On nights such as this, warm and sultry, when the trade wind was not over strong, the smell from the Chinese and Japanese stores would come out into the streets with added intensity. The Chinese merchants, in the shadow of their open front stores, would entertain their families and friends of an evening with interminable jabberings that must have been mighty interesting to them. I used to wonder what these industrious law abiding citizens found to talk about; now I realize that, except to those who were blind or deaf, the Honolulu nights could hardly be long enough for them to discuss half of the peculiar doings of the daffy white people residing in that busy little town, in those stirring days of the Republic.
To a foremast hand, a common sailor in the fo'c'sle of a deepwaterman, the point of view is almost on a level with that of the perpetually unassimilated Oriental. The sailor sees, he hears, and if he is gifted with brains that think, he must needs wonder at the strange ways of folks who dress themselves so well, who live on the most appetizing foods, perform very little hard work, and who do themselves to the height of their ability. That we had a few philosophers among the crowd forward goes without saying; men who had lived, and who had had their fling, and for all I know to the contrary are having it again. I wager Hitchen, if not killed by this time, has mounted to more enlightened planes; perhaps back to a station from which he temporarily stepped down to sign articles in the ship A. J. Fuller for the voyage around Cape Horn.
We did a lot of swapping of books and magazines among the craft in the harbor. The poor starved crowd from the British Monarch were first over the side with bundles of old magazines, paper covered novels, and mind destroying sheets called "Tit Bits," and "Snappy Bits," periodicals of a peculiar type. After reading one of them for an hour (and the funny part is you keep on reading and reading), it is a sort of mental dope, nothing remains but a vague idea of a lot of short paragraphs full of piffle.
We got a number of Clark Russell stories in this exchange, though we really had little to give in return. All hands read these yarns and while there was much grumbling about "too much skirt," the sailor was recognized.
Hitchen and Old Smith were the best read among the crowd, with Australia a close second; leaving out of course that biblical student, the dear departed Jimmy. Frenchy also was entitled to a place among the intellectuals of the fo'c'sle; he read Voltaire, had several copies of his works in the original, as well as shopworn copies of Les Miserables, and the Toilers of the Sea. Frenchy read English with difficulty. Axel also was handicapped in literary discussions by his lack of English though he waded through books in that language, having been taught it at school; of course he spoke English well, as indeed all did, barring a bit of slack here and there, that merely served to give the fo'c'sle individuality.
One thing I will always remember with a great deal of pleasure is the fact that Axel was the first one to give me a definite story of the Andree North Pole Expedition, he having tried for, and almost succeeded in going along. A university professor took the place he wanted at the last moment, the scholar going to perform the duties of a common jack in order to be with Andree. I recall the fo'c'sle discussion of this ill fated venture, the final outcome of which was still in doubt. I felt at that time that Andree had a good chance to accomplish his end, and I still think so; the luck simply ran against him. Nine years later it was to be my fortune to have a part in a similar expedition under Wellman, except that a dirigible balloon, of which I was navigator, was employed. We were more fortunate in so far as we got back. Andree, Strindberg, and Fraenkel were not fools as some think, but fearless scientists who took a legitimate chance to explore the unknown polar regions; fate was against them, but even so, they have left the memory of a brave deed inscribed on the bright scroll of Swedish honor.
Old Smith had a dog-eared copy of Marcus Aurelius that had served its noble duty in discussions with Jimmy Marshall, while the latter was deep in the wisdom of King Solomon. I don't know what Brenden read, but he was a great letter writer, and often received mail. When taking pictures one day, Brenden asked me to take a picture of him reading a letter from his girl Hilda. The Letters of One Brenden, Able Seaman on the ship A. J. Fuller, would certainly make quaint reading, could they be got at and translated, for Brenden conducted his correspondence in German.
Mike, and Martin and Fred were mere fillers in. Beef on a rope, and able eaters, they remain as memories, indistinct and still quite clear; they never succeeded in making an impression on the life of the ship but were the background of that distant time, seldom saying anything that was listened to. Of Tommy, or the more dignified Tom, we will learn more later on. He was a man with a past, and I hope a future, for he certainly earned the right to a very bright one while on the Fuller; that future, however, did not lie on the sea. As high admiral of a pickle barge and fleet commander of a whole flotilla of shelf jugs full of vinegar and preserved edibles, in his own delicatessen store, he may have risen to success.
Scouse never read anything; he was too busy thinking, and as he did less and less talking as the voyage lengthened, we concluded he must be a very deep fellow. Scouse had points, and I have no doubt after all the hazing afloat and skinning ashore, he learned and digested lessons of the utmost value.