Chapter II: Part 2

“Oh, nonsense, boy,” replied Capt. Rider, as he gave the tiller a sharp pull to bring the Polly up a point, “guess you was asleep and had a dream.”

“No, uncle, listen; there it is again, ’tis a baby’s cry.”

“Bless my skin, boy, I b’lieve yer right; my hearin’ ain’t extra good, but I do hear su’thin off thar to wind’ard. But what in the world could a baby be doin’ out thar? I don’t see no vessel nor no boat. But we won’t leave no mortal round in this hole to drown.”

“Here, George,” he shouted, “you and Nick get the boat over and see if ye can find whar that distressed creeter is. And Ned, you kin go along to help. I’ll put the Polly’s sheets to wind and jog around so you won’t lose us.”

The tide-ruffled waters splashed and sparkled as the oars, in the hands of the hardy fishermen, rose and fell in unison.

“There, I hear it again,” exclaimed Ned from his seat at the stern of the boat; “it comes right from that rock.”

The oars sent the boat straight toward the huge rock, on whose sides the tide lapped with a soft rhythmic “swish, swish,” gaining slowly, surely. Only a few feet of its slippery top remained exposed, and the water was creeping up inch by inch until soon only a swirl and a fleck of foam would mark the place of the hidden reef.

There on the shelving side of the rock, with the tide lapping her tiny feet, chilled from long exposure and crying bitterly, sat a little girl.

Rough but willing hands soon had the little waif safely in the boat. When they reached the side of the Polly Uncle Peter stood ready to receive the strange charge.

“Well, by hooky, boys,” he exclaimed as he received from Ned’s arms the little dripping form. “How could she ’ve got on to that rock?”

“There’s only one way I can ’count for it,” said George Barnes. “Some devil wanted to get rid of her, and left her thar to drown.”

“Well, I’d like to catch the chap that did it; either he or I’d go overboard,” said Ben Smith.

Ned gazed wonderingly into the face of the little child, who now, somewhat reassured, lay smiling in the bunk where the crew had placed her after removing the water-soaked clothing.

“Well, boys,” said Capt. Peter after all that was possible had been done for the little charge, “we don’t know whar this baby girl came from, and we ain’t goin’ to try hard to find out; we ain’t very handy or well fixed for girl babies aboard the Polly, but, by hooky, we’re a nuff site more human than the critters that left that tot out dar on the rock to be killed piecemeal.”

The summer winds blew gently on the Polly; homeward she sped. One bright morning the anchor dropped and the codder was home again in the smooth waters of Provincetown Harbor.

Little Ruth (so the crew of the Polly had named her) had fared well on the voyage, and when the boat had been rowed ashore and the fisher wives and maidens had come down to welcome home their loved ones, great was their astonishment at what had come home with the Polly’s fishermen.

Granny Rider, with her motherly face against little Ruth’s cheek, as she received the charge from Capt. Peter, almost forgot to kiss Ned, so interested was she in the wondrous tale. Over and over the story was told, and soon everybody knew of the baby girl that had come in the Polly.

Ruth was the joy of Capt. Peter and Granny Rider’s home. Ned was never so happy as when playing with the little sea waif in Granny’s kitchen. No one ever learned her history; no one apparently ever cared to do so. Those who go down to the sea in ships learn to leave many mysteries unsolved.

Summer passed into winter, winter into spring, and again the Polly sailed. Ned kissed his little playmate good-by and turned to the duties of the voyage. Years passed, the boy became a man, Capt. Peter turned the command of the Polly to Ned. Little Ruth had grown to womanhood. They no longer played together as children, but looked forward more eagerly to the homecoming as the years went by. One day in Granny’s cozy home two happy hearts were joined, and on the sea of life their little bark sailed out on the summer sea of years.

A FEW OF THE MANY DEEP SEA MYSTERIES

The great sea is ever full of unsolved mysteries, ships sail out into the wide ocean and are seen and heard from no more. And the many human lives on board are blotted out as completely as though they had never been.

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We have space for but few instances, and most of the following ships when starting out on their last voyages passed out by Cape Cod.

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The full rigged ship Brynhilda, with a full cargo and deck load of lumber, sailed away on September 27, 1914. After many adventures in Russian waters, neither ship nor crew were seen again.

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Then the ship Avon pushed out on the deep blue sea and was never seen or heard from again.

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In 1914 the Balmaha faded away in the ocean’s mist.

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In the following year the Pass of Balmaha, carrying a cargo of cotton valued at a million dollars, joined the fleet of mystery ships.

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In 1917 the great Navy Collier Cyclops, with a complement of 300 officers and men, disappeared in the mists and the darkness of the ever restless sea and another strange mystery was added to the long and ever increasing list of unsolved tragedies.

THE MONTE TABER

On September 14th, 1896, the Italian Bark Monte Taber struck on Peaked Hill Bars during a furious northeast gale. The disaster was attended by loss of five men, whose deaths were attended by circumstances of mysterious and almost romantic interest. It was learned that there had been three suicides on board the vessel, and the fate of the other members of the crew could not be definitely determined; they disappeared in the storm and in the breaking up of the doomed craft.

The bark hailed from Genoa, and carried a crew of twelve men, including the officers and two boys. She had a cargo of salt from Trapan, Island of Sicily, for Boston.

The craft had been struck by a hurricane on September 9th, and when off Cape Cod on the night of the 13th, in endeavoring to make Provincetown Harbor, struck the dreaded Peaked Hill Bars. She was discovered by patrolman Silvey, of the Peaked Hill Station. The night was dark as ink and the sea was running high, and smashing over the bars with terrific force, and the bark soon gave evidence of speedy destruction.

Owing to the darkness and the storm the coast guard crew could not locate the wreck; there was nothing that could be seen to shoot at and nothing to pull to, even if a boat could have been launched, which was impossible. It is believed that the Captain was so humiliated by the loss of his vessel, that he fell into a frenzy of despair and took his own life, and some of the officers and crew followed his example.

Six of the crew managed to reach the shore on top of the cabin which had broken away from the ship and were pulled from the surf by the Life Savers. One of the boys said he swam ashore. An investigation conducted by the Italian government, disclosed that the Captain did commit suicide.

It has been said, whether true or not, that it is a tradition among Italians that when a master of a vessel is so unfortunate as to lose the craft he is in duty bound to do away with himself, as he could never again expect to command a vessel.

LOSS OF THE OAKLAND

One of those sudden storms which so often develop and sweep down along the Cape Cod Coast without warning in the fall of the year, broke over the Cape on the night of the 12th of October, 1913. The tug Paoli, towing three coal laden barges, which left Vineyard Haven the day before, was caught in the rush of the gale between Wellfleet and Highland Light. Hoping to pull through and round Race Point for an anchorage, the tug struggled on through the ever increasing gale; when opposite Highland Light, with the monstrous seas sweeping over the barges every moment, the strain on the towing hawser proved too great and it snapped away from the tug when the tow was two miles from shore. The barges became separated and were drifting helplessly towards the outlying sand bars, over which a wild sea was breaking. Two of the barges were able to get up some sail, drove before the gale down the coast and escaped; not so with the Oakland, which was the third barge in the tow. Those on board finding that the barge was being forced rapidly towards the sand bars, and those on the barge hoping that the gale might moderate, dropped both anchors and brought the vessel to a stop one mile from shore and just clear of the bar.

The tug was then able to get near enough to the barge to take off the three members of her crew, but the Captain and mate refused to leave the craft. As the day of the 13th advanced the gale and the sea steadily increased and the barge strained heavily at her anchors. All through the day until late in the afternoon we watched the barge pitching and rolling in the great seas that swept her, expecting every moment to see her drag to the bar and be pounded to pieces. We knew that a leak must sooner or later pour water into her hold. Soon we saw smoke rising from her pumping engine which indicated that water was coming in, and those on board were making an effort to prevent the flooding of the hold, but we could see that they would be unable to overcome the leak and the water was slowly but surely sinking the craft.

This barge carried a small dory on the deck house. Pretty soon we saw the captain and mate unlash the boat and take it down on deck; then they went into the cabin and came out each with a suit case; these they placed in the dory; then they lowered the boat into the water and we realized that they were preparing to take to this frail skiff and abandon the barge. Heavens, we knew that they might as well jump into the sea at once rather than prolong the agony, that boat had no more chance to reach the shore than the men had to swim there. Soon they cut the rope that held the boat to the sinking craft, seized the oars and pulled around the stern of the barge; for about fifteen minutes they were able to keep the boat heading the sea, then came a great overpowering wave that swept the boat to its crest and sent it a hundred feet away, hurling the men into the rushing waves and turning the boat bottom up, for a brief moment the heads of the men appeared above the wild sea, then dropped from sight. Their bodies were recovered next day far down the beach from where the sea swallowed them up.

When the sun rose next morning all that was visible protruding above the still raging sea was one lone mast above the sunken hull, mute evidence of another tragedy of the sea.

In a few days the broken hull was washed up on the beach and the cargo was scattered along the shore.

LOSS OF THE CASTAGNIA

For a day or two previous to February 17th, 1914, the weather had been extremely bad along the New England coast with very cold northeast and northwest winds with snow squalls. On the afternoon of the 16th a deeply laden bark was seen by the Cahoons Hollow Coast Station acting very strangely. She would first sail up the coast for quite a distance and then tack and sail down the coast. This was repeated several times, and it seemed to the Life Savers that the officers of the bark had completely lost their bearings. The vessel finally drove away in the mists of the night under short sail. At daylight next morning the Coast Guard patrol discovered the vessel hard and fast on the outlying sand bar.

It was bitterly cold and the tattered sail of the vessel slatted against the broken spars; ice covered her decks and hung in great bunches to her broken ropes. Her crew had been driven to the rigging by the raging seas which constantly swept over her, and the Coast Guard could see a number of human figures clinging desperately to the rigging.

Then the Coast Guard apparatus was placed in position and a shot sent over the vessel; three times the shot and line sped over the craft, but the men in the rigging made no effort to secure the line; then Capt. Tobin decided that an effort must be made to launch the life boat.

But under the terrible conditions which prevailed it was an undertaking fraught with much danger.

But the boat was launched and the Life Savers pulled away. Soon they reached the side of the ship and called to the men in the rigging to come down. Eight of them after much effort and assisted by the Coast Guard crew were finally gotten into the boat. Capt. Tobin of the Coast Guard crew said to one of the rescued sailors, “Why don’t those other men come down?” “They cannot,” was the reply. “They are dead, frozen to death.” The boat returning to shore was pretty well overloaded with crew and rescued, and as the bow touched the beach was overturned, but all of the men were thrown clear of the boat except Capt. Tobin, who was caught between the steering oar and the stern of the boat and considerably injured. The Coast Guard station was more than two miles away from the scene of the disaster but the Marconi Wireless station was only a mile away and to this house the half frozen sailors were hurried as fast as their almost helpless condition would permit. A physician was summoned from Wellfleet and the condition of the men made as comfortable as possible, then hurried by the next train to Boston hospitals. All of them lost fingers or toes.

The three dead sailors, from necessity, were left lashed to the rigging where they had died, until the next day, when the bodies were brought to shore and buried in the town cemetery. In a few days the hull of the ship lay a battered wreck on the shore.

The author’s home from which the passing ships are sighted and reported by telegraph or telephone to Boston and the Newspapers]

THOMAS W. LAWSON

THE LARGEST SCHOONER

An interesting vessel of this class was the seven masted schooner, Thomas W. Lawson, built in 1902 by the Fore River Ship and Engine Company of Quincy, Mass. She was of steel, 368 feet long, 50 feet beam, 34½ feet depth of hold and of 10,000 tons displacement, thus being the largest vessel of this class ever constructed for sailing only.

She was built for the Coastwise Transportation Company, at a cost of about $150,000.

Mr. Lawson was a considerable contributor in the cost of her construction and the vessel was named for him.

She sailed from Delaware Breakwater on the 2nd of December, 1907, with a cargo of coal for some port in France. She carried a complement of a crew of 19 officers and men. And in a bad storm was driven on the rocks a short distance from France on Friday, December 13, 1907. There 17 men of the ship’s company perished. The vessel was a total wreck. No other attempt was ever made to construct a vessel of this type. She was too large to operate in the coastwise trade. She was a bad sea boat and not satisfactory as an ocean going proposition. The loss of her crew was not on our coast but unusual conditions surrounding the craft make it of moment to note her loss in this connection.

LOSS OF THE SHIP ASIA

This was one of the worst wrecks that had occurred on the New England coast in many years.

This ship was on a voyage from Manila for Boston with a cargo of East India goods. Approaching the Cape Cod coast she encountered a terrific storm and struck one of the outlying shoals off Nantucket.

The furious sea which drove over her decks in torrents soon began the work of destruction. When she struck the shoal on Sunday morning there was a furious northeast gale tearing the sea into a fearful condition. The next day the ship gave every indication that she must soon be a broken and dismantled wreck.

Besides the crew of twenty-three men, Capt. Dakin’s wife and little daughter were on board.

When the ship began to pound to pieces the mate and such members of the crew as had not already been swept overboard did all in their power to assist Capt. Dakin in shielding his wife and daughter from being swept away by the seas which broke in fury over the vessel. Before the ship broke up the mate lashed the captain’s daughter and himself to a large piece of wreckage, hoping in that way to reach the shore.

Capt. Dakin and his wife were swept away before they could fasten themselves to any part of the wreckage. Of the whole number on board the ill-fated craft but three were saved. These were sailors who clung to a piece of the ship, and after drifting about in Vineyard Sound for several days were finally picked up, and placed on the lightship, more dead than alive.

The bodies of the mate with his arms locked about the captain’s daughter, and both securely lashed to a piece of wreckage, were picked up a few days later far down the coast. Both had been frozen to death. The bodies of the captain and his wife were never recovered, and only a few bodies of the crew were ever found.

BARGES WADENA AND FITZPATRICK

On March 17th, 1902, after some very bad weather, two coal carrying barges lay stranded on the shoals off Monomoy Point, and the terrible disaster which followed was the worst in some ways that ever happened on this wreck strewn shore. Seven members of the Monomoy Coast Guard and five men whom they went to rescue perished in the awful sea that swept over the shoals and rips.

Following is the story by Captain Ellis of the Monomoy Station, the only surviving member of the crew that started to the rescue.

On Tuesday, March 17th, about 1 o’clock in the morning, the schooner rigged barges Wadena and Fitzpatrick, which had broken away from tug Peter Smith, lay stranded on the southern point of Monomoy. The barges remained on the shoals without lightening their cargoes. On the night of the 16th the weather became threatening, and all except five of the persons on the Wadena, who had been engaged in handling the cargo, were taken ashore by the tug.

Shortly before 8 o’clock on the morning of the 17th one of the patrolmen from our station reported that the Wadena appeared to be all right, but later Capt. Eldredge, then keeper of the station, received word from Hyannis asking if there was anything wrong on the barge. Up to this time no one at the station had any knowledge of there being any person on the barge, supposing that the tug had taken all off the night before.

Then Capt. Eldredge walked down to the end of the point where he could better see the situation. Arriving there he found that the barge was flying signals for help. He at once telephoned me, as I was No. 1, at the station, telling me to launch the surf boat from the inside of the point, and with the crew pull down to the end, about two and a half miles from the station. There we took on Capt. Eldredge and I gave him the steering oar.

The wind was fresh from the southeast and a heavy sea running. None of us were of the opinion that the barge was in any danger, as she was lying easy, but Capt. Eldredge decided that it was better to pull around the Point and try to reach the barge. At certain places on the shoals the sea was especially rough, and some water was shipped on the way out to the vessel, but without much trouble we succeeded in bringing the surf boat under the lee of the barge just abaft the fore rigging, the only place where it was practical to go alongside.

As soon as we got up to the barge a line was quickly thrown aboard and made fast by those on the craft. The persons on board were much excited and wanted to be taken right off. Capt. Eldredge immediately directed them to come down into the boat.

The sea was breaking heavily around the stern of the barge, and there was little room for operations in the smooth water, and the rail of the barge was 12 or 14 feet above the surf boat. Four of the five men on board lowered themselves over the side of the barge one at a time into the surf boat without mishap by means of the rope, but the fifth man, who was a heavy person, when half way down lost his grip on the rope and dropped with a crash onto the middle thwart of the boat. All five being finally landed in the boat, the captain placed two of them in the bow, two aft and one in the middle, and told them to sit still and keep close down to the bottom of the boat. In order to get away from the barge quickly the painter was cut and the surf boat was shoved off. In order to clear the line of breakers that extended from the stern of the barge so that we could lay a good course for the shore, a part of the surfmen were backing hard on the port oars, while the others gave way with full powers on the starboard side. Before we could get the boat turned around a big wave struck us with fearful force and quite a lot of water poured in over the rail of the surfboat. Capt. Eldredge stood in the stern of the boat with the steering oar giving his orders and the surfmen stuck to their posts.

As soon as the water came into the boat, the rescued men from the barge became panic stricken, threw their arms about the necks of the surf men so that none of us could use our oars; the seas, one after another, struck us, and the boat, filling with water, turned bottom up, throwing all of us into the raging sea. The seas kept striking us after the boat upset and we were soon in among the heaviest breakers. Twice we righted the boat, but before it could be gotten into position it was again capsized.

After righting the boat twice our strength was fast leaving us and we all knew that we could not survive long without assistance.

The five men that we had taken off the barge were the first to be swept off the overturned boat and perish before our eyes; they did not regain hold of the boat after the first capsize.

All of us clung to the boat, giving each other all the encouragement we could. Surfman Chase was the first one of our crew to go, then Nickerson and Small were swept to their death. Capt. Eldredge, surfmen Kendrick, Foye, Rogers and myself still managed to hold onto the boat; every sea that struck the boat nearly smothered us. Kendrick was the next to drop into the sea, and Foye soon followed. Capt. Eldredge, Rogers and myself expected that we too would share their fate. Rogers was clinging to the boat amidships, while Capt. Eldredge and myself were holding near the stern. The captain called to me to help him get a better hold and I managed to pull him up on the bottom of the boat, when a sea struck us and washed us both off. I managed to regain my hold on the bottom of the boat; looking around I saw the captain clinging to the mast and sail which had washed out of the boat. When I last saw our brave captain he was drifting away holding on to the spar and sail.

My strength was fast going and when poor Rogers asked me to help him get farther up on the boat the only thing I could do was to tell him to try to hold on as we were drifting nearer shore. But he had lost his strength, however, and failing to get a better hold he dropped beneath the waves.

I was now alone on the bottom of the boat, and seeing that the center board had slipped part way out, I managed to get hold of it, and holding on with one hand managed with the other to get off my oil clothes, under coat, vest and boots. By that time the overturned boat had drifted down over the shoals near the barge Fitzpatrick, and when I sighted the craft I waved my hand as a signal for help. I soon saw the man on the barge fling a dory over the side, but could see nothing more after that of the dory owing to the mist and spray arising from the water. Finally it came in sight with a man rowing towards me, and it was brave Capt. Elmer Mayo. He pulled me into the boat. I was so used up I could not speak.

To land in that small boat through that surf was a perilous undertaking, but Mayo was a skillful boatman and we landed safely.

If those five men taken off the barge had kept their heads and done as we told them all hands would have landed in safety.

STORY OF THE SLOOP TRUMBULL

Between Highland and Race Point Lighthouses, on Cape Cod, stretches a long line of treacherous, dangerous sand bars. Situated midway between these points on the shore is the Coast Guard Building known as the Peaked Hill Bars Station. From this station the surfmen have rescued many lives and have seen many sailors go down to death in the raging sea.

On November 30th, 1880, a cold northerly gale was sweeping down the coast from Massachusetts Bay and lashing into fury the waters that pounded over the sand bars from Race Point to Wellfleet.

On the afternoon of the previous day one of those ungainly stone carrying sloops, with a deck load of granite bound from Rockport for New York, sailed out of Rockport Harbor. She carried besides her captain a crew of four men.

When daylight broke on the morning of the 30th the patrol from Peaked Hill Bars Station discovered this sloop hard and fast on the outlying sand bar, a half mile south of the station. Capt. David H. Atkins of the Peaked Hill Station decided that the sea was not so severe but that the surf boat might be launched. This was done and the following members of the Coast Guard Station, Elisha Taylor, Stephen Mayo, Isaiah Young, Chas. P. Kelley, Samuel O. Fisher, with Capt. Atkins at the steering oar, pushed the boat through the surf and pulled away through the angry sea for the rescue. Surfman John Cole was left on the beach to assist the boat’s crew on its return. They reached the vicinity of the stranded vessel but the sea was so rough and the vessel rolled so in the troubled waters that a near approach to the craft was unsafe and in fact almost impossible.

The men on the sloop were told to jump and the Coast Guardsmen stood ready to pick them up. Three of the men did as requested and were pulled into the life boat, but the captain and mate refused to take the chance, thus making it necessary for Capt. Atkins and his men to return to the shore. This they did and landed the three sailors.

Capt. Atkins, fearing that the sloop would be destroyed and the two men drowned, again went out to try and induce them to leave the vessel. As the surf boat neared the vessel the rush of the tide and sea carried the boat towards the long projecting boom and the loosened main sheet carried over and back with every roll of the craft caught under the bow of the boat and turned it completely over, throwing the entire crew into the mad waters. The surfmen, finding it impossible to right the boat, clung desperately to her bottom. Soon Capt. Atkins, who was not a strong swimmer, dropped exhausted into the sea. He was soon followed by Elisha Taylor and Stephen Mayo. Young, Kelley and Fisher, who were good swimmers, seeing that if they clung much longer to the boat must soon go as had their mates before them, so kicking off rubber boots and as much clothing as they could, struck out boldly for the shore, which they reached exhausted and chilled, and were pulled from the surf by Cole who had been standing by.

The bodies of Capt. Atkins and surfmen Taylor and Mayo were recovered the same day many miles down the coast from where the disaster occurred.

One of the crew of the Highland Station who helped to recover Capt. Atkins’ body from the surf was his own son.

With the incoming tide and moderating wind the Trumbull floated away from the sand bar and sailed down the coast with the captain and mate on board.

This tragedy could have been averted had not the requirements of the service and the sense of duty urged the Coast Guardsmen to attempt the rescue.

WRECK OF THE SOMERSET

BRITISH MAN OF WAR

So far back as November 2nd, 1778, the British warship Somerset was wrecked on Peaked Hill Bars, two miles east of Race Point Lighthouse.

The Somerset was one of a fleet of British warships which had been throwing shot and shell at Bunker Hill Monument and terrorizing Boston and the surrounding coast towns for many weeks.

She often anchored in Provincetown Harbor, and a few days before this November day on which she was lost, left the harbor for the purpose of intercepting some French merchant ships which were due in Boston. On the second day of the cruise, and while attempting to re-enter the harbor, she encountered thick weather and a fierce northeast gale. Losing her bearings she stranded on Peaked Hill Bars and everything movable was speedily swept from her decks. She carried a list of nearly 500 officers and men, more than 200 of whom were swept from her decks and drowned when the ship stranded.

Next day the ship was beaten over the bars by the rough sea which continued, and she was forced near enough to the beach to allow of the rescue of the remainder of the ship’s company.

Capt. Hallet of Yarmouth and Col. Doane of Wellfleet with a detachment of the Militia came down the Cape to the wreck, put Capt. Aurey of the frigate under arrest and marched them all up the Cape to Boston, where they were imprisoned.

For more than a hundred years the old ship lay buried in the sands of the beach; then the ever moving sands and the currents of the ocean tore away the sand bars and exposed the timbers and rust covered cannon of the once proud ship, but it was not for long that the remains of the hull lay exposed. Relic hunters carried away many of the old timbers as souvenirs; then the relentless sea drove back the ever shifting sands and completely covered ship and guns. That was more than fifty years ago and since that day no part of the old Man of War has shown on the surface.

She was supposed to have carried sixty guns, most of them 24-pounders; that is, they shot a solid ball that weighed twenty-four pounds.

MYSTERY OF THE MARY CELESTE

The possible solution of the fifty year old mystery of the Mary Celeste, which has baffled the investigators the world over, is herein explained.

The story is told by Capt. Lucy of the British Reserves. Capt. Lucy is 70 years old and lives in India, but was recently on a visit to England.

The history of the abandoning of the Mary Celeste was told to him by a man who was boatswain on the Celeste, but only on Capt. Lucy’s solemn oath not to divulge it until his informant was dead.

For more than forty years Capt. Lucy has kept the secret but now considers himself free to speak.

The Mary Celeste, a brig rigged vessel, sailed from Baltimore for Genoa, on the 7th of November, 1872, with a cargo of alcohol. She was captained by a man named Briggs, whose wife and daughter accompanied him. The crew consisted of 17 Americans, Danes and Norwegians. On December 13th the brig was found with all sails set and was towed into Bermuda. There was not a soul on board, and no sign of a struggle, but all of her boats were missing. Meals were found spread on the table in the cabin.

According to Capt. Lucy’s informant, who called himself Triggs, probably an assumed name, told the story to Capt. Lucy in Melbourne.

The voyage of the Celeste was uneventful until nearing the coast of Bermuda, when a derelict, an abandoned steamer, was sighted.

Triggs and four others launched a boat and rowed to the derelict but were unable to identify the craft because the salt water had washed away the name. London as hailing port was legible. In the purser’s cabin they found a safe. The captain of the Celeste and a carpenter were sent for.

The safe was broken open and about 3500 pounds of gold and silver were found inside. After opening the water cocks, so the derelict would sink, because it was a menace to navigation, the boarding party returned to the Celeste with the booty and there split it up, the captain taking 1200 pounds, the mate 600, the second mate 400, Triggs 400 and the crew the rest among them. The captain’s wife and daughter had no share.

Then the officers and men of the Celeste began to fear they had committed an illegal act. No one was very well posted in marine law, and the officers became seriously worried.

So the captain called the other officers to his cabin and it was decided to sink the Celeste and make for the nearest land.

But in the meantime a passing vessel had spoken with the Mary Celeste and they, on board the Celeste, felt there had been a suspicion, on board the hailing vessel, of possible foul play if they sank the vessel. So instead they abandoned the brig, making off in the boats which they had. They left meals on the cabin table to make the affair as mysterious as possible so as to throw off investigation.

They painted on the boats they rowed away in, the name of a schooner that had been recently lost, and arriving at Bermuda reported the loss of the schooner whose name they had painted on the boats.

Triggs declared that he never again saw any member of the Celeste’s crew.

From private enquiries Capt. Lucy was inclined to credit Triggs’ story, because he seemed to be well supplied with money and had money in the banks at Melbourne.

_A very interesting story, but quite improbable._

A more reasonable explanation of this mystery lies in the fact that a slight fire developed in the galley, and those on board knowing what an inflammable and dangerous cargo was beneath them hurriedly launched the boats and all of the crew scrambled in and pulled away from the vessel but probably lay by for a while to see if an explosion would follow, then a breeze sprang up and the Celeste, with all sails set, sailed rapidly away and they could not overtake her.

Very likely before those in the boat could reach land a gale came on, swamped the boat and all were drowned.

THE SELF-STEERED CRAFT

Late in the afternoon of October 23, 1854, a great storm was sweeping the New England coast. Watchers on the cliffs sighted through the thick and driving mists a brig rigged vessel over which the sea was constantly breaking, heading directly towards the shore. Soon, wind and sea driven, she drove through the onsweeping waves over the outlying line of sand bars. Suddenly, when directly between the outer and inner line of bars, she swung broadside to the sea and headed straight up the coast, when it was seen that her crew had been forced to mount and cling to the main rigging, where they were clinging desperately above the raging sea which was pouring in torrents across the vessel’s deck, making any attempt to regain the use of the wheel impossible. Before being driven to the rigging the crew had lashed the wheel. Then up the coast, under short sail, the vessel drove onward without guiding hand clear to the end of the Cape and around Race Point into Massachusetts Bay; across this tumbling sea of mad waters she rushed on until she piled up on the rocks at Scituate, and there in a few hours she was ground to pieces, where the entire crew of seven men were swallowed up in the sea.

As she drove along the surf opposite Highland Station a great brown pig was swept from her deck and came rolling up in the surf on the shore. He was a good swimmer and had made the distance, somewhat out of breath but intact. A spectator took him home and he grew to be a big and lusty porker. If he could have talked we would have known the name of his ship.

TRAGEDY OF THE HERBERT FULLER

The death of Lester H. Monks, early in 1927, recalls one of the most mysterious crime cases in the history of the country. It was that of the murders committed on the barkentine Herbert Fuller, which in 1896 sent a chill of horror down the spine of everyone who read the details of these wicked murders.

Somewhere between the port of Halifax and Delaware Breakwater, on a starlit night in early June of that year, the captain and second mate and the captain’s wife were brutally murdered with an axe, in the cabin of the Fuller. This vessel was carrying a cargo of lumber to Cuba.

The arrival of the barkentine off the port of Halifax with the three bodies of the murdered victims in a canvas covered boat towed behind the Fuller, unfolded a tale of horror to shock humanity and unequalled in criminal history.

The ship was in charge of Monks, a young Harvard student who was taking this trip on the Fuller for his health, while the first mate, Thomas Bram, a colored man, and a seaman named Charles Brown, were in irons.

The Halifax authorities locked up Monks and the entire crew. Monks was the son of fine people, respected and well-to-do ship owners, and he was quickly given his liberty on parole, but the other members of the crew were held until an investigation could be made.

It appeared that upon the night of the murders only six persons were aft. On deck were Bram, the first mate, in charge of the ship, and Brown, the helmsman. The other four were below, only half a level lower than the after deck. They were Captain Charles I. Nash, asleep in the chart room; Augustus Blandburg, second mate, in his bunk in the room adjoining the chart room; Mrs. Nash, in her stateroom leading from the main cabin; and Monks, whose room was between the chart room and the captain’s cabin.

In the middle of the night, Monks testified that he was awakened by a woman’s scream, loud and piercing. Dressing as quick as possible, he seized his revolver from the table--and it was discovered later it was the only one on board--and rushed up the companionway stairs to the deck. In doing so he had to run through the chart room, and on the floor he saw the body of the captain. As he reached the deck he said he saw Bram at the head of the stairs holding in his hand a heavy piece of board which he threw at Monks. Bram said afterwards that seeing the passenger rushing up the stairs with a pistol, he became frightened and threw the board as a matter of protection.

The entire crew was then aroused and the cabin inspected. The second mate’s body was found on his bunk and Mrs. Nash’s body in bed in her cabin.

Monks’ escape was considered miraculous in view of the fact that he alone of the four persons below decks at the time escaped the slaughter. All of the rooms here practically opened into the main cabin.

In the panic which followed the finding of the bodies, Monks and the cook, Jonathan Spencer, took charge. Every man, particularly Bram and Brown, were watched. On the morning of the fourth day Spencer became suspicious of Bram and had him put in irons.

After being ironed, Bram declared that on the night of the murders, he had, through a window of the chart room, seen Brown murder the captain. Brown in turn accused Bram of the killing. There was considerable doubt whether Brown could have left the wheel, committed the murders and returned to the wheel without the course of the ship being very evident to the others of the crew.

For a few days after the murders the bodies were lying in the cabin where they fell. Then they were sewed up in canvas, placed in the ship’s jollyboat and towed astern.

About this time some member of the crew found the blood-stained axe, with which the murders were committed, hid away in the lumber of the vessel’s deckload, and it was thrown overboard, fearing that some person on board might get it and use it as a weapon for further killing.

Bram and Brown were accused of the murders. It developed that Brown’s real name was Leopold Westerburg, and that he once shot a man in Wurtenburg, in Germany, but had escaped by pleading insanity. Later the charge was dropped and he was accused of only having concealed the crime which another had committed.

Bram went to trial in Boston, October 29th, 1896. After a sensational and hard fought battle by some of the most prominent lawyers in the state, he was found guilty and sentenced to be hanged, but his counsel got a new trial on a writ of error. Meanwhile the United States had passed a law permitting a jury to return a verdict of murder in first degree, but with a recommend of life imprisonment instead, and though again Bram was found guilty, life imprisonment was given him and he was committed to Charlestown State Prison for life.

In November, 1906, Bram was removed to the Federal Prison at Atlanta. He always protested his innocence of the crime, and this coupled with good behavior, secured his pardon, August 27, 1913.

On receiving his pardon he asked the citizens of Atlanta for a chance to vindicate himself. He opened a restaurant there and became a highly respected citizen and business man.

Monks got his degree from Harvard in 1898, and he became a prominent figure in the business world.

Though this story was not closely connected with the coast of Cape Cod, the writer had seen the Herbert Fuller many times in her voyaging up and down the coast.

Later reports of Bram find that after he had sold his restaurant business in Atlanta he purchased a four masted schooner and engaged in the transportation of lumber on the coast and made many successful voyages.

THE JOB JACKSON WRECK

On the 5th day of January, 1895, the big coal laden schooner Job H. Jackson, in a howling northeast gale, went ashore on the outer bar between Peaked Hill Bar and Race Point Coast Guard Station, and was torn to pieces in the terrific gale that drove the great waves constantly over her.

Eight of her crew of nine men were rescued after much difficulty by the life savers of the two stations. She was deeply laden with coal and was so far from shore that no mortar lines could be shot over her.

The first attempt of the Coast Guard to launch a boat resulted in a capsize. On the second try the boat was successfully launched through the towering seas, but could not approach nearer than two hundred feet of the wreck.

In the meantime the entire crew of the vessel had climbed into the rigging, to prevent being swept overboard by the deluge of water that swept the decks of the fast breaking up craft.

Then the men one by one jumped from the rigging into the wild surf and were pulled into the surf boat; all but one man of the crew made it. Then the somewhat overloaded boat was headed through the breakers for the shore.

Just as the boat rode the last wave at the shore it was again overturned, but twenty men on the shore stood ready and the crew of the schooner and the Coast Guardsmen were snatched from the surf. By noon of the following day all that remained of the Jackson were broken spars and deck houses scattered along the sands of the beach.

LOSS OF THE NUMBER 238

On the morning of February 18th, 1927, a northeast storm was developing on the North Atlantic coast and white-capped waves were driving towards the shore all the way from Chatham to Race Point.

The Coast Guard cruiser No. 238, one of the smaller boats of this fleet engaged in patrolling the coast for the purpose of intercepting rum runners, was several miles off Nantucket Lightship. This boat had rendezvous at Provincetown and those on board, recognizing that a gale of unusual violence was rapidly approaching the coast, the return of the boat to port should be immediate. So the officers of the cruiser felt that as a matter of safety all possible speed should be made for Provincetown Harbor.

The boat made good time up the coast in the ever increasing gale which drove water in torrents over her decks. When she had reached a position one mile east of the Peaked Hills Buoy, suddenly her engines went dead and she became a helpless, drifting craft. Every possible effort was made to repair the engine without avail.

On board the stricken craft they signalled to the Highland Coast Guard Station and asked that help be sent to them. Conditions of wind and sea grew constantly worse. Soon the darkness of night came on and from the disabled boat signal lights flashed every little while telling of the seriousness of their condition. These signals were seen and understood by the Highland Coast Guard crew. It was seen that the boat was being driven nearer and nearer the sea-swept sand bars.

Over the dark and rushing sea came to those on shore by the flashing signals this message: “We are helpless; both anchors are down but they do not hold us and we are slowly but surely going to our destruction; unless you can send help we must surely perish.”

Telephone and telegraph messages were hurriedly sent to the authorities in Boston, and a large ship was dispatched from the Navy Yard at Charlestown, but she had not proceeded two miles beyond Boston Light, when, from the fury of the storm, she, too, broke down and had a struggle to get back to shelter, coming dangerously near to foundering herself.

All night long until midnight frequently from the distressed boat came frantic cries across the surging waters, but no earthly power could reach them.

Miss Olive Williams, manager of the Western Union Telegraph and Marine Reporting Station on the cliffs at Highland Light, remained on duty all the night long to keep in touch with the boat and the stations on shore.

At midnight the last signals from the doomed 238 flashed across the angry sea--the end had come.

With daylight next morning, out there, two hundred yards from the shore, lay a mass of broken timbers and twisted iron, all that remained of the little cruiser, and the bodies of her crew of eight officers and men were being washed about in the cruel waters that thundered to the shore.

This was the worst disaster in this immediate vicinity since the terrible storm of November 27th, 1898, when the Portland foundered, carrying to death 165 persons.

Only two bodies of the cruiser’s crew were ever recovered from the sea.

THE PALMER FLEET

About the beginning of the Civil War and for several years thereafter, there were many four and five masted schooners built and operated in the coal carrying trade along the North Atlantic coast.

Capt. Wm. H. Palmer and Associates built and managed a fleet of this class of schooners, which were known as the “Palmer Fleet.” Each vessel when built took on the name of some member of the Palmer family. Capt. Palmer became the managing owner. These were great, beautiful vessels, and when with a favoring breeze they sailed gaily up and down the coast, presented a picture worth going many miles to see.

About that time and for some fifteen years thereafter, the coal carrying business from Philadelphia and Baltimore to Boston and ports beyond was very good, and much money was made in the business, and these large schooners were built especially to handle this trade along the Atlantic seaboard.

The Palmer fleet did not by any means include all the four and five masters engaged in this transportation business. There were other firms that, in addition to handling four and five masters, were building and operating six masters.

Of all the six masters, I do not know of a single one afloat on the New England coast today, and the four and five masters are very few indeed. Following are the names of the schooners of the Palmer Fleet, and so far as I know there is not one of them afloat today, December 15th, 1927.

The first of this fleet, the Jane Palmer, was built at Harbor View, East Boston, and she had a carrying capacity of 4400 tons of coal. Her draft was 29 feet, that is, she required more than 29 feet of water in which to float when loaded.

The others were Paul Palmer, Baker Palmer, Dorothy Palmer, Singleton Palmer, Davis Palmer, Fuller Palmer, Elizabeth Palmer, Prescott Palmer, and Harwood Palmer, these were the ten five masters, and the Maud Palmer and Marie Palmer were the two four masters.

The Davis Palmer was the largest of the fleet and had a carrying capacity of 5000 tons. The four masters carried only 2800 tons each.

There were two schooners named Paul Palmer. The first one was stranded on the Jersey Coast, later was floated and re-named George P. Hudson. The second Paul Palmer was totally destroyed by fire five miles east of Race Point Light.

The Davis Palmer was lost in the terrible Christmas blizzard of 1909, and with her entire crew of nine officers and men went to the bottom in Broad Sound, in Boston Harbor.

A GALE, AND WHAT IT DID

The sea, powerful, wonderful and ever full of mystery, ever restless and uncontrolled by human efforts, destructive in its might when sea and wind and tide combine, calm and beautiful when the summer sun shines across its blue surface, over which the ships move grandly and safely; but when the flying snow sweeps over the frozen surface of the gale-swept ocean with seas that scatter destruction as it is hurled upon craft or shore, it is a different story.

This is a book primarily of shipwrecks, where there is loss of human lives that drop to untimely graves in the wild seas.

But there are many strange events on the sea coasts, though not directly concerned in the sacrifice of human lives, but are so strange and unusual that they appeal to our wonder and interest.

We want to tell you a little about what the wind and the sea did in and around Provincetown Harbor one night in December, 1926.