I've just acquired the earliest book of poems by Burt Franklin Jenness titled SERVICE RHYMES, © 1917. Most of the poems can be found in a later book titled MAN-O-WAR RHYMES as suspected but there are an additional 14 poems. This one I find the most compelling and unusual, for its time:

From SERVICE RHYMES, by Burt Franklin Jenness, published by Press of El Paso Printing Co., El Paso, Texas, US, © 1917, pp. 48-55.

The Black Watch

Ever heard th' black watch story?
Ask th' boys o' our old crew;
There's sea yarns a sight more gory,
But there aint a tale more true.

An' if th' boys are skeerce, your way,
('Spect they're nigh all dead by now.)
Ye can wait toll Judgment Day,
An' ye'll hear it then, I 'low.

'Cause, no matter what th' color
Uv their sweatin', shinin' hide,
Er if they called 'em black, er yaller,
They wuz white men – when they died.

An' when th' black watch answers: "Here!"
To that last roll call, on high,
In th' good book there'll appear
Th' tale o' how they come t' die.

It wuz down off San Diego
In th' spring o' ninety-eight;
Th' news it struck us like a blow,
O' how th' Maine had met her fate.

Wal, there wa'n'y no peace o' livin'
On our packet after that;
An' th' fight our crew wuz givin'
O' them Spaniards! They wuz at

'Em hot, from reveille, an' fought
'Em clean up t' taps, at night –
In their minds – but you'd 'a' thought
Ye smelled th' powder, in their fight.

O' nights they'd swarm th' decks t' tell
Jest how they'd man th' turret guns,
An' how they'd face th' shot an' shell
'Mid their dead an' dyin' ones.

An' all th' time a-grinnin' 'round
The edge o' that 'ere braggin' crowd,
Th' stokers, gapin'', stood spell-bound,
An' silent as a trooper's shroud.

Th' boys they called 'em yaller coons –
One fire-room crew wuz all
We had o' blacks – no octoroons
Or half-breed niggers, what you'd call

A black watch, they wuz, through an' through;
Six o' 'em in number four;
An' skeerce their jeers had died, that crew
Wished they had as many more.

Wal, you've read it all in hist'ry,
How we fought th' wind an' tide,
Through th' Straits, an' burned th' sea
Steamin' up on t' other side.

Fer days we bucked a sou'east trade
That 'ud freeze yer marrow bones;
O' nights a chill crep' in, that made
Us chatter like our teeth wuz stones.

Th' damp o' dog-days, too, 'u'd come,
An' heat 'twould do fer hell, I reck's,
S' cussed hot 'twould melt th' gum
O' yer hip-boots, washin' decks.

An' all th' time th' Spanish ships
Wuz racin', too, ag'in th' tide,
P'inted straight t' where th' rips
O' Santiago's harbor ride.

Wal, we kep' her, night an' day,
Under forced draught, an' our men,
Deck an' stoke-hole, worked th' way
It's like they'll never work again.

Th' fireroom heat wuz well nigh hell;
Th' furnace mouths well nigh its fire;
Th' stokers, like th' damned t' dwell
Below, kep' heapin' fuel higher.

Through th' doldrums; Caribbean;
Steamin' nor'ard o'er th' brine;
Slavin', swinin' like a peon;
Nary a man there wuz t' whine.

Bearin's hot, an' packin's burnin';
Pistons spittin' tongues o' steam;
Racin' screws a-grumblin', churnin';
Cross-seas slappin' us abeam.

Days an' weeks we watched an' groveled,
Till th' weeks rolled 'round again;
While below, th' black watch shoveled,
Stoked an' sliced – like whiter men.

Battle strung, an' nigh exhausted,
O' nights, th' crew off watch would gibe,
Taunt an' jeer, aye, oft accosted
Shamefully, th' black skinned tribe.

Scored th' black watch, too, as cowards,
'Fraid t' fight, an' 'fraid t' die;
Bid 'em shift their course t' sou'ards,
T' th' land o' mammy's lullaby.

Then th' day hove 'round fer sightin'
O' th' top-masts of our fleet –
Soon we'd be in line fer fightin';
Soon we'd feel a salvo's heat.

Th' Cap'n whistled down fer speed,
Steam-gauge, then, wuz climbin' higher;
Our faces, scorched, seemed like t' bleed,
Still th' old chief bellered: "Fire!"

I wuz standin' boiler three,
At th' water-tender's post;
Our fire-room crew wuz white – an' we,
God help us – scored th' black watch most.

'Twas nearin' time fer us t' quit,
Our watch wuz makin' fourteen-ten;
Craft a-shakin' like a broken sprit;
Safety valve a-poppin' when –

My God! I heard a hiss o' steam,
An' then a shriekin', piercin' roar –
An' fightin' through a seethin' stream,
Our men wuz gropin' fer th' door.

I tried t' reach th' valves – but fell,
An' crawled, there in th' pit, fer air –
There may be tortures worse, in hell,
But I'd sooner take my chances there.

My guts wuz burnin' seemed, an' tight
Aroun' my neck a scaldin' line
Wuz chokin' – an' afore my sight,
Streaks o' red an' green 'u'd shine.

Then things kind o' eased, y' might say –
Didn't hear a sound, no more –
Felt all sort o' snug an' comfy –
Guess I wuz nearin' t'other shore.

An' then it seemed like somethin' druv me
Nigh clean up'ards through th' air,
'N' I saw a big, black face above me –
An', God! th' whole black watch wuz there!

I c'u'd see 'em, now, a-luggin'
Uv our white men to'ards th' door –
'N' then, at my throat, that cussed tuggin'
Come – 'n' I didn't see no more.

Till I come to, up in sick-bay,
In a row o' clean, white beds,
Where, silent, on their pill'rs lay
A dozen other bandaged heads.

I looked a spell, from face t' face,
Then shet my burnin' eyes up tight –
O' them poor devils in that place,
Six wuz black, an' six wuz white!

O God! th' nights o' pain that followed,
An' th' sleepless days, as well;
They begged, an' prayed, cursed an' hollered,
Fer rufuge from a livin' hell.

But th' good Lord soon relieved 'em –
One by one th' black watch died;
In their blankets, wrapped, they heaved 'em,
Lashed t' grate-bars, overside.

NOTES

In 1898 the United States and Spain declared war on one another, following an explosion that sank the battleship Maine in Havana Harbor. The battleship Oregon made a famous dash from the Pacific around Cape Horn to join the Caribbean fleet off Santiago Harbor.

Cheerily,
Charley Noble