He that will learn to pray, let him go to sea.
—GEORGE HERBERT.
Books sometimes make surprising connections with life. Fifteen-year-old Tommy Jonkers, shipping1 as O.S. (ordinary seaman2) on the S.S. Fernfield in Glasgow in 1911, could hardly have suspected that the second engineer would write a novel and put him in it; or that that same novel would one day lift him out of focsle and galley3 and set him working for a publishing house on far-away Long Island. Is it not one more proof of the surprising power of the written word?
For Tommy is not one of those who expect to find their names in print. The mere4 sight of his name on a newspaper page, in an article I wrote about him, brought (so he na?vely told me) tears to his eyes. Excellent, simple-hearted Tommy! How little did you think, when you signed on to help the Fernfield carry coal from Glasgow to Alexandria, that the long arm of the Miehle press was already waiting for you; that thousands of good people reading a certain novel would be familiar with your "round rosy5 face and clear sea-blue eyes."
"Tommy" (whose real name is Drevis) was born in Amsterdam in 1896. His father was a fireman at sea, and contributed next to nothing to the support of Tommy and his pretty little sister Greta. They lived with their grandmother, near the quays6 in Amsterdam, where the masts of ships and the smell of tar7 interfered8 with their lessons. Bread and treacle9 for breakfast, black beans for lunch, a fine thick stew10 and plenty more bread for supper—that and the Dutch school where he stood near the top of his class are what Tommy remembers best of his boyhood. His grandmother took in washing, and had a hard time keeping the little family going. She was a fine, brusque old lady and as Tommy went off to school in the mornings she used to frown at him from the upstairs window because his hands were in his pockets. For as everybody knows, only slouchy good-for-nothings walk to school with pocketed hands.
Tommy did so well in his lessons that he was one of the star pupils given the privilege of learning an extra language in the evenings. He chose English because most of the sailors he met talked English, and his great ambition was to be a seaman. His uncle was a quartermaster in the Dutch navy, and his father was at sea; and Tommy's chance soon came.
After school hours he used to sell postcards, cologne, soap, chocolates, and other knicknacks to the sailors, to earn a little cash to help his grandmother. One afternoon in the spring of 1909 he was down on the docks with his little packet of wares11, when a school friend came running to him.
"Drevis, Drevis!" he shouted, "they want a mess-room boy on the Queen Eleanor!"
It didn't take Drevis long to get aboard the Queen Eleanor, a British tramp out of Glasgow, bound for Hamburg and Vladivostok. He accosted12 the chief engineer, his blue eyes shining eagerly.
"Try me!" pipes Drevis. (Bless us, the boy was barely thirteen!)
The chief roars with laughter.
"Too small!" he says.
Drevis insisted that he was just the boy for mess-room steward.
"Well," says the chief, "go home and put on a pair of long pants and come back again. Then we'll see how you look!"
Tommy ran home rejoicing. His Uncle Hendrick was a small man, and Tommy grabbed a pair of his trousers. Thus fortified14, he hastened back to the Queen Eleanor. The chief cackled, but he took him on at two pounds five a month.
Tommy didn't last long as mess-room boy. He broke so many cups the engineers had to drink out of dippers, and they degraded him to cabin boy at a pound a month. Even as cabin boy he was no instant success. He used to forget to empty the chief's slop-pail, and the water would overflow15 the cabin. He felt the force of a stout16 sea boot not a few times in learning the golden rubric of the tramp steamer's cabin boy.
"Drevis" was a strange name to the English seamen17, and they christened him "Tommy," and that handle turns him still.
Tommy's blue eyes and honest Netherland grin and easy temper kept him friendly with all the world. The winds of chance sent him scudding18 about the globe, a true casual of the seas. His first voyage as A.B. was on the Fernfield in 1911, and there he met a certain Scotch19 engineer. This engineer had a habit of being interested in human problems, and Tommy's guileless phiz attracted him. Under his tutelage Tommy acquired a thirst for promotion20, and soon climbed to the rank of quartermaster.
One thing that always struck Tommy was the number of books the engineer had in his cabin. A volume of Nat Gould, Ouida or "The Duchess" would be the largest library Tommy would have found in the other bunks22; but here, before his wondering gaze, were Macaulay, Gibbon, Gorki, Conrad, Dickens, Zola, Shakespeare, Montaigne, Chaucer, Shaw, and what not. And what would Master Tommy have said had he known that his friend, even then, was working on a novel in which he, Tommy, would play an important r?le!
The years went by. On sailing ships, on steam tramps, on private yachts, as seaman, as quartermaster, as cook's helper, Tommy drifted about the world. One day when he was twenty years old he was rambling23 about New York just before sailing for Liverpool on the steam yacht Alvina. He was one of a strictly24 neutral crew (the United States was still neutral in those days) signed on to take a millionaire's pet plaything across the wintry ocean. She had been sold to the Russian Government (there still was one then!)
Tommy was passing through the arcade25 of the Pennsylvania Station when his eye fell upon the book shop there. He was startled to see in the window a picture of the Scotch engineer—his best friend, the only man in the world who had ever been like a father to him. He knew that the engineer was far away in the Mediterranean26, working on an English transport. He scanned the poster with amazement27.
Apparently28 his friend had written a book. Tommy, like a practical seaman, went to the heart of the matter. He went into the shop and bought the book. He fell into talk with the bookseller, who had read the book. He told the bookseller that he had known the author, and that for years they had served together on the same vessels30 at sea. He told how the writer, who was the former second engineer of the Fernfield, had done many things for the little Dutch lad whose own father had died at sea. Then came another surprise.
"I believe you're one of the characters in the story," said the bookseller.
It was so. The book was "Casuals of the Sea," the author, William McFee, who had been a steamship31 engineer for a dozen years; and Drevis Jonkers found himself described in full in the novel as "Drevis Noordhof," and playing a leading part in the story. Can you imagine the simple sailor's surprise and delight? Pleased beyond measure, in his soft Dutch accent liberally flavoured with cockney he told the bookseller how Mr. McFee had befriended him, had urged him to go on studying navigation so that he might become an officer; and that though they had not met for several years he still receives letters from his friend, full of good advice about saving his money, where to get cheap lodgings32 in Brooklyn, and not to fall into the common error of sailors in thinking that Hoboken and Passyunk Avenue are all America. And Tommy went back to his yacht chuckling33 with delight, with a copy of "Casuals of the Sea" under his arm.
Here my share in the adventure begins. The bookseller, knowing my interest in the book, hastened to tell me the next time I saw him that one of the characters in the story was in New York. I wrote to Tommy asking him to come to see me. He wrote that the Alvina was to sail the next day, and he could not get away. I supposed the incident was closed.
Then I saw in the papers that the Alvina had been halted in the Narrows by a United States destroyer, the Government having suspected that her errand was not wholly neutral. Rumour34 had it that she was on her way to the Azores, there to take on armament for the house of Romanoff. She was halted at the Quarantine Station at Staten Island, pending35 an investigation36.
Then enters the elbow of coincidence. Looking over some books in the very same bookshop where Tommy had bought his friend's novel, I overheard another member of the Alvina's crew asking about "Casuals of the Sea." His chum Tommy had told him about his adventure, and he, too, was there to buy one. (Not every day does one meet one's friends walking in a 500-page novel!) By the never-to-be-sufficiently-admired hand of chance I was standing37 at Joe Hogan's very elbow when he began explaining to the book clerk that he was a friend of the Dutch sailor who had been there a few days before.
I'm afraid I would always desert the office if there's a plausible39 excuse to bum40 about the waterfront. Is there any passion in the breast of mankind more absorbing than the love of ships? A tall Cunarder putting out to sea gives me a keener thrill than anything the Polo Grounds or the Metropolitan41 Opera can show. Of what avail a meeting of the Authors' League when one can know the sights, sounds, and smells of West or South Street? I used to lug42 volumes of Joseph Conrad down to the West-Street piers43 to give them to captains and first mates of liners, and get them to talk about the ways of the sea. That was how I met Captain Claret of the Minnehaha, that prince of seamen; and Mr. Pape of the Ordu?a, Mr. Jones of the Lusitania and many another. They knew all about Conrad, too. There were five volumes of Conrad in the officers' cabins on the Lusitania when she went down, God rest her. I know, because I put them there.
And the Staten Island ferry is a voyage on the Seven Seas for the landlubber, After months of office work, how one's heart leaps to greet our old mother the sea! How drab, flat, and humdrum44 seem the ways of earth in comparison to the hardy45 and austere46 life of ships! There on every hand go the gallant47 shapes of vessels—the James L. Morgan, dour48 little tug49, shoving two barges50; Themistocles, at anchor, with the blue and white Greek colours painted on her rusty51 flank; the Comanche outward bound for Galveston (I think); the Ascalon, full-rigged ship, with blue-jerseyed sailormen out on her bowsprit snugging52 the canvas. And who is so true a lover of the sea as one who can suffer the ultimate indignities—and love her still! I am queasy53 as soon as I sight Sandy Hook....
At the quarantine station I had a surprise. The Alvina was not there. One old roustabout told me he thought she had gone to sea. I was duly taken aback. Had I made the two-hour trip for nothing? Then another came to my aid. "There she is, up in the bight," he said. I followed his gesture, and saw her—a long, slim white hull54, a cream-coloured funnel55 with a graceful56 rake; the Stars and Stripes fresh painted in two places on her shining side. I hailed a motor boat to take me out. The boatman wanted three dollars, and I offered one. He protested that the yacht was interned57 and he had no right to take visitors out anyway. He'd get into trouble with "39"—"39" being a United States destroyer lying in the Narrows a few hundred yards away. After some bickering58 we compromised on a dollar and a quarter.
That was a startling adventure for the humble59 publisher's reader! Wallowing in an ice-glazed motor boat, in the lumpy water of a "bight"—surrounded by ships and the men who sail them—I might almost have been a hardy newspaper man! But Long Island commuters are nurtured60 to a tough and perilous61 his, and I clambered the Alvina's side without dropping hat, stick, or any of my pocketful of manuscripts.
Joe Hogan, the steward, was there in his white jacket. He introduced me to the cook, the bosun, the "chief," the wireless62, and the "second." The first officer was too heavy with liquor to notice the arrival of a stranger. Messrs. Haig and Haig, those Dioscuri of seamen, had been at work. The skipper was ashore63. He owns a saloon.
The Alvina is a lovely little vessel29, 215 feet long, they told me, and about 525 tons. She is fitted with mahogany throughout; the staterooms all have brass64 double beds and private bathrooms attached; she has her own wireless telegraph and telephone, refrigerating apparatus65, and everything to make the owner and his guests comfortable. But her beautiful furnishings were tumbled this way and that in preparation for the sterner duties that lay before her. The lower deck was cumbered with sacks of coal lashed66 down. A transatlantic voyage in January is likely to be a lively one for a yacht of 500 tons.
I found Tommy below in his bunk21, cleaning up. He is a typical Dutch lad—round, open face, fair hair, and guileless blue eyes. He showed me all his treasures—his certificates of good conduct from all the ships (both sail and steam) on which he has served; a picture of his mother, who died when he was six; and of his sister Greta—a very pretty girl—who is also mentioned in Casuals of the Sea. The drunken fireman in the story who dies after a debauch67 was Tommy's father who died in the same way. And with these other treasures Tommy showed me a packet of letters from Mr. McFee.
I do not want to offend Mr. McFee by describing his letters to this Dutch sailor-boy as "sensible," but that is just what they were. Tommy is one of his own "casuals"—
Of Human Life, who strike the rocks uncharted,
Storm-driven, rudderless, with timbers started—
and these sailormen who drift from port to port on the winds of chance are most in need of sound Ben Franklin advice. Save your money; put it in the bank; read books; go to see the museums, libraries, and art galleries; get to know something about this great America if you intend to settle down there—that is the kind of word Tommy gets from his friend.
Gradually, as I talked with him, I began to see into the laboratory of life where "Casuals of the Sea" originated. This book is valuable because it is a triumphant72 expression of the haphazard73, strangely woven chances that govern the lives of the humble. In Tommy's honest, gentle face, and in the talk of his shipmates when we sat down to dinner together, I saw a microcosm of the strange barren life of the sea where men float about for years like driftwood. And out of all this ebbing74 tide of aimless, happy-go-lucky humanity McFee had chanced upon this boy from Amsterdam and had tried to pound into him some good sound common sense.
When I left her that afternoon, the Alvina was getting up steam, and she sailed within a few hours. I had eaten and talked with her crew, and for a short space had a glimpse of the lives and thoughts of the simple, childlike men who live on ships. I realized for the first time the truth of that background of aimless hazard that makes "Casuals of the Sea" a book of more than passing merit.
As for Tommy, the printed word had him in thrall75 though he knew it not. When he got back from Liverpool, two months later, I found him a job in the engine room of a big printing press. He was set to work oiling the dynamos, and at ten dollars a week he had a fine chance to work his way up. Indeed, he enrolled76 in a Scranton correspondence course on steam engineering and enchanted77 his Hempstead landlady78 by his simple ways. That lasted just two weeks. The level ground made Tommy's feet uneasy. The last I heard he was on a steam yacht on Long Island Sound.
But wherever steam and tide may carry him, Tommy cherishes in his heart his own private badge of honour: his friend the engineer has put him in a book! And there, in one of the noblest and most honest novels of our day, you will find him—a casual of the sea!
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1
shipping
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| n.船运（发货，运输，乘船） | |
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seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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tar
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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treacle
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| n.糖蜜 | |
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stew
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| n.炖汤，焖，烦恼；v.炖汤，焖，忧虑 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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bunks
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| n.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的名词复数 )；空话，废话v.（车、船等倚壁而设的）铺位( bunk的第三人称单数 )；空话，废话 | |
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rambling
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strictly
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arcade
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| n.拱廊；(一侧或两侧有商店的)通道 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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steamship
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lodgings
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chuckling
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rumour
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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investigation
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standing
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behold
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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metropolitan
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lug
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| n.柄，突出部，螺帽；(英）耳朵；（俚）笨蛋；vt.拖，拉，用力拖动 | |
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piers
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humdrum
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| adj.单调的，乏味的 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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austere
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gallant
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dour
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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snugging
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| v.整洁的( snug的现在分词 )；温暖而舒适的；非常舒适的；紧身的 | |
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queasy
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| adj.易呕的 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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funnel
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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interned
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bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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humble
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nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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perilous
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wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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69
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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70
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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71
drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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72
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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73
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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74
ebbing
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的现在分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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75
thrall
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| n.奴隶；奴隶制 | |
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76
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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