The Savannah morning news., 1901-09-22

tailed with the memories of quarter
of century ago.
1t was a glorious day. A working
breeze of moderate strength, the face
of the bay all a-glitter with the sun
beams kiss on the dancing wavelets
as our pretty craft danced gayly sea-
ward. Bright looking yachts glided to
and fro, and all aspects of nature spelt
summer holiday. But away down the
bay there lowered the tapering masts
of bark which instinct told me was
the expected whaler, the Morning Star
AS nay eyes lighted upon her in a flash
the intervening years were obliterated
and l was again friendless, homeless
young man at the close of the long
weary voyage of the Cachalot. My
wife, my children sitting near me
faded away. 1 saw myself once more
rejoicing as does the prisoner when
the light CLEANS through his dungeon
AS we drew nearer / saw the old
fashioned windlass brakers going see
saw and involuntarily astonished my
shipmates by raising the time honored
song Of
stormy he was a good old man
TOGO me way, you storm along"
l couldn't help it; 1t had to come.
we IOuHuCu nCi bOWS anu WI
Wing, the owner, recognized me, q
seem to be a public character in New
Bedford), shouted: Come aboard
Mr. Bullen." My scruples vanished:
said good-by to wife and children, and
leaped from the boat to the tug, was
greeted with Dye want Thrown yer
self, hey?" Good man, he meant well;
but my forty-five years had fallen
from me like a cast-off jumper; l was
once again a spry youngster full of
emulation.
l stood on her deck, my hands full of
grease, sperm oil cHnging to lanyard
and shroud-Good heavens, how nice
it felt! Why, oh, why is it that these
things when we experience them in
their first freshness are so sordid and
mean, and strike us in after years as
redolent of the true romance, the
abundant glory of adventure In
unfamiliar seas. My feet touched
her decks, l heard the polyglot Eng
lish of my boyhood. 1 was intoxicated
with the aroma of the monarch of all
seas. the mighty sperm whale. His ex-
udations defiled my hands, chung to
my tanned shoes; 1 looked around as a
visitor butt was at home.
And then the captain-away with all
false and futile distinctions between
men-of- war-was introduced to me.
bowed tremblingly in the presence of
one who, he or his prototype in times
gone by, was the grim arbiter of my
destiny. Introduced by the owner to
Capt. King l felt somewhat of the old
shrinking when, coming aft to take the
wheel l realized what Moses felt when
commanded to put off his shoes for the
place wherein he stood was holy
ground.
But he, the captain, had read my
book, he looked benignantly upon me.
he produced a bottle of Portuguese
wine from some far off bright Azore,
and-introduced me in the arcanum of
his cabin to his wife-she who had
cheered his loneliness during the thir-
ty-seven months of their cruising up
and down the vast solitudes of the old
Atlantic.
She had been lonely. oh, yes, and I,
speaking sympathetically commiserat-
ed that loneliness, but he, the stalwart
man of many seasons with eyes blear-
ed with watching on stormy seas for
the giant quarry to fill his holds. he
said no word of loneliness. He had
learned the lesson of retirement upon
his own soul-a survival of the great
days of old when men sailed upon I'M
return content if they could but earn
the right hereafter. to talk of their do
ings in the certainty that none could
them gainsay.
Truly it was a return to medieval
times. Here in the swift and strenuous
days of ocean liners, of passages made
across the ocean in such time and with
such regularity as to earn for the 5000
mile passage the title of the ocean fer
ry, was a ship that had been cruising
North and South Atlantic ocean for
three years and over; and had return
ed bearing ocean spoils to the measure
of 5000 barrels of oil won by hardest
toll.
Nothing was changed except the in
PRODUCTION of wire rigging for rope and
the establishment of a little steam
winch, both improvements of weight.
The crew, the officers, looked familiar,
the wooden davits the broken down try
works, the pots bottom up dashed on
deck. Yes, one thing struck me unfa-
miliarly-the condition of the decks. In
my day the decks were scrubbed and
holystoned until whittier than any other
ship except yacht or a man-of-war.
But these decks might have been a ma
cadamized road for all the resemblance
they bore to wood. 1 knew why, and l
Il
holystoning, and after the first shock
of strangeness, l felt glad in my very
soul. After all. white deck makes a
ship no better. 1t only spells to the
initiated days and nights of slavery
for all aboard, and really looks out of
place there. To those who do not know
what work is on board these vessels
it seems to deny that the scenes do
take place on board which are recount
ed by those who have been there. In
every other detail the Morning Star
might as well have been the Cachalot
sailing the seas in the conscious mod
eTnity of half a century ago. Her crew
busted about the deck were, as might
be expected, half distracted with their
home coming. All, as far as / could see,
without exception, save the master,
were, II not Portuguese, of Portuguese
extraction. How could 1t be otherwise :?
How expect the American, he who
grasps with both hands, and presses
the utmost juice out of each moment
as IL flies; how expect him to go away
for such slice of this brief life and
spend so many long, listless, silent
watchful days upon the unfrequented
seas? IL might not be, unless, as in the
captains case. he had been raised 10
1t, Graded like. the Nantucketer of old
upon green, rolling pillow, under
meath which rushed herds OF wander
ing whales. As we neared the wharf I
watched the crowd that waited our ar
rival lnVoluntarily my eye roved over
the little groups in search of a famil-
lar face. So did ii of old, and always
In vain, for never once in all my Jour
neys was there a welcoming face upon