Part 18

Not the least of the mighty changes wrought by the advent of steam as a motive-power at sea is the alteration it has made in the superstitious notions current among seamen from the earliest days of sea-faring. In the hurry and stress of the steamboat-man’s life there is little scope for the indulgence of any fancies whatever, and the old sea-traditions have mostly died out for lack of suitable environment. Indeed, a new genus of seafarers have arisen to whom the name of sailors hardly applies; they themselves scornfully accept the designation of “sea-navvies”; and many instances are on record where, it having become necessary to make sail in heavy weather to aid the lumbering tramp in her struggle to claw off a lee-shore, or keep ahead of a following sea, the master has found to his dismay that he had not a man in his crew capable of tackling such a job.

Perhaps the first old belief to go was that sailing on a Friday was to court certain disaster. All old sailors dwell with unholy gusto upon the legend of the ship that was commenced on a Friday, finished on a Friday, named the _Friday_, commanded by Captain Friday, sailed on a Friday, and--foundered on the same luckless day with all hands, as a warning to all reckless shipowners and skippers never again to run counter to the eternal decrees ordaining that the day upon which the Saviour of the world was crucified should be henceforth accursed or kept holy, according to the bent of the considering mind. But steam has changed all that. When a steamer’s time for loading or discharging began to be reckoned not in days but in hours, the notion of detaining her in port for a whole day in deference to an idea became too ridiculous for entertainment, and it almost immediately died a natural death. This, of course, had its effect upon the less hastily worked sailing vessels, although there are still to be found in British sailing ships masters who would use a good deal of artifice to avoid sailing on that day. Among the Spanish, Italian, Austrian, and Greek sailing vessels, however, Friday is still held in most superstitious awe. And on Good Friday there is always a regular carnival held on board these vessels, the yards being allowed to hang at all sorts of angles, the gear flung dishevelled and loose, while an effigy of Judas is subjected to all the abuse and indignity that the lively imaginations of the seamen can devise. Finally, the effigy is besmeared with tar, a rope attached to it which is then rove through a block at the main yard-arm, it is set alight, and amid the frantic yells and execrations of the seamen it is slowly swung aloft to dangle and blaze, while the excited mariners use up their remaining energies in a wild dance.

Another superstition that still survives in sailing vessels everywhere is, strangely enough, connected with the recalcitrant prophet Jonah. It is, however, confined to his bringing misfortune upon the ship in which he sailed, and seldom is any allusion made to his miraculous engulphing by the specially prepared great fish. It does not take a long series of misfortunes overtaking a ship to convince her crew that a lineal descendant of Jonah and an inheritor of his disagreeable disqualifications is a passenger. So deeply rooted is this idea that when once it has been aroused with respect to any member of a ship’s company, that person is in evil case, and, given fitting opportunity, would actually be in danger of his life. This tinge of religious fanaticism, cropping up among a class of men who, to put it mildly, are not remarkable for their knowledge of Scripture, also shows itself in connection with the paper upon which “good words” are printed. It is an unheard-of misdemeanour on board ship to destroy or put to common use such paper. The man guilty of such an action would be looked upon with horror by his shipmates, although their current speech is usually vile and blasphemous beyond belief. And herein is to be found a curious distinction between seamen of Teutonic and Latin race, excluding Frenchmen. Despite the superstitious reverence the former pay to the written word, none of them would in time of peril dream of rushing to the opposite extreme, and after madly abusing their Bibles, throw them overboard. But the excitable Latins, after beseeching their patron saint to aid them in the most agonising tones, repeating with frenzied haste such prayers as they can remember, and promising the most costly gifts in the event of their safely reaching port again, often turn furiously upon all they have previously been worshipping, and with the most horrid blasphemies, vent their rage upon the whilom objects of their adoration. Nothing is too sacred for insult, no name too reverend for abuse, and should there be, as there often is, an image of a saint on board, it will probably be cast into the sea.

But one of the most incomprehensible forms of sea-superstition is that which has for its object that most prosaic of all sea-going people, the Finns. Russian Finns, seamen always call them, although there is far more of the Swede than the Russian about them, and their tongue is Swedish also. They are perhaps the most perfect specimens of the ideal seafarer in the world, although the Canadian runs them closely. All things that appertain to a ship seem to come easily to their doing, from the time of first laying the vessel’s keel until, with every spar, sail, and item of running gear in its place, she trips her “kellick” and leaves the harbour behind her for the other side of the world. And even then the Finn will be found to yield to none in his knowledge of navigation. Although his hands may be gnarled and split with toil, and his square, expressionless face look as if “unskilled labourer” were imprinted upon it, much difficulty would be found in the search for a keener or more correct hand at trigonometrical problems, or a better keeper of that most useful document, a ship’s log-book.

Yet to these men, by common consent, a supernatural status has been assigned. Whether among the Latins the same idea holds is somewhat doubtful, but certainly in British, American, and Scandinavian vessels Finns are always credited with characteristics which a century ago would have involved them in many unpleasantnesses. Chiefly harmless, no doubt, these weird powers, yet when your stolid shipmate is firmly believed to control the winds so masterfully as to supply his favoured friends with a quartering breeze while all the rest of the surrounding vessels have a “dead muzzler,” any affection you may have had for him is seriously liable to degenerate into fear. It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that from whatever the original idea of Finnish necromancy originally arose, a whole host of legends have grown up, many of them too trivial for print, some delightfully quaint, others not less original than lewd, but all evidently grafts of fancy upon some parent stock. Thus, while there is a rat in the ship no Finn was ever known to lose anything, because it is well known that any rat in the full possession of his faculties would be only too glad to wait upon the humblest Finn. And the reason why Finns are always fat is because they have only to go and stick their knives in the foremast to effect a total change in their meat to whatever they fancy most keenly at the time. It is well that they are mostly temperate men, since everybody knows that they can draw any liquor they like from the water-breaker by turning their cap round, and they never write letters home because the birds that hover round the ship are proud to bear their messages whithersoever they list. The catalogue of their privileges might be greatly extended were it needful, but one thing always strikes an unbiassed observer--the Finn is, almost without exception, one of the humblest, quietest of seafarers, whose sole aim is to do what he is told as well as he can, to give as little trouble as possible, and where any post of responsibility is given him to show his appreciation of it by doing two men’s work, filling up his leisure by devising schemes whereby he can do more.

Of the minor superstitions there is little to be said. Few indeed are the old sailors now afloat who would cuff a youngster’s ears for whistling, fearing that his merry note would raise a storm. Whistling for wind, however, still persists, as much a habit as the hissing of a groom while rubbing down a horse, but a very sceptical laugh would meet any one who inquired whether the whistler believed that his _sifflement_ would make any difference to the force or direction of the wind. Fewer still are those who would now raise any objections to the presence of a clergyman on board. But the belief that a death, whether of a man or an animal, _must_ be followed by a gale of wind is perhaps more firmly held than any other, unless it be the notion that sharks follow any ship wherein is an ailing man or woman, with horrible anticipation.

OCEAN WINDS

Whatever of beauty the sea possesses it owes primarily to the winds--to the free breath of heaven which sweeps joyously over those vast lonely breadths, ruffling them with tiniest ripples by its zephyrs, and hurling them in headlong fury for thousands of miles by its hurricanes. It may be said that the term “ocean” cannot rightly be applied to winds at all, since they are common to the whole globe, and are not, like waves and currents, confined to the sea. But a little consideration will surely convince that it is just and right to speak of distinctive ocean winds which by contact with the great, pure plains of the sea acquire a character which a land wind never has or can have. In fact, it may be said with perfect truth that but for the health-bearing winds from the sea, landward folk would soon sicken and die, for our land winds are laden with disease germs, or, as in the mistral, the puña, the sirocco, and the simoom, to mention only a few of these terrible enemies to life, are still more deadly in their blasting effect upon mankind. From all these evil qualities ocean winds are free, and he who lives remote from the land, inhaling only their pure breath, knows truly what health is, feels the blood dance joyously through his arteries, aerated indeed.

As a factor in sea traffic ocean winds are popularly supposed to have become negligible. Indeed, the remark is often heard (on shore) that the steamship has made man independent of wind and tide. It is just the kind of statement that would emanate from some of our pseudo-authorities upon marine matters, and akin to the oft-quoted opinion that the advent of the steamship has driven romance from the sea. In the first place, seamen know how tremendously the wind affects even the highest-powered steamship, and although some sailors will talk about an ocean liner ploughing her way through the teeth of an opposing gale at full speed, it is only from their love of the marvellous and desire to make the landsman stare. They know that such a statement is ridiculously untrue. Leaving the steamship out of the question, however, there are still very large numbers of vessels at sea which are entirely dependent upon the winds for their propulsion, their transit between port and port. They grow fewer and fewer every year, of course, as they are lost or broken up, because they are not replaced, yet in certain trades they are so useful and economical that it is difficult to see why they should be allowed to disappear. Masters of such ships are considered to be smart or the reverse in proportion to their knowledge of ocean winds, where to steer in order to get the full benefit of their incidence, what latitudes to avoid because there winds rarely blow, and how best to manœuvre their huge-winged craft in the truly infernal whirl of an advancing or receding cyclone. For such purposes ocean winds may roughly be divided into two classes--the settled and the adventitious: those winds that may fairly be depended upon for regularity both as to force and direction, and those whose coming and going is so aptly used in Scripture allegory. Taking as the former class the Trade winds of the globe, it is found that they are also subject to much mutability, especially those to the northward of the Equator known as the “North-East Trades.” Old seamen speak of them as do farmers of the weather ashore--complain that neither in steadiness of direction nor in constancy of force are they to be depended upon as of old. Of course they vary somewhat with the seasons, but that is not what is complained of by the mariner; it is their capricious variation from year to year, whereby you shall actually find a strong wind well to the southward of east in what should be the heart of the North-East Trades, or at another time fall upon a stark calm prevailing where you had every right to expect a fresh favouring breeze.

Still, with all their failure to maintain the reputation of former times in the estimation of sailors (as distinguished from steamship crews), even the much maligned North-East Trade winds are fairly dependable. The South-East Trades, again, are almost as sure in their operation as is the recurrence of day and night. The homeward-bound sailing ship, once having been swept round the Cape of Good Hope in spite of adverse winds by the irresistible Agulhas current, usually finds awaiting her a southerly wind. Sailors refuse to call it the first of the Trades, considering that any wind blowing without the Tropics has no claim to be called a “Trade.” This fancy matters little. The great thing is that these helpful breezes await the homeward-bounder close down to the southern limit of his passage, await him with arms outspread in welcome, and coincidently with the pleasant turning of his ship’s head homeward, permit the yards to be squared, and the course to be set as desired. And the ship--like a docile horse who, after a long day’s journey, finds his head pointing stablewards and settles steadily down to a clinking pace--gathers way in stately fashion and glides northward at a uniform rate without any further need of interference from her crew. Throughout the long bright days, with the sea wearing one vast many-dimpled smile, and the stainless blue above quivering in light uninterrupted by the passage of a single cloud, the white-winged ship sweeps serenely on. All around in the paling blue of the sky near the horizon float the sleepy, fleecy cumuli peculiar to the “Trades,” without perceptible motion or change of form. When day steps abruptly into night, and the myriad glories of the sunless hours reveal themselves shyly to an unheeding ocean, the silent ship still passes ghost-like upon her placid way, the steadfast wind rounding her canvas into the softest of curves, without a wrinkle or a shake. Before her stealthy approach the glittering waters part, making no sound save a cool rippling as of a fern-shadowed brooklet hurrying through some rocky dell in Devon. The sweet night’s cool splendours reign supreme. The watch, with the exception of the officer, the helmsman, and the look-out man, coil themselves in corners and sleep, for they are not needed, and during the day much work is adoing in making their ship smart for home. And thus they will go without a break of any kind for over two thousand miles.

Next to the Trades in dependability, and fairly entitled to be called sub-permanent, are the west winds of the regions north and south of the Tropics, or about the parallels of 40° north or south. Without the steadiness of these winds in the great Southern Sea, the passage of sailing ships to Australasia or India would indeed be a tedious business. But they can be reckoned upon so certainly that in many cases the duration of passages of ships outward and homeward can be predicted within a week, which speaks volumes for the wonderful average steadiness of the great wind-currents. Although these winds bear no resemblance to the beautiful Trades. Turbulent, boisterous, and cruel, they try human endurance to its utmost limits, and on board of a weak ship, fleeing for many days before their furious onslaught, anxiety rises to a most painful pitch with the never-ceasing strain upon the mind. They have also a way of winding themselves up anew, as it were, at intervals. They grow stronger and fiercer by successive blasts until the culminating blow compels even the strongest ships to reduce canvas greatly unless they would have it carried away like autumn leaves. Then the wind will begin to shift round by the south gradually and with decreasing force until, as if impatient, it will jump a couple of points at a time. Then, in the “old” sea, the baffled, tormented ship staggers blindly, making misery for her crew and testing severely her sturdy frame. Farther and farther round swings the wind, necessitating much labour aloft for the shipmen, until in the space of, say, twenty-four hours from its first giving way, it has described a complete circle and is back again in its old quarter, blowing fiercely as ever. Not that this peculiar evolution is always made. There are times when to sailors’ chagrin the brave west wind fails them in its proper latitudes, being succeeded by baffling easterlies, dirty weather of all kinds, and a general feeling of instability, since to expect fine weather in the sense of light wind and blue sky for any length of time in those stern regions is to reveal ignorance of their character. Yet it is only in such occasional lapses from force and course of the west wind of the south that the hapless seaman seeking to double Cape Horn from the east can hope to slip round. So that while his fellows farther east are fleeing to their goal at highest speed, he is being remorselessly battered by the same gale, driven farther and farther south, and ill-used generally, and only by taking advantage of the brief respite can he effect his purpose.

The monsoon winds of the Indian seas are most important and unique in their seasonal changing. For six months of the year the wind in the Bay of Bengal and the Arabian Sea will be north-easterly and the weather fine. Over the land, however, this fine wind is bearing no moisture, and its longer persistence than usual means famine with all its attendant horrors. “Fine weather” grows to be a term of awful dread, and men’s eyes turn ever imploringly to the south-west, hoping, with an intensity of eagerness that is only felt where life is at stake, for the darkening of those skies of steely blue, until one day a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand arises from the sharply defined horizon. Swiftly it expands into ominous-looking masses, but the omens are of blessing, of relief from drought and death. The howling wind hurls before it those leaden water-bearers until, one by one, they burst over the iron-bound earth, and from station to station throughout the length and breadth of Hindostan is flashed the glad message, “The monsoon has burst.” Out at sea the great steamships emerging from the Gulf of Aden are met by the turbulent south-wester, and have need of all their power to stem its force, force which is quite equal to that of a severe Atlantic gale at times. And all sailors dread the season, bringing as it does to their sorely tried bodies the maximum of physical discomfort possible at sea in warm climates.

Of the varying forces of winds, from the zephyr to the hurricane, it would be easy to write another page, but this subject is not strictly within the scope of the present article, and must therefore be left untouched.

THE SEA IN THE NEW TESTAMENT

Remembering gratefully, as all students should do, the immense literary value of the Bible, it is not without a pang of regret that we are obliged to confess that its pages are so meagre of allusions to the grandest of all the Almighty’s works--the encircling sea. Of course we cannot be surprised at this, seeing how scanty was the acquaintance with the sea enjoyed by ancient civilised peoples, to whom that exaggerated lake, the Mediterranean, was the “Great Sea,” and for whom the River Oceanus was the margin of a boundless outer darkness. Yet in spite of this drawback, Old Testament allusions to the sea then known, few as they are, remain unsurpassable in literature, needing not to withdraw their claims to pre-eminence before such gems as “Ocean’s many-dimpled smile” or the “Wine-dark main” of the pagan poets. In number, too, though sparsely sprinkled, they far surpass those of the New Testament, which, were it not for one splendid exception, might almost be neglected as non-existent.

Our Lord’s connection with the sea and its toilers was confined to those petty Syrian lakes which to-day excite the traveller’s wonder as he recalls the historical accounts of hundreds of Roman galleys floating thereupon; and all his childish dreams of the great sea upon which the Lord was sailing and sleeping when that memorable storm arose which He stilled with a word suffer much by being brought face to face with the realities of little lake and tiny boat. St. John and St. James show by their almost terror-stricken words about the sea what they felt, and from want of a due consideration of proportion their allusions have been much misunderstood. No man who knew the sea could have written as one of the blissful conditions of the renewed heaven and earth that there should “be no more sea,” any more than he could have spoken of the limpid ocean wave as casting up “mire and dirt.”

But by one incomparable piece of writing Paul, the Apostle born out of due time, has rescued the New Testament from this reproach of neglect, and at the same time has placed himself easily in the front rank of those who have essayed to depict the awful majesty of wind and wave as well as the feebleness, allied to almost presumptuous daring, of those who do business in great waters. Wonder and admiration must also be greatly heightened if we do but remember the circumstances under which this description was written. The writer had, by the sheer force of his eloquence, by his daring to await the precise moment in which to assert his citizenship, escaped what might at any moment have become martyrdom. Weary with a terrible journey, faint from many privations, he was hurried on board a ship of Adramyttium bound to the coast of Asia (places not specified). What sort of accommodation and treatment awaited him there under even the most favourable circumstances we know very well. For on the East African coast even to this day we find precisely the same kind of vessels, the same primitive ideas of navigation, the same absence of even the most elementary notions of comfort, the same touching faith in its being always fine weather as evinced by the absence of any precautions against a storm.