The Wanderer of Jersey City

JOHN RIDDELL

Another epic of the sea in the manner of "The Wanderer of Liverpool", the new narrative poem by John Masefield

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Envious of the manner in which John Masefield has recently celebrated in prose and poetry the history of the English barque, the Wanderer, Vanity Fair has persuaded its own Poet Laureate, Sir John Riddell, to direct the attention of his muse this month to our American shipping. For the subject of the following poem, therefore, Sir John has selected that fair flower of Manhattan's waterfront, the flagship of the Erie R. R. ferry-boat service.)

''Do you believe in ferries?"

—Peter Pan, Act II, p.169.

For some years men had been building big ferry-boats which conveyt passengers, across the North River, from the foot of West Twenty-third Street to the Jersey Shore, or from the Jersey Shore to the foot of West Twenty-third Street. According to the tendency of the times, these big ferry-boats were sometimes built with the bow forward, beautiful to the eye, but impossible to sail backwards; and sometimes they were built with the bow aft, in the stern. One of them was ust to come, and one to go. Unfortunately a ferry-boat of this construction was practically useless after its maiden voyage, owing to the fact that it could not go back again in the other direction, but must needs remain, with bow pointing into the slip, like a wounded stag. In 1890 thousands of most lovely ferryboats were rotting at their piers on the Manhattan and Jersey shores, and the experiment was being tried to build a ferryboat with the bow at both ends, so that the vessel could go forward backward, as it willt.

By 1890, this experimental fashion, still new to the world, having been ust as yet in less than a dozen ferry-boats, was adopted by Mr. J. Q. Bargle, the President of the Erie Railroads. Mr. Bargle took intense interest in the building of the first ferry-boat of this construction, which he named the Wanderer; he was daily about her on the slips, and often workt upon her with his own hands. He meant to make her the most beautiful ferry-boat afloat.

The Wanderer (Pier Number 61; 2903.29 tons net register; carrying about 1156 tons; 9:15, 10:30, 11:45, 1:00, 2:30, 4:15 daily except Sunday; fare $.04) was very strongly built, with heavy web frames running from her 'tween decks to her side triblets, as well as many stallions. She was of a full model, wall-eyed, blonde, rather rakish in the bilge and with flat hips, though she grew somewhat sweeter aft. She had a noble air, a courteous bow, and an exquisite elliptical stern, particularly when she bent over. She was thrasher-built, with steel m'nh'tches, and the butts of her mizz'n jibs'l were fitted on the outside of her brizzl'm'st, instead of inside, as was then usual. Her fo'c'stle head, or twitch, was not raist, but carried on the reef of the t'flrope spanker. Abreast the forebitts on one side was the capstan, on the other the first mate.

In her rig, the Wanderer resembled the Minnie J. Cohan : that is, she was a full-rigged grenadine, with topsergeant, stem, and rummage sails ridded three-quarters down tin1 brails. Abaft the I'rrw'rd pimp her deck was clear from skids to taffrail scuppers, and the spanker-hatch was open not only to tin* poop, but also to several of his cardinals. On the whalebaek were cleats for the fathom sheets, biddies, main nor'west hamper-clutters, and blizzz'm'brghtwch. Everything aboard had its place, so that it could always be fount.

LENGTHS OF KINSPRITS, TIPPETS, AND YARDS

Mizzen Lower Tops'l Fork! 63 feet, 17 inches

Mizzen Lower Eds'l For d 16 feet, 8 inches

Upper Shambles_2 feet, 6 inches

Lower Shambles_2 feet. 6½ inches

Yard__3 feet, 0 inches

Foot_ _0 feet, 12 inches

Mr. J. Q. Bargle, Pres.__ _5 feet, 9 inches

■ On Saturday, the 12th September, she towed down the River to the Erie R. R. Pier, at the foot of West Twenty-third Street. 1 Iere she received her passengers and her crew, of whom a few words may be written here.

Her Captain, Llewellyn F. Hostetter. was a native of Council Bluffs, Iowa, aged 54 years. His home was in Yonkers, where he was known as "jolly Captain Hostetter" or "George P. Simpkins". He had come to the Wranderer by mistake, and left shortly after she sailed. He was never heard of again.

Her mate, Elmer ("Pooch") Dorgan, a native of Iceland, was in his thirtieth year. He came of a long line of seafaring folk, and was given to eating crackers in bed.

The second mate, Mr. Isaacs, was a native of Fall River, Mass.

The third mate was also named Mr. Isaacs. (He filled both jobs, and also played a cornet in the ferry-boat orchestra.)

I forgot the fourth mate. Nobody much.

The passengers were as follows:

Mr. and Mrs. A. Le R. Clabber, of 136 Orchard Avenue, Nutley, N. J.

Miss Florence Weed Freuk, 36, Monmouth Plains, N. J. Librarian.

James Trunk, 27, auto-salesman.

Alison Smith or Snith, address unknown.

Mrs. Peter P. McCutcheon. 48, Rahway, N. J., minor contusions of arm and thigh. Removed to St. Vincent's Hospital.

Roger Bachelder, Larchmont, N. Y., possible fractured collar-bone and shock.

Nicholas Murray Butler, Chariie-horse.

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(Continued from page 65)

An unidentified hero named William D. Wright, Erie, Fa.

Peasants, village urchins and minnesingers.

On Thursday the 15th October, the ferry-boat was made ready to sail. For some days of that week Manhattan had been swept by gales of great violence with unusual rain. On the Friday, the 17th, when Mr. and Mrs. Clabber came aboard, it was blowing so hard that Mrs. Clabber (it is said) recommended Captain Hostetter to stay in dock until the following Wednesday. According to the story, Captain Hostetter replied that Friday the 17th October would lie the anniversary of his wife's falling downstairs, and that he looked upon it as his lucky day. Despite the wild weather the Wanderer sailt on Friday, three weeks later.

I tell of her first putting to sea in the lines which follow this.

THE SETTING FORTH

Her passengers, watches in hand, sought the Captain below.

They said, "Do you think we'll connect with the 5:05 to Rahway?"

The Captain, Hostetter, said, "Surely.

We'll be there ere five."

Mr. Clabber replied: "If I miss that 5:13 to Nutley,

The next train is not until 5:49, and a local

With all stops to Rutherford, Jeezus, I'll never get home."

Then the Captain replied, "Sir, we leave in a couple of minutes.

It's only a ten-minute run 'cross the River to Jersey,

And even allowing for tide and the inclement wind,

You ought to have plenty of time to stop off for a paper."

"So," answered Clabber, "so be it. I hope you are right, Cap.

But still, I'm beginning to wish I had taken the Tube."

Now with a crying of "Jun-ior!" and stumbling and swearing The rest of the passengers hurried aboard out of breath.

They wore the thin lips and expressions of Jersey commuters.

Some carried brief-cases and rubbers, and little roped bundles With spools and matcht samples, rakes, rose-bushes, fly-screens, linoleum, But many had nothing but rye or a bottle of gin.

Some of them lived in Montclair, some were bound for Elizabeth,

Pompton Lakes, Madison, Suffern, Passaic, Hopatcong,

Plainfield, the Oranges, Cranberry Lake, or Metuchen.

(I see I was wise when I started to write in blank verse.

Imagine attempting to think up a rhyme for Metuchen.)

They trippt up the gangway and swore at "Pooch" Dorgan, the mate,

Then stumbled their way to the topdeck, and glared at each other.

And now with a rumbling and roaring the trucks came aboard,

billing the main-deck with carbon monoxide and din.

Three only were pleasure-cars, three Chevrolets, bound for Newark;

The others, all A. and P. trucks, Fords, and small Baby Austins,

Were herded there, fender to fender, spare tire to bumper,

Till Isaacs, the second mate, gave the dock signal: "That's all, boys." Slowly they lowered the gates with a rattle of chains.

The men spun the wheel, and the clatter of iron on iron Rose to the bridge; Captain Hostetter glanced at his time-piece

And said to "Pooch" Dorgan, the mate, "Well, let's get the hell going."

The mate rang the engine-room bell, and the paddles, revolving,

Sent a great churn of white water that boiled in their wake,

Bejewellt with curious objects: fresh cabbage beads, eggshells,

Half grapefruit rinds, wooden crates, bread, and some green stuff like spinach.

The dock-hands stood waving their hats with "Here's hoping you sink."

The Captain, Hostetter, replied, "Nuts."

The passengers glowered And stared at their watches. One very small girl became sea-sick.

The Wanderer passt through the ferryslip mouth to the River.

As a stallion paws earth at the edge of a forest land

(I think that last line was a couple of syllables short, John;

La-la da da, la da da, la da da, la da da, laWhat the

Hell; once Poet Laureate, brother, you stay Poet Laureate.

No need of defending your title in six months, like Schmeling) ;

Or as a stout lady dismounts from a moving bus, backward,

Her arms full of bundles, umbrella, her purse, and a bird-cage,

And her ample stern, rounded in stooping, projects as she struggles Or wavers, and, losing her balance, falls on her momentum;

Or as, in blank narrative verse, a Vergilian metaphor Emerges, with infinite labor, for seventeen lines,

Backing its way, very slowly and clumsily, out,

Impeding the action, undoubtedly boring the reader,

But showing the skill of the author at Nature-description;

So awkwardly, aimlessly, dully she trod toward Jersey.

Meantime the harried commuters consulted their watches.

"At this rate, we never will make that 5:09," said Miss Freuk.

"It's an outrage," said Mrs. McCutcheon. "i'll write to the Erie."

"I told you so, Alfred," exclaimed Mrs.

Clabber. Her husband Said: "Here is a 5:19, dear, but it only runs Sundays."

"We seem to have stopped," Mr. Trunk cried aloud. "What's the matter!"

They rose as the Captain descended, his face grey with fear.

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"We are lost!" the Captain shouted, as he staggered down the stairs.

"Do you mean we are sinking?" gasped Clabber, and tied on a life-belt.

"No, lost!" said the Captain. "1 don't know which shore is New Jersey."

"Which way are we headed?" inquired Miss Freuk. "That's the trouble ;

"We seem to he headed both ways. In these new-fangled ferries

There's no way of telling which end of the boat is the front.

I'm all turned around," said the Captain, and burst into tears.

The passengers stared at each other. "I told you so, Alfred!"

"I'll write and complain to the Erie," said Mrs. McCutcheon.

Some took off their shoes and made ready to swim; only Clabber

Was calm: "Never fear! I shall see us all safely to shore!"

"Three cheers," they all cried, as he mounted alone to the wheelhouse.

"Three long cheers for A. Le R. Clabber of Nutley, New Jersey!"

Only the Captain sat glumly removing his buttons.

"We've started!" "We're moving!" The passengers lined at the rail

And stared at their watches: "Quick, Clabber, we've still got three minutes!"

"Be ready to run!" said Miss Freuk, as the shore-line drew nearer.

"We'll make the 5:13," said Mrs. McCutcheon. The slip

Loomed there before them. The nose of the Wanderer entered,

And then Mrs. Clabber screamed "Alfred, I told you!," and pointed:

The Wanderer lay in her pier, back in West Twenty-third Street.