RETRIBUTION.
A story of the bad old “shanghaiing” days, showing how a villainous crimp had the tables turned upon him in dramatic fashion. Captain Pugh heard the first part of the story while in Newcastle, N.S.W., as mate of a ship, and its sequel upon a return voyage.
In 1872 Newcastle, New South Wales, was a busy, thriving little seaport. The harbour was full of large sailing ships, loading and waiting to load coal, and bound chiefly to China, San Francisco, and the Pacific Coast ports.
Very few of these ships had their full complement of seamen on board. Most of the sailors deserted during the vessels’ stay in port—and one cannot blame them, when it is remembered that the pay in these ships from British ports was two pounds ten a month, with the poorest quality of food that it was possible for the ship-owner to buy, and only just sufficient of that to keep body and soul together.
The pay out of the Australian ports was, for homeward-bounders, five pounds ten, and in the coast and inter-Colonial traders seven pounds a month, with a sufficiency of good, nourishing food. In addition to the inducements offered by the coast traders, there was plenty of work to be found on shore, for the Queensland, Victorian, and South Australian goldfields were in full swing. The consequence was that there was great difficulty in getting men to man the ships when they were ready for sea.
Like most seaports in those days of sailing-ships, the town was full of sailors’ boarding-houses. The tactics and ways of procuring men employed by the proprietors of these places were not such as would stand the light of day, but nevertheless they did a thriving business.
One of the most noted characters in the town was a boarding-house keeper named Dan Sullivan, a scoundrel to the backbone. He was notorious for the number of men he had “shanghaied” out of the port, but, strange to say, he had gained a certain amount of power in the town, and shipmasters requiring men were, under the circumstances, compelled to deal with him, although at the same time many of them had the utmost contempt for the fellow.
Sullivan kept a low-class drinking saloon with a free-and-easy dancing-room attached to it. The boarders lived in the rooms overhead. This was the only dancing saloon in the town, and was thronged with sailors every night. The liquor sold was, needless to say, vile stuff, but men who have been living for months on weevily biscuit and “salt-horse” have very little taste left in their mouths, and as long as the decoction was hot and came out of a bottle it passed muster.
Sullivan was an adept at drugging liquor, and he always kept materials at hand for that purpose. Just a little tobacco ash dropped in the glass when pouring out the drinks, and the thing was done. When he required a few sailors for a ship ready to sail, he picked out the likeliest men in the room—usually strangers—and when the seamen, hot and thirsty with dancing, ordered drinks through the women who acted as waitresses, these Delilahs would bring the prepared stuff, and soon the men would feel muddled and sleepy and would go into the side room and sink down on the benches.
Sullivan would then slip in among them.
“Halloa, mates! What’s the matter? Feel queer, eh? Ah, it’s the dancing and the hot weather. I’ll send you a good tot that will put you all right.”
He would then send one of the girls in with a good glass of hot whisky—drugged, and that would be all the men would know for some time. When they came to their senses they found themselves in a strange ship, out of sight of land, without a stitch of clothes beyond what they stood up in. Of course, there was generally a row, but it invariably ended in their turning to work and making the best of a bad bargain.
“HALLOA, MATES! WHAT’S THE MATTER?”
One day in February, 1872, it happened that there were three British ships lying at the buoys, loaded and ready to sail, but each was in want of a few seamen to make up her complement. Not a man could be got at the shipping-office for love or money—the news of a fresh gold-field on the Barrington had reached Newcastle that morning, and all the disengaged men had made tracks for that district. So the only possible way to get hands for the vessels ready to sail was to obtain them from the ships that had lately arrived, and which would have some time to wait for a loading berth.
The captains of the ships at the buoys sent for Sullivan, and arranged with him to supply them with four men each that night, as the trio would sail at the turn of the tide. When Sullivan got back on shore, he sent some of his runners to quietly let the crews of the ships in harbour know there was to be a free concert and dance at his place, with plenty of whisky into the bargain.
When night came the saloon was packed with seamen, and among the lot were six fine young American sailors from the ship Jeremiah Crawford, of New Bedford. Now, New Bedford ships are very often “family ships”—that is to say, the captain, officers, and seamen are related to each other. Of the six young fellows who went to this dance, two were nephews of the captain, one was a relative of the mate, and the others were related to members of the crew.
Long before the dance was over there were several seamen lying helplessly drugged in the side room. Just before midnight, and while the dance was still going on, Sullivan and his fellow-crimps removed the helpless men down to a boat, and took them off to the ships at the buoys. Then Sullivan pocketed his blood-money, and before daylight the vessels were at sea under all plain sail.
The following day, when the six American seamen did not turn up on board the Jeremiah Crawford, inquiries were quietly made, and it was soon found out what had become of them; they had been among the twelve men “shanghaied” aboard the three waiting ships. The men’s shipmates, boiling with anger, wanted to go and wreck Sullivan and his saloon, but the captain called all hands aft, and from the poop told them they must not let it be known that they knew where their shipmates were.
“I know how you feel over it,” he said, “and I know how I feel too, but I intend to pay that rascal in his own coin. Those Britishers are off to ‘Frisco, and we are bound there, too; and you can bet your bottom dollar I mean to make the ship move when we start. And what is more, I intend to take that rascal Sullivan with me!”
“All right, captain,” answered the men. “Mum’s the word. We will wait events.”
Two days afterwards Captain Monk, of the Jeremiah Crawford, told Sullivan to get him six men by the time the ship was loaded.
Sullivan agreed, on condition that he was paid three pounds per man. This Captain Monk agreed to, and when the ship was finished and hauled out to the buoys, Sullivan sent word to the captain that he would bring the men off about eight p.m.
Now, that day a young Irish police-constable had been transferred from Sydney to Newcastle, and promoted. He was appointed to this district with a view to watching the goings-on at Sullivan’s, rumours of which had reached police head-quarters.
The constable was married to a fine strapping Irish lass, who was a great help to her husband. She wore her hair short like a man’s, and was not a stranger to the wearing of men’s clothes. It was partly owing to her, in fact, that her husband had got his position.
The constable knew he was there to get proof of Sullivan’s shady doings, and it was accordingly arranged that his wife should disguise herself as a seaman—as she had done before—and watch the inside while her husband watched the outside of Sullivan’s saloon. The policeman’s wife was a splendidly-built woman, as straight as a reed, and muscular as well.
So it happened that, when Sullivan was picking out the men he wanted for his purpose that night, he saw this likely-looking young fellow among them. But he was not taking any liquor—only a bottle of ginger-ale. Sullivan obligingly opened a bottle for him, and it was a simple matter, as the stuff fizzed out, to knock the ash from his cigar into the glass with his little finger, and the mischief was done.
Presently one of his spies cautioned the crimp that there was a constable knocking about in the street.
“We must get the beggar out of the way, Mike,” said Sullivan. “I’ll soon settle him. You watch him.”
Going outside, Sullivan walked up the street past the constable, smoking a splendid cigar. The constable got a whiff and wished he had one like it. In a few minutes the crimp returned, still puffing away at the cigar. As he passed the policeman he quietly dropped his cigar-case. The constable, just behind him, saw the case and picked it up, and, seeing there were two or three fine cigars in it, succumbed to temptation and put it in his pocket.
He could not long resist the mute appeal of those cigars, so, slipping into the shadow behind some houses, he lit one, and was soon enjoying a good smoke. It had a wonderfully soothing influence, and he leaned up against the wall, thinking of the sharp bit of work that had brought him promotion. He felt that already he had Sullivan in his power, and he saw himself in imagination with his sergeant’s stripes. Then, all of a sudden, he smiled a sickly smile, his head fell forward, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank in a heap on the ground.
A few minutes afterwards the spy, who had been watching him all the time, cautiously approached. He took the cigar-case out of the unconscious man’s tunic, removed the remains of the drugged cigar from his mouth, and left him there.
The night was dark, and about eight p.m., while the dancing and singing were still in full swing, Sullivan and his tools got the selected men off in a boat. The tug was ahead of the ship, all ready to start. When the crimp got alongside with his men the Jeremiah Crawford was hanging to a slip-rope, and the captain was in his cabin waiting for Sullivan and the sailors.
“Hurry up and get those chaps on board,” the mate called out. “I want to get under way.”
“All right, Mister Mate,” answered one of the crimps. “We’ll soon have them on board. Get out of that, you brutes!” he added, giving one of the dazed men a kick.
Sullivan and his men soon got their victims on board, but on getting on deck one of the fellows, a fine-built young Swede, seemed to partly recover his senses.
“I don’t belong to this ship,” he said, and made for the gangway. With an oath Sullivan sprang at him. A terrific blow on the side of the head, and the poor fellow dropped senseless on the deck. They then bundled the lot forward.
“EACH OF THEM WAS KNOCKED SENSELESS WITH A BLOW BEHIND THE EAR FROM A KNUCKLE-DUSTER.”
Finding no light in the forecastle Sullivan and his men stepped inside, and were in the act of striking matches, when each of them was knocked senseless with a blow behind the ear from a knuckle-duster. They were then dropped into the fore-peak and the hatch fastened down, while the new men were lifted into berths to sleep off the effects of the drugged liquor.
In the meantime, the second mate slipped down the gangway, and, standing on one side of Sullivan’s boat, capsized her. When she filled with water he cast her off and let her drift up-river.
The tug-boat dropped down, the tow-rope was secured, the buoy cast off, and before midnight the ship was outside the Nobbies and under all sail.
At daylight the “shanghaied” men were getting over the effects of the drug, and the captain called all hands aft to give them a good glass of grog. The new men were in a terrible state when they came to their senses and found they had been “shanghaied.” One young fellow, in particular, sat down on the hatch and, placing his head on his hands, seemed to give way to despair. He took no heed of what was going on, and spoke no word to anyone.
The young Swede who had been so brutally struck by Sullivan stepped up to the captain.
“Who brought us on board?” he asked.
“Dan Sullivan,” replied the mate. “He said you were his boarders. I saw him come alongside, and then I went forward, and have not seen him since.”
“Did you pay him any advance for us, captain?”
“No; I have not seen him,” said the skipper. “He must have gone on shore again. I cannot understand it. I do not know the man,” added Captain Monk. “I wrote him to get me six men, and told him I would sign them on board. I heard him come alongside with you, and when I came out of my cabin I saw no boat alongside, and we got under way at once.”
“Thank you, captain,” replied the Swede. “Sullivan and I will meet again some day.”
“Halloa, halloa! What’s all that about?” rang out from the forecastle, accompanied by a heavy thumping.
The mate started to run forward, and all hands turned, to behold a remarkable sight.
Out of the forecastle bolted three men. Casting their eyes in the direction of the land they rushed aft, past the seamen, and were about to mount the poop-ladder, when the mate barred the way.
“Get down out of this, you skunks!” he roared. “Who are you fellows, and where do you come from?”
“You know jolly well who I am,” roared the biggest of the three. “And you had better land us as quick as you can, or it will be a bad job for you, so I tell you.”
The mate looked at him in silence for a moment; then the skipper chimed in.
“Who the deuce are you?” demanded Captain Monk; “and what are you doing aboard my ship?”
“What are you trying to get at, captain?” cried the crimp, furiously. “You know very well I’m Dan Sullivan. I brought you six men last night, and when we took them into the forecastle—”
There was a shuffle among the men, and the next minute the young Swede had sprung at Sullivan’s throat and the two were tossing about the deck battering each other like wild beasts.
“Stand back, everybody!” cried the mate. “Let them have it out.”
Sullivan was the bigger and heavier man, but the Swede was a perfect young athlete, and had a cruel wrong to wipe out. The muscles of his arms and neck stood out like strong cords as the two rolled from side to side.
Not a word was uttered by the officers or crew, who stood calmly looking on.
Suddenly, by a quick movement, the Swede pinned Sullivan against the fife-rail around the mainmast, and with his right hand battered his face unmercifully. Then, seizing him by the throat, he flung him into the lee-scuppers, where he lay without movement.
The Swede looked at his foe for a moment, then coolly walked over and wiped his boots on him. Next, turning towards the poop where Captain Monk and the officers stood, he touched his cap and said:—
“I am second mate of the Swedish ship Oscar Brandi, and my father is captain. I went on shore for a walk, and hearing the music I went into a saloon and called for a drink. I sat down to watch the dancers, and knew no more until I found myself on board this ship. What will my father say or think? What will my employers say?”
He stopped abruptly, and walked forward with his head bent, overwhelmed with his grief.
Within another minute the two remaining crimps were hotly engaged with two of the ship’s crew whose relatives had been “shanghaied” aboard the Britishers. The sailors made short work of the crimps, and fairly wiped the deck with them.
Captain Monk then ordered the hapless three to be locked up in separate cabins and fed on bread and water for a few days.
“It will give them time to repent,” he said to the mate. “It won’t do to put them with the crew yet awhile—there would be murder done. In a few days they can go forward, and the crew will save us dirtying our hands with the scoundrels. Our chaps will lead them a dance, and they will wish to Heaven they had never laid their hands on my crew.”
Just then the mate noticed the young fellow sitting on the hatch with his head in his hands. He seemed utterly dejected and oblivious of everything about him. The rest of the men had gone forward, and were excitedly discussing the matter of Sullivan and his mates being on board, each one swearing to have his pound of flesh out of the hated “shanghaiers.”
The captain and the mate walked along to the young fellow on the hatch. Putting his hand kindly on his bowed head, Captain Monk said: “Come, come, young man; you must not give way like that. Sailors should always make the best of everything.”
Lifting his head at the kindly touch and words, the young fellow replied:—
“Oh, captain, whatever shall I do? I am not a sailor.”
“Oh, never mind that,” said the mate. “You will soon learn here; so get forward with the others.”
“Oh, captain, take pity on me!” cried the supposed young man, tremulously. “For Heaven’s sake, take pity on me! I am a respectable married woman! My husband is Police-constable Hogan of the Newcastle police.”
The captain and mate were astounded, and for a moment could do nothing but stare at her. Then, seeing some of the men forward looking at them, Captain Monk said: “Come aft to the saloon and I will hear your story.”
When they got into the cabin Mrs. Hogan told how the authorities at Sydney had heard something of the doings of Sullivan and his crimps, and had sent her husband to the district to get evidence against him. She had assisted him before, and on this occasion had dressed up in her present clothes and joined the sailors in the dance room to watch Sullivan and his satellites.
“I called for a bottle of ginger-ale,” she said. “I watched him open the bottle, and I am sure there was nothing in the glass, for I saw it standing upside down on the counter; but I had not drunk it many minutes before I felt my head getting light, and I remember no more until I found myself on board this ship. I have abundant evidence against that blackguard Sullivan now, but it is no good as he is on board here. What shall I do? I have no clothes but these. I cannot go among those men.”
“Steamer ahead, sir! Coming this way,” rang out the cry.
“Aye, aye!”
Captain Monk took a look at her through the telescope.
“Run the ‘Urgent’ signal up!” he shouted. “It is the Union Company’s boat bound to Melbourne. I will send a letter and this woman on board. Back the mainyard, and get the boat out quick.”
Up went the signal, and the steamer bore down towards the ship. Her decks were crowded with passengers.
“You will go in the boat, Mrs. Hogan,” said the skipper, “and you had better explain things to the captain at once. My letter will tell him also. Mr. Patter, you go with the boat, and take four of our own hands with you. As soon as you give the letter to the captain, put this woman on board and return at once.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Ship your oars! Let go forward!”
The boat shot away and was soon alongside the steamer, and the mate and Mrs. Hogan climbed on board. Going along the bridge, Mr. Patter handed the letter to the captain, who read it and said:—
“All right. Tell Captain Monk that I will take the woman to Melbourne. I am glad he has that blackguard on board. Good-bye.”
The mate got back into his boat, the engines were rung ahead, the ensign was dipped three times, and before the boat was on board again the steamer was out of sight.
Then the sails were filled once more and the Jeremiah Crawford stood on her course.
Five days afterwards Sullivan and his mates were released and sent to live in the forecastle. Sullivan was put into the mate’s watch and the two crimps in the second mate’s watch.
There was another row at once, and again the blackguards got a good thrashing. They were put to the most menial work, were made to wait on the others, and do all the dirty work about the decks; in fact, their lives were made a misery to them from morning till night. Hardly a day passed that one or other of the scoundrels did not get a licking. They had a taste of the misery they had caused many another man, and, as the captain had prophesied, they had time to repent of their misdeeds.
When the Jeremiah Crawford arrived at San Francisco the pilot informed them that two British ships had just gone to the anchorage, adding that he noticed they were from Newcastle. This was good news to all but Sullivan and his crimps.
As they moved up the harbour to their anchorage they passed close to the Commonwealth. On board her were some of the Jeremiah Crawford’s crew, and as they passed, one of the sailors called out, “We have Sullivan on board!”
After the sails were unbent, all the running-gear triced up, and the decks washed down, the crew were dismissed.
“Pay off to-morrow,” said the mate.
“Aye, aye!” answered the crew.
All hands went on shore, and Sullivan was forced, much against his will, to go with them. On the wharf where they landed stood the six American sailors whom Sullivan and his mates had “shanghaied” from Newcastle! Let us mercifully draw a veil over the crimp’s final punishment.
Neither of the three blackguards turned up when the crew were paid off; no questions were asked, and no explanations given. But two years afterwards Sullivan appeared again at New South Wales—not the unscrupulous bully and braggart, but a broken, decrepit old man.
By a Member of the Alpine Club.