The Yarn of a Yankee Skipper
The Daily Straits Times on the desk before me contained a vivid word picture of
the capture of the British steamship Namoa by three hundred Chinese pirates, the
guns of Hong Kong almost within sight, and the year of our Lord 1890 just
drawing to a close. The report seemed incredible.
I pushed the paper across the table to the grizzled old captain of the Bunker Hill
and continued my examination of the accounts of a half-dozen sailors of whom
he was intent on getting rid. By the time I had signed the last discharge and
affixed the consular seal he had finished the article and put it aside with a
contemptuous “Humph!” expressive of his opinion of the valor of the crew and
officers. I could see that he was anxious for me to give him my attention while
he related one of those long-drawn-out stories of perhaps a like personal
experience. I knew the symptoms and sometimes took occasion to escape, if
business or inclination made me forego the pleasure. To-day I was in a mood to
humor him.
There is always something deliciously refreshing in a sailor’s yarn. I have
listened to hundreds in the course of my consular career, and have yet to find one
that is dull or prosy. They all bear the imprint of truth, perhaps a trifle
overdrawn, but nevertheless sparkling with the salt of the sea and redolent of the
romance of strange people and distant lands. In listening, one becomes almost
dizzy at the rapidity with which the scene and personnel change. The icebergs
and the aurora borealis of the Arctic give place to the torrid waters and the
Southern Cross of the South Pacific. A volcanic island, an Arabian desert, a
tropical jungle, and the breadth and width of the ocean serve as the theatre, while
a Fiji Islander, an Eskimo, and a turbaned Arab are actors in a half-hour’s tale. In
interest they rival Verne, Kingston, or Marryat. All they lack is skilled hands to
dress them in proper language.