THE NIGHTWATCHMAN

Roger Fothergill

This story was told to me by a ship's carpenter I sailed with many years ago. He told it to me when I was a young man, though he was old, which makes the action a pretty long time ago, because I am full of years myself now.

Chippy, as we called him, was a Finn -- amongst other things he told me that he had rowed for Finland in the 1912 Olympics. When quite sober he was silent, a bit morose, for in spite of the years he had spent in British ships he still spoke rather fractured English and the other hands often made fun of him. A jiboom was a yiboom to Chippy, a jackstay a yackstay, likewise any `W's or `Th's he found quite unpronounceable.

But when he had had a drink or two he became much more sociable, and when I found out that he had spent most of his early years in `Sail' I used to pump him for information about those days. As long as there was anything remaining in the bottle he would be prepared to yarn away quite happily all night, though in those sessions his command of English slipped still further.

Among the many stories he told me was this tale of the Nightwatchman, which provides a rare vignette of those seemingly so distant days before `Steam' had completely wiped the sailing ship off the seas. For of the men who sailed them, and the life they lived, hardly a trace is left behind.

Some time shortly before the First World War he signed on aboard a small British three mast barque, the sort of vessel which still managed to earn a precarious living in spite of steam competition, tramping the world on long haul, low freight bulk cargo runs. I gathered she was about 700 tons but if he ever told me her name I have quite forgotten it.

He joined her in Middlesbrough where they loaded railway metal for Sydney, Australia. They then loaded coal in Newcastle, New South Wales, for Penang. From there they sailed in ballast to what at that time was still called Saigon in what was then known as French Indo-China, to load rice for Nagasaki. In those years when all the world was a good deal younger, and before either World War One or World War Two had cast their sombre shadows, Chippy reckoned that Saigon was a pleasant place to be in, and popular with seamen.

The following events took place whilst the barque lay to her anchors in the Saigon River waiting to go alongside to load her rice cargo.

* * * * *

The `Old Man' had given all hands shore leave before the work of shifting ship to her loading berth and steeving in her next cargo began. There were ten hands, as well as the Bosun, Sailmaker, Carpenter, Cook and Steward. In those days one worked a two watch system, four hours on and four hours off, and crews seem smaller when compared to present day standards.

All were given leave with the exception of a nightwatchman, selected from amongst their number; the normal practise being to cut the cards for it, lowest being the unlucky one. Aces counted low.

After the evening meal was over and all the crew were washed and shaved and in their `go-ashore rig' they trooped aft to the cabin to receive a `draw' from their wages, signing the account book if they were able, or making their mark if they weren't, and as the stars began to show in a velvet tropic sky, were soon being ferried ashore in the boat attendant upon their ship, chattering away and laughing happily amongst themselves and leaving only the disgruntled nightwatchman behind; and the Captain, who had manifests and bills of lading and other paperwork to attend to. The two Mates had gone ashore earlier.

A nightwatchman's job is not a very arduous one: check the anchor light from time to time lest it smoke, see that no unauthorised person tries to get aboard, and generally keep alert for the unexpected. About midnight, sitting on the coaming of the main hatch pondering on his ill-luck and envying his shipmates ashore, he was startled to hear a sibilant `Psst! Psst!' coming seemingly from around the fore rigging somewhere. Walking forward and looking over the side he beheld a sampan with several men in it hanging onto the fore chains with a boat hook, one of whom, standing on the channels, beckoned to him to come nearer.

`You Jeem?' he whispered. Surprised, the watchman agreed that his name was Jim.

`Your flens in Tiger Moon Bar solly fo' you, send you plesent'. He held out an interesting looking bottle, which was eagerly snatched up by Jim. `God bless 'em' he thought, `Good shipmates not to forget me' and expertly knocking the neck off the bottle he took a good swig there and then. Within a few seconds he was flat out on the deck, totally unconscious under the influence of a powerful Micky Fin.

The sampan's crew swarmed aboard without a sound, well trained as they were there was no need for a word. Up the main lower rigging they went, one with a big hook block and a coil of rope over his shoulder; the block he hooked into one of the links of the chain sling of the lower yard, one end of the rope he hitched around the bunt of the furled main course, the other end thrown down on deck. Whilst so employed two other members of the gang, laying out on the footrope of the yard, had cut the head robands and gaskets from the jackstay, cut the bunt and clew lines off short, and passed lengths of the cut gaskets around the sail in several places to prevent it unfurling. The remaining two men were at the yard arms, busy with spikes unshackling the sheet, clew garnet and tack lines from the spectacle clew irons. The sail now was held only by the line hitched around the bunt and rove through the block in the slings. The leader of the gang, down on deck, taking a turn of the rope around the fife rail, eased away until the sail was down on deck; the other thieves, swinging down from aloft, immediately began rolling it up preparatory to passing it over the side into the waiting sampan.

But they had made one mistake. When casing the joint earlier they had evidently supposed that the Captain had gone ashore with the Mates. Judge their dismay when the cabin companion swung open and out stepped the Captain who, alerted by some unusual noise, had grabbed his revolver and gone up on deck. He walked to the break of the poop. It was dark, but enough moonlight to take in the immediate scene: the group of men, the rolled up sail, the sampan alongside.

Since the Captain was armed, the natural reaction would have been to jump into the sampan, cast off as quickly as possible and escape in the surrounding darkness, had not the leader of the gang been a more than usually enterprising and astute character. With the help of years of hindsight I have come to the conclusion that his name must have been Ho Chi Minh.

Before the Captain could utter a word Ho looked slyly up at him and said `Capitaine, suppose you wanna buy a sail? Good for zis sheep you bet'.

The Captain looked at the bundled up sail, and then at the villainous crew standing around it. `Roll it out' he said, gesturing with his arms; they speedily complied. The Captain was no fool really, he just wasn't in the same class as Ho. He took note of the cut ends of the bunt and clew lines, the chopped up gaskets, and one may quite easily imagine his thoughts: Obviously a stolen sail, such things were being done all the time, by its width and bulk probably a course, anyway, near enough the right size for the little barque and getting new canvas out of the owners was like drawing teeth.

Some haggling ensued, with Ho protesting that at the Captain's price he would have to put his daughters on the street, and the Captain pointing out that he knew that the sail must have been stolen, and he could turn them over to the Police if he felt so inclined. But the law of supply and demand finally prevailed and before long a price was agreed upon and the Captain bought back his own mainsail, the sampan's crew departed highly contented and mutual esteem flowed in torrents.

Came the dawn, and all was revealed. Including the barely recovered and still fuddled nightwatchman, who had nothing to look forward to but a fearful head and nausea in addition to the wrath of the Captain.

`Dot Yimmy', said Chippy reflectively as he finished his yarn, `I tink dot vos a fery pad day for him'.

(1509 words)