"Jack Ashore."
By Albert E. Craft.
The airy assurance with which "Jack Ashore" gets into—and out of—serious scrapes has become almost proverbial. This story describes the adventures which befell a party of British seamen who went for a ramble in a Chilian port.
It was in the early months of 1896, and I was an able seaman on board the ship Micronesia, of Liverpool, then lying in the port of Antofagasta, Chile, where we were discharging a cargo of coals loaded at Newcastle, New South Wales. A quarter of a mile away was the French barque, La Provence, loading a cargo of saltpetre for Havre.
THE AUTHOR, MR. A. E. CRAFT.
From a Photograph.
Amongst our sailors was a Frenchman, and he, being one of our boat's crew, had made the acquaintance of his countrymen on board the other ship in his various trips, it being the custom of the captains then in port to call upon each other and all to go ashore in the one boat. Thus they benefited by having the full complement of their crew on board to work cargo—which they had to do in those days, except on the occasion when their particular boat had to act as ferry.
We had been there something like eight or ten days when part of the crew of the French ship got the usual twenty-four hours' liberty in which to go ashore and enjoy themselves.
Liberty day! The one bright day in the weary monotony of a long sailing-ship voyage—the one day in which, with a month's pay in his pocket, Jack is as good as his master, when he may eat what he likes, drink what he likes, do what he likes, so long as he turns up when the boatswain musters the hands to work after the all-too-short holiday.
So, with the jingling coins burning holes in their pockets, and their hearts as light as school-boys', they pushed off from their ship. And we, knowing where they were going, stared moodily across the bay, longing to be with them.
A diversion occurred, however, when we saw the boat's head swing in our direction, and a few minutes later range alongside our ship.
Up to our deck climbed the merry Frenchmen, laughing and jabbering like so many monkeys. Soon they were in animated conversation with our messmate, "Frenchy," whom we presently discovered, by adroit questioning, they were persuading to obtain leave from our captain and go with them.
And he got it, too—minus the month's pay—and immediately set about rigging himself out in his shore clothes. This did not suit us at all—at least, some of us. Why should he have leave of absence, and we not? we asked each other. We would go and ask the captain, too.
The end of it was that we got the desired leave—five of us, Frenchy making the sixth—but only for the one night. We were given to understand we must be on board by four bells—six o'clock—next morning ready to turn to.
"And look here, Craft," was the captain's parting injunction—"no monkey tricks, mind. I look to you, as leading seaman, for the good behaviour of the rest. Further, I shall hold you responsible for these men turning up in the morning, or else"—he shook a warning finger at me—"not another hour's liberty this voyage for any of you."
Promising obedience—I would have promised anything just then for a run ashore—we hustled off to prepare ourselves. This did not take long. Throwing aside our coal-grimed dungarees, we each donned white trousers and jackets and broad-brimmed straw hats. With these on we felt equal to the best, happily unconscious of a few small rents, a missing button, or the fact that the virgin whiteness of our "shore togs" was marred by many and various stains.
But what about money? For the moment we had forgotten that. True, the Frenchmen had a month's pay in their pockets, but we had no intention of sponging upon them. Well, then, we would take some clothing, we decided. There were numerous places in Antofagasta where we could trade them. There was old Don Carlos, as he was called, whom we had heard so much about, and his Jew partner Miguel. Perhaps they were not so black as they were painted, and we had been told they would buy anything from a hard-up sailor. For myself, I was the envied possessor of a whole Australian sovereign, so you may guess my bearing was in accordance with my wealth.
"Now, then, all aboard!" sang out one of the Frenchmen. Into the boat we scuttled with our bundles, and, giving way with a will, we soon covered the stretch of water between the ship and jetty and pulled the boat alongside, mooring her head and stern.
Not a hundred yards along the quay, who should we come suddenly upon but Don Carlos and his partner.
"Talk of the old gentleman!" cried someone in the rear. "I shouldn't wonder if the old sharks haven't been watching us all the while. I bet you they know we have something to trade."
"Halloa, boys"—Don Carlos's greeting was hearty enough, as was the hand-shake all round—"going to have a little run round? That's right, amigos; nothing like it. Too much salt water is not good for anybody. What! no money! Well, now, that's too bad. Got something to sell, have you? All right, come along to the store and have a drink with me; then we'll talk business. Come on, now, boys, every one of you. A drink at my expense!"
For a Chilano he spoke excellent English, with a slight American intonation and accent, and had a certain geniality of manner which appealed to the simple minds of the sailors.
Off we sailed, the two Chilanos and myself in the van, and soon arrived at the "store," a combination of ship-chandler's shop, café, card-room, and billiard saloon.
Inside, our hosts were the very essence of geniality. They served us with drinks and cigars—real Havanas at that—telling us to "Drink up, boys, and have another," until we were unanimous in our verdict that they were "true blue" and not the unscrupulous sharks we had been led to believe.
A second drink was served out, and over this Don Carlos and his party made an inspection of the articles we had for sale.
By a previous arrangement it had been agreed upon that our Frenchy was to have the entire handling of this part of the programme, not only because he spoke Chilano like a native, thereby putting a stopper upon any by-play between the two merchants, but also because we knew him as a man who could drive a hard bargain.
Therefore, knowing that our interests—and our capital, too, for that matter—were in safe hands, we just lay back and smoked and drank our "piscoe," and allowed him to do the haggling. Nor did we take the slightest interest in the bargaining until our attention was suddenly arrested by high words and a long, burring curse from our shipmate. We looked up to see him on his feet, shaking his fist in Don Carlos's face—which was as white as the Frenchy's was red—and talking thirteen to the dozen.
The volubility and the rapidity with which he delivered himself were simply marvellous. We could for the time being simply sit still and gape at him, open-mouthed and wondering. Such a jargon of sounds, such a jumble of languages, it would be hard to conceive. First French, next broken English, and then a mixture of Spanish and Chilano.
At it he went, tacks and sheets, for all he was worth, never giving the Chilano a chance to open his mouth. And from it all we gathered that Don Carlos, polished rascal that he was, contended that the drinks and cigars we had received—free, gratis, and for nothing, as we thought—were sufficient pay for the "few paltry rags" we had brought ashore. And he'd be hanged, he said, if he'd pay another cent!
"Gif me six dollars, you shark—zat ees une dollar for each piece of us," hissed Frenchy; "or I vill, I vill——" He ended up with a mixture of imprecations, while his fist, thumping upon the table, jarred every glass upon it.
The Chilano was obdurate. Finding his voice at length, he swore by all the saints in South America that he would see our man in Jericho, or some even warmer locality, before he would give him a ha'penny. Springing to his feet, he ordered us all outside, threatening to call the vigilantes to shift us if we did not go.
"Gif me ze monai first; gif me ze monai," shouted Frenchy, spluttering with rage. "Or return to me ze artickeels."
Seeing trouble looming large on the horizon, and remembering the captain's instructions and my promise, I stepped forward with the intention of taking it upon myself to come to an amicable settlement.
I was too late, for Frenchy, beside himself with rage, reached forward and, laying violent hands upon Don Carlos's prominent nose, gave it a pull that made him squeak like a bos'n's pipe. At the same moment up jumped old Miguel, who had hitherto remained a silent observer, and seizing a stout malacca cane, loaded at one end, he brought it down with a crash on to Frenchy's skull.
"LAYING VIOLENT HANDS UPON DON CARLOS'S PROMINENT NOSE, HE GAVE IT A PULL."
This was the signal for what followed. As the unfortunate seaman toppled to the floor, his face covered with blood, we five "Micronesias" made a forward rush.
What else could we do? I am peaceably inclined, and would rather run a mile than fight a minute; but what Englishman could stand by and see a shipmate keel-hauled for standing up for his rights, without wanting to know the reason? Good intentions, captain's orders, my promises—they all blew away like a royal sheet in a breeze.
With a "Come on, boys!" we got right down to business. The table, laden with glasses, cigars, and bottles, the chairs upon which we had been seated, as well as other sundries, instantly found a resting-place against the wall, all in a more or less complete state of dilapidation. While I and another fellow attended to Miguel and his wildly-swinging malacca cane, with the intention of rescuing Frenchy, the other three busied themselves with Don Carlos, who had now been reinforced by his man-of-all-work—a big, lumbering, evil-faced Chilano.
The Frenchmen from the other ship formed the after-guard. They did not take any hand in the fight, and for that matter we did not blame them. Frenchy was our shipmate, not theirs. It was in our interests that he had got a cracked skull, and so we had a double right to punish his cowardly assailants.
This, by the way, did not prove a very difficult job. They were cowards at heart, were these scoundrelly Chilanos. A short, sharp tussle, a few well-directed blows given with all an Englishman's zest, and we had Frenchy out of the mêlée, while, with a quick wrench, I possessed myself of the loaded cane.
A horse-rug in the corner caught my eye, and in a twinkling we had Frenchy in it and hustled him outside—I, meanwhile, calling off our men and bidding them make tracks for the boat. As we gained the open air, and stooped down with our burden so that we might get a better grip of the improvised stretcher, the man-of-all-work made a flying leap towards me and, with a savage downward blow, endeavoured to drive a knife between my shoulder-blades. Only my quickness of movement saved me. Almost before he could recover himself I had jumped up and caught him a resounding crack on his figurehead that laid him low. Old Miguel joined him next with a similar dose. Don Carlos had by this time made a rapid exit and, running to the corner, was howling vociferously for the vigilantes. But what did I care for vigilantes now? My blood was fairly up. Into the store I rushed, followed by my shipmates, leaving the Frenchman to the care of his countrymen, and in less time than it takes to tell the place was in the most artistic state of wreck you can well conceive.
Then, triumphant, we marched off—a defiant, victorious squad, tattered and torn to a degree. For myself, my white coat had gone entirely; a cotton singlet which I wore was minus an arm, and that which was left was splashed with blood; my white trousers were torn from the ankle to the knee, and one of my shoes was missing.
We had not proceeded far, however, before we found that Don Carlos's howling for the vigilantes was taking effect.
From this street and that figures came running, and swelled a rapidly growing mob, which followed on our heels, hooting and throwing missiles. Higher up the street a shout was raised, which cry was taken up and echoed by the mob. An officer of vigilantes, with drawn sword and bristling moustache, pushed his way through the crowd and called upon us to halt. Failing to get his way by word of mouth, he started pricking us in the legs with his sword-point. Hearing me give the order to "rush him," and seeing in me the man whom he believed to be in command, he directed his attentions to me. "Halta! halta!" he cried, peremptorily, but I pushed him aside and marched on. Then a sharp stab in my leg made me hop. For a moment only did I hesitate, then my back stiffened, my hand shot forward with the malacca at the first guard, and with my old R.N.R. drill in my mind I engaged him—his sword to my cane.
For some time we went at it hammer and tongs, while the crowd stood back in awestricken amazement. Acting only on the defensive, I warded off his cuts with a coolness which surprised me later on, but soon a stinging sensation in the shoulder caused me to change my tactics. Pressing him hard until an opening presented itself, I brought him to the ground with a "cut one," delivered with all the force I possessed.
Then came the retreat. Away we flew—the Frenchmen, with our wounded man, towards the mountains; some of our men up one street, some down another, while I made a bee-line for the wharf and the boat.
The howling mob behind pursued me hotly. Occasionally I would stop and shake my cane at them, which had the effect of bringing them to a momentary halt. Then I was off again.
I don't wonder at their halting when I swung round upon them, for I must have cut a most awful figure. Blood-stained and ragged, with the excitement of battle showing in my eyes and face, they must have thought I was mad, and for the moment I suppose I was.
Soon the wharf hove into view. Out in the bay I could see the lights of my ship. With beating heart and laboured breath I sped on. Suddenly someone rushed out at me from a dark corner. For a moment I staggered; then, as he raced on at my side, I discovered, to my joy, that it was one of my shipmates.
Another hundred yards and we should be safe. Then, without warning, we ran straight into the arms of a cordon of vigilantes drawn up in a semicircle awaiting our approach!
It was all over. Unresistingly we allowed ourselves to be manacled, and, guarded on either side by half-a-dozen men with shouldered rifles and fixed bayonets, we were driven off to the "calaboose," two officers on horseback bringing up the rear of the cavalcade.
Thrown into a cell, where I found my comrades already housed, I had ample time to meditate upon the events of the last hour or two. I had been in many a scrape before, but this was the first time I had ever been on the hither side of prison walls, and now that the excitement had passed, I fairly recoiled at the disgrace of it.
My head ached, my feet were lacerated, I was dirty, blood-stained, and nearly naked. I looked around the filthy place, at the no less filthy Chilanos—our fellow-prisoners, who jeered at us derisively—and groaned aloud.
Though feeling my position keenly, I was by no means sorry for what I had done. I had acted, I told myself, just as any other Englishman would under the circumstances. I had been goaded into it, and the blame lay with Don Carlos and his rascally compatriot.
Arraigned before the judge the next day we presented a bedraggled appearance. Through an interpreter the charge was explained to us, evidence was heard, and the case decided. After we had been removed we found that the prison-sheet contained the following notice: "Alberto Crafto, José Essien, Juan Andres, Carlos Parko, Tomaso Mahan, twenty-five days' imprisonment each." The Frenchmen were not in it—they had apparently got clear away to the hills.
"I BROUGHT HIM TO THE GROUND WITH A 'CUT ONE,' DELIVERED WITH ALL THE FORCE I POSSESSED."
Prison life was not so bad, save for the taint and the vile companions amongst whom we were thrown. We were fairly well treated and fed, had plenty of outdoor recreation, and labour of any description was never asked of one.
This last was the thing which preyed upon me. I like being busy at any time, besides, the enforced idleness left too much time for unwholesome thinking.
At length I asked permission to work. "What can you do?" questioned the Commandante. "Do? Anything!" I told him. "Mend a roof, make a chair, do joiner work, paint——"
"Paint, ah!" he cried—some idea had evidently struck him. "Well, I will think of it."
The end of it was that I was given the job to paint the office at which ships received pratique. This office stood on the wharf adjacent to the landing-place. It was a building constructed of inch-and-a-half deal planking, and consisted of two rooms. I was also given tools with which to do a little repairing.
Nothing could possibly have suited me better. The moment I entered it I thought: "Here is my chance of escape!" A thin, wooden floor, a rickety old wharf, and beneath that the water and safety—I could not have wished for anything better.
Each morning I was escorted to the office by two vigilantes, who locked the door upon me and immediately went off, returning only to give me my midday meal, and later to escort me back to prison.
An hour after being left alone I had weighed up all the chances. Another went by, and by dint of strenuous exertions I had made a very fair show of painting on one of the walls—this in case of any undue inquisitiveness.
Next I found a suitable place, away from observation, at a point where the floor was covered with reed matting, and began, carefully and noiselessly, cutting through the planks.
Between times I showed myself at the one window in case anyone should be spying; then I would do a little painting and hammering, but I always returned to my chief objective—sawing my way through to the water.
Using every precaution—covering up and disposing of even the minutest particle of sawdust—always on the alert, and working like a Trojan whenever my jailers were expected, I made such good progress that by the third morning a hole large enough to permit of my body passing had been cut through the twelve-inch deals of the jetty, the pieces which I had cut out being carefully stowed in the space between the floor of the office and the jetty. The way of escape was open!
The only thing that bothered me was that I should be compelled to make my attempt at escape during the day, as each night, of course, I was securely locked up in the jail. Well, I should have to risk it. I would wait until the hour after noon, I decided, when the greater percentage of these indolent Chilanos indulged in their siesta. It was a hundred to one chance against my being discovered, and as I had been taking risks all along, there was no reason why I should shirk them now.
Noon came, and with it my dinner. My hand must have trembled as I took the dish from the vigilante's hand, for he calmly walked within a yard of the hole in the floor! Certainly I felt my face pale with suppressed emotion and fear.
He looked sharply at me. "Usted malo?" (you sick) he asked. I shook my head, and, apparently satisfied, the man turned on his heel and left.
Hastily swallowing a few mouthfuls of food, I waited, with what patience I could, for the time I had fixed upon for my escape. In this, fortune favoured me. It was a stifling, suffocating day, with not a breath of air stirring. The populace seemed even more eager than usual to seek the shelter of their verandas, while the boatmen and quay loiterers retreated to the comparative coolness of the shaded alameda.
A little while longer and only an occasional straggler disturbed the stillness of the sleepy quayside. Then I knew the time had come.
Carefully, yet quickly, I slipped through the hole in the floor, and, hanging on to the beams overhead, pulled the matting over the cavity. Though my heart beat fast with trepidation, I could not repress a grim chuckle at the thought of the consternation of my jailer when he found me gone. Then I dropped silently into the water.
It was only a few yards to the nearest boat. Reaching it, I clambered cautiously over the gunwale and lay flat in the bottom. Barely allowing myself time to regain my breath, and inwardly congratulating myself upon my success, I raised my body with the intention of casting off the painter. Then a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and a guttural voice spoke a short, sharp command.
It was a vigilante! Under an awning in the next boat he had sought relief from the fierce heat, and the gentle bumping of my craft against his had awakened him. And now I had been recaptured, just when victory seemed within my grasp!
Back to the prison I was marched, being informed that thenceforth I should be kept in close confinement.
Next morning, while communing with my moody thoughts, I was aroused by heavy footsteps outside. A key grated in the lock, and the Commandante, with my captain at his side, stepped in.
"Pretty mess this is you've got yourself into!" growled the captain. "And you are the man I depended upon and held responsible for the good behaviour of the others! Going around the place like a madman, killing half-a-dozen police, and wrecking a store—not to speak of the disgrace you have brought upon yourself and my ship. You deserve all that is coming to you—and I'll see you get it, too!"
"Very well, sir," I answered, not without a little shame in my voice. "You have heard what these people have to say against me. But there are two sides to every story——"
"And my side," interrupted the captain, flicking a paper in my face, "is that you'll pay this twenty-five dollars fine and come down to the ship with me at once, where you'll be logged two days' pay for one as a fitting finish to your holiday."[5]
[5] It is an understood thing—perhaps an unwritten law—that when a seaman is sentenced to imprisonment in a foreign port as the result of a "flare-up," the captain of his ship can, with the aid of the Consul, pay any fine imposed, thereby claiming the man's discharge and immediate removal to his vessel. The fine, with the further forfeiture of the two days' pay claimed for every one absent from duty, is then deducted from the seaman's pay at the end of the voyage.—The Author.
So, one way and another, we paid pretty dearly for our little trip ashore at Antofagasta.