John Barleycorn HTML version
It was during the early winter of 1892 that I resolved to go to sea. My Hancock Fire
Brigade experience was very little responsible for this. I still drank and frequented
saloons-- practically lived in saloons. Whisky was dangerous, in my opinion, but not
wrong. Whisky was dangerous like other dangerous things in the natural world. Men died
of whisky; but then, too, fishermen were capsized and drowned, hoboes fell under trains
and were cut to pieces. To cope with winds and waves, railroad trains, and bar-rooms,
one must use judgment. To get drunk after the manner of men was all right, but one must
do it with discretion. No more quarts of whisky for me.
What really decided me to go to sea was that I had caught my first vision of the death-
road which John Barleycorn maintains for his devotees. It was not a clear vision,
however, and there were two phases of it, somewhat jumbled at the time. It struck me,
from watching those with whom I associated, that the life we were living was more
destructive than that lived by the average man.
John Barleycorn, by inhibiting morality, incited to crime. Everywhere I saw men doing,
drunk, what they would never dream of doing sober. And this wasn't the worst of it. It
was the penalty that must be paid. Crime was destructive. Saloon-mates I drank with,
who were good fellows and harmless, sober, did most violent and lunatic things when
they were drunk. And then the police gathered them in and they vanished from our ken.
Sometimes I visited them behind the bars and said good-bye ere they journeyed across
the bay to put on the felon's stripes. And time and again I heard the one explanation "IF I
HADN'T BEEN DRUNK I WOULDN'T A- DONE IT." And sometimes, under the spell
of John Barleycorn, the most frightful things were done--things that shocked even my
case- hardened soul.
The other phase of the death-road was that of the habitual drunkards, who had a way of
turning up their toes without apparent provocation. When they took sick, even with
trifling afflictions that any ordinary man could pull through, they just pegged out.
Sometimes they were found unattended and dead in their beds; on occasion their bodies
were dragged out of the water; and sometimes it was just plain accident, as when Bill
Kelley, unloading cargo while drunk, had a finger jerked off, which, under the
circumstances, might just as easily have been his head.
So I considered my situation and knew that I was getting into a bad way of living. It
made toward death too quickly to suit my youth and vitality. And there was only one way
out of this hazardous manner of living, and that was to get out. The sealing fleet was
wintering in San Francisco Bay, and in the saloons I met skippers, mates, hunters, boat-
steerers, and boat-pullers. I met the seal-hunter, Pete Holt, and agreed to be his boat-
puller and to sign on any schooner he signed on. And I had to have half a dozen drinks
with Pete Holt there and then to seal our agreement.