Alexander Irvine - From the Bottom Up

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"A mistake was made----"

The officer got no farther.

"I knew it, begorra!" I exclaimed, with flushed face and beating
heart.

The officer came close to me, looked straight into my face, and said,
"I have a good mind to put you in the guard room."

I stood still, motionless, silent.

"A mistake was made yesterday," he continued, "in appointing you to
the _Condor_. You are to go, instead, with a detachment to the
_Alexandra_, flagship of the Mediterranean Squadron."

Parade was dismissed. I went to the officer, saluted him, and begged
the privilege of an explanation. In a few words I told him my story
and of the hope of my life, and asked him to forgive me for the
interruption. He looked astonished and replied very quietly, "I am
glad you told me, Irvine. I shall be interested in your future."

On the way to the barrack-room, the spirit of exuberant merriment took
possession of me. I wanted to do something ludicrous or desperate. I
threw my pack into a corner, quickly divested myself of my tunic,
rolled up my shirt sleeves, and struck the table such a blow with my
clinched fist as to make the dishes jump off. Everybody looked around.
My face must have been a picture of facial latitude.

[Illustration: Alexander Irvine as a Marine, at the Age of Nineteen]

"Boys," I said, "here's yer last chance to oblige an Irishman!"

"What is it, Pat?" half a dozen shouted in unison.

"I want to box any three blinderin' idiots in the room, and all
together, begorra! Come on now, ye spalpeens, and show the stuff yer
made of!"

The only answer was a loud outburst of applause and laughter.

In my exuberance, I danced an Irish hornpipe, and my career in the
barrack-room was over.

CHAPTER III

ON BOARD A MAN O' WAR

In January, 1883, the big troop-ship bearing reinforcements for the
Mediterranean Squadron steamed into Malta Harbour and we were
transferred to our respective ships. The _Alexandra_ was supposed to
be the most powerful ship in Victoria's navy at that time. She carried
the flag of Admiral Lord John Hay. She was a little city of the sea
with her divisions of labour, her social distinctions, her alleys and
her avenues. She had a population of about one thousand inhabitants.
These were divided into officers, petty officers, bluejackets and
marines. Around the flagship lay half a dozen other ships of the
fleet. I was fascinated with the variety of things around me in that
little city, and for the first few days on board spent all my leisure
time in exploring this mysterious underwater world. Her guns were of
the heaviest calibre. Her steel walls were decorated with ponderous
Pallasier shot and shell. I was struck with the marvellous
cleanliness. Her decks were white. Every inch of brasswork was
shining; everything in order; everything trim and neat; neither
slovenly men nor slovenly conditions.

Malta Harbour is one of the finest in the world. The old City of La
Vallette looks like an immense fortress, which it really is, and the
next thing to explore was the Island.

It seemed as if I had entered an entirely new world. My heart was full
of joy, my mind full of hope, and my uniform for the time being was
more the uniform of a student than of a fighter. My first great
discovery on the ship was the thing I had prayed for--a school. I hid
myself behind a stanchion out of sight of the instructors and took my
bearings. Later, I found a place where I could sit within hearing
distance, but was discovered and forced to explain. The chief
instructor was interested in my explanation and in my story, and gave
me valuable advice as to how to proceed in my studies. Once again my
brogue militated against my advancement. Being the only Irishman in
the mess, I had to bear more than my share of its humour. I made
application to be employed as a waiter in the officers' wardroom, so
that I might improve my pronunciation and add to my vocabulary. I had
a little pad arranged on the inside of my jacket with a pencil
attached, and every new word I heard I jotted down; and every night I
gathered together these new friends, looked up their origin, meaning,
and pronunciation. I was appointed bodyservant to the paymaster of the
ship, a bucolic old Bourbon of the most pronounced aristocracy. This
excused me from military and naval duty, and I was privileged to wear
plain clothes. I attached myself to a small group of pietists called
Plymouth Brethren, orthodox theologians, literalists in interpretation
of the Scriptures and exceedingly straight-laced in their morality.
They were fine Bible students, indeed, Bible experts. This was a great
joy to me at first, but the atmosphere to a red-blooded, jubilant
nature like mine was rather stifling after a while. I was fond of a
good story and was full of Irish folklore and fairy stories, and I
noticed my brethren did not relish my outbursts of laughter. It was
explosive, spontaneous and hearty, but not contagious among them.
Their faces assumed a rather pained expression, a kind of notice of
emotion that a sense of humour and religious beliefs occupied
different compartments in the human mind. It was intimated to me that
such "frivolousness" was out of kelter with the profession of a
Christian. It was merely by accident that I pulled out of a shelf in
the library "Adam Bede" by George Eliot. When I was discovered eagerly
devouring its contents under the glare of the fighting lamp one night
after the crew had "piped down," I was upbraided for spending such
precious time on such "worldly trash."

"Suppose the Lord should come now and find you reading that; what
would you say to Him?"

My reply added to their sorrow.

"I should say, 'Begorra, Yer Honour, it's a bully good story!'"

The judgment of my brethren was that there was good stuff in me for a
Christian if I had only been born somewhere else, a judgment I could
not be expected to agree with. My disagreement with these men on
various lines was no barrier to my participation in their propaganda.
There was only one thing in the world to do--get men converted. Each
man in this small group picked out another man as a subject of prayer
and solicitation and persuasion. At our weekly meetings we reported on
our work. Then we worked for each other. Of course, I was a subject of
prayer myself. When these men shook hands in parting, they usually
said, "If the Lord tarry," for the Lord was expected to come at any
moment. This they could not get into my speech or mind. As I looked
around me, I got the idea that there was a good deal of work to be
done before the Lord came, and I put emphasis rather on the work than
on the expectation. The ship was a beehive of activity, not merely the
activity of warlike discipline or preparation, but social activity. Of
course, this activity was largely for the officers. We had to go
ashore for most of ours, and the social activity of the rank and file
was rather of a questionable character ashore, but the officers had
their dinners, their dances, and their afternoon receptions.

The social centre for a portion of the rank and file was a sailors'
institute. As this was a temperance institution, it was only
patronized by a small percentage of them. Here we had frequent
receptions, afternoon teas, lectures, and religious meetings. Here the
secret societies met--the Free Masons, Odd Fellows, Foresters,
Orangemen, etc. Thursday afternoons we had a half-holiday on board. It
was called "Make-and-Mend-Clothes Day." The upper decks belonged to
the crew that afternoon, and every conceivable kind of activity was in
operation. It looked something like an Irish fair. It was a day on
which most men wrote home; but there were sewing, boxing, fencing, and
on this afternoon at least almost every man on the ship worked at his
hobby. My hobby at this time was mathematics and I could not do that
in the crowd, but on Thursday afternoons I rather enjoyed watching the
boxing and fencing. My experience in the game had given me at least a
permanent interest in it, and as I stood by the ropes the blood
tingled in my veins. I was anxious many a time for a rough and tumble,
but my religious friends saved me from this indulgence. There were
sixteen men in my mess. It was in a corner of the main gun battery
alongside one of the big "stern-chasers." We had a table that could be
lowered from the roof of the gun battery, and eating three times a day
with these men, I knew them fairly well and they knew me. Each
man-of-war's man is allowed a daily portion of rum, and I was advised
by the small group of Christians to follow their example and refuse
to permit anybody else to drink my portion. It took me a long time to
make up my mind to follow their advice. It was, of course, considered
an old-womanish thing to do, but I finally came to the point when I
asked the commissariat department to give me, as was the custom, tea,
coffee, and sugar instead. I took very good care, however, not to
indulge myself in these things. I handed them over to men on the night
watches. This did not save me from the penalty for such an offence. It
brought down on my head the curses of a good many men in the mess, but
especially of one man who was a sort of a ship's bruiser. It came his
turn to be cook about once in ten days. The cook of the mess had as
his perquisite a little of each man's ration of rum. With the others,
the abuse was mixed with good-humour, for on the whole I managed to
lead a fairly agreeable life with my messmates. They looked upon me as
a religious fanatic, but my laughter, my funny stories, and my
willingness to oblige offset with most of them my temperance
principles and religious fanaticism. The insults of the bruiser I
usually met with a smile and passed off with a joke; but when they
were long continued, they irritated me.

There is a monotony in the life of the average soldier or sailor which
has a very deadening effect upon character--seeing the same faces,
hearing the same things, performing the same routine in the same kind
of way every day, year in and year out, makes him a sort of automaton.
Kipling has told us something of the effect of this thing in "Soldiers
Three." There came a time when I broke under the strain of this man's
continued insults. For nearly a year I got comfort from the advice of
the brethren. We had a weekly meeting where our difficulties were
considered and prayed over, but the consolation of my brethren finally
refused to suffice, and, being a healthy, normal, vigorous animal with
some little experience of looking after myself, I began to resent the
insults and make some show of defence. This change of front incensed
the bully, and one day he hurled an exceedingly nasty epithet at
me--one of those vulgar but usual epithets current in army speech. The
reference in it to my mother stirred me with indignation and I
announced in a fit of anger my willingness to be thrashed or thrash
him if the thing was repeated. It was not only repeated at once, but
seizing a lump of dough, he hurled it at my head. I ducked my head and
it hit another man on the jaw, but the gauntlet was on the floor and
an hour afterward the port side of the gun deck was a mass of solidly
packed sailors and marines. My brethren came to me one after another.
They quoted scores of texts to make me uncomfortable. I tried to joke,
but my lips were parched and my tongue unwilling to act. I was pale
and trembling. I knew what I was up against, but determined to see it
through. One text only I could remember in this exigency and I quoted
it to Lanky Lawrence, the big sailmaker who was the leader of our
sect. "Lanky, m' boy," I said to him, "I'm goin' to hing m' hat on one
text fur the space of a good thrashin'."

"What is it?" asked the sailmaker.

"'As much as lieth in ye, live peaceably wid all men.' Now I have done
that same, and bedad, I have done it to the limit and I'm goin' to
jump into this physical continshun so that of out it I will bring
pace!"

"Ye're all wrong!" said the sailmaker.

"I know it, but from the straight-lacedness of your theology I want a
vacation, Lanky, just for the space that it takes to get a lickin' wan
way or th' other." So the thing began. My chief endeavour was to
escape punishment, but the space was exceedingly small between the two
big guns and I didn't succeed very well. During the first five minutes
I was very badly bruised and beaten. One of my ribs was broken and
both eyes almost closed. Half the time I could not see the bully at
all. In one of the breathing spells, the sailmaker, who, despite his
quotations of Scripture, had remained to see the proceedings,
whispered something in my ear. It was a point of advice. He told me
that if I could stand that five minutes longer, my opponent would be
outclassed. The support of Lanky was a great encouragement to me, and
a good deal of my fear disappeared. I began to think harder, to plan,
and to plant blows as well as to avoid them. This excited the crowd
and it became frenzied.

Up to that point it was a one-sided thing. Now, I was not only taking
but giving; and not only giving, but giving with laughter and
ejaculations. Our Bible study for that month was the memorizing of the
names of the minor prophets; and once when I managed to toss my
opponent's head to one side with a blow on the point of the chin, I
shouted full of glee, "Take that, you cross-eyed son of a
seacook--take it in the name of Hosea!" The crowd laughed, but above
the roar of laughter rang out the voice of a Scotchman who was one of
our best Bible students: "Gie him brimstone, Sandy!" A few minutes
later I ejaculated, "And, bedad, that's for Joel!" In this new spirit
and in this jocular way, I pounded the twelve minor prophets into him
one after another, while the rafters of the ship rang with the cheers
of the crew. By the time I had exhausted the minor prophets, I was
much the stronger man of the two. My opponent was wobbling around in
pretty bad shape. Once he was on his knees, and while waiting, I
shouted, "I want to be yer friend, Billy Creedan. Shake hands now, you
idiot, and behave yourself!"

The only answer I got was a string of vile oaths as he staggered to
his feet. I pleaded with him to quit, but that is not the way that
such fights end. Men fight while their senses last, while their legs
keep under them, and at such a moment a blood-thirsty crowd becomes
crazed for the accomplishment of something that looks like murder. The
injection of the minor prophets made a ludicrous ending of a thing
that had at the beginning almost paralyzed me with fear. So the thing
ended with the bully of the mess lying prostrate on his back. I was
not presentable as a waiter for several days, but inside of an hour
everybody on the ship knew what had happened, and for the second time
in my life I was hailed as a bruiser.

To impress a thousand men in such a manner creates an egotism which is
very likely to be lasting. I had not accomplished very much in my
studies. I was nothing in particular among my religious brethren. My
general reputation up to this moment in the ship was that of a
simple-minded Irish lad, who was a religious fanatic, a sort of sky
pilot or "Holy Joe." I became flushed with the only victory worth
while in the army or navy, and the second experience lasted twice as
long as the first.

The next thing to be done, of course, by my friends and admirers, was
to pit me against the bruisers of other ships. Two of the officers
wanted to know my plans. This recognition heightened my vanity.
Prayer-meeting night came along, and I was ashamed to attend. A
committee was sent to help me out, and the following week the
prodigal returned. The proper thing to do on my return was to confess
my sin and ask the brethren to pray for me; but when I failed to do
this, I became a subject of deep concern and solicitude. I tried to
cultivate a sense of conviction, but succeeded indifferently. The
deference paid me by the men of the mess was not calculated to help me
out. I felt very keenly the suspicion of my brethren, but it was
compensated for by the fact that among the ordinary men I had now a
hearing on matters of religious interest. I was rather diffident in
approaching them on this subject, since, from the viewpoint of the
pietists, I had fallen from grace. At the end of a month, a loathing
of this cheap reputation began to manifest itself. The man I had
beaten became one of my closest friends. I wrote his letters home to
his mother. A few weeks later, he entrusted me with a more sacred
mission--the writing of his love letters also.

Creedan was a Lancashire man, as angular in speech as in body, and
lacking utterly a sense of humour. As we became acquainted, I began to
suggest some improvements, not only in his manner of writing, but in
the matter also. I could not understand how a man could make love with
that kind of nature. One day I suggested the idea of rewriting the
entire epistle. The effect of it was a huge joke to Creedan. He
laughed at the change--laughed loud and heartily. The letter, of
course, was plastered all over with Irish blarney. It was such a huge
success that Creedan used to come to me and say:

[Illustration: Officers of H.M.S. _Alexandra_, Ashore at Cattaro]

"Hey, Sandy, shoot off one of them things to Mary, will ye?"

And the thing was done.

The summer cruise of 1883 was up the Adriatic. All the Greek islands
were visited. I knew the historical significance of the places, which
made that summer cruise a fairyland to me.

There were incidents in that summer cruise of more than ordinary
interest. One morning, while our ship was anchored in the harbour of
Chios, the rock on which our anchor lay was moved by a sudden
convulsion: the mighty cable was snapped, and the ship tossed like a
cork by the strain. The guns were torn from their gearing and the shot
and shell torn from their racks. Men on their feet were flung
prostrate, and everything loose scattered over the decks. The shrill
blast of the bugle sounded the "still." Such a sound is very seldom
blown from the bugles, but when it is, every man stops absolutely
still and awaits orders. The boatswain blew his whistle which was
followed with the Captain's order, "Port watch on deck; every other
man to his post!" Five minutes later, on the port side of the ship, I
saw the British Consul's house roll down the side of the hill. I saw
the people flock around a priest who swung his censer and called upon
God. The yawning gulf was there into which a part of the little town
had sunk. A detachment of marines and bluejackets went ashore, not
knowing the moment when the earth would open up and swallow them. The
boats were lowered, and orders were given to stand ready to pack the
ship to the last item of capacity and carry away the refugees from
what we supposed to be a "sinking island." Of course, in a crisis like
this, the sentiment of religion becomes dominant. Some of my comrades
at once jumped to the conclusion that it was the coming of the Lord,
and in the solemnity of the moment I could not resist the suggestion
for which I was derided for months:

"Gee, but isn't He coming with a bang!"

CHAPTER IV

PROBLEMS AND PLACES

In 1884 I kept a diary--kept it the entire year. It was written in the
straggling characters of a child of ten. As I peruse it now,
twenty-five years afterward, I am struck not so much with what it
records, as with what it leaves unrecorded. The great places visited
and the names of great men are chronicled, Bible studies and religious
observations find a place--but of the fierce struggle of the human
soul with destructive and corrupting influences, not a word!

The itinerary of the year included Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Italy,
Syria, Asia Minor, Cyprus, Crete and Sicily. Of these Syria was of the
greatest interest to me. Of the men whose pathway crossed mine,
General Gordon was of the most importance; of the others, the King of
Greece and the second son of Victoria were unique, but not
interesting. One in my position could only meet them as a flunky meets
his master, anyway.

Gordon, on his way to his doom in the Soudan, disembarked at
Alexandria. It was early in January. There was no parade, no reception
of any kind. Gordon was dressed in plain clothes with a cane in his
hand. Gladstone had sent him thus to bring order out of chaos in the
Land of the Mad Mullah. Officers with a penchant for religious
propaganda are scarce either in the army or navy, but into whatever
part of the world Gordon went, he was known and recognized and sought
after by men engaged in religious work. It was an officer of the Royal
Naval Temperance Society, who was at the same time a naval petty
officer, who said to me on the wharf at Alexandria--"That's Chinese
Gordon!"

"Where is he going?" I asked.

"Down the Nile to civilize niggers who are dressed in palm oil and
mosquitoes," was the answer. A year later Gladstone sent an army and
spent millions of money to bring him back, but it was too late.

While lying off Piraeus, the seaport of Athens, I was doing guard duty
on deck in the first watch. I was substitute for a comrade who had
gone to visit the ancient city. There had been an informal dinner, and
there were whispers among the men that some high mogul was in the
Admiral's cabin. Toward the close of the first watch I was joined on
my beat by a man in plain clothes, who, with a lighted cigar in his
mouth, marched fore and aft the star-board side of the ship with me.
In anticipation of entering Greek waters, I had read for months, and
this stranger was astonished to find a common soldier so well informed
on the history of Greece. I had not yet been ashore, but I had
arranged to go the following day. The gentleman, on leaving, handed me
a card on which he had pencilled what I think was an introduction. I
had only time to ask him his name, and he said, "George--just George."
Next day I discovered I had been pow-wowing with a king. The effect on
me was almost as bad as a successful go with the gloves. The Channel
Squadron, flying the flag of the Duke of Edinburgh, entered Malta
Harbour that year, and for some weeks the combined fleets lay moored
alongside each other. The Royal Admiral was a frequent visitor to our
ship. On one of these visits I had the experience of serving him with
luncheon. He was the guest of our skipper. During the luncheon I
handed him a note from his Flag Lieutenant. A dealer in mummies had
come aboard with some samples. They were spread out on the
quarter-deck. The note related the facts, but the Queen's son was not
impressed, and said so.

[Illustration: A Page from Mr. Irvine's Diary.
Kept while serving on H.M.S. _Alexandra_]

"Tell him," said he, "to go to ---- Oh, wait a moment"; then he
pencilled his reply on the back of a note and handed it to me. When
the Flag Lieutenant read it, he laughed, tore it up and handed the
pieces to me. The Duke's reply read--"He may go to the D---- with the
whole boiling. A."

Right off the coast of Sicily, we encountered a bit of rough water,
and Commander Campbell, a seaman of the old school, took advantage of
it for sail drill.

"Strike lower yards and top masts," was the order, "and clear the
decks for action!"

"Away aloft!" he roared, as the wind soughed through the rigging, and
a moment later I heard--"Bear out on the yard-arm!"

Something went wrong in the foretop that day, and its captain fell to
the hatchway grating below. I was standing a few feet from the spot,
and it took me the best part of the day to sponge his blood out of my
clothing. We stopped the evolution for a day, and the following day
another man was killed performing the same drill, and we buried them
both that afternoon in the old cemetery at the base of Mt. Etna. At
noon on the third day the ship was ordered to go through the same
evolution. Meantime a petty officer named Hicks had been promoted
captain of the foretop. He was one of the finest men in the ship. He
could dance a hornpipe, sing a good song, make a splendid showing with
the gloves or single-sticks; was something of a wag, and when he
laughed the deck trembled. His promotion was not wholly a thing of
joy, for the superstition of the sea gripped him tight. He was the
third man, and to most of us the number had an evil omen. Within an
hour after his promotion, the red flush had gone from his cheeks. He
was silent and managed to be alone most of the afternoon and evening
of that day. He had been a signal boy and was an expert in the
language of flags and in flashing the electric light. He was unable
to sleep and passed most of the night on deck with the sentries. It
was noticed that he begged permission to "monkey" with the
electric-light signalling apparatus aft on the poop. When we began the
sail drill the following day, the attention of every man on the ship
was focused on the captain of the foretop, and at the order--"Away
aloft!" he sprang at the rigging like a cat. We stood from under.
There was a breathless hush as the second order was given--"Bear out
on the yard-arm!" It was the fatal order at which the other men had
lost their nerve and their lives! As it rang out over the old ship, we
gulped down our lumps and secretly thanked Him in the hollow of whose
hand lie the seas. The evolution was completed, and when the man of
the foretop descended to the deck, half a dozen men gripped Hicks, and
hugged him and kissed him with tears in their eyes.

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