Lost ships and lonely seas (2024)

LOST SHIPS
AND
LONELY SEAS

BY
RALPH D. PAINE

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

CHAPTER I
THE SINGULAR FATE OF THE BRIG POLLY

Steam has not banished from the deep sea theships that lift tall spires of canvas to win theirway from port to port. The gleam of their topsailsrecalls the centuries in which men wrought withstubborn courage to fashion fabrics of wood andcordage that should survive the enmity of the implacableocean and make the winds obedient.Their genius was unsung, their hard toil forgotten,but with each generation the sailing ship becamenobler and more enduring, until it was a perfectthing. Its great days live in memory with a peculiar4atmosphere of romance. Its humming shroudswere vibrant with the eternal call of the sea, and ina phantom fleet pass the towering East Indiaman,the hard-driven Atlantic packet, and thegracious clipper that fled before the Southerntrades.

A hundred years ago every bay and inlet of theNew England coast was building ships which faredbravely forth to the West Indies, to the roadsteadsof Europe, to the mysterious havens of the FarEast. They sailed in peril of pirate and privateer,and fought these rascals as sturdily as they battledwith wicked weather. Coasts were unlighted, theseas uncharted, and navigation was mostly by guesswork,but these seamen were the flower of an Americanmerchant marine whose deeds are heroic inthe nation’s story. Great hearts in little ships, theydared and suffered with simple, uncomplaining fortitude.Shipwreck was an incident, and to be adriftin lonely seas or cast upon a barbarous shore wassadly commonplace. They lived the stuff thatmade fiction after they were gone.

Your fancy may be able to picture the brig Pollyas she steered down Boston harbor in December,1811, bound out to Santa Cruz with lumber andsalted provisions for the slaves of the sugar plantations.She was only a hundred and thirty tons5burden and perhaps eighty feet long. Ratherclumsy to look at and roughly built was the Polly ascompared with the larger ships that brought homethe China tea and silks to the warehouses of Salem.Such a vessel was a community venture. Theblacksmith, the rigger, and the calker took their payin shares, or “pieces.” They became part owners,as did likewise the merchant who supplied storesand material; and when the brig was afloat, the master,the mate, and even the seamen were allowedcargo space for commodities that they might buyand sell to their own advantage. A voyage directlyconcerned a whole neighborhood.

Every coastwise village had a row of keel-blockssloping to the tide. In winter weather too roughfor fishing, when the farms lay idle, the YankeeJack of all trades plied his axe and adz to shape thetimbers and peg together such a little vessel as thePolly, in which to trade to London or Cadiz or theWindward Islands. Hampered by an unfriendlyclimate, hard put to it to grow sufficient food, withland immensely difficult to clear, the New-Englanderwas between the devil and the deep sea, andhe sagaciously chose the latter. Elsewhere, in theearly days, the forest was an enemy, to be destroyedwith great pains. The pioneers of Massachusetts,New Hampshire, and Maine regarded it with favor6as the stuff with which to make stout ships and thestraight masts they “stepped” in them.

Nowadays, such a little craft as the Polly wouldbe rigged as a schooner. The brig is obsolete, alongwith the quaint array of scows, ketches, pinks, brigantines,and sloops which once filled the harborsand hove their hempen cables short to the clank ofwindlass or capstan-pawl, while the brisk seamensang a chantey to help the work along. The Pollyhad yards on both masts, and it was a bitter taskto lie out in a gale of wind and reef the unwieldysingle topsails. She would try for no record passages,but jogged sedately, and snugged downwhen the weather threatened.

On this tragic voyage she carried a small crew,Captain W.L. Cazneau, a mate, four sailors, anda cook who was a native Indian. No mention is tobe found of any ill omens that forecasted disaster,such as a black cat, or a cross-eyed Finn in the forecastle.Two passengers were on board, “Mr. J.S.Hunt and a negro girl nine years old.” We knownothing whatever about Mr. Hunt, who may havebeen engaged in some trading “adventure” of hisown. Perhaps his kinsfolk had waved him a fare-ye-wellfrom the pier-head when the Polly warpedout of her berth.

The lone piccaninny is more intriguing. She appeals7to the imagination and inspires conjecture.Was she a waif of the slave traffic whom some benevolentmerchant of Boston was sending to SantaCruz to find a home beneath kindlier skies? Hadshe been entrusted to the care of Mr. Hunt? Sheis unexplained, a pitiful atom visible for an instanton the tide of human destiny. She amused thesailors, no doubt, and that austere, copper-huedcook may have unbent to give her a doughnut whenshe grinned at the galley-door.

Four days out from Boston, on December 15, thePolly had cleared the perilous sands of Cape Codand the hidden shoals of the Georges. Marinerswere profoundly grateful when they had safelyworked offshore in the winter-time and were pastCape Cod, which bore a very evil repute in thosedays of square-rigged vessels. Captain Cazneaucould recall that somber day of 1802 when three fineships, the Ulysses, Brutus, and Volusia, sailing togetherfrom Salem for European ports, werewrecked next day on Cape Cod. The fate of thosewho were washed ashore alive was most melancholy.Several died of the cold, or were choked by the sandwhich covered them after they fell exhausted.

As in other regions where shipwrecks were common,some of the natives of Cape Cod regarded aship on the beach as their rightful plunder. It was8old Parson Lewis of Wellfleet, who, from his pulpitwindow, saw a vessel drive ashore on a stormy Sundaymorning. “He closed his Bible, put on his outsidegarment, and descended from the pulpit, notexplaining his intention until he was in the aisle,and then he cried out, ‘Start fair’ and took to hislegs. The congregation understood and chasedpell-mell after him.”

The brig Polly laid her course to the southwardand sailed into the safer, milder waters of the GulfStream. The skipper’s load of anxiety was lightened.He had not been sighted and molested bythe British men-of-war that cruised off Boston andNew York to hold up Yankee merchantmen andimpress stout seamen. This grievance was to flamein a righteous war only a few months later. Manya voyage was ruined, and ships had to limp back toport short-handed, because their best men had beenkidnapped to serve in British ships. It was an agewhen might was right on the sea.

The storm which overwhelmed the brig Pollycame out of the southeast, when she was less than aweek on the road to Santa Cruz. To be dismastedand waterlogged was no uncommon fate. It happensoften nowadays, when the little schooners creepalong the coast, from Maine and Nova Scotia ports,and dare the winter blows to earn their bread.9Men suffer in open boats, as has been the seafarer’shard lot for ages, and they drown with none to heartheir cries, but they are seldom adrift more than afew days. The story of the Polly deserves to berescued from oblivion because, so far as I am able todiscover, it is unique in the spray-swept annals ofmaritime disaster.

Seamanship was helpless to ward off the attackof the storm that left the brig a sodden hulk. Courageouslyher crew shortened sail and made all securewhen the sea and sky presaged a change ofweather. These were no green hands, but men seasonedby the continual hazards of their calling.The wild gale smote them in the darkness of night.They tried to heave the vessel to, but she was batteredand wrenched without mercy. Stout canvaswas whirled away in fragments. The seams of thehull opened as she labored, and six feet of waterflooded the hold. Leaking like a sieve, the Pollywould never see port again.

Worse was to befall her. At midnight she wascapsized, or thrown on her beam-ends, as the sailor’slingo has it. She lay on her side while the clamorousseas washed clean over her. The skipper, themate, the four seamen, and the cook somehow clungto the rigging and grimly refused to be drowned.They were of the old breed, “every hair a rope-yarn10and every finger a fish-hook.” They even managedto find an ax and grope their way to the shrouds inthe faint hope that the brig might right if the mastswent overside. They hacked away, and came up tobreathe now and then, until foremast and mainmastfell with a crash, and the wreck rolled level. Thenthey slashed with their knives at the tangle of sparsand ropes until they drifted clear. As the wavesrush across a half-tide rock, so they broke overthe shattered brig, but she no longer wallowed onher side.

At last the stormy daylight broke. The marinershad survived, and they looked to find their two passengers,who had no other refuge than the cabin.Mr. Hunt was gone, blotted out with his affairs andhis ambitions, whatever they were. The coloredchild they had vainly tried to find in the night.When the sea boiled into the cabin and filled it, shehad climbed to the skylight in the roof, and thereshe clung like a bat. They hauled her out througha splintered gap, and sought tenderly to shelter herin a corner of the streaming deck, but she lived nomore than a few hours. It was better that this bitof human flotsam should flutter out in this way thanto linger a little longer in this forlorn derelict of aship. The Polly could not sink, but she drifted asa mere bundle of boards with the ocean winds and11currents, while seven men tenaciously fought offdeath and prayed for rescue.

The gale blew itself out, the sea rolled blue andgentle, and the wreck moved out into the Atlantic,having veered beyond the eastern edge of the GulfStream. There was raw salt pork and beef to eat,nothing else, barrels of which they fished out of thecargo. A keg of water which had been lashed tothe quarter-deck was found to contain thirty gallons.This was all there was to drink, for the otherwater-casks had been smashed or carried away.The diet of meat pickled in brine aggravated thethirst of these castaways. For twelve days theychewed on this salty raw stuff, and then the Indiancook, Moho by name, actually succeeded in kindlinga fire by rubbing two sticks together in some abstrusemanner handed down by his ancestors. Bysplitting pine spars and a bit of oaken rail he wasable to find in the heart of them wood which had notbeen dampened by the sea, and he sweated andgrunted until the great deed was done. It was atrick which he was not at all sure of repeating unlessthe conditions were singularly favorable. Fortunatelyfor the hapless crew of the Polly, theirPuritan grandsires had failed in their amiable endeavorto exterminate the aborigine.

The tiny galley, or “camboose,” as they called it,12was lashed to ring-bolts in the deck, and had notbeen washed into the sea when the brig was sweptclean. So now they patched it up and got a blazegoing in the brick oven. The meat could be boiled,and they ate it without stint, assuming that a hundredbarrels of it remained in the hold. It had notbeen discovered that the stern-post of the vessel wasstaved in under water and all of the cargo exceptingsome of the lumber had floated out.

The cask of water was made to last eighteen daysby serving out a quart a day to each man. Then anoccasional rain-squall saved them for a little longerfrom perishing of thirst. At the end of forty daysthey had come to the last morsel of salt meat. ThePolly was following an aimless course to the eastward,drifting slowly under the influence of theocean winds and currents. These gave her also asoutherly slant, so that she was caught by that vastmovement of water which is known as the GulfStream Drift. It sets over toward the coast ofAfrica and sweeps into the Gulf of Guinea.

The derelict was moving away from the routes oftrade to Europe into the almost trackless spaces beneaththe tropic sun, where the sea glittered emptyto the horizon. There was a remote chance that shemight be descried by a low-hulled slaver crowdingfor the West Indies under a mighty press of sail,13with her human freightage jammed between decksto endure the unspeakable horrors of the MiddlePassage. Although the oceans were populous withships a hundred years ago, trade flowed on habitualroutes. Moreover, a wreck might pass unseen twoor three miles away. From the quarter-deck of asmall sailing ship there was no such circle of visionas extends from the bridge of a steamer forty orsixty feet above the water, where the officers gazethrough high-powered binoculars.

The crew of the Polly stared at skies whichyielded not the merciful gift of rain. They hadstrength to build them a sort of shelter of lumber,but whenever the weather was rough, they weredrenched by the waves which played over the wreck.At the end of fifty days of this hardship andtorment the seven were still alive, but then themate, Mr. Paddock, languished and died. Itsurprised his companions, for, as the old recordruns,

he was a man of robust constitution who had spent hislife in fishing on the Grand Banks, was accustomed toendure privations, and appeared the most capable ofstanding the shocks of misfortune of any of the crew. Inthe meridian of life, being about thirty-five years old, itwas reasonable to suppose that, instead of the first, hewould have been the last to fall a sacrifice to hunger andthirst and exposure, but Heaven ordered it otherwise.

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Singularly enough, the next to go was a youngseaman, spare and active, who was also a fishermanby trade. His name was Howe. He survived sixdays longer than the mate, and “likewise died deliriousand in dreadful distress.” Fleeting thunder-showershad come to save the others, andthey had caught a large shark by means of a runningbowline slipped over his tail while he nosedabout the weedy hull. This they cut up and doledout for many days. It was certain, however, thatunless they could obtain water to drink they wouldsoon be all dead men on the Polly.

Captain Cazneau seems to have been a sailor ofextraordinary resource and resolution. His wasthe unbreakable will to live and to endure whichkept the vital spark flickering in his shipmates.Whenever there was strength enough among them,they groped in the water in the hold and cabin inthe desperate hope of finding something to servetheir needs. In this manner they salvaged an irontea-kettle and one of the captain’s flint-lock pistols.Instead of flinging them away, he sat down to cogitate,a gaunt, famished wraith of a man who hadkept his wits and knew what to do with them.

At length he took an iron pot from the galley,turned the tea-kettle upside down on it, and foundthat the rims failed to fit together. Undismayed,15the skipper whittled a wooden collar with a seaman’ssheath-knife, and so joined the pot and thekettle. With strips of cloth and pitch scrapedfrom the deck-beams, he was able to make a tightunion where his round wooden frame set into theflaring rim of the pot. Then he knocked off thestock of the pistol and had the long barrel to usefor a tube. This he rammed into the nozzle of thetea-kettle, and calked them as well as he could.The result was a crude apparatus for distilling seawater,when placed upon the bricked oven of thegalley.

Imagine those three surviving seamen and thestolid redskin of a cook watching the skipper whilehe methodically tinkered and puttered! It wasabsolutely the one and final chance of salvation.Their lips were black and cracked and swollen, theirtongues lolled, and they could no more than wheezewhen they tried to talk. There was now a less precariousway of making fire than by rubbing drysticks together. This had failed them most of thetime. The captain had saved the flint and steelfrom the stock of his pistol. There was tow ortarry oakum to be shredded fine and used for tinder.This smoldered and then burst into a tiny blazewhen the sparks flew from the flint, and they knewthat they would not lack the blessed boon of fire.

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Together they lifted the precious contrivance ofthe pot and the kettle and tottered with it to the galley.There was an abundance of fuel from the lumber,which was hauled through a hatch and dried ondeck. Soon the steam was gushing from the pistol-barrel,and they poured cool salt water over the upturnedspout of the tea-kettle to cause condensation.Fresh water trickled from the end of the pistol-barrel,and they caught it in a tin cup. It wasscarcely more than a drop at a time, but they stokedthe oven and lugged buckets of salt water, watchand watch, by night and day. They roused in theirsleep to go on with the task with a sort of dumb instinct.They were like wretched automatons.

So scanty was the allowance of water obtainedthat each man was limited to “four small wineglasses” a day, perhaps a pint. It was enough topermit them to live and suffer and hope. In thewarm seas which now cradled the Polly the barnaclesgrew fast. The captain, the cook, and thethree seamen scraped them off and for some timehad no other food. They ate these shell-fish mostlyraw, because cooking interfered with that tinytrickle of condensed water.

The faithful cook was the next of the five to succumb.He expired in March, after they had beenthree months adrift, and the manner of his death17was quiet and dignified, as befitted one who mighthave been a painted warrior in an earlier day. Theaccount says of him:

On the 15th of March, according to their computation,poor Moho gave up the ghost, evidently from wantof water, though with much less distress than the others,and in the full exercise of his reason. He very devoutlyprayed and appeared perfectly resigned to the will ofGod who had so sorely afflicted him.

The story of the Polly is unstained by any horridepisode of cannibalism, which occurs now and thenin the old chronicles of shipwreck. In more thanone seaport the people used to point at someweather-beaten mariner who was reputed to haveeaten the flesh of a comrade. It made a markedman of him, he was shunned, and the unholy notorietyfollowed him to other ships and ports. Thesailors of the Polly did cut off a leg of the poor, departedMoho, and used it as bait for sharks, andthey actually caught a huge shark by so doing.

It was soon after this that they found the otherpistol of the pair, and employed the barrel to increasethe capacity of the still. By lengthening thetube attached to the spout of the tea-kettle, theygained more cooling surface for condensation, andthe flow of fresh water now amounted to “eightjunk bottles full” every twenty-four hours. Besides18this, wooden gutters were hung at the eaves ofthe galley and of the rough shed in which they lived,and whenever rain fell, it ran into empty casks.

The crew was dwindling fast. In April, anotherseaman, Johnson by name, slipped his moorings andpassed on to the haven of Fiddler’s Green, wherethe souls of all dead mariners may sip their grog andspin their yarns and rest from the weariness of thesea. Three men were left aboard the Polly, thecaptain and two sailors.

The brig drifted into that fabled area of the Atlanticthat is known as the Sargasso Sea, which extendsbetween latitudes 16° and 38° North, betweenthe Azores and the Antilles. Here the ocean currentsare confused and seem to move in circles, witha great expanse of stagnant ocean, where the seaweedfloats in tangled patches of red and brown andgreen. It was an old legend that ships once caughtin the Sargasso Sea were unable to extricate themselves,and so rotted miserably and were neverheard of again. Columbus knew better, for his caravelssailed through these broken carpets of weed,where the winds were so small and fitful that theGenoese sailors despaired of reaching anywhere.The myth persisted and it was not dispelled untilthe age of steam. The doldrums of the SargassoSea were the dread of sailing ships.

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The days and weeks of blazing calms in thisstrange wilderness of ocean mattered not to theblindly errant wreck of the Polly. She was a deadship that had outwitted her destiny. She had nomasts and sails to push her through these acres ofleathery kelp and bright masses of weed which haddrifted from the Gulf and the Caribbean to come torest in this solitary, watery waste. And yet to thecaptain and his two seamen this dreaded SargassoSea was beneficent. The stagnant weed swarmedwith fish and gaudy crabs and mollusks. Here wasfood to be had for the mere harvesting of it. Theyhauled masses of weed over the broken bulwarksand picked off the crabs by hundreds. Fishinggear was an easy problem for these handy sailormen.They had found nails enough; hand-forgedand malleable. In the galley they heated and hammeredthem to make fish-hooks, and the lines wereof small stuff “unrove” from a length of halyard.And so they caught fish, and cooked them when theoven could be spared. Otherwise they ate themraw, which was not distasteful after they had becomeaccustomed to it. The natives of the HawaiianIslands prefer their fish that way. Besidesthis, they split a large number of small fishand dried them in the hot sun upon the roof of theirshelter. The sea-salt which collected in the bottom20of the still was rubbed into the fish. It was a bittercondiment, but it helped to preserve themagainst spoiling.

The season of spring advanced until the derelictPolly had been four months afloat and wandering,and the end of the voyage was a long way off.The minds and bodies of the castaways had adjustedthemselves to the intolerable situation. Themost amazing aspect of the experience is that thesem*n remained sane. They must have maintained acertain order and routine of distilling water, ofcatching fish, of keeping track of the indistinguishableprocession of the days and weeks. CaptainCazneau’s recollection was quite clear when he cameto write down his account of what had happened.The one notable omission is the death of anothersailor, name unknown, which must have occurredafter April. The only seaman who survived tokeep the skipper company was Samuel Badger.

By way of making the best of it, these two indomitableseafarers continued to work on theirrough deck-house, “which by constant improvementhad become much more commodious.” A fewbundles of hewn shingles were discovered in thehold, and a keg of nails was found lodged in acorner of the forecastle. The shelter was finallymade tight and weather-proof, but, alas! there was21no need of having it “more commodious.” It is obvious,also, that “when reduced to two only, they hada better supply of water.” How long they remainedin the Sargasso Sea it is impossible to ascertain.Late in April it is recounted that “nofriendly breeze wafted to their side the seaweedfrom which they could obtain crabs or insects.”The mysterious impulse of the currents plucked atthe keel of the Polly and drew her clear of this regionof calms and of ancient, fantastic sea-tales.She moved in the open Atlantic again, withoutguidance or destination, and yet she seemed inexplicablyto be following an appointed course, asthough fate decreed that she should find rescuewaiting somewhere beyond the horizon.

The brig was drifting toward an ocean more frequented,where the Yankee ships bound out to theRiver Plate sailed in a long slant far over to theAfrican coast to take advantage of the boomingtrade-winds. She was also wallowing in the directionof the route of the East Indiamen, which departedfrom English ports to make the far-distantvoyage around the Cape of Good Hope. None ofthem sighted the speck of a derelict, which floatedalmost level with the sea and had no spars to makeher visible. Captain Cazneau and his companionsaw sails glimmer against the sky-line during the22last thousand miles of drift, but they vanished likebits of cloud, and none passed near enough to bringsalvation.

June found the Polly approaching the CanaryIslands. The distance of her journey had beenabout two thousand miles, which would make theaverage rate of drift something more than threehundred miles a month, or ten miles per day. Theseason of spring and its apple blossoms had comeand gone in New England, and the brig had longsince been mourned as missing with all hands. Itwas on the twentieth of June that the skipper andhis companion—two hairy, ragged apparitions—sawthree ships which appeared to be heading in theirdirection. This was in latitude 28° North and longitude13° West, and if you will look at a chart youwill note that the wreck would soon have strandedon the coast of Africa. The three ships, in company,bore straight down at the pitiful little brig,which trailed fathoms of sea-growth along her hull.She must have seemed uncanny to those who beheldher and wondered at the living figures that movedupon the weather-scarred deck. She might haveinspired “The Ancient Mariner.”

Not one ship, but three, came bowling down tohail the derelict. They manned the braces andswung the main-yards aback, beautiful, tall ships23and smartly handled, and presently they lay hoveto. The captain of the nearest one shouted a hailthrough his brass trumpet, but the skipper of thePolly had no voice to answer back. He sat weepingupon the coaming of a hatch. Although notgiven to emotion, he would have told you that it hadbeen a hard voyage. A boat was dropped from thedavits of this nearest ship, which flew the red ensignfrom her spanker-gaff. A few minutes later CaptainCazneau and Samuel Badger, able seaman,were alongside the good ship Fame of Hull, CaptainFeatherstone, and lusty arms pulled them up theladder. It was six months to a day since the Pollyhad been thrown on her beam-ends and dismasted.

The three ships had been near together in lightwinds for several days, it seemed, and it occurred totheir captains to dine together on board the Fame.And so the three skippers were there to give thesurvivors of the Polly a welcome and to marvel atthe yarn they spun. The Fame was homewardbound from Rio Janeiro. It is pleasant to learnthat Captain Cazneau and Samuel Badger “werereceived by these humane Englishmen with expressionsof the most exalted sensibility.” The mustyold narrative concludes:

Thus was ended the most shocking catastrophe whichour seafaring history has recorded for many years, after24a series of distresses from December 20 to the 20th ofJune, a period of one hundred and ninety-two days.Every attention was paid to the sufferers that generositywarmed with pity and fellow-feeling could dictate, onboard the Fame. They were transferred from this shipto the brig Dromio and arrived in the United States insafety.

Here the curtain falls. I for one should like tohear more incidents of this astonishing cruise of thederelict Polly and also to know what happened toCaptain Cazneau and Samuel Badger after theyreached the port of Boston. Probably they wentto sea again, and more than likely in a privateer toharry British merchantmen, for the recruiting officerwas beating them up to the rendezvous with fife anddrum, and in August of 1812 the frigate Constitution,with ruddy Captain Isaac Hull walking thepoop in a gold-laced coat, was pounding theGuerrière to pieces in thirty minutes, with broadsideswhose thunder echoed round the world.

“Ships are all right. It is the men in them,” saidone of Joseph Conrad’s wise old mariners. Thiswas supremely true of the little brig that enduredand suffered so much, and among the humble heroesof blue water by no means the least worthy to beremembered are Captain Cazneau and SamuelBadger, able seaman, and Moho, the Indian cook.

This is the story of a very shabby set of rascalswho wrecked and plundered an honest littlemerchant vessel a hundred years ago and disgracedthe profession of piracy. In truth, even in the heydayof the black flag and the Spanish Main, mostpirates were no better than salt-water burglarswho would rather run than fight. The glamourof romance has been kinder to them than they deserved.Their vocation had fallen to a low ebbindeed in the early part of the nineteenth century,when they still infested the storied waters of theCaribbean and struggled along, in some instances,on earnings no larger than those of a minister orschool-teacher of to-day. Ambitious young menhad ceased to follow piracy as a career. The distinguishedleaders had long since vanished, mostof them properly hanged in chains, and it was nolonger possible to become a William Kidd, a CaptainNed England, or a Charles Vane.

The schooner Exertion, Captain Barnabas Lincoln,sailed from Boston, bound to Trinidad, Cuba,on November 13, 1821, with a crew consisting of26Joshua Brackett, mate; David Warren, cook; andThomas Young, George Reed, and Francis DeSuze as able seamen. There was nothing in thecargo to tempt a self-respecting pirate; no pieces ofeight or doubloons or jewels, but flour, beef, pork,lard, butter, fish, onions, potatoes, apples, hams,furniture, and shooks with a total invoiced value ofeight thousand dollars. In this doleful modern eraof the high cost of living, such a cargo would, ofcourse persuade almost any honest householder toturn pirate if he thought there was a fightingchance of stowing all these valuables in his cellar.

The Exertion jogged along without incident fora five weeks’ passage, which brought her close toCape Cruz and the end of the run, when a strangesail swept out of a channel among the sandy Cubankeys, with sweeps out and a deck filled with men.There were forty of them, unkempt, bewhiskered,and they appeared to be so many walking arsenalsof muskets, blunderbusses, cutlasses, pistols, anddirks. Their schooner mounted two carronades,and flew a blue-and-white flag of the Republic ofMexico, which was a device popular among sea-roverswho were no better than they should be.It permitted liberty of action, something like a NewJersey charter which corporations have found elasticin times more recent.

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Captain Lincoln hove the Exertion to and hopedfor the best, having only five men and seven musketswith which to repel boarders. The United Stateswas at peace with Mexico and Spain, and he triedto believe, as he tells us, that “the republican flagindicated both honor and friendship from those whowore it.” Alas! it was soon discovered that thesewere common pirates, for they sent a boat aboardin charge of the first lieutenant, Bolidar, with six oreight Spaniards, “armed with as many of the aforementionedweapons as they could well sling abouttheir bodies.” The Exertion was ordered to followthe other schooner, the Mexican by name, and thetwo vessels came to anchor off Cay Largo, aboutthirty leagues from Trinidad.

There one of the pirates, the sailing-master, whocalled himself Nikola, remained in the Exertion toexamine the captain’s papers. This forbiddingperson was, in fact, a Scotchman, as his speech readilydisclosed, and he was curiously out of placeamong the dirty crew of Spanish renegades. Inhim the unlucky skipper of the Exertion had founda friend, of whom he said:

This Nikola had a countenance rather pleasing, althoughhis beard and mustachios had a frightful appearance,—hisface, apparently full of anxiety, indicatedsomething in my favor. He gave me back my papers, saying,28“Take good care of them, for I am afraid you havefallen into bad hands.”

The pirates then sent a boat to the Exertion withmore men and arms, leaving a heavy guard on boardand taking Captain Lincoln and his Yankee seamenoff to their own low, rakish craft, where they servedout the rum and vainly tried to persuade them toenlist, with promise of dazzling booty. CaptainLincoln was not at all attracted by this businessopportunity, and sadly he returned to his schooner,where he found Lieutenant Bolidar in the cabin andthe place in a sorry mess. It is well known that,whatever their other virtues, pirates as a class hadno manners. With a few exceptions the best ofthem lived like pigs and behaved like hooligans.The captain’s narrative declares:

Next day the scurvy knaves began plundering theExertion of her cargo of potatoes, butter, apples,beans, and so on, ripped up the floors in search ofmore liquor, found some hard cider, and guzzled ituntil officers and men were in a fight, all tipsytogether, and then simmered down to sing sentimentalditties in the twilight. Soon after this bothschooners got under way and sailed to anotherhaven in the lee of Brigantine Cay. Captain Lincolnnow saw something more of the roving scapegraceof a Scotchman who called himself Nikola.He was a pirate with a sentimental streak inhim and professed himself to be unhappy in hislawless employment and declared he had signedarticles in the belief that he was bound privateering.

A theatrical person was the bewhiskered Nikola,who properly belonged to fiction of the romanticschool. Sympathetic Captain Lincoln wrote thathe

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lamented most deeply his own situation, for he was one ofthose men whose early good impressions were not entirelyeffaced. He told me that those who had taken me wereno better than pirates and their end would be the halter,but he added, with peculiar emotion, “I will never behung as a pirate,” showing me a bottle of laudanum whichhe had found in my medicine chest and saying, “If we areovertaken, this shall cheat the hangman before we arecondemned.”

Another day’s cruise to the eastward and thetrim, taut little Exertion suffered the melancholyfate of shipwreck, not bravely in a gale, but mishandledand wantonly gutted by her captors.First she stranded on a bar while making in for asecluded creek, and was floated after throwing overboardthe deck-load of shooks for making sugar-barrels.Then her sails were stripped, the riggingcut to pieces, and the masts chopped over the sidelest they be sighted from seaward. After that thepirates hewed gaps in the deck and bulwarks inorder to loot the rest of the cargo more easily, andthe staunch schooner was left to bleach her bones onthe Cuban coast.

The amiable Nikola found himself in trouble becauseof his friendly feeling for Captain Lincoln.The Spanish sailors tied him to a tree and wereabout to shoot him as a soft-hearted traitor who wasguilty of unprofessional conduct, but a courageous31French pirate surged into the picture with severalmen of his own opinion, and remarked that whenthe shooting began there would be other targetsbesides Nikola. This convinced the mob that itmight be healthier to let the Scotchman alone.

The captain and crew of the Exertion werethreatened and ill used, but there seemed to be nointention of making them walk the plank or hewingthem down with cutlasses. What to do with themwas a problem rather perplexing, which was proofthat the trade of piracy had fallen from its formerestate. These were thrifty freebooters, however,and the business was capably organized. Therewere even traces of the efficiency management whichwas to become the religion of the twentieth century.The pirates’ largest boat was manned by a crewwhich discarded some of its weapons, combed itswhiskers, even washed its faces, and set off for theport of Principe in charge of the terrifying Bolidar.

The boat carried letters to a merchant by thename of Dominico who acted as the commercialagent of the industrious pirates and sold their plunderfor them. A representative of his was kept onboard the wicked schooner and went to sea withher, presumably to make sure of honest dealings, asensible precaution in the case of such slipperygentry. The whole arrangement was most reprehensible,32of course, but it had flourished on a muchlarger scale in the godly ports of Boston and NewYork during an earlier era.

It was to put a stop to such scandalous trafficthat Richard Coote, Earl of Bellomont, had beensent out by King William III in 1695 as royalgovernor of the colonies of New York and Massachusetts.Colonial merchants, outwardly the patternof respectability, were in secret partnershipwith the swarm of pirates which infested the Americancoast and waxed rich on the English commerceof the Indian Ocean.

“I send you, my Lord, to New York,” said KingWilliam to Bellomont, “because an honest and intrepidman is wanted to put these abuses down, andbecause I believe you to be such a man.”

As a result of these instructions, Captain WilliamKidd was employed to hunt the pirates down by seawhile Governor Bellomont made it hot for the unscrupulousmerchants ashore who were, no doubt,the ancestors of the modern American profiteers infood and clothing, who are also most respectablemen. Captain Kidd was a merchant shipmaster ofbrave and honorable repute who had a comfortablehome in Liberty Street, New York, was married toa widow of good family, and was highly esteemed bythe Dutch and English people of the town. A33shrewd trader who made money for his owners, hewas also a fighting seaman of such proved mettlethat he had been given command of privateerswhich cruised off the coasts of the colonies and harriedthe French in the West Indies. His excellentreputation and character are attested by officialdocuments.

How Captain Kidd, sent out to catch pirates, wasconvicted of turning pirate himself rather than sailhome empty-handed is another story. Fate hasplayed strange tricks with the memory of this seventeenth-centuryseafarer who never cut a throat orscuttled a ship, and who was hanged at ExecutionDock for the excessively unromantic crime ofcracking the skull of his mutinous gunner with awooden bucket.

Poor Captain Barnabas Lincoln of Boston, havinglost his schooner and cargo, was righteously indignantat discovering how the infamous businesswas carried on. Said he:

I was informed by a line from Nikola that the pirateshad a man on board, a native of Principe, who in the garbof a sailor was a partner with Dominico, but I could notget sight of him. This lets us a little into the plan bywhich this atrocious system has been conducted. Merchantshaving partners on board of these pirates! Thuspirates at sea and robbers on land are associated to destroythe peaceful trader.

34

Nikola remained true to Captain Lincoln, evensending him a letter from Principe to tell him aboutthe disposition of the stolen cargo and what pricesit was fetching. In this letter he revealed the factthat his true name was Jamieson and concluded withthis romantic flight:

Another streak of sentiment was discovered inone of the Exertion’s sailors, Francis De Suze, aPortuguese, who finally weakened and decided tojoin the outlaws. He was won over by the artfulpersuasions of his fellow-countryman, LieutenantBolidar of the ferocious mien and lion-like voice.To Captain Lincoln he explained, with tears in hiseyes:

“I shall do nothing but what I am compelled to do andwill not aid in the least to hurt you or your vessel. I amvery sorry to leave you.”

The pious master of the Exertion bore up underhis troubles with a spirit truly admirable, but it wasone thing after another, and under date of Sunday,December 30, he wrote in his diary:

35

This day, which particularly reminds Christians of thehigh duties of compassion and benevolence, is never observedby these pirates. This, of course, we might expect,as they do not often know when Sunday comes and ifthey do, it is spent in gambling. Early this morning, themerchant, as they call him, came with a large boat formore cargo. I was ordered into a boat with my crew,without any breakfast, and carried about three miles to asmall island out of sight of the Exertion and left there bythe side of a pond of thick, muddy water with nothing toeat but a few biscuits. One of the boat’s crew told us thatthe merchant was afraid of being recognized, and whenhe had gone the boat would return for us, but we passedthe day in the greatest anxiety. At night, however, theboat came and took us again on board the Exertion whereto our surprise and grief we found they had broken openthe trunks and chests and taken all our wearing apparel,not leaving me even a shirt or a pair of pantaloons, norsparing a small miniature of my wife which was in thetrunk.

The pirate schooner was employed a few dayslater to fill her hold with cargo from the Exertionand hoist sail for Principe. They lifted the stuffout with a “Yo, ho, ho!” which made Captain Lincolnso unhappy that he pensively wrote:

How different was this sound from what it would havebeen had I been permitted to pass unmolested by these lawlessplunderers and been favored with a safe arrival atthe port of my destination where my cargo would havefound an excellent sale. Then would the “yo, ho, ho!” onits discharging have been a delightful sound to me.

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As a final touch to affect the modern reader witha sense of comedy and the captain with additionalwoe, the pirates fished out the Exertion’s consignmentsof furniture and, for lack of space below,sailed off with chairs lashed to the rail in rows andtables hung in the rigging. There now appears thefigure of the pirate commander himself, for Bolidarwas merely the lieutenant, or executive officer. ToCaptain Lincoln, gloomily watching the pirateschooner in the offing, with her picturesque garnitureof hand-made New England furniture, cameBolidar with five men, his own personal armamentconsisting of a blunderbuss, cutlass, a long knife,and a pair of pistols. This fearsome lieutenanttook Captain Lincoln by the arm, led him aside, andimparted:

“My capitan sends me for your wash.”

Properly resentful, the master of the Exertionreplied:

“Damn your eyes! I have no clothes, nor any soapto wash with. You have stolen them all.”

“Ah, ha, but I will have your wash, pronto!”cried Bolidar, waving the blunderbuss. “Whatyou call him that makes tick-tock, same as theclock?”

Disgustedly Captain Lincoln extracted his watchfrom the place where he had hidden it. The cloud37had a silver lining, for Bolidar graciously handedover a small bundle at parting.

It contained a pair of linen drawers sent me by Nikola,also the Rev. Mr. Brooks’ Family Prayer Book. Thisgave me great satisfaction. Soon after, Bolidar returnedwith his captain who had one arm slung up, yet with asmany implements of war as his diminutive self could convenientlycarry. He told me (through an interpreter whowas his prisoner) that on his last cruise he had fallen inwith two Spanish privateers and beat them off, but hadfourteen of his men killed and was himself wounded in thearm. Bolidar turned to me and said, “It is a d—n lie,”which words proved to be correct for his arm was notwounded and when I saw him again he had forgotten tosling it up.

An accurate and convincing portrait, this, andpainted with very few strokes—the strutting littlebraggart of a pirate chief who resorted to suchcheap and stagy tricks as bandaging his arm tomake an impression! Having disposed of thecargo, it now transpired that the prisoners were tobe marooned and left to perish. After all, the traditionsof piracy had not been wholly lost and thesesordid rascals were running true to form. With aninkling of this fate, Mr. Joshua Brackett, the mateof the Exertion, was heard to say:

“I cannot tell what awaits us, but it appears tome that the worst is to come.”

38

This is how Captain Lincoln quoted it in hisdiary, but the mate of the schooner, sorely tried ashe must have been, was more likely to exclaim:

“I can’t fathom all their —— —— tricks, but itlooks to me as if the bloody rogues had made uptheir minds to scupper us, and may they sizzle inhell for a million years!”

The pirate chief and his officers held a whisperedconference and then spent the last night ashore ingambling, the diminutive leader “in hopes of gettingback some of the five hundred dollars he had lost afew nights before; which made him unusuallyfractious.”

Before they were marooned, Captain Lincolntook pains to note down that the pirates were sportingnew canvas trousers made from the light sails ofthe Exertion and that they had cut up the colorsto make fancy belts to keep their money in, and headded this vivid little touch to the portrait of thechief, “The captain had on one of my best shirts, acleaner one than I had ever seen him wear before.”

At sunset the crew of the Exertion, with severalprisoners taken out of a Spanish merchant prize,were put into a boat. At this lamentable moment,Nikola stepped to the front again and said to CaptainLincoln:

“My friend, I will give you your book,” (a volume39of Rev. Mr. Coleman’s sermons). “It is theonly thing of yours that is in my possession. Idare not attempt anything more. Never mind, Imay see you again before I die.”

There were eleven prisoners in all, without arms,and to sustain life only a ten-gallon keg of water,part of a barrel of flour, one ham, and a little saltfish, not forgetting the precious volume of Mr.Coleman’s sermons. They were carried to a tinykey, or islet, no more than a shoal of white sand anacre in extent and barely lifted above high tide,forty miles off the Cuban coast and well out of thetrack of vessels. No wonder that Captain Lincolnwas moved to ejacul*te:

“Look at us now, my friends, left benighted on a littlespot of sand in the midst of the ocean, with every appearanceof a violent thunder tempest and a boisterous night.Judge of my feelings and the circ*mstances which ourband of sufferers now witnessed. Perhaps you can, andhave pitied us. I assure you we were very wretched,and to depict the scene is beyond my power.”

They found a fragment of a thatched hut builtby turtle fishermen, but now whipped bare by thewinds, and it served as a slight shelter from theburning sun. Fire they kindled by means of apiece of cotton-wick yarn and a flint and steel.They dug holes for fresh water, but it was too salty40to drink. At bedtime the captain read aloud selectionsfrom the Rev. Mr. Brooks’s Family Prayer-Book,and they slept in the sand when the scorpions,centipedes, lizards, and mosquitoes permitted.

Of driftwood, palmetto logs, and bits of boardthey fashioned a little raft and so explored the keynearest them. There they discovered some shooks,planks, and pieces of spar which had been in theExertion’s deck-load and were thrown overboardwhen she grounded on the bar. With the amazinghandiness of good seamen they proceeded to build aboat of this pitiful material. “Some of the Spaniardshad secreted their long knives in their trouserlegs,which proved very useful in fitting timbers,and a gimblet of mine enabled us to use woodenpins,” explains Captain Lincoln. “And now ourspirits began to revive, although water, water wascontinually in our minds. Our labor was extremelyburdensome, and the Spaniards considerably peevish,but they would often say to me, ‘Never mind,Captain, bye-and-bye Americans or Spanish catch’em and we go see ’em hung.’”

David Warren, the cook of the Exertion, hadbeen ailing, and the cruel ordeal of being maroonedwas too much for him. The captain perceived thathe was soon to leave them and suggested, as theysat by the fire:

41

“I think it most likely that we shall die here soon,David, but as some one of us may survive to carrythe tidings to our friends, if you have anything tosay respecting your family, now is the time.”

The young sailor—he was only twenty-six—repliedto this: “I have a mother in Saco where Ibelong—she is a second time a widow. To-morrow,if you can spare a scrap of paper and a pencil, Iwill write something.”

No to-morrow came to him. He passed out inthe night, and the skipper thought of his own wifeand children in Boston. They dug a grave in thesand, made a coffin of shooks, and stood with bareheads while Captain Lincoln read the funeralprayer from the consolatory compilation of the Rev.Mr. Brooks. One of the Spanish prisoners, an oldman named Manuel, made a wooden cross, and withgreat pains carved upon it the words, “Jesus ChristHath Him Now,” and placed it at the head of thegrave. There was the old Puritan strain in CaptainLincoln, who commented, “Although I did notbelieve in the mysterious influence of the cross, yetI was perfectly willing it should stand there.”

Enfeebled and lacking food and water, they stubbornlytoiled at building the boat, which was shapedlike a flat-iron. When at length they launched thewretched little box, it leaked like a basket, and, to42their dismay, would hold no more than six of themand stay afloat, four to row, one to steer, and one tobail. Three Spaniards and a Frenchman arguedthat they should go in search of help because theywere acquainted with the lay of the coast and couldtalk to the people. This was agreed to, and Mr.Brackett, the mate, was also selected to go, becausethe captain considered it his duty to stay with hismen. The sixth man was Joseph Baxter, and thereis no other mention of him in the narrative, so hemust have been one of the prisoners who had beenbrought along from another prize. They weregiven a keg of water, “the least salty,” a few pancakesand salt fish, and embarked with the bestwishes and prayers of the other survivors.

On the torrid key waited the captain, old Manuel,Thomas Young, and George Reed, while the painfuldays and the anxious nights dragged past untilalmost a week had gone. The flour-barrel wasempty, and they were trying to exist on pricklypears and shell-fish, while the torments of thirst wereagonizing. At last they sighted a boat drifting byabout a mile distant, and hope flickered anew. Theraft was shoved off, and two of them overhauled theempty boat, which seemed to offer a way of escape.Imagine their feelings at discovering that it was thesame boat in which Mr. Brackett and the five men43had rowed away to find rescue in the last extremity!It was full of water, without oars or paddles. Nowonder that Captain Lincoln wrote in his journalnext day:

“This morning was indeed the most gloomy I had everexperienced. There appeared hardly a ray of hope thatmy friend Brackett could return, seeing the boat was lost.Our provisions gone, our mouths parched extremely withthirst, our strength wasted, our spirits broken, and ourhopes imprisoned within the circumference of this desolateisland in the midst of an unfrequented ocean,—all thesethings gave to the scene the hue of death.”

Later in this same day a sail was seen against theblue horizon. The sloop boldly tacked among thetortuous shoals and was evidently heading for theislet. Soon she fired a gun, and the castaways tookher to be another pirate vessel. She droppedanchor and lowered a boat in which three men pulledto the beach. “Thinking it no worse to die bysword than famine,” Captain Lincoln walked downto meet them. As the boat drove through the surf,the man in the bow jumped out, waded ashore, andrushed to embrace the captain.

It was none other than the Scotchman, NikolaMonacre, henceforth to be known by the reputableand rightful name of Jamieson! He had shorn offhis ruffianly whiskers and abandoned his evil ways.44The moment could have been no more dramatic, thecoincidence any happier, if it had been contrivedby a motion-picture director. To the modernreader it will come as an agreeable surprise, I fancy,for until now the character of Nikola, as conveyedin glimpses by Captain Lincoln, fails to win one’simplicit confidence. While among the pirates heseemed a bit mushy and impressionable, not quitethe man to stand by through thick and thin and hewa way out of his difficulties; but this was an unfairjudgment. He was leal and true to the last hair ofhis discarded mustachios. As though he surmisedthat Captain Lincoln might have formed the sameopinion of him, the first words of this worthy herowere:

“Do you now believe that Jamieson is yourfriend? And are these all that are left of you?Ah, I suspected, and now I know what you wereput here for!”

Captain Lincoln explained the absence of themate and the five sailors who had vanished from thewaterlogged boat. Jamieson had heard nothing ofthem and ventured the conjecture:

“How unfortunate! They must be lost, or somepirates have taken them.”

He called to the two comrades who had comeashore with him, Frenchmen and fine fellows, who45also embraced the castaways and held to theirparched lips a tea-kettle filled with wine, and thenfed them sparingly with a dish of salt beef and potatoes.The others of the sloop’s crew were summonedashore, and while they all sat on the beachand ate and drank, the admirable Jamieson spunthe yarn of his own adventures. The pirates hadcaptured four small coasting-vessels and, beingshort of prize-masters, had put him in charge ofone of them, with a crew which included the twoFrenchmen. The orders were to follow the piraticalMexican into a harbor.

His captured schooner leaked so much thatJamieson abandoned her and shifted to a sloop, inwhich he altered his course at night and so slippedclear of the pirates. First he sailed back to thewreck of the Exertion on the chance that CaptainLincoln might be there. Disappointed in this, hewent to sea again and laid a course for the key onwhich the prisoners had been marooned.

“We had determined among ourselves,” he explained,“that, should an opportunity occur, wewould come and save your lives, as we now have.”

All hands went aboard Jamieson’s sloop, and leftthe horrid place of their banishment over the stern.The first port of call was the inlet in which theExertion lay stranded. She was a forlorn derelict,46stripped of everything, and Captain Lincoln badehis luckless schooner a sorrowful farewell. Whilebeating out of this passage, an armed brig wassighted five miles distant. She piped a boat away,which fired several musket-balls through the sloop’smainsail as soon as they drew near each other, and itwas suspected that these might be the same oldpirates of the Mexican. Declining to surrender,Jamieson and Captain Lincoln served out muskets,and they peppered the strange boat in a brisk littleencounter until the brig sent two more boats away,and resistance was seen to be futile.

The armed vessel turned out to be a lawful Spanishprivateer, whose captain showed no resentmentat the fusillade. Indeed, he was handsomely cordial,a very gentlemanly sailor, and invited CaptainLincoln and his men into the cabin for dinner,where he informed them that he had commanded aYankee privateer out of Boston during the War of1812. Jamieson and his crew, for reasons bestknown to themselves, signed articles as privateersmenand stayed in the brig. This was preferableto risking the halter ashore.

Captain Lincoln was landed at Trinidad, Cuba,where he found American friends and was soon ableto secure a passage to Boston. It was not untilmonths later that he learned of the safe arrival on47the Cuban coast of Mr. Brackett, the mate, and thefive men who had vanished in the open boat. Whatbefell them at sea, and how they were picked up, isnot revealed.

It would be a pity to dismiss the engaging Jamiesonwithout some further knowledge of his checkeredcareer. A year and a half after their parting,Captain Lincoln received a letter from him. Hewas living quietly in Montego Bay, Jamaica, andat the captain’s very urgent invitation he came toBoston for a visit. While in the privateer brig, ashe told it, they had fought a Colombian eighteen-gunsloop-of-war for three hours. After a hammer-and-tongsengagement, both ships drew off,very much battered. The Spanish privateerlimped into Santiago for repairs, and Jamieson wassent to a hospital with a bullet through his arm.From there he had made his way to Jamaica,where friends cared for him and kept him clear ofthe law.

He had the pleasure of seeing several of his oldshipmates of the Mexican brought into MontegoBay, whence they were carried to Kingston andceremoniously hanged by the neck. Among themwas Baltizar, pilot of the pirate schooner, and inthe words of Captain Lincoln:

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“He was an old man, and as Jamieson said, it was amelancholy and heart-rending sight to see him borne to executionwith those gray hairs which might have been venerablein virtuous old age, now a reproach and shame tothis hoary villain, for he was full of years and old ininiquity.”

You may be sure that the picaresque Scotch rover,who had been so faithful and kind, found a warmwelcome at the fireside of Captain Lincoln and inthe taverns of the Boston waterside. He was contentedto lead the humdrum life of virtue and sailedwith the skipper as mate in a new schooner on severalvoyages to the West Indies. In his later yearshe tired of the offshore trade and joined the fishing-fleetout of Hingham during the summer months,while in the winter he taught navigation to theyoung sailors of the neighborhood who aspired torise to a mate’s or master’s berth.

His grave is on the shore of Cape Cod, and asCaptain Lincoln wrote of him, “Peace to his ashes.They rest in a strange land, far from his kindredand his native country.”

According to his own account, Jamieson was of avery respectable family in Greenock. His fatherwas a cloth merchant of considerable wealth, butbeing left an orphan, he had run away to sea and engagedin an astonishing variety of adventures. Ofhim Captain Lincoln said:

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He had received a polite education and was of a verygentlemanly deportment. He spoke several languagesand was skilled in drawing and painting. He had travelledextensively and his wide fund of information madehim a most entertaining companion. His observationson the character of different nations were very liberal;with a playful humorousness quite free from bigotry andnarrow prejudice.

An entertaining companion and philosopher, indeed,whose outlook had been mellowed by thebroadening influence of piracy, and you and I wouldlike nothing better than to have sat down with thisreformed gentleman of fortune a hundred years agoand listened to his playful comments on the virtuesand the vices of mankind, and his wondrous yarnsof men and ships and the winds that tramp theworld.

Perhaps as he moved so sedately in the orderedlife of Boston and Hingham, or fared to the southwardagain as mate of a trading-schooner, he shiveredat recollection of that day in Kingston whenten of his old shipmates of the Mexican dangledfrom the gallows-tree and the populace crowded toenjoy the diverting spectacle. And in his dreamshe may have heard the wailing voice of PedroNondre, when the rope broke and he fell to theground alive: “Mercy! mercy! they kill me without50cause! Oh, good Christians, protect me. Isthere no Christian in this land? Muero innocente!Adios, para siempre adios!”

A true tale this, every word of it, as are all theothers in this book, but lacking one essential thingto make it complete. There is no mention in thediary of Captain Lincoln to bring us the comfortingassurance that Bolidar, the swaggering lieutenant,and his diminutive blackguard of a chief receivedthe solicitous attention of the hangman, as theyhandsomely deserved.

Among the countless episodes of disaster atsea, the fate of the French frigate Medusaand her people still possesses a poignant and mournfuldistinction. Other ships have gone down withmuch greater loss of life, including such moderninstances as the Titanic and the Lusitania, or havebeen missing with all hands, but the story of theMedusa casts a dark shadow across the chronicles ofhuman suffering, even though a century has passedsince the event. There are some enterprises whichseem foredoomed to failure by a conspiracy of circ*mstances,as if a spell of evil enchantment hadbeen woven to thwart and destroy them. Of such akind was this most unhappy voyage.

As an incident of the final overthrow of Napoleon,Great Britain returned to France the colonialterritory of Sénégal on the west coast of Africa,between Cape Blanco and the Gambia River. AFrench expedition was equipped and sent out to reoccupyand govern the little settlements and clearings52which thinly fringed the tropical wilderness.It included officials, scientists, soldiers, servants,and laborers, who sailed from Rochefort in theMedusa frigate and three smaller vessels on theseventeenth of June, 1816.

The French Navy had been shattered and sweptfrom the seas by the broadsides of Nelson’s fleets,and its morale had ebbed. This mission, moreover,was not a strictly naval affair, and the personnel ofthe frigate was recruited with no particular care.The seamen were the scrapings of the waterfront,and the officers had not been selected for efficiency.They were typical neither of the French arms norpeople. It seemed a commonplace task, no doubt,to sail with the summer breezes on a voyage notmuch farther than the Cape Verd Islands and disembarkthe passengers and cargo.

Captain de Chaumareys of the Medusa was alight-hearted, agreeable shipmate, but he appears tohave been a most indifferent seaman and a worsemaster of men and emergencies. When no morethan ten days out from port he discovered that hisreckoning had set him thirty leagues, or almost ahundred miles, out of his course. This was notenough to condemn him utterly, because navigationwas a crude art a century ago and ships blunderedabout the high seas and found their way to port in53the most astonishing manner. But Captain deChaumareys was not made cautious by his error,and he drove along with fatuous confidence in hisability and would pay no heed to the opinions ofhis officers. He also managed to lose touch withthe three smaller ships of the squadron, and theyvanished from his ken. It was one fatal mischanceafter another.

On the first of July, when the frigate crossed thetropic of Cancer, the debonair captain made it anexcuse for a holiday and took personal charge of thegaieties which so absorbed him that he turned overthe command of the ship to M. Richefort, one of thecivilian officials who had seen naval service. Therewas a feeling of uneasiness on board, for all thefiddling and singing and dancing, and the officersdiscussed it over their wine in the ward-room andthe passengers were aware of it in the cabins,“while the crew performed the fantastic ceremoniesusual on such occasions although the frigate wassurrounded by all the unseen perils of the ocean. Afew persons, aware of the danger, remonstrated, butwithout effect, even when it was ascertained that theMedusa was on the bank of Arguin.”

The ship was, in fact, entrapped among theshoals and reefs which extended like a labyrinth farout from the African coast. It was an area of54many disasters to stout ships, whose crews had beentaken captive or killed by savage tribes, if they survivedthe hostility of the sea. M. Richefort, whowas so obligingly acting as commander of theMedusa, insisted that there were a hundred fathomsof water under the keel and not the slightest causefor anxiety, and they still danced on deck to thescraping of the fiddles.

With a crash that flung the merry-makers thisway and that, and brought the spars tumbling abouttheir ears, the Medusa struck in only sixteen feet ofwater, and the deadly sands had inextricablygripped her. She was a lost ship on this bright dayof calm seas and sunny weather and the sailorsblithely tripping it heel-and-toe. It was soon realizedthat the frigate might pound to pieces in thefirst gale of wind, and that advantage had best betaken of the quiescent ocean to get away from her.The coast was known to be no more than forty milesdistant, and the hope of escape was strong.

There was ample time in which to abandon shipwith some order and method, to break out provisionsand water-barrels, to build a number of buoyantrafts and carefully equip them, to safeguardthe lives of the people as far as possible. The frigatecarried carpenters, mechanics, and other artisans,and all manner of tools for the colony of55Sénégal. Hundreds of people had been saved fromother ships in situations even more desperate thanthis. There had been strong men, unwaveringauthority, and disciplined obedience in them, however,but this doomed frigate was like a madhouse,and panic ran from deck to deck. The crew wasslack at best, but it could not be held altogetherresponsible for the demoralization. The soldiersand laborers were Spanish, French, Italian, and negroes,many of whom had probably been in prison orthe convict hulks, and were sent to Africa for theircountry’s good.

The frigate had five seaworthy boats, which werehurriedly launched and filled with people whoseonly thought was to save their own skins. In oneof them was the governor of Sénégal and his family,and in another were placed four children and thewives of the officials. In this respect the ancientchivalry of the sea was lived up to. There wereheroes among the French army officers, as mighthave been expected, for they kept clear of the strugglefor the boats, and succeeded in holding most oftheir men, who were assigned to the one raft whichhad been frantically thrown together.

The five boats shoved off and waited for the raft,which it was proposed to take in tow. Barrels ofbread and wine and water had been hoisted on deck,56but in the confusion almost all the stores werethrown into the boats. M. Correard, geographicalengineer attached to the expedition, had gallantlyvolunteered to take chances with his own men onthe raft. He had kept his wits about him, and delayedto ask Captain de Chaumareys whether navigationinstruments and charts had been provided forthe raft. He was assured that a naval officer wasattending to these essentials and would be in chargeof the party. Forgetting his duty entirely, thisfaithless officer scrambled into one of the boats, andthe raft was left without means of guidance.

There are cowards in all services, afloat andashore, but they are seldom conspicuous. Amongthose who fled away in the boats was the gay Captainde Chaumareys, who oozed through a port-holewithout delaying a moment. In this manner he disappearedfrom the narrative, the last glimpse of himas framed in the port-hole while his ship was stillcrowded with terrified castaways for whom therewere no boats. He was a feather-brained poltroonwho, by accident, happened to be a Frenchman.

There were intrepid men in the Medusa whobullied the others into helping make a raft. Thebest that they could do was to launch a pitiful contrivanceof spars and planks held together by lashings.It was sixty-five feet long and twenty broad,57not even decked over, twisting and working to themotion of the waves which slapped over it orsplashed between the timbers when the ocean wassmooth. As soon as it floated alongside the frigate,one hundred and fifty persons wildly jammed themselvesupon it, standing in water to their waists andin danger of slipping between the spars and planks.The only part of the raft which was unsubmergedwhen laden had room for no more than fifteen mento lie down upon it.

The weather was still calm, and the ship restedsolidly upon her sandy bed, the upper decks clearof water. It seems incredible that no barrels ofbeef and biscuit were lashed to the timbers of theraft, no water-casks rolled from the tiers and swungoverside. A kind of mob hysteria swept these peoplealong, and the men of resolution were carriedwith it. They were unaccustomed to the sea, and afrenzied fear of it stampeded them. The flimsy,wave-washed raft floated away from the Medusawith only biscuit enough for one scanty meal and afew casks of wine. The stage was set, as one mightsay, for inevitable horrors.

One of the boats which was not so crowded as theothers had the grace to row back to the ship withorders to take off a few, if there were men stillaboard. To the surprise of the lieutenant in the58boat, sixty men had been left behind because therewas not even a foothold for them upon the raft.The boat managed to stow all but seventeen ofthem, who were very drunk by this time and preferredto stand by the ship and the spirit-room.The fear of death had ceased to trouble them.

For the moment let us shift the scene to surveythe fate of these seventeen poor wretches who wereabandoned on board of the Medusa. The five boatsreached the African coast and most of their companylived to find Sénégal. The governor bethoughthimself that a large amount of specie hadbeen left in the wreck, and he sent a little vessel off;but lack of provisions and bad weather drove hertwice back to port, so that fifty-two days, more thanseven weeks, had passed before the Medusa wassighted, her upper works still above water.

Three of the seventeen men were found alive,“but they lived in separate corners of the hulk andnever met but to run at each other with drawnknives.” Several others had sailed off on a tiny raftwhich was cast up on the coast of the Sahara, but themen were drowned. A lone sailor drifted away ona hencoop as the craft of his choice, and founderedin sight of the frigate. All the rest had died of toolittle food and too much rum, after the provisions59had been lost or spoiled by the breaking up of theship.

It was understood that the raft, with its burden ofone hundred and fifty souls, was to be taken in towby the five boats strung in a line, and this flotillawould make for the nearest coast, which mighthave been reached in two or three days of favoringweather. After a few hours of slow, but encouraging,progress, the tow-line of the captain’s boatparted. Instead of making fast to the raft again,all the other boats cast off their cables and, undersail and oar, set off to the eastward to save themselves.The miserable people who beheld this desertiondenounced it as an act of cruelty and perfidybeyond belief. It may have been in the captain’smind to make haste and send a vessel to pick up thecastaways, but his previous behavior had been suchthat he scarcely deserves the benefit of the doubt.

On the makeshift raft there were those who knewhow to die like Frenchmen and gentlemen. Whatthey endured has been handed down to us in thepersonal accounts of M. Correard and M. Savigny,colonial officials who wrote with that touch, vividand dramatic, which is the gift of many of theirrace. Even in translation it is profoundly moving.When they saw the boats forsake them and vanish60at the edge of the azure horizon, a stupor fell uponthese unfortunate people as they clung to oneanother with arms locked and bodies pressed togetherso that they might not be washed off the raft.

A small group in whom nobility of characterburned like an unquenchable flame assumed theleadership, attempting to maintain some sort ofdiscipline and decency, to ration the precious wine,to make the raft more seaworthy. One of theartisans had a pocket compass, which he displayedamid shouts of joy, but it slipped from his fingersand was lost. They had no chart or any other resourceof the kind.

“The first day passed in a manner sufficiently tranquil.We talked of the means by which we would save ourselves;we spoke of it as a certain circ*mstance, which reanimatedour courage; and we sustained that of the soldiersby cherishing in them the hope of being able, in a shorttime, to revenge themselves on those who had abandonedthem.... In the evening our hearts and our prayers,by a feeling natural to the unfortunate, were turned towardHeaven. Surrounded by inevitable dangers, we addressedthat invisible Being who has established the orderof the universe. Our vows were fervent and we experiencedfrom our prayers the cheering influence of hope. Itis necessary to have been in similar circ*mstances beforeone can rightly imagine what a solace to the hearts ofthe sufferers is the sublime idea of a God protecting theafflicted.”

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Such were the reflections of a little group ofdevout and high-minded Frenchmen whose examplehelped to steady the rest of the castaways in theearly hours of their ordeal. During the first nightthe wind increased, and the sea became so boisterousthat the waves gushed and roared across the raft,most of which was three feet under water. A fewropes were stretched for the people to cling to, butthey were washed to and fro, and many were caughtand killed or cruelly hurt between the grinding timbers.Others were swept into the sea. Twenty ofthe company had perished before dawn. Twoship’s boys and a baker, after bidding farewell totheir comrades, threw themselves into the ocean asthe easier end. A survivor wrote:

“During the whole of this night we struggled againstdeath, holding ourselves closely to those spars which werefirmly bound together; tossed by the waves from one endto the other, and sometimes precipitated into the sea;floating between life and death, mourning over our misfortunes,certain of perishing, yet contending for theremainder of existence with that cruel element which haddetermined to swallow us up. Such was our situation tillbreak of day.”

Already the minds of some of the castaways wereaffected. When the day came clear and beautiful,they saw visions of ships, of green shores, of loved62ones at home. While the ocean granted them arespite, the emotion of hope strongly revived, andtheir manifold woes were forgotten as they gazedlandward or waited for sight of a sail.

“Two young men raised and recognized their fatherwho had fallen and was lying insensible among the feet ofthe soldiers. They believed him to be dead and their despairwas expressed in the most affecting manner. Heslowly revived and was restored to life in response to theprayers of his sons who supported him closely folded intheir arms. This touching scene of filial piety drew ourtears.”

The second night again brought clouds andsqually weather, which agitated the ocean and sweptthe raft. In a wailing mass the people were dashedto and fro and were crushed or drowned. The ruffianlysoldiers and sailors broached the wine-casks,and so lost such last glimmerings of reason as terrorhad not deprived them of. They insanely attackedthe other survivors, and at intervals a battle ragedall night long, with sabers, knives, and bayonets.The brave M. Correard had fallen into a swoon ofexhaustion, but was aroused by the cries of “Toarms, comrades! Rally, or we are lost!” He mustereda small force of loyal laborers and a few officersand led them in a charge. The rebels surroundedthem, but were beaten back after much63bloodshed. The scenes were thus depicted by thepen of M. Savigny:

There was one woman on the raft, and the villainshad thrown her overboard during the struggle,together with her husband, who had heroically defendedher. M. Correard, gashed with saber-woundsas he was, leaped into the sea with a ropeand rescued the wife, while Lavilette, the headworkman, swam after the husband and hauled himto the raft.

The first thing the poor woman did, after recoveringher senses, was to acquaint herself with the name of theperson who had saved her and to express to him her liveliestgratitude. Finding that her words but ill reflectedher feelings, she recollected that she had in her pocket alittle snuff and instantly offered it to him. Touched with65the gift but unable to use it, M. Correard gave it to awounded sailor, which served him two or three days. Butit is impossible to describe a still more affecting scene,—thejoy this unfortunate couple testified when they wereagain conscious, at finding they were both saved.

The woman was a native of the Swiss Alps whohad followed the armies of France as a sutler, orvivandière, for twenty years, through many of Napoleon’scampaigns. Bronzed, intrepid, facingdeath with a gesture, she said to M. Correard:

I am a useful woman, you see, a veteran of great andglorious wars. Therefore, if you please, be so good as tocontinue to preserve my life. Ah, if you knew how oftenI have ventured upon the fields of battle and braved thebullets to carry assistance to our gallant men! Whetherthey had money or not, I always let them have my goods.Sometimes a battle would deprive me of my poor debtors,but after the victory others would pay me double or triplefor what they had consumed before the engagement.Thus I came in for a share of the victories.

It was during a lull of the dreadful conflictamong these pitiful castaways that M. Savigny wasmoved to exclaim:

The moon lighted with her melancholy rays this disastrousraft, this narrow space on which were found unitedso many torturing anxieties, a madness so insensate, acourage so heroic, and the most generous, the most amiablesentiments of nature and humanity.

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Another night came, and the crazed mutineersmade an attack even more savage. It was notaltogether impelled by the blind instinct of survival,for again they tried to tear the raft apart and destroythemselves with it. They were so manyravening beasts. Those who resisted them displayedmany instances of brave and beautiful self-sacrifice.One of the loyal laborers was seized byfour of the rebels, who were about to kill him, butLavilette, formerly a sergeant of Napoleon’s OldGuard, rushed in and subdued them with the butt ofa carbine and so saved the victim of their rage.

A young lieutenant fell into the hands of thesemaniacs, and again there were volunteers to rush inagainst overwhelming numbers and effect a rescue,regardless of their grievous wounds. Bleeding andexhausted, M. Coudin had fallen upon a barrel, buthe still held in his arms a twelve-year-old sailor-boywhom he was trying to shield from harm. Therebels tossed them both into the sea, but M. Coudinclung to the lad and insisted that he be placed uponthe raft before he permitted himself to be helped.

During these periods of hideous combat amongmen who should have been brethren and comradesin tribulation, as many as sixty of them weredrowned or died of their wounds. Only two ofthese belonged to the little party of finely tempered67souls who had shown themselves to be greatly heroic.They had withstood one onslaught after another,and there were never more than twenty of them, inhonor preferring one another, untouched by themurderous delirium which had afflicted the others.

True, they saw phantasms and talked wildly, butthe illusions were peaceful. M. Correard imaginedthat he was traveling through the lovely, fruitfulfields of Italy. One of the officers said to him,quite calmly, “I recollect that we were abandonedby the boats, but there is no cause for anxiety. Iam writing a letter to the Government, and in afew hours we shall be saved.” And while they werebabbling of the cafés of Paris and Bordeaux andordering the most elaborate meals, they chewed theleather of the shoulder-belts and cartridges, andfamine took its daily toll of them. In these circ*mstancesit was inevitable that sooner or later theywould begin devouring one another for food.The details are repugnant, and it is just as well topass over them. With this same feeling in mind,one of the survivors confessed:

It was necessary, however, that some extreme measureshould be adopted to support our miserable existence.We shudder with horror on finding ourselves under thenecessity of recording that which we put into practice.We feel the pen drop from our hands, a deadly coldness68freezes all our limbs, and our hair stands on end. Readers,we entreat you not to entertain, for men already toounhappy, a sentiment of indignation; but to grieve forthem, and to shed a tear of pity over their sad lot.

On the fourth day a dozen more had died, and thesurvivors were “extremely feeble, and bore upontheir faces the stamp of approaching dissolution.”Shipwrecked crews have lived much longer than thiswithout food, but the situation of these sufferers waspeculiarly dreadful. And yet one of them couldsay:

This day was serene and the ocean slumbered. Ourhearts were in harmony with the comforting aspect of theheavens and received anew a ray of hope. A shoal offlying fish passed under our raft and as there was an infinitenumber of openings between the pieces which composedit, the fish were entangled in great numbers. Wethrew ourselves upon them and took about two hundredand put them in an empty barrel. This food seemed delicious,but one man would have required a score. Ourfirst emotion was to give thanks to God for this unhopedfor favor.

An ounce of gunpowder was discovered, and thesunshine dried it, so that with a steel and gun-flintsa fire was kindled in a wetted cask and some of thelittle fish were cooked. This was the only foodvouchsafed them, a mere shadow of substanceamong so many, “but the night was made tolerable69and might have been happy if it had not been signalizedby a new massacre.”

A mob of Spaniards, Italians, and negroes hadhatched a plot to throw all the others into the seaand so obtain the raft and what wine was left. Theblack men argued that the coast was near and thatthey could traverse it without danger from the nativesand so act as guides. The leader of this outbreakwas a Spaniard, who placed himself behindthe mast, made the sign of the cross with one hand,waved a knife in the other, and invoked the name ofGod as the signal to rush forward and begin theaffray. Two faithful French sailors, who wereforewarned of this eruption, lost not a moment ingrappling with this devout desperado, and he wasthrown into the sea along with an Asiatic of giganticstature who was suspected of being another ringleader.A third instigator of the mob, perceivingthat the plot was discovered, armed himself with aboarding-ax, hacked his way free, and plunged intothe ocean.

The rest of the mutineers were hardier lunatics,and they fought wildly in the attempt to kill one ofthe officers, under the delusion that he was a LieutenantDanglass, whom they had hated for hisharsh manners while aboard the Medusa. Atlength they were repulsed, but when the morning70came only thirty persons remained alive of the onehundred and fifty who had left the frigate. Occasionalglimpses of reason prevailed, as when twosoldiers were caught in the act of stealing wine fromthe only cask left, and were put to death after asummary courtmartial conducted with singularregard for form and ceremony.

Among those who mercifully passed out at theend of a week was the twelve-year-old sailor-boy,whose name was Leon. M. Savigny describes it sotenderly that the passage is worth quoting:

When the number of the living was reduced totwenty-seven, a solemn discussion was held, and aconclusion reached upon which it is not for us topass judgment. It was evident that fifteen of thenumber were likely to live a few days longer, whichgave them a tangible hope of rescue. The othertwelve were about to die, all of them severelywounded and bereft of reason. There was stillsome wine in the last cask. To divide it with thesedoomed twelve was to deprive the fifteen strongermen of the chance of survival. It was decided togive these dying people to the merciful obliterationof the sea. The execution of this decree was undertakenby three soldiers and a sailor, chosen by lot,while the others wept and turned away their faces.

Among those whose feeble spark of life wassnuffed out in this manner was that militant woman,the sutler who had followed Napoleon to the plainsof Italy. Both she and her husband had been fatallywounded during the last night of the mutiny,and so they went out of life together, which was asthey would have wished it. More than once in warthe hopelessly wounded have been put out of theway in preference to leaving them in the wake of aretreat or burdening a column with them. In this72tragedy of the sea the decision was held to be justifiablewhen the French Government investigatedthe circ*mstances.

With so few of them remaining, the fifteen survivorswere able to assemble themselves upon a littleplatform raised in the center of the raft and to builda slight protection of plank and spars. To rehearsetheir sufferings at greater length would be to repelthe modern reader. It is only in fiction that shipwreckcan be employed as a theme for romance andenjoyable adventure. The reality is apt to be verystark and grim. It is more congenial to remembersuch fine bits as this, when the handful of themhuddled upon the tiny platform in the final days oftheir agony:

On this new theatre we resolved to meet death in a mannerbecoming Frenchmen and with perfect resignation.Our time was almost wholly spent in talking of our belovedand unhappy country. All our wishes, our prayers, werefor the prosperity of France.

It was the gallant M. Correard who assured hiscomrades that his presentiment of rescue was stillunshaken, that a series of events so unheard of couldnot be destined to oblivion and that Providencewould certainly preserve a few to tell to the worldthe melancholy story of the raft. In the bottom ofa sack were found thirty cloves of garlic, which were73distributed as a precious alleviation, and there wasrejoicing over a little bottle of tooth-wash containingcinnamon and aromatics. A drop of it on thetongue produced an agreeable feeling,

and for a short time removed the thirst which destroyedus. Thus we sought with avidity an empty vial whichone of us possessed and in which had once been some essenceof roses. Every one, as he got hold of it, respiredwith delight the odor it exhaled, which imparted to hissenses the most soothing impressions. Emaciated by privations,the slightest comfort was to us a supreme happiness.

On the ninth day they saw a butterfly of a speciesfamiliar to the gardens of France, and it flutteredto rest upon the mast. It was a harbinger of landand an omen of deliverance in their wistful sight.Other butterflies visited them, but the winds andcurrents failed to set them in close to the coast, andthere was never a glimpse of a sail. They existed inquietude, with no more brawls or mutinies, untilsixteen days had passed since the wreck of theMedusa. Then a captain of infantry, scanning thesea with aching eyes, saw the distant gleam ofcanvas.

Soon they were able to perceive that it was a brig,and they took it to be the Argus of their own squadron,which they had been hoping would be sent in74search of them. They made a flag out of fragmentsof clothing, and a seaman climbed to the topof the mast and waved it until his strength failed.The vessel grew larger through half an hour of tearsand supplication, and then its course was suddenlyaltered, and it dropped below the sky-line.

Despair overwhelmed them. They laid themselvesdown under a covering of sail-cloth and refusedto glance at the ocean which had mocked them.It was proposed to write their names and a briefaccount of their experience upon a plank and affixit to the mast on the chance that the tidings mightsome day reach their government and their familiesin France.

It was the master gunner who crawled out, twohours later, and trembled as he stared at the brigwhich had made a long tack and was now steeringstraight toward the raft. The others draggedthemselves to their feet, forgetting their sores andwounds and weakness, and embraced one another.From the foremast of the brig flew an ensign, whichthey joyously recognized, and they cried, as youmight have expected of them, “It is, then, toFrenchmen that we shall owe our deliverance.”

The Argus, which had been sent out by the governorof Sénégal, rounded to no more than a pistol-shotfrom the raft while the crew “ranged upon the75deck and in the shrouds announced to us by thewaving of their hands and hats, the pleasure theyfelt at coming to the assistance of their unfortunatecountrymen.”

Fifteen men were taken on board the brig of thehundred and fifty who had shoved away from thefrigate Medusa a little more than a fortnight earlier.There was no more fiddling and dancing on deck for“these helpless creatures almost naked, their bodiesshrivelled by the rays of the sun, ten of themscarcely able to move, their limbs stripped of skin,their eyes hollow and almost savage, and the longbeards giving them an air almost hideous.”

They were most tenderly cared for by the surgeonof the Argus, but six of them died after reachingthe African port of St. Louis. Only nine ofthe castaways of the Medusa’s raft, therefore, livedto return to France. Their minds and bodies weremarked with the scars of that experience, which youwill find mentioned very frequently in the oldrecords of shipwreck and disaster. It was an episodein human history, the best and the worst ofit, and a reminder of man’s eternal conflict with thesea.

In this harassing modern age of a world turnedupside down and bedeviled with one moreproblem after another, fancy turns with fond regretto those lucky sailormen who lingered on little,sea-girt isles and lorded it as monarchs of all theysurveyed. Many an old forecastle had a RobinsonCrusoe, hairy and brown and tattooed, who couldspin strange yarns of years serenely passed amongthe untutored natives of the Indian Ocean or theSouth Seas. Now and then one of them had livedin more solitary fashion on some remote, unpeopledstrand, a hermit cast up by the sea, and wasactually contented because he had freed himself ofthe tyranny of bosses and wages and trousers andall the other shackles of civilization.

Alas! there are no more realms like these. Thewireless mast lifts above the palm-trees, and thesteamer whistle blows to recall the tourists from thebeaches where the trade-winds sweep. There arestill some very lonely places on the watery globe,however, and one of them is the tiny group of three77volcanic islands in the South Atlantic which isknown as Tristan da Cunha. These bleak rockslie two thousand miles west of the Cape of GoodHope and four thousand miles to the northeast ofCape Horn. They loom abruptly from a tempestuousocean, which lashes the stark, black cliffs,and there are no harbors, only an occasional fringeof beach a few yards wide.

Tristan, the largest of the group, lifts a snow-cladpeak almost eight thousand feet above the seaas a warning to mariners to steer wide of the cruelreefs. It has a small plateau where green thingsgrow, and living streams and cascades of freshwater. The islands were discovered as early as1506 by the Portuguese admiral, Tristan da Cunha,and in later years the Dutch navigators and thepioneers of the British East India Company hoveto in passing, but it was not thought worth whileto hoist a flag over the group.

It remained for a Yankee sailor, JonathanLambert of Salem, to choose Tristan da Cunha ashis abiding-place and to issue a formal proclamationof his sovereignty to the other nations of theworld. Said he, “I ground my right and claim onthe sure and rational ground of absolute occupancy.”This was undeniable, and the British Empirerests upon foundations no more convincing.78Jonathan Lambert was of the breed of Salem seafarerswho had first carried the American flag toIndia, Java, Sumatra, and Japan, who opened thetrade with the Fiji Islands and Madagascar, whohad been the trail-breakers in diverting the commerceof South America and China to Yankeeships. They had sailed where no other merchantmendared go, they had anchored where no one elsedreamed of seeking trade.

It was therefore nothing extraordinary for JonathanLambert to tire of roving the wide seas andto set himself up in business as the king of Tristanda Cunha which had neither ruler nor subjects.What his ambitions were and how a melancholy endovertook them is to be found in the sea-journal ofCaptain John White, who sailed the American brigFranklin out to China in 1819. He wrote:

Another adventurous seaman, Thomas Currie,succeeded to this lonely principality by right of occupation,and was joined by two others. Theylived contentedly and raised wheat and oats andpigs until in the War of 1812 the American navalvessels began to use Tristan da Cunha as a basefrom which to harry British commerce in the SouthAtlantic. Then Great Britain formally annexedthe group, and kept a garrison of a hundred menthere for two years.

When the garrison was withdrawn, CorporalWilliam Glass of the Royal Artillery was left behindat his own request, with his wife and children,and two privates decided to join him as the beginningsof a colony. A few other rovers or shipwreckedsailors drifted to Tristan da Cunha fromtime to time, and they found girls at St. Helenaand Cape Town who were willing to marry them,so that there was created a peaceful, unworldly littlecommunity on this far-away island over which80Corporal William Glass ruled as a wise and benevolentpatriarch.

The Blenden Hall was a stout ship bound outfrom England to Bombay in 1820, an East Indiamanof the stately fleet that flew the house flagof the Honorable Company. Their era was soon topass, with all its color and romance, the leisurelyvoyage, the ceremonious formality and discipline,the pleasant sociability. The swifter Yankee merchantships, hard driven under clouds of cottonduck, used to rush past these jogging East India“tea-wagons,” which shortened sail at sunset andsnugged down for the night. They carried crewsfor a man-of-war, what with the midshipmen, thepurser, the master-at-arms, the armorer, the calker,the butcher, baker, poulterer, gunner’s mates, sail-maker,six officers to assist the commander, and Indianservants to wait on them.

The passengers enjoyed more comfort and luxuryin these handsome old sailing ships than themodern reader might suppose. The cabins weremuch more spacious than the liner’s state-rooms ofto-day, the saloon was ornate with rugs and teakwood,with silver plate and the finest napery, anddinner was an elaborate affair, with a band of music,and the commander and the officers in the Company’sdress uniform of blue coat and gold buttons,81with waistcoats and breeches of buff. Wines, ale,beer, and brandy were served without cost to thepassengers, and the large staff of cooks and stewardswas able to find in the storerooms and pantriessuch a varied stock of provisions as beef, pork,bacon, and tongues, bread, cheese, butter, herrings,and salmon, confectionery, oatmeal, oranges, anddried and preserved fruits, while a live cow or twosupplied cream for the coffee, and the hen-coopsstowed in the long-boat contributed fresh eggs.

The Blenden Hall was commanded by CaptainAlexander Greig, a sailor and a gentleman of theold school, who had laid by a comfortable fortuneduring his long service. The trading ventures andperquisites of the master of an East Indiaman oftenyielded an income which a modern bank presidentwould view with profound respect. The captain’sson, young Alexander Greig, sailed as a passengeron this last voyage of the Blenden Hall. He wasa high-spirited lad, bound out to join the army inIndia, and life was one zestful adventure after another.The modern youngster may well envy himhis luck in being shipwrecked on a desert island,where he wrote a diary, using penguin’s blood forink and quill feathers for pens.

If the tale were fiction instead of fact, the beginningcould be no more auspiciously romantic.

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Captain Greig and his son left their English countryhome in their “travelling carriage” for thejourney to Gravesend to join the ship. Whilecrossing Bexley Heath they made their pistolsready, for the stretch of road was notorious forhighwaymen, and as young Alexander Greig enjoyablytells us:

At the next tavern they described the adventure,and when young Greig mentioned that one of the83rascals wore a red waistcoat with white stripes, thelandlord exclaimed:

“Jem Turner, by the Lord Harry! Aye, as sureas fate! There is two hundred pounds reward forhim, dead or alive. The boldest rascal that ridesthe Heath!”

Captain Greig concluded, no doubt, that he wassafer at sea again. The Blenden Hall was readyto sail, and several of her passengers came on boardat Gravesend, while the others were taken on fromDeal while the ship tarried in the Downs. Sixteenin all were of a social station which permitted themto meet at the cuddy table for dinner while the ship’sband played “The Roast Beef of Old England”and Captain Greig pledged their health in goodMadeira. With a most precocious taste for gossip,young Greig managed to portray his fellow-voyagersin an intimate manner that would be hard tomatch in the true tales of the sea.

It is just as well to let you gain some slight acquaintancewith them before the curtain rises on thetragedy of the shipwreck. The most conspicuousfigure was Mrs. Lock, wife of a commodore somewhereon foreign service. She was very fat, witha hurricane of a temper, and of mixed blood inwhich the tar brush was undeniable. Her English84was badly broken, and her manners were startling.She had been the commodore’s cook in his Indianbungalow, so the rumor ran, until for reasons inscrutablehe decided to marry her. Such a personwas enough to set the ship’s society by the ears.Social caste and station were matters of immenseimportance. The emotions of Dr. Law, a fussy oldbachelor of a half-pay naval surgeon, were quitebeyond words, although he was heard to mutter:

“A vulgar black woman, by Jove! And, damme,she flung her arms around me when she was takenseasick at table.”

There was also consternation among such exclusivepersons as Captain Miles, and six assistantsurgeons in the Honorable Company’s militaryservice, Major Reid of the Poonah AuxiliaryForces, and Quartermaster Hormby and his lady,of his Majesty’s foot. The dignified commanderof the Blenden Hall felt it necessary to explain thatpassage for the chocolate-hued spouse of the erringcommodore had been obtained under false pretenses.As if this were not enough, another social shock wasin store.

Lieutenant Painter, a bluff, good-humored navalman, had come on board at Gravesend. While theship was anchored in the Downs, he was one of thepassengers who asked the captain to set them ashore85in the cutter for a stroll in Deal. When they returnedto the boat, Lieutenant Painter was missing.Nothing whatever was heard of him for two days,and Captain Greig felt seriously alarmed. Thena boatman brought off a letter in which the gallantlieutenant explained that he had been

most actively engaged not only in beginning but in finishinga courtship and that it was his intention to join theship before dinner when he would do himself the honor tointroduce Mrs. Painter to the captain and passengers.He requested that a larger cabin could be prepared, inwhich he could “stow away his better half.”

There was great excitement and curiosity in thecuddy of the Blenden Hall as the dinner-hour drewnear. The impetuous romance of the brisk LieutenantPainter was sensational. At length a boatwas pulled alongside, and a chair rigged and loweredfrom the lofty deck. The boatswain piped,and the lovely burden was safely hoisted to thepoop, followed by the beaming lieutenant, whoscrambled up the gangway. First impressionswere favorable. The bride was young and handsome.Her physical charms were so robust, however,that she stood a foot taller than herbantam of a husband, and the audience wasamused when she grasped his arm and heartilyexclaimed:

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“Come, little Painter, let me see this fine cabinof yours.”

It was soon perceived that the vigorous Mrs.Painter was not a lady. The dreadful truth wasnot revealed, however, until a grizzled Deal boatmanwas discovered lingering at the gangway.When one of the mates asked him his errand, heanswered:

“Why, I only want to say goodbye to my gel,Bet, but I suppose the gold-buttoned swab of aleftenant has turned her ’ead. Blowed if I reckonedmy own darter ’ud forget me.”

Hiding in her cabin, the daughter wished to avoidsuch a farewell scene, but she could hear the oldman ramble on:

“She ’as no occasion to feel ashamed of her father.I’ve been a Deal boatman these fifty yearsand brought up a large family respectably, as CaptainGreig well knows.”

At this the emotional Mrs. Painter rushed ondeck to embrace her humble sire and weep in hisgray whiskers, a scene which the fastidious passengersfound too painful to witness. Henceforth,through varied scenes of shipwreck and suffering,the dominant figures were to be the youthful, upstandingMrs. Painter and the dusky and corpulentMrs. Lock, heroines of two rash marriages, and87foreordained to hate each other with a ferocitywhich not even the daily fear of death could diminish.In the presence of such protagonists as these,the ship’s company was like a Greek chorus. Therewas something almost superb in such a femininefeud. It was no peevish quarrel over the tea-cups.Moreover, it could have no dull moments,because both women had vocabularies ofsingular force and emphasis. The forecastle of theBlenden Hall could do no better in its most luridmoments.

It began with an affectionate intimacy, thensqualls and reconciliations, while the stately EastIndiaman jogged to the southward and the bandplayed on deck for dancing after dinner. How farthese two stormy women were responsible must beleft to conjecture, but there seems to have been avast deal of squabbling and bad blood among thepassengers, as indicated by the following entry inthe journal of young Alexander Greig, the captain’sson:

Although I endeavored to detach myself, as much aspossible, from any particular party (by giving two entertainmentsa week in my private cabin and sendingaround a general invitation) I received one or two politerequests to meet the writers at the first port we mighttouch at and to grant them the satisfaction due from onegentleman to another, &c., &c., for alleged affronts that88I had unconsciously committed. For the life of me Icould not have defined what the affronts were, but Iwrote each party an answer that I should be happy toaccept, and then deposited their beautiful gilt-edged littlenotes in my desk.

There was an occasional diversion which patchedup a truce, such as meeting with an armed brigwhich was suspected to be a pirate. The chief officer,in the mizzen-rigging with a telescope, shouteddown that the brig was cleared for action. Thesecond mate rushed forward and yelled to the boatswainto pipe all hands on deck. The gunnerserved out pistols and cutlasses to the seamen andthe passengers, boarding-pikes were stacked alongthe heavy bulwarks, and the battery of six eighteen-pounderswas loaded with grape and canister.Things looked even more serious when the brighauled down a British ensign and tacked to get theweather gage of the East Indiaman.

Some of the passengers were frightened, andothers professed an eagerness to engage in a“set-to.” Dr. Law, the half-pay naval surgeon,strode the deck with a drawn sword. He was filledwith valor and Scotch whisky, and offered to wagerany man a hundred guineas that he would be thefirst to board the enemy. Mrs. Commodore Lockwaddled about uttering loud lamentations, and89vowed that a friend of hers had been eaten alive bypirates. Nightfall closed down, however, beforethe brig could overtake the Blenden Hall, whichsurged before the wind with studding-sails spread.

Captain Greig was in some doubt as to his reckoning,because of thick weather, when the ship hadentered the lonely expanse of the South Atlantic,and he therefore steered for a sight of Tristan daCunha in order to make certain of his position.He proceeded cautiously, but soon after breakfast,on July 23, 1820, breakers were descried close athand. The wind died, and the ship was drifting.Anchors were let go, but the water was too deepto find holding-ground, and a dense fog obscuredthe sea. The ship struck in breakers so violent thatthe decks were swept, the boats smashed, and thehouses filled with water. The masts were promptlycut away, but the Blenden Hall was rapidly poundingto death with a broken back. All hands rushedforward and crowded upon the forecastle just beforethe rest of the ship was wrenched asunder andfloated away.

Two seamen had been killed by falling spars, butall the rest of the ship’s company, eighty souls ofthem, were alive and praying for rescue. Afterseveral hours of misery, a few sailors managed toknock a raft together and so reached the shore,90which had disclosed itself as frightfully forbiddingand desolate. The ship had been wrecked amongthe reefs of Inaccessible Island, one of the Tristanda Cunha group. By a sort of miracle the bowof the ship finally detached itself from among therocks and washed toward the tiny strip of beach.Clinging to the stout timbers of the forecastle, allthe survivors were safely delivered from the terrorsof the sea.

Through the first night they could only shiver inthe rain and wonder what fate had befallen them.At dawn they began to explore the island, whichappeared to be no more than a gigantic rock, blackand savage, which towered into the clouds. Freshwater was found, but hunger menaced them. Thefirst bit of flotsam from the wreck was a case of“Hibbert’s Celebrated Bottled Porter,” which wasa beverage with a kick to it, and for the moment lifelooked not quite so dismal. On the beach werehuge sea-lions, creatures twenty feet in length, butthere was no way to slay and use them for food.Many sea-birds were killed with clubs and eatenraw, which postponed famine for the time.

And now there floated ashore bales of red broadcloth,which was promptly cut up for clothing. Itwas grotesque to see the sailors and passengersparading in gorgeous tunics and robes of crimson,91with white turbans fashioned from bolts of muslin.With bamboo-poles, also washed from the ship,Captain Greig set his men to making tents for thewomen. There was very little material, however,and most of the people sat around in a sort ofwretched stupor, drenched, benumbed, hopeless.Several barrels of strong liquors came rolling inwith the surf, and the sailors, of course, drank allthey could hold. One of them, an old barnaclenamed John Dulliver, showed a streak of markedsagacity. After tapping a barrel of Holland ginand guzzling to the limit of his stowage space, hestove in one end, emptied the barrel, and crawledsnugly into it to slumber. This seemed such abrilliant notion that as fast as the ship’s water-barrelsdrifted ashore they were tenanted by castawayswho resembled so many hermit-crabs.

For six days the party forlornly existed in continuousrain, with no means of kindling a fire, andeating raw pork that was cast up by the sea andsuch birds as they could obtain. Then a case ofsurgical instruments was found on the beach, andit contained a providential flint and steel. Firewas made, and spears were contrived of poles, withknives lashed to them, so that the monstrous sea-lionscould be killed and used for food. Therewere millions of penguins, and their eggs could be92had for the gathering. It was hard, revolting fare,but other castaways had lived for months and evenyears on food no worse, and the horrors of faminewere averted.

Captain Greig was taken ill, and his authoritytherefore amounted to little. His officers were notthe men for such a crisis as this, and they do not appearto have been able to master it. The sailorswere insolent and lazy, no doubt of it, and youngMr. Greig devotes many pages of his diary to abuseof them. It is quite evident, however, that the officersand passengers felt themselves to be superiorbeings and expected the sailors to wait on them asmenials. In such a situation as this one man wasas good as another, and the doctrines of caste andrank properly belonged in the discard. It wasrather pitiful and absurd, as one catches glimpsesof it in the ingenuous narrative of the very youngMr. Greig.

For a few days after the wreck it was hail fellow, wellmet, but Jack, once put upon an equality, began to takeunwarrantable liberties, and as familiarity is generally theforerunner of contempt, so it proved in this case. Quarrelssoon began and the passengers now took the oppositecourse of attempting to issue orders to the sailors andtreating them as servants. This exasperated the crewand they swore that no earthly power should ever inducethem to render the least assistance to the passengers.93Large sums of money were offered the sailors to foragefor provisions, but I am firmly persuaded that the manwho accepted such an offer would have been murdered byhis comrades. Mrs. Lock, for instance, incensed a seamanby telling him,—“You common sailor, why you nowait on lady? You ought to wait on officer’s lady! Yourefuse me, captain will flog you plenty.”

Inaccessible Island was properly named, and oneweek after another passed without the sight of asail or any tangible hope of rescue. Flimsy shelterswere contrived, and nobody died of cold or hunger,but they were a gaunt, unkempt company, withmuch illness among them. Arrayed in their makeshiftgarments of crimson broadcloth, the camp wasmore like a travesty than a tragedy. No hardshipcould dull the militant spirits of Mrs. CommodoreLock and that young and handsome virago, Mrs.Lieutenant Painter. During one of their clashes,which was about to come to blows, the little lieutenantwas trying to drag his strapping spouse intotheir tent while several passengers laid hold of theponderous Mrs. Lock. Poor Captain Greig washeard to murmur:

“Thank God we have almost no respectable ladieswith us to witness such scenes as these!”

Mrs. Lock had two small children with her, andit pleased the fancy of Mrs. Painter to say that, inher opinion, the paternity of the offspring would94have been better established if the commodore hadoffered marriage a few years earlier. Mrs. Painterput it even more forcefully than this. At thedeadly insult Mrs. Lock broke out in impassionedaccents:

“What you think? That vile hussy of a Painterwoman, she say me no Commodore Lock’s wife. Me losemy—what you call it—wedding ’tifcate on board ship, some no have proof now—but when we come to Bombay, mycommodore he kicks dirty little Painter out of the service,and me get ten thousand rupees of defamation damage.That Painter woman’s father am a common, dirty boatman!”

At this Mrs. Painter, with lofty disdain, let fallthe remark: “Behold the she-devil and her twolittle imps!”

The sailors felt so little respect for the commodore’swife that one of them coarsely observed,within her hearing:

“If we run short of them penguins’ eggs, Bill,and there ain’t nothin’ else to eat, we’ll pop theold girl’s young ’uns into the pot for a bit of broth.”

This was reported to Captain Greig by the explosiveMrs. Lock, who declared that the sailors hadcalled her names much stronger than “old girl.”The chivalrous commander was resolved that noman of his crew should insult a woman and go unpunished,95wherefore he mustered the seamen loyalto him, and they maintained order while the boatswaingave the chief offender fifty lashes on thebare back with a rope’s-end. The dreary exile wasfurther enlivened by the discovery that LieutenantPainter’s tent had been robbed of jewelry and othervaluables. A formal trial was held, with youngAlexander Greig as judge and a water-cask as theofficial bench. A sailor named Joseph Fowler wasaccused of the theft, and Mrs. Lock surged into theproceedings by announcing that, in her opinion, therelations of Mrs. Painter and this common sailormanhad been a public scandal.

“Very ladylike of you, I’m sure, Mrs. Lock,”cried Mrs. Painter, “but what could a person expect?”

Such episodes as these were trivial when comparedwith the tragic problem of survival and escapefrom Inaccessible Island. Exploring partieshad climbed the lofty peak, and in clear weatherwere able to discern the snow-clad summit of thelarger island of Tristan, only fifteen miles distant,which was known to be inhabited. It might havebeen a thousand miles away, however, for the lackof tools and material had discouraged any effortsto build a boat. In a mood of despair a flagstaffwas set up on the southwestern promontory, which96faced the open ocean, and a bottle tied to it whichcontained this message:

This was a month after the shipwreck. Anothermonth passed, and the ship’s cook, Joseph Nibbs, acolored man, had begun to build a clumsy littleco*ckle-shell which he called a punt. For tools hemanaged to find a hand-saw, a chisel, a bolt for ahammer, and a heavy iron hinge ground sharp onthe rocks for an ax. It seems extraordinary thatthis enterprise should have been left to a sea-cook,what with the carpenter and all the officers whoshould have taken the initiative. At any rate, thishandy Joseph Nibbs pegged his boat together andwent fishing in it. This appears to have shamedthe others into activity, and the carpenter set aboutbuilding a larger boat. It was the heroic cook,however, who decided to risk the voyage to Tristanin his little floating coffin, and his farewell speechwas reported as follows:

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“I little thought, Captain Greig, ever to see thisday; but I will bring relief to you and young Mr.Alexander, if I perish in the attempt. If I neversee you again, sir, God bless you for your kindnessto me during the years we have been shipmates.”

In the punt with the cook went five volunteers,three able seamen, the gunner, and the sail-maker,but not one of the ship’s officers. These six finefellows were ready to risk their lives for others, butthe quarter-deck failed to share in the splendid action.The punt hoisted sail, the cook and his comradesshouted three cheers, and they stood out fromthe lee of the island to face a heavy sea. This wasthe last ever seen of them. They must have perishedsoon after.

The castaways waited week after week, desperatelyhungry and wholly discouraged. Meanwhilethe carpenter had finished his boat, but delayed hisvoyage until certain of fine weather, and wastedmuch time in skirting the island in the hope of findingsome trace of the cook. It was late in October,almost three months after the loss of the BlendenHall, before the carpenter attempted to reach Tristan.Nine men were with him, five able seamen,the boatswain, the steward, a boatswain’s mate, anda carpenter’s mate. Again the list was conspicuousfor the absence of an officer.

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On the following day two boats were seen approachingInaccessible Island. They were stanchwhale-boats, in one of which was the ruler of Tristanda Cunha, Corporal William Glass, late of theRoyal Artillery. He brought provisions and awarm welcome to his kingdom. It was found thatmore than one trip would be necessary to transportthe castaways to Tristan. In the first boat-loadwere Mrs. Lock and Mrs. Painter, whose animositieswere lulled by the blessed fact of rescue. Itwas an armistice during which they wept on eachother’s necks and mingled their prayers of thanksgivingwhile the crew of the Blenden Hall sang“God Save the King.”

All hands were safely landed at Tristan wherethey found a neat hamlet of stone cottages thatchedwith straw, and green fields of grain and potatoes.Mrs. Glass was the only woman of the colony inwhich there were five Englishmen and two Americansailors. To provide for eighty shipwreckedpeople severely taxed their resources but the spiritof hospitality was most cordially displayed. Thecaptain and the passengers signed an agreementto pay Governor Glass at the rate of two shillingsand sixpence per day for board and lodging, whichwas no more than fair, but nothing was said about99the sailors. They were expected to pay for theirkeep by working as farm-hands. This rubbed thelong-suffering tars the wrong way, and as the diaryexplains it:

“The passengers walking about at their ease was asight to which Jack could not long submit; at last theyall struck, declaring that they would not work unless their‘mortal enemies’ were compelled to do the same. Uponthis, the captain begged Governor Glass to be firm withthem and on no account to serve out any provisions unlessthey returned to their duty. Consequently severalmeetings with a great deal of ill feeling took place uponthe subject, and when prayers were read the followingSunday at Government House, every sailor absented himself.”

Food was refused the striking seamen until theythreatened to break into the potato sheds and thenburn the settlement. The boatswain and his lashtamed the mutiny after Joseph Fowler had beentied up and his back cut to ribbons with nine dozenblows of the rope’s-end. After this the seamenmarched off to another part of the island and fedthemselves by fishing and hunting wild goats andpigs. To their simple minds there was no goodreason why they should sweat at building stonewalls and digging potatoes while Captain Milesand the six assistant surgeons of the Honorable100East India Company, Major Reid of the PoonahAuxiliary Forces, and Quartermaster Hormby ofhis Majesty’s foot were strolling about in idleness.

For lack of something better to do, the passengersbegan to find fault with the food suppliedby the worthy Governor Glass, and this causedmuch difficulty and several formal conferences andprotests. He promised to do better, and honestlytried to, bearing the situation with unfailing goodhumor and courtesy. If the rations were scrimped,it was no doubt because he feared he might be eatenout of house and home and left without reservesupplies.

On New Year’s day there was a notable celebration,when the four children of the Glass familywere formally christened by Dr. Hatch of theBlenden Hall, who had taken holy orders in hisyouth. Governor Glass wore his scarlet uniformof the Royal Artillery, “Mrs. Lock stuck so manywhite feathers in her hair that it resembled a cauliflower,while Mrs. Painter sported a white turbanof such ample dimensions that the Grand Sultanhimself might have envied her.” Bonfires blazed,flags flew from every roof, and the islanders weredressed in their best.

On January 9 the English merchant shipNerinae hove to off Tristan da Cunha to fill her101water-casks. She was bound from Buenos Airesto Table Bay with a hold filled with live mules.Uncomfortable shipmates these, but the people ofthe Blenden Hall were not in a captious mood.They were taken on board, and sailed away fromGovernor Glass after spending three months withhim, and it is to be fancied that he felt no profoundregrets.

A bit of romance touched the parting scenes.The night before the Nerinae sailed from Tristan,the pretty maid servant of Mrs. Lock slippedashore in a boat, with what few belongings she had,and joined her sailor sweetheart, Stephen White,who had decided to remain behind on the island.This Peggy was a Portuguese half-caste fromMadras who is referred to in the diary as a “femaleattendant.” Seaman White is called a worthlessfellow, but this may be taken for what it is worth.The important fact is that he had found a sweetheartduring the weary exile on Inaccessible Islandand that they were resolved to stay togetherand let the rest of the world go hang. GovernorGlass was quite competent to unite them in thebonds of a marriage that was proper in the sight ofGod.

There is one final glimpse of Mrs. Lock and Mrs.Painter shortly before the good ship Nerinae, with102her freightage of mules and castaways, anchored inTable Bay.

Thus concludes the story of the Blenden Hall,East Indiaman, but it is so interwoven with thefortunes of Tristan da Cunha and its colonists thatfurther tidings of them may prove interesting. In1824, four years after the wreck of the East Indiaman,an author and artist of New Zealand,Augustus Earle, was accidentally marooned atTristan, and stayed six months as the guest of GovernorGlass before another ship touched there. Hehad sailed from Rio for Cape Town in a sloop, theDuke of Gloucester, which passed so close to theisland in calm weather that the thrifty skipper concluded103to land and buy a few tons of potatoes forthe Cape market.

The artistic passenger went ashore to stroll aboutwith dog and gun while the sailors were loadingpotatoes into the boat. A sudden storm swept thesea, and the boat was caught offshore, but managedto reach the sloop, which was driven far from theisland and gave up trying to beat back to it. Theskipper was a practical man and it was foolish todelay the voyage for such a useless creature as anauthor and artist. Mr. Augustus Earle was compelledto make the best of the awkward situation,and he seems to have enjoyed his protracted visit ofhalf a year.

The village then consisted of five or six thatchedcottages “which had an air of comfort, cleanliness,and plenty truly English.” The young sailorStephen White, whom the Blenden Hall had leftbehind with his precious Peggy, was still happy inhis bargain, and their babies were playing with thelusty little flock of the Glass family. The islandwas no longer a hermit’s retreat. The maroonedartist noted that “children there were in abundance,and just one year older than another.” Smallwonder that he saw little of the two women, whowere fully occupied with their domestic duties.

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The worthy Governor William Glass had a curiousyarn to tell of that first ruler of the island,Jonathan Lambert of Salem, who had publishedhis grandiose proclamations and whose ambitiousdreams were so soon eclipsed. The accepted accountis that he was drowned while out in his boat,but the British garrison had found on the island aman who said he had been there with Lambert andthat he suspected another companion of the firstking of Tristan da Cunha of having made awaywith him in order to secure his hoard of gold.Afraid of discovery, the regicide had fled the island,leaving the treasure behind him.

The ingenious inventor of this narrative had professedto know where the treasure was buried,

and that he would some day reveal it to the man of thegarrison who pleased him most, thus insuring good treatmentfrom the men, each hoping to be favored. But oneday after drinking immoderately of liquor he was takensuddenly ill and expired before he could explain to hiscomrades where his treasure was concealed.

At any rate, the story sufficed to supply the imaginativevagabond with free rum and tobacco,which, no doubt, was the end in view.

Augustus Earle hunted the wild goats, whichhad multiplied on the mountain-slopes, and he hasleft us this pleasing picture of the simple and105righteous existence led by these dwellers on remoteTristan da Cunha:

Governor William Glass ruled over the island forthirty-five years, until his death in 1853. By thattime the population had increased to a hundredsouls, and a flourishing trade was carried on in provisioningthe fleet of American whalers out of NewBedford and Nantucket which cruised in those106waters. A few years later, twenty-five of theyounger men and women emigrated to the UnitedStates, stirred by a natural ambition to see more ofthe world. At the death of Governor Glass, anold man-of-war’s-man, William Cotton, who hadbeen for three years one of Napoleon’s guards atSt. Helena, became the head of the community.

To-day the settlement consists of a hundred peopleor so, most of them of the old British strain, andmany of them descended from the families of CorporalWilliam Glass of the Royal Artillery and theyoung seaman Stephen White and his devotedPeggy who were wrecked in the Blenden Hall, EastIndiaman, a century ago. They manage their ownaffairs without any written laws, and are describedby recent visitors as religious, hospitable to strangers,industrious, healthy, and long-lived.

The British Government has kept a paternal eyeon them, and from time to time a minister of theChurch of England has served in the stone chapeland the trim little school-house. Their worldlywealth is in cattle, sheep, apple and peach orchards,and they are unvexed by politics, the League of Nations,or the social unrest. Enviable people ofTristan da Cunha! And peace to the memories ofold William Glass and Jonathan Lambert, and thefaithful sweethearts of the stately old BlendenHall!

Long before the art of Joseph Conrad createdLord Jim to follow the star of hisromantic destiny to the somber, misty coast ofPatusan, an American sailor lived and dared amazinglyamong the sullen people of those same mysteriousislands of the Far East. He was of the raceof mariners whose ships were first to display theStars and Stripes in those far-distant waters and tochallenge the powerful monopolies of the Britishand Dutch East India companies. Only sevenyears earlier, in fact, the American ship Empressof China had ventured on the pioneering voyage toCanton. The seas still swarmed with pirates andevery merchantman carried a heavy battery of gunsand a crew which knew to use them. Amid suchconditions were trained the sailors who were to manthe Constitution and the other matchless frigates of1812.

The American ship Enterprise sailed from Bataviafor Manila on the twentieth of January, 1793,and laid a course to pass through the Straits of108Macassar. Head winds and currents kept herbeating to and fro in this torrid passage for sixweeks on end, and the grumbling crew began towonder if they had signed in another Flying Dutchman.Food was running short, for this protractedvoyage had not been expected, and while the Enterprisedrifted becalmed on the greasy tide, anothership was sighted about five miles distant.

Captain Hubbard ordered the chief mate, DavidWoodard, to take a boat and five seamen and rowoff to this other vessel and try to buy some stores.The men were William Gideon, John Cole, ArchibaldMiller, Robert Gilbert, and George Williams.Expecting to be gone only a few hours, they took nofood or water, and all they carried with them was anax, a boat-hook, two pocket-knives, a disabledmusket, and forty dollars.

It was sunset when they pulled alongside theother ship, which was China bound and had no provisionsto spare. A strong squall and heavy rainsprevented them from returning to the Enterprisethat night, and they stayed where they were untilnext morning. Then the wind shifted and blewfresh from the southward to sweep the Enterpriseon her course, and she had already vanished hulldown and under. Stout-hearted David Woodardguessed he could find her again, confident that Captain109Hubbard would not desert him, and his mencheerfully tumbled into the boat after him.

The skipper of the China ship, a half-caste with acrew of Lascars, was a surly customer who seemedanxious to be rid of his visitors. As a friend in needhe was a glaring failure. Protesting that he had nofresh water to spare, all that their money could buyof him was a bottle of brandy and twelve musket-cartridges.The Yankee sailors tugged at the oarsall day long, but caught never a glimpse of themissing Enterprise. At nightfall they landed onan island and found water fit to drink, but nothingto eat. A large fire was built on the beach in thehope of attracting the attention of their ship, butthere was no responsive signal.

It was the land of Conrad’s magic fancies, where“the swampy plains open out at the mouth of rivers,with a view of blue peaks beyond the vast forests.In the offing a chain of islands, dark, crumblingshapes, stand out in the everlasting sunlit haze likethe remnants of a wall broached by the sea.”

The chief mate and his five hardy seamen tightenedtheir leather belts another hole and shoved offa*gain in the small open boat. For six days theysailed the Straits, blown along by one rain squallafter another, until they were within sight of thecoast of Celebes. Hunger and thirst then compelled110them to seek the land and risk death at thehands of the savage Malays. It was their hope toproceed by sea to Macassar, which they reckonedlay about three degrees to the southward.

They must have had a little water during thesesix days, but David Woodard’s statement that therations were a few cocoanuts is entirely credible.Many a boat-load of castaways has died or gonemad after privations no more severe, while on theother hand a crew of toughened seamen, in theprime of their youth, is exceedingly hard to kill.

Toward a cove on this unknown, hostile shore ofCelebes the gaunt sailors wearily steered their boatand beached it in the languid ripple of surf. Theyhad no sooner crawled ashore than two proasskimmed in from seaward, dropping anchor andmaking ready to send off a canoe filled with armedMalays. Woodard shouted to his men, and theypushed the boat out and scrambled into it beforethey were discovered. Skirting a bight of the shore,they headed for the open sea and dodged away fromthe proas.

Four miles beyond, after they had rounded agreen point of land, a feathery cocoanut-grove ranto the water’s-edge, and they could go no farther.The mate left two men to guard the boat, and thethree others went with him; but they were too weak111to climb the trees, and had to hack away at thetrunks with an ax. Two of them were mere ladswho made such bungling work of it that Woodardsent for a couple of the stronger men in the boat,leaving Archibald Miller alone with it. They werebusy gathering cocoanuts to carry to sea with themwhen poor Miller was heard to “scream aloud in thebitterest manner.” The mate ran to the beach andsaw his precious boat filled with Malays, who werejust shoving off in it. On the sand lay Miller,who had been hacked to death with creeses.

David Woodard and four sailors were thereforemarooned with no resources whatever, but theytalked it over and agreed to try to get to Macassarby land. Leaving the swampy coast, they slowlytoiled toward the blue mountains and, afraid ofdiscovery, concluded to hide themselves in thejungle until night. Then with a star for their guidethey bore south, but progress was almost impossible,and they lost their bearings in the dense growth.After blundering about in this manner for severalnights, they turned toward the sea again in the hopeof finding some kind of native boat. They had existedfor thirteen days since losing their ship, and itis evident that the indomitable spirit of the matekept the other men going.

“Woodard was himself stout in person,” explains112the narrative, “and much accustomed to fatigue andexercise, whence he felt less exhausted, particularlyfrom keeping up his spirits and having his mind constantlyengaged.”

At length they came to a deep bay between themountains, and lay hidden all day in a leafy ambushwhile they watched the Malay fishermen in theircanoes. Three of the sailors were taken desperatelyill after eating some yellow berries andthought they were about to die; but the mate couldnot tolerate this kind of behavior, “although hiscomrades now resembled corpses more than livingmen.” He used rough language, damned them asworthless swabs if a stomach-ache was to make themlie down and quit, and then went in search of waterfor them until he found some in a hollow tree. Buthis strength and courage could haul them along nofarther and reluctantly he admitted that they wouldhave to surrender themselves to the natives.

They went down to the beach of the bay, wonderingwhat their fate might be, John Cole, who wasa stripling lad of seventeen, blubbering that hewould sooner die in the woods than be killed by theMalays. The canoes had gone away, but threebrown-skinned girls were fishing in a brook, andthey fled when they saw the tattered castaways.Presently a group of men came down a forest path,113and Woodard walked forward to meet them, raisinghis empty hands to ask for peace and mercy.

The Malays stood silent for a long time, and thenthe chief advanced to lay down his creese and ceremoniouslyaccept the strangers as captives. Theywere given food and conducted to a little town ofbamboo huts, there to await the pleasure of the rajahin what Woodard called the judgment hall, while allthe villagers gathered about them.

Soon the rajah strode in, tall and straight andwarlike, a long, naked creese in his hand. Thesewere the first white men that had ever been seen inhis wild domain. He gazed admiringly at the stalwartchief mate, who looked him straight in the eyes,while the people murmured approval of the captive’sbearing, for “he was six feet and an inch high, strongin proportion, and the largest-boned person theyhad ever beheld.”

These were two bold, upstanding men who stoodface to face in the judgment hall, and the rajah,after consultation with his chiefs, gave each of thefive American sailors a betel-nut to chew as a tokenof his gracious inclination to spare their lives.

For twenty days they were closely held as prisonersin this forest settlement, during which time twoold men arrived from another town and displayeda lively interest in the situation. They toddled off114into the jungle, but came again with a Mahomedanpriest called Tuan Hadjee, who was a bit of alinguist in that he spoke a few words of English,some Portuguese, and a smattering of the Moorishtongue. He was a man of the world, having journeyedto Bombay and Bengal on his way to Mecca,and displayed a letter from the British governor ofBalambangan, on the island of Borneo, to show thathe was a good and trustworthy person and was empoweredto assist all distressed Englishmen.

This Tuan Hadjee lived up to his credentials,for he offered the rajah a hundred dollars in golddustas ransom for the five seamen, which price washaughtily refused, and the kindly priest went awayto see what else could be done about it. Nothingmore was seen of this amiable pilgrim, and theAmericans were set to work in the forest to clear thefields or to gather sago. After two months theywere left unguarded by day, but shut up in a houseat night. Week after week dragged by in thiswearisome drudgery, but they kept alive, and theirspirit was unbroken, although the food was poorand scanty and the tropical heat scorched the verysouls out of them.

At the end of half a year of this enslavement anotherrajah who seems to have been a kind of overlordof the region summoned them into his presence115at a town on the sea-coast. There Woodard almostdied of fever, but a woman befriended him andgreatly helped to save his life. The episode suggestsa romance, and this viking of a sailor whodrifted in so strangely from an unknown world wasa man to win the love of women. In this respect,however, he was discreetly silent when it came torelating the story of his wanderings in Celebes, andthe interest which he inspired is sedately describedas follows:

From a Dutch fort seventy miles away the commandantcame to see Woodard and invited him toreturn with him, offering to buy him out of slavery.The chief mate refused, because he was afraid ofbeing compelled to join the Dutch military service.He was shrewd enough to perceive that this waswhat the commandant had in mind, and he thereforebegged to be sent to Macassar, whence he couldmake his way to Batavia. At this the commandantlost interest in the castaways and made no more attemptto help them.

Soon after this they were carried back to the villageof their first imprisonment, but Woodard hadseen blue water again and he was resolved to riskhis life for liberty. Eluding his guards, he took aspear for a weapon and followed the forest pathsall night until he emerged on a beach, where he discovereda canoe and paddled out to sea. Roughwater swamped the ticklish craft, and he had toswim half a mile to get to land again. Back he117trudged to his hut on the mountain-side and crawledinto it before dawn.

Undiscouraged, he broke away again, and madefor a town called Dungalla, where he had a notionthat his friend Tuan Hadjee, the priest, might befound. He somehow steered a course through theforests and ravines and fetched up at the stockadewhich surrounded Dungalla. As a disquietingapparition he alarmed a nervous old gentleman, whoscampered off to shriek to the village that a giganticwhite devil was sitting on a log at the edge of theclearing. The old codger turned out to be a servantof Tuan Hadjee, who warmly welcomed thechief mate and took him into his house as a guest.

The rajah to whom Woodard belonged got windof his whereabouts and wrathfully demanded thathe be sent back. The prideful rajah of Dungallarefused in language no less provocative. Woodardsmuggled a message through to his men, urgingthem to escape and join him. This they succeededin doing, and the people of Dungalla were delightedto receive them. This episode strained the relationsof the two rajahs to the breaking-point, and warwas promptly declared.

Inasmuch as they were the bone of contention,Woodard and his seamen promptly offered to fighton the side of the rajah of Dungalla; so they proceeded118to imperil their skins in one of those tribalfeuds which eternally flicker and smolder in theMalaysian forests. Woodard was placed in commandof a tower upon the stockade wall, where heserved a brass swivel and hammered obedience intoa native detachment. His sun-blistered, leech-bittensailors, clad only in sarongs, held the other barricadewith creeses and muskets, and were regardedas supernatural heroes by the simple soldiery of therajah.

A drawn battle was fought, with about two hundredmen in each army, and a good many were killedor wounded. After that the war dragged alongand seemed to be getting nowhere, and the chiefmate lost all patience with it; so he bearded therajah and flatly told him that his men would fight nolonger unless some assurance was given that theywould be conveyed to Macassar.

The rajah was stubborn and evasive and brusklycommanded the high-tempered Yankees to return totheir posts on the firing-line. Woodard argued nolonger, but marched back to his watch-tower, sentfor his seamen, and told them to turn in their muskets.Before the astonished rajah had decided howto deal with this mutiny, the five mariners broke outof the town under cover of darkness and stole acanoe, carrying with them as much food as they119could hastily lay hands on. They were delayed ina search for paddles, and a sentry gave the alarm.

Twenty soldiers surrounded them and draggedthem back to the rajah, who locked them up, whilehe chewed betel-nut and meditated on the case ofthese madmen who refused to be tamed. Just thenthe priest Tuan Hadjee was sailing for anotherport, and he vainly petitioned the royal assent totaking the American sailors along with him. Therajah’s wrathful refusal so annoyed the impetuouschief mate that he organized another dash for freedom.Captivity, privation, and disappointmentseemed to daunt him not at all.

This time the five mariners surprised the sentriesat the gates, deftly tied them up, and lugged themto the beach. There a large canoe was discovered,and the fugitives piled aboard and hoisted the sailof cocoanut matting. Unmolested, they moved outof the starlit bay and flitted along the coast untilsunrise. Then they hauled in to hide at an islanduntil night. While making sail again, one of themen carelessly stepped upon the gunwale of thecranky craft, and it instantly capsized almost a milefrom shore.

They climbed upon the bottom, managed to savethe paddles, and navigated the canoe back to theisland by swimming with it. There they rekindled120their fire, dried and warmed themselves, and wereready to try it again. They had lost the sail andmast, but they paddled all night and began to hopethat they had gone clear of their troublesome rajah.

In the morning, however, a proa swooped downlike a hawk, and again the unlucky seamen weretaken captive. They told the Malay captain thatthey were bound to the port for which Tuan Hadjeehad sailed, as he was a friend and protector of theirs,and requested that they be landed there. Apparentlythe amiable priest had some power and influenceeven among the cutthroats who manned theseproas, for the captain agreed to do as he was asked,and he proved to be as good as his word.

In this manner the chief mate and his men werecarried to the port, which they called Sawyeh.Tuan Hadjee was there, and he gave them a houseand was a genial host while they looked the situationover and endeavored to unravel the strands oftheir tangled destiny. The priest entertained themwith tales of his own career, which had been lurid inspots. He was now sixty years of age, with a girlwife of sixteen, and a man of great piety and muchrespected, but in his younger days he had been afamous pirate of the island of Mindanao.

Among his exploits was the capture of a Dutchsettlement in the Strait of Malacca, when he had121commanded a proa of ten guns and two hundredmen. He had been in a fair way of becoming oneof the most successful pirates of those seas, butwhile chasing a merchant vessel his proa had turnedturtle in a gale of wind, and he thereby lost all hisproperty and riches. After this misfortune he hadforsaken piracy and turned to leading an honorablelife.

He was an excellent companion to these exiledsailormen from faraway New England and evengave them the use of an island where there was fruitand wild game and a pleasant house to live in, butthey were no more contented. After severalweeks, Tuan Hadjee announced that he had somebusiness to attend to on another part of the coast,but would return in twenty days and then attemptto send the chief mate and his men to their ownpeople at Batavia. While he was gone, a merchantproa came into port, and Woodard found that shewas bound to Sulu, in the Philippine Islands,whence he felt certain he could get passage in someship trading with Manila. In high hopes he arrangedmatters with the master of the proa, and thefive castaways sailed away from Celebes.

Alas! this Malay skipper was an honest man, accordingto his lights, and the gossip of the town hadled him to draw his own conclusions. His inference122was that these white men belonged to Tuan Hadjeeand were bent on running away during his absence.No hint was dropped to Woodard and his companions,and they happily beguiled themselves with visionsof deliverance. But the captain of the proahad taken pains to inform himself of the destinationof the absent Tuan Hadjee; wherefore heshifted his helm and bore away, to turn his passengersover to their proper owner. To their amazeddisgust, they sailed into a little jungle-fringed portcalled Tomboa, and there, sure enough, was the noless surprised Tuan Hadjee.

The honest Malay skipper explained the situationand sailed away again, while Woodard and hisdisconsolate shipmates stood on the beach andcursed their luck and shook their fists at the departingproa.

Their reunion with Tuan Hadjee was a painfulepisode. As a reformed pirate he could swearharder and louder and longer than a Yankee seaman.He took the Malay skipper’s view of it, thatthese guests of his had broken faith with him by abscondingwhile his back was turned. The chiefmate had learned to adorn his language with anextra embroidery of Malaysian profanity, and theinterview was not only eloquent, but turbulent.Then Tuan Hadjee, having exhausted his breath,123turned sulky, and the villagers took the cue. Theyignored the white visitors as though they were undera ban of excommunication until Woodard delivereda speech in the crowded market-place.

Speaking to them in their own tongue, he eloquentlydeclaimed that the unfortunate strangershad been guilty of no other crime than that of yearningto behold once more the faces of their own dearwives and children. The feelings of Tuan Hadjeewere profoundly stirred by the oration. Amid theapplause of the fickle populace he clasped the chiefmate to his breast, and vowed that while a mouthfulof rice remained to him, his friends should share itwith him.

Nothing was said, however, about setting the captivesfree, and these energetic sailors began to plananother voyage on their own account. Tuan Hadjeeshrewdly suspected something of the sort, andall the canoes were carried away from the beach andguarded when the sun went down. A pirate proacame winging it into the harbor of Tomboa to fillthe water-casks and give the crew shore liberty.Woodard noticed that the men came ashore in acanoe unusually large and seaworthy, and resolvedto steal it by hook or crook. He asked the sociablepirates to let him use the canoe to go fishing in andoffered to share the catch with them. To this they124consented, providing he went out in the daytime andstayed well inside the bay.

After several fishing trips, Woodard sauntereddown to the beach in the dusk as though to overhaulthe canoe for an early start next morning. The villagershad ceased to watch his movements. Theproa rode at anchor only a few yards away, wherethe channel ran close to a steep bank. The pirateswere lounging on deck and in the cabin, and none ofthem happened to glance in the direction of thecanoe. Woodard waited a little, and slid the canoeinto the quiet water. As silent as a drifting leaf itmoved away with the tide, while he lay in the bottomwith a fishing-line over the side as a pretext if heshould be hailed from the proa.

Unobserved, he landed at another beach, wherehis comrades awaited him. They embarked, andstole out of the bay with food and water to last themseveral days. At last they were bound for Macassarand again ready to defy the devil and the deepsea. For three days they held on their way and beganto think the luck had turned when a small proatacked out from the land and overtook the canoe.Woodard recognized the crew as acquaintances ofhis from Tomboa, and frankly told them where hewas going. They commanded him to fetch his menaboard the proa, and they would be given up to the125rajah of Tomboa; but the odds were so nearly even,five Americans against seven natives, that Woodardlaughed at them. Hoisting sail, he drove his canoeto windward of the proa, and handled it so well thathe fairly ran away from pursuit.

The wind was too strong for the fragile canoe,and they had to seek refuge in the mouth of a river,where they built a fire to cook some rice. Herethey encountered two natives who had come ashorefrom a trading proa, one of them a captain who hadseen the fugitives while at Tomboa. He insistedthat they surrender and return with him. Tired ofso much interference, the chief mate knocked himdown, and held a knife at his throat until the Malaymariner changed his opinion.

The proa chased them, however, when the canoeresumed its voyage; but night came on, and a thundersquall enabled them to slip away undiscovered.Eight days after leaving Tomboa they began to passmany towns and a great deal of shipping on thecoast of Celebes, but they doggedly kept on theircourse to Macassar. They fought off a war-canoe,which attacked them with arrows and spears, buthad no serious misadventures until a large boatcame swiftly paddling out of an inlet and fairlyoverwhelmed them by force of numbers.

Captives again, the five long-suffering seafarers126were carried into Pamboon, where the rajah foundthem unsatisfactory to interview. David Woodard,chief mate, was in no mood to be thwarted, andit is related of him that “he was examined in thepresence of the rajah and all the head men of theplace. He made the same answers as before, sayingthat he must not be stopped and must go on immediately,thus being more desperate and confidentfrom the dangers and escapes he had experienced.The rajah asked him if he could use a musket well,which he denied, having formerly found the inconvenienceof acknowledging it. The rajah thenshowed him a hundred brass guns, but he declinedtaking charge of them. His wife, a young girl,sat down by the mate and, calling her sister andabout twenty other girls, desired them to sit down,and asked Woodard to select a wife from amongthem. This he refused and, rising up, bade hergood night and went out of the house, where theysoon brought him some supper.”

In the morning this redoubtable Yankee matewho, like Ulysses, was deaf to the songs of thesirens and was also as crafty as he was brave, waitedon the rajah of Pamboon and very courteously addressedhim in the Malay tongue, requestingprompt passage to Macassar on the ground that theDutch governor had urgently summoned him, and127if he were detained at Pamboon, it would be mostunpleasant for the rajah, whose proas would beseized and his ports blockaded, no doubt, by way ofpunishment.

This gave the haughty rajah something to thinkabout. The fearless demeanor and impressive statureof this keen-eyed mariner made his words convincing.After due reflection, the rajah sent forthe captain of a proa, and told him to take thesetroublesome white men to Macassar with all possiblehaste. Woodard was worn out, his bareback terribly burned and festered, his strength almostebbed, and he had to be hoisted aboard theproa upon a litter; but he was still the resolute, unconquerableseaman and leader. The accommodationswere so wretched that after three days of sufferinghe ordered the proa to set him ashore and tosend word to the nearest rajah.

This was done, and the dusky potentate who receivedthe message did all in his power to make theparty comfortable, fitting out a proa, which enabledthem to make the final run of the voyage with nomore hardship. Tales of Woodard had passed byword of mouth along the coasts of Celebes until hewas almost a legendary character. It was on June15, 1795, that these five wanderers reached theirgoal of Macassar after two years and five months128of captivity among the Malays. They were notonly alive, every man of them, but not one was permanentlybroken in health.

The Dutch governor of the island and the officersof the garrison of the Dutch East India Companytreated them with the most generous hospitality,providing clothes and money and refusing to listento promises of recompense. They soon sailed forBatavia, where the four sailors, William Gideon,John Cole, Robert Gilbert, and George Williamssigned articles in an American ship bound to Boston,and resumed the hard and hazardous toil of thesea to earn their bread. Their extraordinary experiencewas all in the day’s work, and it is unlikelythat they thought very much about it.

Woodard took a berth as chief mate in anotherAmerican ship that was sailing for Calcutta andwhile in that port was offered command of a countryship engaged in the coastwise trade. Duringone of his voyages he was strolling ashore when hecame face to face with Captain Hubbard of the Enterprise,which had vanished in the Straits of Macassarand left its unlucky boat adrift. The delightedcaptain explained that he had waited andcruised about for three days in a search for the missingboat and had given it up for lost.

He warmly urged Woodard to join him in his129fine new ship, the America, and go to Mauritius.The former chief mate gladly accepted the invitation,for he was homesick for his own flag andpeople. At Mauritius Captain Hubbard gave upthe command because of ill health and turned itover to David Woodard. Thus the true story allturned out precisely as should be, and it was CaptainWoodard who trod the quarterdeck of his tautship America as she lifted her lofty spars in thelovely harbor of Mauritius.

Coincidence is often stranger in fact than in fiction.Before he left Mauritius, Captain Woodardran across three of his old sailors of the open boatand the two years of captivity among the Malays.They had been wrecked on another China voyage,and were in distress for lack of clothes and money.Their old chief mate, now a prosperous shipmaster,with a share in the profits of the voyage, outfittedthem handsomely and left them with dollars in theirpockets.

In later years Captain David Woodard tradedto Batavia, and met more than one Malay who hadseen him or had listened to fabulous tales of hisprowess during his long durance in the jungles andmountains of Celebes. In 1804 this splendid adventurerof the old merchant marine was able to retirefrom the sea with an independent income.130Near Boston he bought a farm and lived on it, andthis was the proper way to cast anchor, for such isthe ambition of all worthy mariners when they ceaseto furrow the blue sea.

The veterans of the Revolution of ’76, who hadwon a war for freedom, were still young menwhen American sailors continued to be bought andsold as slaves for a few dollars a head on the fartherside of the Atlantic. It was a trade which hadflourished during the colonial period, and was unmolestedeven after the Stars and Stripes proclaimedthe sovereign pride and independence ofthis Union of States. Indeed, while hundreds ofAmerican mariners were held in this inhuman bondage,their Government actually sent to the Dey ofAlgiers a million dollars in money and other gifts,including a fine new frigate, as humble tribute tothis bloody heathen pirate in the hope of softeninghis heart.

It was the bitterest touch of humiliation that thisfrigate, the Crescent, sailed from the New Englandharbor of Portsmouth, whose free tides had bornea few years earlier the brave keels of John PaulJones’s Ranger and America.

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The Christian nations of Europe deliberatelygranted immunity to these nests of sea-robbers inAlgiers, Morocco, Tunis, and Tripoli in order thatthey might prey upon the ships and sailors ofweaker countries and destroy their commerce.This ignoble spirit was reflected in a speech of LordSheffield in Parliament in 1784.

“It is not now probable that the American States willhave a very free trade in the Mediterranean. It will notbe to the interest of any of the great maritime powers toprotect them from the Barbary States. If they knowtheir interests, they will not encourage the Americans tobe ocean carriers. That the Barbary States are advantageousto maritime powers is certain.”

It was not until 1803 that the United States, afeeble nation with a little navy, resolved that theseshameful indignities could no longer be endured.While Europe cynically looked on and forbore tolend a hand, Commodore Preble steered the Constitutionand the other ships of his squadron into theharbor of Tripoli, smashed its defenses, and compelledan honorable treaty of peace. Of all thewars in which the American Navy had won highdistinction, there is none whose episodes are morebrilliant than those of the bold adventure on thecoast of Barbary.

The spirit of it was typical of Preble, the fighting133Yankee commodore, who fell in with a strange shipone black night in the Straits of Gibraltar. Fromthe quarterdeck of the Constitution he trumpeted ahail, but the response was evasive, and both shipspromptly manœuvered for the weather gage.

“I hail you for the last time. If you don’t answer,I’ll fire into you,” roared Preble. “Whatship is that?”

“His Britannic Majesty’s eighty-four gun ship-of-the-lineDonegal,” came back the reply. “Senda boat on board.”

Without an instant’s hesitation the commodorethundered from his Yankee frigate:

“This is the United States forty-four-gun shipConstitution, Captain Edward Preble, and I’ll bedamned if I send a boat aboard any ship. Blowyour matches, boys!”

Until the hordes of Moorish and Arab cutthroatsand slavers were taught by force to respect the flagflown by American merchantmen, there was no fateso dreaded by mariners as shipwreck on the desertcoast of northern Africa. For a hundred and fiftyyears they risked the dreadful peril of enslavementunder taskmasters incredibly inhuman, who lashedand starved and slew them. In the seventeenthcentury it was no uncommon sight in the ports ofSalem and Boston to see an honest sailor trudging134from house to house to beg money enough to ransomor buy his shipmates held in Barbary.

The old records note many such incidents, as thatin 1700:

Benjamin Alford and William Bowditch related thattheir friend Robert Carver was taken nine years beforea captive into Sallee, that contributions had been madefor his redemption, that the money was in the hands ofa person here, and that if they had the disposal of it theycould release Carver.

The expansion of American trade in far-distantwaters which swiftly followed the Revolution increasedthe number of disasters of this kind, andamong the old narratives of the sea that were writtenabout 1800 no theme is more frequent, and fewso tragic, as the sufferings of the survivors of somegallant American ship which laid her bones amongthe breakers of the African coast. These personalexperiences, simply and movingly written by someintelligent master or mate and printed as thin booksor pamphlets, were among the “best sellers” of theirday when the world of fact was as wildly romanticas the art of fiction was able to weave for later generations.

Among these briny epics of the long ago is thestory of Captain Judah Paddock and his crew of theship Oswego. She sailed from Cork in March,1351800, for the Cape Verd Islands, to take on a cargoof salt and hides and then to complete the homewardvoyage to New York. The Oswego was afast and able vessel of 260 tons, absurdly small tomodern eyes, and carried thirteen sailors, includingboys. After passing Cape Finisterre, CaptainPaddock began to distrust his reckoning because ofmuch thick weather, but felt no serious concern untilthe ship was fairly in the surf, which pounded andhammered her hull with one tremendous blow afteranother.

Daylight disclosed what the old sea-songs called“the high coast of Barbary” no more than a fewhundred yards distant. The Oswego was beatingout her life among the rocks, and it was time toleave her. The boats were smashed in trying toland, and the only refuge was this cruel and ominousshore, the barren wastes of sand and mountain, theglaring sun, the evil nomads.

With a few bottles of water and such food as theycould pack on their backs, these pilgrims set out totrudge along the coast in the direction of Mogador,where they hoped to find the protection of an Englishconsul. It was not an auspicious omen whenthey discovered a group of roofless huts rudely builtof stone, a heap of human bones, and the brokentimbers of a large frigate washed up by the tide.136These relics were enough to indicate the fate of alarge company of seamen who had been cast awayin this savage region.

There were men of all sorts among these haplessrefugees of the Oswego, and most of them enduredtheir hard lot with the patient courage of the deep-watermariner. The cook, however, was an exasperatingrascal of an Irishman called Pat who hadsmuggled himself aboard at Cork as a ragged stowaway,and he lost no time in starting trouble on thecoast of Barbary. In his pack was a bottle of gin,which had passed the skipper’s inspection as water,and while on sentry duty at night to watch forprowling Arabs, Pat got uproariously drunk andfought a Danish foremast hand who was tipplingwith him. In the ruction they smashed severalprecious bottles of water, and were too tipsy nextmorning to resume the march.

The other sailors held an informal trial. Thiswas their own affair, and Captain Paddock’s protestswere unheeded. Pat was so drunk that hecould not appear in his own defense, and the sentencewas that his share of the bread and watershould be taken from him and he be left behind todie. He was accordingly abandoned, blissfullysnoring on the sand, the empty gin bottle in his fist;but after a mile or so of painful progress two of137the men relented and listened to the captain’s appeal.Back they went, and dragged Pat along,damning him bitterly and swearing to kill him onthe spot if he misbehaved again.

After three days the torments of thirst were severe,and the heat blistered their souls. In thewreck of the Oswego there was water in barrels,plenty of it, and this was all that the fevered mindsof most of the sufferers could think of. CaptainPaddock urged them to keep on with him to theeastward a few days longer toward Mogador, butthey were ready to turn and struggle back to theship, fifty miles, just to get enough water to drink.It mattered not to them that they were throwingaway the hope of survival.

The captain was made of sterner stuff, and sothey amiably agreed to part company. A blacksailor, Jack, stepped forward and said with simplefidelity:

“Master, if you go on, I go, too.”

The other negro of the crew grinned at his comradeand exclaimed:

“If you go, Jack, I reckon I’s obliged to standby.”

The scapegrace Pat, regarding the captain as hisfriend and protector, also elected to stay with him.

So Captain Judah Paddock was left to toil onward138with Black Sam and Black Jack and the impossibleIrish cook as his companions in miserywhile the mate and the rest of the crew turned westwardto find the wreck of their ship. The partingscene has a certain nobility and pathos, as the captain’snarrative describes it.

The generosity of my fellow sufferers ought not to passby unnoticed. To a man they agreed that we should havea larger share of the water remaining than those returningto the ship. Furthermore, they invited us to join them intaking a drink from their own stock and at the conclusion,sailor-like, they proposed a parting glass, also from theirown bottles. All things arranged and our packs made up,we took of each other an affectionate leave and thus weseparated. The expression of every man on this trulytrying occasion can never be erased from my memory aslong as my senses remain. Some of us could hardly speakthe word farewell. We shook hands with each other andsilently moved in opposite directions.

Captain Paddock and his little party were capturedby Arabs on the very next day. He metthem calmly, his umbrella under one arm, spy-glassunder the other, expecting instant death; but theywere more intent on plunder, and the four men werestripped of their packs and most of their clothes ina twinkling. It was soon apparent that shipwreckedsailors were worth more alive than dead,and they were hustled along by their filthy captors,139who gave them no more water and food than wouldbarely keep soul and body together.

The Arabs traveled in haste to reach the wreckof the Oswego as a rare prize to be gutted. Whenthey arrived on the scene, another desert clan, twohundred and fifty strong, had already swoopeddown and was in possession. There was much yellingand fighting and bloodshed before a truce wasdeclared and the spoils were divided. MeanwhileCaptain Paddock found opportunity to talk withthe mate of the Oswego and the band of sailors whohad returned to the wreck just in time to be mademiserable captives. Presently Captain Paddockwas dragged away from them. This was, indeed, alast farewell, for of this larger party of Americancastaways only one was ever heard of again.

Flogged and starved and daily threatened withdeath, Captain Judah Paddock, Irish Pat, and thetwo black seamen were carried into the desert untiltheir captors came to a wandering community of athousand Bedouins, with their skin tents and camelsand sheep and donkeys. Amid the infernal clamorthe Americans heard a voice calling loudly in English:

“Where are they? Where are they? Whereare the four sailors?” And then, as Captain Paddocktells it,

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A few days after this, the chief of the tribe,Ahamed, came back from a journey with two otherlads of this same English crew. One was Jack, acabin boy of thirteen, and the other was namedLawrence, a year or two older. Curiously enough,the English-born urchin, Jack, seemed contentedamong these wild Bedouins, and was rapidly forgettinghis own people and the memories of childhood.These three youngsters from the MartinHall had learned to speak Arabic quite readily, andthey informed Captain Paddock that all the white141slaves were to be sold at once and that bargaininghad already begun.

The captain of the Oswego and his two black seamenwere held at very high prices, and apparentlythere was no immediate market for them. In thisyear of 1800 thrifty New England skippers andmerchants were piling up money in the Africanslave-trade, and there was logic in the argument ofAhamed, the Bedouin chief:

“I do not wish to sell these two black men at any price.They are used to our climate and can travel the desertwithout suffering. They are men that you Christiandogs stole from the Guinea coast, and you were goingthere to get more of them. You are worse than the Arabswho enslave you only when it is God’s will to send you onour coast.”

Captain Paddock confessed that never did he feela reproach more sensibly; that a great many wearingthe Christian name did force away from theirhomes and carry into perpetual slavery the poorAfrican negroes, and thereby did make themselvesworse than the Arabs. The English lads drove thistruth home by secretly admitting to him that theirship, the Martin Hall, had been engaged in theGuinea slave-trade when wrecked on the coast ofBarbary.

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After much dickering with Ahamed, the captainagreed to purchase freedom at the rate of forty dollarsper head, in addition to two looking-glasses,two combs, two pairs of scissors, a large bunch ofbeads, and a knife, as soon as he and his companionsshould be safely delivered at a friendly port. Thisprice was not to include any official ransom whichthe crafty Arabs might squeeze out of the representativesof the British or American governments.

Several days of noisy haggling were necessary beforeCaptain Paddock, Irish Pat, and the threeEnglish boys were transferred to a new owner, butthe chief retained Black Sam and Black Jack, andhis caravan moved off to the mountains with them.“The looks of these poor fellows were so dejected,it was painful to behold them,” wrote the skipper,and in this forlorn manner vanished forever thesetwo seamen of the Oswego’s forecastle who hadserved with a cheerful fidelity and whose heartswere as white as their skins were black.

The Arabs drifted into a region more fertile,where there was grain to reap with sickles and grazingfor the large flocks. The mariners were keptat unremitting toil on the scantiest rations, and theybecame mere skeletons; but their health bore upastonishingly well, and not one of them died by thewayside. The irrepressible Pat came nearest to143death when he sang Irish songs and danced jigs forthe Arab women, and so delighted them that theyfed him on porridge, or “stirabout,” as he called it,until he swelled like a balloon.

That astute chieftain, Ahamed, reappeared onsome important errand of tribal conference, andagain held discourse with Captain Paddock concerningthe ethics of the slave-trade. In his statelyfashion he declaimed:

“You say that if I were in your country, your peoplewould treat me better than I treat you. There is no truthin you; nothing but lies. If I were there, I should bedoomed to a life-time of slavery and be put to the hardestlabor in tilling your fields. You are too lazy yourselves towork in your fields, and therefore you send your ships tothe negro coast, and in exchange for the worthless trinketswith which you cheat those poor blacks, you take awayship-loads of them to your country from which never onereturns. We pray earnestly to Almighty God to sendChristians ashore here in order that we may gain a littleprofit of the same kind, and God hears our prayers andoften sends us some good ships.”

It was this same masterful Bedouin, lord of thedesert wastes, who enlightened Captain Paddock asto what had befallen the frigate which drove ashorewhere the Oswego’s crew had discovered the sea-washedtimbers, the roofless huts of stone, and theheap of human bones. It was a very large warship,144French or British, and the crew of several hundredmen were able to land much property and tomake shelters for themselves before the Arabs foundthem. A small tribe went down to despoil them ofall their belongings, as was righteous and proper,but the armed men-of-war’s-men fired upon theArab visitors, who were enraged at the resistance ofthese Christian dogs and fell upon them furiously.Many were killed on both sides, and the Arabs, findingthe enemy so numerous and well disciplined,sent for help, and another tribe went down to thesea.

It was a great fight, for the Christian sailors shotvery straight and often, and the Arabs were notable to close in with their long knives; so a thirdtribe was summoned, and the command was turnedover to Ahamed. He said to Captain Paddock:

“At daylight I made signs to the infidel dogs to lay downtheir arms upon which their camp seemed all in confusion.At the moment we were preparing to attack them, theyformed themselves in a close body and began to march offeastward. We formed ourselves in three divisions, accordingto the tribes, and the chief of each tribe led his ownmen. We attacked them in front and in rear, and afterfighting a long time we killed half those dogs, and then theremnant left alive laid down their arms. We now alldropped our guns, and fell upon them with our knives, andevery one of them was killed, and the whole number wefound to be five hundred.”

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After several months of heartbreaking toil andhopes deferred, Ahamed concluded to take the businessin hand and to see what could be done aboutgetting rid of the captain and Pat and the threeEnglish boys at a satisfactory profit. The harvestshad been gathered, and the demand for labor wasnot urgent. Ahamed had been greatly pestered bya hag of a sister who was anxious to get her handson a looking-glass, comb, and scissors which hadbeen mentioned as part of the bargain.

Accordingly they set out for the coast withAhamed in charge of a small escort, all mounted ongood Arab horses, the captives tortured by uncertainty,for “avarice was the ruling passion of ourowners,” says Captain Paddock, “and if they couldhave obtained as much money by putting us todeath as by selling us, I verily believe they wouldnot have hesitated to kill us on the spot, for of humanefeelings toward Christians they were completelydevoid.”

Near the coast they met two horsem*n, whohalted to discuss conditions in the slave-marts, muchas modern salesmen meet in the lobby of a hotel.One of these pilgrims advised Ahamed to stay awayfrom Swearah, telling him:

“It is not best to carry them there. At Elic the Jewswill give more for them than the consul at Swearah will146pay as ransom. Besides, the plague has been killing somany people that you ought to keep these Christian slavesuntil the next harvest, when there will be a great scarcityof labor.”

This advice seemed plausible until Ahamed encounteredtwo acquaintances afoot, one of them avery bald old man, who held an opinion quite thecontrary, explaining:

“In Elic the plague still rages, and if you carryyour Christian slaves there, they may all die beforeyou get rid of them. And just now they wouldnot fetch enough to reward you for the trouble oftaking them there.”

Evidently perplexed, Ahamed changed the courseof his journey, to the dismay of Captain Paddock,who feared that he was to be conveyed into the interiorof Barbary, beyond all chance of salvation.In a walled town Ahamed met his own brother, whowas also a tribal chief, and for once the wretchedcaptives were given enough to eat.

“Dear brother of mine,” was Ahamed’s greeting.“I am bound off to find a market for these vileChristians, who have been complaining incessantlyof hunger. And I promised that they should havean abundance of victuals upon their arrival here.”

The brother gravely assented, and his hospitalitywas so sincere that when one of his wives failed to147cook sufficient stew for the evening meal he felledher with a club and proceeded to beat her to deathby way of reproof.

“I will see if my orders cannot be obeyed,” he remarkedto Ahamed, who viewed it as no affair ofhis.

An exchange of gossip persuaded Ahamed toseek the little Moorish seaport of Saint Cruz, orAgadir, and try to dispose of them to the best advantage.Four months after the wreck of theOswego, Captain Judah Paddock beheld a harborand ships riding at anchor. The governor of Agadir,a portly, courteous Moor, commanded Ahamedto take his captives to Mogador without delay anddeliver them up to the British consul. To CaptainPaddock he declared:

“These Arabs are a set of thieves, robbers, andmurderers, and from time immemorial they havebeen at war with the Moors and with all otherswithin their reach. If there is any more trouble, Iwill keep you here a few days, when I shall be goingmyself to Mogador.”

The warlike Ahamed was somewhat abashed bythis reception, but he made great haste to obey thegovernor’s decree. Mounted on camels, the partycrossed the mountain trails, and then halted to considerbreaking back into the desert with the captives148and seeking a more auspicious market for them.Ahamed regretted that he had not sold them beforehe foolishly strayed into the clutches of the accursedMoorish governor of Agadir. More thanlikely there would be no ransom forthcoming atMogador.

In the nick of time another Moorish gentlemanstrolled into the little walled mountain town wherethey tarried for the night, and demanded to knowwhat was going on. To him Ahamed sourly vouchsafed:

“These be Christians whom God in His goodnesscast upon our coast. We bought them on the edgeof the great desert from a tribe which had takenthem from the wreck. We had intended to carrythem on to Mogador, but to-day we have heard thatthe consul has no money to buy Christians with.”

The Moor suggested that Captain Paddock dictatea letter to the British consul at Mogador, naminga ransom price of four hundred dollars each,which message could be sent on ahead of Ahamed,who might then await a reply before venturing intothe city. The messenger galloped away on a spiritedsteed, but, alas! he soon came galloping back,having met a friend on the road who read the letterand swore that it would not do at all.

Captain Paddock was in the depths of despair149when the friendly Moor came to the rescue with anotherplan. The American captain should be hisown messenger into Mogador, with Ahamed and anescort to guard against escape, while the other sailorswere held in the mountains as hostages.

This idea was favorably received, and after awearisome journey Captain Judah Paddock rodeinto Mogador to find the British consul. When heentered the flat-roofed stone building above whichflew the red cross of St. George, six or eight hearty-lookingEnglish sailors rushed forward to welcomehim as a shipwrecked seamen. They were survivorsof the Martin Hall, “and when I told them thatthree of their crew were with my party,” relatesCaptain Paddock, “their joy was loud and boisterous.One lusty son of Neptune ran to the consul’sdoor, shouting:

“‘Mr. Gwyn, Mr. Gwyn, an English captain ishere from the Arab coast, and the Arabs withhim!’”

The consul, an elderly man, hastened out in hisshirt and breeches, for the hour was early in themorning, and to him Captain Paddock explainedthat he was really an American shipmaster whoseonly chance of rescue had been in calling himself anEnglishman. Mr. Gwyn invited him to sit downto breakfast, and tactfully explained that there was150supposed to be an American consular agent in Mogador,but the incumbent just then was a Genoesewho spoke no English, and had been bundled aboardan outward-bound ship by command of the Emperorof Morocco, who had conceived a dislike forhim. Mr. Gwyn went on to break the news that hehad no funds with which to ransom captive sailorsand that the nearest official resource would be theAmerican consul-general at Tangier.

At this Ahamed was for dragging his slaves backto the desert, but the kindly Mr. Gwyn had no intentionof permitting it, and he introduced CaptainPaddock to a firm of British merchants, the brothersWilliam and Alexander Court, who promptlyoffered to pay the amounts stipulated and to trustto the American government for repayment.

It then transpired that even after paying theprice to the Arab tribes for the recovery of suchshipwrecked waifs as these, it depended upon thewhim and the pleasure of the Emperor of Moroccowhether they should be allowed to go home fromBarbary. He had been known to hold Christianwanderers as prisoners until it suited him to issuea special edict or passport of departure.

While dining at the house of a British resident inMogador, Captain Paddock met a Jewish merchantrecently returned from the Sahara coast who told a151yarn which brought a gleam of humor into the bitterexperience of the castaways. He had got windof a shipwreck and posted off to the scene on thechance of a speculation. At the Oswego he foundtwo or three hundred Arabs industriously despoilingthe hulk of the ship. She had no cargo in herwhen she went ashore, being merely ballasted withIrish earth. The Arabs reasonably deduced thatthis stuff must be valuable or a ship would not beladen with it, and although they were unable tocomprehend what it was, they thriftily proceededto salvage every possible pound of it.

They requested the Jewish merchant to examinethe treasure which had cost them much labor, as theyhad been compelled to dive for most of it. EveryArab had been carefully allotted his rightful sharein order to prevent quarreling and bloodshed, andit was guarded in a little heap inside his tent. Theywere greatly mortified, the merchant recounted,when he laughed and told them the ballast wasworth no more than the sand upon which they stood.

Ahamed returned to the mountain stronghold andfetched to Mogador the other mariners who wereheld as hostages awaiting the tidings of ransom.The little British lad called Jack had no desire toleave Barbary. He promptly ran away from Mr.Gwyn and the consulate and lived with Moorish152friends in Mogador and even paraded an adoptedfather. Much distressed, Captain Paddock consultedthe Moorish governor, who replied as follows:

You shall have all the indulgence that our laws permit,which is this: examine the boy in my presence from day today, for three successive days, and if you can within thattime persuade him to return to the Christian religion, youmay receive him back. Otherwise, as he has voluntarilycome among us and gone through our ceremonies, we arein duty bound to retain him.

The apostate sea urchin of the Martin Hall wasaccordingly examined in Arabic, and declared thathe loved his adopted father, that he had become aMohammedan, and would never change from it.Asked the reason, he said he liked this religion muchbetter, because all Christians were to be eternallydamned while a Mohammedan should see God andbe saved. He repeated the long prayer of Ramadanin Arabic without stumbling over a word, andwas otherwise so proficient in the new faith that thegovernor’s verdict favored his plea. There wasgreat rejoicing in Mogador over this conversion,and a procession of true believers escorted youngJack through the narrow streets.

Captain Judah Paddock waited in Mogador untilthe word came from the imperial palace in Fez thatgranted him the decree of liberty for himself and153any of his men who should be detained elsewhere inBarbary. Soon after this an English brig stoodinto the harbor, but there was no room for passengersin her, and Captain Paddock lingered in tediousexile until a Portuguese schooner came infrom Lisbon. Pat, the Irish cook, refused to leaveMogador, but the reasons had nothing to do withreligion. He told his skipper that the mate and themen of the Oswego had sworn to kill him whereverthey should cross his hawse, afloat or ashore, and ifany of them were lucky enough to escape from Barbary,his life would not be worth a candle. He haddiscovered another Irishman in Mogador who wasteaching him the cooper’s trade, and the Moorishgirls were very fond of his songs and his jig-steps.

From Lisbon Captain Paddock sailed homewardbound in the good ship Perseverance of Baltimore,and set foot on his native soil in November, almosta year after his disaster on the coast of Barbary.By invitation he called to see the Secretary of State,John Marshall, and told his story, besides filing thedocuments in the case.

Four years later than this he was walking throughWater Street in New York when he met John Hill,one of the sailors of the ill-fated crew of the Oswego.He was the sole survivor of the party of the mateand a dozen men who had been carried away from154the wreck into the Barbary desert. He had beensold separately, and often resold by one owner andanother, so that he had heard never a word of hiscompanions, who had been scattered among thewandering tribes of the desert.

He had chanced to meet and talk with one otherChristian slave, a sailor from an American schoonerout of Norfolk who had swum ashore on a spar whenthe vessel stranded, and was the only man saved.Seaman John Hill of the Oswego and this poor derelictfrom Norfolk had comforted each other for alittle spell, and then they were parted. Hill hadfinally disguised himself as an Arab, and after aseries of wonderful escapes and adventures hadmanaged to reach Agadir, where he was promptlysold to a Jew, who kept him at hard labor for twelvemonths before the American consul-general heardof his plight and obtained his release.

In concluding his narrative, Captain Judah Paddockventured this opinion, which was, no doubt, thetruth:

“All that I was able to learn while a slave in Barbaryconfirmed my belief that many unfortunatemariners have been wrecked on that shore and thereperished, who were supposed by their relatives andfriends to have foundered at sea.”

Another story, well known in its day, was that of155Captain James Riley of the American brig Commercewhich was lost on the Barbary coast in 1815.The torments of his crew while in the hands of theirArab captors are really too dreadful to describe indetail. Captain Riley, a herculean sailor weighingmore than two hundred pounds, was a mere skeletonof ninety pounds when he gained his liberty atTangier, but he recovered to command other shipsand lived to a ripe old age. His soul wrung withthe memories of the experience, he wrote:

“Not less than six American vessels are known to havebeen lost on this part of the coast since the year 1800, besidesnumbers of English, French, Spanish, Portuguese,etc., which are also known to have been wrecked there, andno doubt many other vessels that never have been heardfrom,—but it is only Americans and Englishmen that areever heard from after the first news of the shipwreck.The French, Spanish, Portuguese, and Italian governments,it is said, seldom ransom their unfortunate shipwreckedsubjects, and they are thus doomed to perpetualslavery and misery,—no friendly hand is ever stretchedforth to relieve their distresses and to heal their bleedingwounds, nor any voice of humanity to soothe their bitterpangs,—till worn out with sufferings indescribable theyresign their souls to the God who gave them, and launchinto the eternal world with pleasure, as death is the onlyrelief from their miseries.”

Farther to the southward on this African coastwas the land of the black folk, and toward the Cape156of Good Hope lay the country of the Kafirs,against whom the Boer settlers waged a war of extermination.All white men looked alike to thesesavage warriors, and it ill befell the ship that wascast away among them. There are scenes in thewreck of the Grosvenor, East Indiaman, lost on theKafir coast in 1782, that are distinguished forhaunting pathos and somber tragedy. It was alarge ship’s company, with a total number of onehundred and thirty-five men, women, and children,and no more than a dozen survivors succeeded inreaching the Dutch settlements after four months ofterrible suffering.

All the rest were killed or died or were missing,and among those who vanished in the jungle werethe captain and his party, with which were most ofthe women and children. There was no trace ofthese English women until a Colonel Gordon exploredthe country of the Kafir tribes in 1788, andthere met a native who said that a white womandwelt among his black people. “She had a child,”related the informant, “which she frequently embraced,and wept bitterly.”

Bad health compelled Colonel Gordon to returnhomeward, but he promised to reward the native ifhe would carry a letter to the white woman, and heaccordingly wrote in French, Dutch, and English,157desiring that some sign, such as a burnt stick or anyother token, might be sent back to him, and hewould make every exertion to rescue her. TheKafir undertook the mission with eagerness, butnothing more was ever heard of him. An accountof the wreck of the Grosvenor written before 1812stated:

“It is said by officers who have resided at the Cape thata general belief prevailed of the existence of some of theunfortunate females who survived the wreck. It was surmisedthat they might have it in their power to return andleave the Kaffirs but, apprehending that their place in societywas lost and that they should be degraded in theeyes of their equals after spending so great a portion oftheir lives with savages who had compelled them to a temporaryunion, they resolved not to forsake the fruits ofthat union and therefore abode with the chiefs who hadprotected them.”

In 1796 the American ship Hercules, CaptainBenjamin Stout, was wrecked on this same coastwhere the Grosvenor had been lost. These castawayswere more fortunate, for the Kafirs and theBoers happened to be at peace, and they made theirway to the outlying farms of the white pioneers inthe Hottentot country. Captain Stout wrote thestory of his adventures, and a stirring yarn it is,but the reference of particular interest just here isas follows:

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There was evidence of an earlier mystery of thismournful kind when the Doddington was wreckedon a rock in the Indian Ocean in 1755. Her crew159built a boat in which they coasted along Natal, andwhile ashore in search of food and water, “the Englishsailors were extremely surprised to find amongthese savages, who were quite black, with woollyhair, a youth apparently twelve or fourteen years ofa*ge, perfectly white, with European features, fine,light hair, and altogether different from the nativesof this country, although he spoke only their language.The people of the Doddington remarkedthat he was treated as a servant, that the savagessent him on their errands and sometimes did not allowhim to eat with them, but that he waited untilthe end of the repast before making his own.”

Of all the stories of blue water there is none soromantic and well remembered as that of themutineers of the Bounty who sought an Arcadia inthe South Seas, and found it on Pitcairn Island,where their descendants to-day welcome the occasionalship that stops in passing. In 1787, ten yearsafter Captain Cook had been slain by the natives ofHawaii, a group of West India merchants in London,whose interest was stirred by the glowing reportsof the discoverers, urged the Government toexplore the natural resources of those enchantedrealms of the Pacific and particularly to transportthe breadfruit tree to Jamaica and plant it there.

The ship Bounty was accordingly fitted out, andsailed in command of Lieutenant William Bligh,who had been one of Cook’s officers. After thelong voyage to Tahiti, the ship tarried there fivemonths while the hold was filled with tropical treesand shrubs. With every prospect of success, theBounty hove anchor and sheeted topsails to roll outhomeward bound.

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Every sturdy British sailor was leaving a sweethearton the beach of languorous Tahiti, where theunspoiled, brown-skinned women were as kind asthey were beautiful, and where every dream of happinesswas attainable. These were the first whitemen who had ever lingered to form sentimental attachmentsin that fortunate isle, and they left itreluctantly to endure the bitter toil and tyrannythat were the mariner’s lot.

Nor was Lieutenant Bligh a commander to soothetheir discontent. His own narrative would leadyou to infer that his conduct was blameless, butother evidence convicts him of a harsh and inflexibletemper and a lack of tact which helped to bringabout the disaster that was brewing in the forecastleand among the groups of seamen who loafed andwhispered on deck during the dog-watches. Theexplosive crises of life are very often touched off bythe merest trifles and a few cocoanuts appear tohave played a part in the melodramatic upheavalof the Bounty’s crew. Boatswain’s Mate JamesMorrison kept a journal in which he set down thatLieutenant Bligh missed some of his own personalcocoanuts, which had been stowed between the guns.

The sailors solemnly denied stealing them, andthe irate commander questioned Fletcher Christian,the master’s mate, who indignantly protested:

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“I do not know who took your cocoanuts, sir, butI hope you do not think me so mean as to be guiltyof pilfering them.”

Lieutenant Bligh, who was red in the face andhot under the collar, burst out in this most unluckytirade:

“Yes, you hound, I do; you must have stolen themfrom me, or you would be able to give a better accountof them. You are all thieves, you scoundrels,and the officers combine with the men to rob me.I suppose you will steal my yams next, but I’llmake you sweat for it, you rascals, if I have to makehalf of you jump overboard before we get throughEndeavor Straits.”

This is one of the stories told by the boatswain’smate to extenuate the mutiny, and it may be takenfor what it is worth, though with so much smoke,there was sure to be flame. At any rate, it was onlya day after the cocoanut episode that FletcherChristian, the master’s mate, led the famous rebellionof the Bounty. He was a leader of extraordinaryintelligence and character who had always leda godly life. Commander Bligh had provoked himbeyond endurance, and he was persuaded that hecould lead his comrades to a palm-shaded kingdomwhere they would be safe against discovery andcapture.

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No inkling of the conspiracy was conveyed to thequarterdeck, and Bligh wrote, after the event:

The women of Tahiti are handsome, mild, and cheerfulin manners and conversation, possessed of great sensibility,and have sufficient delicacy to make them admired andbeloved. The chiefs were so much attached to our peoplethat they rather encouraged their stay among themthan otherwise and even made them promises of large possessions.Under these circ*mstances it ought hardly tobe the subject of surprise that a set of sailors, most ofthem without home ties, should be led away where they hadthe power of fixing themselves in the midst of plenty andwhere there was no necessity to labor and where the allurementsto dissipation are beyond any conception that canbe formed of it. The utmost, however, that a commandercould have expected was desertions, such as have alwayshappened more or less in the South Seas, and not this actof open mutiny, the secrecy of which was beyond belief.

It was a bloodless uprising and conducted withsingular neatness and despatch. At sunrise ofApril 28, 1789, Fletcher Christian and an armedguard entered the commander’s cabin and hauledhim out of bed in his night-shirt. His arms werebound, and he was led on deck, where he observedthat some of his men were hoisting out a boat.Those of the ship’s company who had remainedloyal, seventeen officers and men, were alreadyclapped under hatches to await their turn in thevery orderly program. A few of the mutineers164damned the commander to his face and growledthreats at him, but this was by way of squaring personalgrudges, and he was not otherwise mistreated.

The boat was lowered and outfitted with twine,canvas, cordage, an eight-and-twenty gallon cask ofwater, a hundred and fifty pounds of bread, or ship’sbiscuit, a little rum and wine, some salt pork andbeef, a quadrant, a compass, and four cutlasses forarms. The seventeen loyal mariners were bundledoverside, but Lieutenant Bligh hung back to arguethe matter until Fletcher Christian roughly exclaimed:

“Come, Captain Bligh, your officers and men arenow in the boat and you must go with them. If youattempt to make the least resistance, you will beinstantly put to death.”

The commander of the Bounty was in no moodto carry it off with a high hand. He implored themaster’s mate to forego the mad enterprise, andpledged his honor that if the men would return toduty he would make no report of it in England.He spoke of his own wife and children and themercy due on their account, but Fletcher Christiancut him short and cried:

“I say no, no, Captain Bligh. If you had anyhonor or manly feeling in your breast, things hadnot come to this. Your wife and family! Had you165any regard for them, you would have thought ofthem before now and not behaved so like a villain.I have been used like a dog all this voyage and amdetermined to bear it no longer. On you must restthe consequences.”

This ended the argument, and the boat was sooncast adrift, while the mutineers shouted a cheeryfarewell, and then roared out “Huzza for Tahiti!”while the Bounty swung off and filled away with apleasant breeze. Lieutenant Bligh assumed that itwas the deliberate intent to leave him to perish,because dead men tell no tales; but if this were true,the mutineers would not have been so careful tostock the boat with food and water and stores to lastthe party at least a fortnight without severe hardship.

They were within easy sailing distance of peopledislands, on some of which they might hope to find afriendly reception. By drowning them, FletcherChristian could have obliterated all traces of themutiny, and the Bounty would have vanished fromhuman ken, gone to the port of missing ships. Soinfrequented were the islands of the South Seas thatthe mutineers might have lived and died there unmolestedand unsought. Fletcher Christian wastoo humane a man for such a deed, the most uprightand pious outlaw that ever risked the gallows.

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The tale of the Bounty and of the tragic fatewhich overtook these rash and childlike wanderers insearch of Elysium had been familiar to later generations,but the wonderful voyage of Lieutenant Blighand his exiles in the open boat has been forgottenand unsung. Even to this day it deserves to becalled one of the prodigious adventures of seafaringhistory. A man disgraced and humiliated beyondexpression by the ridiculously easy manner in whichhis ship had been taken from him, Bligh superblyredeemed himself and wiped the stain from hisrecord by keeping his open boat afloat and his menalive through a voyage and an experience unequaledbefore or since.

The boat was a small, undecked ship’s yawl onlytwenty-three feet long, such as one may see hangingfrom a schooner’s davits. Eighteen men werecrowded upon the thwarts, and their weight sank heralmost to the gunwale. They were adrift in anunknown ocean which teemed with uncharted reefsand perils, there was only a few days’ supply of foodand water, and four cutlasses were the weaponsagainst hostile attack. In the boat, besides CommanderBligh, were the master, the acting surgeon,botanist, gunner, boatswain, carpenter, three mates,two quartermasters, the sail-maker, two cooks, theship’s clerk, the butcher, and a boy.

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After watching the faithless Bounty until shegleamed like a bit of cloud, the refugees shoved outtheir oars and pulled in the direction of the nearestisland, Tofa, about forty miles distant. A slant ofwind presently favored them, and they hoisted sail,bowling along until they were able to drop anchoroutside the barrier of surf soon after nightfall of thesame day.

Next morning they landed in a cove and foundnatives who seemed amiable enough and who suppliedthem with cocoanuts, plantains, breadfruit,and water. The humor of these temperamentalislanders changed without warning, however, and ina sudden attack with stones and spears they killedone of the quartermasters. This dissuaded Blighfrom his plan of cruising from one island to anotherand so making his way to civilization. He told hismen that he purposed to attempt to make no morelandings, but to steer for the Dutch East Indies andthe port of Timor, almost four thousand miles away.In those wild seas there was no nearer haven wherethey might hope to find Europeans and a ship tocarry them home to England.

In the confusion of escaping from Tofa, they lostmost of the fruit which had been taken on there, andso they set sail with just about the amount of storeswith which they had been set adrift from the168Bounty, but with one less man to feed. They wereso cramped for space in the yawl that Bligh dividedthem into watches, and half the men sat upon thecross-seats while the others lay down in the bottom,and every two hours they exchanged places. Thebread was stowed in the carpenter’s tool-chest, andall the provisions were scrupulously guarded by sentries.

There were no symptoms of mutiny in this company.Bligh had found himself, and he ruled themwith a rod of iron. They were willing and obedient,realizing that this imperious, unshaken commanderwas their only hope of winning against theodds which loomed black against them. Timor wasmerely a name to them. Some of them did not evenknow where it was, but they had implicit faith inLieutenant William Bligh.

The carpenter whittled for him a pair of scalesand some musket-balls were found in the boat.These were known to weigh twenty-five to thepound of sixteen ounces. In order to make the provisionslast as long as possible, three meals a daywere served, and each consisted of a musket-ball’sweight of bread, an ounce of pork, and a teaspoonfulof rum in a quarter of a pint of water. If youshould be curious enough to measure out such arepast for yourself and try living on it for a few169days only, I have no doubt that your weight wouldbe reduced more rapidly than any high-pricedspecialist in dietetics could possibly achieve for you.A twenty-fifth of a pound of hard bread would notmuch more than satisfy the appetite of a vigorouscanary bird. Yet these seventeen men lived on itand stayed alive for weeks and weeks. Heavyrains came to give them more water, but thirst wasa continual torment, so sparingly and prudently didLieutenant Bligh dole out the precious fluid.

They passed within sight of many islands, greenand smiling, and smoke wreathed skyward from nativecamps and villages, but Bligh sternly checkedhis men when they yearned to seek the land and arespite from the merciless sea. With him it wasTimor or die, and in the lonely watches he recalledthat previous voyage with Captain Cook, when thegreat navigator was lured to his death by the soft-voiced,garlanded people of Oahu. And so theopen boat flitted past the mysterious beaches andlagoons of the New Hebrides and veered fartherseaward to give a wide berth to the savage coast ofNew Guinea. After one of the numerous stormswhich almost swamped them, Bligh noted in hisdiary:

I found every person complaining and some of them requestedextra allowance. I positively refused. Our situation170was miserable, always wet and suffering extremecold in the night, without the least shelter from theweather. Being constantly compelled to bale the boat tokeep her from filling perhaps should not have been reckonedan evil because it gave us exercise. Our appearancewas shocking and several of my people seemed half-dead.I could look no way without catching the eye of some onein distress. The little sleep we got was in the midst ofwater and we always awoke with severe cramps and painsin our bones.

This was on May 22, or eighteen days after theyhad left the island of Tofa, during most of whichtime there had been drenching rains and somberskies and heavy seas, which broke into the boat andalmost swamped her time and again. The seventeenmen were still existing on the morsels of breadand pork carefully weighed out with the musket-ball,which they said was “little better than starving,”but Bligh held them in hand, and there was norebellion even when he explained that the system ofrationing would permit them to exist for twenty-ninedays longer, though he was not at all certainthat they could fetch Timor in that time, and he purposedto make the stores hold out for six weeks.

In order to do that they would have to omit theirsupper and get along on two meals of a twenty-fifthof a pound of bread. “I was apprehensive that aproposal on this head would be ill received,” Lieutenant171Bligh commented, “and that it would requiremy utmost resolution to enforce it. However, onrepresenting to the people the necessity of guardingagainst casual delays, from adverse winds, and othercauses, they all cheerfully assented.”

There was never a more methodical man than thisLieutenant William Bligh. When they caught acouple of boobies, sea-fowl as large as a duck, thebodies were divided into seventeen portions, and oneman was detailed to turn his back while anotherpointed at the pieces and asked, “Who is to havethis?” The first sailor named a companion at random,and drew the fragment designated. In thismanner a fair distribution was assured, and the manwho drew the feet of the bird to chew could have noquarrel with the lucky sailor who got a bit of thebreast.

Bligh was a capable navigator with the quadrantand compass which the mutineers had given him andhe was driving for a passage to the southward ofEndeavor Straits and an offing on the coast of NewHolland, as Australia was then called. His crewwas exceedingly low-spirited, but he diverted themwith the hope of finding smoother water inside thefar-flung reefs and a landing where they might eatfresh fruits and ease their weary bones for a littlewhile.

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After three weeks of misery, this speck of an openboat in a trackless waste of ocean descried thewooded headlands of New Holland and a surf whichbeat against the outer ramparts of coral. Theyfound an opening and rowed into a lagoon, wherethey hauled the boat out upon the white sand andfeasted luxuriously on oysters. These they roastedin a fire which Lieutenant Bligh kindled with a lensof his spy-glass. Then they cooked a stew, andwere so mightily refreshed that “all retainedstrength and fortitude sufficient to resist what mightbe expected in our voyage to Timor.”

Two or three days of assiduous attention to theoysters, and they were ready to put to sea again,with water-breakers filled. Before they shoved off,Bligh directed all hands to attend prayers; so theyknelt on the beach with bared heads while he readservice from the Church of England prayer-book.A group of natives, black and naked, came scamperingout of the forest just as the boat took the water,but there was no clash with them.

As they steered through the mazes of the MalayArchipelago, many small islands swam in the seasof azure and emerald, and they ventured to landagain. Here Bligh had the first trouble with thetempers of his sick and weary men. “When orderedto go scouting for food, one of them went so173far as to tell me, with a mutinous look, that he wasas good a man as myself,” relates this inflexible commanderwho had made such a sorry mess of things inthe Bounty. He added:

“It was impossible for me to judge where this might end,therefore to prevent such disputes in future I determinedeither to preserve my authority or die in the attempt.Seizing a cutlass I ordered him to take hold of anotherand defend himself; on which he cried out that I was goingto kill him and immediately made concessions. I did notallow this to interfere further with the harmony of theboat’s crew and everything soon became quiet.”

For a week they coasted along New Holland inthis manner before risking the open sea again.They caught some turtle and went ashore at night tohunt the noddies, or sea-birds, and knock them overon their nests. One of the sailors, Robert Lamb,stole away from his companions, contrary to orders,and blundered into the birds, which fled away.Much provoked, Bligh gave the culprit a drubbingand made him confess that he had eaten nine noddiesraw. It goes without saying that greedy RobertLamb promised not to do it again.

Much more sanguine of some day reaching thedestination of Timor, the argonauts endured anotherlong stretch of the voyage, almost two thousandmiles more, but it was fast breaking the174strength which they had so amazingly displayed.Surgeon Ledward and Lawrence Lebogue, a hardyold salt, seemed to have come to the end, and Blighnursed them with teaspoonfuls of wine and crumbsof bread that he had been saving for such emergencies.He now began to fear that the party couldnot survive to finish the voyage, and mentioned that

extreme weakness, swelled legs, hollow and ghastly countenances,with an apparent debility of understanding, seemedto me the melancholy presages of approaching dissolution.The boatswain very innocently told me that he reallythought I looked worse than any one in the boat. I wasamused by the simplicity with which he uttered such anopinion and returned him a better compliment.

It was not decreed by destiny that courage andendurance so heroic should be thwarted in the lastgasp. Forty-one days after they had so boldly setout from Tofa in the South Seas they made a landfallon the dim and misty shore of the island ofTimor. The log recorded a total distance sailedof 3618 nautical miles, which in round numbersamounts to four thousand land, or statute, miles.No wonder that the feat appeared scarcely credibleto these castaways themselves whom the mutineersof the Bounty had turned adrift with no more thana fortnight’s provisions in a fearfully overcrowdedopen boat. And every man of the seventeen was175alive and ready to be patched up and set on his feetagain.

Bligh had no idea where the Dutch settlementswere, so he held on along the coast, past very lovelylandscapes of mountain, woodland, and park-likespaces. Coming to a large bay, he tacked in andsaw a little village of thatched huts. Natives paddledout to meet the boat and told the party whereto find the Dutch governor of Timor. In the nextharbor they discovered two square-rigged vessels, sothey hoisted the union jack as a distress-signal, andanchored off the fort and town of Coupang. Thiswas the end of their troubles. Bligh bought a smallschooner from the courteous Dutch governor, andso carried his men to Samarang, where they foundpassage to Batavia, and were sent home in a DutchEast Indiaman.

It was Commander Bligh himself who took toEngland the first tidings of the mutiny of theBounty, which aroused great popular interest andindignation. In 1790 he published an account ofhis sufferings and the heroic voyage to Timor, andin response to the public clamor the Admiraltyspeedily fitted out the frigate Pandora to huntdown Fletcher Christian and his fellow-criminalsand fetch them home for trial and punishment.The voyage of the Pandora resulted in tragic shipwreck176and another sensational episode of openboats. As a sequel it is inseparable from thestrange and unhappy romance of the Bounty andher people.

Captain Edwards of the Pandora frigate was amartinet of a naval officer, without sympathy orimagination, and the witchery of the South Seasheld no lure for him. His errand was to run downthe mutineers as outlaws who deserved no mercyand to take them home to be hanged.

First touching at Tahiti, the Pandora found thata number of the sentimental sinners still remainedon that island, but that Fletcher Christian and therest had sailed away in the Bounty to search for aretreat elsewhere. With a hundred and fifty bluejacketsto rake the valleys and beaches of Tahiti,Captain Edwards soon rounded up fourteen fugitives,who were marched aboard the Pandora andclapped into irons.

A small house was knocked together on deck toserve as a jail for them, and was rightly enoughdubbed “Pandora’s Box” by the sailors. It wasonly eleven feet long, without windows or doors,and was entered by a scuttle in the roof. In thisinhuman little den the fourteen mutineers were keptwith their arms and legs in irons, which were never177removed to permit exercise. Sweltering in a tropicalclimate, the wonder is that they did not perishto a man.

There was suffering far worse to endure, however—theanguish of broken hearts. All of these menwere torn from the native wives to whom theyhad been faithful and true, and their infants wereleft fatherless. Pitiful was the story of “Peggy,”the beautiful Tahitian girl who was beloved by MidshipmanStewart of the mutineers and to whom shehad borne a child. She was allowed to visit himin the wretched deck-house of the Pandora, but hergrief was so violent that she had to be taken ashoreby force, and the young husband begged the officersnot to let her see him again.

The light of her life had gone out, and she diedof sorrow a few months later, leaving her infantson as the first half-caste born in Tahiti. Six yearsafter this, a band of pioneering English missionariesvisited Tahiti and heard of the boy and his story.They took this orphan of British blood under theirown care and brought him up and educated him.

It is quite evident that Captain Edwards isolatedhis prisoners and treated them so harshly because ofhis fear that the bluejackets of his frigate might bestirred to a sympathetic mutiny of their own. It178must have wrung the hearts of these honest Britishtars, who had sweethearts waiting at the end of thelong road home, when, as the story runs:

The families of the captives were allowed to visit them,a permission which gave rise to the most affecting scenes.Every day the wives came down with their infants in theirarms, the fathers weeping over their babes who were soonto be bereft of paternal care and protection, and husbandand wife mingling cries and tears at the prospect of so calamitousa separation.

The fourteen mutineers had built a little schooneronly thirty-five feet long, in which they were hopingto flee to an island more remote, but the Pandoraswooped down before they were quite ready toembark. Captain Edwards seized this vessel to useas a tender, and manned her with two petty officersand seven sailors, who sailed away on a cruise oftheir own to assist in the search for the rest of thepirates, as they were called. The voyage of thistiny co*ck-boat of a schooner is one of the most remarkabletales in the history of South Sea discovery,but not even a diary or log remains to relateit in detail.

These adventurers were the first white men toset foot on the great group of the Fiji Islands,which Tasman and Cook had passed by. The exploitis sung to this day in one of the poems of the179Fijian language which have handed down the traditionsof the race from father to son. The littleschooner was never seen again by the Pandora afterthey parted at Tahiti to go their separate ways; butafter many months the master’s mate, the bold midshipman,and the seven handy seamen who comprisedthe crew came sailing into the Dutch EastIndies.

The Pandora ransacked the South Seas in vainfor Fletcher Christian and his party, and turnedhomeward after nine months of cruising on thisquest. Having cleared the coast of New Guinea,the frigate crashed into the Great Barrier Reefwhile trying to find a passage through, and founderedafter eleven hours of endeavor to keep herafloat by pumping. The discipline was admirable,and in the ship’s dying flurry four boats were filledand sent away, besides some rafts and canoes.

During those long hours, however, while the sailorswere trying to save themselves and the frigate,the hapless mutineers were left in the “Pandora’sBox,” in leg-irons and manacles and utterly helpless.Three of them were finally allowed to workat the pumps, still wearing their chains, but CaptainEdwards paid no heed to the prayers of the others,who foresaw they were to drown like rats in a trap.It was inhumanity almost beyond belief, for these180prisoners could not have escaped if they had beenreleased and allowed to swim for it with the rest ofthe crew.

His own officers and men interceded and beggedpermission to knock the shackles off the mutineersbefore the ship went down, but Captain Edwardsthreatened to shoot the first man who interferedwith his orders, and to kill any of the captives whoattempted to free themselves. He was the type ofofficer who is blindly, densely zealous and regardsthe letter of the law as to be obeyed under all circ*mstances.The Admiralty had told him to bringthese fugitives back to England in chains. Thissettled the matter for him.

When the Pandora was about to plunge under, acouncil of officers formally decided “that nothingmore could be done for the preservation of HisMajesty’s ship.” The command was then given toquit her before she carried the crew to the bottom,but even then two sentries of the Royal Marinesguarded the scuttle of “Pandora’s Box” with instructionsto shoot if the mutineers tried to smashtheir irons.

The master-at-arms was a man with a heart, aswell as a ready wit, and as he scrambled over theroof of the deck-house with the sea racing at hisheels, he dropped his bunch of keys through the181open scuttle. The frantic prisoners heard the keysfall and knew what they meant. In semi-darkness,with the water gurgling over the floor of their pen,they strove to fit the keys to the heavy handcuffsand the chains that were locked about their legs. Itis a scene that requires no more words to appeal tothe emotions a hundred and thirty years after theseunhappy British sailors fought their last fight forlife.

Ten of them succeeded in releasing themselvesand were washed off into the sea, where the boatswere kind enough to pick them up, but four of themutineers were drowned with the ship, still wearingthe irons from which Captain Edwards had refusedto free them. It is probable that with the bunch ofkeys which the master-at-arms had droppedamong them these four men had died while doingunto others as they would have been done by. Itwas almost impossible for a prisoner so heavilymanacled to fit a key in the padlock that bound hisown wrists together. One comrade helped another,perhaps, and so those who awaited their turn weredoomed to die. And thus they redeemed the follyand the crime of that fantastic adventure in theBounty.

Thirty men of the Pandora’s company were alsodrowned, but the survivors made a successful voyage182of it in their open boats, across a thousand milesof the Indian Ocean, and reached the same Dutchport of Coupang where Lieutenant William Blighhad found refuge. Here they met the actors instill another thrilling drama of an open boat. Aparty of British convicts, including a woman andtwo small children, had stolen away from the penalsettlement of Port Jackson on the coast of Australiain a ship’s gig, and had fled by sea all theway to Timor, living on shell-fish and seabirds andsurviving ten weeks of exposure and peril.

They told the Dutch governor at Coupang thatthey were castaways from an English ship, and hebelieved the tale until the people of the Pandoracame into port. Assuming they were survivors ofthe same wreck, a Dutch officer remarked to one ofthe convicts that the captain of their ship hadreached Coupang. Caught off his guard, the fellowblurted:

“Dam’ me! We have no captain.”

The cat was out of the bag, and the slip provedfatal. Haled before the governor, the runawaysconfessed who they really were. The tale they toldwas interwoven with a romance. The leader of theparty, William Bryant, had been transported toBotany Bay for the crime of smuggling, and withhim went his sweetheart, Mary Broad, who was convicted183of helping him to escape from WinchesterGaol. They were married by the chaplain of BotanyBay, and Bryant was detailed to catch fish forthe table of the governor and other officials of thatdistressful colony. It was while employed as afisherman that he was able to steal a boat and planthe escape, and they carried their two children withthem.

His Excellency, the Dutch governor of Timor,admired their courage, but he could not be turnedfrom his duty, and the runaway convicts were thereforesent to England. During the voyage WilliamBryant, the two children, and three men of theparty died, but the woman lived, and so rapidly regainedher bloom and beauty that before theGorgon, East Indiaman, sighted the forelands ofEngland, an officer of the Royal Marines had fallenin love with her. Through his efforts she wasgranted a full pardon, and they were wedded andlived happily ever after, so far as we know. Manya novel has paraded a heroine less worthy than thissmuggler’s sweetheart, Mary Broad of Devonshireand Botany Bay.

Of the ten Bounty mutineers who survived thewreck of the Pandora, five were acquitted, two receivedthe king’s pardon, and three were hangedfrom a yard-arm of H.M.S. Brunswick in Portsmouth184Harbor on October 29, 1792. Of FletcherChristian and his companions who had vanished inthe Bounty nothing whatever was heard or known,and England forgot all about them. Twenty-fiveyears passed, and they had become almost legendary,one of those mysteries which inspire the conjecturesand gossip of idle hours in ship’s forecastles.

In 1813 a fleet of British merchantmen sailed forIndia convoyed by the frigate Briton, Captain SirThomas Staines. While passing the Marquesasgroup he discovered a fertile island on which werecultivated fields and a village and people who eagerlypaddled out in their canoes to hail the frigate.The captain was trying to shout a few words of theMarquesan language to them when a stalwart youthcalled out in perfectly good English:

“What is the ship’s name? And who is the commander,if you please?”

Dumfounded, the bluejackets swarmed to thebulwark to haul the visitors aboard, and while theywondered, the same young man asked of the quarter-deck:

“Do you know Captain William Bligh in England,and is he still alive?”

The riddle was solved. Captain Staines repliedto the courteous, fair-skinned stranger:

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“Do you know one Fletcher Christian and whereis he?”

“Yes, sir. He is dead, but there is his son,Friday Fletcher October Christian, just comingaboard from the next boat.”

These interesting dwellers on Pitcairn Islandwere invited to breakfast in the ward-room, “but beforesitting down to table they fell on their kneesand with uplifted hands implored the blessing ofHeaven on the meal of which they were about topartake. At the close of the repast they resumedthe same attitude and breathed a fervent prayer ofthanksgiving for the bounty which they had justexperienced.”

Captain Staines went ashore with his guests andfound a very beautiful village, the houses setaround a small park, the streets immaculately clean,the whole aspect of it extraordinarily attractive.There were forty-eight of these islanders, includingseven of the Tahitian wives who had been broughtin the Bounty. The others were children, and fineyoung men and girls. Of the fathers of the flockonly one was left alive, John Adams, a sturdy, dignifiedman of sixty, who welcomed Captain Stainesand frankly revealed the whole story of the Bounty,“admitting that by following the fortunes ofFletcher Christian he had lost every right to his186country and that his life was even forfeited to thelaws. He was now at the head of a little communityby whom he was adored and whom he carefullyinstructed in the duties of religion, industry, andfriendship.”

It was explained by John Adams that the nativewomen had preferred the British sailors to theirown suitors, which inspired a fatal jealousy, andFletcher Christian and most of his comrades hadbeen killed in quarrels and uprisings against them.The few survivors had founded a new race in thisdreamy island of the South Seas, and, as CaptainStaines perceived, “a society bearing no stamp ofthe guilty origin from which it sprung.”

John Adams, the admirable counselor and ruler,had taught them to use the English tongue and tocherish all that was good in the institutions of theirmother country. He had even taught the childrento read and write by means of a slate and a stonepencil. They were a vigorous, wholesome stock,sheltered from disease and vice, and with a sailor’seye for a pretty girl Captain Staines noted that“the young women had invariable beautiful teeth,fine eyes, and an open expression of countenance,with an engaging air of simple innocence and sweetsensibility.”

The captain gave John Adams what books and187writing-materials he could spare, and the crew ofthe frigate added many a gift of clothing and usefultrinkets from their ditty-boxes. Twelve yearspassed before any other word was heard from PitcairnIsland, and then the ship Blossom made acall. It was found that a wandering whaler hadleft a seaman named John Buffet, who felt calledto serve as schoolmaster and clergyman to the gratefulislanders. England now became interested inthis idyllic colony, and there was no desire to recallor avenge the mutiny of the Bounty. John Adamshad long since atoned for the misdeeds of himselfand his misguided shipmates, and his goodworks were to live after him.

In 1830, H.M.S. Seringapatam was sent out bythe British Government to carry a cargo of agriculturalimplements, tools, live-stock, and manyother things which might increase the happiness andwell-being of the people of Pitcairn Island. JohnAdams had passed away a little while before that,full of years and honor, and it may be safely assumedthat he was not logged on the books of therecording angel as a mutineer. The mantle of hisleadership fell upon the broad shoulders of FridayFletcher October Christian.

It was only a year or so ago that the generouscaptain of a freight steamer bound out across the188South Pacific wrote a letter to a New York newspaperto inform the public that he would be gladto go out of his course to touch at Pitcairn Islandand leave any books or other gifts which might besent in his care. It was near the Christmas season,and the spirit moved him to play Santa Claus to thepeople of that happy island whose forefathers werethe mutineers of the Bounty in the year of 1789.

When our forefathers were fighting in theRevolution, which was not so very longago in history, the world was a vastly entertainingplace for a man who loved to wander in quest ofbold adventures. Nowadays the unknown seashave all been charted, and it is not easy to realizethat a great part of the watery globe was unexploredand trackless when George Washington ledhis ragged Continentals. There were no lean,hard-bitten Australian troops to rally to the call ofthe mother country when England was fightingmost of Europe as well as the American Colonies,because not a solitary Briton had then set foot uponthe mighty continent of the South Pacific.

For three centuries the high-pooped merchantships and the roving buccaneers of all flags had beensailing on the trade routes to the New World andto the East Indies, but scarcely a solitary keel hadfurrowed the immense expanse of blue water whichis called the South Seas. Daring traders as were190the old skippers of Salem, it was not until 1811 thatthe first of them, in the bark Active, bartered acargo with the Fiji Islanders, and he was only fouryears later than the pioneer ship of the British EastIndia Company.

In the rivalry for the honors of discovery, Francewas moved by the desire to continue on the sea theillustrious traditions of her great explorers who hadwon empire in North America. The peace of Versaillesin 1783 had ended her conflict with England,and although that absurd blockhead of a monarch,Louis XVI, was far more interested in exploringthe menu of his next meal, there were noble spiritseager to win victories in peace as well as in war, andthey persuaded the ministry to send a splendidlyequipped expedition to the mysterious Pacific andthe legendary coasts of Asia. Their choice of aleader was Captain Jean-François de Galaup,Comte de la Pérouse, soldier and sailor, who hadproved his mettle by destroying the Hudson’s Bayposts as an act of war, and thereby wringing withanguish the hearts of the directors of that opulentBritish company.

La Pérouse is a shadowy name to this generationand wholly forgotten by most of us, but he was agreat and gallant gentleman who was of the rarecompany of those that wrought enduring deeds in191a younger, ruder world, and so helped to build forthose who should come after him. It was his fateto vanish with his ships, and so utterly were thosefine frigates and their hundreds of sailors erasedfrom the seas that no fragment of tidings was discoveredfor almost forty years. Their disappearancewas one of the sensations of an era in whichshipwrecks were so frequent that they had to bequite extraordinary to arouse public attention.

The two frigates carried an elaborate party ofscientists, which included a geographer, a civil engineer,a noted surgeon, an astronomer, a physicist,a botanist, and a clock-maker. They were preparedto survey, map, and investigate any distantshores which had been overlooked by the persistentEnglish, Dutch, and Portuguese navigators. Itwas typical of French thoroughness that “Fleurien,the superintendent of ports and arsenals, contributedan entire volume of learned notes and discussionsupon the results of all known voyages sincethe time of Christopher Columbus.”

Laden with all manner of stores and merchandisethe two ships La Boussole and L’Astrolabe sailedbravely out of the ancient port of Brest on August30, 1785. By way of Madeira they ran the longslant across the Atlantic to Brazil, and during thisfirst leg of the voyage La Pérouse showed himself192to be a wonderfully capable leader. Those oldwooden war-ships were so many pest-houses, as arule, in which sailors sickened and died by scoresduring prolonged periods of sea duty. The quartersin which the men were crowded were wet andfoul and unventilated in rough weather, and the dietof salt meat bred the disease of scurvy. The journalof this voyage says:

After ninety-six days’ navigation we had not one caseof illness on board. The health of the crew had remainedunimpaired by change of climate, rain, and fog; but ourprovisions were of first-class quality; I neglected none ofthe precautions which experience and prudence suggestedto me; and above all, we kept up our spirits by encouragingdancing every evening among the crew whenever theweather permitted.

Around Cape Horn and to the Sandwich Islands,which Captain Cook had discovered only a few yearsearlier, the lonely frigates steered their wanderingcourse, and then northward to the Alaskan coast ofAmerica. While exploring a bay among the glacierstwo boats were swamped and lost in the breakers,and the shipmates of the drowned officers andmen built a monument of stone with this epitaphcarved upon it:

At this entrance of this port, twenty-one brave sailors perished.
Whoever you may be, mingle your tears with ours.

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Thence La Pérouse coasted down to MontereyBay, and was cordially welcomed among the Spanishmissions of California. He had it in mind tocross the unknown stretches of the Pacific, and soset out to reach China by a new sailing route. Thisbrought him within sight of Guam, where he landed,and then he touched at Manila. Next he exploredFormosa and the coast of Tartary, and tarriedawhile among the primitive fishing folk of Saghalinand Kamchatka. It was pleasanter when the frigatesturned southward again and floated in thewarm and tranquil South Seas. The second incommand, M. de Langle, was killed during a clashwith the natives of the Navigator Islands, andthirty-two of the French sailors were slain orwounded while trying to fill the water-casks.

Short-handed and dismayed by this tragedy, LaPérouse went to Botany Bay, Australia, where theEnglish were just then beginning to establish acolony, in order to send his sick and wounded ashoreand to refit his worn, weary ships. They had beenaway from France almost three years, and the frigateshoisted sails that were patched and threadbareuntil it seemed as though a breeze would blow themfrom the yards. The clothes of the men were nobetter. The paint was weather-worn on the sidesand bulwarks, weeds and barnacles grew thick on194the planking, and the decks were cracked and blisteredby tropical suns. They were like the phantomships of some old sailor’s yarn.

Yet La Pérouse was ready to go on with hisquest, nor was there any sign of mutiny among hismen. Most of them were hard and brown andhealthy, and ready to follow him to other ends ofthe earth. It was his purpose to depart from BotanyBay and explore the Australian coast and theFriendly Islands, and finally to lay his course toreach Mauritius, in the Indian Ocean, at the end ofthe year of 1788. This was the last word that camefrom him to France. Two more years passed, andnot a ship had sighted the roving frigates, nor hadthey been seen in any port. The people of Francewere proud of La Pérouse and his romantic achievements,and although the unhappy nation was in thethroes of revolution, the National Assembly passeda decree which read in part:

This hope of rescue appealed to the quick imaginationof France. La Pérouse was a national hero.It was argued, with good reason, that he might bewaiting on some solitary island of those empty seaswhere topsails had never yet lifted above the bluehorizon. Again two frigates were elaboratelyfitted out at Brest, and rechristened, with a prettytouch of sentiment, la Recherche (The Research)and L’Esperance (The Hope). They sailed earlyin 1791, touching at the Cape of Good Hope, wherethe vice-admiral in command got wind of a curiousrumor that “near the Admiralty Islands in the PacificOcean the captain of a British sloop-of-war had196seen men dressed in the European style and in whathe took to be French uniforms.”

This fanned the spark of expectation and seemeda promising trail to follow, but the most carefulsearch failed to confirm the report. Among thereefs and islands the frigates cruised in vain untilthey had been away from home more than two years.Then without finding a trace of La Pérouse and allhis gallant officers and patient, resolute seamen,they sailed to the Dutch East Indies. There theyreceived amazing news from their beloved France.Louis XVI had been beheaded, and the agonized republicwas at war with the armies of Europe. TheDutch officials of Sourabaya, regarding allFrenchmen as lawful enemies, held the crew of thefrigates as prisoners, and this was the end of thesearch for La Pérouse.

The people of storm-tossed France had otherthings to think of, and they forgot all about the lostexplorer and his ships’ companies. There was reasonto believe that some of them were alive whenthe two frigates had been trying to find them. In1791 Captain Edwards was roaming the South Seasin the British frigate Pandora, whose mission was torun down and carry home for punishment the famousmutineers of the Bounty. He sighted the islandof Vanikoro and ran along its shore, no more197than a mile outside the barrier reef. In his log henoted that natives appeared to be attempting tocommunicate with him by means of smoke signals.Captain Edwards was a brave, but stupid, officer ofthe Royal Navy, and it failed to occur to him thatthe natives of this little island, which had been undiscovereduntil then, would be most unlikely to tryto talk to him in this manner. In the light of laterinformation there is every probability that thissmoke was made by survivors of La Pérouse’sparty, and they were still marooned on Vanikoroseveral years after their shipwreck. Their emotionsmust have been profoundly melancholy whenthey saw the tall British frigate glide past unheedingand drop from their wistful vision.

It was not until 1813 that the first thread of thistangled skein of mystery was disclosed. La Pérousehad vanished a quarter of a century before,and his ships were long since listed on the sadlyeloquent roll of “missing with all hands.” It ishard to astonish a deep-water sailor, because nothingis too strange to happen at sea. The Britishmerchantman Hunter, on a voyage from Calcuttato New South Wales and Canton, stopped at theFiji Islands to pick up some sandalwood and bêche-de-merby way of turning over a few dollars intrade. Already the beach-comber had begun to198find a refuge from toil in the South Sea Islands, andFiji was plagued with runaway sailors whose ideaof paradise was to loaf and get drunk and dancewith the girls.

While the Hunter was taking on her cargo, aparty of these salt-water vagabonds engaged in amurderous row with the natives, who decided to berid of them. The earnest intention of the embattledFijian warriors was to exterminate theirEuropean guests. The chief mate of the Hunter,Mr. Dillon, happened to be ashore with a boat’screw, and he was a lusty man in a shindy, as hisname might indicate. Out of the mêlée he succeededin hauling a German beach-comber, MartinBushart, who seems to have been a sober, decent fellow,and a Lascar sailor. They were taken off tothe ship and allowed to remain there.

When the Hunter sailed for China, this derelictof a Martin Bushart made the singular request ofChief Officer Dillon that he be landed on the firstisland that happened to be convenient to the vessel’scourse. Dillon’s story fails to explain whythis simple-minded “Prussian,” as he called him,should have desired to run the risk of being killedand perhaps eaten after he had escaped by the narrowestmargin. However, the captain and themate of the Hunter were obliging mariners who199sensibly concluded that it was a man’s own businessif he yearned to hop from the frying-pan into thefire, and so they let the ship go toward the first landsighted after leaving Fiji.

This happened to be the island of Tucopia, andif you care to prick it off on the chart, Chief OfficerDillon gives the position as latitude 12° 15´ S. andlongitude 169° E. The Lascar sailor who alsohad been saved from the irate Fijians and their upliftmovement elected to seek this new place of exilealong with Martin Bushart as a sort of Man Fridayto a Prussian Robinson Crusoe, and so the singularpair were left on the beach of Tucopia, where theywaved an unperturbed farewell, while the Hunterhoisted colors and fired a gun to express her regardsand best wishes. What kind of welcome the nativesextended them is left to conjecture.

Mr. Dillon, when it came to writing about theepisodes, unconsciously employed the trick of theplaywright who permits so many years to elapsebetween the acts of the drama. Nothing could bemore concise than his method of joining the factstogether. He tells us:

We landed Martin Bushart and the Lascar on thisisland the 20th September, 1813. On the 13th of May,1826, in command of my own ship, the St. Patrick, boundfrom Valparaiso to Pondicherry, I came in sight of the island200of Tucopia. Prompted by curiosity, as well as regardfor an old companion in danger, I hove my ship tooff the island of Tucopia. Shortly a canoe put off fromthe island and came alongside. In it was the Lascar.Immediately after another canoe came off with MartinBushart, the Prussian. They were both in sound healthand were extremely rejoiced to see me. They informedme that the natives had treated them kindly; that no shiphad touched there from the time they were first landeduntil about a year previous to my arrival when an Englishwhaler visited the island for a short time.

Captain Dillon mentions the dates in a very casualfashion, but some years had elapsed with a vengeance—thirteenof them, in fact—during twelve ofwhich Martin Bushart had dwelt contentedly withoutseeing the face of another white man. The tiesthat bound him to his island had been strong enoughto hold him there when the chance was offered tosail away in the English whaler.

While the pair of them were visiting CaptainDillon on board of the St. Patrick, the Lascarshowed the sailors a tarnished old silver sword-guard,and one of them bought it of him for a fewfish-hooks. Captain Dillon happened to see it, andasked Martin Bushart where it had come from. Inthis strangely accidental way was revealed theclouded mystery of La Pérouse and his lost frigates.Bushart explained that when he had first landed onthe island the natives possessed as their chief treasures201this ornate sword-guard, the handle of a silverfork, a few knives, tea-cups, glass beads and bottles,and a spoon engraved with a crest and monogram.In addition to these furnishings of a ship’s cabin,they had also some iron bolts, chain-plates, and axes.

Martin Bushart had been curious to discover howthese islanders had obtained such relics of disaster,for the Hunter was the first ship that had ever beenseen off Tucopia when he was set ashore there in1813. He was informed that a large group of islandscalled Manicola lay to leeward about twodays’ sail in a canoe, and that voyages were frequentlymade there for trade and sociability. Itwas from the people of Manicola that the articles ofiron and silver had been obtained. Now, CaptainDillon remembered the story of La Pérouse, as didevery shipmaster who traversed the South Seas, andso he examined the sword-guard and discovered engravedinitials, faint and worn, but legible enoughfor him to surmise that they were those of theFrench discoverer and navigator.

His interest keen, Captain Dillon went ashorewith Martin Bushart, who interpreted for him, andthey held a long conversation with the chiefs ofTucopia. Many years before, so the tale ran, twogreat ships had anchored among the islands ofManicola. Before they were able to send any boats202ashore or to become acquainted with the natives, avery sudden storm arose, and both ships were drivenupon the reefs and were destroyed by the fury of thesurf. The people of Manicola rushed in crowds tothe beach, armed with clubs, spears, and bows andarrows, and the sailors of the ships fired muskets andbig guns at them. This infuriated the people, whokilled some of the shipwrecked men when they werewashed ashore or managed to make a landing intheir boats. The survivors showed a friendly spiritand offered axes, buttons, and trinkets as gifts, atwhich the people ceased to attack them.

The foreign sailors saved a large quantity ofstores and other material from the wrecks, and atonce began to build a small vessel from the timbersof the two shattered frigates. They worked withastonishing skill and speed, and built a schoonerthat was large enough to carry most of them away.The commander promised to return and bring offthose whom he was compelled to leave behind.Crowded into this little makeshift craft, a largenumber of the officers and men of the lost Boussoleand L’Astrolabe steered away from Manicola andwere never heard of again. A second shipwreckswallowed them somewhere in the South Seas. Itwas impossible to ascertain whether La Pérousehimself was one of this company. Those who were203left behind lived with the people of Manicola andwere kindly treated by the chiefs.

The Lascar had made two voyages to Manicolaand had actually talked with two aged Europeans,who told him that they had been wrecked manyyears before in a ship, the fragments of which theypointed out to him. They told him that no othership had ever stopped there since and that most oftheir companions were dead, but that they had beenscattered so widely among the islands of the groupthat it was impossible to know whether any more ofthem were still living. By the Lascar’s reckoning,this would have been about thirty years after thedisaster that overwhelmed the frigates of La Pérouseand, for all that is known, he himself may havebeen one of those aged men who dwelt so long beyondall knowledge of their countrymen in Franceand to whom the priceless gift of rescue was denied.

Captain Dillon was determined to proceed atonce to Manicola and find and save those two agedcastaways whom the Lascar believed to be Frenchmen.Leaving Tucopia, he cracked on sail, andMartin Bushart went with him, having concluded toreturn to civilization and much moved by the friendshipwhich prompted the Irish shipmaster to visithim after so many years had passed. The Lascarremained behind, having a large and happy family,204which he declined to desert. Within sight of theManicola group a dead calm held the good shipSt. Patrick, and for seven days not a breath of windstirred her spires of canvas. She was running shortof provisions, leaking badly, and most reluctantlyCaptain Dillon was compelled to resume his voyageto India.

Reaching Calcutta, he presented a carefully writtenreport to officials of the British Government andstated his conclusion that the remains of the expeditionof La Pérouse were to be found among the islandsof the Manicola group. The story was socredible that the Government made a ship readyand placed her in command of Captain Dillon, whogot under way in January, 1827. It was Septemberbefore he arrived at Tucopia, where he found theLascar, who, for some reason of his own, refused toaccompany the party to Manicola. Martin Bushartwas still with Captain Dillon, however, and heconducted a thorough investigation among thepeople of his own island home in order to discoverall the relics possible. Tucopia was systematicallyransacked, and among the articles brought to lightwere more swords, bits of iron and copper, andsilverware with the monogram of La Pérouse.

After a fortnight, Captain Dillon took his ship toManicola, where the green mountains towered from205the sea. Alas! no aged Frenchmen came down tothe beach to greet them, nor could any living survivorbe found. Almost forty years had gone sincethey were cast away, and the last of them hadslipped his moorings, with a farewell sigh and aprayer for France. When Captain Dillon’s partywent ashore in a flotilla of armed boats, all the chiefmen of the island were assembled in the council-hall,and the most venerable and influential of themdelivered himself of a long oration, the facts ofwhich differed somewhat from the story as the nativesof Tucopia had retold it to Martin Bushartand the Lascar. It is probable, however, that thepatriarchal chief, speaking at first hand, told thetruth when he said to Captain Dillon:

Obedient to orders, the friendly islanders had assembledfor Captain Dillon’s inspection everythingthat had been fished up or handed down to them207from the pitiful fragments of La Pérouse’s frigates.There was much iron and copper, broken chinaware,silver plate stamped with the lilies of France, aship’s bell, several brass cannon, and pewter dishesalso bearing the fleur-de-lis. On the bronze bellwas the emblem of the holy cross between imagesof the Saviour and the Virgin Mary, and so thesymbols of religion, of faith, of suffering, and ofconsolation had been preserved for those survivorswho grew old and died on these undiscovered islandsof the South Seas.

It was evident that the frigates had driven ashoreon two different islands of the group, and CaptainDillon visited the scenes of both disasters. Nativedivers explored the reefs and found cannon embeddedin the sand and massive oaken timbers andother memorials which enabled him to fix the positionof the ships. Of the stockade and the launching-waysupon which the stout-hearted French seamenhad built their little schooner not a trace couldbe found. During forty years of luxuriant growththe jungle had obliterated man’s handiwork, andthe logs had rotted into mold.

The extraordinary fact was noted that the survivorswho lingered into old age on these islandshad left no written record or message behind them,not a word to indicate who they were. Lacking208paper, they might have carved upon boards the briefepitome of their story or lettered it with charcoal onbits of bark, and the kindly chiefs of Manicolawould have guarded the record with care. Likeghosts of sailormen, they lived in the memories andthe traditions of these South Sea Islanders. CaptainDillon made an interesting discovery while exploringthe reefs, and he thus describes it:

Being in want of water, two men from each boat landedwith the water kegs and went up to the nearest house. Onpassing it, one of our people called out in Spanish, “Hereis a fleur-de-lis,” which M. Chaigneau and I, who followedand understood him, desired him to point out. He directedour attention to the door of a house where we sawat the bottom of the threshold a decayed piece of fir orpine plank with a fleur-de-lis and other ornamental workupon it. It had probably formed part of a ship’s sternand when complete exhibited the national arms of France.It was placed upon edge to barricade the passage, forthe double purpose of keeping the pigs out and the childrenin the house. This we bought for a hatchet.

It was in Captain Dillon’s mind that one of thesurvivors had gone to another island, according tothe old chief’s story, and so after finishing the investigationof the Manicola group, he sailed toransack the seas near by. Nothing came of thesearch, and the natives whom he questioned hereand there had never seen or heard of other white209men excepting in the legends of the wreck of thetwo great ships as they had listened to the tales andsongs of visitors from Manicola. Captain Dillonreturned to Calcutta, where his enterprise and successwere highly approved by the British Governmentof India, which ordered him to proceed toFrance with the precious relics of the lost expeditionof La Pérouse.

The Irish merchant skipper found that he had becomea distinguished personage. His Most ChristianMajesty, Charles X of France, was pleased tomake him a chevalier of the Legion of Honor, withan annuity of four thousand francs. ChevalierDillon relates:

Savants and naval officers weighed all the evidence,and were of the opinion that at least two ofthe survivors had been alive as late as 1824, orthirty-six years after the shipwreck, and that one ofthem was possibly La Pérouse. The theory wasadvanced that after his great adventure had beeneclipsed by a misfortune so enormous, he might havebeen unwilling to return to France, fancying himselfdisgraced, and that he perhaps chose to maroonhimself at Manicola when his comrades sailed awayin their tiny schooner. Be that as it may, their fatewas no less tragic, for the sea conquered them andleft no sign or token. Long after Captain Dillon211had made his famous voyage of discovery, the beliefstill persisted in France that La Pérouse and someof his officers and men were existing somewhere inthe South Seas and awaiting the rescue that nevercame.

Soon after Captain Dillon visited Manicola, aFrench ship arrived there on a similar mission.Having satisfied himself as to the location of thewreck of the flag-ship, L’Astrolabe, the captain senthis crew ashore to erect an enduring monument ofstone, upon which was carved the words:

“To the Memory of La Pérouse and his Companions.”

It was a British admiral, Sir Lewis Bayly, whotold the officers of the American destroyers operatingout of Queenstown, “To work with you is apleasure, to know you is to know the best traits ofthe Anglo-Saxon race.” In the same spirit it isgenerous to recall the enduring traditions of theEnglish Navy, which were welded through manycenturies of courageous conflict with the sea and theenemy. The wooden frigates and the toweringships of the line gave place to the steel-walledcruiser and the grim, squat dreadnought, but forthe men behind the guns the salty lineage was unbroken.As Beatty and his squadrons kept watchand ward in the misty Orkneys, so had Nelsonmaintained his uneasy vigil off Toulon.

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Among the annals of the vanished days of the oldnavies, of the tarry, pigtailed seamen with heartsof oak, the story of a shipwreck has been preservedin a letter written to his mother by a lieutenant ofthe frigate Phoenix in the year 1780. He tells herabout the tragic episode as though he had actuallyenjoyed it, scribbling the details with a boyish gustowhich conveys to us, in a manner exceedingly vivid,how ships and men lived and toiled in the age ofboarding-pikes, hammock-nettings, and single topsails.Few young men write such long letters totheir mothers nowadays, and even in that era ofleisurely and literary correspondence a friend whowas permitted to read the narrative was moved tocomment:

“Every circ*mstance is detailed with feeling andpowerful appeals are continually made to the heart.It must likewise afford considerable pleasure to observethe devout heart of a seaman frequently burstingforth and imparting sublimity to the relation.”

This stilted admiration must not frighten themodern reader away, for Lieutenant Archer held hisold-fashioned piety well under control, and was asbrisk, slangy, and engaging a young officer as youcould find afloat in a skittish destroyer of the presentday. The forty-four-gun frigate Phoenix wascommanded by Captain Sir Hyde Parker, who214later became an admiral, and under whose ordersNelson served for a time. His name has a flavor ofinterest for Americans because he took part in theBritish naval attack on New York in 1776 andlater joined in harassing Savannah. With almostno naval strength in the War of the Revolution, theUnited States had only its audacious privateers tomolest the enemy’s commerce and was helpless toconvoy or protect its merchant shipping, which waslargely destroyed. The British squadron to whichthe Phoenix was attached, finding little Americanbooty afloat in 1780, turned its attention to theSpanish foe and cruised in the waters of the Caribbean.

On August 2d the frigate sailed from Port Royal,Jamaica, escorting two store-ships to Pensacola, andthen loafed about in the Gulf and off the Cubancoast for six weeks in quest of Spanish prizes. Itwas a hot, wretchedly uncomfortable business, thisbeating about in the tropics in a ship of a hundredand forty years ago. The bluejackets were frequentlyflogged by way of making them fond of theservice, and many of them had been hauled into thiskind of maritime slavery by the brutal press-gangswhich raked the English ports. Somehow theymanaged to survive the chronic hardships of life atsea and to keep their ardor bright, so that in a gale215of wind or against a hostile fleet they stubbornly didtheir duty as long as two planks held together.The bulldog strain made them heroic.

In the ward-room of the Phoenix, where the officersperspired and grumbled and cursed their luck,they kept an ingenious lottery going to vary themonotony of an empty sea. Every man put aSpanish dollar into a canvas bag and set down hisguess of the date of sighting a sail. No two gamblerswere to name the same date. Whenever aman lost, he dropped another dollar into the bag.It was growing heavy, for one week stretched intoanother without a gleam of royals or topgallant-sailsfrom Vera Cruz to Havana. Like a good sportsman,Captain Sir Hyde Parker paid his stake intothe dollar bag and squinted through his longbrass spy-glass as he grumpily trudged the quarterdeck.

It was off Cape San Antonio, at the western endof Cuba, that the man at the masthead shouteddown:

“A sail upon the weather bow.”

“Ha! ha! Mr. Spaniard, I think we have you atlast,” jubilantly exclaimed the captain. “Turn outall hands! Make sail! All hands give chase!”

A midshipman scrambled aloft and blithely reported:

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“A large ship standing athwart us and runningright before the wind.”

“Larboard! Keep her away! Set the studding-sails!”was the order, and two hundred nimble seamenraced to their stations on deck and in the topsand swarmed out along the yards.

Up from below came the little doctor, rubbing hishands and crying:

“What, ho! I have won the dollar bag!”

“The devil take you and your bag!” roared LieutenantArcher. “Look yonder! That will fill allour money-bags.”

“Two more sail on the larboard beam,” came fromaloft. “A whole fleet of twenty sail coming beforethe wind.”

“Confound the luck of it!” growled the captain ofthe frigate, “this is some convoy or other; but wemust try to snap up two or three of them. Haul inthe studding-sails. Luff her. Let us see what wecan make of them.”

They were discovered to be twenty-five sail ofSpanish merchantmen, under convoy of three loftyline-of-battle ships, one of which set out in chase ofthe agile Phoenix, which soon showed her heels. Afrigate had no business to linger too close to thehundred guns of a ponderous three-decker. Thehuge Spanish man-of-war lumbered back to the convoy217and herded them watchfully while the Britishnosed about until dark, but found no stray prizesthat could be cut out from the flock. In the starlightthree ships seemed to be steering a course atsome distance from the Spanish fleet, so the frigategave chase, and came up with a heavy vessel mountingtwenty-six guns.

“Archer, every man to his quarters,” said the captain.“Light the battle-lanterns and open the gun-ports.Show this fellow our force, and it may preventhis firing into us and killing a man or two.”

Across the intervening water rang the challengefrom the Phoenix:

“Ho, the ship ahoy! Lower your sails and bringto instantly, or I will sink you.”

Amid the clatter of blocks and creaking of sparsthe other ship laid her mainyard aback andhung plunging in the wind while to the sharpinterrogation her skipper bawled through histrumpet:

“This is the British armed merchant ship Polly,from Jamaica to New York. What ship are you?”

“His Majesty’s forty-four gun frigate Phoenix,”was the reply, at which the honest sailors of themerchantman let go three rousing cheers; but aglum old shell-back of the frigate’s crew was heardto mutter:

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“Oh, damn your huzzas! We took you to besomething else.”

The Polly had fallen in with the Spanish fleetthat same morning, as it turned out, and had beenchased all day, wherefore the frigate stood by heruntil they had run clear of danger. It was thecourtesy of the sea, but Lieutenant Archer was unconsoledand he fretfully jotted down in writing tohis mother:

“There I was, from being worth thousands inimagination, reduced to the old four and sixpence aday. The little doctor won the most prize moneyof us all, for the bag contained between thirty andforty dollars.”

After almost running ashore in a thick night andclawing off by good seamanship, the Phoenix ranover to Jamaica for fresh water, and then sailed incompany with two other frigates. The verdantmountains of that lovely island were still visiblewhen the sky became overcast. By eleven o’clockthat night, “it began to snuffle, with a monstrousheavy appearance from the eastward.” Sir HydeParker sent for Lieutenant Archer, who was hisnavigating officer, and exclaimed:

“What sort of weather have we? It blows a littleand has a very ugly look. If in any other219quarter but this I should say we were going to havea smart gale of wind.”

“Aye, sir,” replied the lieutenant, “it looks sovery often here when there is no wind at all. However,don’t hoist topsails until it clears a little.”

Next morning it was dirty weather, blowing hard,with heavy squalls, and the frigate laboring underclose-reefed lower sails.

“I doubt whether it clears,” said the frowningcaptain. “I was once in a hurricane in the EastIndies, and the beginning of it had much the sameappearance as this. So be sure we have plenty ofsea room.”

All day the wind steadily increased in violence,and the frigate, spray-swept and streaming, rolledin the passage between Jamaica and Cuba, in perilof foundering if she stayed at sea and of fetchingup on the rocks if she tried to run for shelter.There was nothing to do but to fight it out. I shalllet Lieutenant Archer describe something of thestruggle in his own words, old sea lingo and all, becausehe depicts it with a spirit so high-hearted andadventurous, quite as you would expect it of a true-blueyoung sailorman.

The captain accepted the suggestion, and Archerconsidered it “a great condescension from such aman as Sir Hyde.” Two hundred sailors were orderedto climb into the fore-rigging and flattenthemselves against the shrouds and ratlines wherethe wind tore at them and almost plucked them fromtheir desperate station. Thus arranged, theirbodies en masse made a sort of human sail againstwhich the hurricane exerted pressure enough toswing the bow of the struggling ship, and she veryslowly wore, or changed direction until she stoodon the other tack. It was a feat of seamanshipwhich was later displayed during the historic hurricanein the harbor of Samoa when British, German,and American men-of-war were smashed bythe tremendous fury of wind and sea, and the gallant222old steam frigates Vandalia, Trenton, andNipsic faced destruction of the Stars and Stripesgallantly streaming and the crews cheering theluckier British ship that was able to fight its wayout to sea.

The hapless Phoenix endured it tenaciously, butthe odds were too great for her. When she triedto rise and shake her decks free of the giganticcombers, they smashed her with incessant blows.The stout sails were flying out of the gaskets thatbound them to the yards. The staunch wooden hullwas opening like a basket. The ship was literallybeing pounded to pieces. Sir Hyde Parker, lashednear the kicking wheel, where four brawny quartermasterssweated as they endeavored to steer the dyingfrigate, was heard to shout:

“My God! To think that the wind could havesuch force!”

There was a terrific racket below decks, and fearingthat one of the guns might have broken adriftfrom its tackles, Lieutenant Archer clambered intothe gloomy depths, where a marine officer hailedhim, announcing:

“Mr. Archer, we are sinking. The water is upto the bottom of my cot. All the cabins are awashand the people flooded out.”

“Pooh! pooh!” was the cheery answer, “as long223as it is not over your mouth you are well off. Whatthe devil are you making all this noise about?”

The unterrified Archer found much water betweendecks, “but nothing to be alarmed at,” andhe told the watch below to turn to at the pumps,shouting at them:

Presently one of the pumps choked, and thewater gained in the hold, but soon the bluejacketswere swinging at the brakes again, while LieutenantArcher stood by and cheered them on. A carpenter’smate came running up to him with a faceas long as his arm and shouted:

“Oh, sir, the ship has sprung a leak in the gunner’sroom.”

“Go, then, and tell the carpenter to come to me,but don’t say a word about it to any one else.”

When the carpenter came tumbling aft he wastold:

Just then the gunner appeared to add his bit ofnews.

“I thought some confounded thing was the matter,and ran directly,” wrote Lieutenant Archer.

Archer smiled to see how easily the gunner tookthe grave danger of the ship and replied:

“Let us shake off this gale of wind first and talkof the damaged powder later.”

At the end of his watch below, Archer thoughtthat the toiling gangs at the pumps had gained onthe water a little. When he returned to the deck225he was rather appalled by the situation, although hiscourage was unshaken. When he later tried to conveya picture of it for the entertainment of hismother, part of the letter read like this:

The unlucky crew of the Phoenix frigate, morethan three hundred souls, had behaved with disciplinedfortitude. The captain, who had commandedher for six years, knew his ship and herpeople, and they had stood the test. In this welteringchaos of wind and sea, which extended far overthe Caribbean, twelve other ships went down, all ofthem flying the white ensign of the Royal Navy,and more than three thousand seamen perished.227Maritime disasters were apt to occur on a tremendousscale in those olden days when ships sailed infleets and convoys.

It was not ordained that the brave and doggedship’s company of the Phoenix should be entirelyswallowed by the sea. While they fought the lastfight for life in the broken, sinking hulk, the keelthumped and ground along the back of a reef.Lieutenant Archer and Captain Sir Hyde Parkerwere floundering about together and had giventhemselves up for lost. The lieutenant was filledwith reflections profoundly religious, as well as withsalt water, and he took pains to expound them atlength in writing to his mother, and these were agreat solace, no doubt, to the good woman whowaited for infrequent tidings in a home of greenEngland. Sir Hyde Parker was swearing andspluttering at his men who were crying, “Lord havemercy on us!”

“Keep to the quarter-deck, my boys, when shegoes to pieces,” he yelled. “’Tis your bestchance.”

The shattered remnants of the frigate were beingflailed upon the Cuban reef, but the boatswain andthe carpenter rallied volunteers who cut away theforemast, which dragged five men to their deathwhen it fell. All this was in the black, bewildering228darkness just before the stormy day began to break;but the crew held on until they were able to see thecruel ledges and the mountainous coast which wasonly a few hundred feet away. Lieutenant Archerwas ready to undertake the perilous task of tryingto swim ashore with a line, but after he had kickedoff his coat and shoes he said to himself:

This won’t do, for me to be the first man out of the ship,and the senior lieutenant at that. We may get to Englandagain and people may think I paid a great deal ofattention to myself and not much to anybody else. No,that won’t do; instead of being the first, I’ll see everyman, sick and well, out of her before me.

Two sailors managed to fetch the shore, and ahawser was rigged by means of which all of the survivorssucceeded in reaching the beach. True tohis word, Archer was the last man to quit the wreck.Sir Hyde Parker was a man of more emotion thanone might infer, and the scene is appealing as thelieutenant describes it.

The captain came to me, and taking me by the hand wasso affected that he was scarcely able to speak. “Archer,I am happy beyond expression, to see you on shore butlook at our poor Phoenix.” I turned about but could notsay a single word; my mind had been too intensely occupiedbefore; but everything now rushed upon me at once,so that I could not contain myself, and I indulged for afull quarter of an hour in tears.

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The resourceful bluejackets first entrenchedthemselves and saved what arms they could find inthe ship, for this was no friendly and hospitablecoast. They were on Spanish soil, and it was nottheir desire to be marched off to the dungeons ofHavana as prisoners of war. Tents and huts werespeedily contrived, provisions rafted from thewreck, fires built, fish caught, and the camp was agoing concern in two or three days. Archer proposedthat the handy carpenters mend one of theboats and that he pick a crew to sail to Jamaica andfind rescue. This was promptly done and he says:

In two days she was ready and I embarked with fourvolunteers and a fortnight’s provisions, hoisted Englishcolors as we put off from the shore and received threecheers from the lads left behind, having not the least doubtthat, with God’s assistance, we should come and bringthem all off. Had a very squally night and a very leakyboat so as to keep two buckets constantly baling. Steeredher myself the whole night by the stars and in the morningsaw the coast of Jamaica distant twelve leagues. Ateight in the evening arrived at Montego Bay.

This dashing lieutenant was not one to let thegrass grow under his feet, and he sent a messengerto the British admiral, another to the man-of-war,Porcupine, and hustled off to find vessels on his ownaccount. All the frigates of the station were at sea,but Archer commandeered three fishing craft and a230little trading brig and put to sea with his squadron.Four days after he had left his shipwrecked comradeshe was back again, and they hoisted him upontheir shoulders and so lugged him up to Sir HydeParker’s tent as the hero of the occasion. ThePorcupine arrived a little later, so there was plentyof help for the marooned British tars. Two hundredand fifty of them were carried to Jamaica. Ofthe others “some had died of the wounds they receivedin getting on shore, some of drinking rum,and a few had straggled off into the country.”

Lieutenant Archer was officially commended forthe part he had played, and was promoted to commandthe frigate Tobago after a few months of dutyon the admiral’s staff. You will like to hear, I amsure, how he wound up the long letter home whichcontained the story of the last cruise of the Phoenix.

I must now begin to leave off, else my letter will lose itspassage, which I should not like, after being ten days atdifferent times writing it, beating up with a convoy tothe northward, which is a reason that this epistle willnever read well, for I never sat down with a proper dispositionto go on with it. But as I knew something of thekind would please you, I was resolved to finish it; yet itwill not bear an overhaul, so don’t expose your son’s nonsense.You must promise that should any one see it besideyourself, they must put this construction on it—thatit was originally intended for the eyes of a mother only—asupon that supposition my feelings may be tolerated.231You will also meet with a number of sea terms which ifyou do not understand, why, I cannot help you, as I amunable to give a sea description in any other words. Iremain His Majesty’s most true and faithful servant andmy dear mother’s most dutiful son.

It was in the early part of the eighteenth century,two hundred years ago, when the merchantvoyager ran as great a risk of being taken by piratesas he did of suffering shipwreck. Within a briefperiod flourished most of the picturesque scoundrelswho have some claim to distinction. Blackbeardterrified the Atlantic coast from Boston to Charlestonuntil a cutlass cut him down in 1717. He wasa most satisfactory figure of a theatrical pirate, alwaysstrutting in the center of the stage, and manyothers who came later were mere imitations. RobertLouis Stevenson was able to imagine nothing betterthan Blackbeard’s true sea-journal, written with his233own wicked hand, which contained such fascinatingentries as this:

Such a day, rum all out;—our company somewhatsober;—a damned confusion amongst us! Rogues a-plotting—greattalk of separation—so I look sharp for aprize. Took one with a great deal of liquor on board;—sokept the company drunk, damned drunk, then all thingswent well again.

Captain Avery was plundering the treasure-ladengalleons of the Great Mogul off the coast ofMadagascar in 1718, and was reported to havestolen a daughter of that magnificent potentate ashis bride, while “his adventures were the subject ofgeneral conversation in Europe.” The flamboyantcareer of Captain Bartholomew Roberts began in1719, that “tall, dark man” whose favorite toast was“Damnation to him who lives to wear a halter,” andwho always wore in action a rich crimson damaskwaistcoat and breeches, a red feather in his hat, agold chain and diamond cross around his neck, asword in his hand, and two pairs of pistols hangingat the ends of a silk sling flung over his shoulder.

In this same year Captain Ned England was takinghis pick of the colonial merchantmen whichwere earning a respectable livelihood in the slave-tradeof the Guinea coast. He displayed his merryand ingenious spirit by ordering his crew to pelt to234death with broken rum-bottles a captured shipmasterwhose face and manners displeased him.Mary Read, the successful woman pirate, was thenin the full tide of her exploits and notably demonstratedthat a woman had a right to lead her ownlife. When her crew presumed to argue with her,she pistoled them with her own fair hand, and neatlykilled in a duel a rash gentleman pirate who hadbeen foolish enough to threaten her lover. Whenasked why she preferred a vocation so hazardous,Mary Read replied that “as to hanging, she thoughtit no great hardship, for were it not for that everycowardly fellow would turn pirate and so infest theseas and men of courage would starve.”

It was in the same period that the bold CaptainJohn Quelch of Marblehead stretched hemp, withfive of his comrades, and a Salem poet was inspiredto write:

In 1724 two notorious sea-rovers, Nutt andPhillip, were cruising off Cape Ann within sight ofSalem harbor’s mouth. They took a sloop commandedby one Andrew Harraden, and therebycaught a Tartar. Harraden and his sailors erupted235from the hold into which they had been flung, killedNutt and Phillip and their officers, tossed the restof the rascals down below, and sailed into BostonHarbor, where their cargo of pirates speedily furnishedanother entertainment for the populace thattrooped to the row of gibbets on the flats of thetown. The old sea-chronicles of New England arefilled with episodes of these misfortunes, encounters,and escapes until the marvel grows that the seamenof those quaint brigs, ketches, and scows couldbe persuaded to set out from port at all. The appallingrisk became a habit, no doubt, just as thepeople of to-day dare to use the modern highwayon which automobiles slay many more victims thanever the pirates made to walk the plank.

The experience of an unlucky master mariner inthat era of the best-known and most successful piratesmay serve to convey a realization of the gamblewith fortune which overshadowed every tradingvoyage when the perils of the deep were so crueland so manifold. And it is easy to comprehendwhy the bills of lading included this petition, “Andso God send the good sloop to her desired port insafety. Amen.”

In the year of 1718 the Bird galley sailed fromEngland in command of Captain Snelgrave to finda cargo of slaves on the coast of Sierra Leone.236The galley, as sailors then used the term, was asmall, square-rigged vessel not unlike a brig, althoughproperly the name belonged to craft propelledby oars as well as sails; but seamen in allages have had a confusing habit of mixing the variousclassifications of vessels. It was nothingagainst the character of Captain Snelgrave thathe was bound out to the Gold Coast in the rum andnigg*r trade. The ship-chandlers of Liverpoolmade special displays in their windows of handcuffs,leg-shackles, iron collars, short and long chains, andfurnaces and copper kettles designed for slave-ships.The English Missionary Society owned aplantation and worked it with slaves. In Americathe New England colonies took the lead in the slave-trade,and the enterprising lads of the coastwiseports sought berths in the forecastles of the Africantraders because of the chance of profit and promotion.It was not held to the discredit of John PaulJones that he learned seamanship before the mast inthe slaver King George before he hoisted the firstnaval ensign of the United States above the quarter-deckof an American man-of-war.

No sooner had the Bird galley dropped anchorin the river of Sierra Leone than three pirate shipscame bowling in with a fair breeze. They had beenoperating together and had already captured ten237English vessels. Captain Snelgrave eyed these unpleasantvisitors with suspicion, but hoped theymight be on the same errand as himself. At eighto’clock in the evening, however, he heard the measuredthump of oars and descried the shadow of anapproaching boat. The first mate was ordered tomuster and arm twenty men on deck in readiness torepel boarders. The second mate hailed the boatand was answered; “The ship Two Friends of Barbadoes,Captain Elliott.” This failed to satisfy themaster of the Bird galley, and he shouted to theboat to sheer off and keep clear.

A volley of musket-balls was the reply from theboat, and the first mate of the Bird was told to returnthe fire. His men stood idle, however, and ittranspired that he cherished secret ambitions of beinga pirate himself and had won over several of thecrew. This was extremely embarrassing for CaptainSnelgrave, who was compelled to witness themarauders scramble unresisted up the side of hisvessel. The leader of the pirates was in a particularlynasty temper because the mate had been orderedto open fire, and he poked a pistol into thecaptain’s face and pulled trigger. As quick as hewas courageous, the skipper knocked the weaponaside, and was promptly felled with the butt of it.Dodging along the deck, the pirate boatswain238swung at him with a broadsword and missed hismark, the blade biting deep into the oaken rail.

There was a grain of spunk left in the crew ofthe Bird, and they rushed upon the evil boatswainbefore he could kill the captain. For this behaviorthey were mercilessly slashed with cutlasses, kickedand cursed, and then trussed in a row. With atouch of ferocious whimsicality the pirate chief declaredthat he would let Captain Snelgrave be triedby his own crew. If they had any complaints tomake of him as a shipmaster, he would be swung toa yard, and they should haul the rope. He musthave been a just and humane man, for not a sailorvoiced a grudge, and the ruffians appeared to forgetall about murder. After firing volleys to lettheir ships know that a prize had been captured,they turned with tremendous enthusiasm to the businessof guzzling and feasting.

The captive sailors were released, and told todress all the hens, ducks, and geese that were in thecoops on deck; but no sooner were the headschopped off than these childish blackguards refusedto have supper delayed. The Bird carried a hugefurnace, or oven, contrived for cooking the food ofthe five hundred slaves which were expected aboard.Into a roaring fire the pirates flung the hens, ducks,and geese, feathers and all, and hauled them out as239soon as they were singed and scorched. The sameculinary method was employed for half a dozenWestphalia hams and a sow with a dozen little pigs.A few finicky pirates commanded the ship’s cook,under pain of death, to boil the meat in the greatcopper caldrons designed for the slaves’ porridge.

The prodigious banquet made these unmannerlyguests feel in better humor, and they even told theirsurgeon to dress the wounds of the Bird’s sailors.They amused themselves by playing foot-ball withCaptain Snelgrave’s excellent gold watch, anddrank themselves into a state of boisterous joviality.The old record puts it mildly, to say the least, in affirmingthat “the captain’s situation was by nomeans an agreeable one, even under these circ*mstances,as ferocious men are generally capricious.He now fared very hard, enduring great fatiguewith patience, and submitting resignedly to the Almightywill.”

Before the wild night ended he was taken aboardthe pirates’ flagship, where he was questioned by asort of commodore or commander-in-chief of thesquadron. His name was co*cklyn, and he had ambitionsto conduct operations on a scale even larger.He wanted to win over the Bird’s crew and to flyhis black pennant from her, as his talk disclosed,and this was why the lives of her company had been240spared. Now occurred one of those romantic incidentswhich the novelist would hesitate to inventas stretching the probabilities, but in these ancientnarratives of the sea things were set down as theyactually happened. This is how the story was writtenin 1724:

Shielded from harm by this lawless, but devoted,old school-mate of his, the master of the Bird galleywas in no great danger of being sliced by someimpulsive pirate who was careless with a cutlass.His perfidious first mate and ten of the sailors nowsigned on as pirates and assisted the others in ransackingCaptain Snelgrave’s unfortunate ship.Such merchandise as did not happen to please theirfancy was pitched overboard, and they saved littlemore than the provisions, the clothing, and the goldcoin. They were like a gang of hoodlums on alark, and wanton destruction was their very stupididea of a pastime. This wild carnival went on forseveral days. Barrels of claret and brandy werehoisted on deck, the heads knocked in, and thedrink baled out with cans and buckets until theroisterers could hold not another swallow. Then242they doused one another with buckets of claret andgood French brandy as they ran roaring around thedeck.

Bottled liquors were opened by whacking off thenecks with cutlasses. They pelted one anotherwith cheeses, and emptied the tubs of butter to slidein. One of these sportive pirates dressed himselfin the captain’s shore-going black suit and his besthat and wig, strutted among his comrades untilthey drenched him with claret, and then chuckedthe wardrobe overboard. You will be gratified tolearn that “this man, named Kennedy, ended hiscareer in Execution Dock.”

Of the two other pirate ships then in the river ofSierra Leone one was British and the other French.The English commander was one of the brave andresourceful sea-rogues of his era, a fighting seamanin whom survived the spirit of those desperate adventurersof the seventeenth century who followedMorgan to Panama and hunted the stately Spanishgalleons with Hawkins and Dampier in the watersof the Pacific. This was the famous CaptainDavis, who would sooner storm a fort or take atown at the head of a landing party than to loot ahelpless merchantman. He had attempted to combineforces with these other pirates at Sierra Leoneand had been formally elected admiral in a council243of war. But he found reason to suspect the goodfaith of his associates, whereupon he summonedthem into his cabin and told them to their faces:

“Hear ye, you co*cklyn and La Boise” (the French captain),I find that by strengthening you I have put a rodinto your hands to whip myself, but I am able to deal withyou both. However, since we met in love let us part inlove, for I find that three of a trade can never agree longtogether.

Captain Davis was getting ready for a cruise onhis own account, with the design of attacking thegarrison of one of the Portuguese settlements onthe African coast, but he found time to interest himselfin the affairs of poor Captain Snelgrave of theBird galley. It may have been a spark of genuinemanliness and sportsmanship, or dislike of the slipperyco*cklyn, but at any rate Captain Davis intercededin his own high-handed manner and toldthe rascals to give the plundered Bird back to hermaster and to treat him decently.

This altered the situation. Captain Davis wasthe king wolf of the pack, and his bite was muchworse than his bark. co*cklyn and La Boise weredisposed to resent this interference and hung back alittle, at which the black flag was run up to the mastheadof Captain Davis’s formidable ship, and thegun-ports were dropped with a clatter to show a244crew, disciplined and sober, with matches lighted,and handspikes and tackles ready.

Very promptly the Bird galley was restored toCaptain Snelgrave, but before going to sea CaptainDavis was rowed ashore for a farewell chat with afriend of his named Glynn. This man was livingat Sierra Leone for reasons unknown, probably intrade of some kind, and the only information concerninghim is that “although he had suffered frompirates, he was on good terms with them and yetkept his hands free from their guilt.” He musthave been a two-fisted person with a backbone ofsteel, for Captain Davis was satisfied to intrust tohis care the broken fortunes of the master of theBird galley.

Soon after the tall ship of Captain Davis waswafted seaward with the breeze that drew off theland, the pirates twain, co*cklyn and La Boise, wereinvited to dinner at the house of Captain Glynn.The other guest was Captain Snelgrave, who discoveredthat the wind had suddenly shifted in hisfavor and he was treated with the most distinguishedcordiality and respect. Fresh clothing was offeredhim, and he enjoyed the luxury of one of CaptainGlynn’s clean shirts. It was explained that theBird was uncommonly well adapted for fitting outas a pirate ship because she had flush decks for245mounting guns and was sharply molded for fastsailing. co*cklyn and La Boise politely suggestedthat they keep her for their own use and give toCaptain Snelgrave a merchant vessel of larger tonnagewhich had been recently captured. By wayof making amends for their rudeness, they would bedelighted to replace his ruined cargo with merchandisetaken from other prizes, and he could take hispick of the stuff.

This was a delicate problem for Captain Snelgraveto decide. The ethical codes of the pirateswere so much more unconventional than his ownthat they failed to see why he should hesitate to sailhome to England in a stolen ship with a cargo oflooted merchandise. Tactfully, but firmly, he declinedthe offer, at which they hopefully suggestedthat he might change his mind and, anyhow, theywould do their best to straighten things out forhim. It was a pleasant little dinner party, but itis plausible to infer that the thought of the absentCaptain Davis hung over it like a grim shadow.

Next day the abandoned merchantman which hadbeen offered to Captain Snelgrave was towed alongsidethe Bird galley, and all of his cargo that hadescaped destruction was transferred by his owncrew. There was a good deal of it, after all, for ithad consisted largely of salted provisions and bolts246of cloth for the slave market, and the wanton pirateshad tired of the game before they got into the lowerholds. Captain Snelgrave moved ashore and founda comfortable refuge in the house of CaptainGlynn.

Retribution now overtook that truculent pirate,the boatswain, who had first attempted to blow outthe brains of Captain Snelgrave and then to slicehim in his hammock. He fell very ill of tropicalfever and rum, and realizing that he had come to theend of his cable, he sent for the skipper and imploredforgiveness. It is solemnly recorded that“this man fell into a delirium the same night anddied before the morning, cursing God his maker insuch a frightful manner that it affected several ofthe pirates who were yet novices in that mode of life,and they came privately, in consequence, to obtainCaptain Snelgrave’s advice how they should get outof their evil course. A proclamation of pardon hadbeen issued to all pirates who surrendered beforeJuly 1, 1719, and the captain advised them to embracethe pardon so tendered.”

Still refusing to accept the gift of a purloinedship, the captain persuaded the pirates to remove allhis cargo ashore, which they cheerfully did and builta shelter to cover it. Then they busied themselvesat the task of arming the Bird for their own wicked247use, and were amazingly sober and industrious foras much as a fortnight. When they were ready toput the ship into commission, Captain Snelgravewas invited aboard to a jollification in his owncabin. There was a certain etiquette to be followed,it seemed, and the observance was punctilious.Toasts were drunk to a lucky cruise, andevery man smashed his glass upon the table or floor.The ship was renamed the Windham Galley, andthey all trooped out on deck and waved their hatsand huzzaed when the Jolly Roger broke out ofstops and showed aloft like a sinister blot againstthe clean sky from the mast which had displayed theBritish ensign. The new batteries were fired insalute, with a great noise and clouds of gunpowdersmoke, and then, of course, all hands proceeded toget most earnestly drunk though they laid no violenthands upon Captain Snelgrave.

The ships were still in the harbor when the redoubtableCaptain Davis came sailing in from hisvoyage. It had been shorter than expected, forrich booty was overtaken at sea, and he delayed theadventure with the Portuguese fort until he coulddispose of his profits and refit. First, he had laidalongside two English and one Scotch ship andlifted out of them such goods as attracted his fancy,permitting them to proceed. A few days later the248lookout aloft sighted a sail and, in the words of therecord, “it may be proper to inform our readersthat, according to the laws of pirates, the man whofirst discovers a sail is entitled to the best pair of pistolsin the ship and such is the honor attached tothese that a pair of them has been known to sell forthirty pounds.”

Captain Davis chased this tempting ship until shedrove ashore and the terrified crew took to thejungle. She proved to be a gorgeous prize, aheavily armed packet, “having on board the Governorof Acra, with all his substance, going to Holland.There was in her money to the amount offifteen thousand pounds, besides a large quantity ofmerchant goods and other valuable articles.” Thisship had the men and guns to have stood up to itand given Captain Davis a battle royal, but thesight of his evil flag, and perhaps his own bloodyrepute, made cowards of them. It was quite otherwisewith another Dutchman overhauled soon afterthis. These stolid seamen had the proverbial tenacityof their race, and they scorned the notion of haulingdown colors at the sight of a scurvy pirate. Tothe insolent summons they replied with a broadsideand killed nine surprised pirates, who were smellingbrimstone in another world before they realizedhow it happened.

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Excessively annoyed, Captain Davis closed in,and soon found that he had a hard nut to crack.With thirty guns and ninety men the Dutchmanstood him off, and they fought a stubbornly heroicsea action that lasted from one o’clock at noon untilafter daylight next morning, occasionally haulingoff for rest and repairs and tackling each otheragain, hammer and tongs. Finally the Dutchmanhad to strike, for he was outfought by men betterdrilled and practised. Captain Davis respectedtheir valor, and there was no mention of makingthem walk the plank. The fifty survivors weretaken aboard his own ship to save their lives, fortheir own ship was so smashed and splintered thatshe sank soon after.

Reaching Sierra Leone, Captain Davis invitedCaptain Snelgrave aboard for supper in order tolearn how affairs had been going with him. At theend of a successful cruise, the cutthroats had to behandled with a loose rein. They expected a grandcarouse as a matter of course, and such a leader asCaptain Davis was wise enough to close his eyesuntil he was ready to put the screws on again andprepare for another adventure. Most of the ship’scompany were properly drunk when the alarm offire was shouted. A lighted lantern had been overturnedamong the rum-casks, and the flames were250running into the hold. Amid the shouting and confusion,the sober men tumbled into boats and pulledfor the shore. The fire was eating straight towardthe magazine, in which were stowed thirty thousandpounds of gunpowder.

One pirate, who was both astonishingly brave andsober, dropped through a hatchway, groped throughthe smoke, and yelled that unless they fetched himblankets and buckets of water the ship would blowup. Captain Snelgrave gathered all the rugs andblankets he could find and rushed below to join thefellow. Other men rallied when led by CaptainDavis, and formed a bucket brigade to douse theblankets and stuff them against the bulkhead of themagazine. It was a ticklish situation, taking it byand large,

for the night was dark, the crew drunk, and no hope ofmastering the fire seemed to remain. To spring into thewater was certain death, from the sharks hovering aroundthe vessel. Having accomplished all that he was able,Captain Snelgrave snatched up a quarter-boat gratingand lowered it with a rope, hoping to float away upon that,as several persons had gone off with the boats. Whilethe captain was thus meditating his escape he heard ashout from the main-deck, “Now for a brave blast to go tohell with.” On which some of the newly entered piratesnear him, believing the ship must blow up in a few minutes,lamented their entering on that vile course of life,with bitter exclamations against the hardened offenders on251the main-deck who dared to blaspheme in such an houras this.

Fifty of the crew crawled out upon the bowspritand sprit-sail yard, where they clung and hoped tobe blown clear of the general upheaval. Theyhandsomely deserved extermination, but a dozengallant volunteers still toiled and suffered in thehold, and at length they smothered the fire before itate into the magazine. All of them were terriblyburned, and it is fair to assume that Captain Davisawarded them an extra share of the plunder when itwas distributed. One of the heroes of the crisis wasCaptain Snelgrave, or so the pirates admiringlyagreed, and they were more than ever anxious tobefriend him. They would have been glad to serveunder him, but he had no taste for piracy and declinedthe honor when a vote was passed aroundthe tubs of grog that he go as a sailing master untilhe had gained experience and was ready to commanda crew of gentlemen of fortune.

Disappointed in this, they used their gold to buyback for him a considerable amount of his cargo,which had been divided or sold ashore, and presentedhim with some of the merchandise allotted to themfrom the ships lately captured by Captain Davis.There were worse pirates on the high seas than thiscollection of gallows-birds in the harbor of Sierra252Leone, and merchant mariners much less admirablethan this London slave-trader, Captain Snelgrave.Thanks to the exertions of the solicitous pirates, hegathered together sufficient possessions to retrievethe voyage from complete disaster, and the stuff wassaved from harm in the rough warehouse ashore,where the kindly Captain Glynn was a vigilantguardian.

The pirates were now ready to depart on their disreputablebusiness, co*cklyn and La Boise sailing incompany, while Captain Davis ranged off alone.This time he carried out his purpose of raiding thePortuguese colony, the military governor of whichreceived warning from a coasting vessel and accordinglystrengthened his defenses and armed everyable-bodied man. Captain Davis led his piratesfrom their boats and stormed the fort under a heavyfire.

The Portuguese governor was a fighting manhimself and he gave as good as he took. Thepirates gained the parapet and set the wooden buildingsafire with hand grenades, but while the issuewavered, Captain Davis fell, a pistol-ball in hisstomach. In a hand-to-hand conflict his pirateswere driven back to the beach, carrying their dyingcaptain with them. Defeated, they left their deadand wounded and fled in the boats, while in the last253gasp Captain Davis discharged both his pistols atthe enemy. “And those on board the ship, whoexpected to hoist in treasure, had to receive naughtbut their wounded comrades and dead commander.”

Captain Snelgrave, left free to work out his ownplans, loaded his cargo into one of the vessels whichthe pirates had abandoned in the river. He wasshrewd enough to know that he could not be accusedof receiving a stolen ship, for maritime usage nowprotected him. He was taking possession of a derelictand sailing her home, where he could make termsof sale or salvage with her rightful owners. Andso he mustered as many of his crew as had not beenlured away by the pirates, and said good-by to hisloyal friend Captain Glynn, and took on board sixother masters of ships who were stranded at SierraLeone because they had been unlucky enough to fallin with co*cklyn and La Boise and Captain Davis.On August 1, in the year 1719, Captain Snelgravedropped anchor in the port of Bristol and trudgedashore to find a pleasant haven in a tavern and tellhis troubles to other sun-browned skippers whoknew the Guinea coast and the hazards of the slave-trade.

A different kind of fortune was that of CaptainGeorge Roberts, who sailed from Virginia for the254Guinea coast in the year of 1721. Pirates overtookhis sloop off the Cape Verd Islands, and at firsttreated him rather good-humoredly, as he was a manof spirit and could hold his own when the bottlewas passed. The pirate captain took a fancy to himand had a mind to let him resume his voyage, but unluckilythe health of the “Old Pretender,” JamesIII, was proposed at table, and Captain Roberts,who was no Jacobite, roundly refused to drink sucha damnable toast. He did not purpose to bend hissentiments to suit the fancy of any pirates that eversailed unhung. One of them was for shooting himthrough the head, but to the others it seemed moreentertaining to put him aboard his own vessel withoutprovisions, water, or sails, and to kidnap hiscrew as well, and let him drift out to sea. CaptainRoberts listened to the discussion and had nothingmore to say. He would drink the health of a kingof his own choosing if it cost him his skin, and thatwas the end of it.

The old chronicler who preserved the tale of thisstubborn sea-dog took occasion to moralize in thisfashion:

That men of the most abandoned characters should sofar forget what humanity is due their fellow men, as toexpose any one to almost certain destruction, merely onaccount of a foolish toast, may excite the astonishment of255the reflecting; nor perhaps shall we wonder much less atthe romantic resolution of Captain Roberts who braveddeath rather than submit to an insignificant form.

In the dead of night the sloop was cast off, andthe pirates even pilfered all the candles to makematters as uncomfortable as possible. Two boys ofthe sloop’s crew had been left on board, one of theman infant of eight years, and it may have accordedwith the piratical style of humor to call this a complement.The eight-year-old urchin was perhaps acabin-boy; no other information is vouchsafed concerninghim. At any rate, he must have turned tolike a little man, for he took the wheel while the captainand the elder boy pumped to clear the leakyvessel of water. Fairly confident that she wouldstay afloat, they took stock at daylight, and foundthat the pirates had overlooked a few crumbs ofbread, ten gallons of rum, a little rice, and someflour, with a two-gallon jug of water. They wereunable to kindle a fire because the jocular pirateshad carried off the flint and steel, and so they livedon raw flour and rice and drank rum after the watergave out.

Three days’ hard labor sufficed to patch up a sailthat pulled the sloop along when the wind blew hardenough. Rain fell and gave them a little morewater before they died of thirst. A shark was256caught when the food had all been eaten and theylived for three weeks before sighting land again.This was the Isle of St. Anthony, in the Cape Verdgroup, and the elder boy begged to be allowed to goashore in the boat and look for water.

He pulled away after sunset and, with the anchordown, Captain Roberts dragged himself into thecabin and was instantly asleep. Rousing out atmidnight, there was no sign of the boat and, to hisdismay, he discovered that the sloop had driftedalmost out of sight of land with a strong night wind.His crew now consisted of the eight-year-old miteof a sailor lad, but they swung on the pump togetherand tugged at the windlass until the anchor washove short. They tended the rag of sail, and akindly breeze slowly wafted them back toward theisland until they were able to drop the mud-hook ina sandy bay with a good holding-ground. CaptainRoberts was a stalwart man, and hats off to hiseight-year-old crew!

The other boy who had rowed ashore was anxiouslylooking for the vessel, and he appeared aboardwith a gang of negroes whom he had hired to workher into the nearest port. They brought food andwater with them, and affairs seemed to have takenan auspicious turn, but during the first night out thesail split from top to bottom. There was no other257canvas to set, and the negroes promptly tumbledinto the boat and made for the island. The voyageappealed to their simple intellects as very much of afailure. Captain Roberts sighed, and resumed theinterminable task of finding a haven for his helplesssloop. His two boys did what they could, but theywere completely worn out and unable to help rigup another sail of bits of awning, tarpaulins, and soon, and bend it to the spars.

Captain Roberts was inclined to believe that hehad played his last card, but one is quite unable tofancy him as regretting his quixotic refusal to join aparty of Jacobite pirates in toasting the Pretender.When another day came, he was grimly hanging tothe tiller and trying to keep the sloop’s head in thedirection of land when he heard a commotion in thehold. One of the lads plucked up courage to peerover the hatch-coaming, and in the gloom he descriedthree negroes in a very bad temper who wereholding their heads in their hands. Ordered ondeck, they anxiously rolled their eyes, and explainedthat they had found the puncheon of rum soon aftercoming on board and had guzzled it so earnestlythat they sneaked below to sleep it off. Their comradeshad deserted the ship in the darkness, andCaptain Roberts, assuming that all hands were quittinghim, had not counted them.

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Here was a crew provided by a sort of unholymiracle, and they were ready to help take the shipto port to save their own perfectly worthless lives.They managed to carry her close to a harbor calledSt. John’s, and one of the black rascals declared thathe was an able pilot; but when the vessel drew closeto the rocks he lost his courage and dived overboard,whereupon his comrades followed him, and all swamashore like fishes. The afflicted Captain Robertslet go his anchor and waited through the night, afterwhich other natives came off to the sloop andbrought fresh provisions and water. It seemed as iftheir troubles might be nearing an end, but a stormblew next day, and the sloop went upon the rocks.Captain Roberts and the two lads were rescued bythe kindly natives, who swam out through the ragingsurf, but the sloop was soon dashed to pieces.She deserved to win a happier fortune.

The voyage to the Guinea coast was ruined, andCaptain Roberts had no money to back another venture;but he set about building a boat from thewreck of his sloop, and made such a success of itthat with the two lads and three negro sailors hewas soon doing a brisk trade from island to island.Having accumulated some cash, he decided to returnto London, where he arrived after an absence of fouryears.

To the modern generation, one of the greatadventures of seafaring history is familiaronly in an eloquent reference of Robert Louis Stevenson,and few readers, I venture to say, havetaken the trouble to delve for the facts which inspiredthe following tribute in the essay called “TheEnglish Admirals”:

In 1739 the bitter rivalry between England andSpain for the trade and treasure of the New Worldflamed afresh in war. A squadron of six Britishmen-of-war under Commodore George Anson wassent out to double Cape Horn and vex the dons intheir South American ports and on the routes ofthe Pacific where the lumbering galleons steered forPanama or Manila. With these fighting-vesselswent a supply-ship called the Wager, an old EastIndiaman which had been armed and filled withstores of every description. Clumsy, rotten, andoverladen, the Wager was no better off for a crew,which consisted of sailors long exiled on other voyagesand pining for home. The military guardwas made up of worn-out old pensioners from261Chelsea Hospital, who were very low in their mindsat the prospect of so long and hazardous a cruise.They could not be called a dashing lot aboard theWager, and as for the captain of her his name wasCheap, and he was not much better than that. Youshall have the pleasure of damning him as heartilyfor yourselves as did his forlorn ship’s company.

The crazy old hooker of a store-ship began to goto pieces as soon as she encountered the wild galesand swollen seas off the Horn. Decks were swept,boats smashed, and the mizzenmast carried clean outof her. Disabled and leaking, the Wager wassomehow worked into the Pacific; but the captainhad no charts of the coast, and he blundered along inthe hope of finding the rest of the squadron at therendezvous, which was the island of Juan Fernandez.He was warned by the first lieutenant, thegunner, and other officers that the floating weed,the flocks of land birds, and the longitude, as theyhad figured it out, indicated a lee shore not manymiles distant. The gunner was a man of sorts andhe was bold enough to protest:

“Sir, the ship is a perfect wreck; our mizzenmastgone, and all our people ill or exhausted; there areonly twelve fit for duty,—therefore it may be dangerousto fall in with the land.”

Captain Cheap stubbornly held on until he was262disabled by a fall on deck which dislocated his shoulder,and confined him to his cabin. The officerswere better off without him. On the morning ofMay 13, 1740, the carpenter’s keen eyesight discernedthe lift of land through a rift in the cloudyweather, but the others disagreed with him until theysaw a gloomy peak of the Cordilleras. Theship was driving bodily toward the land, andthe utmost exertions were made to crowd her offshore;but the sails split in the heavy gale,and so few men were fit for duty that there were nomore than three or four active seamen to a watch.

In darkness next morning the Wager struck asunken rock, and her ancient timbers collapsed.She split open like a pumpkin, rolled on her beam-ends,and lodged against other projections of thereef, with the seas boiling clean over her. Then amountainous billow or two lifted her clear, and shewent reeling inshore, sinking as she ran. Several ofthe sick men were drowned in their hammocks, andothers scrambled on deck to display miraculous recoveries.Because the commander of the ship wasworthless and disabled besides, the discipline of theship in this crisis was abominable. The brave menrallied together as by instinct, and tried to hammercourage and obedience into the frenzied mob. The263mate, Mr. Jones, was a man with his two feet underhim, and he shouted to the cowards:

“Here, lads, let us not be discouraged. Did younever see a ship amongst breakers before? Come,lend a hand; here is a sheet and there is a brace; layhold. I doubt not that we can bring her nearenough to land to save our lives.”

Mr. Jones thought they were all dead men withouta ghost of a show of salvation, as he later confessed,but his exhortations put heart into them, andhe was not one to die without a gallant struggle.Soon the wreck of the Wager piled up in the breakersbetween two huge rocks, where she stayed fast.Dry land was no more than a musket-shot away,and as soon as daylight came the three boats thatwere left—the barge, the cutter, and the yawl—werelaunched and instantly filled with men, whotumbled in helter-skelter. The rest of the sailorsproceeded to break open casks of wine and brandyand to get so drunk that several were drowned in theship. The suffering Captain Cheap permitted himselfto be lifted out of bed and borne into a boat withmost of the commissioned officers, while the master,gunner, and carpenter, who were not gentlemen atall, but very ordinary persons, in fact, remained inthe wreck to save what they could of her and to264round up the riotous bluejackets and bear a handwith the surviving invalids.

A hundred and forty people of the Wager foundthemselves alive, and nothing more, on the savageand desolate coast of Patagonia. The boatswain,who was a hard case, had stuck by the ship, but therewas nothing noble in his motive. He led a crowdof kindred spirits, who vowed they would stay thereas long as the liquor held out. When ordered toabandon the hulk, they threatened mutiny andbroached another cask. During the followingnight, however, another gale drove the sea over thewreck, and the rogues had quite enough of it.

They signaled for the boats to take them off, butthis was impossible because of the raging surf;wherefore the gay mutineers lost their tempers andlet a cannon-ball whizz from a quarter-deck gun atthe refugees on shore. While waiting for rescue,they rifled the cabins for tempting plunder, andswaggered in the officers’ laced coats and co*ckedhats. The boatswain, who egged them on, saw to itthat they were well armed, for he proclaimed defianceof all authority, and there was to be no more of theiron-handed code of sea law. These were pressedmen, poor devils, who broke all restraint becausethey had not been wisely and humanely handled.

When at length they were taken ashore, Captain265Cheap showed one of his fitful flashes of resolutionby sallying from his tent and knocking the insolentboatswain down with a loaded cane and putting aco*cked pistol to his ear. This took the wind outof the sails of the other mutineers, and they tamelysubmitted to being stripped of their arms, whichmade them harmless for the moment. So bleak wasthe coast that the only food obtainable was shell-fish,while from the wreck almost no stores weresaved. The most urgent business was to knock hutstogether of the drift-wood and canvas, and effectsome sort of organization. A fortnight passed beforeCaptain Cheap had the provisions properlyguarded and the rations dealt out in a systematicmanner, while in the meantime the sailors were stealingthe stuff right and left, and the battle was to thestrongest.

It was ascertained that they were marooned onwhat appeared to be an island near the coast andabout three hundred miles to the northward of theStrait of Magellan. Three canoes of PatagonianIndians happened to discover the camp, and theywere friendly enough to barter for two dogs andthree sheep, which were no more than a meal for thehungry crew of the Wager. The Indians vanished,and the agony of famine took hold of these miserablepeople. Instead of pluckily working together266to master the situation like true British seamen, theysplit into hostile factions, and insubordination wasrampant. There were rough and desperate menamong them, it is true, but a leader of courage andresource whom they respected would have stampedout much of this disorder.

They wandered off in sullen groups, ten of themstraying away into the woods until starvation drovethem back, another party building a punt and sailingaway in it, never to be heard of again. Theselatter fellows were not regretted, according to thenarrative of one of the survivors, who declares that

there was great reason to believe that James Mitchell, oneof them, had perpetrated no less than two murders, thefirst on a sailor found strangled on board and the secondon the body of a man who was discovered among somebushes, stabbed in a shocking manner. On the day oftheir desertion, they plotted blowing up the captain in hishut, along with the surgeon and Lieutenant Hamilton ofthe marines; they were with difficulty dissuaded from itby one less wicked than the rest; and half a barrel ofpowder, together with the train, were found actually laid.

Among the officers was a boyish midshipmannamed Cozens who was of a flighty, impulsive dispositionand who had no head for strong liquors. Toomuch grog made him boisterous, and by way of alesson he was shut up in a hut under guard. Hecherished a hearty dislike for Captain Cheap and267was extremely impertinent to that chicken-heartedbully of a commander, who thereupon lashed himwith his cane. The doughty sentry of marines interfered,swearing that not even the captain of theship should strike a prisoner placed in his charge.The midshipman took the disgrace to heart, andwhat with anger, drink, and privation he seems tohave become a bit unbalanced. There had been nomore popular young officer in the Wager, easy,genial, affectionate; but now he quarreled with thesurgeon and had a more serious row with the purser,taking a shot at him and vowing that he was readyto mutiny to get rid of the blockheads and villainswho had brought ruin to the expedition.

Captain Cheap heard a report of the uprising ofMidshipman Cozens and delayed not to investigate,but rushed out and shot the rash youngster throughthe head. There was nothing novel in talkingmutiny. The whole camp was infected with lawlessness.If it was a crime to ignore authority, allhands were guilty. Flouted and held in contempt,Captain Cheap killed the midshipman as anexample to the others, and, of course, they hated anddespised him more than before. Poor youngCozens lived long enough to take the hand of hischum, Midshipman Byron, and to smile a farewellto the sailors who had been fond of him. They268begged to be allowed to carry him to one of theirown tents while he was still breathing, but the captainrefused, and flourished his pistol at them; so hedied where he fell.

Captain Cheap, after the deed was done, addressed thepeople, assembled together by his command, and told themhe was resolved to retain his authority over them as usual,and that it remained as much in force as ever. He thenordered them all to return to their respective tents, withwhich they complied. This event, however, contributedto lessen him in the regard of the people.

Three boats had been saved from the wreck of theWager, and the largest of them was the long-boat, aword that awakens memories of many an old-timeromance of the sea and seems particularly to belongto “Robinson Crusoe.” It was what might be calleda ship’s launch, and was often so heavy and capaciousthat vessels towed it astern on long voyages.Two months after the disaster, the Wager’s peopledespairing of rescue, began to patch up the boatswith the idea of making their way to the Spanishsettlements of the mainland. The long-boat washauled up on the beach, and the carpenter undertookthe difficult task of sawing it in two andbuilding in a section in order to make it twelvefeet longer.

While this enterprise was under way, a party of269fifty Indians, men, women, and children, found thecamp and built wigwams, evidently intending tosettle for a while and do some trading. Theircanoes were filled with seal, shell-fish, and live sheep,and the visitation was immensely valuable to thecastaways; but some of the ruffianly sailors insultedthe women, and the indignant Patagonians soonpacked up and departed, bag and baggage. As aresult, the ravages of famine became so severe thatthe muster-roll was reduced to a hundred men.This meant that a third of the survivors of the wreckwere already dead.

Throughout the whole story of suffering, mutiny,and demoralization the deeds of those who bravelyand unflinchingly endured seemed to gleam likestars against a somber background. You will findfrequent mention of Midshipman Byron, a lad inhis teens, who was the real hero of the Wager, althoughhe never realized it. He achieved nothingspectacular in a way, but he always tried to do hisduty and something more. The British midshipmanof that era was often a mere rosy-cheekedinfant who pranced into the thick of a boarding-partywith his cutlass and dirk or bullied a boat’screw of old salts in some desperate adventure on anenemy’s coast. The precocious breed survives inthe Royal Navy of to-day, and in the great battleships270of the Grand Fleet, at Rosyth or Scapa Flow,you might have seen these bantam midshipmenstanding a deck watch with all the dignity of a four-starredadmiral.

Midshipman Byron of the Wager built himselfa tiny hut in which he lived alone after the captainkilled his messmate Cozens, and his companion was astrayed Indian cur, which adored him. The dogfaithfully guarded the hut when Byron was absentfrom it, and they shared together such food as couldbe found, mostly mussels and limpets. At length adeputation of seamen called to announce that theymust eat the dog or starve. Byron made a gallantfight to save his four-legged friend, but was subduedby force, and for once during the long and terribleexperience he wept and was in a hopeless state ofmind.

Among the minor characters who commend themselvesto our approval was a reckless devil of aboatswain’s mate, who noticed that the seabirdsroosted and nested on reefs and islets out to seaward.In the words of one of his shipmates:

Having got a water puncheon, he scuttled it, then lashingtwo logs, one on each side of it, he went to sea in thisextraordinary and original piece of embarkation. Thushe would frequently provide himself with wild-fowl whenall the rest were starving; and the weather was bad indeedwhen it deterred him from adventuring. Sometimes271he would be absent a whole day. At last he was unfortunatelyoverset by a heavy sea when at a great distancefrom shore; but being near a rock, though no swimmer,he contrived to scramble to it. There he remained twodays with little prospect of relief, as he was too far offthe land to be visible. Luckily, however, one of the boatshappened to go that way in quest of wild-fowl, discoveredhis signals, and rescued him from his forlorn condition.Yet he was so little discouraged by this accidentthat, soon after, he procured an ox’s hide from the Indiansand, by the assistance of hoops, fashioned somethinglike a canoe in which he made several successfulvoyages.

In August the three boats had been made seaworthyenough to undertake an escape from the miseriesof this hopeless island. Then, as usual, therearose confusion of purpose and violent disagreement.This ship’s company could be trusted tostart a row at the drop of the hat. As long as therewas breath in them, they were sure to turn againstone another. The majority proposed that they tryfor a passage homeward by way of the Strait ofMagellan. Captain Cheap and his partizans werefor steering northward, capturing a Spanish vesselof some sort, and endeavoring to find the Britishsquadron from which the Wager had become separated.He blustered about his authority, insistedthat his word was law, and so on, until the high-handedmajority grew tired of his noise and decided272to take him along as a prisoner and hand him overto justice for killing Midshipman Cozens.

They hauled their commander out of bed andlugged him by the head and the heels to the purser’stent, where he was guarded by a sentry of marinesand very coarsely derided by these unmannerlyrebels. The gunner informed Captain Cheap thathe was to be carried to England as a prisoner; atwhich he retorted, with proper spirit, that he wouldsooner be shot than undergo such humiliation and,given his choice, he preferred to be left behind on theisland. This was agreeable to the mob, who gavethree cheers and thought no more about him. Histwo loyal companions, the surgeon and LieutenantHamilton, elected of their own free will to remainwith the fallen commander, and this devotion wasone of the admirable episodes of the tragedy. Themutineers recognized it as such, and they distributedthe provisions fairly with these exiles and gave themarms and ammunition.

There were now eighty-one men to embark in thelong-boat, the cutter, and the barge and set sail forthe Strait of Magellan. They started off with huzzasand Ho for Merry England, with about onechance in a thousand of getting there, and coastedalong for two days when the wind blew some oftheir rotten canvas away and they halted to send the273barge back to the wreck for more sail-cloth. MidshipmanByron found the company uncongenial, toput it mildly, and the venture seemed so confusedand hazardous that he shifted into the barge toreturn to the island and resume existence in his littlehut. The crew of the barge were of the same opinionand so they announced to Captain Cheap thatthey would take chances with him. Eight deserterscame straggling out of the woods to join the partyand there were, in all, twenty men to contrive a voyageof their own.

The most unruly lot had departed in the long-boatand the cutter, and mutiny no longer kept theisland in a turmoil. Order was restored to theextent that a sailor was flogged and banished forstealing food, and the party sensibly toiled at thewreck until they salvaged several barrels of salt beeffrom the hold, and so recruited health and strength.They patched together the remnants of the yawl,and in this and the barge they put to sea to cruise tothe northward in December, or more than half ayear after the loss of the Wager. Misfortune besetthem at every turn. It seemed as though their shiphad been under a curse. A gale almost swampedthe two boats as soon as they were clear of the island,and to keep afloat they had to throw overboard alltheir salt beef and seal meat. Most of the other274stuff was washed out, and they made a landing inworse plight than before.

With fitful weather they skirted a swampy coast,with nothing to eat but seaweed, until they werechewing the shoes they had sewed together from rawsealskin. It was Christmas day or thereaboutswhen the yawl was smashed beyond mending bydragging its anchor and driving into the surf. Thebarge was not large enough to carry all hands, andit was agreed that four of them should be abandonedashore. There was no obstreperous argument overit. They had become careless of such matters aslife and death. Just how these four men werechosen or whether they volunteered is left to conjecture.The story written by Midshipman Byron,which is the most detailed account of the episode,describes it as follows:

The picture of the four marines as they wavedtheir caps and shouted that immortal huzza is aptto suggest the wreck of the Birkenhead troop-shipin 1852, when she struck a rock off the Cape ofGood Hope and four hundred British soldiers andmarines perished. With the ship foundering beneaththeir feet, they fell in and stood as though onparade, while the women and children were put intothe two available boats. As the decks of the Birkenheadlurched under the sea, the ranks of the fourhundred British soldiers and marines were stillsplendid and unbroken. The deed rang throughEngland like a trumpet-call, as well it might.

Brothers in arms and kinsmen in spirit were thesefour hundred men of England’s thin, red line to thefour humble privates of the Royal Marines whosenames are forgotten. And Kipling’s tribute maybe said to include them also:

The wretched voyage of the Wager’s barge wasso delayed by head winds and battering seas and thenecessity of landing often in search of food that allhope of reaching a Spanish port was relinquished,and finally they put about and trailed wearily backto the island and the wreck of the Wager after twomonths of futile endeavor. The superstition of thesea perturbed these childish sailormen, who laidtheir distresses to the fact that one of the crew whowas murdered on the island had never been givenburial. Therefore the first errand when they totteredashore at their old camp was to dig a graveand say a prayer.

They were so tormented with famine that theytalked, or rather whispered, of choosing one of theirnumber by lot, that dreadful old expedient, andboiling him for a square meal; but the discovery ofsome rotten beef cast up from the wreck averted thisprocedure. They existed for a fortnight, and thena party of Indians appeared, among them a chief.He spoke a little Spanish, and an officer of the277Wager managed to convey to him that they desiredguidance to the nearest white settlement. Thepromise of the barge as a gift persuaded the mercenaryPatagonian to lead them out of the wilderness.Thirteen survivors were left of the twentywho had attempted to fare to the northward. Thefour marines had been left to their heroic fate, andthree others had later died of hunger.

The Indian chief had not bound himself to furnishfood, and it soon appeared as though the castawayswould all perish to a man before they came to theend of the journey. They were trying to pull thebarge up a turbulent river with a rapid current, andthere occurred an incident or two which illuminedthe characters of Midshipman Byron and CaptainCheap and showed what very different men theywere. I quote the old record:

If one may hazard a personal conjecture, it seemsplausible to assume that Captain Cheap was theJonah of the Wager expedition and that the spellmight have been lifted if he had been thrown overboardmuch earlier in the adventure. Be that as it279may, the curse was still potent, for as the next mishapsix sailors and one of the Indians stole the bargeand made off to sea with it. This left the othersstranded and bereft of everything that belonged tothem. Besides this affliction, the Patagonian chiefwas disgruntled because the barge was to have beenhis reward for befriending them. He was for killingthem at once as the easiest way to settle theaccount, but it was Midshipman Byron, of course,who cajoled him out of his mood and pleased himwith the gift of a fowling-piece. The six seamenwho stole the barge passed into oblivion at the sametime, and so were justly punished for their perfidy.They joined the great majority of the Wager’scompany who never saw port again.

Over the rocks and through the swamps pantedand staggered the few survivors, hauling and paddlingcanoes like galley-slaves and abused immoderatelyby their Indian guides, or captors. Theywere cold and wet and famished, and at last the surgeondied, and the others were little more thanshadows. Captain Cheap grew more selfish andpompous, and adversity had no power to chastenhim. One more picture and we are almost donewith him.

When they were led at last to a small Spanishgarrison called Castro, only four of the party had281survived the journey, Midshipman Byron, LieutenantHamilton of the Royal Marines, LieutenantAlexander Campbell, and Captain Cheap. Althoughthe English were enemies, the corregidorand the Jesuit priests felt pity for these poor victims,and treated them with great kindness. Whenthey had recovered, they were escorted to the largertown of Chaco with a guard of thirty Spanishsoldiers. At this seaport of the Chilean coast thegovernor entertained them handsomely and invitedthem to travel on his annual tour through the districtsof his province. Midshipman Byron was sopopular with the ladies that he had to steer a verycareful course to avoid entanglements. He was theguest of one doting mother who had two very handsomedaughters, and she straightway sent a messageto the governor asking that the young Englishmanbe sent back to spend a month with the family.

This was not so serious as the affair with the nieceof the rich and venerable priest, a highly educateddamsel

The officers of the Wager were compelled to waitfor another of the infrequent trading ships from283Lima, and it was therefore in January, 1743, beforethey made the next stage of their interminablepilgrimage. They were sent ashore at Valparaiso,where the Spanish governor promptly threw theminto prison; but he later forwarded them to Santiago,the capital of Chile, where they were handsomelyreleased on parole.

In Santiago at that time were Admiral Pizarroand several officers of the squadron which had beensent out from Spain to intercept Commodore Ansonand drive him away from the rich trade routes of thePacific. It was a powerful force of six men-of-war,with a total of three hundred guns and four thousandsailors, marines, and soldiers. The storms ofCape Horn and the ravages of disease crippled theexpedition, and shipwreck almost wiped it out.The flagship Asia found refuge in the River Platewith half her crew dead; the Esperanza had onlyfifty-eight men alive of the four hundred and fiftywho had sailed from Spain in her, and of an entireregiment of infantry all but sixty perished. Onlytwo ships survived to return home after four years’absence, and more than three thousand Spanishsailors had found their graves in the sea.

While his flagship was undergoing repairs atMontevideo, Admiral Pizarro made the journey byland across the Andes to Santiago to confer with the284Viceroy of Chile. Introduced to the officers of theWager, one of the ships of the enemy’s squadronwhich he had hoped to engage in battle, the Spanishadmiral invited them to dine with him and displayedthe most perfect courtesy. One of his staff, DonManuel de Guiros, insisted upon advancing themfunds to the amount of two thousand dollars. MidshipmanByron and his companions accepted part ofit, giving drafts on Lisbon, and were able to livecomfortably and await the next turn of fortune’swheel.

Two weary years they tarried in Santiago, andwere treated not as enemies but as castaways.They found great consolation in the friendship of aScotch physician who was known as Don PatricoGedd. Midshipman Byron wrote:

This gentleman had been a long time in the city andwas greatly esteemed by the Spaniards, as well for hisabilities in his profession as for the humanity of his disposition.He no sooner heard that four English prisonershad arrived in that country than he waited on thepresident and begged that they might be lodged in hishouse. This was granted, and had we been his own brotherswe could not have met with a more friendly reception;and during two years that we were with him, it was hisconstant study to make everything as agreeable to usas possible. We were greatly distressed to think of theexpense he was at upon our account, but it was vain toargue with him about it.

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A French ship, bound from Lima to Spain,finally carried them homeward as passengers, andthey saw the shores of England in November, 1745,or more than five years after the Wager had beenlost in the Gulf de Panas on the coast of Patagonia.The boyish midshipman who had behaved so wellthrough all vicissitudes was of gentle blood andbreeding, and in England he was known as theHonorable John Byron, second son of the fourthLord Byron. When he landed at Dover with twoof his shipmates his troubles were not quite at anend, and to quote his own words:

The Honorable John Byron became a Britishvice-admiral and was also the grandfather of thepoet, who transmuted some of the exploits of themidshipman of the Wager into the pages of DonJuan. As one of the most famous fighting sailorsof his era, Admiral Byron earned the nickname of“Foul Weather Jack,” because he contended soconstantly with gales and head winds, and it is to287this that Lord Byron refers in his “Epistles toAugusta”:

You will find that Stevenson mentions him inthat same tribute to the English admirals:

Most men of high destinies have high-sounding names.Pymn and Habakkuk may do pretty well, but they mustnot think to cope with the Cromwells and Isaiahs. Andyou could not find a better case in point than that of theEnglish Admirals. Drake and Rooke and Hawke arepicked names for men of execution. Frobisher, Rodney,Boscawen, Foul-Weather Jack Byron, are all good tocatch the eye in a page of naval history.

The story of the man-of-war Wager was byno means finished when young MidshipmanByron rode into London and was welcomed as onerisen from the dead. It will be recalled that abouttwenty of the crew persisted in the attempt to sailhomeward by way of the Strait of Magellan. Theyhad been at sea only a few days when the cutter, thesmaller of their two boats, was knocked to piecesamong the rocks, and the survivors were thereforejammed into the long-boat, which had room for nomore than half of them. How they managed tostay afloat is a mystery that cannot be fathomed,with the gunwales only a few inches above waterand scarcely any space to row or steer or handle sail.They quarreled continually, and “hardly ten testifiedany anxiety about the welfare of the voyage butrather seemed ripe for mutiny and destruction.”Eleven of the company soon preferred to quit thismadhouse of a boat and to face a less turbulentdeath ashore, and at their own request they werelanded on the coast of Patagonia.

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The long-boat, still overcrowded to a degree thatmeant incredible discomfort and danger, blunderedon her course, with only the sun and stars for guidance.A little flour and some other stores had beentaken from the wreck, and now occurred a curiousmanifestation of human selfishness, of the strugglefor survival reduced to the lowest terms. The officershad endeavored to ration the food, share andshare alike, but the ugly temper of the men madesuch prudent precautions impossible, and some obtainedmore provisions than others. The situationwas described by one of them in these words:

They actually sailed through the Strait of Magellanand reached the Atlantic after two monthsof suffering during which twenty men died offamine and disease. Landing wherever possible,they found seal and fish or traded with wanderingIndians for dogs and wild geese to eat. Of the survivorsno more than fifteen were able to stand or tocrawl about the boat. A happier fate was grantedthem when they coasted along the wilderness of theArgentine and found thousands of wild horses,which kept them plentifully supplied with meat.At length they came to the Rio Grande and thetown of Montevideo, and thirty of them were alive,or half the number that had made the voyage in thelong-boat.

Among those who died almost within sight ofrescue was Thomas MacLean, the cook, a patriarchof eighty-two years, presumably one of those soldierpensioners who had been snatched from hiswell-earned repose at Chelsea Hospital. This isone of the most extraordinary facts of the wholestory, that this tough old veteran of a red-coat, hisage past four score, should have lived all those291months, during which the great majority of theyounger officers and men of the Wager had beenblotted out by privations which seemed beyondhuman endurance.

While the long-boat was standing along the coast,on this last stretch of the journey, there came a timewhen there was no food or water left. There wasno small boat to send ashore, so nine of the strongestmen offered to swim to the beach and see what theycould find. Over they went, feeble as they were,and all reached shore except one marine, who had solittle strength to spare that he sank like a stone.Those in the long-boat let several empty water-casksdrift to the land and tied to them some musketsand ammunition wrapped in tarred canvas. Agale blew the long-boat out to sea and disabled herrudder. Tacking back with great difficulty, shefound it impossible to lay to and bring off the eightmen, and another cask was floated off to them, containinga letter of farewell, and more ammunition,and the boat made sail, and vanished to the northward.

The adventures of this little band of seamen, accidentallymarooned in this manner, were most remarkable.They are almost unknown to history,although a century and more ago much was writtenabout the Wager. The heroism and manliness of292this group of actors go far to redeem many otherepisodes of the disaster which were profoundlyshameful, and they are the chief reason for recallingthe cruise of the long-boat. Said Isaac Morris, oneof them:

There was no senseless chatter about mutiny, noselfish bickering. They were sturdily resolved tostick together and make the best of a bad bargain.293For a month they lived in a burrow in the sand,knocking a seal on the head whenever they neededfood. As preparation for the journey they madeknapsacks of sealskin, filled them with the driedflesh, and used the bladders for water bottles.Muskets on their shoulders, they trudged for sixtymiles, when no more fresh water could be found, andthey retreated to their camp to await the rainy season.Now they built a sort of hut under the lee ofa cliff and varied the diet of seal by catching armadillosand stewing them in seaweed. Their patiencewas amazing, and Seaman Isaac Morris wrote ofthis weary inaction:

Nothing remarkable happened to us in the course ofthese three months. Our provision, such as it was, didnot cost us much difficulty to procure, and we were suppliedwith fire-wood from a small coppice about sevenmiles distant. We seldom failed of bringing home somethingevery night and generally had a hot supper. Thetime passed as cheerfully as might be with poor fellows insuch circ*mstances as ours.

Again they set out on foot, in the month of May,after burdening their backs with seal and armadillomeat, and traversed a barren, open country untilincessant cold rains chilled them to the bone and nosupplies of any kind were obtainable. There wasprolonged argument, and the majority was for returning294once more to the hut they had left behind asthe nearest refuge. Back they toiled over the sameold trail, cast down, but not disheartened, and stillloyal comrades who “bound themselves never to quiteach other unless compelled by a superior force.”They had a certain amount of order and discipline,four of them out hunting for food on one day andremaining in camp the next day while the other fourranged the country for deer and the coast for seal.Wild dogs were numerous, and several litters ofpuppies were adopted until every man had a braceof them as his faithful friends and helpers. Severalyoung pigs were also taken into the family, and theytrotted contentedly along with the dogs.

The eight seamen lived in this strangely simpleand solitary manner until seven months had passed,and then they concluded to make another attempt toescape from the bondage of circ*mstances. Not anIndian had been seen, and there was no reason tobelieve that they had been discovered or observed.They merited good fortune, did these stanch andcourageous castaways, but the curse of the Wagerhad followed them. While they were getting togethersupplies for another journey toward BuenosAires, Samuel Cooper, John Andrews, John Duck,and Isaac Morris went some distance along the295beach to hunt seals. Late in the day they were returningto the hut when the dogs were seen to berunning and barking in much agitation. The fourmen hurried to the hut, which was empty and plunderedof muskets, powder, and ball, sealskin clothes,dried meat—everything they possessed.

Scouting outside, one of the sailors shouted toMorris:

“Aye, Isaac, something much worse has happened,for yonder lie poor Guy Broadwater andBenjamin Smith murdered.”

One poor fellow was found with his throat cut,and the other had been stabbed in the breast. Theirbodies were still warm, and, afraid the assassinsmight be somewhere near, the four men ran hardand hid in a rocky bight a mile away until nextmorning, for they had no firearms left. Of the fourwho had been overtaken in this tragedy, JosephClinch and John Allen had vanished, nor was anytrace of them discovered. It was sadly agreed thatIndians must have killed two and carried the twoothers away with them. The four survivors weredeprived not only of their comrades, but of theirprecious muskets and the means of making fire.Never were men left more naked and defenseless ina hostile wilderness. In this plight Samuel Cooper,296John Andrews, John Duck, and Isaac Morristrudged off for the third time to look for the mouthof the River Plate and Buenos Aires.

With them trooped sixteen dogs and two pigs,and it must have been an odd caravan to behold.They carried their provender on the hoof this time.By following the sea-coast, they found pools of freshwater among the sand-dunes, where the heavy rainshad not yet filtered into the ground, and a deadwhale washed up on the beach served for severalhearty meals. They got along without great difficultyuntil ten days of travel found them mired inendless swamps and bogs, which they could find noway of crossing. Again they retreated to thestarting-place at the hut, but the amiable pigs wereno longer in the troop. There were not so manydogs, and their number steadily dwindled; for therewould have been no bill of fare without them.

Three months more the four unconquerable seamenlingered in their exile, at their wits’ ends to plana way of escape, because the exodus to Buenos Aireshad been given up as hopeless. Then they discovereda large trunk of a fallen tree on the beach, andconceived the wild notion of fashioning some kindof boat of it and hoisting a sail of sealskins sewedtogether with sinews. They had no tools whatever,barring a pocket-knife or two, but this could not discourage297the handy mariners. John Duck happenedto remember that during the first journey towardBuenos Aires eleven months before, he had thrownaway his musket because the lock was broken. Itoccurred to one of them that the iron of the barrelmight be pounded into something like a hatchet, andwhat did the quartet do but take a little seal meatand water and walk sixty miles to look for thatmusket. They found it, which was still more wonderful,and beat half the length of the barrel flat,using stones as hammer and anvil, and whetted anedge on the rough rocks.

They were about to attack the project of makinga boat when a dozen horses came galloping along thebeach, and there were Indians on their backs.They were as astonished as the British seamen, buthad no intention of shedding blood, and promptlywhisked their prisoners up behind them. At agreat pace the Indian horsem*n rode several milesinland to a camp where a dozen of them were roundingup wild horses. It affords a glimpse of whatthe life had been in that hut on the Patagonian coastto hear Isaac Morris say:

“We were treated with great humanity; theykilled a horse, kindled a fire, and roasted part of it,which to us who had been eating raw flesh threemonths was most delicious entertainment. They298also gave each of us a piece of an old blanket tocover our nakedness.”

Two hundred miles back into the mountainousinterior, where white men had never been seen, thewandering party of horse-hunting Indians carriedthe four sailors. These were sporting savages witha taste for gambling, and it is chronicled that “inthis place we were bought and sold four differenttimes, for a pair of spurs, a brass pan, ostrich feathersand such trifles, which was the low price generallyset on each of us; and sometimes we wereplayed away at dice, so that we changed mastersseveral times in a day.”

A few weeks later the band of nomad Indians wasjoined by other parties, and together, with a trainof fifteen hundred horses, they moved by easy stagesfar inland, almost a thousand miles from the coast,and came in four months’ time to the capital, orchief town of the tribe, where the king claimed theseamen as his own property. He spoke a littleSpanish, and hated the Spaniards so cordially thathis friendly regard was offered these wanderers becausethey had served in an English man-of-war ofa squadron sent against the enemy. They wereslaves, it is true, but this condition was temperedwith kindness, and for eight months they lived andlabored among these wild horsem*n of South299America. When the season of spring arrived, thetribe broke camp for the long pilgrimage to thepampas and the chase of the wild horses which suppliedfood and raiment.

The customary route to the sea passed within ahundred miles of Buenos Aires, and the sailors persuadedtheir masters that it was worth while tryingto obtain ransom for them. At last there was atangible hope of extricating themselves, but itbrought joy only to three of the four comrades.Poor John Duck happened to be a mulatto born inLondon, and his brown skin won the fancy of theIndians, who insisted that he was of their own blood.Therefore they refused to part with him and he wassold for a very high price to another chief in a regioneven more remote, and this was the last of him. Histhree shipmates were very sorrowful at leaving him,no doubt, and it must have been an incident deeplymoving when they shook hands and went their oppositeways, for they had suffered manifold thingstogether and carried it off magnificently. And intheir minds there must have been the memory ofthat vow they had sworn together “never to quiteach other unless compelled by a superior force.”

The chief was faithful to his word in sending amessenger to Buenos Aires, where the Spanish governorexpressed his willingness to buy three English300prisoners at the bargain price of ninety dollars forthe lot.

In this manner were Midshipman Morris andSamuel Cooper and John Andrews deliveredfrom their captivity in the wilds of Patagonia,though they were not yet to see the long road hometo England. The Spanish governor of BuenosAires behaved toward them like a very courteousgentleman, but felt it his bounden duty to labor withthem for the good of their souls. “He sent for usseveral times,” Midshipman Morris tells us, “andearnestly urged us to turn Catholics and serve theking of Spain; to which we answered that we wereProtestants and true Englishmen and hoped to dieso. Many tempting offers were made to seduce usbut, thank God, we resisted them all.”

This obstinacy vexed the conscientious governor,and he sent the three heretics on board of the man-of-warAsia, the flag-ship of Admiral Pizarro’ssquadron, which was then lying at Montevideo.Aboard the Asia the three Englishmen were confinedmore than a year, with sixteen other unluckyseamen of their own race. They complained thatthey were treated more like galley-slaves than prisonersof war, and it was inevitable that they shouldtry to escape. A sentry was tied and gagged onenight, and the Britons swam for the shore, a quarter301of a mile away. Most of them were overtaken in aboat, but Isaac Morris and one sailor, naked as theday they were born, scrambled into the jungle, andhad such a piteous time of it that they were glad tosurrender to the laborers of the nearest plantation.Taken back to the ship, they were thrust into thestocks, neck and heels, four hours a day for a fortnightas a hint to discourage such rash enterprise.

Admiral Pizarro had journeyed overland toChile, and in the very leisurely course of time hereturned to Buenos Aires to set sail for Spain in hisflag-ship, having achieved nothing more than a wild-goosechase in quest of the daring Anson. Thetowering, ornate Asia was refitted as completely aspossible, but there was a great lack of seamen.More than half her crew had died of scurvy or desertedduring the long voyage and the year at ananchorage. Press-gangs combed the streets anddives of Buenos Aires and Montevideo, but the shipcould not find a proper complement, and, as a lastresort, eleven Indians were unceremoniously thrownon board. They had been captured while raidingthe outposts of the thinly held Spanish settlements,and were of a fighting tribe which preferred death tosubmission to the cruel and rapacious invader.

One of these eleven Indians was a chief by thename of Orellana and a man to be considered noteworthy302even in that age of high adventure. Whendragged aboard the Spanish flag-ship, he and hisfellows were, of course, handled like dogs,

being treated with much insolence and barbarity by theSpaniards, the meanest officers among whom were accustomedto beat them on the slightest pretences. Orellanaand his followers, though apparently patient and submissive,meditated a severe revenge. He endeavored to conversewith such of the English as understood the Spanishlanguage and seemed very desirous of learning howmany of them were on board and which they were. Butnot finding them so precipitate and vindictive as he expected,after distantly sounding them, he proceeded nofarther in respect to their participation, but resolved totrust his enterprise to himself and his ten faithful followers.

In short, these eleven unarmed Indians wereplanning an uprising in a sixty-gun ship with a crewof nearly five hundred Spaniards. It was an enterpriseso utterly insane that the level-headed Englishseamen refused to consider it. They regarded Orellanaand his ten comrades as poor, misguidedwretches who knew no better and who had beendriven quite mad by abuse. Of all the tales ofmutiny on the high seas this must be set down as unparalleled,and it seems to fit in, as a sort of climax,with the varied and almost endless adventures of thepeople who were wrecked in the Wager.

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The eleven Indians first stole a few sailors’ knives,which was fairly easy to do, and then they manufacturedthe singular weapon still in use on the plainsof the Argentine and which Midshipman Morris describedas follows:

They were secretly employed in cutting out thongs fromraw-hides, to the ends of which they fixed the double-headedshot of the small quarter-deck guns. This, whenswung round their heads and let fly, is a dangerousweapon and, as already observed, they are extremely expertwith it. An outrage committed on the chief himself,precipitated the execution of his daring enterprise;for one of the officers, a brutal fellow, having ordered himaloft, of which he was incapable of performance, then,under pretence of disobedience, cruelly beat him and lefthim bleeding on the deck.

It was a day or two after this, in the cool of theevening, when the Spanish officers were strollingupon the poop, that Orellana and his ten companionscame toward them and drifted close to the opendoors of the great cabin in which Admiral Pizarroand his staff were lounging, with cigars and wine.The boatswain roughly ordered the Indians away.With a plan of action carefully preconceived, theintruders slowly retreated, but six of them remainedtogether, while two moved to each of the gangways,and so blocked the approaches to the quarter-deck.304As soon as they were stationed, Orellana yelled awar whoop, “which is the harshest and most terrificnoise that can be imagined.”

With knives and with the deadly bolas, or thongedmissiles, the eleven Indians made a slaughter-houseof the flag-ship’s spacious poop. Spanish sentinelsof the guard, seamen on watch, boatswain’s mates,and the sailors at the steering tackles, sailing mastersand dandified officers, were mowed down as by amurderous hurricane before they could find theirwits or their arms. In the fury of this first onslaughttwenty of the ship’s company were laid deadon the spot and as many more were disabled.Those who survived were in no mood to mobilize anyresistance. Some tumbled into the great cabin,where they extinguished the candles and barricadedthe doors, while others flew into the main-shroudsand took refuge in the tops or in the rigging.

It was sheer panic which spread forward alongthe decks until it reached the forecastle. Theofficers were killed or in hiding, and the leaderlesssailors assumed that the English prisoners wereleading the upheaval. A few of the wounded menscrambled forward in the darkness and told thewatch on deck that the after guard had been wipedout and the ship was in the hands of mutineers.Thereupon the Spanish seamen prudently locked305themselves in the forecastle or swarmed out on thebowsprit and into the fore rigging. Orellana andhis ten Indians were completely in possession of thesixty-gun flag-ship, the admiral, and the crew ofalmost five hundred Spaniards. For the momentthey had achieved the impossible.

The officers and crew, who had escaped into differentparts of the ship, were anxious only for their ownsafety, and incapable of forming any plan for quelling theinsurrection. The yells of the Indians, indeed, the groansof the wounded, and the confused clamors of the crew, allheightened by the obscurity prevailing, greatly magnifiedthe danger at first. The Spanish, likewise, sensible of thedisaffection of the impressed men, and at the same timeconscious of the barbarity their prisoners had experienced,believed that it was a general conspiracy and thattheir own destruction was inevitable.

A strange interval of silence fell upon the bloodstainedship as she rolled, without guidance, to theimpulses of a gentle sea, while the canvas flappedand the yards creaked as the breeze took her aback.The conquering Indians were vigilant and anxious,unable to leave the quarter-deck, where they heldthe mastery, the Spanish crew lying low, as it were,and wondering what might happen next. Orellanapromptly broke open the arms-chest, which had beenconveyed to the poop a few days previously as asafeguard against mutiny. In it he confidently expected306to find cutlasses enough to equip his men,and with these weapons they would hew their wayinto the great cabin and cut down the survivingofficers. Alas! for the cleverly contrived plans, thechest contained only muskets and pistols, and theIndians had never learned how to use firearms.

Meanwhile that high and mighty personage AdmiralPizarro was using animated language in thegreat cabin, and Spanish oaths are beyond all othersfor crackling eloquence. His guests had begun tocompose their scrambled wits, and through the windowsand port-holes they were able to talk thingsover with their friends who were hiding in the gun-roomand between decks. From these sources itwas learned that those unholy devils, the Englishprisoners, were not concerned in the hurricane of arebellion, and that the prodigious affair was solelythe work of the eleven rampant Indians. The admirallooked less disconsolate, and his officersbreathed easier. It was resolved to storm the quarter-deckbefore the storm gathered more headway.

There were pistols in the great cabin, but neitherpowder nor ball, but a bucket was lowered to thegun-room on the deck below, and plenty of ammunitionwas fished up. Cautiously unbarring thecabin doors, they began to take pot-shots at the Indians,and were lucky enough to shoot Orellana307through the head. When his followers saw him falland discovered that he was dead, to a man these tenheroes leaped over the bulwark and perished in thesea. They knew how to finish in style, and theadmiral was deprived of the pleasure of swingingthem to a yard-arm to the flourish of trumpet anddrum.

Midshipman Isaac Morris and his two shipmatesof the Wager witnessed this splendid undertaking,or bits of it, as they paced to and fro under guard inthe middle of the ship. It seemed as though theymight be granted a quieter life by way of a change,but when the flag-ship reached Spain they werehustled ashore and put into a prison for a fortnight,where they were chained together like common criminalsand fed on bread and water. After that theywere marched off to an island by a file of musketeers,and held for fourteen weeks in a sort ofpenal colony among thieves and felons. The longestlane has a turning, and there came at length aroyal order providing that the three Englishmenshould be sent to Portugal. At Oporto the Englishconsul gave them quarters and a little money, andthe end of the story is thus described by IsaacMorris:

We embarked in the Charlotte, scow, on the 18th ofApril, 1746, and under convoy of the York and Folkstone308men-of-war, arrived at London on the 5th of July following;three only of the eight men left on the coast of Patagonia,Samuel Cooper, John Andrews, and myself, beingso happy as once more to see their native country.

The Wager had sailed on her fatal voyage onSeptember 18, 1740, and had been lost in May of1741. These three survivors had therefore spentmore than five years in the endeavor to reach home.By devious ways three parties of the Wager’speople had finally extricated themselves from thetoils of misfortune, Midshipman Byron and CaptainCheap, and a few of those who had lived throughthe cruise in the long-boat, and these three men whohad been marooned. Left unfinished were thoseother tragic stories, shrouded behind the curtainof fate, the four marines and their farewell huzza,the crew of the barge who basely abandoned theircompanions, and the eleven people who requested tobe set ashore in Patagonia sooner than endure thehorrors of the long-boat. The wreck of the Wageris a yarn of many strands, an epic of salt water, andstill memorable, although the ship was lost almosttwo hundred years ago.

Within sight of Portsmouth Harbor, nomore than a dozen miles off the coast whereMaine and New Hampshire meet, lies Boon Island,small and rock-bound, upon which a tall lighthouseflings its bright message to seaward. It is in thetrack of the coastwise fleets of fishermen and tradingschooners, of yachts and steamers, of the variedtraffic which makes those waters populous; butBoon Island was a very lonely place two hundredyears ago. And if it is true, as many mariners believe,that the ghosts of dead sailors return fromDavy Jones’ locker to haunt the scenes of theirtorments in shipwreck, then Boon Island must betenanted by some of the crew of the NottinghamGalley.

The story survives in the narrative of the disasteras written by the master of the vessel, CaptainJohn Deane. It was printed as a quaint and unusuallittle book, which is now exceedingly difficultto find, and the fifth edition bears the date of 1762.310The tragedy of the Nottingham Galley was one ofthose instances, lamentably frequent, in which menwere driven to the dire necessity of eating one anotherunder the awful compulsion of hunger. Sucha theme is abhorrent, but to realize how men felt insuch circ*mstances, those who were otherwise kindlyand brave, and long-suffering, is to add to one’sperspective of human nature and to gain truthfulglimpses of what the toilers of the sea have endured.When Captain John Deane took his pen inhand to set down his experience, it was as thoughhis conscience had driven him to the task, and heexpresses this prompting in a solemn preface,which reads:

The Nottingham Galley, a small vessel of onehundred and twenty tons, sailed from London onSeptember 25, 1710, touching at Ireland to take onsome butter and cheese besides her cargo of cordageand general merchandise, which was consigned toBoston. She carried a crew of fourteen men andmounted ten guns as a proper precaution againstpirates and privateers. Against the westerly windsof autumn the ship made crawling progress, and itwas almost three months later before CaptainDeane made a landfall on the snow-covered coastof New England. He did not know where he wasand thick weather shut down so that for twelve dayslonger he was battering about and trying to work asafe distance offshore. The chronometer was thenunknown, the “hog-yoke,” or early quadrant, had312nothing like the exactitude of the sextant, and mostcharts were incorrect. There were, of course, nolighthouses on the dangerous New England coast.

Captain Deane groped along with sounding leadand log-line and said his prayers, no doubt, untilthe Nottingham Galley struck on Boon Island in adark night and almost instantly went to pieces.The crew got ashore after a bitter struggle, and“being assembled together, they with joyful heartsreturned their most humble and sincere thanks toDivine Providence for their miraculous deliverancefrom so imminent a danger.”

They were within sight of the mainland, as daylightdisclosed, and the captain identified the nearestshore as Cape Neddick, while vessels could be seenpassing in and out of Portsmouth Harbor. It wasChristmas week, and the little island was blanketedin snow. The only shelter from the freezing windswas a tent which was made of a torn sail, and therewas no fire to warm them. “They fought to procurethis blessing by a variety of means,” related CaptainDeane, “such as flint, steel, and gunpowder, andafterwards by a drill of very swift motion, but allthe materials in their possession naturally susceptibleof fire being, on this occasion, thoroughly water-soaked,after eight or ten days’ unsuccessful laborthey gave over the fruitless attempt.”

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The only food washed ashore from the wreck consistedof three cheeses and some beef bones, whichthey shared without quarreling, and in fact, thespirit of these poor mariners was singularly unselfishand manly throughout. By vote it was agreedthat Captain Deane should hold the same authorityas he exercised on board ship. They felt certain ofrescue, because they were within sight of port, andthe captain encouraged them

with hopes of being discovered by fishing shallops or othervessels passing that way, although all the while he wasconscious to himself that rarely anything of this kindhappened at that unseasonable time of the year; however,he thought it good policy to put the best face on the matterand take this advantage of their ignorance and credulity;since he already too plainly observed their greatdejection and frequent relapses into an utter distrust ofDivine Providence.

A boat was built after infinite labor, by men whohad nothing whatever to eat, and the surf beat it tofragments as soon as it was launched. In this hourof inexpressible disappointment they stood andwatched three small sailing vessels pass the island ata distance of a few miles, and they could not kindle asmoke to make a signal. As a last hope, a raft wastied together of two bits of spar only twelve feetlong, with a deck of plank four feet wide, a mere314chip of a raft with a sail made of two canvas hammocks.

This was the project of a “Swede, a stout, bravefellow that had unhappily lost the use of both hisfeet from frost since he came upon the rock.” Itwas his idea that two men might be able to paddleand sail this contrivance to the mainland and soeffect a deliverance. At the first endeavor to getthe raft clear of the breakers it upset and nearlydrowned the Swede and another sailor who hadoffered to go with him. The latter was draggedout almost dead, but the Swede swam to therocks and was for righting the raft and setting outagain, although the mast and sail had been lost.The incident is worth describing in the words ofCaptain Deane.

The ship’s carpenter died of hunger at the end ofa fortnight, during which rock-weed and musselshad kept the breath of life in them. Inevitably menin their condition were bound to turn to thoughts ofpreserving their own existence a little longer by eatingthe body of the carpenter. How they discussedit and with what results is told by the unhappy CaptainDeane.

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The body of the carpenter was their sustenanceuntil a shallop, sailing out of Portsmouth, discoveredthe fragments of a tent among the rocks andsnow of Boon Island and a few figures of men317feebly crawling out of the shelter. The crew of theNottingham Galley were carried to the little seaportat the mouth of the Piscataqua, and there all ofthem recovered, although seriously crippled becauseof frozen hands and feet. At the end of CaptainDeane’s story is the following note:

At the first publication of this narrative, Mr. Whitworthand the mate were then living in England, and themaster survived until the 19th of August, 1761. And outof sincere regard to the memory of Captain Deane, andthat such an instance of Divine Providence should not beburied in oblivion, Mr. Miles Whitworth, son of the aboveMr. Whitworth, now republishes this narrative, hoping(with a Divine blessing) that it may prove of service toreclaim the unthinking part of seafaring men trading inand to New England.

The tale of the Nottingham Galley suggests otherepisodes in which living men of a ship’s crew werechosen by lot to be sacrificed as food for the others.As dramatic as any of them was the fate of theAmerican sloop Peggy, which became waterloggedwhile homeward bound to New York from theAzores. Food and water gone, there were wine andbrandy in the cargo, unluckily, and the sailors gotdrunk and stayed so much of the time. On Christmasday a sail was sighted, and the ship bore downto speak the drifting hulk of the Peggy. For somereason this other vessel, after promising to send318bread and beef aboard or to take the people off ifthey so preferred, filled away and resumed hercourse. Captain Harrison of the Peggy had takento his bed with rheumatism, but he crawled on deckto watch the faithless ship abandon him while hiscrew cursed like madmen and shouted their appealsfor help.

For sixteen days the people of the Peggy lived oncandles, whale-oil, and barnacles scraped from theship’s side. Then the crew, led by the mate, invadedCaptain Harrison’s cabin and told him theycould hold out no longer. They had eaten theleather packing of the pump, they had chewed theleather buttons off their jackets, and liquor wouldnot keep them alive. It was now their intention tocast lots for a victim, and the captain was asked tosupervise the business. He refused to have anythingto do with it, which excited a hubbub of anger,and the mate announced that nobody would be exempted.The captain was to stand his chance withthe rest. They tramped out of the cabin, remaineda little while in the steerage, and returned to saythat the lots had been drawn, and a negro slave whowas in the cargo had received the fatal number.

Captain Harrison, bed-ridden as he was, had thecourage to tell the men that he suspected them ofdealing unfairly with the poor negro, and that he319had not been allowed a chance for his life. Whilethey were wrangling, the slave came running intothe cabin to beg the captain’s protection; but he wasdragged out and shot and turned over to the cookand the big copper pots in the galley. For ninedays this sufficed to keep the crew alive, while CaptainHarrison steadfastly refused to touch the foodthey offered him. Then the mate and the mentrooped into the cabin again and roughly demandedthat the skipper take charge of the lottery.

This time he consented in order to be certain offair play. Painfully raising himself upon hiselbow, he tore up strips of paper and wrote numberson them. In grim silence the six men who wereleft alive closed their fingers upon the slips of paper,and a seaman named David Flat groaned as hediscovered that his was the ticket of death. Otherwisethere was no noise in the cabin.

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Doud was much affected, but consented to attendto the obsequies of unfortunate David Flat, who wasthe most popular man in the forecastle. The victimthen requested a brief respite in which he might preparehis soul to meet its Maker. This was veryreadily granted, and meanwhile the cook kindled afire and got the water hot. Friendship wasstronger than hunger, however, and there was somuch reluctance to execute the sentence that itwas determined to grant David Flat a respite untileleven o’clock of the following morning,

trusting that Divine Goodness would in the interval opensome other source of relief. At the same time they solicitedthe captain to read prayers, a task which, collectingthe utmost effort of his strength, he was just able toperform.

It was a scene to linger in one’s memory, thewaterlogged sloop with her sails streaming in uselessribbons from a broken mast, the little cabin with theskipper almost dead in his bunk, and the group ofstarved and wistful seamen who bowed their headswhile he brokenly whispered the words of theprayer-book. As soon as he had finished, they creptout to rejoin David Flat, who had preferred to beabsent from his own funeral service. Through thecompanionway the captain overheard them talkingto him

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with great earnestness and affection, and expressing theirhope that God would interpose for his preservation.They assured him also that although they had never yetbeen able to catch a single fish, they would again put outtheir hooks and try whether in that manner any reliefcould be obtained.

There was little comfort for David Flat in thiscommiseration, and the situation benumbed his mindso that he was in a stupor, which changed to ravingmadness during the night. At eight o’clock nextmorning Captain Harrison was thinking of thisfaithful seaman of his who had only three hoursmore to live, when two of the others came into thecabin and took hold of his hands. Their agitationwas apparent, but they seemed unable to speak andexplain themselves, and he surmised that they hadconcluded to put him to death instead of DavidFlat. He therefore groped for his pistol, but thesailors snatched it away, and managed to tell himthat a sail had been sighted, a large vessel to leewardwhich had altered her course and was beating up tothem as fast as possible.

The men on deck had been similarly affected,losing all power of speech for the moment; but presentlythey hurried into the cabin, with strength renewed,to shout at the captain that a ship was comingto save them. They tried to make poor DavidFlat comprehend the tremendous fact, but he was322babbling of other things, and his wits were still allastray. During the business of the death-sentence,which had been conducted with such extraordinarydignity, the men had remained sober, keeping clearof the brandy-keg, but now they proposed to celebrate.Captain Harrison succeeded in dissuadingall excepting the mate, who filled a can and sat downby himself to liquor up. And so they were makinga decent finish of it, although their nerves were torturedbeyond endurance, when the breeze died out,and the other ship lay becalmed two or three milesaway. They remembered the dreadful disappointmentof Christmas day, when another ship haddeserted them after steering close enough to hailthe sloop.

This blessed stranger, however, lowered a boat,and the oars flashed on the shining sea until therescuers were alongside the Peggy.

In the case of the English ship Barrett, whichwas wrecked in mid-Atlantic in January, 1821, themethod of choosing the man who should die to serveas food was sufficiently novel and ingenious to meritattention. She was a much larger vessel than thePeggy, with a crew of sixteen, and had sailed fromSt. John, New Brunswick, in command of CaptainFaragar, with a cargo of timber for Liverpool.Heavy gales blew her canvas away and strained herhull until it filled with water. Rations were reducedto two ounces of bread and a pint of water aday until this was almost gone. Then a sail wasdescried, and a brig bowled down to pass within hail,324the master promising to send aboard what provisionshe could spare. Then the wind chopped around tothe westward, and, precisely as had happened to thesloop Peggy, the brig hauled her braces, sheeted hertopsails home, and went driving away on her course.

Mr. MacCloud, the mate of the Barrett, was ahardy young Scot with the endurance of iron andthe soul of a hero. Day after day the ship wallowedin the wicked winter weather of the WesternOcean, and only the timber in the flooded hold kepther afloat. Cold and hunger laid the crew low untilonly the mate and three men were able to stand awatch on deck; but he kept a little canvas on herand tended the tiller and somehow jammed heralong until they had sailed six hundred miles towardthe Irish coast.

Every eatable was consumed: candles, oil—all weregone, and they passed the long, dreary, stormy nights ofsixteen and seventeen hours in utter darkness, huddled togetherin the steerage, imploring the Almighty to helpthem, yet feeling reckless of existence. Such was theircondition about the middle of January, and no one butthe mate paid the slightest attention to the vessel.

Captain Faragar succumbed to the strain, anddied with a farewell message to his wife and children.The time came at length when one of the325sailors, more brutalized than the rest, broke out withthe words:

They agreed with him, nodding their heads andrefusing to look at one another. Then followed along dispute over the fairest manner of lettingchance decide the choice. It was obvious thatevery man had a natural anxiety to feel assured ofno loaded dice or marked cards in this momentousgame. There were objections to the traditional lotteryof high and low numbers, and finally it was decidedthat sixteen pieces of rope-yarn should be cutby the mate. Fourteen of these were to be of preciselythe same length, one a little shorter, and anothershorter still. The sixteen pieces of rope-yarnwere to be shoved through a crack in the bulkheadof the steward’s storeroom, the ends all evenand just long enough for a man to take one in hisfingers and pull it through the crack. The one who326pulled out the strand that was a little shorter was tobe dished up for his messmates, and the man whodrew the strand that was shorter still had the unpleasantduty of acting as butcher.

The mate cut the rope-yarn, as requested, andarranged the sixteen lengths all in a row in thecrack of the bulkhead. The men stood waiting theword, very reluctant to pluck out the ends of tarrycord, until Mr. MacCloud exclaimed:

“My lads, let us put it off until to-morrow. Wehave endured thus far, and a few hours longer cannotmake much difference. Who knows whatProvidence may have in store for us?”

Some consented, while others were for goingthrough with it at once. To-morrow came, and nohelp was in sight. They shambled into the steward’sstoreroom and pulled the rope-yarns throughthe crack. Presently there was one man less on themuster-roll of the Barrett. Two or three days laterthe ceremony was repeated. Before it became necessaryto doom a third man, the mate came below, aspy-glass in his hand, and he was trembling so violentlythat he clutched the table for support. “Asail,” he stammered, and they followed him on deck,where the winter day was dying into dusk. In desperateneed of making some sort of signal, Mr.MacCloud emptied a powder-flask upon the windlass,327fired a pistol into it, and a thick column ofsmoke billowed skyward.

The other ship observed it, and hoisted an ensign.Twelve of the Barrett’s company were alive, andthey were safely transferred to the Ann of NewYork, bound to Liverpool. The waterlogged Barrettdrifted on her aimless course, a derelict hauntedby fearful memories, and from a crack in the bulkheadof the steward’s storeroom still hung the endsof a row of rope-yarns which had been made readyfor the next game of chance.

In 1799 six soldiers of the British artillery garrisonat St. Helena concocted a plot to desert andstow themselves away in an American ship, theColumbia, which was then in harbor. Their escapewas discovered soon after the Yankee crew hadsmuggled them on board, and they could hear thealarm sounded and could see the lanterns glimmeralong the sea-wall. Afraid that the Columbiawould be searched, the fugitive red-coats stole awhale-boat from another ship, and the sympatheticAmerican skipper gave them a bag of bread, a kegof water, a compass, and a quadrant. It was ratherto be expected that a New England mariner whocould remember Bunker Hill and Saratoga wouldlend a hand to any enterprise which annoyed theBritish army and diminished its fighting strength.

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The six deserters pulled out to sea in the hope offinding the island of Ascension, which lay eight hundredmiles to the northwest of St. Helena. CorporalParr had been a seaman, and he thought heknew how to shoot the sun and figure out his position;but after a week of fine weather it was his uneasyconviction that they must have run past Ascension.With a sail made of their shirts stitched together,they bore away for the coast of SouthAmerica on the chance of finding Rio Janeiro.Provisions were so short that they limited themselvesto one ounce of bread and two mouthfuls ofwater a day.

After a fortnight at sea they were chewing theirleather shoes, and Private John Brown, in a statementprepared after the rescue, explained how theyselected one of their number to be used as food forthe others.

Three of the deserters lived to reach the SouthAmerican coast, and were taken to Rio in a Portugueseship. One might think that Private JohnBrown had suffered enough for his crime of runningaway from the Royal Artillery, but CaptainElphinstone of H.M.S. Diamond had him put inirons and sent to Cape Town. There he waspressed into the navy, but his conscience gave himno rest, and after receiving his discharge he madehis way to St. Helena and gave himself up. To theofficers who conducted his court martial he explained:

“I was determined to surrender myself at the firstopportunity in order to relate my sufferings to themen of this garrison and to deter others from attemptingso mad a scheme.”

To observe what might be called shipwreck ona grand scale, it is necessary to hark back tothe days of fleets and convoys under sail, when ahundred or two hundred merchant vessels and men-of-warmade a long voyage together. If such anargosy chanced to be caught in a hurricane, thetragedy was apt to be tremendous, surpassing anythingof the kind in the hazards of modern seafaring.In April, 1782, Admiral George Rodney, ina great sea-battle whose issue was vital to the BritishEmpire, whipped the French fleet of De Grasseoff the island of Dominica, in the West Indies. Itwas a victory which enabled Rodney to write,“Within two little years, I have taken two Spanish,one French, and one Dutch admirals.” TheFrench ships which struck their flags to him includedthe huge Ville de Paris of 110 guns, whichhad flown De Grasse’s pennant; the Glorieux andHector of seventy-four guns each; the Ardent,Caton, and Jason of sixty-four guns each.

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As soon as these prizes could be repaired, theywere ordered to sail for England, with several of theBritish ships of the line as an escort, and with themwent more than a hundred merchantmen from theWest Indies. In command was Admiral Gravesof Rodney’s fleet, a sailor who was to prove himselfas noble in misfortune as he had been illustrious inaction. His ships were in no condition to encounterheavy weather, for the battle had pounded and shatteredboth antagonists, and refitting had to be donein makeshift fashion for lack of dock-yards and material.British bluejackets and French prisonerswere blithely willing, however, to run the risk ofkeeping afloat so long as they were homewardbound. The Ardent and the Jason came so nearto sinking, even in smooth seas, that they had to beordered back to Jamaica, but the rest of the fleetmoved on until a few of the merchant ships partedcompany to steer for New York, leaving ninety-threesail in all to cross the Atlantic.

The season was September, and strong gales blewfrom the eastward, which made it weary workthrashing into the head seas. Two more of thecrippled French men-of-war signaled that they werein distress, and the admiral told them to bear awayfor Halifax. At length the wind shifted suddenlyto the northward and increased to a roaring storm.332Foul weather had been expected, and from his flagship,the Ramillies, Admiral Graves warned thescattered fleet to close in and snug down. Theycame straggling in from the cloudy horizon, uppersails furled, decks streaming, until at sunset theanxious flock was within sight of the shepherd, andthe fluttering flags passed the word to make readyfor the worst.

The Ramillies, a majestic seventy-four-gun ship,was almost overwhelmed before daylight, mainmastgone by the board, all her upper spars splintered,rudder torn away, and the seas washing cleanover her. The admiral took it with unruffled courage,although he was flooded out of his cabin, andarrived on deck with one leg in his breeches and hisboots in his hand. For all he knew, the ship wasabout to go to the bottom,

but he ordered two of the lieutenants to examine into thestate of the affairs below, and to keep a sufficient numberof people at the pumps, while he himself and the captainkept the deck to encourage the men to clear away thewreckage which, by beating against the sides of the ship,had stripped off the copper sheathing and exposed theseams so much to the sea that the decayed oakum washedout and the whole frame became at once exceedingly porousand leaky.

The situation of the Ramillies seemed badenough, but dawn disclosed other ships which were333much worse off. Close to leeward was a large vessel,the Dutton, which had been a famous East Indiaman.She was lying flat upon her side, whilethe crew struggled to cut away the masts. Presentlythe naval lieutenant in command was seen tojump into the sea, which instantly obliterated him.A few of the crew slid one of the boats off the deck,and were whirled away in the foam and spray whichsoon engulfed them. Presently the ship dived underand was seen no more, and the last glimpse, asshe miserably foundered, was the ensign hoistedunion down, which gleamed like a bit of flame. Ofthe ninety-odd ships which had been seen in the convoyonly a dozen hours earlier, no more than twentycould be counted. Some had been whirled awaylike chips before the storm, while others had gonedown during the night and left no trace.

Hull down was descried the Canada; the Centaurreeled far to windward; and the Glorieux was a distanthulk, all three of them dismasted and apparentlysinking. Of these stout British men-of-waronly the Canada survived, and brought her peoplesafely through. The Ville de Paris was still afloatand loomed lofty and almost uninjured, but a fewhours later she filled and sank, carrying eight hundredmen to the bottom with her. Of the merchantmen,not one within sight of the Ramillies had all334her masts standing. They were almost helplesssurvivors, still battling for very existence.

Admiral Graves had no intention of losing hisflag-ship and his life without fighting in the lastditch. Long lines of sailors passed buckets to assistthe laboring pumps, and storm-sails were riggedupon the jagged stumps of the masts. The sturdyold Ramillies, with six feet of water in the hold, wassomehow brought around before the wind, and ranas fast as the merchant vessels that fled on each sideof her. After spending all day in pumping andbaling until they were ready to drop in their tracks,the officers, through the captain as spokesman, suggestedto the admiral that some of the guns bethrown overboard in order to lighten the ship. Tothis he vigorously objected on the ground that aman-of-war was a sorry jest without her battery,but they argued that a man-of-war in Davy Jones’locker was of no use at all, wherefore the admiralconsented to heaving over the lighter guns and someof the shot.

After another night of distress and increasingperil, the officers raised the question again, and

the admiral was prevailed upon, by the renewed andpressing remonstrances, to let six of the forward-mostand four of the aftermost guns of the main deck be thrownoverboard, together with the remainder of those on thequarterdeck; and the ship still continuing to open very335much, he ordered tarred canvas and hides to be nailedfore and aft from under the sills of the ports on the maindeck under the fifth plank above, or within the waterways,and the crew, without orders did the same on thelower deck.

The ship was sinking in spite of these endeavors,and the admiral now let them throw all the gunsover, which grieved him very much, “and there beingeight feet of water in the magazine, every gentlemanwas compelled to take his turn at the whipsor in handling the buckets.”

These six hundred British seamen and officerswere making a very gallant effort of it, and infusingthem with his ardent spirit was the cheery, resourcefulAdmiral Graves, whose chief virtue wasnever to know when he was whipped. Under hisdirection the ship was now frapped, and if youwould know how ancient was this method of tryingto save a ship in the last extremity, please turn toSt. Paul’s story of his own shipwreck and read asfollows:

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The souls of the jolly, jolly mariners in Kipling’s“Last Chantey,” plucking at their harps and theyplucked unhandily, listened with professional approvalwhen the stout Apostle Paul lifted his voicein turn and sang to them:

And so the Ramillies was frapped, or under-girdledby passing hempen hawsers under her keeland around the straining hull to hold her timbers togetherbefore she literally fell apart. It was a finefeat of seamanship, but unavailing. The admiralhad nothing more to say about the crime of tossingoverboard his Majesty’s valuable guns, munitions,and stores, and the crew fairly gutted the ship ofeverything weighty, including both bower anchors.As the day wore on toward nightfall, about twentyother ships were still visible, and the officers urgedthe admiral to shift his pennant to one of them andso save himself; but

This simple picture of him portrays a fine figure338of a man, of the sort who have created and fosteredthe spirit and traditions both of the British and theAmerican naval services. In a sinking ship whichhad lost all her guns, he was still mindful of his dutyof guarding the merchant convoy, or what was leftof it, against any roving French or Spanish war vesselsor privateers, and every fiber of him rebelledagainst deserting his ship as long as her flag flewabove water. He was a brother of the sea to AdmiralDuncan who, as Stevenson describes it,

lying off the Texel with his own flagship, the Venerable,heard that the whole Dutch fleet was putting to sea. Hetold Captain Hotham to anchor alongside of him in thenarrowest part of the channel and fight his vessel untilshe sank. “I have taken the depth of the water,” addedhe, “and when the Venerable goes down, my flag will stillfly.” And you observe this is no naked Viking in a prehistoricperiod; but a Scotch member of Parliament, witha smattering of the classics, a telescope, a co*cked hat ofgreat size, and flannel underclothing.

At three o’clock in the morning of the next nightthe pumps of the Ramillies were found to be hopelesslyout of commission, the water was rushing intothe gaping wounds made by the sea, and it seemedas though the timbers were pulling asunder fromstern to bow. Sadly the admiral admitted that thegame was lost, and he told his captain to abandonship at daybreak, but there was to be no wild scramble339for the boats. The crew was to be informedthat the sick and disabled were to be removed, andthat all the merchant vessels would be ordered tosend boats for this purpose. Confidentially, however,the officers were instructed to fetch amplestores of bread, beef, pork, and flour to the quarterdeckand to arrange for distributing the crew amongthe boats that were to be called away from the otherships. Such boats of the Ramillies as had not beensmashed by the storm were to be ready to launch,and every officer would be held responsible for themen in his own division. As soon as the invalidswere safely out of the ship, the whole crew wouldbe embarked in an orderly and deliberate manner.

Two hours after the six hundred men of theRamillies had been taken off, the weather, which hadmoderated, became furious again, and during awhole week after that it would have been impossibleto handle boats in the wicked seas. AdmiralGraves had managed the weather as handsomely ashe did his ship and her men, getting them away atprecisely the right moment and making a record forefficiency and resolution which must commend itselfto every mariner, whether or not he happens to bea Britisher. On October 10 the Belle safely carriedthe admiral into Cork Harbor, where he hoistedhis pennant aboard the frigate Myrmidon. Thecrew reached port in various ships, excepting a fewwho were bagged by French privateers whichswooped seaward at the news that the great WestIndia convoy had been dispersed by a storm.

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Of the other British men-of-war which went tothe bottom, the story of the Centaur was reportedby her commander, Captain Inglefield, who was oneof the thirteen survivors of a crew of more than fourhundred men. Whether or not he should havestayed with his hapless people and suffered the commonfate is a difficult problem for a landsman toweigh, but the facts speak for themselves, and theyafford opportunity to compare his behavior withthat of Admiral Graves of the Ramillies. Tried byan Admiralty court martial, Captain Inglefield washonorably acquitted of all blame, and his official recordis therefore without a stain.

During the first night of the storm the Centaurwas thrown on her beam-ends, and was to all appearancesa capsized ship. The masts were cutaway, and she righted suddenly. Three guns brokeadrift on the main-deck, and the heavy round shotspilled out of the smashed lockers. There was adevil’s game of bowls below, with these ponderousobjects madly charging to and fro to the violent motionof the ship, such a scene as Victor Hugopainted in a famous chapter of his “Ninety-Three.”The bluejackets scrambled after these infernalguns, which could be subdued only by snaring themwith ropes and tackles. They destroyed everythingin their path, maiming or slaying the sailors who342were not agile enough to dodge the onslaught, reducingbulkheads, stanchions, deck-beams to kindlingwood; but they were captured after a longconflict and before they could batter the oaken sidesout of the ship.

There was a glimpse of hope in the early morningwhen the Ville de Paris was sighted two milesto windward. The storm had subsided, a sort ofbreathing-spell between the outbreaks of terrificweather. The stately three-decker of a Frenchmanlifted all her masts against the foaming sky-line andwas even setting a topsail. Plunging her long rowsof painted gun-ports under, she climbed buoyantlyto meet the next gray-backed comber, while the copperglinted almost to her keel as she wildly rolledand staggered. This captured flag-ship in whichDe Grasse, fresh from the triumph of Cornwallis’ssurrender at Yorktown, had confidently expected tocrush Rodney and so sweep the seas of the NewWorld for France, seemed to have been vouchsafedsome peculiar respite by the god of storms. Tothose who beheld her from the drowning Centaurthe impression conveyed was the same as that reportedby Admiral Graves, that she had miraculouslycome through unhurt, the only ship of thisgreat fleet whose lofty spars still stood.

Captain Inglefield began firing guns in token of343distress, and the Ville de Paris bore straight towardhim, responding to her helm and handling like aship which was under complete control. Two merchantvessels passed close enough to hail the Centaurand offer help, but Captain Inglefield wavedthem on their courses, so confident was he that theVille de Paris, now flying the ensign of the Britishnavy, would stand by. Another merchantmanpassing close aboard, the Centaur asked her to takeword to Captain Wilkinson of the Ville de Paristhat he was urgently needed. A little while and, inexplicably,the captured flag-ship passed withoutmaking a signal and held on the same tack until shevanished in the mist, passed forever with her eighthundred men just as she had disappeared from thesight of those who gazed and wondered from thedecks of the Ramillies. The sea holds many an unfinishedstory, and the tall Ville de Paris was one ofthem.

On board the Centaur they pumped and theybaled and gulped down the stiff rations of grog andhoped to fetch her through, as is the way of simplesailormen. Captain Inglefield noted that “thepeople worked without a murmur and indeed withcheerfulness.” In 1782 men-of-war’s-men weresinging Didbin’s hearty sea-songs, which held sentimentenough to please a mariner’s heart, and possibly344the clattering beat of the chain pumps of theCentaur were timed to the chorus of “Blow High,Blow Low,” and the gloomy, reeking main-deckechoed the verses:

The Centaur was left on a lonely sea after theassistance of the crippled merchantmen had beencourteously declined and the Ville de Paris had sounaccountably sailed past. At night the flashes ofguns were seen, the farewell messages of founderingships, but through the long day there was nevera sight of a sail. The Centaur settled deeper anddeeper until her lower decks were awash and it wasfoolish to pump and bale any longer. What wasthe use of trying to lift the Atlantic Ocean out of aship that refused to stay afloat? It was not somuch the fear of death as the realization of defeatthat caused such a scene as this:

“The people who, till this period, had labored asdetermined to conquer their difficulties, without a345murmur, or without a tear, seeing their efforts useless,many of them burst into tears and wept likechildren.”

There were boats for only a few of the large company,and such rafts as could be hastily put togetherwould not have survived an hour in the seasthat still ran high and menacing. By way of doingsomething, however, the carpenter’s gang swungout some spars and booms and began to lash themtogether. Captain Inglefield made mention of thebehavior of the crew in this interesting reference,

Some appeared perfectly resigned, went to their hammocksand desired their messmates to lash them in; otherswere securing themselves to gratings and small rafts; butthe most predominant idea was that of putting on theirbest and cleanest clothes.

This desire of making a decent appearance whenin the presence of death is curiously frequent in theannals of the sea and may be called a characteristictrait of the sailor. At random two instances recurto mind. One of them happened aboard the UnitedStates frigate Essex in the War of 1812, when CaptainDavid Porter fought his great fight againstthe Phoebe and the Cherub and won glory in defeat.The decks of the Essex were covered withdead and wounded, and more than half her crewhad fallen when the starry ensign was hauled down.346Then, as one of them told it when he returned home:

“After the engagement, Benjamin Hazen, havingdressed himself in a clean shirt and jerkin, toldwhat messmates of his that were left that he couldnever submit to be taken as a prisoner by the Englishand leaped into the sea where he was drowned.”

More than a hundred years later, in the GreatWar against Germany, an American yacht enrolledin the naval service was hunting submarines andconvoying transports in the Bay of Biscay when ahurricane almost tore her to pieces. Deck-housessmashed, hold full of water, the yacht was not expectedto survive the night. Then it was that aboatswain’s mate related:

A guy of my division appeared on deck all dressed upin his liberty blues. The bos’n’s-mate asked him what hemeant by turning out all dolled up like that. “Why,Jack,” answered this cheerful gob, “I have a date with amermaid in Davy Jones’ locker.”

Captain Inglefield of the Centaur was about tomake one of those momentous decisions which nowand then confront a man as he stands at the crossroadsof destiny. When he prepared his own caseand submitted his defense, in the narrative writtenafter his return to England, he stated it with a certainunconscious art which deserves to be quoted asfollows:

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Yes, the love of life had prevailed with Captain348Inglefield of the Centaur, and, no matter how painfulhis moral conflict, it is obvious that his departurewas attended with a kind of skulking ignominy.He ran away from his comrades to save his own skinand left them in the lurch. This is quixotic, perhaps,but are not all questions of honor more or lessirrational? The captain’s narrative makes no farthermention of the sinking Centaur. At fiveo’clock of a September afternoon in the North Atlantic,two hours of daylight remained even in thickand cloudy weather. The four hundred menaboard the ship could watch the pinnace as she scuddedbefore the wind with a blanket stretched for asail and her course laid for the Azores. I imaginethey damned the soul of their captain in curses thatwere wrenched from the bottom of their hearts insteadof extenuating his conduct and wishing himluck. And presumably Captain Inglefield turnedto gaze at the foundering man-of-war with herpeople clustered on deck or busied with the pitifullyfutile rafts. Nobody knows how much longer theCentaur floated. The time must have been mercifullybrief. When she went under, every man onboard was drowned.

The captain expected sympathy, and you mayoffer him as much as you like when he relates of hisvoyage in the small boat:

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It was then that I became sensible how little, if anything,our condition was better than that of those whor*mained in the ship. At least, it seemed to be only theprolongation of a miserable existence. We were altogethertwelve in number, in a leaky boat, with one of thegunwales stove, in nearly the middle of the Western Ocean,without compass, quadrant, or sail; wanting great coat orcloak, all very thinly clothed, in a gale of wind and with agreat sea running.... On examining what means wehad of subsistence, I found a bag of bread, a small ham,a single piece of pork, two quart bottles of water, and afew French cordials.

They were thirteen days adrift and suffered exceedingly,but only one man died of hunger andcold, and the others recovered their strength in thehospitable port of Fayal. These were the captain,the master, a young midshipman, a surgeon’s mate,a coxswain, a quartermaster, and five seamen.

Captain George Shelvocke wasone of many seamen adventurers unknown tofame who sought a quick and bloody road to fortuneby laying violent hands on the golden ingots in theSpanish galleons of Mexico and Peru. A state ofwar made this a lawful pastime for lawless men, andsuch were those that sailed from Plymouth on February13, 1720, in the little armed ship Speedwell,bound out from England to South America with aprivateering commission. She was of two hundredtons burden, and there could have been no room toswing a cat by the tail, what with eighteen six-poundersmounted between-decks, a fourteen-oarlaunch stowed beneath the hatches, provisions for along voyage, and a crew of a hundred men. Mostof these were landlubbers, wastrels of the tavernsand the waterside, who were so terrified by the firstgale of wind that seventy of them “were resolved onbearing away for England to make a complaintagainst the ship. They alleged that she was so very351crank that she would never be able to encounter avoyage to the South Seas.”

The fact that the seventy objectors were unanimouslyseasick delayed the mutiny; besides which,Captain Shelvocke talked to them, and he was apersuasive man whenever he used a pair of flint-lockpistols to make his meaning clear. Withcalmer weather the seventy recalcitrants plucked upspirit to renew the argument, and went so far as toseize the helm and trim the yards on a course towardEngland. The captain was now seriously vexed.With a dozen officers behind him, he overruled themajority, tied two of them in the rigging, and orderedthem handsomely flogged, and consented toforgive the others on promise of good behavior.“Nevertheless,” remarks a commentator, “it occasionedhim great uneasiness to find himself with aship’s company likely to occasion such trouble andvexation.”

The Speedwell almost foundered before she was afortnight at sea, the pumps going, crew praying,and some of her provisions and gunpowder spoiledby salt water; but Captain George Shelvockeshoved her along for the South Sea, half a worldaway, and set it down as all in the day’s work. Seafaringin the early eighteenth century was not avocation for children or weaklings.

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Seeking harbor on the coast of Brazil to obtainwood and water, the Speedwell fell in with a Frenchman-of-war whose commander and officers were invitedaboard the privateer for dinner. The crewwas inconsiderate enough to touch off another mutiny,which interrupted the pleasant party; but theFrench guests gallantly sailed into the ruction, andtheir swords assisted in restoring order, after whichdinner was finished. Captain Shelvocke apologizedfor the behavior of his crew, and explained that “itwas the source of melancholy reflection that he, whohad been an officer thirty years in the service shouldnow be continually harassed by the mutiny of turbulentpeople.” Most of them were for deserting,but he rounded them up ashore and clubbed theminto the boats, and the Speedwell sailed to dare theCape Horn passage.

For two long months she was beating off Terradel Fuego and fighting her way into the Pacific,spars and rigging sheathed in ice, the landlubbersbenumbed and useless, decks swept by the CapeHorn combers; but Captain George Shelvocke hadnever a thought in his head of putting back andquitting the golden adventure. He finally madethe coast of Chile, at the island of Chiloé, and whenthe Spanish governor of the little settlement refusedto sell him provisions, he went ashore and353took them. All was fair in the enemy’s waters, andthe Speedwell began to look for ships to plunder.He snapped up two small ones, and then capturedthe Saint Firmin, a three-hundred-ton merchantvessel with a valuable cargo. A flag of truce cameout from the nearest port with proposals of ransom,and a Jesuit priest, as a messenger, begged the captainto restore to him ten great silver candlestickswhich had been left as a legacy to the convent. Thebargaining came to naught, and the booty was soldto the crew at an auction “before the mast,” afterwhich the ship was burned.

The Speedwell next captured the town of Paytaand put the torch to it after the governor had refusedto contribute ten thousand pieces of eight.While the crew was ashore, a heavily armed shipcame sailing in, and the flag at her yard proclaimedthat a Spanish admiral was in command. In theprivateer were left only the sailing-master, Mr.Coldsea, and nine men; but they served the gunswith so much energy that the admiral cleared foraction and reckoned he had met up with a toughantagonist. While they were banging away ateach other, Captain Shelvocke was hustling his meninto the boats and pulling off from shore; but beforethey had reached their own ship, the Spanishadmiral had ranged within pistol-shot and was letting354go his broadside. The situation was ticklishin the extreme, but the narrative explains it quitecalmly:

Captain Shelvocke then cut his cable, when the shipfalling the wrong way, he could just clear the admiral;but there was a great damp cast on the spirits of hispeople, at seeing a ship mounting fifty-six guns, withfour hundred and twenty men, opposed to the Speedwellwhich had only twenty then mounted, with seventy-threewhite men and eleven negroes. Some of them in comingoff, were for leaping into the water and swimming ashore,which one actually did.

Drifting under the admiral’s lee, the Speedwellwas becalmed for an hour, while the powder-smokeobscured them both, the guns flamed, and the roundshot splintered the oak timbers. Captain Shelvocke’sensign was shot away, and the Spanish sailorsswarmed upon their high forecastle and cheeredas they made ready to board; but another Britishensign soared aloft, and then a breeze drew the privateerclear, and she bore for the open sea. Herrigging was mostly shot away, there was a cannon-ballin the mainmast, the stern had been shattered,guns were dismounted, and the launch had beenblown to match-wood by the explosion of a pile ofpowder-bags; but she clapped on sail somehow andran away from the Spanish flag-ship, which camelumbering out after her.

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The Speedwell was chased next day by anotherman-of-war, but dodged after nightfall by means ofthe expedient of setting a lighted lantern adrift ina tub and so deluding the enemy. It was the sensibleconclusion of Captain Shelvocke that theremight be better hunting on the coast of Mexico.South American waters seemed to be rather uncomfortablefor gentlemen adventurers.

The privateer stood away for the island of JuanFernandez to refit and rest her crew. They neededa respite by the time the island was sighted, for theywere six weeks on the way, and the ship sprang aleak where a Spanish shot had lodged in her bow,and they pumped until they dropped in their tracks.Eleven years earlier Alexander Selkirk, who wasthe real Robinson Crusoe, had been rescued fromhis solitary exile on Juan Fernandez, where CaptainDampier’s expedition had marooned him.With his garden and his flock of wild goats and hisHoly Bible he had passed four years of an existenceso satisfactory

So beneficial were the results that it might haveimproved the morals and the manners of AlexanderSelkirk’s shipmates if they had been marooned withhim. This was the fate, indeed, which happened tothe crew of the Speedwell. While they were fillingthe water-casks, a gale drove the ship hard ashore.The disaster came so suddenly that “their surpriseat this unexpected event is not to be described; andin a very few minutes the ship was full of water andalmost everything destroyed. All the people, however,except one man were saved.”

As was to be expected, Captain George Shelvockeproceeded to make the best of it. He managedto raft ashore most of the gunpowder, some357bread and beef, the nautical instruments and compasses,and was careful to see that his preciousprivateering commission was safely in his pocket.It will be inferred from this that he had no intentionof letting so small a trifle as a shipwreck interferewith his plans of disturbing the peace of theviceroys of Spain. A little village of tents and hutswas promptly built near a stream of fresh water,and when the castaways had sufficiently rested theirweary bones, the captain called them together andannounced that they would have to build a smallvessel if they did not wish to spend the rest of theirdays on this desolate island. He was not one to becontent with devotional exercises and a household ofdancing goats and cats. His crew replied that theywere anxious to build some sort of craft if he wouldshow them how, and accordingly they pulled thewreck of the Speedwell apart and piled the timberson the beach.

Keel-blocks were set up, and they began to puttogether what they called a bark. It was to be onlyforty feet long, with a depth of seven feet, by nomeans large enough to hold a hundred men, butmaterial was difficult to obtain and skilled laborscarce. The armorer directed the work, being aman of skill and industry; but after two months oftoil the fickle company tired of the job and sought358entertainment in mutiny. Captain Shelvocke wasa harsh, masterful person, so a conspiracy deposedhim from the command, and a new set of articleswas drawn up which organized a company of freeadventurers who purposed to do things in their ownway. They took possession of the muskets and pistolsand wandered off inland to waste the ammunitionin shooting goats.

The sight of a large Spanish ship in the offingput a check on this nonsense. If captured, theywould certainly be hanged; so they flocked in tourge Captain Shelvocke to resume the commandand prepare a scheme of defense. As soon as thehostile ship disappeared, however, they were brewingtrouble afresh, one party voting to elect the firstlieutenant as captain, another standing by CaptainShelvocke, and a third, perhaps a dozen in number,deciding to quit the crew and remain on the island.This group of deserters drifted away and built acamp of their own and were a good riddance. Thecaptain got the upper hand of the rest, and the laborof finishing the tiny bark was taken up again.

When it came to planking the bottom, the onlymaterial was what could be ripped off the deck ofthe wrecked Speedwell. The stuff was so old andbrittle that it split into small pieces, and great painswere required to fit it to the frames of the bark.359Then the seams were calked as tight as possible,and water poured in to test them. Alas! there wereleaks from stem to stern, and the discouraged seamenswore to one another that she was no betterthan a damned sieve. They were ready to abandonthe enterprise, but Captain Shelvocke bullied andcoaxed them into picking up their tools again.

They patched and calked and tinkered until itwas agreed that the bark might possibly be keptafloat. The cooper made wooden buckets enoughfor every man to have one to bale with, and one ofthe ship’s pumps was mended and fitted into thehold. Two masts were set up and rigged, canvaspatched for sails, and a launching day set to catchthe spring tide of October. Meanwhile the cooperwas getting casks ready for provisions. These consistedof two thousand conger-eels which had beendried in smoke, seal-oil to fry them in, one cask ofbeef, five or six of flour, and half a dozen live hogs.

When they tried to launch the bark, the blocksgave way, and she fell upon her side and stuck fast.Again the faint-hearted seamen were for giving upthe game as lost, but the competent armorer riggedpurchases and tackles and lifted the craft, and sheslid into the water on the next tide, Captain Shelvockeduly christening her the Recovery. For ananchor and cable they had to use a large stone and360a light rope; so before she could drift ashore theystowed themselves aboard, leaving a dozen who preferredto live on Juan Fernandez and several negroeswho could shift for themselves. There hadbeen deaths enough to reduce the number of officersand men to fifty as the complement of theforty-foot bark, which ran up the British ensignand wallowed out into the wide Pacific.

It was then found that one pump constantly workingwould keep the vessel free. In distributing the provisions,one of the conger eels was allowed to each man in twenty-fourhours, which was cooked on a fire made in a halftub filled with earth; and the water was sucked out of acask by means of a musket barrel. The people on boardwere all uncomfortably crowded together and lying onthe bundles of eels, and in this manner was the voyageresumed.

The plans of Captain George Shelvocke weredirect and simple—to steer for the Bay of Concepciónas the nearest port, in the hope of capturingsome vessel larger and more comfortable than hisown. In a moderate sea the bark “tumbled prodigiously,”and all hands were very wet because theonly deck above them was a grating covered with atarpaulin; but the captain refused to bear away andease her. At some distance from the South Americancoast a large ship was sighted in the moonlight.The desperate circ*mstances had worn the line between361privateering and piracy very thin, but in themorning it was discovered that the ship was Spanishand therefore a proper prize of war. She did notlike the looks of the little bark and its wild crew,and edged away with all canvas set. Captain Shelvockecrowded the Recovery in chase of her, andwhen it fell calm, his men swung at the oars.

The audacious bark had no battery of guns, mindyou, for they had been left behind in the wreck ofthe Speedwell. One small cannon had been hoistedaboard, but the men were unable to mount it, andwere therefore obliged to let it lie on deck and fireit, jumping clear of the recoil and hitching it fastwith hawsers to prevent it from hopping over theside. For ammunition they had two round shot,a few chain-bolts and bolt-heads, the clapper of theSpeedwell’s brass bell, and some bags of stoneswhich had been gathered on the beach. It appearedthat they would have to carry the big Spanish shipby boarding her, if they could fetch close enoughalongside, though they were also in a very bad wayfor small arms. A third of the muskets lackedflints, and there were only three cutlasses in thecrew.

Captain Shelvocke ignored these odds, and heldon after the ship until a four-hour chase broughthim within a few hundred feet of her, so near that362the Spanish sailors could be heard calling themEnglish dogs and defying them to come on board.Along with the curses flew a volley of great andsmall shot, which killed the Recovery’s gunner andalmost carried away her foremast.

With several officers and men wounded, the errantlittle bark wandered northward, raiding thecoast for provisions and riding out one gale afteranother, until another large ship was encountered.This was the stately merchantman, St. FranciscoPalacio of seven hundred tons. By way of comparison,Captain Shelvocke estimated his bark asmeasuring about twenty tons. The Recoveryrowed up to her in a calm and fought her for sixhours, when the sea roughened, and there was nohope of closing in. It was a grievous disappointment,for the St. Francisco Palacio was so deeplyladen with rich merchandise that as she rolled thewater ran through her scuppers across the upperdeck, and her poop towered like a wooden castle.

The second failure to take a prize made the unsteadycrew discontented, and several of them stolethe best boat and ran away with it. Mutiny wasforestalled by an encounter with a Spanish vesselcalled the Jesus Maria in the roadstead of Pisco.Preparations were made to carry her by storm, asCaptain Shelvocke concluded that she would suithis requirements very nicely and his bark was unfitto keep the sea any longer. The Recovery wasjammed alongside after one blast of scrap-iron and364other junk from the prostrate cannon, and theboarders tumbled over the bulwarks, armed with thethree cutlasses and such muskets as could be fired.The Spanish captain and his officers had no stomachto resist such stubborn visitors as these. Doffingtheir hats, they bowed low and asked for quarter,which Captain Shelvocke was graciously pleased togrant. The Jesus Maria was found to be ladenwith pitch, tar, copper, and plank, and her captainoffered to ransom her for sixteen thousand dollars.

Captain Shelvocke needed the ship more thanhe did the money, so he transferred his crew to thestout Jesus Maria and bundled the Spaniards intothe Recovery and wished them the best of luck.The shipwreck at Juan Fernandez and all the othermisfortunes were forgotten. The adventurers werein as good a ship as the lost Speedwell and neededonly more guns to make a first-class fighting privateerof her. They now carried out the originalintention of cruising to Mexico, and in those waterscaptured a larger ship, the Sacra Familia of sixguns and seventy men. Again Captain Shelvockeshifted his flag and left the Jesus Maria to his prisoners.On board of his next capture, the HolySacrament, he placed a prize crew, but the Spanishsailors rose and killed all the Englishmen, and the365number of those who had sailed from England inthe Speedwell was now reduced to twenty-six.

Off the coast of California sickness raged amongthem until only six or seven sailors were fit for duty.Then Captain Shelvocke did the boldest thing of hiscareer, sailing the Holy Sacrament all the wayacross the Pacific until he reached the China coastand found refuge in the harbor of Macao. Thenthis short-handed crew worked the battered ship toCanton, where the captains of the East Indiamenexpressed their amazement at the ragged sails, thefeeble, sea-worn men, and the voyage they hadmade. Captain George Shelvocke by this featalone enrolled himself among the great navigatorsof the eighteenth century. He had found no Spanishgalleons to plunder, and his adventure was a failure,but as a master of men and circ*mstances hehad won a singular success.

He saw that his few men were safely embarked inan East Indiaman bound to London, and after avacation in Canton he, too, went home as a passenger,completing a journey around the globe.Three and a half years had passed since he sailedfrom Plymouth in the Speedwell with a mutinouscrew of landlubbers and high hopes of glitteringfortune. Almost every officer had died, including366the sailing-master, the first lieutenant, the gunner,the armorer, and the carpenter, and of the originalcompany, a hundred strong, no more than a dozensaw England again. Nothing more is known ofthe seafaring career of Captain Shelvocke, but hewas no man to idle on a quay or loaf in a tap-room,and it is safe to say that he lived other stories thatwould be vastly entertaining.

Robinson Crusoe recoiling from thediscovery of the footprint in the sand iswhat Stevenson calls one of the epoch-makingscenes in all romantic literature, to be comparedwith Achilles shouting over against the Trojans,Ulysses bending the great bow, and Christian runningwith his fingers in his ears. There is, nevertheless,among the true stories of seafaring adventureat least one scene which is not unworthy ofmention in the same breath with the culminatingmoment of Robinson Crusoe. This occurred whenPeter Serrano encountered the other castaway on adesert island off the coast of Chile.

It was in the early days of Spanish explorationand settlement on the South American coasts whenthis sailor, Peter Serrano, was wrecked, and savedhimself by swimming ashore while the rest of thecrew were drowned. He crawled out upon anisland so dismally barren that it had neither water,wood, nor grass, and not a bit of wreckage was368washed ashore with him, no provisions, no timberswith which to build a boat. In short, Peter Serranohad absolutely none of the resources of the shipwrecksof fiction.

When the huge sea turtles crawled up on the sandhe threw them over upon their backs and cut theirthroats with his sheath-knife. The blood he drank,and the flesh was eaten raw or dried in the blazingsun. Other distressed mariners have thanked Godfor this same food, and it may explain to the landsmanwhy a ship is said to “turn turtle” when shecapsizes. Peter Serrano, who was cast ashore withonly his ready wits and his sheath-knife, scrapedout the shells of these great turtles and used them tocatch water when the heavy rains fell. He wastherefore provided with food and drink, and shelterwas the next essential.

There were fragments of plank from ships whichhad been lost among these shoals, but they weresmall and rotten and good for nothing but fire-wood.Peter made himself a little roof of turtle-shellslarge enough to crawl under, but the heat ofthe sun so tormented him that he had to take a cooldip in the salt water several times a day. However,he had organized himself for the struggle for existenceand was now determined to find some methodof making fire. How he succeeded was described369by his biographer, Garcilasso de la Vega, and translatedinto English a hundred and fifty years ago.

Considering on this invention, (for seamen are muchmore ingenious in all times of extremity than men bred atland) he searched everywhere to find out a couple ofhard pebbles, instead of flints, his knife serving in theplace of a steel. But the island being covered all overwith a dead sand and no stone appearing, he swam intothe sea and diving often to the bottom he at length founda couple of stones fit for his purpose which he rubbed togetheruntil he got them to an edge, with which being ableto strike fire, he drew some threads out of his shirt whichhe worked so small that it was like cotton, and servedfor tinder. So that having contrived a means to kindlefire, he gathered a great quantity of sea-weeds thrownup by the waves which, with the shells of fish and the splintersof old ships afforded nourishment for his fuel. Andlest sudden showers should extinguish his fire he made a littlecovering for it, like a small hut, with the shells of thelargest turtles, taking great care that his fire should notgo out.

Peter Serrano lived alone for three years in thiscondition and saw several ships pass the island, butnone turned in to investigate his signal smoke. Itis easy to fancy that “being exposed to all weathers,the hair of his body grew in that manner that he wascovered all over with bristles, and the hair of hishead and beard reaching to his waist he appearedlike some wild savage creature.”

Now for the scene which is extraordinary for its370elements of romantic climax. Poor Peter Serranodid not know it, but he was living literature as definedby the masters. It is quaintly told in theoriginal narrative and needs no embroidery of comment.

This Spanish sailor of long ago deserved to enjoythose golden ducats, and it was a most unkindlytwist of fate that snuffed his candle out. He wasmore fortunate, however, than most shipwrecked373seamen, who have been thankful to find a shirt totheir backs and the chance to sign on for anothervoyage when they set foot in port again. Sevenyears on a desert island was a long, long exile forPeter Serrano, but he saw home much sooner thanthe luckless Dutchmen of the Sparrow-hawk whowere cast away on an island off the coast of Koreain the year of 1653. Twelve years later a few survivorsgazed once more on the quays and docks ofAmsterdam, but meanwhile they were making history.

These were the first men who ever carried toEurope a description of the hermit kingdom ofKorea and its queer, slipshod people in dirty whiteclothes, a nation sealed up as tight as a bottle whichhad drowsed unchanged through a thousand years.Japan was not wholly barred to foreigners eventhen, for the Dutch East India Company was permittedto send two ships a year to Nagasaki and tomaintain a trading post in that harbor. It was aprivilege denied all other nations, and for two centuriesthe Dutch enjoyed this singular commercialmonopoly.

The Koreans, however, refused to have any intercoursewith the European world, and seamenwrecked on that coast were compelled to spend therest of their lives there as slaves and captives. This374was why the story told by Henry Hamel, the purserof the Sparrow-hawk, aroused such a vast amountof interest when he reappeared with seven shipmatesafter escaping to Japan.

The vessel flew the flag of the Dutch East IndiaCompany, and sailed from Batavia with a crew ofsixty-four men, under orders to drop a new Dutchgovernor at the island of Formosa. This castellatedark of a seventeenth-century merchantmansafely completed this leg of her voyage and wasthen sent to Japan to pick up a cargo of copper,silk, camphor, porcelain, and bronze. The windsdrove the Sparrow-hawk to and fro, and for a fortnightshe still bobbled and rolled within sight ofFormosa. Then came a tempest which made awreck of her, and she piled upon the rocks of theKorean island of Quelpert.

The governor promptly sent soldiers to makeprisoners of the thirty-four Dutchmen, who weretreated with unexpected kindness. The purser, thepilot, and the surgeon’s mate were given an audienceby this island ruler, and the scene included a romanticsurprise.

Seated beside the Korean governor of thisstrange, unknown island was a man of a florid complexionwho wore a great red beard. The castawaysstared at him and declared that he was a375Dutchman, which the governor jestingly denied;but presently the red-bearded one broke his silence,and the tears ran down his cheeks while he told themthat his name was Jan Wettevri of the town of Zyp,Holland.

He had been wrecked on the Korean coast in aDutch frigate in the year of 1626, when he was ayoung man of thirty-one, and his age was now fifty-eight.Twenty-seven years had he been held inKorea, and no word respecting the fate of his shiphad ever gone back to Holland. Two shipmateshad been saved with him, Theodore Gerard and JanPieters, but they were long since dead. Both hadbeen killed seventeen years before this whilefighting in the Korean army against a Tartar invasion.

Often had he besought the King of Korea, sighedthis red-bearded sailor, Jan Wettevri, that he mightgo to Japan and join his countrymen at Nagasaki,

but all the answer he could get from that prince was anassurance that he should never go excepting he had wingsto fly thither; that it was the custom of the country todetain all strangers, but not to suffer them to want anythingand that they would be supplied with clothing andfood during their lives.

Jan Wettevri found difficulty in speaking his owntongue when he attempted to tell his story to these376seamen of the Sparrow-hawk, for in seventeen yearshe had heard no other language than Korean.

The friendly governor of Quelpert was succeededby an unpleasant old tyrant who made life so uncomfortablethat the stubborn Dutchmen resolved toescape to Japan, sink or swim. The pilot and sixsailors stole a junk, but luck was against them.The rotten mast went over the side as they were sailingout to sea, and so they were carried back forpunishment. Their hands were tied to a heavy logof wood, and they had to lie in a row flat upon theirstomachs while a sturdy Korean jailer flailed themwith a heavy cudgel, twenty-five blows each uponthat part of a Dutchman’s back where his baggybreeches were the most voluminous. So cruel wasthis chastisem*nt that several of them lay a monthin bed.

So long as they were content to submit to circ*mstances,the Koreans were inclined to treat themwith a certain good humor and toleration. Afterseveral months they were conveyed to the mainlandand lodged in the capital city, where the king hadhis palace. He enrolled them in his body-guard,and they received wages of seventy measures of riceper month. Armed with muskets, they drilledunder the command of Jan Wettevri. HenryHamel, the purser, relates:

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Curiosity induced most of the great men belonging tothe court to invite them to dinner, that they might enjoythe satisfaction of seeing them perform the military exercisesand dance in the Dutch manner. The women andchildren were still more impatient to see them, a reporthaving been propagated that they were monsters of deformityand that in order to drink they were obliged tofasten their noses behind their ears. Their astonishment,however, was so much the greater when they saw that theywere handsomer and much more stalwart than the nativesof the country. The whiteness of their complexion wasparticularly admired. The crowds that flocked aboutthem were so great that during the first days they couldscarcely pass through the streets or enjoy a moment’srest in their huts. At length, the general was obligedto check this curiosity by forbidding any one to approachtheir lodgings without his permission.

For some reason the Dutch company of musketeerswas mustered out of this service after a yearor so, and they were more or less turned adrift andscattered, always under the vigilant eyes of provincialgovernors or other officials. Sometimes theyloafed and again they worked for their board orbegged their way from one village to another, andwere entertained by the peasantry, who never ceasedto wonder at them. Once an ugly-tempered governorrefused to give them clothing and said theymight starve for all he cared; but the account washandsomely squared, for

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At the end of twelve years of this forlorn exile,eight of the crew of the Sparrow-hawk succeeded instealing away from Korea in a staunch sea-goingjunk. Eight others of the thirty-six officers and379men were still alive, but they had to be left behind.With some rice, a few jars of water, and an iron pot,the fugitives sailed the junk to the coast of Japan,where the fishermen directed them to Nagasaki,where Dutch ships were at anchor in the bay. Theeight Dutchmen who remained in Korea were neverheard of again, nor was any word received of JanWettevri, now seventy years old, and that great redbeard well streaked with gray.

When a sailor kissed his wife or sweetheartgood-by in those rude, adventurous centuries, thevoyage was likely to be darkened by these tragediesof enforced exile, which were ever so much worsethan shipwreck. Quite typical of its era was thefate of the crew of the English privateer Inspectorwhen foul weather set her ashore near Tangier inthe year of 1746. Incidentally, the narrative of theexperience of these eighty-seven survivors conveyscertain vivid impressions of an Emperor of Morocco,Zin el Abdin, and of his amazing contemptfor the Christian powers of Europe and their supinesubmission to his ruthless dictates. This was inaccordance with the attitude of centuries, duringwhich the treatment of foreign envoys in Moroccowas profoundly humiliating, and the gifts theybrought were regarded in the light of tribute. Indeed,it was not until 1900 that the custom of380mounted sultans under umbrellas receiving ambassadorson foot and bareheaded was abolished.

While from the European point of view thepirates of the Barbary coast were a bloodthirsty setof robbers, in the eyes of the Moors they were religiouswarriors for the faith who had volunteeredto punish the Nazarenes for rejecting Mohammed,and it is difficult to realize the honor in which theirmemory is held save by comparison with that of theCrusaders, in which the positions were exactly reversed.The varying influences of the differentEuropean states could be gaged at first by the pricesthey were compelled to pay to ransom their captivesubjects and later by the annual tribute which theywere willing to present to protect their vessels.Some countries continued the payment well into thenineteenth century, although the slavery of Christiansin Morocco had been abolished by treaty in1814.

The privateer Inspector, commanded by CaptainRichard Veale, sailed from the Downs on a cruisewith two hundred and five hands. After takingtwo prizes she entered the Strait of Gibraltar, wherea brisk gale of wind opened her seams, and it was acase of founder or run for the nearest beach. Atreaty which had been signed by the Emperor ofMorocco and the British Government inspired the381hope of a humane reception in Tangier. More thana hundred of the privateersmen were drowned whenthe Inspector drove against the rocky coast, and therest of them, wounded, half-naked, and exhausted,were discovered by the Moors, who threw them intoa loathsome jail of Tangier.

The British consul, Mr. Pettigrew, arrived fromGibraltar in H.M.S. Phoenix a few days later, andopened negotiations which resulted in the release ofthe captain, his three lieutenants, and the officer ofmarines. As for the others, the consul was tartlyinformed that they could rot in slavery until theBritish Government discharged an old debt claimedby the Emperor of Morocco for captives redeemedseventeen years before.

While in prison the wretched seamen were leftwithout food for three days on end, and to theirpiteous plea the governor of Tangier sent word:

“If the unbelieving dogs are hungry, let them eatthe stones.”

When they desperately attempted to escape, ironchains were locked about their necks, and twenty ofthem were thrown into a black hole of a dungeonwhere hunger almost drove them to casting lots andeating one of their number. Two sheep werethrown to them, however, which they instantly devouredraw. After five months of this existence, in382which they were more dead than alive, an ordercame to carry them to Bufcoran, two hundred milesdistant, where the emperor was encamped.

This haughty potentate rode out to look themover, and it was his pleasure that they should beconfined in a castle near by. It pleased themgreatly when, after a little while, the same governorof Tangier who had abused them so frightfully wasdragged into the castle, along with his household ofofficials, and they wore iron collars locked abouttheir necks. There was such a thing as righteousretribution even in those parlous days. The emperorwas building a splendid new castle, and theBritish privateersmen were set at work with pickaxesto dig the wall foundations. Remorselesslydriven until they dropped, twenty of them abjuredChristianity to find a respite from their torments.

The emperor was not too busy with his new castleto attend to matters of state, such as punishing thedisgraced governor of Tangier and sundry othersubjects who had misbehaved themselves in one wayor another. Sailormen were accustomed to strangesights and wonderful experiences in that age of seafaring,but few of them beheld such a drama as wasenacted before the eyes of the survivors of the Inspectoras they glanced up from their sweating toil383amid the stones and mortar. One of them describedit in these words:

The British sailors confessed that such barbaritymade them tremble, and all that sustained theirhopes was the rumor of the expected arrival of anambassador from England. The consul could donothing for them. Mr. Kilbs, the sailing-master ofthe Inspector, fainted at his work while the emperorwas inspecting the building. The despot of Moroccoinquired why the overseers permitted suchindolence, but when the case was explained and hesaw that the mariner was in the agonies of death, hewas kind enough to order him carried into the castle,where he soon expired. In this instance there was385no touch of the whimsical humor displayed whentwo superannuated Moorish soldiers toppled overwith exhaustion. The emperor cursed them mostheartily, at which the two old men in tremulous accentsentreated him to pity their infirmities andgrant them charity during the few years of lifeleft to them, reminding the emperor of their eighteenyears of service in the army. To this pleatheir ruler amiably replied that he could perceivetheir inability to labor any longer and it was thereforehis duty to protect them against the evils ofold age and poverty. He therefore graciously orderedthat they both be shot through the head withoutmore ado.

After a year of captivity, the sailors were takento Fez to toil on another pretentious fortress.Their keepers abused them without mercy, and amidshipman of the privateer, Mr. Nelson, took hislife in his hands and complained to the emperor.Such boldness won the tyrant’s favor, and he askedwhat the grievances were. The midshipmanshowed a heavy stick of wood with which one of thekeepers had beaten the men of the Inspector becausethey sang some songs during the night to keep theirspirits up.

“Fetch me four sticks of that same size, and letthem be good ones,” commanded his Majesty Zin386el Adbin. “Also drag that wicked keeper beforeme.”

The whole company of British seamen was alsoordered into the royal presence, and four of the moststalwart were selected and told to take the sticksand break them on the keeper’s bones. The victimwas stretched on the ground, and the incensed marinersflogged him with great enthusiasm while theemperor encouraged them to make a thorough jobof it or have their own bones broken. The guardscarted away what was left of the keeper, and hedied an hour later.

From Fez the captives were carried to Tetuan toawait tidings from the British ambassador to Morocco,who was striving to obtain their release. Atparting with their black overseer, he made the logicalremark:

“Now I have no more to do with you; and if everyou catch me in your country, I expect no betterusage than you have had here.”

The negotiations moved haltingly while the sailorswaited in prison in Tetuan. After a long delayenough money was received from Gibraltar to redeemtwenty-five of them, who were selected by thegovernor of the city, “who dismissed them withwishes for a happy voyage.” Three weeks afterwardthe balance of the cash came to Tetuan, but387the emperor put a spoke in the wheel by refusing tolet the privateersmen go until that matter of the olddebt was canceled. The British ambassador sent anaval officer to England for more money, and therewas another delay, which annoyed the Moorish governorof Tetuan. A squadron of British men-of-war,under Commodore Keppel, rode at anchor inthe harbor, but their guns were silent while the ambassadorwas arrested, his property seized, and hissecretary thrown into a dungeon pit twenty feetdeep, where the playful Moors dropped dead catsand dogs and stones on him. It could scarcely besaid that Britannia rules the waves that washed theshores of Morocco.

Commodore Keppel pledged his word that theold account should be squared, although it was wellknown that the British Government had alreadypaid it once, and the ambassador gave a promissorynote for the whole amount. Finally the claims weresettled to the satisfaction of the Emperor of Morocco,and the survivors of the privateer were putaboard H.M.S. Sea-Horse. “They ran into thewater as deep as the waist, each thinking himselfhappiest that he could get in the boat first.”

Fifty-seven of them had lived to gain their freedomafter four years of slavery. Their sad storyended more happily than might have been expected,388for when they returned to England the king waspleased to give them a bounty of five pounds each.

The Jews in London supplied them with clothing andshowed them many acts of kindness. Mr. Rich, managerof one of the principal theatres, presented each man withfive pounds and devoted the proceeds of a night’s performanceto their use. The proprietor of another publicexhibition did the like, on which occasion they appeared iniron chains and collars such as they had worn in slavery.

The privateersman of the Inspector who wrotethe narrative of the adventures and miseries in Moroccowas a hardy salt, if ever there was one. Unharmedby the experience, this Thomas Troughtonlived until 1806, and died at the uncommonly ripeold age of one hundred and fourteen years.

It seems proper that one of these true tales ofluckless seamen long in exile should have for itshero a mariner of that rugged New England, theearly fortitude and daring of which laid the enduringfoundations of this nation. In the year of1676 Mr. Ephraim How of New Haven found itnecessary to undertake a journey to Boston. Express-trainswere not then covering the distance betweenthese cities in four hours. In fact, therewere not even post-roads or stage-coaches, and therisk of being potted by hostile Indians was by nomeans negligible. To the Pilgrims and the Puritans389of that era the country was still a wildernessalmost as soon as they ventured inland beyond thesound of the sea.

As was common enough, Mr. Ephraim How hada vessel of his own to carry the cargoes which, as amerchant, he sold to his neighbors of the NewHaven colony. They were a web-footed race ofpioneers who traded and farmed and sailed or fishedto earn a thrifty dollar. For his business trip toBoston Mr. How sensibly went by sea as an easierand quicker route than by land. With him in hissmall ketch of seventeen tons went his two sons assailors, another youth named Caleb Jones, whosefather was a magistrate in New Haven, a Mr.Augur, who was a passenger, and a boy, unnamed,who probably cooked the pork and potatoes andscrubbed the pots in the galley. It was in themonth of August, and the ketch made a pleasantvoyage of it around Cape Cod and into Boston Bay.

Illness, contrary winds, and business delays postponedthe return journey until October, and theymade sail with every expectation of a good passage.Off Cape Cod one heavy gale after another drovethe ketch far offshore. The experience must havebeen terribly severe, for after eleven days of it theeldest son died, and the other son died soon after.It was too much for young Caleb Jones also, and he390followed the others over the side, stitched up in apiece of canvas. Poor Ephraim How had lost hiscrew as by a visitation of God, and it seems asthough some contagious disease must have ravagedthe little ketch. The passenger, Mr. Augur, wasno sailor at all, and Mr. How lashed himself to thehelm for thirty-six hours at a stretch.

In this situation the two men cast lots whether totry to struggle back to the New England coast or tobear away with the wind and hope to reach the WestIndies. The gambler’s choice decreed New England,but the weather decided otherwise. For morethan two months the distressed ketch tossed aboutand drifted, and was beaten to and fro without aglimpse of landfall. It was late in November whenshe was wrecked on a ledge of rock, but EphraimHow had not the slightest idea of where it was.He later learned that he had driven as far tothe eastward as Nova Scotia, and the ketch hadsmashed herself upon a desolate island near CapeSable. For Ephraim How it was a long, long wayfrom Boston to New Haven.

Cape Sable in the winter time is even now awicked refuge for shipwrecked mariners. Fortunately,there drifted ashore from the ketch the followinglist of essentials:

“A cask of gunpowder, which received no damage391from the water; a barrel of wine, half a barrel ofmolasses, several useful articles towards building atent; besides which they had firearms and shot, a potfor boiling, and most probably other things not mentioned.”

Ephraim How, Mr. Augur, and the cabin boyprepared to make a winter of it in their flimsy shelterof a canvas tent amid the rocks and snow-drifts.They shot crows, ravens, and sea-gulls, and wardedoff starvation with an uncomplaining heroism whichexpressed itself in these words:

“Once they lived five days without any sustenancebut did not feel themselves pinched with hunger atother times, which they esteemed a special favor ofheaven unto them.”

The dear friend and companion, Mr. Augur, diedafter three months of this ordeal, and the cabin boylived until the middle of February. ThereafterEphraim How was a solitary castaway. He somehowsurvived the winter, and notched a stick to keepthe tally of the days and weeks as they brought themilder airs of spring. Fishing-vessels may havesighted his signals, but they passed unheeding,afraid of some Indian stratagem to lure them inshore.

Ephraim How had been three months alone, andseven months on this island near Cape Sable, when392a trading-brig of Salem stood in to investigate thesmoke of his fire, and mercifully rescued him fromexile. On the eighteenth of July, 1677, he arrivedin Salem port, and then made his way home to NewHaven. He had been absent a whole year on thatjourney to Boston, which the modern traveler makesin a few hours with magical ease and luxury.

Many kinds of ships and men have enduredthe eternal enmity of the sea, as these truetales have depicted, but there is one episode of disasterwhich might be called the pattern and theproper example for all mariners cast away on unknownshores. It reveals the virtues and not thevices of mankind in time of stress, and saves fromoblivion the portrait of a dusky monarch so wiseand just and kind that he could teach civilizationmuch more than he could learn from it. No whitemen had ever set foot in his island realm until hewelcomed this shipwrecked crew, and the source ofhis precepts and ideals was that inner light whichhad been peculiarly vouchsafed him. Naked andtattooed, he was not only a noble ruler of his people,but also a very perfect gentleman.

The packet Antelope, in the service of the EastIndia Company, sailed from Macao in July, 1783,and was driven ashore in a black squall on one of thePelew Islands three weeks later. All of the people394were able to get away from the wreck in the boats,but they made for the beach with the most gloomyforebodings. The Pelews, a westerly group of theCaroline Islands, in the Pacific, had been sighted bythe Spanish admiral, Ruy Lopez de Villalobos, asearly as 1543, but no ship had ever touched there,and the only report, which was gleaned by hearsayfrom other islanders, declared that “the natives wereunhuman and savage, that both men and womenwere entirely naked and fed upon human flesh, thatthe inhabitants of the Carolines looked on them withhorror as the enemies of mankind and with whomthey held it dangerous to have any intercourse.”

Captain Henry Wilson of the Antelope was anexceptional commander, with a reliable crew whichcheerfully obeyed him. While the ship was in thebreakers and death seemed imminent, it is recordedthat

they endeavored to console and cheer one another andeach was advised to clothe and prepare himself to quit theship, and herein the utmost good order and regularity wasobserved, not a man offering to take anything but whattruly belonged to himself, nor did any one of them attemptto take a dram or complain of negligence or misconductagainst the watch or any particular person.

A raft was built to carry the stores and supplies,and sent off in tow of the pinnace and the jolly-boat.395The ship was fast grinding to pieces, but there wasno confusion, and the carpenter was so intent on gettinghis kit of tools together that he would have beenleft behind if the captain had not searched for him.A landing was made in a sandy cove, and no nativeswere discovered. Tents were rigged of sail-cloth,fires built, the arms cleaned and dried, and sentriesposted for the night. One might have supposedthat this efficient ship’s company was in the habitof being shipwrecked.

Two canoes came paddling into the cove nextday, and Captain Wilson went down to meet theislanders. Luckily, he had with him a sailor namedTom Rose who could talk one or two Malay dialects,and he managed to struggle along as an interpreterfor the reason that a native in one of the canoescould also speak the Malay tongue.

To questions Tom Rose answered that these wereunfortunate Englishmen who had lost their shipupon the reef and wished to be friends. Unafraidand cordially disposed, eight islanders left the canoesand accepted Captain Wilson’s invitation tobreakfast. Two of the guests were found to bebrothers of the king. They tasted tea and biscuitfor the first time, and were introduced to the officers,with whom they shook hands, having quickly notedthat this was the accepted manner of greeting.396These Englishmen, mysterious and unknown, werebeings from another world, and the guests displayedlively astonishment, but no uneasiness.

It was agreed that Mr. Matthias Wilson, the captain’sbrother, should go to the near-by island ofPelew, or Coorooraa, to meet the king in formal audienceand solicit his friendship. One canoe andthree men remained at the sailors’ camp. One ofthem was the king’s brother, Raa Kook, commanderof the military forces. These islanders were entirelynaked, their brown skins glistening withcocoanut-oil, their long hair neatly done up in aroll behind.

While Mr. Matthias Wilson was absent on hismission, the crew of the Antelope went off to thewreck in quest of salvage. It was discoveredthat natives had rummaged the cabin and sampledthe bottles in the medicine-chest. Here one beginsto discern the ethical code of these most primitivesavages.

Captain Wilson made this transaction known to RaaKook, not so much as a matter of complaint as to expressto him his uneasiness for the consequences which mightarise to the natives from their drinking such a variety ofmedicines. Raa Kook begged that Captain Wilson wouldentertain no anxiety whatever on their account; that ifthey suffered it would be entirely owing to their own misconduct,for which he said he felt himself truly concerned.397His countenance fully described the indignation he felt atthe treacherous behavior of his own men and he asked whyour people did not shoot them? He begged that if theyor any others should dare again to attempt to plunder thevessel they would be shot at once and he should take itupon himself to justify the punishment to the king.

The only ornament worn by Raa Kook was a polishedbracelet of bone, which he explained to be amark of high distinction, conferred by the king uponhis own family, officers of state, and military men ofcommanding rank. It was readily perceived thatsuch a decoration had precisely the same significanceas the ribbon of the order of the Bath or the Garteras conferred by English royalty.

All of which is no more extraordinary than theexemplary behavior of the crew of the Antelope.Captain Wilson called his officers together and suggestedthat no more liquor be drunk in camp. Itmade the men quarrelsome, interfered with theirwork, and was likely to cause trouble with the natives.The officers approved, and the boatswaincalled all hands next morning to hear the verdict.The seamen agreed to go without their grog, andoffered to go on board the wreck and stave in everycask of spirits that could be found. This they scrupulouslydid, and it is a fair comment that “circ*mstancedas these poor fellows were, nothing but a398long and well-trained discipline and the real affectionthey bore their commander could have producedthe fortitude and firmness which they testified onthis occasion.”

After a few days a canoe returned from PelewIsland with a son of the king as messenger. Hebrought word that his Majesty Abba Thulle badethe Englishmen welcome to his country, that theyhad his full permission to build a vessel on the islandwhere they then were, or that they might remove tothe island on which he lived and enjoy his personalprotection. Mr. Matthias Wilson would soon returnto the camp and had greatly enjoyed his visit.

When at length the king himself arrived in stateto make the acquaintance of Captain Wilson and hiscompany, he came with squadrons of canoes filledwith armed men who blew sonorous salutes on conch-shells.Upon a stage in a larger canoe, or royalbarge, sat King Abba Thulle, and the English commanderwas carried through the surf to meet him.These were two courtiers, the dignified shipmasterand the Micronesian savage, and after expressionsof mutual esteem the king explained that this islandwas held to be sickly and subject to attack by hostileclans. For this reason he felt anxious for the welfareof the visitors. Captain Wilson answered thatthe shore was admirably suited for building and399launching a small vessel and his men were welldrilled and armed. And his surgeon would keep aneye on their health.

Landing at the camp, King Abba Thulle wasescorted by his chiefs and three hundred bronzedfighting men. He wore no clothing and carried onhis shoulder a hatchet which seemed to be a kind ofscepter. A man of uncommon force and intelligence,a king in deed as well as name, this was to beread at a glance. It was his surmise that CaptainWilson, attended by his officers and armed sailors,must be a prince in his own country, but this errorthe modest commander was at pains to correct.Musketry drill and the discharge of the piecesastounded Abba Thulle, as did also the clothing andimplements of these strangers, and the narrative ofthe shipwreck sagaciously comments:

The king remained awhile pensive and bewildered, andthis circ*mstance impressed on every one the idea thatthere was every cause to suppose that there had never beena communication between these people and any other nation,that they and their ancestry through ages too remotefor human conjecture, might have lived as sovereigns ofthe world, unconscious that it extended beyond the horizonwhich bounded them, unconscious also that there wereany other inhabitants in it than themselves. And in thiscase, what might not be the sentiments that burst on amind thus suddenly awakened to a new and more enlargednotion of nature and mankind?

400

King Abba Thulle was not a man to ask for gifts,but was anxious to bestow favors. He offered tosend some of his own craftsmen to help build a vesseland to provide such native food as might lendvariety to the ship’s stores. One thing only he desired.He was about to wage war against the rebelliouspeople of an island which had done himgrave injury, and it would be of great advantage ifCaptain Wilson would permit four or five of his mento go along with their muskets. The whole crewvolunteered for this sporting adventure, but fouryoung single men were chosen, with the third mate,Mr. Cummings, in charge. Wearing blue jacketsand co*cked hats with light blue co*ckades, they sailedblithely away with the army of the king.

Meanwhile the crew had begun work on a smallschooner after electing Captain Wilson as their superiorofficer, the narrative explaining that “asevery reader may not be acquainted with maritimeproceedings, to such it will not be improper toremark that when a merchant ship is wrecked allauthority immediately ceases, and every individualis at full liberty to shift for himself.” It was faithfullypromised that in all things the men would obeyCaptain Wilson as when the Antelope had beenafloat.

The second officer, Mr. Barker, had been a shipwright401in his youth, and he aided the carpenter inlaying out the work. The tasks were methodicallydistributed, Mr. Matthias Wilson, Surgeon Sharp,and Captain Wilson sawing down trees, the boatswainin charge of the blacksmith shop, the gunneracting as chief of police, and a number of Chinesecoolie passengers fetching water, hauling timbers,and running a laundry. Most of the sailors wereemployed in the carpenter’s gang. A stout stockadewas built around the little shipyard and twoswivel-guns were mounted against a possible attackfrom seaward. From the wreck of the Antelopethe boats brought cordage, oakum, iron, and copper,planking and timbers. It was an orderly bit of OldEngland transplanted to the remote and barbarousPelew Island. And of course Captain Wilson readprayers to the assembled crew every Sunday evening.

The schooner’s keel had been laid and the stemand stern-post bolted on, with the frames takingshape in the busy yard, when the five bold sailormencame back from the war with a tale of victory wonover the forces of the King of Artingall. Theirown sovereign, Abba Thulle, and his commander-in-chief,Raa Kook, had mustered a hundred andfifty canoes and a thousand men armed with spearsand darts, which they handled with amazing skill.402The enemy had fled after a spirited skirmish inwhich musketry-fire made a complete rout of it. AtPelew the victors had delayed for feasting anddances, and the English seamen volunteers seemedhighly pleased with the soldier’s life. They cheerfullyset about their allotted tasks in the shipyard,however, and doffed the blue jackets and co*ckedhats.

In token of their service, Abba Thulle formallypresented to the English party this island of Oroolongon which they dwelt, and in the native languageit was rechristened “Englishman’s Land.” CaptainWilson thereupon ran up the British ensign,and three volleys of small arms were fired. By wayof entertainment, one of the king’s brothers came tospend the night “and brought with him all his spiritsand gaiety, diverting them wonderfully with thepleasant description of the late engagement and actingwith his accustomed humor and gestures thepanic which had seized the enemy the instant theyheard the report of the English guns.”

It was proper that Captain Wilson should journeyto the island of Pelew to return the royal visit,and this was done with becoming ceremony on bothsides, banquets and music, and the attendance ofmany chiefs in the thatched village and the unpretentious403palace. It was a smiling landscape, verylush and green, with cultivated fields of yams andcocoanuts and a contented people. The war withthe islanders of Artingall was unfinished, it seemed,and they deserved severe chastisem*nt because ofseveral murders committed. Another expeditionwas therefore planned, and ten of the British sailorstook part with Captain Wilson’s approval. Thedetails were arranged during this meeting at Pelew.

A naval action was fought, and the strategy ofGeneral Raa Kook was so brilliant that it deservesmention. The enemy’s squadrons of canoes held aposition close under the land and refused to sail outand join battle. Raa Kook thereupon detached oneof his own squadrons and concealed it behind apromontory during the night. In the morning themain fleet of canoes closed in, led by King AbbaThulle, and fought at long range. Pretending tobe thrown into disorder, he ordered the conch-shellsto sound the retreat, and this main fleet fled seaward.In hot pursuit dashed the squadrons of Artingall.No sooner were they well clear of the landthan Raa Kook told his hidden squadron to advanceand cut the enemy off. The luckless warriors ofArtingall were between the devil and the deep sea,attacked ahead and astern, and mercilessly bucketed404about until they broke and scattered. Many prisonerswere taken, as well as canoes, and this campaignwas a closed incident.

The interesting statement is made that AbbaThulle had previously notified the King of Artingallthat in a few days he intended to offer him battle,and also that it was a maxim of his never to attackan enemy in the dark or take him unawares. Thischivalrous doctrine is not expounded in detail bythe narrator who compiled the personal stories ofCaptain Wilson and his officers, but it finds explicitconfirmation in the memoirs of another gallantsailor who visited the Pelew Islands a few yearslater. This was Captain Amasa Delano, an Americanshipmaster, who also formed a strong friendshipwith King Abba Thulle and felt the greatestadmiration for him.

Captain Delano was a mariner whose career embracedall the hazards and vicissitudes that could beencountered in that rugged and heroic era of endeavor.In Macao he fell in with Commodore JohnMcClure of the English Navy, who was in commandof an expedition setting out to explore a part of theSouth Seas, including the Pelew Islands, NewGuinea, New Holland, and the Spice Islands. TheEnglishman took a fancy to this resourceful Yankeeseaman and offered him the pay and station of a405lieutenant. While the ship tarried at the Pelews,the chronic war against the rebels of Artingall hadflared up again, and Captain Delano had this to sayof Abba Thulle:

Captain Henry Wilson of the Antelope wastherefore not alone in his high estimate of the characterof this island ruler. The English castaways,industriously framing and planking their trim littleschooner, had many evidences of a sentiment bothdelicate and noble. For instance, the royal canoescame bringing many cocoanuts ready for planting.At the king’s desire they were set out to grow andform a wall of green around the cove where thecamp stood. It was noticed that while coveringeach nut with earth, the king’s brothers murmuredcertain words. They were dedicatory, it was explained,meaning that there would be fruit for thecaptain and his friends whenever they should returnto the island, and should other strangers be wreckedon this shore, they would thank the English for theirrefreshment.

The schooner was finished and launched withoutmishap and christened the Ooralong. The ship’scompany had been almost four months on the island,and were all fit and strong and happy. Theanchors, cables, and other fittings were placed onboard, and it remained only to put in the stores andwater-casks. Then it was that King Abba Thulle407sent word to Captain Wilson that he wished to investhim with the order of the bone bracelet and toknight him as a chief of the highest rank. The ceremonywas impressive, a great concourse of nativesattending in profound silence, and when the braceletwas slipped on the wrist of Captain Wilson, theking told him that “the emblem should be rubbedbright every day and preserved as a testimony of therank he held amongst them, that this mark of dignitymust on every occasion be defended valiantly,nor suffered to be torn from his arm but with theloss of life.”

At last the schooner Ooralong, taut and seaworthy,swung at anchor with sails bent and everythingready for the voyage. To the pleasure andsurprise of Captain Wilson, the king announcedthat he had resolved to send his second son, Lee Boo,to England if this was agreeable to the commander.Although his subjects respected his knowledge, explainedAbba Thulle, he felt keenly his own insignificanceat seeing the common English seamen exercisetalents so far surpassing him. It was certainthat his son would learn many things which mightgreatly benefit his people. And so this youngprince of the Pelew Islands sailed on a marvelousvoyage to lands unknown. In one of the farewellconversations, the king said to Captain Wilson:

408

I would wish you to inform Lee Boo of all things whichhe ought to know and to make him an Englishman. Thedistress of parting with my beloved son I have frequentlyconsidered. I am well aware that the distant countrieshe must pass through, differing much from his own, mayexpose him to dangers, as well as to diseases that areunknown to us here, in consequence of which he may die.I have prepared my thoughts to this. I know that deathis to all men inevitable, and whether my son meets thisevent at Pelew or elsewhere is immaterial. I am satisfied,from what I have observed of the humanity of your character,that if he is sick you will be kind to him. Andshould that fate happen which your utmost care cannotprevent, let it not hinder you or your brother or yourson or any of your countrymen from returning here. Ishall receive you or any of your people in friendship andrejoice to see you again.

Abba Thulle promised to cherish and preserve acopper plate affixed to a tree near the cove, uponwhich was cut the following inscription:

The Honorable
English East India Company’s Ship
The ANTELOPE.
HENRY WILSON, Commander,
Was lost upon the reef north of this island
In the night between the 9th and 10th of
August;
Who here built a vessel,
And sailed from hence
The 12th day of November, 1783.

409

When the little schooner hoisted the union jackand fired a swivel in token of good-by, the king andhis young son came aboard from a canoe, to betogether until the vessel had passed out through thechannel of the reef. A multitude of natives followedin canoes, offering gifts of fruit and flowers,yams and cocoanuts, which could not be accepted forlack of space. Gently they were told this, but eachheld up a little something, crying: “Only this fromme! Only this from me!” Other canoes were sentahead to pilot the schooner or to buoy the reef.When it came time for the king to summon his owncanoe he said farewell to his son, and then embracedCaptain Wilson with great tenderness, saying:

“You are happy because you are going home. Iam happy to find you are happy, but still very unhappymyself to see you going away.”

In this manner two rare men saw the last of eachother. Captain Henry Wilson was far too modestto claim credit to himself, but it is quite obviousthat the happy ending of this tragedy of the seawas largely due to his own serene courage, kindliness,and ability as a seaman and a commander.An inferior type of man would have made a sorrymess of the whole affair.

The schooner pluckily made her way through fairweather and foul until she safely reached the roadstead410of Macao. There the little vessel was foundto be so stanch that she was sold for seven hundredSpanish dollars. Captain Wilson then took passagefor England in an East Indiaman, and theyoung prince Lee Boo went with him. Arrivedhome, the commander made the guest a member ofhis own household, and sent him to school at Rotherhite,in London. He was of a bright mind andeager to learn, and his experiences and impressionsmake most entertaining reading.

Alas! he fell ill with small-pox after less than ayear of exile from his distant island, and died in afew days. At the foot of his bed stood honest TomRose, the sailor who had served as an interpreter.At the sight of his tears, the boyish prince rebukedhim, saying,

“Why should he be crying because Lee Boo die?”The doctor who attended him wrote in a letter to anofficial of the East India Company:

He expressed all his feelings to me in the most forcibleand pathetic manner, put my head upon his heart, leanthis head on my arm, and explained his uneasiness inbreathing. But when I was gone he complained no more,showing that he complained with a view to be relieved,not to be pitied. In short, living or dying, he has givenme a lesson which I shall never forget and surely for patienceand fortitude he was an example worthy the imitationof a Stoic.

411

Thus died a worthy son of his father, the goodking Abba Thulle of the Pelew Islands. Over hisgrave in England was placed a stone with this inscription:

To the Memory
of PRINCE LEE BOO,
A native of the Pelew, or Palos Islands,
and Son to Abba Thulle, Rupack or King
of the Island Coorooraa;
Who departed this life on the 27th of December, 1784,
Aged 20 Years.
This Stone is inscribed
by the Honorable United East India Company
as a Testimony of esteem for the humane and kind
Treatment afforded by his Father to the crew of
their ship, the ANTELOPE, Captain WILSON,
which was wrecked off that Island
In the Night of the 9th of August, 1783.

Stop, Reader, stop—let NATURE claim a Tear—A
Prince of Mine, Lee Boo, lies bury’d here.

As a memorial of the Antelope packet and thefortunate sojourn of her company in the PelewIslands, a stately volume was prepared at the directionof the East India Company. This passage isworthy to be quoted in remembrance of King AbbaThulle:

The night before the schooner sailed, the king askedCaptain Wilson how long it might be before his son’s return412to Pelew. Being told that it would be about thirtymoons, or perhaps longer, Abba Thulle drew from his basketa piece of line and after making thirty knots in it, alittle distance from each other, left a long space and thenadding six other knots carefully put it by.

Thirty months to be counted one by one, and sixmore in the event of longer delay before the returnof Lee Boo! A hundred and forty years have gonesince the king of the Pelew Islands and CaptainHenry Wilson of the Antelope were brothers inspirit, and the curse of civilization has long sinceblighted the manners and the morals of those simplepeople of the Pacific; but this story of a shipwrecksurvives with a certain noble distinction, and it helpsto redeem the failures of weaker men to play thegallant part amid the cruel adversities of the sea.

THE END