CHAPTER XIII
THE MATTER-OF-FACT SAILOR
I always feel inclined to break the law when I see a West End or any other dandy on a theatrical stage libelling the sailor by his silly personification: hitching his breeches, slapping his thigh, lurching his body, and stalking about in a generally ludicrous fashion, at the same time using phrases which the real sailor would disdain to use: such as "my hearty," "shiver-my-timbers," and other stupid expressions that Jack of to-day never thinks of giving utterance to. If theatrical folk would only take the trouble to acquaint themselves with the real characteristics of the sailor, and caricature him accurately, they would find, even in these days, precious material to make play from. Even Jack's culpable vagaries, if reproduced in anything like original form, might be utilised to entertaining effect; but the professional person insists upon making him appear with a quid rolling about in his mouth and his stomach brimful of slang, which he empties as occasion may require. It may or may not go down with their audiences, but the tar himself cannot stand it. I was seated beside a typical sailor in a London theatre not very long ago, and a few gentlemen in nautical attire came one after the other strutting on to the stage. Their performances were quite unsailorly, so much so that my neighbour said to me: "If this goes on much longer I shall have to go. Just fancy," said he, "a matter-of-fact sailor making such a d——fool of himself!" I reminded him that this achievement was not so rare an occurrence. But he was not to be appeased! The sailor of the olden times never used tinsel nautical terms. His dialect was straight and strong, and his peculiar dandyism very funny. His hair used to be combed behind his ears, he wore a broad, flat cap cocked to one side, and his ears were adorned with light drops of gold or silver; and when he went forth to do his courting he seemed to be vastly puzzled as to the form his walk should take. Alas! all this has passed away, and our eyes shall see it never more; but the fascination of it is fixed in one's memory, and it is pleasant to think of even now.
The average seaman has always expressed himself with unmistakable clearness on matters pertaining to his profession. I was walking down the main street of a seafaring town some years ago, when I saw a group of people standing at a window looking at an oil-painting of a large, square-rigged ship which had been caught in a squall. The royals and top-gallant sails had been let fly, and they were supposed to be flapping about as sails will in a squall if the yards are not trimmed so as to keep them quiet. There were two sailors in the group who were criticising the painting with some warmth: the ropes were not as they should be, the braces and stays were not properly regulated, and "Whoever saw sails flying about like that!" said the more voluble of the two. The other dryly retorted, "I don't know, mister, what you think, but I want to say that I have seen them cut some d—— funny capers at times!" This very sailor-like sally both tickled the audience and convinced it that the sails were really correctly drawn.
On another occasion, during the prevalence of one of the most terrible easterly gales that ever visited the north-east coast, a multitude of people had congregated on the south pier at the mouth of the Tyne to witness the vessels making for the great Northern Harbour. The sight was awful in its peculiar beauty, the foam fluted and danced on the troubled air until it found a resting place far up the inner reaches of the harbour. There were seen in the distance two sailing vessels labouring amid a wrathful commotion of roaring seas. As they approached the harbour the excitement became universal. Women stood there transfixed with dread lest the storm-tossed vessels should be conveying some of their beloved relations to a tragic doom. Two gentlemen of clerical voice and appearance conversed with obvious agitation, one of whom audibly spoke of the grandeur and picturesque charm of the flurry of wild waters. "Look at them," said he, "as they curtsey and rustle along to the kiss of the tempest. Oh, it is a magnificent sight!" A few burly, weather-beaten sailors stood hard by. It soon became apparent that their professional pride had been touched by the poetic babble to which they had listened. One of them took upon himself the task of interjecting what the practical opinion of himself and friends was by addressing the aesthetic dreamer in accents of stern reproof: "You," said he, "may call it grandeur and picturesque and magnificent and curtseying, but we call it a damned dirty business. If you were aboard of one of them, you wouldn't talk about rustling through the cloven sea to the kiss of the tempest, you would be too tarnation keen on getting ashore!"
The orator had just finished his harangue when one of the vessels, a brigantine, was crossing the bar. The supreme moment had come. All eyes and minds were fixed on the doomed vessel; men were seen clinging to the rigging, and one solitary figure stood at the wheel directing her course through a field of rushing whiteness. She was supposed to have crossed the worst spot, when a terrific mountain of remorseless liquid was seen galloping with mad pace until it lashed over her and she became reduced to atoms. Nothing but wreckage was seen afterwards. The crew all perished. It was a heartrending sight, which sent the onlookers into uncontrollable grief. The sailor was right: "It was a dirty business."
The sporting instinct in the bonâ-fide British seaman was always very strong. The white-washed Yankee—that is to say, not a real American, but a Blue-nose, i.e., a Nova Scotiaman—was never very popular, because of his traditional bullying and swaggering when all was going well, and his cowardice in times of danger. Once a vessel was coming from 'Frisco, and when off Cape Horn she ran into an ice-berg which towered high above the sailors' heads. There was great commotion and imminent peril. A Blue-nose was chief mate, and he became panic-stricken, flopped on to his knees, and piteously appealed for Divine interposition to save them from untimely death. The second mate, who was a real John Bull, believed in work rather than prayer, at least so long as their position threatened sudden extinction. He observed the petitioner in the undignified position of kneeling in prayer beside the mainmast. It angered him so that he put a peremptory stop to his pleadings by bringing his foot violently in contact with the posterior portion of his body, simultaneously asking him, "Why the h—- he did not pray before? It's not a damned bit of good praying now the trouble has arisen! Get on to your pins," said the irate officer, "and do some useful work! This is no time for snivelling lamentations. Keep the men in heart!" There was pretty fair logic in this rugged outburst of enlightenment. But while this striking flow of opposition to prayer under such circumstances was proceeding, the thought of peril was briefly obscured by the sight of a pretty little girl, a daughter of one of the passengers, frollicking with the ice which had tumbled on the deck, in innocent oblivion of the danger that encompassed her. What a beautiful picture! By skilful manoeuvring the vessel was extricated from an ugly position, and the unhappy first mate who had neglected to put himself into communication with the Deity before the accident happened, became the object of poignant dislike for having broken one of the most important articles of nautical faith by doing so afterwards!