Sailor and Beachcomber E-Book

Middleton

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• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

“Confessions of a Life at Sea, In Australia and amid the Islands of the Pacific”. Published by Grant Richards, London a first edition 1915. Thick octavo, 304 pages private library stamp at front and rear of Thomas Kinmore of Cork, Ireland. Nicely illustrated with 23 images from photographs. Pretty good condition. An unusual book starting with “I run away to sea” but finds himself stranded in Brisbane and then off to the bush before leaving for the South Sea Islands. The usual chapter on cannibalism with much time spent in Samoa and Fiji, then Tahiti (and the usual chapter on morals) and the Marquesan Queens and back to Samoa before returning to Australia. Lost in the bush and on to the Gold Fields and Coolgardie. References to the Bounty and of course R.L.S. And quite a bit of violin playing – see his biography below. Written in an interesting somewhat casual style but packed with observation if not sometimes a bit puffed up. The author George Arnold Haynes Safroni-Middleton (1873-1950), also known as Count Safroni, was a British Composer, violinist, harpist, writer and astronomer. Born in Kent he studied violin with Pablo de Sarasate and later played with the orchestra at Her Majesty’s Theatre, Sydney. He toured Australia and explored Borneo, Papua New Guinea and Malaysia (and also obviously the Pacific). He composed “Imperial Echoes” in 1913 which for many years was the theme of "Radio Newsreel" on the BBC. Quite an odd chap. In Australian and (mainly) in the Pacific - entertaining

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

SAILOR AND BEACHCOMBER

PREFACE

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

Project Gutenberg's Sailor and beachcomber, by Arnold Safroni-MiddletonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostother parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll haveto check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.Title: Sailor and beachcomber       Confessions of a life at sea, in Australia, and amid the              islands of the PacificAuthor: Arnold Safroni-MiddletonRelease Date: January 6, 2019 [EBook #58624]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAILOR AND BEACHCOMBER ***Produced by Chris Whitehead, Linda Cantoni, BarryAbrahamsen, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Teamat http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images

Transcriber’s Notes:

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Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.

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MUSICAL COMPOSITIONS

By A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON

March—

“Our Fleet” War March of the Allied Sailors and Soldiers. Dedicated by special permission of Lady Jellicoe to Admiral Sir John Jellicoe and the British Fleet, 1915. Pianoforte and Military Band.

Entr’acte—

“The Monk’s Dream” (Full Military)

Romanza—

“Song of the Night” (Full Military)

Waltz—

“Firenze” (Military)

Regimental Marches—

“By Order of the King”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Imperial Echoes”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“The Colours”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Salute the Standard”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Under the Old Flag”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Our Fleet”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Sierra Leone”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“The Relief”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“The Night Riders”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Rough Diamonds”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“The Stronghold”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Half Seas Over”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“House of Hanover”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Light of the Regiment”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“The Dashing British”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“The Scottish Chief”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“The Dandy Fifth”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“Cashmere”

“The Long Bright Line”

“Paramatta”

“Carrara”

“Old Castille”

“Bohemia”

“Il Cavaliere”

“The Military Call”

Also Pianoforte Solo

“The Boundary Riders”

Also Pianoforte Solo

Etc.

Songs—

“Samoan Love Song and Waltz”

“A Soldier’s Dream”

“By the Delawar”

“South Sea Melodies”

“Alabama Way”

Etc., etc.

Published by BOOSEY & Co., London, Aldershot and New York

Played by Military Regimental Bands throughout the World

Lieutenant J. Ord Hume, L. F., the distinguished Composer, Bandmaster and Contest Adjudicator of the British Empire, says: “I consider Safroni-Middleton’s rousing Military Marches the finest of recent years, and unique productions, coming as they do from the pen of a sailor.”

SAILOR AND BEACHCOMBER

Tree Climbing

SAILOR AND BEACHCOMBER

CONFESSIONS OF A LIFE AT SEA, IN AUSTRALIA

AND AMID THE ISLANDS OF THE PACIFIC

BY

A. SAFRONI-MIDDLETON

❦

WITH TWENTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS

LONDON

GRANT RICHARDS LTD.

ST MARTIN’S STREET

LEICESTER SQUARE

MDCCCCXV

PRINTED BY THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED

EDINBURGH

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

TO THE MEMORY OF

MY BROTHER

MORTIMER HUGH MIDDLETON

AGED SIXTEEN YEARS

Lost overboard in mid-ocean while serving

before the mast of a sailing

ship outbound for

Australia

ALSO TO THE MEMORY OF

CAPTAIN POPPY

Of the sailing ship Aristides, lost

with all hands

AND TO THE MEMORY OF

MY COMRADES

Of the Australian Bush and

the South Sea Islands

Old comrades, by my fire in dreams

Your hands I clasp to-night;

Heaven starlit o’er the forest gleams

As ’neath the blood-wood’s height

You lie with folded hands asleep

By shores of tumbling waves,

As I creep up each silent steep

To kiss forgotten graves.

The soul of all the songs I sing,

Whatever sounds most true,

I dedicate each wild true ring,

Inspired, old chums, by you.

The world grieves not that you are dead—

Brave, reckless men who died,

Crept from their camp-fires back to bed

Along the wild hill-side.

But, comrades, ’neath the hills or waves,

Could one sad song of mine

Reveal dead souls of far-off graves,

’Twould be a song divine.

As pure and sweet as flowers that grow

Where once with wild delight

You sang, where bush-flowers, bursting, blow

Thro’ dead fire-ash to-night.

And so in dreams I take your hands,

In long-dead eyes I gaze,

And half in tears from other lands

Bring back the dear old days.

In other lands ’neath greyer skies

Wild rides again recall,

Your songs, your laughing, manly eyes—

The boy who loved you all.

Lies in my sea-chest ’neath my bed

The fiddle, stringless, still;

Old chums, since all of you are dead,

’Neath forest steep and hill,

I cannot play the songs you loved;

But with tired eyes and pen

I strive to tell the truth, who roved,

And found you—God’s best men.

PREFACE

In the following chapters, wherein I have endeavoured to write down my experiences at sea, in Australia and on the South Sea Islands, I have not gone beyond the first four or five years of my life abroad, but later on I hope to do so, if I get the chance. I have made no attempt to moralise in my book, and if I appear to have been guilty of doing so, be assured it was a spasm of the intellect and quite forgotten all about a few minutes after I had written it down.

All I have attempted in this book is to endeavour to tell exactly my experiences as they occurred in my travels in many lands; also I have wished to reveal a little of the usual experiences, the ups and downs, that youths pass through when they go to sea and are left completely on their own in other lands, seeking to see the world, often ambitious to find a fortune, but generally succeeding in only gathering heaps of grim experiences. Unfortunately no one can buy his experience first, and so the general rule of green fortune-seekers overseas is to end in failure, and to be honest, I was no exception to the rule. Nevertheless my loss of all that might have been was amply compensated by the rough brave men whom I met, seafarers and otherwise, who revealed to me the best side of humanity and the value of good comradeship: devil-may-care fellows with hearts that were blazing hearth-fires of welcome in the coldest days of adversity of long ago, ere I, crammed up with experience and nothing much else, down in the stokehold of a tramp steamer, returned across the ocean to my native land, eventually to get the roving fever and again go seaward.

Pom-pe-te, pom-pe-te, pom, pom,

All thro’ the burning night

Shovelling coal for the engine’s heart

Down in the blinding light.

Working my passage, penniless,

Over the western main,—

And I know they’ll all be sorry

To see me home again.

Pom-pe-te, pom-pe-te, pom, pom,

Shiver and shake and bang;

Thundering seas lifting us up,

Making the screw-shaft clang.

Unshaven faces thrust to the flame,

Washed by the furnace bright,

And England thousands of miles away

In the middle watch to-night.

Oh! what would they say could they see me

Mask’d thick with oil and dirt,

Shovelling deep down under the sea?

This sweater for a shirt,

With the funnel’s red flame blowing

Out in the windy sky,

And the family pride perspiring

To keep the steam-gauge high!

I can hear the wild green chargers

Pounding the boat’s iron side—

Old Death, impatient, knocking away

All night to get inside!

Where haggard men like shadows move,

Toil in the flame-lit gloom.

Oh, it’s just the whole world over

Sailing the wave of Doom.

For the aristocrats are sleeping

Snug in their bunks, I know,

All on the upper deck, while we,

Are sweating away below!

Hard-feeding the white heat’s fury,

Piling the wake with foam,

Unravelling all the knots that wind

The way that takes them home.

I’ve clung on an old wind-jammer,

I’ve done things—best untold;

Hump’d the swag on many a rush,

Found everything—but gold!

But oh! for the flashlight homeward!

The anchor’s running chain,

And the sight of their dear old faces—

To see me home again!

Be assured that I have given no artificial colouring in my book, neither have I seriously set out to describe what I have seen, though I am confident that I must have succeeded in giving some local atmosphere, since all that I have written is drawn from true experience, but I cannot be certain that all the events followed exactly in the order that I have written them, for with the flight of time the dates of days, months and years fade away. I have left to silence almost one year of my South Sea Island life, especially of that period when I, with a kindred spirit of my own age, lived for several months in a hut of our own fashioning on the shore side near Pangopango harbour off the Isle of Tutuela; also I have passed over several months of my Australian bush experiences, and I have done this for reasons of my own. Later on I hope to record the experiences of my sea life that followed my twentieth birthday.

All I say of the South Sea missionaries is said in good-fellowship. Some of the best men are missionaries and sacrifice years of their life in a hopeless quest. So bear with the honesty of one who has fought side by side with the best and worst, and face to face with the grim realities of existence. For the present I hope someone will like what I have written in this, my book—one more ambitious plunge of a failure.

A. S.-M.

CONTENTS

PAGE

I.

I RUN AWAY TO SEA

17

II.

STRANDED IN BRISBANE

25

III.

SLEEPING OUT AND BUSHED

36

IV.

I LEAVE FOR THE SOUTH SEA ISLANDS

42

V.

I PLAY VIOLIN AT NATIVE WEDDINGS

51

VI.

SOUTH SEA BAR-ROOM

57

VII.

I GO CRUISING

68

VIII.

WITH R.L.S. AND OTHERS

78

IX.

CANNIBALISM

90

X.

A FIJIAN BRIDE

105

XI.

BACK IN SAMOA

116

XII.

TRAMPING THE SOUTH SEA BUSH

120

XIII.

STILL TRAMPING

133

XIV.

SOUTH SEA DOMESTIC LIFE, ETC.

139

XV.

TAHITIAN MORALS

148

XVI.

MARQUESAN QUEENS. THAKAMBAU

157

XVII.

R.L.S. AT SAMOA. NATIVE MUSIC

174

XVIII.

R.L.S. IN THE STORM

193

XIX.

FATHER DAMIEN

203

XX.

I RECEIVE A KNIGHTHOOD

211

XXI.

LITTLE DAMIEN’S GRAVE

218

XXII.

BOUND FOR AUSTRALIA

228

XXIII.

I STOW AWAY

244

XXIV.

IN THE BUSH

255

XXV.

BEFORE THE MAST. MAN OVERBOARD

260

XXVI.

IN SAN FRANCISCO

273

XXVII.

LOST IN THE AUSTRALIAN BUSH

280

XXVIII.

ON THE GOLD FIELDS

290

XXIX.

THE CONCERT IN COOLGARDIE. FAREWELL

298

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PLATE

1.

Tree-Climbing

Frontispiece

2.

River Scene, Queensland

24

3.

Forest Track, Out Back

40

4.

Coco-nut Palm in Full Fruit

52

5.

Native Girl, Samoa

64

6.

View of Apia from Mulinu

74

7.

Planting Coco-nuts

84

8.

Preparing Copra

104

9.

Native Coast Village near Apia

116

10.

Low-Caste Native Girl

126

11.

Native Bamboo Bridge

138

12.

Rarotongan Scenery

150

13.

South Sea Lagoon

166

14.

Native Girls making Kava

170

15.

Para Rubber-Tree

182

16.

Native Pottery

192

17.

Loading Bananas

200

18.

Coco-nut Palms and Pasture-land

210

19.

Native Homestead

220

20.

Native Canoes, Fiji

226

21.

Homestead Scene, Queensland

236

22.

Cabbage-Palm and Bush Land

250

23.

Pastoral Scenery, N.S.W.

258

24.

Modern Sheep-Shearers

280

The author is indebted to the Agent-General for Queensland for the photographs reproduced as plates 1, 2 and 3; to the High Commissioner for Australia for plates 21, 22, 23 and 24; to the Director of the Imperial Institute for plates 4, 7, 8, 11, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19 and 20; and to Messrs W. A. Mansell & Co. for plates 5, 10, 12 and 13.

I

I run away to Sea—Outbound for Australia—Appointed Solo Violinist in the Saloon—I watch Sailors asleep

I will write you that which no man has written before. I will tell you the truth as I found it. I will tell you of the aspirations of rough but brave men in distant lands and on the ships of distant tropic seas. I will tell you the truth of many thrills that buoyed me up with hope in my wanderings, and also of the chills that crushed in the last forlorn stand on the field of adversity. Aye, you shall hear of those things that men dream of in silence. I will pour them out of my soul for the calm eyes of stern reality.

My pages of romance have long since been shrivelled up in tropic seas, under blinding suns, on the plains and in the primeval bush lands, but still I am the living book of all that has been in the dear old dead romance of passionate boyhood. The glorious poems, the dreams of what should be, the flinchless fight for right, have all faded away and left in the secret pages of life the withered flowers of old friendship, tied up with magic threads of women’s kisses, the memories of dead, brave comrades, some under the seas and others under the bush flowers of Australian steeps or beneath the tropic jungle of the South Sea Islands. There they sleep with the memories of savage native men singing by their tiny huts which have long ago vanished before the tramp of the white men. All these things are in this book, with the poetry of life which is mine, mingled with the memories of haunting dreams of that world of Romance which so many of us sail away to but never, never find.

I cannot promise that in the chapters to follow I can tell all that befell me in the exact order in which the events happened, for it must be that after the flight of years I should stumble a bit in the days and months of a life that was lived in the midst of wild adventure and incessant travel from land to land; but it will be enough to assure you that the characters that I tell you of really lived and for all I know many are still living. When I tell you that an old cockatoo dropped down from the tropic sky on to a blue gum twig overhead and surveyed me with a sideways melancholy eye as I sat alone by my camp fire, be quite sure that that cockatoo lived and breathed, took stock of me and flew away into the sunset, and has doubtlessly dropped into the scrub, a small bunch of dead feather and bone, years ago.

At school I read more from the pages of romance than from school-books. At fourteen years of age the opportunity arrived, and secretly, with the help of an older friend, I succeeded in securing a berth on a full-rigged sailing ship, and, within four hours of my trembling carcass creeping up the gangway and down on to the great decks, I was before the masts going down Channel bound for Australia.

My recollections of the first few days are dim. The skies bobbed about, I swayed on deck, the brave old heroes of ages past flew out of my brain into the stormy moonlight and shrieked in the sails overhead, as my head swelled to the size of the dome of St Paul’s and I vomited. I longed to be home again. Alas! deep-sea sailing ships do not turn round and speed with haste for their native port in response to the feeble schoolboy’s tearful voice. I was done for! Hopes, glories, vast ambitions, all vanished! My thin legs trembled along on the decks till I staggered through a little cabin door and fell into my bunk. By some great oversight in the sea discipline I was allowed to sleep for five hours; I cannot remember to a certainty now, but I think I was drowned and died about a thousand times in that first off-watch sleep.

I soon recovered, and discovered that sea captains do not stand on the poop cracking jokes and shying oranges and coco-nuts up at the crew, as they laughingly toil among the sails. I also found that the Bo’sun wore very stout boots, and I have never met a man in my life who could kick so true and aim with such precision. Five years after, whilst I was in ’Frisco, I called on a phrenologist and speculated one dollar, and discovered that the contusion and everlasting bump formed at the back of my head by a Bo’sun’s belaying-pin was an inherited taint derived from the over-burdened brains of my passionate ancestors!

Well, I recovered my equilibrium, secured good sea-legs, went aloft, crawled along the yards, and helped to reef the sails. Often in the wild nights the sailors cursed and swore as I clung with might and main, my hands and teeth clinging to the rolling rigging up in the foremast top-gallants. My comrades shouted orders to me, their voices blown away on the thundering night gales, but I only heard the instinctive cry of self-preservation within me as the moon and the great beast-like clouds swayed like mighty pendulums across the night skies, swept from skyline to skyline, while the masts shivered to the roll and thunder of the broadside swell as the ship flew along at eighteen knots before the gale. Often I would gaze down deckwards, watching the praying figurehead’s lifted hands heaving skywards when the tropic moonlight made wonderfully brilliant the hills of bubbling foam over the bows as she dived and plunged along. I loved that figurehead, for often as I gazed from aloft on moon-bright nights it seemed to wear a strong resemblance to my dear mother, and with my legs curled round the yards aloft in the lonely sea-nights I would often look down and fancy in my dreams that her shadow ever moved along over the waters below the swaying jib-boom with extended hands, praying for me, as no one ever prayed for me before or since!

I slept amidships with the cook and three other apprentices. I was a favourite with them all, being of a cheerful temperament and a good fiddle player. Often in the off watches I would play old familiar strains while they joined in the rollicking chorus, awaking the silence of the lonely calm tropic nights in moving waters that belted the whole world, when the sails swayed silently along beneath strange stars, filled out at intervals like drums, then flopped, as the lazy tropic breeze once more sighed and fell asleep.

The old Scotch Captain heard me playing one night; he was a religious man and taught me some beautiful sea-hymns, and in due course I played in the cabin aft during Sunday service, when all the crew mustered, and John the cook, who swore and cursed most fearfully all day long in his galley, opened his big-bearded mouth and sung most expressively those old pious hymns, knocking even the Skipper out in melodious reverential pathos!

The dear old Skipper had brought his daughter with him. She was a pretty Scotch girl—a crew of thirty-six men, and one pretty girl and me! Well, I combed my hair, cleaned my teeth, gazed in my little bit of cracked mirror-glass fifty times an hour, for alas! the family failing asserted itself; I had fallen in love! I have never been what you would call really lucky in love, like some happy men; trouble always arose after the first embarrassment had worn off and I felt truly happy, and blessed the universe. And it was so in this my first love affair. One dark night as she stood in shelter by the bulwarks near the saloon door I was admiring her eyes and swearing eternal love, calling all the bright stars to be witnesses to my unchangeable fidelity, and just as I kissed her sweet white ear and, in my madness of love, breathed secretly through her beautiful dishevelled, scented hair, as it waved in the moonlight over her lovely curved shoulders, I received a tremendous clump from the old Skipper! That night I also received stern orders from the Chief Mate never to be seen near the saloon again after dark!

I crept into my bunk heartsick and wretched. The affair got about the ship. I was chaffed a good deal by the whole crew. Real old sea-salts they were. I can see them now as I dream, walking across the decks by moonlight, muffled up to the teeth in oilskins, some with big crooked noses, all with weary sea-beaten faces. Up aloft they go. Again I see their big figures move up the ratlings as they reach the moonlit sails, and climbing, vanish in the sky. All around is sky and water and stars, fenced in by eternal skylines, as the ship travels silently onward, a tiny grey-winged world under blue days, starry and stormy skies, towards a skyline that for ever fades, following sunset after sunset across boundless seas. They were a motley crew those sailors. Some read books, some believed in spirits, and some in beer, and one would tell us over and over again of his experiences in distant lands and his brave deeds and his wonderful self-sacrifices and many other virtues, not one of which he really possessed.

There was one old sailor who on arriving home on his last voyage found that his wife was dead. He would sit on a little empty salt-beef tub and tell me about his courting days and his “old girl who was one of the best,” the tears rolling down his coarse-looking face all the time. He was an extraordinary mixture; in one breath he would almost curse his wife’s memory, and in the next ask me if I thought there was really another world. He could not read or write, and seeing me play the violin and read music as well as books made me almost omnipotent to his sad old eyes. I remember well enough how my heart was touched by his manner and questions as I put on a wise air and convinced him of the soul’s immortality. I even went so far as to tell him that my dead relations had returned to my family as shadows from the other world, and the poor old fellow perched on his tub listened eagerly, believing all I said, and then went off and found his comrades, who sat playing cards by the fo’c’sle door, and laughed the loudest, till they all snored in the fo’c’sle bunks, half stupefied by the smoke and smell of ship’s plug tobacco. I have often seen them by the dingy fo’c’sle oil-lamp fast asleep, seared unshaved faces, all their worldly passions asleep, looking like big children, so innocent, as they snored away, and some of them who had fallen asleep whilst they were chewing tobacco dribbled black juice from the corners of their mouths, their big chests upheaving at each slumbering breath. Outside, just overhead, the night winds wailed and whistled weirdly in the rigging as the jib-boom swayed along, and at regular intervals came the thunder of the diving bows as the ship dipped and heaved and plunged along over the primeval waters.