Among the American Captains In Havana
By Capt. J. H. Drew of Farmingdale.
ON SHIPBOARD
Come with me. The fresh sea breeze is blowing and we will go on board. Our squadron of boats work out among the fleet of vessels, the Marine Band is playing on board the monster “Arapiles” ironclad, and a thousand streamers fill the sky. We are soon on board, our repast is over, and we repair to the clean quarter deck. The awnings are spread, and we seat ourselves as though at home. Soon the sun is gilding the distant hill-tops, showing here and there a tufted palm or grove of orange trees. Some distant convent bell is calling to vespers.
Gradually the breeze subsides to a gently breathing air, and the hum of the busy day, the squeaking tackle and fall, is done. Those who don’t want their boats any more hoist them up, the mate is in the waist thinking of his far away home, and the sailors gathered in knots about the “fokistle.” Well, it is just lovely! It is time when there is music in the air. Slowly descend the flags of every nation in the world, following the lead of the royal frigates. The band plays the Spanish march, and we sit musing there. Then come the old lines to us, “Far, far over hill and dell, On the winds stealing, List to the convent bell,” etc.
Soon our crew start a song. Far over the waves comes trembling back a response from some other American vessel. What memories come rushing along. “The Wild Alfuratta,” “The Old Cabin Home,” and many another old ballad of our boyhood. An English crew gave us something new from London, or one of Dibden’s old songs, such as “Ye Mariners of England,” (which by the way, is not Dibden’s). The Germans give the “Watch on the Rhine,” and the Spanish matelot tunes his guitar and sings the Evening Song to the Virgin. Not such music this, perhaps as one of our select company of performers would give, but far richer to me the music of the tired and the weary, the music that lilts the poor sailor to higher and better things.
HOW THEY TELL STORIES
Now again lemonade and oranges are brought; “No, I thank you, I don’t smoke. I’ll take an orange if you please.’’ One Captain after another drops along from neigboring vessels, and the boat’s crews disperse forward to tell of the “last ship” and how they did there.
Near the wheel sits Capt. Brightman of Down river. Mass. He owns the vessel, has spent a life time in the trade, and loads this and other vessels with the productions of his labor. His memory goes back to the days of pirates and the embargo. He tells with honest pride in the most modest way of the many things he has learned in West Indies. (Here is the place to find out all about the good and evil of the island.)
By and by Capt. Booster of Stoneland, Maine, drops alongside. His powerful frame and horny hands grow old, and with a look from under his great shaggy eyebrows, he says that some how or other he can’t do so well us he used to—dear old soul, as though he had not done enough. He tells of hardships on many a sea, and says that once while on a wreck they were pumping for their lives, when a young man from his own town said, “Captain, I want to go and pray.” “You leave that pump,” said Capt B. through his clenched teeth, “and l will kill you. You pump and I will pray.” He knew that if that man left the pumps others would, and then it would be all over; but he meant to save them, and he did. When they got home, the local minister took Capt. B. to do about it; but said he. “What could I do? I felt awfully about it, but there was no other way, was there?’ On the tail rail sit two Cape Cod skippers, talking about their girls “down on the Cape.”
A Captain from Richmond, Me, now sailing from Mobile, tells the story of the earthquake in St Thomas a few years ago. All listen to it with breathless interest. He says that there were hundreds of ships of all classes and nations there at anchor. A few days before, when an awful hurricane occurred which sunk many of them, vessels were driven right over one another three deep and hundreds of lives were lost in a few minutes; he never saw any thing like its fury, but that was nothing to the earthquake that followed.
He says that he was on shore with a friend, when an old negress told them to flee up the mountain side for their lives. When they had gained some distance they paused to look round on the town and harbor, and there they saw a sight that almost froze their blood. Slowly and with awful motion all the water receded from the harbor and left the bottom dry, a sight no living man had ever seen, it was like the opening of the sixth seal. The churches and buildings began to totter, the ground rent beneath them, emitting flames of sulphur and smoke. The falling walls, the screams of the living, the groans of the dying went up, and then with ore mighty rush the sea came back a wall of water sixty feet high, carrying everything with it.
The ships that were left were hurled like bubbles up the mountain side, and landed in the midst of the city, a mighty groan and it was all over. He says he fought all through the war. He passed the forts with Farragut at New Orleans and Mobile, and be showed the place in his breast where he was shot to prove it, but he never knew fear till then—fear was no name for it. When the ground was rocking under his feet he was sick and fell helpless to the ground.
And thus we pass the evening. Old friends meet that were in Singapore twenty years ago. “Do you remember,” says one, “of the ship Dolphin when she was there “Yes; well, I was mate of that ship with old Joe Hoyt, as smart a sailor as ever trod a ship’s deck.” “And I was in the Annie Kimball, you remember. Don’t you remember me?” “What, Hallett! Frank Hallet! of course I do. Can it be you?” Then old East India captains like to get into the West India trade. There they can own in their vessels and be more independent, carry their families, or the voyages being shorter they can be at home oftener. And many a one showing a long file of toil in the East India trade have got nothing for it. It is hard, but it’s true.
The old Down East skippers tell of where they can get the best vessel for the least money; what wood will last best, and how they should be fastened, etc. The Jerseyman will tell of how much he made in the war out of the Government. And, yet, here you can learn everything about trade. Then they will talk of their homes, their neighbors and farms. How Capt. John got along after he knocked off going to sea. These men never hold any position in government, though among the first to fly to her defence in the war, and manning our ships with stalwart men. Though they know of trade, of maritime law, of custom houses, of protection and free trade better than any other men, they never are sought for to fill the many offices on shore. Many of them “sink into the wave with bubbling groan, unwept, unhonored and unknown.” But the eight o’clock gun has fired long ago.
The moon has risen and made a broad shinning track across the water, to us filled with golden flecks by the rippling tide. Captain Booster calls his “water horse,” (his boat,), oars are apeak, “let fall, give way,” and “Good-night.” Captain Rightman,” “I’ll see you in Down River,” and away we go along the golden moollit way. We pass close to the ironclad, and the sentry calls, “El bote.” “Amigos,” Americanos,’ we reply. “Beuno,” “passu,” and we are once more in the dull, quiet city outskirts, wending our way to the hotel. The history of these men is never written. Only in the daily events of life do they appear, are swallowed up. But the place they fill is beyond all account important, and ever will be.
SOCIAL MEETINGS
On a spit of land making out into the bay from the Regla side, near where the ships lie, is the refinery of an American oil company. The proprietor, Mr. Munson, and his estimable lady are from Connecticut. Their house is by the waterside, and is ever open to their American friends, the masters of vessels and families. Once a week during the winter they throw their house open for social intercourse, and was my privilege to be present at many enjoyable occasions. As night darkened down o’er the water, and the distant lights of the city glimmered like so many footlights of a stage, and the lanterns of the anchored vessels hung higher and nearer, than the guests began to come. The stately Indiaman, in his four oared boat, with his lady; some downeast skipper pulling his skiff and bringing his wile and daughter; some half dozen skippers without wives or daughters, and others with their passengers, making a goodly company, soon fill the cool and pleasant rooms.
Social conversation begins the evening, all the chit-chat of home. Soon cards are brought, and tables cleared, while those who like engage in whist. A number of singers draw around a nice cabinet organ, and entertain the company with the best songs of the day, among which is sure to be “Silver Threads among the Gold,” or Hold the Fort.” Old bachelors will get out on the balcony and talk of freights and dull times, and so the time goes on till the tables turn and are put out of the way, to make room for some ludicrous games of forfeits, etc. Finally, a funny Cape skipper starts a dance and gets the “partners” arranged on the balcony. But where is the music to come from. A jolly fellow from Philadelphia orders up a fiddle-box from his boat, and soon hands are clasped, “balance to partners,” and the happy couples dance the Virginia Reel to the tune of “Old Zip Coon,” or the “Arkansas Traveller.” It would do anybody good to see some old fellow balance.
Well, it is soon over. “Soon, too soon, we part in pain to sail these silent seas again.” Boats are called. Mabel’s away.” Ernestine’s away.” “Aye, aye, sir,” is the response. Then, where’s my waterproof?” “My rubbers; our boat leaks.” Then, “Sarah, put this shawl over your shoulders, the night is getting damp.”
“Hold on a moment.” We gather round the organ. A nice young wife from Connecticut, perhaps, sits down to the organ, and then Americans and English for their national anthem is the same, join the grand old “America. It rolls far out to the Spanish man-of-war, and the wondering Cubans peer into the inclosure with delight. And then, “Good night, dear Mrs. Munson; Mr. Munson. We shall never forget you.”
And the oars splash, and the boats disappear, one after another, in shadows of the ships, the masts and yards, and jutting headlands; and we think. Ah! New England; beautiful New England beautiful at home; beautiful on the shores of your fair Southern sister Cuba.—Boston Journal.
Daily Kennebec Journal, Augusta, ME, June 13, 1876