A bunch of rope yarns

by Stanton H. King

It is readily seen that, brought up in such an atmosphere of fetichism I credited all the stories of superstition any sailor cared to relate. I have known men relate yarns about ghosts in which they implicitly believed.

While in a sailor’s boarding house in Antwerp, some of the crew of an American ship which had arrived from San Francisco with grain, declared that the ship was haunted. Every man had a story to tell of his encountering a ghost on that voyage. It was said that while the men were asleep this creature of another world would enter the forecastle and rub its cold hands over the faces of the men. It was rumored in the grog shops that the apparition in the form of a man would walk aft on a stormy night just as the bell was struck at the close of a watch, and relieve the wheel. The officer of the watch would be annoyed to find the ship off her course, and looking aft, would find the ship without an helmsman. This occurred so often, the men declaring a man clothed in oilskins had relieved them, that the Captain ordered his officers to be present and hear for themselves the disembodied soul repeat the course as it relieved the wheel. So ended the tricks of this goblin, who was afraid to encounter more than one man.

There is a vast difference between the sailors of a wind-jammer and those of a steamer. The fireman and coal passers of these iron monsters began their sea careers as men and have not spent their youthful days in the forecastle. They hear nothing of the superstition of the sea, except what are told by the few remaining “old shell backs.”

I have sailed with a Captain who would dare do anything, but had not the courage to sail on Friday. No favorable weather could induce him to start his mudhook on this day. He told the story of losing his first command; how he sailed on that unlucky day from London to the Colonies and on the following Sunday his ship was run into and sank in the English Channel. This day on which “Our Saviour” was crucified has lost its horror among the majority of the English speaking seamen. The steamer is the cause of the change. There is no time lost in loading and discharging these iron hulks. As soon as their hatches are filled, be it Friday or any other day, they stir a lather under their sterns and speed away for another port. There is an old Captain on our coast who told me that he uses every device and frames all excuses, to avoid sailing on Friday. Now and again we meet a few old salts who still cling to the belief in the ill luck that comes from sailing on this unlucky day, but to most seamen the idea is too absurd to be entertained. Still among the Italian and other Southern European sailing vessels, it is yet held in superstitious fear. Once while in the harbor of Montevideo, I witnessed a carnival held on board a Spanish gun-boat, the Infanta Isabel, on Good Friday. The yards were cockbilled and at dinner the crew hauled an effigy of Judas out to the end of the jib-boom and hanging it just clear of the water, they subjected it to every abuse their imaginations could invent. Even the officers stood on the forecastle head and riddled it with shot from their revolvers. The effigy remained there till dark; finally besmeared with tar and oil, they set it alight and let it blaze away. With all discipline relaxed they ended the day with a lively fandango.

Another form of superstition is that of catching birds at sea. I have sailed with a Captain who allowed no one on his ship to meddle with birds of any kind even though they were from terra firma blown from their native soil and were resting on his vessel. He had a horror of some evil attending his voyage if any feathered creature was caught or disturbed while perched upon his craft.

Another captain, though not quite so strict, forbade our catching the albatross. We were in Southern Latitudes, where they were plentiful and seemingly hungry. One of our crew, a South African half breed, secretly hooked a large one. He took the bird under the forecastle head, wrung its neck, plucked it, and disposing of the feathers so that no one aft could see them, with hard tack, salt and pepper, dressed it for cooking. That night as soon as he knew the old colored cook was soundly sleeping, he quietly slipped into the galley and baked it. It being cold, the cook kept his fire all night to warm his room which opened into his kitchen. It was fortunate the wind was dead aft, for the man on the forecastle head, standing his lookout, declared the sweet smelling savor emanating from the oven gave him a gnawing at the bottom of his stomach. At eight bells when the watch went below, they rallied around the feast; but to their disappointment and surprise, the albatross proved an unpleasant diet. The flesh was rancid and fishy. It rather pleased the Peruvian Spaniard, however, for clothed in his oilskins and seated on the forecastle deck he hauled the pan between his legs and without stirring, devoured the whole bird. Next day it began to blow harder, the old ship rocked and rolled, we lost several watches furling and reefing sail, and the blame of all the bad weather was heaped upon Joe for killing the albatross. No one aft ever knew about it. Fortunately for Joe they did not, or he would have been half murdered.

Another superstition is about the disobedient prophet Jonah. No sooner does the head wind greet the wind-jammer, than there is a Jonah declared on board. If many misfortunes overtake a ship it is felt by all, both forward and aft, that someone who has inherited the prophet’s ill luck, is among the ship’s company. I once saw a captain strike a seaman and in the vilest language call him a “d— Jonah,” because the wind hauled ahead as soon as he, poor fellow, took the wheel. During his next watch below he was made to stand on the forward house and scratch the foremast till he brought a fair wind. Good luck was on his side, for the wind soon hauled aft again and remained steady for some days. He was no longer declared the Jonah.

A sailor once told me that while making a trip to the West Indies from New York, the second mate of his vessel rushed on deck in the night, and running forward, pointed to leeward shouting, “She’s calling for me, I must go to her.” They had to struggle severely to hold him from jumping over the side. He declared he saw his wife on the ocean calling to him for help. He quieted down, but his vision troubled him. He remembered the date and hour he had seen the apparition, and when the ship arrived in Trinidad, he received word from New York of the death of his wife. She had passed away the very day and hour he heard her calling to him. Is this superstition? Every sailor to whom he told this story, implicitly believed it was the spirit of his dead wife calling to him.

I had a friend, an old sea captain, who is now dead, having lost his life by being washed overboard in a heavy gale. Often he related this story in my hearing:

“I was on a Norwegian bark coming around the Horn, bound to Liverpool from ’Frisco. One night the old bark was hove to. The lookout man had to stand his watch on the after house, where he was safe from being washed overboard. About three o’clock in the middle watch the lookout reported to the mate that a woman was coming over the bow. Sure enough. There stood a woman in white by the lee cat head, waving something in her hand as though she were calling them. Every time the ship courtesied and dipped, the woman waved the thing in her hand violently. We managed to get the watch on deck at eight bells, but not a man would dare go forward of the poop. When daylight came the woman disappeared. For two days the crew kept aft in fear declaring the ship was haunted, but on the third day when the gale had weakened and the sea subsided, a man was sent to loose the jib. While on the jib-boom he discovered from whence the creation came.