IN THE WAKE OF THE ENGINE
I had been transferred to the old Prince Albert, one of the freighters on the Jamaica run, and the skipper was Bill Boldwin—Boldwin who was once in the Amper Line, but who had a monstrous thirst and a reckless disposition—too reckless for first-class passengers. The "old man," as all captains are called, having these failings, had also a mighty poor education, and his navigation was mostly, "Let her go and trust to the sun."
"Compasses?" said Bill. "How'd they get along before they had 'em, hey? Steer the course, or thereabouts; you'll git thar or somewheres nigh to it—if you don't fetch up."
"But the company?" I said in amazement.
"The company be blowed! Take life easy—it's short. Don't let the company worry you to any great extent. They'll give you a job as night watchman at twenty per month after they get out of you all there is in you."
At the same time Bill, who was my "old man," and who, by the way, was ten years younger than myself, would not stand for any too much carelessness on the part of his first officer. I was his chief mate. He knew what I had to do, and hated to tell me. I confess I seldom gave him a chance. The second greaser was a little, short squarehead named Andersen; at least we called him that, going on the principle that it was a sure thing that if he was a squarehead he was either named Andersen or Johnson. There are no other names in Sweden, and a man naturally just has to be one or the other. They're good enough.
Andersen knew his business and was an able seaman, learning his little book in the old sailing ships where they teach you something not always taught in steam. He had the bos'n in with him, and what the bos'n didn't know about handling the steam winches would be hard to tell. But that's all the bos'n knew. Not a thing else. If he had he wouldn't have rammed greasy rags in behind the ceiling of the after deck house in a hurry to get his grub at knock-off time.
No, that was the failing of the bos'n; he lacked knowledge, and was as good a navigator as you might find in a young lady's finishing school. He had paws on him like a loggerhead's flippers, nearly a foot across, and each finger was a marline spike, and every thread of his hair, where he wasn't clean bald, was a rope yarn. He knew sailoring—nothing else.