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.