Twenty years before the mast/Chapter I

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Twenty years before the mast  (1896)  Charles Erskine

Chapter II→

TWENTY YEARS BEFORE THE MAST.

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CHAPTER I.

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I was born in the first house on the east side of
 Roxbury Street, just over the Boston line, in the historic old town of Roxbury. The hip-roofed old mansion still stands, the front end facing the street. In the
 middle of the sidewalk rises a stately elm tree, in front

of which is a stone post some three feet high, bearing
 on one side the inscription R., A. D. 1823, on the
 other, B., A. D. 1823. This stone marks the boundary line between the towns of Boston and Roxbury.

As I was born in one of the first houses, I must belong
 to one of the first families. My father was of Scotch
 descent. My ancestors came over about the time
 Miles Standish did. Our family motto is, "We add
 honor to that of our ancestors." I never saw my father
 until I was over thirty years old, as the sequel will show.
 My mother was a Sturtevant, of Dutch descent. Ours
 was a very patriotic family, and fought both in the Revolution and the War of 1812. My mother’s brother,
 Major Thomas Sturtevant, with General Dearborn, Colonel Spooner, and Colonel Wyman, received President
 Monroe in 1817, and General Lafayette in 1824, on
 their arrival in the old stage-coach at Taft’s Tavern,
 near the toll-gate at Brush Hill Turnpike. On each
 occasion my mother served lunch on their arrival at the
 line, after which the latter, Lafayette, was escorted to
 the house of Governor Eustis, near the Dorchester line.
 I have in my possession four of six vases which President Monroe sent to my mother soon after his arrival
 in Washington.

I was christened in the old wooden meeting-house
 on the hill opposite the Norfolk House, by Dr. Eliphalet
 Porter, and was named for an old gray-headed negro
 who did chores for the folks about town, and went by
 the name of "Clever Charlie." My father was a
 well-to-do currier, and possessed some considerable
 property; but the drawing of a large prize in a lottery
 ruined him. He became addicted to drink, neglected
 his business, and finally left for parts unknown.

I was the youngest of five children. When I was quite
 small, my mother moved to Cambridge, and thence to Boston. She was not very well or strong, and worked
 hard to support her little family. I was sent to school,
 but very seldom went, — in fact, I "hooked Jack"
 nearly all the time. There were no truant officers or
 policemen in those days, and only seven constables in
 all Boston: old Reed, old Jones, old Clapp, the two old
 Browns, and the two old — I-forget-their-names. I used
 to run down the harbor in the old sloop Sal after
 paving-stones and sand, and sometimes at noon my
 feeble voice might have been heard at the head of
 State Street, crying out, "Here’s the Mail, Bee, and
 Times." I also tended dinner-table in old Hunt’s cellar
 on Commercial Street. John B. Gough tended bar
 there too, and roomed at my mother’s. If I was wanted
 at any other time, I could easily be found down at the
 wharves, in some ship’s jolly-boat, or up in one of her
 tops, scanning the harbor. How I enjoyed listening to
 the sailors spinning yarns about the foreign countries
 they had seen and the sunny islands of the Pacific! I
 caught the sea-fever badly. It struck to my brain, and
 I made up my mind to be a sailor anyway. I knew very
 well that I was not one of the best boys in Boston, though
 I had one of the very best of mothers. She was so
 good and loving that I could not harbor the thought of
 deserting her — I knew it would almost break her poor
 heart; but I kept coaxing and teasing, teasing and coaxing, until I had almost bothered the life out of her. At
 last I gained her consent, and was made one of the happiest boys in all Boston. Without emotion I could say:

"Farewell to the land of my childhood and youth,  The land of the Bible, religion, and truth!  Thou bright land of blessings in every form,  I leave thee and fly to the billow and storm."

It was on a bright, sunny morning in the month of
 June that we sailed. Old "Sol" never shone brighter,
 as he shed his warm rays into the back windows of the
 old Spurr house on Commercial Street. Here mother
 hired several rooms on the second floor, and it was in one
 of these back rooms that I received her blessing. I shall
 never forget the time or the place. There was a fond
 embrace from a loving mother, a kiss on the forehead,
 and a "God bless you, my son! Be a good boy, obey
 your captain, and never forget to say your prayers."
 Kind reader, no earthly being can bless you as a loving
 mother can. As I looked up and saw the thin, pale face
 of my mother, I felt the hot tears roll down my young
 cheeks. I was almost choked. I could not look up
 again or utter a single word, but I thanked God that I
 had her consent to go, and that I was not running
 away to sea and leaving mother and home for

"A life on the ocean wave  And a home on the rolling deep."

In less than an hour I was on board the good old
 schooner Longwharf Captain Cook of Provincetown,
 and standing down the Bay, bound to the Banks for
 a fishing cruise.

From this time, I made several trips cod-fishing and
 mackerel-catching, and also a number of voyages to the
 West Indies and some of the Southern ports. As so
 much has been written, however, about the slave-ships
 and the pirates of the West Indies, I will not go into the details of any of these short voyages, but, instead,
 will give you one of them in the form of a ditty:

A Sailor’s Ditty.

’Twas on the twenty-first of April, from Hampton Roads we sailed, Kind heaven did protect us with a sweet and pleasant gale. ’Twas on board the Roving Betsy, — bold Daniels was his name, — And we were bound down to Laugarra on the Spanish Main. When to Laugarra we came, my boys, our orders they were so: To land a part of our cargo and proceed to Curacoa. When to Curacoa we came, my boys, our cargo for to unload, ’Twas "Get the Betsy in readiness for Port Laugarra Roads." Our captain called all hands aft, and then to us did say, "Here’s money for you all, my lads, for to-morrow we go to sea." ’Twas early the next morning all hands appeared on board, And cheerfully got under way for Port Laugarra Roads. ’Twas early the next morning, just at the break of day, When a man at our foretop-mast-head a sail he did espy. All hands being called to quarters, our courage for to try, — All hands being called to quarters, — our enemy draws nigh. She mounted twelve six-pounders, and fought one hundred men. And now the action’s just begun — it was just half-past ten. We mounted four six-pounders, and our crew was twenty-two; But in fifty minutes by the watch we whipped those Spaniards blue. And now we repaired, brave boys, bound for Columbia’s shore, And for the famous America and the city of Baltimore. Now, to conclude my ditty (these lines this world may view), Success attend brave Daniels and his jovial twenty-two.

Home again! "Home, home, sweet home, — be it
 ever so humble, there’s no place like home." Never
 were there truer words written. So far I have not found
 anything homelike, or any sunshine, in the dark, damp,
 dingy, dreary forecastle. It does seem sort of jolly,
 though, when you pass round the can, and some old weather-beaten man-of-war’s man or privateersman sings
 lustily:

"Then we'll sling the flowing bowl.  Fond hopes arise;  The girls we prize Shall bless each jovial soul.  For the can, boys, bring:  We’ll dance and sing, While the foaming billows roll," —

or "Jack, the Lad," "Black-eyed Susan," or the song
 Jack likes the best — "The Girl I Left Behind Me."


They were glad to see me home again, — mother,
 brothers, sisters, and friends, — and we had a jolly time
 together once more. The very next day, however, I
 took a cruise on the wharves and visited old Titcomb’s
 shipping office. He told me shipping was very dull and
 rates low, but offered me a boat steerer’s berth with a
 very high lay on board a whaler. This almost persuaded me to ship, but while on Constitution Wharf,
 my eye caught sight of a man-of-war brig lying at anchor
 in the stream off the Navy Yard, Charlestown. The
 following day I paid the Yard a visit. While viewing
 the brig, I saw the boatswain in a boat ahead of her,
 squaring the yards by the lifts and braces. She proved
 to be the ten-gun brig Porpoise. She sat like a duck on
 the water, and looked as trim and neat as a young lady
 in her Sunday rig. I must confess that I was fairly carried away with her and bewitched with her rakish looks.
 I was suddenly awakened from my dream by a gentle
 tap on the shoulder from an officer who proved to be
 Captain Ramsey, commander of the handsome brig.

CHARLIE ERSKINE,
Late Coxswain of the United States Brig "Porpoise."

From a Daguerreotype taken by Plumb, 75 Court St., Boston, in 1842.

He asked me how long I had been at sea, where I was
 born and brought up, whether I had a father and mother
 living, and how I would like to sail with him in that
 man-of-war brig. I told him that was just what I
 wanted. Calling in at an office near the gate, he wrote
 and gave me a paper, telling me that if I could get my
 mother to sign it, I could go. After a great deal of
 coaxing and many promises I persuaded her to sign the
 paper. I went on board the brig the next morning, and
 we sailed in the afternoon.

When a few days at sea, the purser ordered me to sign
 the ship’s articles. I refused. Then, being ordered to
 sign them by the captain, I made my mark, as I was
 unable to write at the time. We had on board Commodore Woolseley, Captain Shubrick, and Captain
 Stringham. We visited the West India Islands and
 touched at some of the southern ports. On our return
 we encountered a very heavy gale off Hatteras, and lost
 two of our bow guns overboard. As I was lashing a
 hen-coop forward, the brig shipped a heavy sea, and I
 was washed out overboard through one port, and back,
 by chance, through another.

On our arrival at Norfolk we were transferred on
 board the receiving-ship Java. The frigate Brandywine
 was being fitted out for the Mediterranean station, and
 we were told that we must re-enter the service and go
 on board of her, or be discharged. All hands took
 their discharge. Mine read as follows: "This is to
 certify that Charlie Erskine, coxswain, is regularly discharged from the sea service of the United States and
 from the U. S. ship Java." [Signed] E. B. Boutwell,
 Lieutenant, March, 1837.

In taking my discharge, I was told by. Lieutenant
 Boutwell that my wages amounted to one hundred and
 sixty-nine dollars, but I was paid only one dollar and
 seventy-one cents. The lieutenant said that the rest
 of my wages had been paid to Captain Ramsey three
 days before, and that he had gone to Washington. Instead of coxswain, I should have been rated on the ship’s
 books as a first-class boy, at eight dollars per month.
 The duty of the coxswain is to have charge of the captain’s gig. It is a petty officer’s berth, and belongs to
 an able-bodied seaman.

The next day I set out for Washington in company
 with another boy about my age by the name of Martin.
 He also was rated as a petty officer, and the captain
 had taken his wages. On arriving in Washington, we
 soon found the captain’s house. He put us at menial
 service for a time, and then hired us out to work on
 the Georgetown aqueduct. In the evenings, my chum
 and I used to visit the Capitol. I remember seeing
 there John C. Calhoun, R. M. Johnson, John Tyler,
 Colonel Washington, Judge Bibb, James Bell, James K.
 Polk, General Cass, Judge Woodbury, Edward Everett,
 Daniel Webster, John Davies, Colonel Benton, Otis,
 Hayne, Ticknor, Judge Story, Sumner, General Scott,
 John Q. Adams, Henry Clay, and other distinguished
 men. I was very much impressed with their noble
 looks, and shall never forget them. Most of them had
 round and very large heads. Calhoun’s was long;
 Clay’s was long, but smaller. General Cass had a
 wart on the side of his nose. Such an array of talent
 and intellect I have never seen since, although I have visited Washington several times in later years. It was
 a grand sight to look upon these great men.

One afternoon the captain paid us a visit, in order to
 get hold of our wages. I do not know what he thought
 of us, for we felt and looked like two drowned rats.
 We were smeared all over with mud, and were wet
 through and through to the skin. We told him that
 this slinging mud was not sailor’s duty. He told us to
 seek a better lay. The next day we went down to
 Alexandria and shipped in the brig Joseph, bound
 to Philadelphia. At Philadelphia, while we lay alongside a wharf at the foot of South Street, a fine-looking
 man came along and gave each man on board a tract.
 He spoke very kindly, offering some good advice.
 Luckily, he proved to be an uncle of mine, and, getting
 permission from the captain, I went home with him.
 Philadelphia is, I believe, called the "City of Brotherly
 Love." I found my cousins the pleasantest people I
 had ever seen. Philadelphia is, in fact, the most homelike city I was ever in, excepting Boston — of course
 there is no place like the "Hub" to me. My cousins
 lived on either

"Market, Arch, Race, or Vine,  Chestnut, Walnut, Spruce, or Pine"

Street, I do not remember which.

I arrived in Boston after a fifteen-days’ passage, all
 right, and found all glad to see me back home again.

After working a short time in a hook and eye factory,
 and stubbing my toes against the pavements, I shipped
 in the navy for the African station. In a few days, however, I was transferred from the receiving-ship Columbus to my old brig Porpoise, Captain Charles Wilkes, commander, on the coast survey. After surveying Georges
 Banks and Nantucket Shoals, we returned to Boston.
 The day after our arrival at the Navy Yard I was sent
 over to the city to the office of Mr. Bowditch, author
 of the "American Navigator," on State Street. He
 said that our charts were the neatest he had ever seen.
 He seemed to take quite an interest in me, and gave
 me some good advice in a fatherly way, which came
 just in time, for I had made up my mind that I would
 disappoint every one, and be somebody. From here I
 went to the office of the navy agent, where I received
 a number of letters, which I put into my hat — in
 those days sailors wore tarpaulin hats. I had been
 told by the captain to hurry and be quick, and had
 obeyed orders in good shape so far; but I could not go
 by my home a second time without stopping to see my
 mother. She was very glad to see me, and I shall
 never forget her fond embrace, and the "God bless
 you, my darling boy!" when I left her. As I crossed
 the bridge there was a schooner going through the draw,
 and while I was waiting, my hat was knocked overboard. I immediately jumped into the schooner’s boat
 and recovered it, but, of course, the letters were wet.
 I met the captain near the dry dock, explained my
 adventure, and told him how the letters got wet. He
 gave me a look as dark as a thunder-cloud, and ordered
 me on board. I went straight to the landing where
 the boat was, and the crew told me that the captain
 was as "mad as a hornet." As I passed over the
 gangway, Lieutenant Boyle ordered the boatswain to "introduce me to the gunner’s daughter." I was
 seized and placed over the breech of a sixty-two-pound
 Paxon gun, and whipped with the colt so severely that
 I could not sit down with any comfort for several
 weeks. The colt is a piece of rope about three feet
 long and half an inch thick. The boatswain and his
 mates always carry one in their hats for immediate use
 I worked my right hand behind me and received several very painful cuts over the knuckles. All this time
 we were lying not more than a quarter of a mile in a
 straight line from where my mother lived, and if she
 had been at an open window at the front of the house
 she could have heard my piercing cries. On being
 released, I went forward, and one of the old sailors set
 me on a bucket of water and put my hand into another.
 He said that would take out the soreness. It was in
 the fall of the year, and not very warm. I had on a
 white under-flannel, — that is, it was white once, — a
 blue flannel shirt, and blue dungaree trousers. When
 I went below and took off my clothes, I found that my
 trousers had been cut through, and threads from them
 were sticking to my bruised flesh. When I shipped
 this time I had made up my mind to try to be somebody and to get ahead in the world; but now my hopes
 were blasted. My ambition was gone, yes, whipped
 out of me, — and for nothing. This has been the case
 with many a sailor. Among the letters which I had
 received at the agent’s were the sailing orders, which
 the captain expected, and this was the reason why he
 was so anxious for my return. We sailed the next day
 for the south.

After surveying Charleston Harbor, and those of
 Darien, Brunswick, and Savannah, we sailed for New
 York. Our captain had left us at Savannah, having
 been ordered to Washington. On our arrival at New
 York we were transferred on board the receiving-ship
 Fulton and in a few days the brig’s crew were discharged.

After exploring the "Hook" and "Five Points," I
 returned to Boston, and found all at home well. My
 oldest brother and his friend Gough were supernumeraries at the Lyon Theatre, where there was a
 circus. I shipped in the circus. For a week I was put
 through a regular course of training in riding and tumbling. In trying to turn a double back somerset I came
 near breaking my neck. I rather thought that I had
 better quit the circus before I did break it. The ringmaster — his name, I think, was Stickney — wanted me to
 stay, and so did the old clown; but after thinking it all
 over, I gave up the idea of being a rider and tumbler,
 and left the circus.

My brother Thomas, who was a little older than I,
 lived on a farm in old Concord. I visited him for a
 few days, and had a very lively time, but have always
 regretted one thing — that I influenced him to run
 away. I planned the whole thing, set the time, and
 thought he would run away that night, but he said no,
 he wanted to go over to Carlisle the next day. Now
 I do not think any one could guess why he wished to
 go over to Carlisle. It seems he had heard that there
 was an Irishman in that town, and, as he had never
 seen one, thought he would improve the opportunity, for he would probably see nothing of the kind in Boston.
 No one in those days was spoken of as an Irishman, a
 Frenchman, a Norwegian, or an Italian, but simply as
 "a foreigner." Almost every one who wore whiskers
 wore a pair, one on each side of the face, or a full beard
 all around. The mustache, imperial, and goatee are
 foreign importations. A young Boston dandy who
 wanted to appear outlandish raised a mustache. When
 next he visited a country village, a good farmer’s wife
 laid her hands carefully on his clothes to see if they
 were homespun. Finding that they were not, she asked
 him if he was a "furriner." He told her that he was
 no foreigner, but a Boston boy. "What on airth do
 you wear that bunch of hair on your upper lip for?"
 inquired the good woman.

In those days we burned whale oil in our lamps, and
 built fires in good old-fashioned open fireplaces.
 There were no stoves or coal oil. We made our own
 matches, and struck fire with flint and steel in the old-
fashioned tinder-box. A familiar byword was, "A
 smoking chimney, a scolding wife, and green wood to
 burn." Most men wore leather straps to keep their
 trousers down, and leather stocks to keep their dickies
 up. The women used to wear moccasin hoods and
 calashes. Almost every man wore boots, up to the time
 of the Rebellion; now nearly all wear shoes. In the
 good old days gone by, when people paid their grocery
 bills a glass of black strap was given to the old man, a
 couple of nutmegs to the old lady, and a stick of peppermint candy was added for the baby.

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