a summons in German for all hands. Aft they came, tumbling over one another in their eagerness, and ranged themselves before the saloon doors. On his lofty platform above their heads the rampant skipper raved, stamped, gesticulated, and finally burst sonorously into song, “Deutschland, Deutschland, über alles,” all hands, with the miserable exception of the handful of English, joining vociferously in his pæan of triumph.
Thenceforward, a further development of scurvy treatment took place. The mate was no longer allowed access to the chronometer, or permitted to “take the sun,” or work up the ship’s position. The log-book was also taken from him, the young third mate given charge of his watch, and he was made to take his meals alone in his berth. Neither he nor the two English A.B.s were allowed to come on the poop any more, so that they were completely in the dark as to the position of the ship within hundreds of miles, as from never seeing the compass they could only guess generally how she was steering. Spiritlessly the luckless islanders wearily worried on from day to day, the butt of all their exulting shipmates. When the Kaiser’s birthday came round, and the ship was put en fête, they were bidden sarcastically to rejoice over the change of affairs. But with the hoisting of an immense German flag at the peak they lost all control of themselves, bursting into a fury of passionate tears, mingled with curses upon their enemies. They were immediately set upon by the whole crowd, and after a few minutes of desperate fighting were overpowered, heavily ironed, and flung into the forepeak on the coals, bruised from head to heel. Many and bitter were their regrets as they lay on their easeless couch. Scarcely less venomous were their curses on the fatuous folly of the rulers who had suffered such an event as this to become possible than on their brutal gaolers. For as Joe muttered scornfully, “Tain’t ’sif they hain’t been told of it. It’s been drummed into their yeers long ’nough, God knows, ’n all they ever sed wuz, ‘Oh, yore ezaggeratin’. The pussentidge uv furriners in the British mercantile marine ain’t anythin’ like so high az you say.”
“’Seems ’bout’s high’s we want, anyway,” said Bill dreamily, while the poor mate ground his teeth but never said a word.
What puzzled them all greatly was the length of time the ship seemed to be getting into cold weather. From the time the cruiser spoke them, when they were in about 15 degrees N., was now more than a month, and with the winds they had carried they should have been running their easting down in about 40 degrees S. But they were still in tropical weather. At last the mate broke a long silence by saying: “I believe he’s making for Walvisch Bay. ’Shouldn’t wonder if there’s some German warships there or thereabouts. I only hope he is trying to get there, an’ one of our cruisers sights him. It’s about our only chance.”
Several days passed and still they were kept close prisoners in the black, stifling hole, starving on a trifle of hard tack and water, and sinking deeper every day into a very gulf of despair. At last, to the practised senses of the captives, it was evident that something was afoot. She had hove to. On deck the Deutschers were in trouble. As the mate had surmised, they were bound for Walvisch Bay, carrying every rag they could crowd on her, seeing that every hour they were out of port now on this unusual course was brimful of danger. The skipper scarcely ever left the deck, and his eyes were bleared and burning with constant glaring through his glasses for a possible pursuer.
H.M.S. Scourge, 22-knot cruiser, was on her passage to Simon’s Town with urgent stores for the squadron off that station. Her orders were—“All possible dispatch,” yet, when the look-out one afternoon reported a heavily-rigged four-master standing to the eastward in latitude twenty-three degrees south, her commander felt justified in altering her course sufficiently to bring him in touch with this phenomenon. The stranger was making grand headway under all canvas to a heavy south-east Trade, but the speed of the cruiser was fully two knots to her one. In about an hour, therefore, from sighting her, the Scourge ranged sufficiently near to inquire by signal for the usual information. But the merchantman was so slow with his answers that before two sets had been hoisted the vessels were within hail of each other. “Where are you bound to?” roared the commander of the cruiser. A dramatic pause succeeded, in which all eyes on board both ships were centred upon the skipper of the St. George. At last the reluctant answer came, “Walvisch Bay.” “The devil you are,” said the naval captain; “I must have a closer look at you.” A couple of abrupt orders, and a well-manned cutter, with the first-lieutenant in charge, was bounding across the few fathoms of sea towards the St. George, with instructions to ascertain the bottom facts of this mystery. Arriving alongside, the officer sprang on board, and, quickly mounting the poop, confronted Captain Schwartz, whose face was a study of conflicting emotions. Already the lieutenant had noticed the Teutonic appearance of everybody on deck, and the captain’s working face deepened the suspicions aroused. “I wish to examine your papers, sir,” said he quietly to the scowling skipper. “Vat for, sir?” was the almost expected reply. For all answer the lieutenant strode to the side and blew a small whistle, which brought six of his boat’s crew bounding on board in an instant. “Now, sir,” he said, turning again to the skipper, “my time is precious, and my orders precise. Kindly lead the way into your cabin, and produce your documents, or I must search for them without you.” The baffled Teuton still hesitating, the naval officer, with a slight gesture of impatience, beckoned his men aft. They came on the jump, but one of them stepping forward in advance of his fellows, saluted, and said, “Beg pardon, sir, but we just heard some voices forrard a-cryin’ ‘Help!’ and it sounded’s if they wus cooped up somewheres.” A dark frown settled upon the officer’s face as he replied, sternly, “Three of you go forrard and search; the others come below here with me.” But before he stepped into the companion-way he blew two sharp notes on his whistle, a signal which was immediately answered by the cruiser sending another cutter alongside with a fully-armed crew.
In the meantime the search aft had revealed the ship’s papers, which showed of course that the St. George had cleared from London for Melbourne. The skipper’s private journal in German was also impounded. With the documents under his arm the lieutenant returned on deck, just as the search party forward emerged from the fore-peak bringing their hapless countrymen to light. Orders were immediately issued to place all the foreigners under arrest, but the skipper was nowhere to be seen. A search for him was ordered at once, but the words had hardly been spoken when, with an awful roar, the whole beautiful fabric was rent into a myriad fragments; an immense volume of dense smoke rose sullenly into the clear air, and the sparkling sea was bestrewn with the mangled remains of friend and foe alike.
The desperate skipper had chosen, rather than give up his ill-gotten prize, to fire the great store of powder under the main-hatch, involving himself and his captors in one awful fate. A great wave raised by the gigantic explosion made even the stately cruiser roll and stagger as if in a heavy gale, but all her boats were in the water in a trice making search for any trace of life among the wreckage.
Not one was saved, and with a company of heavy-hearted men she resumed her passage bearing the terrible news of the loss of the St. George.
XXIII
THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MERCHANT SERVICE
At intervals, ever since the issue of the last report of the Registrar-General of Shipping and Seamen, there have been appearing in the press items of comment upon the significant tables set forth in that most interesting document. But one feature has been painfully evident in all of them—the inability to appreciate, from a merchant seaman’s point of view, the underlying lessons that report contained.
This, though much to be regretted, can scarcely be wondered at when we remember the limitations, the inarticulateness, of the class referred to. Here it may be as well to state that in what follows the terms “ship,” “officer,” and “seaman,” are to be understood as referring solely to the Mercantile Marine, unless otherwise stated—a necessary warning, since eight out of every ten landsmen always confound the two services, mercantile and naval.
First in importance, as well as in interest, to seamen is the question of personnel. It is much to the credit of the Navy League that it is wide awake to the dangers besetting this country through the increasing numbers of foreign seamen manning our ships. But it does not appear as if even the Navy League fully realises to what extent our cargo-carriers have been handed over to the foreigner. A very extended acquaintance with the various trades is absolutely necessary in order to understand the reason why the percentages shown in the Board of Trade return do not reveal the true state of affairs. As they stand, the percentage of foreign able-seamen to British (excluding Lascars) in foreign-going sailing ships is shown to be as high as 48.6. Taking steam and sailing ships together, the percentage falls to 35.5, for reasons which will presently appear. Now, one would naturally expect (what proves indeed to be the case) that our coasters and fishermen would be almost entirely British. And we may go a step further, and declare that these hardy fellows are the fine flower of our seamen, as stalwart and capable as ever British seamen were. With them may be classed the fishermen, hovellers, and beachmen generally of our coasts, who, though not classed as seamen, may fearlessly challenge comparison with any seafarers in the wide world. Among all these the foreigner finds little or no room wherein to thrust himself, nor is there apparently much danger that he ever will. Next to these in order of immunity from foreign interference come the great steamship lines, other than those trading to the Far East, whose crews are almost exclusively composed of Lascars and Chinese, with British officers. To the former belong such great undertakings as the “Cunard,” the “Union,” the “Castle,” and the “Pacific” Companies. In these splendid vessels the Britisher tenaciously holds his own, in whatever part of the ship you seek him. The food is good, pay is fair, accommodation is comfortable, and a high state of discipline is maintained. Consequently, these ships are eagerly sought after by the better class of seamen, who will be found making voyage after voyage in the same vessel, or at least in the same line.
But having thus briefly dismissed the almost exclusively British-manned branches of the Mercantile Marine, we are met by a vastly different state of affairs at once.