On one occasion a huge roast of beef was planted on the Second Officer’s pillow. He was on the bridge at the time, and although immensely fond of a practical joke at other people’s expense, could never bear to have one played on himself; but this one was on him all right. The roast of beef was on one end of the mess room table which ran athwartships, and it was the custom, in this ship only, for the First Officer to carve. The boat gave one of her terrific lurches, which, when accompanied by the propeller coming out of the water, engenders a sensation immeasurably worse than an express lift dropping from the upper floors of a skyscraper.
The First must have thought the Chief was going to check the beef. One did not, neither did the other, with the result that it came careering across the table, and having got a good start, each officer cheered it on its way. At the far end of the table the dish was brought up with a jerk by striking the fiddle, or wooden stretcher that is placed there to keep the cutlery and plates with bounds. The edge of the dish had just sufficient lip to give the roast an upward trend, and, although there were two bunks, one above the other, and over ten feet of space, the roast described a graceful parabola through the air, across the rest of the messroom, through Barber’s cabin, and came to rest on his pillow. The mess room steward at once set out to retrieve it, but we unanimously agreed that it was in far too good a place to be disturbed.
Barber had a habit of coming off the bridge and asking the steward what the others had had for their meal, as, of course, in these ships, there is a pretty long menu. We had coached the steward, before we had retired to our cabins and when Barber had made his usual enquiry, “Well, Davies, what have you got,” followed by, “What have the others had? Oh, all right, I’ll have the roast beef too,” Davies replied, “The roast beef is in your bunk, sir.” At first, Barber didn’t know what to make of it, then, when he did realize this, as the song goes, “The air went blue for miles all round,” and to this day he firmly believes it was put there. When you take into consideration that the edge of the bunk was five feet from the deck, and ten feet from the edge of the table, it certainly did seem pretty near an impossibility, but at the same time, it wall give a fairly clear idea of the contortions of a Western Ocean mail boat in an Atlantic gale.
These ships are not only the cream of the service, but the cream of the Mercantile Marine, and it is considered a feather in one’s cap to be appointed to one. Therefore, despite the rigorous conditions, and the powers of endurance one has to exhibit, there is never a word of complaint. Time and again I have seen a ship driven into a huge green wall of water, crowned with that wicked, curling breaker, which it seemed utterly impossible for anything to withstand. An immediate dash is made for an iron stanchion, and, gripping this with might and main, one awaits the crash. Not infrequently the steel fronted bridge, stanchions and rail are driven back, and nearly flattened to the deck — to the discomfort of the O.O.W.
It certainly was not a paying game, although the Mail Boat companies were slow to discover it. As ships grew bigger and faster, and did more damage in consequence, Captains were warned to be more circumspect, and, when the occasion demanded, to slow down.
The bigger the ship, the longer she could be driven before she would take any weighty water on board, but when she did, then it was proportionately heavier. But the increased strength of the liner by no means kept pace with the increased volume of water she could, and would ship.
Then again, there is the increased speed of these vessels, and , of course, the seas have attained an increased speed by the time one does get its head up and come aboard, the cumulative effect is sometimes astonishing, and not infrequently, disastrous. In a word, we cannot drive the ships to-day like we used to, even if we would; just because their strength has not, and in point of fact, could not, increase with their size. The temptation to drive is there, but if she is not eased down, something will happen, as happened to one of our biggest and best ships, the Olympic.
She had a steel hatch on the forecastle, weighing about three tons. This was built with a turtle back, and comparatively close down to the deck, so as to give a sea, when it did come, the very least chance to get a grip. It was secured all round, inside and underneath by one and an eighth inch bolts, fifteen inches apart, each bolt individually screwed hard down before leaving port. Would you think it possible to lift it? Yet, she had such a hatch ripped off like a piece of paper and flung down the fore well deck.
Wicked though a Western Ocean gale can be, fog still remains a sailor’s worst enemy, and this applies more so when he is in the region of ice than anywhere. For this reason the steamship lanes are altered to clear the Grand Banks altogether when ice is around.
Apart from the ice and fog, an added anxiety when crossing these banks is the cod fishermen, who put out from Newfoundland, and many other ports in the United States. One whole fleet comes over from France, mainly Fйcamp.
A blanket of fog will suddenly shut down, with not only these vessels scattered about, but also their dories, small light skiffs, of which a large schooner will carry perhaps fifteen to twenty. The dories have no means whatever of indicating their presence to an oncoming ship; in fact, the schooners are not really very much better off, particularly when one takes into consideration the utter unreliability of sound in fog.
The Atlantic Mail Boats have been unfairly blamed for the loss of a great number of these schooners, whereas, knowing, as we do, the difficulties under which the fishing is carried out, every possible precaution and care is taken to avoid a collision. Two look-out men are always on their stations. In fog, these are always doubled, as also is the look-out on the bridge. The ship is slowed down, and an automatic steam whistle blows every minute. It has never been my misfortune to run of these poor devils down, although, heaven knows, I have been close enough to them. A slight loom ahead, helm hard over, and gliding by within biscuit throw, goes a big topsail schooner. A quiet exchange of glances on the bridge, a sort of general sigh at the escape, and everyone again freezes into immobility, and intense concentration — watching and listening.
The risks the individual fishermen take are not only confined to laying across the steamship lanes. They’ll face almost any weather, and almost always freezing at that. I have seen dories out and fishing in weather one would have thought it impossible for a small open boat to live in. Up round the Virgin Rocks, where the water breaks in a heavy sea, it is a common custom in an increasing gale for these small boats to hang on and hang on, each man daring the other. This is one of the best fishing grounds, and the boats lie-to at anchor. The sea steadily rises, banks up, and eventually breaks. Many is the dory that has been lost here through sheer daredevil hanging on. See a couple of them riding at the sea when it has become an absolute wall. With a careful manipulation of the warp, they run their boat up the precipitous side of the sea, give a sharp snub on the rope, and she is over the top just as the crest is about to break. One by one the boats will slip and run, as the seas get too big for them and threaten to break. But there are one or two foolhardy ones that will strive for the honour of being the last to the leave, and not infrequently they are the last — the long, long, last. A slight misjudgment of the curl of the crest, maybe the anchor drags just as he goes to snub her over the top, or perhaps the rope itself breaks. Then the flimsy dory is picked up on that wall of water, flung in the air, and finally crushed to matchwood — another victim of the Virgins.