“I don’t know, sir,” I said at length.
“You’re not tired of the sea already, are you?”
“Oh, no, sir, only I should like to go to some other part of the world.”
“Of course you would,” he answered, “or you would not be a sailor, but don’t leave your ship every time she comes into a home port, make three or four voyages in her, it is not fair to those who have taught you to leave them as soon as you know a bit of the work, don’t be a rolling stone. When a chief mate looks at a man’s discharges and sees each one has a different ship’s name on it, he never thinks much of him because he feels he is only coming to suit his own convenience. No, I say stick to your ship, if she is a good one.”
I made no answer to this and said good-bye, neither did I mention the subject at home, as I wanted to be free in this matter.
I had now been at home a month. The “Bertie” had not come to Liverpool, but had sailed from London, but I had decided not to make another voyage in her. The roving, restless spirit was urging me towards the sea again. Nearly the whole of the time I had been at home the weather had been most trying, rain, sleet, snow or blowing a gale of wind. I was getting tired of the sight of bricks and mortar, and the dirty streets of Liverpool, I missed the regular life on board ship, the sweet pure air of the ocean, the rolling restless ocean, I was tired of the noise and bustle, and wanted to get away from it all. The longing to see other lands, to cross other oceans grew stronger each day, life to me at that time meant only one thing, to see all there was to be seen, all that was worth seeing, to verify all that I had read about India, China, Japan, Africa, Australia and numberless other places.
But Liverpool, I found, was at this time the centre of a great strike of seamen and firemen, and it was very difficult to join a ship, even if you got a chance, without getting your head broken by some of the loafers who infest our seaports, and who neither go to sea themselves nor let others go. A seamen’s strike at that time was rarely, if ever, organized for the benefit of the seamen, but for, and by a lazy disreputable gang of crimps and boarding-house keepers, and they were the only ones who reaped any benefit from it. It was a sight to make one’s blood boil; all around the shipping offices and along the line of docks these scoundrels would parade on the watch to prevent any poor sailor from going on board a ship and many a one, half starved with cold and hunger, was beaten and half killed by these wretches for trying to get on board a ship to get away from it all.
I had decided in my own mind to get a ship at once, and made my way to the Salthouse Dock. There I saw a beautifully shaped barque. She was, to look at, a perfect yacht, her tall tapering masts and long jibboom with a cutwater like a wedge, shewed that she could exhibit a clean pair of heels if driven. She was spotlessly clean, and her sails were white as cotton. I took a fancy to her at once, a nice model ship always appeals to a true seaman. Then I went to look at her bow to see what she was called, and found it was the “Stormy Petrel,” of Liverpool. Thinking how well her name would suit her when she was out in the ocean with all sails set, I saw the mate on deck, and as there were no crimps about, I went up to him, and asked him if he had engaged his crew.
“No, my lad,” he said, “I wish I had. The confounded strike is keeping the men away, and I want to get hold of some good men. Do you want a ship?”
“Yes, sir, where is this one going?”