They soon came. I can see the scene now as clearly as when it happened—a beautiful sunshiny morning. We three boys in shirts and trousers, bare-footed, and the old man just roused from his sleep looking like an angry bear, and not by any means dressed, rushing from the cabin, his eyes blazing with wrath at an act of rebellion such as he had not conceived to be possible. He began with me. Picking up the end of the forebrace, which was close to where we were standing, he gave me the order “Go to work,” to which I replied, “I won’t, sir.” Then, swinging his shoulders, he gave me three strokes with the end of the forebrace. It hurt, but it had not the least effect in disturbing my resolve, and the mate interposed with the advice not to strike us but to put us in irons in the after cabin. This was done, our hands were ironed behind our backs, and we were left to our own devices. To the best of my belief the other fellows escaped the rope’s end that had so beautifully scored my back.
The after cabin in which we were put was fitted with lockers for holding tinned provisions, wines, etc., and it had stern ports that opened outwards. Access to the deck could also be obtained through an open skylight. Our sentence involved no food or water, and it seems to me after this lapse of time that more care might have been taken as to our place of confinement, for we were fairly familiar with those lockers and knew exactly what they contained, also, being slim and active as young eels, it was a perfectly easy matter to get our hands in front of us, and ordinary irons do not prevent people from doing useful things on an emergency. During the day we were not absolutely hungry, for we were able to make provision against that, but the thirst was another matter, and that we could not remedy. At seven the next morning we had had enough, and surrendered in exchange for water that we could no longer do without. Our irons were taken off and we went forward.
I should here interpose that at the time of which I write the custom of “hazing” a man was still prevalent. In other words, if a man were obnoxious to either mate or master he would be kept at the most difficult, obnoxious, and perhaps even dangerous work until he deserted, for as a rule there was no purging an offence, and desertion was the only remedy. At the time I speak of there was a man on board a ship in the harbour who had been sitting on the end of a royal yard for some days. What he was doing no one knew, except the mate who was hazing him, and when once that treatment commenced, it was a dog’s life indeed for the individual on whom it was being tried. I mention this to show that we knew perfectly well what our future lot was likely to be, but up to then we had possibly not sinned beyond forgiveness, although that seemed a little unlikely.
But now I was confronted with another difficulty, for my chest had disappeared, and I went aft to inquire about it from the captain.
“As I neither intend to allow you money or liberty,” he replied, “I have taken charge of your wardrobe.” I remember the words as well as if spoken yesterday, and I told him that he could put me in irons again, for work I would not. Probably this was pot-valiant on my part, but I had had a good drink of water. Moreover, I knew the letters that box contained, and also guessed that their destination would be—the father of the girl who wrote them, so I went back solus to my irons in the after cabin. The others had had enough of the treatment to satisfy their longings for martyrdom, ardent though these had been.
With me, however, it was entirely different. I had been hurt in more ways than one, and much as I hated the idea of deserting I resolved that no power should make me risk the passage home in that ship if I could do otherwise. As I meditated I saw through the stern port the steward sculling the dingy on shore, and that gave me an idea.
The ship was in the stream, possibly a hundred yards from the shore. I got the irons in front of me, slipped on deck through the skylight unseen by any one on board, threw the vang fall over the side, slid down it, and struck out for the shore. Although, manacled as I was, I could not swim in the ordinary way, I could paddle, and at times turn over on my back for a rest. Not a soul lent me a hand or interfered until I got to the landing-stage, where I was promptly arrested by a constable and marched up to the police station.
The police superintendent, as it happened, was imbued with an idea of fair play. He released me from the irons and told me what I should have to do. By this time my clothes had got fairly dry, I was sitting quietly wondering what would happen next when in came Captain Hole.
“Take that fellow into custody,” he said, directly he caught sight of me, “for being absent from his ship without leave.”
I subsequently learnt that he had called at his lawyers’ on the way up and they had suggested this course as a “try on.” It did not work, however. The superintendent declined, saying that I had come to him for protection and he would see that I got it, and on this the old man retired very crestfallen. The outcome was that I was granted a summons for assault, and the captain had to appear before the magistrates next day. I cannot at the moment of writing find the record of the police court proceedings, but anyhow the skipper was fined for the assault, as it was called, on the three of us, and was ordered to give up my property. We, on our side, had to return to our duties. The name of the lawyer who represented us was Edmunds, and I recollect well how he painted the terror we must be in (at which we grinned comprehensively) when one could risk life by venturing into the water with irons on.