SAVED BY SHIPWRECK
The Germans were now getting very anxious as they approached the
blockade zone. They affected, however, to believe that there was no
blockade, and that there was no need of one now that America was in the
war. "No one will trade with us," they said; "accordingly there is no
need of a blockade." But, as some of the passengers remarked to the
Captain, "If there is no blockade, as the Germans say, why haven't you
more raiders out, instead of only one, and why have so few been able to
come out?" There was, of course, no answer to this! The Captain further
remarked that even if there were a blockade it would always be possible
to get through it at the week-end, as all the British blockading fleet
returned to port for that time! The _Wolf_, he said, came out and got
home through the blockade at the week-end. It was quite simple; we were
to do the same, and we should be escorted by submarines, as the _Wolf_
had been on both occasions.
Nevertheless, the Germans were at great pains to keep as far as possible
from any place in which British ships might appear. But unfortunately
not one did appear, here or anywhere else, to rescue us, although we
felt certain in our own minds that some of our ships would be present
and save us in these parts of the seas, which we believed were regularly
patrolled. What meetings, discussions, and consultations we had in our
wretched tiny cabin during these dreadful days and nights! We had
cheered ourselves up for a long time past that the _Wolf_ would never
get through the British blockade, and that some friendly vessel would
surely be the means of our salvation. The Spanish officers who had had
experience of the blockade also assured us that no vessel could possibly
get through unchallenged; and we, in our turn, had assured the American
captives among us of the same thing. There was no fog to help the enemy,
the condition of the moon was favourable to us, and we had pointed out
to each other on maps various places where there _must_ be British ships
on the watch. It was a bitter disappointment to us that we saw none.
It was heartbreaking. We had built so much on our hopes; it was galling
beyond words for the enemy to be in the right and ourselves mistaken.
But, after all, we reflected, what is one ship in this vast expanse of
stormy seas? In vain we tried to derive some comfort from this. But,
alas! _we_ were on that one ship, which fact made all the difference! We
had been "hanging our hats" on the British Navy for so long--surely we
were not mistaken! Surely, to change the metaphor, we were not going to
be let down after all! The British Navy, we knew, never let anybody
down; but in our condition of protracted physical and nervous
depression, it was not to be wondered at that thoughts of hopelessness
were often present in our minds.
[Illustration: THE _IGOTZ MENDI_ ASHORE AT SKAGEN.
Taken on the morning of our rescue.]
On the 20th we were off Bergen, and saw the coast in the distance. I
suggested to the Captain that it would save much trouble if he would
land us there. He replied that he would very much like to, but was
afraid it was quite impossible! I further asked him whether, if we were
ultimately rescued, he would give us a pass conferring further immunity
from capture at sea by the enemy, as we felt we had had more than our
share of captivity at sea. He said he was afraid that would be against
regulations! The next day we were nearer the coast and saw a couple of
suspicious steam trawlers which gave the Germans a few anxious moments,
and on that night we encountered the greatest storm we experienced on
the cruise. The wind was terrific, huge seas broke over the ship, the
alley-way outside the cabins was awash all the night, and the water even
invaded the saloon to a small extent. Articles and receptacles for water
that had not been made absolutely fast in the cabins were tossed about;
many cabins were drenched and running with water. The noise of the wind
howling and the seas breaking on the deck was so alarming to those in
the outside cabins that they left the cabins, waded up the alley-way,
and assembled in the saloon, though sleep that night was utterly
impossible there or anywhere else on the ship. The German officers when
coming off watch came to the saloon and assured us that things were all
right and that there was no danger, but the Spanish Captain was very
concerned as to the treatment his ship was receiving both at the hands
of the elements and those of the Germans, who frankly said they cared
nothing about the condition of the ship provided they got her into
Germany. The ship, though steaming full speed, made no progress that
night, but went back, and in three days, the 19th, 20th, and 21st, made
only 100 knots.
After such stormy nights, and in such bitter cold weather, a breakfast
of cold canned crab, or dry bread with sugar, or rice and hot water plus
a very little gravy, or bread and much watered condensed milk, was not
very nourishing or satisfying, but very often that was all we had. The
food we had was just sufficient to keep us alive, and that was all. This
weather of course pleased the German Captain, who said that no enemy
ship would or could board him under such conditions. In fact, he said no
enemy vessel would be out of port in such weather! Only those
supermariners, the Germans, could manage a ship under similar
conditions! He told us we were much safer on the _Igotz Mendi_ than we
should be on a British cruiser, which might at any time be attacked by a
German armed ship. "I would rather die on a British cruiser to-night,"
my wife retorted, "than be a prisoner in Germany," an opinion we all
endorsed. The weather alone was sufficiently terrifying to the landsmen
amongst us; the prospect of having to take to the lifeboats at any
moment if the Germans took it in into their heads to sink the ship if
she were sighted by an enemy ship added to the fears of all of us. None
of us dared undress thoroughly before turning in--when we did turn in,
lifebelts were always kept handy, and we had to be ready for any
emergency at any moment. And, as will be readily understood, our
imaginations had been working horribly during the last few months,
especially since we began to encounter the rough weather and the winter
gales in the grey and cheerless wastes of the North Atlantic. The
natural conditions were bad enough in all conscience. But, in addition,
we had the knowledge that if we survived them we were going into German
captivity. Could anything be worse?
There had been no boat drill, and the lifeboat accommodation was
hopelessly inadequate for more than eighty people now on board. It is
certain, with the mixed crew on board, that there would have been a
savage fight for the boats. The prospect, looked at from any point of
view, was alarming, and one of the greatest anxiety for us all. Physical
distress and discomfort were not the only things we had to contend
with--the nervous strain was also very great, and seemed endless.
On February 22nd we rounded the Naze. Here, we thought, we should
certainly come across some British vessel. But that day and the next
passed--it seemed as if we too were to get in during the week-end!--and
hope of rescue disappeared. Many messages had been dropped overboard in
bottles and attached to spars, etc., during the voyage, but all,
apparently, in vain. The bearing of the Germans towards us became
markedly changed, discipline more rigid, and still greater care was
taken that no vestige of light showed anywhere at night. We were almost
in their clutches now, the arrival at Kiel and transference to Ruhleben
were openly talked of, and our captors showed decided inclination to
jeer at us and our misfortunes. We were told that all diaries, if we had
kept them, must be destroyed, or we should be severely punished when we
arrived in Germany. Accordingly, those of us who had kept diaries made
ready to destroy them, but fortunately did not do so. I cut the
incriminating leaves out of mine, ready to be torn up and thrown
overboard. I had written my diary in Siamese characters during the whole
time, so the Germans could not have gained much information from it.
Sunday, February 24th, dawned, a cold, cheerless day. "I suppose this
time next week we shall be going to church in Kiel," said one of the
prisoners to the chief mate at breakfast. "Or," the latter replied, "I
might be going to church with my brother, who is already a prisoner in
the Isle of Man!" We were now in the comparatively narrow waters of the
Skager-Rack, and we saw only one vessel here, a Dutch fishing boat. Our
last chance had nearly gone. Most of us were now resigned to our fate
and saw no hope--in fact, I had written in my diary the day before,
"There is no hope left, no boat of ours to save us"--but some said we
still might see a British war vessel when we rounded the Skaw. At
mid-day the sailor on the look-out came into the saloon and reported to
the Captain that a fog was coming on. "Just the weather I want," he
exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "With this lovely fog we shall round the
Skaw and get into German waters unobserved." It looked, indeed, as if
our arrival in Germany were now a dead certainty.
But the fog that the Captain welcomed was just a little too much for
him; it was to prove his undoing rather than his salvation. The "Good
old German God," about whom we had heard so much, was not going to see
them through this time. For once, _we_ were to be favoured. The white
fog thickened after the mid-day meal, and, luckily for us, it was
impossible to see far ahead. Soon after two we passed a floating mine,
and we knew that before long we should be going through a minefield--not
a very cheerful prospect with floating mines round us in a fog,
especially as the Captain admitted that the position of the mines might
have been altered since he last had knowledge of their exact situation!
But we were all too far gone to care now; and some of us gathered
together in our cold and gloomy cabin were discussing the prospects and
conditions of imprisonment in Germany and attempting to console
ourselves with the reflection that even internment at Ruhleben could not
be worse than the captivity we had experienced on the high seas, when,
at 3.30 on that Sunday afternoon, we felt a slight bump, as if the ship
had touched bottom. Then another bump, and then still one more! We were
fast! Were we really to be saved at the very last minute? It began to
look like it, like the beginning of the end, but it would not do to
build too much on this slender foundation. The engines continued
working, but no progress was made; they were reversed--still no
movement.
One of the men amongst us was so overjoyed that he attempted a very
premature somersault in the saloon. He was sure it was to be a case of
"Hooray for our side" this time! What thoughts of freedom, what hopes
flashed through our minds! The fog was fairly thick, but we could just
make out through it the line of the shore and the waves breaking on it
some distance away, and two sirens were going at full blast, one from a
lightship and one from a lighthouse. The Captain, luckily from our point
of view, had mistaken one for the other, and so had run aground. The
German officers became agitated; with great difficulty a boat was got
out--what chance should we have had if we had had to leave the ship in
haste at any time?--soundings made, and various means adopted to work
the ship off, but all were of no avail. The Captain admitted that his
charts of this particular spot were not new and not good. Again how
lucky for us! It was impossible to tell the state of the tide at this
moment; we all hoped it might be high tide, for then our rescue would be
certain. The engines were set to work from time to time, but no movement
could be made. Darkness fell, and found us still stuck fast. Our spirits
had begun to rise, the prospect was distinctly brighter, and soon after
six o'clock the Assistant Lieutenant went ashore in mufti to telephone
to the nearest port, Frederikshavn, for help. What reply he received we
never heard, but we _did_ hear that he reported he was on a German ship
from Bergen to Kiel and wanted help. Lourenço Marques to Kiel, via
Iceland, would have been nearer the truth!
About eight o'clock we heard from one of the neutrals among the crew
that the Captain of a salvage tug was shortly coming aboard to inquire
into matters. The ladies among us decided to stay in the saloon while
the Captain of the tug interviewed the German Captain in the chartroom
above it. On the arrival of the tug Captain on the bridge, the ladies in
the saloon created a veritable pandemonium, singing, shrieking, and
laughing at the top of their voices. It sounded more like a Christmas
party than one of desperate prisoners in distress. The Danish Captain
departed; what had been the result of his visit we did not know, but at
any rate he knew there were women on board. The German Captain came down
into the saloon, asked pleasantly enough what all the noise was about,
and said, "I have offered the salvage people £5,000 to tow the ship off;
money is nothing to us Germans. This will be done at four to-morrow
morning, and we shall then proceed on our way to Kiel."
Some of us had talked over a plan suggested by the second mate of a
captured ship, by which one of the neutrals among the crew should
contrive to go ashore in one of the tug's boats in the darkness,
communicate with the nearest British Consul, and inform him of the
situation and the desperate case we were in. We promised him £500, to be
raised among the "saloon passengers," if by so doing our rescue should
be accomplished.
We remained in the saloon talking over developments when we heard that a
Danish gunboat had come nearly alongside, and that her Commander was
coming on board. He had presumably received a report from the Captain of
the tug. We heard afterwards that he had his suspicions about the ship,
and had brought with him on board one of his own men to make inquiries
of the crew, among whom were Norwegians, Swedes, and Danes, while he
kept the German Commander busy in the saloon. The previous mistake of
taking the Danish Captain on to the bridge was not to be repeated. The
Commander of the gunboat was to come into the saloon. So the ladies
could not remain there and make their presence known. But some of them
contrived to leave some of their garments on the table and settee in the
saloon--a muff, hats, gloves, etc. These the Danish Commander must have
seen; and not only that, for he saw some ladies who had stood in one
door of the saloon before they were sent to their cabins, when he
entered at the other one. He also saw the Australian Major of the
A.M.C., in khaki, and other passengers standing with the ladies in the
alley-way. If he had entertained any suspicions as to the correct
character of the ship, which the Germans were of course trying to
conceal, they must have been strongly confirmed by now. It was now too
late for us to be sent to our cabins, as a German sailor came and
ordered. We had achieved our object.
It was a night of great unrest, but finally most of us lay down in our
clothes. For very many nights we had been unable to rest properly owing
to the violence of the weather, the possibility of having to leave the
ship at any moment, and our general anxiety concerning our desperate
condition. We had not had our clothes off for many days. At 4 a.m. we
heard the engines working, as the Captain had told us they would, but
still no movement of the ship could be felt. How we prayed that the
ship might refuse to budge! She _did_ refuse, and soon the engines
ceased working; it was evident then that the attempt to get the ship off
must for the present be given up. The wind was rising and the sea
getting rougher, and at 6 a.m. a German sailor came and knocked at the
doors of all the cabins, saying, "Get up, and pack your baggage and go
ashore." _We were to go ashore? We, who had not seen the shore for
months, and had never expected to land on any, much less a free one,
were to go ashore?_ Were we dreaming? No, it was true, though it seemed
too good to be believed. Never was order more willingly and gladly
obeyed! But first we had to see how the ship stood with regard to the
shore; we went out on deck to look--there was the blessed green shore
less than half a mile away, the first really solid earth we had seen
close at hand since we left Colombo exactly five months before. Only
those who have seen nothing but the sea for many months can imagine with
what a thrill of joy we saw the shore and realized that we were saved at
last. We had seen the sea under nearly every aspect possible, from the
Equator to the Arctic regions, and we had appreciated more than ever
before its vastness. And yet in all these months, travelling these
thousands of miles, we had, besides the few vessels already mentioned,
seen hardly any ships! We had been under shell-fire, taken prisoner, had
lived on board a German raider and in her evil company many months, had
been in lifeboats once in the open sea, were about to go in once more,
in a rough sea, to be rescued from captivity, had seen our ship sunk and
another one captured and scuttled, had been through terrific wintry
weather in the North Atlantic, among icebergs, in the submarine zone,
and on the very borders of an enemy minefield!--experiences that perhaps
no other landsmen have passed through! Not many of us wish for sea
travel again.
Lieutenant Rose came along and told us to hurry, or we might not be able
to get off, as the sea was getting rougher every minute. We _did_ hurry
indeed, and it did not take us long to dress and throw our things into
our bags. When we had done so and were ready to go to the lifeboats, we
were told that we might take no baggage whatever, as the lifeboat was
from a shore station and could save lives only, not baggage.
The German Captain took his bad luck in good part, but he was, of
course, as sick as we were rejoiced at the turn events had taken. He
had known the night before he could get no help from the Danish
authorities, as they refused towing assistance till all the passengers
had been taken off the ship. But he had hoped to get off unaided at four
in the morning, and he was not going to admit defeat and loss till they
were absolutely certain. He professed great anger with the Danes, saying
that if they had only helped as he requested, the ship could have been
towed off in the night, and we with all our baggage could have been
landed at a Danish port alongside a pier the next morning, instead of
having to leave all our baggage behind on the ship. I fancy not many of
us believed this; if the ship had been got off we should have brought up
at Kiel, and not at any Danish port. And, as the tug Captain said
afterwards, if he had towed the ship off the Germans would have most
likely cut the hawser directly afterwards, he would have received no pay
for his work, and we certainly should not have landed in Denmark.
It was a terrible blow for Lieutenant Rose; enough to put an end to his
prospects in the Imperial German Navy. Let us pay a tribute to a fallen
enemy, for such he now became. It is pleasing to be able to record, in
a German-made war which has crowded into its four years such
heartbreaking sorrow, misery, horror, and destruction as has surely
never been known in a similar period in the world's history, and with
Germany's unparalleled record of wickedness and calculated cruelty to
her captives and those she wished to terrorize on land and sea, that
there were still remaining _some_ Germans who had retained some idea of
more humane treatment towards those who had the misfortune to fall into
their hands. Fortunately for us, Lieutenant Rose was one of these--a
striking contrast to the devils in his country's U boats. He had
succeeded in maintaining not unfriendly relations with his captives, and
had on the whole done his best for them under the conditions prevailing.
He had evaded capture for fifteen months, and had skilfully carried his
ship through terrible storms and many other perils--_almost_ to port.
Now, just at the very last moment when it seemed absolutely certain he
would get his prize home and reap his reward, his hopes were dashed, and
failure, blank and utter failure, was the result. But the death of his
hopes meant for us the resurrection of ours, and his failure, freedom
for us all.