Looking Seaward Again by Walter Runciman

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The officer's pride was injured, his temper was up, and he began to
suitably libel everybody. Her Majesty's representative was the object
of much vituperation, and a rather brilliant harangue was brought to a
close by the officer stating that he would go and see the blooming
Consul, and say some straight things to him. With a final flourish he
called out at the top of his voice, disdainfully--

"Who the h---- is he?"

The next morning at ten o'clock the captain gave orders to row him
ashore. The mate wore a humbler appearance than on the previous day:
meditation had mellowed him. He stepped into the boat beside his
commander, but was told with icy dignity that the boy would take him
ashore in the cook's lurky. No greater insult could have been offered
to an officer. The Consul at that time was Walter Maynard, a charming
man whom I knew well years afterwards. Although I only heard odds and
ends of what transpired, I feel sure the advice given was in the
mate's interests, and made him see his objection from another point of
view. He did not take kindly to bringing the labourers off, but he
sullenly commenced from that day to do it.

Coal cargoes were at that time jumped out of the hold with four ropes
bent on to one called a runner, which was rove through a coal gin
fastened on to the end of a derrick composed of two studdingsail booms
lashed together, and steps were rigged with studdingsail yards and
oars. The arrangement had the appearance of a gate, and was fixed at
an angle. Four men gave one sharp pull with the whip ropes, and then
jumped from the step on to the deck. The men in the hold changed
places with the whips every two hours. It was really an exciting thing
to witness the whipping out of coal cargoes. It may be seen even now
in some ports of the United Kingdom, but the winch has largely taken
the place of this athletic process. Most captains supplied rum or
vodka liberally, with a view to expediting dispatch, and did not
scruple to log and fine those seamen who acquired a craving for
alcohol, and misconducted themselves in consequence when they got
liberty to go ashore. Nobody was more severe on the men who committed
a breach of discipline than those who, for their own profit, had
taught them to drink.

The poor, wretched Russians who were employed aboard English and other
vessels were treated with a cruelty that was hideous. Before the
emancipation of the serfs by the Emperor Alexander II. in 1861, it was
not an uncommon occurrence for captains and officers and seamen to
maltreat them, knock them on the head, and then pass their bodies over
the side of the vessel into the Mole. One of the first things I
remember hearing in a Russian port was a savage mate swearing at some
labourers and threatening to throw them overboard. It is no
exaggeration to say that almost every day dead bodies came to the
surface and were taken to the "Bran" Wharf or to the mortuary, with
never a word of inquiry as to how they came by their end, though it
was well known that there had been foul play. It is true they were
awful thieves, very dirty, very lazy, and very provoking, and it was
because the officers were unable to get redress that they took the law
into their own hands. It is incredible that such a condition of things
was allowed to exist.

A stock phrase even to this day of predatory Russians is, "Knet
crawlim, tackem"--_i.e._, "I have not stolen, I have only taken." They
have a pronounced conviction that there is a difference between
stealing and taking. Tradition has it that a humorous seaman ages ago
conveyed this form of distinction to them, and it has stuck to them
ever since. Another peculiarity of the race is that they wear the same
large grey coat in the summer as they do in the winter; they are
taught to believe that what keeps out cold keeps out heat. When they
take drink they never stop until they are dead drunk, then they lie
anywhere about the streets and quays. The police, who are not much
better, use them very cruelly. During the Russo-Turkish war hundreds
of the common soldiers, who are similar to the common labourer, were
found lying on the battle-field, presumably dead, when it was found
they were only dead drunk. I was told by a doctor, who went right
through the campaign, that it was customary to fill the "soldads," as
they are called, previous to a battle, with vodka. The lower order of
Russians must be hardy, or they could never stand the extremes of cold
and heat, and the terrible food they have to eat. They are not
long-lived. I cannot recall ever having seen a very old Russian
labourer.

The emancipation of the serfs was a great grievance to the old seamen,
who looked back to the days when they could with impunity chastise or
finish a serf without a feeling of reproach. After the emancipation it
became a terror to have them aboard ship. Many a mate has been heavily
fined and locked up in a pestilential cell for merely shoving a
fellow who was caught in the act of stealing, or found skulking, or
deliberately refusing to work properly. Labourers, in fact, became a
herd of blackmailers, and were encouraged in it by some agency or
other, who shared the plunder. One old captain, with an expression of
sadness on his face, told me, on my first visit to Cronstadt since I
was a boy, that everything had changed for the worse.

"At one time," said he, "you never got up of a morning without seeing
a few dead Russians floating about. You could chuck them overboard if
you liked, and nobody interfered. Many a time I've put one over the
side. But now you dare not whisper, much less touch them."

The general opinion amongst English seamen, from the master downwards,
was that a great injustice had been done to us by the Decree of
Liberation.

On one occasion I lay alongside a Yankee ship which was loading flax.
Work had ceased for breakfast. I saw the chief officer on the poop,
said "Good morning" to him, and asked him how the loading was going
on.

"Well," said he, "it goes not so bad, but we've had an accident this
morning which stopped us for nearly an hour. There were three or four
bales of flax slung in the hatchway; the slings slipped, and the bales
fell right on a dozen Russians."

"That is very serious," I said. "Did it kill them?"

"No," drawled he, with a slow smile; "it didn't exactly kill them, but
I guess it has flattened them out some."

The "Bran" Wharf was then a large pontoon, with dwelling accommodation
for Custom-house officers and harbour officials. It was moored just at
the entrance to the dock or mole, and was in charge of an official who
regulated the berthing of vessels. This man was originally a boatswain
aboard a Russian warship. He was illiterate, but very clever, so much
so that great power was put into his hands; indeed, he became quite as
powerful in his way as his Imperial Majesty himself. Every
conceivable complaint and petty dispute was taken to him, and it was
soon found that it could be settled in a way that did not involve a
fine or imprisonment. In fact, there were occasions when a favourite
English captain or mate asked this official's aid in getting the
Russians to work properly. He would, if agreeably disposed, come
aboard, spit, stamp, and swear at the men in a most picturesque way,
and if he had had a glass or two of grog, or wanted one, and the
captain or mate made a very bad report, he would lash the skulkers
with a piece of rope. When he was finished there was no more need for
complaint. This notorious person was called Tom the Boatswain. He drew
very fine distinctions as to whom he favoured with his countenance and
his chastening rod. For obvious reasons, he loathed a Swede and a
Norwegian. In truth, he told me himself that Englishmen were "dobra"
(good), and that Norwegians and Swedes were "knet dobra." He spoke a
peculiar kind of English, with a fascinating accent, and when he went
his rounds in the early morning, rowed by two uniformed sailors,
studied respect was paid to him. His invitations to breakfast, or to
have a glass of brandy (which he preferred to whisky), indicated the
esteem, fear, or amount of favours inspired by him. He in turn
endeavoured to pay a hurried visit to each of his guests, ostensibly
to see that their vessels were properly berthed, and the men working
properly, but really to test the generosity of the captains, who
seldom let him go without a "douceur," which was sometimes
satisfactory. He was accustomed, when asked to have refreshment, to
request that his two men should have a nip also. One morning he
visited a favourite captain who had arranged with his mate to act
liberally towards the men. His stay in the cabin was prolonged, and
when he came on deck and called for the boat, his devoted henchmen did
not come forth. He looked over the quarter-deck, and was thrown into
frenzy by seeing them both lying speechless, their bodies in the
bottom, and their legs sticking up on the seats of the boat. He got
into her, kicked the two occupants freely without producing from them
any appreciable symptoms of life, and then finally rowed himself back
to the "Bran" Wharf. The two culprits were compulsory teetotalers
after that.

Their master went on accumulating roubles, which, under Russian law,
Tom could not invest in his own name, and perhaps he had personal
reasons for secrecy. He did not allow the amount of his wealth to be
known to gentlemen who might have relieved him of the anxiety of
watching over it. But, alas! there came a period of great trial to
Tom. That portion of the "Bran" Wharf where the roubles were concealed
took fire. The occupants had to fly for their lives, and soon the
whole fabric was burnt to the water's edge. Another pontoon was
erected in its place, and Tom put in command; but before he had time
to replace the fortune he had lost, he was superseded by a naval
officer, and his roubles were taken from him. I believe his dismissal
was brought about by one of the countrymen to whom he had such a
strong aversion making a complaint to the Governor about his
partiality to Englishmen. Great sympathy was secretly extended to poor
Tom by his English friends, but the loss of his position and his
wealth broke his heart, and he only survived the blow for a few weeks.

In addition to controlling the berthing of vessels, and keeping the
harbour free from confusion, it was Tom's duty to see that no fires or
lights were allowed either by day or night, and, as these rigid rules
were frequently broken, his "hush money" very largely contributed to
his already affluent income. Nor did his removal affect the
acquisitiveness of his successor, who loyally followed in his
footsteps. As soon as a sailing-vessel arrived in the Roads, the
galley fire had to be put out before she was allowed to come into the
Mole. All cooking was done ashore at a cookhouse that was loathsomely
dirty. A heavy charge was made for the use of the place, and also for
the hire of the cook's lurky, a flat-bottomed kind of boat constructed
of rough planks. These boats were invariably so leaky that on the
passage to and from the shore they became half-foil of water, and the
food was frequently spoiled in consequence. But, even if all went
right, the crews often had to partake of badly cooked, cold rations.
Many a meal was lost altogether, and once or twice a poor cook who
could not swim was drowned by the boat filling and capsizing. The
frail craft of this kind were of curious shape, and only a person who
had the knack could row them. No more comical sport could be witnessed
than the lurky race which was held every season. Many of the cooks
never acquired the art of rowing straight, and whenever they put a
spurt on the lurky would run amuck in consequence of being
flat-bottomed and having no keel. Then the carnival of collisions,
capsizing of boats, and rescuing of their occupants began. Some
disdained assistance, and heroically tried to right their erratic
"dug-outs." It would be impossible to draw a true picture of these
screamingly funny incidents, but be it remembered they were all
sailor-cooks who took part in the sport, and the riotous joy they
derived therefrom was always a pleasant memory, and kept them for
days in good temper for carrying out the pilgrimage to and from the
cookhouse.

The popular English idea is that there are only two classes in
Russia--viz., the upper and lower; but this is quite a mistake. There
has always been a thrifty shopkeeping and artisan class, which may be
called their middle lower class. Then there is a class that comes
between them and the common labourer. Nearly all the shopkeepers that
carry on business at Cronstadt, Riga, and other Northern Russian ports
during the summer have their real homes in Moscow, and mostly all
speak a little English. There are also the boatmen, who are a
well-behaved, well-dressed lot of men, whose homes are in Archangel.
They, as well as the tradesmen, come every spring, and leave when the
port closes in the autumn. In the sailing-ship days each of the
greengrocers--as they were called, though they sold all kinds of
stores besides--had their connection. Every afternoon, between four
and six, batches of captains were to be found seated in a
greengrocer's shop having a glass of tea with a piece of lemon in it.
It was then they spun their yarns in detail about their passages,
their owners, their mates, their crews, and their loading and
discharging. If their vessels were unchartered they discussed that
too, but whenever they got authority from their owners to charter on
the best possible terms they became reticent and sly with each other.
To exchange views as to the rate that should be accepted would have
been regarded as a decided token of business incapacity. Supposing two
captains had their vessels unchartered, each would give instructions
to be called early in the morning, that they might go in the first
boat to St. Petersburg, and neither would know what the other
intended. When they met aboard the passenger boat they would lie to
each other grotesquely about what was taking them to town. If they
were unsuccessful in fixing, they rarely disclosed what had been
offered; and this would go on for days, until they had to fix; then
they would draw closer to each other, and relate in the most minute
fashion the history of all the negotiations, and how cleverly they
had gained this or that advantage over the charterers; whereas, in
truth, their agents or brokers had great trouble in getting some of
them to understand the precise nature of the business that was being
negotiated. The following is an instance.

Mr. James Young, of South Shields, whose many vessels were
distinguished by having a frying-pan at the foretopgallant or royal
mast-head, had a brig at Cronstadt which had been waiting unloaded for
some days. Her master was one of the old illiterate class. His peace
of mind was much disturbed at Mr. Young's indifference. At last he got
a telegram asking him to wire the best freights offering. He proceeded
to St. Petersburg, bounced into Mr. Charles Maynard's office, and
introduced himself as Mark Gaze, one of Jimmy Young's skippers.

"Well," said Mr. Maynard, in his polite way, "and what can I do for
you, Captain Gaze?"

"Dee for me, sorr? Wire the aad villain that she's been lyin' a week
discharged."

"Yes," said the broker, writing down something very different. "And
what else?"

"Tell him," said Mark, "te fetch the aad keel back te the Gut, and let
hor lie and rot wheor he can see hor!"

"Very good," said Maynard, still waiting; "and what else?"

"Whaat else? Oh, tell him to gan to h----, and say Mark Gaze says see.
Ask him whaat the blazes he means be runnin' the risk of gettin' hor
frozzen in. Say aa'll seun be at Shields owerland, if he dizzen't mind
whaat he's aboot."

"Well, now," said the agent, "I think we have got to the bottom of
things. We'll send this telegram off; but before it goes, would you
like me to read it to you?"

"For God's sake send the d---- thing away!" said Mark. "And tell him
te come and tyek the aad beast hyem hissel; or, if he likes, aa'll run
hor on te Hogland for him."

"Well, you do seem to understand your owner and speak plainly to him.
I should think he knows he has got an excellent master who looks
after his interest."

"Interest! What diz he knaa aboot interest? He knaas mair aboot the
West Docks. Understand him, d'ye say? If aa divvent, thor's neebody in
his employ diz. Aa've been forty-five years wiv him and his fethor
tegithor. Aa sarved me time wiv him. He dorsent say a word, or aa'd
tell him to take his ship to h---- wiv him."

"That is really capital," said the much amused agent. "Now, what do
you say, captain, if we have some light refreshment and a cigar?"

"Ay, that's what aa caal business. But aa nivvor tyek leet
refreshment. Ma drink is brandy or whisky neat," said Captain Gaze,
his face beaming with good-nature.

They proceeded to a restaurant, and when they got nicely settled down
with their drinks and smokes, the skipper remarked--

"Aa wonder what Jimmie waad say if he could see Mark Gaze sittin' in a
hotel hevvin' his whisky and smokin' a cigar?"

"I should think," said Mr. Maynard, "he would raise your wages, or
give you command of a larger ship." And then there was hearty
laughter.

Captain Gaze had a profound dislike to Russians, and more than once
narrowly escaped severe punishment for showing it. I have often heard
him swearing frightfully at the men passing deals from the lighters
into the bow ports of his vessel, and declaring that God Almighty must
have had little on hand when he put them on earth. Certainly he would
have considered it an act of gross injustice if, having killed or
drowned any of them, he had been punished for it.

Mark did not know anything about history that was written in books. He
only knew that which had occurred in his own time, and the crude bits
he had heard talked of amongst his own class. He, and those who were
his shipmates and contemporaries during the Russian War, believed that
a great act of cowardice and bad treatment had been committed in not
allowing Charlie Napier to blow the forts down and take possession of
Cronstadt.[2] They knew nothing of the circumstances that led to the
withdrawal of the fleet, but their inherent belief was that a dirty
trick had been served on Charlie, and Russians, irrespective of class,
were told whenever an opportunity occurred, that they should never
neglect to thank Heaven that the British Government was so generous as
to refrain from blowing them into space.

At Cronstadt, after the introduction of steam, it became a custom for
stevedores' runners, and representatives and vendors of other
commodities, to have their boats outside the Mole at three and four
o'clock in the morning during the summer. The captain of each vessel,
as soon as she was slowed down or anchored, was canvassed vigorously
by each of the competitors. One morning, the representative of Deal
Yard No. 6, who was an ex-English captain, came into sharp conflict
with a Russian competitor. The latter rudely interrupted the
ex-captain while he was complimenting a friend who had just arrived on
having made a smart passage. All captains like to be told they have
made a smart passage, but the ardent advocate of Deal Yard No. 6 kept
welcoming his friend at great length, obviously to prevent the other
runners from getting a word at the new arrival. There arose a revolt
against him, headed by a person who was always supposed to be a
Russian, but who spoke English more correctly than his English
competitor. The ex-captain was somewhat corpulent. He was short, and
had a plump, good-natured face which suggested that he was not a
bigoted teetotaler; he had a suit of clothes on that did not convey
the idea of a West-end tailor; his dialect was broad Yorkshire, and
his conversational capacity interminable. The representative of No. 10
Deal Yard undertook to stop his flow of rhetoric by calling out,
"Stop it, old baggy breeches! Give other people a chance!" But he paid
no heed, and did not even break the thread of his talk until the
captain of the steamer began to walk towards the companion-way, when
he stopped short and said, "Well, I suppose I'm to book you for No.
6?" and then there was a clamour. The whole of the runners wished to
get their word in before the captain definitely promised, but they
were too late. No. 6 had got it; but instead of accepting his success
modestly, he was so elated at having taken away an order from another
yard, that he stood up in his boat and congratulated himself on being
an Englishman.

"No use you fellows coming off here when I'm awake; and, you bet, I'm
always awake when there's any Muscovite backstairs gentlemen about."

As the boats were being rowed into the Mole again, some one asked who
had got the ship. The Russian competitor, who was angry at the work
being taken from his master, called out, "Bags has got her, the
drunken old sneak!"

Bags lost no time in letting fly an oar at him, the yoke and rudder
quickly following. His vengeance was let loose, and he poured forth a
stream of quarter-deck language at the top of his voice. His phrases
were dazzling in ingenuity, and amid much laughter and applause he
urged his hearers to keep at a distance from the fellow who had dared
to insult an English shipmaster.

"Or you will get some passengers that will keep you busy.
They--_he_--calls them _peoches_, but we English call them _lice_!"

This sally caused immense amusement, not so much for what was said as
for his dramatic style of saying it. His antagonist retorted that he
had been turned out of England for bad language and bad behaviour, and
he would have him turned out of Russia also. This nearly choked the
old mariner with rage. He roared out--

"Did I, an English shipmaster, ever think that I would come to this,
to be insulted by a Russian serf? I will let the Government know that
an Englishman has been insulted. I will lay the iniquities of this
Russian system of rascality before Benjamin Disraeli. I knows him; and
if he is the man I takes him for, he won't stand any nonsense when it
comes to insulting English subjects. He has brought the Indian troops
from India for that purpose, and when the honour of England is at
stake he will send the fleet into the Baltic, and neither your ships
nor your forts will prevent his orders to blow Cronstadt down about
your blooming ears being carried out. I know where your torpedoes and
mines are, and Disraeli has confidence in me showing them the road to
victory. The British Lion never draws back!"

The Russian deal-yard man, to whom this harangue was particularly
directed, went to the Governor on landing, and stated what the rough,
weather-beaten old sailor had been saying. The Governor communicated
with the authorities at St. Petersburg, and an order came to have the
old Englishman banished from Cronstadt and Russia for ever within
twenty-four hours. The poor creature had made a home for himself in
Cronstadt, his wife and four children being with him. The blow was so
sharp and unexpected, it stupefied him. His first thought was his
family, but there was little or no time for thought or preparation. He
had either to be got away or concealed. A liberal distribution of
roubles at the instigation of many sympathizers made it possible for
him to be put aboard an English steamer, and a week after his
banishment was supposed to have taken effect he sailed from Cronstadt,
a ruined and broken-hearted man. The old sailor's grief for the harm
his wayward conduct had done to his wife and family was quite
pathetic, and so far as kindness could appease the mental anguish he
was having to endure it was ungrudgingly extended to him, and when he
left Cronstadt he left behind him a host of sympathizers who regarded
the punishment as odious.

The fact of any public official listening to a miscreant who told the
story of a stevedores' row, to which he himself had been a party, and
seriously believing that the threats, however extravagant and
bellicose, of a verbose old sailor could be a national danger, is, on
the face of it, so ludicrous that the English reader may easily doubt
the accuracy of such an incident; and yet it is true.

* * * * *

In other days I used occasionally to meet members of the Russian
revolutionary party at my brother's home in London. They were all men
and women of education and refinement. The first time I met them the
late Robert Louis Stevenson (who generally used the window as a means
of exit instead of the door), William Henley, George Collins (editor
of the _Schoolmaster_), and, I think, Mr. Wright (author of _the
Journeyman Engineer_) were there. The talk was very brilliant. My
brother, who was a charming conversationalist, kept his visitors
fascinated with anecdotes about Carlyle and John Ruskin, whom he knew
well. They spoke, too, about the unsigned articles which they were
each contributing to a paper called the _London_, and their criticism
of each other's work was very lively. But to me the most touching
incident of the afternoon was the story told by one of the
revolutionary party about Sophie Peroffsky, who mounted the scaffold
with four of her friends, kissed and encouraged them with cheering
words until the time came that they should be executed. He related
also a touching and detailed story of little Marie Soubitine, who
refused to purchase her own safety by uttering a word to betray her
friends, and was kept lingering in an underground dungeon for three
years, at the end of which she was sent off to Siberia, and died on
the road. No amount of torture could make her betray her friends. They
spoke of Antonoff, who was subjected to the thumbscrew, had red-hot
wires thrust under his nails, and when his torturers gave him a little
respite he would scratch on his plate cipher signals to his comrades.

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