Chapter VII: Part 7

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

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

CHASING PIRATES IN THE CHINA SEA

Tales of Modern Pirate Hunting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Have got pilong!” (pirate).

“Where?” he was asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that little affair upset the ruffians at Pickshui!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A VOYAGE OF DANGER

The Mutiny on the _Flowery Land_

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Into seventeen parts the money was divided.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer; only surly looks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE GUARDIANS OF THE COAST

Stories of Coastguards and Lighthousemen

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

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

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

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

“There’s something wrong!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GREAT NAVAL DISASTERS

The Loss of the _Formidable_ and the _Victoria_

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

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