Chapter II: Part 2

Dazed and just able to realize my terrible situation, I gasped for breath, and, although quite oblivious of the nature and extent of my injuries, I was vaguely conscious that I was still alive, and that for the second time in a few minutes my life had been miraculously preserved. Securely pinned down by the tremendous weight of the “ground,” I lay unable to move, and after making a feeble and vain effort to shout for assistance, I gave up my futile struggle to free my aching body and sank down from sheer exhaustion, staring vacantly in the semi-darkness at an enormous, treacherous-looking boulder that had lodged a few inches above me, and which appeared likely to find a fresh resting-place on my unprotected head at any moment.

For an instant there was a death-like stillness. Nearly distracted by the awful suspense, I lay helpless in the great iron skip, expecting each instant to feel the peculiar jerk of the hauling-rope that would mean the commencement of my lightning upward journey to the headgear on the surface, nearly six hundred feet above.

_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]

What would be my fate when the skip tipped automatically on the surface? Should I be crushed to death or buried alive by the enormous quantity of “ground,” or should I meet with a more terrible death by being dashed to pieces against the steel sides or cross-bars of the loading-box, to be found later--a mangled and unrecognisable mass of humanity?

All these thoughts and countless vivid recollections of my childhood, boyhood, and early manhood flashed through my now disordered brain with startling rapidity, and I sobbed with anguish as I thought for a moment of my home, my children, and my wife, who was soon to be a widow and whom I should never see again. With a sickening terror I now grasped the fact that in a few seconds the great winding engine on the surface would be set in motion. Oh, the irony of it all! I had escaped death at the tip, and again at the loading-chute, only to end my existence when the skip eventually shot its eight-ton cargo into the steel loading-boxes above! Each moment now seemed a lifetime, and I prayed fervently that my suspense and agony might be ended.

At last the hauling-rope strained and tightened, and with a sudden jerk the skip started on its upward journey through the inky-black shaft, gaining in rapidity at every yard, and each second carrying me nearer to death. The skip flew up at a terrific pace, and in a few seconds I was aware of its approach to the surface by the faint streaks of light that penetrated down the shaft. Another moment and I should be no more! The light of day became more and more intense, and with startling suddenness I shot out into the momentary and welcome brightness of the sunlight, past the level of the surface, and up to the automatic tip on the giant head-gear. Then, with a sharp click, the skip reached its tipping level and overturned, and I felt myself being thrown through space towards the yawning iron loading-boxes.

As the skip capsized I became unconscious, and was consequently spared the further mental torture consequent upon my precipitation into the yawning surface loading-boxes. At last, however, I opened my eyes, as if awakening from a profound sleep, and--amazed and utterly bewildered--gradually recognised that for the third time in as many minutes I had escaped a frightful death in a wonderful and miraculous manner. I found that I was lying awkwardly and with feet uppermost in the north side loading-box. While still trying to realize what had happened the slides of the box separated, and the next moment startled, anxious faces were peering in at me.

_From a Photo. by J. A. Glennie, Kimberley._]

Gently the amazed men lifted me through the door and carried me to the mine change-house, where my injuries were promptly attended to. Incredible as it may seem, I was not seriously hurt, only suffering from several bruises about the body and from slight cuts on the head and above one eye. I was duly sent to the Kimberley Hospital, from which I was discharged eight days after the chapter of accidents here related, having completely recovered from the effects of my remarkable adventure.

Where Women Wear Trousers.

BY L. VAN DER VEER.

There is a place up in the mountains of Switzerland where from
time immemorial the women have worn the garb and done most of
the work of their men-folk, who stop at home and smoke or mind
the babies, while their be-trousered wives and daughters toil
in the hayfields or among the live stock. In this article Miss
Van der Veer describes a visit to this strange and little-known
community.

Away up in the mountains of one of the most beautiful cantons of Switzerland, the Valais, the peasant women have for years found it expedient to don the garb of their men-folk and work in the hayfields and among the grazing cattle on the slopes, while their lords and masters lounge their days away in ease and the quiet of their log huts.

Curious to relate, they all seem perfectly contented with this inverted order of things--the men in particular. They brew the herbs, fry the tough-as-leather mountain meat, and look after the babies, while their buxom wives are wrestling with the sterner duties of field and stable.

_From a Photograph._]

During the summer of 1908 I spent some days in Champéry, the little village in the valley at the foot of the mountains where these strenuous women work and their lazy husbands smoke. At first I felt great disappointment at not seeing them about the village streets, but soon found that they seldom or never came down the mountain-side in their strange garb, or, at any rate, walked about the village in it. Tourists have become so numerous of recent years, and their curiosity so troublesome, that the village fathers have forbidden the women to come into the hamlet without skirts over their masculine nether garments. So whoever cares to behold them in the strange clothes of their choosing must scramble and toil their way up the mountain-side. On Sunday mornings it is highly entertaining to watch these women and young girls come down the zigzag footpaths to the tiny village chapel, where, just outside its doors, they halt and throw their skirts on over their heads in the most unconcerned fashion, as thoughtlessly as the fashionable dame gives her hat a furtive touch as she enters the church doors.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

It is difficult to trace the origin of this strange custom of the Champéry dames donning masculine nether garments. When one asks the peasants about it they do their best to look reflective, but always end in declaring that “it was always so.” “Our men-folk like best the fires, and we like best the fields,” is about the only intelligible explanation I could get out of them. They are fine, sturdy-looking beings, mostly red-cheeked and strong of limb, and many of the younger ones are strikingly handsome.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

One can scarcely call their costume a becoming one, though it certainly looks better than one would expect, and, after the first novelty of seeing them wears off, its absolute suitability disarms criticism.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

The most amusing thing about it is that the upper part of the costume remains feminine--the ordinary rough bodice of the peasant woman, often in bright colours of red or blue, worn with the most nondescript cut of trousers, of the “home-made” variety. That such a costume is necessary for women who take upon themselves the work of their men-folk in such a region of the world is quite apparent to any woman who attempts to follow them at their work for even ten minutes.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

_From a Photograph._]

The constant tramping along rough mountain ways and following cows over dangerously narrow ledges, the cutting of hay on inclines so acute as to be seemingly almost perpendicular, the going in search of lost sheep in thickets and snowdrifts, are but a few of the things which make the tyranny of skirts altogether impossible. These women do not seem to mind in the least being stared at and questioned as to their clothes. In fact, they rather feel the pride of distinction their garments confer upon them. “We have never known any others,” they say quite simply, “so why should we feel queer in them? Besides, we all prefer them to skirts.”

_From a Photograph._]

The most surprising thing is that, in spite of their male attire, the women do not walk or sit in the masculine manner. Anyone can see at a glance that they are women in men’s clothes, though some green--very green--tourists often make ridiculous mistakes. At a mountain hut I once heard an English traveller declare that he never heard of men doing the family knitting until he came over the pass where these people live. He had evidently not the faintest suspicion that he had come across the men-garbed women of the mountain region, for they often sit knitting as they herd the sheep and cows on the hillsides.

Another thing that strikes one absurdly is that, while wearing trousers, these women nearly always sit sideways on horseback and get over fences by first mounting to the top rail and sliding down women-fashion, instead of striding over man-fashion. In truth, I observed no end of evidence that the inconsistency of the weaker sex cannot be quenched by anything so delectable as clothes.

One morning, when a heavy mist hung over the mountain-tops, quite obscuring everything, I sat outside the comfortable little chalet where a happy family of four sturdy daughters, with their mother, donned trousers every morning and disappeared up the mountain-side to work, while their stalwart “Pap,” as they called him, pottered round the house, pipe in mouth.

I could hear the women sharpening their scythes now and again, and catch snatches of mountain ditties as they sang at their mowing. Later on, as the mist lifted, I walked up to where they were working, and the first thing I noticed was that their trousers were so long as to be quite dripping with mud, just as their skirts would have been had they worn them. When the old man went out he turned his up.

_From a Photograph._]

Another feminine absurdity is the wearing of a long sort of toga, which trails down their backs and gets in the way whenever they bend over or go through the tangles of the mountain wood.

“Why don’t you wear a cap or small felt hat like the men?” I asked an old woman once.

“We have always covered our heads so,” was her explanation--an explanation, in her opinion, that was all-sufficing; peasants from one generation to another do everything simply because their forefathers did the same.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

One would imagine that on Sundays and fête days these women, particularly the young ones, would yield to the eternal feminine instinct of assuming the finery of their sex, but not they. Rest-time and feast-time always finds them in their usual garments. They have better-looking ones for these occasions, I confess, but they have no hankering for the trammels of skirts even during their courting hours. I was highly amused at seeing the pretty girls sauntering along the picturesque trails with their sweet-hearts’ arms around their waists, looking to the casual stranger for all the world like two young men gone “loony.”

One can scarcely imagine a wedding-party with bride and groom dressed in the same kind of garments, but I have seen one in the mountains, when the bride wore a white bodice, white trousers, and a bunch of white violets in her hair! She was as pretty as a picture, too, despite the attire, and quite as blushing and shy as any bride out of a convent.

The man of her choice, a perfect giant of a peasant, was resplendent in native costume, the chief glory of which, a green waistcoat with large brass buttons, could be seen a long way off.

Most of the weddings of recent years have been held in the little chapel of the village down in the valley, where the regulation “slip over” skirt is donned at the chapel door, to be discarded before the tramp up the mountain-side is begun.

One day I was told in the village that a funeral was to be held in the little mountain settlement above Champéry, and I trudged up the zigzag pathway as hurriedly as the occasion would allow, for I confess to having a penchant for witnessing these mournful conclaves in every foreign country I may visit.

I had no trouble in discovering the house of mourning, as a crowd of peasants hung about the door. Soon the little procession, headed by the priest and his attendants, filed out of the door and moved with solemn chant down the mountain-side towards the little churchyard below.

On inquiry, I learned that the departed one was the elderly husband of a bent and weather-beaten old peasant woman, who tottered along in faded black garments, the nether portion of which looked for all the world as if she had donned the “left-overs” of her dear departed. On her head was a crisp new crape toga, however, and as she hobbled along I confess that she made a pathetic as well as an incongruous figure.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

Despite the fact that the women work hard out of doors, summer and winter, exposed to the worst of weathers, they are mostly long-lived and seldom know what illness is. I often saw them working in the hayfields with their babies lying blinking in the sunlight near by. At noon they lounged under the trees, talking mother-foolishness to the wee things, and their queer garments never seem so hideous and altogether distasteful as when they are nursing the children.

The lack of even the simplest understanding of remedies for either illness or accident has always struck me as most remarkable among the Swiss peasantry. They may live several hours’ journey away from a doctor or chemist without ever making the least attempt at learning what to do for even the simplest ailments.

I once knew one of these Champéry women to have sunstroke so badly that she became quite unconscious, and continued so long in that state that I was certain she would die.

There were any number of old men and women gathered round wailing, but none of them seemed to know what to do in such a case. The woman’s mother suggested giving her a cup of coffee, which was attempted, most of it being spilt over her. Then someone took off her shoes and began slapping the soles of her feet with a piece of board.

I chanced to have a “first aid” case with me, and--greatly to the distrust of the peasants--administered what suitable remedies I had; I also insisted on one going post-haste down the valley for a medical man. But they would do nothing except wail and shake their heads. Finally the patient came round all right, saying that her head “felt full of hot things,” and the next morning, when I called to inquire after her, I found that she was at work in the hayfields, hatless, under the scorching sunlight, as usual. At another time a little child of three was taken with convulsions from having eaten too much cheese, and died without having anything done to save the little creature; the old women simply wagging their heads wisely and muttering something about their all “going” when taken like that. With them it is evidently a case of the survival of the fittest.

Last summer I was in Champéry at the time of the great Swiss national holiday, when everybody celebrates Swiss freedom by making as much noise as possible during the day and lighting huge bonfires at night. Everyone was dressed in holiday finery, many of the younger women appearing in grey-check trousers and hats with artificial flowers! One happy family party, consisting of the father and mother and four children, had evidently a decided fondness for royal purple--or perhaps this was the colour of their clan--for the six of them, even to the babe in arms, were arrayed in the purple of kings and emperors!

The baby in particular attracted my interest insomuch that I ventured to take the little creature in my arms in the hope that I might slip it out of the cartridge-like swaddling-case in which these poor little wretches are carried about. I might just as well have tried to pull off the muzzle of a gun; the babe was as tightly fixed in his terribly hot case as though it were a vice. And yet I doubt not he will grow into a fine stalwart son of the mountains, though how they ever manage to expand or lengthen at all is a mystery to me.

I once sat talking to an old goatherd who certainly looked as if he had sat in the same nook in the mountains for at least a century. He was so bent and rheumaticky-looking that I quite failed to see how he could possibly make his way along the steep and slippery paths. His “old woman,” as he called her, was off down the valley gathering faggots. “She be a great worker,” he told me, and never got tired the way he did. I asked him if he liked the idea of the women doing most of the hard work; he answered by saying that it “was their way.” It suited the women to work at the hay, he seemed to think; and, besides, they hadn’t to smoke, which was evidently sufficient occupation for the men.

This old man had never seen a railway until this last summer, when a branch line was run on to the village of Champéry, at the foot of his mountain home. I asked him what he thought of it, and he grumbled out a long tale of how it had already killed a lot of goats and sheep!

Any sort of progress is looked upon with the greatest prejudice and suspicion by these people, who will undergo any fatigue and discomfort rather than change the routine of centuries.

Coming down a mountain path one evening, I ran into a party of peasant girls toiling up with huge baskets of provisions strapped to their backs. In the half light I mistook them for men from their garb, but coming nearer I recognised their red togas, and later their women’s voices.

_From a Photo. by Jullien Bros._]

Stopping to talk with them, I found that they were of the well-to-do natives who owned cows and mules, but they seldom thought of taking the mules along to carry up the provisions or themselves.

It had always been the custom of their women to make pack-baskets out of their backs, and they would never think of doing otherwise. It is not easy to get these people to talk of themselves to strangers; they often resent being asked questions about their work and ideas.

Yet the young women take interest in the pretty clothes of strangers. One of them came up to me and touched a blue lapis-lazuli ring I was wearing, her eyes simply devouring it, and the other trinkets I wore of the same stone. Finally, she exclaimed that she liked them very much, and also the frock of the same colour. I am quite certain there was a momentary pang of feminine envy in her heart, and a hatred for her own incongruous garments.

BY CAPTAIN G. F. PUGH.]

A story of the bad old “shanghaiing” days, showing how a
villainous crimp had the tables turned upon him in dramatic
fashion. Captain Pugh heard the first part of the story while
in Newcastle, N.S.W., as mate of a ship, and its sequel upon a
return voyage.

In 1872 Newcastle, New South Wales, was a busy, thriving little seaport. The harbour was full of large sailing ships, loading and waiting to load coal, and bound chiefly to China, San Francisco, and the Pacific Coast ports.

Very few of these ships had their full complement of seamen on board. Most of the sailors deserted during the vessels’ stay in port--and one cannot blame them, when it is remembered that the pay in these ships from British ports was two pounds ten a month, with the poorest quality of food that it was possible for the ship-owner to buy, and only just sufficient of that to keep body and soul together.

The pay out of the Australian ports was, for homeward-bounders, five pounds ten, and in the coast and inter-Colonial traders seven pounds a month, with a sufficiency of good, nourishing food. In addition to the inducements offered by the coast traders, there was plenty of work to be found on shore, for the Queensland, Victorian, and South Australian goldfields were in full swing. The consequence was that there was great difficulty in getting men to man the ships when they were ready for sea.

Like most seaports in those days of sailing-ships, the town was full of sailors’ boarding-houses. The tactics and ways of procuring men employed by the proprietors of these places were not such as would stand the light of day, but nevertheless they did a thriving business.

One of the most noted characters in the town was a boarding-house keeper named Dan Sullivan, a scoundrel to the backbone. He was notorious for the number of men he had “shanghaied” out of the port, but, strange to say, he had gained a certain amount of power in the town, and shipmasters requiring men were, under the circumstances, compelled to deal with him, although at the same time many of them had the utmost contempt for the fellow.

Sullivan kept a low-class drinking saloon with a free-and-easy dancing-room attached to it. The boarders lived in the rooms overhead. This was the only dancing saloon in the town, and was thronged with sailors every night. The liquor sold was, needless to say, vile stuff, but men who have been living for months on weevily biscuit and “salt-horse” have very little taste left in their mouths, and as long as the decoction was hot and came out of a bottle it passed muster.

Sullivan was an adept at drugging liquor, and he always kept materials at hand for that purpose. Just a little tobacco ash dropped in the glass when pouring out the drinks, and the thing was done. When he required a few sailors for a ship ready to sail, he picked out the likeliest men in the room--usually strangers--and when the seamen, hot and thirsty with dancing, ordered drinks through the women who acted as waitresses, these Delilahs would bring the prepared stuff, and soon the men would feel muddled and sleepy and would go into the side room and sink down on the benches.

Sullivan would then slip in among them.

“Halloa, mates! What’s the matter? Feel queer, eh? Ah, it’s the dancing and the hot weather. I’ll send you a good tot that will put you all right.”

He would then send one of the girls in with a good glass of hot whisky--drugged, and that would be all the men would know for some time. When they came to their senses they found themselves in a strange ship, out of sight of land, without a stitch of clothes beyond what they stood up in. Of course, there was generally a row, but it invariably ended in their turning to work and making the best of a bad bargain.

One day in February, 1872, it happened that there were three British ships lying at the buoys, loaded and ready to sail, but each was in want of a few seamen to make up her complement. Not a man could be got at the shipping-office for love or money--the news of a fresh gold-field on the Barrington had reached Newcastle that morning, and all the disengaged men had made tracks for that district. So the only possible way to get hands for the vessels ready to sail was to obtain them from the ships that had lately arrived, and which would have some time to wait for a loading berth.

The captains of the ships at the buoys sent for Sullivan, and arranged with him to supply them with four men each that night, as the trio would sail at the turn of the tide. When Sullivan got back on shore, he sent some of his runners to quietly let the crews of the ships in harbour know there was to be a free concert and dance at his place, with plenty of whisky into the bargain.

When night came the saloon was packed with seamen, and among the lot were six fine young American sailors from the ship _Jeremiah Crawford_, of New Bedford. Now, New Bedford ships are very often “family ships”--that is to say, the captain, officers, and seamen are related to each other. Of the six young fellows who went to this dance, two were nephews of the captain, one was a relative of the mate, and the others were related to members of the crew.

Long before the dance was over there were several seamen lying helplessly drugged in the side room. Just before midnight, and while the dance was still going on, Sullivan and his fellow-crimps removed the helpless men down to a boat, and took them off to the ships at the buoys. Then Sullivan pocketed his blood-money, and before daylight the vessels were at sea under all plain sail.

The following day, when the six American seamen did not turn up on board the _Jeremiah Crawford_, inquiries were quietly made, and it was soon found out what had become of them; they had been among the twelve men “shanghaied” aboard the three waiting ships. The men’s shipmates, boiling with anger, wanted to go and wreck Sullivan and his saloon, but the captain called all hands aft, and from the poop told them they must not let it be known that they knew where their shipmates were.

“I know how you feel over it,” he said, “and I know how I feel too, but I intend to pay that rascal in his own coin. Those Britishers are off to ‘Frisco, and we are bound there, too; and you can bet your bottom dollar I mean to make the ship move when we start. And what is more, I intend to take that rascal Sullivan with me!”

“All right, captain,” answered the men. “Mum’s the word. We will wait events.”

Two days afterwards Captain Monk, of the _Jeremiah Crawford_, told Sullivan to get him six men by the time the ship was loaded.

Sullivan agreed, on condition that he was paid three pounds per man. This Captain Monk agreed to, and when the ship was finished and hauled out to the buoys, Sullivan sent word to the captain that he would bring the men off about eight p.m.

Now, that day a young Irish police-constable had been transferred from Sydney to Newcastle, and promoted. He was appointed to this district with a view to watching the goings-on at Sullivan’s, rumours of which had reached police head-quarters.

The constable was married to a fine strapping Irish lass, who was a great help to her husband. She wore her hair short like a man’s, and was not a stranger to the wearing of men’s clothes. It was partly owing to her, in fact, that her husband had got his position.

The constable knew he was there to get proof of Sullivan’s shady doings, and it was accordingly arranged that his wife should disguise herself as a seaman--as she had done before--and watch the inside while her husband watched the outside of Sullivan’s saloon. The policeman’s wife was a splendidly-built woman, as straight as a reed, and muscular as well.

So it happened that, when Sullivan was picking out the men he wanted for his purpose that night, he saw this likely-looking young fellow among them. But he was not taking any liquor--only a bottle of ginger-ale. Sullivan obligingly opened a bottle for him, and it was a simple matter, as the stuff fizzed out, to knock the ash from his cigar into the glass with his little finger, and the mischief was done.

Presently one of his spies cautioned the crimp that there was a constable knocking about in the street.

“We must get the beggar out of the way, Mike,” said Sullivan. “I’ll soon settle him. You watch him.”

Going outside, Sullivan walked up the street past the constable, smoking a splendid cigar. The constable got a whiff and wished he had one like it. In a few minutes the crimp returned, still puffing away at the cigar. As he passed the policeman he quietly dropped his cigar-case. The constable, just behind him, saw the case and picked it up, and, seeing there were two or three fine cigars in it, succumbed to temptation and put it in his pocket.

He could not long resist the mute appeal of those cigars, so, slipping into the shadow behind some houses, he lit one, and was soon enjoying a good smoke. It had a wonderfully soothing influence, and he leaned up against the wall, thinking of the sharp bit of work that had brought him promotion. He felt that already he had Sullivan in his power, and he saw himself in imagination with his sergeant’s stripes. Then, all of a sudden, he smiled a sickly smile, his head fell forward, his legs gave way beneath him, and he sank in a heap on the ground.

A few minutes afterwards the spy, who had been watching him all the time, cautiously approached. He took the cigar-case out of the unconscious man’s tunic, removed the remains of the drugged cigar from his mouth, and left him there.

The night was dark, and about eight p.m., while the dancing and singing were still in full swing, Sullivan and his tools got the selected men off in a boat. The tug was ahead of the ship, all ready to start. When the crimp got alongside with his men the _Jeremiah Crawford_ was hanging to a slip-rope, and the captain was in his cabin waiting for Sullivan and the sailors.

“Hurry up and get those chaps on board,” the mate called out. “I want to get under way.”

“All right, Mister Mate,” answered one of the crimps. “We’ll soon have them on board. Get out of that, you brutes!” he added, giving one of the dazed men a kick.

Sullivan and his men soon got their victims on board, but on getting on deck one of the fellows, a fine-built young Swede, seemed to partly recover his senses.

“I don’t belong to this ship,” he said, and made for the gangway. With an oath Sullivan sprang at him. A terrific blow on the side of the head, and the poor fellow dropped senseless on the deck. They then bundled the lot forward.

Finding no light in the forecastle Sullivan and his men stepped inside, and were in the act of striking matches, when each of them was knocked senseless with a blow behind the ear from a knuckle-duster. They were then dropped into the fore-peak and the hatch fastened down, while the new men were lifted into berths to sleep off the effects of the drugged liquor.

In the meantime, the second mate slipped down the gangway, and, standing on one side of Sullivan’s boat, capsized her. When she filled with water he cast her off and let her drift up-river.

The tug-boat dropped down, the tow-rope was secured, the buoy cast off, and before midnight the ship was outside the Nobbies and under all sail.

At daylight the “shanghaied” men were getting over the effects of the drug, and the captain called all hands aft to give them a good glass of grog. The new men were in a terrible state when they came to their senses and found they had been “shanghaied.” One young fellow, in particular, sat down on the hatch and, placing his head on his hands, seemed to give way to despair. He took no heed of what was going on, and spoke no word to anyone.

The young Swede who had been so brutally struck by Sullivan stepped up to the captain.

“Who brought us on board?” he asked.

“Dan Sullivan,” replied the mate. “He said you were his boarders. I saw him come alongside, and then I went forward, and have not seen him since.”

“Did you pay him any advance for us, captain?”

“No; I have not seen him,” said the skipper. “He must have gone on shore again. I cannot understand it. I do not know the man,” added Captain Monk. “I wrote him to get me six men, and told him I would sign them on board. I heard him come alongside with you, and when I came out of my cabin I saw no boat alongside, and we got under way at once.”

“Thank you, captain,” replied the Swede. “Sullivan and I will meet again some day.”

“Halloa, halloa! What’s all that about?” rang out from the forecastle, accompanied by a heavy thumping.

The mate started to run forward, and all hands turned, to behold a remarkable sight.

Out of the forecastle bolted three men. Casting their eyes in the direction of the land they rushed aft, past the seamen, and were about to mount the poop-ladder, when the mate barred the way.

“Get down out of this, you skunks!” he roared. “Who are you fellows, and where do you come from?”

“You know jolly well who I am,” roared the biggest of the three. “And you had better land us as quick as you can, or it will be a bad job for you, so I tell you.”

The mate looked at him in silence for a moment; then the skipper chimed in.

“Who the deuce are you?” demanded Captain Monk; “and what are you doing aboard my ship?”

“What are you trying to get at, captain?” cried the crimp, furiously. “You know very well I’m Dan Sullivan. I brought you six men last night, and when we took them into the forecastle--”

There was a shuffle among the men, and the next minute the young Swede had sprung at Sullivan’s throat and the two were tossing about the deck battering each other like wild beasts.

“Stand back, everybody!” cried the mate. “Let them have it out.”

Sullivan was the bigger and heavier man, but the Swede was a perfect young athlete, and had a cruel wrong to wipe out. The muscles of his arms and neck stood out like strong cords as the two rolled from side to side.

Not a word was uttered by the officers or crew, who stood calmly looking on.

Suddenly, by a quick movement, the Swede pinned Sullivan against the fife-rail around the mainmast, and with his right hand battered his face unmercifully. Then, seizing him by the throat, he flung him into the lee-scuppers, where he lay without movement.

The Swede looked at his foe for a moment, then coolly walked over and wiped his boots on him. Next, turning towards the poop where Captain Monk and the officers stood, he touched his cap and said:--

“I am second mate of the Swedish ship _Oscar Brandi_, and my father is captain. I went on shore for a walk, and hearing the music I went into a saloon and called for a drink. I sat down to watch the dancers, and knew no more until I found myself on board this ship. What will my father say or think? What will my employers say?”

He stopped abruptly, and walked forward with his head bent, overwhelmed with his grief.

Within another minute the two remaining crimps were hotly engaged with two of the ship’s crew whose relatives had been “shanghaied” aboard the Britishers. The sailors made short work of the crimps, and fairly wiped the deck with them.

Captain Monk then ordered the hapless three to be locked up in separate cabins and fed on bread and water for a few days.

“It will give them time to repent,” he said to the mate. “It won’t do to put them with the crew yet awhile--there would be murder done. In a few days they can go forward, and the crew will save us dirtying our hands with the scoundrels. Our chaps will lead them a dance, and they will wish to Heaven they had never laid their hands on my crew.”

Just then the mate noticed the young fellow sitting on the hatch with his head in his hands. He seemed utterly dejected and oblivious of everything about him. The rest of the men had gone forward, and were excitedly discussing the matter of Sullivan and his mates being on board, each one swearing to have his pound of flesh out of the hated “shanghaiers.”

The captain and the mate walked along to the young fellow on the hatch. Putting his hand kindly on his bowed head, Captain Monk said: “Come, come, young man; you must not give way like that. Sailors should always make the best of everything.”

Lifting his head at the kindly touch and words, the young fellow replied:--

“Oh, captain, whatever shall I do? I am not a sailor.”

“Oh, never mind that,” said the mate. “You will soon learn here; so get forward with the others.”

“Oh, captain, take pity on me!” cried the supposed young man, tremulously. “For Heaven’s sake, take pity on me! I am a respectable married woman! My husband is Police-constable Hogan of the Newcastle police.”

The captain and mate were astounded, and for a moment could do nothing but stare at her. Then, seeing some of the men forward looking at them, Captain Monk said: “Come aft to the saloon and I will hear your story.”

When they got into the cabin Mrs. Hogan told how the authorities at Sydney had heard something of the doings of Sullivan and his crimps, and had sent her husband to the district to get evidence against him. She had assisted him before, and on this occasion had dressed up in her present clothes and joined the sailors in the dance room to watch Sullivan and his satellites.

“I called for a bottle of ginger-ale,” she said. “I watched him open the bottle, and I am sure there was nothing in the glass, for I saw it standing upside down on the counter; but I had not drunk it many minutes before I felt my head getting light, and I remember no more until I found myself on board this ship. I have abundant evidence against that blackguard Sullivan now, but it is no good as he is on board here. What shall I do? I have no clothes but these. I cannot go among those men.”

“Steamer ahead, sir! Coming this way,” rang out the cry.

“Aye, aye!”

Captain Monk took a look at her through the telescope.

“Run the ‘Urgent’ signal up!” he shouted. “It is the Union Company’s boat bound to Melbourne. I will send a letter and this woman on board. Back the mainyard, and get the boat out quick.”

Up went the signal, and the steamer bore down towards the ship. Her decks were crowded with passengers.

“You will go in the boat, Mrs. Hogan,” said the skipper, “and you had better explain things to the captain at once. My letter will tell him also. Mr. Patter, you go with the boat, and take four of our own hands with you. As soon as you give the letter to the captain, put this woman on board and return at once.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Ship your oars! Let go forward!”

The boat shot away and was soon alongside the steamer, and the mate and Mrs. Hogan climbed on board. Going along the bridge, Mr. Patter handed the letter to the captain, who read it and said:--

“All right. Tell Captain Monk that I will take the woman to Melbourne. I am glad he has that blackguard on board. Good-bye.”

The mate got back into his boat, the engines were rung ahead, the ensign was dipped three times, and before the boat was on board again the steamer was out of sight.

Then the sails were filled once more and the _Jeremiah Crawford_ stood on her course.

Five days afterwards Sullivan and his mates were released and sent to live in the forecastle. Sullivan was put into the mate’s watch and the two crimps in the second mate’s watch.

There was another row at once, and again the blackguards got a good thrashing. They were put to the most menial work, were made to wait on the others, and do all the dirty work about the decks; in fact, their lives were made a misery to them from morning till night. Hardly a day passed that one or other of the scoundrels did not get a licking. They had a taste of the misery they had caused many another man, and, as the captain had prophesied, they had time to repent of their misdeeds.

When the _Jeremiah Crawford_ arrived at San Francisco the pilot informed them that two British ships had just gone to the anchorage, adding that he noticed they were from Newcastle. This was good news to all but Sullivan and his crimps.

As they moved up the harbour to their anchorage they passed close to the _Commonwealth_. On board her were some of the _Jeremiah Crawford’s_ crew, and as they passed, one of the sailors called out, “We have Sullivan on board!”

After the sails were unbent, all the running-gear triced up, and the decks washed down, the crew were dismissed.

“Pay off to-morrow,” said the mate.

“Aye, aye!” answered the crew.

All hands went on shore, and Sullivan was forced, much against his will, to go with them. On the wharf where they landed stood the six American sailors whom Sullivan and his mates had “shanghaied” from Newcastle! Let us mercifully draw a veil over the crimp’s final punishment.

Neither of the three blackguards turned up when the crew were paid off; no questions were asked, and no explanations given. But two years afterwards Sullivan appeared again at New South Wales--not the unscrupulous bully and braggart, but a broken, decrepit old man.

BY A MEMBER OF THE ALPINE CLUB.

A contribution appealing to climbers and non-climbers
alike. Although the writer prefers to remain anonymous, he
is a well-known mountaineer. In this article he gives an
authoritative and most interesting account of the various
climbing fatalities which have occurred in the English Lake
District, pointing out exactly how each disaster occurred.
Photographs by G. P. Abraham, Keswick.

In these days of hurry-scurry mountaineering, when the words of the wise are on every climber’s tongue and the intention to obey them in few men’s minds, a great deal is written concerning the perils of the mountains. The object of the greater part of these writings has been to elaborate in detail the various phases of mountaineering dangers and how to obviate them: in other words, how best to avoid accidents.

_From a Photograph._]

It is a somewhat singular fact that, beyond a few generalities and platitudes evolved by non-climbing reporters, no record has been written of the accidents themselves. And yet, in the case of the accidents that have occurred in the Lake District, much is to be learnt. Every disaster on the mountains, if properly understood, should teach a lesson, for the majority of them are only accidents in part, and have been directly due to the disregard or violation of some cardinal law governing the sport of mountaineering.

If a man who has never been on a mountain in his life before endeavours to scale a steep precipice and loses his life in the attempt, can such be truly called an accident? Surely it would be more of an accident if he succeeded in winning through without mishap; a fatal fall may under such circumstances be called a tragedy--a disaster, but surely not an accident.

And yet the circumstances of the so-called accident to Mr. Haarbleicher, a Manchester merchant, in 1892, were almost in accordance with the above instance.

He arrived at Wastdale Head Hotel with his sister, and, being “anxious to climb his first mountain,” ascended Scawfell.

_From a Photograph._]

In attempting to descend to Mickledore by way of the Broad Stand, at the bottom of which is a steep cliff, he jumped downward on to a scree-covered slab, his feet shot from under him, and he fell a distance of more than a hundred feet. As a result of his injuries he succumbed shortly after.

This lower cliff of the Broad Stand was responsible for another fall, which, however, did not prove fatal. A Mr. Petty was climbing Mickledore Chimney with a large party, amongst whom was his _fiancée_. The late J. W. Robinson was the leader. At the place where the Chimney is left and a step across to the Broad Stand effected, Mr. Petty took off the rope in order to let the leader throw the end of it down to the others of the party.

An agonized shout from Petty caused Mr. Robinson to turn sharply, and he saw his companion shooting head downwards with terrific velocity to the screes below. The distance, carefully measured afterwards, was a hundred and seven feet. Some of the party, still at the foot of the Chimney, were horrified to see Mr. Petty hurtling through the air towards them, and narrowly escaped being struck.

He fell face downward. The angle of his body conformed exactly to the slope of the screes, and his entire length struck the slope at once. It seems incredible that he could survive such a fall, and his friends never hoped to find him alive. His injuries was terrible, but nevertheless he still lived, and, by careful nursing, regained his full strength.

_From a Photograph._]

This is surely the most wonderful bit of luck that ever befell a climber. It transpired afterwards that he had grown impatient of waiting for the others to come up and had begun to fill in the time by a little desultory climbing on a steep slab directly above him. Off this he had just slipped when he shouted and drew the attention of Mr. Robinson and the others.

_From a Photograph._]

Would that Professor Milnes Marshall, who was killed the following year on the opposite side of Scawfell, could have had such a providential escape! His fall could not have been one of more than twelve feet, and yet it proved too great.

In company with the late Owen Glynne Jones and Joseph Collier, Professor Marshall had just previously climbed Scawfell Pinnacle by way of Steep Ghyll, returning down Deep Ghyll to the foot of the crags, where they had lunch together. Being anxious to obtain a photograph of the Ghyll, Professor Marshall scrambled up the fell side opposite to its entrance.

The nature of the ground was so easy and well broken up, although rocky and steep, that his companions never for a moment dreamt of disaster. Hearing a noise of falling stones they looked round and saw a cube of rock, about two feet in diameter, rolling down the mountain side. This was followed by the body of Professor Marshall. Both came to rest on the scree slope below the Lord’s Rake, where, to their great astonishment and horror, Messrs. Jones and Collier found the life of their companion quite extinct. Exactly how the accident happened will never be known, but it was surmised at the time that Mr. Marshall had stepped on the cube of rock and that it had given way with him. It has become proverbial that “it is on the easy places that accidents happen,” and no doubt it was the easy nature of the ground that caused a temporary carelessness on the part of a man who, in all mountaineering circles, was recognised as a most careful and cautious climber.

We may pass over briefly the death of the Rev. James Jackson, who fell on the Pillar and was killed in May, 1878. He was alone at the time, but his body was found at the foot of a steep cliff, near the summit of the mountain. In walking along the top of the cliff he had evidently slipped over, but what caused him to do so will never be known. The fact that the reverend gentleman had attained to the ripe age of eighty-two years may suggest a broad reason.

_From a Photograph._]

At Easter, nearly five years later, a party of novices were trying to climb the Pillar Rock from the east side. For some time they were unsuccessful. Just then another party reached the top of the Pillar Mountain; one of them, a Whitehaven youth of the name of Walker, had climbed the rock some time before. Seeing the predicament of the novices, he set off down a snow-slope towards them, intending to direct their ascent. He had only gone a few feet when he slipped on to his back and shot off down the snow. Gathering terrific and uncontrollable impetus as he slid, he reached the Rock, which juts out of the side of the mountain, in a few moments and dashed into it. His body bounded off it and then fell into a gully on the right. This was filled with hard snow, which carried him swiftly downward until the crest of a sheer cliff was reached. Over this, for five hundred feet, he plunged, and far into the Ennerdale valley below, death, of course, being inevitable.

_From a Photograph._]

Of the witnesses of this accident two subsequently lost their reason, and the death of another shortly afterwards was attributed to the shock. And all for the want of a little caution and forethought on a snow-slope! Still, “out of evil comes good,” and no doubt the remembrance of this terrible tragedy and its contributory cause has ultimately saved many valuable lives. Only once since then has it been forgotten in the Lake District, and this led to the last tragedy that has happened. This was to poor Alexander Goodall, a Keswick youth, who deliberately set off glissading down the snow at the top of Deep Ghyll on Scawfell.

To those of us who know the frightful velocity that is attained in a few feet on steep snow, and the long years of practice necessary to control this speed, such an act would appear quite inexplicable. But to him, whose first day on snow it was, and in entire ignorance of its insidious dangers, that downward slide would present no terrors, until, with balance gone and ice-axe snatched out of his grasp by the snow in which he wildly dug it, his mistake flashed across his mind with terrible meaning. Alas! he learnt his lesson too late; he did not live to profit by it, for his body dashed downward, crashing into the rocks as it sped, until it came to rest on the scree-slope five hundred feet below, within a few feet of the place on which Professor Marshall fell.

A short three months before this same spot witnessed the most terrible of all the Lakeland tragedies, when a party of skilful climbers fell from the north face of Scawfell Pinnacle. Even the historical accident on the first ascent of the Matterhorn, when all of a large party were killed but Mr. Whymper and two guides, palls before this home disaster, for here four Englishmen in the prime of their youth were suddenly called away.

On September 21st, 1903, Messrs. Broadrick, Garrett, Jupp, and Ridsdale started from Wastdale Head for Scawfell, intent upon climbing the Pinnacle by the difficult route from Deep Ghyll. This they successfully accomplished, and afterwards redescended to the foot of the Pinnacle, where they had lunch with another climbing party, which was under Mr. W. E. Webb’s leadership.

After lunch Mr. Webb’s party bade them _au revoir_ and went off to climb one of the cracks on the far end of the crags. After their climb they foregathered on Mickledore Ridge, and thence set off along the base of the cliff to regain their knapsacks, which had been left at the lunching-place.

As they neared the foot of the Pinnacle they heard a shout, but thought it came from the valley below. Leisurely they rounded a corner, and there, about fifty yards away, in the vicinity of the screes where they had lunched, saw four figures stretched out and lying quite still.

In a disconnected way they thought at first that these four figures were asleep, though it was a peculiar place to fall asleep in; then something unusual about their attitudes became apparent, and not till then did the awful reality flash upon them.