AN INTERESTING RECORD.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1424, 15 June 1899, Page 28

AN INTERESTING RECORD.

Mr Frank T. Bullen, author of “The Cruise of the Cacholot,” tells the story of his life in “M.A.P ” He was born in 1857, his father being a journeyman stonemason, and passed an unhappy sea at 12 years of age. In almost his sea at 12 years of age. In amost his first voyage he experienced a wreck, the vessel being lost upon one of the Campeche Cays. No lives were lost, all hands escaping safely to the barren, sandy patch. Rescued by a French barque —the Potesi, of Bordeaux—they were taken to Havana, and placed under the care of the consul. But, he relates, j HO on found friends, and became deputy billiard marker at the Hotel St. Isabel, where my tiny size, fluent Spanish (picked up in Mexico) and perfect assurance (or cheek) made me a prime favourite. An English gentleman named Daykin, holding a high official position, wanted to adopt me, and with that end jtl view took me to the consul. It was a fatal mistake. For the consul had lost ♦he run of me, and seeing me again, not only refused to entertain Mr Daykm’s

At last a skipper with a heart listened to my pitiful story, gave me work on board his ship till she sailed, and then, as he never carried any boys, paid a fortnight’s board for me in the Sailors’ Home, enjoining them to see that I got a ship. They did so, and I made a voyage to the East Indies and back, growing a little in that year, so that I found no more of the old difficulty about size.

Then I went out to Melbourne in a big Yank. All the passage the crew were busy broaching cargo, and as soon as we arrived at Sandridge pier every man made himself scarce. After a few days I was persuaded to do the same, and I stowed myself away on board the Wonga Wonga, one of the A.S.N. Company’s intercolonial boats. A fairly long spell of experience as lamp trimmer in steamers on the Australian and New Zealand coasts followed, the good abundant food and easy times making quite a man of me, but at the same time i was roughening into a sturdy young mackguard. At last I got tired of the life, and sailed for England again as ordinary seaman in a barque, via Rangoon and the Cape. Then out to New Zealand again in another big ship as ordinary seaman, still as blind and deaf to all one marvels that surrounded me as any of my shipmates. At least, so I thought tnen, but now all that life comes back with startling vividness even to he most minute details. In New Zealand our captain left, and all hands got their discharge. Then for the first time since my early childhood I found real, useful friends. What they did for me I can never tell. I can only say that I reached in Port Chalmers the parting of the ways, and H or the first time in my life left that ihore might be a future for me wirth looking forward to. My eyes were opened, my brain began to work, and life meant something more than a mere animal existence.

But I must hurry on. When I joined the Cacholot, South Sea whaler, I felt broken hearted at first, for all the sailors used to loathe the very thought of a “spouter.” But that long,long voyage round the world was worth a university education to me—almost. For its details I must refer the reader to my book, “The Cruise of the Cachalot,” now, in the third month of its publication, in its third edition.

It was not long after my return to the “legitimate” business of sea faring that I “passed” for second mate, finding, like so many others, that without influence my certificate in England was almost worthless to me. Abroad, I could generally find a berth as officer, which, although it broke my voyages up badly, enabled me to gain experience. I drifted about from shore to shore, always having to ship before the mast again when ever I came to England, and at 22 I married. In London it happened, and a nice pair of friendless youngsters we were (my wife was just turned 18. Married on Monday, I sailed on Wednesday, before the mast again, to Calcutta, at a wage of £3 a month. Poor girl, it was a bitter time for her.

I\ hen I reached home again, 13 months after, I found a little daughter awaiting me five months old, and this new responsibility made me hunger for something stable to depend upon. But things got so bad that we laid out our last half sovereign on food for the baby, and began to starve. Credit we had done, or friends or relations worth a row of pins to us. In the midst of this came an offer of a berth ashore, as a computer in a public office—a sort of junior clerk, at £2 a week. Great heavens ! I thought I was Rothschild. I took it gratefully, and said good-bye to the sea. But I

soon found it was no easy task to step down from the position of a leader of men to that of a deputy junior clerk. In fact, it was almost maddening at times, only to be borne by remembering the two helpless ones at home. And there was always some reading to be had. This is not the place or the time to tell of my many struggles to earn something extra, or of the disasters that fell upon me one after the other. At last, about 10 years ago, when I was copying out some poetry for the mere physical pleasure of writing (always pleasant to me), it suddenly occurred to me to try and write a little yarn I had heard in Port Royal about a shark. After a fashion I finished it, about 2000 words, I should think. I sent it to Cassell’s and got it back sharp. One or two other places, I forget now which, also refused it, and I couldn’t afford any more stamps. But a copy of “Young England” fell into my hands, and as I had to pass the door of their office every niglit, I left it there without stamps for return. I didn’t want to see it any more in its present form. They printed it, and six months later, after two applications, they paid me a guinea for it. But the joy of seeing it in print—why say anything about that—everybody will appreciate it. I saw a vista opening up. '*• closed again. I felt as if I had shot my bolt.

It was a year later before I succeeded in another attempt, with the “Boy’s Own Paper” this time, and they printed it in their Christmas number. Another page, another guinea! Somehow I couldn’t feel as if there was any gold mine in the matter. At long intervals I succeeded in getting articles into “Chambers’s Good Words,” and a few pars into the “Chronicle,” then under Mr Fletcher; but for three years my total literary earnings were under £4O. To help the charaitable funus of a mission I was connected with, I essayed a lecture, the slides for which were paid out of the proceeds. It was quite a success, a profit remaining of, I think, £l3. But my first decided step up the ladder was taken on the day when I stealthily crept into Messrs Smith, Elder’s office, and laid a MS. for the “Cornhill” upon the ledge. Mr J. St. Loe Strachey, who was then editor, not only accepted it, but talked about it, and when it appeared Mr Stead gave me a splendid notice in the “Review of Reviews.” Now before that article appeared, I had, in sheer despair of being able to write any more articles begun to write “The Cruise of the Vacholot.” I wrote to Mr Stead to thank him for his invaluable notice, and mentioned that I had a book in hand. He wrote me back a splendid letter, full of encouragement, and advised me to offer it to Messrs Smith, Elder and Co. In the meantime I got another couple of articles accepted in the “Cornhill,” and as soon as the book was completed I acted upon Mr Stead’s advice. Keeping me waiting only a week, the firm acepted it, but on that day the light of my life went out. My youngest child—a boy of five—suddenly died. When the “Cacholot” appeared, men, whose names I have read with awe as the august arbiters of literature, wrote to me, and wrote of me as if they were all in one grand conspiracy to turn my head, and the only place where my book has been totally ignored is in some of the London morning dailies.