We Leave Adelaide — Steerage Passengers — arrival at Colombo
Oh what a bright, fresh morning! A brisk breeze chases fleecy-clouds across a turquoise sky; big green rollers break in a flouse of foam on saffron sands, and throw continuous spray over a wooden jetty; two ocean steamers lie out in the offing, and half a dozen small tugs struggle backwards and forwards between them. Such is the scene on the morning of our departure, early in December 1892, bound we know not whither, and to bring up we know not where.
Our baggage has preceded us on board, and when we ourselves follow in a pot-valiant tender, but little larger than a Zanzibari surf-boat, the wind has risen to a moderate gale. Two friends, with expressed solicitude for our welfare, but what is more likely, a certain amount of curiosity as to our departure, accompany us on board, and even now I can see the expression on their faces, as they realise to what sort of imprisonment we have voluntarily condemned ourselves. Some people have a special faculty for realising; they could realise on anything — an idea, a politician’s broken promise, or even a Wildcat Silver share. Myself I am not so fortunate. I have only tried to realise once in my life, and then the man seemed doubtful as to how I had come by the article. It only realised seven and sixpence.
The vessel, whose name I will not mention, having in my mind certain remarks which hereafter I may be called upon to make concerning her, is of about 3,000 tons register. No doubt she is a serviceable enough craft, but to our minds, accustomed to the trim tautness of our own mail-boats, the untidiness of her decks, the ungainliness of her crew, and the guttural vociferations of her officers seem unship-shape to the last degree.
Arriving on board, and announcing ourselves steerage passengers, we are with small ceremony directed forrard, and introduced to our quarters, situated deep down in the bowels of the forrard hatch. Even in the bright sunshine, it neither looks nor smells like a pleasant place, so, for the reason that pride is a sin and must be overcome, we are not conceited about our advanced position in the ship.
At the foot of the companion we find ourselves in a large, bare hold or saloon (the title is optional), perhaps forty feet long by twenty wide, lighted from the hatchway, which, in fair weather, always remains uncovered. Out of this hold open six small cabins, three on either side, each containing two tiers of iron shelving, which again are divided into six narrow bunks. Thus it will be seen that every cabin is capable of containing twelve occupants, each of whom brings with him, for use in the tropics, a peculiar and distinct, copyrighted odour of his own. In addition to these, a few single cabins are set apart for the use of families and female passengers. In the saloon are fixed, for dining purposes, small deal tables on iron trestles, but each passenger is expected to supply his or her own table utensils, as well as bedding and toilet requisites. Altogether, it is about as dirty and dingy a place as can be imagined.
Steam has been up some time, and as we finish the inspection of our new abode, the whistle sounds for strangers to leave the ship. We conduct our friends, with becoming ceremony, to the gangway, and bid them farewell. It is an impressive moment. Then the launch whistles, the gangway is hauled aboard, the big ship swings slowly round, the screw begins to revolve, and we are on our way.
It would be impossible, even if it could be a matter of interest, to express in words the thoughts which animate us, as standing side by side, we watch the shore fading into the dim distance. Surely, whether one likes or dislikes the place one is leaving, a certain feeling of regret must accompany the last view of it, and with the lessening of that familiar vision, a peculiar and indescribable tenderness towards it creeps round the heart, never to leave it quite the same again. Adelaide is gone, and the wide world lies before us across the seas.
As we swing round to face down the gulf, a lordly P. & O. boat passes us, also homeward bound, her flags waving, passengers cheering, and her band playing ‘Home, sweet Home’. The familiar melody sounds peculiarly sweet across the water, and in return we try to raise a cheer for her. But it is in vain. For the first time we realise that we are on board a foreign boat, where soap and cheering are unknown.
By this time it is nearly two o’clock, and our midday meal is being taken forrard in ship’s buckets. It consists, we discover, of a diffident soup, so modest that it hides its countenance under a mask of abominable fat; this is followed by some peculiar, parboiled beef, potatoes, and cabbage, the latter being, to our tastes, completely spoiled by the presence of the Fatherland-beloved carraway seed. Bread is served ad libitum, but is so sour as to be almost uneatable. Altogether, our first meal on board cannot be reckoned a success, and we express our feelings accordingly.
During its progress, however, we are permitted an opportunity of studying our fellow passengers. They are a motley crew, perhaps sixty-five in number, the like of which I’ve never seen congregated together before. Their nationalities embrace English, Irish, Scotch, Americans, French, Germans,
Italians, Greeks, Portuguese, Spaniards, Afghans, Hindoos, and Singhalese, while their shore-going occupations must have included every profession, from the management of oyster saloons to scientific thieving. Among the number are Pyrenean bear leaders, collectors of birds and reptiles, Italian organ grinders, returning settlers, world roving adventurers, and last, but not least, half a dozen Afghan camel men.
We pass from face to face, until our eyes fall and fasten on a Hadji Mullah, whose home is on the other side of far Kabul. He is exceptionally tall and cadaverous, his face is long, lean, and hatchet shaped, his hands and feet have evidently been designed by an architect with a liking for broad effect, while his clothes are simple swathes of calico, twisted in such a manner as to bring into extra prominence every peculiarity of his extraordinary anatomy. His legs, from the knees downwards, are bare to the winds of heaven, and, as finishing touches, his feet are thrust into unlaced Blucher boots, three sizes too large for him. We were present when he arrived on board. On gaining the deck, he said ‘Allah’ most emphatically, then turning to the side, shrieked to his compatriots to pass him up his baggage. Somehow it could not be found, and the excitement that followed surpasses description. At length a small bundle, tied up in a dirty red pocket-handkerchief, made its appearance, and was conveyed by its owner with anxious care to his berth below.
As soon as we are fairly under way, and our meagre meal has been disposed of, we betake ourselves to the fo’c’s’le head, destined throughout the voyage to be our favourite camping place, and as we watch the coastline recede from sight, fall to discussing our situation and condition. While thus occupied, we make the acquaintance of our three most trusty allies, some reference to whom may not be out of place.
They are a strange trio. The eldest is a Yorkshireman, broad in back and accent, a native of Bradford, and a vigorous but not over clever ruffian; the second is an Irishman, from County Gal way, rather undersized, and possessed of more than an ordinary share of his country’s wit; while the third, a Londoner from the district of Bayswater, has all the life of the streets at his fingers’ ends and a fund of quaint cockney humour to boot. They have been friends — so we discover, later — for many years, and certainly they have seen a great number of queer experiences together, in out-of-the-way corners of the globe: diamond-digging in South Africa, gold-mining in Australia, blackbirding among the Islands, before the mast here, there, and everywhere, often quarrelling, sometimes fighting, but for some strange reason never separating. What is taking them home we cannot discover, but we are continually being assured that it is business of a most important nature. Without hesitation, we nickname them Bradford, Galway, and the Dook of Bayswater, and by these names and none others are they known throughout the voyage. Genial, good-hearted rascals, — here's a health to you where’er you go. Some day 1 shall hope to tell the world the strange and curious stories you told me I
Tea, or by whatever name the meal may be designated, is served at two bells (five o’clock), and consists of bread (sour, as at dinner time), badly boiled rice (and a suicidal description of cake), which is washed down with tea of a museum-like flavour and description. Being disinclined always to go hungry, it begins to dawn upon us that the sooner we make friends with the cook or his mate, the sooner we shall escape partial starvation. Accordingly, as soon as dinner in the first saloon is over, and the chief cook is released from his duties, we lay our plans for him, determining to win our way into his affections or perish in the attempt.
Our good fortune decrees that he shall be an elderly person of easy-going temperament, and what is still luckier, able to speak a little English, of which accomplishment he is particularly vain.
Now there are ways and ways of flattering a man. There is the heavy-handed compliment, akin to a shovel that brains the recipient right off, and sends him staggering back, powerless to appreciate or return it; there is the grovelling compliment, too abject for return, even if return were needed; and lastly, there is the indirect or insinuated compliment which, with a man of moderate intelligence, not only achieves its end, but in so doing disarms suspicion and creates delight.
We fix him on the weather side of his galley, in the act of lighting his after-dinner pipe, and the following conversation ensues.
The Inevitable. ‘Gute Nacht, mein Herr!’
Chief Cook. (Something unintelligible, but doubtless extremely correct.)
The Long’un (doubtfully), ‘Wie gehts mit ihrer Gesundheit?’
Chief Cook. (Again unintelligible, but no doubt equally correct.)
Note, — That’s the worst of not learning the answers as well as the questions!
The Inevitable (with a cold shiver of uncertainty), ‘Das Wetter kliirt sich wieder auf!’
Chief Cook (with a stateliness that baffles description). Vy not mit der Anglish language to me you sprechen? Yes, der sea is much dremendous more quiet becoming!’
The Long’un (with peculiar flattery), ‘By Jove! we didn’t think you spoke English like that! You must have found it a very difficult language to learn?’
Chief Cook (with pride), ‘I der English language learnt ven I vas a great liddle poy, und mit der sheep (ship) from Bremen Haven to der London Dogs (Docks) did run!’
The Inevitable. ‘Really! by the way you speak it, I should almost have thought you an Englishman.’
Chief Cook. ‘Oh! I speak it ver goot, und mein liddle poy Kasper, he speak it ver goot. You gome mit me, und I to you his — how you call it? — Pot? — Oh! — graff (chuckle of intense satisfaction) vill show!’
We proceed to his berth and enthusiastically admire the photograph of a peculiarly ugly child, almost hidden in an enormous pinafore.
Chief Cook. ‘Dot is mein liddle poy, mein son!’
The Long’un (in an unguarded moment). ‘Why! he’s all pinafore!’
Chief Cook (suspiciously), ‘Bin — a — fore? How you say bin-a-fore?’
The Inevitable (who has been there before), ‘My friend means to say, that he looks a smart child, able to learn languages quickly, like his father.’ (Gazing at another photo, and adopting a tone of tenderness.) ‘Ah! Your wife! — Sweet face, very sweet face!’
Chief Cook. ‘Dot is mein gran-mudder, dot is not mein vife!’
The Inevitable. ‘Your grandmother? Surely not! and so young — wonderful, wonderful! ‘(Passing to another photograph.) ‘This, then, is your wife!’
Chief Cook (with enormous pride). ‘Yah! Dot is mein vife!’
The Long’un (anxious to retrieve his character). ‘Beautiful! beautiful! What eyes — what hair!!!’ etc. etc.
Eventually, overcome with delight, the Chief Cook produces a bottle of schnapps, under the influence of which he becomes still more expansive, and finally closes the interview with an invitation to breakfast, in his cabin, the following morning. We bid him good-night and push forrard, not unsatisfied with the result of our interview.
It is certainly a most unpleasant night; the wind blows a hurricane. We are bucketing round Cape Borda, with every appearance of still heavier weather ahead; the ship rolls horribly, and big seas break continually on her decks with a noise like thunder. It is unfortunately necessary that the hatches should be kept on, and in consequence the atmosphere between decks could be cut with a hand saw. The women without exception are ill, as also are many of the men. Heart-rending noises and moans mix with the horrible stench, while the ghostly and uncertain light of one solitary lamp serves rather to increase than to diminish the misery of the scene. We shudder and hunt about for our respective berths.
Fortunately, our location is near the companion ladder, so that we are spared the more intense closeness and horror of the after end. But even then our lot is by no means enviable.
The Long’un’s couch is on the lower tier, between an Italian organ grinder and an elderly Hindoo; I have mine on top, with my friend the Afghan Hadji on one side, and a Port Said Greek, who, it is rumoured, has been spending an enforced residence in Australia, to escape a charge of murder preferred against him in his native place, on the other. I should imagine that neither of them was a good citizen, nor are they, to my thinking, good bed-fellows. About their qualifications for the former position I may of course be wrong, but of the latter fact there can be no doubt whatsoever. You, gentle reader, have perhaps never experienced the delight of sleeping six in a bed; I therefore advise you, should it ever fall to your lot to have to submit to such indignity, to make sure, once and for all, positively and even with threats of violence, that an Afghan Hadji is not of the number. In the first place, his appearance is objectionable and he smells unpleasantly; secondly, he is not a good sailor, and if his situation happens to be inside, he is often compelled, by the exigencies of his nausea, to clamber out over five other prostrate bodies, before he can relieve it. This he does regularly once every fifteen minutes, filling up the intervals with emphatic prayers to Allah, which, as narcotics, are as inconvenient as they would appear to be useless.
As the hours wear on, the horrors of the situation increase, and I am compelled to believe that never in the history of the world has daylight been more ardently longed for than by us weary souls between decks to-night. When at length it does arrive, it reveals a fierce and angry sea, whose mountainous waves rise every moment around us, as if preparatory to demolishing our straining and struggling vessel. The decks seem never to be free from breaking seas, and in consequence, as if to add to the discomfort of the unfortunate sick below, it is necessary that the hatches shall be kept on the livelong day.
Everyone is unhappy, but the misery of the Hadji surpasses description. The dignity of his person, if dignity it ever possessed, seems to have entirely departed from him, leaving in its place a gaunt-eyed, pale-cheeked camel of misery, who goes staggering about the decks in an aimless fashion, his poor legs almost refusing to support the weight of his meagre body. In the middle of his peregrinations, for he is unable to keep still, an attack of nausea seizes him, and makes as if it will rend him limb from limb. He reels to a scupper and falls prone. A big sea breaks over him, bruising him against the bulwark, and soaking him through and through. Twice, in less than a quarter of an hour, this happens, and on each occasion he is rescued by his compatriots, with a fear that is greater than the fear of death staring from his eyes.
This heavy weather continues for four days without cessation, and it is not until we have rounded the Leuwin that it begins to show any signs of abating. Then seeing that we are gradually becoming accustomed to his terrors — Father Neptune slackens his wrath, and within a few days, behold, we are beginning to wish, in our usual discontented fashion, for anything rather than this invariable calm.
Once we are reconciled to the novelty of our position, the days slip quickly by. Our time is occupied in various ways: in reading; playing Monte under the shadow of the after-awning with a Greek, a bogus Italian Count, and a Yankee adventurer; or in transcribing to paper the copious funds of copy, more or less fictional, supplied us by our fellow-voyagers. It is, however, when the evening meal is eaten and pipes are lighted, that the most pleasant portion of the day, or rather night, begins for us.
Then in the still hush of the sun-drop, it becomes our custom to draw our blankets up to the fo’c’s’le head, and cosily ensconcing ourselves behind the cable range, to hold our levee.
As the sun sinks beneath the horizon, and the long shadows of approaching night steal across the deep, the Afghans appear, and spreading their prayer carpets, and removing their shoes, with faces turned towards the Immemorial East, commence their picturesque devotions. Even the Hadji’s angular figure.
Standing clear cut against the sky, loses some of its corners. The length and breadth of the ship behind him, the waste of waters and the gathering night, seem to rub out the harshness of his features, as, stretching his arms to heaven, he cries with a voice to which constant exercise has given abnormal power, ‘Allah! Ho Akbar; Allah llallallah!’
One by one the great tropic stars march forth from the guard house of night to take up their silent sentry-go above the black sea, churning into foam, under our forefoot. The Look-out stations himself far forward, and our evening may be said to have properly commenced.
Perhaps the most constant in their attendance, and the most varied in the experiences they have to narrate, are our friends the Three Wanderers. Next to them, in point of interest, may rank my bed-fellow, the handsome Port Said Greek, whose stories are too strange even to be impossible, and whose promise to give me an insight into the slums of Port Said I store up in the treasure house of my memory for a not too distant date. Then there is Herr Ollendorf, who spends his days in tropical Northern Australia, catching birds for European dealers, and whose tales of New Guinea and the Pearl Fisheries mark — though we do not know it then — a new era in our lives. And last, but not least, there is the Earl of Vite Chapelle, a tiny street Arab, who is returning, after a brief but curious sojourn in marvellous Melbourne, to the beloved city of his birth. His tales alone would fill a book.
Turn by turn they spin their yarns, doubtless exaggerating in detail, but fairly truthful in the bulk. Late into the night we talk, not even abashed by the Look-out’s monotonous ‘All’s well!’ or silenced when the moon rises into the cloudless sky with a majesty well suited to the beauty of the evening. Before midnight, however, the talk has slackened off; one by one each man seeks his blankets, till at length the fo’c’s’le head is all silence, and the Look-out has the night to himself.
In this manner day after day speeds by, each one bringing us nearer to Colombo, our first port of call. Lovely weather accompanies us, the sea is like glass, our passengers are people of absorbing interest, and now that our diet is improved, we have nothing left to wish for.
As I have mentioned before, we have formed no definite plans as to our future, and it is not until we are within two days’ steam of Colombo that we make up our minds. Then the stories of our friend the birdcatcher (told among his cages in the fore — peak) take possession of us. They fascinate us strangely; and the more we question and cross-question him, the more the idea grows upon us, until we decide that, instead of going on to Port Said as we first intended, we will transship at Colombo, and endeavour to make our way through the far East to Northern Australia, where on the Pearl Fisheries we confidently believe our Eldorado awaits us.
On the morning of the fifteenth day out, we are greeted with our first view of Ceylon, just discernible through a faint haze, far distant on our starboard bow. By the time breakfast is finished, we have brought it well abeam, and catamarans and native fishing boats are dodging about on all sides of us. At sun time we are in full sight of Colombo, and before the mid-day meal is over, and we have plumed ourselves for shore going, we have picked up the pilot and are entering the harbour.
Having no cases of infectious disease on board, pratique is quickly granted, and bidding our friends on board ‘goodbye,’ we collect our baggage, charter a boat, and are pulled ashore.
Long after we are out of hearing, we can see the Duke of Bayswater and the Earl of Vite Chapelle on the fo’c’s’le head, waving their caps to us in token of farewell.