I was at The Benbow one night when a good chum walked in. Patrick, at twenty-one, was a bit more experienced in the ways of the world than I, but he let me . . . follow in his wake . . . none-the-less.
Patrick: Jimmy me boy, there’s an open berth on a merchant ship that sails in a week. I put a good word in for you and it’s yours if you want it.
I: And where would this merchant ship be sailing Patrick?
Patrick: China.
I: China.
Patrick: The pay is seventeen dollars a month and you can trade all you can fit in your trunk. So I was going to China.
I had never been to sea, nor had I ever played the trader . . . and I didn’t own a trunk. One week. The first chance I got I went to see Robbie at his bookshop and told him the news. Robbie hadn’t traveled a great deal, but he had read a lot, and I was hoping he could advise me.
At first he was disinclined to believe me, but when he caught on, he became excited. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime Jimmy.” he said to me, “Soak it all in.”
As to what I should bring to trade he said, “The Chinese are artisans of the highest rank, but they are not, generally speaking, mechanically minded.”
And Robbie said that he thought I should invest in . . . pocket watches. So I bought twenty pocket watches, a trunk, and a good lock. I also converted twenty dollars into gold pieces and brought them with me as well. And as the day of departure approached I made the rounds to everyone concerned and told them of my forthcoming absence.
On the day we were supposed to report I made it to the docks all right, but could not find the ship. In my defense, there were many ships harbored there . . . and as many moored offshore . . . and, to me, it was an imposing forest of masts and ropes. “I will no doubt find her,” I said to myself, “five minutes after she sets sail . . . and I can wave good-bye to the crew as they head out to sea.”
Eventually I found her. “The Lucky Mermaid” was her name, and I gave her a good looking over. She was an impressive ship . . . a clipper ship . . . and she seemed to have the length of a city block. But her most distinguishing feature . . . and the one I liked the best . . . was the large painted wooden mermaid that was attached to her bow. “And she’s never been sunk . . . never so much as sprung a leak. Why, she’s the safest ship that ever sailed to sea.”
Or so I was hoping to be told.
I met and shook hands with the captain . . . a spry seafaring gentleman by the name of Leonard Martindale . . . and though the meeting was brief and cordial, there was a smile in his eyes and a discernable warmth in his manner . . . and I liked him. With a crew of fifty men . . . most all of them seasoned veterans of the sea . . . we embarked.
The first week of the voyage I was . . . to the crew . . . a “greenhorn.” I often lost my balance on deck, did duties incorrectly, and got in the way of the other men. But I found my sea legs soon enough and was then eager to prove to the captain and crew that I could be of use. I hoisted sails, trimmed sails, dropped sails, swabbed decks, greased pulleys, polished brass, secured cargo, and hauled supplies. I did everything I was ordered to do with a sense of urgency, and I would help the other men when not occupied with some job of my own. It made a difference to me that the captain was a good man, as he appreciated my labor. It is harder to work when your work is unappreciated.
It was, I think, the fourteenth day of the voyage when I moseyed on down to the galley and greeted the ship’s cook . . . a gruff gent by the name of Josiah Brown . . . and asked him if I could help with the preparation and service of the crew’s meals. Cooks, generally, are an anxious and complaining lot, and Josiah was not an exception to that rule. But, you see, I had considerable experience at . . . prying my way into the heart of a cantankerous person . . . and he soon gave way to my proposal.
I felt right at home in the ship’s galley and dining room, or, I should say, I felt right at The Admiral Benbow Inn. It was work, there was no denying that, but it was a comfort to me . . . me being a lad a thousand miles from his home . . . with the distance increasing with each passing hour . . . and I needed it.
I had, I must admit, some misgivings about the appropriateness of my trading merchandise . . . namely the pocket watches . . . and I wondered,
“What are these professional traders bringing to China?” So I visited the lower deck . . . where the cargo was stored . . . and made some inquiries. It turned out that we were hauling ginseng, sandalwood, furs, and . . . slugs.
We were carrying a large shipment of slugs all the way to China. “Why on earth would the Chinese want so many slugs?” I asked a crew member, and I was told, “In China, they eat slugs. In fact, slugs are a table delicacy to the Chinese.” And there are not enough homegrown slugs to meet the local demand. (This last little bit of fact being something I deduced on my own.)
“Could it be?” I wondered. “Could these slimy pests . . . pests that had for years feasted on my garden greens . . . actually be valuable property?” I thought back to the many times I had gone slug hunting in my garden . . .
completely unaware that my quarries were, in truth, table delicacies. They knew it, of course, but being humble and modest creatures, they kept it to themselves . . . and tried to carry on the best they could. The brave little slugs.