IN the old days, fifty years ago, when I first went to sea, it was the custom in fine weather, in most ships, after supper had been leisurely discussed and pipes lighted, for both watches to gather on the forecastle deck to listen to the yarns of some old tar, or to join in one of the many ballads with a rattling chorus, in which the exploits of Dick Turpin, Claude Duval, or some other dashing knight of the road were set forth in glowing terms and endless verses.
Many an evening, when a boy, I have coiled myself up on the deck, close to the windlass bitts, with my jacket rolled up under my head as a pillow, and have listened with eager interest to those tough yarns, while the good ship, with every inch of canvas, from courses to moonsails, drawing, gently rose and fell with rhythmic motion, as she ploughed her way through the long rolling swells of the broad Pacific.
A hundred feet above our heads, the tapering point of the skysail mast swayed; in the heavens about us blazed the brilliant constellations of the southern hemisphere; beneath us the waves gently swished as the sharp forefoot clave them asunder, and the story-teller droned on with his tales of peril by storm and wreck, or, perchance, in a lighter vein, dwelt upon the charms of that lass in some far-away port who loved a sailor.
That was indeed the poetry of sea life! But like everything else that is pleasant in this world, the hour in which we enjoyed it was brief and it came to an end, often in the very midst of the most exciting episode of a story, with the harsh cry from the quarter deck: “Strike eight bells! Set the watch, and lay aft here and heave the log!”
I here propose, in my turn, as though sitting on the windlass bitts, to give some chapters from my old log-books, which, however, are somewhat more veracious than many of the stories often told in that way. For barring a little—a very little—license, such as must be allowed any old barnacle-back when he starts out to spin a yarn, these sketches may be considered very truthful pictures of a sailor’s life fifty years ago, and veritable experiences in the navy during our civil war.
Such as they are, then, I offer these sea stories to my young friends for their approval, premising by saying that a few of the sketches have already appeared in the “Youth’s Companion” and in the “Cambridge Tribune.”
F. STANHOPE HILL.
CAMBRIDGE, 1893.