THE A.B. (HIS ROUTINE).
Nautical routine, although in certain broad features alike in all ships of all nations, varies almost indefinitely in detail, not merely in ships belonging to different countries, but in ships of the same flag and of the same character. And this is not only true of the details of duties to be performed, but of the method of rigging, sail-setting, etc. The master, having a free hand, may, and does, use his own discretion as to how and when he will have work done. There is no one to gainsay him, although his fads will certainly be keenly criticized in the fo'c'sle. But where a certain routine is fixed and universal there are no exceptions to its rule; as, for instance, the incidence of the watches. The first thing to be done after a vessel has cleared her home-port outward bound is to muster the crew by their names. Then the mate and second mate face the assembled seamen and draw each a man alternately, the mate beginning, until each has a moiety. If there is an odd man the mate gets him, unless some private arrangement is come to between the two officers. The number of men under each officer is called his watch, and for further convenience of definition the mate's is called the "port" watch and the second mate's the "starboard" watch, the left side of the ship, looking towards the bows, being the port side, and the right the starboard. Thus divided, the crew select their bunks on the side of the forecastle answering to their watches, and so they remain throughout the voyage.
Now, there is an unwritten sea law which says that "the cap'n takes her out, and the mate brings her home," which, being interpreted, only means that the starboard watch have the eight hours out on the first night of the outward passage, and the port watch the first eight hours out on the homeward passage: which again needs explaining. A simple method of dividing the twenty-four hours into watches would be to have six of four hours each, but it would have the demerit that the same men would be on watch for the greater part of every night. So a simple plan was long ago devised for the continual change of watches. The day was, indeed, divided into six watches of four hours each, but the last watch of each working day, viz. that from 4 to 8 p.m., was subdivided into two "dog" watches of two hours each. Nearly all the pleasant memories of fo'c'sle life cluster around the second of these. From 4 to 6 p.m. (I speak of an ordinary British ship) the watch on deck round up the day's work, put things away, sweep up decks, etc., preparing for the night. The men of the watch below get their tea (supper it is called on shipboard), and at four bells (6 o'clock p.m.) the members of the other watch go below and get their evening meal. The watch that have relieved them have now no work, unless sails require trimming, with the exception of the helmsman, and when supper is finished all hands can, and do, foregather on deck or in the forecastle, according to the state of the weather, and exchange yarns or read. All smoke if they list. It is the time of the day when all hands meet, and it is looked forward to with a good deal of interest in every ship where things are as they should be. At eight bells (8 p.m.) the night begins. The watch that have the eight hours out, that is, the watch that cleared up decks from four till six, begin their vigil, which will last till midnight; the watch below turn in.
In every decent ship the bell is struck every half-hour, increasing by single strokes, i.e. half-past eight, one bell; nine o'clock, two bells; and so on up till four, when the helmsman and the look-out man are relieved; then five, six, seven, until five minutes to twelve, when "little one bell" is struck, and the watch below are called to be ready for appearance at eight bells (midnight), when they are mustered by the appearing officers. The watch going below then turn in, and the bells begin again and go on up till 4 a.m., eight bells again. Then the "eight hours' out" men reappear, and at two bells (5 a.m.) "coffee" is called. At four bells "wash decks" begins, and with it the "secular" work as distinguished from the mere handling of the ship's sails, etc., steering, and look-out. At seven bells (7.20 a.m., really 7.30, the ten minutes being slipped in for "coming up," as we say) the watch below are called for breakfast, and at eight bells (8 a.m.) they come on deck ready for work, the retiring watch going to breakfast and afterwards to bunk, or whatever they think fit, until seven bells (11.20 a.m.). Then they rise for dinner, and at noon, which is made by the sun, and never by the clock, unless the sun is obscured, they come on deck for the afternoon's work, while the other watch retire. With their going below again at eight bells (4 p.m.) the twenty-four-hours' day is completed. And it will be found that at 8 p.m. the watch coming on deck are the watch that on the previous night were at that time turning in.
Now, this routine of watch-keeping is universal, but not so by any means the distribution of work. I have just sketched the outlines of duty in a commonplace sailing ship or tramp steamer under the British flag. But when we come to a smart liner or an American ship this humdrum, jog-trot round is shattered like a bubble. In the former it is necessary for the comfort of the passengers that their promenade decks shall be clean and dry at an early hour, therefore the deck-scouring, paint-washing, etc., must be got through before the time at which work is usually commenced in a non-passenger-carrying ship. I do not suppose that any one can be so thoughtless as to wonder "what on earth the sailors find to do" who has ever made a passage across the Atlantic in a big liner. Such a foolish question is often asked about ships in general, but surely even the dullest must comprehend that the splendid cleanliness and order on board those floating hotels means a vast amount of work done while the passengers are sleeping, since it is never obtruded upon them in their waking hours. It must also occur to the more thoughtful among them that the modern sailors duties are largely made up of housemaid's work. Yet, with so little opportunity for keeping up his acquaintance with the higher duties of his calling, he is expected to rise to the fullest heights of a sailor's duty at the first call. I submit that the meagre drill he gets in boat-handling and fire stations can hardly be sufficient for that purpose, i.e. the keeping him up to "sailor" pitch.
In American ships, on the other hand, sailing ships, that is to say, no such easy-going precession of duties is allowed. The first thing that a seaman learns when introduced to an American ship is that his time belongs to the ship, that if he is allowed to have any for himself at all it is a matter of grace, not of right. He must at all times hold himself at the disposal of his officers, and whatever work they consider it necessary to undertake he must, on the word being given, throw himself into it as if it were a matter of life or death. Theoretically this is the case in all ships, but it is nowhere carried out as it is in American vessels. It is their tradition, and they have a pride in its maintenance. What it means to the sailor under the despotic rule of a bowelless master and iron-fisted officers it is impossible to convey to any one who has not seen the process. It sometimes happens in British ships that all hands will be kept at work in the afternoons at sea, usually on the passage home, when the vessel is being thoroughly overhauled and renovated, but where this is done a great deal of laxity is permitted at night. The watch on deck during the hours of darkness, with the exception of the man at the wheel and one on the look-out, are allowed to sleep, unless the sails require trimming, and even this very necessary work is performed with a great deal of grumbling and bad language. But in American ships it is often the proud boast of a skipper that he keeps his men at work in the watch on deck throughout the voyage, by day or night, in gale or calm; and as for an afternoon watch below—absurd, makes men fat and lazy! No grumbling is permitted, no dilatoriness of movement, and due attention to all these severe rules is enforced by blows, and, if necessary, by shooting. It is the other extreme of the scale. We are much too slack in our discipline; the Americans, as a rule, are far too severe. Of course there are exceptions on both sides, but I speak of the rule.
Sailors often wonder whether landsmen realize what it means for a ship to be always watched and tended, from the time she leaves port until she arrives at her destination; whether, when coming on board a ship in harbour, and looking curiously at the deserted wheel aft, they appreciate the fact that for every minute of perhaps five or six months there is a man at that wheel, steering the ship over the trackless sea, guided alone by the compass. This ceaseless care of the vessel has always struck me as a very impressive thing, especially where, as in an ordinary sailing ship, every man in the fo'c'sle takes his turn, or "trick," as it is called. At the commencement of the voyage the men settle among themselves, in an informal manner, the order in which they shall follow each other at the wheel, and, subject to alterations in their number, this order is preserved throughout the voyage. Some curious terms are current among them about the steering turns. For instance, when a man has neither "wheel" nor look-out occurring in a watch he solemnly announces he is a "farmer;" when it happens that his "wheel" occurs from 4 to 6 a.m. he growls at the idea of his having the "gravy-eye" wheel, a coarse but most expressive designation for that sleepiest of watches. This is the time when more accidents, through lack of watchfulness, occur than any other in the twenty-four hours.
His duty of steering varies greatly with the ship and the man. Some vessels are beautifully docile, responsive to the lightest touch on the wheel, and actually sympathetic—I can use no other word—to a good helmsman. I have been in vessels that one could almost steer blindfold by the feel of the wheel, where the making of a serpentine course was a certain proof that the helmsman was either a bungler or grossly careless. It is popularly supposed that a ship is always steered by the apparent movement of the compass, and this is fairly true of steamships, but it is ridiculous when applied to sailing ships. The compass must be watched, of course; but the man who keeps his eye fixed upon it will soon find that not only must he work like a slave, but that no amount of wheel-twisting will keep his ship steady on her course. He must watch the movement of the ship's head against the sky, the clouds, the stars, for he can then see instantly what amount of helm she requires, whereas the compass does not tell him until too late, or it is so lively that it is no guide at all, except that its average swing from side to side of the point he is told to steer by will be approximately the same. I have often been steering a large iron ship running before a heavy westerly gale in high southern latitudes when the compass has swung continuously round through its whole thirty-two points. Some men get so bewildered by this that they are useless as helmsmen. Others, again, when steering before a heavy following sea, will lose their nerve. The mighty waves thundering up astern like ravening monsters, only to be satisfied by the overwhelming of the vessel, are terrible to see, and a prudent officer who notices the helmsman looking astern at such times, with a wild eye and a blanched face, will have him relieved at once, before that appalling disaster "broaching to" takes place. This occurs when a ship running dead before a gale of wind, with her yards square, is suddenly caught a little on one side by a furiously rushing wave and whirled round until her sails get caught aback, the sea thunders over her broadside, and she is in the greatest danger of being dismasted, turned over, or smashed up altogether. Many a ship posted as missing has thus been destroyed; she has disappeared from the face of the sea in five minutes, without giving any one on board the slightest chance of life.
As far as the A.B.'s workaday duties are concerned, the same rules that apply to other workmen ashore do not apply, for obvious reasons. If a carpenter, for instance, were employed in the building of a house, and it were found that he could only boil glue, sweep up the shop, or turn a grindstone, he would be discharged on the instant. But you cannot discharge a sailor until his return home, unless he is willing to go, and, in a foreign country, unless the consul is also willing to allow him to be discharged. He may be absolutely worthless from the seaman's point of view, which, as I have shown, must be considered in relation to the ship, whether she is a steamer or a sailing ship, but unless he is unable to steer, it is almost impossible to reduce his wages. I well remember a case, years ago, tried before the late Mr. Raffles, where the master of a ship had reduced one of his A.B.'s wages for the voyage by £1 a month, that is to the level of an O.S. (ordinary seaman). There was no doubt whatever as to the kind of man the quondam A.B. was. He had never been to sea before that voyage, but some enterprising boarding-master had supplied him with another man's discharge, rigged him up like a seafarer, and got him shipped in a big southern-going sailing ship as an A.B., at £3 a month. But he had the wit to put his case into the hands of a smart lawyer, who bullied the master to the verge of desperation. Among other things, he said, "Did you have your ship's decks washed, Mr. Brown?" "Of course I did," replied the sorely-tried skipper. "Oh, you did. Was this man able to assist in washing decks?" "Oh, well, I suppose he could do that." "I don't require any of your supposing, sir; could he do his duty in this respect, or could he not?" thundered the counsel. "Yes, he could." "Thank you" (ironically). "Now, did you carry any pigs?" "Yes," answered the bewildered commander; "there was——" "That is sufficient. Kindly answer my questions without comment. I suggest to you that those pigs required their sty to be cleaned occasionally." "Yes; and it——" said the skipper, getting redder in the face as the lawyer stopped him again. "Could this man clean out the pig-sty? Yes or no?" "Yes, he could; but——" "Answer my questions in a proper manner," roared the lawyer.
And so on, until, in triumphant tones, the legal gentleman exclaimed, "Then I submit that you have no right at all to deduct one penny from my client's miserable earnings. By your own admission he could perform all those duties, very necessary duties, about which I have questioned you. They had to be performed by some one, and surely you do not expect to get the work of your ship done for nothing," etc. In the result the man got his wages in full, and the skipper went away in the belief that the law was a dangerous thing to meddle with, even if you knew you were right. But every sailor worth his salt knows what it means to get a few of these yokels foisted upon a ship. They can be, and they are, put upon the dirty work, the unskilled labour, of which there is so much to be done; but, in addition to the fact that they cannot do even that work in sailor fashion, all the work which they cannot do at all falls upon their shipmates who can. This often means terrible overwork and suffering for everybody on first leaving home, before "useless articles" have been taught their work aloft. I know of no more difficult position to be in than aloft on a top-gallant yard, for instance, in a snowstorm in the Channel, with three other men, for the purpose of furling the sail, and finding that two of them are not only useless, but helplessly in the way. Poor wretches, they are suffering, too, no doubt, clinging to the yard in an agony lest they shall fall, sick with fright; but the men who must do their work are the ones deserving of pity. They get neither pity nor pence for the extra work they do.