Chapter VIII: Part 8

Suddenly, above the howl of the wind and the thump of the engines, there was the report of a thunderous explosion on the starboard bow. The ship seemed to shiver, then reel. Down in the stokeholds men looked at each other in wonder; like the noise of a distant gun the sound came to them, and they thought, and hoped, that it meant an engagement with the enemy. Then again, from port, this time, there came another of those muffled reports--so near that they knew something had hit their ship.

“Torpedoed!” said one. “By Heaven, they’ve got us!”

And up on the bridge, standing there with his commander, Ballard, Captain Loxley also muttered “Torpedoed!” Its periscope hidden by the darkness and the swelling of the seas, a German submarine had crept up within striking distance, had launched her two death-tubes, seen them take effect, and then slunk away into the night.

Immediately he realised what had happened, Loxley, as calm as though he were at practice, ordered the water-tight doors to be closed and the men to be piped to collision quarters. Up on to the deck the startled men swarmed--startled men, truly, but calm--men who could stand at attention in the face of death and laugh and joke about “A fine New Year’s gift for us, this!” Men who could cry as they stood naked and shivering on the deck, “Here we are again! Undress uniform--swimming costume!” Men, too, who could enter into the spirit of the captain on the bridge, who could signal to another ship in the neighbourhood:

“Keep off! Submarines are about!”

Loxley knew what might happen to that ship if she stood by, as he had no doubt her officers would be prompted to do. Only a month or so before three British cruisers had been sunk in the North Sea, two of them through standing by to help the other. The Admiralty had issued an order that in such circumstances ships were not to attempt rescue work, but, as if to make assurance doubly sure, Loxley had given his signal; he wanted no risks to be run; he and his men were willing to take their chance of life and death without bringing others into danger. It is the spirit of the British Navy.

But if he would not allow others to help them, he used all his efforts to save his crew. There was no hope for the _Formidable_, he knew, and she would have to be abandoned. She was listing to starboard already.

“Out pinnaces and the launch!” was the order, and while the boat crews worked to carry it out there came another: “’Way barges 1 and 2!” Lieutenant Simmonds superintended the lowering of the boats, and by his fine work earned Loxley’s encomium, “Well done, Simmonds.”

Into one boat there scrambled seventy or eighty men, and she got away from the starboard side; soon after a second boat, with seventy men, pushed off from the port side, and, acting on instructions, she remained near the sinking ship for about an hour. All this time the gale had been blowing fiercely, and mountainous seas made the work of hoisting away the boats anything but easy. It was, indeed, found impossible to lower further boats, because the ship listed so much that only the starboard boats could be hauled out. One barge which they tried to launch slipped in the davits, and hurled her crew of sixty men into the water below. Dozens of men leapt overboard and swam to the two successfully lowered boats, and the captain, thinking of others all the time, told the boats to stand by and try to pick them up. The darkness, however, prevented this being done.

Meanwhile, on the _Formidable_ was a strange scene. On the deck stood lines of men, naked many of them, calm all of them, puffing away at cigarettes or passing along a smoke to a comrade who had not brought his up from below. From somewhere there came the sound of a piano; a man sat playing breezy tunes to cheer his comrades in the face of death. In the stokeholds begrimed heroes stuck to their posts until, with a lurch, the ship knocked them off their feet and sent the fires rushing out at them; heroes who, when the word came, raked out the fires, while elsewhere engineers shut off the steam--all so that, when the ship sank, there should be no explosion.

Not a man lost his head. Their example was pacing the bridge, smoking, just as though the ship was riding in harbour with anchors down. “Steady, men; it’s all right!” he cried to them. “Be British! There’s life left in the old ship yet!”

But there was not much life; listing, she gave a sudden plunge, and all knew that it was the end.

“Every man for himself!” came the order; and those that could jumped as she took her final plunge. About half the company got clear of her; but the two boats could not take many, and in addition to those in the boats only seventy were saved--by a light cruiser which later came upon the scene.

Loxley went down with his ship, as did hundreds of the men, standing in line, saluting the Old Jack for the last time. “The last impression on my mind,” said a survivor, “was of a long line of saluting figures disappearing below the skyline.”

For the men in the two boats there now began an anxious time. Many of them had no clothes beyond vests and pants--some none at all, and these had to be wrapped in the few blankets that were in the boats. The night was bitterly cold, the gale was blowing its hardest, the sea was running high. The first boat that put off found her difficulties at once; she shipped water by the ton, and the men had to improvise bailers. Those who had boots on took them off, and used these; a blanket, held at each corner by a sailor, was also brought into play for the purpose; caps and coats, too--every man doing something to clear the boat of water. For hours they toiled, expecting every minute to be their last. All through the night, till early morning, they drifted whither the waves would take them, and when dawn came they found themselves out of sight of land, with never a ship in view.

During the night they sang the modern warriors’ song, “Tipperary,” till they grew tired even of that; and the daylight brought them no relief from the monotony, till, about nine o’clock, their hearts gave a great leap. A liner appeared on the horizon. Shouting lustily, they hoisted a blanket on an oar and waved it madly, seeking to attract attention; but the liner changed her course and dipped over the horizon, leaving them to the waste of waters.

This hope of being taken up by a passing ship was renewed no less than eleven times during the day, each time to be dashed to the ground; and one survivor later said that he didn’t think much of the look-out on those ships.

As the day progressed the gale became stronger, and the boat was pitching and rolling, swinging high upon the crest of a wave, now racing down into the trough, the men becoming drenched through again and again, those who were nearly naked suffering extreme agony. No less than nine of them died of exposure.

At about one o’clock land was sighted; but when the crew, pulling sixteen oars, tried to make it, they found that they could not cope with the strong tide that was running. Darkness came, and found them still adrift. Then their eyes were gladdened by the sight of two red lights gleaming in the distance, and Leading Seaman Carroll, who had been the life and soul of the party, wielded his oar, with which he had all along been steering, and kept the boat headed for the lights of hope. Fortunately for them, the wind and tide were now with them; otherwise, so exhausted were they, never would they have made the haven--for haven it was. They heard the sound of breakers, saw in the shimmering moonlight the white foam of the water, pulled like mad to the “Pull, boys, pull!” of Petty Officer Bing, and after seven miles of stiff rowing were caught in a mighty wave that carried them straight to the beach at Lyme Regis, where very soon crowds of people gathered to give them help and drag them ashore, for they were too exhausted to help themselves. They had been adrift twenty-two hours.

It is time now to return to the second boat, which, after having picked up as many swimming men as possible, had to get away from the _Formidable_, lest she be dashed into her side by the raging sea. The story of the sufferings of the men in her is much the same as the others; but in this case nearly all the oars were smashed and the boat had a hole stove in her side. One of the men, whipping off his pants, stuffed them into the gap, and then sat there to keep them from being washed away. The little craft filled with water time and time again, and they bailed her out as fast as they could.

About nine o’clock in the morning someone noticed a large fishing smack to windward, and an oar was hoisted, with a black scarf on it as a signal of distress. It was seen by John Clark, third hand on the smack _Providence_ (Captain Pillar, Brixham), and he immediately told the captain and his comrades, the second hand, Dan Taylor, the cook, and Pillar, the boy. Instantly they fell to work, set the storm jib, shook out a reef in the mainsail, and stood after the boat, which by this time had drifted far away, and was continually hidden by the heavy seas. Through the now blinding rain the smack pushed, and, coming near, found that it was impossible to get close enough on the present tack to do any good. Captain Pillar therefore decided to take a desperate chance; he would gybe the boat--that is, swing all her sails over violently--and get upon the other tack, which would put him in a much better position to effect the rescue of the men.

This was done successfully; and then the fishermen tried to get a rope to the boat. Three times they failed, but at the fourth attempt the rope pitched into the boat, where it was made fast, the other end being round the capstan of the smack. Then, working his vessel in a manner that won the praise of every sailor there, Pillar hauled the boat to a berth at the stern, and eventually got her to leeward.

Once alongside, Pillar gave the word, and the sailors began to jump aboard the smack. It took half an hour to get that bunch of men off, so difficult was the work as a result of the gale; over thirty feet the waves mounted sometimes, and many a man wellnigh tumbled into the sea, from which his chance of rescue would have been small.

When all were safe on board the _Providence_, Captain Pillar turned her about and made for Brixham, his men meanwhile attending to the comforts of the sailors, who were exhausted and frozen to the bone. Hot coffee and food were served out, and never did men enjoy a meal as they did on board the _Providence_ on that January afternoon. Near Brixham the _Providence_ fell in with the _Dencade_, which took her in tow and brought her into Brixham, where the people on the wharves heard the lusty voices of men singing “Auld Lang Syne,” as though for hours they had not been adrift, helpless, hopeless, as though they had never felt the shock as the _Formidable_ received her fatal wound, as though they had never stood face to face with death.

It is the cheery fortitude of the British Jack Tar that has helped old England to the command of the sea; and it is such men as Captain Pillar and his gallant crew who reveal the courage that lives in the hearts of men whose work keeps them in the field of peace--where as great victories are won as on the field of battle.

* * * * *

While, during war, great disasters such as that of the _Formidable_ are to be expected, when the wings of the Angel of Peace are spread the shock of a catastrophe is infinitely greater, because it comes when there seems to be no reason why it should. Such was the case of the loss of the _Victoria_ battleship in June, 1893. A steel-armoured turret-ship of 10,470 tons and 1,400 horsepower, 39 guns and 8 torpedo-tubes, she was the flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir George Tryon, commanding the Mediterranean squadron, which, in addition to the _Victoria_, consisted of twelve other vessels, including the _Camperdown_, the ship which rammed her.

The squadron was steaming line abreast, bound from Beyrout for Tripoli, and going at eight knots an hour, when the admiral, calling his staff in, decided to form the squadron in two columns ahead, six cables’ length (1,200 yards) apart, the course to be later on reversed by the lines turning inwards. Staff-Commander Hawkins-Smith pointed out that, as the turning circles of the _Victoria_ and the _Camperdown_ (the latter leading the port column) were six hundred yards (or three cables’ length), the inward turn would involve a collision between this vessel and the _Victoria_, which was leading the starboard column.

“It will require at least eight cables, sir,” said Hawkins-Smith, to which Tryon replied, after a moment’s thought:

“Yes, it shall be eight.”

The staff-commander left the cabin; and then the admiral gave instructions to his flag-lieutenant to signal the order for the manœuvre he had in mind--to line ahead _at six cables apart_. Tryon had evidently changed his mind.

On board the _Victoria_ several officers approached the admiral, and queried him on the matter, pointing out that he had agreed that eight cables’ length was wanted. But he adhered to his command, saying: “That’s all right; leave it at six cables.”

So the fatal order fluttered in the breeze.

Rear-Admiral Markham, on the _Camperdown_, was staggered.

“It is impossible!” he exclaimed. “It is an impracticable manœuvre!” and did not answer back, thus giving the _Victoria_ to understand that he had not grasped the signal. “It’s all right,” he said to Captain Johnstone. “Don’t do anything. I have not answered the signal.” And then gave instructions for the flag-lieutenant to ask for fuller instructions.

Meanwhile, on the _Victoria_ other signals were being hoisted, asking Markham why he was not obeying orders, and reproving him for it. The rear-admiral, knowing it was his duty to obey, decided to do so, thinking that Tryon must be intending to make a wider circle, and so go outside the _Camperdown’s_ division.

The two ships therefore turned inwards, Markham and his officers watching the _Victoria_ closely to see what she would do. On the flagship, too, officers were discussing the movement, and Captain Bourke asked Tryon whether it would not be as well to do something to avoid the collision he saw was inevitable. It was a case for haste, he knew, and he had to repeat his question hurriedly: “May I go astern full speed with the port screw?”

“Yes,” said Tryon at last, and Bourke gave the order. But it was too late; three minutes and a half after the two ships had turned inwards the _Camperdown_, although her engines had been reversed, crashed into the starboard bow of the _Victoria_, hitting her about twenty feet before the turret and forcing her way in almost to the centre line.

Instantly excitement reigned on the _Victoria_; but the crew, never losing their heads, rushed to carry out the orders which were now flung hither and thither:

“Close the water-tight doors!”

“Out collision mats!”

“All hands on deck!”

In rapid succession the orders came; the doors were shut tight, the mats were hung over the side, where, so great was the gap left when the _Camperdown_ backed away, the water rushed in in torrents. Captain Bourke, having visited the engine-rooms to see that all that was possible had been done, rushed up on deck, and there found that the _Victoria_ had a heavy list to starboard. On the deck all the sick men and the prisoners had been brought up in readiness, and all hands except the engineers were there, too.

All this time the only thought in every man’s mind had been to save the ship; actually, no one imagined that the fine vessel would presently make a final plunge and disappear. Tryon had, indeed, signalled to the other ships not to send the boats which were being lowered. Having received the report that it was thought the _Victoria_ could keep afloat some time, Tryon consented to her being steered for land. But the helm refused to work.

The admiral now signalled: “Keep boats in readiness; but do not send them.” And then, turning to an officer, said: “It is my fault--entirely my fault!”

The seriousness of the position was now breaking upon him, though even then he did not realise how near the end was. The crew worked hard but orderly, hoisting out the boats, or doing whatever they were told, while down below the engineers and stokers kept at their posts, albeit they knew that they stood little chance if the ship dived beneath the surface.

Presently the men were drawn up on deck, four deep, calm, cool, facing death without a tremor or sign of panic, which would have been calamitous.

“Steady, men, steady!” cried the chaplain, the Rev. Samuel Morris; and steady they were, till Tryon, seeing that all hope was gone, signalled for boats to be sent, and gave orders for every man to look after himself.

“Jump, men, jump!” was the command; and they rushed to the side, ready to fling themselves overboard. As they did so the great ship turned turtle, and men went tumbling head first into the sea, down the bottom of the ship as she dived, her port screw racing through the air.

The scene that followed beggars description; but the following extract is from a letter written to the _Times_ by a midshipman who was on one of the other ships. He was sent off in a boat to rescue the struggling men in the water.

“We could see all the men jumping overboard,” he wrote. “She continued heeling over, and it was simply agonising to watch the wretched men struggling out of the ports over the ship’s bottom in masses. All this, of course, happened in less time than it takes to write. You could see the poor men who, in their hurry to jump over, jumped on to the screw being cut to pieces as it revolved. She heeled right over, the water rushing in through her funnels. A great explosion of steam rose; she turned right over, and you could see all the men eagerly endeavouring to crawl over her bottom, when, with a plunge, she went down bows first. We could see her stern rise right out of the water and plunge down, the screws still revolving. It was simply a dreadful sight. We could not realise it. Personally, I was away in my boat, pulling as hard as we could to the scene of the disaster.... After pulling up and down for two hours, we reorganised the fleet, leaving two ships on the scene of the disaster; and, making for Tripoli, anchored for the night. No one can realise the dreadful nature of the accident.

“However, dropping the _Victoria_ for a minute, we must turn to the _Camperdown_. She appeared to be in a very bad way. Her bow was sinking gradually, and I must say at the time I thought it quite on the cards that she might be lost also; but, thanks to the indomitable way in which the crew worked, they managed to check the inrush by means of the collision mat and water-tight doors. All last night, however, they were working hard to keep her afloat.

“You can imagine our feelings--the flagship sunk with nearly all hands, the other flagship anchored in a sinking condition. We have a lot of the survivors of the _Victoria_ on board, but their accounts vary greatly.... Anyhow, what is quite certain is that the admiral did not realise the gravity of his situation, or else he would have abandoned the ship at once, instead of trying to save her. The discipline was magnificent. Not until the order was given did a single man jump overboard.

“The last thing that was seen was the admiral refusing to try to save himself, whilst his coxswain was entreating him to go. Another instance of pluck was exhibited by the boatswain of signals, who was making a general semaphore until the water washed him away. Unfortunately the poor chap was drowned. Many of the survivors are in a dreadful state of mental prostration. Most people say that Admiral Markham should have refused to obey the signal, but I think that Admiral Tryon infused so much awe in most of the captains of the fleet that few would have disobeyed him. However, he stuck to his ship to the last, and went down in her.”

Thus was the _Victoria_ lost; less than a quarter of an hour after being struck she was lying at the bottom of the Mediterranean, Admiral Tryon and 400 gallant seamen going with her.

At the court-martial Captain Bourke was absolved of all blame for the loss of the ship, the finding being that the disaster was entirely due to Admiral Tryon’s order to turn the two lines sixteen points inward when they were only six cables apart.

INCIDENTS IN THE SLAVE TRADE

Stories of the Traffic in Human Merchandise

We shall not here deal with the history and abolition of slavery, because every schoolboy knows all about that, and will doubtless be glad to have something more exciting. And of excitement there is abundance in the annals of slavery. The trade was always attended by risks, even before the days when it was illegal to ship slaves, for there was ever the danger of the negroes breaking loose and running amok on the ship; or, what was perhaps worse, the holds of the slavers were often little less than death-holes, with fever and cholera rampant. Altogether, it was a game with big profits--and mighty big risks, as the following story will show:

It was back in 1769 that the slaver _Delight_ (Captain Millroy) was the scene of an uprising of negroes, which resulted in a rousing fight and fatal effects to a good many aboard.

About three o’clock one Sunday morning Surgeon Boulton and the men with him in the aft-cabin were awakened by a chorus of screams and shrieks overhead, a rushing of feet, a pandemonium of noise which told that something serious was afoot. Boulton slipped out of his bunk and dashed towards the captain’s cabin, half guessing what was taking place. He reached the cabin, and, entering, shook Millroy fiercely to awaken him. He had barely succeeded in rousing the captain when a billet of wood came hurtling through the air and caught him on the shoulder, and a cutlass pierced his neck. Turning, Boulton saw that a couple of negroes had, all unseen and unheard, crept below, intent on putting the captain _hors de combat_ while he was asleep; and, finding the surgeon interfering with their plot, they attacked him in quick time. Millroy, now properly aroused, joined forces with Boulton, who forgot his own danger in the thought of what was happening above, and the pair chased the negroes on to the deck, Boulton carrying a pistol and the captain a cutlass.

When they reached deck they found themselves in a very inferno. Hundreds of negroes were swarming all over the place, some armed with wooden spars, others with cutlasses; and with these weapons they were hard at it taking vengeance on their captors. The herd of savages flung themselves upon the seamen, cutting off legs and arms, mutilating bodies dreadfully, their yells making the air ring. Boulton and the captain, realising that it was a case for prompt and vigorous action, hurled themselves into the heaving fight with a will. Down went one negro, killed by Millroy’s cutlass; then another; while Boulton did all he could. But the “all” of these two men was but little, and presently Millroy fell to the deck, overpowered by numbers, and literally hacked to pieces. Boulton, more fortunate, escaped injury, and made a dash for the rigging, up which he scrambled till he came to the maintop, where he discovered the cook and a boy had already taken refuge.

Perched on their lofty platform, the three looked down upon deck, watching as though fascinated the drama being enacted before their eyes, seeing the now maddened negroes wreaking vengeance on the men who were bearing them from freedom to slavery. The bloodlust was upon them, and they searched the ship to take their fill.

Suddenly the watchers saw two men come up from below and make a rush across the deck to the rigging. Like lightning the negroes dashed after them, and one man was brought to deck by a dozen billets flung at him, and his body was cut to pieces. The second man, more fortunate, managed to reach the rigging, and clambered up like a monkey.

The negroes, having satisfied themselves that they had accounted for all the crew with the exception of those in the maintop, whom they decided to deal with presently, ransacked the ship, seeking arms; and meanwhile Boulton, knowing that safety depended upon weapons, went on a tour of exploration. He wormed his way into the foretop to see what might be there, and luckily found a knife, with which he set out to return to the maintop. On the way the negroes saw him, and began to pelt him with billets of wood, all of which missed, however; so that Boulton reached his comrades safely. The one dread in the minds of the four survivors was that the negroes would find the arms-chest, in which case it seemed to them hopeless to expect to escape. While the slaves remained armed only with wooden spars and cutlasses, Boulton did not feel particularly anxious, knowing that he and his companions would be able to tackle any who dared to ascend the rigging to try and get them down. One thing that kept him hopeful was the fact that another slaver, the _Apollo_, was almost within hailing distance, and the _Delight_, unsteered and sails untrimmed, was rapidly drifting towards her, which would make the men on the _Apollo_ aware that something had happened. But Boulton’s luck was out. The negroes found the arms-chest, and, breaking it open, armed themselves with muskets, and set to work in earnest to put the survivors out of action.

Shot after shot sang by the maintop, and one of the men there, fearing that he would be killed if he stayed, and might be saved if he trusted himself to the mercy of the negroes, like a madman descended to the deck. Barely had his foot touched it when a negro fell upon him with an axe and split his head in two; and a dozen pairs of hands seized him and pitched him overboard to the sharks which were following the ship, their appetites whetted by the feasts already given them by the negroes.

While this was going on, other slaves were still shooting away at the maintop, fruitlessly; and Boulton was calling madly on the _Apollo_, now not far away. Presently the captain of the other vessel, realising what was afoot, gave the word, and a broadside hurtled across the deck of the _Delight_, in the hope of frightening the slaves. They seemed to take little notice of this, however, and Boulton began to fear that all was over, especially as the negroes, seeing that they could not hit the men in the maintop, ceased fire, and a giant black, cutlass in one hand and a pistol in the other, sprang into the rigging, bent, apparently, on storming the position. Boulton waited calmly. He had no weapons but his knife and a quart bottle; but he felt that he was in a good position to meet an attack. Presently the negro’s head appeared above the platform, and then--_whack!_ The bottle fell upon it with a sickening thud, the black lost his hold, and went hurtling into the sea.

Meanwhile, the _Apollo_ was firing at the _Delight_, and the latter was returning the fire as well as it could, the negroes evidently knowing that to give in was to court disaster, and to lose what they had stood in a fair way to gaining. For four hours they fought the _Apollo_, and at the same time kept up their fusillade on the maintop.

Then came the end. Not because the negroes were not able to keep up any longer, but because a shot from the _Apollo_ fell into a barrel of gunpowder and exploded it, with the result that the _Delight_ took fire, and the slaves could not cope with the flames and their enemy at the same time. The revolt fizzled out as quickly as it had arisen. While the negroes rushed about seeking to put out the fire, Boulton, taking his life in his hands, descended to the deck, at the same time that a boat set out from the _Apollo_ with a crew to tackle the flames and the negroes, who, filled with consternation, now stood quietly by watching the fire-fighters. They were absolutely cowed; they had made their bid for freedom, and had failed, and they knew it. They allowed themselves to be driven below and secured. The result of their revolt was that nine of the crew of the _Delight_ were butchered, one man on the _Apollo_ was killed, and eighteen of the negroes found death instead of liberty--perhaps death to them was better than freedom; certainly better than the lot of those poor human cattle they left behind them.

Such incidents as this were of frequent occurrence, and the recital of one must suffice.

After the Abolition Act had been passed, severe measures were brought into operation, giving the Navy a wide scope--so wide that, even although a vessel had no slaves on board, yet, if the naval officers had reason to suspect that slaving was her business, they could apprehend her. Special ships were fitted out and commissioned to deal with the traffic in the South Atlantic, both off Central America and the West Coast of Africa. So effective were the measures taken that the slavers resorted to all manner of disguises to turn suspicion away from their vessels, which had hitherto been of a distinctive kind--long, rakish craft with tall spars, the whole effect being one of beauty, and the idea being speed. The traders changed all this by having ships more after the fashion of the ordinary merchant vessel, so that the hunters had a more difficult task in front of them. But they worked energetically, and swept the seas month after month, on the look-out for the human cattle-ships, and, as all the world knows, succeeded in clearing them from the seas.

The subjoined account from the Sierra Leone _Watchman_ for November 15, 1846, gives a striking picture of the conditions against which the Navy were doing such good work.

The vessel referred to is the Brazilian brigantine _Paqueta de Rio_, captured off Sherbro:

“The 547 human beings--besides the crew and passengers (as they styled themselves), twenty-eight in number--were stowed in a vessel of 74 tons. The slaves were all stowed together, perfectly naked, with nothing on which to rest but the surfaces of the water-casks. These were made level by filling in billets of wood, and formed the slave-deck. The slaves who were confined in the hold--it being utterly impossible for the whole of them to remain on deck at one time--were in a profuse perspiration, and panting like so many hounds for water. The smell on board was dreadful. I was informed that, on the officers of the _Cygnet_ boarding the slaver, the greater part of the slaves were chained together with pieces of chain, which were passed through iron collars round their necks; iron shackles were also secured round their legs and arms. After the officers had boarded, and the slaves were made to understand they were free, their acclamations were long and loud. They set to work, and, with the billets of wood which had hitherto formed their bed, knocked off each other’s shackles, and threw most of them overboard. There were several left, which were shown to me. We will leave it to the imagination of your readers what must have been the feelings of these poor people when they found they were again free--free through the energy and activity of a British cruiser. On examining the poor creatures, who were principally of the Kosso nation, I found they belonged to, and were shipped to, different individuals; they were branded like sheep. Letters were burnt in the skin two inches in length. Many of them, from the recent period it had been done, were in a state of ulceration. Both males and females were marked as follows: On the right breast ‘J’; on the left arm, ‘P’; over women’s right and left breasts, ‘S’ and ‘A’; under the left shoulder, ‘P’; right breast, ‘R’ and ‘RJ’; on the right and left breasts, ‘SS’; and on the right and left shoulder, ‘SS.’ This is the same vessel that cleared out from here about three weeks previous to her capture for Rio de Janeiro. The slaves were all embarked from the slave factories at Gallinas, under the notorious Don Luiz, and the vessel under way in five hours; and had there been the slightest breeze she would have escaped. Among the slaves there were two men belonging to Sierra Leone--a man named Peter, once employed by Mr. Elliott, the pilot. He stated that he had been employed by a Mr. Smith, a Popohman, to go to Sherbro to purchase palm-oil, and that whilst pursuing that object he was seized and sold by a Sherbro chief named Sherry.”

A RACE TO SUCCOUR

An Incident of the United States Revenue Service

The records of the revenue men of the United States teem with heroic deeds done in the execution of their duty. The present story is typical of the thrilling determination of men who will not be beaten, and incidentally shows a healthy rivalry between the revenue men and the lifeboatmen.

On January 11, 1891, the three-masted schooner _Ada Barker_ encountered a terrific storm which played shuttlecock with her, and after a fierce conflict pitched her on to the Junk of Pork, the euphonious name of a large rock near outer Green Island, off the coast of Maine. The Junk of Pork rises a sheer fifty feet out of the water, and all round it are reefs and boulders, a literal death-trap to any unfortunate vessel that should get caught there. The _Ada Barker_, after having her sails torn to shreds and her rigging hopelessly entangled, began to ship water, and though her men worked hard and long at the pumps, they could not save her; then she was bowled on to the outer reef at night; the bottom dropped out of her, and she heeled over. To the men on board it seemed that the end of all things had come, and they gave themselves up for lost.

As the ship heeled they heard the sound of something striking against a rock; then again, as the ship rebounded and fell forward once more. Eager to take the most slender chance of life, they scrambled to the side, and saw that the mast was hitting against the Junk of Pork.

“Boys!” cried the captain. “That’s our one chance!”

The sailors knew what he meant. They had looked about them. To jump into that boiling surf was to leap into the jaws of death; they would be smashed to pulp, or drowned like rats. They saw now, however, that the rock before them could be reached by scrambling up the mast, which was crashing against it. But they must hurry; and hurry they did. Like monkeys they swarmed up the mast, caring nothing for torn hands nor the flapping canvas, which slashed them like whipcords and threatened to knock them off into the cauldron below. They fought their elemental fight, and one by one six men dropped on to the Junk of Pork; and for hours and hours they clung to their precarious perch, buffeted by strong winds, swamped by heavy seas and crouching in terror as a mountain wave reared its head and, as if angry that the men had escaped, broke upon them with a thunderous roar. At other times they were flung headlong on the rock by a gust of wind which howled at them as if seeking to drown their voices as they yelled for help, in the hope that some ship might be near and hear them through the noise of the gale.

All through the long, dreadful night they remained thus, glad to have found even so bleak a haven, but wondering whether, after all, they would be rescued. Then their eyes were gladdened by the sight of a ship away out on the horizon. Rising and falling as the still boisterous seas kept up their see-saw motion, she was coming in their direction. Would she see them? They knew that at the distance the ship was away they could not be visible yet; yet, cold, drenched to the skin, almost exhausted by exposure, they stripped themselves of their shirts and waved--waved like madmen, fearing they would be passed by. Had they but known it, the officer of the watch of the coming boat--the United States revenue cutter, of Woodbury--thought he could see dark forms on the flat top of the storm-wracked Junk of Pork in a state of frantic activity. Levelling his glasses, he soon saw the forms of the six men waving the torn and tattered shirts; and he knew that some ship had been wrecked during the storm which the _Woodbury_ herself had encountered and fought sternly against for hours on end since she left Portland.

It took but a few moments for everyone on the cutter to be made aware of the position of things.

“We’ll make her, boys” said Captain Fengar, who was in command. “We’ll have those chaps off the Junk of Pork!”

“Aye, aye, sir!” was the chorus; and, with engines pounding out every ounce of steam, the cutter pushed her nose through the water, fighting hard against the storm, which was raging as fiercely as ever. Nearer and nearer they drove, whistling anon to encourage the stranded mariners, who, weary and exhausted, cried for very joy as they realised that they had been seen and that help was coming. Help was coming! Their madness of anxiety gave way to a delirium of joy. Then their hearts sank into an abyss of despair.

The cutter was very near to them now, but the sea was too rough for her to venture close to the rocks; the reefs were one cauldron of boiling surf, and the stranded men knew that no boat from the cutter could hope to live in such a sea, or hope to escape destruction on the reefs if she ventured near.

Help had come--and had proved helpless!

They threw themselves down upon the rock and clutched at the bare surface. They were frenzied. They wondered how much longer they could withstand the gnawings of hunger, the agonies of thirst; how much longer, too, they could retain enough strength to keep their footing on the rock-top. They even thought of leaving their precious haven and trying to reach the wreck of their once proud little ship, where there was indeed food and water. But second thoughts showed them that certain death lay that way, while there was hope that the cutter might be able to get to them. They saw that she was hovering about, cruising here and there to keep headway with the storm, her whistle shrieking out encouragement, and letting them know that she was standing by, in the hope that the storm would abate and enable them to launch their boats.

Night came, but the gale still raged, and Captain Fengar decided that there was only one way to bring about the rescue he was determined to effect, and that was to put back to Portland and bring dories with which to land on the rock at dawn next day. He could not hope to do much good during the night, even if the storm eased off somewhat; the danger of the breakers was too great. So, whistling across to the wretched men on the rock, he let them know that he was going away, but would come back, and then save them.

The first shock of realising that they were to be left alone again wellnigh crazed the men; they felt that they would prefer to wait there for death with company than wait alone for salvation. But away went the cutter, whistling as she went in answer to the wavings of the sailors; and as the final scream died away the men sank down upon the rock in desolation of despair, with nothing but the howling of the wind and the roar of the breakers to keep them company.

The cutter sped through the night, passing Cape Elizabeth on her way, and giving the bearings of the wreck to the lifeboat station there. Reaching Portland, she took her dories and raced back to the Junk of Pork, arriving there an hour after daybreak. The feelings of the now almost dead mariners may be better imagined than described when they heard the siren of the cutter calling to them, telling them of the coming of hope and help. They forgot the raging storm, for they knew that these men who had come back had brought the wherewithal to save them.

On the cutter the revenue men were busy preparing to launch the boats and the small white cutter, when the lifeboat from Cape Elizabeth hove in sight. The very sight of her acted as an additional spur to them, for they regarded this little matter as particularly their own, and although they themselves had warned the lifeboatman of the wreck they felt that it was their duty to effect the rescue. They vowed to themselves that they would get the men off the rock.

“Now, boys,” cried Captain Fengar, “we want to get those men off ourselves! Hustle!”

And they hustled. In the twinkling of an eye as it seemed a couple of boats were lowered and the men were in their places.

“You must not fail,” said Fengar as they pushed off. “God bless you!” And away they went towards the boiling surf, beneath which they knew lurked hideous, treacherous rocks. Lieutenant Howland, an old whaler, had charge of the first boat, and with him went Third Lieutenant Scott and Cadet Van Cott, who had entreated the captain to allow him to go. Seamen Haskell and Gross manned the second boat. Like madmen the Woodbury men pulled, straining every effort to win in the race they had set themselves, knowing that the Cape Elizabeth lifeboat was sweeping through the seas towards the rock. As for the lifeboat, its crew were tired, weary with much fighting of the storm. But they were game; they realised what the Woodbury men were intent on doing, and they themselves determined to do their best to beat them in this race for the lives of six unfortunate men. It was surely one of the queerest contests ever engaged in, and at the back of it was but one idea--to win through to the rock and get the stranded mariners to safety.

The first honours went to the Woodbury men; the dory manned by Haskell and Gross got there ahead of all; they swept through a narrow channel between the reefs, were wellnigh battered to pieces against the foot of the Junk of Pork, hailed the men on top--as though they needed hailing!--and the next instant a man leaped clear of the rock and tumbled into the dory, which pitched and rolled dangerously at the impact. Then, realising that they could not stay there any longer, Haskell and Gross turned their dory about and made for the channel again; careful steering took her safely through, and then, buffeted by the waves, they pulled feverishly towards the cutter, where they eventually got their man safely aboard.

Meanwhile, Howland was keeping his men at it; the race now lay between him and the lifeboat, and he meant to win. With shouts and heave-ho’s, Howland urged his men on; and on they went, while across the waters came the shouts of the lifeboatmen as they bent lustily to their task.

The revenue boat won by a neck! With a thud she hit the breakers just ahead of the lifeboat, shivered, and then, lifted up by a giant comber, cleared a submerged reef, delved on the other side, and came up almost filled with water. Shaking herself as a dog shakes the water from his coat, she righted, and Lieutenant Scott leaped boldly into the surf; but as he did so the undertow took the boat and, as he still had hold of her, dragged him under water. For a moment his comrades thought him gone, but presently he came up, almost frozen, but still hanging on to the boat. And the next moment a roller caught the boat and pitched her on to a slice of rock.

Almost simultaneously the lifeboat plunged at the breakers. For a second she hesitated. Her men were debating whether they should shoot clear or land. They saw the revenue men land. Where they could go, there could the men of Cape Elizabeth; and they put the nose of their boat at it, heading straight for the rocks. Less fortunate than the others, the lifeboat banged into a mighty rock, which stove in her bow and rendered her unmanageable.

Instantly the winners of the strange race saw that the lifeboat was helpless and in danger; the men on the Junk of Pork could wait; they were safe! The revenue men plunged into the surf, waded and swam to the lifeboat, seized hold of her, and dragged her on to the strip of rock. It was all done as in a flash; hesitation would have meant disaster. But it was done, and the rivals stood together at the foot of the Junk of Pork. Then, resting awhile from their herculean labours, they set about the rescue of the stranded mariners, who were very soon in the revenue boat, and being rowed across to the Woodbury cutter, which, when all was done, steamed back to Portland, after forty hours of hard fighting for the rescue of half a dozen men; forty hours well spent, too.

A TRAGEDY OF THE SOUTH POLE

The Thrilling Story of Scott’s Expedition to the Antarctic

The age-old dreams of hundreds of men have been realised; the ends of the earth have yielded up their secrets--the Poles have been discovered. Peary to the North, Amundsen and Scott to the South, hardy adventurers all, with the wanderlust in their souls and science as their beckoner--these men went forth and wrested from the ice-bound regions something of what had been refused to the scores of men preceding them; some of whom had come back, weak, despondent, while others left their bones as silent witnesses to their noble failure to achieve what they set out for.

Of all the many expeditions which have set forth to the Polar regions, none was more tragic than that commanded by Captain Robert F. Scott. In practically the hour of his triumph he failed, because, no matter how efficient an organisation, no matter how far-sighted policy and arrangements may be, there is always the uncertain human element; there comes the point when human endurance can stand out no longer, when the struggle against the titan forces of Nature cannot be kept up. And then there is failure, though often a splendid failure.

Such was that of Captain Scott; he reached the goal he had aimed at for many years only to find that he had been forestalled by a month, and then, overtaken by unexpected bad weather, he and the men with him had to give up the struggle when within eleven miles of just one thing they stood in need of--fuel with which to cook the hot meals that meant life. The story is one that makes the blood course through the veins, makes the heart glow, makes the head bow in honour; because it is a story of matchless bravery, heroic fortitude and noble effort.

The _Terra Nova_, Scott’s ship, carried a complement of sixty men, each one of them picked because of his efficiency, each one having his allotted work. Geologists and grooms, physicist and photographers, meteorologists and motor-engineer, surgeons and ski-expert and seamen, men to care for dogs, and men to cook food--a civilised community of efficient, well-found, keen, and high-idealed men. It was, in fact, the best-equipped Polar expedition ever sent forth. Scott went out not merely to discover the South Pole, but also to gather data that should elucidate many problems of science. He took with him all the apparatus that would be necessary for this purpose, and when the _Terra Nova_ left New Zealand, on November 26, 1910, there seemed good reason for the conviction that success must attend the expedition.

The voyage out to the Polar Sea was uneventful, except that early in December a great storm arose, and called for good seamanship to keep the vessel going; and even then she was very badly knocked about. She made a good deal of water, and the seamen had to pump hard and long; but at last, under steam and sail, the _Terra Nova_ came through safely, and was able to go forward again, and by December 9 was in the ice-pack, which was that year much farther north than was expected. This held them up so that they could not go in the direction they wanted to, and had to drift where the pack would take them--northwards. Christmas Day found them still in the pack, and they celebrated the festivity in the good old English style. By the 30th they were out of the pack, and set off for Cape Crozier, the end of the Great Ice Barrier, where they had decided to fix their winter quarters. They could not get there, however, and they had to proceed to Cape Royds, passing along an ice-clad coast which showed no likely landing-place. Cape Royds was also inaccessible owing to the ice, and the ship was worked to the Skuary Cape, renamed Cape Evans, in the McMurdo Sound.

A landing was effected, and for a week the explorers worked like niggers getting stores ashore, disembarking ponies and dogs, unloading sledges, and the hundred and one other things necessary to success. The hut, which was brought over in pieces, was also taken ashore, a suitable site for it cleared, and the carpenters began erecting it.

During these early days misfortune fell upon them. One of their three motor-sledges, upon which great hopes were built, slipped through the ice and was lost.

By January 14 the station was almost finished, and Captain Scott went on a sledge trip to Hut Point, some miles to the west. Here Scott had wintered on his first expedition, which set out from England in 1901. In this his new expedition the hut was to be used for some of the party, and telephonic communication was installed. In due course the station was completed; there is no need for us to go into all the details of the hard work, or the exercising of animals and men, but a short description of this house on the ice may be of interest. It was a wooden structure, 50 feet long by 25 feet wide and nine feet to the eaves. It was divided into officers’ and men’s quarters; there was a laboratory and dark-room, galley and workshop. Books were there, pictures on the walls, stove to keep the right temperature. Stables were built on the north side, and a store-room on the south. In the hut itself was a pianola and a gramophone to wile away the monotony of the long winter night. Mr. Ponting, the camera artist, had a lantern with him, which was to provide vast entertainment in the way of picture-lectures on all kinds of subjects. Altogether, everything was as compact and comfortable as could be wished.

Naturally, there were various adventures during these early days; once the ship just managed to get away from the spot where almost immediately afterwards a huge berg crashed down, only a little later on the same day to become stranded. Luckily, by much hard work, the seamen managed to get her off.