mpleted a kind of
vicious circle. The crew ran away from the hell-ship, and spread the
evil fame of the vessel over the five oceans. Sailors then would not
willing ship in her--save, of course, a few adventuresome young fools,
like myself, who sought glory--and the skipper found himself putting to
sea with a mob of stiffs in his foc'sle.

Often he had trouble getting stiffs. In some ports, where the crimping
system was not developed, the hell ship waited for months for a crew.
In other ports, like San Francisco, where the boarding master's will
was the law of sailortown, the captain paid over his blood money, and
the boarding master delivered him his crew, drunk, drugged and
sandbagged. When he got to sea he would find his crew composed chiefly
of the very scum of the waterside, a mode of unlicked, lawless
ruffians, and his bucko mates would need all their prowess to keep them
subordinate. Hazing such a mob was the only way to manage them. Also,
it made them run away and leave their wages behind.

But there were degrees of "heat" in the hell-ships. The bucko mates
usually contented themselves with working the men at top speed,
depriving them of their afternoon watches below, and thumping the
stiffs, because they were lubberly at their work. This treatment was
sufficiently severe to produce the desired results. This was normal
hell-ship style. The few sailors, in the crew, providing they were
willing, rarely received more than verbal abuse.

Now, brutality feeds upon itself. Some officers, after living under
the system for a time, became perfect fiends. They came to enjoy
beating up men. In some ships, the dressing down of the crew was a
continuous performance, and sailors, as well as stiffs, caught it.

As in the _Golden Bough_. God's truth, there was blood spilt every
watch! Always, after the first day out, did the foc'sle bunks contain
a miserable wretch or two laid up because of a manhandling.

Yet we of the starboard watch were comparatively lucky. Mister Lynch,
our officer, was what I may call a normal bucko. He hazed for the
results rather than for the pleasure of hazing, though I think he did
get some satisfaction out of thumping the men. You feel a fine thrill
when you see a half dozen huskies cringe away before you with fear in
their eyes. I imagine it is the same thrill a wild animal tamer feels
as he faces his beasts. I felt this fascinating sensation many times
after I had become a m