by Spencer, Ann
To face the elements is, to be sure, no light matter when the sea is in its grandest mood. You must then know the sea, and know that you know it, and not forget that it was made to be sailed over.
— J.S., Sailing Alone
2
Learning the Ropes
I came “over the bows” and not in through the cabin windows.
— J.S., Sailing Alone
The smashing of the ship’s model had slammed shut a door between Joshua Slocum and his father. Two years later, at fourteen, Joshua tried to escape from his father’s control by finding work as a cook on a fishing schooner, but the job was short-lived. As he recalled years later, “I was not long in the galley for the crew mutinied at the appearance of my first duff, and ‘chucked me out’ before I had a chance to shine as a culinary artist.” So the teenager returned to the island and to his father’s wrath at such an openly defiant and disobedient act. Josh received a good thrashing and was put back to the grueling bootshop routine.
Life would never be the same for Joshua Slocum. He had tasted independence and had tried out his sealegs on a voyage. He had a sailor’s spirit, and his days on land were numbered. Once he had been across the bay, he wanted to go across the sea, and then around the world. But he remained under his father’s watchful eye for another two years, until his mother, Sarah Jane, died on February 16, 1860, four days before Joshua’s sixteenth birthday. Slocum never wrote about his mother or the role she played in making life with his father tolerable. Perhaps her soft presence provided a buffer for the angry lad, for his life changed dramatically with her passing.
When he turned sixteen, Slocum bolted from the island on the first schooner that would give him employment. He set out on the big sea adventure with an island chum named Cheney. Years later the two would meet again, this time as successful captains with their own commands. But now, as two green adolescents, they had to begin climbing the ranks from the very bottom. They signed on as foremast hands on a deal drogher sailing to Dublin from Saint John, New Brunswick. Deal droghers were ships, often old and in poor shape, that carried a full load of timber below and on deck. Because the ship’s condition was considered precarious, the timber was often chained to the hull so that no matter what happened, the wood would stay afloat and the cargo would be saved.
Conditions were rough, and at sixteen the boys would have been shocked by the sight of the derelict crew that had been rounded up by the less than reputable shipping rings that controlled shipboard employment. Years later, Victor Slocum wrote about his father’s first day on the drogher. According to Victor, the Brier Island teens were the first crewmen to board, and they watched as the crimps — the men who ran the rings — delivered roaring drunk sailors to the ship atop a wagon and threw them into their berths. Cheney and Slocum were the only sober crewmen. Sober or not, they were soon locked into the strict regimen and hierarchy of life aboard British ships.
In the nineteenth century that life was rigidly defined by class distinctions. Some young men began their sailing days as apprentices, coming “in through the cabin windows,” as Slocum described their privileged status. In fact, apprentices had guaranteed their places on the ship’s crew by paying a premium. In contrast, Slocum and Cheney arrived “over the bows,” the hard way, and were classed as mere foremast hands. Apprentices’ territory was the aft of the ship with the officers; foremast hands were relegated to the forecastle near the bow of the ship. In this often dirty area, the mates slept and relaxed during their free time. The fo’c’sle could be crowded, with sailors gathered to smoke, tell stories and do their mending. The captain lived aft, often in luxury, and visited the forecastle only for emergencies.
The sailors who came “over the bows” were expected to prove their sea worth at every turn. Cheney and Slocum were eager and earnest novices, and for them the sea was a kind of practical university. Slocum had left school at ten, and most of his education thereafter was firsthand, on the ocean. The sea, while a good teacher, could be a harsh one that made no allowances for inexperience. Slocum’s immediate and keenest interest was navigation — a skill he was to develop to such a high level that in later years he seemed always to know intuitively where his boat was sailing. He practiced taking sights with the ship’s sextant and calculating locations according to the positions of celestial bodies. Aboard his first ships, Slocum got to take measurements and to apply the theory he was teaching himself from a British book, Epitome of Navigation by J.W. Norie. Victor wrote that his father’s first navigational equipment consisted of the more modern sextant and an ebony pig-yoke with an ivory arc — the old wooden octant that was still in use on ships, but limited in the range of angles it could measure. Slocum was an eager student and learned how to “shoot the sun and the moon” — that is, to measure the height of the sun and make lunar observations. As he became more proficient with celestial navigation, he became assistant to the captain and chief mate in making the daily sightings needed for determining longitude.
When it came to obeying orders, Slocum and Cheney were reliable workers. Slocum later wrote about some of their stern taskmasters. After his first voyage to Dublin, he sailed to Liverpool, where he joined the crew of the British vessel Tanjore, bound for China. Slocum chronicled the harsh working conditions imposed by Captain Martin. He recalled the crew’s hardships of “working the ice cargo in the cool of the mornings and evenings and then aloft or, worse still, over the ship’s side in the heat of the days, which in Hong Kong in the summer, as it was, was [so] intensely hot several of the crew died.” Slocum and Cheney survived the inhumane treatment, although later Slocum sued and recovered three months’ extra wages. After leaving Hong Kong, Slocum fell ill with fever and had to be left behind in a hospital in the next port, Batavia (now Djakarta). The Tanjore sailed on, and Slocum had to find another ship to join after he recuperated. Victor records that in Batavia “he found a good friend in Captain Airy of the steamship Soushay, who rescued him from that pest hole of the Dutch East Indies.”
Slocum soon got his strength back. At 180 pounds he was considered a “husky youth,” according to Victor. He was now eighteen years old, and his two years of sailing blue water had given him enough experience to become second mate. Again he was sailing between Liverpool and the Dutch East Indies. While he still preferred routine deck jobs, much of his work would have involved climbing the rigging to make continuous adjustments. This was often dangerous, especially in an uncertain sea. Slocum almost died when he was twenty, while working aboard the bark Agra. A later newspaper account reported, “He was on the upper topsail gathering in sail when a gust of wind pitched him off. He landed first on the main yard and cut a gash over his left eye — and that’s all that happened. He had [the eye] patched.” He was to get rid of the patch shortly after, but the scar was always visible.
Slocum was moving steadily along toward what he referred to as “the goal of happiness.” Part of the step-by-step climb was a break with his roots; he changed the spelling of his surname from Slocombe to Slocum to make it appear more American than the United Empire Loyalist spelling his family had retained. He declared San Francisco his hailing port and around 1865 became an American citizen, or what he called a “naturalized Yankee.” There were exciting opportunities along the west coast, and Slocum saw his in the salmon fishery. His first business venture was with a boatbuilder named Griffin. Together they fished the Columbia River and successfully designed and built a gill-netting boat, which they sold at a good price at the end of the season.
Slocum never was much interested in the fishing end of things, but of boatbuilding he wrote, “Next in attractiveness, after seafaring, came ship-building. I longed to be master in both professions.” Prophetic words from a twenty-year-old. His mastery of shipbuilding, however, would manifest itself mainly in an ingenious knack for recasting new from old. His time on the west coast gave him plenty of ideas about how to build efficient oceangoing craft. While heavily involved in sea otter hunting and fur trading along t
he Oregon and British Columbia coasts, he kept a journal of his daily observations. That journal has never been found, although Victor’s keen descriptions of it suggest that his father’s interest in writing began around this time. Victor also remembered Slocum’s fascination with Native people. Slocum’s acquired knowledge of Native boatbuilding techniques later served him well.
According to Victor, “The lure of his inshore adventure did not last long, though it was not without its profits. My father’s real ambition was the command of a ship, which he had promised himself when first coming ashore in San Francisco.” By twenty-five, Slocum had realized that ambition, having risen through the ranks — or as Slocum put it, having “come up through the hawse hole” — to become a captain. In October and November of 1869, Slocum was in command of the coasting schooner Montana, which ran between San Francisco and the pumpkin-growing town of Half Moon Bay. The vessel was about seventy-five feet in length and carried a cargo of potatoes, oats and barley back to the city. In his new capacity as ship captain, Slocum proved himself highly capable of commanding a vessel and overseeing a financial enterprise. It was his task to find cargo and transport it safely. His success led to the offer of a second command, this time working for Nicholas Bichard out of San Francisco. The 110-foot barkentine Constitution was a clear step up for the young captain. San Francisco shipping records for April 13, 1870, show Slocum in charge of a cargo of cotton seeds, lumber, machinery and shingles headed for Guayamas, Mexico. In August of that year his vessel headed for Carmen Island in the Gulf of California with a load of salt. By mid-October the Constitution was back in home port being loaded for Sydney, Australia, and Fiji. She was cleared to set sail on November 2, 1870. This was an eventful trip for Slocum. He arrived in Sydney as a bachelor with prospects and soon attracted the notice of Virginia Albertina Walker, whom he married, after a whirlwind courtship, on January 31, 1871.
Virginia was twenty-one years old, the eldest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Walker. She was born on Staten Island, New York. Soon after her birth her father caught gold fever and headed for California; later he followed his dreams again to the Australian gold mines. Virginia grew up in an adventurous and risk-taking but cultured household. Her father was active in amateur theatre, and her sister was an opera singer. According to Victor Slocum’s memories of family stories, “Virginia was heard to remark that as soon as she saw Josh she knew he was just the kind of a man she wanted, not the stuffy sort she saw in conventional Sydney society.”
Virginia’s younger brother, George, sailed with the Slocums on their honeymoon trip. Early February saw the Constitution heading back to America from Sydney, arriving in San Francisco on May 4 with a cargo of coal and tomatoes. The newlyweds were in port for only two days before setting sail again in a new home. Shipping records show that Slocum assumed a second Bichard command, the Washington, a 110-foot, 332-ton bark. Slocum’s proposal of a honeymoon fishing trip in Alaska would have been considered far from romantic by most young brides, but Virginia was intrigued. The salmon fishing went well, although Slocum and his crew were sailing in relatively unknown waters and the ship ran aground on unmarked shoals. Records indicate that around June 21, 1871, the Washington dragged her anchors. Two hundred miles from Kodiak, on the southern Alaska coast, she became stranded in a gale. She was pushed high up on a sandbar at Cook Inlet, and there she sat. Slocum set out immediately to solve the problem. Transporting the salmon catch before it spoiled was a mammoth task, but Slocum was undaunted. He thrived on challenges, and built the first of his makeshift rescue boats, a thirty-five-foot whaleboat, in the camp.
The Alaskan portion of the honeymoon ended with the appearance of a revenue cutter (a forerunner of the Coast Guard), which offered assistance. Virginia boarded the cutter and sailed on to Kodiak while her husband stayed behind with the Washington. He oversaw the transfer of the salmon catch from the bark to the whaleboat and into the holds of a couple of sealers. While the sealers left for San Francisco with his cargo, Slocum set out to rejoin Virginia. The newlyweds ended their honeymoon cruise aboard a Russian bark, which took them and their crew home safely.
Mrs. Slocum sat busily engaged with her little girl at needlework. Her baby boy was fast asleep in his Chinese cradle. An older son was putting his room in order and a second son was sketching. The captain’s stateroom is a commodious apartment, furnished with a double berth which one might mistake for a black walnut bedstead: a transom upholstered like a lounge, a library, chairs, carpets, wardrobe, and the chronomets. This room is abaft the main cabin, which is furnished like a parlor. In this latter apartment are the square piano, center table, sofa, easy chairs and carpets, while on the walls hang several oil paintings.
In front of the parlor is the dining room, which together with the other rooms, exhibit a neatness of which only a woman’s hand is capable. The captain’s baby is the captain’s pride and bears an honored name. General Garfield acknowledged the compliment in an autographed letter to the child.
— From “An American Family Afloat,”
New York Tribune, 1882
3
True Love and a Family Afloat
Father took the wheel — mother stood by him. Her silence gave him confidence.
— Ben Aymar Slocum
Virginia Albertina Walker Slocum was as perfect a partner for Joshua Slocum as he could ever have imagined. She was beautiful and courageous, cultured and practical, strong-willed and gentle, and she was his strength. She was also adventurous enough to abandon big-city comforts and diversions for a rugged shipboard life as wife and mother. For as long as she lived, Virginia sailed the seas with her husband and stood loyally and inspirationally by his side through storms, mutinies, sorrows, blessings, losses and triumphs.
Virginia was an exceptional sea mate — and an able navigator — but she was only one of scores of captain’s wives who spent their lives at sea with their husbands. This trend was dictated in large part by the fact that the age of sail was dying. With steamers taking over the merchant trade, sailing vessels had to abandon their most common routes. Just to survive, captains had to take on freight wherever a cargo could be found and carry it to whichever out-of-the-way port it was bound. Captains and their crews were thankful for the work, but often it meant years sailing unpredictable routes, to ports too small and isolated to enjoy regular steamer service. Many captains had to spend years at a stretch at sea, and for them it made financial and emotional sense to take their wives along. Also, keeping a house on land was often an unaffordable luxury. Thus, many families had only the vessel to call their home.
Virginia was a willing traveling companion, even after the fiasco of her salmon-fishing honeymoon and her temporary separation from Joshua after the Washington was stranded in Alaskan waters. Contrary to all other published material regarding the newlyweds’ life aboard the barkentine Constitution, the shipping records show clearly that after losing the Washington, Slocum never sailed for Bichard again. A listing of September 2, 1871, names a Captain Robertson as commanding the Constitution. However, in January 1872 the company must have allowed the Slocums to live aboard his old command at dock, as the city directory for that year gives their address as Constitution, Hathaway’s Wharf, in San Francisco. There, the couple became new parents when Virginia gave birth to a son, Victor Joshua. The next nine years saw annual changes in the way of family additions and new commands.
It isn’t until November 14, 1872, that Slocum surfaces as a captain on the Shipping Intelligence page in the Daily Alta in California. The small family moved aboard the B. Aymar, a slightly larger vessel than Slocum’s previous commands, being 128 feet in length. That November the B. Aymar sailed for Burrard Inlet carrying coal and oil. During 1873 the Slocums made several Pacific crossings from San Francisco to the Orient. Again, the Daily Alta records the B. Aymar’s business and whereabouts: on June 17, 1873, she was bound for Swatow on the Chinese coast between Hong Kong and Amoy. Slocum reported strong winds in the South China Sea as his vess
el began the sixty-four-day crossing back to home port. The B. Aymar arrived in San Francisco on August 21 with a cargo of 8,800 bags of sugar. The family stayed in port until September 24, when the vessel set sail for Melbourne carrying canned goods, lumber, salmon, broom corn and a pregnant Virginia. It was common for captains’ wives to make a passage when they were pregnant, knowing they would probably give birth at sea. They accepted the possibility that their labour might be difficult and dangerous, and might begin in extremely rough conditions on a stormy sea. Depending on how threatening the sea was at the time, they would be lucky to have the help of even one of the mates. Such hardships were part and parcel of being a captain’s wife. Virginia made it to Australia, where the Slocums enjoyed a stopover in Sydney with Virginia’s parents. Here their second child, another son, was born on December 21, 1873; he was promptly named Benjamin Aymar in honor of their ocean home.
Victor’s early impressions of family life aboard that ship were probably based on his mother’s stories as she told them much later, as Victor would have been only two at the time. He recalled how his mother and father would stroll the deck during the second dogwatch before retiring below. It was on the B. Aymar that Victor got his toddler sealegs. His childhood memories included Christmas celebrations afloat. Santa Claus even came to Amoy (now known as Xiamen), where he found the children’s stockings hanging around the cabin’s mizzenmast. Victor recalled that Santa “never missed, no matter what the sea or the country.” The child probably was not in the least surprised to find that the kindly old man had brought him Chinese toys and other Oriental goodies.