[Illustration: “Shells fell upon her like hailstones, sweeping her
decks, crashing into her sides.... She was on fire”]




  THE BOY’S BOOK OF
  THE SEA

  BY
  ERIC WOOD

  Author of “The Boy’s Book of Heroes,” “The Boy Scouts’ Roll of Honour,”
  etc., etc.

  WITH FOUR COLOUR PLATES AND TWELVE
  ILLUSTRATIONS IN BLACK-AND-WHITE

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  FUNK AND WAGNALLS COMPANY




CONTENTS


                                                               PAGE

  NAVAL WARFARE--OLD AND NEW                                      1

  _A comparison of ancient and modern naval warfare
  is most interesting, and here, in the stories of the
  Battles of Trafalgar and the Bight of Heligoland, the
  comparison--nay, contrast--is particularly striking._

  THE MEN WHO DISCOVERED THE WORLD                               29

  _The men who ventured forth on the unknown seas
  laid the foundations of nations and commerce, and
  opened up new worlds; and the stories of their voyages
  are amongst the finest in the world’s history._

  SOME EARLY BUCCANEERS                                          45

  _The glamour of romance has been thrown around
  the buccaneers, and not unjustly, for anything more
  romantic--not to say exciting--it would be hard to
  imagine than the story of those men who, from being
  hunters of wild animals, became scourers of the seas:
  heroic ruffians!_

  MORGAN: BUCCANEER AND GOVERNOR                                 57

  _Sir Henry Morgan, most renowned of the buccaneers,
  was a born leader of men and a doer of mighty
  deeds. He would have made a capital admiral or
  general; as it was, he was merely a buccaneer, who
  later forsook that profession for the safer one of
  Governor of Jamaica._

  UNDER THE JOLLY ROGER                                          76

  _Who has not read with many a thrill the imaginative
  stories of pirates? But no novelist can conceive
  anything more dramatic than the deeds of the real
  pirates whose tales are told here._

  BLOCKADE RUNNING                                               94

  _For peril, adventure, and courage blockade running
  would be difficult to beat, and the man who succeeds in
  slipping through earns all the money that he gets._

  ADVENTURES ON A DESERT ISLAND                                 102

  _The life and adventures of our old friend Robinson
  Crusoe have always entertained us--old and young;
  but we have no need to go to fiction to find adventures
  quite as thrilling as any poor old Robinson Crusoe
  experienced. Here is a tale of shipwrecked and
  castaway mariners._

  ADRIFT WITH MADMEN                                            113

  _When the “Columbian” was burnt in the Atlantic
  one of her boats, laden with sixteen men, was adrift for
  thirteen days--days of terror, in which men went mad
  from thirst._

  FRANCIS DRAKE’S RAID ON THE SPANISH MAIN                      122

  _Drake and Hawkins went slave-trading on the
  Main, and, having been played a treacherous trick
  by the Spaniards, a few years later Drake went back
  to take his revenge; and though ill-luck stepped in and
  kept him from doing all he would, yet he exacted good
  toll, and came back well pleased._

  A GALLANT FISHERMAN                                           140

  _The men who garner the harvests of the seas have a
  perilous, adventurous life; here is a fisherman’s yarn
  of heroism._

  FIRE AT SEA                                                   145

  _There are few things more terrible than fire at sea,
  where salvation depends, not on outside help, but on
  the resource and heroic work of the endangered sailors._

  ROMANCE OF TREASURE-TROVE                                     158

  _Scattered about the Seven Seas are islands on which
  tradition has it that vast hoards of treasure have been
  hidden; and men have fitted out expeditions to find
  them. Sometimes they are successful--sometimes not._

  ADVENTURES UNDER SEA                                          166

  _Father Neptune’s kingdom down below has been
  invaded by presumptuous man, who not only goes upon
  the sea in ships, but under as well; while when the
  need arises he doesn’t even bother about a ship! These
  are stories of divers and submarines._

  CHASING PIRATES IN THE CHINA SEA                              177

  _Some tales of modern pirating._

  A VOYAGE OF DANGER                                            186

  _Of all the chapters in the sea’s history few are
  more thrilling than those which tell of mutiny, and the
  affair of the “Flowery Land” is a classic._

  THE GUARDIANS OF THE COAST                                    196

  _Coastguards and lighthousemen are hardy, noble
  men, whose duties are manifold and arduous. Here
  are some stories of the men who keep watch and ward
  over the coasts, and in the doing of it win for themselves
  glory._

  GREAT NAVAL DISASTERS                                         206

  _The Loss of the “Formidable” (1915) and the
  “Victoria” (1893)._

  INCIDENTS IN THE SLAVE TRADE                                  219

  _Although Britain spent millions of pounds to put
  down the slave trade, yet she also had to spend the lives
  of many gallant sailors before the work was done._

  A RACE TO SUCCOUR                                             226

  _A story of a brilliant achievement by American
  revenue men and lifeboatmen._

  A TRAGEDY OF THE SOUTH POLE                                   233

  _The quest of the South Pole lured men for years to the
  ice-bound regions of the earth, and at last success crowned
  the efforts which cost life and treasure and gave undying
  honour to the conquerors._

  STORIES OF THE LIFEBOAT                                       247

  _The lifeboatmen are the saviours of men who sail
  the seas, and their story is one of sublime indifference
  to death and of glorious heroism._

  TALES OF THE SMUGGLERS                                        260

  _Stories of smugglers have always had a fascination,
  and these incidents of smuggling days are full
  of thrill and virility._

  MODERN CORSAIRS                                               274

  _When the Great War of 1914 turned the armed
  hosts of Europe loose, the British Navy found before
  it a gigantic task: the keeping open of the trade routes.
  German cruisers and armed liners swept hither and
  thither, holding up merchant vessels, as the privateers of
  olden days did; and the “Emden” and the “Königsberg,”
  etc. became the corsairs of the twentieth century._

  THE WRECKERS                                                  282

  _False lights that lured the mariner astray and on to
  the rocks; bold, unscrupulous men who lay in wait
  for the ships to run to their doom; the looting of vessels
  rendered helpless--all these things and many others go
  to make up thrilling chapters in the story of the sea._

  THE TRAGEDY OF A WONDER SHIP                                  295

  _The “Titanic” was the finest ship in the world.
  She was pronounced unsinkable--but, out of the night
  there loomed an iceberg which ripped her plates asunder
  like so much paper, and the safest ship in the world
  dived beneath the surface with hundreds of unfortunate
  passengers and crew._

  MYSTERIES OF THE SEA                                          309

  _Queer stories of ships that disappeared._




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  COLOUR PLATES

  “SHELLS FELL UPON HER LIKE HAILSTONES, SWEEPING
  HER DECKS, CRASHING INTO HER SIDES. SHE WAS ON
  FIRE”                                              _Frontispiece_

                                                        FACING PAGE

  “SWORD IN HAND, ROBERTS LED HIS MEN TO THE FIGHT,
    DASHING THROUGH A VERY HAIL OF SHOT”                         90

  “THE FUNNELS AND VENTILATORS WERE BELCHING FORTH
    MIGHTY COLUMNS OF FLAME, EVERY PART OF THE SHIP
    WAS ABLAZE”                                                 150

  “THOUGH HER MEN WORKED HARD AT THE PUMPS, THEY
    COULD NOT SAVE HER”                                         226


  BLACK-AND-WHITE PLATES

                                                        FACING PAGE

  “KENNEDY, WITH A COUPLE OF MIDDIES AND FEWER THAN
    THIRTY MEN, RUSHED ABOARD”                                    8

  “A MIGHTY GALE CAUGHT DIAZ, AND CARRIED HIS FRAIL
    CRAFT BEFORE IT”                                             30

  “PROMPTLY BOARDED THE _Vice-Admiral_. ‘SURRENDER!’
    YELLED THE BUCCANEERS”                                       50

  “THERE WAS A WHOOSH! WHOOSH! OF A ROCKET HEAVENWARDS--THE
    WARNING TO THE BLOCKADING FLEET”                             94

  “WEYBHAYS AND HIS MEN FELL UPON THE PIRATES”                  108

  “‘FOR THE HONOUR OF THE QUEEN OF ENGLAND, I MUST
    HAVE PASSAGE THIS WAY!’ CRIED DRAKE, AND DISCHARGED
    HIS PISTOL”                                                 134

  “THE SHIP WAS NOW IN ONE BLAZE, AND HER MASTS BEGAN
    TO FALL IN”                                                 154

  “SWINGING FROM THIS SIDE TO THAT AS HE WAS ATTACKED,
    THE DIVER MANAGED TO WARD OFF THE TIGERS OF
    THE DEEP”                                                   176

  “TO THE RIGGING THEY FLED, SCRAMBLING UP IN FRENZIED
    HASTE”                                                      200

  “IT WAS SIMPLY AGONISING TO WATCH THE WRETCHED MEN
    STRUGGLING OVER THE SHIP’S BOTTOM IN MASSES”                216

  “SHE FOUGHT BRAVELY AGAINST THE TUMULT, BUT WAS
    DRIVEN BACK AGAIN AND AGAIN”                                250

  “MEN, STRONG-LIMBED, FULL-BLOODED, WITH THE ZEST
    AND THE LOVE OF LIFE IN THEM, STOOD CALMLY BY”              300




THE BOY’S BOOK OF THE SEA




NAVAL WARFARE--OLD AND NEW

Trafalgar and Modern Fights in the North Sea


Not the least remarkable of the changes which have taken place during
the last hundred years--it is less than that, really--are those which
have come to pass in the sphere of warfare; and the accounts of the
battles here given show how different naval fighting is to-day from
what it was in Nelson’s time. Then wooden ships, now steel leviathans;
then guns that fired about 800 yards, now giant weapons that hit
the mark ten miles off; then close fighting, boarding, hand-to-hand
conflicts, now long-range fighting, with seldom, if ever, a chance
to board. Then shots that did what would be considered little damage
beside that wrought by the high-explosive shells which penetrate thick
armour-plate, and which, well-placed, can send a ship to the bottom.
Then none of those speeding death-tubes, the torpedoes, which work such
dreadful havoc with a floating citadel; then casualties in a whole
battle no more than those suffered by a single ship nowadays. And so
one could go on, touching on wireless telegraphy, fire-control--that
ingenious system which does man’s work of sighting the guns--aircraft
and submarines, which constitute so serious a factor in present-day
warfare. But the story of Trafalgar, that well-fought battle against a
noble foe who is now a gallant ally, and those of the North Sea, 1914
and 1915, will show the revolutions in modern naval warfare.

Nelson had determined to meet and beat Villeneuve, in command of
the allied French and Spanish fleet, which left Cadiz at the end of
September, 1805. The French admiral did not know how near Nelson was.
To-day the means of communication are vastly different, and battleships
are able to discover the proximity of their foes much more easily than
in those other days. It is one of the great changes in naval warfare.
So it was that the allied fleets were dogged until Nelson decided it
was time to strike.

On the 21st the rival fleets met. The English fleet was in order of
battle--two lines, with an advanced squadron of eight fast-sailing
two-deckers. Nelson, in the _Victory_, led one column, Collingwood, in
the _Royal Sovereign_, the other.

About half-past eight Villeneuve ordered his fleet to draw up in
such array and position that, if necessary, they could make for
Cadiz; but the manœuvre was badly executed, and the fleet assumed a
crescent-shaped formation, into which the English columns were sailing.

Nelson was longing for the fight; so were his men. But, although the
officers on board the _Victory_ were eager for the fight, they would
have been content to forgo the honour of opening the fight in favour of
some other ship, fearing lest Nelson should be killed.

Nelson was asked: “Could not the _Temeraire_ take the foremost place of
the column?”

Nelson replied:

“Oh, yes, let her go--if she can!”

Captain Hardy hailed the _Temeraire_ to give her instructions; but,
meanwhile, Nelson was moving about the decks giving orders that made
the _Victory_ leap forward and hold her place in the vanguard.

“There!” he said to Hardy, as he came back. “Let the _Temeraires_ open
the ball, if they can--which they most assuredly can’t! I think there’s
nothing more to be done now, is there, till we open fire? Oh, yes, stay
a minute, though. I suppose I must give the fleet something as a final
fillip. Let me see. How would this do: ‘Nelson expects that every man
will do his duty?’”

Hardy suggested that “England expects” would be an improvement. Nelson
agreed. The order was given; and the message was soon fluttering in the
breeze.

What shouts of enthusiasm greeted the signal in Trafalgar’s Bay! Every
man took it as a message to himself, and forthwith vowed to do what was
expected of him.

“Now,” said Nelson. “I can do no more. We must trust to the great
Disposer of events and the justice of our cause. I thank God for this
opportunity of doing my duty!”

For all his apparent good spirits the Admiral had a foreboding of
impending ill, and when Captain Blackwood left him to take up his place
on the _Euryalus_, the Admiral gripped him by the hand and said:

“God bless you, Blackwood! I shall never see you again.”

The battle was opened by the French ship _Fougueux_, which fired upon
the _Royal Sovereign_.

“Engage the enemy more closely,” was now Nelson’s signal, and the
English closed in upon the foe. Collingwood broke through the enemy’s
line astern the _Santa Anna_. He reserved his fire until he was almost
at the muzzles of their guns, then, with a roar, his port broadside
was hurled at the _Santa Anna_, and four hundred men fell killed and
wounded, and fourteen of the Spaniard’s guns were put out of action.

The starboard guns spoke to the _Fougueux_ at the same time. Owing to
the dense smoke and the greater distance, the damage done was not so
great.

“By Jove, Rotherham!” cried Collingwood to his flag-captain. “What
would Nelson give to be here?”

“And,” says James in his Naval History, “by a singular coincidence
Lord Nelson, the moment he saw his friend in his enviable position,
exclaimed: ‘See how that noble fellow Collingwood carries his ship into
action.’”

Collingwood now pressed still closer on the _Santa Anna_, and a smart
battle began between the two great ships, till four other ships bore
down upon the _Royal Sovereign_, so that she was very soon the centre
of a ring of fire. So close were the ships, and so continuous was the
fire, that often cannon-balls met in mid-air, though more frequently
they fell on board and did much damage. Badly aimed shots often passed
over the _Royal Sovereign_, and found their mark on the decks of French
or Spanish vessels. Presently the four new-comers veered off when they
noticed that other British ships were bearing down upon them.

With a roar the British _Belleisle_ sent a broadside into the _Santa
Anna_ as she passed; and then Collingwood was alone with his foe.
For over an hour the duel raged, and the _Royal Sovereign_, although
she carried a dozen guns fewer than the _Santa Anna_, suffered less.
Battered, mastless, with hundreds of men lying in pools of blood, the
_Santa Anna_ still fought on, refusing for a long time to strike her
colours. At last, however, there was nothing for it but to give in, and
the Spanish flag fluttered down the mast.

When the battle began the foe opened fire at the _Victory_, which they
knew was Nelson’s flagship. The English Admiral had made sure that he
should not be lost sight of, for he had hoisted several flags lest one
should be carried away. The _Victory’s_ maintopgallant sail was shot
away, and broadsides were hurled at her, but still she kept on.

Nelson wished to encounter Villeneuve, and, despite a raking fire
poured in upon him by the _Santissima Trinidad_, he kept on his way,
taking the _Victory_ into the thick of the fight. He refused to have
the hammocks slung higher lest they should interrupt his view, although
they would have afforded shelter from the enemy’s fire. Men dropped
all about the ship, shots ploughed up the deck or bored their way
through the sides, yet the gallant _Victory_ held on her way for the
_Bucentaure_, which Nelson knew carried Admiral Villeneuve.

Eight ships, however, surrounded her, and made it impossible for the
_Victory_ to be brought alongside. These, belching forth their heavy
fire at her, smashed her wheel, hurled her mizzen-mast overboard,
shattered her sails. The wind had dropped, too; the _Victory_ was
almost at a standstill, and it was impossible to bring a gun into
action.

Pacing his quarter-deck Nelson waited for his time to come. While doing
so, a shot passed between him and Hardy, bruising the latter’s foot,
and tearing the buckle from his shoe. Both stopped in their promenade,
looking anxiously at each other.

“This is too warm work to last long, Hardy,” said Nelson.

“The enemy are closing up their line, sir,” said Hardy. “See! We can’t
get through without running one of them aboard!”

“I can’t help that,” said Nelson, “and I don’t see that it matters
much which we tackle first. Take your choice. Go on board which you
please.”

Villeneuve on the _Bucentaure_ was therefore given a treble-shotted,
close-range broadside, which disabled four hundred men and put twenty
guns out of action, and left the ship almost defenceless.

Then, porting his helm, Nelson bore down on the _Redoutable_ and the
_Neptune_. The latter veered off, but the former could not escape the
_Victory_, which she therefore received with a broadside. Then, fearing
that a boarding party would enter her, the lower deck ports were shut.
Meanwhile the _Temeraire_ had fastened on to the _Redoutable_ on the
other side, and the most momentous episode in that great day’s work
took place. In it we can see the difference between the naval fighting
of a century ago and that of to-day, the latter being fought at long
range, with no attempt at boarding.

The _Victory’s_ guns were depressed so that they should not do damage
to the _Temeraire_, and broadside after broadside was poured into
the _Redoutable_, which made a brave show. The two ships were almost
rubbing sides (now we fight at eight-mile range or more!), and men
stood by the British guns with buckets of water in their hands, which,
immediately the guns were fired, they emptied into the hole made in the
_Redoutable’s_ side lest she should catch fire, and so the prize be
lost.

In the _Redoutable’s_ top riflemen were posted, and throughout the
fight picked off man after man--a practice which Nelson himself
abhorred. It was from one of these snipers that the great Admiral
received his death-wound.

While pacing the poop deck, Nelson suddenly swung round and pitched
forward on his face. A ball had entered in at the left shoulder, and
passed through his backbone.

Hardy, turning, saw three men lifting him up.

“They have done for me at last, Hardy,” Nelson said feebly.

“Oh, I hope not!” cried Hardy.

“Yes,” was the reply; “my backbone is shot through!”

The bearers carried him down the ladders to the lower deck. On the
way, despite his awful agony, Nelson had thoughts for nothing but the
battle; he ordered that new tiller ropes should be rigged to replace
those which had been shot away at the moment the _Victory_ had crashed
into the _Redoutable_. Then, that they might not recognise him, he
covered his face and stars with his handkerchief.

They carried him into the cockpit. We will leave him, and return to the
conflict.

The men in the _Redoutable’s_ top still kept up their galling fire, as
also did the guns of the second deck, and in less than fifteen minutes
after Nelson had been shot down, no fewer than fifty of the _Victory’s_
officers and men had met a like fate.

Then the French determined to board. As it was impossible to do this by
the bulwarks, they lowered their main yard and turned it into a bridge,
over which they scrambled on to the deck of the _Victory_.

“Repel boarders!”

It was a cry like that of a wild beast, and it brought the lion’s
whelps from the lower decks. They hurled themselves at the venturesome
Frenchmen. With pistol and pike, cutlass and axe, the English fought
with the ferocity that had made them so dreaded in the past; when other
weapons failed they fought with bare fists, hurling the trespassers
overboard.

It cost the _Victory_ thirty men to repel that attack. But it cost the
_Redoutable_ more; and very soon not a Frenchman was left alive on the
decks of Nelson’s ship.

As we have said, while the _Victory_ was engaging the _Redoutable_ on
one side, the _Temeraire_ was tackling her on the other, the three
ships hugging each other with muzzles touching muzzles. Soon after the
attempt to board the _Victory_, the _Temeraire_ lashed her bowsprit to
the gangway of the _Redoutable_ so that she could not escape. Then she
poured in a raking fire until the Frenchman was compelled to surrender,
though not before she had twice been on fire, and more than five
hundred of her crew had been killed or wounded.

Some of the _Temeraire_ men then turned to deal with the _Fougueux_,
which had attacked her during the fight with the _Redoutable_.

Captain Hardy was too busy with the _Redoutable_ to do much; but
Lieutenant Kennedy quickly set a party to man the starboard batteries.
With these they opened fire at about one hundred yards, and crash! the
_Fougueux’s_ masts fell, her wheel was smashed, her rigging shattered,
and she was so crippled that she ran foul of the _Temeraire_, whose
crew lashed their foe to them, and Kennedy, with a couple of middies
and fewer than thirty seamen and marines, rushed aboard her.

Five hundred Frenchmen were still fresh for battle on the _Fougueux_,
but the Britishers did not hesitate. With a bound they were on the
enemy’s deck, and, slashing and hacking at the crowd that came up
against them, drove them back and still back. Dozens were killed and
others leapt overboard to escape the whirlwind that had fallen upon
them. The remainder scuttled away below, the English clapped the
hatches on them, and the ship was won.

[Illustration: “Kennedy, with a couple of middies and fewer than thirty
men, rushed aboard”]

Meanwhile the _Victory_ had been pouring a heavy fire into the
_Santissima Trinidad_ on one side and the _Redoutable_ on the other.
Through and through the former was raked, her deck swept clear of men,
until the Spaniards dived overboard and swam off to the _Victory_,
whose crew helped them aboard.

The _Belleisle_, which had hurled her broadside into the _Santa Anna_
early in the conflict, had been pounced upon by about half a dozen
ships of the enemy, which poured in a deadly fire, battering her sides,
tearing her rigging to pieces, and twisting her mizzen-mast over the
aft guns, putting them out of action. Sixty men also had been sent to
their account, but the rest fought on with British courage.

The _Achille_ bore down upon her and attacked her aft, the _Aigle_,
assisted by the _Neptune_, fell on her starboard, aiming at her
remaining masts and bringing them down.

“Crippled, but unconquered,” masts gone by the board, nearly all
the guns useless, men mostly killed or wounded, the _Belleisle’s_
few remaining men stood to their three or four guns and hurled
defiance at the foe. Pounding away for all they were worth, not a man
flinched--except at the thought that the flag had been shot away. They
fastened a Union Jack to a pikehead, waved it defiantly, yelled out
a cheer of determination, and fought on again, keeping their ship in
action throughout the battle, refusing to strike the pikehead flag.

The English _Neptune_ assailed the _Bucentaure_, and brought her main-
and mizzen-masts down; then the _Leviathan_ came up, and at a range
of about thirty yards gave the French flagship a full broadside which
smashed the stern to splinters. The _Conqueror_ completed the work thus
begun, and brought down the flag.

A marine officer and five men put off from the _Conqueror_ to take
possession. Villeneuve and two chief officers at once gave their
swords to the officer, who, thinking that the honour of accepting them
belonged to his captain, refused the weapons, put the Frenchmen in his
boat, pocketed the key of the magazine, left two sentries to guard the
cabin doors, and then pulled away to rejoin his ship. For some time the
little boat searched for the _Conqueror_, which had gone in quest of
other foes. Eventually, however, the boat was picked up by the _Mars_,
whose acting commander, Lieutenant Hennah, accepted the surrendered
swords, and ordered Villeneuve and his two captains below.

The _Leviathan_ next tackled the Spanish _San Augustino_, which
opened fire on her at a hundred yards. The _Leviathan_ replied with
fine effect, bringing down the Spaniard’s mizzen-mast and flag. Then
she lashed herself to her foe. Clearing the way for boarders by a
galling fire, the English captain sent across his boarding party. A
hand-to-hand fight took place, and the Spaniards were steadily but
surely forced over the side or below, and at last the ship was won.

The French _Intrépide_, seeing the plight of her ally, now bore down
on the _Leviathan_, raking her with fire as she came, and getting her
boarders ready for attack. They did not board, for the _Africa_ pitted
herself against the _Intrépide_, and smaller though she was got the
best of it, and the Frenchmen were compelled to strike their flag.

Meanwhile the _Prince_ and the _Swiftsure_ were engaged with the
_Achille_, into which many English ships had sent stinging shots,
bringing her masts to the deck, and making the ship a blazing mass.
Unable to quench the flames, the crew began cutting the masts,
intending to heave them overboard.

The _Prince_, however, gave her a broadside which did the cutting,
and sent the wreckage down into the waists. The whole ship immediately
took fire. The _Prince_ and the _Swiftsure_, ceasing fire, sent their
boats to save the Frenchmen. It was a noble but dangerous act, for the
heat discharged the _Achille’s_ guns, and many of the would-be rescuers
perished as a result. Blazing hulk though she was, the _Achille_ kept
her colours flying bravely, her sole surviving senior officer, a middy,
refusing to strike. The flames reached her magazine, and with colours
flying she blew up, carrying all her remaining men heavenwards.

Meantime, Nelson lay dying in the cockpit of the _Victory_ in agony,
yet rejoicing that he was victorious. The rank and file were kept
ignorant of his condition, though the Admiral himself knew that the end
was near, and urged the surgeons to give their attention to others.
“He was in great pain, and expressed much anxiety for the event of the
action, which now began to declare itself. As often as a ship struck
the crew of the _Victory_ hurrahed, and at every hurrah a visible
expression of joy gleamed in the eyes and marked the countenance of the
dying hero.”

Every now and then Nelson asked for Hardy. “Will no one bring Hardy to
me?” he cried; and when at last Hardy came, the two friends shook hands
in silence.

“Well, Hardy, how goes the day with us?” asked Nelson presently.

“Very well, my lord. We have got twelve or fourteen of the enemies’
ships, but five of their van have tacked, and show an intention of
bearing down on the _Victory_. I have therefore called two or three of
our fresh ships round us, and have no doubt of giving them a drubbing.”

“I hope none of _our_ ships have struck, Hardy?”

“No, my lord; there is no fear of that.”

“Well, I am a dead man, Hardy, but I am glad of what you say. Oh, whip
them now you’ve got them; whip them as they’ve never been whipped
before!”

Hardy then left him for a time, returning somewhat later to report that
some fourteen ships had been taken.

“That’s well,” cried Nelson, “though I bargained for twenty. Anchor,
Hardy, anchor.”

Hardy suggested that Admiral Collingwood might now take over the
direction of affairs.

“Not while I live, Hardy!” said Nelson. “Do _you_ anchor.”

“Shall we make the signal, sir?”

“Yes,” answered Nelson. “For if I live, I’ll anchor.”

For a little while Hardy looked down at his admiral.

“Kiss me, Hardy,” said Nelson; and Hardy kissed him. “Don’t have my
poor carcass hove overboard,” whispered Nelson, as Hardy leant over
him. “Get what’s left of me sent to England, if you can manage it. Kiss
me, Hardy.”

Hardy kissed him again.

“Who is that?” asked the hero.

“It is I--Hardy.”

“Good-bye. God bless you, Hardy. Thank God, I’ve done my duty.”

Then Hardy left him--for ever.

Nelson was turned on to his right side, muttered the words that he
would soon be gone. Then, after a little silence, he sighed and
struggled to speak, but all he could say was:

“Thank God, I have done my duty!”

Then Nelson died; and England was the poorer by her greatest sea
captain.

Hardy took the news to Collingwood, who assumed command, and refused
to carry out Nelson’s instructions to anchor, because the fact that a
gale was blowing up would make it unsafe to do so.

The battle was now over; the allied fleets had been defeated, eighteen
of their ships were captured, and with these Collingwood stood out to
sea. The enemy, however, recaptured four of the prizes, one escaped to
Cadiz, some went down with all hands, others were stranded, and one
was so unseaworthy that it was scuttled; and only four were taken into
Gibraltar.

       *       *       *       *       *

Now for a different picture!

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the early hours of August 28, 1914. Under cover of the darkness
and the fog, the first and third flotillas of our destroyers, commanded
by Commodore R. Y. Tyrwhitt, under orders from the Admiralty, had
crept towards Heligoland Bight, preceded by submarines E6, E7, E8,
and followed by the first battle cruiser squadron and the first light
cruiser squadron.

The submarines, submerged to the base of their conning-towers, swept
into the Bight, and when the grey fingers of the dawn crept across
the sky the Germans behind the fortress saw what they imagined was a
British submarine in difficulties, with sister ships alongside, and two
cruisers, _Lurcher_ and _Drake_, in attendance, intent only on giving
her assistance until help could reach them.

It was nothing more than a trap, into which the Germans fell.

A torpedo boat destroyer swung out of the harbour, making full
steam ahead for the apparently helpless submarines, who kept their
hazardous positions until they saw that the Germans had come far away
from the island fortress. Then, one after the other, they sank, and
simultaneously the cruisers swung about and raced madly away from the
German torpedo craft.

Search though they did, the Germans found no trace of the submarines;
all they could see were light cruisers tearing away from them at full
speed. These cruisers had acted as an additional decoy, and other
destroyers slipped out, bent on making short work of the Britishers
who had dared to flaunt themselves within sight of Heligoland. Then,
in the distance, appeared the funnels of other British cruisers and
destroyers; and it would seem that the Germans realised that they had
fallen into a trap, and endeavoured to escape, for Commodore Tyrwhitt’s
dispatch says: “The _Arethusa_ and the third flotilla were engaged with
numerous destroyers and torpedo boats which were making for Heligoland;
course thus altered to port to cut them off.” This was from 7.20 to
7.57 A.M., when two German cruisers appeared on the scene and were
engaged.

It was a gallant fight. The jolly Jack Tars of Britain had been waiting
these many days for a smack at the foe, who had not dared to come out
and meet them until it seemed they were in overwhelming force; and now,
when the opportunity had come, they entered into the fight with a zest
worthy of the Navy that rules the seas. They watched their shots; the
gunlayers worked methodically, as though at target practice; and when a
shot went home, men cheered lustily and rubbed their hands with glee.

And the Germans began to think they had a handful of work before them,
despite numbers.

They had a bigger handful soon! Here and there, with startling
suddenness, periscopes dotted the water, to be followed by the grey
shells of submarines, which, getting the range for their torpedoes, as
quickly disappeared, and became a menace to the German ships. It began
to dawn upon the foe that they were being trapped.

“Full speed ahead!” had come the command when the Germans were sighted,
and on went the destroyers in the van. “We just went for them,” said
one of the sailors afterwards; “and when we got within range we let
them have it hot!”

Hot it was, when at last they did come to grips. But before that
happened other things were to take place. The cruiser _Arethusa_,
leader of the third destroyer flotilla--a new ship, by the way, only
out of dock these forty-eight hours, of 30,000 horsepower, with a
2-inch belt of armour, and 4-inch and 6-inch guns--sped on towards the
Germans, who, owing to the morning mist, could not see how many foes
they were to meet, and fondly dreamed they were in the majority.

The German cruisers, like the destroyers, were successfully decoyed out
to sea, and then the real fighting began.

The _Arethusa_ tackled some of the destroyers and two cruisers, one
a four-funnelled vessel. A few range-finding shots, then the aim was
obtained, and a shell put the German’s bow gun out of action. The
_Fearless_ and the _Arethusa_ were now in “Full action,” and, together
with the destroyers of the flotilla, were quickly engaged in a stern
piece of work.

The saucy _Arethusa_ didn’t budge when the second cruiser (two funnels)
came at her, but simply fired away for all she was worth. For over half
an hour she fought the Germans at a range of 3,000 yards. What would
Nelson have thought of this long-distance fighting? And “it was a fight
in semi-darkness, when it was only just possible,” wrote one of her
crew, “to make out the opposing grey shadow. Hammer, hammer, hammer, it
was, until the eyes ached and smarted and the breath whistled through
lips parched with the acrid fumes of picric acid.”

It was a gallant fight. Those deadly 6-inch guns of hers did their
proper work, and battered at the Germans; while, on the other hand, the
Germans battered away at her; apparently misliking her entertainment,
the four-funnelled German turned her attention to the _Fearless_, which
kept her men as busy as bees for a time. About ten minutes, and the
_Arethusa_ planted a 6-inch shell on the forebridge of the German,
and sent her scurrying away to Heligoland. But the _Arethusa_ had not
escaped injury in the stern fight, and once or twice, but for the
gallant assistance of the _Fearless_ and the destroyers, she seemed
likely to be even more severely damaged, if not destroyed. As it was,
a shell entered her engine-room, all her guns but one were put out of
action, a fire broke out opposite No. 2 port gun, and was promptly
handled by Chief Petty Officer Wrench.

Presently the _Arethusa_ drew off for a while, like a gladiator getting
his wind, ready to come back again.

And while the _Arethusa’s_ crew were working like niggers putting
things to rights, the _Fearless_ standing by to help, the British
destroyers were engaged in swift, destructive, rushing-about conflicts,
now with opposing destroyers, now with German cruisers. Two of the
British “wasps” tackled a couple of cruisers, for instance. Getting in
between their larger foes, they placed the latter in such a quandary
that they did not know what to do. To fire meant risking hitting each
other, and, seizing the hazardous opportunity, the destroyers worked
their will upon their opponents; and then, when it was not possible to
do more, sped off into the haze. The _Liberty_ and _Laertes_ did good
work during these early hours of the fighting. They opposed themselves
to several German craft, roared out their thunderous welcome “to the
North Sea,” and, with well-aimed shots, sent one boat out of the
fighting line with a hole clean through her hull, wrenched off the
funnel of another, smashed up the after gun of yet a third, and blew
the platform itself to pieces.

Aye, ’twas a glorious scrum! Yet not without its nasty knocks
for the Britishers. Standing on his bridge, working his ship,
Lieutenant-Commander Nigel Barttelot heard the crash of a shell as
it struck his mast; and before he could move the whole structure had
fallen with a crash upon the bridge, killing him and a signaller
instantly.

The _Laertes_, too, received her punishment. Her for’ard gun was
damaged, and its crew either killed or wounded, while the ’midship
funnel was ripped from top to bottom, and a shell sang its horrific way
into the dynamo-room, while another made havoc of her cabin.

Presently the _Arethusa_, her wreckage cleared away, her guns--some
of them--working again, steamed into the battle area, and, undaunted
as ever, took on another couple of German cruisers. “It looked as if
she was in for a warm time,” said one of the crew; “but the fortunate
arrival of our battle squadron relieved the situation.”

The first light cruiser squadron came first, and engaged the Germans.

There is much meaning in that “fortunate arrival.” It had been planned
and carried out to a nicety. Vice-Admiral Sir David Beatty and the
two cruiser squadrons had been waiting, as arranged--waiting for the
time to come when he should go to the aid of the torpedo flotillas.
While waiting the squadrons were attacked by German submarines, which
were not successful in wounding any of the ships. A German seaplane,
scouting over the North Sea, espied the squadrons, and sped back to
Heligoland with the news. They brought out reinforcements, which made
the flotillas signal to the vice-admiral for help. This was before noon.

The first light cruiser squadron came first, and swept the Germans with
a tornado of fire. Then, when the _Fearless_ and the first flotilla
were returning, while the light cruiser squadron engaged the enemy,
the battle cruiser squadron came up: the _Lion_, the _Princess Royal_,
the _New Zealand_, and the _Invincible_, armed, the first two, with
13.5 guns, and the others with 12-inch. The work that the _Arethusa_
and her smaller fry had commenced was now carried to a finish. The
German cruisers _Mainz_ and _Köln_ shook to the impact of the rain of
shells poured upon them; great holes were torn in their sides, flames
spurted out, and roared their angry way about the ships. The _Mainz_,
more badly wounded, was in a sinking condition before the arrival of
the battle cruisers, and now, tortured by the horrific projectiles,
began to sink rapidly by the head. With a _siss! siss!_ as the flames
met water, and a roar as the boilers exploded, the good ship _Mainz_,
after a plucky fight, went to her last anchorage, followed later by the
_Köln_.

Destroyers which had been battering at the unfortunate Germans now
ceased their fire, and sped towards them on errands of mercy, seeking
to save their foes. A large number of the crew of over 350 of the
_Mainz_ still lived, and the destroyers’ crews were horrified to see
that German officers were shooting at their own men as the ship began
to sink rapidly by the head. The _Lurcher_ (Commodore Roger J. B.
Keyes) rescued 220 of her crew.

British sailors helping to rescue the crew told later that the scene
on deck was terrible. Steelwork had been twisted and bent as hairpins
bend; the deck was a shambles--grim testimony to the deadly character
of the British fire.

While the destroyers were still fighting, after the sinking of the
_Mainz_ and _Köln_, a third German cruiser, the _Ariadne_, appeared on
the scene, and, after the destroyers had tackled her unsuccessfully,
the battle cruisers, turning from their earlier victims, spoke to her
in the language of death. Shells fell all about her, battering her
sides, gouging great holes in her, wrecking her so completely that
within a short time she was going down to keep the _Mainz_ and _Köln_
company. Later it was reported that yet a fourth cruiser had been set
on fire.

We must now go back to the destroyer action, which was no less sharp
than the other. The small craft sped here and there, firing their
4-inch guns as rapidly as possible, and inflicting damage on one
another. Out of the chaos of the fighting there shone the bright light
of foes who would show mercy. The German destroyer V187 was so badly
mauled that there was no hope for her or her crew, and the British
destroyer _Goshawk_ ordered the others to cease fire while she lowered
her boats and sought to rescue the Germans, who, however, heeding not
the humane mission of their foes, opened fire on the _Goshawk_ at a
range of about 200 yards. The German official reports eulogised this as
“a glorious fight,” but the British tars saw in it something other than
“glorious.” Forced to fight even when they would save, they opened fire
in reply; and in double quick time the V187 was silenced, and began
to settle down, her men being flung or leaping into the shell-whipped
seas. British boats now endeavoured to save the lives of the men who
had fired at them when they would have done so before, and several
boats managed to pick up survivors.

But, as if the blatant callousness of V187 were not enough, a
German cruiser came swinging up, and opened a deadly fire upon the
destroyers--the boats whose errand was a merciful one. The destroyers,
picking up what boats they could, made away at full speed; but some
boats, containing Britishers and Germans, were left behind. At that
moment, Lieut.-Commodore Leir, of submarine E4, appeared on the scene,
and engaged the cruiser, which altered her course before he could get
the range. Down went E4 for safety’s sake.

The two boats of the _Defender_, left thus, were in a precarious
situation, shells flying all about them and their ship far away. Then,
to their amazement, there appeared on the surface the periscope of a
submarine; then, presently, the conning-tower. It was E4 again. This
time she hailed the boats, and, though she was a plain mark for the
cruiser’s fire, she remained on the surface, bent on saving whom she
could. She could not embark them all, but took a lieutenant and nine
men of the _Defender_. There were also two of the officers and eight
men of V187, unwounded, and eighteen wounded men, and, unable to take
them on board, Leir left an officer and six unwounded men to navigate
the British boats to Heligoland, taking steps to see that they were
provided with water, biscuits, and a compass. It was the British sailor
all over!

Thus it was that the Battle of the Bight was fought--and won--by the
tars of Old Britain. They had hankered long after the outcoming of the
Germans, who sulked in their harbours, and had had to be lured out.
Boldly had the Germans issued forth when the odds had seemed all on
their side, when they saw before them but a few small vessels; and, to
their credit be it said, they fought well when the truth came to them.
It was the first engagement in the war worthy of the name of a naval
battle, and the British reaped the honours, though, when the tally
was taken, they had not escaped scot free. There were battered ships
amongst those that put into port later. The _Liberty_ had fourteen
great holes in her port bow, her bridge was smashed, her searchlight
gone, her wireless installation vanished, and nothing but a stump
remained of her mast. The _Laertes_, hit four times, had had to be
taken in tow for a while, and the _Arethusa_, who had started the fight
in good style, had, as we have seen, received much beating about. The
_Fearless_ also had honourable wounds, receiving no fewer than nineteen
hits, though none of them in a vital part.

Beginning in the early morning, with the sea-mist shrouding the sea,
the battle had continued for six or seven hours; and then the Germans,
knowing themselves outmatched, drew off, dropping mines as they went,
while the British squadrons, finding there was nothing more to be
done when the Germans had scurried to the shelter of their harbour,
also drew away, without a ship lost, and with but comparatively few
men _hors de combat_. During the return journey some of the British
cruisers were attacked by submarines but escaped damage. The saucy
_Arethusa_, wounded pretty badly, steamed away at about six knots until
7 o’clock, and then, finding it impossible to proceed farther, drew her
fire in all boilers except two and called for assistance. Up came the
_Hogue_, at 9.30, and took her in tow, while the _Amethyst_ took in tow
the _Laurel_, which had also suffered a fair amount of damage.

Thus, with the blood surging through their veins as they thought of the
victory won, and longing for the day to come when they might once more
meet their foes, the British tars steamed to port. Five months later
there was another action on a large scale.

What would the hero of Trafalgar have said if anyone had suggested to
him the possibility of a running battle in which the opponents should
never be nearer than eight miles? He would probably not have regarded
it as a fight! In those good old times the guns could not carry much
more than a thousand yards, and the end very often came by boarders,
and the capture of the ship in a hand-to-hand fight. Nowadays sea
fights are at long range; and yet another account of a battle in the
North Sea (January 24, 1915) shows how greatly methods of warfare have
changed. It is difficult to imagine the story of such a fight, as
will be understood when the classes of ships engaged are considered:
mighty battle cruisers, such as the _Lion_, whose guns can fire 10
miles, hurling a broadside of 10,000 lbs. twice in every minute; light
cruisers, speedy destroyers, and submarines; while over all hovered
the long grey shapes of airships and the darting forms of seaplanes
dropping bombs. And all the time the battling ships are tearing through
the seas at top speed, belching forth terrible high-explosive shells.

The battle of January 24 was the outcome of a German attempt to raid
the east coast of England, as had been done before--Yarmouth first,
then the Hartlepools, Scarborough, and Whitby. In the case of the last
three towns a large number of defenceless women and children had been
murdered by the German fire, and the War Lord proclaimed it a mighty
victory for his navy. Issuing forth again, in the hope of achieving
something as noble, the German admiral brought with him four battle
cruisers, six light cruisers, and two flotillas of torpedo craft and
submarines. When about thirty miles off the English coast they were
sighted by a light cruiser, which engaged them and signalled to
Admiral Beatty’s squadron the news of the coming of the foe. Instantly
the British vessels, which had been cleared for action for over an hour
(it was now 7.30 A.M.), closed up and prepared to chase the raiders,
then 14 miles away. Admiral Beatty’s force, thus once more destined
to play its part in the drama of war, consisted of the battle cruiser
squadron--_Lion_ (flagship), _Tiger_, _Princess Royal_, _Indomitable_,
_New Zealand_, and several light cruisers and torpedo craft. The battle
cruisers were Britain’s most formidable fighting ships, outcome of
what proved to be a far-sighted policy, namely, that of big guns; the
first three carried twenty-four 13.5-in. guns, and the last two sixteen
12-in. guns, against which the German _Derfflinger_ (a new ship) had
eight 12-in. guns, the _Moltke_ and _Seydlitz_ twenty 11-in., and the
_Blücher_ twelve 8-in. guns. It will be seen, therefore, that the
British ships had the superiority in weight and range.

As soon as the news was brought to the admiral he gave instructions for
the destroyers to chase the enemy and report his movements, while the
squadron steered south-east, “with a view to securing the lee position,
and to cut off the enemy, if possible.”

The Germans, immediately they realised that they had been seen, and
that they were about to be met by a large force, turned tail and ran
away. It must not be thought that this was a sign of cowardice; far
from it, for in all probability the German manœuvre was deliberate,
and in keeping with the policy that had arranged the larger number of
heavier guns in the stern of the ships, so that, in the event of a
running fight, such as this was destined to be, the fleeing ships would
not be at a disadvantage. The British ships have the majority of their
guns fixed to fire ahead. One great disadvantage attaching to pursuers
lies in the fact that the ships fleeing before them may drop mines,
into which the chasing ships might run.

Working at a speed of from 28 to 29 knots an hour, the British squadron
raced after the Germans, gradually overhauling them, and at 20,000
yards opened fire upon the foe, keeping at it until, at 18,000 yards’
range, the shots began to tell, and the fire was returned by the
Germans. The fight had begun in real earnest. The German destroyers
made a plucky attack, in the hope of torpedoing the British ships, but
the “M” division of British destroyers raced ahead of the cruisers and
engaged the Germans and drove them off. The German destroyers belched
forth great clouds of smoke, which screened the cruisers from their
pursuers.

The British _Lion_, of course, led the way. Steering clear of the
German submarines, which were to the starboard, she pounded after the
great cruisers, and her great shells began to fall in a shower upon the
_Blücher_, which, being the slowest ship, was at the tail of the German
line. Not only the _Lion_, but practically every British ship poured in
smashing salvoes. They fell upon her thick as hailstones, sweeping her
decks, crashing into her sides, smashing upon her guns and wrenching
them from their turrets, disabling whole gun crews. Funnels were sent
toppling over, masts fell; a shell pitched in the very heart of the
ship, where a large number of men were gathered, and killed them all.
Her armoured sides were riddled through and through; she was on fire;
but she still kept up her replies with the guns left her, and her men
cheered as they fought, although they knew they were fighting a losing
battle. Instructions had been given that the flag was not to be struck,
and that she was to go down with it flying. Within half an hour of the
opening of the battle 300 or 400 men were killed or wounded. She was
an unforgettable sight. She turned to port, to give her men a chance to
put out the fire, but after awhile swung back and made after the other
ships.

Without waiting to see the result of their attack on the _Blücher_,
the British big ships pounded on their way after the other vessels. A
devastating cyclone of shells fell upon the _Derfflinger_, which caught
fire forward and had many guns put out of action, while the _Seydlitz_
or the _Moltke_ steamed on like a sheet of flame. The roar of the guns,
the crash of the explosions, the thunder of the great engines of war as
they romped through the seas, the flashes of fire as shells left the
maws of the terrific weapons--all went to make up a scene of horror,
of impressiveness. It was a battle between rival giants at giants’
distance, while simultaneously another battle was raging between the
smaller cruisers and torpedo craft. There is no doubt that one reason
why the Germans chose a running fight was that they hoped to be able
to lure their pursuers into the minefield round about Heligoland.
But, after chasing them for about a hundred miles, Admiral Beatty,
realising that it was hopeless to catch them before they reached the
field, turned back from the great cruisers and set his attention upon
the smaller ships, seeking to turn them off, drive them down upon the
British cruisers which were in hot pursuit. He did great damage amongst
them, despite the difficulty of the work, there being so many ships
engaged. Though many of them were very seriously mauled, they succeeded
in getting to the minefield--with guns dismounted and hulls battered.

About 11 o’clock the _Lion_ had her speed reduced very considerably,
owing to a chance shot that had caught her in the bows and damaged her
feed-tank, putting her port engines out of action. Admiral Beatty
therefore changed his flag to a destroyer, and, later, to the _Princess
Royal_, which then took the foremost place in the fight. The _Lion_,
whose starboard engine also got out of working order later, and had
only one engine working, was shielded by the _Tiger_, which pluckily
placed herself in the way of the enemy’s fire, and in doing so lost
half a dozen of her men, though she gave the Germans a good battering
in return. The _Lion_ was then taken in tow by the _Indomitable_, and
eventually taken into port. An eye-witness on the _Tiger_ told of the
part the _Tiger_ played in this thrilling action between big ships:

“On the gun-deck, where I was stationed, you could hardly see one
another for the smoke, but our chaps stuck it like Britons. They did
work hard; but they did it with a good heart, and I believe at one time
our ship was engaging three of the enemy’s ships. Four of their ships
were on fire, but they could still keep on firing, and I believe one or
two of our poor chaps who got on deck to have a look at them did not
live long. I myself was very anxious to go on deck and have a look, but
I am glad I did not. I saw the start, and then went below. We lost ten
of our chaps, and several were wounded.

“A message came down from the deck, ‘All hands on deck to see the
enemy’s ship sink,’ and in less than five minutes after we could see
nothing of her, and our destroyers drew near to pick up survivors.

“Our ship at one time stood all the brunt of the firing, as we
sheltered the leading ship in our line when she got winged. Still,
thank goodness for everything, we are still alive and happy. I do not
think they will want to meet us again.”

Meanwhile, the _Blücher_ was living her last moments. Suddenly, while
the Germans’ guns were pounding away, there slipped from behind
the bigger ships the saucy _Arethusa_, intent on finishing the work
thus well begun. The _Blücher_, being wounded almost to the death,
had no way upon her, and offered a fine mark to torpedo. Commodore
Tyrwhitt, of the _Arethusa_, knowing this, gave instructions, and, as
the _Blücher_ fired her remaining guns in rapid succession, a couple
of torpedoes sped through the seas towards her. The second caught her
amidships, exploded, and rent a great gap in her. Listing already,
she now simply heeled over “like a tin can filled with water,” as one
eye-witness put it.

It was a dramatic moment, crowded with heroism. Her flag was still
flying, and her men were crying, “Hoch! Hoch!” as they lined the side
of the vessel, ready to jump clear. From the _Arethusa_ there came the
cry of “Jump!” and almost at the same time hundreds of men leaped into
the water, most of them equipped with inflated rubber lifebelts, which
kept them afloat until the boats lowered by the English picked them up.
While the British tars were employed in this humane work there swung
out from Heligoland an airship and a seaplane, which hovered over the
rescuing boats and dropped bombs. Such methods naturally aroused the
anger of the British, who promptly, for their own sakes, had to give
up the work of rescue, and leave many struggling Germans to find death
when they might have had life.

The _Indomitable_, before she took the _Lion_ in tow, had her share of
the fighting, as had the other battle cruisers. After having tackled
the _Seydlitz_, she was attacked by a Zeppelin which dropped a bomb
about forty yards away from her bridge. The _Indomitable_ gave her a
taste of shrapnel, as did the _Tiger_, and she cleared off. Then a
torpedo was launched at the _Indomitable_ by the _Blücher_; but the
speed of the British ship saved her.

In addition to the _Blücher_ sunk, other ships suffered considerable
damage, as we have seen. Previously one of them had been engaged by
the light cruiser _Aurora_, which opened a terrific fire upon her. The
first shot carried the midship funnel clean away, and others, poured in
rapidly, swept the decks and battered her hull, so that she was soon
in a deplorable condition and was fleeing at top speed for the safety
of harbour. Only the proximity of the minefield and the accident to
the _Lion_ “deprived the British fleet of a greater victory.” It was
not until the foremost cruiser, the _Derfflinger_, was within half an
hour’s run of the mined area that Admiral Beatty gave up the chase,
well pleased with the work that had been done.

It had been a great fight and a brilliant victory; it had shown that
the British Navy was true to its traditions, that it could fight as
well as exert silent pressure upon the foe; that the commanders were
fearless men, and that the men behind the guns knew how to handle their
great weapons. The feature that stands out most prominently is the
accuracy of the British fire as contrasted with that of the German; in
the latter case shots seemed to fall anywhere but on the British ships,
as is clear when the only casualties were seventeen men wounded on the
_Lion_, one officer and nine men killed, and two officers and eight men
wounded on the _Tiger_; and four men killed and one man wounded on the
_Meteor_, which ship was attacked by the Zeppelin, while none of the
ships were at all badly damaged, and would be ready for sea again in a
few days.

A fine victory, well won, and at little cost!




THE MEN WHO DISCOVERED THE WORLD

Stories of the Early Voyagers


It is difficult for us who live in these days of swift travel, wireless
telegraphy, palatial ships, and so forth, to realise what it meant
to go a-voyaging in the Middle Ages and thereabouts. Then men set
out chartless, at one time compassless, in ships which were mere
cockle-boats, to traverse unknown seas (there are no unknown seas
to-day!) in quest of new lands, not knowing really whether there were
any new lands to discover. They went, as it were, into the darkness of
the unknown, with all its terrors and dangers; and going, discovered
the world.

Tradition had it that out in the Atlantic were some islands called
by the ancients the Fortunate Islands; and the thirst for wider
geographical knowledge came with the discovery of these, and the
discovery of Madeira, in the fifteenth century; and out of the mists of
the legends there shone elusive islands which, though men sought, they
could not find. Then, as men grew bolder, and travelled overland to
Cathay, or China, to bring back wonderful stories, with all the glamour
of the East about them, Europeans cried for more and more light upon
the world beyond Europe.

And the age of discovery began.

In the mind of every voyager was the one great objective--Cathay. But
the way there? One school said westwards; the other said that only by
circumnavigating the coasts of Africa could Cathay be reached. We know
now, as they discovered after many, many years, that both routes led
to the East, but that in between Europe and Asia, via the West, lay a
mighty continent of whose existence they had never dreamed; and which,
when they did discover it, they thought was Asia.

We cannot go into details of the many voyages which were undertaken
both to the south and the west; we must content ourselves with the
first voyage round the Cape of Good Hope, the first sea trip to China,
and the first voyage of the great Columbus.

[Illustration: “A mighty gale caught Diaz and carried his frail craft
before it”]

It fell to the lot of Bartholomew Diaz to achieve the first of these
great epoch-marking events in the world’s history. Many men, under the
patronage of Prince Henry the Navigator, of Portugal, had passed along
the African coast, and by 1484 Diego Cam had partly explored the Congo;
but two years later Diaz, heedless of the fears and warnings of his
crew, sailed past the Congo, with the firm determination to get into
the Indian Ocean, or at least to pass the extremity of Africa, if there
were an extremity. Of that no one was sure. Diaz went round that point
without knowing it; a mighty storm caught him, and carried his frail
ship before it, and when the gale passed over Diaz found himself off a
coast which trailed away eastwards and ever eastwards. His men, fearful
of they knew not what, beseeched him to turn back, but for several days
Diaz held on his way. This eastward trend of the coast meant something,
though what it was he could not say. At last the crew refused to go
any farther; the unknown held too many terrors for them, and they
considered they had done sufficient. They had gone farther, they knew,
than any mariners before them. Why keep on at the risk of being
lost? So Diaz had reluctantly to give way. He turned his vessel round,
passed down the coast, going southward, with the land on his right--to
him a significant fact. He realised its full significance later when,
passing a great promontory, which, because of the storms that prevailed
there, he called the Cape of Storms, he found the land still on his
right, while the ship was sailing northwards. He had been round Africa!

Promptly Diaz landed, and, as was the custom, erected a pillar in the
name of the King of Portugal, and thus laid claim to the new land he
had discovered. Then home he went, full of joy at his achievement, to
receive a mighty welcome at Court when he had told his story. The name
of the southernmost cape thus discovered was renamed the Cape of Good
Hope; and thus it has been known ever since.

One would have thought that this voyage would have spurred on other
voyagers to follow in the track thus laid down; but for some reason or
other it was ten years before an expedition was dispatched to carry it
farther and try to reach Cathay by that route. Vasco da Gama was the
leader of this expedition, which left the Tagus on July 7, 1497, five
years after Columbus had set out for the unknown West. It consisted
of three ships, which became separated soon after starting, only to
meet at Cape Verde Islands. Then for four months they fought their way
through storms until they reached St. Helena, where, although they were
badly in need of provisions, they could get none, because the natives
were so unfriendly. So southward they went, and at last came to the
Cape of Good Hope, which it took them two days to sail round, owing to
the terrific storm that raged. The crew, terrified at the tumultuous
seas, prayed da Gama to turn back.

“We cannot pass this awful cape!” they cried.

“If God preserve us,” answered da Gama boldly, “we will pass the cape
and make our way to Cathay. For that honour will be given us, and we
shall get much wealth.”

But, though he thus appealed to their cupidity, the crew were not to
be calmed; and their dissatisfaction gave rise to conspiracy. They
intended to mutiny, and force da Gama to turn back, or else kill him
out of hand, and then do what they wanted to do.

Da Gama, however, received information of the plot from some of the men
who were still faithful to him, and were willing to follow him where
he would lead. Knowing that stern measures would be necessary now that
softer ones had failed, da Gama plotted on his own account. He had each
man brought into his cabin to discuss the matter, and as soon as a head
showed inside the door the man was seized and put in irons. In this way
every one of the dissatisfied men was taken prisoner; and da Gama found
himself left with a mere handful of men to work the ship. Yet did he
persist in going on; he would not be deterred, and, though all worked
hard in face of what they thought was certain death, yet they weathered
the cape, and presently were on the way up the east coast of Africa.
Then da Gama freed his prisoners, who were shamefaced as they came on
deck, to find themselves in this new sea, safely past the storm they
had feared.

On Christmas Day, after having been in at various places, da Gama
came to Natal, named thus in honour of the Nativity, broke up one of
his ships there, as she was unseaworthy, and then went on, reaching
Mozambique on March 10. Here he met trouble again. Mozambique was in
the possession of the Moors, who did a fine trade with the Indies and
the Red Sea, and, naturally, resented the intrusion of the Portuguese.
They saw their trade being taken from them. They therefore did all
they could to destroy or capture the intrepid voyagers, who, however,
outwitted them every time. At each place where they put in they fell
foul of the Moors, until they reached Melinda, where they were received
with honour, and were able to secure as many provisions as they wanted.

Da Gama, always with his eyes open to discover what commercial
advantages were to be gained from his voyage, saw with delight that at
Melinda there were many large ships which bore the riches of India in
their holds; and, realising that that meant much to Portugal, as soon
as the monsoons would allow him, hurried on his way across the Indian
Ocean, having secured the services of a good native pilot. On May
20, 1498, the two ships reached Calicut--the first vessels which had
arrived in India by the direct sea route.

It was an epoch-marking accomplishment, for it opened up the Far
East to Europe in a way that had not been done before; trade could
be carried on much more easily than by the overland route, with its
many dangers. All the riches of the East--spices, peppers, and what
not--were to be had by the Portuguese now. The commercial importance of
the voyage was greater than that of any voyage yet undertaken, for even
that of Columbus had not begun to bear the fruit it was to bear later
on.

Da Gama, however, found that things were not so rosy as they had
seemed; the Moors held the trade of Calicut in their hands. It was the
trading centre of the merchants of Ceylon and the Moluccas--indeed, of
all the Malabar coast--and the Moors there, like those at Mozambique,
feared the coming of the Europeans. When they discovered that da Gama
had obtained permission from the zamorin, or native chief, to trade,
they plotted for his destruction, inducing the zamorin to take him
prisoner and capture his ships, telling him that these white men would
surely come in their hundreds and take possession of his territory. Of
course, the native viewed the prospect with anything but pleasure, and
when da Gama, laden with rich gifts, landed, he tried to capture him.
Da Gama, however, slipped through his fingers, reached his ships, and
sailed away, vowing to return and to take vengeance.

Leaving Calicut in a rage, the voyager traded with another chief at
Cannanore, and, having laden his vessels with rich spices and peppers,
set out on the return voyage, reaching Lisbon in September, 1499; and
the whole nation went wild with delight at the glorious vista opened to
it.

Da Gama went back to Calicut later on to take his revenge. He allied
the King of Cannanore with him, and wrought havoc with the zamorin’s
trading vessels; then sailed to Cochin China, where he established a
factory--the first factory in the East, and the beginning of Portuguese
power in the Orient.

We must now go back a few years, and glance at the story of the first
voyage of Columbus, the man who stands out as a landmark in the history
of the world. He marks the beginning of the new geographical knowledge;
the old world is one side of him, the new the other. For years he had
been studying all the maps and charts that he could get hold of, and
had imbibed the new knowledge that was being taught regarding the
shape of the earth, until at last he came to believe that Asia could
be reached by sailing to the west. He tried this Court and that, only
to receive rebuffs and meet with delays that sickened him. He sent
his brother Bartholomew to the King of England; but his messenger was
captured by pirates, and when he was released, and proceeded on his
way to the English Court, where his proposal was accepted, it was too
late; Christopher Columbus had set forth upon his venture perilous,
under the patronage of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, who, after
much vacillation, and not a little treachery, had agreed to father the
expedition, which consisted of three small vessels. These were the
_Santa Maria_, on which Columbus himself sailed, the _Pinta_, commanded
by Martin Alonzo Pinzon, and the _Nina_, captained by Pinzon’s brother,
Vincente Yanez Pinzon.

After receiving the blessing of the Church, the expedition set sail
from Palos with a pressed crew, for few men could be found willing
to embark on such a desperate venture. In less than a week they were
compelled to put in at the Canaries to refit the ships, which had been
buffeted about by adverse winds and stormy seas. When this work was
done, Columbus set out again, despite the murmurings of his pressed
crew, who often cast longing eyes back to the East, hardly daring
to think of what might await them in the West, whither men had not
ventured before. The unknown held dread terrors for them, and at
every league they became more disaffected, so that Columbus found it
necessary to keep two reckonings--one correct, for himself, and the
other incorrect, for the satisfaction of the crews. His own showed the
real distance from home; theirs showed them that they were nearer home
than they had imagined themselves to be.

Two hundred leagues west of the Canaries a ship’s mast was seen
floating, and the frightened crews became more scared than ever; they
took it for a portent of their own fate. Then the needle of the compass
showed a variation; it ceased to point to the North Star, and this
was the most dreadful thing of all to these men, who knew nothing of
hemispheres. Columbus did his utmost to cheer and inspire them with
confidence, telling them of the glory that awaited them when the voyage
was over, and assuring them that they could not be a very long way
from land. As if to prove him true, next day, September 14, two birds
hovered round the ships; later weeds were seen floating on the surface
of a kind that grow on river banks and among rocks; then, later still,
more birds were seen--birds that they knew never slept on the sea. And
all these things seemed to be heralds of land.

So the dissatisfied crew took heart again, and, with a steady breeze
helping them, the ships sped on their unknown way, every man eagerly
looking out across the vast sea in the hope of being the first to sight
the land, the reward for which was to be a pension.

But as day succeeded day, and no land was seen, the spirits of the
adventurers drooped, and when they ran into a vast sea of weeds, which
made it difficult for the vessels to hold on their way, all hopes of
ever reaching home again were dashed to the ground. Then the wind
dropped, and the ships were becalmed. Never did Fate play so scurvy a
trick with a mariner as it did with Columbus, who knew that the success
of his voyage--the great ambition of his life--depended upon the men
who sailed with him. He heard their murmurings, knew that it would not
be long before they broke out into open mutiny; but still he would not
swerve from his purpose.

Then one day they came to him with determination in their eyes and
black murder in their hearts. They would go back, they said; they would
venture no farther on this mad voyage which could lead to nowhere but
death. They had, indeed, made up their minds to pitch him overboard if
he would not turn the ship about and go home.

Columbus, firm in his own belief that land lay to the west, and
determined that he would not turn back until he had seen it, stood
before the mutineers boldly. He argued with them, coaxed them, even
bullied them, vowed he would hold on to the course he had mapped out.
Then, seeing that he must temporise, he promised that, if they would
stand by him for three more days, he would turn back if no land were
discovered. He gained his point; the crew returned to their duties,
and, by the greatest good luck, shortly afterwards new signs of land
came to cheer the men.

Besides a quantity of fresh weeds, such as grow in rivers, they saw a
green fish of a kind that keeps about rocks, then a branch of thorn
with berries on it, and recently separated from the tree, floated by
them. Then they picked up a reed, a small board, and, above all, a
staff, artificially carved.

And where there had been mutiny and threats there was now discipline
and rejoicing; and no man murmured, or thought of the distance they
had come. All were eager to be the first to catch sight of the land
they believed to be near. Columbus himself, overwhelmed with joy at the
thought that triumph was at hand, did not sleep that night, and had
the ships hove to, lest they miss the land in the night darkness. On
each vessel every man was wide awake, straining his eyes through the
darkness. At about one o’clock Columbus thought that he saw a light
shining in the west, far away from the ships. He immediately pointed
it out to; the men on his vessel; but with one exception they attached
little importance to it. They thought themselves fools when, an hour
later, a sailor cried:

“Land! Land!” And, pointing, showed them a dim outline on the horizon.
Daylight came, and with it clearer vision; and before them stretched a
low, tree-covered island.

The sight of it drove them almost wild with joy. Here, after weeks of
voyaging through seas unknown, they had come to land, when they had
told themselves there was no land to be found, when they had harboured
thoughts of murder against the man who led them. They threw themselves
on deck at his feet, and implored his forgiveness; and Columbus knew
that he had these men fast in his grip, that they would follow him
anywhere.

As for himself, his pleasure knew no bounds; all the dreams of the
years were to be fulfilled, all his hopes were to be realised, the
glory of reaching Asia via the west was to be his. Had he but known!
Had he but realised that something even greater than this had been
achieved; that near at hand lay a vast continent undreamt of by his
fellows, despite the tradition that the Norsemen had hundreds of years
before found a country to the west, far north from this spot.

On October 12, 1492, Columbus, in all the glory of his official robes
as representative of the majesty of Spain, landed on the island with
his men and the officials sent by the King to give authority to the
expedition. The Royal Standard of Spain was planted, and the adventurer
fell upon his knees, kissed the ground, and declared the land to belong
to the dominions of the Spanish sovereigns.

The island was inhabited, and from the natives Columbus learned that it
was named Guanahani. The Spaniards renamed it San Salvador--its present
name. It is one of the group known as the Bahamas, at the entrance of
the Gulf of Mexico.

The natives themselves, when they saw the strange ships coming towards
the island, fled, not knowing what they might be, for never had they
seen anything like them. As they were not pursued, however, they
plucked up enough courage to come back, and very soon were making
friends with the new-comers, who, thinking they were on one of the
islands off the coast of India, called the natives Indians--the name
still borne by the aborigines of the New World.

Almost every one of the natives was bedecked with ornaments made
of gold; and the Spaniards were eager to find out whence the metal
came. The natives told them by signs that it came from the south--far
away; and the three vessels were presently ploughing the seas again,
exploring the coast of San Salvador, by the aid of several guides.
Other islands were seen in the neighbourhood, and these, too, were
explored, Columbus believing that they tallied with Marco Polo’s
description of certain islands lying off China. But no trace of gold
was found; each time the natives pointed them to the south, and
referred to a great king, whom Columbus imagined to be the Great Khan.

Then one day he gathered that near at hand was a great island called
Cuba, and from the description given him believed it to be Cipango
(Japan), which reports had credited with vast riches--gold and precious
stones. So to Cuba the three ships sailed, reaching the island at the
end of October, and taking possession of it in the name of the King of
Spain.

Here the natives, after a time, received him kindly, and the answers
to the sign-questions he put to them made him more convinced than ever
that this was Cipango. He therefore searched it, seeking for the Great
Khan; but at last gave up in despair, and sailed off to discover other
islands. At this time Martin Pinzon, in the _Pinta_, deserted him, and,
although Columbus waited many days for his return, he did not come
back; and when, in December, Columbus set sail, he went with only two
ships. On December 6 they sighted a large island, which, because of its
beauty and similarity with Spain, they named Hispaniola. Here, again
the natives were friendly, and parted with many of their gold ornaments
in exchange for little trinkets the mariners had brought with them.
What filled them with joy that they could hardly contain was the news
that the island abounded in riches. Gold, they were told, was to be
obtained in plenty; and Columbus, who had taken the island in the name
of Spain, resolved, when misfortune robbed him of another of his ships,
to leave some of his men behind to learn the language of the natives,
trade with them for gold, and explore the island for gold mines.

The disaster, which left him with only one ship, occurred through
negligence. The _Santa Maria_ was wrecked, and Columbus and his crew
only escaped with great difficulty. By hard work they managed to get
all the goods and guns out of her before she went to pieces, and
with the latter Columbus built a fort for the security of the men he
intended to leave behind, calling it La Navidad.

Then, on January 4, 1493, Columbus set sail from Hispaniola in the
smallest of the vessels he had come out with, namely, the _Nina_,
steering eastward along the coast. Presently he fell in with Pinzon,
whom he reproved for his desertion. Pinzon asserted that he had been
separated in a storm, but actually he had left Columbus, intending
to return home and claim the honours that were due to his leader.
Columbus, however, rather than have bitterness aroused, hid his anger,
and the two ships sailed in company until February 1, when a terrific
gale separated them again.

So dreadful was the storm that Columbus despaired of ever reaching
home with his wonderful news; and many were the vows taken as to what
the mariners would do if Heaven spared them. Lots were cast as to who
should undertake a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Guadalope, and it fell to
Columbus. But the storm still held on. Then they all vowed to go in
their shirts to a church of Our Lady, if she would vouchsafe them a
safe voyage home.

The poor _Nina_, tossed about, seemed as though she would turn over
at every big wave that broke upon her; all her provision casks were
empty, and so she was in a poor way through lack of ballast. Columbus
solved that problem by filling the casks with water, which steadied
the ship, and enabled her to ride out the storm, during which Columbus
had been afraid lest he should never reach Spain with the wonderful
news of his discovery. He therefore wrote down an account on parchment,
which he signed and sealed, wrapped in oilcloth and wax, and consigned
to the deep in a cask. Another copy was packed in a similar way, and
set upon the top of the poop, so that if the _Nina_ went down the cask
might float and stand a chance of carrying its precious contents to
some port, or be picked up by some ship. But, fortunately, the storm
eased off, and presently they reached harbour at St. Mary’s, one of the
Azores.

The mariners, exhausted after their struggle with the storm, but
grateful for having been able to come through it, saw a hermitage on a
hill, and resolved that some of them should undertake a pilgrimage of
thanks at once. So half the ship’s crew went ashore in their shirts,
carrying candles; but hardly had they landed when the Portuguese
Governor of St. Mary’s came down with a large body of soldiers and took
them prisoners. The Portuguese were jealous of the great sailor, and
what he had achieved.

Columbus was angry at this treachery. He vowed that if his men were not
given back to him, he would land the rest and sack the whole island.
The Governor gave in.

Leaving these inhospitable shores, the mariners sailed away for home,
only to meet with another storm which caused them to make more vows.
Then the sailors worked hard, and managed to get the ship running
before the storm, which drove her into the Tagus.

Forced to take shelter in another Portuguese port, therefore, this time
Lisbon, Columbus went ashore, where the King of Portugal received him
with many expressions of delight and congratulation, though beneath
the smiling face was a jealous heart. Portugal had taken so great a
part--had been the pioneer, in fact--of the exploration of the century,
that the king felt that this accomplishment of Columbus was a personal
affront! His counsellors advised him that the best thing to do was to
kill Columbus and his men out of hand, and, taking his charts, send an
expedition out to take possession of the new lands.

King John, however, would not consent to the murder of Columbus, whom
he dismissed; and then ordered his own mariners to hurry off with an
expedition to take by force of arms the lands which had been discovered
for Spain. It may be said that when the question of ownership of these
lands was laid before the Pope of Rome, that arbiter of the fate of
people and nations in the fifteenth century, the Portuguese were made
to understand that Spain had the prior claim on the new territory.

It was on March 15 that Columbus arrived at Palos, less than eight
months after he had set out from that port on a voyage from which few
ever believed he would return. And now, here he was! Great crowds met
him and hailed him, and marched in procession with him to the church,
where he gave thanks to Heaven for the success of his voyage. Then, he
sent a letter to the king, who commanded him to attend Court, where
he was received with all due honour, and told his wonderful story
which thrilled the king and queen, and soon set all Spain by the ears.
He had brought many evidences of the truth of his tale, including
several natives and many gold ornaments; and according to the terms
of the engagement entered into, he was appointed Governor-General of
all the lands discovered. Then, still believing that he had found the
way to the East, he went out again on September 25, 1493, discovering
new islands, and going to Hispaniola, which he found was rich with
gold. His fort had been destroyed, however, and his men killed by the
natives. With his adventures during this voyage we have no time to
deal. There was dissatisfaction amongst some of his followers, and
accusations were made against him which necessitated his going back to
Spain to clear himself, which he succeeded in doing. In 1498 he was
allowed to go out again, and it was on this voyage that he discovered
the mainland of America, although he never knew it. First he landed on
an island which he called Trinidad (its present name), in honour of the
Holy Trinity, and from there he could see land, which, believing it to
be an island, he called Isla Santa (Holy Island). It was, as a matter
of fact, the mainland of America. He went down the coast as far as
Grenada, and began to think that the length of it pointed to the fact
that it was more than an island: that it must be the mainland of Asia.

Passing over the trials of Columbus which followed upon the accusations
made against him at Court, we must go on to a brief résumé of his
fourth and last voyage. On this, which started from Cadiz in May,
1502, he went seeking a strait by which he could get farther east. He
reached Honduras, then later, Veragua and Nicaragua, the farthest point
reached being El Retrete, when he sailed for Veragua again, thence to
Hispaniola. Many troubles beset him. Jealous followers brought him
sorrows; disorders at Hispaniola brought him displeasure at Court,
and he sailed for home, reaching Spain in November, 1504, to die two
years later in neglect; “no local annals mention even his death.” And
he, the greatest mariner who had ever lived, the man who had brought
to Spain--although no one realised it then--a New World, with all its
treasures.




SOME EARLY BUCCANEERS

The Beginning of Buccaneering


The buccaneers were educated in a hard school. From being peaceful
hunters in the woods of Hispaniola they developed into hunters on the
seas, seeking more valuable game than oxen. They took up this new
profession from a sense of being ill-treated, and primarily with the
object of obtaining vengeance.

In the early part of the seventeenth century there were on the island
of Hispaniola a number of Frenchmen who lived by buccaneering--a word
derived from the Indian word _boucan_, meaning, first, the hut in which
the flesh of oxen was smoked, and, secondly, the wooden frame on which
the meat was dried. Eventually the hunters themselves received the
name of buccaneers, from which it will be seen that there was nothing
sinister in the name or profession at the outset. In course of time
larger numbers of Frenchmen gathered at Hispaniola to follow the wild
industry, and the Spanish rulers of the island came to the conclusion
that they would rid Hispaniola of them.

The buccaneers at the best were not an inviting-looking crowd, nor
were they the most gentle of men. Their mode of life made them rough
and wild, and their attire gave them an appearance of ruffianism. Long
blouses or shirts, covered with grease and blood-stains, and held
in at the waist by strips of green hide; short drawers that reached
only half-way down the thigh, sandals of hog’s skin or bull’s hide;
short guns, called “buccaneering-pieces,” slung from their shoulders,
short sabres from their waists, calabash powder-horns and skin bullet
pouches hanging at either side, with mosquito nets rolled up at the
waist--imagine men thus rigged out, with unkempt hair and not too clean
a skin, and you have buccaneers in all their glory. Certainly they were
not calculated to inspire confidence when one met a little band of
about a dozen out hunting, with dogs following the quarry. But, at any
rate, they were comparatively peaceful--except when, after a successful
hunt, and a still more successful piece of trading by which they got
rid of their spoils, they were out on a carousal.

Now, as we have suggested, the Spaniards grew jealous of the growing
prosperity of the buccaneers; had the latter been Spanish, all would
have been well, but the Dons, ever since the New World had been
discovered for King Ferdinand, had sought to keep it and its wealth for
themselves; so that, when the Frenchmen on Hispaniola grew in numbers
and wealth, it seemed to the Spaniards a case for repressive measures.
They therefore instituted mounted patrols of lancers, armed with
lances. There were some four hundred of these, and their work was to
harry the buccaneers as much and as often as possible.

This warfare between the lancers and the buccaneers went on for
many years; but the Spaniards found that the hunters refused to be
intimidated; and if the truth were known, they probably enjoyed the
occasional bout with the Spaniards. In any case, they would not give
up their hunting for all the lancers in Hispaniola. The Spaniards
therefore resorted to other means. If the buccaneers would not go, then
their livelihood should be taken from them, and the powers that were
in Spain sent orders for the destruction of all the wild cattle in
Hispaniola.

The orders were carried out to the letter, and the buccaneers, finding
themselves without the means of living and trade, shook the dust of
Hispaniola from their feet, and in 1637 made their way to the island
of Tortuga, about six miles to the north of Hispaniola. There their
already large numbers were increased by the coming of a cosmopolitan
crowd of ruffians, till, feeling themselves strong enough, they
determined to take vengeance on Spain for having cast them adrift.

They fell upon Hispaniola, not once nor twice, but time after time,
until the Dons came to the conclusion that Tortuga must be under the
yoke of Spain and the buccaneers be swept away. So, timing their
descent well, they went over to Tortuga when the French were away
on the mainland, hunting, and the English were far off on a cruise.
Landing soldiers, they took the island within an hour, seizing a large
number of hunters before they had time to defend themselves. Some they
killed out of hand, others they made captive, but a good many succeeded
in escaping to certain hiding-places, whence, with the coming of night,
they slipped down to the shore and hurried off to the mainland in
canoes.

The Spaniards, feeling that this vigorous action would be sufficient to
keep Tortuga within bounds, sailed back to Hispaniola. But, instead of
having quashed the buccaneers, they found that they had but added fuel
to the fire, for when the rovers came back from cruising and hunting,
and discovered the condition of their island, they were filled with
anger. They went mad! Off to the French island of St. Christopher they
sailed, and Governor De Poncy, falling in with their plans, sent an
expedition to Tortuga, which was recaptured, and put in such a state
of defence that the disillusioned Dons had a shock next time they went
over to carry out a second attempt at terrorism. Two hundred Spaniards
bit the dust that day, and the buccaneer--the real buccaneer--was born.

For the Spaniard was successful in his efforts to kill the hunters’
trade; he stamped out the trading-hunter and gave life to a
particularly romantic kind of pirate-freebooter. The men of Tortuga
fell to preying upon the shipping of Spain. They were determined to
have their revenge.

It would appear from all accounts that the first successful buccaneer
who took to sea-roving was one Pierre le Grand, a native of Dieppe, who
had found his way to the New World in quest of fortune. Baffled in his
attempts to make the smiling lands yield up their wealth, he gathered
a congenial company about him, and went to sea in a small boat holding
himself and a crew of twenty men. The exploit that made him famous was
that by which he captured the vice-admiral of a Spanish fleet near Cape
of Tiburon, to the west of Hispaniola.

They had, it seems, been at sea a good while on the look-out for a
prize worth having, and, finding none, were getting disheartened--and
hungry, incidentally, seeing that they had used up most of their
rations. Then, like a gift from the gods, there came into view a
Spanish fleet, with a large ship standing some distance off from
the rest. Pierre decided that it would be impious to let such an
opportunity slip. He knew that it was a case of long odds, because the
Spaniard was a fine vessel, and no doubt well manned; but, nothing
venture, nothing have! So, waiting until the dusk of evening, Pierre,
who had received solemn oaths from his companions that they would stand
by him to the last, sailed towards his prey, hoping in his heart that
the Dons might be unprepared for battle.

He did not know it then, but later he found out that the captain of
the ship had had the little cockle-boat pointed out to him, with the
suggestion that it might be a pirate craft; whereupon the gallant
sailor had exclaimed:

“What, then, must I be afraid of such a pitiful thing as that is? No!
though she were a ship as big and as strong as mine is!”

Determined to hazard all upon a gambler’s throw, when Peter drew near
the great Spaniard, under cover of the twilight, he made his surgeon
bore holes in the sides of his boat, so that, with their own vessel
sinking quickly beneath them, his men might be impelled to put all
their energy into the attempt to board the Spanish ship.

So, with “all or nothing” as the unspoken battle-cry, the buccaneers
swarmed up the sides of the ship, hurled themselves aboard without
being seen, and rushed pell-mell to the captain’s cabin, where they
found him playing cards.

Pierre le Grand held the trump card--in the shape of a loaded pistol,
which he promptly presented at the captain’s head, calling upon him to
surrender.

“Jesus bless us!” cried the Spaniard. “Are these devils, or what are
they?”

The uninvited guests showed what they were; while Peter the Great kept
the captain quiet, others rushed to the gun-room, seized all the arms,
and then dispersed about the ship, taking prisoner whoever preferred
that to being killed out of hand. There was no gainsaying them, and
the captain gave in, with the result that Pierre found himself master
of a fine ship filled with treasure, and a crew that he hardly knew
what to do with. He solved the problem by setting ashore all he didn’t
want, and the rest he kept on to sail the ship to France. For the gay
buccaneer discovered that he was rich enough to retire, and never again
showed his face in the New World.

But if he did no more pirating himself, he set fire to the buccaneers
of Tortuga, who told themselves that what Pierre le Grand had done
they could do. If they had but ships! They were going to set up in
“business” that required good craft, and there they were with only
canoes. Well, canoes would do to get them where they could find
suitable ships, and, pushing off day after day, the buccaneers cruised
about Hispaniola and the neighbourhood, seizing small Spanish vessels
carrying tobacco and hides. These they took back to Tortuga, disposed
of the cargoes profitably, fitted out the vessels, and set out to sea
again, now to seek larger ships; with the result that, in a couple of
years, a score of buccaneer ships were sailing the seas proudly, taking
toll of the Spaniards for having stopped their peaceful livelihood.

Of these earlier buccaneers we must mention another Peter--Pierre
François. Like Peter the Great, his forerunner, he had been cruising
about a long time without a satisfactory prize turning up; and as
away at Tortuga were a number of men--whom we, in these modern days,
call “duns”--waiting for him to settle up various little accounts, he
thought it behoved him, for his creditors’ sake, to garner a harvest
that was worth while.

So, standing out from the neighbourhood of Hispaniola, Pierre François
ventured farther afield. Away down at Ranceiras, near the River Plate,
there was a fine rich bank of pearl, to which year after year the
Spaniards sent about a dozen large ships a-pearling, each squadron
having a man-o’-war to protect it.

[Illustration: “Promptly boarded the _Vice-Admiral_. ‘Surrender!’
yelled the buccaneers”]

Pierre François felt he would like to have some of the pearls which
other men had obtained. When he came up with the fleet, he found the
warship, the _Capitana_, of twenty-four guns and a couple of hundred
men, lying half a league away from the rest of the vessels; and, well
versed in the ways of the wily Spaniard, he knew that the man-o’-war
would be certain to hold the greater part of the harvest of the sea.
Wherefore, of course, Pierre decided that nothing less than the
_Capitana_ would pay him for the trip down the coast.

But first he must put himself in the way of being strong enough to take
the war vessel, and to this end he resolved to capture one of the other
ships to begin with. Pretending that his ship was a Spanish craft, he
pulled down his sails, rowed close to the shore till he reached the
pearl-bank, and then promptly boarded the _Vice-Admiral_, of eight guns
and threescore men.

“Surrender!” yelled the buccaneers.

“Never!” cried the Spaniards, and fell to fighting stubbornly; and then
did what they said they wouldn’t do--they surrendered.

So far so good. Pierre was elated. But he did want that man-o’-war!

First he sank his own vessel, which was in a pretty bad way. Then he
hoisted the Spanish flag on his prize and sailed away. The captain of
the _Capitana_, fearing that one of his convoy was running off with
treasure--those Spaniards never trusted each other!--set sail after the
runaway. Pierre let him come, and then, when within hailing distance,
made his prisoners yell: “_Victoria! Victoria!_ We have taken the
thieves!”

Whereupon the _Capitana_, believing that everything was all right, hove
to, drew off, and disappeared in the darkness, promising to send to
fetch the prisoners away in the morning.

During the night François decided to slip away. Perhaps he didn’t like
the look of the _Capitana_ after all; perhaps he was satisfied with
his haul. He should have been, for it contained pearls of the value
of 100,000 gold pieces of eight, and a large store of provisions. But
he had come to the end of his lucky lode, for the _Capitana_, having,
apparently, grown suspicious, suddenly hoisted sail and followed in
pursuit. Pierre hoped to be able to show a clean pair of heels before
daylight came. But Dame Fate played him a nasty trick; the wind fell,
and left him becalmed. And when dawn broke he saw that the _Capitana_,
becalmed also, lay within sight, waiting for the wind to freshen.

Evening came, and with it a breeze; and instantly Pierre hoisted all
sail and stood away, with the _Capitana_ in hot pursuit. Then Pierre
found he had made a mistake; the ship was unable to bear the burden of
so much sail as he had hoisted, and the fickle wind, bursting upon him,
brought his mainsail down with a rush.

That did it! The _Capitana_ sped through the water towards the
_Vice-Admiral_, and, coming within range, sent a few shots hurtling
at her, expecting to see her haul down the flag. Instead of which
Pierre, resolved to fight in the hope of coming out best, opened out
with his eight guns, and pounded away for all he was worth. He took
the precaution first of clapping his prisoners in the hold and nailing
down the hatches. And then, with but twenty-two men fit to fight--the
rest were either killed or wounded--he prepared to give battle. For
hours they fought, bravely and well; but all in vain. The man-o’-war
was too much for them, and at last Pierre signified his willingness
to surrender--on conditions. These were that they shouldn’t be made
slaves, nor be made to work on the plantations. The Spaniards agreed;
and within a short time François and his men were on board the Spanish
vessel--prisoners.

They were taken to Carthagena, where the Spaniards broke their word,
and made the prisoners slaves for three years, after which they were
sent to Spain.

Bartholomew Portugues, another of the early buccaneers, sailing off
Cuba in a small vessel of three guns and thirty men, fell to chasing a
big Spaniard of twenty big guns and seventy men. The Spaniards showed
fight, and beat Bartholomew off with losses he could ill afford. But,
determined to succeed or die, the buccaneer brought his vessel back
again, and, getting alongside, led his crew aboard the Spanish ship.
All fighting like demons, in the end they captured it, and found
themselves in possession of a vessel worth having, with a treasure on
board of 120,000 lbs. of cocoa and 75,000 crowns.

Joyful over their good fortune, the buccaneers bethought themselves of
returning to Jamaica, whence they had set out; but, as they were now
but twenty all told, they did not know how to keep their prisoners.
They solved that problem by bundling them into a small boat and turning
them adrift, after which they hoisted sail and set off to Cuba to
repair, as the wind was not favourable for Jamaica.

All would have gone well had they not fallen in with three large
ships bound for Havannah, which, becoming suspicious, gave chase,
and, as they were much faster vessels than the new-found prize of the
buccaneers, they quickly overhauled it, battered at it with their guns,
and before long had made the captors captives, with whom they set sail
for Campechy.

Portugues had a reputation that was not warranted to make him loved
in Campechy, and when he arrived there men lifted up their voices and
cried:

“Behold, this is Bartholomew Portugues, the biggest scoundrel in the
world, who has done more harm to Spanish trade than all the other
pirates put together.” And in due course the governor, in the name of
the King of Spain, sent soldiers, who took the buccaneer to another
ship, where he was clapped into irons to await the morning--and the
gallows, which were promptly erected. Bartholomew, made aware of the
preparations being made in his honour, considered it necessary to do
something on his own account for his safety. So in the night he freed
himself from his shackles, and, being ingenious and a non-swimmer,
fashioned strange water-wings, in the shape of a couple of leathern
jars he found in his cabin. Then, having waited till silence on the
ship told him that everyone was asleep--excepting, he surmised, the
sentry at his door--he resolved to make a bid for freedom. The sentry
he stabbed with a knife he had concealed, and then slipped over the
ship’s side, clambered down the mainchains into the sea, and, supported
by his jars, made his way to shore.

Into the woods he darted, and for three days hid there, on a diet of
wild herbs, listening to the sounds of baying bloodhounds and angry
citizens seeking him high and low. Fortunately for the buccaneer, his
place of concealment was in a hollow tree partly covered by water,
which put the bloodhounds off the scent.

In due course the searchers became convinced that the pirate had eluded
them, and gave up the search, and Bartholomew decided it was safe to
venture forth. He wanted to get to Gulfo Triste, 160 miles away, and
thither he bent his steps. It was a long way and a weary way, and a
hungry and thirsty way, too, for he had no provisions and little water.
He came to rivers that he must cross, and he had no boats. He found a
board with a few old nails in it, and out of these he fashioned crude
knives, with which he laboriously cut down branches of trees, and
made a raft by which to cross the rivers. Sometimes the rivers were
fordable, but were filled with alligators. At these he flung stones
to scare them away, and then sallied forth across the stream. Once a
mangrove swamp lay between him and the place where he would fain go.
There was no road; only the swamp, that would swallow him up if he put
foot upon it. He solved the problem of progress by swinging from bough
to bough of the mangrove, travelling for miles in that way. Truly,
Bartholomew was a hardy traveller!

Thus for a whole fortnight the buccaneer kept on his lonely way, and at
last reached Gulfo Triste, where he found what he had hoped would be
there--a buccaneer ship, careening.

The pirates were friends of his, and he poured into their attentive
ears the story of his adventures and misadventures. They listened
even more attentively when he told them that, if they would help him,
he would put in their way a ship that would enable them to brave any
vessel that the Spanish Dons might send out against them; besides which
it contained goodly treasures.

“Give me a boat and thirty men,” he said, “and I will go back to
Campechy and bring back the ship that took me prisoner.”

His friends gave the boat and the men, and Bartholomew set out, hugging
the coast, and eight days later came to Campechy. Then, under the cover
of darkness, he put his boat alongside the great vessel, scrambled up
her side, and prepared to rush. The sentry challenged him. Bartholomew,
in Spanish, murmured soothingly that they were part of the crew
returning, after an evening ashore, with smuggled goods, and the sentry
kept quiet. He was quieter still soon, for a knife-thrust laid him low.

Then, with a rush, the buccaneers fell upon the watch, overpowered
them, cut the cable and set the vessel adrift; after which they ran
below. The sleeping crew awoke in a great fright, and, with pistols at
their heads, were compelled to surrender.

The ship was won!

Bartholomew, however, seemed dogged by hard luck, for while he was
making his way past the Isle of Pines, bound for Jamaica, a great storm
burst upon him, and drove his prize upon the rocks, where she held fast
until she was broken to pieces.

The ship was lost!

The buccaneers, however, succeeded in escaping to Jamaica in a canoe,
from where, according to Esquemeling, the chronicler of the dark deeds
of the bold pirates, “it was not long before Bartholomew Portugues went
on new adventures, but was never fortunate afterwards.”




MORGAN: BUCCANEER AND GOVERNOR

Tales of the Remarkable Exploits of the Greatest Buccaneer


Before telling the story of the buccaneer who became Governor of
Jamaica, we must mention the change which had taken place in the
methods of the buccaneers. From being mere rovers of the sea, bent
on taking toll of shipping, they had developed into a brotherhood
which made bold attempts on cities. The Spaniards, weary of their
depredations and finding that they could not cope with them, had
reduced the amount of shipping, so that the buccaneers had to turn to
more profitable fields of enterprise. Hence, says Esquemeling, “the
pirates finding not so many ships at sea as before, began to gather
into greater companies, and land upon the Spanish dominions, ruining
whole cities, towns and villages; and withal pillaging, burning, and
carrying away as much as they could find possible.”

And now to Captain Henry Morgan, the most famous of the buccaneers.
He was a Welshman, who, after various little “affairs,” found himself
in command of a pirate vessel, with which he was successful. Later,
he allied himself with Mansvelt, a notorious buccaneer, and after
the death of that worthy, Morgan was appointed to the command of the
Brethren of the Coast.

At the head of his band of rogues, he captured the towns of Port au
Prince, Cuba, and Porto Bello, Panama--both after stiff fights--and
from the latter he extracted a heavy ransom, was cheeky to the
governor of Panama, after he had waylaid and beaten an expedition sent
out to wipe him off the Spanish main, and promised the governor that he
would come later and sack his city for him!

Then he turned his attention to Maracaibo.

First of all, he held a review of his force; it consisted of eight
ships and five hundred men, quite a formidable little army. With these
he sailed, and in due course arrived off Maracaibo. The buccaneers held
off till night came, sailing in under cover of the darkness until they
arrived near the bar. The Spaniards, sighting the strange vessels, were
taking no risks, and opened fire immediately, pounding away at the
pirates as they put out their boats and manned them, ready to sweep
in and land. Of course, Morgan’s ships gave the Spaniards as much as
they received, and during the day a fine little fight was kept up. Then
night came again; and Morgan, meaning to take advantage of it, swooped
in, to find that the Spaniards in the fort had bolted precipitately
when night fell.

They had taken the precaution, however, of setting a fuse train to a
barrel of gunpowder, sufficient to hurl the fort and the buccaneers
into the Great Unknown. Fortunately, Morgan’s men, scouring about for
such a likely thing, hit upon it in about a quarter of an hour, and
soon destroyed the fuse.

That done, the fort was ransacked and demolished. Next day, free from
hindrance of the fort, the eight pirate ships passed into the harbour,
and went on to Maracaibo. The water, however, being too shallow to
allow of the ships passing up, the buccaneers took to small boats
and canoes, and in this way made their way to the town. Landing,
they immediately rushed Fort De la Barra, only to find that it was
deserted; the Spaniards here had fled like their comrades farther
down, as also had the people in the town, with the exception of a few
old folk.

Truly, Morgan was having an easy time.

Searching the town to make sure that there were no soldiers hidden in
the houses to open fire upon them as they passed through the streets,
and finding none, the buccaneers dispersed about the city, some taking
up their abode in the church, for nothing was held sacred to these
terrible scourgers of the sea and sackers of cities.

Although Morgan captured a number of fugitives and a good deal
of booty, he realised that there was nothing much to be gained
from Maracaibo, and decided to assault Gibraltar. First he sent a
batch of prisoners to the city, to warn the inhabitants that they
must surrender, or else they would receive no quarter; and almost
immediately followed them with his ships. Gibraltar, however, was
determined not to surrender at the behest of a scoundrelly buccaneer,
and Morgan was met by a terrific cannonading.

Nothing daunted, the buccaneers accepted their welcome philosophically,
counting it but the bitters before the sweets. Early next morning,
they landed and marched on the town, taking the safe route through the
woods, the Spaniards in the fort little expecting them to come by that
way. However, the dons, aware of the reputation of Morgan, had followed
the example of their compatriots at Maracaibo and had fled, leaving
only one old man to receive the buccaneers. They had taken all the
munitions of war, all the treasure, and as much of their goods as they
could cope with, and they had spiked all the guns.

There were a number of murderous and cruel incidents connected with
the prisoners they succeeded in taking later on. From one of these
unfortunate men they learned of a certain river where there was a
richly laden ship and four boats filled with treasure; he also told
them that he knew where the governor of Gibraltar was hidden.

This was good news. Morgan went off with a large force to capture the
governor, and sent another body of men to take the ship and the boats.
Morgan was unsuccessful in capturing the governor, who had heard of his
coming and had taken up a strong position on a mountain; so that the
buccaneer had to forgo the pleasure of capturing him, and, moreover,
had to make a perilous retreat, owing to the fact that the rains had
come and the ground was swampy--sometimes, indeed, the men had to wade
waist deep. Many female prisoners and children died of exposure; some
of the buccaneers died also, and all their powder was wet and useless,
so that, if the Spaniards had had the gumption of mice, they would have
fallen upon Morgan and utterly routed him. But they hadn’t; and they
didn’t.

Morgan, therefore, arrived safely back at Gibraltar, where two days
later his other men turned up, bringing the four boats and some
prisoners, but little treasure. The Spaniards had taken it out of the
ship and the boats.

Having held Gibraltar for five weeks, and having committed all sorts of
cruelties to extract treasure from the prisoners taken, Morgan decided
that it was time to be moving. He first of all sent prisoners into the
woods to collect a ransom for the city, failing which the place would
be burnt out. The searchers came back minus ransom; they could not
find anyone who would give them money, they said. Morgan was furious;
but the inhabitants begged him to allow them time, offering to give
themselves up as hostages. Morgan, who was anxious to get back to
Maracaibo before the Spaniards had had time to refortify it, agreed to
this, and eventually sailed away, taking a goodly treasure with him and
all the slaves he had captured.

Reaching Maracaibo, he found that the Spaniards had not yet come back,
but learned from an old man that three Spanish men-o’-war were lying at
the entrance to the river, waiting for him, and that the fort had been
repaired. Here was a pretty pass! Safety lay in getting out, and three
battleships were hovering about!

Morgan, however, like the bold adventurer he was, refused to regard
himself as caught. He sent a messenger to the admiral of the Spanish
ships, Don Alonzo del Campo d’Espinosa, with an ultimatum!

“Ransom of 20,000 pieces of eight for Maracaibo, or I’ll burn the
city!” was the trend of that ultimatum; as though Morgan were master of
the situation.

The messenger came back, bringing a letter from d’Espinosa, informing
Morgan that, seeing his commission was to secure the buccaneers, and
as he had a good backing of ships, besides the repaired fort, he would
see Morgan to the deuce before he took any notice of the latter’s
ultimatum. He made one concession, however; that if Morgan would refund
all he had taken, and quit the Spanish Main for England, he would allow
him to pass freely. Otherwise, the Spaniards would give fight, and put
every buccaneer to the sword.

Morgan read the letter, said a few strong things about Spaniards in
general and d’Espinosa in particular, and then called a council of
his men in the market-place of Maracaibo, and was gratified to know
that they would all stand by him in a vigorous offensive against the
Spaniards. One of them propounded a scheme for destroying the Spanish
vessels. Fireships! That was the suggestion.

Notwithstanding their determination to fight, the buccaneers had
another try at corrupting d’Espinosa. They sent saying that they would
compromise by doing no damage to the town, or exact ransom from it; and
that they would release half the slaves taken, all other prisoners, and
forgo any ransom from Gibraltar, if the Spaniards would allow them to
pass through unmolested. D’Espinosa, of course, refused the terms, and
gave the buccaneers two days to fall into line with his own suggestion.
He would have done better if he had attacked them out of hand, for
Morgan immediately began to put himself in fighting form. He secured
his prisoners, had all arms prepared, and then fixed up a fireship. She
was drenched with tar and brimstone, logs of wood were placed upright
on her decks, surmounted by hats, to resemble men; dummy cannons were
fixed in her portholes and on her decks.

All being ready, they went down the river to seek the Spaniards, the
fireship leading the way. At night they came within sight of the
enemy, dropped anchor, determined to fight all night if the Spaniards
attacked. But morning came, and the foe had not opened the battle, so
Morgan opened it instead. He sent the fireship ahead; she grappled the
admiral’s ship, and almost simultaneously burst into flame. Instantly
there was confusion on the Spanish ship, which tried to cut herself
free. But in vain; the flames caught her rigging and canvas, even her
timber, so that within a very short time the stern of the ship was
ablaze, the forepart sank, and the great ship perished. Meanwhile, the
other Spaniards were horror-stricken; one ship ran for the shelter of
the fort--anywhere to get away from such a fate; the Spaniards sank her
themselves rather than that she should fall to the foe. The third ship
was attacked by the buccaneers and captured; and Morgan knew that his
bold plan had been successful.

The buccaneers, gladdened at their victory, landed, with the intention
of assaulting the fort; but, finding it well armed and manned, and they
themselves having only small pieces with them, thought discretion the
better part of valour for the time, though they had a little fight with
the Spaniards, just for fun, which cost them thirty men dead and as
many wounded. The Dons, fearing another attack both by land and sea,
entrenched themselves during the night; but Morgan was not intending to
assault them again, but rather to find a way out, for the fort still
stood between him and escape. First of all he left one ship near the
scene of the fight, to watch the vessels which had been burnt, and
which he heard contained a large treasure. Then he returned with the
prize to Maracaibo, where he refitted her, and then went back to his
other ships near the fort.

Master of the situation, he now sent to the governor demanding the
ransom--now 30,000 pieces of eight and 500 cows; otherwise, the city
should be burnt in eight days. In two days the cows were forthcoming,
and 20,000 pieces of eight, the ransom finally agreed upon. Meanwhile,
the governor was working hard at getting the fort in a thorough state
of repair, so that he might dispute the passage of the pirates as they
tried to force their way through. Having salted all the meat supplied
him, Morgan asked the governor to allow him free passage. It was
refused. The buccaneer replied by threatening to hang his prisoners
in the rigging, so that they should be shot by the fort guns as the
vessels swung past. The governor refused to budge, even when the
prisoners made a frantic appeal to him.

“All right,” was Morgan’s answer. “If he will not let me pass, then
I’ll find a way without him.”

The vessel which he had left near the burnt ship had been successful in
getting many pieces of eight out of her, and a large quantity of plate
and molten gold.

As the governor refused him safe passage, Morgan, having divided the
booty of the expedition, amounting to 250,000 pieces of eight and a
large quantity of merchandise, turned his attention to finding the
means whereby to escape. Fertile in invention, cool in execution, he
soon found a way. It was a bold piece of strategy that he hit upon. On
the day he had decided to leave despite the governor, he sent boats,
fully manned, to the shore, but instead of landing, the men, under
shelter of the trees overhanging the river, simply lay down in the
boats, which were pulled back to the ships, only to be sent off again
to follow the same procedure. The Spaniards in the fort, seeing such
large numbers of men apparently coming ashore, prepared themselves for
a fierce night attack. They therefore mounted all their big guns on the
landward side, which was just what Morgan had hoped they would do!

Night came; the buccaneers weighed anchor, and with lights out and
no sails set, but trusting to the tide, they drifted down river till
they were abreast of the castle, when they spread their sails with all
haste and made for the open sea. Instantly the Spaniards perceived
how they had been hoodwinked, and in frantic haste moved their guns
back to their original positions, and began firing at the buccaneers,
who, however, favoured by a good breeze, were able to swing by without
receiving much damage.

Safely past the fort, Morgan hove to, and in the morning sent some
of his prisoners to the governor, who dispatched boats so that the
others might be sent ashore, Morgan, however, detaining the hostages
from Gibraltar, as the city had not yet paid its ransom. Then the
buccaneers, giving the Spaniards a parting salvo of seven great guns,
dipped their flags in derision and went away, to run into a great
storm, which threatened to do what the Spaniards had not been able to
do--destroy them. However, they rode it out, and eventually reached
Jamaica, highly pleased with themselves.

As was the custom with the buccaneers, Morgan’s men soon dissipated
the fortune they had made in their raid on Maracaibo and Gibraltar,
and the chief was besieged by men who wanted him to undertake another
expedition. Nothing loath, Morgan called a council of buccaneers at
Port Couillon, on the south of Hispaniola, on October 24, 1670. Here
he propounded a mighty big scheme, and one that had to be carefully
worked out. First, provisions were necessary, and the buccaneers sent
an expedition to the mainland to scour for maize, while another went
hunting for animals; and when all these were obtained they met again
at Port Couillon, where the final arrangements were made. Everything
being ready, they set sail for Cape Tiburon, where they were joined by
a number of other ships, which brought the fleet up to thirty-seven
vessels and two thousand men, all well armed, and each ship with large
guns aboard. Morgan, finding himself the leader of such a formidable
expedition, organised it properly, forming it into two squadrons,
appointing a vice-admiral and other officers for the second squadron,
he himself leading the first.

Having fixed these little matters up, the buccaneers discussed their
expedition. Where should they go? The votes fell for Panama, which was
counted the richest city to plunder. As they were not familiar with the
overland route, they decided to seize guides from the island of St.
Catherine, and in due course the armada appeared off the fort of that
place. They sent messengers demanding its surrender, and the governor
gave in, whereupon the buccaneers busied themselves in laying in all
the stores they wanted; and that being done, enlisted three pretty
rogues to act as guides to them in their great venture.

Then Morgan sent off a fairly large party to assault the castle of
Chagre, as a sort of preliminary canter; and when this had been
successfully done, he himself went to the castle, rebuilt it, and so
secured his line of retreat--if Fate should make it necessary for him
to flee before the Spaniards at Panama. Five hundred of his ruffians
were left as a garrison, and 150 guarded the ships, 1,200 going with
Morgan when he set out for Panama, which he did as soon as everything
was ready.

The buccaneer received information that the Spaniards were aware of his
projected expedition, and had prepared against it, placing ambuscades
on the line of route. But, instead of scaring Morgan, it really only
made him alter his plans to the extent that, instead of carrying as
many stores as he would have done, he relied upon sending the Spaniards
scurrying from their ambushes, and taking their stores for himself.

On January 18, 1671, therefore, the buccaneers left Chagre in
boisterous spirits, with songs on their lips, and with the good wishes
of their comrades ringing in their ears. Drums were beaten, flags
waved, blunder-busses were fired, as the intrepid 1,200 embarked in
boats and canoes.

Their troubles began at once. The day was hot, the boats none too
commodious to contain all the men, and the result was that the
buccaneers were sun-scorched and cramped as they made their way up the
river against the stream, with the water lapping over the gunwales,
so crowded were the craft. Six Spanish leagues only were covered that
first day, and when evening fell the buccaneers scrambled ashore to
seek for food. They found little or none. Morgan had not bargained for
the Spaniards taking such effective measures to render his expedition a
failure; but the Dons had given instructions all along the route that
every particle of food was to be removed, animals driven away, and
what could not be cleared off to be destroyed. Esquemeling says that
“this day, being the first of all their journey, there was amongst them
such scarcity of victuals that the greatest part of them were forced
to pass with only a pipe of tobacco, without any other refreshment.”
The following day the journey was resumed, but the same troubles beset
them, and when they arrived at Cruz de Juan Gallego, in the evening,
they had to abandon their boats and canoes, because the river was
shallow and filled with fallen trees.

Morgan’s guides told him that two leagues farther on the country
was good for travelling on foot, and the buccaneer, leaving 160 men
to guard the boats, set out next morning to cut a way through the
thick jungle. The travelling was so hard that the men could not cope
with it, and, fearing lest, if they got through, they would be worse
than useless to withstand an attack, Morgan went back to the river,
determined to make a portage. He sent the strongest of his men by land,
and embarked the remainder on the canoes, which forced a way up river
and met the other party--hungry, weary, disappointed at not having come
across either Indians or Spaniards. They wanted food so badly, and
could find none.

From this point Morgan divided his army into two parties, one going
by land, the other by river, with a guide scouting before them on
the look-out for ambuscades. Incidentally, the Spaniards also had
their spies, who were so efficient that they could warn the Spaniards
six hours before the coming of the buccaneers. It was in this way
that Morgan came to an ambuscade too late to meet the Spaniards, 500
of whom, he judged, had been there. Not a scrap of food was left
behind; the only things about were a few leathern bags, upon which the
buccaneers fell ravishingly, and quarrelled amongst themselves as to
the biggest shares! After they had feasted themselves upon the tough
rations, they moved forward again, to come to another place where an
ambuscade had been made, only to find it as deserted and as barren as
the other. They searched here, there, and everywhere for food, finding
none. Not a horse, not a cow was to be seen; they could not find even
rats, and on the fifth day they were so famished that it seemed as
though the expedition would be a failure. Then they lighted upon a
grotto, and in it found two sacks of meal, wheat, etc., and a couple
of jars of wine and some fruits. Such heaven-sent gifts! Morgan caused
them to be distributed amongst the weakest of his men, whom he put in
the canoes, making the others go by land.

Next day they came to a plantation with a barn in it filled with maize.
They broke that barn open, and fell to eating the corn raw, and then
distributed the rest. Unfortunately for them, they presently saw what
they thought was an ambuscade of Indians. They felt that now they
would be sure to find food, and, throwing their maize away, rushed at
the ambuscade; but the Indians slipped away, carrying everything with
them, and standing on the other side of the river, taunted them, and,
shooting arrows, succeeded in killing several of the buccaneers.

The way now lay across the river, and it was necessary to wait until
next day to cross. That night the men began to grumble, cursing
Morgan for a fool, and vowing that they would go back. However, better
counsels prevailed, and in the morning, having seen to their arms,
they crossed the river, and travelled on to the village of Cruz. Smoke
issuing from the houses cheered them up, for they said, “Where there’s
smoke, there’s food!”

Again they were disappointed, for the Spaniards had fled with
everything eatable and of value, setting fire to the houses ere they
left. A few cats and dogs were found; they made a feast for the
buccaneers that day. Then some nosing scoundrel discovered a few jars
of wine and a sack of bread. They fell upon those goodies with a will;
and then almost died after drinking the wine, which was too strong
for their weakened stomachs. This little matter delayed them till
next morning, for the men were too ill to move, and it was a case of
everyone walking now, because the river was too shallow to take them
farther. Morgan, therefore, next morning sent his canoes back, lest
they should be captured, and with the remainder of his men marched
forward, meeting that day with the first opposition. A flight of some
four thousand arrows darkened the air, and caused a panic amongst
the buccaneers, who could not see whence they had come. Presently,
however, they espied a band of Indians in a position which, if defended
stanchly, would have prevented the buccaneers passing. But, contenting
themselves with shooting a few more arrows, the Indians took to their
heels. Then, a little later, the raiders met another company, and had a
stiff little fight with them. Yet again, in a wood, Indians appeared,
backed by a number of Spaniards. These, however, soon fled, and the
pirates held on their way, experiencing in the evening and during the
night a terrific rainstorm, which caused them much hardship, as the
majority had to sleep out in the downpour, a few being told off to
occupy some small huts in which the arms and powder were stored.

The ninth day came, and the buccaneers ascended a hill, from the summit
of which they caught the gleam of the great South Sea. And, better
still, fertile plains rolled beneath them, with herds of cattle quietly
browsing.

Down the hill-side raced the buccaneers, hurling themselves amongst the
cattle, which they killed and cut up for eating, many not waiting to
cook the meat.

Having thus satisfied their animal cravings, they moved forward,
sending out a band of fifty to scout, in the hope of being able to
capture some prisoners, from whom they might learn the disposition
and strength of the Spaniards. Morgan was growing anxious at the
elusiveness of the Dons, fearing, no doubt, that they were simply
leading him on into a well prepared trap. But he never swerved from
his intention; he had come to take Panama and sack it, and he would
do so despite all the Spaniards in the New World. Towards evening a
couple of hundred Dons appeared and shouted at the buccaneers, who,
however, could not catch what they said; and soon after the Spaniards
had gone away the picturesque horde of pirates came in sight of Panama.
Mighty cheers rent the air, trumpets blared, ragged caps were flung
up; the men who had found the utmost difficulty in dragging themselves
along the tortuous paths now leaped for very joy. They already had by
anticipation the wealth of Panama in their hands!

They pitched their camp that night with Panama before them, barely
contenting themselves with the idea of having to wait until the morning
before the work really began. They need not have worried; the Spaniards
saw to it that they had little rest. Fifty horsemen trooped out of the
city, headed by a trumpeter, who blared away at them, while the Dons
cried in derision: “Come on, ye dogs! We shall meet ye!” and then rode
back, leaving an outpost to keep an eye upon the buccaneers. Almost
immediately afterwards the great guns of Panama began to speak _their_
taunts, and the pirates found themselves bombarded by heavy fire,
which, however, did little damage.

Morning came, and the raiders prepared for the assault of the city.
There was little need for silence as they moved forward, and the
buccaneers made a terrible row, what with shouting, singing, and
trumpeting. They were an army by no means to be despised; about a
thousand strong, with loot as their aim, and what they lacked in the
way of uniform--for they were as ragamuffin an army as ever took
the field--they made up in courage and equipment. On they went, and
then suddenly came to a standstill at the word of command from their
chief. One of the guides had remembered that there was a better way to
enter the city than risking an encounter by going in full view of the
Spaniards. It was a difficult road, passing through a thick wood, but
Morgan decided to take it. So the army turned off, and the Spaniards,
seeing them do so, were filled with dismay, for they had not dreamt the
foe would take that road, and had fixed all their batteries to oppose
them on the other.

It ended by the buccaneers coming on the town at a side totally
unprepared for attack, and the Spaniards had hastily to leave their
barricades and batteries. From the summit of a hill the pirates looked
down upon Panama--and what seemed to them a whole host of Spaniards.
The governor had turned out all his forces, consisting of two squadrons
of cavalry, four regiments of foot, and a fair amount of artillery.
The sight of so many foes for a while struck fear into the hearts of
the ragged horde, who had known but little fear till then. Some of
them spoke of going back. But, taking counsel amongst themselves, they
decided that, after all, it was desirable to do what they had come out
for, and to go into the fight with fierce courage, giving and taking no
quarter.

Morgan divided his army into three battalions, sending in advance a
company of 200 real buccaneers--that is, the hunters of wild cattle.

And the fight began.

The Spaniards sent forward their cavalry at the gallop, shouting “Viva
el Rey”; but the rain had soddened the ground, and the horses became
unmanageable, especially when the pirates’ advance guard dropped to
their knees and sent in a withering fire of well-aimed shots. But the
Dons put up a bold defence, foot aiding horse, artillery supporting
both, till presently Morgan manœuvred so that the infantry were obliged
to separate from the cavalry. And then the buccaneers knew they were on
the way to victory.

The Spaniards, however, had a card up their sleeve. When they debouched
from the city, they brought with them a herd of wild bulls, in charge
of a band of Indians. It was one part of the army with which they
meant to oppose the buccaneers. Finding that the battle was going all
against them, the Dons gave the word, and the herd of bulls, maddened
by the cries and lashes of the Indians, went full pelt across the
plain, straight for Morgan’s gallant little army. It looked as though
there were going to be a bull-fight instead of a battle between men.
Instead of that, the noise of the conflict, which still went on between
buccaneers and Spaniards, so scared the bulls that they turned and
ran away. A few, however, broke through the English battalion, but
did no more damage than to tear the colours. The result was that the
buccaneers found themselves with enough meat to last them many days.

The Spaniards, disappointed at the failure of their ruse, held on
with the courage of despair, fighting for two more hours, having the
greater part of their cavalry killed, the rest fleeing for their lives.
The infantry and artillery, however, kept up the fight till, with a
rush, the buccaneers swept down upon them; and then, firing only the
shots that were in their muskets, away the Dons went, flinging their
arms aside as they ran. The buccaneers, battle-worn, were too weary to
follow them, and hundreds managed to reach the safety of the woods,
those few that remained on the field being killed out of hand.

Six hundred Spaniards died that day, while Morgan “found both killed
and wounded of his own men a considerable number.” However, he was
victorious, and making his men rest before going up to the city,
examined a few prisoners who were brought in. One captain told him that
the troops in Panama consisted of 400 horse, twenty-four companies of
infantry of 100 men each, and 2,000 bulls, while in the city trenches
had been made and batteries dotted about to enfilade the streets up
which the buccaneers must go.

Morgan and his men, however, vowed to go on, and after resting marched
forward against the city, which, when they approached, opened up a
terrific fire from the batteries, the guns being loaded with pieces of
iron and musket-balls. The cannonade wrought havoc with Morgan’s men,
who, however, pressed forward, nothing daunted, and after a stern fight
lasting three hours, they entered the city, rushing up the streets,
which, guarded by the great guns, swept lanes through their ranks. It
was a case of fighting from barricade to barricade, taking battery
after battery; fighting a way up one street, and then down another. For
three hours the fierce fight went on, and still the buccaneers were
winning.

Then came the end. Gathering his forces, the governor opposed the
pirates gallantly, and a fierce hand-to-hand conflict waged, out of
which the buccaneers came victorious, and the city fell. Morgan had
achieved what he had set out to do. Through the streets the raiders
rushed, killing every soul who opposed them, giving no quarter; and
when the work of blood was done, Morgan called his men together.

He commended them on their gallant fight, and then scared them into
sobriety. He knew what kind of men he had to deal with, and knew that,
if they once fell to the lure of wine, they would be at the mercy of
any small band of Spaniards who might return. Morgan lied to his men.

“All the wine in the city has been poisoned!” he cried. “Drink but one
cup, and you will die!”

Sadly disappointed--for they loved nothing so much as debauchery,
except it were a fight--the buccaneers promised to keep off the drink.
Though some of them in their hearts told themselves that he lied,
they were too scared to try to prove it. So Morgan became leader of a
_sober_ army of buccaneers!

Then there began the looting of the city. The inhabitants had taken the
precaution of removing a great deal of their valuables; but there was
still sufficient left to provide much spoil for the buccaneers, who
ransacked every building in Panama. When all had been taken, Morgan
commanded many of the largest houses to be fired. The people who still
remained in the city had been tortured indescribably to make them
reveal the secret hiding-places of their wealth, and a veritable reign
of terror lasted while the buccaneers remained in Panama.

It was not until February 24, 1671, that Morgan and the remains of his
army evacuated the city; and when they did so they had 175 beasts of
burden laden with gold, silver, and other precious things. They took
600 wretched prisoners with them to sell into slavery.

Truly, they had wrought well from their point of view. Morgan made
every man allow himself to be searched to show that he had nothing
concealed about him when they arrived at Chagre. Then, having sent to
the island of St. Catherine to ask the prisoners he had left there to
ransom the castle, and receiving the reply that the buccaneers could
do just what they pleased with it, Morgan got down to the distribution
of the spoils. In this matter there was some dispute; the buccaneers
accused Morgan of having stolen part of the treasure. They were utterly
discontented with the share of 200 pieces of eight each, knowing full
well that the haul had been large enough to provide more. Morgan
listened to their complaints, kept a still tongue in his head, kept,
too, the treasure, and one night, going aboard his ship secretly,
slipped out to sea, followed only by three or four vessels whose men
were in the plot, and made for Jamaica.

There the buccaneering days of Captain Morgan ended. He changed his
spots, became a law-abiding citizen, received pardon for his misdeeds,
and ended up by receiving a knighthood! Before that great day, however,
he had been Lieutenant-Governor of Jamaica. Finally he was made
Governor, with power to put down piracy. And of all the governors of
Jamaica Sir Henry Morgan was the most severe on buccaneers and pirates!




UNDER THE JOLLY ROGER

Thrilling Stories of Pirates


Pirates!

The word conjures up visions of ferocious men with pistol in hand,
knife in mouth, clothes stained with blood, planks run out of a ship’s
side, and unfortunate, blindfolded men being driven to their death;
treasure in galore; high jinks ashore till the call for action came
again.

A pretty picture--perhaps; and only too well founded on fact.

When, in 1689, France and England joined hands in the determination to
sweep the buccaneer from the seas, and to effect this closed all used
harbours to him, the ruffian adopted new methods. As we have seen, the
buccaneers were something of a community, recognised up to a point by
different nations, and the French and English buccaneers waged private
war against the Spaniard. The assumption of so much power, as shown
by Morgan, made the nations anxious, and the result was that when
they decided to put an end to the buccaneer, whether he only attacked
Spaniards or not, that worthy, finding himself a general outcast,
declared against everybody; he became a pirate to whom no ship was
immune.

Previously the scourges of the sea had been able to use frequented
harbours to dispose of their prisoners and treasure; now they found
themselves compelled to find new ports, and these were generally
desert islands. Here they marooned their prisoners, or hid their
treasure against the time when they could come and dig it up.

To take Blackbeard first.

Blackbeard was his nickname, given him because of the long whiskers
that he wore, tied up with ribbons on occasions, if you please!
Altogether Captain Edward Teach, to give him his right name, was a
somewhat picturesque ruffian, with a sling over his shoulders to carry
three brace of pistols, lighted matches under his hat, his beribboned
beard and his flamboyant costume made up of things he had purloined
during his cruises. He began life as a seaman on a privateer, rising
to the command of a sloop in 1716. The sloop, by the way, was a prize
captured by his friend Captain Hornygold, with whom in 1717 Teach
sailed on a voyage down the American mains. After a fairly prosperous
cruise the pirates parted company, Teach having command of a new prize,
a large French Guineaman, and Hornygold going to Providence, where he
surrendered to the King’s mercy, probably having had enough of the
life adventurous and realising that a recent proclamation gave him an
opportunity to leave his profession without sacrificing his life.

Blackbeard, however, was but just beginning, as it were, and he turned
his Guineaman into a formidable fighting ship, mounting forty guns in
her, and giving her the new name of the _Queen Anne’s Revenge_. All
being ready, he sailed, and almost immediately fell in with a large
ship called the _Great Allen_, off the Isle of St. Vincent. He soon
overcame any resistance made, took out of her all that he wanted,
marooned the crew, set fire to the ship, and sent her drifting out to
sea, a flaming testimony to the methods he was going to adopt in his
profession.

A day or so afterwards he came up against a different kind of ship; she
was an English man-o’-war, the _Scarborough_, thirty guns. There was
a fine set-to for some hours, for Teach was nothing loath to accept
a really good scrap when the opportunity arose, especially when, as
in this case, he was stronger than his foe. The guns blared out their
thunderous music, there were some near shaves for boarding; but in the
end the _Scarborough_ found that she had undertaken too big a task,
and sheered off. Mighty pleased, Teach now got swelled head, and felt
himself strong enough for anything, and felt stronger still when,
sailing for the Spanish Main, he joined forces with another pirate,
Major Bonnet, who, finding a planter’s life too monotonous, had taken
to the sea as a gentleman adventurer. Teach soon found out that Bonnet
was no sailorman, and likely to be more bother than he was worth in
command of a ship; so he put one of his comrades named Richards in
command of the sloop and took Bonnet on his own ship. It was no good
Bonnet protesting; Teach spoke, and it _was_! He was an autocrat, this
merry pirate!

The two vessels now put in at Turneffe, near the Gulf of Honduras,
to take in water, and while doing this an unfortunate sloop, the
_Adventure_, came along; whereupon Richards slipped out after her. All
unsuspecting, the _Adventure_ held on. Then came consternation--the
pirate had hoisted the Jolly Roger!

And the _Adventure_ struck and surrendered, which gave Teach another
ship for his little Armada. Then away to Honduras, where they
discovered a large ship, the _Protestant Cæsar_ (Captain Wyar) and four
sloops. Sailing boldly in, the pirates hoisted the black flag, banged
away at the ships, and called upon them to surrender. Immediately Wyar
and his crew took to a boat and raced ashore, leaving the _Protestant
Cæsar_ at the mercy of the pirates, who took possession, and after
rifling her, burnt her, as they did one of the sloops. The other three
they let go.

Leaving Honduras, the pirates sailed about the neighbouring seas,
taking prizes at their will and reaping a rich harvest. Finally,
they came to anchor off the bar at Charlestown, Carolina, where they
continued their depredations, capturing many ships, one of them a
brigantine full of negro slaves. Blackbeard’s sojourn off Charlestown
was nothing more or less than a blockade, and a very effective one;
no ship dared try to enter or leave the port, and the whole trade of
the town was at a standstill, while day by day Teach was adding to the
number of his prizes.

Finding that he stood in need of a medicine-chest, Teach decided that
the best way to get it was to apply to the Governor of Charlestown.
Confident that he held the trump cards in the game, the pirate sent
Richards and two or three other men into Charlestown, sending with them
one named Marks, whom they had taken prisoner on one of the ships.

The pirates landed, swaggered into the town, bearded the authorities
brazenly, and in none too courteous manner told them that they wanted
medicines, and that the council of Carolina must provide them. If they
were not forthcoming, and if the envoys were not allowed to return
unmolested, then Teach threatened that he would burn every one of the
large number of ships he had captured, would kill every man found on
them, and send their heads to the governor.

Mr. Marks interviewed the council, and Richards and his companions
sauntered about the town flaunting the people, who dared not lay a
finger upon them! The council, in a quandary, argued about the matter
amongst themselves; but as the lives of so many people were at stake
(by the way, one of their own number, Mr. Samuel Wragg, was a prisoner
to Teach), they soon came to the conclusion that, however disgraceful
it might be, there was nothing to be done but meet the pirates’
demands. So when the sloop went back it carried a medicine-chest worth
nearly four hundred pounds!

Teach, true to his word, set the prisoners free, rifled the ships of a
small fortune, and then sailed away to North Carolina. Here Blackbeard
put into execution a little plot. He had succeeded in gathering a fine
harvest of riches, and felt that it was a shame to have to share it
with so many folk. He therefore decided to get rid of some of them.
Running his own vessel ashore, while Israel Hands (in the plot with
him) ran one of the sloops ashore as well, the precious pair rowed out
to the third sloop with forty men, took possession of her, and marooned
seventeen of her crew on a small deserted island well away from the
coast. Fortunately for them, Major Bonnet, at this time in command of
another sloop, came up two days later and took them off; otherwise they
would have perished.

Having got rid of some of the crew, Teach now landed and, accompanied
by twenty of his men, called on the governor of North Carolina,
not with the intention of plundering him, but for the purpose of
surrendering under the clement proclamation. Governor Charles Eden gave
him his pardon, and the pirate, now fairly wealthy, soon became friends
with him; so much so that when Blackbeard cast covetous eyes upon one
of the ships he had captured some time before, the governor called the
Court of the Vice-Admiralty, which condemned the vessel as a prize
taken from the Spaniards by Captain Teach. This was straining things
rather, seeing that Teach had never held a commission in the King’s
navy! No doubt Governor Eden made something out of the deal.

Teach’s idea in getting the ship was that he felt the time ripe for
resuming the old life; and he felt that, with a friend at court, he
would have a much easier time of it. So in June, 1718, after having
married a young girl of sixteen (his fourteenth wife, a dozen still
being alive!), Blackbeard put to sea, shaping his course for the
Bermudas. He had a rollicking time for several months, taking rich
prizes, terrorising the captains who traded thereabouts, and going back
to North Carolina occasionally to square things up with the governor,
who was now so far in the ditch that Teach felt strong enough to be
saucy to him--just to teach him his place!

No matter what protests were entered at North Carolina, no matter
how many angry captains appealed to the governor for redress and
protection, nothing was done; and Teach held sway. Things assumed
such a pass that a deputation of captains was sent to the Governor
of Virginia, to request that steps should be taken against Teach. In
the James River were two men-o’-war, the _Lima_ and the _Pearl_, and
two sloops were manned by sailors from the warships under command of
Lieutenant Maynard, of the _Pearl_. Then, after a proclamation offering
rewards for the apprehension, dead or alive, of the pirates, the sloops
set out for where the pirates were at anchor in the Okercok inlet, in
the James River. Maynard had taken the precaution to stop all vessels
from going up the river, lest news of his coming should be given the
pirates. Governor Eden, aware of the expedition, sent four pirates from
Bath Town to warn Teach what was afoot. The pirate, however, had had
several other warnings, which he refused to believe, and he took the
news the governor sent him with a grain of salt. The result was that
Maynard was able to get within sight of the pirate vessels without
hindrance. And then Teach believed!

Roaring out orders to the twenty-five men on board, he quickly cleared
for action, determined to show fight. Then, when all was ready, he
calmly sat down to supper and a carousal, knowing that the shoals were
too dangerous for Maynard to attempt cutting him out till daylight came.

Hardly waiting for the sun to rise, Maynard next morning sent a boat
ahead to take soundings in the intricate channel, and drew near to the
pirate ship. Within gunshot, he was subjected to a heavy fire by Teach,
who, when the sloops hoisted the King’s colours and raced at him with
sail and oar, cut cable and tried to make a running fight of it. He
brought all his big guns to bear upon the sloops, but these pushed on
through the hail of shot, and, having no guns mounted, kept up a rain
of small-arm fire. They hung on like leeches, dodged the pirate, and
made him dodge to such an extent that Teach was at his wit’s end what
to do, and at last ran ashore. Maynard’s sloop was of deeper draught
than the pirate, and could not get near until the ballast was flung
overboard and the water-casks staved in. Then, lightened considerably,
she was able to get close enough to Teach to make him uncomfortable.

“Who are you?” yelled Blackbeard. “Where are you from?”

“We’re no pirates,” retorted Maynard, “as you can see by our colours.”

“Send a boat, then, so that I can see who you are,” said Teach.

“Sorry,” answered Maynard, “but I can’t spare a boat. I’ll come aboard
with the sloop, however, as soon as I can!”

“Seize my soul,” cried Teach, quaffing wine, “if I give you quarter, or
take any from you!”

A sentiment with which Maynard told him he heartily agreed.

The pirate ship was now afloat again, and the battle started once
more. As the sloops were no more than a foot high in the waist the
crews were exposed to fire as they tugged at the oars; and Teach took
advantage of this. He discharged a whole broadside of small shot, which
killed twenty men on Maynard’s ship and nine on the other, which was
disabled, and fell astern as the pirate vessel went broadside to the
shore in order to present but one flank to attack. Maynard, fearing
another broadside, ordered his men below, and he and the helmsman alone
remained on deck as the sloop ran alongside the pirate.

Down below Maynard’s men were ready for the word of command that should
send them scrambling up the pirate’s side. Up on Teach’s deck men lined
the side with hand grenades made of case-bottles filled with powder,
slugs, small shot, and fired with a quick-match; and as the sloop came
alongside these were hurled down into her.

Teach, looking over, saw only Maynard and the helmsman alive, with many
dead men lying about the deck, and, thinking that he had effectively
put them out of the fight, cried to his men:

“They’re all knocked on the head except three or four. Let’s jump in
and cut the rest to pieces!”

Down into the sloop, therefore, went Teach and fourteen of his
cut-throats, expecting an easy triumph. The smoke from the grenades
obscured things so that Maynard could not see what had happened; but
as it cleared away, and he realised that he had been boarded, he called
upon his men, who swarmed up on deck and fell like an avalanche upon
the pirates.

Maynard tackled Blackbeard himself. The two fired simultaneously, and
Teach was wounded slightly, but not badly enough to prevent him from
engaging in some sword play with Maynard. In the midst of that fighting
crowd the two men fought hard and long, neither gaining much advantage,
until at last Maynard’s sword snapped in two, and he seemed at the
mercy of the pirate. He stepped back quickly, cocked his pistol; but
ere he could fire Blackbeard had swung down upon him with his cutlass.
For a moment it seemed that Maynard was done, but, with a yell, one of
his men hurled himself at Teach, slashed at him with a cutlass that
gashed his throat and neck and put him off his stroke, so that Maynard
received only a slight wound on his finger.

Still the fight went on, thirteen men against fifteen, the odds in
favour of the pirates. The deck was slippery with blood; men whom the
firing had laid low were trampled upon as the yelling, cursing, hacking
crowd swayed this way and that. Now the fight seemed to be going in
favour of the pirates, now of the royal crew; and Teach cheered on his
men savagely, cursing them, exhorting them.

Blackbeard, although wounded in several places, was a game scoundrel,
and kept on with the fight; he was literally covered with pistols,
which he kept drawing and firing; and when the fight ended he was
smothered with wounds--twenty-five of them! And one wound was mortal,
for he dropped dead to the deck, to keep eight of his fourteen company
in death. The other six flung themselves overboard, but were captured.
Then, the second royal sloop coming up, the remainder of the pirates on
the big sloop were attacked, and after a stiff fight they surrendered.

When the vessel was captured, it was found that Teach had arranged for
it to be blown up, with its living freight, as soon as Maynard boarded
her; and the negro who had had the task allotted to him was with
difficulty dissuaded from carrying it out when he found out that Teach
had been killed.

Blackbeard’s head was cut off and hung at the bowsprit end of the royal
sloop, which sailed with it to Bath Town, where Maynard, having found
papers incriminating Governor Eden, forced that gentleman to return the
spoils that Teach had given him; and in due course sailed back to the
men-o’-war with fifteen prisoners, who were brought to justice.

       *       *       *       *       *

Captain Howell Davis, who adopted much the same tactics as the old
buccaneers, mutinied against his captain and assumed command of the
ship, which he turned into a pirate craft. After several little
affairs, in which he gained much treasure and many reinforcements
of men, till he had seventy under him, he aimed at something higher
than merely holding up ships on the seas. He thought he would like to
capture Gambia Castle, on the coast of Guinea, a place where there was
always a good store of money. Sailing in, he sent all his men below,
except a few who were needed to work the ship, and, coming to anchor
under the fort, hoisted out a boat, manned it with six men dressed like
any ordinary sailormen, and sent the doctor and the master with them as
merchants.

The governor, named Foyle, had seen the ship come in, and sent a
company of soldiers down to the shore to welcome the new-comers, who
were taken into the castle, where the governor greeted them kindly.
The pirates lied glibly, telling the governor that they were from
Liverpool, bound for Senegal, but, having been chased by a couple
of French men-o’-war, had put in at Gambia for safety. Would the
governor trade with them for slaves? Gathering that the merchants had
a large cargo of plate and iron, the governor agreed to barter, asking
incidentally whether they had any liquor aboard. Davis said they had,
and promised him a hamper for his own use, if he would care to accept
it.

Overwhelmed at the generosity, the governor invited Davis and his
comrades to dinner with him; Davis accepted, but said that he must go
on board first to see that everything was all right. He would return in
time for dinner, bringing the liquor with him.

Davis had been taking notes of everything in the fort, and when he got
back to his ship was able to assure his rascally crew that before night
the fort would be in their possession--if they didn’t get drunk. They
promised to be good, and to send twenty men on shore directly they saw
the flag of the fort struck--the signal that Davis had captured it.
Davis took the precaution, in the evening, of securing the crew of a
little sloop that lay in the harbour, lest they should hear anything
and give warning to the governor.

Then, taking the hamper of liquor, Davis entered his boat, which had a
number of men in it, each armed with two pairs of pistols, carefully
hidden, and with instructions to mingle with the soldiers in the
guard-room while Davis was engaged with the governor. When Davis fired
a pistol through the governor’s window they were to set about the
soldiers at once, and seize all the arms in the guard-room.

In due course the pirate was with the governor, waiting dinner,
and making a bowl of punch to while the time away. Never was man
more surprised than that luckless governor when, in the midst of the
convivialities, Davis poked a pistol in his face, and told him that
unless he surrendered the castle and all the money it contained, he
would shoot him like a dog!

What could a man do? the governor evidently asked himself. Foyle gave
in. Davis and the coxswain, the master and the doctor, having closed
the door, took possession of all the weapons in the governor’s room,
and loaded all the pistols. Then Davis fired through the window,
as arranged. Instantly his men in the guard-room got to work; they
placed themselves between the soldiers and their piled-up arms, and,
with cocked pistols at the heads of the soldiers, called upon them to
surrender. They did so; it was no use trying to resist ruffians who
were so well armed! The soldiers were locked in the room, the flag
was struck, reinforcements came from the ship, and during the day the
pirates enjoyed themselves to the full, plundering everything, and
reaping a fairly rich harvest. Davis, who felt he wanted more men,
prevailed upon certain of the soldiers to join him; the others he
placed on board the sloop, having taken the precaution of removing all
sails, etc., from her, so that they could not escape.

Then, having got all that was to be obtained, Davis ordered the
fortification to be destroyed and the guns dismounted, and, considering
it time to be gone, weighed anchor. Just as the ship was setting sail
the pirates saw a vessel bearing down upon them. Not knowing what
kind of a ship she might be, whether friend or foe--they had very few
friends, and far too many foes!--Davis had all his men to arms to
receive the new-comer, who, when near enough, let fly a shot across
the pirate’s bows and hoisted the black flag! Davis, overjoyed at the
turn of events, returned the compliment both with shot and flag, and in
a few minutes the two captains were hobnobbing together. Davis found
that the new-comer was a pirate under the command of a Frenchman named
La Bouse; and, joining forces, the precious pair sailed down the coast
to Sierra Leone.

Here they saw a tall ship riding at anchor, and decided that she would
make a good prize. The thing that worried them was that she did not
attempt to escape, which made them wonder whether she might not be a
heavily armed vessel, who felt sure of herself and didn’t mind a fight.
However, Davis sailed in boldly, and his ship literally staggered back
as she received a full and heavy broadside; and up went the stranger’s
flag--a black one! Truly Davis was meeting some queer adventures! It
did not take long to explain matters, and Davis and La Bouse found
themselves in company with another band of pirates, under a rogue named
Cocklyn. They fraternised together for three days, the first two being
spent in true pirate fashion--feasting and debauching; on the third
a council of war was held, at which it was agreed to join forces,
Davis being appointed to supreme command. However, the friends soon
quarrelled amongst themselves, and the three captains nearly came to
blows one day while they were engaged in a debauch.

Davis decided that the affair must end at once, before worse happened.

“Hark ye, Cocklyn and La Bouse!” he cried. “I find that, by
strengthening you, I have put a rod into your hands to whip myself.
However, I am still able to deal with you both; but since we met in
love, let us part in love, for it’s very plain that three of a trade
can never agree.”

The other pirates saw the wisdom of Davis’s opinion, and the result was
that they parted company. We will leave the others, and follow Davis to
his tragic end. Ambitious as ever, he captured a big Dutch ship with
thirty guns in her, and, mounting twenty-seven more, sailed to the Isle
of Princes, which he thought to raid. To the governor he passed himself
off as the captain of an English man-o’-war searching for pirates. The
governor welcomed him and feasted him, and, to return the compliment,
Davis, presenting him with a dozen slaves, invited him on board to a
feast, asking him to bring some of the chief men and friars from the
island. The governor agreed, and Davis was highly pleased, for he had
fashioned a little plot whereby, as soon as the governor boarded the
ship, he and his friends were to be taken prisoner, and held to ransom
for £40,000.

Poor Pirate Davis! He was doomed to disappointment on this occasion. A
negro, watching his opportunity, that night slipped overboard, swam to
the shore, burst like a tornado upon the governor, and warned him of
the plot.

Next morning, when Davis went ashore, the governor met him with smiling
face, invited him to join him at the house in a little refreshment,
and, chatting affably, the party walked up. Presently the governor
shifted somewhat, and at a given signal a withering volley was poured
in at the pirates, who, with one exception, fell to the ground. The
plot had failed!

Davis, wounded in the bowels though he was, rose to his feet and
endeavoured to get away; he dropped in his tracks, and in the moment
of death pulled out his pistols, and fired them point-blank at his
pursuers.

When those on board the ship saw what had happened, they hurried away
post-haste, and, once clear of the island, elected a new captain.
The choice fell upon Bartholomew Roberts, and a really fine pirate
chief he made. He was a born fighter and leader of men; he stood no
nonsense from anyone, and the man who disputed his authority knew it
to his cost. He cared for nobody, and, although we need not follow his
whole career, he did so much damage amongst shipping, both off Africa
and America, that his name became a byword amongst mariners. He was a
terror of the seas.

He cut a picturesque figure when he went fighting. He would overhaul
a ship, pound at her for all he was worth, and then, entering his
longboat, row over and tackle her. All his men were extravagant in
their tastes regarding dress, but Roberts was worse than all; he
dressed in a rich crimson damask waistcoat and breeches, wore a
large black hat with a crimson feather, a gold chain round his neck,
with a diamond pendant, a silk band hanging from his shoulders to
carry his pistols. Thus, sword in hand, he led his men to the fight,
dashing, very often, through a very hail of shot, and, with shouts and
curses, urging his men on as they tried to board. A stiff fight very
often ensued, and then the pirates, having run the gauntlet of fire,
scrambled up the side of the ship and, after a fierce hand-to-hand
fight, had her beaten.

[Illustration: “Sword in hand, Roberts led his men to the fight,
dashing through a very hail of shot”]

But, though he played this game many a time with much success, Nemesis
was at hand. The _Royal Fortune_, as he called his last ship, had as
consort the _Ranger_, and the two ships caused such depredation that
the British cruiser _Swallow_ scoured the seas to find them, eventually
running them to earth in the River Gaboon. The _Royal Fortune_ lay
well up the river, but the _Ranger_ was at the mouth, and, seeing the
_Swallow_ approach with portholes closed, her crew hugged themselves
with delight in anticipation of another prize. They thought she was a
sugar ship, and they badly wanted sugar. They therefore hoisted sail
and gave chase, which was just what the _Swallow_ wanted. Lieutenant
Sun, in command, had realised that the _Ranger_ had made a mistake, and
he led her on till she was well away from the river and out of gunshot
of the _Royal Fortune_, which he meant to tackle later on.

The pirates, lured on by the thought of the sugar cargo sped after the
_Swallow_, drew near enough to fire their bow chasers, and then opened
on the quarry. Up went the black flag at the same time--as though the
_Swallow_ wanted to be told who they were!--and then, after a little
further chase, drew alongside and prepared to board. The ruffianly
looking crew lined the side of the _Ranger_. That moment the lower
ports of the _Swallow_ opened, and a terrific broadside crashed into
the side of the astonished pirate. They had been bitten, deceived.
They cursed their foes and drew off, though not before the black flag
came fluttering down to the deck. Then, having hoisted another Jolly
Roger, they tried to get away; but the _Swallow_ was swifter than their
own ship, and her guns better handled, with the result that, after a
running fight of two hours, the black flag came down again, this time
struck by the pirates; and the _Ranger_ was captured.

They were a cheerful lot of pirates which the _Swallow_ took aboard;
they did not seem to mind the prospect of the gallows, but joked and
laughed, and treated the whole affair as a huge joke. They even tried
to blow the _Ranger_ up before they were taken off, with the pirates
and the Navy men on board. Lieutenant Sun sent the _Ranger_ into port
with a prize crew, and then made off for the Gaboon River again, to
tackle Roberts, in the _Royal Fortune_. While the fight had been going
on, Roberts had been busy; he had captured a ship, and was sailing
away with her when the _Swallow_ sighted him on February 9, 1722. Sun
kept as far away as possible, so that Roberts should not suspect he
was being followed, and allowed him to anchor in a bay near Cape Lopez
for the night. Roberts, who, if he had known, might have given the
_Swallow_ the slip, remained there, all unconscious of the fate coming
to him. He was at breakfast next morning when news was brought him of
a tall ship being near at hand. Roberts said it must be the _Ranger_
returning, or a slave ship; anyway, it was nothing to get into a
turmoil about. He soon found his mistake, for the stranger hoisted her
colour, opened her ports, and showed Roberts that he was in for a scrap.

“It’s only a bite!” he cried. “Get ready!”

While his men rushed to arms, Roberts stood on his deck in all the
glory of his pilfered attire. There came to him one of his men who, a
deserter from the Navy, had once sailed aboard the _Swallow_, and knew
her powers.

“She sails best before the wind,” he said; “and we can escape, if we
want to, by running for it.”

Roberts thought a while. He knew that he was in a tight corner, for the
_Swallow’s_ men were brilliant fighters, and she was a sturdy ship. He
decided, after all, he would run for it, making up his mind that, if
everything else failed, he would either run the ship ashore, and let
his men shift for themselves, or else dash down upon the _Swallow_,
board her, and blow up both ships!

So the orders were given, and the _Royal Fortune_ swooped down upon
the _Swallow_, intending to give her a broadside as she passed. The
_Swallow_ opened fire as the black flag fluttered aloft; Roberts
returned it, and then swung away. But, just as he thought he was safe,
the _Royal Fortune_ failed them. Something went wrong; she did not
answer to the helm, and failed to catch the wind. The _Swallow_ drew
near!

What Roberts would have done it is impossible to say; what he did,
however, was to die at that moment. A grapeshot hurtled across the
deck, struck him in the throat, and killed him outright. He dropped to
the deck in a sitting posture. The helmsman, thinking he was fooling,
cursed him roundly, and tried to get him on his feet, but, finding the
pirate chief dead, began to cry, and prayed that the next shot might
kill him off too. The remainder of the ruffians seized the captain and
pitched him overboard, as he had instructed them to do in case of death.

Then, leaderless, they scarcely knew what to do; they were half drunk
most of them, and though they put up a little resistance, and some of
them sought to blow up the magazine, they at last struck their flag;
and the _Swallow_ had cleared Roberts and his herd off the sea.

So much for some of the pirates of long ago.




BLOCKADE RUNNING

Tales of Adventure in Eluding Watchful Blockaders


The Great War of 1914-15 showed what the command of the sea really
meant. It showed that even although the greatest navy in the world had
little opportunity in the early stages to meet its foes in a decisive
battle--through the latter lurking in their harbours--yet there was
much work to be done: the guarding of the ocean routes, the exertion
of silent pressure upon the enemy, who found his shipping held up
in harbour, and was unable to import food by the coast even before
a blockade had been declared. On the other hand, in another chapter
we have shown how German raiding cruisers also played havoc with the
Allies’ shipping, and pounced upon outlying places--only at last to be
brought to book. Here we are concerned only with ships that have run
blockades, slipping through the cordon drawn around coasts, running the
risk of being sunk or captured.

[Illustration: “There was a whoosh! whoosh! of a rocket
heavenwards--the warning to the blockading fleet”]

To go back to an earlier date, and a war which was as nothing compared
with the world war, we find that during the American Civil War the
Federals imposed a strict blockade of the southern ports whence the
much-needed cotton was shipped. As a result cotton soared in price, and
men found a means to make fortunes by slipping into blockaded ports
with cargoes of stuff wanted by the Confederates and taking cargoes
of cotton in their place, and then running the gauntlet of the
watchful ships. Blockade running attracted hardy adventurers of all
nationalities--men to whom adventure was the spice of life, and who,
incidentally, found the spice pretty hot!

One of the most daring of these runners was Captain Hobart, an
Englishman who joined the Royal Navy in 1836, worked hard and well in
the suppression of the slave trade in South America, served later in
the Crimean War, retiring in 1860. When the Civil War broke out he
took service as a blockade-runner, and many were the daring trips he
made. Wilmington was his favourite port, although at the mouth of the
river the Federal fleet were in strong force, bombarding Fort Fisher
and keeping up the blockade, holding up ships that were not fortunate
enough to slip by in the night, and chasing those which did not stop on
command.

Hobart didn’t stop, although on one occasion he was chased for many
miles by a Federal cruiser. In his cotton-laden ship he had slipped
out of the river and passed Fort Fisher at eleven o’clock one
night, knowing full well that lying off the mouth of the river were
twenty-five ships waiting to catch such as he.

It was pitch dark, and the blockade-runner, with no lights showing,
went at full steam ahead through the channel over the bar, guided only
by the faint lights the Confederates had cunningly placed to enable
ships to enter the river safely. Hobart navigated his vessel by these,
and crossed the bar; and then saw that a large barge had been placed by
the Federals at the entrance for the purpose of signalling if any ship
tried to slip out. The cotton ship almost ran the barge down, but by
quick manœuvring avoided doing so, and steamed on. Next instant there
was the _whoosh! whoosh!_ and a rocket sped heavenwards--the warning
to the blockading fleet. Then there was the boom of a gun; but Hobart
pushed forward, turned eastward, steaming a mile or so from the coast.
Now and then there came the sound of guns being fired, sometimes quite
close at hand; but they saw no ship, neither were they seen by any
apparently, for nothing untoward happened until about nine o’clock the
next morning, when through the rising mist they saw a large cruiser
bearing down upon them.

It was a case of running for it, and the cotton ship sped on with her
engines pounding out every ounce of power there was in them. After her
came the cruiser, gaining at every yard, for the cargo of the runner
was very heavy, and she was unable to show a clean pair of heels to the
pursuer.

Some of the bales of cotton were shifted aft in order to sink the
screws as deep as possible, and so increase the speed; but even this
did not help them much, and the cruiser was still gaining. Then Hobart
had a stroke of luck. About a mile in front of him he saw peculiar
ripples which he knew betokened the proximity of the Gulf Stream. If he
could only get his ship into the stream quickly he might stand a chance
of escape, for the Gulf Stream, going at the rate of three miles an
hour, would help them on their way considerably. The course was altered
at once, and the cotton ship sped on towards the stream, into which
she entered; and immediately her speed was accelerated. Meanwhile, the
cruiser had also changed course, but had not got into the bosom of the
stream, with the result that after a time Hobart found he had gained
some seven miles on her.

Then about twelve o’clock the cruiser entered the stream, and again
the distance between the two ships lessened, till by five o’clock
only about three miles separated them; and shortly after the cruiser
opened fire without result. Seven o’clock, and she was still nearer,
for her shots went over the cotton ship, and Hobart began to think it
was a case of giving up. Then night fell, and the sky was overcast;
fortunately the cotton ship was in shadow cast by the moon shining over
edge of clouds. This made a huge difference to their chance of escape,
for when it came out from behind the clouds it showed the chasing
cruiser quite plainly, but did not reveal her quarry, although she was
barely a mile away. Luck was certainly on Hobart’s side!

Changing his course, in order to confuse his pursuer, who was still
firing guns in rapid succession, although she could not see her aim,
Hobart presently gave the order to “Stop!” and the cotton ship came
to rest, steam was blown off under water, and the still and silent
ship remained there till presently the men on board saw the cruiser go
racing past them, firing madly at nothing!

Hobart got that cargo of cotton through all right!

Another Confederate blockade-runner was Captain William Watson, of the
_Rob Roy_ schooner. He was also a dispatch-carrier on the occasion we
are about to narrate, Major-General Magruder having entrusted him with
important documents which he was to deliver to the Confederate States
consul at Havana.

The night decided on to make the run was dark, and there was a good
strong wind, but an uncertain one; outside the mouth of the Brazos
River lurked a number of Federal cruisers and gunboats. Watson had for
company two other schooners, the _Hind_ and the _Mary Elizabeth_. The
_Rob Roy_ took the pilot aboard and led the way down the river and over
the bar; the _Rob Roy_ and the _Mary Elizabeth_ managed to get away
without being seen, but the _Hind_ dropped astern and was captured.
Once clear of the mouth of the river the other two schooners sped
under all the sail they dare hoist, having to be sparing with it lest
the white show against the cliffs and reveal their presence. They had
something like ten or eleven hours of darkness before them, and hoped
to be well away from the watchful cruisers by that time. A gale sprang
up, for which they were thankful, as it carried the ships along at a
rattling pace. The _Mary Elizabeth_, however, was separated from the
_Rob Roy_, which romped through the seas at a speed that delighted
Watson, for by noon next day they had come a hundred and thirty miles
without anything unforeseen happening. The only unfortunate thing was
that the ship was now in the track of Federal cruisers searching for
blockade-runners between New Orleans and Point Isabel; and while Watson
was thinking seriously of this the wind dropped and the schooner was
becalmed. The sails were lowered, so that the ship should not be so
noticeable to any passing vessel, and Watson paced his deck eating his
head off with impatience, expecting every minute to see a cruiser on
the horizon. At two o’clock he saw a ship which he knew spelt danger.
Instantly he made up his mind what to do. In the Brazos River they had
picked up a couple of sweeps, and these were brought into use, together
with boat oars. Then all the men available bent their backs to the
task of rowing the schooner! They steered her so that she would go out
of the course of the new-comer, and after working like niggers for
goodness knows how long they managed to get her three miles, and then
saw the other vessel pass them seven miles away. Watson thanked his
lucky stars that he had taken in his sails, for the bare poles he knew
would be scarcely visible to a steamer at such a distance away.

So far, so good. Towards evening a light breeze came up, sails were
set once more, and the schooner went on her way until early next
morning, when the wind dropped again, and the sails were lowered as
before. She was becalmed for that day and the following night; and in
the morning there appeared a large ship which some of the men aboard
were sure was a man-o’-war. So it was out sweeps again to get the
schooner out of danger. When they were some nine miles away from the
man-o’-war the wind came up, which--strange how men get what they want
when they would rather be without it!--they regarded as unfortunate,
for they dared not hoist sail lest they be discovered.

Eventually, however, it was decided to take the risk, and every inch of
canvas was crowded on, and away sped the _Rob Roy_, Watson hoping to
get clear before the man-o’-war had a chance to hoist her sails. They
had gone some distance when they noticed that the wind had caught the
warship, and that she had hoisted all her canvas and was pelting along
after them as fast as she could sail. Watson suddenly tacked, and the
large vessel, keeping on her port tack, passed by to leeward some six
miles away. Then, when she tacked about to follow them, Watson went
back to his old course, and once more gained on her, for every time the
warship changed course she had to lose way.

So the queer chase went on; but the warship gained upon the _Rob
Roy_, and Watson’s one hope was that he would be able to keep at a
safe distance, out of range of her guns, until night fell, when he
would stand a better chance of giving her the slip. The sailors on the
man-o’-war, anticipating that the wind would soon drop, worked hard to
get their vessel as near to the runaway as possible, so that if that
should happen they might be able to tackle her in their boats. Watson
knew this, and still kept tacking about to increase the distance,
until at last the wind did fall and the two ships were becalmed.

The man-o’-war was some four miles off then, and Watson had his sweeps
and oars out again, the men falling to with a will; but as there was a
slight sea against them they were not able to propel the ship so far
as they had done previously. Soon Watson saw a couple of boats put off
from the warship, their men pulling with all their might, hoping to
catch the schooner before the breeze came up again. When they were a
mile away the wind came, and the _Rob Roy_, aided by the sweeps, began
to make some way, but not sufficient to outpace the boats, one of which
came to within a quarter of a mile. The men on board now began to think
that all was up, that they might just as well surrender; and Watson got
his dispatches ready to throw overboard. He had wrapped them in canvas,
weighted with a piece of chain, so that they should sink and not fall
into the enemy’s hands.

Just when it seemed that they must be overhauled the wind became
stronger, and the men, working hard at their sweeps, the sails bulging
out as they caught the breeze, carried the schooner along at a pace
that soon left the boats far behind; and the men stood up and waved
their hands tauntingly to the sailors who had thought to have them in a
few minutes.

A rifle-shot rang out across the waters, then others, and the bullets
whistled across the deck, narrowly missing the men. The warship now
made after her boats, to pick them up, and this gave the _Rob Roy_ a
better chance of escape. Then the wind freshened so much that Watson
became nervous; too much wind was not good for the overladen _Rob Roy_,
and the sea was getting very boisterous. To make matters worse, the
schooner was leaking very badly, and some of the men had to be told off
to work the pumps for all they were worth.

As night fell the warship had gained considerably, and opened fire
with her guns, the shots, however, falling short. Then the _Rob Roy_
was hidden by the darkness. Watson at once changed his tack in order
to baffle the pursuer, and all through the night the schooner scudded
before the wind, and by morning had left the cruiser far behind,
reaching Tampico in due course without further adventure.




ADVENTURES ON A DESERT ISLAND

The Story of Some Castaways--and a Scoundrel


In October, 1628, there sailed from the Texel a Dutch ship, the
_Batavia_, under the command of Captain Francis Pelsart. Now Pelsart
wasn’t the best of navigators, and after having been at sea for nine
months he lost his way on a trackless ocean, and, though he did not
know it, he was close to the islands known as Houtman’s Abrohos, or
Houtman’s Rocks, off the west coast of Australia--the seas in that
quarter of the globe not being, as every schoolboy knows, the best
known in those far-off days. As a matter of fact, Captain Pelsart was
having a run of hard luck--lost, sick, and with a coming wreck in
front of him, and not far off, either. While Pelsart lay in his cabin,
without warning of any kind except the booming of the breakers, the
_Batavia_ went pounding on a shoal off Houtman’s Rocks, where she stuck
fast.

Jumping out of his cabin, Pelsart rushed on deck, and, seeing the
position of things, soundly rated the master for his neglect; whereupon
that worthy pointed out, quite convincingly, that he wasn’t to blame,
seeing that as the place where they were had not been visited by anyone
else before--so far as he knew--how was he to know the reefs and
shoals? This argument, of course, commended itself to Pelsart, who,
realising that the best must be made of a bad job, bethought himself of
getting the _Batavia_ off the shoal. He had the cannon with which the
ship was armed pitched overboard, in the hope that this would lighten
her sufficiently to float her. But the _Batavia_ refused to be floated,
and when a sudden and heavy squall came down on her Pelsart really
thought everything was over; but the _Batavia_ weathered it all right,
and, taking a last desperate chance, the captain ordered the mainmast
to be cut away. This was done, but in such a way that, instead of going
clear over, it fell on the deck.

Convinced finally that there was no chance of getting his ship off,
Pelsart wondered what was to be done for the safety of his passengers
and crew. Just a little distance away, in the bright moonlight, he
could see two small islands, while some three leagues off lay a larger
island. He resolved to have the islands inspected to see what they
were like, and therefore sent the master of the ship on that errand.
Meanwhile, on board the _Batavia_ reigned a miniature pandemonium;
women were shrieking, children crying, grown men were raving; and the
ship was beginning to break up, so that altogether poor Pelsart had
his hands full, and was relieved when the master returned and reported
favourably on the islands. There were, all told, 230 people on board,
and, women and children going first, 120 were landed on the large
island and forty on the smaller one near at hand, leaving seventy still
to be landed. These also would have been rescued but for the fact
that the crew behaved as no sailors ever should; they began to drink
heavily, and got out of hand, for which reason only a very few barrels
of water were landed, and twenty barrels of bread. Now, one would
imagine that a castaway crowd’s first thought would be to conserve the
food they had got, but this particular crowd did quite the other thing,
and began to waste both food and water, with the result that one of
the crew went back to the ship, by which Pelsart was still standing,
telling him not to send any more provisions for a while. Pelsart
therefore went ashore, leaving an officer and seventy men on the ship.

Arrived on shore, the captain discovered that the tale brought to
him was quite correct; scarcely any water was left. Resolved to make
this good, he tried to return to the ship to supervise the sending
of further barrels; but the weather had become too rough for him to
venture, and he had to hold back. Meanwhile, the ship’s carpenter,
taking his life in his hands, swam ashore with the news that the ship’s
crew on board were in a pretty bad way, and that unless something were
done they would be all flung headlong into the sea when the ship broke
up. Pelsart, unable to go himself, prevailed upon the carpenter to go
back and tell the crew to hold on a while, and busy themselves with
making rafts on which to float to shore. But the crew, although they
did all they could, were unable to get to shore because the sea was
now running heavier than ever, and to trust oneself on the pounding
waves was to court disaster. Therefore they had to remain on the wreck,
while Pelsart fumed and fretted at the thought of not being able to do
anything for them.

Neither the larger island nor the smaller one, on which Pelsart himself
was stranded, had any water besides that which had been brought; and
this was little enough, in all conscience. The people who had been so
prodigal of it at the beginning now came to see that without water they
would surely perish. What was to be done? Water they must have; and
they urged Pelsart to go to some of the neighbouring islands in quest
of it.

With a captain’s loyalty to his ship’s company, Pelsart refused to go
without the consent of all. Why should he take the main chance of being
able to get away to safety while all the others remained stranded, cast
away without means of sustenance? No, if he went at all, everyone must
agree to his going. The folk on the small island argued with him, but
argued in vain.

“I’ll go over there,” he said, pointing to the larger island, with its
120 poor souls, “and get their consent; or else I’ll go back to the
ship and perish with her.”

There was no gainsaying that, anyway; and so they let him push off the
boat, taking in her a crew sufficient to work her. They were a wily
clique, that crew! When the captain got well away from the island they
refused to take him to the other island. They feared, no doubt, that
the people there would not agree to Pelsart’s going, and they knew
that out at sea Pelsart was helpless against them. The captain raved,
threatened; but raved and threatened in vain. They would not let him
go, and when he jumped up and made as though he would fling himself
overboard and swim back, they none too gently grabbed at him and held
him down by force.

Pelsart scowled and growled at his mutinous crew; but neither black
looks nor hard words moved them, and eventually Pelsart had to come to
an arrangement whereby he agreed to go in search of water, provided he
received a manifesto, signed by all his men, approving of this. Things
being fixed up thus, the captain at last set out on his quest; and a
long, long quest it proved to be.

Day after day he sailed amongst the islands, seeking water, but finding
none; and all the time the supplies were running short. At last he
resolved to go farther afield, and struck off across the trackless
sea, and in a little while found himself off the coast of Australia,
then a continent without a shred of civilisation. He hit the coast at
the spot where Geraldton now stands, and tried to put in at a small
cove; surf, however, romped at the boat, and flung her back each time
she pushed her nose shorewards. Pelsart at last gave up in despair
and sailed to the northwards, following the coast, looking for a
likely spot to land. In due course this was found; but when they did
land the men found no water, and only succeeded in frightening a few
natives, who fled for their lives at the sight of the strange white
men. Off again, to land, probably, at the North-West Cape, where they
found water--rain water! This was not at all hopeful, and, as the
coast had been trending away to the east, Pelsart determined to strike
north-east, where he knew lay Batavia, in Java.

Twenty-two days after leaving his shipwrecked company Pelsart found
himself at Batavia, having sailed nearly sixteen hundred miles in an
open boat. At Batavia, in due course, Pelsart was able to obtain a
frigate, with which he set out to return for his castaways.

Meanwhile, however, things were happening on the islands away down
south. And such things!

The men whom Pelsart had left on the wreck had succeeded in getting
off in safety after many days of anxious waiting, and the last man to
leave was the supercargo, an ex-apothecary of Haarlem who rejoiced in
the name of Jerom Cornelis, and who had ambitions. He wanted to be a
pirate, and thought that he had found a splendid opportunity. He worked
out his plans with delightful thoroughness. First he would kill off all
the honest men of the company, and then, having formed his pirate crew,
take the captain by surprise when he came back, as he firmly believed
he would. Probably Cornelis’s further plans allowed for seizing
Pelsart’s boat, and sailing away with it until he came up with some
large vessel, whose crew his piratical company would eventually succeed
in overpowering, when they would find themselves in possession of a
ship suitable for their purpose of scouring the seas.

But the first step was to get rid of the true men; and as there seemed
to be more of this calibre than Cornelis felt he could deal with at one
operation, he resorted to an artful ruse. Forty men, under the chaplain
and a Mr. Weybhays, were dispatched to another island in search of
water, with instructions to light three fires as a signal of success.
The little band were successful, and lighted their beacons as agreed.
But there was no answer!

What had happened? They were soon to know. Even at the fair distance
he was away Mr. Weybhays could see that something untoward was taking
place on the island, and presently several men sprang into the sea and
began swimming towards him for dear life. What a tale they told when
they reached the island! Hardly had Weybhays left when Cornelis and
his scoundrelly crew had begun to butcher the honest men left behind,
and had succeeded in killing nearly forty! _Now_ Weybhays knew why he
had not received the answering signal; he had evidently been sent off
merely to get rid of him and his company while the ex-apothecary did
his fell work, after which, no doubt, their turn would come.

In this latter surmise Weybhays was right; but first Pirate Cornelis
had other fish to fry. Away on the smaller island were some forty men
who had been landed before Pelsart departed, and Cornelis decided
to go over and wipe out all those who would not throw in their lot
with him. What he was afraid of was that either party might be able
to warn Pelsart on his return, and thus frustrate Cornelis’s evil
plan. So, without loss of time, the pirates rowed over to the small
island, landed, and after a little trouble with the men, who did not
really want to die, succeeded in killing them off, saving only seven
youngsters and five women. On the island, also, they found a number
of chests which had been washed ashore from the wreck, and these
they broke open. They were filled with rich apparel, and the pirates
bedecked themselves in wonderful attire, Cornelis incidentally forming
a bodyguard clothed in scarlet livery. He felt almost a king, I’ll
wager!

For some days the pirates had a gorgeous time, drinking and rioting,
for some of the rum casks had been washed ashore. Then, considering
it time he got to pirate’s business again, the captain-general, as
he called himself, decided to tackle Weybhays and the forty odd men
he had with him. Gathering all the arms he could find, Cornelis took
twenty-two men with him in two light shallops, and went over to settle
accounts with Weybhays.

Weybhays very nearly settled Cornelis, whose crew got a good
thrashing and put back to their island, a sadder and angrier crowd.
The pirate-in-chief, however, refused to be scared, and, arming
thirty-seven men, went back to the attack. He wondered vaguely why
he had got beaten before, for Weybhays’ men were unarmed, except for
roughly fashioned clubs, fitted with long nails. Cornelis felt that it
was a bad start for a pirate gang, and determined to wipe the stain
out. Instead of which, when the second expedition got near the island,
Weybhays and his men, dashing out into the water, fell upon the pirates
with vigour, and, after a fine scrimmage, succeeded in driving them
back, beaten a second time.

[Illustration: “Weybhays and his men fell upon the pirates”]

Cornelis felt hurt. He could see his plans being altogether upset
unless he could cope with Weybhays, and clearly he and his dastardly
crew were no match for that fearless man and his gallant company when
it came to fighting. He must try other means; and try them quickly,
lest Pelsart return and Weybhays be able to warn him.

Cornelis therefore thought of a scheme to outwit Weybhays. Amongst the
latter’s party were two French soldiers, whom the pirate thought might
be willing to come to terms with him and play the traitor--if he could
but get into communication with them. He opened up negotiations with
Weybhays, hoping thereby to be able to correspond with the Frenchmen.

He promised Weybhays that, if the latter would return the boat he had,
his party should not again be attacked, and that some of the salvage
from the _Batavia_ should be given up. Weybhays agreed to this after a
while, and Cornelis hugged himself as he thought that, without a boat,
Weybhays could not warn Pelsart when he appeared; and he hugged himself
more when, during the negotiations, he succeeded in smuggling letters
to the Frenchmen, offering them six thousand livres each if they would
turn traitor to Weybhays, who had insisted upon the treaty being drawn
up in proper order and being signed by both parties.

The captain-general, sure in his own mind that the Frenchmen could not
resist the temptation of his gold, waited serenely for the morning to
come, when he was to go over to Weybhays’ island and sign the treaty;
but in the meantime the gallant French soldiers had decided that it
was better to be honest than to be pirates, and they therefore warned
Weybhays.

Morning came, and with it Cornelis and three or four of his men. He
was in high spirits, anticipating that he was about to get the better
of Weybhays. Instead, he received a shock. Weybhays, making no sign
that he knew aught of Cornelis’s stratagem, went down to the beach and
helped him run his boat up; and then, before Cornelis knew what had
happened, Weybhays and his men fell upon him, knocked him on the head,
and put _hors de combat_ two of his companions, the others succeeding
in escaping in the boat.

Poor old Cornelis! When he came round he found himself trussed like
a fowl for the cooking. Gone all his lofty hopes, shattered all his
ambitions. Weybhays had triumphed.

But away on the other island Cornelis’s ruffianly crew were plotting
and planning on his behalf--also on their own, by the way, for they
felt that Cornelis was the corner-stone of their own safety, and that
unless he were free they did not know how to cope with Pelsart, should
he return. So without delay they tumbled into their boats and went over
to Weybhays’ island, intending to do great deeds and rescue Cornelis.
Weybhays was ready for them, and sent them scuttling off again--soundly
beaten!

And then a frigate appeared on the horizon; and though the pirates did
not know it, albeit they made a very good guess, Pelsart was standing
on her deck, looking across at the islands he had left so many days
ago. He was wondering what had happened during his absence, whether his
company were still alive, or whether they had starved to death or died
of thirst. He little knew that there had been worse foes than hunger
and thirst at work!

Presently a column of smoke lifted its filmy head over one of the
islands, and Pelsart realised that some at least still lived. A boat
was lowered immediately, filled with provisions, and Pelsart embarked
in her and started to make for the island. At the same instant a small
boat sped out from Weybhays’ island; in her was Weybhays, who, when he
reached Pelsart’s boat, hastily told the captain his story, and urged
him to return to the frigate, named the _Sardam_, lest the pirates put
out and overpower him.

Pelsart looked at Weybhays as though he were bereft of his senses; but
confirmation of his words was soon forthcoming, for suddenly a couple
of boats shot out from the larger island, and began speeding towards
Pelsart’s boat. That was enough. Off went Pelsart to the frigate,
followed hard by Weybhays. It was a race for life; and Pelsart won.
Just as he had scrambled aboard the pirate boats drew alongside.

And a gallant-looking crowd they were! Their fanciful costumes showed
signs of bad handling by Weybhays, but their weapons--swords and
pistols--looked very workmanlike, and when Pelsart asked them what they
meant by daring to come near the ship in such a condition, they replied
that they would very soon show him. And they began trying to board the
frigate.

Pelsart’s answer was quick and to the point.

“You see that gun?” he cried, pointing to one of the frigate’s cannons,
frowning down at them. “If you don’t surrender--and at once--I’ll have
it sink you where you lay!”

There was no arguing with that gun. The pirates laid down their arms,
very soon to be joined by their whilom captain-general, and in a little
while were on board the _Sardam_--in irons. Their piracy had come to an
inglorious end.

That night the frigate lay off the islands, and next day a boat was
sent off to try conclusions with the remainder of the mutineers,
who, however, seeing that the game was up, flung down their arms and
surrendered.

There is little more to be told. The wreck was salved of all that was
valuable in her; the gold and silver that Cornelis and his ruffians
had purloined was collected and taken on board the _Sardam_, where, of
course, the remainder of Weybhays’ company had already found quarters.
And then Pelsart held a court. Cornelis and his would-be pirates were
tried, and executed on the spot. It was no time for delay, because the
_Sardam_ contained a goodly treasure, and to keep Cornelis would be
to run the risk of the ambitious scoundrel breaking out again. Then
Pelsart weighed anchor and went his way, after a series of adventures
such as seldom fall to a man’s lot.




ADRIFT WITH MADMEN

The Burning of the “Columbian,” and the Sequel


On May 3, 1914, there flashed across the ether a wireless message,
picked up at Sable Island, as brief as it was dramatic: “Hurry up! We
are on fire!” No ship’s name was given, nor indication as to position,
and the world held its breath and wondered.

Then, two days later, the Cunard liner _Franconia_ picked up a boat
containing thirteen survivors from the steamer _Columbian_; and as they
had been adrift since the 3rd, a connection was at once seen between
the faint, incoherent wireless message and the _Columbian_. A little
later the _Manhattan_ rescued fourteen more _Columbian_ survivors,
including Captain McDonald, from whom it was found that yet a third
boat, with sixteen men, was missing. Immediately all the ships round
about were notified, and a search was prosecuted; but it was not until
thirteen days after the disaster that the boat was found, and in her
were only five men. The rest had died.

Behind this epitome there is one of the great tragic stories of the sea.

It was during the night that, with startling suddenness, there was
a terrific explosion which shook the ship from stem to stern. First
Officer Tiere, whose watch it was, instantly gave the fire call,
and the crew--some of whom were asleep, others at their posts of
duty--rushed up on deck. Smoke issued from below, and told them what
had happened. Then there was another mighty explosion, in the coal
bunkers this time, and the whole deck was ripped up as though it had
been made of tin-foil. There followed clap after clap, as hatches were
burst open by other explosions, and in an incredibly short time the
whole ship was one blazing mass. So instantaneously had the calamity
fallen upon them that there was no time to lose, no time even to dress
or to put sufficient provisions into the boats, which were immediately
lowered. Men, scantily attired, some only in vests and pants, tumbled
into them, and strong backs bent to the oars, seeking to pull away from
the terrific heat and to get out of the range of danger from the ship,
which seemed as though she must soon go down.

What followed was a nightmare--especially for those in First Officer
Tiere’s boat, the story of which is to be told here. She carried
sixteen souls, with only a twenty-gallon cask of water and a tank of
biscuits to last them till--till they were picked up. In these days,
when the seas are ploughed by thousands of ships, it seems incredible
that a boat should be at the mercy of wind and wave for many days
before being picked up; but it is always the unlikely thing that
happens, and these castaways little realised how long it was to be
before they were rescued. Soon it seemed to them as though rescue would
never come. But that is anticipating.

When the boat pushed off from the flaming _Columbian_ there was a
strong southerly wind blowing, which carried them to the northward.
They had no navigating instruments on board, and the weather was misty;
they were thus helpless in their endeavours to keep in the track of
shipping, on which their sole chance of rescue depended.

Anxious eyes peered through the darkness to catch glimpses of passing
lights; at any moment they knew that some mighty leviathan might push
out of the blackness, and smash into their frail craft before they
could cry aloud, even if their voices would be heard above the noise.
Fortunately this did not happen, and towards morning their eyes were
gladdened by the gleam of lights in the distance, coming nearer and
nearer. Salvation was at hand, they told themselves, and hunted about,
seeking matches, so that they might give a feeble light to the racing
greyhound. But not a dry match could they find; a great sea had been
shipped as the boat was lowered, and every match was useless.

Torn with agony, those sixteen men stood up in their boat and screamed
themselves hoarse, hoping against hope that the sound would carry to
the big ship, which, because of her size, they believed was the liner
_Olympic_. But, though they yelled till their voices cracked and
they were exhausted, no sign came that they had been heard, and the
_Olympic_, a floating, gleaming palace, passed them by.

Despair now seized them; but, as the grey fingers of the dawn crept
up, they took heart again, believing that they could not be passed
by in daylight as they had been in the darkness. They were to be
disillusioned once more, for presently they saw, about six or seven
miles away, a large tramp steamer, to which they signalled frantically,
using Tiere’s raincoat on an oar to wave with. They waved till their
arms ached, taking it in turn; but the tramp passed on, and left them
despondent, crazed.

During the afternoon hope was born afresh; away--far away--they saw
a big liner heave in sight, and then come to a standstill. Eyes
strained across the water, and presently the castaways realised that
the new-comer was taking a boat on board; and they came to the only
conclusion possible, that one of the other lifeboats, more fortunate
than they, had been noticed. Strange as it may seem in the reading,
and tragic in the event to those who watched, the rescue ship saw them
not, although she steamed away in a circle, as though looking out for
any other waifs. She was the _Franconia_, and her human salvage was
thirteen souls, while within a few miles of her there tossed a boat
with sixteen men on board, who cried in their anguish as they saw her
steam off, their hopes dashed for the third time.

First Officer Tiere now found plenty of work to do. The sea was very
rough, and the lifeboat pitched and rolled dangerously. There was no
fear of her sinking, because she was fitted with air-tanks, but the
ever-present danger was that she would be overturned as the great seas
played shuttlecock with her. The men worked hard at baling her out;
and then, to give her some sort of steadiness, rigged up a sea anchor
out of oars and old canvas, and so held her head to the seas. All the
time a sharp look-out was kept for signs of vessels, but none was seen,
and Tiere, realising how serious things were getting, apportioned the
rations. The water was allotted out--a pint a day per man, with a
biscuit per meal; and for a week they subsisted on this fare, thinking
themselves fortunate. Then the water began to give out, and the
portion was reduced. But economy in this direction meant suffering;
the men, weak and faint from want of food, parched with thirst,
became delirious; and although there was some rain on Thursday, the
7th, and some more on the following Monday, it did not increase their
water-supply sufficiently to make any difference.

And some of the men, maddened with thirst, took to drinking sea-water.
It was the beginning of the end. One man died, mad, on the 11th, and
they dropped him overboard, Tiere saying what part of the burial
service he could remember. Next day another man died, and two more on
the following morning--all of them victims to their insatiable thirst,
which grew more maddening as, against all advice, they swallowed great
gulps of sea-water.

Tiere, fighting for their lives, when they would not fight themselves,
commandeered the sole dipper they had in the boat, so that they could
not drink so much; then, when, exhausted, he would lie down to snatch a
few hours’ sleep, they would creep round him and steal the dipper, and
drink the water that meant death until he awoke and fought for the cup.
Whereupon, with the pangs of thirst eating into their very vitals, the
raving men, shouting curses at him for his interference, and defying
him to stop them, would lean over the gunwales and lap up the water
like dogs.

Then came delirium; raving, cursing, struggling mad they went. And then
into the Great Unknown, singing in their madness.

Even the men who contented themselves with the small portion of fresh
water which Tiere had allotted to them, even these knew the agonies of
that dreadful voyage, which was leading nowhere; mists and fogs hung
around them all day; the cold winds of night blew upon them and, in
their weakened strength, sapped at the very roots of their life.

Thus the nightmare held on, with death and awful suffering to make
these unfortunate men sure that it was real. They were almost foodless
now, as well as waterless.

On the Friday there came the most tragic incident of all: Jakob, a
big Russian, an oiler of the _Columbian_, thrown off his balance by
thirst, had imbibed great quantities of salt water. The effects soon
began to show themselves, and Jakob, a raving maniac, sat in the bow of
the boat with an axe in his hand, vowing he would kill the whole crew.

“I’m going to shore--getta drink,” he cried, and the fear-stricken
men expected every moment to see him hurl himself overboard. Instead,
he sat muttering foolishly, toying with the axe they dreaded, leering
viciously at them, gesticulating savagely. Tiere, weakened, emaciated,
staggered along towards the six-foot Russian; he must get that axe
away. There was a mist before his eyes, a vagueness in his mind, and
a half-formed thought that somehow the Russian would bring the end
sooner were he not disarmed. He talked to him, hardly knowing what he
said, bullied him, coaxed him, humoured him, while the crew looked on
in anxiety; and the madman at last gave up the axe. Then Tiere made him
lie down, settled him as comfortably as possible, and himself went to
snatch a little sleep, of which he was sorely in need.

For a while all was still; darkness was now upon them; only the howl
of the wind and the lap, lap of the water against the sides broke the
silence. Then slowly along the boat there crept a dark form, with
madness in its eyes; it was Jakob, and in his hands he carried the boat
stretcher. He was making aft to where the other men were, intent on
killing them all. Fortunately someone saw him coming, and instantly all
were alert, ready for him.

Cursing in Russian and broken English, Jakob hurled himself upon them,
vowing to murder them all. He wanted the water that was left, and he
would have it. Aye, he would have it! The wretched men, gathering up
the remnants of their once full-blooded strength, tackled him bravely,
wrenching the stretcher away and seeking to tie him up. How they
fought, to the danger of being pitched overboard to death, and with the
prospect of being kicked to pulp by the Russian’s heavy boots! It was
like a scene from some book of wild adventure, that fight in so strange
a setting; yet to these men it was real, and life and death hung upon
its issue. There was no light by which to see whether one struck friend
or foe, only the curses of the Russian to show when a blow landed
upon him; and the night was made hideous by yells as the frenzied men
struggled madly for control. At last it was over: the giant lay inert
in the bottom of the boat, tied securely and lashed to a thwart, where
for five or six hours he lay screaming, cursing, struggling to release
himself, and then died.

Despair--it is a feeble word to describe their feelings--was now upon
the remaining men, who for another week were tossed about, hither and
thither, until they had lost all count of their bearings. The sun kept
behind the clouds, and fogs and mists enwrapped them in their wet, cold
folds. In one sense this was a blessing in disguise; it kept the pangs
of thirst under somewhat. But as they shivered in the bottom of the
boat, huddling together to keep each other warm, they were in no mood
to thank Heaven for fogs which they knew hid them from passing vessels.
By Saturday morning eleven men had died and been thrown overboard, and
the five survivors looked dumbly at each other, reading in bleared eyes
the question, “Whose turn next?”

It was the turn of Peter Preive, the mess-room steward, of whom a
strange story is told. Before he left Antwerp on the _Columbian_ he had
dreamed a dream--that he would be a fortnight adrift in an open boat
before he died. On the morning of the thirteenth day Preive lay at the
point of death, for the hundredth time telling his comrades his dream
and assuring them they would be picked up on the morrow.

It sounds like fiction, but it is solid fact, and those mariners took
heart of courage: if some parts of the dream had come true, why not
another? And so they lived on, as they had for some days past, with
Preive’s dream as encouragement, though they could not altogether look
with equanimity upon the prospect before them; ere the fourteenth day
dawned some of those five that remained might have gone to join their
comrades!

They had been reduced now to trying to make a paste out of the boot
leather and the remains of the biscuits--anything to stave off hunger.
But even their craving stomachs could not take kindly to the mixture,
and the men knew that they were now face to face with death at last.
They looked in the biscuit tank again, and found there--crumbs, simply
a few crumbs, which they scooped up in order to mix some more of the
unpalatable paste. And then, like a messenger of hope, they saw a
smudge on the horizon, watched it grow larger and denser, saw the hull
of a ship grow out of the mist. Four of them yelled themselves hoarse
again, waved their signal, took out their oars and tugged away at them
like mad. They bent their backs to the work, they pulled till their
arms ached, and got hardly any way on her; they were too weak to pull
against the sea effectively. Then the big ship stopped, and they saw
her taking some soundings. She got up steam again and moved forward;
and the castaways knew that they had been seen.

The reaction set in; the men who had borne up for thirteen days against
hunger, thirst, who had fought against madness and death, crumpled up
and fell in the bottom of their boat. They were done.

Meanwhile the big ship was punching her way towards them. She was the
_Seneca_ (Captain Johnson), who had been searching for the missing
lifeboat for many days, having crossed from the spot where the
_Columbian_ burnt out to Nova Scotia and back time after time without
sighting the unfortunate men. The captain had, indeed, given up hope
of ever finding them; and when the look-out sighted the boat, and the
_Seneca_ plunged towards her at full steam, Captain Johnson scarcely
believed it possible that anyone could be alive in her.

When they came up with her they saw the five men lying in the bottom
of the boat, helpless, emaciated, eyes sunken, bodies trembling.
Preive, alive when the _Seneca_ came up, died from the shock of the
sight of her; Tiere, who had commanded all through, and had done much
to encourage the others, tried to lift himself up, but fell back
exhausted, and the other four living men had to be helped out of their
boat.

Their cruise was at an end. They were saved; but the terror of it will
never leave them.




FRANCIS DRAKE’S RAID ON THE SPANISH MAIN

How Drake Took Toll for Spanish Treachery


In 1567 Francis Drake had accompanied John Hawkins on a slave-trading
expedition to the Spanish Main; the worthy pair had gone across to
Africa, where they had captured a number of Africans, whom they shipped
to the West to sell as slaves, seeing that the Spaniards were sorely
in need of labourers. Now, it was a maxim with the Dons that the
Wealthy West was for Spaniards only, and they very much resented the
coming of the Englishmen, so that, while professing the desire to trade
with them, they really played them false; and it was only by the skin
of their teeth that Hawkins and Drake managed to escape to England,
even then having to leave a number of their men in the hands of the
Spaniards.

Drake was angry. He vowed vengeance. Henceforth he determined not to go
on trading expeditions, but to sally forth to the Spanish Main to take
toll of the riches that the Spaniards were harvesting year by year. He
did nothing in a hurry; he worked things out, went on a voyage or so to
get the lie of the land, and in 1572 left Plymouth--bound for Panama!
On one of his previous voyages he had laid up stores at a place on the
mainland which he had called Port Pheasant, because he had seen a great
number of those birds flying about there. Arrived at Port Pheasant on
this new voyage, he received a mild sort of shock. Nailed to a tree was
a leaden letter:

  “CAPTAIN DRAKE,

  “_If you have fortune to come into the port, make haste away, for the
  Spaniards which you had with you last year have betrayed this place,
  and taken away all that you left here. I departed hence this present
  7th of July, 1572._

                                  “_Your loving friend_,

                                                          “JOHN GARRET.”

Now, although Drake knew the seriousness of the position, he refused
to be frightened away. He had work to do--the fitting up of his
pinnaces--and he resolved to do this before leaving. He therefore set
his men to work, and in a week was ready to sail for Nombre de Dios,
his first place of call on the Spaniards. Just as he was about to start
there came to the port an English barque commanded by Captain James
Rouse, who threw in his lot--and his thirty-eight men--with Drake; and
the company set sail for Nombre de Dios. At a small island called the
Isle of Pines they stopped a while, and Drake appealed to the cupidity
of his men, in the hope of making them even firmer than ever in their
determination to do their utmost.

“Comrades,” he cried, “before us lies the world’s treasure-house. You
are brave; and with your help I am confident of success. Follow me,
and yours shall be the Spaniard’s wealth; yours shall be the fame that
comes from great deeds, and we shall be able to take to your Queen much
treasure and have good stores for ourselves!”

That put good heart into his men, and when they came to Nombre de Dios
they were ready for anything, although they murmured, some of them,
against attacking in daylight, as was Drake’s intention. However, Drake
had to alter his plans, for when they came into the harbour they found
a big ship there. Someone aboard saw them, and the vessel was headed
for the shore to give the alarm. The English soon stopped her little
game; the pinnaces raced after her, headed her off to seaward, and
then, feeling safe, the men landed, fondly believing that they were
unnoticed.

They were mistaken. While the rest of the garrison slept or made merry,
or were on guard to landward against an attack from Cimaroons, one
gunner was at his post in the fort. One gunner, one shot, and the town
was in alarm; and away went the Spaniard racing into the town to tell
of the coming of the hated English. There ensued a hubbub in Nombre de
Dios; bells rang out their tocsin call, trumpets blared, drums rolled,
and men rallied up to withstand the foe. As for Drake, he grasped the
situation promptly, and had his plan working without delay. He divided
his men into two companies, leading one himself and sending the other
forward under his brother John and John Oxenham, hoping by this means
to delude the Spaniards into thinking that a large force had come
against them.

It was a queer scene. Every man Jack of Drake’s companies carried a
firepike, whose flaming torch lit up the place weirdly; they made
unearthly noises on trumpets, and rent the air with war-cries which
struck terror into the Spaniards. So much so that, hearing the advance
of men from two quarters, the Dons, forgetting all about the treasure
in their stores, took to their heels and ran for dear life.

It was all so easy, thought the Englishmen; and then found they had
counted their chickens before they were hatched, for when they reached
the market-place they saw that the Spaniards had taken new courage and
had massed themselves for a gallant fight. Moreover, they, too, had
resorted to a stratagem; they had strung a line of lights across the
dark street, and made it appear that there were many, many men with
torches awaiting the foe!

Nothing loath to accept a good fight, Drake’s men plunged in; and
although the Dons met them boldly and fought well, nothing could stop
the men out for treasure and revenge. Using their firepikes as weapons,
they charged the Spaniards, and although Drake and others were wounded,
and the trumpeter was killed, they put the Dons to flight, and found
themselves in possession of Nombre de Dios, with the treasure of King
Philip theirs for the taking!

They hurried to the governor’s house, where they saw much treasure in
the form of stacks of silver bars; they marched to the treasure-house,
which Drake ordered them to force open. They proceeded to do so. But
just then a terrific thunderstorm broke over the town; the men were
drenched to the skin, their bows, with which they had done good work
in the attack, were loosened and rendered useless, so that they began
to fear lest the Spaniards, whom they could hear massing on the hills
after their flight, should burst down upon them, when they would be
practically powerless against them.

They spoke of going back to the boats, but Drake, who heard them,
chaffed them for their cowardice. He knew it wasn’t that!

“You would fly!” he cried. “On the very threshold of the world’s
treasure-house you would fly! I have brought you to the mouth of the
treasury of the world, which if you do not gain none but yourselves
will be to blame! Break open the treasure-house!”

And without waiting to see if they followed he sprang at the door to
set them the example; but even as he did so his sight failed him, the
strength which had been ebbing with the flow of the blood from his
wound gave out, and he fell, a crumpled heap, at the threshold!

Instantly all were alarmed, and they fell to binding up his wound.
That done, they urged him to come away. But Drake refused to budge;
whereupon, knowing how much depended upon his safety, they picked him
up in their strong arms and carried him to his pinnace. Not all his
entreaties or threats could move them, and the only satisfaction he
could get out of them was:

“What’s the good of the treasure of the Spanish Main if we have not
Francis Drake?”

Thus it was that Drake found himself back in his pinnace, heading out
for sea. But the night’s adventures were by no means over. In the
harbour they found a big ship coming in. They promptly boarded her and
took her, finding her to be well stocked with wines and other good
things; and, taking her along with them, they made their way to a small
island a little distance from Nombre de Dios, where they rested and
refreshed themselves.

The Spaniards discovered where they were, and sent a messenger to
Drake; they wanted to make sure who had attacked them. Drake received
the emissary courteously, answered his questions frankly, assured him
that the English arrows were not poisoned, and that he was indeed
Francis Drake; gave him a present for himself, and then sent him back
with a message to the Governor.

“Tell him,” he said, “to keep his eyes open, for if God lend me life
and leave I mean to reap some of your harvest which you get out of the
earth and send into Spain to trouble all the earth!”

Away went the Spaniard and delivered his message, no doubt to the
consternation of the Governor.

In a couple of days Drake felt that it was time to go to the Isle of
Pines, where he had left Rouse and his men. Arrived here, he told of
his misadventures, and Rouse, growing disheartened, washed his hands
of the whole affair and went home; which Drake didn’t really mind, for
he preferred to work on his own, and was by no means despondent. He
decided that he would tackle Carthagena, the chief town on the Spanish
Main, which, if he could surprise it, would amply repay him for his
voyage.

The Governor of Nombre de Dios, however, had taken the precaution of
warning Carthagena of the proximity of the Dragon, as they called Drake
now, so that when the English appeared off Carthagena they were met by
shots from the town, which told Drake that his surprise attack would
not come off. He knew, too, that the town was too strong to attempt
to assault it openly, so he contented himself with seizing a number
of ships lying at anchor in the harbour--right under the noses of the
Spanish guns.

Then he sailed from Carthagena, deciding to lie low awhile in the Gulf
of Darien till the excitement had subsided, when he would sally forth
again. One thing worried him: he hadn’t sufficient men to man the ships
and the pinnaces. He resolved to get over the difficulty by sinking
one ship--the _Swan_--commanded by his brother John. He had to do this
secretly, for he knew that his men would never consent to her being
sunk. So, taking old Tom Moore, his carpenter, into his confidence, he
succeeded in overcoming his qualms and arranging for him to bore holes
in the ship’s bottom; and in due course the _Swan_ began to fill and
to settle down. Drake, passing by in one of his pinnaces, asked John
what was the matter with his ship; had she sprung a leak? Instantly
it was “All hands to the pumps!” But pumped they never so quickly the
water gained, and soon the men had to abandon the ship, which presently
plunged beneath the surface; and Drake had achieved his purpose.

Then away to the Gulf of Darien, where they rested and amused
themselves at various good old English games. Here Drake learnt from
a negro he had with him, one Diego, that the Cimaroons, who hated the
Spaniards like poison, would no doubt be willing to join forces with
him against them; and Drake sent his brother John to the mainland to
negotiate with the Cimaroons. The mission was successful, and John
returned to report that the Cimaroons, eager to take their vengeance on
the Spaniards for all the evil they had wrought, would be willing to
co-operate with the English, and would lead them anywhere they liked.
Drake, following the counsel of the Cimaroons, decided to postpone
operations until the rainy season was over. Now, as the waiting period
had to be filled in somehow, or his men would grow weary of waiting,
Drake, knowing that inactivity is the worst thing for sailors and
soldiers, determined to be up and doing on the sea. So, moving to a
safer harbour, he made that his headquarters, leaving there a number of
men under command of John. With the remainder he set out in a couple
of pinnaces to see what was to be picked up along the coast. First he
dashed into Carthagena harbour, and cut out two frigates from under the
muzzles of the guns; later, when the Spaniards grew weary of being at
the mercy of the Dragon, and sent out two big ships to take him, Drake
met them, and though they were well armed and well manned he sent them
scurrying back to their harbour. One of his two prizes he sent to
the bottom, and the other he burnt; and then, wanting to feel terra
firma beneath his feet, pulled to the shore. Something told him that
the Spaniards had prepared an ambush for him; but Drake determined to
land, and, springing ashore, he defied the hidden Spaniards to do their
worst! And instead of doing that they bolted!

Meanwhile, John Drake had been busy. He did not want to be out of all
the fun, so one day, espying a Spanish ship, he put off in a pinnace,
taking only one man with him, and tried to capture her. The result was
a foregone conclusion--both the intrepid and foolhardy Englishmen were
killed. John was never so lucky as Francis!

Thus it came about that when Drake returned to his headquarters to give
his men a rest he found his brother gone, and suffered an agony of
spirit, for the hardy mariner had loved his brave brother. Still, what
is done cannot be undone, and the Englishmen had to resign themselves
to fate. The hot weather having now set in, they had other troubles to
think about; fever had laid its fell grip upon them, and took a heavy
toll during the time of rest. Then came the Cimaroons with news of the
Spanish fleet. This heralded the dispatch of the treasure from Panama
across the Isthmus of Darien--a journey which up till then had been
unattended by danger from a European foe, although now and again, no
doubt, the Cimaroons had sought to get a blow in at the Spaniards.

Drake now intended to give the Dons a shock; he meant to march inland
and waylay the treasure mule-train. He had only eighteen of his men
who were fit to travel, but he picked out thirty Cimaroons and Pedro
to go with him. Pedro, by the way, had whetted the curiosity of Drake
by telling him of a great sea far away beyond the hills, and the
adventurer told himself that this must be the wonderful South Sea of
which the men of the past had spoken. He decided to have a look at it,
with a view to future exploring.

So off across the isthmus went the little band of black men and
white--strange companions, who had at least one bond of sympathy,
namely, hatred of the Spaniards. The Cimaroons knew the way, and led by
the most favourable route--through forests and over hills and across
rivers. On every side were new and strange sights to the Englishmen,
who marched by day, and slept by night in branch-houses built by the
Cimaroons to shelter them from the mists which bring fever.

After a fairly uneventful journey, the company arrived at the other
side of the isthmus, and found before them a high mountain, up which
they toiled, to see, as Pedro had told them, the great sea. The summit
being reached, they saw that on a tree-trunk the Cimaroons had cut
steps, and in its branches had erected a platform. Drake clambered up
to this, and stood there facing the sea--the mighty Pacific rolling
before him, the great Atlantic spread out behind him. He had come
within sight of the South Sea--the first Englishman to do so.

A moment’s silence. The sight seemed too much for the adventurer; then,
bursting out a vow that he would be the first Englishman to sail its
waters, he cried:

“But one thing do I ask of Heaven, and that to sail once in an English
ship in that sea!”

Then, having feasted his eyes upon the scene before him, he called up
his company, and there, one by one, the English sailors registered
their vows to follow him wherever he went, and when.

But there was no time to dally. Pressing work must be attended to; the
future must be left to itself. So away towards Panama City Drake and
his men went, cutting their way through the forest and keeping a good
look-out lest they be surprised by Spaniards. However, they escaped
notice, and after two days’ hard work came to open country, and before
them lay Panama, the city of gold and silver; and away in the harbour
rode the treasure fleet, waiting to disgorge its rich cargoes.

The day was still young when they came within sight of their objective,
and, knowing that they must not be seen yet, Drake kept his men under
cover until night, meanwhile sending a Cimaroon to spy out the land and
to discover when the treasure-train would set out on its journey to
Nombre de Dios.

Anxiously the adventurers waited, longing to get to business, wondering
whether it might happen that they would have to wait hidden very long.
But presently the spy came back with news that cheered, and made them
feel that they had the treasure in their hands already! That very night
the treasure-train was to set out for Nombre de Dios--a train of fifty
mules, heavy laden, to be followed the next night by two other trains
of like size. How those Englishmen’s fingers itched!

But they knew there would be stern work before them ere their hands
laid hold on the treasure, and, wasting no time on anticipatory
visions, they marched forward through the darkness till they came
to the junction of the Nombre de Dios and Panama roads. Here Drake
disposed his forces carefully, dividing them into two companies of
eight Englishmen and fifteen Cimaroons--a company on each side of
the road, under command of Drake and John Oxenham respectively. The
companies were posted, not exactly opposite each other, but in such
positions that one could seize the hindmost mules and the other the
foremost, and so get the Spaniards between two fires.

There followed an anxious time of waiting, during which a man dared
hardly breathe, let alone speak. Then through the night air came
the cheery tinkling of bells, and they knew that the train was
approaching. The only thing that worried them was that the tinkling
came from two ways--from Venta Cruz and from Panama. They knew that the
treasure-train would not come from Venta Cruz; but the question was
which would get there first?

They needn’t have worried; the whole matter was settled for them! One
of Drake’s men had been drinking too much, and the neat brandy had got
into his head; so that when he heard the bells he got muddled and lost
his sense of locality. When the bells from Venta Cruz drew nearer he
thought they were the bells from Panama. Now, the former heralded only
the approach of a single Spanish officer, who would have been allowed
to proceed without molestation had not the drunken sailor raised
himself up from the long grass to hurl himself at the Spaniard. Quick
as lightning a Cimaroon hauled him back. But too late; the officer
had seen the white shirt which the man wore--as did his comrades, for
identification--and, suspicious that there should be anyone lying in
wait at such a spot, and at such a time, he urged his mule on towards
Panama at top speed, expecting to be followed.

But none followed him; for Drake’s orders were to lie low, even now.

On, therefore, went the officer, to meet the treasure-train, which was
in charge of the Treasurer of Lima, who was naturally pretty startled
to see the galloping figure.

“A miracle has happened!” cried the officer. “El Dragon has
come--though how, Heaven only knows--and he lies in wait for the
treasure!”

Now, the Treasurer of Lima, like most of his compatriots, had a
wholesome dread of Drake, and though it passed his comprehension that
such a thing should have taken place, yet he considered it wise to
adopt precautionary measures, lest there should be any truth in the
scared officer’s apparently wild tale.

So, keeping back the actual treasure-train, he sent on a line of mules,
two of them with loads of silver, the rest with provisions, just to
act as a decoy; and Drake, having kept his men quiet, and hearing the
tinkling of the bells as before, imagined that everything was going
quite smoothly, and that after all the Spanish officer had not seen the
drunken sailor.

The mule-train came to the ambush; there rang a shrill whistle-call,
and the Englishmen and the Cimaroons leapt to their feet, fell upon the
Spaniards, seized the mules, and began to rifle their packs, expecting
to find a rich haul of treasure.

And all they found were the two loads of silver and an assortment of
victuals!

However, there it was; and the important thing was to square things up
somehow, and to get back to the coast before the Spaniards could stop
them. The way back lay through Venta Cruz. It was the easier way, and
Drake vowed he’d go by that road, even though it meant fighting his way
through. He must hurry on before the men of Panama had time to warn
Venta Cruz. The Cimaroons pledged themselves to follow him through
thick and thin, and with this assurance Drake immediately set out.

The Cimaroons went on in front as scouts, and presently reported that
they had located the presence of Spanish troops by the smell of the
gun-matches. Whereupon Drake got ready to fight, thinking he might have
to cut his way through. On they went, silently, carefully; but soon the
Spaniards saw them, and they were challenged.

“Who goes there?” they cried.

“Englishmen!” came back the bold, proud, staggering answer that
wellnigh sent the Spaniards fleeing for their lives.

“In the name of the King of Spain, yield!” cried the captain of the
troop.

“Never!” bellowed Drake. “For the honour of the Queen of England, I
must have passage this way,” and discharged his pistol full at the
captain. Then, with good Queen Bess’s name on their lips, the English
opened fire upon the Spaniards, who responded promptly, with fatal
effect to one Englishman and wounds to others, including Drake himself.
Still the little band kept up their fire, and presently the Spanish
fire slackened somewhat, and Drake’s whistle sounded the “Charge!”
There was a sharp volley of English shot, a flight of Cimaroon arrows,
and then “St. George and England!” yelled the English, “Yo peho, yo
peho!” cried the Cimaroons, and away they went at the Spaniards,
scattering them, sending them helter-skelter into Venta Cruz, whither
the foe followed them--into the heart of the city!

And that little mixed band captured Venta Cruz, and ransacked it!
But for all their roughness and eagerness for treasure, the English
behaved, as Englishmen always do--courteously; and neither women nor
children nor unarmed men had aught to say against them for their
treatment.

[Illustration: “‘For the honour of the Queen of England, I must have
passage this way!’ cried Drake, and discharged his pistol”]

Staying only long enough to take what treasure they could find, Drake
and his men pushed on from Venta Cruz towards the coast, which they
reached in due course, to find the sick men well, though it was but
natural they were all downcast at the failure of the journey to Panama.

Shortly afterwards, Drake joined hands with a French privateer, and
proceeded to make other plans for capturing some of the treasure from
the South. He knew that by this time the Spanish Main would be up in
arms and watchful against him; but he had come a long way, and felt he
ought to be paid for his trouble.

Oxenham was sent with a pinnace to cut out a provision ship; which
he did, capturing a fine frigate laden with sufficient food to serve
their purpose. Drake himself went along the coast towards Veragua,
stopping a frigate on the way, relieving her of some of her treasure,
and gathering from the captain--probably under pressure--that in the
harbour at Veragua there rode a Spanish ship with over a million
of gold in her hold. This was fine news indeed, and off to Veragua
hastened Drake, staying for nothing.

The pinnace shot into the harbour--and received a broadside from the
Spaniards, who were warned of their coming! Back went Drake. Clearly,
his luck was out!

But he would have one more try. He discovered that a treasure-train
was due at Nombre de Dios from Venta Cruz, and he made up his mind to
make an attempt to intercept this near Nombre de Dios. Putting back
to his harbour, he boarded his little fleet, consisting of the French
privateer and a couple of frigates captured from the Spaniards. The
_Pacha_, his own ship, was unseaworthy by this time, and he left her
“to the Spaniards” as something in return for those he had captured!
Sailing along the coast for another harbour, he left his vessels there,
and embarked in his pinnaces with fifteen Englishmen, twenty Frenchmen,
and a number of Cimaroons. On March 31 he landed the majority of his
forces at a river near Nombre de Dios, leaving the remainder to watch
the pinnaces.

Striking inland, the mixed band came within easy distance of Nombre de
Dios, and took up positions along the road, waiting for the coming of
the treasure-train as they had waited before. Across the still night
air came the sounds of carpenters hard at work repairing the ships
which awaited the treasure for King Philip; and then, just at the break
of day, there came the tinkle of bells--the sweetest of music to the
adventurers’ ears!

They could hardly believe their eyes; coming towards them were 190
mules, heavily laden, as the Cimaroons had told them, with gold and
silver--so much that they wouldn’t know what to do with it! Thirty tons
of silver and gold awaited the taking--when they had disposed of the
guard of forty-five Spanish soldiers.

Drake’s whistle rang shrilly again, and on the instant the raiders were
amongst the Spaniards, who, fighting bravely, kept their attackers busy
for a while. But the allies were not to be daunted, and presently the
Spaniards, thinking discretion the better part of valour, took to their
heels and ran.

Letting them go, Drake and his men fell upon the mule-trains and,
tearing open the packs, found that this time the lines had fallen in
good places for them. There was so much treasure, they could not carry
it all! They, therefore, hurriedly hid about fifteen tons of it in
the burrows of land crabs, in the bottom of a shallow river, under
trees--anywhere they could think of; and, every man carrying as much
as he could bear of gold, they started for the coast.

Meanwhile, the scared Spaniards had given the alarm in Nombre de Dios,
and while the raiders hurried off with the loads, troops were sent out
after them. Coming up with the deserted and rifled treasure-train, they
rejoiced to find some of the mules still laden, and these they sent
into the city while they looked about them, knowing that the Englishmen
could not have taken all the rest away. They discovered many of the
hiding-places, and seeing that they had succeeded in locating the major
portion of the treasure, they contented themselves with gathering it
up (employing 2,000 Mamoras and negroes to do this), and sending it
post-haste to Nombre de Dios, preferring not to go after the bold
raiders.

Drake, meantime, was hastening to the coast, where he expected,
naturally, to find his pinnaces. But when, elated at their success,
his men came within sight of the coast, their pinnaces were no longer
there, and in their places were seven Spanish pinnaces!

More hard luck! Here he was, with the first good haul he had made, and
yet unable to get away with it. He told himself--and his men--that come
what might he was going to get to his frigates somehow. Fortunately
for the boaster, the Spanish pinnaces, unaware of the presence of the
raiders so near at hand, weighed anchor and set out for Nombre de Dios.
But the question that faced Drake was how to get away? No pinnaces! He
solved the problem by building a raft at once, rigging up a sail out of
an old biscuit sack, and calling for three volunteers to go with him to
find the pinnaces.

Everyone volunteered, but he took the three he wanted, and then set out
on his crazy craft. At times it threatened to capsize, at others it
had them waist deep in the water; and at all times while they sailed
the blazing sun poured down upon them. At last they saw the pinnaces
they had lost; but the men in the boats did not see them, and they were
too far off for a hail to reach them. The pinnaces were lost sight of
as they rounded a headland, and Drake, taking the risk, beached his
raft and tore along the shore, in the hope of finding the boats run up
on the beach.

Sure enough, when the four racing men turned the headland they saw the
pinnaces lying ashore, and, incidentally, gave the sailors a scare,
for they thought that this sudden appearance betokened the failure and
pursuit of Drake. Drake, feeling it too good a joke to miss, let them
believe this for a time, and enjoyed the crestfallen look on their
faces. Then, with a shout, he told them all, and away went the pinnaces
to bring back the treasure and the men left behind.

In a little while all were on board the ships, jubilant at their
success, though three Frenchmen were missing. Drake sent a party ashore
to search for these, and to bring back the treasure that had been
hidden. Only one Frenchman was found, and none of the silver, which, as
we have seen, had been unearthed by the Spaniards.

Drake was angry at the loss, but taking comfort that he had really
managed to get a good haul, decided that it was time to return to
England. First of all he laid in a stock of food by capturing a
provision ship as they sailed tauntingly by Carthagena. Then, with
hearty farewells to Pedro and his Cimaroons, whom they allowed to take
whatever they wanted out of the ships, Drake and his merry men set sail
for England, where they arrived on Sunday, August 19th, 1573, and were
received with great joy by the people, who, forgetting all about the
preacher, rushed out of church to welcome the coming of the man who by
this time had grown to be one of their idols.

Queen Elizabeth, however, gave him a dubious welcome--that is,
publicly--for she was just then desirous of being at peace with Spain;
though it is by no means certain that she was not as delighted as Drake
at the success of his voyage, which had gained him much wealth and a
fine reputation as a leader of men.




A GALLANT FISHERMAN

A Brave Rescue in a Storm


Captain Albert Gempton, of Brixham, ranks amongst those men who have
helped to make England the mistress of the seas, being a gallant hero
with a whole host of brave deeds to his credit. A fisherman--a son
of Devon, which has produced so many hardy sons of the sea--probably
one of the most arduous pieces of work he ever undertook was when he
went to the rescue of two lads on a fishing smack off Lundy Island on
December 16, 1910. Incidentally, it shows the kind of thing that very
often befalls the fisherman, who, going out to reap the harvests of the
seas, encounters untold dangers, while we at home go to our breakfast
tables, and all unthinking eat the fish to catch which may have cost a
man his life.

On this particular day there had been a severe storm, which swept
along the coast and caught many fishing vessels at their work, a good
number of them being wrecked and all hands lost. The smack _Friendship_
was off Lundy Island when the storm broke out, and for a time bravely
battled against it; she held two men and two apprentices, and these
gallantly worked her, seeking to get into port. But Fate was unkind;
first the skipper was taken bodily by the angry waves and carried
overboard, and was not seen again. Then, almost immediately afterwards
the other man suffered a like fate; and the two apprentices, mere lads
learning the trade of the sea, found themselves alone on a smack they
knew not how to manage.

To make matters worse, it was night; and for hours the two boys
struggled gamely with their vessel, fighting the elements as best they
knew how. The great waves reared white-crested heads, swooped down
upon the smack, filling it with water; now she was on the crest of a
terrific wave, now in the trough, and the boys thought that each moment
would be their last. Their one hope was to keep the water under, and
for hours and hours they worked hard at the pumps; but as fast as they
pumped the water out more swept in, and they gave themselves up for
lost. One, two, three o’clock came and passed, and still they were
fighting for life, and with little hope of coming through. Then their
hearts gave a bound; they wiped the water from their bleared eyes and
looked across the waste of sea, scarcely believing what they saw. A
light!

Forgetting the necessity for working the pumps without cessation, they
rushed to the side and yelled themselves hoarse, seeking to attract
the attention of the men on the boat they knew was there. Above the
roar of the storm their voices were soundless; they might have yelled
till Doomsday and never been heard. But those men on the other vessel
had seen--which was just as good--and with sail set she rode before
the wind, drove her way through the water, and made for the derelict.
It was hard going, but Captain Gempton knew that his little smack, the
_Gratitude_, was a sturdy sailer; and he realised that something was
amiss.

After a stern struggle the _Gratitude_ came near enough to the
_Friendship_ to bawl out for information; and the two boys yelled out
the story of their plight.

“Save us!” they cried. “Save us! We’re alone, and the water’s gaining
on us!”

“Righto, sonnies!” cried Gempton. “Keep pumping. We’ll have you off in
a twinkling!”

They were brave words, but Gempton knew that a “twinkling” was a
comparative term. It would be no light task to get alongside the
_Friendship_ without smashing into her, bobbing up and down as she was
to the will of the waves. He manœuvred his vessel carefully to get her
into the best position from which to try to effect the rescue, knowing
that it would be asking the boys to jump to death to leap out and try
to swim to the _Gratitude_. If they were to be got off, they must be
fetched; and he knew it.

But try as he would, the _Gratitude_ could not be got within distance
from which the boys could be saved. There was only one way to do it;
and that was to lower a boat and row over to the smack.

“I’m going, boys!” said Gempton presently. “Lower away!”

And his men hoisted the boat. Gempton, swathed in his oilskins, took
his seat in it; and at the same time another man, John Tidmarsh, jumped
in with him.

“I’m coming too, skipper,” he said.

“Good,” said the captain; and the two men took their seats, each of
them carrying a lifebuoy. Then, pushing off, they bent their backs to
the oars, and sought to pull the boat over the waves. What a tussle
that was! What a fight against the elements! The wind caught them
and hurled them forward; the waves broke upon them and hurled them
backwards. Huge mountains of water fell upon them, swamping the boat,
almost filling it; and while one man rowed the other bailed. Then on
again--only to meet the same fate; bail again, and then onward through
the darkness and the noise of Nature till eventually they came near to
the _Friendship_.

Then was careful handling called for, lest the boat be dashed into the
side of the smack and broken to pieces.

“Easy!” cried Gempton; and Tidmarsh grasped his oars, plied them
masterfully, and just as it seemed that the boat was going to be
smashed, she swung round and missed the _Friendship_ by the fraction
of a yard. And meanwhile the two boys were pumping for very life,
straining eyes through the darkness to catch a glimpse of the heroes
making for them.

“They’ll never do it,” said one of them.

“God grant they do!” said the other. “See--they’re here!”

Sure enough, Gempton had brought his boat alongside, where she lay
rocking at the mercy of the waves, but held in check by the firm hands
on the oars.

“Quick!” bawled Gempton. “Quick, for your lives!” And instantly the
two boys forsook their pumps and rushed to the side, ready to jump
overboard at the word.

“Jump!” “No!” The two words seemed to come simultaneously. Gempton had
given the first, Tidmarsh the second, as the boat swung away from the
smack. Then, with a mighty tug at the oars the boat was brought back
again. “Jump!” And this time a boy jumped, landing in the boat, and
sending it pitching and tossing, and threatening to overturn it. Again
she swung out, only to be pulled back; and once more a boy jumped, and
landed fairly in her.

They were saved! Not yet. The journey to the _Gratitude_ had still to
be made, and now the wind was against them, blowing down upon them in
greater fury, as though angry at being robbed of the prey it had fought
for all through the hours of the howling night. It had seemed hours
getting out to the _Friendship_; it seemed years getting back. Time
and time again the water broke in upon them, and filled the boat so
that she could not easily ride the storm; the boys bailed like madmen,
and kept on bailing, and the two men held on at their oars and rowed in
the race against death.

They reached the _Gratitude_, where, with the waves breaking upon them,
and the wind battering at them, the little company of four climbed
perilously into the ship--exhausted all of them, grateful two of them,
and well pleased the other two for having been able to effect the
rescue.




FIRE AT SEA

Tragic Tales of Burning Ships


It is almost impossible to imagine anything more appalling than a fire
at sea. The floating home of perhaps scores, maybe hundreds, of people
blazing away, iron and steel melting in the fierce heat, explosions
taking place here, there and everywhere; men trapped in cabins and
being roasted to death; heroic sailors fighting the flames which there
is no fire brigade to fight for them--all these things go to make up a
scene of horror that beggars description.

Such were the circumstances on December 8, 1914, when the oil-tank
steamer _Vedra_ took fire off Walney Island. She had left Sabine,
in Texas, some while before, and run the gauntlet of the few German
commerce raiders in the Atlantic; and Captain Brewster was telling
himself, when he arrived off Barrow on December 7, that his voyage
was at an end, and that he would soon be able to unload his cargo
of benzine. He counted his chickens before they were hatched, for
Dame Fortune was bent on playing him a scurvy trick. For some time
the weather had been rough, and the _Vedra_ had been forcing her way
through in the teeth of a gale which played shuttlecock with her. But
the sturdy steamer had fought hard and long to get to her port; and now
she was within sight. Across the darkening waters signals were sent for
a pilot to come aboard and guide her into harbour.

Meanwhile, the storm increased in fury, and the _Vedra_ found herself
fighting against the titanic forces of the deep. Now on the crest of a
wave, now in the trough the vessel lay, hovering at times, it seemed,
on the very edge of the pit of destruction, and at others diving down,
down, down, and then righting herself as by a miracle.

The waiting men saw a tug put out and head towards their ship.

“The pilot,” they muttered. “He’s in for a rough trip!”

A rough trip it was, and one that was never finished, for ere he could
reach the _Vedra_ the latter was taken up, as it were, by giant hands
and flung shorewards; then swung about again and hurled towards Walney
Island. Firm as a rock Captain Brewster stood to his post, and worked
his ship like the mariner he was; but it was a hopeless task, and very
soon there was a grinding that told she had run ashore. The engines
were immediately reversed, and the ship strained to her utmost in the
effort to get off the shore. As the waters poured over her she seemed
to shake herself like a great dog. There was the hum of the engines
below, the swish of the propeller as it churned up the water, but never
a move backward did the _Vedra_ make; rather, she bumped more heavily
and got farther in. She was fast held.

Captain Brewster, realising now that it was useless to try to float
her by her own engines, signalled to the shore for assistance, and
the guardship _Furness_, lying off the port, immediately put out and
hurried to render what aid she could, while at the same time the tugs
_Walney_ and _Cartmel_ pushed their noses through the water in her
direction. Captain Hill, of the _Furness_, worked his vessel as near
to the _Vedra_ as was possible with safety, and then, calling on the
crew to stand by, hurled a hawser towards her. Time and time again the
hawser was flung, only to fall short; but at last it was successfully
thrown, and caught by some of the _Vedra’s_ crew. It took but a little
while for them to hitch it securely; and when this was done the word
was given to the _Furness_, whose engines were reversed, and away she
bore till the hawser stretched taut from ship to ship.

But the _Furness_ found she had undertaken a task that defied all her
strength, and, strain though she did with every ounce of steam in her
and every horsepower in her engines, she could not make the _Vedra_
budge from the fast hold in which she had been caught. Suddenly, too,
there was a crack that sounded above the roar of the wind, and the
_Furness_ went staggering back as a child staggers when someone lets go
of a rope he is straining at. The hawser had snapped in two. A sharp
command, and the _Furness_ eased up, and once more she steamed towards
the _Vedra_; another hawser was hurled, and again, eventually, was
hitched on. Then back she pulled, more carefully than ever this time,
with the hawser tightening between the two vessels. Would it hold?
Would the _Vedra_ move? Would the _Furness’s_ engines stand the strain?
Such were the questions that raced through many a mind in those anxious
moments. On the _Vedra_, the captain still at his post, men waited
tensely, holding on to anything at hand, lest they be pitched off into
the boiling sea below, while the whole ship seemed to throb to the
racing of her engines as they worked at high pressure. But she refused
to move.

Things were now assuming a very serious aspect, though the coming of
the two tug boats at this time, under command of Commander Bisset,
R.N., Harbour-master of Barrow, heartened the captain and crew, who
refused to heed exhortations thrown at them to leave the vessel.

“No!” bawled the captain through his funnelled hands. “I’ll not leave
her till there’s no hope. I think we can refloat her!”

So, as the men would stick to their duty, there was nothing to do
but to strive the utmost to get the ship off, and the tugs and the
guardship worked nobly with this end in view; but all unavailingly.
And while they worked the news had been signalled along the coast, and
the lifeboats at Piel and Fleetwood put out to succour the stranded
mariners. Just as the Piel boat reached the spot, however, a great
calamity had come to pass.

The buffeting of the wind and sea bumped the _Vedra_ heavily at every
blow. The straining of her engines had begun to tell; the engines soon
gave up the fight and refused to work any more; and the vessel lay a
helpless hulk, at the mercy of the elements--wind and water, which were
soon to be reinforced by a third--fire! While the firemen below had
been working like niggers to keep their engines going, other men had
been busy at the pumps, pumping the oil out of the tanks in order to
lighten the ship and give her a better chance of life. But pumped they
never so feverishly, never so lustily, they could not work fast enough;
they were fighting against Nature, which, red in tooth and claw,
delights to show man that, despite his ingenuity, he is but puny.

Just as the engines gave up, the copper oil tank gave way, and
instantly the oil began to run out. Now, it has always been a problem
with oil-ships, this bursting of the tanks when the vessel goes
ashore--a problem with a very serious point in it, and that is that
the oil is then almost certain to run into the engine-room. It did
so in this case; while the men at the pumps were sweating with their
exertions, the oil was running quickly towards the engine-room. There
was no stopping it, and very soon it reached the engines. There was a
burst of flame, followed by a terrific explosion.

Horror-stricken, the men in the ships lying around looked across the
troubled waters at the now flaming vessel. They knew only too well what
had happened, and how utterly helpless everything was; but they steamed
forward as closely as they dared, and in the brilliant light could see
men standing about the rails of the vessel with agony-drawn faces and
already scorched clothes.

The men on the _Vedra_? Down in the engine-room there were only things
that once were men; trapped in that inferno, every man of them had
been burned to death. Some, standing on deck, had rushed, as many as
possible, to the weather side of the ship, where, as the flames were
blown away from them, they stood a better chance of escape. Here they
clung, maddened with fear, waving a jersey to attract attention--as
if any attraction were needed! The light from the blazing ship showed
clearly and distinctly to the watchers the whole tragic scene. Others,
who were in the fo’c’sle, were caught in a trap, and the would-be
rescuers could see them at the portholes, frantically calling for the
help that could not be given them.

All around the ship the sea was a blazing mass, for the oil which
had been pumped overboard had caught fire. The two lifeboats sped
through the sea towards the flaming ship, but were driven back by the
intense heat. Ever and anon there were reports as of great guns--with
a roar the oil tanks exploded, and added to the volume of flame which
enveloped the hapless ship and men. Then lesser reports; the steel
plates of the vessel were being blown out.

“No hope--no hope!” cried the entrapped men; and then, driven mad by
despair, determined to take all risks. Some of them flung themselves
overboard into the flaming cauldron. They were never seen again.

Then there took place one of those deeds of heroism which will never
die while men have lips to tell of courage and endurance. The chief
engineer was seen by those on the tugs to be standing on the poop with
three other men; hurriedly they saw him give his comrades a lifebuoy
each. They expected to see him don one himself, but, looking again,
realised that he had not one left. In the brilliant light they could
see him urging his comrades to jump; could see them reluctant to leave
him; but, pressed by the brave man, at last they leapt clear of the
ship--into the sea of fire on which were floating several lifebuoys
and belts thrown out by the tugs and lifeboats. They disappeared for a
moment, then came to the surface again, and could be seen striking out
towards the _Furness_, which, pushing as near as was possible, went to
their rescue. By the greatest of good luck, after a fearful struggle
for life against sea and fire, two men, Second Engineer McLoughlin and
Fourth Engineer Dixon, were picked up, sadly burnt, almost exhausted,
but alive. The third man was not so fortunate, and was not seen again.

[Illustration: “The funnels and ventilators were belching forth mighty
columns of flame--every part of the ship was ablaze”]

Meanwhile, the chief engineer had himself jumped overboard, without
any lifebuoy, and fought his way yard by yard through the sea of flame
till he came within an arm’s length of the boat which had been put off
to rescue him. As though angry at being robbed of the other men, the
sea, seeming to gather in fury, at that moment picked up the engineer
on a tremendous wave and hurled him back into the inferno, then back
against the death-ship, battering him to death.

It was evident now that there was no hope for any other of the stricken
crew. The funnels and ventilators were belching forth mighty columns
of flame--every part of the ship was ablaze. Only one man was still
visible on deck, and he was so scared that he could do nothing but cry
agonisingly for help.

“Jump!” they yelled to him. “Jump!”

“I can’t swim!” was the tragic answer; and, fearing to trust himself to
the treacherous sea, he remained where he was, to become the victim of
a still more treacherous foe.

So ended the tragedy of the _Vedra_. Although the tugs and lifeboats
loitered about all night in the hope of finding some survivor, they
were unsuccessful. Morning came. The ship was still burning furiously,
great columns of flame and smoke ascending to such a height that they
were visible at Fleetwood and Blackpool, twenty miles away. Her plates
were red hot; all her tanks had long since exploded with terrific
reports; and when night fell she was nothing but a shapeless skeleton,
glowing in the sea, which itself was like a burning oil well.

Out of a crew of thirty-six only two men were taken off, and that
despite all the gallant efforts that were made. Even of these two only
one lived, for a week later one of them died in hospital from burns and
shock.

       *       *       *       *       *

The story of the burning of the _Earl of Eldon_, one of the finest
trading vessels then afloat (it was on September 27, 1834, that the
fire was discovered), is an instance of the spontaneous combustion of
a cargo such as has often sent good ships to their doom. The _Earl of
Eldon_ left Bombay on August 24, carrying forty-five souls, including
three ladies and a baby amongst her passengers. She was laden with
cotton bales, screwed so tightly that when the time came to move them,
in order to try to save the ship, it was found impossible to shift them
sufficiently. Before the cotton was put aboard it had been allowed to
get thoroughly wet through, but, knowing the danger of wet cotton in a
ship’s hold, the owners had had it dried before shipment. Apparently
the drying had not been thorough, because the only explanation of
the fire on the _Earl of Eldon_ is that, in just the same way that a
haystack takes fire from the firedamp that generates inside it, so
the cotton bales generated their own fire. As stated above, the first
signs of anything wrong were discovered on September 27, when some of
the passengers noticed steam issuing from the fore-hatchway. Captain
Theaker, however, assured them that it was only steam, which was a
usual thing on cotton-loaded ships. Presently, however, the smoke
became so dense that the passengers were really alarmed, and an officer
of the Madras Artillery, who was on board as a passenger, was not at
all surprised when Captain Theaker knocked at his door and informed
him that part of the cotton was on fire, and that he wished all the
gentlemen passengers to come on deck for consultation. The rest of the
story cannot be better told than in the words of the Indian officer.

“Being assembled,” he says, “the captain stated the case to be that
some part of the cargo appeared to have spontaneously ignited, and he
proposed removing the bales until they should discover the ignited
ones, and have them thrown overboard, as also those which appeared to
be in the same damaged condition. He said that there did not appear to
be immediate danger, and that he hoped we might be able to avert it
altogether. However, at eight o’clock the smoke became much thicker,
and began to roll through the after-hatchway--the draught having been
admitted forward in order to enable the men to work. Several bales were
removed, but the heat began to be intolerable below; the smoke rolled
out in suffocating volumes, and before nine o’clock we discovered that
part of the deck had caught fire; in short, the men were obliged to
knock off work. The captain then ordered the hatches to be battened
down, with a view to keep the fire from bursting out, and to hoist out
all the boats and stock them in case of necessity. This was done, and
about half-past one the three ladies, two sick passengers, an infant,
and a female servant were put into the longboat, with two hundred and
sixteen gallons of water, twenty gallons of brandy, and biscuits for a
month’s consumption, together with such pots of jam and preserved meats
as we could get at, and the day’s provision of fresh and salted meat.

“It was now about two o’clock; the hatches were then opened, and all
hands set to work to endeavour to extinguish the fire. The main hatch
being lifted, and a tarpaulin removed, there was a sail underneath
which was so hot that the men could hardly remove it; when they did,
the heat and smoke came up worse than ever, and it being now known from
inspection that the fire was underneath that part, orders were given to
hoist out the bales until the inflamed ones could be got at; but when
the men laid hold of the lashings to introduce a crane-hook, they were
found to have been burned through beneath, and came away in their hands.

“The case now appeared bad, indeed. However, we cut a bale open and
tried to remove it by handfuls, but the smoke and heat became so
overpowering that no man could stand over it, and water only seemed to
have the effect of increasing it, in the quantities we dared to use,
for had the captain ventured to pump water into the ship to extinguish
the fire, the bales would have swelled so much as to burst open the
deck, and have increased so much in weight as to sink the ship, so
that either way destruction would have been the issue. Under these
circumstances, perceiving the case to be utterly hopeless, the captain
called us together on the poop, and asked if anyone could propose any
expedient likely to avail in extinguishing the fire and saving the
ship, as in that case ‘we will stick by her while a hope remains.’
It was unanimously agreed that all had been done that could be done;
the men were all perfectly sober, and had been indefatigable in their
exertions, but one and all seemed coolly and positively of opinion that
the case was hopeless. The heat was increasing so much that it became
dangerous to leave the poop; the captain therefore requested us to get
into the boats, told off and embarked his men, and at three o’clock he
himself left the ship, the last man, just as the flames were bursting
through the quarter-deck. We then put off, the two boats towing the
longboat. The ship’s way had been previously stopped by backing her
yards. She was now in one blaze, and her masts began to fall in. The
sight was grand, though awful. Between eight and nine o’clock all her
masts had fallen, and she had burned to the water’s edge. Suddenly
there was a bright flash, followed by a dull, heavy explosion--her
powder had caught. For a few seconds her splinters and flaming
fragments were glittering in the air, and then all was darkness, and
the waters had closed over the _Earl of Eldon_!

[Illustration: “The ship was now in one blaze, and her masts began to
fall in”]

“Sad was the prospect now before us! There were in the longboat the
captain and twenty-five persons, including an infant four months old;
the size of the boat 23 feet long by 7-1/3 feet broad. In each
of the others ten individuals, including the officer in charge. One
of the boats had some bags of biscuit, but the chief provision was
in the longboat. We were, by rough calculation, above 1,000 miles
from Rodrigue, and 450 from Diego Garcias, the largest of the Chagos
Islands; but to get there we must have passed through the squally
latitudes we had just left, and been subject to variable winds and
heavy weather or calms, neither of which we were prepared to resist.
Seeing, then, that our stock was sufficient, we determined on trying
for Rodrigue. About eleven o’clock we accomplished rigging the boats
and were under sail. We carried a lantern lashed to our mast in the
longboat to prevent the other boats from losing us during the night;
and when day broke sent them sailing in all directions around to
look-out for ships. While the wind was light they could outsail us,
but when it became strong, and the sea very high, the difference of
speed was rather in our favour, as the weight and size of the longboat
enabled her to lay hold of the water better.

“On the third day of our boat navigation, the change of the moon
approaching, the weather began to wear a threatening aspect; but as we
were in the Trade, we did not apprehend foul or contrary winds. In the
course of the night it blew fresh, with rain. We were totally without
shelter, and the sea, dashing its spray over us, drenched us, and
spoiled a great part of our biscuit, though we happily did not discover
this until we were nearly out of the want of it.

“In the course of the next day the weather grew worse, and one of our
small boats, in which was Mr. Simpson, the second mate, with nine
others, was split by the sea. She came alongside, and we put the
carpenter into her, who made what repairs he could, but with little
hope of their answering. We then proceeded to fasten a spray-cloth
of canvas along our gunwale, having lashed a bamboo four feet up the
mast, and fixed it on the intersection of two stanchions at the same
height above the stern. The spray-cloth was firmly lashed along this,
so as to form a kind of half-pent roof, and had it not been for this
imperfect defence we must have been swamped; and we still shipped seas
to so great an extent that four men were obliged to be kept constantly
employed in bailing to keep her clear of water. Towards evening it blew
hard with a tremendous sea, and, not thinking the other damaged boat
safe, we took in her crew and abandoned her. We were now thirty-six
persons, stowed as thick as we could hold, and obliged to throw over
all superfluities. We had not more than eight inches of clear gunwale
out of water!

“This night I shall never forget. Our situation was indeed awful. Wet,
crushed, and miserable, the night passed away, and the day broke at
last. A tremendous sea came roaring down, and I held in my breath with
horror; it broke right over our stern, wetted the poor women to their
throats, and carried away the steersman’s hat. The captain then cried
out, in a tone calculated to inspire with confidence he afterwards told
me his heart did not re-echo:

“‘That’s nothing! It’s all right! Bail away, my boys!’

“He never expected us to live out that night; but, harassed as he was
in mind and body, he gallantly stood up, and never by word or deed
betrayed a feeling that might tend to make us despair. He stood on the
bench that livelong night, nor did he ever attempt to sleep for nearly
forty-eight hours.

“The morning broke and passed away, and, after the change of the moon,
the weather began to moderate, and we enjoyed a comparative degree of
comfort. We had three small meals of biscuit and some jam, etc., and
three half-pints of water per day, with brandy, if we liked it. The men
had one gill of spirits allowed them daily. We had plenty of cigars,
and whenever we could strike a light we had a smoke, and I never found
tobacco so great a luxury. The ladies were most wretched, yet they
never uttered a repining word.

“On the thirteenth evening we began to look out for Rodrigue. The
captain told us not to be too sanguine, as his chronometer was not
to be depended upon after its late rough treatment. The night fell,
and I went forward to sleep, and about twelve was awoke by the cry
that land was right ahead. I looked and saw a strong loom of land
through the mist. The captain had the boat brought to for an hour,
then made sail and ran towards it, and at half-past two it appeared
still more strongly. We then lay to until daylight. I attempted to
compose myself to sleep, but my feelings were too strong, and after
some useless attempts I sat down and smoked with a sensation I had long
been a stranger to. With the first light of dawn, Rodrigue appeared
right ahead, distant about six miles, and by eight o’clock we were all
safely landed. A fisherman who came off to show us the way through the
reefs received us in his house, and proceeded to feed us, and in the
meantime sent to tell the gentlemen of the island of our arrival. Two
of them came down immediately, and, having heard our story, said that
we had been miraculously preserved. They then gave our bundles to their
negroes, and took us to their houses, where everything they had was set
before us--clean linen and a plentiful dinner. They shook us down four
or five beds in an outhouse, and we enjoyed what we had not known for
the last fortnight--a sound sleep.”




ROMANCE OF TREASURE-TROVE

These are True Stories of Treasure, and they are as Strange as Fiction


Interwoven with the story of the sea there is a vast amount of romance
that wraps itself around hidden treasure. Ever since the days when
the pirates roamed the seas at their own sweet will and took toll of
shipping, these tales of treasure have been told. Dotted about here
and there are small islands where tradition has it that the pirates
hid their hoards of gold, silver, and precious jewels, intending
to come back for them at some future date; but, being caught and
hauled to justice, they died with their secret unrevealed, and the
treasure remained. Then someone was told--or perhaps imagined--that
such-and-such an island held it, and expeditions would be fitted out to
seek for the treasure, which, as time rolled on, grew in size and value
till it assumed fabulous proportions.

Of course, there _are_ hidden treasures secreted by the old pirates,
and there are, too, other hoards which it would be well worth while to
salvage, if the exact places were known. One can go back as far as the
reigns of Tiberius and Caligula and find mention of richly laden ships
which foundered with all their treasure; two galleys, for instance,
containing plate, gold, art treasures, and many jewels were lost in the
Lake Nemi, and nothing has ever been recovered, although the lake at
this spot is only little more than a hundred feet deep.

Coming to a much later date, the seventeenth century, there is an
authentic record of the recovery of a vast quantity of lost treasure
which was lost off Hispaniola, when a great Spanish galleon went
down very many years before. A ship’s carpenter named John Phipps
by some means became aware of this sunken treasure, and after some
time prevailed upon the Duke of Albemarle to fit out an expedition to
recover it. That expedition lasted a year, and folks at home began to
think that Phipps’s idea had been all moonshine, and that nothing had
come of it. Then one day the one-time carpenter turned up with treasure
worth £300,000. The story was romantic. Phipps had been searching about
the sea round Hispaniola, for he had no sure idea as to exact locality,
and perhaps he himself had a suspicion that his information had been
incorrect, for he could find no trace of the wealth he sought. Then one
day, when off Port de la Plata, looking over the side of the _Periaga_,
a man “spied,” says the account written by a New England historian,
“a feather growing, as he judged, out of a rock, whereupon one of
their Indians (whom they had brought for the purpose) dived in, and,
bringing up the feather, brought them withal a surprising story that he
perceived a number of great guns in the watery world where he had found
his feather, the report of which great guns exceedingly astonished
the whole company, and at once turned their despondencies for their
ill-success into assurances that they had now lit upon the true spot of
ground which they had been looking for; and they were further confirmed
in their assurances when, upon further diving, the Indian fetched up
a ‘Sow,’ as they styled it, or lump of silver, worth perhaps two or
three hundred pounds. This news was communicated to Phipps. ‘Then,’
said he, ‘thanks be to God, we are made’; and so away they went, all
hands to work.... Now, most happily, they fell upon that room in the
wreck where the bullion had been stored up, and they so prospered in
this ‘new fishing’ that in a little while they had, without the loss of
any man’s life, brought up _thirty-two tons of silver_! For it was now
come to measuring silver by tons. Thus did there once again come into
the light of the sun a treasure which had been half a hundred years
groaning under the water. Besides that incredible treasure in plate of
various forms thus fetched up from seven or eight fathoms under water,
there were vast riches of gold and pearls and jewels.”

Carpenter Phipps received a boisterous welcome in England when he
returned, and was knighted, and in due course became Governor of
Massachusetts.

Sometimes seekers after treasure go forth on their quest and are never
heard of again. In 1888, for instance, there left the Thames a little
steamer called the _Seabird_, which was destined, so it was said, for
coastal work in South America. Some three months later she was seen
off Descada, and from that time to this has not been heard of. Plainly
one of those mysteries of the sea referred to in another chapter; but
a mystery with something behind it. The accepted explanation is that
the owners had gone to seek treasure-trove buried by La Fitte, a French
pirate, in the early days of the nineteenth century, on one of the
Leeward Islands, either Marie Galanti or Descada, where the _Seabird_
was sighted. There might be little in that to connect the _Seabird_
with treasure-hunting, were it not for the fact that when she left the
Thames she had two divers aboard, who were ranked on the books as
steward and cook’s mate. Twelve months after the _Seabird_ disappeared
the mother of Rider, the “steward,” heard from her son, who sent her a
draft on a San Francisco bank for £100, and a letter saying that she
would hear from him again, and that he and the “cook’s mate,” Cadman,
had been “lucky.” He was as silent as the grave as to the fate of the
_Seabird_; and neither he nor any of the crew has been heard of since.

If the pirates were alive, and would only speak! If Blackbeard, that
picturesque scourge of the sea, could but reveal the place where he hid
his treasure, unseen even by his own men, what a rush there would be!
What a hoard might be found! Though not perhaps so large a one as the
tales that are told lead one to suppose. Poor old Captain Kidd’s hidden
wealth, for instance, started with £300--according to a man who sailed
with him--and after the captain was hanged it grew and grew and grew
until it was so large that not one, nor two, but dozens of places were
necessary to hold it! So do myths arise from the flimsiest of facts.

During the sixteenth century, when English ships scoured the seas to
wring wealth from Spain, many a Spanish ship was sunk, with all her
treasure, rather than it should fall into the hands of the “English
devils”; and when the Invincible Armada was put to flight, and,
storm-tossed, sought to reach home by sailing round the north coast of
Scotland and the west coast of Ireland, numbers of the vessels were
wrecked; and, as they contained huge treasures, fortunes might be
gained by properly organised search parties with the latest dredging
and diving apparatus.

Sometimes the romance of treasure-trove is over-clouded by tragedy;
and very often for nothing. The story is told of the foundering of the
American ship _Reliance_, Captain Harding and his crew of twelve men
barely escaping with their lives in the boats. Then a storm broke upon
them and separated the boats, and Hiram Manly, mate, and nine men found
themselves alone on the watery waste, being buffeted about, in danger
every minute of being swamped. They worked desperately to keep her
afloat, happy to be so far safe. Then one man was washed overboard by
a huge wave, another fell dead from his exertions, and the survivors,
day after day under pitiless sun, and night after night, held on
their way, economising the few provisions and little water they had,
becoming delirious as the anxiety told on them. Two more men were lost
one night--perhaps the madness seized them, and they flung themselves
overboard to end it all; perhaps a wave took them. But, whatever it
was, they disappeared without a sound. The survivors, after what seemed
an eternity of suffering, were at last flung upon a coral island, where
they found water, which, because of the uncontrolled thirst upon them,
killed two of them. Then fish was found; Hiram built a fire from drift
wood, lighted it by the crystal glass of a watch and the sun’s rays,
and then went to rouse his sleeping comrades. One man was dead.

Then the three castaways fell to eating their first good meal for many
a day, and afterwards set out to explore the island, Manly going in one
direction and the other two--Dillon and Harper--in another. They found
no sign of human beings, and presently Dillon and Manly met.

“Where’s Harper?” asked Manly.

“We’ll never see him again,” was the reply. “He’s dead.”

“Dead!” cried Manly. “Where did it happen, and how?”

“Sharks!” said Dillon. “He went to bathe, and--and they got him!”

“Did the body come ashore?” Manly asked, filled with horror, and
wondering when his own turn would come. “Let’s go and see!”

“No!” exclaimed Dillon. “It’s no use. We should never find him!”

But Manly persisted, and ran off in the direction from which Dillon had
come; and in half an hour came upon the body of Harper, with a knife
wound in his chest!

Instantly Manly’s thought flew to the agitation of Dillon when he
suggested seeking the body, and he knew that there had been treachery.
But why? Why should Dillon kill Harper, a man with nothing of value on
him? Not even his clothes were worth having, torn and ragged as they
were.

Manly raised himself from beside the dead man, turned, and, turning,
saw Dillon creeping towards him with an open knife in his hand.
Weaponless, Manly for a moment was filled with terror; then, catching
up a handful of sand, he flung it into the murderer’s eyes, blinding
him for the minute. Then, with a bound, Manly was upon him, clutching
him by the throat and wrestling for the knife. For a long time the two
men fought, biting, scratching, Dillon seeking to use his knife, Manly
trying to seize it; but at last, with a sharp twist, Manly sent the
murderer headlong to the ground, and the next instant was upon him,
and, joy! he had the knife.

Again they fought.... And Dillon met the fate of the man he had killed.

Panting from his exertions, Manly sat on the sand beside the dead man,
and his bleared eyes looked out to sea. He leapt to his feet, weariness
all gone, all thought of the tragedy forgotten; he waved his hands
frenziedly, yelled hysterically:

“A sail! A sail!”

Away out there was a ship.

Tearing his shirt from his back, Manly rushed to the water’s edge and
waved it long and feverishly, waved it till there came from the ship
the boom of a gun, that told him he had been seen. And then reaction
set in; he dropped senseless to the earth.

They found him thus; found Dillon, too, lying dead, and knew that some
tragedy had been enacted on the silent, lonely strand. When Manly came
round he blurted out his story, telling all.

“But why should he have killed Harper?” said the officer who had come
ashore with the boat party.

“It fails me,” said Manly.

The next moment the pair were startled as a seaman rushed towards them
with a cry upon his lips. He placed something in the officer’s hand.
They were two small golden coins.

They were coins such as Manly knew none of his comrades had possessed,
and there was a gleam in his eyes as he looked at the officer, neither
speaking a word.

Quietly they walked over to Dillon, searched him, and found three more
coins of the same kind.

“Reckon that was the motive, sir,” said Manly. “They found these while
they were exploring the island, and Dillon, thinking he had come across
treasure-trove, decided to kill us both off. Harper went first, and my
turn would have come very soon. Thank God I went in search of Harper!”

The officer agreed with Manly in his suggestion, and soon had his men
searching the beach; but not another coin was discovered. Instead, they
found the skeleton of a man--of some poor mariner, no doubt, who had
been cast ashore, his worldly possessions consisting of the five gold
coins that had roused the cupidity of Dillon, and had brought tragedy
upon them.

Presently Manly was taken on board the _Bristol_, and sailed away from
the coral island, the scene of a tragedy of treasure that never existed.

Everyone has heard of the treasure of Cocos Islands, off Panama,
to which many expeditions have been sent, though without success.
The treasure was hidden by a pirate named Beneto Bonito, and hidden
so securely that, although many expeditions--some of them recent
ones--have been sent out to find it, none has yet succeeded. But,
despite failure, year after year men go forth, secretly and well
equipped, seeking the hoards of riches that they fondly believe they
will some day find.

Perhaps they will.




ADVENTURES UNDER SEA

Strange Happenings to Submarines and Divers


Man, not content with fighting Father Neptune for mastery on the seas,
has gone farther than that, and has sought to show that he is not
afraid of any terrors beneath the seas: he would be master over all.
So men have become divers; so ships which can sink and rise again have
been made. And the diver and the submarine boat have added to the tale
of man’s conquest over Nature; their chapter is as full of vigour and
vim and adventure as any chapter in the tale.

We are not concerned with the make-up of the submarine, but with the
adventures of the brave and hardy sailors who man them, and the part
the boats play in great naval wars. The latter may be dismissed by
saying that the submarine’s work is to dash forth from the security of
harbours, and make sudden attacks upon the bigger craft of the enemy
in the hope of reducing their number. These were the tactics employed
by Germany in the great war of 1914-15. Aware that Britain’s navy was
vastly superior to her own, and that the only hope for success in
a great encounter would be when the British navy had been reduced,
Germany kept her Dreadnoughts and other big craft safe in her harbours,
contenting herself with sending out submarines to strike sudden blows
at the British patrolling vessels guarding the seas. Britain employed
her submarines for the purpose of luring the Germans from their
harbours (as the account, given in another chapter, of the Battle of
the Bight of Heligoland shows).

While British and German submarines were playing the risky game of
scouring the seas, French submarines were not idle; and in the latter
days of December, 1914, there was told the story of an adventure as
thrilling as ever fictionist wove for the delight of his readers.

The number of the submarine was not given; neither was the name of
the place where the incident took place. All that was told was that
on a certain Saturday morning the submarine left port, and at three
o’clock on the following morning had reached its objective--namely,
an enemy port. Two miles out the boat dived, and going at the rate of
about three miles an hour, made for the entrance of the port where
the Frenchmen hoped to find some battleships which would provide good
targets for their torpedoes. In due course they reached the entrance;
it was guarded by a boom, on the other side of which were several
battleships and destroyers.

Chagrined at the fact that the boom prevented them from firing at the
warships, the French sailors hung about awhile in the hope that the
enemy would perhaps issue forth. Meanwhile, the officer kept his eye
upon the mirror, which through the periscope showed him what was going
on, and which, incidentally, was a source of danger to the submarine;
for the eye of the submarine, sticking up about eighteen inches
above the surface, is easily seen in good light by the look-out of a
battleship; and in time of war a very sharp watch is kept for these
bobbing “eyes,” which betoken the presence of death-dealing boats. The
Frenchmen knew their danger, but they had come out to do something, and
refused to give up until they found it impossible to carry out their
mission.

So they stayed there--waiting for something to happen.

Then it happened.

The man at the mirror saw the battleships and destroyers moving, and,
giving the order to stand by, he waited until they passed within a
short distance of the submarine. They were anxious moments for every
man in her; they knew that at any minute some watcher on the enemy’s
decks might detect them and heavy shells come hurtling towards them,
perhaps to snap the periscope and turn the cigar-shaped craft into a
blind, helpless thing, when, if she kept below, she might run foul of
a ship’s bottom, and if she rose to the surface be at the mercy of the
waiting foes. Into such moments is crowded the spice of war, and these
gallant Frenchmen were quite prepared for it.

Luckily the foes passed by without noticing the lurking boat, and the
officer, anxious to get within a distance which would enable him to
take a more accurate aim, gave orders for the submarine to draw nearer
to them. Stealthily she approached, every man in her at tension and
at his post, ready for the time to come when they could launch their
death-tube.

Suddenly the boat seemed to shiver, then to strain as a dog strains at
the leash, then to shiver again; and there was a grinding noise. Then
the boat came to a standstill, though her engines were still going.

Instantly the men sprang into action, seeking the cause of this
unfortunate event. What had happened? they asked themselves. They
soon knew. Investigation showed them that steel cables had caught
the rudder of their boat and held her prisoner. Apparently this was
a method adopted by the enemy to trap them, for the cables drew them
upwards--ever upwards, till they were close to the surface, and at the
same time torpedoes came swishing through the water towards them.
Time after time these death-tubes sped at them, to miss them by merest
fractions of inches, it seemed. Simultaneously shells fell thick
and fast around them, sending the water up in great spouts. It was
literally an inferno, from which the Frenchmen realised that there was
little chance of escape. But what chance there was they took.

Boxed up in their little citadel they waited for death--waited for the
crash that would tell them a shell had found its target; waited for the
explosion which would end the suspense and bring the death that was so
slow in coming. This waiting in helplessness was far worse than taking
the chances of death in an encounter with the foe when they were free
to fight manfully against them.

But though they knew that death was so near to them, and though escape
seemed impossible, yet they bent their every effort in an attempt to
free the boat from the grip of the cables. They filled the water tanks
to their utmost capacity, and every man joined in pressing on the
steering wheel; the perspiration of energy and anxiety stood upon their
brows as they worked; the atmosphere was electric; they knew that the
next few minutes must decide their fate. How they worked! What prayers
for life they prayed, these men of death!

Suddenly the grim silence of the interior was broken by the cries of
the men--cries of joy. With her engines at full speed, the little
craft had fought and strained against the impeding leash, had fought
victoriously, for with a jerk the cables broke away and the submarine
bounded forward; the men at the wheel felt it answer to their pressure,
and down the boat went at full speed to a depth of sixteen metres.

They were saved!

Ecstatic in their joy at deliverance the Frenchmen embraced each other,
and for a moment forgot that above them rode the giant foes who,
unaware yet that they had escaped from the cables, were no doubt still
potting away at the spot, and still sending their torpedoes in that
direction. But very soon the sailors came back to the world of action,
and realised that they were still far from safe; they must hurry away
immediately if they would escape. There was little chance of doing any
damage to the foe, who were now on the _qui vive_; and only one course
was open to the French, and that was to get away. They dared not rise
to the surface, and they had to chance their luck and keep below. For
two hours--hours full of anxiety--they went along under water, well
aware that they were pursued by the foes, whose guns continually spoke
as the periscope was fired at. Knot after knot was eaten up, and still
the pursuers kept on after them; but at last they were shaken off, and
the men in the submarine knew that they were indeed safe.

But, cautious even now, they still remained beneath the surface till
the shades of evening fell; and then, and then only, did they dare to
rise, after having been submerged for nothing short of twelve hours!
Twelve hours as full of peril and thrill as any hours man ever spent!

They were not even then out of the wood; for shortly afterwards they
sighted another of the enemy’s ships, and again they had to dive and go
on their way beneath the water; but eventually they reached their port
safely, happy to have escaped, but chagrined at not having been able to
do any damage to the foe.

       *       *       *       *       *

Because we do not reap the benefits in daily life of the work of the
diver, few of us give him much thought; but for a hazardous, heroic
vocation, that of the man in the diving suit is probably without equal.

A thousand little things may happen, and each one of them be sufficient
to cut the slender thread of life for the diver; a man in the boat
above, for instance, may make a slight mistake, and--but there is no
need to moralise. Take the case of John Edward Pearce, a diver, who one
day in 1868 was hard at work in eighty feet of water, where the sunken
barque _Mindora_ lay off Dover. You couldn’t have seen the diver, of
course, but the cutter riding to the swell, and the man aboard her
holding the lifeline, would have told you plainly enough that below the
water was a man working amidst the remains of what was once a proud
little ship.

That man with the line was in touch with the man below; he held the
thread of life and death. Suddenly he received a signal from below, and
called out to another man, a diver:

“Slack away the wreck rope!”

“Aye, aye!” cried the man. And it was done. Then the two men waited,
expecting to see the diver’s helmet appear above the surface, and ready
to haul him aboard.

But there was no sign of Pearce; only something was happening down
there, for the man with the lifeline could tell by the pull.

“What’s he up to?” the diver asked, for he knew that it was unusual for
a diver to give the signal to come up and then to remain below.

“I don’t know,” was the reply, “but he seems to have gone back into the
hold again.”

“Reckon you’re wrong,” said the diver. “The line’s too deep for him to
be in the hold. Something’s gone wrong.”

They signalled down to Pearce again and again, but getting no answer
began to haul away at the hoisting tackle.

After an anxious time of straining at the ropes, they succeeded
in bringing the diver to the surface, hauled him into the cutter,
unscrewed his helmet and--thought him dead. Applying artificial
respiration immediately in the hope of his being alive, and forcing
brandy between the clenched teeth, they were fortunate enough to bring
Pearce round; and then the mystery was explained. The signal man had
made a mistake; he had called “Slack away!” when he should not have
done, with the result that the diver had slipped from the deck of the
sunken _Mindora_, to fall heavily on the floor of the ocean, cutting
his air supply and knocking himself unconscious. A few moments more
down there, with the air supply cut off, and he would inevitably have
died of suffocation.

This was by no means the only adventure that befel Pearce in the course
of his work in the depths, and although the following incident took
place in a river, and not at sea, it may be included in this record. He
was at work on the s.s. _London_, which had sunk in the Tay, and his
task was to attach the bales of cotton with which she was laden to the
large drag hooks which men in the vessel above were letting down to
him. What made the job a ticklish one was the fact that the water was
thick, and, as he himself said, “I had to do all my work by feeling!”

It is easy to imagine that Pearce found it very hard to manipulate the
drag hook which, after hauling a bale up, would descend to him again,
perhaps narrowly missing knocking him on the helmet, to the danger of
the glass front, which, breaking, would mean death. However, this did
not happen; instead, after he had fixed the four-pronged hook in a
bale it slipped, and in doing so, and before Pearce could jump aside,
caught him in the palm of his hand. The winches above, of course, were
hauling away at the chain which, going up, carried Pearce with it,
and soon he found himself in intense agony on the upper deck of the
_London_. By good luck he managed to wrench the hook out of his palm
just then, and the chain went upwards without a load, and the men above
believed that the bale had slipped as it was being hoisted. They little
knew what kind of a load it had had on it--a human load! Once free of
the hook Pearce, suffering severely, and feeling faint from loss of
blood, gave the signal to be hauled up, and in a short time was on the
surface. The men in the lighter quickly attended to him, and they found
that his palm had been torn completely open, and that the hook had
penetrated the third finger. That accident cost Pearce three months’
work, and for a long time he despaired of ever being able to use the
hand again.

Jim Hartley, diver, had an adventure of another kind under the sea.
A vessel had sunk off Honolulu, and Hartley, who was stranded at the
island after roving around a bit, undertook to explore the wreck if a
diving suit could be found. The island was ransacked and a suit found,
whereupon Hartley donned it, and rowed out in a small sloop with one
man to help him. The people on the shore had told him to beware of
sharks, and Hartley took with him a large knife--and it was a good job
he did! The first time he went down he couldn’t do much good, because
he landed amongst a lot of sharp rocks which threatened to cut his
airpipe; so he went up again, and ventured down on the next good tide.
This time he lighted on the sunken ship, which had a big hole in her
port bow. Thinking he would inspect the other side Hartley started to
go round, when there was a swirl of water, a sudden darkening, and a
jerk at the signal line and air pipe.

Instinctively Hartley knew that a big fish had fouled him, and thoughts
of sharks entered his mind. Looking up through the now cloudy water,
he saw a huge shark. Presence of mind is the great thing for a diver
to possess, and Hartley had it. Quick as lightning he dropped on to
his back and lay there, waiting for the shark to come, knowing that
in that position he had a better chance if it came to a fight than he
would have if he stood upright. His great fear was that the shark might
cut the air-hose, and that if the man in the sloop caught sight of the
shark he might begin to haul up. In that case, the diver knew that he
would be at the mercy of the great fish, which would swoop down upon
him as he was going up, and while he had no leverage for his feet.

Fortunately the man in the sloop did not see the shark, and Hartley,
lying there on his back, with his large knife held in his right hand,
waited--anxiously, watchfully--wondering what the shark would do. As
though playing with its prey the huge fish swam back a few yards, then
forward again, and this time it was lower down, and so nearer to the
supine man, who expected that every minute the shark would swoop down
upon him. But no; back it went again, only to swim forward once more
until it was three feet above him.

This was Hartley’s opportunity; he knew that if the shark hauled off
again, the next time it would come right on to him, and then----Hartley
took opportunity by the forelock; he rose from his back, and, with a
terrific lunge, thrust his knife at the shark. Instantly the water was
dyed red, the great tail lashed the water angrily and caught Hartley
a terrific thwack, which sent him headlong to the ground again. The
water was now so thick that it was impossible to see anything, and
life depended on being able to find the signal line. Groping about in
the dark, by great good luck the diver caught the rope, gave it a sharp
tug that told the man above to haul away, and up went Hartley, nervous
until he reached the surface lest the blow he had given the shark had
not been sufficient to give it its quietus. However, all was well, and
in due course the diver was able to go down again and complete his work.

A more terrifying fight with a shark was that which a diver once had
in a diving bell. In this case the diver sat on a small seat suspended
in the bell, which slowly descended into the water. To the horror of
the diver, when the bell rested on the bottom forty feet down, he
discovered that he had a companion--a shark! The great fish darted
hither and thither about the bell, and a whisk of its tail knocked the
diver off his seat. Quick as lightning the man scrambled to his place
again and sat there, a hopeless prisoner, with the tiger of the seas
almost brushing against him as it swooped around the bell, seeking to
find a way out of the prison. It grew angrier and angrier every moment,
and the diver knew that it would soon turn upon him unless he could
manage to kill it at once. Round and round the bell went the maddened
fish; silent, anxious, the diver waited for his chance; and as the
shark drew near to him, he made a sudden grab at its dorsal fin with
one hand, and with the other drove a sharp tool into the gleaming side.

It was but the beginning of things. The blow seemed to make the shark
more angry than ever; and the blood-red water was lashed to a fury as
the fish turned and swept down upon the man, seeking to catch him in
its capacious maw. How he held on to his seat the diver never knew,
but he did so; and every time the shark dashed near him he stabbed at
it viciously with the tool. It was, indeed, a duel to the death, this
fight between the stabbing man and the flashing fish. The diver, who
had given the signal to be hoisted up, prayed that the men above would
not take long, for he was becoming weary of the struggle. His arms were
aching, his head was swimming, and, despite all his pluck, there was
the haunting dread that the giant fish might be victorious. Luckily
for the man the shark was also weakened, though even in its death
agonies it made attacks upon the diver, who was presently gladdened
at the sight of daylight and the ship. Quickly the crew had the bell
aboard, and before their eyes was a strange sight: a dying shark, in
death-travail, lashing its tail on the deck, and a man, faint, weary,
nauseated, who dropped beside the victim.

Here is another picture of a man’s adventure among sharks. A cattle
ship had been wrecked. A diver went below to overhaul it, and found
that a school of sharks had got there before him, attracted by the
smell of the feast they nosed about after. Laying a charge and blowing
off the hatches, the diver saw the carcasses of the cattle rise from
the hold, to be attacked immediately by the hungry sharks which swarmed
about him. There were two alternatives open to him: either to remain
below and risk having his airpipe severed, or to go up and risk being
attacked as he went. He chose the latter as being the lesser of two
evils. So the signal was given; the men above began to haul him up. As
he went he had to pass through the school of voracious fish, some of
which turned their attention away from the dead cattle to the living
man. Swinging from this side to that as he was attacked, the diver
managed to ward off the tigers of the deep, and, by a very miracle,
reached the surface with no more hurt than an injured hand.

[Illustration: “Swinging from this side to that as he was attacked, the
diver managed to ward off the tigers of the deep”]




CHASING PIRATES IN THE CHINA SEA

Tales of Modern Pirate Hunting


It must not be supposed that all pirates lived in the far distant past,
or that there are no pirates nowadays. It is true that the picturesque
gentlemen whose acquaintance we have made so far have disappeared
from the high seas, but fellow rogues of theirs still ply their trade
far away in the East. The coasts of China have always been infested
by pirates; of course, they are not so numerous or so open in their
methods to-day as they were, say, forty or fifty years ago, for China
has awakened from her lethargy of ages, and her ancient civilisation
is being supplanted by a newer one which will not tolerate pirates. As
a matter of fact, the old Chinese civilisation did not tolerate them;
but the officials were so slack, and so cowardly, that the freebooters
laughed at them and their efforts to suppress piracy. It was for this
reason that Great Britain had gunboats in the Far Eastern waters
whose mission it was to destroy the pirates--rout them out of their
strongholds, and sink or capture their junks.

The Gulf of Tonquin, the island of Hainan, and the length of coast
from that point to Macao, were--and are--what might be termed the
hunting-ground of the Chinese pirates. Macao, as a glance at the map
will show, is on the opposite side of the Canton River to Hong-Kong,
the British naval base. The trading was done chiefly from Hong-Kong
to the northward, the country below Macao being practically unknown
to Europeans. The British steamer _Takon_ was held up on April 27th,
1914, by pirates off Kian, to the north of Macao. It was late at night,
and the captain was on his bridge. The pirates swarmed along the deck,
killing as they went, and instantly all was confusion. There were two
hundred and thirty people on board, including passengers and crew, and
it was a bold attempt the pirates made. The officers and crew opposed
them nobly, and tried to force them back; but nothing could stop them.
Across the deck they went towards the bridge where the captain stood,
revolver in hand, blazing away at them as fast as he could. Here so
good a stand was made, that the pirates found they would be unable
to win, and, while some kept the captain and his few men engaged,
others rushed below and set fire to the ship. Very soon the vessel was
a blazing mass, with women and children screaming, pirates jumping
overboard to escape capture, the crew launching boats and trying to get
the women and children off.

Naturally, after the turmoil of the fight, there was much confusion,
for people had lost their heads, and though incoming steamers rescued
over a hundred and fifty from the ship, which was burnt to the water’s
edge, when the toll was taken next morning it was found that a hundred
and eighty were missing, including the chief officer, Evans, who had
been last seen clinging to a floating oar. Of the rescued, some showed
signs of the encounter with the pirates, several of whom had been
killed and a number of others wounded.

To go farther back, in 1865, a large junk, with a fine cargo of opium,
left the port bound for Swatow in the north. Now, as the junk was well
armed and well manned, having no fewer than a dozen 12- to 18-pounder
guns and some forty-five men on board, it seemed unlikely that she
would be molested by the pirates. For this reason a number of people
sailed in her, thinking themselves safe. The better not to be noticed
by any prowling piratical craft, the junk slipped out of harbour at
evening, but, the wind falling, she had to anchor about nine o’clock a
few miles from the outer roads of Hong-Kong, the crew, despite their
strength, and the passengers, despite the crew, feeling anything but at
ease in their minds; at any moment they knew they might be swooped down
upon by a number of pirate junks, and then--well, here is the “then.”

At midnight, while the passengers were tossing about uneasily, a dark
shape loomed out of the night, there was a grating of ship’s side
against ship’s side, the patter of running feet on deck, and before
the crew or the passengers could gather themselves together--before
they even knew what was afoot--they were clapped under the hatches,
prisoners to pirates. Eighty-three people had been captured by,
perhaps, half that number!

Once having secured their prisoners, the pirates set the junk’s sails,
and under cover of the darkness took her back towards Hong-Kong,
keeping well away from the coast until they were on the south side of
the island. Here, at daybreak, they ordered the prisoners to come up on
deck one by one.

They came; and as each one showed head above the hatch, he or she--for
there were women and children aboard--was seized by the pirates, bound
hand and foot, and pitched headlong into the sea; these ruffians didn’t
trouble about planks! A man stood too much chance of being saved if he
walked off a plank, and very little if flung overboard with his feet
and hands tied.

Eighty-two of the batch were treated in this way, the sole exception
being a child of twelve years of age, whom they decided to keep and
turn into ship’s boy. Then away went the pirates to a snug little
harbour near Macao, where they shared their spoil--no little lot,
either, for the ship had been well laden. Then the captured junk was
burnt, and the pirates broke up into little companies and went anywhere
they felt inclined, to spend their ill-gotten gains, and then to return
to their trade.

Seven of the rogues, taking the little boy with them, boarded a steamer
bound for Hong-Kong. The pirates, used to such ventures, maintained
a fine pose, but the poor little laddie, scared out of his wits and
wondering what was likely to happen to him, attracted the attention of
the captain.

“What’s the matter?” asked the captain. And, with nervous glances about
him, lest a pirate should catch him confiding to the kind-hearted man,
the boy told him the story of the tragic night on the junk. Telling him
to say nothing to anyone else, the captain, when the steamer arrived
at Hong-Kong, stopped in the middle of the river, and hailed the
police-boat. This arriving, the whole batch of passengers, numbering
over a hundred, was lined up, and the boy made to pick out the seven
pirates, who were taken prisoners and sent to the lock-up.

The people of Hong-Kong were in a fine stew over the matter already,
for the previous evening one of the men who had been flung overboard
had, by a miracle, succeeded in getting his hands and feet free,
and, being a good swimmer, made his way to a small island near at
hand, whence he took a fishing-boat to Hong-Kong and told his story.
But though the authorities made inquiries none of the pirates were
captured, except the seven mentioned, who were duly tried and hanged.

The terror which the pirates struck into the inhabitants of the small
coast towns--and large ones, too--is clearly shown in the following
story, told by Captain St. John, R.N., who commanded one of the
gunboats detailed to tackle the rovers. He was cruising about the coast
in 1865, shortly after the incident above-mentioned, when a sampan
hailed him, and the fisherman in it cried excitedly:

“Have got pilong!” (pirate).

“Where?” he was asked.

“Can makee see,” was the answer. And he pointed to a couple of junks
which were making out to sea. That was enough for St. John. After them
he went, and the junks had no chance against the steam gunboat, which
rapidly overhauled them. Before the British vessel could get alongside,
however, a number of other junks swung out from the shore, and there
began a miniature battle--much noise, much smoke, though probably not
much damage on the part of the official junks, anyhow; for it was
left to Captain St. John to effect the capture of the pirate junks.
Anchoring off shore with his prisoners, the captain interviewed the
mandarin who came aboard. In true Oriental fashion the latter thanked
the Britisher for what he had done, considering it a vast achievement
to have captured a couple of junks and twenty-one men.

“These two junks,” he said, “have given me a great deal of trouble
for four days; they have blockaded the place; neither a fishing nor a
trading junk has been able to get out!”

Naturally, Captain St. John was surprised that two miserable junks,
with twenty-one men and a two-pounder gun, could have effectively shut
up a port in such a way. The mandarin excused himself and his people by
saying that they were very, very scared of pirates, and on being asked
if he hadn’t any soldiers, replied that he had eight hundred ashore.
Eight hundred soldiers, and a hundred or so junks knocking about the
harbour, and yet the two pirate craft could hold up a whole port’s
trade for over half a week! And the port had 4,000 inhabitants!

“Well,” said the captain to the mandarin, “if I were a Chinaman,
I think I would turn pirate at once. They must lead very jolly,
independent lives!”

“Yes, they do,” answered the mandarin, not appreciating the captain’s
humour. “The only things they fear are English gunboats.”

Pickshui, one of the strongholds of the pirates, had already been
burned down twice by Captain St. John; but, having been rebuilt, it was
determined that once and for all it should be razed to the ground. A
large expedition, consisting of fifty-three war-junks, sixteen hundred
Chinese troops, four English gunboats and a steamer was detailed to do
this, Captain St. John being in command, though the part of his own
little force was rather to encourage the Chinese than anything else.
The armada arrived off Pickshui, which from its situation was as good
a place for the pirates to lurk in as could be found. The way in was
through a channel between two islands, and vessels passing through
were at the mercy of the pirate junks inside. The mandarin in charge
of the Chinese section of the expedition knew this, and was pathetic
in his refusal to venture in, or allow his own ships to do so, unless
an English gunboat led the way. So in went the English, followed by
the Chinese, who, indicative of their dread of the pirates, directed a
heavy fire upon the village before they dared land a single man. Then,
when they had plucked up sufficient courage, the celestial warriors
leaped ashore, and a great mass of them rushed at the village,
from which the inhabitants fled in terror. Then looting began; and
afterwards the village was burned to the ground--for the third time.

But the work was not done; large numbers of pirates were hidden amongst
the trees, and kept up a continual fire upon the Chinese troops who
were told to clear them out of the woods. Eight hundred of the soldiers
were detailed for this task, and for a time they kept up a brisk,
though useless, because ill-directed, fire upon the pirates. Then they
refused to advance a single inch; it was only courting death, they said.

“My troops cannot take the place!” cried the mandarin to Captain St.
John, in an awful agony of spirit.

“Go in at them,” exclaimed the captain, “and they’ll run as fast as
their legs can carry them!”

A blank refusal was the only answer, and the captain realised that if
the expedition was to be a success, he would have to make it so. He
therefore promised to help, and, taking one sailor and one marine,
he landed and went to where the Imperial cowards were waiting. The
mandarin, fear written all over his face, took his stand with his men,
but the captain and his two companions went forward alone, getting
close up to where the pirates were concealed.

These three intrepid men opened fire upon the lurkers, and what all the
desultory firing of the Imperial troops had failed to do, they did;
they alone sent the pirates fleeing for their lives!

And that little affair upset the ruffians at Pickshui!

How scared the pirates were of a handful of Englishmen is shown by an
encounter which Captain St. John had with them in another little bay,
where the gunboat could not enter, the entrance being too narrow and
the water too shallow. As the pirate junks would be lined up inside,
ready to meet with a heavy fire any attacking boats, some other way had
to be devised, and the captain hit on a method which, as it turned out,
was successful. He landed at a spot some distance from the entrance,
taking seven men with him, and arranging for another boat to put out
when the gunboat reached the entrance of the channel.

The way to the pirates’ rendezvous lay through a quarter of a mile of
scrubby bush and long grass, and up the side of a hill. Cautiously this
ground was covered and the summit of the hill reached. Down in the bay
lay three large junks, broadside on to the entrance, ready to give a
good fight to any who tried to get in. Their men were at the guns,
twenty-six in all--a fair armament, and one likely to cause havoc in
any boats which dare attempt to enter. As for men, there were about ten
to one against the English; but the job had to be done.

Grounded on the shore was a small sampan, hidden from the junks by some
trees; and Captain St. John resolved that he would have this sampan.
Just as he had made up his mind to obtain it, the gunboat appeared
at the entrance and the pirates began to get to business. But before
they had a chance to fire, St. John and three of his men had scrambled
into the sampan, pushed off, and took them in the rear. They were seen
immediately, before ever they got near enough to board, and the three
other men, who were coming along the shore, were also seen.

Never were mortals so scared as were those poor pirates! Seven
men--white men, Englishmen! So vast an army had come out against them!
It was more than piratic endurance and pluck could stand; and over the
side went the raiders, some being fortunate enough to drop into the
boats alongside, others tumbling headlong into the water. Such a scene
you never saw! Such yells of fear you never heard!

And four of those seven men were in a sampan that simply refused to
be steered, but spun round and round and round, so that they could
neither get aboard nor grab any of the pirates. Then, to add to the
consternation of the ruffians, another boat, with more Englishmen,
appeared in the entrance; and there were no men at the guns to fire the
grapeshot which they had hoped would blow the sailors from the sea!

And instead of doing that the pirates splashed and scrambled about in
frantic efforts to reach shore, all of them managing to do so except
about half a dozen who were taken prisoners. Then the Englishmen had a
bonfire, the junks forming the fuel for it.

Truly, pirate-hunting in the Far East is a fine sport!




A VOYAGE OF DANGER

The Mutiny on the _Flowery Land_


It is significant to note that, in the merchant service, most of the
mutinies on the record of shame have as their ringleaders--and rank and
file--foreign sailors aboard British ships; and the mutiny on board the
_Flowery Land_ was no exception.

The _Flowery Land_, laden with wines, and a mixed cargo besides, left
the Port of London on July 28, 1863, bound for Singapore. Crew and
officers numbered twenty, the captain bearing the honest, if common,
name of John Smith; with him, as a passenger, sailed his brother George.

They had not been at sea long before Captain Smith found that he
had a very tough set of men to deal with. They were a cosmopolitan
crowd--Spaniards, Turks, Greeks, Norwegians, Chinamen, and a sprinkling
of Englishmen, these latter being Karswell, the first mate, and William
Taffir, the second mate. The seamen, being far from sweet-tempered,
and giving evidence every now and then of insubordination, had to be
taken pretty strongly in hand, which took the form of rope’s-ending
some of them occasionally to quell their unruly spirits. Such
treatment, however, only seemed to arouse the antipathy of the crew,
who secretly plotted against the captain and his officers; and when one
day George Carlos, the Greek, after a particularly flagrant piece of
insubordination, was hauled on deck and strapped to the bulwark for a
while, it made them more determined than ever to get their own back.
Not that this treatment of Carlos was anything out of the way; it was a
very frequent form of punishment for the law-breaker at sea. And, as a
matter of fact, Carlos did not get all he deserved, for Captain Smith
took pity on him, and had him released sooner than he need have done,
and went so far as to physic him and let him go to his bunk for a rest.

But what harsh treatment did not effect, kind was unable to, and Carlos
nursed revenge in his heart. With his cosmopolitan comrades he worked
up a mutiny which broke out on September 10, at about three o’clock in
the morning.

The captain was below at the time, and Karswell was on deck, it being
his watch; and the conspirators had timed things so that the two
could not help each other. Suddenly the storm burst; one party made a
rush for Karswell, who, taken unawares, was felled to the deck with
handspikes.

“Mercy!” he cried in his agony; but the ruffians were out for blood,
and, not heeding his cries, struck him again and again, battering in
his head and smashing his face. Then, having taken so much of revenge,
they picked the still screaming man up from the deck, carried him to
the side, and heaved him into the sea.

Meanwhile, down in the cabin, the captain had heard the noise, and,
jumping up, had rushed half-way up the companion-way. He got no
farther; several men met him, including Francisco Blanco and Brasilio
de los Santos, and, armed with handspikes and daggers, they fell upon
him with fury. Clinging to the ladder, seeking to work his way up, the
captain was hacked, stabbed, and stabbed again, and then chased below
and beaten till his body was racked with pain.

Taffir, the second mate, also roused by the hubbub, tried to get on to
the deck, but was stopped by a struggling crowd on the companion, who
were treating another man as they had treated the captain. A handspike
sent him spinning down again; but once more he ran up, and caught hold
this time of the man, and tried to pull him out of danger. He did not
know then what had happened to Smith, and he called out lustily on the
captain for help. There was no answer; only another blow that sent him
hurtling below.

Picking himself up, he ran to the captain’s cabin, only to find it
empty. From there he hurried to the main cabin, and here the flickering
light of the untrimmed lamp showed him the captain lying in a pool of
blood. The mutineers had finished him off there. He was dead. Half
maddened by the horror of it all, Taffir rushed to the berth of the
captain’s brother. That also was empty. George Smith had been beaten
on the head with handspikes till the life was out of him, and then had
been pitched overboard. Realising now that there was little mercy being
shown to whoever fell into the mutineers’ hands, Taffir sought safety
in his own cabin, where he locked himself in, and waited in anguish for
about three-quarters of an hour, refusing to answer the calls of the
seamen as they pounded at his door.

In the meantime the mutineers were having a clean sweep up; they
knocked the carpenter, Michael Anderson, on the head, and ransacked
the ship to see what they could find. Then they bethought themselves
of Taffir again. Although he did not know it, Taffir was destined to
be saved, for the sole reason that, now that they had disposed of the
other officers, he was the only man who knew anything about navigation;
and, even when you’ve got a ship in your hands, it’s not much use
unless you can do something with it.

So down they went to Taffir’s cabin, and on his refusing to open the
door to them, they smashed it in and marched into the cabin, where, as
bloodstained, ruffianly looking a crew as man ever saw, they stood in a
half-circle round his berth.

“Come out!” cried John Lyons, a Spaniard. “Come out!”

Thinking that acquiescence was the safest thing, Taffir got out and
stood before them.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, anxiously waiting for the answer,
and half fearing what it might be. He had little reason to expect mercy
from men who had so far shown none.

“No,” said Lyons. “But we’ve killed the skipper and the mate, and the
captain’s brother has got away somewhere. We want you to work the ship
to somewhere. Will you do it?”

For a moment or so Taffir thought. To say “Yes” was to lend himself to
the crime; to say “No” was to ask for death. And, after all, refusing
would do nothing for the men who had been killed, whereas to agree
might lead to the bringing of the ruffians to justice.

“All right,” he said presently, and the party went on deck again.

Going to the main cabin, Taffir saw that Captain Smith’s body had a
rope round it, and that Watto, the Turk, was going to haul it up on
deck to heave it overboard.

“Hold! Let me sew it up in canvas,” cried Taffir, with all the sailor’s
reverence for the dead; and the mutineers, knowing that, after all,
they must humour the mate, consented. Taffir performed his sad office,
and Captain Smith had a decent burial at sea, minus the service.

It was five o’clock before Taffir went up on deck, and as he did so he
passed Santos, who flourished a big knife at him, as though he would
much like to do with Taffir as he had done with the captain.

Having seen that the ship was going all right, Taffir went back to the
cabin, and remained there till about eight o’clock, when all the hands
except the man at the wheel came down to interview him.

“Come into the captain’s cabin,” said Lyon sternly.

“What for?” Taffir asked, though he had already guessed what was afoot.

“We want to see what money and clothes he’d got,” was the reply; and
although he did not say so, Lyons’s idea was that, if they got Taffir
there, and made him share with them, they could say that he was a party
to the whole affair.

Needs must when the devil drives; and so Taffir went into the cabin,
standing by while Santos, Blanco, Carlos, Watto, and Lopez ransacked
it for everything of value. They broke open boxes and chests, wrenched
open the desks, and, gathering all the money they could find, took it
into the main cabin, where they laid it upon the table for division.

“Dole it out in seventeen parts,” said Lyons to Taffir.

“No!” screamed the Turk. “Make it eight!”

“Shut up!” said Lyons threateningly, and Taffir thought that the
thieves were going to quarrel amongst themselves. However, the matter
was smoothed over, and Lyons had his own way.

Into seventeen parts the money was divided.

“Here’s yours,” said Lyons to the mate.

“I won’t touch a cent of it,” said Taffir, seeing what the idea was.

“You’ll do as I tell you,” cried Lyons, “or----”

He let the rest go by default, and Taffir knew what he meant. There
was nothing for it, and, taking the share, the mate carried it to one
of the writing-desks and put it in there, though he never saw it again.
Perhaps the greedy Turk had it.

Next the mutineers allotted out the captain’s clothes, though they did
not give Taffir a share of them. When they came to Smith’s watch they
decided that, as they couldn’t very well divide that, they would keep
it till they landed, when they might be able to sell it. The timepiece
was therefore put into the writing-desk with Taffir’s money; but that
also disappeared, and later was a source of trouble.

Having settled up these little matters fairly amicably, the question
was to get to land, and Taffir was made to navigate the vessel,
while the crew, when it was not necessary for them to work, regaled
themselves with champagne and overhauled the cargo for valuables.

For some days everything went on smoothly, and then a ship was sighted.
She proved to be the _Friends_, of Liverpool, and Taffir steered the
_Flowery Land_ towards her. Acting on instructions from Carlos, who was
in charge of the ship, and had ordered her to be set for Buenos Ayres,
under threat of death Taffir told the _Friends’_ captain that she was
the _Louiza_, bound for Valparaiso.

Then the two ships parted company; and barely had the _Friends_ got
away when the crew rushed towards Taffir, and, with daggers drawn,
stood and jabbered at him like so many monkeys. Although he couldn’t
understand what they were saying, there was no mistaking their
attitude. Evidently they were angry with him for something, and it
would have gone ill with Taffir had not Lyons come along. Quieting the
angry crew, he abstracted from them the fact that they thought Taffir
had just told the _Friends_ the whole story of the mutiny. Lyons soon
put them right on that little matter, and they went back to their
champagne, appeased.

The incident showed Taffir how slender was the thread on which his life
hung, and he knew that he would have to be careful, for if these men
suspected that he was playing them false there was little doubt that
they would kill him out of hand, and risk what happened afterwards.
They were like so many madmen, and one day Taffir saw the Turk go up
to the Chinese steward and gash his arm open with a large knife for no
apparent reason whatever. It turned out that they were forcing him to
collect all the ship’s papers, which they threw overboard. Then they
had a row about the captain’s watch, which was missing, and accused
Taffir of having stolen it. It never was found, and was a sore point
all through.

On October 2 land was sighted, and now that they had no further use
for him, the mutineers sent Taffir to Coventry. No one spoke to him or
took any notice of him; they even refused to let him work the ship,
which they turned about. They sent Taffir to his cabin then, where he
remained all day. At night Blanco went down and ordered him up on deck,
where he found that they were clewing up the sails and getting the
boats out.

“What are you going to do?” he asked Lyons.

No answer; only surly looks.

“What’s going to be done with the ship?” he asked another of the
Spaniards present, Marsolino. “And what about me? Are you going to kill
me?” For Taffir was convinced that momentous things were about to take
place.

“We’re going to scuttle the ship,” said Marsolino. “And as for you”--he
leered--“as for you, I’m not going to kill you--but I rather think
Blanco is,” he added grimly.

Naturally, Taffir was now all anxiety. Here he was, with a ship full of
mutineers whose hands were already stained with innocent blood, and who
were evidently preparing to leave the ship he had navigated for them.
What a prospect was before him! He could almost feel the dagger eating
its way into his body as the bloodthirsty Blanco looked across at him
every now and again.

Three-quarters of an hour of such anxiety passed, and then Taffir was
flung into one of the boats, which contained the cook, the steward,
Frank Powell, Watto, and the ship’s boy, named Early. Evidently he was
not going to be murdered after all. In another boat, riding at the
stern, were several other men, while the rest were still on board the
_Flowery Land_.

Presently the boat in which Taffir had been thrown was pulled away from
the ship, but had only gone about a hundred yards when those on the
_Flowery Land_ called her back. Taffir’s heart sank. Was he, after all,
going to be hauled back to death? He took heart again the next instant,
for the men in the boat, with the exception of Watto, did not want to
go back, and refused to pull towards the ship. Powell, who steered,
refused to turn her head round, and Taffir thanked him in the silence
of his own heart. Suddenly Watto, seizing an oar, threatened to knock
Powell’s brains out if he didn’t do as he was told; and the boat’s head
swung round, and she sped towards the ship. They were anxious moments
for poor Taffir, whose mind was not set at rest when Lyons, on the
_Flowery Land_, ordered the lot of them to get back on deck.

Why they were called back Taffir did not know, and was not told;
probably it was because the others did not want one boat to start
before the rest. Anyhow, for a long time Taffir was kept on deck; and
though he could see but little in the darkness, he heard the noise
made as the scoundrels loaded the boats, not forgetting the champagne,
bottles of which they lowered into the craft riding at the sides. The
Chinese steward fell into the water while trying to get aboard from
the boat, and while struggling for life was pelted with bottles of
champagne till he sank. Taffir saw his own fate there.

Soon, however, as though to prolong his agony, they threw him into a
boat, this time the one in which Lyons and Blanco were to sail. The
fact that it was Blanco’s boat was anything but pleasing to Taffir,
who remembered what Marsolino had told him, and trembled for his life.
Durrano and Lopez, other Spaniards, also got into this boat, which was
presently pushed off; and almost immediately afterwards the _Flowery
Land_, which had been scuttled, and had begun to settle some time
before, gave a final plunge and dived beneath the surface. Through the
darkness Taffir could see the Chinese boy and the cook clinging to the
top; they had been left to their fate, and not a hand was held out to
save them.

Lyons’s boat towed the other towards land, which was reached at four
o’clock in the afternoon of October 9. Taffir was told that, if he
valued his life, he was to say that the vessel was an American ship
from Peru, bound for Bordeaux, and that she had foundered a hundred
miles from land, that the captain had got into one boat, and had not
been seen since, and that the two boats which had come ashore had been
at sea for five days and nights.

In his heart Taffir had made up his mind to tell of the tragedy as soon
as an opportunity presented itself. That night the party slept at a
farmhouse, and the next day the farmer drove them to Rocha. Watching
his time, Taffir managed to find out that at a place called Camp,
twenty miles away, was a man named Ramoz, who could speak English;
and one night he slipped out of Rocha and made his way to Camp. He
located Ramoz, to whom he told his tale, and later he was taken to the
authorities, where once more he recited the events that had taken place
on the _Flowery Land_, with the result that eight of the mutineers were
captured, and in due course put on their trial at the Central Criminal
Court, London. Lyons, Durrano, Santos, Watto, Blanco, Marsolino, and
Lopez were found guilty of murder, Carlos being acquitted.

Altogether, the mutiny of the _Flowery Land_ is a lurid story of the
sea.




THE GUARDIANS OF THE COAST

Stories of Coastguards and Lighthousemen


Although the coastguard and lighthouseman live their lives on land,
they are inalienably a part of the sea and its story. Day by day, night
by night, they are on guard along the coasts, and never know what may
happen; but, whatever it is, they are ready.

And they are always modest of their achievements, as the letters I
have received from some of them testify. It’s the hardest thing in the
world to get them to talk about themselves; but, by dint of judicious
questioning, I managed to get some of them to give me the plain stories
of what really did happen.

The first concerns Lighthouseman William Hunter, of Flamborough Head,
who, standing outside the lighthouse on a fine morning, talking with
his superior officer, saw a gallant little band of boys of the Lads’
Brigade coming along. Presently there was a sharp command, and the
lookers-on saw the boys disperse, and in a few minutes the laddies were
scattered here, there, and everywhere, enjoying themselves to the full.

But suddenly there was the blare of bugles, the cries of boys, the
hoarse shouts of men, and Hunter turned quickly to his officer and said:

“There’s something wrong!”

“Go and have a look,” was the reply; and off went the
lighthouse-keeper. Following the sounds, he found himself down on the
beach, just below the lighthouse. What a sight met his eyes! Before
him was a group of boys staring up the cliff, fear writ large upon
their faces as they saw one of their comrades clinging frenziedly to a
shrub, able neither to go up nor to come down, while down on the beach,
amongst the boulders, lay the huddled form of another boy.

The two boys had been engaged in a wild scramble up the cliff, seeing
which could reach the top first. Half-way up the foremost boy had
displaced a large stone, which hurtled down, hit his comrade, and sent
him tumbling down to the beach, where he now lay with a broken arm.

As soon as the boy above realised what had happened, fear took
possession of him; his wits left him, and he, finding that he had
reached a position where it was impossible to move with safety either
way, he sent up haunting screams for help! As though the call had been
necessary! The boys on the beach had seen the accident, and instantly
the bugles had blared out their calls for help. And so Hunter had
arrived on the scene.

Like lightning he dashed across an intervening gut of water, slipping
over seaweed as he went, and stumbling over rocks till he reached the
foot of the cliff. Then, hand over hand, gingerly but quickly, Hunter
made his way up the cliff, seizing anything that seemed likely to
afford a handhold to help him up; now making a fierce grab for a shrub
as the earth gave way beneath him. And at last, after a feverish few
minutes, during which the watchers down below held their breath and the
folk above sent for further help, he came almost within reach of the
boy.

“Hold on, sonny!” he cried. “I’m coming!”

“Come quickly!” cried the boy, shaking with fear. “I can’t hold out
much longer!”

Spurred on by the evident terror of the lad, Hunter covered the last
few feet quickly, and came alongside him just in the nick of time, for
the youth was almost exhausted. His hands were bruised and cut from
clutching at stones, and the lighthouseman’s were little better.

“You’re all right now, sonny,” he said. “We’ll soon have you down.”

But, though he said the comforting words, there was a little thought
at the back of his mind that it might be some time before they reached
safety, for he, too, found that the position was none too safe a one;
that while he himself might have been able to get away alone, he could
not hope to carry the unfortunate boy without further help. There was
no use in looking down; help could not come that way. But it might come
from above, and, glancing up, his heart gave a great bound as he saw
that the coastguards, under Chief Officer Young, had arrived on the
scene, bringing with them the one thing that was necessary--a rope! It
was a very lifeline to Hunter.

Down the rope fell; and then the lighthouseman saw that, owing to the
projecting edge of the cliff, it hung more than an arm’s length away
from him. He would have to move carefully away in order to reach it.
The boy seemed to realise this, and before Hunter moved an inch he
called out in fear:

“Don’t leave me, sir. I can’t hold on!”

“Now, see here, laddie,” was the reply. “You’re all right. I won’t let
go of you. But I’ve got to get that rope. Keep still.” And, holding on
to the boy with one hand, he moved gingerly away, digging his heels
deep in the cliffside as he did so to get a purchase. Once, twice, nay,
thrice he tried to catch the rope, and at last did so; but the strain
of holding the boy at the same time that he reached out for it was
terrible, and the soft earth gave way more than once, threatening to
send the pair of them hurtling below.

So far, so good. The next task was to fasten the boy on the rope. Once
again footholds had to be dug in the cliff--deep holes that would
not give way beneath his weight as he laboured. Adept at knotting,
accustomed to work of this kind, Hunter soon had the boy fast in the
rope. And then:

“Lower away!” he cried; and the coastguards let the rope out inch by
inch, while the rescuer steadied it, and kept it from swinging round
and round.

“Easy!” he yelled, as clods of earth and great stones, dislodged by
the rope as it slid over the edge, came tumbling about his ears,
threatening to knock him from his perch, threatening, too, to smash
into the boy being lowered to safety. And “easy” it was! Those
coastguards knew their work.

At last it was done; the boy was on the beach, thoroughly shaken,
dreadfully scared, but safe, thanks to the pluck of the lighthouseman,
who was soon hauled to the top, and, as he told me, “went indoors
and forgot all about it” until later he received a letter from the
secretary to the Carnegie Hero Fund Trustees, commending him on his
bravery and suitably rewarding him, though it goes without saying that
his best reward was the knowledge that he had been able to save the
life of the unfortunate youth.

       *       *       *       *       *

Even when the sun is shining in a blue sky overhead there is an awesome
splendour in the majestic ruggedness of the coast about Land’s End;
but when the grey fingers of the dawn are creeping into the heavens,
and the elements are waging a tumultuous war, when waves dash with
tremendous force upon the rocks, to break upon them with a resounding
roar, and when some unfortunate ship has been caught in the grip of
the storm, then the scene is sufficient to strike terror into strong
hearts.

Such was the scene on the morning of March 15, 1914, at five o’clock,
when the coastguard at Sennen Cove was alarmed to see signals of a
vessel in distress. Away along the coast could be seen the dark hull
of a ship, stationary, except when great seas beat upon her and shook
her from end to end. Ever and anon the rockets whizzed into the air,
brilliant appeals for help. Instantly all was activity; the life-saving
apparatus and the lifeboat were summoned, and the work of rescue had
begun.

Coastguard A. Oddy, of Sennen, was in charge of the life-saving
apparatus. There was no time to be wasted, for the scene of the wreck
was four miles away, and every minute was precious, for it could not be
long before the vessel broke in two, hurling her human freight to an
awful death.

The wagon was got ready, the horses put in, and away went the wagon at
top speed. Just as daylight was breaking the coastguards reached the
point of the coast off which the unfortunate ship lay. What a sight
met their eyes! The ship, the Swedish barque _Trifolium_, had been
taken up by the waves and hurled ashore as though she had been but a
shuttlecock. She was held fast by the rocks, with a boiling sea around
her, with mountainous waves rearing angry heads, which dropped with
a staggering shock and a thunderous roar upon the deck, long since
deserted by the crew. To have remained there would have been to court
death, for no man could keep a footing on that sloping deck, swept
every minute by heavy seas.

[Illustration: “To the rigging they fled, scrambling up in frenzied
haste”]

So to the rigging they fled, scrambling up in frenzied haste, and
hanging on like grim death, watching, waiting for some answer out
of the darkness to their appeals for help. As they saw the life-savers
pull up upon the shore they raised a faint cheer. They were numbed,
wet to the skin; they had been staring death in the face for what had
seemed an eternity; and now help was at hand. Men would cheer then,
even if it were with their last breath!

Oddy and his companions immediately set to work to rescue those seven
luckless men. The tackle was got out, the rocket apparatus fixed up,
and the next instant a rocket went speeding away across the tumult
of the waters, carrying a lifeline. It went right over the vessel,
as also did a second one that was fired; but, though the lines were
across their ship, the men in the rigging dared not leave their hold,
precarious though it was, to fix the lifelines, by means of which they
could have been hauled ashore. To have left the rigging for the deck
would have been fatal. The avalanche of water that fell upon the ship,
and swirled away every loosened thing, was too terrifying to face;
certain and awful death lay that way.

So, with help so near, the sailors clung to the rigging, wide-eyed,
anxious-faced, wondering what could be done, what would happen. Very
soon they realised that whether they jumped or not, there was nothing
but death before them, for the ship, buffeted by the waves, rolled
dangerously on the rocks, and seemed as if about to heel over.

One man, taking his fate in his hands, watched his opportunity, and,
fully dressed in oilskins as he was, suddenly let go of the rigging and
jumped. Luckily he jumped wide enough, and plunged into the boiling
surf below; had he fallen on to the deck he would have been smashed to
pieces. His friends in the rigging gasped, staggered at the risk he
took; the watchers on the shore shuddered as they saw him disappear
beneath the waters; but all heaved a sigh of relief when they saw him
reappear and begin to battle with the seas. He was making for one of
the lifelines.

Cumbered with his oilskins, weighed down by his heavy sea-boots, the
man struck out boldly for the line. Yard by yard he drew nearer to it,
and it seemed that he would reach it; then he was caught upon the crest
of a wave, was flung high, dropped low, and the line was as far away as
ever! Yet once again he made for it, and, after a terrific fight, he
managed to grasp the line. Staying awhile to take breath and gather his
strength for the final struggle, he turned towards the shore, and began
to haul himself along by means of the rope. The men in the rigging
watched and waited; it meant much to them, this fight with the sea, for
if their comrade won through, they might do so as well. The rescuers on
shore stood to their work, waiting for the man to come nearer in, and
ready to plunge to his assistance, if necessary.

Yard by yard he drew nearer, and the coastguard could see that he was
almost at the last gasp; it was a case of going to his help. Instantly
Coastguard Oddy answered the call of duty. With neither lifeline nor
lifebuoy he went into the boiling sea. By a stroke of luck he missed
the hidden rocks, on which he might have been pounded to death, and
in a few moments reached the now drowning man, whom he seized with a
strong hand, and snatched from the maw of the sea in the very nick of
time. Then he set out to the shore with his burden. It was, indeed,
a fight for life, the struggle of a brave man with the force of a
mighty sea, which, as though taunting him, let him get within an ace
of safety, and then flung him back into the angry cauldron of the
deep. Foiled, but by no means beaten, Oddy once more set his teeth
and struck out for the shore, still holding his precious burden. On
and on he went, and then back again, only to push forward with more
determination; and the coastguard fought his fight to such good purpose
that at last he was again near the shore, found a footing, drew himself
up, and proceeded to drag the helpless man after him.

But in the moment of his victory the angry foe, as if to rob him of
this life won from the jaws of death, returned to the fray; a mighty
wave swooped down upon him, there was a noise as though heaven and
earth had met as the wave fell in a thunderous roar upon the rocks, the
sailor was wrenched from Oddy’s grasp, and he himself flung heavily on
to the rocks.

He had tried valiantly--but he had failed! So said the men who watched
him in his fight for a fellow-man’s life. They saw him now, unable to
move, his legs jammed between rocks so that he could not free them. It
seemed but a matter of minutes ere he should be sacrificed on the altar
of heroism.

Oddy strained every effort to free himself. Even in that moment of
peril he wondered what had happened to the sailor, and realised that
unless something almost miraculous happened the end had come. There was
no fear of death, only the thought of having failed in what he had so
bravely set out to do. And for it all to end like this!

Then the miracle happened. The very sea that had conquered him set him
free! Wave after wave had broken over him, and presently one of greater
volume than any of the others hit him with such force that it did for
him what he himself had tried so vainly to do; it lifted him out of the
imprisoning rocks. He was free! Flung face downwards on the rocks, Oddy
felt the sea rushing over him, and as the force of it spent itself
he got upon his feet, and, counting not the danger, went back for the
drowning man.

He found him--whether alive or dead he knew not--but without loss of
time struck out with him for the shore, and, after another stern fight,
succeeded in getting him into safety--alive. It had all been worth
while!

Meanwhile, the men on the _Trifolium_ had been watching anxiously and
hopelessly, for it seemed to them that it was useless to expect to be
saved. But as soon as they saw their comrade safely ashore they took
heart. If it were possible to save him, then they might all be saved. A
second man plunged boldly into the surf, seized a lifeline, and hauled
himself within reach of the shore. Several of the coastguards pluckily
went to his assistance and got him out.

Before the other five men on the vessel had time to follow the example
of their comrades the sea had completed its fell work. It pounded
upon the hapless ship, wrenched her plates apart, battered her sides
and tore great holes in her. Held fast as she was by the cruel rocks,
there was but one end to her--she broke her back. The great iron vessel
parted amidships as though she had been a toy, and in that instant,
with death all around them, the five men in the rigging jumped. They
were in the nick of time; another minute, and they would have been
crashed to death with the wreck of what was once a proud vessel. Three
of them found lifelines, and were hauled towards the shore; and once
again Oddy plunged into the surf and succeeded in bringing one of
them to safety, while in the case of the others, Oddy and two other
life-savers joined efforts and managed to rescue them. The remaining
two men who had been on the ship unfortunately died; one was killed by
a falling mast, the other was drowned, and though he was got ashore,
and artificial respiration was used for nearly four hours, it was all
in vain; death had claimed him.

For seven hours the rescuers had watched and worked, and had not worked
in vain; and when Lieutenant A. S. Chambers, R.N., the divisional
officer, arrived on the scene, he had the gratification of knowing
that, although he had not been present, his men had done their duty
nobly.




GREAT NAVAL DISASTERS

The Loss of the _Formidable_ and the _Victoria_


“You never know when anything may happen,” wrote Captain Noel Loxley,
of H.M.S. _Formidable_ a day or so before 1915 elbowed 1914 into the
past; and before the New Year was much more than an hour old H.M.S.
_Formidable_ was holed by a German torpedo, and Loxley and a gallant
band of noble sailors died like heroes for their king and country.

The _Formidable_ left Sheerness on December 31 with a crew of 750 men,
all in high spirits, to keep vigil on the Channel. At 1.30 next morning
she was steaming at about eighteen knots, fighting her way through a
south-westerly gale, a bright moon shining overhead when not obscured
by thin clouds that sifted a drizzly rain upon her as she drove at the
high seas.

Suddenly, above the howl of the wind and the thump of the engines,
there was the report of a thunderous explosion on the starboard bow.
The ship seemed to shiver, then reel. Down in the stokeholds men looked
at each other in wonder; like the noise of a distant gun the sound came
to them, and they thought, and hoped, that it meant an engagement with
the enemy. Then again, from port, this time, there came another of
those muffled reports--so near that they knew something had hit their
ship.

“Torpedoed!” said one. “By Heaven, they’ve got us!”

And up on the bridge, standing there with his commander, Ballard,
Captain Loxley also muttered “Torpedoed!” Its periscope hidden by the
darkness and the swelling of the seas, a German submarine had crept up
within striking distance, had launched her two death-tubes, seen them
take effect, and then slunk away into the night.

Immediately he realised what had happened, Loxley, as calm as though he
were at practice, ordered the water-tight doors to be closed and the
men to be piped to collision quarters. Up on to the deck the startled
men swarmed--startled men, truly, but calm--men who could stand at
attention in the face of death and laugh and joke about “A fine New
Year’s gift for us, this!” Men who could cry as they stood naked and
shivering on the deck, “Here we are again! Undress uniform--swimming
costume!” Men, too, who could enter into the spirit of the captain on
the bridge, who could signal to another ship in the neighbourhood:

“Keep off! Submarines are about!”

Loxley knew what might happen to that ship if she stood by, as he had
no doubt her officers would be prompted to do. Only a month or so
before three British cruisers had been sunk in the North Sea, two of
them through standing by to help the other. The Admiralty had issued an
order that in such circumstances ships were not to attempt rescue work,
but, as if to make assurance doubly sure, Loxley had given his signal;
he wanted no risks to be run; he and his men were willing to take their
chance of life and death without bringing others into danger. It is the
spirit of the British Navy.

But if he would not allow others to help them, he used all his efforts
to save his crew. There was no hope for the _Formidable_, he knew, and
she would have to be abandoned. She was listing to starboard already.

“Out pinnaces and the launch!” was the order, and while the boat crews
worked to carry it out there came another: “’Way barges 1 and 2!”
Lieutenant Simmonds superintended the lowering of the boats, and by his
fine work earned Loxley’s encomium, “Well done, Simmonds.”

Into one boat there scrambled seventy or eighty men, and she got
away from the starboard side; soon after a second boat, with seventy
men, pushed off from the port side, and, acting on instructions, she
remained near the sinking ship for about an hour. All this time the
gale had been blowing fiercely, and mountainous seas made the work
of hoisting away the boats anything but easy. It was, indeed, found
impossible to lower further boats, because the ship listed so much that
only the starboard boats could be hauled out. One barge which they
tried to launch slipped in the davits, and hurled her crew of sixty men
into the water below. Dozens of men leapt overboard and swam to the two
successfully lowered boats, and the captain, thinking of others all the
time, told the boats to stand by and try to pick them up. The darkness,
however, prevented this being done.

Meanwhile, on the _Formidable_ was a strange scene. On the deck stood
lines of men, naked many of them, calm all of them, puffing away at
cigarettes or passing along a smoke to a comrade who had not brought
his up from below. From somewhere there came the sound of a piano;
a man sat playing breezy tunes to cheer his comrades in the face of
death. In the stokeholds begrimed heroes stuck to their posts until,
with a lurch, the ship knocked them off their feet and sent the fires
rushing out at them; heroes who, when the word came, raked out the
fires, while elsewhere engineers shut off the steam--all so that, when
the ship sank, there should be no explosion.

Not a man lost his head. Their example was pacing the bridge, smoking,
just as though the ship was riding in harbour with anchors down.
“Steady, men; it’s all right!” he cried to them. “Be British! There’s
life left in the old ship yet!”

But there was not much life; listing, she gave a sudden plunge, and all
knew that it was the end.

“Every man for himself!” came the order; and those that could jumped
as she took her final plunge. About half the company got clear of her;
but the two boats could not take many, and in addition to those in the
boats only seventy were saved--by a light cruiser which later came upon
the scene.

Loxley went down with his ship, as did hundreds of the men, standing
in line, saluting the Old Jack for the last time. “The last impression
on my mind,” said a survivor, “was of a long line of saluting figures
disappearing below the skyline.”

For the men in the two boats there now began an anxious time. Many
of them had no clothes beyond vests and pants--some none at all, and
these had to be wrapped in the few blankets that were in the boats.
The night was bitterly cold, the gale was blowing its hardest, the sea
was running high. The first boat that put off found her difficulties
at once; she shipped water by the ton, and the men had to improvise
bailers. Those who had boots on took them off, and used these; a
blanket, held at each corner by a sailor, was also brought into play
for the purpose; caps and coats, too--every man doing something to
clear the boat of water. For hours they toiled, expecting every minute
to be their last. All through the night, till early morning, they
drifted whither the waves would take them, and when dawn came they
found themselves out of sight of land, with never a ship in view.

During the night they sang the modern warriors’ song, “Tipperary,” till
they grew tired even of that; and the daylight brought them no relief
from the monotony, till, about nine o’clock, their hearts gave a great
leap. A liner appeared on the horizon. Shouting lustily, they hoisted a
blanket on an oar and waved it madly, seeking to attract attention; but
the liner changed her course and dipped over the horizon, leaving them
to the waste of waters.

This hope of being taken up by a passing ship was renewed no less than
eleven times during the day, each time to be dashed to the ground; and
one survivor later said that he didn’t think much of the look-out on
those ships.

As the day progressed the gale became stronger, and the boat was
pitching and rolling, swinging high upon the crest of a wave, now
racing down into the trough, the men becoming drenched through again
and again, those who were nearly naked suffering extreme agony. No less
than nine of them died of exposure.

At about one o’clock land was sighted; but when the crew, pulling
sixteen oars, tried to make it, they found that they could not cope
with the strong tide that was running. Darkness came, and found them
still adrift. Then their eyes were gladdened by the sight of two red
lights gleaming in the distance, and Leading Seaman Carroll, who had
been the life and soul of the party, wielded his oar, with which he
had all along been steering, and kept the boat headed for the lights
of hope. Fortunately for them, the wind and tide were now with them;
otherwise, so exhausted were they, never would they have made the
haven--for haven it was. They heard the sound of breakers, saw in the
shimmering moonlight the white foam of the water, pulled like mad to
the “Pull, boys, pull!” of Petty Officer Bing, and after seven miles
of stiff rowing were caught in a mighty wave that carried them straight
to the beach at Lyme Regis, where very soon crowds of people gathered
to give them help and drag them ashore, for they were too exhausted to
help themselves. They had been adrift twenty-two hours.

It is time now to return to the second boat, which, after having
picked up as many swimming men as possible, had to get away from the
_Formidable_, lest she be dashed into her side by the raging sea. The
story of the sufferings of the men in her is much the same as the
others; but in this case nearly all the oars were smashed and the boat
had a hole stove in her side. One of the men, whipping off his pants,
stuffed them into the gap, and then sat there to keep them from being
washed away. The little craft filled with water time and time again,
and they bailed her out as fast as they could.

About nine o’clock in the morning someone noticed a large fishing
smack to windward, and an oar was hoisted, with a black scarf on it
as a signal of distress. It was seen by John Clark, third hand on the
smack _Providence_ (Captain Pillar, Brixham), and he immediately told
the captain and his comrades, the second hand, Dan Taylor, the cook,
and Pillar, the boy. Instantly they fell to work, set the storm jib,
shook out a reef in the mainsail, and stood after the boat, which by
this time had drifted far away, and was continually hidden by the heavy
seas. Through the now blinding rain the smack pushed, and, coming near,
found that it was impossible to get close enough on the present tack
to do any good. Captain Pillar therefore decided to take a desperate
chance; he would gybe the boat--that is, swing all her sails over
violently--and get upon the other tack, which would put him in a much
better position to effect the rescue of the men.

This was done successfully; and then the fishermen tried to get a rope
to the boat. Three times they failed, but at the fourth attempt the
rope pitched into the boat, where it was made fast, the other end being
round the capstan of the smack. Then, working his vessel in a manner
that won the praise of every sailor there, Pillar hauled the boat to a
berth at the stern, and eventually got her to leeward.

Once alongside, Pillar gave the word, and the sailors began to jump
aboard the smack. It took half an hour to get that bunch of men off, so
difficult was the work as a result of the gale; over thirty feet the
waves mounted sometimes, and many a man wellnigh tumbled into the sea,
from which his chance of rescue would have been small.

When all were safe on board the _Providence_, Captain Pillar turned her
about and made for Brixham, his men meanwhile attending to the comforts
of the sailors, who were exhausted and frozen to the bone. Hot coffee
and food were served out, and never did men enjoy a meal as they did
on board the _Providence_ on that January afternoon. Near Brixham the
_Providence_ fell in with the _Dencade_, which took her in tow and
brought her into Brixham, where the people on the wharves heard the
lusty voices of men singing “Auld Lang Syne,” as though for hours they
had not been adrift, helpless, hopeless, as though they had never felt
the shock as the _Formidable_ received her fatal wound, as though they
had never stood face to face with death.

It is the cheery fortitude of the British Jack Tar that has helped old
England to the command of the sea; and it is such men as Captain Pillar
and his gallant crew who reveal the courage that lives in the hearts
of men whose work keeps them in the field of peace--where as great
victories are won as on the field of battle.

       *       *       *       *       *

While, during war, great disasters such as that of the _Formidable_
are to be expected, when the wings of the Angel of Peace are spread
the shock of a catastrophe is infinitely greater, because it comes
when there seems to be no reason why it should. Such was the case of
the loss of the _Victoria_ battleship in June, 1893. A steel-armoured
turret-ship of 10,470 tons and 1,400 horsepower, 39 guns and 8
torpedo-tubes, she was the flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir George
Tryon, commanding the Mediterranean squadron, which, in addition to
the _Victoria_, consisted of twelve other vessels, including the
_Camperdown_, the ship which rammed her.

The squadron was steaming line abreast, bound from Beyrout for Tripoli,
and going at eight knots an hour, when the admiral, calling his staff
in, decided to form the squadron in two columns ahead, six cables’
length (1,200 yards) apart, the course to be later on reversed by
the lines turning inwards. Staff-Commander Hawkins-Smith pointed out
that, as the turning circles of the _Victoria_ and the _Camperdown_
(the latter leading the port column) were six hundred yards (or three
cables’ length), the inward turn would involve a collision between this
vessel and the _Victoria_, which was leading the starboard column.

“It will require at least eight cables, sir,” said Hawkins-Smith, to
which Tryon replied, after a moment’s thought:

“Yes, it shall be eight.”

The staff-commander left the cabin; and then the admiral gave
instructions to his flag-lieutenant to signal the order for the
manœuvre he had in mind--to line ahead _at six cables apart_. Tryon had
evidently changed his mind.

On board the _Victoria_ several officers approached the admiral, and
queried him on the matter, pointing out that he had agreed that eight
cables’ length was wanted. But he adhered to his command, saying:
“That’s all right; leave it at six cables.”

So the fatal order fluttered in the breeze.

Rear-Admiral Markham, on the _Camperdown_, was staggered.

“It is impossible!” he exclaimed. “It is an impracticable manœuvre!”
and did not answer back, thus giving the _Victoria_ to understand that
he had not grasped the signal. “It’s all right,” he said to Captain
Johnstone. “Don’t do anything. I have not answered the signal.” And
then gave instructions for the flag-lieutenant to ask for fuller
instructions.

Meanwhile, on the _Victoria_ other signals were being hoisted, asking
Markham why he was not obeying orders, and reproving him for it. The
rear-admiral, knowing it was his duty to obey, decided to do so,
thinking that Tryon must be intending to make a wider circle, and so go
outside the _Camperdown’s_ division.

The two ships therefore turned inwards, Markham and his officers
watching the _Victoria_ closely to see what she would do. On the
flagship, too, officers were discussing the movement, and Captain
Bourke asked Tryon whether it would not be as well to do something to
avoid the collision he saw was inevitable. It was a case for haste, he
knew, and he had to repeat his question hurriedly: “May I go astern
full speed with the port screw?”

“Yes,” said Tryon at last, and Bourke gave the order. But it was too
late; three minutes and a half after the two ships had turned inwards
the _Camperdown_, although her engines had been reversed, crashed into
the starboard bow of the _Victoria_, hitting her about twenty feet
before the turret and forcing her way in almost to the centre line.

Instantly excitement reigned on the _Victoria_; but the crew, never
losing their heads, rushed to carry out the orders which were now flung
hither and thither:

“Close the water-tight doors!”

“Out collision mats!”

“All hands on deck!”

In rapid succession the orders came; the doors were shut tight, the
mats were hung over the side, where, so great was the gap left when
the _Camperdown_ backed away, the water rushed in in torrents. Captain
Bourke, having visited the engine-rooms to see that all that was
possible had been done, rushed up on deck, and there found that the
_Victoria_ had a heavy list to starboard. On the deck all the sick
men and the prisoners had been brought up in readiness, and all hands
except the engineers were there, too.

All this time the only thought in every man’s mind had been to save the
ship; actually, no one imagined that the fine vessel would presently
make a final plunge and disappear. Tryon had, indeed, signalled to the
other ships not to send the boats which were being lowered. Having
received the report that it was thought the _Victoria_ could keep
afloat some time, Tryon consented to her being steered for land. But
the helm refused to work.

The admiral now signalled: “Keep boats in readiness; but do not send
them.” And then, turning to an officer, said: “It is my fault--entirely
my fault!”

The seriousness of the position was now breaking upon him, though even
then he did not realise how near the end was. The crew worked hard but
orderly, hoisting out the boats, or doing whatever they were told,
while down below the engineers and stokers kept at their posts, albeit
they knew that they stood little chance if the ship dived beneath the
surface.

Presently the men were drawn up on deck, four deep, calm, cool,
facing death without a tremor or sign of panic, which would have been
calamitous.

“Steady, men, steady!” cried the chaplain, the Rev. Samuel Morris; and
steady they were, till Tryon, seeing that all hope was gone, signalled
for boats to be sent, and gave orders for every man to look after
himself.

“Jump, men, jump!” was the command; and they rushed to the side, ready
to fling themselves overboard. As they did so the great ship turned
turtle, and men went tumbling head first into the sea, down the bottom
of the ship as she dived, her port screw racing through the air.

The scene that followed beggars description; but the following extract
is from a letter written to the _Times_ by a midshipman who was on one
of the other ships. He was sent off in a boat to rescue the struggling
men in the water.

[Illustration: “It was simply agonising to watch the wretched men
struggling over the ship’s bottom in masses”]

“We could see all the men jumping overboard,” he wrote. “She continued
heeling over, and it was simply agonising to watch the wretched men
struggling out of the ports over the ship’s bottom in masses. All this,
of course, happened in less time than it takes to write. You could see
the poor men who, in their hurry to jump over, jumped on to the screw
being cut to pieces as it revolved. She heeled right over, the water
rushing in through her funnels. A great explosion of steam rose; she
turned right over, and you could see all the men eagerly endeavouring
to crawl over her bottom, when, with a plunge, she went down bows
first. We could see her stern rise right out of the water and plunge
down, the screws still revolving. It was simply a dreadful sight. We
could not realise it. Personally, I was away in my boat, pulling as
hard as we could to the scene of the disaster.... After pulling up and
down for two hours, we reorganised the fleet, leaving two ships on
the scene of the disaster; and, making for Tripoli, anchored for the
night. No one can realise the dreadful nature of the accident.

“However, dropping the _Victoria_ for a minute, we must turn to the
_Camperdown_. She appeared to be in a very bad way. Her bow was sinking
gradually, and I must say at the time I thought it quite on the cards
that she might be lost also; but, thanks to the indomitable way in
which the crew worked, they managed to check the inrush by means of the
collision mat and water-tight doors. All last night, however, they were
working hard to keep her afloat.

“You can imagine our feelings--the flagship sunk with nearly all hands,
the other flagship anchored in a sinking condition. We have a lot of
the survivors of the _Victoria_ on board, but their accounts vary
greatly.... Anyhow, what is quite certain is that the admiral did not
realise the gravity of his situation, or else he would have abandoned
the ship at once, instead of trying to save her. The discipline was
magnificent. Not until the order was given did a single man jump
overboard.

“The last thing that was seen was the admiral refusing to try to save
himself, whilst his coxswain was entreating him to go. Another instance
of pluck was exhibited by the boatswain of signals, who was making a
general semaphore until the water washed him away. Unfortunately the
poor chap was drowned. Many of the survivors are in a dreadful state of
mental prostration. Most people say that Admiral Markham should have
refused to obey the signal, but I think that Admiral Tryon infused
so much awe in most of the captains of the fleet that few would have
disobeyed him. However, he stuck to his ship to the last, and went down
in her.”

Thus was the _Victoria_ lost; less than a quarter of an hour after
being struck she was lying at the bottom of the Mediterranean, Admiral
Tryon and 400 gallant seamen going with her.

At the court-martial Captain Bourke was absolved of all blame for the
loss of the ship, the finding being that the disaster was entirely due
to Admiral Tryon’s order to turn the two lines sixteen points inward
when they were only six cables apart.




INCIDENTS IN THE SLAVE TRADE

Stories of the Traffic in Human Merchandise


We shall not here deal with the history and abolition of slavery,
because every schoolboy knows all about that, and will doubtless be
glad to have something more exciting. And of excitement there is
abundance in the annals of slavery. The trade was always attended by
risks, even before the days when it was illegal to ship slaves, for
there was ever the danger of the negroes breaking loose and running
amok on the ship; or, what was perhaps worse, the holds of the slavers
were often little less than death-holes, with fever and cholera
rampant. Altogether, it was a game with big profits--and mighty big
risks, as the following story will show:

It was back in 1769 that the slaver _Delight_ (Captain Millroy) was the
scene of an uprising of negroes, which resulted in a rousing fight and
fatal effects to a good many aboard.

About three o’clock one Sunday morning Surgeon Boulton and the men with
him in the aft-cabin were awakened by a chorus of screams and shrieks
overhead, a rushing of feet, a pandemonium of noise which told that
something serious was afoot. Boulton slipped out of his bunk and dashed
towards the captain’s cabin, half guessing what was taking place. He
reached the cabin, and, entering, shook Millroy fiercely to awaken
him. He had barely succeeded in rousing the captain when a billet of
wood came hurtling through the air and caught him on the shoulder,
and a cutlass pierced his neck. Turning, Boulton saw that a couple of
negroes had, all unseen and unheard, crept below, intent on putting the
captain _hors de combat_ while he was asleep; and, finding the surgeon
interfering with their plot, they attacked him in quick time. Millroy,
now properly aroused, joined forces with Boulton, who forgot his own
danger in the thought of what was happening above, and the pair chased
the negroes on to the deck, Boulton carrying a pistol and the captain a
cutlass.

When they reached deck they found themselves in a very inferno.
Hundreds of negroes were swarming all over the place, some armed with
wooden spars, others with cutlasses; and with these weapons they were
hard at it taking vengeance on their captors. The herd of savages flung
themselves upon the seamen, cutting off legs and arms, mutilating
bodies dreadfully, their yells making the air ring. Boulton and the
captain, realising that it was a case for prompt and vigorous action,
hurled themselves into the heaving fight with a will. Down went one
negro, killed by Millroy’s cutlass; then another; while Boulton did all
he could. But the “all” of these two men was but little, and presently
Millroy fell to the deck, overpowered by numbers, and literally hacked
to pieces. Boulton, more fortunate, escaped injury, and made a dash for
the rigging, up which he scrambled till he came to the maintop, where
he discovered the cook and a boy had already taken refuge.

Perched on their lofty platform, the three looked down upon deck,
watching as though fascinated the drama being enacted before their
eyes, seeing the now maddened negroes wreaking vengeance on the men
who were bearing them from freedom to slavery. The bloodlust was upon
them, and they searched the ship to take their fill.

Suddenly the watchers saw two men come up from below and make a rush
across the deck to the rigging. Like lightning the negroes dashed after
them, and one man was brought to deck by a dozen billets flung at him,
and his body was cut to pieces. The second man, more fortunate, managed
to reach the rigging, and clambered up like a monkey.

The negroes, having satisfied themselves that they had accounted for
all the crew with the exception of those in the maintop, whom they
decided to deal with presently, ransacked the ship, seeking arms; and
meanwhile Boulton, knowing that safety depended upon weapons, went on
a tour of exploration. He wormed his way into the foretop to see what
might be there, and luckily found a knife, with which he set out to
return to the maintop. On the way the negroes saw him, and began to
pelt him with billets of wood, all of which missed, however; so that
Boulton reached his comrades safely. The one dread in the minds of the
four survivors was that the negroes would find the arms-chest, in which
case it seemed to them hopeless to expect to escape. While the slaves
remained armed only with wooden spars and cutlasses, Boulton did not
feel particularly anxious, knowing that he and his companions would be
able to tackle any who dared to ascend the rigging to try and get them
down. One thing that kept him hopeful was the fact that another slaver,
the _Apollo_, was almost within hailing distance, and the _Delight_,
unsteered and sails untrimmed, was rapidly drifting towards her, which
would make the men on the _Apollo_ aware that something had happened.
But Boulton’s luck was out. The negroes found the arms-chest, and,
breaking it open, armed themselves with muskets, and set to work in
earnest to put the survivors out of action.

Shot after shot sang by the maintop, and one of the men there, fearing
that he would be killed if he stayed, and might be saved if he trusted
himself to the mercy of the negroes, like a madman descended to the
deck. Barely had his foot touched it when a negro fell upon him with an
axe and split his head in two; and a dozen pairs of hands seized him
and pitched him overboard to the sharks which were following the ship,
their appetites whetted by the feasts already given them by the negroes.

While this was going on, other slaves were still shooting away at the
maintop, fruitlessly; and Boulton was calling madly on the _Apollo_,
now not far away. Presently the captain of the other vessel, realising
what was afoot, gave the word, and a broadside hurtled across the deck
of the _Delight_, in the hope of frightening the slaves. They seemed
to take little notice of this, however, and Boulton began to fear that
all was over, especially as the negroes, seeing that they could not
hit the men in the maintop, ceased fire, and a giant black, cutlass
in one hand and a pistol in the other, sprang into the rigging, bent,
apparently, on storming the position. Boulton waited calmly. He had no
weapons but his knife and a quart bottle; but he felt that he was in a
good position to meet an attack. Presently the negro’s head appeared
above the platform, and then--_whack!_ The bottle fell upon it with a
sickening thud, the black lost his hold, and went hurtling into the sea.

Meanwhile, the _Apollo_ was firing at the _Delight_, and the latter was
returning the fire as well as it could, the negroes evidently knowing
that to give in was to court disaster, and to lose what they had stood
in a fair way to gaining. For four hours they fought the _Apollo_, and
at the same time kept up their fusillade on the maintop.

Then came the end. Not because the negroes were not able to keep up
any longer, but because a shot from the _Apollo_ fell into a barrel
of gunpowder and exploded it, with the result that the _Delight_ took
fire, and the slaves could not cope with the flames and their enemy
at the same time. The revolt fizzled out as quickly as it had arisen.
While the negroes rushed about seeking to put out the fire, Boulton,
taking his life in his hands, descended to the deck, at the same time
that a boat set out from the _Apollo_ with a crew to tackle the flames
and the negroes, who, filled with consternation, now stood quietly by
watching the fire-fighters. They were absolutely cowed; they had made
their bid for freedom, and had failed, and they knew it. They allowed
themselves to be driven below and secured. The result of their revolt
was that nine of the crew of the _Delight_ were butchered, one man
on the _Apollo_ was killed, and eighteen of the negroes found death
instead of liberty--perhaps death to them was better than freedom;
certainly better than the lot of those poor human cattle they left
behind them.

Such incidents as this were of frequent occurrence, and the recital of
one must suffice.

After the Abolition Act had been passed, severe measures were brought
into operation, giving the Navy a wide scope--so wide that, even
although a vessel had no slaves on board, yet, if the naval officers
had reason to suspect that slaving was her business, they could
apprehend her. Special ships were fitted out and commissioned to deal
with the traffic in the South Atlantic, both off Central America and
the West Coast of Africa. So effective were the measures taken that
the slavers resorted to all manner of disguises to turn suspicion
away from their vessels, which had hitherto been of a distinctive
kind--long, rakish craft with tall spars, the whole effect being one
of beauty, and the idea being speed. The traders changed all this by
having ships more after the fashion of the ordinary merchant vessel,
so that the hunters had a more difficult task in front of them. But
they worked energetically, and swept the seas month after month, on
the look-out for the human cattle-ships, and, as all the world knows,
succeeded in clearing them from the seas.

The subjoined account from the Sierra Leone _Watchman_ for November 15,
1846, gives a striking picture of the conditions against which the Navy
were doing such good work.

The vessel referred to is the Brazilian brigantine _Paqueta de Rio_,
captured off Sherbro:

“The 547 human beings--besides the crew and passengers (as they
styled themselves), twenty-eight in number--were stowed in a vessel
of 74 tons. The slaves were all stowed together, perfectly naked,
with nothing on which to rest but the surfaces of the water-casks.
These were made level by filling in billets of wood, and formed the
slave-deck. The slaves who were confined in the hold--it being utterly
impossible for the whole of them to remain on deck at one time--were
in a profuse perspiration, and panting like so many hounds for water.
The smell on board was dreadful. I was informed that, on the officers
of the _Cygnet_ boarding the slaver, the greater part of the slaves
were chained together with pieces of chain, which were passed through
iron collars round their necks; iron shackles were also secured round
their legs and arms. After the officers had boarded, and the slaves
were made to understand they were free, their acclamations were long
and loud. They set to work, and, with the billets of wood which had
hitherto formed their bed, knocked off each other’s shackles, and
threw most of them overboard. There were several left, which were
shown to me. We will leave it to the imagination of your readers what
must have been the feelings of these poor people when they found they
were again free--free through the energy and activity of a British
cruiser. On examining the poor creatures, who were principally of the
Kosso nation, I found they belonged to, and were shipped to, different
individuals; they were branded like sheep. Letters were burnt in the
skin two inches in length. Many of them, from the recent period it had
been done, were in a state of ulceration. Both males and females were
marked as follows: On the right breast ‘J’; on the left arm, ‘P’; over
women’s right and left breasts, ‘S’ and ‘A’; under the left shoulder,
‘P’; right breast, ‘R’ and ‘RJ’; on the right and left breasts, ‘SS’;
and on the right and left shoulder, ‘SS.’ This is the same vessel that
cleared out from here about three weeks previous to her capture for
Rio de Janeiro. The slaves were all embarked from the slave factories
at Gallinas, under the notorious Don Luiz, and the vessel under way
in five hours; and had there been the slightest breeze she would have
escaped. Among the slaves there were two men belonging to Sierra
Leone--a man named Peter, once employed by Mr. Elliott, the pilot. He
stated that he had been employed by a Mr. Smith, a Popohman, to go to
Sherbro to purchase palm-oil, and that whilst pursuing that object he
was seized and sold by a Sherbro chief named Sherry.”




A RACE TO SUCCOUR

An Incident of the United States Revenue Service


The records of the revenue men of the United States teem with heroic
deeds done in the execution of their duty. The present story is typical
of the thrilling determination of men who will not be beaten, and
incidentally shows a healthy rivalry between the revenue men and the
lifeboatmen.

On January 11, 1891, the three-masted schooner _Ada Barker_ encountered
a terrific storm which played shuttlecock with her, and after a fierce
conflict pitched her on to the Junk of Pork, the euphonious name of a
large rock near outer Green Island, off the coast of Maine. The Junk of
Pork rises a sheer fifty feet out of the water, and all round it are
reefs and boulders, a literal death-trap to any unfortunate vessel that
should get caught there. The _Ada Barker_, after having her sails torn
to shreds and her rigging hopelessly entangled, began to ship water,
and though her men worked hard and long at the pumps, they could not
save her; then she was bowled on to the outer reef at night; the bottom
dropped out of her, and she heeled over. To the men on board it seemed
that the end of all things had come, and they gave themselves up for
lost.

[Illustration: “Though her men worked hard and long at the pumps, they
could not save her”]

As the ship heeled they heard the sound of something striking against
a rock; then again, as the ship rebounded and fell forward once more.
Eager to take the most slender chance of life, they scrambled to the
side, and saw that the mast was hitting against the Junk of Pork.

“Boys!” cried the captain. “That’s our one chance!”

The sailors knew what he meant. They had looked about them. To jump
into that boiling surf was to leap into the jaws of death; they would
be smashed to pulp, or drowned like rats. They saw now, however, that
the rock before them could be reached by scrambling up the mast,
which was crashing against it. But they must hurry; and hurry they
did. Like monkeys they swarmed up the mast, caring nothing for torn
hands nor the flapping canvas, which slashed them like whipcords and
threatened to knock them off into the cauldron below. They fought
their elemental fight, and one by one six men dropped on to the Junk
of Pork; and for hours and hours they clung to their precarious perch,
buffeted by strong winds, swamped by heavy seas and crouching in terror
as a mountain wave reared its head and, as if angry that the men had
escaped, broke upon them with a thunderous roar. At other times they
were flung headlong on the rock by a gust of wind which howled at them
as if seeking to drown their voices as they yelled for help, in the
hope that some ship might be near and hear them through the noise of
the gale.

All through the long, dreadful night they remained thus, glad to have
found even so bleak a haven, but wondering whether, after all, they
would be rescued. Then their eyes were gladdened by the sight of a ship
away out on the horizon. Rising and falling as the still boisterous
seas kept up their see-saw motion, she was coming in their direction.
Would she see them? They knew that at the distance the ship was away
they could not be visible yet; yet, cold, drenched to the skin, almost
exhausted by exposure, they stripped themselves of their shirts and
waved--waved like madmen, fearing they would be passed by. Had they
but known it, the officer of the watch of the coming boat--the United
States revenue cutter, of Woodbury--thought he could see dark forms on
the flat top of the storm-wracked Junk of Pork in a state of frantic
activity. Levelling his glasses, he soon saw the forms of the six
men waving the torn and tattered shirts; and he knew that some ship
had been wrecked during the storm which the _Woodbury_ herself had
encountered and fought sternly against for hours on end since she left
Portland.

It took but a few moments for everyone on the cutter to be made aware
of the position of things.

“We’ll make her, boys” said Captain Fengar, who was in command. “We’ll
have those chaps off the Junk of Pork!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” was the chorus; and, with engines pounding out every
ounce of steam, the cutter pushed her nose through the water, fighting
hard against the storm, which was raging as fiercely as ever. Nearer
and nearer they drove, whistling anon to encourage the stranded
mariners, who, weary and exhausted, cried for very joy as they realised
that they had been seen and that help was coming. Help was coming!
Their madness of anxiety gave way to a delirium of joy. Then their
hearts sank into an abyss of despair.

The cutter was very near to them now, but the sea was too rough for her
to venture close to the rocks; the reefs were one cauldron of boiling
surf, and the stranded men knew that no boat from the cutter could hope
to live in such a sea, or hope to escape destruction on the reefs if
she ventured near.

Help had come--and had proved helpless!

They threw themselves down upon the rock and clutched at the bare
surface. They were frenzied. They wondered how much longer they could
withstand the gnawings of hunger, the agonies of thirst; how much
longer, too, they could retain enough strength to keep their footing
on the rock-top. They even thought of leaving their precious haven and
trying to reach the wreck of their once proud little ship, where there
was indeed food and water. But second thoughts showed them that certain
death lay that way, while there was hope that the cutter might be able
to get to them. They saw that she was hovering about, cruising here
and there to keep headway with the storm, her whistle shrieking out
encouragement, and letting them know that she was standing by, in the
hope that the storm would abate and enable them to launch their boats.

Night came, but the gale still raged, and Captain Fengar decided that
there was only one way to bring about the rescue he was determined to
effect, and that was to put back to Portland and bring dories with
which to land on the rock at dawn next day. He could not hope to do
much good during the night, even if the storm eased off somewhat; the
danger of the breakers was too great. So, whistling across to the
wretched men on the rock, he let them know that he was going away, but
would come back, and then save them.

The first shock of realising that they were to be left alone again
wellnigh crazed the men; they felt that they would prefer to wait there
for death with company than wait alone for salvation. But away went the
cutter, whistling as she went in answer to the wavings of the sailors;
and as the final scream died away the men sank down upon the rock in
desolation of despair, with nothing but the howling of the wind and the
roar of the breakers to keep them company.

The cutter sped through the night, passing Cape Elizabeth on her way,
and giving the bearings of the wreck to the lifeboat station there.
Reaching Portland, she took her dories and raced back to the Junk of
Pork, arriving there an hour after daybreak. The feelings of the now
almost dead mariners may be better imagined than described when they
heard the siren of the cutter calling to them, telling them of the
coming of hope and help. They forgot the raging storm, for they knew
that these men who had come back had brought the wherewithal to save
them.

On the cutter the revenue men were busy preparing to launch the boats
and the small white cutter, when the lifeboat from Cape Elizabeth
hove in sight. The very sight of her acted as an additional spur to
them, for they regarded this little matter as particularly their own,
and although they themselves had warned the lifeboatman of the wreck
they felt that it was their duty to effect the rescue. They vowed to
themselves that they would get the men off the rock.

“Now, boys,” cried Captain Fengar, “we want to get those men off
ourselves! Hustle!”

And they hustled. In the twinkling of an eye as it seemed a couple of
boats were lowered and the men were in their places.

“You must not fail,” said Fengar as they pushed off. “God bless you!”
And away they went towards the boiling surf, beneath which they knew
lurked hideous, treacherous rocks. Lieutenant Howland, an old whaler,
had charge of the first boat, and with him went Third Lieutenant Scott
and Cadet Van Cott, who had entreated the captain to allow him to
go. Seamen Haskell and Gross manned the second boat. Like madmen the
Woodbury men pulled, straining every effort to win in the race they
had set themselves, knowing that the Cape Elizabeth lifeboat was
sweeping through the seas towards the rock. As for the lifeboat, its
crew were tired, weary with much fighting of the storm. But they were
game; they realised what the Woodbury men were intent on doing, and
they themselves determined to do their best to beat them in this race
for the lives of six unfortunate men. It was surely one of the queerest
contests ever engaged in, and at the back of it was but one idea--to
win through to the rock and get the stranded mariners to safety.

The first honours went to the Woodbury men; the dory manned by Haskell
and Gross got there ahead of all; they swept through a narrow channel
between the reefs, were wellnigh battered to pieces against the foot
of the Junk of Pork, hailed the men on top--as though they needed
hailing!--and the next instant a man leaped clear of the rock and
tumbled into the dory, which pitched and rolled dangerously at the
impact. Then, realising that they could not stay there any longer,
Haskell and Gross turned their dory about and made for the channel
again; careful steering took her safely through, and then, buffeted
by the waves, they pulled feverishly towards the cutter, where they
eventually got their man safely aboard.

Meanwhile, Howland was keeping his men at it; the race now lay between
him and the lifeboat, and he meant to win. With shouts and heave-ho’s,
Howland urged his men on; and on they went, while across the waters
came the shouts of the lifeboatmen as they bent lustily to their task.

The revenue boat won by a neck! With a thud she hit the breakers just
ahead of the lifeboat, shivered, and then, lifted up by a giant comber,
cleared a submerged reef, delved on the other side, and came up almost
filled with water. Shaking herself as a dog shakes the water from his
coat, she righted, and Lieutenant Scott leaped boldly into the surf;
but as he did so the undertow took the boat and, as he still had hold
of her, dragged him under water. For a moment his comrades thought him
gone, but presently he came up, almost frozen, but still hanging on to
the boat. And the next moment a roller caught the boat and pitched her
on to a slice of rock.

Almost simultaneously the lifeboat plunged at the breakers. For a
second she hesitated. Her men were debating whether they should shoot
clear or land. They saw the revenue men land. Where they could go,
there could the men of Cape Elizabeth; and they put the nose of their
boat at it, heading straight for the rocks. Less fortunate than the
others, the lifeboat banged into a mighty rock, which stove in her bow
and rendered her unmanageable.

Instantly the winners of the strange race saw that the lifeboat was
helpless and in danger; the men on the Junk of Pork could wait; they
were safe! The revenue men plunged into the surf, waded and swam to the
lifeboat, seized hold of her, and dragged her on to the strip of rock.
It was all done as in a flash; hesitation would have meant disaster.
But it was done, and the rivals stood together at the foot of the Junk
of Pork. Then, resting awhile from their herculean labours, they set
about the rescue of the stranded mariners, who were very soon in the
revenue boat, and being rowed across to the Woodbury cutter, which,
when all was done, steamed back to Portland, after forty hours of hard
fighting for the rescue of half a dozen men; forty hours well spent,
too.




A TRAGEDY OF THE SOUTH POLE

The Thrilling Story of Scott’s Expedition to the Antarctic


The age-old dreams of hundreds of men have been realised; the ends
of the earth have yielded up their secrets--the Poles have been
discovered. Peary to the North, Amundsen and Scott to the South, hardy
adventurers all, with the wanderlust in their souls and science as
their beckoner--these men went forth and wrested from the ice-bound
regions something of what had been refused to the scores of men
preceding them; some of whom had come back, weak, despondent, while
others left their bones as silent witnesses to their noble failure to
achieve what they set out for.

Of all the many expeditions which have set forth to the Polar regions,
none was more tragic than that commanded by Captain Robert F. Scott.
In practically the hour of his triumph he failed, because, no matter
how efficient an organisation, no matter how far-sighted policy and
arrangements may be, there is always the uncertain human element; there
comes the point when human endurance can stand out no longer, when the
struggle against the titan forces of Nature cannot be kept up. And then
there is failure, though often a splendid failure.

Such was that of Captain Scott; he reached the goal he had aimed at for
many years only to find that he had been forestalled by a month, and
then, overtaken by unexpected bad weather, he and the men with him
had to give up the struggle when within eleven miles of just one thing
they stood in need of--fuel with which to cook the hot meals that meant
life. The story is one that makes the blood course through the veins,
makes the heart glow, makes the head bow in honour; because it is a
story of matchless bravery, heroic fortitude and noble effort.

The _Terra Nova_, Scott’s ship, carried a complement of sixty men,
each one of them picked because of his efficiency, each one having his
allotted work. Geologists and grooms, physicist and photographers,
meteorologists and motor-engineer, surgeons and ski-expert and seamen,
men to care for dogs, and men to cook food--a civilised community of
efficient, well-found, keen, and high-idealed men. It was, in fact,
the best-equipped Polar expedition ever sent forth. Scott went out not
merely to discover the South Pole, but also to gather data that should
elucidate many problems of science. He took with him all the apparatus
that would be necessary for this purpose, and when the _Terra Nova_
left New Zealand, on November 26, 1910, there seemed good reason for
the conviction that success must attend the expedition.

The voyage out to the Polar Sea was uneventful, except that early in
December a great storm arose, and called for good seamanship to keep
the vessel going; and even then she was very badly knocked about. She
made a good deal of water, and the seamen had to pump hard and long;
but at last, under steam and sail, the _Terra Nova_ came through
safely, and was able to go forward again, and by December 9 was in the
ice-pack, which was that year much farther north than was expected.
This held them up so that they could not go in the direction they
wanted to, and had to drift where the pack would take them--northwards.
Christmas Day found them still in the pack, and they celebrated the
festivity in the good old English style. By the 30th they were out
of the pack, and set off for Cape Crozier, the end of the Great Ice
Barrier, where they had decided to fix their winter quarters. They
could not get there, however, and they had to proceed to Cape Royds,
passing along an ice-clad coast which showed no likely landing-place.
Cape Royds was also inaccessible owing to the ice, and the ship was
worked to the Skuary Cape, renamed Cape Evans, in the McMurdo Sound.

A landing was effected, and for a week the explorers worked like
niggers getting stores ashore, disembarking ponies and dogs, unloading
sledges, and the hundred and one other things necessary to success.
The hut, which was brought over in pieces, was also taken ashore, a
suitable site for it cleared, and the carpenters began erecting it.

During these early days misfortune fell upon them. One of their three
motor-sledges, upon which great hopes were built, slipped through the
ice and was lost.

By January 14 the station was almost finished, and Captain Scott went
on a sledge trip to Hut Point, some miles to the west. Here Scott
had wintered on his first expedition, which set out from England in
1901. In this his new expedition the hut was to be used for some of
the party, and telephonic communication was installed. In due course
the station was completed; there is no need for us to go into all the
details of the hard work, or the exercising of animals and men, but a
short description of this house on the ice may be of interest. It was
a wooden structure, 50 feet long by 25 feet wide and nine feet to the
eaves. It was divided into officers’ and men’s quarters; there was
a laboratory and dark-room, galley and workshop. Books were there,
pictures on the walls, stove to keep the right temperature. Stables
were built on the north side, and a store-room on the south. In the
hut itself was a pianola and a gramophone to wile away the monotony of
the long winter night. Mr. Ponting, the camera artist, had a lantern
with him, which was to provide vast entertainment in the way of
picture-lectures on all kinds of subjects. Altogether, everything was
as compact and comfortable as could be wished.

Naturally, there were various adventures during these early days;
once the ship just managed to get away from the spot where almost
immediately afterwards a huge berg crashed down, only a little later on
the same day to become stranded. Luckily, by much hard work, the seamen
managed to get her off.

On January 25 the next piece of work was begun--namely, the laying of
a depot some hundred miles towards the south. Both ponies and dogs
were used for this work, which took nearly a month--the Barrier ice
was always dangerous--and both the outward and inward journeys were
beset by bad weather, bad surfaces, hard work, disappointments and
many dangers. Once, a party was lost, and found only after they had
experienced much suffering.

It was not until April 13 that the depot laying party returned to the
hut, minus some of their animals, which had succumbed to the rigours
of the climate and the stiff work demanded of them. A few days later
the long winter night set in, and the men had to confine themselves to
winter quarters to wait until the coming of the sun before the main
object of their voyage could be attempted. The ship had returned to New
Zealand meanwhile.

The long winter months were filled up with scientific studies of the
neighbourhood, and evenings were occasions for lantern lectures and
discussions on all kinds of subjects, including those which concerned
the expedition. There was plenty of work to do; things had to be
prepared, as far as was possible then, for the final dash; the animals
had to be looked after; and they were a source of trouble, because
it was essential that they should be kept fit. A winter party was
organised and sent to Cape Crozier, a journey that took them five weeks
under “the hardest conditions on record.” It was well worth while, for
many were the valuable observations made.

Always the scientific aspect of the expedition was kept in view; and
when the sun returned a spring journey to the west was undertaken,
Scott and his little party being absent thirteen days, 175 miles being
covered in that time.

We now come to the great journey to the Pole--a journey of 800 miles.
On October 24 the two motor-sledges were sent off, after a good deal
of trouble, Evans and Day in charge of one, and Lashly of the other;
they were the forerunners of the expedition to the Pole. On the 26th,
Hut Point rang up to say that the motors were in trouble, and Scott
and seven men went off to see what they could do. They came up with
the motors about three miles from Hut Point, and found that various
little things were causing trouble. Eventually, these difficulties were
overcome, and the sledges started off again, and Scott and his party
went back to Cape Evans to get ready for their own journey south.

“The future is in the lap of the gods; I can think of nothing left
undone to deserve success.”

Thus wrote Captain Scott the night before he set out on his last
great journey, and reading the remarkable journal which he left, one
is forced to the conclusion that he was right; if ever man deserved
success, if ever achievement with glory and safety should have been
vouchsafed, it should have been to Scott; but the lap of the gods is
often a sacrificial altar on which men lay down their lives for the
sake of great ideals.

It was on November 1 that the Southern Party set out. It consisted of
ten men, in charge of ten ponies drawing sledges, and two men leading
the dogs which were to take the ponies’ places when the latter were
done. Everything was favourable for the send-off, and the company
arrived at Hut Point, the first stoppage place, quite safely. From
there they pushed on again in three parties, the slowest starting
first, and the others following at sufficient intervals for all to
arrive at the end of the day’s stage at the same time. The motor party
going on in front were putting up cairns for guidance, and Scott
himself on the journey to One Ton Depot had placed landmarks to guide
them. On the 4th Scott came across the wreck of the sledge worked by
Captain Evans and Day--a cylinder had gone wrong, and the motor had had
to be abandoned, the men going on with the other sledge. This was the
first bit of ill-luck, but the days to come were to bring much more.
The dash to One Ton Depot consisted of hard going over rough surfaces;
there were blizzards, trouble with the ponies; snow walls had to be
built to protect the animals at camp after a long and hard night’s
toil, during which they had journeyed seldom more than ten miles. Night
was chosen because it enabled them to escape the sun, which even in
that latitude was sufficient to make them sweat as they forced their
way over the terrible ground. They reached One Ton Depot at last, and
then picked up the motor party, commanded by Evans, on November 21. The
motorists had been waiting six days, unable to go any farther.

The little band now plunged forward again, meeting the same difficult
surface, having the same trouble with the ponies, one of whom had
to be shot on the 24th, the day on which the first supporting party,
consisting of Day and Hooper, were sent back to the base. Two days
later a depot was laid, Middle Barrier Depot, and on the 28th, when
ninety miles from the Glacier, another pony was shot, and provided food
for the dogs. Ninety miles were still to be covered, and there was
only food for seven marches for the animals. It would be stiff going,
for Scott was relying upon the ponies getting him to the foot of the
Glacier.

Having laid another depot on December 1, thus lightening the load, and
hoping to be able to make good progress, they were furiously opposed
by the elements. On the 3rd, the 4th, and the 5th, blizzards blew down
upon them, impeding them, making the work trebly difficult, and the
last one holding them up for four days, during which food, precious
food, and much-needed fuel were being consumed without any progress
being made. Impatient, bitterly cold, with the animals getting worn
out, Scott and his companions had to keep to their tents, eager to
go on, but realising that to venture forth was to court disaster.
Experienced Polar explorer though he was, Scott was at a loss to
account for the character of the weather at this, the most favourable,
only practicable, time of the year. It was disheartening, especially
when they had to start on the rations that they had reckoned would not
be needed until they reached the summit of the Glacier. But at last the
blizzard blew itself out, and, stiff and cold, the party set out again,
each day finding their ponies becoming weaker, until on the 9th, at
Camp 31, named the Shambles, all these were shot.

Then it was a case of the dogs pulling the sledges, and on the 10th
the explorers began the ascent of the Beardmore Glacier, the summit
of which was thousands of feet above them. Meares and Atkinson left
for the base on the 11th, and the reduced party trudged forward and
upwards, now having to go down again to avoid some dangerous part,
toiling manfully up the Glacier, in danger of falling into crevasses,
sinking into soft snow, which made the surface so difficult that after
trudging for hours and hours only four miles were covered when they had
hoped to do ten or more. By the 22nd, when the next supporting party
left, they had climbed 7,100 feet (the day before they had been up
8,000 feet) and then a heavy mist enshrouded them, and hung them up for
some hours--when every minute was precious.

When they started on the 22nd there were but eight men, and these
toiled on day after day, meeting all sorts of trouble, running all
kinds of risks, but never stopping unless compelled, dropping a depot
on the last day of the year, and sending back three men on the 4th.
This left only Scott, Captain Oates, Petty Officer Evans, Dr. Wilson
and Lieutenant Bowers to make the final dash to the Pole. They had over
a month’s rations, which was considered ample to do the 150 miles that
separated them from their goal.

The party now had the small ten-foot sledges, which were neat and
compact, and much lighter than the twelve-foot sledges which were sent
back. The dogs had now gone back, and all the pulling was done by the
men. The difficulty of the surface made them leave their skis behind
on the 7th, but later on that day the surface become so much easier
that it was decided to go back for the skis, which delayed them nearly
an hour and a half. They were now on the summit, and were held up by
a blizzard which, though it delayed them, gave them the opportunity
for a rest which they sadly needed, especially Evans, who had hurt his
hand badly while attending to the sledges. On the 9th they were able
to start again, now swinging out across the great Polar plateau. They
cached more stores on the 10th, and found the lightening of the load
very helpful. But even then, so hard was the pulling, that on the 11th,
when only seventy-four miles from the Pole, Scott asked himself whether
they could keep up the struggle for another seven days. Never had men
worked so hard before at so monotonous a task; winds blew upon them,
clouds worried them because they knew not what might come in their
wake; snow was falling and covering the track behind them, sufficient
to cause them some anxiety, for they wanted that track to lead them
home again via their depots upon which safety depended.

The weather! Day by day the weather worried them; only that could
baulk them in their purpose, and never men prayed so much for fine
days as did these. The 16th found them still forcing their way onward,
with lightened loads again, having left a depot on the previous day,
consisting of four days’ food; and they knew that they were now only
two good marches from the Pole. Considering they carried with them nine
days’ rations, while just behind lay another four days’, they felt that
all would be well if the weather would but keep clear for them.

The thing that now troubled these men who toiled so manfully against
great odds was the thought that lurked in their minds that when they
reached the Pole they might find that they had been forestalled. For
they knew, everyone of them, that the Norwegian, Amundsen, was bent
on achieving what they were hoping to do: on being first at the Pole.
They knew, too, that things had been more favourable for him from the
very outset; that he had been able to set out from a much better spot
than they had. What if they attained the goal, only to find a foreign
flag flying bravely in the breeze? The thought was maddening; but the
Britishers were sportsmen. And when months before Scott had heard that
Amundsen was in the South, instead of trying for the North Pole, as he
had given out when he started, the gallant captain had made up his mind
to act just as if he had no competitor.

Next day, the 16th, all their hopes were dashed to the ground. Away
out across the white expanse there loomed a tiny black speck, and
immediately Scott’s thoughts flew to Amundsen. Some of his companions
said it was one thing, others another. As they pulled hard at their
loads the five men debated amongst themselves, trying to cheer each
other up, seeking to cast aside the horrible thought that would force
its way into their minds.

And then, the black spot was reached. It was a black flag, tied to a
sledge bearer. It was the sign that the Norwegians had won in the race.

All around were signs of a camp, which to the filmed eyes of the
explorers were the tokens of their failure to be first.

“It is a terrible disappointment,” wrote Scott in his diary, “and I
am very sorry for my loyal companions. Many thoughts come and much
discussion have we had. To-morrow we must march on to the Pole, and
then hasten home with the utmost speed we can compass. All the day
dreams must go; it will be a wearisome return.”

And the next day the Pole was reached, and from out its solitude and
austerity the great explorer cried:

“Great God! This is an awful place, and terrible enough for us to have
laboured to it without the reward of priority....”

The great goal had been won; but the joy of achievement was dimmed;
Amundsen’s records and tent were found there, the Norwegian flag
had been hoisted and flaunted bravely in the wind. They had been
forestalled by over a month.

Having fixed up their “poor slighted Union Jack,” as Scott called it,
the explorers turned northwards again, and began to retrace their
footsteps over the Polar plateau, which had cost them so much labour
to cross, then down the great Glacier with ever worsening weather. The
men themselves, who had been so fit coming out, were now beginning to
show signs of their gigantic labours; perhaps now, when the day dreams
were over, and hopes long deferred had been fulfilled and dashed to
pieces at one moment, they were disheartened; there was not the spur
of achievement before them. Evans and Oates began to show signs of
weariness--those two strong men of the party. Evans had his nose and
fingers frostbitten and suffered much agony. Then, while descending the
Glacier, he tumbled on the Glacier, fell among rough ice which injured
his head, and gave him a touch of concussion of the brain. Dr. Wilson
injured his leg, and snow-blindness was causing him much trouble. All
these things impeded the party, to whom time was everything; food
depended on picking up the depots on the right days--perhaps hours; and
when, as often happened, the track was not easily found, the anxiety of
the explorers was considerably increased.

Then Evans grew worse; from being self-reliant, and the man on whom the
party had been able to look for help in any circumstances, he became
weak and wellnigh helpless; he lagged behind, and the party had to wait
for him to catch up. On February 17 at the foot of the Glacier, after
a terribly hard day’s work, Evans--poor man!--was so far behind when
the party camped, that his comrades became anxious and went back for
him. They found him. The limit of human endurance had been reached.
“He was on his knees, with clothing disarranged, hands uncovered and
frostbitten, and a wild look in his eyes.” They got him to the tent
with great difficulty, and he died that night. Scott mourned his loss;
and his journal is full of his praises of the petty officer who had
been so indefatigable a worker and so adaptable a man, doing everything
his inventive genius could think of to lighten the work for the
explorers.

One day was now much like another to the four men left; they pushed on
and on, picking up depots as they went, and suffering every day from
the bitter cold, and feeling the effects of the hard work. On March
16, Captain Oates went out. Frostbitten hands and feet had made life
burdensome for him, and he knew that he was a burden to the gallant men
with him; without him, they could progress much quicker.

“Go on without me,” he had said, earlier in the day. “I’ll keep in my
sleeping bag!” But they had prevailed upon him to keep on. Like a hero
he forced himself to struggle on until they camped at night. When the
morning came he awoke. Of him in those last moments Scott said: “He was
a brave soul.... It was blowing a blizzard. He said: ‘I’m just going
outside, and may be some time.’ He went out into the blizzard, and we
have not seen him since.... We knew that poor Oates was walking to his
death; but though we tried to dissuade him, we knew it was the act of a
brave man and an English gentleman.”

He had sacrificed himself for the sake of the others. “Greater love
hath no man than this.”

Reduced now to three men, the little party struggled on gamely,
fighting against the weariness that was upon them, making with all
haste for One Ton Depot. They had expected ere this to have met the
dogs which were to come out to help them back, but misfortune had
overtaken Cherry Garrard, who had been waiting at One Ton Depot for six
days held up by a blizzard. He had not sufficient food for the dogs to
enable him to go south, and he knew that the state of the weather might
easily make him miss Scott, whereas to wait at the depot was to be on
hand when Scott did turn up.

Now the dire peril of their position forced itself upon them; though
they fought to drive the thoughts away, manfully cheering each other
up, none of them believed that they would ever get through, and on
March 18, when twenty-one miles from the depot, the wind compelled them
to call a halt. Scott’s right foot was frostbitten; he suffered from
indigestion; they had only a half fill of oil left and a small amount
of spirit. It meant that when this was gone, they could have no more
hot drink--which would bring the end.

Despite their sufferings they went on again, until on the 21st they
were camped eleven miles from the depot, a blizzard raging round them,
little food, no fuel, and knowing in their hearts that when the next
day dawned they could not continue the journey perilous and laborious;
the end was at hand.

Days before Scott and Bowers had made Dr. Wilson give them that which
would enable them to put an end to their misery; but now to-night, when
face to face with death, they resolved that they would die natural
deaths; it should not be said of them that they shirked. Each morning
until the 29th they got ready to start for the depot that was so near,
with its food, its fuel, its warmth, its companions; and each day they
found the blizzard howling about them, as effectual a barrier as if it
had been a cast-iron wall.

“We shall stick it out to the end,” wrote Scott on the 29th, “but we
are getting weaker, of course, and the end cannot be far.

“It seems a pity, but I do not think I can write more.

“For God’s sake look after our people!”

And so they died, these heroes and gentlemen; and through Scott’s last
letters which were found with the dead bodies in the tent on November
10 there is but one thought running: the care of the people left behind
and the praises of the men who had accompanied him. Never were such
eulogiums written. “Gallant, noble gentlemen,” he called them, as death
brooded over him; and throughout every line there was the spirit of
cheeriness which takes life--and death--as becomes a hero who knows
that failure was no fault of his own, that man can do no more than
fight nobly against the forces arrayed against him.




STORIES OF THE LIFEBOAT

Noble Deeds of Brave Men


The bluff and hearty men, heroes every one, who live all around the
coasts, ready to launch their lifeboats to go to the aid of shipwrecked
mariners, have a bright page in the history of the sea. They are
the saviours of those who go down to the sea in ships, and on every
errand of mercy they literally take their lives in their hands, place
themselves on the knees of the gods ready for sacrifice.

Sometimes the gods accept the sacrifice.

It happened so in the case of the Fethard lifeboat which, on February
20, 1914, pushed off to the assistance of the Norwegian schooner
_Mexico_, wrecked on the rocky island of South Keeragh. The _Mexico_,
losing her bearings when off the south coast of Ireland, was driven
into Bannow Bay, missed stays when her crew tried to put her about, was
caught by the fierce S.S.W. gale and the strong tide, and driven close
to the South Keeragh Island.

On the mainland it was quickly observed that the _Mexico_ was in a
dangerous position, and about 3 P.M. the lifeboat _Helen Blake_ shoved
off to her assistance. The gallant lifeboatmen pulled their hardest,
hoping to reach the spot in time to help the _Mexico_ before the
howling wind and the strong tide had finished the work begun; but,
though they tugged as they had never tugged before, they were too late.
The _Mexico_ was picked up like an india-rubber ball and flung against
the rock island. There was a grating sound as the hull crashed into the
rocks; the ripping of her bottom seemed like a clap of thunder; and
then the heavily laden ship, carrying tons of mahogany logs, bumped and
bumped again upon the rocks, which held her fast.

The men in the lifeboat, now fifty yards away, held their breath for
a moment as they saw the disaster; then on they went again, carried
this time not of their own free will, but by the relentless elemental
forces. A heavy breaker caught the boat, broke over her in a mighty
volume of water, and filled her up to the thwarts.

“Let go the anchor!” was the cry; and instantly the anchor was flung
overboard. But, before it could bring her up, three or four following
seas, as though eager to ensure destruction, caught the boat, and with
her freight of heroes, hurled her with a mighty crash against the
rocks. She smashed to pieces as though she had been built of china.

Fourteen men she had carried; and in an instant fourteen men were
struggling for dear life in the midst of a boiling sea. Pygmies
fighting against the giant forces of Nature, children beating puny
hands upon the leering face of death, striving to force the black angel
back; such were these men who, seeking to save others, were in danger
of losing themselves. And in the titanic struggle nine men were lost.

Five of them won. Buffeted against the rocks, clutching and loosing,
they fought for handhold and foothold, and at last, scrambling over the
slippery points, they managed to fight to safety.

Then, weary and half dead themselves, they thought of what they had
come out to do. The _Mexico_ was still bumping dangerously upon the
rocks, men clinging to rigging, or to anything near at hand, lest
the waves wash them away, or the lurching of the ship pitch them
overboard--to death. And those heroes, who had felt the wings of the
Angel of Death brush against them as he passed by, began the task of
saving the men on the _Mexico_.

How they did it they never realised; but they knew they worked hard,
and one by one, by means of ropes, they brought eight men off the
wrecked ship on to the island. It is but a bald statement of the fact
that, but with untellable heroism, indomitable determination, and
sublime indifference to death and danger behind it.

With no boats, no food or water except what the _Mexico_ men had
managed to bring with them, and that all-insufficient, the thirteen men
found themselves stranded on a barren island, with a raging tempest
about them and no help in sight.

They passed the first night in shivering despair, huddling together to
warm each other. Morning came, and brought no signs of succour, though
during the night other lifeboatmen had sought to sally forth to their
help, but had been beaten back by the anger of the gale.

The Wexford boat, _James Stevens_, and the Kilmore boat, _The Sisters_,
had swept through the darkness towards them, their men fighting
gallantly and the boats wrestling bravely with the waves and wind; but
all to no avail. They had to put back, her mission unfulfilled.

Meanwhile, a message had been sent to the Chief Inspector of Lifeboats
in London, Commander Thomas Holmes, R.N., who was dispatched
immediately to take charge of the operations.

Presently the stranded men saw through the haze of the storm a black
dot, tossing about on the bosom of the sea. It was the lifeboat _Fanny
Harriet_, from Dunmore East, whose gallant crew were making an attempt
to reach them. She fought bravely against the tumult, but was driven
back again and again, until her crew, realising that it was hopeless to
stay out any longer, reluctantly put back to harbour. Then once again,
and yet again, the Kilmore boat plunged into the sea, followed by the
Wexford boat, _James Stevens_. Yet all they could do was useless, and
they were forced to return to shore. Father Neptune was winning.

When Commander Holmes arrived on the scene at 3 P.M. on the Sunday he
found the _Fanny Harriet_ lying in harbour at Fethard, her men eating
their heads off as they thought of their enforced idleness. Something
about the commander brought back to these heroes the determination to
succeed; and the boat was launched again, and fought her way towards
the island. Once again, however, they were frustrated. The ground swell
prevented them from getting anywhere near the island, and the stranded
men wrung their hands as they saw her turn about. Hungry, thirsty, they
looked forward to nothing but death. Already one of their number, a man
from the _Mexico_, had succumbed to the exposure, and they saw in his
fate the picture of their own, unless help came soon. They covered him
up with some canvas and clods of earth.

[Illustration: “She fought bravely against the tumult, but was driven
back again and again”]

To the imperilled men the night of Saturday, the 21st, had been a
terrible one. The gale that swept them was the worst known on the south
coast of Ireland for many years, and the lifeboatmen, who had passed
through many terrors of the sea, knew that they stood little chance of
being taken off. For the thirteen men there were but two small tins of
preserved meat and a few limpets. On the schooner were provisions in
plenty, but it was impossible to get into her to fetch them off; and,
with food so near, they were face to face with hunger. Water, there
was none; their drink consisted of a little brandy and half a pint of
wine, which the _Mexico’s_ captain had managed to bring with him when
leaving the vessel. The biting wind blew down upon them, cutting them
to the bone; the spray flung up by the breaking waves drenched them,
and they had no shelter from the pouring rain. Yet the Fethard men bore
up bravely, encouraging the Norwegians and giving them hope, for they
knew that no efforts would be spared to get them off.

As, one by one, they saw the lifeboats try to reach them, only to be
beaten back, not all the cheering words of the Irishmen served to keep
up the spirits of the foreigners; and in their own hearts the Fethard
men realised the hopelessness of it all. They might stay there until
death came; for succour, it seemed, could never come.

But in Fethard Commander Holmes was not idle. When the _Fanny Harriet_
came back on the Sunday evening, he telephoned to Wexford, informing
the lifeboatmen that, on the Monday morning, another attempt would be
made, and asking them to proceed to the scene on the chance that the
weather would have moderated sufficiently to allow of something being
done. Of course, the Wexford men said “Yes,” and, all being arranged,
at six o’clock in the morning Holmes entered the _Fanny Harriet_. She
carried a Dunmore East crew, and a Fethard man to pilot them, for the
whole locality was strewn with hidden rocks and boulders. Fortunately,
the gale had subsided somewhat, and the lifeboat was able to approach
the vicinity of the wreck. Her men could see the stranded wretches, who
waved at them frantically, urging them onwards.

But the ground swell breaking outside the remains of the _Mexico_
was still so heavy that it was necessary for the lifeboat to cruise
round the island before a spot could be found whence it was possible
to approach the shore. At last the boat was anchored in a fairly
good position some hundred yards off the rocks; and the lifeboatmen
immediately attempted to effect communication with the castaways.
Rocket after rocket was fired, and eventually they succeeded in getting
a stick-rocket ashore with a cod-line attached. By this means a strong
line was hauled in by the men, and a small skiff which had been brought
by the lifeboat was attached to the line, and veered successfully to
within ten yards of the island. It seemed that rescue was really at
hand, and the shivering, exhausted men brightened up. They would be
saved!

Then their hopes were dashed to the ground. A heavy sea caught the
skiff, a great wave broke upon her, filled her, and drove her with a
crash against the rocks, which smashed her to pieces. But one ray of
hope came to those men. A lifebuoy which was in the skiff was washed
near to the shore, and a man plunged in, grasped it, and brought it
ashore, and felt that all was not lost.

Commander Holmes hailed them, and sought to get them to trust
themselves to the lifebuoy, which the rescuers would drag through the
seas with its living burden. It was asking much, and all knew it. It
meant casting oneself upon the mercy of a tumultuous sea, meant giving
oneself up to the danger of being flung upon rocks and boulders, to be
dashed to death. The stranded men looked at each other; no one spoke.
Then one man, the desire of life surging through him, took up the buoy,
to which the rope had been fastened, placed himself in it, and hurled
himself into the water, to be pulled into the lifeboat--safe! Another
man, seeing this, followed his example; but the others, worn out by
their experiences, preferred to wait for some surer way to safety than
that, and elected to stay on the island.

While this was going on, the Wexford boat arrived on the scene, having
been towed out by her tug. It was now a quarter past eight in the
morning, and she anchored close to the _Fanny Stevens_, but in a rather
better position; and, to the rapture of the men on the island, she had
brought with her a strong punt, which was more suitable for the work in
hand than the skiff brought from Fethard.

Two men of the Wexford boat, heroes both of them, volunteered to work
the punt. They were William Duggan and James Wickham. They got into
her, veered her down, with a rope attached to her bows, from the _James
Stevens_, and, after a fearful experience, seized the opportunity that
a “smooth” offered, and got her close enough to the rocks to snatch two
of the men. Then, with a heave-ho! they dragged them into the punt,
which was at once hauled back to the lifeboat.

Then out again in the same way the two heroes went. But this time they
were not fortunate enough to escape damage. A wave caught them, and, as
though the punt had been a toy yacht, flung her upon the rocks, which
she hit with a crash; and, when the retiring waves dragged her back,
the two men found that she had a hole in her side. Resourceful, calm,
they grabbed up a loaf of bread and some packing, and with this stopped
up the hole that had threatened to send the boat to the bottom; and
then struck out once more for the rocks. That time two more men were
saved; and so the work went on, Duggan and Wickham getting to shore
no less than five times, taking off two men at each attempt, until
the whole party of weary and almost frozen men were brought to the
lifeboat. Death had been in attendance all along; but they braved it.
They stuck stubbornly to their self-appointed task, and they succeeded.

It took but little time for the tug to take the lifeboats in tow, and
in due course the survivors of the tragic wreck were landed. The end
had come to one of the most heroic episodes in the history of the
lifeboat. Nay, not the end, for there was still the work of caring for
those whom the death of the gallant men had left behind; and the Royal
National Lifeboat Institution did all in its power to assist, while
Their Majesties of Norway contributed to the fund opened, as also did
the Storthing. And, later, the men who had worked so heroically, and
had done so well, had their efforts recognised, though to them the
greatest satisfaction was in knowing that they had wrought well, and
had snatched precious lives from the greedy maw of the sea.

       *       *       *       *       *

A still more recent instance of heroic endeavour on the part of the
lifeboatmen was on the occasion of the wreck of the hospital ship
_Rohilla_. She had been taken over by the Government for use as a
hospital ship, and on Friday, October 30, 1914, when on her way to
Dunkirk, she ran into a terrific E.S.E. gale. She had 229 people on
board, including a medical staff and five nurses, bent on doing their
best for the maimed heroes who had fought for country and honour on the
battlefields of Belgium and France.

The official report of the Royal Lifeboat Institution, on which this
story is founded, is a vivid and graphic description of a tremendous
calamity.

It was soon after four o’clock in the morning that the _Rohilla_
encountered the storm, and, though her captain and crew did their very
utmost, she ran on to a dangerous reef of rocks and lay at the mercy
of a furious sea. Captain Neilson, who commanded, tried to get all the
men to go forward, but those on the poop and aft could not cross the
after part, over which giant seas were breaking. Pounded by mountainous
waves, the _Rohilla_ quickly broke in halves, and many of those on
the after part of the ship were washed away at once, and perished. As
soon as she struck, signals of distress were made, and Coxswain Thomas
Langlands was promptly called. The sea was far too heavy to do anything
until daybreak, when the No. 2 Lifeboat, _John Fielden_, was hauled on
skids under the Spa Ladder--a gangway from the East Pier at Whitby to
the cliff--and along the rocky scaur to the scene of the wreck. This
necessitated getting the boat over a sea-wall eight feet in height--a
most formidable task.

In transporting the boat she was stove in in two places. She was,
nevertheless, launched, and succeeded in reaching the wreck, which
lay surrounded by a mass of rocks. Twelve men and five women were
saved and brought ashore. The boat was then again launched, and, after
a fearful struggle with terrific seas, got to the vessel and saved
eighteen more, the heavy waves which swept through the ship or broke
over her deck filling the lifeboat time after time. Unfortunately, the
boat soon became unfit for further service, owing to repeated bumping
on the rocks. Captain John Mil-burn, a member of the local committee,
then sent for the Upgang lifeboat, which was, with great difficulty,
transported to the vicinity of the wreck.

By means of ropes the boat was lowered down the almost precipitous
cliffs, and preparations were made for her launch, but nothing could
be done in the tremendous seas running. In the meantime the Teesmouth
motor lifeboat and the lifeboat stationed at Scarborough had been
called by telephone to the assistance of those still on the wreck.

Meanwhile, the Whitby coastguards were firing rockets in rapid
succession, in the hope of getting lines to the ship; but only one was
secured--and this was of no use to the shivering people who were on the
bridge, which at any moment might give way.

The Scarborough lifeboat, _Queensbury_, in tow of the steam trawler
_Morning Star_, started as soon as possible. It was quite dark
when they arrived, and in the gale it was hopeless to establish
communication with the wreck. Both craft, however, remained at hand
through the night, and the endurance of the lifeboatmen was severely
tested during their long vigil. At daybreak, finding that it was still
impossible to get near the wreck, they returned to Scarborough.

In view of the tremendous seas making up the river at Teesmouth, it
was decided not to dispatch the boat until daybreak next morning.
This decision was conveyed to Whitby by telephone, and at 5 A.M. next
morning the crew left Redcar for Teesmouth, accompanied by the Tees
Commissioners’ tug. In crossing the bar the lifeboat encountered
tremendous seas, and, as a result of falling into the trough of a
mountainous wave, she sprang such a serious leak that she became
disabled, and it became necessary for the tug to take the crew on board
and tow the lifeboat back to Middlesbrough.

On Saturday morning the Upgang crew made a further attempt to rescue
the survivors who were huddled together on one small portion of the
wreck. For over an hour the crew struggled manfully to reach the wreck;
but the sea and the strong current running between the “Nab” and the
wreck was too strong for them, and eventually the men became totally
exhausted, and had to give up their hopeless task.

When the unfortunate men on the wreck, who had held on so bravely
throughout the night, saw the hope of being rescued diminishing, some
of them jumped overboard and attempted to swim ashore, and a number of
the onlookers, with heroic disregard for their own safety, rushed into
the boiling surf and succeeded in dragging many to the shore.

The Whitby No. 1 Lifeboat, in tow of a steam trawler, also got within
half a mile of the wreck, but the sea was too heavy for them to
approach any nearer, and the boat reluctantly returned to harbour.

It now became apparent that only a motor lifeboat would be able to
render effective help, and the Tynemouth motor lifeboat was summoned by
telegram. On Saturday afternoon the gallant crew, under the command of
Coxswain Robert Smith, and accompanied by Captain H. E. Burton, R.E.,
hon. superintendent of the motor lifeboat, started on their perilous
journey. To reach Whitby they were obliged to travel a distance of
forty-four miles through the night and storm, unaided by any coast
lights, which were all extinguished on account of the war. Thanks,
however, to Captain Burton’s intimate knowledge of the Yorkshire coast,
their gallant exertions met with the success which they deserved, and
at 1 A.M. on Sunday morning, November 1, the boat was skilfully brought
into Whitby Harbour.

Four hours later, this boat, with Lieutenant Basil Hall, R.N.,
Inspector of Lifeboats for the Southern District, on board, and the
Whitby second coxswain as pilot, left harbour for the wreck, a supply
of oil being taken to subdue the waves.

The rescue of those who had survived the terrible ordeal for fifty
hours is well described by the representative of the _Yorkshire Post_,
who witnessed the scene, and from whose report we give the following
extracts:

“The light was just rising over the sea at half-past six o’clock when
the boat crept out of the harbour again, and breasted the breakers like
a seabird as she headed straight out into calmer water. The lifeboat,
looking fearfully small and frail, throbbed her way towards the wreck.
Nearer and nearer she got; and then, when within 200 yards of the
_Rohilla_, she turned seawards.”

She was burning flares, and from the shore a searchlight was playing
upon the group of huddling people who had spent so many hours in
darkness and the stress of storm.

“Presently, when she had passed a few fathoms beyond and away from the
wreck, she stopped dead, and discharged over the boiling sea gallons
and gallons of oil. It seemed that the ocean must laugh at these puny
drops, yet the effect was remarkable; within a few seconds the oil
spread over the surface of the water, and the waves appeared suddenly
to be flattened down as by a miracle. In the meantime the lifeboat
turned about, raced at full speed past the stern of the wreck, and then
turned directly towards the shore. The most dangerous moment came when
she was inside the surf and broadside on to the waves; but, guided with
splendid skill and courage, she moved forward steadily, and a cheer of
relief went out from the shore when she reached the lee of the wreck,
immediately beneath the crowded bridge.

“But there was not a moment to be lost, for already the effects of
the oil were beginning to pass off, and the waves were noticeably
higher. Quicker than thought a rope was let down to the lifeboat,
and immediately figures could be discerned scrambling down into the
boat. In less than a quarter of an hour more than forty men had been
rescued. While the rest were preparing to leave the wreck, two enormous
waves swept over the wreck and enveloped the lifeboat. Each time the
tough little craft disappeared for a moment, reappeared, tottered, and
righted herself gamely. Indeed, not a man was lost, not a splinter
broken. Closer still she hugged the vessel’s side, till every man
aboard--fifty of them in all--had been hauled into the rescuing boat.

“The last man to leave his lost ship was the captain, and as he slipped
into the lifeboat the crew of the latter gave a rousing cheer that was
echoed again and again by the people ashore.”

Even now the lifeboat had not finished its work; there was danger
ahead. Great heads reared at her; a tremendous sea swamped down upon
her, and she nearly capsized; but, shaking herself free, she laboured
away, making fair progress. Then another huge wave rose at her,
threatened her with destruction, was met boldly. Struck broadside
on, the lifeboat was almost on her beam-ends. Watchers on the shore
held their breath. Would she withstand the shock? She did, and swept
gallantly forward, and at last reached the harbour mouth.

What cheers went up then! Men on shore cheered the gallant rescuers,
who cheered back, while the rescued men in the boat joined their voices
with the others. Then the boat came to the quay, and men ran down the
steps to help the saved ashore, where they were soon taken to shelter,
after having passed through a terrible experience.




TALES OF THE SMUGGLERS

Stories of Smugglers’ Ways and Smuggling Days have always had a
Fascination


Anything more adventurous than the lives of the old smugglers would be
hard to find. Nowadays a man seeks to get prohibited goods into the
country by using false bottoms to his trunks, or swathing his legs in
bandages of rich lace; and maybe a woman smuggler cuddles to her bosom
a “baby” of most wonderful make-up--laces, tobacco, scent! But there
is little of the adventurous about that smuggling to-day, and we have
to hark back to the days when men literally took their lives in their
hands in the effort to outwit the Government and to avoid paying the
taxes.

The strangest thing about smuggling is that all classes of people were
engaged in it--sailors, soldiers, fishermen, justices of the peace, and
even clergymen! When a village depended almost entirely for its trade
upon the illicit running of goods, perhaps it is not to be wondered at
that the parson had his sympathies with his parishioners.

A good instance of this is to be found in the story of the smugglers of
Morwenstowe, Cornwall. A visitor from an inland town, strolling along
the beach, stumbled upon the scene of a “landing” one evening. The ship
lying in the offing, the boats hurrying to the beach laden with kegs
of brandy, the people lining the shore, waiting to roll the kegs away
to safety, soon made him realise what was afoot; and, being honest,
he was staggered. And being also very temperate, he was shocked to see
men knocking in the heads of kegs and taking their fill of brandy, and
becoming so far intoxicated as to quarrel amongst themselves.

“What a horrible sight! Have you no shame?” he cried, addressing the
crowd in general. “Is there no magistrate at hand? Cannot any justice
of the peace be found in this fearful country?”

“No, thanks be to God!” came the answer from somewhere amongst the busy
crowd. “None within eight miles.”

“Well, then,” exclaimed the visitor, “is there no clergyman hereabout?
Does no minister of the parish live among you?”

“Aye, to be sure there is,” was the reply.

“Well, how far off does he live? Where is he?” asked the virtuous
gentleman, who next moment received another shock.

“There! That’s he, sir--yonder with the lanthorn,” was the answer
that came to him; and looking in the direction indicated, he saw a
venerable-looking man, in his parson’s clothes, holding the light while
his parishioners worked at robbing the State!

When smuggling began it would be hard to say, except that one would be
safe in supposing that as soon as a thing was taxed attempts were made
to slip it into the country untaxed. As, however, it is not intended
here to try to outline the history of smuggling, we need not worry
about that, but content ourselves with picking out here and there some
of the choice passages from the history.

Something historical, however, must be allowed to intrude, because
it had a great bearing upon smuggling; and that is, that prior to
1816 there were no systematic attempts made to prevent the illicit
importation of taxed goods. True, the Government had excise men and
revenue cutters on guard; but they were all too few, owing chiefly to
the fact that the great wars of the eighteenth century took up most
of the men, while the general slackness tended to make it fairly easy
for the “free trader,” as he was called, to slip into some cove and
unload his illegal cargo. Sometimes, indeed, the revenue men themselves
had lapses and “ran” goods in on their own account! In 1816, however,
following the conclusion of the great peace, the Government instituted
a regular system of smuggling prevention. Kent and Sussex having been
the favourite playground of the smugglers, the coasts of these two
counties were blockaded. A man-o’-war, the _Hyperion_, was stationed
at Newhaven, in Sussex, and the _Ramilles_ in the Downs, off Kent; and
the martello towers which had been erected along the coasts against
the coming of Napoleon’s armies were used to house their crews. To all
intents and purposes these sailors were the first coastguards, and
in due course the system of blockading was carried out all round the
coasts of Britain, chiefly by means of the revenue men and cutters.
On these the Government drew, and duly formed the “Preventive Water
Guard,” whose crews were stationed at certain spots along the coasts to
keep watch and ward day and night.

It is true that at the end of the seventeenth century there were Riding
Officers, whose work was to patrol the south-east coast on the look-out
against wood smugglers. But as there were only about three hundred
of them, and these all civilians, they were by no means an effective
check to the smugglers. Later on they were permitted the assistance of
the dragoons, who naturally resented being placed under the direction
of civilians, with the result that there was much friction, and the
service, instead of being improved, suffered a great deal, the soldiery
incidentally finding it a paying game to keep in with the smugglers.

In 1822 changes were made, and the civilian riding officers disappeared
and their places were taken by men from the cavalry regiments, and
at the same time the Board of Customs was given sole control of the
preventive services, which then consisted, as we have seen, of the
revenue cutters, Preventive Water Guard, and Riding Officers. Seven
years later something more was done--the coastguard proper was born.
No man was eligible for the service unless he was between twenty
and thirty years of age and had served six years at sea or seven
years’ apprenticeship in fishing-boats. The new force justified its
creation, and in a few years took charge of the work that had been
done by the revenue men who had been detailed for the blockade system
along the east and south coasts; and then, later, the revenue men
were made liable to service on board the men-o’-war; so that to-day
the coastguard force is a part of the Royal Navy, and has even had
its taste of active service, having been found of immense use, for
instance, in the Crimean War.

So much for the dry bones of history as seen in the development of the
coastguard force, which is bound up with the story of smuggling, from
which we will now cull some instances.

The smuggler was honest--in some ways. For instance, away back in the
latter half of the eighteenth century there lived a man who, named John
Carter, received the sobriquet “The King of Prussia.” Carter’s home
was at Porth Leah, in Mount’s Bay, that wonderful place in Cornwall.
To Porth Leah was later given the name of Prussia Cove, in honour of
the “honest smuggler,” who did things so thoroughly that he erected a
battery with which to keep the revenue cutters at bay, cut a road by
which he could transport his cargoes from the harbour--which he also
built; and out of the many caves along the coast fashioned cellars in
which to store his goods. In fact, Porth Leah was what one might call a
smugglers’ community.

The “King of Prussia” had a regular trade with regular customers,
to whom he would, like any other trader, make definite promises of
delivery; and, being a stickler for good business, he never let
anything stand in the way of his carrying out his contracts. One day,
while he was away, the excise officers found a cargo just arrived at
Porth Leah from France. They promptly seized the cargo and carried it
off to Penzance, and put it in the Custom House store under guard.
Thus it was that Carter, coming back, found his cargo gone--and he had
promised to deliver it to his customers on a certain day.

“See here!” he exclaimed to his men. “Whaat be I to do? I be an honest
maan, and must keeap me woord. I tell ’ee, men, we be gwine to d’liver
they goods ’cordin’ to pledge!”

His men knew that when Carter felt that his reputation as an honest
man was at stake he would take strong measures, and got themselves
ready against the coming of night. In due course they embarked on their
ship, and, armed to the teeth, as becomes men going on a perilous
errand, sailed across to Penzance. Arrived here, they fell upon the few
Customs officers left in charge, and before they knew what had happened
the latter were prisoners and the smugglers were rifling the stores,
seeking their confiscated cargo. Not a thing did Carter or his men take
away that wasn’t their own. They weren’t out thieving! Away they went
with their cargo to Porth Leah, where they quickly stowed it in their
cave-cellars, ready to ship again when the time came for Carter to
deliver his goods as per contract!

Thus, while saving his reputation the King of Prussia added to it, for
when, the next morning, the revenue officers came to the Custom House
and found what had happened, they soon made up their minds who had been
at work:

“It was Jack Carter,” they said. “He always was honest, and took
nothing that wasn’t his own.”

The romantic stories of smugglers abound in incidents connected with
the caves they used for hiding their illicit cargoes. All along the
coasts may be seen these galleried caves, and if you can get hold of
the oldest inhabitant, he will tell you tales of wonder and danger. One
oldest inhabitant of a Dorset village told me such a story once.

It would seem that on a certain night a cargo was to be run, and one
by one, at this inn and the other, men gathered to await the coming
of night. When twilight fell, men were posted at different points of
the cliff to keep a look-out for a revenue cutter, and in the event
of one coming, to endeavour to warn the men bringing the smuggling
vessel in. No cutter appeared, and in due time--almost to the minute
arranged--the smugglers came into view. Word was sent to the inns, and
the men hurried down to the shore, helped to pull the vessel up, and
then began the work of unloading her. Methodically, as though each man
had been trained to the work, the smugglers set about the task, getting
barrels, casks, and what not ashore in an incredibly short time; and
while one batch did this, another hoisted the bales on their own backs
or the backs of pack-horses. Then away they went into the night, making
for their secret store-house. This was a cave with a small entrance,
barely large enough for a man to squeeze through; but inside it opened
out into a large, roomy place with niches cut. In these holes the
goods were stored as, one by one, men came in with them; and the work
was almost done when there came from outside the sounds which told
them that trouble was afoot. The revenue men, perhaps warned by some
gossiper of what was going on, had dashed round a headland in their
cutter and interrupted the work.

Before the smugglers knew what had happened the cutter had swept into
the little cove, there was a sharp command of “In the King’s name!”
followed by roars from the smugglers, who, thus trapped, began to think
of safety. The horses that were at hand were whipped up, men seized
whatever lay near them, and before the revenue men could land they
were running inland, keeping clear of the cave so that the Government
men should not find it. As quickly as possible the Customs men leaped
ashore, rushed after the fleeing men, called upon them to surrender,
were answered by curses, and immediately opened fire.

It was the signal for a free fight. Armed, all of them, the smugglers
dropped their burdens and turned about. Shots rang out, the pistols
flashed fire, cries of men arose; revenue men fell to the ground,
smugglers bit the dust, but it seemed that the officers must win, when
suddenly there was a rush. Under cover of the darkness the men in the
cave had slipped out, made a detour, and then, with shouts and shots,
fell upon the revenue men, and in a few minutes had put them to flight.

Then, wasting no time on the wounded officers, the smugglers went
back; some got into the boat and slipped out with her, while the rest
finished the work of hiding the goods.

The “run” was over, and for several weeks the smugglers remained quiet,
lest they should be traced as having taken part in the murderous affray.

We have referred above to the smugglers of Kent, and these gentry were
by no means the honest kind of folk like the Cornishmen. A typical
case of Kentish smugglers’ ways is that of the Hawkhurst gang, who,
under their leader, Thomas Kingsmill, earned such a reputation for
ruffianism that a special body called the “Goudhurst Militia” was
raised to resist them, and many a stiff fight did the two bands have.
The most disgraceful happenings in the career of the Hawkhurst gang
were those that followed the affair of the Poole Custom House, where an
illicit cargo of tea, valued at £500, had been taken into store by the
officers. This cargo had been destined for Sussex, and the Hawkhurst
gang and the Sussex men made a compact to break open the Custom House
and rescue it.

Accordingly, on October 6, 1747, the smugglers set out for Poole,
having arranged that thirty of them were to make the attack and thirty
were to keep a look-out on the various roads. Arriving at Poole late at
night, they sent a couple of men into the town to see if the way was
clear.

One of the scouts came back with information that a large sloop lay in
the harbour, in such a position that she might easily train her guns on
the door of the Custom House and blow them to the winds if they dared
to attack. The Sussex men were scared, and, preferring to lose the tea
than their lives, turned back as if to go away. But Kingsmill cried:

“If you won’t do it, we’ll go and do it ourselves!”

The result was a consultation, during which another man came from the
harbour to say that the tide was low and that the sloop could not
bring her guns to bear on the raiders. The consultation came to an
end, and the smugglers went forward, riding down a little back lane
on the left of the town until they came to the seashore, where they
left their horses. Then on to the Custom House, which they soon broke
open, and, taking their tea, carried it to their horses, packed it, and
rode away mightily pleased with themselves. Next morning they arrived
at Fordingbridge. Here they had breakfast and fed their horses, going
on afterwards to a place called Brook, where they obtained a pair of
steel-yards and weighed the tea, which was then divided amongst the men.

The news of the raid set the Customs folk by the ears, and a reward
was offered for the apprehension of the raiders, but months passed
by without the Government officials being able to obtain a clue. “A
striking commentary, surely,” says Lieutenant H. N. Shore in “Smuggling
Days and Smuggling Ways,” “on the state of merry England in the year
of grace 1747! Here was a body of thirty armed men riding into a
seaport town, storming the ‘King’s warehouse,’ and passing openly and
undisguised the following morning with their booty through a portion of
the most civilised and thickly populated part of England, and yet not a
single individual of the many who witnessed the passage of the strange
cavalcade, and were acquainted with many of those composing it, could
be induced to come forward and assist the authorities in bringing the
offenders to justice.”

Eventually, however, a clue was obtained. In the February following
the raid one named Chater, a shoemaker of Fordingbridge, was going,
in company with a Customs officer named Galley, to make a call upon
Major Batten, J.P. for Sussex. The couple arrived at the small village
of Rowland’s Castle, and put up at the “White Hart” for refreshment,
and probably, after dining not wisely but too well, they let slip the
information that they were bound for Major Batten. Now there were few
people in those days who were not hand in glove with the smugglers, and
the least suspicious sign was always conveyed to the smugglers to be
on their guard. Widow Payne, who kept the inn, had two smuggler sons,
and these she at once dispatched to give warning; and in due course
men began to drop into the “White Hart.” They chummed up with the
strangers, drank and talked with them, and at last Chater, inveigled
outside, volunteered the information that he was on his way to swear
against one of the men who had taken part in the Poole Custom House
affair. Galley, Chater’s companion, began to wonder what was afoot, and
came outside to see; and had no sooner shown his face out of the door
than he was knocked head over heels.

“I am a King’s officer,” he exclaimed, “and----”

“A King’s officer, are you?” said his assailant. “I’ll make a King’s
officer of you; and for a quartern of gin I’ll serve you so again!”

The smuggler’s mates gathered round, and realising that open methods
would be rash, succeeded in soothing the irate King’s officer; and the
company went back to the inn to drink and feast. Sad to relate, Chater
and Galley got drunk, and had to be put to bed; and when they awoke
they found themselves on the back of a horse, being carried they knew
not whither, but with men slashing at them with whips and crying:

“Whip ’em, cut ’em, slash ’em, curse ’em!”

The smugglers had at first made up their minds to hide them for a
while, until the commotion had blown over, and then send them away
to France; but the smugglers’ wives had considered this too mild
treatment, and had called out for their death. “Hang the dogs!” they
cried. “For they came to hang us!”

Eventually, however, gentler measures were suggested, and it was
decided that the men were to be secreted until it was discovered
what was to be done with the smuggler who had been arrested--the man
against whom Chater was going to give evidence. Each of the ruffians
had agreed to give threepence a week towards the keep of the two men,
but, drink-maddened, they soon forgot this, and set to work to belabour
the unfortunate men, who at last rolled under the horse’s belly, and
hung thus while the animal was driven like mad, the hoofs striking the
men’s heads as they went. Then they were hoisted on to the horse’s back
again, and the whipping renewed until the poor fellows were a mass of
bruises and weals and too exhausted to keep on the horse’s back. They
were then untied, slung across other horses, and carried on through the
night, till the men cried out in their agony to be shot through the
head.

Presently unconsciousness came to their relief. Arrived at Rake, near
Liss, the smugglers drew up at the “Red Lion,” and induced the landlord
to admit them. Here they imbibed afresh, and, drink-sodden, no doubt,
they took Galley’s body and buried it in a sand-pit--probably while he
was alive, for when the corpse was exhumed it was found that his hands
were before his face, as though held there to protect it.

Chater, exhausted and running blood, was taken to the village of
Trotton and chained to a post in a turf house, with two smugglers to
guard him, and with barely enough food to keep him alive, pending the
decision of the smugglers as to what to do with him. Next day they
spent in revelry, and at night they repaired to the turf house, where
one of them, drawing a large clasp knife, went up to Chater and cried:

“Down on your knees and to prayers! I’ll be your butcher!”

Chater, who was frightened almost to death, knelt, and the next instant
received a kick in the back. Gasping, he asked tremblingly what had
become of Galley.

“We’ve killed him, curse you!” cried one of the ruffians. “And we’ll
kill you!” And drawing his clasp knife, slashed it across the man’s
eyes and nose, almost cutting out both eyes and slitting the gristle
of his nose! A second slash made a terrible gash on Chater’s forehead,
and after several other barbarities the unfortunate man was tied on a
horse and carried to “Harris’s Well,” in Lady Holt Park, where they
thought to drown him. First, however, they tried to hang him; but the
rope was too short to admit of a sufficient drop, and he hung over the
well. What did the smugglers do but cut the rope and send him hurtling
down the well head first; and then, finding that he still lived, they
pitched stones down at him until they were absolutely certain that he
was dead!

A more revolting case it would be hard to conceive; and as the
smugglers took every precaution to hide traces of their crime, they
considered themselves safe. They overlooked one thing, however.
Galley’s greatcoat had been dropped on the journey from Rowland’s
Castle, and it was found later on, bloodstained, and sent to the
Customs men, who at once knew that the smugglers had been at work.
A large reward was immediately offered, and a free pardon promised
to anyone who would “peach”; but as the smugglers had vowed amongst
themselves not to “inform,” and had, indeed, been terrified by one
of their leaders, who swore to kill any informer, “whether one of
themselves or anybody else,” and as even the Custom officers were
timid in face of the open threats made by the smuggling community, it
did not seem likely that the butchers would ever be brought to justice.
It may seem incredible that such should be the case, but the picture
painted by a contemporary writer brings the facts home. “The smugglers
had reigned a long time uncontrolled,” says this writer. “They rode
in troops to fetch their goods, and carried them off in triumph by
daylight; nay, so audacious were they grown that they were not afraid
of regular troops that were sent against them into the country to keep
them in awe.... If any one of them happened to be taken, and the proof
ever so clear against him, no magistrate durst commit him to jail. If
he did, he was sure to have his house or barns set on fire, or some
other mischief done him, if he was so happy as to escape with his life!”

But, Nemesis! What all the efforts of the King’s officers could not
accomplish an anonymous letter brought about. This letter, written by
someone who was in the know, was sent to the authorities, and it told
them of the likely place in which Galley’s body would be discovered.
Search was made, and the body found. A second unsigned letter gave
the name of a man concerned in the crime. This man was arrested, and,
fearing for his life, turned King’s evidence, told everything, and the
King issued a proclamation that unless they surrendered themselves
to justice at a day appointed the smugglers would be outlawed; and a
reward of £500 was promised for the apprehension of everyone who should
be convicted.

In the end seven of the murderers were caught and put in prison. A
special assize was held at Chichester, January 16, 1749--nearly twelve
months after the crime--and the seven were sentenced to death, five of
them to be hung in chains as a warning.

Later two more of the gang were captured and executed, and in April
of 1749 the Hawkhurst gang came to an end, for the crimes laid to its
account roused the Government to vigorous action, the smugglers were
caught one by one, and at last Kingsmill, the ringleader, was hanged at
Tyburn.




MODERN CORSAIRS

How the German Rovers were Destroyed


The outbreak of the Great War of the Nations found various German
warships in the Atlantic and Pacific, ready to prey upon the Allies’
shipping, and day by day the news flashed across the world of merchant
ships sunk or captured, and this despite the fact that Great Britain,
France, Russia and Japan were scouring the seas to find the destroyers.
First one and then another of the German marauders was caught and
sent to its doom. But even then a fair number were abroad; several
of them--the _Dresden_, the _Nürnberg_, _Leipzig_, _Scharnhorst_ and
_Gneisenau_--were tackled by Admiral Craddock, in command of a British
squadron of much inferior strength. The Germans won, only a few weeks
later to be trapped by Admiral Sturdee and a strong squadron off the
Falkland Islands. In the battle that ensued the Germans lost, and the
vessels were sent to the bottom.

Before the battle of the Falklands took place, however, there had been
certain other events of scarcely less importance--namely, the hunting
down of the _Königsberg_ and the _Emden_, the most noted of the German
corsairs. That they did fine work for their country, even British tars
will admit. They were as slippery as eels, and turned up in the most
unexpected places and at the most inconvenient times for the British
trading vessels. But at last Nemesis overtook them.

There was the _Emden_, for instance. She was at Tsing-tau when war
broke out, and immediately started out on her marauding cruise.
Slipping out of the harbour she steamed off for the Straits of Malacca,
with enemies hot upon her track. She hoodwinked them, and while they
were going southward, she swept into the Bay of Bengal, sinking various
vessels as she went, and finally shelling Madras, setting fire to the
oil tanks there.

Thence she went to Ceylon, sending four more boats to the bottom,
making nine in all. Another she sent into port with the crews of the
sunken ships, and yet a further one--the collier _Buresk_--she held
on to for the sake of the coal she carried. So, aided by wireless
installations in different places and by supply ships, she kept on her
destructive way, until by October 19 she had captured half a dozen more
ships.

Then something happened to annoy her. H.M.S. _Yarmouth_, which had
been following her doggedly, seized some of her supply ships; and the
_Emden_ slipped into hiding for a while, though trading vessels still
went in dread, expecting her to turn up suddenly.

She did turn up suddenly, though her quarry was something better than
merchant shipping. On October 21--Trafalgar Day--a four-funnelled
cruiser swept into Penang roadstead, and the French destroyer
_Mousquet_ and the Russian light cruiser _Jemtchug_ little thought that
this was the _Emden_, which they knew had only three funnels. What had
happened was that Captain von Müller, her commander, had rigged up a
jury funnel out of woodwork and canvas, thus altering altogether the
appearance of his ship.

The _Jemtchug_ saluted her with “Who are you?”

“_Yarmouth!_” was the audacious answer. “Coming to anchorage!” And the
_Emden_ immediately swung round stern on to the _Jemtchug_. Forthwith
she loosed one of her deadly torpedoes at the Russian, following it up
with a shower of shells from her 4-inch guns. Down went the _Jemtchug_,
the French boat going after her almost immediately, stricken to death
by the crafty _Emden_.

Having thus completed the destruction of her unsuspecting foes, the
German corsair went into hiding again, but on November 9 appeared off
the Cocos Islands--to meet her doom.

For the Australian cruiser _Sydney_ received an interrupted wireless
message from the Cocos to the effect: “Strange warship ... off
entrance,” and at once sped off at full steam, and at 9.15 the
look-out saw the tops of the coco-nut trees of the Keeling Islands in
the distance. Five minutes later the _Emden’s_ funnels were sighted,
twelve or fifteen miles away. Game, the German opened fire at a long
range, the _Sydney_ waiting for a little while, and then sending her
explosive replies. It was a gallant fight; the _Emden_ made some fine
firing practice, smashing the _Sydney’s_ No. 2 starboard gun almost
immediately, and putting practically all the crew out of action. The
Australian’s aft control was blown to pieces, and a fire broke out,
which her men soon got under while the fight raged.

The crew of the _Sydney_ worked well that morning, as the letter of one
of her officers testifies:

“The hottest part of the action for us was the first half-hour. We
opened fire from our port guns to begin with. I was standing just
behind No. 1 port, and the gunlayer (Atkins, First-Class Petty Officer)
said: ‘Shall I load, sir?’ I was surprised, but deadly keen there
should be no ‘flap,’ so said: ‘No, don’t load till you get the order.’
Next he said: ‘_Emden’s_ fired, sir.’ So I said: ‘All right, load, but
don’t bring the gun to the ready.’ I found out afterwards that the
order to load had been received by the other guns ten minutes before,
and my anti-‘flap’ precautions, though they did not the slightest harm,
were thrown away on Atkins, who was as cool as a cucumber throughout
the action.

“All the time we were going 25 and sometimes as much as 26 knots. We
had the speed on the _Emden_, and fought as suited ourselves. We next
changed round to starboard guns, and I then found the gunlayer of No. 1
starboard had been knocked out close to the conning-tower, so I brought
Atkins over to fire No. 1 starboard. I was quite deaf by now, as in the
hurry there had been no thought of getting cotton-wool.

“This is a point I won’t overlook next time.

“Coming aft the port side from the forecastle gun I was met by a lot of
men cheering and waving their caps. I said: ‘What’s happened?’ ‘She’s
gone, sir, she’s gone.’ I ran to the ship’s side, and no sign of a
ship could I see. If one could have seen a dark cloud of smoke, it
would have been different. But I could see no sign of anything. So I
called out: ‘All hands turn out the lifeboats, there will be men in the
water.’ They were just starting to do this when someone called out:

“‘She’s still firing, sir,’ and everyone ran back to the guns. What
had happened was a cloud of yellow or very light-coloured smoke
had obscured her from view, so that looking in her direction one’s
impression was that she had totally disappeared. Later we turned again
and engaged her on the other broadside.”

But, although she was still fighting gamely, the _Emden_ was in a poor
way; her three funnels and her foremast were shot away, and she was
on fire aft. To complete the work so well begun, the _Sydney_ swung
round again, and opened on her with the starboard guns, which sent her
running ashore on North Keeling Island. Then, having fought for an hour
and forty minutes, and realising that the _Emden_ could not escape,
the _Sydney_ went in chase of the German’s collier. Coming up with
her, they found that the crew had opened the seacocks and that she was
sinking rapidly. The crew was taken off, and the _Sydney_ steamed back
to have a look at the _Emden_. It was four o’clock when she arrived,
and almost immediately the Germans hauled down their colours and
hoisted a white flag; they were surrendering. In the ordinary course
the _Sydney_ would now have sent boats out on rescue work, but it was
too late in the evening to do that, especially in view of the fact that
at any moment another German cruiser--the _Königsberg_--might come into
sight, when the _Sydney_ would need to be ready to tackle her. She
therefore steamed away till morning, picking up a German sailor as she
went, making the fourth they had managed to rescue during the day.

Early next morning the _Sydney_ looked in at the cable station, to find
that a landing party from the _Emden_ had smashed the instruments, and
then stolen a schooner and escaped.

A little after eleven o’clock the _Sydney_ went back to where the
_Emden_ had run ashore, and an officer was sent over to her. He
was helped aboard by the Germans, and found the vessel an absolute
shambles. One hundred and eighty men were killed. Captain von Müller
gave his parole, and the wounded were quickly got over to the _Sydney_,
where they were attended to. The remainder of the crew were then
transhipped, and the _Sydney_ sped off for Colombo, where she received
a mighty welcome, though she went in silent, for her captain had
ordered that there should be no cheering over the defeat of gallant
foes, who had always behaved like gentlemen to those whom they had
captured.

When we recall that during the days of her marauding cruise the _Emden_
had captured and sunk shipping to the value of little less than four
and a half million pounds, it will be seen that the _Sydney_ had done
some very good work in bringing her career to an end.

The _Königsberg_, which the _Sydney_ had half expected to turn up
at the Cocos Islands, met her doom at the hands of the British
light cruiser _Chatham_ in the Rufigi River, German East Africa.
The _Königsberg_ had also been a danger on the seas, but she had
only succeeded in sinking one trading vessel and disabling the
obsolete cruiser _Pegasus_. The latter had snapped at the Germans at
Dar-es-Salaam in German East Africa, and had then gone over to Zanzibar
to repair. She was, however, surprised by the _Königsberg_ while her
crew were hard at this work. Before they knew what was what a hail of
shells was poured into the _Pegasus_, which shivered from the shock;
her steel work was bent and twisted, men fell dead or wounded, and very
soon the _Pegasus_ men knew that they were fighting a hopeless battle.
But they fought it as became men with the tradition of unconquerable
pluck behind them.

Their ensign was sent hurtling to the deck by a lucky shot; a man
seized it in his hand and held it aloft, a sign of defiance to
their overwhelming opponent. That man died waving the flag; another
snatched it from his dead hand, and flaunted it bravely; and when the
_Königsberg_, her work done, steamed away, the British ensign still
floated in the breeze above the shattered _Pegasus_.

This one-sided action took place on September 19, and just over a month
later the _Königsberg_ was run down by the _Chatham_, and her career
came to an end. The _Chatham_ found her hiding in the Rufigi River, six
miles up stream. The British cruiser, owing to her great draught, could
not go up after her, and the _Königsberg_ landed part of her crew, who
dug themselves into entrenchments on the Mafia island at the entrance
of the river, expecting an attempt to assault them. The _Chatham_,
however, shelled her and the entrenchments, but the dense palm groves
amid which she lay made it impossible to tell with what effect. To
ensure that she should not escape, the _Chatham_ took measures to
bottle her up; a German East African liner, the _Somali_, was sunk in
the mouth of the river, and later the s.s. _Newbridge_ was also used
for this purpose. This ship (Captain Willett) had a cargo of coal on
board. She was protected aft by sandbags and sacks of coal, and her
steering gear and engine-room were shielded by steel sheets so that the
_Königsberg’s_ fire might not prove too destructive as the _Newbridge_
made her way up river.

The men in the entrenchments on Mafia Island were prepared for the
coming of the _Newbridge_. By some means the Germans had discovered
that she was to be sent; and as they were armed with Maxims and
quick-firers, it looked as though the collier would receive a pretty
warm reception. She did!

Lieutenant Lavington, in command, and Captain Willett and two other
lieutenants were the sole officers on board, six or seven bluejackets
and a few artificers and stokers comprising the crew--a gallant company
going on a dangerous errand. As soon as the _Newbridge_ got within
range the Germans on the island began firing, without much effect.
Then, having passed the island, in spite of a perfect hail of bullets
and shrapnel, she was moored into the position decided upon, and the
last stages of the work begun. Down in her hold were several charges
of guncotton, with an electric wire connected to the launch that had
followed the ship. Having opened her port tank, so that the water
might pour in and give the _Newbridge_ a list up stream, and make
her satisfactorily withstand the strong current running, the crew
slipped into their boats alongside, the connection was set up; and
there followed three loud explosions. The _Newbridge_ sank; and the
_Königsberg_ was effectually bottled up.

For the men who had hazarded everything on this mission the serious
task now before them was to get back to the open sea; and to do this
they had, of course, to pass the island, with its force of Germans.
They sped back as quickly as they could, meeting a shower of shot,
which caused considerable damage; but at last the gantlet was run and
the intrepid men were safe on board.

Less than a week later the _Königsberg_ was sunk. As she was hidden by
the dense foliage, and had taken the precaution of covering herself
with leaves, the British had, as we have said, much difficulty in
telling whether the shell fire was effective. In order to get the exact
position, therefore, an aeroplane, brought by the _Kinfauns Castle_,
was used. The whirr of her engine, as she reconnoitred over them, told
the Germans that the end was very near, and they were quite prepared
for the well-placed shots which quickly followed the dropping of smoke
bombs, signalling the position of the lurking cruiser. The great,
destructive shells smashed into her, wrought havoc all through her,
broke her as though she had been a cardboard toy; and very soon she
sank. The _Pegasus_ had been avenged.

These two cases are typical of the way the British Navy dealt with
the modern corsairs and showed Germany that Britannia still rules the
waves.




THE WRECKERS

Stories of Human Ghouls


There are few things more fiendish to be found in the story of the
sea than the wholesale system of wrecking which was in practice from
early times up to comparatively recent years. The wreckers were nothing
less than ghouls who preyed upon mariners whom they had lured to
destruction. Very severe laws were made to deal with them, but it is to
be feared that they were very ineffective.

On September 11, 1773, the _Charming Jenny_, Captain Chilcot, was
battling bravely against a storm off the Isle of Anglesea. For a while
all went well, and Chilcot thought that he could weather the storm.
Away in the distance there suddenly appeared lights as of ships passing
in the night. But, had he known it, they were false lights--lanterns
tied around horses’ necks. Scoundrelly men were leading the horses
along the cliff-heads, taking care that they were near the rocks which
poked their cruel noses above water. Chilcot, taking these lights for
those of ships passing in the night, steered his vessel towards them,
thinking he would thereby be safe.

Then, when it was too late, he discovered his mistake; there was a
crunching, grinding noise as the _Charming Jenny_ hurled herself on the
rocks, and in an incredibly short time went to pieces, carrying all
her crew to destruction with the exception of Chilcot and his wife,
who were fortunate in getting on to a piece of wreckage, and after
some hours of agony and exposure were washed ashore in an exhausted
condition and were scarcely able to move. There, on the beach, they
lay for a while, hoping for succour, instead of which there came--the
wreckers. These, when they were satisfied that their fell work had been
successful, hurried down from the cliffs and, searching the shore, came
upon the almost lifeless bodies of the man and woman.

Chilcot they seized and took away, stripped him of his clothes, even
cut the buckles from his shoes, and then left him to shift for himself.
His first thought was for his wife, and hurrying as fast as he could to
the shore, he found her--dead. The wreckers had killed her and carried
away the bank bills and seventy guineas she had in her pocket.

The significant thing about this incident was that Chilcot, getting
assistance from two kindly people near by, put the authorities at
work, with the result that three men were arrested, and found to be
well-to-do folk--one of them, indeed, so wealthy that he could offer
£5,000 bail when he was arraigned at Shrewsbury Assizes! Probably these
gentry had fattened on the misfortunes of dozens of other unfortunate
mariners.

An incident of wrecking in Cornwall in 1838 is typical in many
respects. The wreckers in this case were the miners of Sennen, who
one day noticed a ship trying to beat up the Channel against a fierce
storm. As it was daylight, the miners grumbled at the fate which seemed
as though it had sent a prize to taunt them, for they could not lure
the ship to destruction while it was light. But knowing, with that
instinct of the coast-dwellers, that the storm would hold on for some
time, and that the ship could not hope to make much headway, they
set a number of men on watch on the cliffs to keep the ship in sight
until night fell. Meanwhile the wreckers went on with their mining.
When night fell they rushed to the coast, and soon were sent to a
particularly dangerous part. They carried a lantern, which they set on
a cliff-head.

To the mariners on the battling ship it seemed like a beacon. Where
they had been buffeting blindly before, with no light to guide them,
now they were able to take bearings. The captain set his course by the
light, but, past masters in their craft, the wreckers manipulated the
light so that the skipper was deceived, and, although he did not know
it, he was gradually getting closer and closer to the shore.

Crash! The ship hit the rocks, and at once realising that he had been
trapped, the skipper shouted commands; men flew to do his bidding, but
the ship refused to budge; she was fast on the rocks.

Then the wreckers fell to work. There were no fewer than two thousand
of them, and while the captain and crew were intent on getting ashore,
the wreckers busied themselves in taking out everything of value,
stripping the ship clean. The captain, knowing that the fiends had
lured him to destruction, rallied his men together to oppose them.
But what could a handful of men do against such a horde? Although the
mariners put up a gallant fight, they were defeated and many of them
cut down.

Then the coastguard turned up. Again only a handful to oppose
thousands, who, in possession of a rich prize, were determined nothing
should rob them of it. So there was another fight, fierce hand-to-hand
tussles at first, for the coastguards did not wish to kill; then, when
the wreckers began to menace their very lives, the coastguards opened
fire. This only enraged the wreckers more, and they fell upon the
officers, who were at last driven off, unable to cope with the force
arrayed against them.

Then the wreckers completed their fell work.

In 1731--during the reign of George II., that is--there sailed from
Copenhagen a Danish East Indiaman, the _Golden Lion_, with a valuable
cargo, including twelve large chests of silver valued at about £16,000.
Captain Heitman, of the _Golden Lion_, after encountering bad weather
in the Channel and being driven northward to the Kerry coast, at last
put into the Bay of Tralee, near the northern shore of which there lies
another bay, called the Bay of Ballyheigue, abounding with sunken rocks
and sandbanks, a place of terror to mariners.

How it happened is not clear, but on October 28 the _Golden Lion_
entered this treacherous bay. It has been asserted that the men of
Kerry lured her by false lights, though they vowed their innocence. In
any case, the _Golden Lion_ was in a serious fix, and the only way to
save the crew was for Captain Heitman to steer his ship ashore. This
he did, and succeeded in saving the sixty men comprising the crew, and
also the £16,000 of silver and various other things, though the _Golden
Lion_ herself became a total wreck.

To the credit of the Kerry men be it said that for a long time the
Danes were hospitably treated by them; the officers were housed at
Ballyheigue House, and their treasure was allowed to be stored in
an old tower, at the south-west corner of the court belonging to
the house. The crew were taken in to billet at various houses round
about. Meanwhile, Heitman sent news to London and Copenhagen of
his misfortune; but it would appear that these never reached their
destination, being held up in Ballyheigue, and the Danes had to wait
long, and as patiently as they could, for news that never came.

Then there began to be a change in the attitude of the Kerry men.
Thomas Crosbie, owner of Ballyheigue House, died, and a relative named
Arthur Crosbie came to the help of his widow and mother, executors
of the late host. Now, Arthur Crosbie was a queer customer--hard up,
crafty, always with his nose in other people’s business. He felt
that the Danes should be made to pay something out of their hoard
for all the hospitality shown them. Heitman, nothing averse to doing
so, objected, however, to the charges put down by Crosbie--namely,
£4,000--and he sent a letter of complaint--though how it got through
goodness only knows--to Dublin. The authorities at Dublin sent back a
message that the Danes were not to be imposed upon; and Crosbie knew
that he had been foiled.

But only in one direction, for his crafty mind soon set to work to
devise a plan whereby he could get some of that treasure in the vaults
beneath the square tower of Ballyheigue House; and he was not alone in
his plotting, for others of the Kerry men were of much the same mind as
he was.

A pretty plot was in the way of being hatched.

A man named Cantillon (a distant relative of the Crosbies) started
things seriously. He conferred with David Lawlor, who kept an inn
at Tralee, in April, 1732, and the result of their confab was that
they paid a visit to the farm at Beinaree belonging to the Protestant
Archdeacon of Ardfert, the Rev. Francis Lauder, who was also a J.P. The
plotters told their scheme to one named Ryan, tithe-proctor and steward
to the archdeacon, and he eagerly threw in his lot with them. The prize
was worth it. He promised to do his best to get other helpers, and that
night he tackled John Kevane, a labourer on the farm.

Now, Kevane was wary; he was not at all opposed to the plot, but he
wanted to be sure that it had substantial backing in the shape of “the
gentlemen of the county.” Ryan was evasive on this point.

“I’m going to see the master,” he said, “and feel sure that the gentry
will consent to it.” But Kevane was not at all convinced, and reserved
his opinion.

Having so far committed himself, Ryan naturally had to follow the
matter up with Kevane and get him into the plot, lest he gave
information; and next day he tried again to persuade him.

“If the gentry are really in it,” said Kevane at last, “then some of
them ought to appear in it, so as to spirit up the folk.”

“We can’t ask them to do that,” answered Ryan craftily; “it would
hardly do. But I can tell you, Kevane, that their servants are going to
help us.”

This sounded reasonable to Kevane, who therefore agreed to enter
into the conspiracy, and very soon Cantillon, Lawlor, and Ryan found
themselves with a fairly respectable (or disreputable) following,
including William Banner, the butler, and Richard Ball, the steward at
Ballyheigue, Captain Stephen Macmahon, and John Malony, his mate.

There was one other man Cantillon was anxious to have in with him.
This was Denis Cahane, a poor smallholder at Kilgobbin, who refused
at first, but at last asked time to think it over. Thinking it over,
he felt he would like advice, and, having been told that the gentry
were in it, had a talk with his landlord, Mr. John Carrick, a J.P. The
magistrate soon put Cahane right, and told him to have nothing to do
with the matter, and the poor chap gave his promise.

“Keep it quiet, sir,” he said tremblingly, “or they’ll kill me for an
informer!”

Cahane knew Cantillon and his roguish comrades!

The following Sunday, May 16th, Cantillon was coming for Cahane’s
answer, and the smallholder, worried almost to death, interviewed the
Protestant vicar in the morning, after the service at Kilgobbin. To
him he poured out his story, asking him to keep his informant’s name
secret. The vicar promised, and then went to see Mr. Carrick, whom he
asked to warn Lady Margaret Crosbie of the plot, so that she might put
the Danes upon their guard. Carrick promised, and then broke his word;
whereupon, some days later, the vicar himself called upon Lady Margaret
and told the whole of the tale.

Lady Margaret thanked him, and promised to warn the Danes and get them
to remove the chests of silver from the vault to her house, where it
would be quite safe.

As a matter of fact, the good kind lady was in the plot, and she did
not warn the Danes. The conspirators were able, therefore, to set about
maturing their plans which, with so many people concerned, it is not
surprising became common knowledge amongst the peasants, rumours even
reaching Tralee Custom House, whence Heitman was advised to obtain a
guard of troops from Tralee barracks.

One would have thought that, in view of this information, Heitman would
have taken every precaution; but he did not. Instead of applying for
soldiers he contented himself with asking Lady Margaret to let him have
some of the arms which had been put under lock and key when the _Golden
Lion_ was wrecked; and when his request was refused, and yet another
that he might gather all his crew into the ground floor of the square
tower, he apparently shrugged his shoulders and let the matter slide!

Then Dick Ball turned traitor; he confided to one of the Danes, John
Suchdorf, that there was going to be an attempt to steal the silver.
But for sheer foolishness these mariners want beating. Suchdorf
shrugged his shoulders, laughed all over his honest face, and told Ball
it was a really fine joke he was trying to play on him! And he doesn’t
even seem to have told the captain, though perhaps it would have done
no good if he had.

It came about, then, that when the plotters considered the time ripe
everything was clear. The day determined on was June 5, when Lady
Margaret had a few friends come to her house on a visit.

At dinner that evening Captain Heitman and his officers were invited
to join the party, probably to keep them out of the way, for while
the convivialities were in progress our old friend Suchdorf noticed
that three men were prowling about the foot of the square tower; and a
little later saw Lawlor and a companion go into Ballyheigue House. In
view of what he had been told previously, had Suchdorf been anything
but a muddle-headed man, he would have suspected what was afoot and
rushed off to Captain Heitman; but he did nothing, said nothing, not
even when, about seven o’clock, he came upon Ball and Malony and three
or four others gathered about the tower. So the plot, which was coming
to a head, was allowed to progress unimpeded, and soon after midnight,
when everyone had retired to rest, there was a fine hullabaloo--guns
were firing, men were shouting, women screaming, and doors being
banged, opened and shut noisily as folk awoke.

The work was in hand!

When they were sure that the people were in bed the conspirators had
rushed the tower, and, with cutlass and pistol, had fallen upon the
sentries which Heitman always had there. There was a stiff, stern
fight for a short while, and two of the sentries fell to the ground,
dead, the third managing to get away, wounded and bleeding, to arouse
Suchdorf and his other comrades. Suchdorf now began to realise that
there _had_ been something in Ball’s story, and, jumping out of bed, he
dashed down to the door, followed by Alexander Foster, Peter Mingard,
and George Jenesen. They put up a fine show, and succeeded in forcing
the thieves out of the tower and fastening the door; after which they
hurried upstairs and, looking out of a window, saw “a great multitude,
whose faces were blacked.”

Here was a fine to do; the whole countryside seemed to be come out
against them, and the four men had only a case of arms and one gun
amongst them, and only enough powder and ball for one charge! They
conferred amongst themselves, and realising that they could make but
little resistance, and that futile, they would be better not to make
any at all, lest “it might be the means to have them murdered.”

Meanwhile, in Ballyheigue House all was excitement. Heitman, hearing
the noise, and realising that his silver was perhaps in danger after
all, dashed downstairs, to find the hall filled with the guests and
other occupants of the house.

“My silver!” he cried. “It is being stolen! Help me to drive the
thieves off!” He hurled himself at the door, trying to pull back the
bolts. Before he could do this, however, Lady Margaret, crafty woman
that she was, threw herself in front of him, and beseeched him not to
be foolhardy!

“They will kill you!” she cried. “Stay here!”

And Heitman stayed, while away over at the tower things were moving
pretty briskly. The conspirators had forced their way in, and, working
like Titans, got all the silver-chests out, and by various means
took them into certain places previously arranged. The holy Lauder,
archdeacon and magistrate, had considerately lent his chaise and
horses, and these bore away three of the chests to his farm, where they
were broken open and their contents divided amongst the thieves. Six
chests were left at Ballyheigue, to be shared later; one was carried to
Tralee for the same purpose, but was afterwards seized by the soldiers;
and two others were hidden safely at Ballygown.

And the Lady Margaret and her family received half the proceeds!

Poor Captain Heitman! When it was too late he called for the aid of the
authorities; and although the soldiers managed to seize the chest that
was taken to Tralee, and though Heitman offered a tenth part of the
treasure to anyone who would give information that would lead to the
recovery of the treasure, all he ever got back was some £4,000. A good
part of it probably went across the seas in Malony’s ship.

Justice was very tardy; after many weeks nine or ten of the thieves
were caught, though only three were convicted. One was hanged, but a
second cheated the gallows by committing suicide; and the third was
pardoned, because Heitman thought he might turn King’s evidence, as did
some of the others who were caught. Seeing that the “gentry” were in
it, it is not surprising that justice was tardy, and that Heitman was
kept in Ireland until the autumn of 1735, waiting for justice and his
treasure--and got neither.

Whether the Kerry men had lured the _Golden Lion_ to her destruction or
not, there is no doubt that they were of the family of wreckers.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was in 1817--on February 19, to be precise--that the _Inverness_
went ashore in the Shannon, through her captain mistaking Rinevaha for
Carrigaholt. Everything would have been all right, and the ship been
able to float at the next spring-tide, had not the peasants considered
it too good a chance to throw away. It was like turning good luck away!
So, banding themselves together, they went down to the shore, boarded
the _Inverness_, and, their numbers being large and their methods none
too gentle, succeeded in scuttling the ship and tearing away all her
rigging, having taken the precaution of sending to shore the barrels of
pork and other provisions with which the vessel was loaded. Then they
robbed the crew--even to their shirts, which they used as bags to carry
their plunder in!

The news spread, and next day the police appeared on the scene, and
found the peasants still hard at work collecting their salvage.
Although there were only twelve policemen, a sergeant and the chief
constable, they pluckily threw themselves into the fray, routed the
wreckers, and stood guard over the provisions that still remained on
shore. All night they kept their vigil; but with the coming of dawn
they found themselves surrounded by thousands of peasants. Angry at
being robbed of their prey, the wreckers had aroused the countryside,
determined to get back what they had lost.

They advanced in three companies, shouting threats, waving hats,
cheering--to keep their spirits up, probably--and vowed they would have
the salvage as well as the arms of the police guard. Although they knew
they had a ticklish job in front of them, those policemen were staunch
and bold; they refused to be intimidated. Forming into one body, they
faced the three mobs and waited for them to come on. They came on; and
there ensued a miniature battle; sticks and stones were flung at the
police, the wreckers charged down upon them with scythes and axes, and
the police replied by firing their pistols. But it was all in vain;
the mob was overwhelming in numbers, and the chief constable saw that
they could not hold out very long. He must have help.

Off went one of the policemen, a mounted man, making for Limerick,
pursued by fleet-footed men, who, however, were soon left behind. In
less than two hours he returned with Major Warburton and a body of
twenty cavalry, with infantry behind them. They dashed down upon the
shore, to find that the police had been compelled to retire, which they
had done in an orderly manner, and that the wreckers were once more
upon the _Inverness_, hard at it breaking it up. Warburton and his men
boarded it; a hatchet blow narrowly missed the major, who promptly
turned and presented his pistol at the would-be murderer, and so scared
him that he flung himself overboard. But he did not escape, for one of
the soldiers charged at him as he waded ashore and cut him down.

The wreckers now saw that they had brought a hornet’s nest about their
ears, and began to think of escaping. They flew for their lives,
pursued by the soldiers, who wounded some and took many prisoners.

The thoroughness of the wreckers’ work may be gauged by the fact that
only nine barrels of pork were saved, and that the bowsprit, gaff, and
spars of the ship had been stolen; all her sails and rigging had been
taken away, her anchors and cables--and even her pump!

An extract from an old book gives in the words of one present a picture
of another wreckers’ incident:

“On Friday, October 27, 1811, the galliot _Anna Hulk Klas Boyr_,
Meinerty, master, from Christian Sound, laden with deals, for Killala,
was driven ashore at a place called Porturlin, between Killala and
Broadhaven. The captain and crew providentially saved their lives by
jumping on shore on a small island or rock. At this time the stern and
quarter were stove in. The crew remained two hours on the rock, when
they were taken off by a boat and brought to the mainland.

“Shortly after, the captain’s trunk, with all the sailors’ clothes in
general, came on shore, which the country people immediately began to
plunder, leaving the unfortunate wreck. Then they cut away all they
could come at of the sails, rigging, etc., while hundreds were taking
away the deals to all parts of the country. Though the captain spoke
good English, and most pitifully inquired to whom he might apply for
assistance, yet he could not hear of any for fourteen hours, when he
was told that Major Denis Bingham was the nearest and only person he
could apply to. With much difficulty he procured a guide, and proceeded
to Mr. Bingham’s, a distance of twenty miles through the mountains.

“In the meantime, after thirty-six hours’ concealment of this very
melancholy circumstance, Captain Morris, of the _Townshead_ cruiser,
who lay at Broadhaven, a distance of about ten miles from the wreck,
heard of it, and approaching it landed with twenty men well armed. In
coming near the wreck he first fired in the air, in order to disperse
the peasantry, which had no effect; he therefore ordered his men to
fire close, which had the desired effect, when he immediately pursued
them into the interior, from three to five miles distance, dividing his
party in different directions, when, by great exertion and fatigue,
they saved about 1,800 deals and a remnant of the wreck.

“Captain Morris had some of the robbers taken, but, his party being so
scattered, they were rescued by a large mob of the country people.”




THE TRAGEDY OF A WONDER SHIP

The Story of the “Titanic” Disaster


On Wednesday, April 10, 1912, there steamed out of Southampton the
largest boat in the world--a wonder ship, a veritable floating palace.
She was bound for America. It was her first voyage, and it was her
last, for five days later, from out the night, there loomed the white
form of a gigantic iceberg, which crashed into her starboard side; and
the _Titanic_ and most of the people aboard her had entered upon their
last two hours of life.

There is a magic in figures, but even those which tell of the size of
the giant ship fail to carry the tale of her greatness. Still, they
must be given in order to show how this mammoth of the ocean was as a
pygmy in the grip of the elemental forces.

She was a three-screw vessel of 46,328 tons gross and 21,831 tons net.
Her length was 852 feet, and her breadth 92 feet. From top of keel to
top of beam she was 64 feet, while her hold was almost 60 feet deep.
Her horsepower was 50,000. She was pronounced unsinkable, having
fifteen water-tight bulkheads and a water-tight inner bottom, extending
nearly the whole breadth of the vessel, and several other water-tight
divisions. She was fitted with six independent sets of boilers,
wireless telegraphy, submarine signalling, electric lights and power
systems; telephones and telegraphs communicated between the various
working positions; three electric elevators were installed to carry
passengers from one deck to another; and every appliance necessary
to enable the ship’s officers to ascertain depth of water, speed of
the vessel, and a hundred and one other things, were provided, while
life-saving appliances to the requirements of the Board of Trade were
included in her equipment. There were concert-rooms, smoking-rooms,
swimming baths, tennis courts, restaurant, libraries--everything in the
way of modern luxury.

And yet when the crash came to this floating palace, this realisation
of the shipwright’s dreams, out of the 2,201 souls she carried, only
711 were saved--a tragic comment upon the impotence of man against the
forces of Nature.

The _Titanic_ sailed from Southampton to Cherbourg, from Cherbourg to
Queenstown, then across the Atlantic by the then accepted outward-bound
route for New York, her passengers amazed at the luxury of the wonder
ship which was bearing them to the New World. The first two or three
days were uneventful, and on the 14th the magnificent lounge was turned
into a scene of fairy delight for a gala dinner. Beautiful music
filled the lounge and filtered through to other parts of the ship;
well dressed men and women sat and talked, or strolled about after
dinner in the _camaraderie_ of fellow-voyagers, all unsuspecting of the
catastrophe that was hastening down upon them from out the darkness of
the night.

Earlier in the day a wireless message had been received from s.s.
_Caronia_, informing Captain Smith that “West-bound steamers report
bergs, growlers, and field ice in 42° N. from 49° W., April 12,” the
_Titanic_ then being about latitude 43° 35′ N. and longitude 43° 50′ W.
This was at 9 A.M., and at 1.42 P.M., when the vessel was about 42° 35′
N., 45° 50′ W., another wireless message was received, this time from
s.s. _Baltic_, saying that “large quantities of field ice” had been
seen that day in 41° 51′ N., longitude 49° 52′ W.

In order to understand the significance of all these warnings, flashed
across the ether, it is necessary to remember the following facts:

Icebergs are gigantic masses of Polar glacier carried out to sea, only
about one-eighth of their mass being above the surface.

Growlers are small icebergs.

Field ice is frozen sea-water floating in a looser form than pack ice,
covering large areas of the Polar seas, broken up into large pieces,
driven together by current and wind, thus forming an almost continuous
sheet of ice.

All these forms of ice masses are dangerous to shipping, and the ocean
routes were mapped out so that vessels might be able to steer clear of
them. As a matter of fact, although icebergs and field ice had been
seen as far south before, it was many years since field ice had been
observed so far south as at the time of the _Titanic_ disaster. Two
further messages were received on the ship during the day, one of them
giving news of large icebergs; but, except for the officers and men
whose watch it was, everybody on board the _Titanic_ turned into bed,
to dream of wonderful things, no doubt, and to wake up to a nightmare
of horror.

Suddenly the stillness of the vast vessel was broken by a thudding
crash, a ripping of steel plates. Something had happened. Some heard
the sound--those in the steerage, who were near that portion of the
ship which was a city, and those officers who were on deck and the
bridge. The rest, asleep, lulled into the land of dreams by the motion
of the ship, were awakened by the strange feeling of stillness that
suddenly pervaded everything; there was no longer the throb of the
engines; the vibration of the ship ceased, and people were roused by
the utter emptiness of things, as it seemed. Heads popped out of cabins
and state-rooms, people strolled up corridors asking each other “Why?”
and “What?” and so forth; and getting no answer that meant anything
except assurances that all was well--all must be well! Was not this the
safest vessel in the world? And so they went back to bed.

But other people, those whose duty it was to keep awake, to have their
fingers upon the pulse, as it were, of this leviathan, did not sleep.
First Officer Murdoch and his watch were on the bridge; the captain
was in his room. Murdoch, peering through the blue-blackness of night,
had seen a haze before the ship, and, quick to realise what was before
them, he issued sharp commands, which were obeyed instantly; but all
too late. That haze resolved itself into ice--a massive, towering
mountain of ice--into which the _Titanic’s_ bows cut their way. The ice
that the ether waves had been telling about all day had loomed out upon
them like a spectre in the night; nay, like the impersonation of Death.

Captain Smith rushed to the bridge when he felt the ship stop.

“We have struck ice, sir,” was the first officer’s reply to his
question.

“Close the water-tight doors!” was the captain’s order, only to be told
that this had already been done. A movement of switches, and Murdoch
had set bells a-tingling and great steel doors a-sliding in their
grooves; bells to warn anyone that the doors were being closed, so that
they might not be cut off.

But no closing of water-tight doors was to be sufficient to save this
giant ship. The damage wrought by that white, translucent mass ran over
a length of some three hundred feet, and it had all been done in--one
trembles to write it--_ten seconds_. Twenty knots an hour had the
vessel been travelling, and in ten seconds she had ripped her way along
the ice for three hundred feet, tearing her plates apart as though they
had been brown paper, and letting the water in in tons.

The carpenter sounded the ship; Phillips, the Marconi operator, was
instructed to get ready to send out a call for assistance, in case
it was wanted. The carpenter made his report; and, because of its
character, Captain Smith went back to the Marconi room, and messages
were sent out to all steamers within reach. Still later, but only by
a few minutes, the C Q D and the S O S--international signals for
help--were dispatched, to be followed by:

“We have struck a berg! Come at once!” Seventy-eight miles away that
message was picked up by the _Carpathia_, which answered: “Coming at
once!”

And, meanwhile, what of the population of the floating palace whose
vitals were being swamped by hundreds of tons of water? She was listing
heavily to starboard. In various parts of the ship a few people were
still awake, asking what was afoot, for none had yet been told what
had taken place. If there is one thing the master of a vessel dreads
it is panic, and passengers must be kept in ignorance while there is
a chance to obviate the danger. But rumours floated here and there.
“We’ve struck an iceberg,” said one now and again; and, as if that were
nothing to be alarmed about, folks shrugged their shoulders and turned
into bed. So sure was everyone of the safety of this masterpiece of
science and industry that the thought of danger never entered their
heads.

It was a fine joke, apparently, to have struck an iceberg, and a berg
was a rare sight to most of those people, who thought more of that
than of the ship. The great spectral mass was a thing of wonder; its
towering peak told them something of its gigantic size, since but
one-eighth of it showed above the surface. “What a corker!” said
someone, and then went to bed.

Meanwhile, firemen were coming up from below; and each set who came up
reported that the water was pouring into their stokeholds.

Captain Smith, convinced by the list of the ship that there was indeed
grave danger--she was very much down by the head, and diving now and
again at the rate of six or twelve inches--gave instructions that the
passengers should be gathered on the boat-decks; and the inhabitants
of the “safest ship in the world” received the command that could have
but one meaning, namely, that the vessel was in danger of going down.
Through miles of corridors and companion-ways stewards raced with the
news, rousing folk from the sleep of peace to the nightmare of reality,
yet careful, every one of them, not to cause panic. Reassuring,
optimistic, with unquenchable faith in the unsinkableness of the
boat, they told the passengers who asked questions that they thought
everything would be all right.

“The Board of Trade regulations say that in times of danger the
passengers must put on lifebelts,” said one steward; “and even if the
boat should sink, she will be able to keep up for forty-eight hours at
least.”

[Illustration: “Men, strong-limbed, full-blooded, with the zest and the
love of life in them, stood calmly by”]

Those words are a picture of the attitude of wellnigh everybody on the
_Titanic_, which was, as a matter of fact, within the last minutes of
her life; but, obeying the call, they trooped up in their scores and
hundreds to the decks. Some grumbled at being brought from warm beds
to a cold, ice-strewn deck; others grumbled at the stringency of
the British Board of Trade. Imagine the scene, if you can: long lines
of stewards guarding the boats; a mighty crowd of men, women, and
children, some dressed, others half dressed, more with only a blanket
thrown about their night-clothes, dozens of them struggling into
lifebelts. Many were now anxious-eyed as, inexperienced as they were,
they saw that awful list to starboard, saw the tense looks on the faces
of some of the officers who _knew_.

The women and children, now mustered on the boat-deck, were waiting
while the lifeboats and collapsible boats were got ready, for the
tragic cry of the sea, “Women and children first!” had rung out; and
men, strong-limbed, full-blooded, with the zest and the love of life
in them, stood calmly by and smoked while this was done, telling
themselves even now that the boat could not sink.

Boat crews were shipped; and then the craft were swung out, though not
without trouble, seeing that, being new, the tackle was not easy to
work; and the women and children, ill-clad to withstand the rigours of
that bitter night, were helped into the boats and lowered away, out
of the floating palace they had thought so safe into a wide expanse
of sea, with all its possible dangers. Some women, indeed, refused to
leave the ship; they would not go without their husbands, pleaded that
they be allowed to come. Like heroes, the men refused to go, and so
husbands and wives stayed on the ship of death.

While the work of embarking these helpless people was proceeding
officers stood ready with revolvers, lest the passion for life seize
the men and send them rushing towards the boats. There was only one
rush; some poor steerage passengers, foreigners, who had been near
enough to the point of impact with the iceberg to realise the terror
of it all, charged down upon one boat. An officer stopped them with
a couple of shots, and strong hands pulled them back. Their places
were taken in the boat by their wives and children, for, in this time
of disaster, social distinctions were forgotten, cast aside like the
trappings of life that they are, and rich women and poor, ragged
and well dressed, old and young, were herded together in the same
boat--companions in distress. The rich man’s child was cuddled to some
poor woman’s bosom; the offspring of some “down and out” nestled in the
arms of a bejewelled dame of high society.

The work went on, the heartrending scene in this tragedy of the sea was
played through to the accompaniment of the noise of escaping steam, the
sobbing of wives and children as they said farewell to husbands and
fathers, and the peculiar noise that a crowd makes in circumstances
of stress; while from various parts of the ship there were the sounds
of rockets being fired, brilliant appeals for help which cast strange
lights round and about the doomed vessel. And more, this drama had
its own music; floating up from below came the sounds of piano and
orchestra playing lively tunes, which cheered the leaving women and the
staying men, who cried to each other: “Au revoir! We’ll meet in New
York!”

Down, down, down, seventy feet or more the boats were lowered, some
having to pass the exhaust of the condensers, and running the risk of
being swamped. An incident connected with one of these boats is worth
mentioning. It was described by Mr. Beezley, a schoolmaster, who was in
her as helper. There were no officers on board to help them work the
boat, and no petty officer or member of the crew to take charge; and
when it was seen that the boat was in danger of being swamped by the
water from the exhaust, one of the stokers cried: “Someone find the pin
which releases the boat from the ropes and pull it up!” No one knew
where it was. “We felt,” said Mr. Beezley, “as well as we could on the
floor and along the sides, but found nothing. It was difficult to move
among so many people. We had sixty or seventy on board. Down we went,
and presently we were floating with our ropes still holding us, and the
stream of water from the exhaust washing us away from the side of the
vessel, while the swell of the sea urged us back against the side again.

“The result of all these forces was that we were carried parallel to
the ship’s side, and directly under Boat 14, which had filled rapidly,
and was coming down on us in a way that threatened to submerge our boat.

“‘Stop lowering 14!’ our crew shouted; and the crew of No. 14, now
only twenty feet above, cried out the same. The distance to the top,
however, was some seventy feet, and the creaking of the pulleys must
have deadened all sound to those above, for down she came, fifteen
feet, ten feet, five feet, and a stoker and I reached up and touched
the bottom of the swinging boat above our heads. The next drop would
have brought her on our heads. Just before she dropped another stoker
sprang to the ropes with open knife in hand. ‘One,’ I heard him say;
and then ‘Two,’ as the knife cut through the pulley ropes.”

Almost immediately the exhaust stream carried the boat clear, and the
other boat slipped into the water, on exactly the same spot that the
first one had occupied. It was indeed a narrow shave, for the two boats
almost rubbed gunwales.

Leaving the boats as they are being got away, let us go to some other
part of the ship to see what is happening.

Down below, in the engine-room and stokeholds, begrimed heroes were
working hard at their duty. The black squad always occupies the most
dangerous place in a ship at such times; and to the credit of these
men, who are hidden from the gaze of the people who stroll leisurely
about decks, or while away the hours in concert room or card room,
let it be said that they rarely fail in the moment of danger. On
the _Titanic_, those men whose engine-rooms and stokeholds had not
been flooded, and who knew they would be wanted, stayed below; the
engines in the principal engine-room, which was still protected by its
bulkhead, must be run to keep the pumps working and the dynamos running
which supplied the electricity for light and the wireless. If the pumps
could be kept going, then the vessel could float long enough for help
to come; if the wireless could be kept working, then help could be
appealed for across the ether waves; and while the men below strove,
some at drawing fires to prevent explosions, others at stoking fires
that were safe, up in the Marconi cabin two men were sticking to their
posts. The men, Phillips and Bride, were heroes, and their names will
be remembered while men remember the story of the _Titanic_.

They had sent out the first messages for assistance--SOS, the new call
for ships at sea, changing it occasionally to CQD, the old signal.
Then, when things grew more serious than ever, and the news was brought
down to them, the instruments began to buzz out longer messages,
that told ships scores of miles away what had happened, and what was
happening. And now and again there came a voice from the ether through
the apparatus on the operators’ heads, telling them that the signals
had been caught, and that this ship and that ship was coming at full
speed. From seventy miles away the _Carpathia’s_ operator sent such
a message; from 300 miles away the _Olympic_ also sent her message
saying that she was coming. And thus it went on, this long-distance
conversation on which so much depended, and which might stop at any
moment, for the captain had told Phillips and Bride that the dynamos
might not be able to hold out very long. It was the last quarter of an
hour, and Phillips, forgetting all about himself, refusing to think of
escape, stood to his work, tapping out the messages, urging the rushing
ships to put on every ounce of steam. And Bride, no less a hero,
bethought him of Phillips’s safety. He went and got their lifebelts,
put one on Phillips and one on himself.

Captain Smith looked in just then, and said: “Men, you have done your
full duty; you can do no more! Abandon your cabin now. It is every man
for himself. Look out for yourselves. I release you.”

“But Phillips clung on,” said Bride, “sending, sending. He clung on for
about ten minutes after the captain released him. The water was then
coming into our cabin.”

A hero? Every inch a hero and a man! But what of another man? The one
who, creeping silently into that cabin, where a man stood hazarding
his life, juggling with death, lest haply he might do some good for
that helpless crowd above, tried to slip the lifebelt from the hero’s
back? What of that man? He had had a lifebelt himself, but, too scared
to fetch it, had thought of an easier way. Bride, catching him in the
act, had a desire for blood. “I suddenly felt a passion not to let that
man die a decent sailor’s death,” he said. “I wished he might have
stretched a rope or walked a plank. I did my duty. I hope I finished
him; but I do not know.”

Phillips went down with the ship he had tried to save. Bride, more
fortunate, came through alive, as will be seen. He reached the deck
just as the end came. The last boat had gone--and there remained on
the ship some fifteen hundred souls, hundreds of them clinging now in
terror to each other. The gay tunes of the orchestra changed to the
solemn strains of a hymn. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the starboard
was sinking, dipping deeper and deeper, the stern rising higher and
higher, hundreds of people being clustered there, waiting for they
dared not think what. The full terror of it all was now beginning to
sink into minds that had refused to accept the possibility of disaster.
The water lapped up higher and higher, and men scrambled up the sloping
deck, seeking to outrace the water, which soon covered the bridge and
carried the captain away from the ship, holding in his arm some poor,
lonely babe who had been forgotten in the hurly-burly. “Boys!” he had
cried lustily ere he went, unwillingly, for he would have stayed by his
boat but for that wave that washed him overboard. “Boys, you can do no
more! Look-out for yourselves!” And men prepared to cast themselves
into the sea, realising now that there was no hope to be found in this
ship on which so many hopes had been set. But, instead of jumping, they
now found themselves compelled to hang on like grim death to anything
that was at hand--rails, stanchions, deck-houses, ropes--to save
themselves from being washed away, for the stern was now towering high
above the water, and the deck seemed like a sheer precipice, down which
one might slip--to death.

Imagine the sight. A massive hulk, gleaming with a thousand lights,
belching forth showers of sparks from a solitary funnel; a crowd of
clinging figures; a crowd of figures, unable to cling, sliding down
that steel road to death. Imagine the sounds. Hear the thud and the
crash of the engines as, overbalanced, they tore themselves from
their beds and hurled themselves across the ship, to pound against
the steel sides and burst them with a deadening explosion; hear the
horrific cracks as the decks bend; hear, from under water, a mighty
explosion, followed quickly by another and another; hear the roar as
the fire-spouting funnel tumbles into the sea; hear, above all, the cry
torn from a thousand throats as the people on the stern of the boat
felt the last tremors, the death-struggles of the leviathan! Imagine
this sight and these sounds, and if you have the imagination of a Poe
you will not have glimpsed a hundredth part of the terrors of that last
two minutes of the life of the _Titanic_.

And the next minute there was no _Titanic_ afloat; but the sea was
dotted about with hundreds of black dots, each dot a soul struggling
for life, each striving to reach something that might be floating near
it--deck-chairs, gratings, wreckage of all sorts, and every little bit
worth its weight in gold to him who might be so fortunate as to get it.
To follow all these people in their efforts for life is, of course,
impossible. And there is no need, for each was but a picture of the
other.

Mr. Lightoller, the second officer, had a remarkable experience. As the
ship took her final plunge he had dived, to be drawn down against the
grating that covered the blower of the exhaust. An explosion hurled
him up to the surface again, where, having barely filled his lungs, he
was sucked down again, and drawn to the side of the sinking ship, near
the funnel draught pipes. Yet once more was he blown upwards by the
force of a terrific explosion, and when he came to the surface he found
himself near a collapsible boat; Lightoller clung to this, to which
Bride himself and half a dozen other people were also hanging. It was
capsized; but it provided some sort of refuge.

The gallant captain, who had gone overboard with the baby in his arms,
fought his way through the swimming crowd, making for one of the boats
which were still in the vicinity, hoping to effect some rescues. He
went, not to save himself, but the child. He reached the boat, cried
“Take the child,” handed it up to the willing hands outstretched for
it, and then, refusing to be taken into the boat, cried “Let me go!”
and swam back to where the ship had disappeared.

There were many acts of heroism in that dreadful sea. A man swam up to
the capsized lifeboat, now overladen. “Will it hold another?” he asked.
Those men on the boat knew, positively, that if one more man were on
her, she would pitch them all off, and they said so, not jealously,
not selfishly. And as unselfishly, the man who wanted to live cried:
“All right! Good-bye! God bless you all!” And turned away, only to sink
almost immediately.

Another man, clinging to a crate, heard someone ask: “Will it hold
another?” He did not know; all he knew was that here was a man who
loved life as he himself loved it; and the crate might offer a chance.
“Try it!” he cried; “we’ll live or die together!”

The story of the great disaster is told, and yet there are some things
which cannot be recounted--horrors, endings and partings. Into the
Great Unknown many hundreds had gone. Fewer hundreds were saved by
those giant ships rushing to their aid, brought by the call out of the
vast silences of the night.

The appalling horror of it all staggered the world; but the great fact
stood out that Man the Ingenious is no match for Nature the Mighty!




MYSTERIES OF THE SEA

Strange Disappearances of Ships at Sea


It is only to be expected that the sea, with all its glory and wonders,
its tragedies and its romances, should have its mysteries too. Some of
them have been cleared up; others remain unsolved to this day, despite
all the ingenious attempts at explanation that have been made. Some
of them go back to the distant past, such as the _Gloriana_ mystery.
She was a British brig, and in 1775 the captain of a Greenland whaler
ran across her amidst the ice-fields at 77 degrees north latitude. She
was a weird spectacle as she picked her way through a narrow channel
between two great icebergs, which seemed to be closing in to crush her,
with no one making an attempt to steer her safely through the danger.
The Greenlander looked in amazement. The _Gloriana’s_ sails were torn
to shreds and frozen hard, her rigging was a tangled mass that had not
been trimmed for Heaven knew how long; on her decks great mountains of
snow were reared, and her sides glistened with ice; she was a spectral
ship of the icy seas, a sight to strike fear into the heart of any
superstitious sailor. For a while the captain of the whaler did not
know what to do; the strange spectacle awed him; but clearly it was his
duty to look into the matter, and at last, summoning up courage, he
lowered a boat and rowed over to the _Gloriana_.

If he had been amazed before, he was staggered now. Clambering up the
ice-cold side, he glanced in at a porthole and saw a man sitting at the
cabin table, holding a pen as though about to write in the log-book
that lay open before him. But there was no sign of life about the man.
He was stiff, cold, dead! The Greenlander, stiffening himself up to the
task before him, got aboard, walked gingerly, awesomely into the cabin
and found himself standing by the side of a dead man, frozen hard.
Peering over the dead man’s shoulder, he found that the last entry in
the log was dated Nov. 11, 1762--thirteen long years before! What had
happened? How came it that this man sitting in his cabin, writing, had
met death so suddenly that he could not finish entering his log? The
Greenlander could not say; no one could ever tell; and the mystery was
made no clearer when it was found that there were several other dead
bodies about, one of them being a woman. And not one showed any sign
that would lead to the solution of the mystery of how they had met
their death.

Then take the _Marie Celeste_, which, leaving New York on Nov. 7, 1872,
with a cargo of petroleum and alcohol, was met a month later off the
Azores by the brig _Dei Gratia_. Hailing her, the captain of the latter
ship received no answer, and something arousing his curiosity, he went
aboard--to find not a soul on her. To heighten the mystery, there were
no evidences of mutiny, panic or disorder of any kind; the log showed
nothing that could have caused the desertion of the ship, the last
entry being dated ten days before the _Dei Gratia_ came up with her.
One boat was missing, and that alone showed how the crew, five men, and
the captain and his wife and child had gone. All the gear was in order,
her rigging being properly made fast, her companion-ways were open.
Down in the cabin a little organ had open music lying in front of it, a
sewing-machine had a piece of unfinished work in it, the men’s chests
in the fo’c’sle were unopened and not ransacked, the captain’s dinner
was half cooked in the galley.

And all was silent. Though a score or more theories have been advanced,
no one has yet cleared up the mystery of what tragic happening had
taken place on the _Marie Celeste_ to make her crew desert her.

These mysteries of the sea are not all of an early date; even recent
years have them on record. Thus in 1910 the _Inverness-shire_, which
left Hamburg in March, bound for Saint Rosalia, in California, was met
off the Falkland Islands in June by the Italian steamer _Verina_, with
no living being aboard except a few cats. She, too, was in perfect
order so far as arrangement went. Food was in a pot on the galley fire,
an open copy of the “Ancient Mariner” lay on the captain’s table, as
though he had been interrupted in his reading of the weird tale of the
sea. Perhaps he could tell a weirder one than that. The sails were set,
the deck shipshape, the cargo intact, and from the pack of cards which
lay scattered about the mess-room table it would seem that the crew had
been disturbed in a quiet game. And the explanation of it all? It was
said that the crew, thirty of them, had become obsessed with the idea
that the ship was unlucky; they broke out into mutiny, refused to obey
orders, and the ship was deserted. In due course the _Verina_ towed
her into Port Stanley, where, of course, she received her share in the
salvage.

In 1913 the tank steamer _Roumanian_ came across a ship which was
acting so queerly that the captain decided to investigate. It was ten
days out from Port Arthur. The strange ship was a sailing vessel, but
though some of her sails were set, they answered no useful purpose, for
she was buffeted about at the will of the fickle winds. It took the
_Roumanian_ an hour or two to catch up with the erratic ship, and when
she did so her captain boarded and found that she was the _Remittent_,
a Norwegian barque. She was crewless, and the explanation of her queer
actions was that the rudder was unlashed and was banging about as the
vessel swung to the waves. There was nothing missing; her papers were
all intact, her cargo was there, her water was fresh, her provisions
plenty; and yet there wasn’t a man aboard, and no indication as to why
there wasn’t. And all her lifeboats swung at the davits. Inquiries
later showed that the _Remittent_ had left Rio Grande do Sul on Oct.
25, 1912, with a captain and a crew of six men. The _Roumanian_ towed
her for many days, and then, a gale breaking upon them, had to cast her
adrift, a danger to all shipping.

It is this aspect of the unmanned ship that makes her a thing to be
disposed of. Whether derelict or simply deserted, she is a menace to
other ships; she may loom out of the darkest night and crash into
another vessel, to the danger of all aboard. On the other hand, she
may voyage for months--nay, years--and never come into collision. For
instance, the _Fannie E. Woolsten_, an American ship, was wrecked in
1891 off the United States coast, whence her battered hulk drifted
across the Atlantic, passed down the coasts of Europe, and then swung
out across the Atlantic again, going ashore a hundred or so miles north
of the place where she had been wrecked, having covered 10,000 miles in
her strange cruise.


  PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.
  F 35.415




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.