Bone Street/Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVES
JACK was rapidly getting a knowledge of life’s battle, for although he spared no effort to obtain work, at the end of six weeks he was still unemployed.
He had started out with a brave heart, and head erect, but it must be said that after weeks of disappointments, although he did really want work, he had not the same courage, as when the search started, for as his money dwindled, so his spirit failed.
He had answered every advertisement possible, paid early morning visits to warehouses and flour mills, and stood with the rest of the crowd at the dock gates. Sometimes his heart sank into his boots, when he saw the big, vigorous men who were turned away with the rest of the not wanted. The unsuccessful ones were strong in their condemnation of the way in which men were chosen for the jobs.
“Blast his eyes,” said one, “that’s six times I’ve been within reach of him and he’s never seen me, or never let on he’s seen me. I suppose he doesn’t forget me telling him off about having damned favourites.”
He thrust his hands deep down in his pockets, breathing imprecations, his companions joining in with a volley of similar grievances.
“Why the hell can’t they share the work out,” said another, “there’s some of ’em had four days straight off, and I haven’t had an hour this week.”
Then one would shout news of another boat coming in, and the same operation of dozens of men scrambling for work would be repeated.
There were some men employed regularly on the docks, but it was an utter impossibility to get these jobs without some inside influence.
Day after day, and week after week, Jack tramped the streets, gradually becoming more and more despondent. He knew all the possible places where men were engaged. He mixed among the varied collection of men from all parts of the world. He ventured into the Sailors’ Home, and mingled with sailors from every quarter of the globe. On one occasion while in the Sailors’ Home, he saw two Italian seamen fighting with knives, until a Liverpool Irishman separated them.
“Ye damned wild cats,” he said, in the best Scotland Road style, “what the hell are your fists for, fight now ye devils, fight,” he shouted, after they were disarmed, but they had had enough.
They were a motley crowd, and rough as they were in the daytime, Jack wondered what they were like after eleven at night, when full of fighting beer and whisky.
During his various excursions, he had frequently been invited to join them in a drink, but up to the present had always been able to refuse, not so much from the principle of determined abstinence, but because he had never tasted, and there was no desire.
Early one morning while standing on the fish docks, he saw the trawlers putting out to sea at high tide. Cautiously they picked their way through the lock gates, and so into the Humber.
One vessel remained in the dock while the others departed down the Humber, and a man, evidently one of the crew, remained on the dock wall. Jack stood near by idly surveying the scene, when a number of others evidently like Jack unemployed, rushed up to the man.
“Want a man, want a man? I’ll sign on with you,” they cried.
The man held them back and slowly surveyed them.
“I want a trimmer,” he said, “any of you been to sea before?”
Only one of the number had, but he was an undersized weakly chap, and the fisherman looked dubiously at him saying:
“I don’t think you could trim for a voyage, you ought to ship as cook,” and selecting a strong-looking man of about thirty years of age said, “Come on, we’ll try you.”
He semaphored the trawler, which manoeuvred to the dock wall, and taking the two men on board commenced its journey down the Humber.
Jack reflected. He had reached his last ten shillings, which meant that another week would find him spent up. “Something must be done,” he thought, as he slowly wended his way to his lodgings with a new thought running through his mind. Hitherto he had not considered the trawlers, but the fisherman’s words had set him thinking.
Arriving home he found Ned at tea, and immediately plunging into the subject, asked him:
“What’s a trimmer?”
Ned looked up in the act of conveying a saucerful of hot tea to his mouth, and manlike answered “Why?”
“Oh, I want to know,” replied Jack.
“A trimmer,” said Ned, “is a man who shovels the coal out of the bunkers into the stokehole, ready for the stoker to fire with.”
“Is it hard work on a trawler?” continued Jack.
“Rather,” was the reply.
“Do you think I could do it?” Jack persisted.
“You could not,” said Ned, “it’s no job for a chap like you.”
“All right,” was the reply. “Now tell me this. Could I manage as cook?”
Ned reflected a moment, while Mrs. Hampton asked, “Whatever is the lad thinking about?”
“Well, it’s this way,” said Jack. “I’m almost at the end of my money. I’ve tried every way to get work and failed, and to-day I saw a chap set on as a trimmer who had never been to sea before. There was another chap who had been to sea, and the fisherman advised him to ship as cook. He was a weakly looking chap and I thought that if he could manage as cook, I could, even with my gammy arm.”
While Ned was pondering over Jack’s words, Mrs. Hampton commenced to tell Jack not to consider such a thing.
“You’ll get work some time, lad, and surely we can manage until you do.”
“It is no use, Ma,” said Jack, “there are scores of men in Hull to-day who have been unemployed for six months, able-bodied men, not cripples, and so far as I can see, a trawler is my only chance. I appreciate your goodness, but I’m afraid that if I continue as I am, I shall end up by being unemployable.”
“Now, Ned, what do you say?” Jack continued.
Ned carefully stripped the backbone from his herring, and then asked reflectively, “Can you cook?”
“Yes, a little. There was nobody to cook at home for me and father.”
“Can you bake?” came the further question.
“Yes, I’ve done that a few times. It’s many years ago now, but I think it would soon come back to me.”
“Well, if you can bake and cook perhaps you might take the chance of suiting them, but I feel like the wife here, I’d rather you didn’t even consider it. We are only poor folks, but you have been more like a son than anything—we have never felt that you were a lodger.” His wife nodded her head, and fixing two brown eyes on Jack, said, “Don’t go, lad.”
Jack went over to her, and putting his hand on her shoulder, told her that he could see no other course.
“I appreciate all that you have done, Mrs. Hampton, more than I can say, but it would be wrong of me to stay and sponge on you when my money has gone. You see it may be months before I get work otherwise, and I’ll promise this, that if I do get a boat and find it too difficult for me, I’ll give it up.”
The woman gave in as women do when they see the inevitable, and over tea they discussed the position. Ned, of course, had the most knowledge, and Jack pumped him assiduously the rest of the night. He found that sailor-men appreciate fresh bread and good coffee more than anything, so he turned his attention to Mrs. Hampton to refresh his memory with the proper proportions of flour and yeast. Then again Ned said:
“Fishermen are like most sailors, fond of a change. If the cook gives them variations, the cook will have a good time, but if he repeats the same dishes day after day, he will have a damned hard time. You see he is the lowest rank on board, and in addition to being cook, he is cabin-boy, holder-on at the winch, helps to gut the fish, and in fact general mug-about, but if he is a decent cook, the skipper is so anxious to keep him that he relieves him of a lot of the other work, so that he will stick to the trawler.”
Jack gathered all this in and stored it away in his mind, for he was determined to have a try, providing he could get a job, so with discussion and questions he gained all the information he could.
“I’m going on the docks first thing in the morning,” Jack said, “ready for high tide, so if I don’t return, you’ll know I’ve got a ship.”
Mrs. Hampton rose, and going to a drawer brought out a small notebook, saying, “There’s some recipes here that might be useful, they are not fancy ones.”
And so she and her husband accepted the position.
Jack took the book, putting it in his inside pocket, and the subject was dropped.
He was on the dock wall next morning before high tide and as the lock gates were opened, the trawlers slowly steamed out. He looked down on the men swilling the decks as the boats were moving out, and as each passed him he wondered if they had their full complement of hands. Slowly they made their way into the centre of the river, avoiding the sandbanks, and with a final toot of the siren betook themselves for the North Sea. One by one they departed, threading their way cautiously and slowly, down to those deeps from which so many brave men have never returned.
There were others besides Jack waiting in hopes of a job, but this time all the trawlers departed down the river. He watched them until the last was but a speck in the river, and slowly retraced his footsteps to commence the dreary round of seeking work.
Early evening found Jack back again ready for the evening tide, but with the same result. Notwithstanding that, he determined to keep trying.
He could see that the Hamptons were relieved each time that he arrived back home. All his scanty savings were now gone. He had been compelled to accept food from them in the hopes of making repayment when he found work. Money gone, clothes and boots getting shabby, in debt to the Hamptons, without a relative in the world, small wonder he felt his position keenly. At last his efforts were successful. For days he had haunted the docks in the early morning, and one day he made his way to the accustomed place just as the trawlers were putting out to sea.
There were another two men also waiting for a job, and as a man, evidently from one of the trawlers, approached them, Jack decided to be first in.
“Want a man?” he asked.
The fisherman eyed him over, and then the other two.
“Can you cook?” he asked, addressing no one in particular.
All three answered “Yes.”
“Been to sea before?” came the further question.
The other two mumbled something indistinctly, while Jack answered plainly: “No, but give me a chance and I’ll do my best.”
The man looked them over, then taking Jack by the arm said, “Come on,” and he hailed a boat, while the others departed, and while waiting the trawler’s arrival, the mate, as Jack afterwards found him to be, said:
“Do you know why I took you?”
“No,” replied Jack.
“Because you’re clean, and the other two aren’t, so remember that and keep clean. You’ve never been to sea before, and you’ll have a rough time, but let’s have clean food, or you’ll know the reason why.”
The mate spoke roughly, for the sea does make the exterior of mankind rough, but Jack instinctively felt that the man was a decent sort, and could be relied on in case of emergency. So he wisely held his tongue until the trawler drew up, noting with interest her name —“The Wild Boar.” Nearer and nearer she came, enabling them to descend the ladder, attached to the sea wall. Jack going first, he carefully gained the deck. The mate followed him, and pointing to the galley said, “That’s your dispensary. Make good, we want breakfast by the time we are over the bar, you’ll find plenty of food below.” And without anything further, departed to the bridge to inform the skipper that a cook had been found. Jack made his way to the galley, which was built on deck aft and was about six feet square. The stove occupied one corner, and in another was a small table. Immediately opposite the entrance was a ladder leading into the cabin.
Jack looked at the stove and found there was no fire, so he made his way downstairs to discover means of making one. The cabin was a tiny place, with a half-oval table secured to the floor, and lockers round which served for seats. Immediately over the lockers were sliding doors which on opening he found to be bunks. Two small state-rooms opened out from the cabin, one on each side. These he found afterwards were occupied by the skipper and chief engineer, while the second engineer and mate occupied a bunk in the cabin. The remainder of the crew bunked forrad.
Jack rummaged about for fuel, but could find none. There was plenty of food in the lockers and pantry; there was a sack of flour, a bag of yeast, a ham, dried peas and beans, potatoes, sugar, indeed plenty of food, but no fuel. Jack made his way on deck and approaching one of the hands, engaged hauling up a rope, asked:
“Where can I get some coal and firewood?”
The man looked up, grinned at Jack, and said, “Are you the doctor?”
“No,” said Jack, “I’m the cook.”
“Same thing,” was the reply.
He was evidently trying to control his feelings, but failed, for suddenly bursting into a roar of laughter, he doubled up.
“What’s the matter?” Jack asked.
“You are the cook and you want some coal and firewood, you shall have it.”
He led him to the fo’castle, and pointing to a tank said, “There’s your firewood”
Puzzled, Jack looked first at the tank, then at the man, and suddenly it dawned on him. The tank contained paraffin oil. His presence of mind returning to him, he picked a handful of cotton waste from a bundle in the corner, saturated it under the tap attached to the tank, and without another word was proceeding back to his galley, when the man asked.
“Is this your first time at sea?”
“Yes,” replied Jack.
“Well, I will give you a tip, don’t lose your temper, play up to the skipper and mate, and above all, give us good grub. If you don’t, there will be hell to pop on this trawler.”
“Deckie-e-e-e,” called a voice from the deck. “Aye, aye,” he answered, and away he ran.
Jack looked curiously around the fo’castle, inspecting the place that was to be his home for so many days. It was about as large (or small) as the cabin. There were three bunks at each side, one over the other, and were evidently in occupation, for there was a straw mattress in each, and Jack rightly concluded that one of them was his.
The bunks were just plain wood front and ends, with a back entirely unprotected from the iron plates, which constituted the side of the trawler. Only about three-eighths of an inch of plate separated sleeping men from the sea.
He made his way back to the galley, and after clearing the stove of ashes and dirt, commenced to lay the fire. He found a bucket on deck, with which he proceeded down the iron ladder into the engine-room. There was no time for more than a hurried look round, but Jack saw the coal tumbling out from a small aperture opening from the bunkers, and a man stripped to the waist feeding the fires.
The man nodded carelessly, and without a word Jack filled his bucket and returned to the galley. There was soon a good fire going, and thinking of the ham, he brought it up, and commenced to cut off slices, having the feeding of nine men in view. So enquiring from the deckie the whereabouts of the fresh water, he soon had a large pan boiling on the fire.
He found a square tin, evidently used as a cooking utensil, and was washing it out ready for the ham, when he heard a gruff “Hello.” Turning round he saw a man looking him over from the doorway. He was dressed like the rest of the men, with blue cloth trousers stuck into half top-boots, a rough fisherman’s jersey, and, like the mate, wore a peaked cap. He was about fifty years of age, some five feet six in height, and was indeed the darkest man Jack had ever seen. His hair was raven black, his face tanned a dark mahogany, and a pair of piercing eyes roved here and there taking all in. Under a perfectly straight nose was a moustache, otherwise he was clean-shaven.
The dominant features were his eyes and lower jaw, which appeared to have been sawn off at the bottom, it was so square.
This was “Black Jack,” one of the best-known North Sea skippers. A queer mix-up of a man. When in a temper he was known as “The Black Devil.” Wiry and active, he had been known to beat men twice his size, and God help the man on whose neck he got his grip.
“Know me?” he asked.
Jack hazarded a guess.
“The Skipper,” he said briefly.
“Yes, I am,” was the reply, “and look here,” he continued, “you’re a new copped un, there’s plenty of good grub aboard, serve it up good, and it’ll be good for you. If you don’t, well, it will be nine days before you see land again and you’ll never forget them nine days.”
Jack nodded his head without quailing, looking the skipper in the eyes, so without another word “Black Jack” departed, while Jack continued with his work. He could only do his best.