After staying on shore in Newcastle for three weeks, during which time I had a good holiday and spent most of the money I possessed, I joined the barque “Edinburgh” bound for Wellington, New Zealand, with a cargo of coals. Well, of all the old tubs that ever sailed on salt water, this old craft was the worst. Every two hours we had a twenty minutes’ spell on the pumps, night and day the game went on, in fact we could truly say we carried the leaky old basket on our arms.

There was no time lost in painting these colonial ships. There was plenty of other work to do without that, nearly all the passage was spent in fitting and roping new cargo baskets ready to discharge the coal on our arrival at Wellington. The weather was just splendid all the way across, which was fortunate for us, just a gentle seven knot breeze, with a smooth sea and a perfectly cloudless sky. The sea, when we had time to notice it, was a beautiful ultra-marine, and at night the stars were reflected like diamonds in a sea of glass. The waters were simply alive with fish, and at night, as they moved about in the star-lit waters, they left a phosphorescent trail behind them, like a design drawn upon a blackboard with a silver pencil.

Captain Saunders, or “Black Saunders” as he was called by colonial seamen, was a sturdy, well-built man, with jet black curly hair and beard. He was a thorough seaman, and never so happy as when he was paddling about in salt water. The mate, Archie McLeod, was a Scotchman and hailed from Glasgow, but had been sailing out of Sydney for a number of years. He was, without a doubt, one of the finest specimens of physical manhood I ever saw, quite six feet in height, trained and proficient in all kinds of athletic sports, and a first rate boxer for sport, but in general a very quiet, amiable sort of shipmate. The second mate was a young native of Sydney, not much of a sailor, but that was from want of experience and not from want of ability. Our crew consisted of eight able seamen—three English and three colonials—and two Swedes. The pay was seven pounds a month, and we signed to work eight hours per day in port, but when unloading coal the crew were given the privilege of working all night and were paid extra, so that we made very good money indeed.

After we had finished unloading our coals at Wellington, news spread around the town that gold had been found on the Thames river near Auckland, and that hundreds of people were flocking there. At once there was a rush, and four of our sailors cleared out and joined the throng en route for the gold fields. To replace them, the captain picked up four men who had just run away from a ship in Wellington, and who wanted to get over to Australia. They were not long on board before they began to bully the sailors in the forecastle. Evidently they were a set of scoundrels that the ship they had left was well clear of.

We hauled away from the jetty after tea, and anchored in the bay ready to sail in the morning. At daylight the mate called all hands out to heave up the anchor. None of the crew turned out, saying they were sick. The mate quietly told them that he would give them five minutes to get out on deck, if they were not out in that time he would kick them out.

“All right, Mr. Mate,” one of them answered, “try it, we’ll soon take the kick out of you.”

Just then I went into the forecastle to light a lamp for the chain locker.

“Drop that lamp, you son of a b—— sea cook,” snarled one of them, “or I’ll jolly well jump the stuffing out of you.”

“Were you speaking to me?” I asked him.

“Yes, blast you, I was,” he replied.

In an instant my blood was up, and I sprang over to him. Thrusting the lighted lamp into his face, I poured the oil over him, and set fire to his bed, as he tried to get up I beat him back with the lamp until his bed was all in a wild blaze. His three mates came to his assistance and the two Swedes came to mine, and for a few minutes there was a frightful pandemonium. The mate rushed forward when he heard the row, and called out to us to put the fire out at once. This was soon done, and we were ordered to heave up the anchor immediately. The newcomers looked sulky and inclined to refuse, but as there was no boat alongside, and they were likely to get roughly handled, they thought better of it, and turned to, though with a bad grace, and we were soon under weigh with all sail set, heading for Cook’s Straits.

That evening the breeze freshened into a living gale, and we had a dead beat down to Cape Farewell, which headland we passed on the fifth day out. To make matters worse the vessel was leaking like a basket, and the pumps had to be kept going night and day.

After rounding Cape Farewell, the barque was headed south, and was soon wallowing in a heavy cross sea. We were fagged out with pumping, and as we drew near to Foveaux Straits, all hands walked aft and begged the captain to put into the Bluff Harbour for shelter until the weather moderated. The captain, however, hoping to run out of the bad weather when he got south of the Straits, refused to put back. We refused to work the pumps any longer, and walked forward in a body.

The captain looked at us and said quietly: “All right, my lads,” and calmly went on smoking his pipe under the weather cloth.

The mate wanted to go forward and force us to the pumps, but Captain Saunders said: “Oh, no, let them alone, they will turn to sharp enough directly.”

The barque carried two of her boats in the davits on the poop, out of the way of the cargo gear, so the captain told the mate and second mate to see that there was fresh water and food put in one of them ready for use.

We had been in the forecastle about an hour, smoking and grumbling, when a heavy sea broke on board, smashing the lifeboat and cutter, and washing the cook-house clean over the side. Luckily for the cook, he was aft in the cabin at the time. A few of the pots and pans that had been scattered about the deck were picked up. We were now thoroughly terrified at the amount of water in the ship, which was causing her to roll heavily to windward, thus exposing her deck and hatches to the sea, so again we went aft and complained to the captain that the vessel was sinking, and asked him to run back to the Bluff.

“I know she is sinking,” he replied coolly, “and I think you had better pump her out.”

“We want our tea, and we want some rest, it’s nothing else but pumping since we left Wellington,” replied the men.

“Aye, you want your tea do you? So do I, but the galley’s gone overboard, and as for the rest—well, I promise you good long rest in a few hours, if the water is not pumped out. It is six o’clock now,” he continued, looking at his watch, “and I give her just another two hours to float upright, after that, you will not need any tea, and you will get all the rest you want.”

Just then, as though to verify the captain’s words, the vessel gave a dangerous lurch to the leeward, and in the weather roll the two lower topsails were blown to bits, leaving the fore, main, and mizzen staysail only on the vessel. The men, who were holding on to the mizzen rigging to save themselves from being washed overboard, looked at the captain, and then at each other, and without a word made their way to the pumps. The officers and cook joined them, and they all pumped away for dear life. The barque had a powerful set of pumps, and after working for four hours, at times up to the waist in water, they found the soundings were considerably reduced.

The following day the gale moderated and the sea went down. The wreck of the lower topsails was sent down, and fresh sails were bent, and with all sail set we had a good run over to the Australian coast.

The day before we made the coast the wind hauled into the north, and was soon blowing a stiff gale, and the leaky old craft had to be reduced to lower topsails again. The short choppy sea met with on the Australian coast caused the old barque to leak at an alarming rate, and the pumps had to be kept continually going to keep her afloat. It seemed as though the vessel was doomed not to reach port. To make matters worse, at midnight the gale backed into the south-west and at the same time the man on the look-out reported breakers on the lee-bow.

The old barque staggered along under the increased pressure, and seemed to be heading just along the coast, but fortunately for us the current setting to the S.S.W. just counteracted the leeway the ship was making, and when the welcome daylight appeared she just cleared Port Stevens and squared away for Newcastle.

When the yards were squared and all the danger past, the captain called all hands aft and congratulated them on having been enabled to bring the ship safely across under such terrible conditions, and gave each man a good glass of grog. Then, as we looked at him, to our astonishment we saw that Captain Saunders could never again be called “Black Saunders,” for his hair and beard had turned quite grey during the preceding night, and in his eyes was the look of one who had touched shoulders with death. Those terrible twelve hours of anxiety had left a mark that time would never efface.

We arrived in Newcastle that evening and the barque was moored at Bullock Island Dyke. The following day the crew were paid off. None of us had any inclination to make another trip in the leaky old basket. A few days afterwards she was being overhauled for repairs when a discoloured patch was noticed under the spider band, on the main mast where the mizzin stay sets up. It was tested with a sheath-knife and found to be completely rotten. How it had stood the strain of that last trip was a mystery, for on the mast being condemned it was found unsafe even to lift it out whole, and it had to be cut in two for safety, and half of it hoisted out at one time, and a fine new pitch pine lower mast was put into its place before the vessel sailed again.

One of the most noted characters in the town was a boarding-house keeper, named Dan Slagan a thorough scoundrel to the backbone. He was notorious for the number of men he had “shanghaied” out of the port, but, strange to say, he had gained a certain amount of power in the town, and shipmasters requiring men were, under the circumstances, compelled to deal with him, although at the same time many of them had the utmost contempt for the fellow.

Slagan kept a low-class drinking saloon with a free-and-easy dancing-room attached to it. The boarders lived in the rooms overhead. This was the only dancing saloon in the town, and was thronged with sailors every night. Needless to say that the liquor sold there was vile stuff, but men who have been living for months on “salt horse” and weevily biscuit have very little taste left in their mouths, and, as long as the decoction was hot and came out of a bottle, it passed muster.

Slagan was an adept at drugging liquor, and he always kept materials at hand for that purpose. Just a little tobacco ash dropped in the glass when pouring out the drinks, and the thing was done. When he required a few sailors for a ship ready to sail, he picked out the likeliest men in the room—usually strangers—and when the seamen, hot and thirsty with dancing, ordered drinks through the women, who acted as waitresses, these Delilahs would bring the prepared stuff, and very soon the men would feel muddled and sleepy and would go into the side room and sink down on the benches. Slagan would then slip in among them:

“Halloa, mates! What’s the matter? Feel queer, eh? Ah, it’s the dancing and the hot weather. I’ll send you a good tot that will put you all right.” He would then send one of the girls in with a good glass of hot whisky, drugged, of course, and that would be all the men would know for some time. When they came to their senses they found themselves in a strange ship, out of sight of land, without a stitch of clothes beyond what they stood up in. Of course, there was generally a row, but it invariably ended in their turning to work and making the best of a bad bargain.

One day in February, 18—, it happened that there were three British ships lying at the buoys, loaded and ready to sail, but each in need of a few seamen to make up her complement. Not a man could be got at the shipping office for love or money—the news of a fresh gold field on the Barrington had reached Newcastle that morning, and all the disengaged had made tracks for that district, so the only possible way to get hands for the vessels ready to sail, was to obtain them from the ships that had lately arrived, and which would have some time to wait for a loading berth.

The captains of the ships at the buoys sent for Slagan, and arranged with him to supply them with four men each that night, as the trio would sail at the turn of the tide. When Slagan got back to shore he sent some of his runners to quietly let the crews of the ships in the harbour know there was to be a free concert and dance at his place, with plenty of whisky into the bargain.

When night came the saloon was packed with seamen, and among them six fine young American sailors from the ship “Jeremiah Crawford,” of New Bedford. Now, New Bedford ships are very often “family ships,” that is to say, the captain, officers, and seamen are related to each other. Of the six young fellows who went to this dance, two were nephews of the captain, one was a relative of the mate, and the others were related to members of the crew.

Long before the dance was over there were several seamen lying helplessly drugged in the side room. Just before midnight, and while the dance was still going on, Slagan and his fellow crimps removed the helpless men down to a boat, and took them off to the ships at the buoys. Then Slagan pocketed his blood money and before daylight the vessels were at sea under all plain sail.

The following day, when the six American seamen did not turn up on board the “Jeremiah Crawford” enquiries were quietly made, and it was soon found out what had become of them; they had been among the twelve men “shanghaied” aboard the three waiting ships. The men’s shipmates, boiling with anger, wanted to go and wreck Slagan and his saloon, but the captain called all hands aft, and told them from the poop that they must not let it be known that they knew where their shipmates were.

“I know how you feel over it,” he said, “and I know how I feel, too, but I intend to pay that rascal in his own coin. Those Britishers are off to ’Frisco, and we are bound there, too, and you can bet your bottom dollar I mean to make the ship move when we start. And what is more, I intend to take that rascal Slagan with me!”

“All right, captain,” answered the men, “mum’s the word. We will wait events.”

Two days afterwards Captain Monk, of the “Jeremiah Crawford,” told Slagan to get him six men by the time the ship was loaded. He agreed, on condition he was paid three pounds per man. This, Captain Monk agreed to, and when the ship was finished and hauled out to the buoys, Slagan sent word to the captain he would bring the men off about 8 p.m.

Now, that day, a young Irish police constable had been transferred from Sydney to Newcastle, and promoted. He was appointed to this district with a view to watching the goings-on at Slagan’s, rumours of which had reached police headquarters. The constable was married to a fine strapping Irish lass, who was a great help to her husband. She wore her hair short like a man, and was no stranger to the wearing of men’s clothes. In fact, it was partly owing to her that her husband had got his position.

The constable knew he was there to get proof of Slagan’s shady doings, and it was accordingly arranged that his wife should disguise herself as a seaman, as she had done before, and watch the inside, while her husband watched the outside of the saloon. The policeman’s wife was a splendidly built woman, as straight as a reed, muscular as well, and absolutely fearless. So it happened that when Slagan was picking out the men he wanted for his purpose that night, he saw this likely-looking young fellow among them. But he was not taking any liquor—only a bottle of ginger ale. Slagan very obligingly opened a bottle for him, and it was a simple matter, as the stuff fizzled out, to knock the ash from his cigar into the glass with his little finger, and the mischief was done. Presently one of his spies came in and cautioned the crimp that there was a constable knocking about in the street.

“We must get the beggar out of the way, Mike,” said Slagan. “I’ll soon settle him, you watch him.”

Going outside, he walked up the street past the constable, smoking a splendid cigar. The constable got a whiff and wished he had one like it. In a few minutes the crimp returned, still puffing away at the cigar, as he passed the policeman he quietly dropped his cigar case. The constable, just behind him, saw the case and picked it up, and seeing there were two or three fine cigars in it, succumbed to temptation and put it in his pocket. He could not long resist the mute appeal of those cigars, so slipping into the shadow behind some houses, he lit one, and was soon enjoying a good smoke. It had a wonderfully soothing influence, and he leaned up against the wall, thinking of the sharp bit of work that had brought him promotion. He felt that already he had Slagan in his power and he saw himself in imagination with his sergeant’s stripes. Then all of a sudden he smiled a sickly smile, his head fell forward, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank in a heap on the ground. A few minutes afterwards the spy, who had been watching him all the time, cautiously approached. He took the cigar case out of the unconscious man’s tunic, removed the remains of the drugged cigar from his mouth, and left him there.

The night was very dark, and about 8 p.m., while the dancing and singing were still in full swing, Slagan and his tools got the selected men off in a boat. The tug was ahead of the ship, all ready to start; when the crimp got alongside with his men the “Jeremiah Crawford” was hanging to a slip rope, and the captain was in his cabin waiting for Slagan and the sailors.

“Hurry up and get those chaps on board,” the mate called out, “I want to get under way.”

“All right, Mister Mate,” answered one of the crimps, “we’ll soon have them on board. Get out of that you brutes!” he added, giving one of the dazed men a savage lack.

Slogan and his men soon got their victims on board, but on getting on deck one of the fellows, a fine-built young Swede, seemed to partly recover his senses.

“I don’t belong to this ship,”’ he said, and made for the gangway. With an oath Slagan sprang at him. A terrific blow on the side of the head, and the poor fellow dropped senseless on the deck. They then bundled the lot forward.

Finding no light in the forecastle he and his men stepped inside, and were in the act of striking matches, when each of them was knocked senseless with a blow behind the ear from a knuckle duster. They were then dropped into the fore-peak and the hatches fastened down, while the new men were lifted into berths to sleep off the effects of the drugged liquor.

In the meantime the second mate slipped down the gangway, and standing on one side of Slagan’s boat, capsized her. When she filled with water he cast her off and let her drift up river.

The tug boat dropped down, the tow-rope was secured, the buoy cast off, and before midnight the ship was outside the Nobbies and under all sail. At day light the “shanghaied” men were getting over the effects of the drug and the captain called all hands aft and gave them a good stiff glass of grog. The new men were in a terrible state when they came to their senses and found they had been “shanghaied.” One young fellow in particular sat down on the hatch, and placing his head on his hands, seemed to give way to despair. He took no heed of what was going on, and spoke no word to anyone. The young Swede, who had been so brutally struck by Sullivan stepped up to the captain:

“Who brought us on board?” he asked.

“Dan Slagan,” replied the mate, “he said you were his boarders. I saw him come alongside, and then I went forward, and have not seen him since.”

“Did you pay him any advance for us, captain?”

“No, I have not seen him,” said the skipper. “He must have gone on shore again. I cannot understand it. I do not know the man,” he added. “I wrote him to get me six men, and told him I would sign them on board. I heard him come alongside with you, but when I came out of the cabin I saw no boat alongside, and we got under weigh at once.”

“Thank you, captain,” said the Swede, “Slagan and I will meet again some day.”

“Halloa, halloa, there! What’s all this row about?” sang out from the forecastle accompanied by a heavy thumping.

The mate started to ran forward, and all hands turned to behold a remarkable sight.

Out of the forecastle bolted three men. Casting their eyes in the direction of the land, they rushed aft, passed the seamen, and were about to mount the poop-ladder, when the mate barred the way.

“Get down out of this, you skunks!” he roared, “who are you fellows, and where do you come from?”

“You know jolly well who I am,” roared the biggest of the three, “and you had better land us as quick as you can, or it will be a bad job for you, so I tell you.”

The mate looked at him in silence for a moment, then the skipper chimed in.

“Who the deuce are you?” demanded Captain Monk, “and what are you doing aboard my ship?”

“What are you trying to get at, captain?” cried the crimp furiously. “You know very well who I am; I’m Dan Slagan. I brought you six men last night, and when we took them into the forecastle——”

There was a shuffle among the men, and the next minute the young Swede had sprung at the crimps throat and the two were tossing about the deck battering each other like wild beasts.

“Stand back everybody!” cried the mate. “Let them have it out.”

Slagan was the bigger and heavier man, but the Swede was a perfect young athlete, and had a cruel wrong to wipe out. The muscles of his arms and neck stood out like strong cords as the two rolled from side to side.

Not a word was uttered by the officers or crew, who stood calmly looking on. Suddenly, by a quick movement, the Swede pinned Slagan against the fife-rail around the mainmast, and with his right hand battered his face unmercifully. Then seizing him by the throat, he flung him into the lee-scupper, where he lay without movement. The Swede looked at his foe for a moment, then coolly walked over and wiped his feet on him. Next, turning to the poop where Captain Monk and the officers stood, he touched his cap and said:

“I am second mate of the Swedish ship ‘Oscar Branch,’ and my father is the captain. I went on shore for a walk, and hearing the music I went into the saloon for a drink. I sat down to watch the dancers, and knew no more until I found myself on board this ship. What will my father think? What will my employers say?” He stopped abruptly, and walked forward with his head bent, overwhelmed with shame and grief.

Within another minute the two remaining crimps were hotly engaged with two of the ship’s crew, whose relatives had been “shanghaied” aboard the Britishers. The sailors made short work of the crimps, and fairly wiped the deck with them. Captain Monk then ordered the hapless three to be locked up in separate cabins and fed on bread and water for a few days.

“It will give them time to repent,” he said to the mate. “It won’t do to put them with the crew yet awhile—there would be murder done. In a few days they can go forward, and the crew will save us dirtying our hands with them, the scoundrels. Our chaps will lead them a dance, and they’ll wish to heaven they had never laid hands on my crew.” Just then the mate noticed the young fellow sitting on the hatch with his head in his hands. He seemed utterly dejected and oblivious of everything about him. The rest of the men had gone forward, and were excitedly discussing the matter of Slagan and his mates being on board, each of them swearing to have his pound of flesh out of the hated “shanghaiers.” The captain and mate walked along to the young fellow on the hatch. Putting his hand kindly on the bowed head, Captain Monk said: “Come, come, young man, you must not give way like this. Sailors should always make the best of everything.”

Lifting his head at the kindly touch and words, the young fellow replied:

“Oh, captain, whatever shall I do? I am not a sailor.”

“Oh, never mind that, you’ll soon learn here, so go forward with the others.”

“Oh, captain, take pity on me!” cried the supposed young seaman, tremulously. “For heaven’s sake take pity on me, I am a respectable married woman! My husband is Police Constable Hogan of the Newcastle Police.”

The captain and mate were astounded, and for a moment could do nothing but stare at her. Then, seeing some of the men forward looking at them, Captain Monk said: “Come aft to the saloon and I will hear your story.”

When they got into the cabin Mrs. Hogan told how the authorities at Sydney had heard something of the doings of Slagan and his crimps, and had sent her husband to the district to get evidence against him. She had assisted her husband before, and on this occasion had dressed up in her present clothes and joined the sailors in the dancing room to watch Slagan and his satellites.

“I called for a bottle of ginger ale,” she added. “I watched him open the bottle and I am sure there was nothing in the glass, for I saw it standing upside down on the counter, but I had not drunk it many minutes before I felt my head getting light, and I remembered no more until I found myself on board this ship. I have abundant evidence against that blackguard now, but it is no good, as he is on board here. What shall I do? I have no clothes but these. I cannot go among those men.”

“Steamer ahead, sir! Coming this way,” rang out the cry.

“Aye, aye!”

Captain Monk took a look at her through the telescope.

“Run up the ‘Urgent’ signal at once!” he shouted. “It’s the Union Company’s boat bound to Melbourne. I will send a letter and this woman on board. Back the mainyard, and get the boat out quick.”

Up went the signal, and the steamer bore down towards the ship. Her decks were crowded with passengers.

“You will go in the boat, Mrs. Hogan,” said the skipper, “and you had better explain things to the captain at once. My letter will tell him also. Mr. Potter, you go with the boat, and take four of our hands with you. As soon as you give the letter to the captain, put this woman on board and return at once.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Ship your oars! Let go forward.”

The boat shot away and was soon alongside the steamer, and the mate and Mrs. Hogan climbed on board. Going along to the bridge, Mr. Potter handed the letter to the captain, who read it and said:

“All right. Tell Captain Monk that I will take the woman to Melbourne. I am glad he has that blackguard on board. Good-bye.”

The mate got back into his boat, the engines were rung ahead, the ensign was dipped three times and before the boat was on board again, the steamer was out of sight.

Then the sails were filled once more and the “Jeremiah Crawford” stood on her course.

Five days afterwards Slagan and his mates were released and sent to live in the forecastle. Slagan was put into the mate’s watch, and the two crimps in the second mate’s watch.

There was another row at once, and again the blackguards got a good thrashing, they were put to the most menial work, were made to wait on the others, and do all the dirty work about the deck, in fact their lives were made a misery to them from morning to night. Hardly a day passed that one or other of the scoundrels did not get a licking. They had a taste of the misery they had caused many another man, and the captain said they had time to repent of their misdeeds.

When the “Jeremiah Crawford” arrived at San Francisco the pilot informed them that two British ships had just gone to anchorage, adding that he noticed they were from Newcastle. This was good news to all but Slagan and his crimps. As they moved up the harbour to their anchorage they passed close to the “Commonwealth.” On board were some of the “Jeremiah Crawford’s” crew, and as they passed one of the sailors called out: “We have Slagan on board.” After the sails were unbent, all the running gear triced up, and the decks washed down the crew were dismissed.

“Pay off to-morrow,” said the mate.

“Aye, aye!” answered the crew.

All hands went on shore, and Slagan was forced, much against his will, to go with them. On the wharf where they landed stood the six American sailors, whom he and his men had “shanghaied” from Newcastle. Let us mercifully draw a veil over the crimps’ punishment.

None of the three blackguards turned up when the crew were paid off, no questions were asked, and no explanations given, but two years afterwards Slagan appeared again in Newcastle, New South Wales—not the unscrupulous bully and braggart, but a broken, decrepit, feeble old man.