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Title:      Titanic and Other Ships
Author:     Charles Herbert Lightoller
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Language:   English
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Date first posted:          July 2003
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A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook

Title:      Titanic and Other Ships
Author:     Charles Herbert Lightoller





DEDICATED TO
MY PERSISTENT WIFE
WHO MADE ME DO IT



TABLE OF CONTENTS:

Chapter 1  OFF TO SEA
Chapter 2  65 degrees SOUTH
Chapter 3  'FRISCO IN THE 'EIGHTIES
Chapter 4  FLYING FISH WEATHER
Chapter 5  THE "HOLT HILL"
Chapter 6  RIO AND REVOLUTIONS
Chapter 7  SMALLPOX
Chapter 8  WRECKED ON ST. PAUL'S
Chapter 9  A DESERT ISLAND
Chapter 10 A FIGHT WITH ALBATROSSES
Chapter 11 A TIMELY RESCUE
Chapter 12 HOME IN A TEA CLIPPER
Chapter 13 SEA FIGHTS AND CYCLONES
Chapter 14 "SHARKS"
Chapter 15 I GET MY "TICKET"
Chapter 16 FIRE AT SEA
Chapter 17 THE NITRATE COAST
Chapter 18 DERELICTS
Chapter 19 'BULLY' WATERS
Chapter 20 A SURFBOAT TRAGEDY
Chapter 21 TRAIL OF '98
Chapter 22 CROSSING THE ATHABASKA
Chapter 23 NO GAME...NO GOLD
Chapter 24 THE RETURN TRAIL
Chapter 25 BACK TO SEA
Chapter 26 SHANGHAIED
Chapter 27 WHITE STAR LINE
Chapter 28 ALMOST A PENALTY
Chapter 29 GREYHOUNDS OF THE ATLANTIC
Chapter 30 LOSS OF THE "TITANIC"
Chapter 31 LEAVING SOUTHAMPTON
Chapter 32 COLLISION WITH AN ICEBERG
Chapter 33 WOMEN AND CHILDREN--ONLY
Chapter 34 SHE FOUNDERS
Chapter 35 THE RESCUE
Chapter 36 THE WAR
Chapter 37 SEAPLANES AND GRASS LINES
Chapter 38 DOVER PATROL
Chapter 39 THOSE DAMNED "R" WORDS
Chapter 40 BLUNDERING THROUGH A MINEFIELD
Chapter 41 SCROUNGING LEAVE
Chapter 42 LOSS OF H.M.S. "FALCON"
Chapter 43 NORTH SEA CONVOYS
Chapter 44 DESTROYER v. SUBMARINE
Chapter 45 I "BURY THE ANCHOR"




CHAPTER ONE



OFF TO SEA


I don't think my relatives ever knew how amazed I was when I obtained
their consent to go to sea. I chuckled at my good luck, as they no doubt
chuckled at their good riddance.

I had long since made up my mind (or what, at the mature age of
thirteen, I was pleased to call my mind) that I would go to sea. And to
sea I went, knowing little and caring less about those prospective first
few years of hellish servitude, during which experience must be gained--
experience that, like a corn, had to grow, become hardened, and most
damnably hurt.

My Dad didn't enter into it, as he was settled in New Zealand, having
seen the best days in cotton. In fact we had been "in cotton" for
generations, and I had fully expected that I should have to "follow in
father's footsteps."

For my part the "going to sea" was just a bluff, but it worked. I hear
some say, to my sorrow. Not a bit of it. The sea is a hard, unrelenting
mistress, always ready to whip up the fools (as I was soon to discover).
She tried to drown me several times, yet I beat her; she nearly broke my
neck on more than one occasion, but we still remain the best of friends,
and I never regret that my bluff was called.

I had a distant relative, a one hundred per cent sailor to the tips of
his stub-ended fingers, so I suppose it was only natural that my near
relatives should start me off in his footsteps. The fact remains that I
found myself a brass bound apprentice on board the famous PRIMROSE HILL,
a four-masted barque and three skysail-yarder.

It was not long before I learned exactly how to throw out my chest as I
described my ship as a "three skysail-yarder." There weren't many of
them about as most owners considered skysails more ornamental than
useful.

If you had been near the half-deck door when one of the Mates sang out,
"Now one of you youngsters, up and stop the main skysail buntlines,"
then you would have known just what we boys thought of them! The sole
reason for their existence, in our opinion, lay in the fact that they
formed a ready to hand punishment for first voyagers. But skysails
undoubtedly did give that finishing touch to a ship with her towering
piles of canvas rising, tier on tier, a full two hundred feet above the
deck. Courses--as the three big lower sails were called--lower and
upper topsails, lower and upper t'gallant sails, royals, and finally,
the boys' pet objection, those skysails. These were exactly forty-five
feet from yard-arm to yard-arm, just half the length of the main yard; a
perfect pocket handkerchief, but making for perfect symmetry, and taking
away that chopped off look that either stump t'gallant masts, or even
royals alone are apt to give. Our great objection to these sails was
there was no way of getting up the final fifteen feet to this yard
except by shinning up the back stays ( the mast being greased). As far
as the royal yard the going was not so bad; one had the rigging and
Jacob's Ladder. But swinging around on a wire backstay half way to
heaven, may have some attraction, but also has its drawbacks,
particularly when she was rolling heavily.

Having arrived at the summit of one's present ambition and standing
there on the footrope of the skysailyard, looking down two hundred odd
feet, always carried a thrill. To a first voyager it seemed
inconceivable that such an almighty spread of canvas, as then lay below
one, should not put that slight strip of deck on its beam ends.

In addition to the square sails, the PRIMROSE HILL carried fifteen fore
and aft sails, in the way of jibs, staysails, spanker and gaff topsail,
each with the definite set purpose of passing its drive to that long,
narrow hull. She was a great ship, and even in the days when a forest of
masts was a common sight in dockland, the tapering spars of the old
PRIMROSE HILL always stood out like one of the tea clippers of old.

I know the skipper was a mighty proud man, and we boys almost reverenced
him, pacing his lonely beat up and down that poop, lord of all he
surveyed. His slightest word was law absolute and immutable. We thought
that even such as we, might with luck, some day walk the poop with that
deep sea roll. But that was too far in the dim distant future for boys
of our age to consider seriously.

Fourteen years of age found me beating down the channel in the teeth of
a Westerly gale. My first voyage, horribly seasick--and sick of the
sea. That seemingly objectless and eternal beat from side to side of the
Channel, driving along with every stitch she would stand, trying to make
to the westward. Once in the fog, we almost succeeded in running down
the Royal Sovereign Lightship, and then on the other side, we got into a
jam with the notorious Race of Alderney.

At long last, clear of the Chops of the Channel, we squared away to a
fine Nor'-Nor'West breeze, and tore down through the Roaring Forties
towards good old "flying fish" weather. Shirt and pants the order of the
day, the ship heeling over with a bone in her teeth, ropes fore and aft
cracking like a machine gun as they surged round the green-heart
belaying pins. Day after day, and week after week, snoring along without
touching halyard or sheet; bending fine weather sails, holystoning
decks, scrubbing bright work and painting ship. Never a lazy moment
aboard any sailing ship in fine weather, and the man with the forenoon
or afternoon Trick at the wheel, is the man to be envied. At night it is
the other way about, as the watch on deck can always find the soft side
of a deck plank, for an hour's "caulk."

This was a new world to me, and the first time in my life that I had
seen real sunshine. Steadily the mercury rose as it grew hotter and
hotter, until the pitch boiled up out ot the seams in the deck, to stick
to and blister our still tender feet. It brought other things also; not
exactly out of the deck, but from below deck, in the shape of rats and
cockroaches. Where they all came from goodness knows. We used to kill
rats with belaying pins, and later even became expert in stamping on
them with our bare feet! At night in our bunks, the little beasts would
come and eat our toe-nails, and the hard flesh off the soles of our
feet, and this without awakening us. We knew nothing about it until we
got on deck and put our feet into some salt water. Then we knew!

Cockroaches near two inches long. These must have come aboard when she
was loading somewhere out East. They had the same happy habit of
browsing on our feet, although not quite to the same extent. For their
benefit we kept a tin of very strong caustic soda and a small brush with
a handle two feet long, and when they started to make themselves
objectionable a dab with the brush settled their hash.

We were soon out of the Forties and into the Trades and it was here we
were to see our first flying fish rising in shoals out of the water and
flying anything up to a quarter of a mile. Some have a spread of 14-16
inches from tip to tip, and to watch them bank and skim the surface of
the water makes it hard to believe they are fish at all. In fact, one
can sympathise with the old lady whose son, returnng from his first
voyage, was telling her yarns, true and stretched, and eventually told
her about flying fish. She replied, "John, there may be mountains of
sugar, and rivers of rum, but you can't tell me that fish fly!"

My life, in common with other first voyagers, was made a misery until I
knew, not only every sail, but every rope used in furling, setting or
trimming, and they average a round dozen per sail, in all well over five
hundred. Even on pitch dark nights and in blinding rain, you must be
able to put your hand on any individual rope, and the consequence of
letting go the wrong one may be pretty disastrous to both the ship and
the culprit.

The Third Mate is usually the boys' mentor, and hikes them away from
their sky-larking in the second dog-watch, to learn the ropes--whence
no doubt the saying originated. A second and third voyager, to say
nothing of the salt-horse A.B. knows his ropes, and that almost by the
feel. These are the men to rely upon when it comes to shortening down in
bad weather.

With fine weather sails bent, and decks like snow we drew down the Line
and into the region of Bonito, Dolphin, and Albacore. Always a keen
fisherman, I was sure of a call if there were fish under the bows, watch
on deck mustn't think of anything so frivolous, but someone always
managed to sneak into the half-deck and give me a shout in hopes of fish
for tea; a mighty welcome addition to the Liverpool pantiles and salt
junk, if there SHOULD be any left over from dinner. Beautiful ships, but
badly found.

With us boys, sneaking grub was no crime, it was a religion, and heaven
help the chap that let a chance go by. This led some of us into queer
scrapes, for cooks, and particularly stewards were all out to catch the
hungry hound and haul him before the Captain. On one occasion we located
some biscuits in a spare cabin, and I was told off for foraging. I got
into the cabin and got the biscuits all right, but when I came to open
the door which I had closed so that it couldn't slam with the roll of
the ship, I found I had landed into a trap. The handle turned, but not
the catch; that was the CATCH so to speak! I got the port open in hopes
of scrambling out on to the cro' jack braces (ropes that were used to
trim that yard) but when I did eventually get my head and one arm out, I
found that not only could I get no further out but I could not get back,
and I had horrible visions of them having to cut away part of my
anatomy, or part of the ship. Anyhow there was nothing for it but to
ignominiously call for help. I did get my head back, finally with the
loss of a bit of scalp,--and though I succeeded in convincing the Second
Mate, who rescued me, that I had walked in my sleep, it wouldn't go down
with the Skipper. Six solid weeks of the night watch on sentry go,
capstan bar on shoulder, and a six foot elm bar at that!

Another time we discovered a loose plank in the bulkhead of the
lazarette, and, after some nights of hard work, gained through. The chap
told off for the work, Austin, nicknamed Beaky on account of his nose,
was a bit deaf. What he had to do was to get the grub (in this case
onions, to put in our Cracker Hash) and climb up over the cargo until he
came to No. 4 Booby Hatch, the doors of which opened right facing the
half-deck door, inside which we were waiting. He came up all right, but
just as he started to shy the onions across the intervening four feet of
space between hatch and half deck, the Mate must come along, and, be it
known, they were Cabin onions. We sang out cave! when we heard the Mate
coming, but Beaky heard neither us nor the Mate, and continued to shy
the onions. The Mate was bound through the four foot passage, and, as he
turned the corner of the hatch, he stopped one! Stepping back, he viewed
the procedure, no doubt inwardly amused at our frantic efforts to put
Beaky wise. Beaky smiled serenely, and continued to shy the onions, all
of which had to be duly returned, and, in their place we, once again,
took what was coming to us.

However that was all in the day's work, and we would, and frequently
did, risk our necks crawling along cro' jack braces to pinch a bit of
pie or what not from the steward's pantry. Few boys that go to sea are
born to be drowned.




CHAPTER TWO



65 DEGREES SOUTH


We crossed the Line, with the usual formalities, into the S.E. Trades,
and a long leg down to the Horn. Here a westerly gale drove us South and
further South; colder and colder it grew until we fetched in amongst the
Antarctic ice. I've seen plenty of it since, both down there and up on
the Banks, but one's first sight is always the most impressive. That
long ghostly outline of white, in places blue, and, of every conceivable
shape and size.

By this time we had bogies going--when the sea did not put them out.

Despite all our efforts we were steadily driven down south until we
eventually fetched the sixty-fifth parallel. The month was June, in
other words, mid-winter. The conditions men had to endure almost beggar
description. Ropes and blocks frozen up, and solid with ice. Sails iron
hard with frozen rain and spray, often ice an inch thick, requiring
belaying pins to break it. I have seen all hands on the topsail yard for
hours on end of a bitter night, blowing a living gale, fighting with
canvas like cast-iron, finger nails turned back and knuckles raw,
battling to get it gathered in and a gasket round. It is difficult to
realise how any human being could survive the days and weeks with never
a dry stitch. Don't think this applied merely to the clothes we wore; it
included both blankets and bedding.

Long before one reaches the latitude of the Horn all maindeck doors are
as near hermetically sealed as is possible. Usually with the close
application of a sheath knife and quantities of rag and paper. One gains
access to the different living quarters, to galley and so forth, by
means of a a skylight; watching one's chance, opening the skylight,
dropping down and closing it again. A breath of the atmosphere in these
close quarters becomes almost as good as a meal. Huge seas, scores of
tons in weight, come thundering on board over the bulwarks, sweeping
anything movable before them. It is often a case of days without a hot
meal.

Added to all this, there is always the intense anxiety as to whether one
is going to happen across an iceberg during the night. The only means of
detecting them, when there is no moon, is from the white foam at the
base of the berg. If there is a moon one can sometimes get a glint or
glimpse of what is called "ice blink." Ice down in these latitudes
becomes more in the nature of ice-fields, and may extend for miles, and
become a veritable island. There is one well-known case of a sailing
ship running into a huge bay with a fair wind, and, finding herself
unable to beat out. Back and forth she thrashed, trying to work her way
clear, till finally she missed stays and crashed on the ice, to be
battered to pieces and all hands lost. Boats are of little or no use in
these conditions, for men can hardly survive on board ship, let alone in
an open boat.

After six weeks battling with Cape Horn Greybeards, as those huge
rollers are called, at last we got our slant. With the wind backing well
to the south-west we crammed on every stitch she would carry in our
endeavour to get up to the north-west and weather that dreaded old Cape
Stiff. There was every indication that we should make it, and be able to
stretch away for fine weather. Lower t'gallant sails and t'gallant
staysails set. Steering full-and-by, with all sails drawing strong, her
nose pointing well up to windward, everyone's spirits rose with every
mile reeled off. Every man and boy counted the hours to when he would be
able to hang out his dunnage and have some dry clothing, though it was
still a bit too soon to be looking forward to real warmth, but that
would come later. All we longed for from the bottom of our hearts was
that the wind would hold and not head us off by hauling any more to the
westward. The very first question asked each time the watch was called
was "How's the wind?" and it was a cheery crowd that answered to the
names called over at each relief. Now another forty-eight or sixty hours
at the most would see us with old Stiff astern, and we would be safe.

That night we were still snoring along, dark as pitch but with every
stitch on her that she could possibly bear. There WAS the risk of
hitting an iceberg, yes, but one that we were all willing to take.
Still, with the sea that was running, there was every chance of seeing
it before hitting and in good time to either go about, or run her away.
However, it was not to be. Our luck was out, and a long way out. Soon
after the watch had been relieved at midnight, the wind to our great
disappointment started to fall light. Nothing too bad in that, so long
as it did not head us. Better much, than in blowing up one of those
seemingly eternal gales with which we were absolutely fed-up.

Lighter and lighter the wind fell, and to an extraordinary degree
baffling, a thing most uncommon in those latitutes. You expect, and do
get, baffling winds in the tropics but not down in the sixties. The cold
became intense, in fact piercing. Not a great deal of difference from
what we had had, yet somehow it was a distinctive cold and it seemed to
have a dry penetrating drive with it. We certainly connected the cold
with ice, but not seriously. It was the vagaries of the wind we couldn't
understand, and no wonder.

At four bells as the wheel and look-out was being relieved, the two
look-out men stood for a few minutes talking and discussing the rotten
luck in losing the wind. The man relieving was a real old-timer, and
presently he walked up to the weather rail of the foc's'tlehead, and
sort of stuck his nose up into the wind. Suddenly he whipped round and
bellowed out, "Ice right ahead sir." Instinctively the Second Mate, aft
on the poop, gave the order, "Put your helm down and shake her up," with
the idea of taking the wind out of the sails and the way off the ship
until he could get a clear grasp of the situation.

The vital question was, in what direction did the ice extend. Were we to
windward, or to leeward of the main body? As she ran up into the wind,
both lookout men saw the ice still coming into sight ahead, and on the
weather bow. Old Heron, with his vast experience, and knowing that
everything right ahead and to some distance on the bow was completely
blotted out by the sails from the Second Mate on the poop, now roared
out, "Put your helm up, sir. The ice is to windward."

On a sailing ship you get to know your man to the very fibre of his
being, and the Second Mate KNEW Heron and ordered the helm "Hard up." It
was a big risk to take, for if once she filled again and got way on her,
and the ice should chance to be leeward as well as windward then, we
should undoubtedly strike and sink. There being little wind, however,
she payed off slowly.

The Captain was now on deck and quickly rapped out his orders. "All
hands on deck. Stand by the braces." Sure enough, old Heron was right,
and by now we could all see the ghostly and threatening outline of a
massive berg extending as far as the eye could see. Furthermore, it was
this monstrous berg that had been taking the wind out of our sails. This
we realised and with the realisation the knowledge that it must be the
father of all bergs, if it was responsible for the extraordinary
baffling of the wind, which we had now experienced for over four hours,
and during which time we must, in the darkness have been sailing
parallel along this block of Antartic. (sic)

Quickly we rounded in the weather braces in the hopes of filling on her
and making an offing. We must take the chance as to whether we had run
into an ice bay in the dark, for it must be remembered we could not see
more than quarter of a mile, and the ice was less than HALF that
distance from us. At one time just before she commenced to gather way
and draw off we were no more than a hunded yards from that towering
cliff of ice which looked as if our yardarms were going to touch. Being
right under the lee, the wind was utterly unreliable, and kept catching
her aback and drifting her nearer and nearer those threatening white
walls of ice.

An added anxiety in our minds as to whether there were any protruding
ledges below the water which might hold us below the water line and sink
us. Goodness knows what the temperature was at this time. Fortunately
our anxiety blotted out all sense of the cold, except when we tried to
use our hands. Everything that carried or showed the slightest moisture,
was all just solid ice, clothing included.

Steadily, inch by inch, we clawed off and, at last gained sea room; then
we hove-to till daylight broke and we should be able to see where the
ice extended and what was the best hope of saving the ship. With the
first streak of dawn it was easy to see what a narrow shave it had been,
and, with the increasing daylight, the cliffs of ice just extended and
extended. As the light became better and better till with the full day
there was revealed an impenetrable wall of ice for close on fifteen
miles astern, and more than double that distance ahead. As it turned
out, we sailed the best part of two solid days before we could safely
round the end of that island of ice. But, what was worse, we were all
the time slowly but surely being forced off our course, and away to the
eastward; for ever lessening our chances of rounding the Horn on this
leg.

A magnificent sight, cruising slowly along those blue-black cliffs.
Pinnacles, bays, chasms and cathedral like structures, huge ravines and
bridges, bridges of ice, looking for all the world as if they had built
by some clever engineers, and would have done credit to them at that.
Unfortunately we were in no mood at that moment to appreciate these
beauties. Curses, deep, sincere, and universal were hurled at this one
insurmountable bar, which prevented us from stretching away with a fair
wind to fine weather.

At long last when we did finally get round the ice, it was too light to
weather the old Cape, so once again, we heard that well-known order,
"All hands wear ship," and commenced another long leg to the southward.

It might be proverbial amongst sailing-ship men of those days that one
was not entitled to the name of sailor until the Horn had been rounded
at least three or four times. I know I felt all of a sailor after
rounding it once. Six weeks to the day, from the time we first made the
Horn bound south, till we again brought it abeam bound north.

A good clean run up through Trades and Tropics soon removed all traces
of our trials down south, whilst with all the goodwill in the world we
said good-bye to those harbingers of high latitudes, albatrosses, Cape
pigeons, Molly hawks and Mother Carey's chickens.

Heavy weather-sails were sent down and fine weather canvas bent in
place. Running gear re-rove, and heavy weather spare spar-lashings
removed. All dunnage (Anglice, clothing and bedding) out on deck drying
and airing. Everyone revelling in the sun and even welcoming the
bubbling pitch, though it should stick to our toes.

The very ship herself seemed to spring into greater life as the flying
kites were once again hoisted and set; each adding the urge and drive
which a few weeks later carried us through the Golden Gates of San
Francisco, on to the broad, smooth waters of the Sacramento.




CHAPTER THREE



'FRISCO IN THE EIGHTIES


What a strange mixture we found in that city of mushroom growth.
Beautiful broad streets and magnificent buildings, but almost entirely
without law or order,--unless you could pay for it. One section of the
city, known as Chinatown, was literally a young China. Rarely, if ever
did any white man attempt this locality at night time. We boys cared
little about the reputation of the place; in fact we did not realise the
perfectly appalling reputation it bore, and we spent lots of our time
hunting up curios from John Chinaman. The great fire of San Francisco
has cleared away this well-known landmark, and the Chinese are scattered
to the four winds of heaven. Certainly one does not find them now in
'Frisco. Whether 'Frisco is any better off without her young Chinatown
than with, is an open question. For my part I much prefer John Chinaman
to many other races. At least his word is his bond, and you can rely on
it to the bitter end. Get him to give you his brief "Can do" and you
need no attorneys, stamps nor seals.

'Frisco at this time, had the honour of bearing the worst reputation of
any sea port in the world for lawlessness, not excepting New York. It
was bad enough for the landsman to be on the streets at night, if it was
even suspected that he was carrying more than a very few dollars. Even
in broad daylight it was no uncommon thing for a man to be sandbagged
and robbed. Judge then, what it was for a sailor coming out of the
shipping office, KNOWN to have his pay-day in his pocket. He was lucky
if he could get as far as the nearest Post Office, always allowing he
had the sense to go there, which was seldom.

The water front of 'Frisco was held and run by a lot of soulless crimps.
These human vultures didn't wait for a man to get as far as the Shipping
Office; in fact they were indifferent as to whether a man was even
paying off or not. All THEY wanted was his body, and they would fight
amongst themselves for possession. Red Jake for a long time held
unquestioned sway. He derived his name from his lurid complexion and
crimson nose; one might even include his language,--it suited his name.

A ship arriving within the Golden Gates (was there ever such a
misnomer?) was at once overrun by a horde of these wretched crimps'
runners. The men might be on the capstan heaving in the tow rope, and
the crimps would just join up and heave round also on the capstan bars,
hauling out of their pockets flasks of whisky, and once a man has
accepted a drink, he is theirs,--and it was more than another crimp's
life was worth to alienate that man's affections.

Red Jake would have perhaps half a dozen of the toughest runners to each
ship, and so held a monopoly. After the drink, the sailor chap is given
money. No receipt or anything, is asked in return, but NOW they have
bought him, and he must be slick indeed, to get out of their toils. He
goes ashore that night under the wing of the crimp's runner to have a
good time. He has everything he asks for, and eventually goes to the
boarding house that every crimp keeps.

If there is a ship ready to sail and short of a crew, he will be one of
them. Heavily doped, his body is delivered on board and a receipt taken,
which in turn, is cashed for a month's pay, deducted from the sailor
boy's pay sheet; having already sacrificed all his earnings of the
outward passage.

Who profits?

The crimp gets a month's pay. The shipowner gets the whole of the
outward passage's pay, and the Captain gets his crew, and, let it be
known, he will get them no other way.

Who should kick?

The skinflint shipowner, thousands of miles away, lining his pockets and
increasing his dividends?

Not he.

Furthermore, the skipper with a conscience, who manages to keep his crew
together, will get no bouquets when he arrives home and faces "ship's
expenses" at the office.

The 'Frisco police also got their rake off, according to a printed and
accepted schedule, agreed with the boarding house runners.

I am glad to say our Skipper was one with a conscience. I'll go further
and say, such men were not difficult to find in British ships. He gave
the crew to understand they would get money out of his own pocket the
moment the ship was fast, and if they deserted that night, well, he
would be the loser. He told them, "Go ashore, and have a good time. But
for God's sake men don't let those crimps get hold of you." We did lose
a couple of men before we left. Men we could afford to lose, as a matter
of fact, but of the real good crowd, we lost none.

Of course it was good to be ashore for a time. To stretch our legs, and
feed the inner man, and see the sights. What sights some of them were!!!
Old Dupont Street with its green shutters and painted hags.

The Underground rabbit warren that honeycombed Chinatown.

Beach Street on the river edge with its rows of Dives, where more men
went in than ever came out.

Hard, bitter hard, though ship life often was, yet we were glad to see
the Golden Gates, with all they stood for, fading away and finally
disappearing below the horizon. At least the sea was clean.

The only good thing about 'Frisco as far as I, a first voyager with an
eternal hunger, could see, was the biscuits. "'Frisco biscuits" are
known the world over. Big, crisp and eatable. A good six inches across,
and even the ship's margarine could not altogether spoil their flavour.
Why the food, supplied by the British shipowners should have been so
notoriously bad, barely sufficient to keep body and soul lashed
together, seems inconceivable. Ships were paying, and paying well, yet
they screw the old salt horse shellback down to the last ounce--and a
poor one at that. In fact, the outstanding feature of my first voyage
seems to have been the state of semi-starvation we boys lived in, until
we got the 'Frisco biscuits.

One of the squarest meals I ever remember enjoying was on an occasion,
in the port we had just left. Standing outside a restaurant, a very
small and very hungry boy, just thinking what I could do with a dollar
and some of the good things in front of me--if I had the chance. When a
voice with the broad, drawling Western accent spoke from away up above
me, "Say, Sonny, could you go a feed?" I looked up to see a man about
six feet five inches, and big in proportion, wearing the rough rig of a
miner or rancher, just up to town. Could I go a feed! when money was
doled out to all and sundry at the munificent rate of a dollar a week!
A.B.'s, apprentices, or petty officers, it was just the same, though why
on earth we should not have been allowed to have some of the money that
was already ours, heaven and the owners alone knew.

He took me in and gave me the meal of my young life. Lashings of ham and
eggs (a sailor's staple diet when ashore) cups of thick chocolate and
apple pie. He just grinned as it all disappeared, till, at last, despite
his earnest persuasion, I could eat no more.

Next day he was down on board with pockets full of apples, asking for
"that youngster with the gaff-topsail collar." Western generosity!




CHAPTER FOUR



FLYING FISH WEATHER


We left the Golden Gates behind us homeward bound, with a cargo of
grain. About half way down to the Horn we discovered that she had sprung
a leak somewhere. We could tell this by the frightful stink coming up
from below. Rotting grain has worse contemporaries, but they are not so
easy to find. Evidently there was water getting in somewhere on the
starboard side, for that was obviously where the stench came from.

There was nothing for it but to open up the hatches, and break down.
Fortunately we were still in fine weather so we could pile the decks
with sacks of grain and loose wet grain laid out drying. The leak was
located and found due to a bit of flint getting into the red lead
packing around one of the side ports!

Poor old Chips, he was for the carpet all right. A few thousand pounds
worth of damage done, all on account of a little stone! All the same, it
was lucky it happened where it did. Ships are known to have had their
sides burst out by the swelling grain, when the leak could not be got
at.

It was shortly after we had the grain stowed again that Olsen, the Swede
got moonstruck, through sleeping out on deck in the full rays of the
tropic moon. He woke up, one middle watch, to muster with the rest, and
at the sight of him, with his face all twisted on one side, everyone
burst out laughing. Poor devil, he didn't know what was the matter. It
was full moon, and as light as day; one could easily see to read a book
by the light, yet old Olsen went stumbling about the decks, as if it
were pitch dark. As it turned out, he thought that it was dark, and that
gave us the first inkling that something had gone wrong. We heard him
say, half to himself, "GOSH! it's dark," and then someone asked him what
he meant, and it came out that not only was his face all twisted up, but
he could not see his hand in front of him. When daylight came he was all
right, but as soon as it got a bit dusk, he was finished. He got over it
to a certain extent before we arrived home, but he never fully recovered
his sight at night time.

Most sailors have a hobby of some sort--making mats, carving models out
of wood, with beautifully cut sails, thin as a wafer, and bellying out
in the most natural way. Olsen's strong point was making planes for
planing wood--Spoon planes, Jack planes, and all sorts of planes. It
was just marvellous to sit and watch him fashioning them out of pieces
of hard wood he brought away with him, fitting the irons and polishing
them off. Most Swedes are good carpenters, and, though an A.B. he was a
jolly good chippy man. After he got twisted up, he just moped, and would
do nothing. It was pitiful to see him feeling his way round the decks
when it was light enough for the rest of us to pick up a pin.

On a long sailing ship voyage, each man knows the other better than he
knows himself. Funny little characteristics develop. He tells a bit
here, and a bit there, until, whether he likes it or not, you can piece
his life story together, like fitting a jig-saw puzzle.

Knut, the Dane, had been a whaler in Nova Scotia, and had killed a man
with a harpoon. He never told us in so many words, and of course, his
secret was quite safe.

If it had happened in a Yankee whaler, he would not have had to bother--
always supposing no one else had caught him out. It would merely have
resolved into a matter of paying so many dollars in to the right
quarter, and nothing more would have been heard of it. But, as he came
under British law, it was a different matter, and he was lucky to change
over at sea, as he did, and eventually work his way back to Denmark.
Knut wasn't his name, we all knew that. He hadn't meant to kill the man;
in fact, the man went for Knut with the steering oar, just when Knut was
going to make his strike, and, as he turned suddenly away from the whale
to defend himself, the boat gave a lurch, and he drove the harpoon into
the steersman's stomach. It MIGHT have washed in a Court of Law, but for
the bad blood that was known to exist between the two. Wisely, or
unwisely, he took the chance when it was offered of getting right back
home.

It wasn't until the passage home that we could get him to even take a
shot with the harpoon. He certainly was an artist with it, and three out
of four times he would hit a chip of wood thrown from the bowsprit end.
In fact, I saw him put the harpoon through a three-inch rope grummet,
three times in succession, and this with the ship laying over, and doing
a good seven knots. He could pick up a porpoise every time, and that is
not easy, for there is only one place where you can harpoon a porpoise
and be certain that it is going to hold.

Lying becalmed one day, a whole shoal of these greybellies came
thundering over the horizon; each one anything up to ten feet long, all
leaping straight up and flinging themselves sideways, landing flat on to
the surface, with a report like a 4.7 gun. There were thousands and tens
of thousands of them. Thunder was mild compared with the row. They
covered, at a rough guess, a rectangle, about half a mile long, and five
hundred yards wide. The sea was like glass, and when they were first
sighted, we could just see a patch of foam, growing rapidly bigger and
bigger: then bodies shooting up in the air, the roar growing louder and
louder, until we couldn't hear each other speak.

The average weight must have been well over a ton and a half. The one
Knut nailed was purposely a small one, otherwise the line would not have
held him. Of course it would have been a different matter if Knut had
been in a small boat and so could have let the porpoise tow him before
the line ran out. As it was, the 2 1/2 inch rope was taxed pretty
severly when hauling it up by sheer brute force, tail first, to the
cat-head.

I was told the wind always came from the direction where a shoal of
porpoises was heading. But first voyagers are fair game for all sorts of
yarns; one remembers some, and if wise, believes about half of what one
remembers. All the same, sailors do believe the wind will come from the
direction indicated by porpoises. Personally I think they gather
together from far and wide at certain times, simply to migrate; going
thousands of miles to fresh hunting grounds.

They jump out of the water and drop smack on to it again partly for
sheer sport, and partly in an endeavour to knock off suckers, Anyhow,
they're good eating, and a mighty welcome change from sailing-ship salt
horse where the fat is often going, or gone, green--and that's no
exaggeration.

The CROFTON HALL had cholera break out through eating some such junk and
lost half her crew before she could get back to Calcutta. Admittedly the
stuff had been slowly going rotten lying in the harness cask for two
months under a tropical sun. Still, they had the usual sailor's choice;
eat it or leave it.

Fish hung up in the light of the moon will go the same way and must on
no account be touched. If the moon does get at it you see the whole
fish, or what may be left of it, become phosphorescent. That is the
danger signal, and I've never seen enyone hardy enough, even amongst
sailing-ship men, to tackle it after that.

Neither will sailors touch a fish that has come out of what is called
"Blood Water." This is a case when the sea turns deep red, often
crimson, in the sun. Really it's nothing but countless millions of
animalculae like cochineal. You will be slipping though beautifully blue
water (never seen within two hundred miles of our English coast) when
suddenly you will run into this Blood Water (it does look just like
blood) and may so continue for a couple of days.

As for the yarn about never eating fish out of it; well I've never seen
fish in it, and that's a pretty sound reason to my mind.

Sailing ship life, even on one's first voyage is cram full of incidents,
but they are irrelevant, and would fill a good sized book in themselves.

At long last we arrived in Liverpool, just a few days short of a year
from the time we left; and such was my first voyage in sail.




CHAPTER FIVE



THE "HOLT HILL"


For some reason I changed over to the HOLT HILL, sister ship to the
PRIMROSE HILL, and of the same Line. My cousin was Third Mate; I was
then second voyage apprentice, and beginning to feel my feet. We were
bound for Rio, and proud to sail under Captain "Jock" Sutherland, one of
the greatest crackers-on out of Liverpool; in fact, he made a boast that
he never allowed a ship to pass him with any of his sails furled. He
certainly was a sailor to his finger tips; and it was great to see him
lying that ship over in half a gale of wind, with scupper holes and
wash-ports well under water, the water even swirling through the
sheave-holes half way up the bulwarks; this used to thrill us boys to
the bone.

 He knew exactly, to the last ounce, what she would carry, and woe
betide anyone who voiced a thought that sail might be shortened. To
first voyagers it was pretty terrifying I'll admit, for many a time and
aften it seemed as though nothing could save the ship from going over
on her beam ends, or, alternatively, the masts being taken out of her.

On one occasion old Jock heard some of the crew cursing at the way he
was carrying on. He just went down below, and arrived back on deck, with
a camp chair and a revolver, and dared any man to even whisper about
shortening sail, much less touch a halyard. He followed this up with a
threat that, unless they went about their work and stopped their
grousing, he would "put the helm up and sail the whole damn lot of you
to hell." And, knowing the man, I wouldn't have put it past him. It was
not exactly that he was altogether a daredevil in his cracking-on, it
was just sheer knowledge of his ship, and confidence in what she could
stand.

Beyond minor incidents that will happen to any good cracker-on, old Jock
had, up to that time, run free of any serious smash up, but this voyage
proved to be his undoing. The first bad break (and, as it turned out
afterwards, there were to be three) was off the Western Isles, one
filthy dirty night; carrying on as usual to the last ounce, under six
t'gallant sails, when really she should have been under six topsails--
backstays like harpstrings, and every rope straining to its limit.
Suddenly a man got washed overboard from the lee braces. In response to
old Jock's whip crack orders, we dropped the upper t'gallant yards with
a run and let fly the lower t'gallant sheets, as he flung the ship up in
the wind, nearly taking the masts out of her, but the case was utterly
hopeless.

We even got a boat away, by sheer good luck, but in the pitch darkness,
and in that sea, it was a wonder we didn't lose both boat and boat's
crew as well.

It was no fault of old Sutherland's that the man went overboard, except
that the ship had far too much canvas on her--but who would blame him
for that: All sailors know the danger in shipping a lee sea. Each man
must look out for himself. On the other hand, to be dubbed a cracker-on
would be the ambition of every skipper worth his salt. We lost our man,
but he was the first and last to lose his life, from being washed
overboard whilst under Sutherland's command.

The second misfortune came about just outside Rio, off Cape Frio, at
eight o'clock one morning, driving hard as usual, every stitch of canvas
set. A sudden squall sent the ship heeling over, ropes and chains
cracking, yard parrels groaning, till she was ripping it up like the
proverbial Flying Dutchman.

Whether what happened was due to a sudden shift of wind, or to the
skipper giving the order to luff, and the man at the wheel giving her
too much helm, was never known--(Sutherland would never explain, nor
make any attempt to justify himself)--but the fact remains without a
moment's warning, we were caught back and then a moment later, the sails
suddenly filled again and twisted the fore and main t'gallant masts
clean out of her.

That meant both fore and main t'gallant, royal and skysail masts with
all their attendant yards and gear, came crashing down on or near the
desk. No one was hurt, marvellous to relate, though the main skysail
yard dropped and hung within a few feet of a bunch of us boys, who,
despite the fact that it was our watch below, had turned out to see the
fun, and to be perfectly frank, in the hopes that something WOULD
happen.

It did, and no one had another meal, or spell for twenty-four hours. The
gale, which had been brewing, and of which the squall was the fore
runner, came down on us, and did its best to put us under altogether.
Nothing but the superhuman efforts of Mates and crew saved the ship (as
it turned out, only for a later fate). It was in emergencies like this,
that one appreciated a British crowd. As a rule they are the greatest
grumblers on earth, but you can always rely on them when the time comes
and you are in a tight corner; which you can't on Dutchmen--the broad
term applied to all Continental foreigners.

On one ship of which I was Second Mate, the Mate was a Dutchman
(actually a Swede) and had a watch of his own kidney. Down round the
Horn one night, with the Skipper laid up, the Mate had to "wear ship"
himself, an "all hands" job. I had to take his Watch at the Main Braces,
and the Third Mate take mine at the Cro'jack Braces. Wearing Ship is a
ticklish job at the best of times, particularly the bracing up when she
comes to. At the crucial moment, the whole Watch got a dose of sheer
funk and cowered at the braces, and when I got amongst them with hands
and feet, cursing them to all eternity, they simply vanished, and hid in
what they considered safety.

We saved her, but only because half the British Watch broke off and did
the "Dutchmen's" job at the Main, whilst the other half of the Watch
carried on at the Mizzen.

Having, at last, cleared the wreckage of masts, yards, and sails, cut
away the last wire back stay, saved what we could, and let the remainder
go by the board, we squared away the remaining yards, and limped into
Rio.




CHAPTER SIX



RIO AND REVOLUTIONS


Rio is a marvellous harbour, second only to Sydney, and at that time
full of sailing ships, though many of them were swinging to an anchor
without a soul on board. Cholera and smallpox were at their worst, with
little facilities and less energy on the part of the natives to hold the
disease in check. Deaths were averaging about two hundred a day ashore,
whilst "Dead boats" continually patrolled the harbour with their
gruesome cargoes collected from the various ships. Still, there was
plenty of enjoyment to be got out of life, and with the usual youthful
indifference, one paid little heed to the horrors around.

I cannot say the British were ever favourites in Rio, and little blame
can be attached to the natives, for the ill-concealed hate with which
they regarded us. "Incidents" happened pretty frequently, important and
unimportant; many of them were just skylarks. One night we had been
ashore on duty, and returning without the Captain we were chased by a
police boat; owing to the revolution the inhabitants were indulging at
the time no one was allowed on the water after sunset.

Ours was a six-oared mahogany gig, very light and very fast, and we led
that police boat a dance round that harbour they were not likely to
forget. All they wanted was to know which ship we belonged to, so that
they could drop on the Skipper, and that was the very thing we were
determined they should not find out. They tried a few shots with their
revolvers, but we knew they didn't mean to hit us. The result was, they
pulled and we pulled, but their crew had not got their muscles and
sinews developed in the hard school of a British sailing ship. After a
couple of hours they had to give it up, absolutely exhausted, and next
morning yet another complaint was carefully noted--and filed--by that
tactful warden of British prestige: the good old British Consul.

On another occasion a British Man-o'-Warsman had a knife stuck into him,
and, as a result, died on his ship. The British Fleet out there at that
time, consisted of two comparatively small ships, but what it lacked in
size, the Admiral certainly made up for in grit and determination.
Having ineffectually demanded the surrender of the murderer, after
forty-eight hours he stood over, opposite the town, cleared for action,
and landed an armed party. We boys were in at the steps, in our own
ship's boats at the time, and nothing would please us but we must
abandon our boats, and follow the naval party up to the town to see the
fun. No resistance at all was made to the Bluejackets, who marched right
up to the jail, extracted the murderer, put him on board the cruiser,
and sailed out of the harbour, to return a few hours later with his
remains swinging at the yard arm! Later the body was lowered, and landed
at the steps, and left for the authorities to collect.

Pretty high handed, I'll admit, but the British were both feared and
respected in those days.

Another time, the Port Authorities refused, for some reason to give the
THETIS, a full rigged British ship, her papers, and after delaying her
for a week, the Captain threatened to take her out without papers. The
authorities ashore told him that they would blow her out of the water,
if he attempted to pass the forts. He threatened to go and fetch the
British Fleet (consisting of these two small cruisers) and turn them
loose. Their reply was that they would blow the British Fleet out of the
water also.

This appeared to be good enough to be getting on with, so, commandeering
a steam launch, the Captain carried the glad tidings to the Admiral-----
who was cruising outside the harbour, not wishing to get mixed up in a
revolution then in progress, and by which they hoped to unseat Don
Pedro. The two British cruisers came in; made fast on either side of the
British sailing ship, and told the Captain to heave up his anchor. Then
steamed with him out of the harbour. We cheered ourselves pretty well
hoarse at the success of this manoeuvre. Needless to say, not a shot was
fired from the forts.

A common form of amusement amongst us boys, in which the HOLT HILL
played a leading part, was swimming around "ship visiting." In most
ships swimming over the side was absolutely prohibited; in others, only
allowed for half an hour or so in the evening, with very strict
precautions, such as boats in the water, and look-outs for sharks. Old
Jock Sutherland was a sport to his finger tips, and simply left us to
use our own good common sense. So when the work of the day was over,
decks had been washed,--and ourselves--tea finished, then, in the cool
of the evening, over the side we would go and swim away to the next
ship. If nobody was watching, their boys would come over the side and
join us, and so we would go on from ship to ship, until perhaps close on
fifty of us, would be swimming and singing round the harbour, in water
like warm milk. Sharks are cowards, anyway, always excepting tiger
sharks, and as it turned out we were perfectly safe and never lost a
soul.

As a matter of fact, a fish that is far more dangerous than a shark in
Rio harbour is a Blanket Fish, often called a Sun Fish; sometimes
misnamed a Devil Fish. It frequently lies asleep on the surface,
covering an area of anything up to ten or fifteen square yards. One of
these fish is apt to heave itself almost bodily out of the water, and
land on top of its objective, which may be a man swimming. They have
only one motion, and that is forward, so there is not much danger
really,--providing that you are fairly quick in the uptake, dodge
sideways, and don't lose your head.

Coming off in the gig one night, we ran right up one of these chaps,
much to the annoyance of the Skipper. It was shortly after midnight and
pitch dark. I think the Skipper had had a pretty good time; anyhow, he
was feeling quite pleased with himself. We pulled six oars, and the
custom is to judge your distance from the gangway, say a hundred feet,
and on the order "give her weigh" get in about a half a dozen good
strokes, then smartly toss the oars, while the boat with her own
impetus, runs alongside. We had just given her the half dozen, when she
ran her nose high and dry on one of these great slabs of sleeping fish,
lying on the surface. He awakened in a hurry, and, tossing his stern,
dived down. Being a long narrow boat, OUR stern was already well down,
and as the result of the Sun Fish's kick up, the skipper found himself
sitting up to his armpits in water. On our lives, we dared not laugh, so
we just hustled him up on board, out of the way, and howled our heads
off.

Another amusement for the boys forming the boats' crews from the
different ships in harbour, was to muster up at the landing steps
ashore, and, leaving one in charge of all the boats, do a cruise round
the market, buying what we couldn't steal. I dare say we were a bit of
a trial, and the natives certainly did not overtax their patience with
us; in fact they often used to turn out EN MASSE and kick us out of the
market. I don't blame them altogether, but when, on occasions, they drew
knives, then it got beyond a joke. One time they chased us half way
across the square before we got reinforcements from the boats with
stretchers, and we were able to return their good wishes--and quite a
good account we gave. This time I not only collected two very nice
little cuts, but actually left a small piece of flesh, off one hand, on
the ground. Several of us had got cut about, when, to add insult to
injury, the mounted police turned up, but charged us boys, if you
please, instead of charging the mob!

Rio is also rather noted for its podgy little bum-boats, which cruise
round the harbour visiting the ships, and are anxiously looked for by
the hungry hordes of apprentices. In exchange for money, or a shirt if
you hadn't cash--as was usually the case, you got glorious bread,
coffee, oranges, bananas, and "alligator" pears, as they are now known,
though their proper name is Avocada. This sort of trading is stopped by
the Mates if it can possibly be detected. But when the sun shines, and a
fellow is hungry, seaboots and thick underclothing seem quite
superfluous. Many's the chap that has left Rio, bound round the Horn,
with barely enough clothes for tropical weather, let alone the rigours
of Cape Stiff. To have been round the Horn a few times you are a
"sailor," but to have been round without seaboots, you are a real "hard
case."

We rigged up stump t'gallant masts in Rio for the simple reason, I
suppose, they had no spars long enough for t'gallant, royal, and skysail
masts. They were terrible misfits, but the best we could get from a town
in the turmoil of eternal revolutions. The sails were of No.1 canvas and
had forty-two feet of a drop. Lowered down and clewed up. At least they
were supposed to lower down, but when needed never would, so it was
usually a case of "lower away t'gallant halyards," and, as nothing ever
happened, "Haul taut and clew up." Finally we would have to take up a
downhaul, and pull the infernal yard down by brute force, on to the
lifts. That done, it was "up aloft and furl them"--a sixty by forty
sail, No. 1 canvas, and wet at that. It was more like trying to roll up
a piece of rhino hide than anything else I can imagine. You manage to
beat a crinkle in the belly, so that you can get all your fingers
fastened on to it, then, all together, you haul and tuck that particular
bit of sail under your stomach and lie on it hard. All this time the
sail is banging and thrashing about, and you are balanced on the foot
rope, so named because it is under your feet, and all else there is
under you is the deep blue sea, or worse still, the deck, if you do come
down. After two or three bights of the sail have been tucked under each
man, someone may inadvertantly ease up, or the sail will give an extra
kick, and away goes the whole damn lot, and you start all over again--
if you've been lucky enough to catch the jackstay in front of you as the
sail went bellying up over your head. How heartily we cursed those
sails!

Finally, with all our ballast on board, a round thousand tons of sharp
edged granite, every ounce of which we had man-handled from lighters to
the hold, we were ready for sea. With sails bent, tug alongside, we hove
up and said "so long" to them and their oranges, their cholera and their
revolutions.

With a fair wind and a light ship we sailed out of Rio harbour bound for
Calcutta--or so we thought.




CHAPTER SEVEN



SMALLPOX


It was almost a dead beat in the teeth of the Trades, so we reached away
to forty odd degrees south, where we hoped to pick up the prevailing
westerly wind, and stretch away for the Cape. We had to send down the
mizzen skysailyard and unbend the mizzen royal staysail, as it gave her
far too much canvas aft with only stump t'gallant masts forward; in
fact, with the mizzen royal, and the wind anywhere abaft the beam, it
took two hands at the wheel to keep her from broaching-to at the best of
times. Whereas ordinarily with a ship of her class you could steer with
one hand and a few spokes of the wheel. And, take it from me, to have in
your hands the eight foot wheel (diameter, not circumference) and a
twenty-five hundred ton ship, and she with a bone in her teeth, is a
thing never to be forgotten. You can "feel" her just as closely as you
can a horse with the most delicate mouth, and to be a helmsman worthy of
the name, you must know what she is going to do before she does it. She
lifts to this sea, straghtens herself up, and goes down to the next,
with the unmistakable motion that tells you she is going to run up in
the wind on the following sea. If you don't get the helm against her
before she does it, up she comes with all the upper sails shaking in the
wind and the Mate howling out to know, "Where the hell are you going to,
you soldier?"

Although we had left Rio, we were not to forget it in a hurry.

We had been out about a fortnight, when some of the crew commenced to go
down with some sort of sickness. The first chap we said was loafing,
until he died. That's always the verdict on a sailing ship, anyway. A
man is invariably "mouching" until he dies, and then we say, "Oh, he
must have been bad after all." It was smallpox.

Old Sails was the first to go under, and even then, I don't think we
were by any means sure what we were up against. No medicine, and no
doctor, of course; in fact, the last medicine on board, which consisted
of half a cup of castor oil, was drunk by one of the patients in mistake
for water. As there was nothing to check it, we just had to rely upon
our cast iron constitutions and stick it out. I seemed to be immune both
from smallpox and yellow fever. I once had a chap die in my arms of
Yellow Jack, and I used to wear a fur coat belonging to one of our
smallpox convalescents. He used to wear it during the day, and I
borrowed at night! I'll admit I wasn't popular with the watch whilst I
did wear it.

Twice I read the burial service, or such parts as I could find, in a
gale of wind when the Mate couldn't leave the poop. Sometimes we
couldn't get the body over the rail,--then it was beastly.

We reached away down into high latitudes in the hopes of freezing it
out. This was a mixed advantage, as on one hand we had to shorten down,
and keep her shortened down, for the simple reason that if we did crowd
the canvas on, we had not the hands to take it in, if it came on to
blow. This left us battling around under six topsails instead of
stretching out for the Cape under full sail.

After several memorable weeks of struggle under appalling conditions, we
at last got our anchor down in Capetown Quarantine ground. Made up our
losses and left again. I think everyone was glad to see the last of us,
as the reason for our being there had somehow leaked out ashore,
although, by that time we had lived down the scourge.

From time immemorial sailing ships have what is termed "Run their
Easting Down." That is, after rounding or leaving the Cape, they ran on
a parallel of latitude, and sometimes worked south, keeping down till
they reach St. Paul's or thereabouts. The prevailing winds are westerly
and strong, and St. Paul's serves to check chronometers for longitude,
and the run north to the East Indies. We had left Rio in ballast, and
mighty little of that, and therefore were in no case for cracking-on,
but that made no difference to old Jock Sutherland.

We were nearing St. Paul's when, in the afternoon, a big fourmaster
barque hove in sight on our port quarter, overtaking us, under six
t'gallant sails, whilst we were flying along under six topsails, but the
other ship was loaded and we were light, and in no shape, with our stump
t'gallant masts, to try to get away from her. The wind was well aft,
which made it worse for us, owing to our makeshift rig. But all that
didn't matter a bean to Jock.

"He'd never had a ship pass him with any of his sails furled, and he was
not going to start now."

"Set EVERYTHING!"

We set everything, and before dark ran her right out of sight. And small
wonder, for when we hove the log at eight bells (eight o'clock) that
night, we were reeling off thirteen and a half knots. Two hands at the
wheel and then all they could do to hold her on her course and prevent
her broaching to; the mizzen royal, and the mizzen royal staysail doing
their utmost to force her up in the wind. One thing, being in ballast,
she was dry, though why on earth she didn't turn right over, heaven and
old Jock alone knew--and he said nothing. As a matter of fact, the Mate
and he were walking up and down the poop, each waiting for the other to
make the first suggestion for shortening down, and neither would. Both
good chums; both crackers-on, and you've got the situation!

At last eight bells came, and the relief of the watches. We all heard
the Mate, Mr. Williams, say, "Keep a good look-out for land ahead and of
the lee bow. Relieve the wheel, and look out. That will do the watch,"
and my watch went below. The Second Mate, taking over, said to the Mate,
"Just as soon as you get below I'm for having some of these sails in."

"Just as you like," the Mate replied, "and the sooner the better."

It was blowing a gale, and he knew quite well the risk we were running
in that sea, which by this time was like a house side, and the ship
nearly unmanageable.

As I turned in I heard the Second Mate go forward along the fore and aft
bridge which links up the poop to the half deck, midship house and
fo'c'sle, so that anyone could get fore and aft without touching the
main deck. On the fo'c'sle head he found the lookout man coiling down
the flying jib downhaul, a new rope, just rove off the day before, and
which eventually saved our lives.

We should have seen the land before, only for a heavy squall of rain
that passed ahead, just at eight bells. The Second Mate, looking up,
with the squall clearing, suddenly saw the loom of the land right ahead,
and the ship rushing for it at racehorse speed.

One of our chaps had just got up to blow out the light in the half deck,
when we heard Mowatt come thumping along the bridge roaring out: "Hard
down. All hands on deck. Let go royal and t'gallant halyards."




CHAPTER EIGHT



WRECKED ON ST. PAUL'S


Poor old Mowatt! He'd got the shock of his life, and in his excitement
had given the wrong order; though he wasn't to know that. His idea was
to bring her up in the wind, and either reach clear of the land, or go
about and stand off on the other tack. He had not seen, up till then,
that there was four miles of land to windward, (the way he was turning
the ship,) but only two to leeward.

Old Jock, with his experience, when he got on deck a moment later, took
all this in, and countermanded Mowatt's order with:

"Hard up. Square away the Cro'jack yard."

The wind had been two points on the port quarter, therefore Jock also
saw she would, if brought up to the wind and being in ballast, just sag
to leeward and take the rocks broadside. Then nobody would have had a
ghost of a chance. (Not that anyone would have give a brass farthing for
our chances, as it was.) Jock saw that by putting the helm up he could
clear the two miles to leeward, if--and it was a big if--he could get
her round in time.

Under ordinary circumstances, or given the time, he would have done it,
but conditions were dead against him. She had started to come up, and
had been carrying the helm nearly hard up all the time, in consequence
of the terrific pressure of sail aft. So that by the time she checked
coming up, and started to pay off a bit, it seemed too late. She had
just gone off so far that she was back on her original course, heading
straight for the land, and the decision then had to be made, was it or
was it not too late, to continue the manoeuvre? Jock decided it was too
late, (and certainly his decision was right) but he had had to make the
hardest possible decision the Captain of a ship is ever called on to
make. Continue to try and save his ship and thus risk everyone's life,
by the ship being driven on broadside? Or, to put his ship straight at
it, and deliberately throw her away.

When I got on deck, the land was towering right up above us. It was just
then that old Jock made his irrepealable decision, and I heard him give
the heart-breaking order, "Steady the Helm. Put her straight at it.
Steady as she goes. Belay everything."

I had only stayed in the half deck long enough to get into my shirt,
pants, and shoes. Even then, it was a sight to make me feel as though I
had missed my breakfast. Gigantic seas were tossing her high in the air,
to let her drop next moment like a stone into an almost bottomless
trough, whilst the unrelenting rocks loomed nearer and nearer.

Scared, yes scared stiff, but I don't think I was rattled, in fact I
don't think anyone was rattled, Jock least of all. You certainly would
not have thought so to hear him say to the Mate in a casual sort of way,
"Well she is in the breakers now. She won't be long before she bumps."

Yet his heart must have been breaking. I know mine was sinking lower and
lower, as she tore at those forbidding black cliffs.

Only sixteen and every prospect of my bright young life coming to the
end of the chapters within the next few minutes. A queer, hardly
describable sensation of semi-suspended animation. Everyone waiting
without movement or word for the crash that must almost immediately be
followed by the short sharp struggle. Then . . . what? I don't advise
anyone to try it as an experiment. Take it from one who knows. It's
unpleasant, mighty unpleasant.

Jock's one last word of advice was to, "Stand aft under the break of the
poop clear of the falling gear."

We expected all four masts to come down like a row of ninepins. A moment
later we heard, "Every man for himself!" freeing everyone to follow
their own devices--only, there were none to follow. There was nothing
anyone could do, but just wait, wait, wait, whilst the gale still roared
and the ship laboured in the gigantic seas, racing on to her impending
doom. One could almost describe it as a relief from the racking suspense
when at last she struck. With a shuddering crash she hit an outlying
rock. The shock of that terribly alien feeling when a ship strikes the
ground went through everyone like a knife. This was instantly followed
by another terrific bump, then the sickening, rending crash, as she tore
up the rocks, ripping the bottom right out of herself.

Up to that moment we had thought she was going to sail right up to the
cliff, hit it like a wall, close up like a telescope, and go down with
all hands. However, she didn't, though we discovered later, had she
been a couple of hundred yards to the northward, this is exactly what
would have happened. On the other hand, had she been the same distance
to the southward, she would have struck outlying rocks half a mile or
more out to sea. In either case it would have meant a swift and sure
exit for all of us. As it was, she struck a gradual rise, right on the
top of high water, up which she went till her bowsprit was almost over
the dry land. Then, as though to make doubly sure, a gigantic sea came
rolling up, lifted her bows up, and dropped them between two huge
pinnacles of rock, staving them both in, but holding her in a vice-like
grip and preventing any possibility of slipping back into deep water.

So there she was, with every stitch of canvas set, a slight list to
port, sidelights burning, ropes coiled down, and everything in shipshape
order. The sea at the moment we struck was right aft, so all the power
it had was to smash in the stern, which it promptly did.

I recollect a lot of gear coming through the saloon; also an infernal
cackling from a crate of hens, that had been on the after hatch--then
blank, until I picked myself up forward. I suppose I got a crack over
the head with some piece of wreckage that came through the gutted saloon
and State rooms. I had not earned the soubriquet of "Woodenhead"
(through my ability to sleep soundly) for nothing. I felt no ill effects
anyway, so I clambered up on the foc's'le head where, by this time, the
crew had got the flying jib downhaul hitched to the end of the bowsprit,
and were sliding down on to the rocks. As almost everybody was on the
starb'd side of the boom, I nipped along to the port side. Caught hold
of the rope with one hand and let go. With the result, that, I came a
terrific cropper on the rocks below. I can only assume it was the rubber
in one's limbs at that age, and that alone, which prevented both legs
being broken.

As I landed on the rocks, a huge sea came over my head. I knew quite
well that it was in the backwash the danger lay, so I quickly took a
turn round one wrist, and round one leg, jamming it with the other, and
held on like grim death. When the backwash came, I could feel that rope
dragging through my hands, inch by inch. If it were possible to squeeze
the heart out of a rope, I should think I did. So great was the drag of
the water that it sucked my shoes off.

However, the backwash expended itself at last, and, half drowned, I
swung over the rocks again, and let go sharp, for I could feel the rope
vibrating, which indicated that somebody else was coming down to try
their luck. He also landed with a pretty good bump, and together we
scrambled up the rocks, to get out of the way of the next breaker. It
was black dark, blowing, raining, and bitterly cold, though it wasn't
until later on that we noticed the cold.

Our scramble brought us up against the face of a wet, perpendicular, and
particularly slimy rock. The sides we could not see; the top we could
only reach. Leonard, the chap with me, had his wits about him, and
barked,

"Give me your foot. Up you go, youngster."

No sooner said than done. I landed on the top, then turned to reach for
him.

"I'm all right," he called out of the darkness.

Evidently he had found a way round and at this moment, as I got to my
feet, along came a breaker, roaring up the rocks, and just deep enough,
to lift me off my feet and carry me bodily forward. A few moments, then
again the backwash, and I was swimming for dear life, at odd times
trying to dig my fingers into the slimy, slippery stone, knowing that I
was going backwards and backwards, towards the edge of that big rock up
which I had just climbed. Over that edge, and it would be all up for me.
I put every ounce of swimming into it that I ever knew, and ended with
my legs, from the knees downward, dangling over the edge. But I was
safe, and the next sea did NOT catch me, for I was high and dry.

We lost only one man, and that was Mr. Williams, the Mate, a great
favourite with us boys, partly because he was so good natured,--altough
a strict disciplinarian--and partly because he was such a fine
wrestler. At one tme he had, I believe, wrestled for the championship of
Cornwall.

The flying jib downhaul down which we slid to the rocks was a new rope,
half manilla and half jute, and when that grade of rope gets wet, it
oozes oil for the first week or so. All I can think is that the Mate
came down by the run, as I did, and probably broke his legs at the
bottom. Or else he was not as lucky as the rest of us in dodging the
backwash. However, we never saw him again. It was a marvel that half of
us ever saw daylight again.

What a night. Bitterly cold, blinding rain and heavy sprays breaking
right over us. If we had not been made of cast-iron we certainly could
not have stuck it.

My cousin and I--he was third mate--did a little exploring to see if
we could find some sort of shelter from the wind and rain. In great
delight I sang out that I had found a cave, and he replied: "Well get
into it, and see what it is like."

So we got in, and crawled and crawled, but it did not seem to afford
much shelter, and, eventually, we crawled out the other side. It was
only a huge boulder thrown up against the cliff. Still, it helped.

The old ship made a most wonderful picture there, with a slight list to
port, every stitch of sail set (even our precious t'gallant sails), and
side lights still burning, looking for all the world as if she was still
running her Eastern down.

About two o'clock in the morning, the wind suddenly shifted to the
north-west, and with it, the sea. Up to this time the waves, coming from
right aft had only power to smash her stern in, and nothing more. The
first sea, after the sudden shift, caught her on the quarter and broke
her back; the second sea parted her amidship, and brought down the
Mizzen and Jigger masts; in fact, the whole after part sank out of
sight. It was a staggering sight to see those towering masts with their
steel yards come tumbling and crashing down--the old ship was literally
disintegrating before our eyes. The fourth sea brought the Mainmast
down, and almost immediately afterwards, the Foremast. When morning
broke, the only vestige left was the bare bows, and although weighing
hundreds of tons, they were tossed up high and dry, on the rocks, like a
battered shell--all that remained of that once proud ship, the old HOLT
HILL.

No doubt St. Paul's island in prehistoric times rose out of the sea, as
the result of some titanic submarine volcanic disturbance, and there is
no disguising the fact, a volcanic horror it has remained ever since. No
waving palms, coral reefs, and silver sands on St. Paul's; just a bleak,
bare, barren, and, for the most part, inaccessible island. Cold and raw,
with the ever present threat of going up in the air at any moment.

Peep of day next morning saw us scrambling up the cliffs aiming for the
top of the island. As we got up a bit, we found the cliff side consisted
of nothing better than loose rubble, cinders, and lots of loose rocks.
The result, and residue of the last volcanic effort. It didn't help the
climbing, for whenever we got hold of a rock, in all probablility it was
just stuck in the rubble, and promptly came away, leaving one balanced,
half in mid air and half hanging on to the rock. "Stand clear below,"
was the caution, and then let go!

That rock would start another, until there was a full fledged avalanche
careering down the cliff side, making it altogether a fairly exciting
climb, but not by any means the easiest part was dodging other people's
rocks!

By the time we did get to the top, the sun was up. Did we not revel and
roll in the dry grass? What a treat to feel warmth once more.




CHAPTER NINE



A DESERT ISLAND


As we were lords of all we surveyed, and at perfect liberty to go where
we wished--without the slightest fear of trespassing--three of us set
a course, as it turned out, right straight across the island. Frequently
we had to work our way round huge gaps in the ground, from which came
sulpherous fumes, in a kind of steamy smoke. Admitted there are a few
goats on the island, but they are like the proverbial Chinaman who can
live on the smell of an oil rag. Whatever they do live on, certainly
does not detract from their activity. "Now you see me, now you don't"; a
glimpse on the skyline, and gone again. Certainly before one could have
got within rifle range--if we had possessed such a thing. No doubt
these goats, also the rabbits, of which there are a fair quantity, have
been put on the island by ships, in times past. The rabbits and goats,
unfortunately, find their living on top of the island; whilst any
unfortunate human beings must always keep to the sea level, in order to
get water.

We continued on our way, and the going was somewhat like walking up a
fairly steep hill. Up this slope we trudged. No signs of either water or
life. No trees; not even a bush. I suppose we had been working our way
along for the best part of a couple of hours, up and still up, looking
more at our feet than to our front. Suddenly I stopped, for we seem to
have come to the edge of the world. There, lying like a panorama, over
two thousand feet below us, was a wonderful lagoon, absolutely circular,
with cliffs all around, except just where the sea had broken in on the
far side. There, the cliffs ran down to two shingle spits with a 16 foot
channel between them, giving entrance to the lagoon. One chap with us
who had eyes like the proverbial hawk, said he could see huts. I had
good eyesight too, but perched up there I could see nothing resembling
house or hut. As a matter of fact, as it turned out, there were five
huts, and when we did get down we found the one he could only just see,
was actually large enough to hold the whole forty-two of us, at one end!

As there was nothing to be gained by staying perched up there, we
started to look for a break in the face of the cliff, which was pretty
nearly perpendicular, but overgrown with long rank grass, any three or
four blades of which it was almost impossible to break. We soon found a
place where we could negotiate the overhanging lip, and with a very
creditable imitation of monkeys, we commenced to swing, toboggan and
bump our way down.

We found that the whole of the cliff was honeycombed with caves, and we
frequently discovered ourselves dangling bodily over one of these
openings.

I am convinced, and I always have been, that if a thorough search should
be made of these caves, hoards of pirates' treasure would most certainly
be unearthed, but the first step towards anything like that would have
to be the burning of all this rank grass.

Everywhere there are indications showing that the island has been used
for many purposes. Traces of old whalers, and sealers, and evidences of
occupations long before that. There were boats of a build unknown to the
oldest sailor amongst us, the planking and timbers, although inches
thick, crumbled away in one's hand. Old time anchors, with their wooden
stocks rotted out, in fact there was actually a built slip, where a
small vessel could be hauled up, scraped and painted. The huts must have
been in existence for over a hundred years, and there were many other
indications that immediately jump to a sailor's eye as evidence that it
had been used as a base for some seafaring enterprise.

What more ideal place to catch an unwary East Indiaman, after running
his Easting down and ready to turn north? Very likely he would be trying
to sight the island to correct his position. In bad weather a schooner
could lie in the lagoon, happily, and in perfect safety. No matter what
sea running outside, the lagoon is always like a millpond. A lookout on
the top of the island would soon spot one of the lumbering old timers in
the distance. Then the schooner could be warped and towed out, just
hiding in the entrance, till the time was judged ripe to make the
attack, and that, we can imagine, would be both sharp and short. Then
back with their booty to the lair, leaving no track or trace. even
wreckage would not stand one chance in a thousand of ever being sighted
in those latitudes. The caves lent themselves as perfect hiding places
for the plunder and, in my firm opinion, there it remains to this day,
for it is notorious that pirates never lived to enjoy their ill-gotten
gains.

There is treasure hidden all over the world, but in my humble opinion,
St. Paul's holds the long sought secret of many a pirate's hoard.

It has always been,--and still is,--my ambition to search these
caves, and sometime, with a bit of luck, I will.

There are all sorts of good reasons why St. Paul's has never yet been
searched. One very good reason is that there are a few thousand bleak
miles of sea to negotiate; eternal gales to contend with, a crew to pay,
and provisions to find. Furthermore, you must take water with you, or
content yourself with condensed water. Another item on the catalogue of
wants would be the wherewithal to burn off the grass that at present
very successfully and completely hides the openings to every one of the
caves.

Why didn't we search whilst we were there: For the simple reason that we
were far too busy keeping body and soul from parting company. In later
years I did get one expedition together, and it was only by the slimmest
chance that it fell through. We had the ship, and we had the very
necessary capital (which is of some importance). Like many other dreams,
it didn't materialise, but I still in my dreams see that smart little
schooner anchored in that lagoon, loading up with gold, jewels, and all
imaginable treasures, that forever live in the mind of the treasure
hunter.

Having got down to the edge of the water, we started in to work our way
round towards the huts, which by now, we could see quite clearly. Here
and there we came across boiling springs, amongst the rocks, which
showed that something down under was still alive and warm.

Bill, my cousin, tried the water in the springs, and said it was fresh.
I just took his word for it, as I was a bit too excited to be
particularly thirsty--though that added joy was to come, and pretty
soon.

Arrived at the huts, the first cry from the fellows already there was,
"Have you found water?" I said, "Yes," and was asked to show them were
it was. So off back I went, but I suppose half an hour had elapsed
between times. Anyhow, we journeyed off for the springs, climbing over
the rocks from pool to pool; but they were all salt; salt as Lot's wife.

What had happened, I found out later, was, that between the time of our
coming round the lagoon, and taking these other chaps back again, the
tide had risen and flowed into the pools.

Others said they had found water on top of the island--a small well.

By next day most of us had become pretty desperate, and it behoved us to
call up a volunteer party, to shin up those two thousand odd feet with
oilskins, sea boots, and any other receptacles that would hold water.
Fortunately the north point had a gradual ascent, and afforded some
decent foothold.

The water party was led by an able seaman, named Bartle Macintyre, one
of the finest sailors I have ever met, and one that nothing ever
daunted. Actually, he made the party climb that cliff, with only six
short intervals of rest. Arriving at the top, I, for one, was just about
all-in. But after one last spell, we started the tramp to find this
well. The going now was not too bad, and we made good time, though, as
far as I was concerned, things were getting hazier and hazier, and I was
rapidly losing interest. I could see the fellows walking ahead, but they
seemed a mighty way off. I was long past speaking; in fact my tongue was
just completely dried up, and my lips were split in two or three pieces.
I remembered quite well one of the chaps coming back and relieving me of
the pair of oilskin pants, which I was carrying, tied at the bottom to
fill up with water.

I pointed to a slight depression I had noticed, and two or three of us
went down to see if by chance, there was any water, and found the ground
fairly moist. They called the others back. We tore up the damp ground,
squeezing the mud into the palms of our hands and drinking it. Although
it was just mud, and barely wet enough to moisten our lips, it was as
nectar to our parched throats. Very soon we all took the trail again. I
knew, quite well, why they had taken these oilskins from me, and I
realised that once I stumbled and fell down (which seemed quite likely)
I should not get up again. I was conscious, clearly conscious, and
remembered every incident; how the fellows gradually faded into the
distance, finally, I saw them no more. But I still kept trudging on and
on, determined to keep up on end as long as I could. After a time I
suddenly brought up with a start, for in front of me, I saw a pool of
beautifully clear water.

"Ha," I thought, "now, this is a mirage. Now in what books have I read
about mirages?" and I stood there trying to recollect a book, or the
name of an author that had dealt with these mirages, for I was fully
convinced that that was what I saw. Then, as I gazed at this pool of
water, which also seemed to be getting a bit hazy, I imagined I could
see men lying down around it, and in an inconsequent way, I considered
that just another strange phenomenon. Then I further noticed that they
seemed to be actually drinking. "Well," I thought, "I have read about a
mirage, where you could see water, but never where you could actually
observe men going through all the motions of drinking." Still I gazed,
making no effort whatever to reach the water, for I was stone wall sure
that it was absolutely nothing but a mirage. Then it seemed as if I
could even recognise some of the faces. "Why that is Bartle Macintyre,"
I thought. Then at last it struck me. Can it be real? and I bent down to
try and touch the water. Sure enough, it was a real pool of pure clear
crystal water. Instantly, I tried to scoop it up in my hands and drink,
but I might as well have tried to lift the water with a sponge; my hands
just absorbed it. then I remembered a quart bottle in my pocket, which
had been overlooked when they relieved me of my precious oilskin pants.
I plunged this into the water, filled and drank it; filled again and
drank it. Three times in all.

I suppose after drinking like that, nothing but an ostrich like
constitution saved me, though perhaps the saving grace was that we all
laid down without moving, and went fast asleep.

Later we woke, filled every single receptacle to its utmost capacity and
started on our way, back to the lagoon.

We took a slightly different course returning, which carried us through
some high coarse grass, and here we retrieved the Captain, who, despite
all our persuasion and in fact, some threats of force, had steadfastly
refused to leave the scene of the wreck. The loss of the ship seemed to
have preyed very heavily on his mind, and certainly he was never the
same man again, and never took another command, although at the Board of
Trade Enquiry he was to all intents and purposes, exonerated from blame.

We happened to see his head appear at one time above the long grass, and
then he disappeared, having, as it proved, fallen down, and it was
doubtful if he would ever have got on his feet again had we not found
him. We gave him a good drink, and partly carrying him, managed to get
him away. Before our party left the huts in search of water, several
boats had already been found--in various stages of decay--and we had
launched one, in slightly better condition than the rest, with the idea
of having it meet us at the edge of the lagoon on our return with water.

Knowing the conditions of the fellows when we left, we should not have
been surprised if an attempt were to be made to rush the water
containers. So the strongest formed a sort of bodyguard, wilst we
youngsters became the carriers. Much to our surprise, the fellows in the
boat took very little notice of us, and at first we thought this was
perhaps part of a rather deep game to catch us unawares, and so get hold
of the water. It should be borne in mind that before we started, many of
them were half crazy through drinking salt water.

About half way across the lagoon we got rather tired of sitting tight,
protecting our precious water bags, and asked them if they didn't want a
drink. To our amazement they replied, quite indifferently, "Oh, no, we
found water just after you left!"

So we had had our little jaunt for nothing.

Actually what they had discovered was the selfsame springs that we had
found on our first journey round the lagoon, only it so happened that in
their search they had come across them again, just at dead low water,
which, as it turned out, was the only time when the water could be
obtained in any other condition than salt. I say in any other condition,
for there was really very little to choose after all, either salt or
fresh. The taste was utterly vile. They were just some sort of mineral
springs from which the water had to be collected while still boiling
hot, and then allowed to cool down, but the taste was somewhat similar
to what one associates with, say, a mixture of chalk and antiquated egg!
We drank it simply because we must quench our thirst, but even though
years have passed I can still taste the beastly stuff. However, that was
our drink, and we could take it or leave it, just as we liked.

The menu card included penguins, crayfish, Cape salmon and eggs. The
least said about the latter, the better. Had we only arrived a few weeks
earlier they might have been possible, but at that time, most of them
that still remained eggs were in a very advanced state of incubation.
The penguins were slightly better. Half fish and half bird, they seemed
to have acquired all the bad qualities of both. The fish, unfortunately,
took after the water, and tasted, if anything, worse. Crayfish formed
the staple diet, when we could get them, which was only when the tide
was rising, and not always then. Outside the lagoon, there were stacks
of perfectly good and eatable Cape salmon. So there were in British
Columbia! Lacking the wherewithal to catch them, they were as useful to
us, in our position, as were the others. The old relics on the island
that WOULD actually float, were not equal to sea work; and after the
first couple of days there were mighty few of us anyway with strength
left to row a boat across the lagoon, let alone outside the shingle
spits, in the open sea.

Everything on the island seemed poisonous. Some of the fellows took
penguins' skins to wrap round their feet in lieu of boots, but if they
had the slightest scratch they very soon had to discard the skins, as
their feet just swelled up and festered.

Our faith had to be pinned to crayfish, which we caught by attaching the
innards of a penguin to the end of a line; throwing it out into the deep
water, and then drawing it slowly in, the crayfish following. But this
could only be done on an incoming tide, as that was the only time the
crayfish seemed to rise. They were pretty hefty chaps and could easily
nip a finger off between the serrated edges of their tails!




CHAPTER TEN



A FIGHT WITH ALBATROSSES


Several expeditions were made overland across to the wreck, in the hopes
of getting something from the old ship, but all we ever secured was
about a dozen pounds of pork--this had evidently been washed out of one
of the harness casks, on deck, and drifted ashore; a bit of canvas, and
about a fathom of rope. Out of the rope we made our fishing lines.

The party returning from the wreck, on the occasion when they had
retrieved the pork, had the good luck to catch three rabbits, and
eventually made their way down the broken north end of the cliff, which
we had found easiest to negotiate. The only drawback, as this returning
party soon found to their cost, was the fact that it led down close past
an albatross rookery.

It is a well-known fact that to a man fallen overboard an albatross is
almost as bad as a shark. The latter attacks the man from below the
water, but an albatross can, and will, drive his beak clean through a
man's skull whilst swooping past in the air, which very likely accounts
for the Ancient Mariner grabbing one by the neck and hanging on--I
don't blame him.

When the albatrosses scented the pork and the rabbits, they rose in a
cloud to share a cheap meal. The party of humans had no alternative but
to back up against the cliff, put the pork and the rabbits to the rear,
and do their best to beat off the birds. Someone who was working on the
beach down below heard their SOS, and raised the alarm. Arming ourselves
with sticks, staves, or anything we could lay hands on, we dashed up the
cliff (as well as we could do any dashing by this time) to the rescue of
the party who were making a valiant fight to retain their precious pork
and rabbits. Arriving there, we handed out sticks. Those that had knives
used a stick in one hand and a knife in the other; and for the next half
an hour it was just a battle royal with these huge birds, measuring
anything from fifteen to twenty feet from tip to tip of their wings.
Finding that their grabs at the grub were ineffectual, they varied
operations by swooping down, and making a dive at one's face or eyes as
they planed past. We, of course, retaliated, first with a stick, giving
them a crack over the head, and then, as they fell, driving a knife in
between their shoulders, which we found the best way of settling them,
otherwise, they simply rose and went for us again.

Beyond some pretty severe gashes, we came out of it quite well, still
hanging on to our pork and rabbits.

What a meal that was! All boiled down in a huge cauldron, mixed in with
a few fish, some grass, and thistles. It formed about the one and only
decent meal during our occupation of the island.

There are very few albatross rookeries to be found in the world. These
birds do come ashore to breed, but otherwise they seem to live on the
wing, and if they do sleep, they also certainly sleep on the wing, for
you meet with them thousands of miles from land, in gales of wind, when
they couldn't possibly sleep on the water. They have absolutely no fear,
and will hover with the tip of their wing almost touching the bridge of
even a steamer, and stare the officer of the watch straight in the face
with their little, black, beady eyes. They fall an easy prey to a little
bit of pork, and one of the easiest methods of catching them from a ship
is to get a piece of tin cut into a triangle with the sides half an inch
wide, tie some strips of pork onto the tin, and let it drop astern on
the end of a line. At the point of an albatross' beak is a hook, almost
exactly resembling a lion's claw. When they make a dab to catch the
pork, the point of their beak goes into the centre of the triangle, and
is drawn to the apex where it jams, and, providing he will rise in the
air, proves an easy capture. Unless the line is slacked off he can never
get his beak out. On the other hand, if he determines to resist, and
puts his feet and the wings in the water, it is good-bye to line, bait
and all.

I have seen one caught measuring thirty feet from tip to tip of its
wings.

The rookery on St. Paul's consisted of a number of ledges where it
seemed as though the fathers and mothers of all albatrosses came to
spend their last days. Some two or three hundred feet felow at the base
of the cliff was a mound of bones covering nearly half an acre of
ground, fully a hundred feet high, and must have weighed scores of tons.
It was nothing but the bones of ancient albatrosses, that, from time
immemorial had gone there to die, eventually tumbling off the ledges
from old age, to add to the bones below. Some of the beaks were picked
up were over a foot in length, and the birds they had been attached to
must certainly have had well over a thirty foot spread.

On nearly all these outlying islands there is a cache of provisions,
supposed to be maintained by the Government of the country to whom the
island belongs, but in point of fact, this job is usually carried out by
British ships. We searched everywhere as long as our strength held out
for this cache, which we knew must be there, but never found it. Some
twelve years later, when I was on my first voyage out to Australia in
the White Star Line, I happened to be reading a book of sailing
directions, which described the situation of these various caches, and
the one on St. Paul's was referred to as being "marked by a cairn of
stones on the South spit." I knew it at once. The cairn of stones had
been there all the time, but painted on the side was "Mrs. Smith and
child, wife of Captain Smith, died such-and-such a date."

Naturally, we thought it marked her grave, and that being so we would
not touch it. Yet tobacco, potatoes, tinned provisions of all kinds,
were there beside us all the time and to be had for the taking--and
last, but not least, matches also. Amongst the forty-two of us there had
been only one dry match, and with that we made a fire, which we had to
keep going night and day, the whole time we were on the island.

We seem to have been slightly worse off than other ships that at odd
times had left their bones there; that is, in the way of getting
provisions.

In the entrance to the lagoon the wreck of H.M.S. MEGAERA is still
visible, although she was run ashore there as long since as 1874. Bound
from Simon's Bay, West Africa, with a crew, and relief crews, numbering
375, she sprung a leak the first week out. She was only 1400 tons, and
heavily rigged for sailing, although she had 350 h.p. engines down
below. She sprung a leak under the bunkers, in the sheathing, where a
rivet came out, and when the engineers attacked it, with a view to
securing a supporting plate, they found that the ship's bottom in places
was the thickness of a sixpenny piece, and to attempt to do anything
would undoubtedly have been fatal. They were already running before the
usual heavy westerly gale, and mountainous seas, and it seemed hopeless
to turn about and try the Vanderdecken touch and beat back to the Cape.

There is no sea in the world equal to that which one meets down in those
south latitudes, it comes literally swinging round the world, with no
land to break or intercept it.

One moment you are riding right up on the back, getting the full force
of the gale, and the next you are down in the trough, which only the
upper yards on the mast visible to anyone around. Even a twelve thousand
ton ship, on the side of one of these seas is like nothing better than a
fly on the wall. The saving grace is that they are so big that they
seldom break! Woe betide the ship that is running before it, and one of
these seas does break! I saw it once, and it was nothing short of a
miracle that anyone lived to tell the tale.

The choice the Captain of the MEGAERA had put before him was a might
bitter one. A short beat back to the Cape, or a three thousand mile run
to the nearest land, and that land was only the islands of St. Paul's
and Amsterdam. He took the wiser course; in fact, the only course, and
ran with every stitch of canvas towards St. Paul's. The pumps were
continually getting choked with weed and to make matters worse, the
straining of the ship caused other rivets to loosen up.

Ultimately, every man jack on board, including officers, was bailing
with anything, and everything, to keep her afloat. Stoke-hold fires had
been put out very early on, sails were passed under her bottom, and held
in place with lashings of rope, but proved to be of very little use. She
was making a good eleven knots under sails alone, and of course these
patchwork quilts were simply washed away. After many days of intense
anxiety, they at last sighted St. Paul's, and finally came to anchor at
the mouth of the lagoon.

They got the ship pumped out, and then fires going, divers down, and the
holes plugged.

They then went to work and tried to put a supporting plate on the
outside, when, with hardly a moment's warning, the whole original plate
gave way.

They had just time to slip their anchors, and run her as hard as they
could for the beach. She grounded between the shingle spits in sixteen
feet of water, and in the process ripped nearly the whole of the bottom
out of her; and there her bones still lie to this day.

Fortunately, whilst still afloat, all provisions, sails and stores had
been landed, and they had actually on the island food for all hands for
one month. But as there was every likelihood of their spending several
months there, they had to go on short rations forthwith; just enough to
keep them alive; and well it was they took this drastic action, for it
was four months before they were eventually taken off.

They were more fortunate than we were in the fact that they possessed
their own boats, thoroughly seaworthy, and could work outside the
harbour where ample fish could be caught. In fact, as an officer of that
ill-fated ship told me, he caught no less than 1,100 pounds of fine Cape
salmon within a few hours, with only his boat's crew, and this only just
outside the shingle spits.

Several ships came in sight but never near enough to make out their
distress signals. Eventually, with one of their lifeboats, an officer
was able to board a passing ship, bound for Surabaya, but before
anything could be done in the way of rescue, the usual gale sprang up,
and she was driven away.

However, they made port with this officer and his boat's crew on board,
who got in touch with the naval authorities at Hong Kong, and the P & O
s.s. MALACCA was despatched at once to take them off. Beyond casualties
through scalding when the boilers burst at the time she was run ashore,
there were no losses.

Some of the tales that are left written on St. Paul's have not that
happy ending; and with the crew of more than one ship, it has been the
last survivor who has finally scratched his message on a piece of wood
or stone to be read by those who came after. Just a silent record of a
few of the risks that have to be taken by those who "go down to the sea
in ships."

It is bad enough to be stuck on an island with little hope of rescue,
but it is worse when, after many days, a ship heaves in sight and
deliberately leaves the castaways. In all the time we had been there not
one single ship had been sighted, till the early morning of the day we
were taken off. That morning, the first man out of the hut rubbed his
eyes to make sure he was really awake, for there, lying becalmed, close
in to the island, lay a full rigged ship under all sail. The next second
everyone was awake and dashing out of the hut in response to his roar of
"Sail-ho!"

We had only one boat that made any pretence at floating, and this, with
her crew, was detailed for fishing. The tide served that morning at
daybreak, as the best time for catching crayfish, with the result that
the boat was right over the other side of the lagoon, and the ship was
hidden from the boat by the south cliff. We yelled, and hailed, and only
after a long, heartbreaking delay, got the boat from under the cliffs.

As soon as they were in a position to see the ship, they pulled as hard
as their strength would let them, out of the harbour, and were actually
half way between the island and the ship, when a slight breeze sprang
up. It is hard to believe, but down went that ship's helm, she went
about, and deliberately stood off from the land.

On shore we had a huge fire burning, sending up columns of smoke, and
everyone of us that could stand was waving his shirt. We could even see
the men on her deck.

It was a rank impossibility for those on board not to have seen the
column of smoke, or our boat, and yet, away she went, and that is the
tragedy that so frequently happens in these cases.

One of the most glaring instances was that in which the VOLTURNO on fire
in mid-Atlantic, in fine weather, was passed by a big steamship, without
her taking the slightest notice. It was fine, clear weather, and the
dense column of smoke rising from the burning oil could have been seen
twenty-five or thirty miles away, and yet, a ship not five miles off,
passes and takes no notice. Again in the case of the TITANIC, which I am
going to tell about later, we were using every modern method, visible
and invisible to call the attention of a ship actually in sight, yet,
there she lay, making no attempt at rescue, whilst some fifteeen hundred
people patiently waited and were finally drowned with that ship's lights
still in sight.

In our case on the island of St. Paul's the boat had no alternative but
to return. We did not even get the name of the ship, as there was no
name on her stern. If there had been, the Second Mate could easily have
read it; and yet, where will you find a ship without her name and port
of registry on her stern? Some have said, "Oh, it must have been a
phantom ship, the outcome of some delirious imagination. You were
starving, you know." They might just as well have put it down to the
"morning after the night before,"--only unfortunately, we lacked the
wherewithal.

She was not seen by one, or a half a dozen, but by all of us, and you
can't mesmerize forty-two men. Anyhow it just about knocked the bottom
out of what spirits we had left, and they were mighty few. We had been
there eight days, and it would take less than another eight to finish
the lot.

Anyhow, we weren't going to be caught napping another time, so we
instituted a day and night look-out, on a hill top above the camp, where
a good view could be obtained all round, northward and westward. The
same hill where many other ships' crews have kept their sometimes
fruitless vigil, others to watch for their welcome rescuer, and where
the MEGAERA managed to mount a twelve-pounder gun.

The boat we had for general purposes, including fishing, was now
detailed to stand by, to intercept any other ship that might come along,
and the crew, although allowed to fish, were forbidden to be out of
hail. We launched another boat for a fishing party; she floated, and
that is about all that could be said for her. She was nearly as broad as
she was long; in fact, it would be interesting to know what kind of ship
ever brought her to the island. Then we settled down for another wait,
although, as it turned out, not for long.




CHAPTER ELEVEN



CHAPTER ELEVEN


A TIMELY RESCUE


Later on, that same afternoon, to our  joy and amazement, we again heard
that welcome cry of "Sail-o! from the lookout. At once, the fire on the
look-out hill was lit, a piece of canvas hoisted up on the flag staff,
which we had also rigged, and the boat was instantly manned and shoved off
out of the harbour. It was not long before all those who could were up
on the look-out hill; and sure enough, there was a little barque which
had just rounded the point, sailing along the western side of the island,
with just a light breeze, all sails set. She did look a picture; in fact,
speaking for myself, there has never been a more welcome picture in my
life.

Our vital consideration now was as to whether or not she would see us or
our signal; or if our boat would float long enough to be able to intercept
her. We waited and waited, as she slowly drew along the land, then at
last we knew that she had actually seen us. Down came her t'gallant sails
and staysails; up went her mainsail and foresail, and she definitely
hauled in towards land. Joy! oh, joy, never was there a more welcome
sight. And furthermore, she had also seen our boat, which we watched
go alongside, and the Second Mate jump on board.

These then were the questions from Captain Hayward:

"What ship?"

"HOLT HILL, sir."

"What happened?"

"Wreck, and total loss."

"How many more of you on the Island?"

"Only thirty-seven, sir."

"My God! I can't take all of you. I'm already short of provisions for
my own crew of six."

Then after a few moments anxious thought:

"I will take half of you."

Mowatt replied, "Well, sir, I'm afraid it will mean certain death for
those left behind."

"Is it as bad as all that," asked Captain Hayward. Then flinging caution
to the wind, "well, all right, tell them ALL to come along then.
We'll manage somehow."

Mowatt was just a bit wise in his generation, and said, "My men all
played out, sir. Do you think you could send four of your men in the
boat?"

Our boat's crew WAS played out, even with that short pull, but Mowatt
figured that with our of our chaps on board, weak though they were,
there would be no likelihood of what had happened that same morning,
and it would be all the more certain if he could persuade the Captain
to let some of his own men go away with orders for the rest to come
aboard. He asked Captain Hayward to stand in as close as he could to
the mouth of the lagoon, so that the COORONG, would not need to put a
boat out, and we could come off in the contraption we had floating
inside the harbour.

Our boat came ashore manned by the COORONG'S crew, and told us to get
aboard our own boat and come off. The thirty seven of us tumbled into
the that old galliot, and with makeshift paddles and oars and got her
through the entrance. Fortunately, it was one of those rare days when
there was practically no sea, and very little wind. The moment we got
into her, the seams started to open, and water commenced to pour in.
We baled desperately, with everything we had, and it was the toss of
a button whether we would fetch the COORONG by boat or by swimming.
We were even tearing our shirts, and stuffing the rags into the seams,
in the endeavour to make her float a few minutes more. We got alongside,
and the last man was hardly out of her, before she filled and sank like
a stone. But we were on board with the welcome feel of a ship under our
feet once again.

"Well, boys," said Captain Hayward, "I'm glad to have you on board, and
I've put out on the hatch there all the biscuits and butter I've got.
Help yourselves, you might as well have one square meal. I really ought
not to take you all, but it seems that if I leave you, you may all be
dead before the next ship comes along. I'm just trusting to sighting
a ship, and getting provisions. I'm part loaded with sugar, from
Mauritius to Adelaide, and you can help yourselves to that, for what
it's worth."

How she came to stand out of her course from Mauritius to Adelaide 
was food for quite a bit of thought.

She had a fair wind, and being short of provisions Captain Hayward 
was particularly anxious to make the best of a fair wind; yet, for
some unknown reason, as he relates himself, "I couldn't get St. Paul's
out of my mind, and when I went below that afternoon (the one previous
to picking us up) I could not sleep. The question as to whether there
was anybody on St. Paul's would not leave my mind, partly due, perhaps,
to the fact, that I HAD once taken a crew off there. Finally, in
desperation, I came on deck, and gave orders to alter the course for
St. Paul's, and I went below, and had my nap, without any further trouble.
Up on deck, later on, he thought 'what a pity to be losing this fine
fair wind,' for by standing away south to St. Paul's, it meant a precious
loss of time. Well I changed my mind, and put her back on her course
again for Cape Leeuwin,"

"That night, when I went below, it was just a repetition 
of the afternoon's efforts to sleep, and to make a long story short, I simply 
had to get up on deck and alter the course, back again for St. Paul's."

"Of course, this chopping and changing had got the whole crew on their
toes, and when finally we did sight the island, nearly everyone was on
the look-out."

"It was from a man working on the foretopsail yard," continued Captain
Hayward, "that we got the first inkling, when he hailed the deck,
saying that he could see a signal flyiing. In a few minutes we saw
your fire, and finally the boat, and well, here you are, and I'm very
glad to have you."

It was well that Caaptain Hayward put us on drastic rations from the very
first, for we never sighted a ship from there to Adelaide, twenty-two
days. Half a pound of bread, half a pound of meat, and as much pure
unadulterated raw sugar as we cared to eat.

Before that, if anybody had asked me at the age of sixteen, if I could
live on sugar, I should undoubtedly have said, "Give me the chance,"
but as we soon found out, it can't be done.

We arrived in Adelaide a regular pack of scarecrows; thoroughbred
ringbolt chasers, which means in ship's parlance, that we were capable
of reeving ourselves through any fair sized ringbolt in the deck.

From the Semaphore our fame had spread before us, and when the COORONG
docked, the wharfside was packed solid with crowds of those hospitable
Australians who, during our stay, did their level best to burst us with
good cheer. So the skin and bones brigade mustered on the wharf and
gave three hearty cheers for Captain Hayward. Three more for his crew.
Then from him, "Three cheers for the crew she's fetched."

There we said good-bye to our jolly old rescuer, each going his various
ways; soon to have the world between us; yet, how small a world.

Ten years later I anchored off Adelaide, fourth Officer of the White
Star liner MEDIC then inaugurating the new White Star Australian
service. Off watch, and strolling round the decks I happened to meet the
pilot who had brought us up to our anchorage. With the usual ship's
camaraderie we got yarning about the ship, and Australia. The Pilot's
friend asked, " Have you ever been to Australia before?" "Yes,"
I said, "and Adelaide at that, but many years ago."

"On what ship," he asked.

'Well, I wasn't exactly on a ship bound here, I was brought here after
being wrecked on St. Paul's Island in the South Indian Ocean."

"Was that ship by any chance the HOLT HILL?" he sked, rather
eagerly, and followed this question up by asking if I remembered
the name of the ship that rescued us, and brought us to Adelaide.
I replied:

"Yes, perfectly. The ship was the COORONG, belonging to
Adelaide, and her Captain was Captain Hayward."

He quickly stepped forward, held out his hand and said:

"Glad to meet you again, I'm Captain Hayward."




CHAPTER TWELVE



HOME IN A TEA CLIPPER


I sampled Australian life for three good and hospitable months.
Sometimes up in the Bush on a station, at other times in the town
sharing a happy-go-lucky life with those impulsive lovable, carefree
people. Picnics that could be planned with safety weeks ahead. Glorious
sunshine and three good meals a day--what more could a healthy lad of
sixteen want? Welcome everywhere as a survivor of a wreck that echoed
round the world, and which was common knowledge with every man, woman
and child of that island nation.

All good things must end, and the time at last came when I must tear
myself away from the everlasting attractions "Down under," if I was to
keep to the sea as a career, and I had no intentions of parting company
with her, as yet. Despite all the hours of buffeting, I never hesitated
in my allegiance to that hard-boiled mistress; harsh and bitter as she
can be at times, at others, full of captivating smiles and surprises. A
hundred years at sea couldn't wholly unfold all she has to show you.
Things that would make a landsman's eyes pop out of his head. But you
must laugh in her face, when she hits you hardest, and, above all, never
fear her; she will let you out, and make up for it in the end.

Our crew had all shipped off home, except another boy and myself. This
was before the days of D.B.S. (Distressed British Seamen), when all you
have to do is to walk into the nearest British Consul's Office, and be
forwarded on to your port of hail.

Another curious law of the sea that still exists is, that a man's pay
stops from the time his ship is wrecked. In these days of steam and
quick passages, it does not cut so hard, but in the case of the HOLT
HILL it caught out some of the crew pretty badly, particularly the
Mates, who must work their way back to England, before they could hope
to pick up their proper rank, and pay again, and you could safely reckon
on say 125 days to the Lizard. Even when you got home there was still
the ship to find.

However, these problems didn't worry Archer and myself, and I don't
suppose we should have broken away when we did, had it not been for the
Agents, impressing on us the necessity. They told us, when we used to go
round on a Saturday, for our pocket money that the Company was worrying
them to send us home. Eventually they said they would have to stop our
allowance if we didn't get move on, and get a ship. They had been
awfully decent to us; so had everyone for that matter, so much so that
when we did finally get a ship, we very nearly deserted--which would
have completely torn our Indentures, and put a finish to our budding
career.

We had shipped on Board the DUKE OF ABERCORN, one of the old time tea
clippers; towed down from Adelaide and anchored off the Semaphore,
waiting for a breeze. That night, Archer and I had the 8 to 12 watch. It
was a real Australian summer night, soft as silk, and full of magic. I
can't just describe it, but it gets you in a weak spot. It did with us,
sitting there on the rail looking at the shore lights twinkling and
beckoning. Thinking of all the jolly fine times we had had there these
three months past; reflecting on one or two very nice folk (we'll call
them folk anyway) who would be tickled to death to see us back ashore
again. I suppose it was through talking there that the urge at last got
too strong, and we suddenly determined to chuck our hands in, and get
ashore again; a perfectly crazy idea, but what of it.

We couldn't lower a boat; too much noise, and anyway it would be sure to
be seen.

There was a long wooden ladder and a big wooden refuse shoot; they would
float. So forthwith we proceeded to launch our rickety craft. The fact
that it was a good three miles to the beach, and rotten with sharks,
didn't enter into our calculations. We had got the ladder overboard,
when fate, and our good fortune intervened, in the shape of a light
breeze.

Quickly orders were being bellowed along the decks. "All hands on deck.
Man the windlass. Heave short. Loose all sail." Then, to the clank,
clank, of the pawls of the windlass rose the words of that good old
shanty "Rolling Home." It's a wonder if we didn't make some of them turn
over in their sleep, particularly when it came to the line, "To
Australia's charming daughters, we must bid a long good-bye." However,
it was soon over, and within an hour, the old timer was heeling over to
a steady breeze on her first clip for the Cape.

Less than a month, with an extraordinary 
good slant of easterly winds, saw us within a couple of days of the
Cape. Then the wind banged round out of the westward, and became a
dead muzzler.

For fourteen solid days we tried to beat up those few miles tack tack
and tack. Like Vanderdecken of old, it seemed as though we should never
make Table Bay, till at last, in desperation, we reached away south, and
picked up a slant which carried us round.

It was almost in sight of the Cape that I got my first view of a huge
Sea Bat.

For the last couple of days we had been shortened down, and I was up
loosing the fore royal, when I spotted my fish, lying apparently asleep,
on the surface of the water. Even at that height, he looked monstrous.
I could easily gauge his span by comparing him with the fore yard, which
was immediately under me, and measured exactly 90 feet from yardarm to
yardarm. I could see he was a fraction less, 10 feet perhaps. We were
almost on top of him, before he sounded; in fact, it looked as though
we were going to hit him. Then with just a couple of flaps of those
gigantic wings, and he was down and out of sight. Since then, I have
seen two others, but smaller.

The DUKE was a real old timer. Built long before the days of steel
and iron, she had raced with such redoubtable ships as the RED JACKET,
THERMOPYLAE and CUTTY SARK. In those days she carried more of a crew
than the crack Atlantic liner has on deck to-day. Nineteen knots,
day after day, she had to her credit, in her old logs, but these
hair-raising races from China, are no more.

We rounded the Cape, stretched up through the Tropics and Trades,
through the Roaring Forties, and finally reached Falmouth for orders,
and a few days later made fast in the East India dock, after being away,
just on eighteen months.

I had to go through the hoop with Messrs. William Price and Co., the
owners of the old HOLT HILL, in Liverpool for staying so long in
Adelaide. Other delinquencies, mainly to do with practical jokes in
foreign ports, were also on the list of the "Please explains."
Unfortunately, other nations don't appreciate the Britisher's love of
a skylark, particularly when played by a set of boys, whose reputation
was rather too well-known.

It was to find the ringleader, that Archer and I were called up and
hauled over the coals.

I always think it was a good thing, that the half deck crowd of the
HOLT HILL was broken up, and scattered amongst other ships of the Line;
I think, as a combination-- not forgetting Old Jock who loved a lark 
as well as any of us-- we were just a bit too hot for our own welfare.




CHAPTER THIRTEEN



SEA FIGHTS AND CYCLONES


I soon got my marching orders, and joined up again, with a happy half
deck crowd in the old PRIMROSE HILL, we were particularly cheery, and,
for the very good reason, we were bound for the Cape, and not for that
monotonous nitrate coast where 50 per cent of sailing ships were now
making their way. Steamers were quickly nobbling all the decent trades
and ports. Cape Town was one of the few left, and that only till the
docks and breakwater were finished.

We got away from England in September, which meant we should dodge the
winter in the north and pick up the spring and summer again down south.

It always seems as though a ship on leaving port would never get clear
of the accumulated muck and dirt, and we were no exception. Scrubbing
decks, washing paintwork, and reeving new running gear till again she
was all spick and span.

I was now in my fourth year and was expected to be able to get through
any job that came my way, with all the despatch, accuracy, and neatness
of a fully--fledged A.B. No longer one of the "skysail yarders."
Anything up there was for first and second voyagers; nothing above a
Royal for me now. As a matter of fact I was working just below the Royal
yard one day, when I saw staged, a fight to a finish between a full
grown bull whale, a sword fish, and a thrasher. In point of fact, the
latter two do the attacking, and the whale does the running, or tries
to, but it's not once in ten times that the poor devil escapes.
Sometimes he does by sounding, and going down so deep that the sword
fish cannot follow. But if the sword fish once gets in a position under
the whale's tail, there's very little chance for that manoeuvre, as
every time he attempts to sound, the sword fish drives home that vicious
4ft. bone snout, and sends the whale scuttling to the surface.

The thrasher (grampus of old) can only attack from above. He has two
enormous fins, anything up to five feet long. One projecting from his
back, and one from underneath, a short chopped off body and no tail.
When the sword fish attacks and drives the whale to the surface, the
thrasher then leaps out of the water, and lands on the whale's back,
driving deep, one of those knife-like fins.

We had a ring side seat, and watched the fight from start to finish.
It's not enough to say it was thrilling, which does not convey much; it
was more than that, it was terrific, and almost unheard of. Even the
watch on deck knocked off to (see) the sight. It did not last long, but
it was terrible while it did last, to see that fifty ton whale thrashing
the water into foam, in a vain endeavour to land one or the other
attacker with its flail like flukes. At other times flinging its whole
huge bulk right up in the air, and coming down on the water with a
report like a 12 inch gun. Again, tearing round in circles, leaving a
trail of blood and foam.

Then as suddenly as it started, it was over, and the old bull whale was
dead, and then, from every quarter, came the scavengers of the sea,
sharks, barracuta (sic) and so forth.

We were lying becalmed on a sea like glass, and nothing would have given
some of us greater pleasure than to shove off and go to the assistance
of the bull; but there is a trite saying from across the pond, "Don't
monkey with a buzz saw."

The trip down the Cape was the same routing as with most any ship bound
south. Across the one and only Bay, down past the western Isles, through
the Roaring Forties and into the Trades. Then the pulley-hauling of the
yards, working her through the Doldrums and across the Line. More
Doldrums, plenty of fish, and torrents of rain till we picked up the
S.E. Trades, and started to stretch away for the Cape in earnest.

Eventually we lifted the renowned Table Mountain above the horizon and
finally came to anchor in Table Bay.

At this time the notorious breakwater was still under construction, and,
although representing a cool million, cost the Colony little or nothing,
as it was almost wholly built of convict labour.

It was a cheery gang that laboured there. "So many months," or "so many
years on the breakwater," was a common saying, and quickly applied to
anyone who was apt to sail a bit too close to the wind. Many proved
I.D.B.'s--and many that were NOT proved--subscribed their little quota
to that breakwater; in fact, culprits of petty crimes, which in the
ordinary way would have been met with a small fine, were joyfully
consigned to carry out Cape Town's ambitious scheme, of protecting the
bay with that huge rampart of granite and stone. There is no doubt it
was needed, for many and many a ship's bones lie rotting on the beach in
Table Bay through lack of protection from the dreaded nor'wester.

First comes the "table cloth" on the mountain. Then the notorious
south-easter, which literally brings fine stones and gravel skeltering
down from the heights above. That is all right for the ships in the
harbour; they are sheltered, but the fun commences when the wind swings
round and comes screeching out of the nor'-west. Then the sea and the
wind drive right straight into the harbour, and in those days it was a
common sight to see a dozen or more sailing ships riding stretched out
to their anchors.

On the occasion of which I am speaking in the PRIMROSE HILL, when we
rode out a black nor'wester, we paid out 120 fathoms on each anchor, and
that is the limit of the cable carried. On to each cable we bent the end
of a thirteen inch coir hawser (thirteen inches in diameter); this was
laid along the decks and made fast to the mooring bits.

These preparations were, necessarily, carried out before the wind
shifted round. Once the sea came into the harbour it was impossible to
get forward along the decks.

Ships then are to be seen diving into hugh seas, in far worse condition
than when out at sea under shortened canvas. Shipping them green over
the bows, and everybody hoping against hope that the ground tackle will
hold. It sometimes happens that one anchor, or even the coir spring on
some ship will carry away. Then the trouble starts. That particular
cable parts, the second anchor will not hold her, she then drifts down
and fouls another ship. One or other either sink where they lie, or both
part th