William H. Macy  Source  Whalesite

Leaves from the Arethusa's Log.
No. 13

W. H. Macy

Flag of our Union.
Vol. 23, No. 37 (Sep 12, 1868)
p. 590.

Leaves from the Arethusa's Log.

No. 13.

TALCAHUANA.

      We passed the Fortitude, tack and tack, beating up to the anchorage of Talcahuana, and let go our anchors nearly at the same moment. Fifty-five barrels was our share of "the Juan Fernandez whale," which made us up to two hundred and thirty, all told; not so bad a start, as we were hardly five months from home.

      Talcahuana, or "Turkeywarner," as old Jeff and the cook persisted in Anglicizing the name, is like many other places on the Spanish Main, merely the port to a large city; the cities along this coast being pushed up into mountains, at a considerable distance from the seaboard. The place itself is not much to look at, or to discourse about. A description would present no points of marked interest to the general reader, and what whaleman needs a description of Talcahuana?

      Here were anchored some dozen or fifteen whaleships, mostly from Nantucket and New Bedford; some lately from home bringing letters for those long absent, while two or three were making their last port homeward-bound, and ready to take the answering epistles; for at that time the process of annihilation of time and space which has made such strides within the last quarter of a century, was, comparatively speaking, in its infancy. Yankee enterprise had not yet pushed its way over the Sierras, and the ponchoed Mexican still lounged at his ease, and drawled his quien sabe? where now great commercial cities have started up as if by magic. No ocean steamers then vexed the waters of "the Gulf" and the Caribbean; overland mails were rather a "proposed" innovation than a fixed fact, and the electric telegraph was as yet hidden in the womb of time. To us in the Pacific, news from home even a year old was heartily welcomed; while the advent of a whaler five or six months out was a perfect windfall.

      Good fellowship and jollity presided at the reunions or "gams" on board the various whalers at anchor; music and dancing held high carnival every evening; old friendships were renewed and new ones formed; unexpected recognitions were of frequent occurrence; and even members of the same family, separated for a long series of years, were here reunited, though but temporarily. A striking instance of this sort occurred two or three days after our arrival. A bark was beating in for anchorage, and Mr. Swain was seen to shove off his boat from the Fortitude, and pull out towards her. She had a private signal flying, and Father Grafton, after consulting a list which he kept tacked on the inside of his chest-lid, told me she was the Clio, of New Bedford, and added, indifferently, "Swain's brother is mate of her." The brothers were both on board the Arethusa in the evening, and I heard the question casually asked, "how long it was since they saw each other last?" "Let me see," said Swain of the Clio. "I sailed on my first voyage to the Brazil Banks in 1820, and Joe had been gone about a year then in the Good Success. It's a little over twenty-three years."

      "It was quite time to shake hands, then," said our mate. I stared in amazement at the coolness with which they treated the matter! Here were two brothers, both pursuing the same business for a livelihood, and both residing, with their families, in the same town, who had not seen each other's faces since they were schoolboys. And among this knot of Nantucket officers present, the fact was not looked upon as being very remarkable, and was dismissed with merely a passing word of comment. I was speaking of this matter aside to the young third mate, Mr. Bunker, "Why," said he, "we islanders don't think much of that. It's matter of course in our business. Young as I am, it is eight years since I saw my eldest brother who is now second mate of a ship cruising 'on New Zealand,' and I am not likely to get a sight at him for many years to come, unless one of us makes an unusually long or short voyage so as to bring us both at home at the same time. It is not that we are wanting in natural affection that we treat the matter so coolly. I think I love my brother, and I suppose if we should accidentally meet, we should do just as the Swain brothers do: give each other a hearty greeting, make the most of each other's company while it lasted, and part again in a day, perhaps in an hour, for another series of years, and that is all about it."

      We have taken in our water and recruits; received on board the oil from the Fortitude and stowed it down; the heavy work is all finished, and not much remains to be done but to paint the ship; and now the "liberty" begins. The word is passed for the watch to get ready to go ashore. Now the "finery" is roused out from the depths of sea-chests, that is, if we have any; and, if we have only one article of "long-shore toggery," it must be worn, though perhaps not strictly in keeping with other parts of our attire, which gives us a slight touch of the amphibious appearance of which I have before spoken at Nantucket. Farrell is with us, having "swapped" into the larboard watch for the occasion, and sports a neat pair of velveteens of the peculiar color and cut that no man who speaks without the brogue, ever did, or by any possibility could wear. Where he got them is a mystery, for no one of his shipmates ever saw them before. The two boys, Kelly and Hoeg, are resplendent in round jackets of green flannel, at that time an indispensable part of the outfit of every "native" below the rank of chief mate; but which have fallen into disuse, and passed away to oblivion with the stiff tarpaulin hat, it is to be hoped never to return.

      "Come aft, and get your money."

      The old man has a pile of Spanish dollars on the cabin-table, and serves them out with one hand, while he makes entries in his memorandum-book with the other; the watch pass in and out again, one at a time, like voters at the polls, each getting his two dollars, and a rough word of advice to "behave himself, and not break his liberty, nor bring any money off with him." We take our places in the boat, but not at the oar; for we are but passengers to be ferried ashore by the other watch.

      Jack's liberty is perfect while it lasts, that is, so far as the ship's duty is concerned. Twenty-four hours is our limit, and the boat will be sent in next morning to bring us off, unless we prefer to hire other conveyance, which we can do if we choose — and have money enough left. Other boats with "liberty men" are to be seen leaving various ships, among the rest the Fortitude's, in which are several of my former comrades in the gallant Lydia Ann. We pull into the rude wharf or mole, and all jump on terra firma with a feeling of outgushing freedom, a Fourth-of-July feeling, uncontrollable, boiling over. We invite our unfortunate, shipmates, the ferrymen, to "come up and take a drink," and do so with an air, too. They accept, asking the officer's permission, poor fellows! It matters not that we shall have to do the same thing to-morrow, "sufficient unto the day" is our motto now; and each man carries a Declaration of Independence to his pocket, ay, two of them jingling.

      It is not to be wondered at, if the seaman after being cooped up and subjected to strict discipline for months at sea, thinks it hard that he cannot follow his bent, and do precisely as he pleases for twenty-four hours on shore, and revolts at the idea of submitting to the local authorities and conducting himself like a law-abiding citizen. We all take a drink together at the nearest pulperia, officers and all, and glance condescendingly at our ferrymen ignominiously going down to the boat to pull her back again.

      "Well, where next?" We gradually separate into knots of two or three, seeking adventures. Some will care for little else but to cast anchor in a pulperia and soak themselves with liquor; others will patronize a ten-pin alley or a billiard table if they can find one; while none are insensible to the blandishments of the graceful and seductive Chilian women. Mr. Bunker assumes the office of Mentor for me, for he has been here "last voyage," and knows some of the ropes. So we are not long in finding good quarters, and enjoy the day very pleasantly, drinking only enough to keep our wits sharp and make us lively company for each other. We drop in at a dance hall which is occupied only by a few loungers at present, but the fellow behind the bar, who, it strikes me has a very "Rule Britannia" look for a Spaniard, tells us "there'll be fun in the hevening," and kindly invites us to participate. We pursue our rambles, occasionally encountering small parties of our shipmates among the many sailors to be found in various stages of exhilaration as we investigate the beauties of "Jibboom Street," and pry a little into the mysteries of the classic precincts of the "Devil's Pocket."

      But here's a row! Let us see what it is! Sailors and idlers gather from all quarters with surprising quickness, for there is perhaps nothing which exerts a greater centripetal force than a street row or brawl. It seems bad blood had been engendered between two of the Fortitude's boys on the outward voyage, and they have decided to knock a little of it out, while the liquor is in. Two or three harmless cracks are interchanged, and a "hook" ensues, when a vigilante unhappily appears on the field and insists upon making himself a third party in the business, contrary to all seaman-like laws of fair play; their shipmates say they shall finish their set-to if they like; another vigilante appears to assist his colleague, and each seizing a belligerent, they start them in the direction of the calaboose; large reinforcements of sailors gather to the rescue, and the police also rally in the same direction with their espadas drawn; one of the pugnacious youths is by this time in the melting mood, and goes like a lamb to the slaughter; but the other proving refractory, receives a persuader or two with the flat of the "cheese-knife," a very Spanish substitute for a policeman's baton. This is the feather that breaks the camel's back; a general attack is made by the infuriated mariners, the policemen are knocked over and the cheese-knives taken from them; two or three sailors are slightly cut, but no one is seriously injured. Farrell is conspicuous in the melee, flourishing a stout stick, with his neat velveteens very much defiled, and his shirt showing through in some "thin places." The two original combatants are released, and the sailors have the field to themselves. But fire-arms now make their appearance — a platoon of scare-crow looking troops are drawn up in line and serious bloodshed is threatened. But the alarm has spread; the American captains and officers make their appearance, and the consul makes a speech to the seamen who are already half-frightened at their own victory so cheaply won. The captains and officers exert their influence in particular quarters at the same time; oil is poured upon the troubled waters; the captured weapons are given up; and the two young fellows who have found themselves so unexpectedly popular and notorious are persuaded to go quietly to prison under guard for the present. The outraged majesty of the Chilian Republic is vindicated, and the wrath of the officials appeased. The pulperias again do a thriving business, much to the relief of the proprietors, for the liquor law has been in force two hours, pending the negotiations.

      We go back to our comfortable quarters and enjoy a siesta as well as we can for the fleas, whose name is legion. We sally out again towards night and drop in at the dance hall; two violins are tuning up, and the seamen gathering to a focus, while pretty women pass in and out with an easy grace, peculiar, so far as my observation has extended, to females with more or less admixture of Castilian blood. Truly has Benjie Brail remarked in that fascinating sea-story, "The Cruise of the Midge," that though females of other nationalities may have various methods of locomotion to be called by various impertinent names, no woman but a Spaniard can walk. The crowd increases after the hall is lighted, and the fun grows fast and furious. The bar, of course, does a rushing business; officers of all grades drop in, and even captains honor us with their presence. Vigilantes are near at hand to preserve order, but every one is in good-humor now, and there is little fear of any outbreak. The dancers enjoy themselves, and the admiring lookers-on drink and applaud. Mr. Grafton is near me, thoughtful and observant as usual.

      "Well, Blacksmith, what do you think of Chilian women?"

      "I admire them very much," said I, "and yet I can hardly tell why. Perhaps because I am partial to brunettes."

      "Simplicity of toilet has much to do with it," said the mate. "You see no elaborate fashion of 'doing up' the hair, to torture and disfigure that which nature has made so beautiful. Then when they go out, you observe their heads are either exposed or else covered with a shawl or mantle falling gracefully over the shoulders. No such abomination as a bonnet disfigures them. Then again, their walk is the 'poetry of motion.' No Spanish woman ever cultivates a slight stoop of the shoulders and considers it graceful, but walks 'erect and free,' and yet without stiffness."

      I could not help smiling at the worthy mate's enthusiasm on the subject, and suggested that perhaps the practice of carrying burdens on the head might have some effect in producing this erect and easy carriage.

      "Of course it has much to do with it," said the mate. "But, though it would improve the carriage and walk of any woman, or man either, for that matter, it cannot create that grace of movement which is essentially Spanish, and which is to be found in ladies whose position and wealth place them above the necessity of carrying burdens at all, and, in fact, render it unlikely that they would do so. Again, the same practice prevails to a great extent all over South America, and in many of the South Sea Islands; yet who ever saw a Portuguese woman of Brazil, or a Kanaka woman of any island in the Pacific, whose walk would compare with that of a Chilian or Mexican girl?"

      My attention was again directed to Farrell, who was "setting" to a pretty, black-eyed girl in the dance, his step having more of the Irish jig in it than of the "chengana," as it called here, a dance in which certain coquettish movements of a handkerchief in the hand play an important part. He was armed with an immense red cotton one which he flourished with far more vigor than grace, and, as the dance ended, he obeyed the figurative order from the first fiddler to "Square the mainyard and let the jibs run down!" by leading his pretty partner up to the bar. "I say, darlin'," said Farrell, "would ye tell me what's yer sweet name, now?"

      "My name? Juanita," answered the girl.

      "Whon-eater? an' is that yer name indade; an' sure your lingo is for all the warld like pourin' music out of a jug. Whon-eater — an' what can be sweeter? — I'll take her up and treat her — I will, by the houly St. Pether!" said Farrell, by way of climax; for he was now in his poetical stage of inebriation — in which he would "rhyme you" like a very Touchstone.

      I turned away to laugh, and soon after left the dance hall with Mr. Bunker. As I passed out of the door I saw Farrell repeating his dose at the bar, and was apprehensive that he would get into trouble, for I knew that with him the transition was short and easy from the poetical mood into the pugilistic.

      It was even as I feared. When the ship's boat came in, the watch were all on hand but Farrell, and on inquiry I found he was in "durance vile." It seems a Chileno had taken the liberty to address some words to "Whon-eater," which Farrell resented as an undue familiarity. He hadn't, of course, the remotest idea what was said, but he was in the warlike stage then and spoiling for a row. So he struck out from the shoulder, and was at once seized and marched off to the lock-up. He came off about the middle of the forenoon, having been taken before the magistrate and fined for assault. The old man had, of course, paid it and sent him on board. He had found pretty rough quarters, he said, in the lock-up, and had been nearly "flayed alive by the murderin' flays."

      One day's liberty was much like another, and the same old haunts were visited and revisited. We had four days on shore for each watch, and when the starboard watch came off the last time, Burley, the sea-lawyer, was missing, having doubtless deserted. He had been long enough in one ship, I suppose; and, besides, he had lost his prestige among his shipmates, and was looked upon with contempt. We all felt that we could spare him without a pang. To fill the vacancy, a Sandwich Island native called Peter was shipped, a man who had seen considerable service, having steered a boat in two or three ships, and who murdered English tolerably well. We took our anchor in the afternoon with a smart breeze from the southward, and before the sun went down we were once more tossing on the long swells of the broad Pacific.

      "Well," said old Jeff, as we were stowing the anchors, "I reckon that's the last we'll see of Turkeywarner this v'y'ge. I think the old man'll work off to the westward, and finally go down to 'the Groups.'"

      "What makes you think so?" said I.

      "Why, the old man as good as told me before we left home that he should work down that way. He never was down there before nor I neither. I've been three v'y'ges with the old man, and we've always got our oil on Peru, and Chili, and the Galleypaguses. We never went no further'n the off-shore ground."

      "Why should he go so far out of his old tracks where he has always been successful?" I inquired.

      "Well, you see, Father Grafton he's been down there last voyage, and Mr. Dunham, too, and they have great faith in the 'Groups,' and that starts the old man. Another thing makes me think so; he's fetched out a big stock of tobacker this v'y'ge. I never knew him to have so much before, and he hasn't sold a pound of it yet. It's all there in the run, and that means he's keepin it to trade down among the 'Groups.' He hasn't said nothin' to me about it lately, though; I've kept thinking he would,' cause he generally lets me know beforehand where he's going."

      It was one of Jeff's harmless peculiarities to pretend to considerable knowledge of cabinet secrets, and to affect to be "high in the confidence of the administration," as the newspaper correspondents have it.

      "Well," said he, "Burley he's given us the slip and I reckon nobody'll mourn much about the loss of him. I must say I got disappointed in that man. I thought he was a good sailor man, and all I was fearful of was that he would do something desprit. I thought he had courage enough to make good his words. But it turned out that he was more of a coward than I am, and that's needless," said Jeff with a grin; "and as for his duty, he was neither sailor nor soger."

      "He'll go on board of some other ship," said I, "where he can blow his gas for a while, but he wont wear well anywhere."

      "No," said Jeff, "only as long as it takes to find him out and take his measure. This Peter that came aboard to-day is a smart-looking Kanaka, but I don't think much of Kanakas anyhow." Here came in the prejudice of color again. "But I never told you, did I," continued Jeff, with a greenish kind of blush, "that I ran away myself in Turkeywarner, once?"

      "No," I answered. "I thought you were a fixture of the ship you sailed in."

      "That was the first v'y'ge I was in the Colossus. This old man was mate with us then. I trusted to an old 'Cholo' here; he said he'd stow me away where all creation couldn't find me. Well, he did till the old man offered, twenty dollars bounty for me, for you see he couldn't go to sea without me nohow, and then the old mongrel sold me to get the reward. He just went out and informed where I was, and the mate (that's the old man now) came and roused me out of my hiding-place, and told me I'd be wiser next time than to trust one of them yaller scoundrels. And so I have been. Gi'me white or black, I say; for where you mix 'em, you spile two good things."

Source:

W. H. Macy.
"Leaves from the Arethusa's Log - No. 13."
      Flag of Our Union.
Vol. 23, No. 37 (Sep 12, 1868)
p. 590.

William H. Macy  Source  Whalesite