“At one time,” said he, “you never got up of a morning without seeing a few dead Russians floating about.  You could chuck them overboard if you liked, and nobody interfered.  Many a time I’ve put one over the side.  But now you dare not whisper, much less touch them.”

The general opinion amongst English seamen, from the master downwards, was that a great injustice had been done to us by the Decree of Liberation.

On one occasion I lay alongside a Yankee ship which was loading flax.  Work had ceased for breakfast.  I saw the chief officer on the poop, said “Good morning” to him, and asked him how the loading was going on.

“Well,” said he, “it goes not so bad, but we’ve had an accident this morning which stopped us for nearly an hour.  There were three or four bales of flax slung in the hatchway; the slings slipped, and the bales fell right on a dozen Russians.”

“That is very serious,” I said.  “Did it kill them?”

“No,” drawled he, with a slow smile; “it didn’t exactly kill them, but I guess it has flattened them out some.”

The “Bran” Wharf was then a large pontoon, with dwelling accommodation for Custom-house officers and harbour officials.  It was moored just at the entrance to the dock or mole, and was in charge of an official who regulated the berthing of vessels.  This man was originally a boatswain aboard a Russian warship.  He was illiterate, but very clever, so much so that great power was put into his hands; indeed, he became quite as powerful in his way as his Imperial Majesty himself.  Every conceivable complaint and petty dispute was taken to him, and it was soon found that it could be settled in a way that did not involve a fine or imprisonment.  In fact, there were occasions when a favourite English captain or mate asked this official’s aid in getting the Russians to work properly.  He would, if agreeably disposed, come aboard, spit, stamp, and swear at the men in a most picturesque way, and if he had had a glass or two of grog, or wanted one, and the captain or mate made a very bad report, he would lash the skulkers with a piece of rope.  When he was finished there was no more need for complaint.  This notorious person was called Tom the Boatswain.  He drew very fine distinctions as to whom he favoured with his countenance and his chastening rod.  For obvious reasons, he loathed a Swede and a Norwegian.  In truth, he told me himself that Englishmen were “dobra” (good), and that Norwegians and Swedes were “knet dobra.”  He spoke a peculiar kind of English, with a fascinating accent, and when he went his rounds in the early morning, rowed by two uniformed sailors, studied respect was paid to him.  His invitations to breakfast, or to have a glass of brandy (which he preferred to whisky), indicated the esteem, fear, or amount of favours inspired by him.  He in turn endeavoured to pay a hurried visit to each of his guests, ostensibly to see that their vessels were properly