It was Saturday, nearly two weeks after my arrival in Yokohama, that I saw a chance to escape from Japan. The American consul had promised to speak for me to the captain of a fast mail steamer to sail a few days later. Early the following Monday, the last day of July, I turned in at the American consul’s office just as two men stepped out. One was the vice-consul; the other, a large man of some fifty years, wearing thick-rimmed spectacles and a broad-brimmed felt hat. His black hair was unusually long. I supposed he was a missionary, and stepped aside to let him pass. The vice-consul, however, catching sight of me as he shook the stranger’s hand, beckoned to me. “By the way,” he said, speaking to the stranger; “here is an American sailor who wants to work his passage to the States. Can’t you take him on, captain?” Captain, indeed! Of what? The fast mail steamer, perhaps. I stepped forward eagerly. “Umph!” said the stranger, looking me over. “On the beach, eh? Why, yes; he can come on board and I’ll set him at work.” “Good!” cried the vice-consul. “There you are! Now don’t loaf and make us ashamed to ask a favor of the captain next time.” “Go get something to eat,” said the captain, “and wait for me on the pier.” Ten minutes later I should have given much to have been able to spring back on the wharf. The launch raced at full speed out across the harbor, past the last steamer riding at anchor, and turned toward the open sea. Where in the name of Father Neptune was she bound? I wiped the water from my eyes and gazed in astonishment at the fast disappearing shore. The last ship was already behind. The higher waves of the outer bay caught our tiny boat as she slipped through the mouth of the break-water, and sent me waltzing about the slippery deck. Was the long-haired captain a lunatic who had chosen a launch for a sea voyage? Then all at once I understood, and gasped with dismay. Far off through the driving rain appeared the towering masts of the sailing-vessels, and that one toward which we were headed had her sails bent, ready for starting. That vice-consul had sentenced me to work my way home on a sailing-vessel! Dusk was settling over the harbor when the launch bumped against the ship’s side. Several seamen, sprawling about the deck, sprang to their feet as I poked my head over the bulwarks. “Hooray!” bawled a loud voice. “A new shipmate, lads. Turn out an’ see.” Sailors dressed and half dressed stumbled out on the deck; and in the twinkling of an eye I was surrounded by all hands and the cook. When I arrived in Yokohama I found the city decorated in honor of Secretary Taft’s party, which, with Miss Roosevelt, arrived July 25, 1905. The arch through which they drove to the station is made of evergreens. “It’s a ragged deal t’ ’ave t’ work your passage ’ome on a wind-jammer,” cried one of the seamen, when I had finished. “Howsomever, ’ere you are, an’ it’s no use kickin’ after you’re ’ung. “This tub?” he went on, in answer to my question about the ship. “She’s the Glenalvon, English built, as you can see wi’ your eyes shut, solid enough, being all iron but ’er decks; but that’s all can be said for ’er. This crowd shipped on ’er from England two years ago with loaded By the time my clothes were dry the second mate came forward to tell me what my work was to be, and I turned in with my new mess-mates. It barely seemed possible that I had fallen asleep, when there came a banging on the iron door of the sailors’ room and a noisy shout of: “All hands! Up anchor, ho!” With only five minutes to jump into our clothes, we tumbled out hurriedly. Twenty-two men and boys, their heads still heavy with sleep, grasped the bars of the capstan—the wheel that pulled up the anchor. For four hours we marched round and round the creaking thing. One man at a proper machine could have raised the anchor in ten minutes; but the Glenalvon had not so much as a donkey-engine. Dawn found us still treading around in a circle in time to a mournful song sung by long-winded members of the crew. The sun rose, and the sweat ran in streams along the bars. Hunger gnawed us inwardly. The captain went ashore for his morning outing, a steamer slipped by us, and I caught myself gazing sorrowfully away across the bay at the city we were about to leave behind. Then all at once the second mate, peering over the side, raised a hand. “Shake ’em out!” he bellowed. “All hands! Man the wheel!” The crew sprang into the rigging and climbed the masts. We loosened a dozen sails, and, leaving a man on each mast to fasten the ropes, slid down on deck again. Then came a harder task, to raise the upper topsail-yards—timbers It was finally fastened in place, however. Then, breaking up into smaller groups, the crew raised more timbers, and, when we turned in for breakfast an hour late, weak and ugly from hunger, the Glenalvon was ready to sail. “At least,” I told myself, rubbing my aching arms between mouthfuls of watery soup, “we’re off, and the worst is over.” Which only proved how little I knew of the queer ways of “wind-jammers.” Refusing to hire a tug, our captain was determined to beat his way out of Tokyo harbor by tacking back and forth against the wind that blew steadily in at the mouth of the bay. A bellow called us on deck before breakfast was half over, to go about ship again. A few more mouthfuls, and we were at it again. But it was of no use. The wind blew stronger and held us back; the bay was narrow. On the third time across the captain moved too near the shore, lost his head, and roared out an order: “Let go the anchor!” The anchor dropped with a mighty roar and rattle of chain; sails came down with a run; ropes screamed through the blocks; the topsails fell with a crash; sails swelled out and snapped in the breeze with the boom of cannon; blocks fell about our heads; ropes and chains of every size threshed about the decks, snatching us off our feet and slashing us in the face; men and goats sprawled about the deck. It seemed as if an earthquake had struck us, and in three minutes When the uproar ceased we began the work of restoring things to order again—furled the sails, raised yards, coiled up the thousand and one ropes that carpeted the deck, attended to many other tasks. To most people this would have seemed work enough for one day. But after less than a half hour for dinner we were called out once more and sent over the side with our paint-pots. Exactly the same thing happened to us the next day, and the next. Day after day the wind blew steadily in at the mouth of the harbor, holding us there. A week went by. A ship that had long ridden at anchor near the Glenalvon was towed out to sea and sailed away. The fast mail steamer glided by so close that one of the “boys” whom I had known at the Sailors’ Home waved to me from her deck. A dozen ships went in and out, and still the white cone of Fujiyama gazed down upon us. The harbor of Yokohama came to be a sight hateful to all on board. The crew was worn out in body and spirit, and I began to give up hope of ever again setting foot on land. But our skipper was forced to hire a tug at last. On the morning of August eleventh we turned out to raise the anchor for the tenth time. The skipper had been rowed ashore the afternoon before, and a tug was waiting to take us out of the harbor. Late in the day she dropped us outside the narrows, and when night fell the Glenalvon was tossing on the open sea. We had no time to feel dull on the trip across. First of all, the breeze that had held us bottled up in the harbor for twelve days increased to a heavy gale. For more than a week it blew steadily from the same direction. Rain A Yokohama street decorated for the Taft party. The wind, the pouring rain, and the sudden gales continued for weeks. The weather turned bitter cold. Unable to hold her course, the Glenalvon ran “by the wind” far to the north. One night in the second week out, a goat froze to death. With only my khaki uniform, I should have suffered the same fate had it not been for the kindness of a shipmate who allowed me to use a “dead man’s gear” which he was afraid to wear. To tell of all the hardships and misfortunes that befell us during that voyage would make this story too long. We slept in wooden bins on sacks filled with bits of straw and lashed ourselves fast to keep from being thrown out on the deck. The kind of beds we had mattered little, though, for we were not in them much of the time. The food fell so low that we had to get along on half rations; which was well, perhaps, for what was left had been on board more than two years. The biscuits in one cask opened toward the end of the voyage, were stamped with the date of 1878. Looking forward to an easy passage, the captain had rigged out the ship in her oldest suit of sails. One by one, the fury of the wind tore them to ribbons. The bursting On the eighth of September we found that, after all our work, we had covered just sixty miles! But on that day the wind changed, and our vessel caught the breeze on her beam and raced homeward like a steamer. On the nineteenth day of September some one said that we were nearing port. Several of the seamen declared that the voyage was not half over; but, for all that, everybody began to get excited. In the middle of the afternoon the mate gave an order to get the anchor over the side. He did not have to repeat the command. The men rushed to the work, laughing childishly. In a short time the anchor swung in place, and we waited impatiently for signs of land. But the best pair of eyes could not have made out a mountain a ship’s length away in the fog that enveloped us. For two days we beat up and down the coast, not knowing just where we were, while the crew nibbled stale biscuits in helpless rage. On the twenty-first the gale died down to a quieter breeze, and in the early afternoon the fog thinned and lifted, and a mighty cheer from the watch brought every man tumbling from his bunk. A few miles off before us All night long the tug strained at the ropes of our vessel. In the afternoon we dropped anchor in a quiet bay close off a wooded shore decorated by several wigwams. The next morning I began work with the crew as usual, and toiled from daylight to dark. No hint that I was to be freed from duty having reached me by the next afternoon, I marched forward and asked for my discharge. “What’s your hurry?” demanded the captain. “I’ll sign you on at full wages and you can make the trip home in her.” “Thank you kindly, sir,” I answered, “but I’m home now, once I get ashore.” “Aye!” snorted the captain. “And in three days you’ll be on the beach and howling to sign on again. Turn to with the crew until she’s tied up in Tacoma, and I’ll give you your discharge.” I told him plainly that I could not wait. I wanted to go ashore at once. “Huh! That’s it!” growled the master. “Every man jack of you with the price of a drink coming to him is ready to desert if a shift of work turns up. Well, to-morrow is Sunday. I’ll get some money when I go ashore, and pay you off on Monday morning. But I’ll have to set you down on the records as a deserter.” “Very good, sir,” I answered. Fifty-seven days after boarding the Glenalvon I bade farewell to her crew. Dressed in a khaki uniform and an “You must be back on board by to-morrow night,” he said. “Eh!” I gasped. “Oh, I have to tell you that,” snapped the skipper, “or I can’t set you down as a deserter,” and, pushing aside the swinging doors before him, he disappeared. I plodded on toward the city of Victoria. The joy of being on land once more—above all, of being my own master—was so keen that it was with difficulty that I kept myself from cutting a caper in the public street. I was really in a foreign land still; yet how everything about made me think of the fatherland from which I had been so long absent. The wooden sidewalk drumming under my boots; the cozy houses, roofed with shingles instead of tiles, and each standing far back from the street on its own green lawn; the tinkle of cow-bells in neighboring pastures—a hundred little unimportances, that I had hardly noticed when I lived among them, stood forth to call up memories of the years gone by. In Victoria each passer-by seemed like a long-lost friend, so familiar did each look in face, clothing, and actions. All that day, as often as I heard a voice behind me, I whirled about and stared at the speaker, utterly astonished that he should be speaking English. I caught the night boat for Seattle, and landed at midnight in my native land, after an absence of four hundred and sixty-six days. The train halted at midnight at the station named ——, a lonely shanty in a wild mountain gorge. The next morning I went on to Havre. While stepping from one of its restaurants, a ranchman accosted me. He put me in charge of seven carloads of cattle, and when night fell I was speeding eastward again. Six days later I turned the animals over to the tender mercies of a packing-house in Chicago, and on the morning of October fourteenth walked into the home of my parents. |