Once on board, they were kept separate as much as possible by the whites, and eventually, marshalled down to the saloon. Some of these chaps had been educated in England, even at Oxford of Cambridge, but curiously enough, as soon as they get back to their tribe, the veneer of civilisation almost invariably drops right away and they re-adopt both native habits and clothes. It is a bit of a shock to have one of these war canoes come alongside, and a fellow in native rig stroll up the gangway, hold out his hand, and greet you in fluent English, wit a full Oxford accent — we used this educated section to help the white men separate the more primitive minded — and they needed separating!
On one occasion in Old Calabar, we were entertaining about fifty native chiefs. They had been a bit jumpy from the start, but, with a little tact, we managed to keep peace. Everything went on happily, and we got them divided up and sitting round the long saloon table, but by the time they had imbibed a certain amount of “bubbly water:" they were just about fit for anything. We had a Piper on board, who, as a rule used to march up and down the promenade deck above, and pipe during dinner. The Captain had a brain storm in the middle of this dinner that very nearly sent up the balloon. He passed an order for the Piper, who, without any warning, marched right up one side of the long table and down the other with his deafening skirl. This set our guests fairly dancing in their chairs, eyes glaring and hands itching for a spear of a knife or any other professional instrument. It only needed one man to start in and the whole pack would have been on their hind legs, with anything near the shape of a knife they could grab off the table. For a minute or two it looked bad, and the skipper did look a bit glum. However nobody moved. The white men studiously kept on talking, and so managed to keep the others in their seats. After a bit, the hotheads also cooled down and the dinner went along happily up to the ice cream stage.
Most of them had never seen ice-cream before, much less tasted it. The first chap to put a spoonful in his mouth just went up like a rocket.
Ice to them is just the same as heat; they think it burns. It was fortunate for us that there were only two or three of them who got the ice-cream down at the same time, but believe me, they needed some pacifying. Only the fact that everybody else stuck fast to their seats, and seized these fellows by their wrists, whilst others went on eating their ice-cream, gradually brought them to their senses again. They are proud and touchy chaps, and really thought a game had been played on them.
That voyage ended my West Coast experience, and I have never been down there since, despite the saying that, once a fellow has the coast in his veins, he can never leave it. It certainly has an extraordinary attraction of its own, that must be experienced to be realised. A fortnight out of Liverpool, and it’s back to nature with a bump. Natives, pure blooded negroes, perfect physical specimens, but as full of superstition as they can hold. Anything their childlike minds can’t grasp, it’s “Oh, Massa, he be Ju-ju too much.” Show them the simplest conjuring trick and they’ll run a mile, I appeared to take a two shilling piece out of one chap’s nose. He never let go of his nose for the rest of that day, in case another should come. Awful thieves, but perfectly trustworthy, whilst you watch them.
An officer, who had been mate of one of the Branch boats for years at Lagos, had a perfectly marvellous record for good steady work amongst his boys and he was hardly ever known to have a case or bale broached on his ship. One day I asked him how on earth he managed it, for certainly he paid far less attention than was customary to his loading from the liner, and discharging ashore. After much urging, in a burst of confidence and gin, he let me into his secret. He had a glass eye, also a spare one. If they were handling any cargo that held special attraction, he just went down below, extracted his eye, and placed it on a convenient bale and said, “Now you Bushmen, I go for watch you all time.”
Entering at Forcados, a 5,000 ton ship, big as she is, can navigate up the creeks for scores of miles. Mangrove swamps on either hand most of the way, no room to turn and little room to pass. In some places it is so narrow that her nose must be driven up into the jungle, whilst the tide is allowed to swing her stern, and so negotiate a sharp bend. Here and there clearings with native villages, and men who never saw a wheelbarrow, yet stand and stare at a modern steamship, a fortnight out from Liverpool. No pilots; just local knowledge gained by Officers and Captain through years of experience. Here’s a whitewashed tree where you take the right fork for Benin. There’s a barrel on a stump, where you turn off for somewhere else. High pay, yes, and one earns it. The life served me in another way, as, being Second Officer of a Royal Mail and passenger ship for a certain time, qualified me for a commission in the Royal Naval Reserve, also my Master’s Ticket, which I had yet to get.
One way and another, I had had a good time, but had lost a lot of necessary sea time through periodically chasing some hare-brained idea. Still in the end, I made it all up and even caught up with chaps of my own age. For one thing I had never lost a minute over my exams, by failing — and it’s not uncommon to fail three or four times for one ticket. I know one chap who went up seven times for his Master’s certificate. Then again, by taking the West Coast run, I got better promotion and my time counted more. Anyhow, I went up, when I got home, and, my luck still holding, passed for Master at twenty-three.
I had now the world at my feet, or so I thought anyway, and when I had had a sufficiently good time I marched off to find a ship, but, of course, only when funds were completely exhausted. I still had had a tremendous amount of leeway to make up and debts to pay, owing to my little jaunt to the North-West in the back of my mind, for as I have said before, I only came home with the intention of making sufficient money to outfit myself and go again. As a matter of fact, I became involved in a much more attractive scheme, which rather eclipsed the cold of Canada, and that was running sandalwood from New Guinea to China.
New Guinea is one of the few remaining unspoiled spots of the world, where there is a fortune waiting for those sufficiently enterprising to take up the export of sandalwood, sandalwood oil and so forth. Furthermore, New Guinea is the only place where the Bird of Paradise can be found, and though he is merely a glorified edition of old Jim Crow, he has a wonderful market. Then again, there is gold up the Fly River, and many other things to attract those unfortunately born with the love of the unorthodox; wanderlust, or whatever you like to call it. However, nothing more need be said about New Guinea, for it came to nothing, in fact the idea was effectually scotched by my getting married. My wife made one stipulation, and that was that if I went on that expedition, she went too. It is no climate for a white woman, so there the matter ended.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SHANGHAIED
Having got my Master’s Certificate, I decided to try the Atlantic again, and I’m not likely to forget my first ship; she was a real poem. It had become, as usual, a financial necessity to find a ship, and one day, as I was walking along Castle Street, Liverpool., I noticed Greenshield, Cowie & Co.’s plate. These were the owners of the old Knight Line, under whom I served in the four-masted barque Knight of St. Michael. On the impulse of the moment, I slipped in and asked for the managing director, and was shown in the sanctum of sanctums. “Oh, yes,” in his deep sonorous voice, he “remembered me quite well,” and we talked over some of the old days. Yes, he would appoint me to one of their steamers, in fact “the very best of the Line, the Knight Bachelor, lying in London; join her right away.” Very hearty and very blunt, he held out his hand to say good-bye. This was all very well, but I wanted to know in what capacity. “Third Mate,” said he. “Indeed,” I replied, “but I am looking for a berth as at least Second Mate, or even Mate.”