Forward we were not done so well. The fo'c'sle took up the forward part of the deck house and was sheltered from the force of the sea and wind by the high break of the fo'c'sle head. These quarters were divided by a bulkhead running fore and aft, to separate the watches, and plain unpainted bunks lined the sides. Light was afforded by a poor lamp set in a hole in the wall between the two sides, a cheap expedient thought of, no doubt, by some thrifty soul who knew that this was far better than the traditional whale oil, or slush dip, of the hoary days when sailor men were shoved below decks in reeking quarters just over the fore peak.
However, the fo'c'sle was home to us. We lived there and had our being amid an atmosphere not altogether bad; what we lacked in conveniences we made up for in ingenuity. Above a few of the bunks were rough calendars marked on the woodwork, some of them from previous voyages. Brenden kept track of our position by notching each day on the scantling overhead. Under these marks he had signs that stood for the N. E. trades, the Line, the S. E. trades, etc. All sorts of little shelves were rigged up to hold tobacco, matches, ditty bags, well thumbed books, old newspapers, and what not. Lines of marline were stretched above the bunks for drying clothes.
The scheme of society within the sacred walls of our castle was a sort of despotic democracy. The ruling class, the able seamen of the watch, Marshall, Frenchy, Brenden, were the arbiters of all matters temporal and mundane. This was by mutual consent and should be so. In addition to this, Jimmy was the autocrat of the crowd and ruled us with an iron hand, though there was not a man forward but could have hove him overboard.
Scouse, after the balance of power had been reestablished in the conflict with Joe, became one of the common folks again, and was glad of it. The bunks were arranged in order of desirability, the able seamen taking the best bunks on the upper tier and near the two ports or the lamp. Australia and I were about on a par as far as social standing went, and when it came to talking about the mines or discussing matters other than those relating to the sea, we often took the center of the stage.
Martin, who had been a wood turner in his youth, and Fred, who was a good average sailor with a discharge from the Revenue Cutter Service, generally acted as spear carriers in our little fo'c'sle comedy. They were excellent eaters, both of them, standing well up in the forefront with Scouse and Joe; the rottenest cracker hash or the most greasy salt pork never phased them. To the mate these men were a constant inspiration in his flights of blasphemy, and hardly a day passed but that he vented his wrath on one of them.
Never once during the entire voyage did any member of the crew miss a single bit of personal property. Add to this the fact that the general moral tone of conversation among us was far above the average of men who would consider themselves superior, and we have to at least respect the crew of the Fuller as they respected themselves.
Chips, a melancholy Norwegian, a long, lanky, cadaverous knight of the caulking iron and the carpenter's bench, berthed in a little room next to the lamp locker. He was kept busy sounding the well, and making the constant repairs that a well groomed wooden ship requires. In the intervals of this duty he looked after the hatch tarpaulins sheltering the precious cargo, tended the running lights, served out the daily whack of water, oiled the tiller tackles, and sat down to dinner with the second mate. Poor Chips! A gentleman of the lower caste, eating aft and living forward. He was a good fellow, but far too gloomy for us, who were of the "people," light hearted ourselves and ready to crack a joke at the least opportunity.
Chips had one other duty which he performed twice on our voyage round the Horn. On these occasions he was called upon to "salt the masts." A small plug was taken out of the lower mast heads, and salt filled into the hollow core of these great "sticks." The fore and main masts were "built up," that is, made up of four quadrantal pieces, scarfed full length, and banded by stout iron hoops. At the outside juncture of the built-up pieces they were beveled, forming the "chapels" of the mast, the latter being painted white and giving the lower masts on the fore and main a checkerboard appearance.
Each morning of the voyage, and particularly during the fair weather part of it, we were exercised at the washdown. This is more than a mere part of the work at sea; it is an established institution, a sacred rite that is carried on through all conditions of wind and weather. In the tropics the washdown is a pleasure, and also a necessity, as it alone keeps the decks tight and the ship sanitary.