There is hardly a single important thing that is common to all these ships. True, the possession of but one funnel seems to be an all but universal attribute, but aside from that the streaks of rust that mar their dingy sides are almost the only marks they all possess. Sometimes one sees a smartly painted tramp, it is true, and she presents a pleasant sight, but paint is not tough enough long to stand the wear and tear of this service, and coat after coat is scratched by piers or heavy freight, or peels beneath the blistering tropic sun, or is stained by chemicals or strange cargoes from outlandish ports. And even the most careful captain cannot prevent the rusty-looking spots, for red lead paint must first be applied to the denuded steel, ere it is covered with the more seemly black, and while one spot is being made more reputable, another is fast losing its thin armour of paint, so that rust or red lead seem always to be in evidence.
But all of this is merely superficial, and appearances, in ships as in people, often grossly deceive.
It is perhaps unfortunate that these hard-working ships should ever have been called “tramps,” for the word suggests a lack of respectable employment to people ashore, as well as a wandering spirit. Among people ashore a tramp is looked down upon because he is content with hardly more than enough to eat. He produces nothing. He works at nothing. His irresponsibility is ever uppermost, and he is sure to do but one single thing—to keep for ever on the move. But at sea a tramp is a ship that works most diligently. She journeys, it is true, on no set route, and never knows—or seldom—for what port she is likely next to steer. But she works! Every possible moment of her workaday life she works. From the day she has passed her builders’ tests and is turned over to her owners she labours as no man or no man’s beasts of burden were ever worked. Day and night she sails the lonely seas—from Liverpool to Shanghai—from Shanghai to Capetown—from Capetown to Sydney—from Sydney to New York—from New York, perhaps, to Liverpool again—but not for rest. She may, it is true, be docked and repaired, but once afloat again, and noisy, dirty streams of dusty coal pour chokingly into her cavernous holds, and off she goes again, perhaps to Spain, where her coal may be exchanged for a cargo of iron ore, and back she sails, to discharge and load again and sail, until, at last, when years have passed, she has outgrown her usefulness and is flung upon a scrap heap where everything of value is taken from her hulk and she is forgotten—as workmen sometimes are, who through all their lives have laboured, day after day, at forge or bench, making for the world some of the many things it needs, only to find themselves, when they are worn out, forgotten and replaced by a man more new.
A TRAMP STEAMER
Perhaps the hardest-working machine ever designed by man, and undoubtedly the most romantic of all steam-driven ships.
These are the ships that make world commerce possible. These are the ships that carry the world’s goods. These are the ships that make a nation’s merchant marine, and these, basically, are the ships that make necessary great navies and great ports. Here, then, lies the modern romance of the sea.
The most common type of tramp steamer has a raised section amidships, where are placed the bridge, the funnel, and a group of houses containing the galley (which is the kitchen of a ship), staterooms for her officers, and, perhaps, a messroom. Below this lie the boiler and engine rooms. Forward of the bridge the deck drops six or eight feet to a lower level, and as it nears the bow, it is raised again to a little above the altitude of the midship deck. This is still called the forecastle, after those weird structures raised at the bows of ships in the Middle Ages. Aft the midship section the deck drops away as it does forward, and at the stern is raised again, until the stern is about level with the midship deck. Long since, however, the name sterncastle has been dropped. This section is the “poop.”
Sometimes light bridge-like runways are raised above the lower parts of the deck forward and aft of the midship section, connecting the bow and stern with the group of deck houses amidships, for when the cargo has been stowed these ships are deep in the water, and these low decks are but a little way above the surface. Once they are at sea, at least in heavy weather, “lippers,” or waves that reach their crests just over the low bulwarks, seem for ever to be flooding these sections of the ship. And once a storm blows up, these decks are often buried beneath tons of solid water, and the crew, housed forward in the forecastle, and the captain, who sometimes lives astern, would, without the raised runway, be more or less marooned and helpless on board the very ship they are supposed to operate.
So diverse in design, in operation, and in equipment are these ships that it is impossible to describe them as a unit. Their tonnage ranges from a few hundred to ten thousand. Their crews range from fifteen, perhaps, to fifty. Their engines may be reciprocating or turbine. It is usual, however, for them to have but one propeller, and their speed is low. Seldom do they make less than eight knots an hour, and seldom, too, are they able to make as much as fifteen. Some are well equipped with useful auxiliary machinery for doing much of the heavy work. Others have hardly more than a few steam winches installed to aid in loading and discharging their strange variety of cargoes.