Mysterious Sea Stories

John Masefield DAVY JONES’S GIFT

'Gone to Davy Jones’ Locker' is, of course, a very familiar term among seamen to describe anyone who is drowned at sea. Davy Jones is supposed to have been a sailor originally, but for generations now he has been thought of as a sea-spirit or devil. Stories about Davy Jones are naturally many and varied, but few writers have treated the legend with greater imagination than former-seaman-turned-author John Masefield (1878-1967).

Masefield was schooled for the Merchant Navy on the training ship Conway, and then served his apprenticeship on a windjammer. There he acquired the intimate knowledge of life at sea under sail which gave such authenticity and atmosphere to his prose and poetry. When ill-health forced him to leave the sea, he turned to verse and scored an immediate hit with his first collection, Salt Water Ballads (1902). Later, he mingled fact and fantasy in outstanding collections such as A Tarpaulin Muster (1907) and A Mainsail Haul (1913).

John Masefield*s distinguished contributions to literature were honoured when he was made Poet Laureate in 1930, and then when he was awarded the O.M. in 1935. In the story which follows, 'Davy Jones's Gift' (1907) there is a little of the poetical and a lot of his feeling for the sea combined in a wholely original way.

‘Once upon a time,’ said the sailor, ‘the Devil and Davy Jones came to Cardiff, to a place called Tiger Bay. They put up at T ony Adams’s, not far from Pier Head, at the comer of Sunday Lane. And all the time they stayed there they used to be going to the rumshop, where they sat at a table, smoking their cigars, and dicing each other for different persons’ souls. Now you must know that the Devil gets landsmen, and Davy Jones gets sailor-folk; and they get tired of having always the same, so then they dice each other for some of another sort.

‘One time they were in a place in Mary Street, having some burnt brandy, and playing red and black for the people passing. And while they were looking out on the street and turning the cards, they saw all the people on the pavement breaking their necks to get into the gutter. And they saw all the shop-people running out and kowtowing, and all the carts pulling up, and all the police saluting. “Here comes a big nob,” said Davy Jones. “Yes,” said the Devil; “it’s the Bishop that’s stopping with the Mayor.” “Red or black?” said Davy Jones, picking up a card. “I don’t play for bishops,” said the Devil. “I respect the cloth,” he said. “Come on, man,” said Davy Jones. “I’d give an admiral to have a bishop. Come on, now; make your game. Red or black?” “Well, I say red,” said the Devil. “It’s the ace of clubs,” said Davy Jones; “I win; and it’s the first bishop ever I had in my life.” The Devil was mighty angry at that - at losing a bishop. “I’ll not play any more,” he said; “I’m off home. Some people gets too good cards for me. There was some queer shuffling when that pack was cut, that’s my belief.”

‘“Ah, stay and be friends, man,” said Davy Jones. “Look at what’s coming down the street. I’ll give you that for nothing.”

‘Now, coming down the street there was a reefer - one of those apprentice fellows. And he was brass-bound fit to play music. He stood about six feet, and there were bright brass buttons down his jacket, and on his collar, and on his sleeves. His cap had a big gold badge, with a house-flag in seven different colours in the middle of it, and a gold chain cable of a chinstay twisted round it. He was wearing his cap on three hairs, and he walked on both the pavements and all the road. His trousers were cut like wind-sails round the ankles. He had a fathom of red silk tie rolling out over his chest. He’d a cigarette in a twisted clay holder a foot and a half long. He was chewing tobacco over his shoulders as he walked. He’d a bottle of rum-hot in one hand, a bag of jam tarts in the other, and his pockets were full of love-letters from every port between Rio and Callao, round by the East.

“You mean to say you’ll give me that?” said the Devil. “I will,” said Davy Jones, “and a beauty he is. I never see a finer.” ‘He is, indeed, a beauty,” said the Devil. “I take back what I said about the cards. I’m sorry I spoke crusty. What’s the matter with some more burnt brandy?” “Burnt brandy be it,” said Davy Jones. So then they rang the bell, and ordered a new jug and clean glasses.

‘Now the Devil was so proud of what Davy had given him, he couldn’t keep away from him. He used to hang about the East Bute Docks, under the red-brick clock-tower, looking at the barque the young man worked aboard. Bill Harker his name was. He was in a West Coast barque, the Coronet loading fuel for Hilo. So at last, when the Coronet was sailing, the Devil shipped himself aboard her, as one of the crowd in the fo’c’sle, and away they went down the Channel. At first he was very happy, for Bill Harker was in the same watch, and the two would yarn together. And though he was wise when he shipped, Bill Harker taught him a lot. There was a lot of things Bill Harker knew about. But when they were off the River Plate, they got caught in a pampero, and it blew very hard, and a big green sea began to run. The Coronet was a wet ship, and for three days you could stand upon her poop, and look forward and see nothing but a smother of foam from the break of the poop to the jib-boom. The crew had to roost on the poop. The fo’c’sle was flooded out. So while they were like this the flying jib worked loose. “The jib will be gone in half a tick,” said the mate. “Out there, one of you, and make it fast, before it blows away.” But the boom was dipping under every minute, and the waist was four feet deep, and green water came aboard all along her length. So none of the crowd would go forward. Then Bill Harker shambled out, and away he went forward, with the green seas smashing over him, and he lay out along the jib-boom and made the sail fast, and jolly nearly drowned he was. “That’s a brave lad, that Bill Harker,” said the Devil. “Ah, come off,” said the sailors. “Them reefers, they haven’t got souls to be saved.” It was that that set the Devil thinking.

‘By and by they came up with the Horn; and if it had blown off the Plate, it now blew off the roof. Talk about wind and weather. They got them both for sure aboard the Coronet. And it blew all the sails off her, and she rolled all her masts out, and the seas made a breach of her bulwarks, and the ice knocked a hole in her bows. So watch and watch they pumped the old Coronet, and the leak gained steadily, and there they were hove to under a weather cloth, five and a half degrees to the south of anything. And while they were like this, just about giving up hope, the old man sent the watch below, and told them they could start prayers. So the Devil crept on to the top of the half-deck, to look through the scuttle, to see what the reefers were doing, and what kind of prayers Bill Harker was putting up. And he saw them all sitting round the table, under the lamp, with Bill Harker at the head. And each of them had a hand of cards, and a length of knotted rope-yarn, and they were playing able-whackets. Each man in turn put down a card, and swore a new blasphemy, and if his swear didn’t come as he played the card, then all the others hit him with their teasers. But they never once had a chance to hit Bill Harker. “I think they were right about his soul,” said the Devil. And he sighed, like he was sad.

‘Shortly after that the Coronet went down, and all hands drowned in her, saving only Bill and the Devil. They came up out of the smothering green seas, and saw the stars blinking in the sky, and heard the wind howling like a pack of dogs. They managed to get aboard the Coronet's hen-house, which had come adrift, and floated. The fowls were all drowned inside, so they lived on drowned hens. As for drink, they had to do without, for there was none. When they got thirsty they splashed their faces with salt water; but they were so cold they didn’t feel thirsty very bad. They drifted three days and three nights, till their skins were all cracked and salt-caked. And all the Devil thought of was whether Bill Harker had a soul. And Bill kept telling the Devil what a thundering big feed they would have as soon as they fetched to port, and how good a rum-hot would be, with a lump of sugar and a bit of lemon peel.

‘And at last the old hen-house came bump on to Tierra Del Fuego, and there were some natives cooking rabbits. So the Devil and Bill made a raid of the whole jing bang, and ate till they were tired. Then they had a drink out of a brook, and a warm by the fire, and a pleasant sleep. “Now,” said the Devil, “I will see if he’s got a soul. I’ll see if he give thanks.” So after an hour or two Bill took a turn up and down and came to the Devil. “It’s mighty dull on this forgotten continent,” he said. “Have you got a ha’penny?” “No,” said the Devil. “What in joy d’ye want with a ha’penny?” “I might have played you pitch and toss,” said Bill. “It was better fun on the hen-coop than here.” “I give you up,” said the Devil; “you’ve no more soul than the inner part of an empty barrel.” And with that the Devil vanished in a flame of sulphur.

'Bill stretched himself, and put another shrub on the fire. He picked up a few round shells, and began a game of knucklebones.’