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Illustration of Davy Jones sitting on his locker, wearing a pirate captain's uniform, while viewing a 1789 chart of Ferrol Harbor, Spain, belonging to HMS Howe. The ship had run aground at the mouth of the harbor on 2 November 1892, allegedly after using a poorly prepared naval chart to navigate its waters. A Royal Navy court-martial opened an inquiry into the conduct of Vice Admiral Henry Fairfax, who was charged with negligence for ordering a hazardous course when the ship entered harbor. On 7 January 1893 the court found that the charge against Fairfax was not proven.
"Davy Jones' Locker" is an idiom for the bottom of the sea: the state of death among drowned sailors. It is used as a euphemism for death at sea (to be "sent to Davy Jones's Locker"), whereas the name Davy Jones is a nickname for what would be the devil, saint, or god of the seas. The origins of the name are unclear and many theories have been put forth, including incompetent sailors, a pub owner who kidnapped sailors, or that Davy Jones is another name for the devil—as in "Devil Jonah". This nautical superstition was popularized in the 19th century.
The imprint:
CHART
<style data-mw-deduplicate="TemplateStyles:r369756387">.mw-parser-output .smallcaps{font-variant:small-caps}</style>of
FERROL HARBR
1789
HMS HOWE
The title and caption (not shown):
"DAVY JONES'S LOCKER."
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Davy Jones. "AHA! SO LONG AS THEY STICK TO THEM OLD CHARTS, NO FEAR O' MY LOCKER BEIN' EMPTY!!"
The accompanying text feature (not shown):
"DAVY JONES'S LOCKER."
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Davy Jones, loquitur:—
"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest. Hey! ho! and a bottle of rum!"
Faith, that's a chorus I can rattle off with zest. Gratefully it clatters upon <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Davy's tym-pa-num,
Like a devil's tattoo from Death's drum! Fi! Fo! Fum! These be very parlous times for old legends of the sea.
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Vanderdecken is taboo'd, the Sea Sarpint is pooh-pooh'd, but 'tis plain as any pikestaff they can't disestablish Me!
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Daddy Neptune may delight in the Island trim and tight, where his sea-dogs breed and fight, as in days of yore,
When old <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Charlie Dibdin's fancy piped free songs of <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Jack and <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Nancy, of Jolly Salts at sea, and Old Tarry-Breeks ashore;
But if Britons rule the waves, as the grog-fired sailor raves, when he dreams of glorious graves in the deep dark main,
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Daddy Neptune must allow <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Davy shares his empire now, or the Sultan and the Howe have gone down in vain.
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Daddy Neptune loves me not. Plumped by storm or by shot, my Locker held a lot in the days gone by,
But 'tis daily growing fuller. Is the British Tar off colour, are the sea-dogs slower, duller, though as game to die?
Has Science spoilt their skill, that their iron pots so fill my old Locker? How I thrill at the lumbering crash,
When a-crunch upon a rock, with a thundering Titan shock, goes some shapeless metal block, to immortal smash?
Oh! it's real, rasping fun! Mighty hull, monster gun, all are mine ere all's done; and the millions madly spent
On a lollopping wolloping kettle, with ten thousand tons of metal sink as the Titans settle, turtle-turned, or wrenched and rent,
To my rocks and my ooze. I seem little like to lose by the "Progress" some abuse, and the many crack up.
Ah! <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Neptune, sour old lad, <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Davy Jones may well look glad at the modern Iron-clad, and thank <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Armstrong and <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Krupp!
Science and Salvage? Fudge! If I am any judge, my sea-depths and salt sludge will not lose by them.
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Nep calls me callous mocker, but, according to my Cocker, I may laugh, with a full Locker, whilst the fools condemn.
Think of daring the blue brine with a chart of the Eighty-Nine, and "a regular goldmine" in one huge black hulk!
Whilst the lubbers stick to that, I shall flourish and grow fat like a shark or ocean-rat, though old <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Nep may sulk.
Demon-Sexton of the Deep! Ha! ha! Ho! ho! I keep my old office. Wives may weep, and the taxpayers moan;
Let the grumblers make appeal to King Science! Lords of Steel, Iron Chieftains, do ye feel when your victims groan?
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Davy Jones is well content with that tribute ye have sent, with the millions ye have spent just to glut his gorge;
He had seldom such a fill in the days of wood—and skill—constant sea-fights, or the spill of the Royal George.
Good old false last-century Chart! Though the conning may be smart, and the steersman play his part, Palinurus-like,
Whilst they trust to your vain vellum, which is almost sure to sell 'em, even <link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Davy Jones can tell 'em, they may sink or strike.
Hooray, King Death, hooray! Who says we've had our day! Pass the rum and let's be gay. Not that "dead man's chest,"
<link href="mw-data:TemplateStyles:r369756387" rel="mw-deduplicated-inline-style"/>Robert Louis grimly sings, like my "Locker Chorus" rings—mingling weirdly wedded things—grisly doom and jest!
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