We Leave Adelaide — Steerage Passengers — arrival at Colombo
Oh what a bright, fresh morning! A brisk breeze chases fleecy-clouds across a turquoise sky;
big green rollers break in a flouse of foam on saffron sands, and throw continuous spray over
a wooden jetty; two ocean steamers lie out in the offing, and half a dozen small tugs struggle
backwards and forwards between them. Such is the scene on the morning of our departure, early
in December 1892, bound we know not whither, and to bring up we know not where.
Our baggage has preceded us on board, and when we ourselves follow in a pot-valiant tender,
but little larger than a Zanzibari surf-boat, the wind has risen to a moderate gale. Two friends,
with expressed solicitude for our welfare, but what is more likely, a certain amount of curiosity
as to our departure, accompany us on board, and even now I can see the expression on their faces,
as they realise to what sort of imprisonment we have voluntarily condemned ourselves. Some people
have a special faculty for realising; they could realise on anything — an idea, a politician’s
broken promise, or even a Wildcat Silver share. Myself I am not so fortunate. I have only tried to
realise once in my life, and then the man seemed doubtful as to how I had come by the article. It
only realised seven and sixpence.
The vessel, whose name I will not mention, having in my mind certain remarks which hereafter I may
be called upon to make concerning her, is of about 3,000 tons register. No doubt she is a service
able enough craft, but to our minds, accustomed to the trim tautness of our own mail-boats, the
untidiness of her decks, the ungainliness of her crew, and the guttural vociferations of her
officers seem unship-shape to the last degree.
Arriving on board, and announcing ourselves steerage passengers, we are with small ceremony
directed forrard, and introduced to our quarters, situated deep down in the bowels of the forrard
hatch. Even in the bright sunshine, it neither looks nor smells like a pleasant place, so, for
the reason that pride is a sin and must be overcome, we are not conceited about our advanced
position in the ship.
At the foot of the companion we find ourselves in a large, bare hold or saloon (the title is
optional), perhaps forty feet long by twenty wide, lighted from the hatchway, which, in fair
weather, always remains uncovered. Out of this hold open six small cabins, three on either side,
each containing two tiers of iron shelving, which again are divided into six narrow bunks. Thus
it will be seen that every cabin is capable of containing twelve occupants, each of whom brings
with him, for use in the tropics, a peculiar and distinct, copyrighted odour of his own. In
addition to these, a few single cabins are set apart for the use of families and female
passengers. In the saloon are fixed, for dining purposes, small deal tables on iron trestles, but
each passenger is expected to supply his or her own table utensils, as well as bedding and toilet
requisites. Altogether, it is about as dirty and dingy a place as can be imagined.
Steam has been up some time, and as we finish the inspection of our new abode, the whistle sounds
for strangers to leave the ship. We conduct our friends, with becoming ceremony, to the gangway,
and bid them farewell. It is an impressive moment. Then the launch whistles, the gangway is
hauled aboard, the big ship swings slowly round, the screw begins to revolve, and we are on our
way.
It would be impossible, even if it could be a matter of interest, to express in words the thoughts
which animate us, as standing side by side, we watch the shore fading into the dim distance.
Surely, whether one likes or dislikes the place one is leaving, a certain feeling of regret must
accompany the last view of it, and with the lessening of that familiar vision, a peculiar and
indescribable tenderness towards it creeps round the heart, never to leave it quite the same
again. Adelaide is gone, and the wide world lies before us across the seas.
As we swing round to face down the gulf, a lordly P. & O. boat passes us, also homeward bound,
her flags waving, passengers cheering, and her band playing ‘Home, sweet Home’. The familiar
melody sounds peculiarly sweet across the water, and in return we try to raise a cheer for her.
But it is in vain. For the first time we realise that we are on board a foreign boat, where
soap and cheering are unknown.
By this time it is nearly two o’clock, and our midday meal is being taken forrard in ship’s
buckets. It consists, we discover, of a diffident soup, so modest that it hides its countenance
under a mask of abominable fat; this is followed by some peculiar, parboiled beef, potatoes,
and cabbage, the latter being, to our tastes, completely spoiled by the presence of the Fatherland
-beloved carraway seed. Bread is served ad libitum, but is so sour as to be almost uneatable.
Altogether, our first meal on board cannot be reckoned a success, and we express our feelings
accordingly.
During its progress, however, we are permitted an opportunity of studying our fellow passengers.
They are a motley crew, perhaps sixty-five in number, the like of which I’ve never seen
congregated together before. Their nationalities embrace English, Irish, Scotch, Americans,
French, Germans,
Italians, Greeks, Portuguese, Spaniards, Afghans, Hindoos, and Singhalese, while their
shore-going occupations must have included every profession, from the management of oyster
saloons to scientific thieving. Among the number are Pyrenean bear leaders, collectors of birds
and reptiles, Italian organ grinders, returning settlers, world roving adventurers, and last,
but not least, half a dozen Afghan camel men.
We pass from face to face, until our eyes fall and fasten on a Hadji Mullah, whose home is on
the other side of far Kabul. He is exceptionally tall and cadaverous, his face is long, lean,
and hatchet shaped, his hands and feet have evidently been designed by an architect with a liking
for broad effect, while his clothes are simple swathes of calico, twisted in such a manner as
to bring into extra prominence every peculiarity of his extraordinary anatomy. His legs, from
the knees downwards, are bare to the winds of heaven, and, as finishing touches, his feet are
thrust into unlaced Blucher boots, three sizes too large for him. We were present when he
arrived on board. On gaining the deck, he said ‘Allah’ most emphatically, then turning to the
side, shrieked to his compatriots to pass him up his baggage. Somehow it could not be found,
and the excitement that followed surpasses description. At length a small bundle, tied up in a
dirty red pocket-handkerchief, made its appearance, and was conveyed by its owner with anxious
care to his berth below.
As soon as we are fairly under way, and our meagre meal has been disposed of, we betake
ourselves to the fo’c’s’le head, destined throughout the voyage to be our favourite camping
place, and as we watch the coastline recede from sight, fall to discussing our situation and
condition. While thus occupied, we make the acquaintance of our three most trusty allies,
some reference to whom may not be out of place.
They are a strange trio. The eldest is a Yorkshireman, broad in back and accent, a native of
Bradford, and a vigorous but not over clever ruffian; the second is an Irishman, from County Gal
way, rather undersized, and possessed of more than an ordinary share of his country’s wit; while
the third, a Londoner from the district of Bayswater, has all the life of the streets at his
fingers’ ends and a fund of quaint cockney humour to boot. They have been friends — so we
discover, later — for many years, and certainly they have seen a great number of queer
experiences together, in out-of-the-way corners of the globe: diamond-digging in South
Africa, gold-mining in Australia, blackbirding among the Islands, before the mast here,
there, and everywhere, often quarrelling, sometimes fighting, but for some strange reason
never separating. What is taking them home we cannot discover, but we are continually being
assured that it is business of a most important nature. Without hesitation, we nickname
them Bradford, Galway, and the Dook of Bayswater, and by these names and none others are
they known throughout the voyage. Genial, good-hearted rascals, — here's a health to you
where’er you go. Some day 1 shall hope to tell the world the strange and curious stories
you told me I
Tea, or by whatever name the meal may be designated, is served at two bells (five o’clock),
and consists of bread (sour, as at dinner time), badly boiled rice (and a suicidal
description of cake), which is washed down with tea of a museum-like flavour and
description. Being disinclined always to go hungry, it begins to dawn upon us that
the sooner we make friends with the cook or his mate, the sooner we shall escape
partial starvation. Accordingly, as soon as dinner in the first saloon is over, and
the chief cook is released from his duties, we lay our plans for him, determining to win
our way into his affections or perish in the attempt.