Very often they are really forced by their captains to desert in the New World or the colonies, leaving a handsome sum of wages behind them,- a distinct gain, either to the captain or the owners, or to both.But whether for this reason alone or not, it is a fact that large numbers of them desert.Then, for the home voyage, the ship engages whatever sailors it can find on the beach.These men are engaged at the somewhat higher wages that obtain in other portions of the world, under the agreement that they shall sign off on reaching England.The reason for this is obvious; for it would be poor business policy to sign them for any longer time, since seamen's wages are low in England, and England is always crowded with sailormen on the beach.So this fully accounted for the American seamen at the Salvation Army barracks.To get off the beach in other outlandish places they had come to England, and gone on the beach in the most outlandish place of all.
There were fully a score of Americans in the crowd, the non-sailors being 'tramps royal,' the men whose 'mate is the wind that tramps the world.' They were all cheerful, facing things with the pluck which is their chief characteristic and which seems never to desert them, withal they were cursing the country with lurid metaphors quite refreshing after a month of unimaginative, monotonous Cockney swearing.The Cockney has one oath, and one oath only, the most indecent in the language, which he uses on any and every occasion.Far different is the luminous and varied Western swearing, which runs to blasphemy rather than indecency.And after all, since men will swear, I think I prefer blasphemy to indecency; there is an audacity about it, an adventurousness and defiance that is far finer than sheer filthiness.
There was one American tramp royal whom I found particularly enjoyable.I first noticed him on the street, asleep in a doorway, his head on his knees, but a hat on his head that one does not meet this side of the Western Ocean.When the policeman routed him out, he got up slowly and deliberately, looked at the policeman, yawned and stretched himself, looked at the policeman again as much as to say he didn't know whether he would or wouldn't, and then sauntered leisurely down the sidewalk.At the outset I was sure of the hat, but this made me sure of the wearer of that hat.
In the jam inside I found myself alongside of him, and we had quite a chat.He had been through Spain, Italy, Switzerland, and France, and had accomplished the practically impossible feat of beating his way three hundred miles on a French railway without being caught at the finish.Where was I hanging out? he asked.And how did I manage for 'kipping'?- which means sleeping.Did I know the rounds yet? He was getting on, though the country was 'horstyl' and the cities were 'bum.' Fierce, wasn't it? Couldn't 'batter' (beg)anywhere without being 'pinched.' But he wasn't going to quit it.
Buffalo Bill's Show was coming over soon, and a man who could drive eight horses was sure of a job any time.These mugs over here didn't know beans about driving anything more than a span.What was the matter with me hanging on and waiting for Buffalo Bill? He was sure I could ring in somehow.
And so, after all, blood is thicker than water.We were fellow-countrymen and strangers in a strange land.I had warmed to his battered old hat at sight of it, and he was as solicitous for my welfare as if we were blood brothers.We swapped all manner of useful information concerning the country and the ways of its people, methods by which to obtain food and shelter and what not, and we parted genuinely sorry at having to say good-by.
One thing particularly conspicuous in this crowd was the shortness of stature.I, who am but of medium height, looked over the heads of nine out of ten.The natives were all short, as were the foreign sailors.There were only five or six in the crowd who could be called fairly tall, and they were Scandinavians and Americans.The tallest man there, however, was an exception.He was an Englishman, though not a Londoner.'Candidate for the Life Guards,' I remarked to him.'You've hit it, mate,' was his reply; 'I've served my bit in that same, and the way things are I'll be back at it before long.'
For an hour we stood quietly in this packed courtyard.Then the men began to grow restless.There was pushing and shoving forward, and a mild hubbub of voices.Nothing rough, however, or violent; merely the restlessness of weary and hungry men.At this juncture forth came the adjutant.I did not like him.His eyes were not good.There was nothing of the lowly Galilean about him, but a great deal of the centurion who said: 'For I am a man in authority, having soldiers under me; and I say to this man, Go, and he goeth; and to another, Come, and he cometh; and to my servant, Do this, and he doeth it.'
Well, he looked at us in just that way, and those nearest to him quailed.Then he lifted his voice.
'Stop this 'ere, now, or I'll turn you the other wy, an' march you out, an' you'll get no breakfast.'
I cannot convey by printed speech the insufferable way in which he said this, the self-consciousness of superiority, the brutal gluttony of power.He revelled in that he was a man in authority, able to say to half a thousand ragged wretches, 'You may eat or go hungry, as I elect.'
To deny us our breakfast after standing for hours! It was an awful threat, and the pitiful, abject silence which instantly fell attested its awfulness.And it was a cowardly threat, a foul blow, struck below the belt.We could not strike back, for we were starving;and it is the way of the world that when one man feeds another he is the man's master.But the centurion- I mean the adjutant- was not satisfied.In the dead silence he raised his voice again, and repeated the threat, and amplified it, and glared ferociously.
