Chapter X: Part 10

It would seem that on a certain night a cargo was to be run, and one by one, at this inn and the other, men gathered to await the coming of night. When twilight fell, men were posted at different points of the cliff to keep a look-out for a revenue cutter, and in the event of one coming, to endeavour to warn the men bringing the smuggling vessel in. No cutter appeared, and in due time--almost to the minute arranged--the smugglers came into view. Word was sent to the inns, and the men hurried down to the shore, helped to pull the vessel up, and then began the work of unloading her. Methodically, as though each man had been trained to the work, the smugglers set about the task, getting barrels, casks, and what not ashore in an incredibly short time; and while one batch did this, another hoisted the bales on their own backs or the backs of pack-horses. Then away they went into the night, making for their secret store-house. This was a cave with a small entrance, barely large enough for a man to squeeze through; but inside it opened out into a large, roomy place with niches cut. In these holes the goods were stored as, one by one, men came in with them; and the work was almost done when there came from outside the sounds which told them that trouble was afoot. The revenue men, perhaps warned by some gossiper of what was going on, had dashed round a headland in their cutter and interrupted the work.

Before the smugglers knew what had happened the cutter had swept into the little cove, there was a sharp command of “In the King’s name!” followed by roars from the smugglers, who, thus trapped, began to think of safety. The horses that were at hand were whipped up, men seized whatever lay near them, and before the revenue men could land they were running inland, keeping clear of the cave so that the Government men should not find it. As quickly as possible the Customs men leaped ashore, rushed after the fleeing men, called upon them to surrender, were answered by curses, and immediately opened fire.

It was the signal for a free fight. Armed, all of them, the smugglers dropped their burdens and turned about. Shots rang out, the pistols flashed fire, cries of men arose; revenue men fell to the ground, smugglers bit the dust, but it seemed that the officers must win, when suddenly there was a rush. Under cover of the darkness the men in the cave had slipped out, made a detour, and then, with shouts and shots, fell upon the revenue men, and in a few minutes had put them to flight.

Then, wasting no time on the wounded officers, the smugglers went back; some got into the boat and slipped out with her, while the rest finished the work of hiding the goods.

The “run” was over, and for several weeks the smugglers remained quiet, lest they should be traced as having taken part in the murderous affray.

We have referred above to the smugglers of Kent, and these gentry were by no means the honest kind of folk like the Cornishmen. A typical case of Kentish smugglers’ ways is that of the Hawkhurst gang, who, under their leader, Thomas Kingsmill, earned such a reputation for ruffianism that a special body called the “Goudhurst Militia” was raised to resist them, and many a stiff fight did the two bands have. The most disgraceful happenings in the career of the Hawkhurst gang were those that followed the affair of the Poole Custom House, where an illicit cargo of tea, valued at £500, had been taken into store by the officers. This cargo had been destined for Sussex, and the Hawkhurst gang and the Sussex men made a compact to break open the Custom House and rescue it.

Accordingly, on October 6, 1747, the smugglers set out for Poole, having arranged that thirty of them were to make the attack and thirty were to keep a look-out on the various roads. Arriving at Poole late at night, they sent a couple of men into the town to see if the way was clear.

One of the scouts came back with information that a large sloop lay in the harbour, in such a position that she might easily train her guns on the door of the Custom House and blow them to the winds if they dared to attack. The Sussex men were scared, and, preferring to lose the tea than their lives, turned back as if to go away. But Kingsmill cried:

“If you won’t do it, we’ll go and do it ourselves!”

The result was a consultation, during which another man came from the harbour to say that the tide was low and that the sloop could not bring her guns to bear on the raiders. The consultation came to an end, and the smugglers went forward, riding down a little back lane on the left of the town until they came to the seashore, where they left their horses. Then on to the Custom House, which they soon broke open, and, taking their tea, carried it to their horses, packed it, and rode away mightily pleased with themselves. Next morning they arrived at Fordingbridge. Here they had breakfast and fed their horses, going on afterwards to a place called Brook, where they obtained a pair of steel-yards and weighed the tea, which was then divided amongst the men.

The news of the raid set the Customs folk by the ears, and a reward was offered for the apprehension of the raiders, but months passed by without the Government officials being able to obtain a clue. “A striking commentary, surely,” says Lieutenant H. N. Shore in “Smuggling Days and Smuggling Ways,” “on the state of merry England in the year of grace 1747! Here was a body of thirty armed men riding into a seaport town, storming the ‘King’s warehouse,’ and passing openly and undisguised the following morning with their booty through a portion of the most civilised and thickly populated part of England, and yet not a single individual of the many who witnessed the passage of the strange cavalcade, and were acquainted with many of those composing it, could be induced to come forward and assist the authorities in bringing the offenders to justice.”

Eventually, however, a clue was obtained. In the February following the raid one named Chater, a shoemaker of Fordingbridge, was going, in company with a Customs officer named Galley, to make a call upon Major Batten, J.P. for Sussex. The couple arrived at the small village of Rowland’s Castle, and put up at the “White Hart” for refreshment, and probably, after dining not wisely but too well, they let slip the information that they were bound for Major Batten. Now there were few people in those days who were not hand in glove with the smugglers, and the least suspicious sign was always conveyed to the smugglers to be on their guard. Widow Payne, who kept the inn, had two smuggler sons, and these she at once dispatched to give warning; and in due course men began to drop into the “White Hart.” They chummed up with the strangers, drank and talked with them, and at last Chater, inveigled outside, volunteered the information that he was on his way to swear against one of the men who had taken part in the Poole Custom House affair. Galley, Chater’s companion, began to wonder what was afoot, and came outside to see; and had no sooner shown his face out of the door than he was knocked head over heels.

“I am a King’s officer,” he exclaimed, “and----”

“A King’s officer, are you?” said his assailant. “I’ll make a King’s officer of you; and for a quartern of gin I’ll serve you so again!”

The smuggler’s mates gathered round, and realising that open methods would be rash, succeeded in soothing the irate King’s officer; and the company went back to the inn to drink and feast. Sad to relate, Chater and Galley got drunk, and had to be put to bed; and when they awoke they found themselves on the back of a horse, being carried they knew not whither, but with men slashing at them with whips and crying:

“Whip ’em, cut ’em, slash ’em, curse ’em!”

The smugglers had at first made up their minds to hide them for a while, until the commotion had blown over, and then send them away to France; but the smugglers’ wives had considered this too mild treatment, and had called out for their death. “Hang the dogs!” they cried. “For they came to hang us!”

Eventually, however, gentler measures were suggested, and it was decided that the men were to be secreted until it was discovered what was to be done with the smuggler who had been arrested--the man against whom Chater was going to give evidence. Each of the ruffians had agreed to give threepence a week towards the keep of the two men, but, drink-maddened, they soon forgot this, and set to work to belabour the unfortunate men, who at last rolled under the horse’s belly, and hung thus while the animal was driven like mad, the hoofs striking the men’s heads as they went. Then they were hoisted on to the horse’s back again, and the whipping renewed until the poor fellows were a mass of bruises and weals and too exhausted to keep on the horse’s back. They were then untied, slung across other horses, and carried on through the night, till the men cried out in their agony to be shot through the head.

Presently unconsciousness came to their relief. Arrived at Rake, near Liss, the smugglers drew up at the “Red Lion,” and induced the landlord to admit them. Here they imbibed afresh, and, drink-sodden, no doubt, they took Galley’s body and buried it in a sand-pit--probably while he was alive, for when the corpse was exhumed it was found that his hands were before his face, as though held there to protect it.

Chater, exhausted and running blood, was taken to the village of Trotton and chained to a post in a turf house, with two smugglers to guard him, and with barely enough food to keep him alive, pending the decision of the smugglers as to what to do with him. Next day they spent in revelry, and at night they repaired to the turf house, where one of them, drawing a large clasp knife, went up to Chater and cried:

“Down on your knees and to prayers! I’ll be your butcher!”

Chater, who was frightened almost to death, knelt, and the next instant received a kick in the back. Gasping, he asked tremblingly what had become of Galley.

“We’ve killed him, curse you!” cried one of the ruffians. “And we’ll kill you!” And drawing his clasp knife, slashed it across the man’s eyes and nose, almost cutting out both eyes and slitting the gristle of his nose! A second slash made a terrible gash on Chater’s forehead, and after several other barbarities the unfortunate man was tied on a horse and carried to “Harris’s Well,” in Lady Holt Park, where they thought to drown him. First, however, they tried to hang him; but the rope was too short to admit of a sufficient drop, and he hung over the well. What did the smugglers do but cut the rope and send him hurtling down the well head first; and then, finding that he still lived, they pitched stones down at him until they were absolutely certain that he was dead!

A more revolting case it would be hard to conceive; and as the smugglers took every precaution to hide traces of their crime, they considered themselves safe. They overlooked one thing, however. Galley’s greatcoat had been dropped on the journey from Rowland’s Castle, and it was found later on, bloodstained, and sent to the Customs men, who at once knew that the smugglers had been at work. A large reward was immediately offered, and a free pardon promised to anyone who would “peach”; but as the smugglers had vowed amongst themselves not to “inform,” and had, indeed, been terrified by one of their leaders, who swore to kill any informer, “whether one of themselves or anybody else,” and as even the Custom officers were timid in face of the open threats made by the smuggling community, it did not seem likely that the butchers would ever be brought to justice. It may seem incredible that such should be the case, but the picture painted by a contemporary writer brings the facts home. “The smugglers had reigned a long time uncontrolled,” says this writer. “They rode in troops to fetch their goods, and carried them off in triumph by daylight; nay, so audacious were they grown that they were not afraid of regular troops that were sent against them into the country to keep them in awe.... If any one of them happened to be taken, and the proof ever so clear against him, no magistrate durst commit him to jail. If he did, he was sure to have his house or barns set on fire, or some other mischief done him, if he was so happy as to escape with his life!”

But, Nemesis! What all the efforts of the King’s officers could not accomplish an anonymous letter brought about. This letter, written by someone who was in the know, was sent to the authorities, and it told them of the likely place in which Galley’s body would be discovered. Search was made, and the body found. A second unsigned letter gave the name of a man concerned in the crime. This man was arrested, and, fearing for his life, turned King’s evidence, told everything, and the King issued a proclamation that unless they surrendered themselves to justice at a day appointed the smugglers would be outlawed; and a reward of £500 was promised for the apprehension of everyone who should be convicted.

In the end seven of the murderers were caught and put in prison. A special assize was held at Chichester, January 16, 1749--nearly twelve months after the crime--and the seven were sentenced to death, five of them to be hung in chains as a warning.

Later two more of the gang were captured and executed, and in April of 1749 the Hawkhurst gang came to an end, for the crimes laid to its account roused the Government to vigorous action, the smugglers were caught one by one, and at last Kingsmill, the ringleader, was hanged at Tyburn.

MODERN CORSAIRS

How the German Rovers were Destroyed

The outbreak of the Great War of the Nations found various German warships in the Atlantic and Pacific, ready to prey upon the Allies’ shipping, and day by day the news flashed across the world of merchant ships sunk or captured, and this despite the fact that Great Britain, France, Russia and Japan were scouring the seas to find the destroyers. First one and then another of the German marauders was caught and sent to its doom. But even then a fair number were abroad; several of them--the _Dresden_, the _Nürnberg_, _Leipzig_, _Scharnhorst_ and _Gneisenau_--were tackled by Admiral Craddock, in command of a British squadron of much inferior strength. The Germans won, only a few weeks later to be trapped by Admiral Sturdee and a strong squadron off the Falkland Islands. In the battle that ensued the Germans lost, and the vessels were sent to the bottom.

Before the battle of the Falklands took place, however, there had been certain other events of scarcely less importance--namely, the hunting down of the _Königsberg_ and the _Emden_, the most noted of the German corsairs. That they did fine work for their country, even British tars will admit. They were as slippery as eels, and turned up in the most unexpected places and at the most inconvenient times for the British trading vessels. But at last Nemesis overtook them.

There was the _Emden_, for instance. She was at Tsing-tau when war broke out, and immediately started out on her marauding cruise. Slipping out of the harbour she steamed off for the Straits of Malacca, with enemies hot upon her track. She hoodwinked them, and while they were going southward, she swept into the Bay of Bengal, sinking various vessels as she went, and finally shelling Madras, setting fire to the oil tanks there.

Thence she went to Ceylon, sending four more boats to the bottom, making nine in all. Another she sent into port with the crews of the sunken ships, and yet a further one--the collier _Buresk_--she held on to for the sake of the coal she carried. So, aided by wireless installations in different places and by supply ships, she kept on her destructive way, until by October 19 she had captured half a dozen more ships.

Then something happened to annoy her. H.M.S. _Yarmouth_, which had been following her doggedly, seized some of her supply ships; and the _Emden_ slipped into hiding for a while, though trading vessels still went in dread, expecting her to turn up suddenly.

She did turn up suddenly, though her quarry was something better than merchant shipping. On October 21--Trafalgar Day--a four-funnelled cruiser swept into Penang roadstead, and the French destroyer _Mousquet_ and the Russian light cruiser _Jemtchug_ little thought that this was the _Emden_, which they knew had only three funnels. What had happened was that Captain von Müller, her commander, had rigged up a jury funnel out of woodwork and canvas, thus altering altogether the appearance of his ship.

The _Jemtchug_ saluted her with “Who are you?”

“_Yarmouth!_” was the audacious answer. “Coming to anchorage!” And the _Emden_ immediately swung round stern on to the _Jemtchug_. Forthwith she loosed one of her deadly torpedoes at the Russian, following it up with a shower of shells from her 4-inch guns. Down went the _Jemtchug_, the French boat going after her almost immediately, stricken to death by the crafty _Emden_.

Having thus completed the destruction of her unsuspecting foes, the German corsair went into hiding again, but on November 9 appeared off the Cocos Islands--to meet her doom.

For the Australian cruiser _Sydney_ received an interrupted wireless message from the Cocos to the effect: “Strange warship ... off entrance,” and at once sped off at full steam, and at 9.15 the look-out saw the tops of the coco-nut trees of the Keeling Islands in the distance. Five minutes later the _Emden’s_ funnels were sighted, twelve or fifteen miles away. Game, the German opened fire at a long range, the _Sydney_ waiting for a little while, and then sending her explosive replies. It was a gallant fight; the _Emden_ made some fine firing practice, smashing the _Sydney’s_ No. 2 starboard gun almost immediately, and putting practically all the crew out of action. The Australian’s aft control was blown to pieces, and a fire broke out, which her men soon got under while the fight raged.

The crew of the _Sydney_ worked well that morning, as the letter of one of her officers testifies:

“The hottest part of the action for us was the first half-hour. We opened fire from our port guns to begin with. I was standing just behind No. 1 port, and the gunlayer (Atkins, First-Class Petty Officer) said: ‘Shall I load, sir?’ I was surprised, but deadly keen there should be no ‘flap,’ so said: ‘No, don’t load till you get the order.’ Next he said: ‘_Emden’s_ fired, sir.’ So I said: ‘All right, load, but don’t bring the gun to the ready.’ I found out afterwards that the order to load had been received by the other guns ten minutes before, and my anti-‘flap’ precautions, though they did not the slightest harm, were thrown away on Atkins, who was as cool as a cucumber throughout the action.

“All the time we were going 25 and sometimes as much as 26 knots. We had the speed on the _Emden_, and fought as suited ourselves. We next changed round to starboard guns, and I then found the gunlayer of No. 1 starboard had been knocked out close to the conning-tower, so I brought Atkins over to fire No. 1 starboard. I was quite deaf by now, as in the hurry there had been no thought of getting cotton-wool.

“This is a point I won’t overlook next time.

“Coming aft the port side from the forecastle gun I was met by a lot of men cheering and waving their caps. I said: ‘What’s happened?’ ‘She’s gone, sir, she’s gone.’ I ran to the ship’s side, and no sign of a ship could I see. If one could have seen a dark cloud of smoke, it would have been different. But I could see no sign of anything. So I called out: ‘All hands turn out the lifeboats, there will be men in the water.’ They were just starting to do this when someone called out:

“‘She’s still firing, sir,’ and everyone ran back to the guns. What had happened was a cloud of yellow or very light-coloured smoke had obscured her from view, so that looking in her direction one’s impression was that she had totally disappeared. Later we turned again and engaged her on the other broadside.”

But, although she was still fighting gamely, the _Emden_ was in a poor way; her three funnels and her foremast were shot away, and she was on fire aft. To complete the work so well begun, the _Sydney_ swung round again, and opened on her with the starboard guns, which sent her running ashore on North Keeling Island. Then, having fought for an hour and forty minutes, and realising that the _Emden_ could not escape, the _Sydney_ went in chase of the German’s collier. Coming up with her, they found that the crew had opened the seacocks and that she was sinking rapidly. The crew was taken off, and the _Sydney_ steamed back to have a look at the _Emden_. It was four o’clock when she arrived, and almost immediately the Germans hauled down their colours and hoisted a white flag; they were surrendering. In the ordinary course the _Sydney_ would now have sent boats out on rescue work, but it was too late in the evening to do that, especially in view of the fact that at any moment another German cruiser--the _Königsberg_--might come into sight, when the _Sydney_ would need to be ready to tackle her. She therefore steamed away till morning, picking up a German sailor as she went, making the fourth they had managed to rescue during the day.

Early next morning the _Sydney_ looked in at the cable station, to find that a landing party from the _Emden_ had smashed the instruments, and then stolen a schooner and escaped.

A little after eleven o’clock the _Sydney_ went back to where the _Emden_ had run ashore, and an officer was sent over to her. He was helped aboard by the Germans, and found the vessel an absolute shambles. One hundred and eighty men were killed. Captain von Müller gave his parole, and the wounded were quickly got over to the _Sydney_, where they were attended to. The remainder of the crew were then transhipped, and the _Sydney_ sped off for Colombo, where she received a mighty welcome, though she went in silent, for her captain had ordered that there should be no cheering over the defeat of gallant foes, who had always behaved like gentlemen to those whom they had captured.

When we recall that during the days of her marauding cruise the _Emden_ had captured and sunk shipping to the value of little less than four and a half million pounds, it will be seen that the _Sydney_ had done some very good work in bringing her career to an end.

The _Königsberg_, which the _Sydney_ had half expected to turn up at the Cocos Islands, met her doom at the hands of the British light cruiser _Chatham_ in the Rufigi River, German East Africa. The _Königsberg_ had also been a danger on the seas, but she had only succeeded in sinking one trading vessel and disabling the obsolete cruiser _Pegasus_. The latter had snapped at the Germans at Dar-es-Salaam in German East Africa, and had then gone over to Zanzibar to repair. She was, however, surprised by the _Königsberg_ while her crew were hard at this work. Before they knew what was what a hail of shells was poured into the _Pegasus_, which shivered from the shock; her steel work was bent and twisted, men fell dead or wounded, and very soon the _Pegasus_ men knew that they were fighting a hopeless battle. But they fought it as became men with the tradition of unconquerable pluck behind them.

Their ensign was sent hurtling to the deck by a lucky shot; a man seized it in his hand and held it aloft, a sign of defiance to their overwhelming opponent. That man died waving the flag; another snatched it from his dead hand, and flaunted it bravely; and when the _Königsberg_, her work done, steamed away, the British ensign still floated in the breeze above the shattered _Pegasus_.

This one-sided action took place on September 19, and just over a month later the _Königsberg_ was run down by the _Chatham_, and her career came to an end. The _Chatham_ found her hiding in the Rufigi River, six miles up stream. The British cruiser, owing to her great draught, could not go up after her, and the _Königsberg_ landed part of her crew, who dug themselves into entrenchments on the Mafia island at the entrance of the river, expecting an attempt to assault them. The _Chatham_, however, shelled her and the entrenchments, but the dense palm groves amid which she lay made it impossible to tell with what effect. To ensure that she should not escape, the _Chatham_ took measures to bottle her up; a German East African liner, the _Somali_, was sunk in the mouth of the river, and later the s.s. _Newbridge_ was also used for this purpose. This ship (Captain Willett) had a cargo of coal on board. She was protected aft by sandbags and sacks of coal, and her steering gear and engine-room were shielded by steel sheets so that the _Königsberg’s_ fire might not prove too destructive as the _Newbridge_ made her way up river.

The men in the entrenchments on Mafia Island were prepared for the coming of the _Newbridge_. By some means the Germans had discovered that she was to be sent; and as they were armed with Maxims and quick-firers, it looked as though the collier would receive a pretty warm reception. She did!

Lieutenant Lavington, in command, and Captain Willett and two other lieutenants were the sole officers on board, six or seven bluejackets and a few artificers and stokers comprising the crew--a gallant company going on a dangerous errand. As soon as the _Newbridge_ got within range the Germans on the island began firing, without much effect. Then, having passed the island, in spite of a perfect hail of bullets and shrapnel, she was moored into the position decided upon, and the last stages of the work begun. Down in her hold were several charges of guncotton, with an electric wire connected to the launch that had followed the ship. Having opened her port tank, so that the water might pour in and give the _Newbridge_ a list up stream, and make her satisfactorily withstand the strong current running, the crew slipped into their boats alongside, the connection was set up; and there followed three loud explosions. The _Newbridge_ sank; and the _Königsberg_ was effectually bottled up.

For the men who had hazarded everything on this mission the serious task now before them was to get back to the open sea; and to do this they had, of course, to pass the island, with its force of Germans. They sped back as quickly as they could, meeting a shower of shot, which caused considerable damage; but at last the gantlet was run and the intrepid men were safe on board.

Less than a week later the _Königsberg_ was sunk. As she was hidden by the dense foliage, and had taken the precaution of covering herself with leaves, the British had, as we have said, much difficulty in telling whether the shell fire was effective. In order to get the exact position, therefore, an aeroplane, brought by the _Kinfauns Castle_, was used. The whirr of her engine, as she reconnoitred over them, told the Germans that the end was very near, and they were quite prepared for the well-placed shots which quickly followed the dropping of smoke bombs, signalling the position of the lurking cruiser. The great, destructive shells smashed into her, wrought havoc all through her, broke her as though she had been a cardboard toy; and very soon she sank. The _Pegasus_ had been avenged.

These two cases are typical of the way the British Navy dealt with the modern corsairs and showed Germany that Britannia still rules the waves.

THE WRECKERS

Stories of Human Ghouls

There are few things more fiendish to be found in the story of the sea than the wholesale system of wrecking which was in practice from early times up to comparatively recent years. The wreckers were nothing less than ghouls who preyed upon mariners whom they had lured to destruction. Very severe laws were made to deal with them, but it is to be feared that they were very ineffective.

On September 11, 1773, the _Charming Jenny_, Captain Chilcot, was battling bravely against a storm off the Isle of Anglesea. For a while all went well, and Chilcot thought that he could weather the storm. Away in the distance there suddenly appeared lights as of ships passing in the night. But, had he known it, they were false lights--lanterns tied around horses’ necks. Scoundrelly men were leading the horses along the cliff-heads, taking care that they were near the rocks which poked their cruel noses above water. Chilcot, taking these lights for those of ships passing in the night, steered his vessel towards them, thinking he would thereby be safe.

Then, when it was too late, he discovered his mistake; there was a crunching, grinding noise as the _Charming Jenny_ hurled herself on the rocks, and in an incredibly short time went to pieces, carrying all her crew to destruction with the exception of Chilcot and his wife, who were fortunate in getting on to a piece of wreckage, and after some hours of agony and exposure were washed ashore in an exhausted condition and were scarcely able to move. There, on the beach, they lay for a while, hoping for succour, instead of which there came--the wreckers. These, when they were satisfied that their fell work had been successful, hurried down from the cliffs and, searching the shore, came upon the almost lifeless bodies of the man and woman.

Chilcot they seized and took away, stripped him of his clothes, even cut the buckles from his shoes, and then left him to shift for himself. His first thought was for his wife, and hurrying as fast as he could to the shore, he found her--dead. The wreckers had killed her and carried away the bank bills and seventy guineas she had in her pocket.

The significant thing about this incident was that Chilcot, getting assistance from two kindly people near by, put the authorities at work, with the result that three men were arrested, and found to be well-to-do folk--one of them, indeed, so wealthy that he could offer £5,000 bail when he was arraigned at Shrewsbury Assizes! Probably these gentry had fattened on the misfortunes of dozens of other unfortunate mariners.

An incident of wrecking in Cornwall in 1838 is typical in many respects. The wreckers in this case were the miners of Sennen, who one day noticed a ship trying to beat up the Channel against a fierce storm. As it was daylight, the miners grumbled at the fate which seemed as though it had sent a prize to taunt them, for they could not lure the ship to destruction while it was light. But knowing, with that instinct of the coast-dwellers, that the storm would hold on for some time, and that the ship could not hope to make much headway, they set a number of men on watch on the cliffs to keep the ship in sight until night fell. Meanwhile the wreckers went on with their mining. When night fell they rushed to the coast, and soon were sent to a particularly dangerous part. They carried a lantern, which they set on a cliff-head.

To the mariners on the battling ship it seemed like a beacon. Where they had been buffeting blindly before, with no light to guide them, now they were able to take bearings. The captain set his course by the light, but, past masters in their craft, the wreckers manipulated the light so that the skipper was deceived, and, although he did not know it, he was gradually getting closer and closer to the shore.

Crash! The ship hit the rocks, and at once realising that he had been trapped, the skipper shouted commands; men flew to do his bidding, but the ship refused to budge; she was fast on the rocks.

Then the wreckers fell to work. There were no fewer than two thousand of them, and while the captain and crew were intent on getting ashore, the wreckers busied themselves in taking out everything of value, stripping the ship clean. The captain, knowing that the fiends had lured him to destruction, rallied his men together to oppose them. But what could a handful of men do against such a horde? Although the mariners put up a gallant fight, they were defeated and many of them cut down.

Then the coastguard turned up. Again only a handful to oppose thousands, who, in possession of a rich prize, were determined nothing should rob them of it. So there was another fight, fierce hand-to-hand tussles at first, for the coastguards did not wish to kill; then, when the wreckers began to menace their very lives, the coastguards opened fire. This only enraged the wreckers more, and they fell upon the officers, who were at last driven off, unable to cope with the force arrayed against them.

Then the wreckers completed their fell work.

In 1731--during the reign of George II., that is--there sailed from Copenhagen a Danish East Indiaman, the _Golden Lion_, with a valuable cargo, including twelve large chests of silver valued at about £16,000. Captain Heitman, of the _Golden Lion_, after encountering bad weather in the Channel and being driven northward to the Kerry coast, at last put into the Bay of Tralee, near the northern shore of which there lies another bay, called the Bay of Ballyheigue, abounding with sunken rocks and sandbanks, a place of terror to mariners.

How it happened is not clear, but on October 28 the _Golden Lion_ entered this treacherous bay. It has been asserted that the men of Kerry lured her by false lights, though they vowed their innocence. In any case, the _Golden Lion_ was in a serious fix, and the only way to save the crew was for Captain Heitman to steer his ship ashore. This he did, and succeeded in saving the sixty men comprising the crew, and also the £16,000 of silver and various other things, though the _Golden Lion_ herself became a total wreck.

To the credit of the Kerry men be it said that for a long time the Danes were hospitably treated by them; the officers were housed at Ballyheigue House, and their treasure was allowed to be stored in an old tower, at the south-west corner of the court belonging to the house. The crew were taken in to billet at various houses round about. Meanwhile, Heitman sent news to London and Copenhagen of his misfortune; but it would appear that these never reached their destination, being held up in Ballyheigue, and the Danes had to wait long, and as patiently as they could, for news that never came.

Then there began to be a change in the attitude of the Kerry men. Thomas Crosbie, owner of Ballyheigue House, died, and a relative named Arthur Crosbie came to the help of his widow and mother, executors of the late host. Now, Arthur Crosbie was a queer customer--hard up, crafty, always with his nose in other people’s business. He felt that the Danes should be made to pay something out of their hoard for all the hospitality shown them. Heitman, nothing averse to doing so, objected, however, to the charges put down by Crosbie--namely, £4,000--and he sent a letter of complaint--though how it got through goodness only knows--to Dublin. The authorities at Dublin sent back a message that the Danes were not to be imposed upon; and Crosbie knew that he had been foiled.

But only in one direction, for his crafty mind soon set to work to devise a plan whereby he could get some of that treasure in the vaults beneath the square tower of Ballyheigue House; and he was not alone in his plotting, for others of the Kerry men were of much the same mind as he was.

A pretty plot was in the way of being hatched.

A man named Cantillon (a distant relative of the Crosbies) started things seriously. He conferred with David Lawlor, who kept an inn at Tralee, in April, 1732, and the result of their confab was that they paid a visit to the farm at Beinaree belonging to the Protestant Archdeacon of Ardfert, the Rev. Francis Lauder, who was also a J.P. The plotters told their scheme to one named Ryan, tithe-proctor and steward to the archdeacon, and he eagerly threw in his lot with them. The prize was worth it. He promised to do his best to get other helpers, and that night he tackled John Kevane, a labourer on the farm.

Now, Kevane was wary; he was not at all opposed to the plot, but he wanted to be sure that it had substantial backing in the shape of “the gentlemen of the county.” Ryan was evasive on this point.

“I’m going to see the master,” he said, “and feel sure that the gentry will consent to it.” But Kevane was not at all convinced, and reserved his opinion.

Having so far committed himself, Ryan naturally had to follow the matter up with Kevane and get him into the plot, lest he gave information; and next day he tried again to persuade him.

“If the gentry are really in it,” said Kevane at last, “then some of them ought to appear in it, so as to spirit up the folk.”

“We can’t ask them to do that,” answered Ryan craftily; “it would hardly do. But I can tell you, Kevane, that their servants are going to help us.”

This sounded reasonable to Kevane, who therefore agreed to enter into the conspiracy, and very soon Cantillon, Lawlor, and Ryan found themselves with a fairly respectable (or disreputable) following, including William Banner, the butler, and Richard Ball, the steward at Ballyheigue, Captain Stephen Macmahon, and John Malony, his mate.

There was one other man Cantillon was anxious to have in with him. This was Denis Cahane, a poor smallholder at Kilgobbin, who refused at first, but at last asked time to think it over. Thinking it over, he felt he would like advice, and, having been told that the gentry were in it, had a talk with his landlord, Mr. John Carrick, a J.P. The magistrate soon put Cahane right, and told him to have nothing to do with the matter, and the poor chap gave his promise.

“Keep it quiet, sir,” he said tremblingly, “or they’ll kill me for an informer!”

Cahane knew Cantillon and his roguish comrades!

The following Sunday, May 16th, Cantillon was coming for Cahane’s answer, and the smallholder, worried almost to death, interviewed the Protestant vicar in the morning, after the service at Kilgobbin. To him he poured out his story, asking him to keep his informant’s name secret. The vicar promised, and then went to see Mr. Carrick, whom he asked to warn Lady Margaret Crosbie of the plot, so that she might put the Danes upon their guard. Carrick promised, and then broke his word; whereupon, some days later, the vicar himself called upon Lady Margaret and told the whole of the tale.

Lady Margaret thanked him, and promised to warn the Danes and get them to remove the chests of silver from the vault to her house, where it would be quite safe.

As a matter of fact, the good kind lady was in the plot, and she did not warn the Danes. The conspirators were able, therefore, to set about maturing their plans which, with so many people concerned, it is not surprising became common knowledge amongst the peasants, rumours even reaching Tralee Custom House, whence Heitman was advised to obtain a guard of troops from Tralee barracks.

One would have thought that, in view of this information, Heitman would have taken every precaution; but he did not. Instead of applying for soldiers he contented himself with asking Lady Margaret to let him have some of the arms which had been put under lock and key when the _Golden Lion_ was wrecked; and when his request was refused, and yet another that he might gather all his crew into the ground floor of the square tower, he apparently shrugged his shoulders and let the matter slide!

Then Dick Ball turned traitor; he confided to one of the Danes, John Suchdorf, that there was going to be an attempt to steal the silver. But for sheer foolishness these mariners want beating. Suchdorf shrugged his shoulders, laughed all over his honest face, and told Ball it was a really fine joke he was trying to play on him! And he doesn’t even seem to have told the captain, though perhaps it would have done no good if he had.

It came about, then, that when the plotters considered the time ripe everything was clear. The day determined on was June 5, when Lady Margaret had a few friends come to her house on a visit.

At dinner that evening Captain Heitman and his officers were invited to join the party, probably to keep them out of the way, for while the convivialities were in progress our old friend Suchdorf noticed that three men were prowling about the foot of the square tower; and a little later saw Lawlor and a companion go into Ballyheigue House. In view of what he had been told previously, had Suchdorf been anything but a muddle-headed man, he would have suspected what was afoot and rushed off to Captain Heitman; but he did nothing, said nothing, not even when, about seven o’clock, he came upon Ball and Malony and three or four others gathered about the tower. So the plot, which was coming to a head, was allowed to progress unimpeded, and soon after midnight, when everyone had retired to rest, there was a fine hullabaloo--guns were firing, men were shouting, women screaming, and doors being banged, opened and shut noisily as folk awoke.

The work was in hand!

When they were sure that the people were in bed the conspirators had rushed the tower, and, with cutlass and pistol, had fallen upon the sentries which Heitman always had there. There was a stiff, stern fight for a short while, and two of the sentries fell to the ground, dead, the third managing to get away, wounded and bleeding, to arouse Suchdorf and his other comrades. Suchdorf now began to realise that there _had_ been something in Ball’s story, and, jumping out of bed, he dashed down to the door, followed by Alexander Foster, Peter Mingard, and George Jenesen. They put up a fine show, and succeeded in forcing the thieves out of the tower and fastening the door; after which they hurried upstairs and, looking out of a window, saw “a great multitude, whose faces were blacked.”

Here was a fine to do; the whole countryside seemed to be come out against them, and the four men had only a case of arms and one gun amongst them, and only enough powder and ball for one charge! They conferred amongst themselves, and realising that they could make but little resistance, and that futile, they would be better not to make any at all, lest “it might be the means to have them murdered.”

Meanwhile, in Ballyheigue House all was excitement. Heitman, hearing the noise, and realising that his silver was perhaps in danger after all, dashed downstairs, to find the hall filled with the guests and other occupants of the house.

“My silver!” he cried. “It is being stolen! Help me to drive the thieves off!” He hurled himself at the door, trying to pull back the bolts. Before he could do this, however, Lady Margaret, crafty woman that she was, threw herself in front of him, and beseeched him not to be foolhardy!

“They will kill you!” she cried. “Stay here!”

And Heitman stayed, while away over at the tower things were moving pretty briskly. The conspirators had forced their way in, and, working like Titans, got all the silver-chests out, and by various means took them into certain places previously arranged. The holy Lauder, archdeacon and magistrate, had considerately lent his chaise and horses, and these bore away three of the chests to his farm, where they were broken open and their contents divided amongst the thieves. Six chests were left at Ballyheigue, to be shared later; one was carried to Tralee for the same purpose, but was afterwards seized by the soldiers; and two others were hidden safely at Ballygown.

And the Lady Margaret and her family received half the proceeds!

Poor Captain Heitman! When it was too late he called for the aid of the authorities; and although the soldiers managed to seize the chest that was taken to Tralee, and though Heitman offered a tenth part of the treasure to anyone who would give information that would lead to the recovery of the treasure, all he ever got back was some £4,000. A good part of it probably went across the seas in Malony’s ship.

Justice was very tardy; after many weeks nine or ten of the thieves were caught, though only three were convicted. One was hanged, but a second cheated the gallows by committing suicide; and the third was pardoned, because Heitman thought he might turn King’s evidence, as did some of the others who were caught. Seeing that the “gentry” were in it, it is not surprising that justice was tardy, and that Heitman was kept in Ireland until the autumn of 1735, waiting for justice and his treasure--and got neither.

Whether the Kerry men had lured the _Golden Lion_ to her destruction or not, there is no doubt that they were of the family of wreckers.

* * * * *

It was in 1817--on February 19, to be precise--that the _Inverness_ went ashore in the Shannon, through her captain mistaking Rinevaha for Carrigaholt. Everything would have been all right, and the ship been able to float at the next spring-tide, had not the peasants considered it too good a chance to throw away. It was like turning good luck away! So, banding themselves together, they went down to the shore, boarded the _Inverness_, and, their numbers being large and their methods none too gentle, succeeded in scuttling the ship and tearing away all her rigging, having taken the precaution of sending to shore the barrels of pork and other provisions with which the vessel was loaded. Then they robbed the crew--even to their shirts, which they used as bags to carry their plunder in!

The news spread, and next day the police appeared on the scene, and found the peasants still hard at work collecting their salvage. Although there were only twelve policemen, a sergeant and the chief constable, they pluckily threw themselves into the fray, routed the wreckers, and stood guard over the provisions that still remained on shore. All night they kept their vigil; but with the coming of dawn they found themselves surrounded by thousands of peasants. Angry at being robbed of their prey, the wreckers had aroused the countryside, determined to get back what they had lost.

They advanced in three companies, shouting threats, waving hats, cheering--to keep their spirits up, probably--and vowed they would have the salvage as well as the arms of the police guard. Although they knew they had a ticklish job in front of them, those policemen were staunch and bold; they refused to be intimidated. Forming into one body, they faced the three mobs and waited for them to come on. They came on; and there ensued a miniature battle; sticks and stones were flung at the police, the wreckers charged down upon them with scythes and axes, and the police replied by firing their pistols. But it was all in vain; the mob was overwhelming in numbers, and the chief constable saw that they could not hold out very long. He must have help.

Off went one of the policemen, a mounted man, making for Limerick, pursued by fleet-footed men, who, however, were soon left behind. In less than two hours he returned with Major Warburton and a body of twenty cavalry, with infantry behind them. They dashed down upon the shore, to find that the police had been compelled to retire, which they had done in an orderly manner, and that the wreckers were once more upon the _Inverness_, hard at it breaking it up. Warburton and his men boarded it; a hatchet blow narrowly missed the major, who promptly turned and presented his pistol at the would-be murderer, and so scared him that he flung himself overboard. But he did not escape, for one of the soldiers charged at him as he waded ashore and cut him down.

The wreckers now saw that they had brought a hornet’s nest about their ears, and began to think of escaping. They flew for their lives, pursued by the soldiers, who wounded some and took many prisoners.

The thoroughness of the wreckers’ work may be gauged by the fact that only nine barrels of pork were saved, and that the bowsprit, gaff, and spars of the ship had been stolen; all her sails and rigging had been taken away, her anchors and cables--and even her pump!

An extract from an old book gives in the words of one present a picture of another wreckers’ incident:

“On Friday, October 27, 1811, the galliot _Anna Hulk Klas Boyr_, Meinerty, master, from Christian Sound, laden with deals, for Killala, was driven ashore at a place called Porturlin, between Killala and Broadhaven. The captain and crew providentially saved their lives by jumping on shore on a small island or rock. At this time the stern and quarter were stove in. The crew remained two hours on the rock, when they were taken off by a boat and brought to the mainland.

“Shortly after, the captain’s trunk, with all the sailors’ clothes in general, came on shore, which the country people immediately began to plunder, leaving the unfortunate wreck. Then they cut away all they could come at of the sails, rigging, etc., while hundreds were taking away the deals to all parts of the country. Though the captain spoke good English, and most pitifully inquired to whom he might apply for assistance, yet he could not hear of any for fourteen hours, when he was told that Major Denis Bingham was the nearest and only person he could apply to. With much difficulty he procured a guide, and proceeded to Mr. Bingham’s, a distance of twenty miles through the mountains.

“In the meantime, after thirty-six hours’ concealment of this very melancholy circumstance, Captain Morris, of the _Townshead_ cruiser, who lay at Broadhaven, a distance of about ten miles from the wreck, heard of it, and approaching it landed with twenty men well armed. In coming near the wreck he first fired in the air, in order to disperse the peasantry, which had no effect; he therefore ordered his men to fire close, which had the desired effect, when he immediately pursued them into the interior, from three to five miles distance, dividing his party in different directions, when, by great exertion and fatigue, they saved about 1,800 deals and a remnant of the wreck.

“Captain Morris had some of the robbers taken, but, his party being so scattered, they were rescued by a large mob of the country people.”

THE TRAGEDY OF A WONDER SHIP

The Story of the “Titanic” Disaster

On Wednesday, April 10, 1912, there steamed out of Southampton the largest boat in the world--a wonder ship, a veritable floating palace. She was bound for America. It was her first voyage, and it was her last, for five days later, from out the night, there loomed the white form of a gigantic iceberg, which crashed into her starboard side; and the _Titanic_ and most of the people aboard her had entered upon their last two hours of life.

There is a magic in figures, but even those which tell of the size of the giant ship fail to carry the tale of her greatness. Still, they must be given in order to show how this mammoth of the ocean was as a pygmy in the grip of the elemental forces.