In pursuance of the intention mentioned at the close of a former paper
on “The Modern Science of Thief-taking,” we now proceed to endeavour to
convey to our readers some faint idea of the extraordinary dexterity,
patience, and ingenuity, exercised by the Detective Police. That our
description may be as graphic as we can render it, and may be perfectly
reliable, we will make it, so far as in us lies, a piece of plain truth.
And first, we have to inform the reader how the anecdotes we are about
to communicate, came to our knowledge.
We are not by any means devout believers in the Old Bow-Street Police.
To say the truth, we think there was a vast amount of humbug about those
worthies. Apart from many of them being men of very indifferent
character, and far too much in the habit of consorting with thieves and
the like, they never lost a public occasion of jobbing and trading in
mystery and making the most of themselves. Continually puffed besides by
incompetent magistrates anxious to conceal their own deficiencies, and
hand-in-glove with the penny-a-liners of that time, they became a sort
of superstition. Although as a Preventive Police they were utterly
ineffective, and as a Detective Police were very loose and uncertain in
their operations, they remain with some people, a superstition to the
present day.
On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the establishment
of the existing Police, is so well chosen and trained, proceeds so
systematically and quietly, does its business in such a workman-like
manner, and is always so calmly and steadily engaged in the service of
the public, that the public really do not know enough of it, to know a
tithe of its usefulness. Impressed with this conviction, and interested
in the men themselves, we represented to the authorities at Scotland
Yard, that we should be glad, if there were no official objection, to
have some talk with the Detectives. A most obliging and ready permission
being given, a certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector
for a social conference between ourselves and the Detectives, at our
Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In consequence of which
appointment the party “came off,” which we are about to describe. And we
beg to repeat that, avoiding such topics as it might for obvious reasons
be injurious to the public, or disagreeable to respectable individuals,
to touch upon in print, our description is as exact as we can make it.
The reader will have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum of
Household Words. Anything that best suits the reader’s fancy, will best
represent that magnificent chamber. We merely stipulate for a round
table in the middle, with some glasses and cigars arranged upon it; and
the editorial sofa elegantly hemmed in between that stately piece of
furniture and the wall.
It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street are hot
and gritty, and the watermen and hackney-coachmen at the Theatre
opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are constantly
setting down the people who have come to Fairy-Land; and there is a
mighty shouting and bellowing every now and then, deafening us for the
moment, through the open windows.
Just at dusk, Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced; but we do not
undertake to warrant the orthography of any of the names here mentioned.
Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. Inspector Wield is a
middle-aged man of a portly presence, with a large, moist, knowing eye,
a husky voice, and a habit of emphasising his conversation by the aid of
a corpulent fore-finger, which is constantly in juxta-position with his
eyes or nose. Inspector Stalker is a shrewd, hard-headed Scotchman—in
appearance not at all unlike a very acute, thoroughly-trained
schoolmaster, from the Normal Establishment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield
one might have known, perhaps, for what he is—Inspector Stalker, never.
The ceremonies of reception over, Inspectors Wield and Stalker observe
that they have brought some sergeants with them. The sergeants are
presented—five in number, Sergeant Dornton, Sergeant Witchem, Sergeant
Mith, Sergeant Fendall, and Sergeant Straw. We have the whole Detective
Force from Scotland Yard with one exception. They sit down in a
semi-circle (the two Inspectors at the two ends) at a little distance
from the round table, facing the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a
glance, immediately takes an inventory of the furniture and an accurate
sketch of the editorial presence. The Editor feels that any gentleman in
company could take him up, if need should be, without the smallest
hesitation, twenty years hence.
The whole party are in plain clothes. Sergeant Dornton, about fifty
years of age, with a ruddy face and a high sun-burnt forehead, has the
air of one who has been a Sergeant in the army—he might have sat to
Wilkie for the Soldier in the Reading of the Will. He is famous for
steadily pursuing the inductive process, and, from small beginnings,
working on from clue to clue until he bags his man. Sergeant Witchem,
shorter and thicker-set, and marked with the small pox, has something of
a reserved and thoughtful air, as if he were engaged in deep
arithmetical calculations. He is renowned for his acquaintance with the
swell mob. Sergeant Mith, a smooth-faced man with a fresh bright
complexion, and a strange air of simplicity, is a dab at housebreakers.
Sergeant Fendall, a light-haired, well-spoken, polite person, is a
prodigious hand at pursuing private inquiries of a delicate nature.
Straw, a little wiry Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong sense, would
knock at a door and ask a series of questions in any mild character you
chose to prescribe to him, from a charity-boy upwards, and seem as
innocent as an infant. They are, one and all, respectable-looking men;
of perfectly good deportment and unusual intelligence; with nothing
lounging or slinking in their manners; with an air of keen observation,
and quick perception when addressed; and generally presenting in their
faces, traces more or less marked of habitually leading lives of strong
mental excitement. They have all good eyes; and they all can, and they
all do, look full at whomsoever they speak to.
We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very
temperately used indeed), and the conversation begins by a modest
amateur reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob. Inspector
Wield immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves his right hand,
and says, “Regarding the Swell Mob, Sir, I can’t do better than call
upon Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why? I’ll tell you. Sergeant
Witchem is better acquainted with the Swell Mob than any officer in
London.”
Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, we turn to
Sergeant Witchem, who very concisely, and in well-chosen language, goes
into the subject forthwith. Meantime, the whole of his brother officers
are closely interested in attending to what he says, and observing its
effect. Presently they begin to strike in, one or two together, when an
opportunity offers, and the conversation becomes general. But these
brother officers only come in to the assistance of each other—not to the
contradiction—and a more amicable brotherhood there could not be. From
the swell mob, we diverge to the kindred topics of cracksmen, fences,
public-house dancers, area-sneaks, designing young people who go out
“gonophing,” and other “schools,” to which our readers have already been
introduced. It is observable throughout these revelations, that
Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always exact and statistical, and
that when any question of figures arises, everybody as by one consent
pauses, and looks to him.
When we have exhausted the various schools of Art—during which
discussion the whole body have remained profoundly attentive, except
when some unusual noise at the Theatre over the way, has induced some
gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the window in that direction,
behind his next neighbour’s back—we burrow for information on such
points as the following. Whether there really are any highway robberies
in London, or whether some circumstances not convenient to be mentioned
by the aggrieved party, usually precede the robberies complained of,
under that head, which quite change their character? Certainly the
latter, almost always. Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where
servants are necessarily exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion
ever becomes so like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be
cautious how he judges it? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or
deceptive as such appearances at first. Whether in a place of public
amusement, a thief knows an officer, and an officer knows a
thief,—supposing them, beforehand, strangers to each other—because each
recognises in the other, under all disguise, an inattention to what is
going on, and a purpose that is not the purpose of being entertained?
Yes. That’s the way exactly. Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to
trust to the alleged experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves,
in prisons, or penitentiaries, or anywhere? In general, nothing more
absurd. Lying is their habit and their trade; and they would rather
lie—even if they hadn’t an interest in it, and didn’t want to make
themselves agreeable—than tell the truth.
From these topics, we glide into a review of the most celebrated and
horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within the last
fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery of almost all
of them, and in the pursuit or apprehension of the murderers, are here,
down to the very last instance. One of our guests gave chase to and
boarded the Emigrant Ship, in which the murderess last hanged in London
was supposed to have embarked. We learn from him that his errand was not
announced to the passengers, who may have no idea of it to this hour.
That he went below, with the captain, lamp in hand—it being dark, and
the whole steerage abed and seasick—and engaged the Mrs. Manning who
_was_ on board, in a conversation about her luggage, until she was, with
no small pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her face towards the
light. Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he quietly
re-embarked in the Government steamer alongside, and steamed home again
with the intelligence.
When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a considerable
time in the discussion, two or three leave their chairs, whisper
Sergeant Witchem, and resume their seats. Sergeant Witchem, leaning
forward a little, and placing a hand on each of his legs, then modestly
speaks as follows:
“My brother officers wish me to relate a little account of my taking
Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn’t to tell what he has done himself; but
still, as nobody was with me, and, consequently, as nobody but myself
can tell it, I’ll do it in the best way I can, if it should meet your
approval.”
We assure Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we all
compose ourselves to listen with great interest and attention.
“Tally-ho Thompson,” says Sergeant Witchem, after merely wetting his
lips with his brandy-and-water, “Tally-ho Thompson was a famous
horse-stealer, couper, and magsman. Thompson, in conjunction with a pal
that occasionally worked with him, gammoned a countryman out of a good
round sum of money, under pretence of getting him a situation—the
regular old dodge—and was afterwards in the ‘Hue and Cry’ for a horse—a
horse that he stole, down in Hertfordshire. I had to look after
Thompson, and I applied myself, of course, in the first instance, to
discovering where he was. Now, Thompson’s wife lived, along with a
little daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing that Thompson was somewhere in the
country, I watched the house—especially at post-time in the
morning—thinking Thompson was pretty likely to write to her. Sure
enough, one morning the postman comes up, and delivers a letter at Mrs.
Thompson’s door. Little girl opens the door, and takes it in. We’re not
always sure of postmen, though the people at the post-offices are always
very obliging. A postman may help us, or he may not,—just as it happens.
However, I go across the road, and I say to the postman, after he has
left the letter, ‘Good morning! how are you?’ ‘How are _you_?’ says he.
‘You’ve just delivered a letter for Mrs. Thompson.’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘You
didn’t happen to remark what the post-mark was, perhaps?’ ‘No,’ says he,
‘I didn’t.’ ‘Come,’ says I, ‘I’ll be plain with you. I’m in a small way
of business, and I have given Thompson credit, and I can’t afford to
lose what he owes me. I know he’s got money, and I know he’s in the
country, and if you could tell me what the post-mark was, I should be
very much obliged to you, and you’d do a service to a tradesman in a
small way of business that can’t afford a loss.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I do
assure you that I did not observe what the post-mark was; all I know is,
that there was money in the letter—I should say a sovereign.’ This was
enough for me, because of course I knew that Thompson having sent his
wife money, it was probable she’d write to Thompson, by return of post,
to acknowledge the receipt. So I said ‘Thankee’ to the postman, and I
kept on the watch. In the afternoon I saw the little girl come out. Of
course I followed her. She went into a stationer’s shop, and I needn’t
say to you that I looked in at the window. She bought some writing-paper
and envelopes, and a pen. I think to myself, ‘That’ll do!’—watch her
home again—and don’t go away, you may be sure, knowing that Mrs.
Thompson was writing her letter to Tally-ho, and that the letter would
be posted presently. In about an hour or so, out came the little girl
again, with the letter in her hand. I went up, and said something to the
child, whatever it might have been; but I couldn’t see the direction of
the letter, because she held it with the seal upwards. However, I
observed that on the back of the letter there was what we call a kiss—a
drop of wax by the side of the seal—and again, you understand, that was
enough for me. I saw her post the letter, waited till she was gone, then
went into the shop, and asked to see the Master. When he came out, I
told him, ‘Now, I’m an Officer in the Detective Force; there’s a letter
with a kiss been posted here just now, for a man that I’m in search of;
and what I have to ask of you, is, that you will let me look at the
direction of that letter.’ He was very civil—took a lot of letters from
the box in the window—shook ’em out on the counter with the faces
downwards—and there among ’em was the identical letter with the kiss. It
was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post-Office, B——, to be left ’till
called for. Down I went to B—— (a hundred and twenty miles or so) that
night. Early next morning I went to the Post-Office; saw the gentleman
in charge of that department; told him who I was; and that my object was
to see, and track, the party that should come for the letter for Mr.
Thomas Pigeon. He was very polite, and said, ‘You shall have every
assistance we can give you; you can wait inside the office; and we’ll
take care to let you know when anybody comes for the letter.’ Well, I
waited there, three days, and began to think that nobody ever _would_
come. At last the clerk whispered to me, ‘Here! Detective! Somebody’s
come for the letter!’ ‘Keep him a minute,’ said I, and I ran round to
the outside of the office. There I saw a young chap with the appearance
of an Ostler, holding a horse by the bridle—stretching the bridle across
the pavement, while he waited at the Post-Office Window for the letter.
I began to pat the horse, and that; and I said to the boy, ‘Why, this is
Mr. Jones’s Mare!’ ‘No. It an’t.’ ‘No?’ said I. ‘She’s very like Mr.
Jones’s Mare!’ ‘She an’t Mr. Jones’s Mare, anyhow,’ says he. ‘It’s Mr.
So-and-So’s, of the Warwick Arms.’ And up he jumped, and off he
went—letter and all. I got a cab, followed on the box, and was so quick
after him that I came into the stable-yard of the Warwick Arms, by one
gate, just as he came in by another. I went into the bar, where there
was a young woman serving, and called for a glass of brandy-and-water.
He came in directly, and handed her the letter. She casually looked at
it, without saying anything, and stuck it up behind the glass over the
chimney-piece. What was to be done next?
“I turned it over in my mind while I drank my brandy-and-water (looking
pretty sharp at the letter the while), but I couldn’t see my way out of
it at all. I tried to get lodgings in the house, but there had been a
horse-fair, or something of that sort, and it was full. I was obliged to
put up somewhere else, but I came backwards and forwards to the bar for
a couple of days, and there was the letter, always behind the glass. At
last I thought I’d write a letter to Mr. Pigeon myself, and see what
that would do. So I wrote one, and posted it, but I purposely addressed
it, Mr. John Pigeon, instead of Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what _that_
would do. In the morning (a very wet morning it was) I watched the
postman down the street, and cut into the bar, just before he reached
the Warwick Arms. In he came presently with my letter. ‘Is there a Mr.
John Pigeon staying here?’ ‘No!—stop a bit though,’ says the barmaid;
and she took down the letter behind the glass. ‘No,’ says she, ‘it’s
Thomas, and _he_ is not staying here. Would you do me a favor, and post
this for me, as it is so wet?’ The postman said Yes; she folded it in
another envelope, directed it, and gave it him. He put it in his hat,
and away he went.
“I had no difficulty in finding out the direction of that letter. It was
addressed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post-Office, R——, Northamptonshire, to be
left till called for. Off I started directly for R——; I said the same at
the Post-Office there, as I had said at B——; and again I waited three
days before anybody came. At last another chap on horseback came. ‘Any
letters for Mr. Thomas Pigeon?’ ‘Where do you come from?’ ‘New Inn, near
R——.’ He got the letter, and away _he_ went—at a canter.
“I made my enquiries about the New Inn, near R——, and hearing it was a
solitary sort of house, a little in the horse line, about a couple of
miles from the station, I thought I’d go and have a look at it. I found
it what it had been described, and sauntered in, to look about me. The
landlady was in the bar, and I was trying to get into conversation with
her; asked her how business was, and spoke about the wet weather, and so
on; when I saw, through an open door, three men sitting by the fire in a
sort of parlor, or kitchen; and one of those men, according to the
description I had of him, was Tally-ho Thompson!
“I went and sat down among ’em, and tried to make things agreeable; but
they were very shy—wouldn’t talk at all—looked at me, and at one
another, in a way quite the reverse of sociable. I reckoned ’em up, and
finding that they were all three bigger men than me, and considering
that their looks were ugly—that it was a lonely place—railroad station
two miles off—and night coming on—thought I couldn’t do better than have
a drop of brandy-and-water to keep my courage up. So I called for my
brandy-and-water; and as I was sitting drinking it by the fire, Thompson
got up and went out.
“Now the difficulty of it was, that I wasn’t sure it _was_ Thompson,
because I had never set eyes on him before; and what I had wanted was to
be quite certain of him. However, there was nothing for it now, but to
follow, and put a bold face upon it. I found him talking, outside in the
yard, with the landlady. It turned out afterwards, that he was wanted by
a Northampton officer for something else, and that, knowing that officer
to be pock-marked (as I am myself), he mistook me for him. As I have
observed, I found him talking to the landlady, outside. I put my hand
upon his shoulder—this way—and said, ‘Tally-ho Thompson, it’s no use. I
know you. I’m an officer from London, and I take you into custody for
felony!’ ‘That be d—d!’ says Tally-ho Thompson.
“We went back into the house, and the two friends began to cut up rough,
and their looks didn’t please me at all, I assure you. ‘Let the man go.
What are you going to do with him?’ ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do
with him. I’m going to take him to London to-night, as sure as I’m
alive. I’m not alone here, whatever you may think. You mind your own
business, and keep yourselves to yourselves. It’ll be better for you,
for I know you both very well.’ _I_‘d never seen or heard of ’em in all
my life, but my bouncing cowed ’em a bit, and they kept off, while
Thompson was making ready to go. I thought to myself, however, that they
might be coming after me on the dark road, to rescue Thompson; so I said
to the landlady, ‘What men have you got in the house, Missis?’ ‘We
haven’t got no men here,’ she says, sulkily. ‘You have got an ostler, I
suppose?’ ‘Yes, we’ve got an ostler.’ ‘Let me see him.’ Presently he
came, and a shaggy-headed young fellow he was. ‘Now attend to me, young
man,’ says I; ‘I’m a Detective Officer from London. This man’s name is
Thompson. I have taken him into custody for felony. I’m going to take
him to the railroad station. I call upon you in the Queen’s name to
assist me; and mind you, my friend, you’ll get yourself into more
trouble than you know of, if you don’t!’ You never saw a person open his
eyes so wide. ‘Now, Thompson, come along!’ says I. But when I took out
the handcuffs, Thompson cries, ‘No! None of that! I won’t stand _them_!
I’ll go along with you quiet, but I won’t bear none of that!’ ‘Tally-ho
Thompson,’ I said, ‘I’m willing to behave as a man to you, if you are
willing to behave as a man to me. Give me your word that you’ll come
peaceably along, and I don’t want to handcuff you.’ ‘I will,’ says
Thompson, ‘but I’ll have a glass of brandy first.’ ‘I don’t care if I’ve
another,’ said I. ‘We’ll have two more, Missis,’ said the friends, ‘and
con-found you, Constable, you’ll give your man a drop, won’t you?’ I was
agreeable to that, so we had it all round, and then my man and I took
Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to London that
night. He was afterwards acquitted, on account of a defect in the
evidence; and I understand he always praises me up to the skies, and
says I’m one of the best of men.”
This story coming to a termination amidst general applause, Inspector
Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on his host, and thus
delivers himself:
“It wasn’t a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of
forging the Sou’ Western Railway debentures—it was only t’other
day—because the reason why? I’ll tell you.
“I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over yonder
there,” indicating any region on the Surrey side of the river, “where he
bought second-hand carriages; so after I’d tried in vain to get hold of
him by other means, I wrote him a letter in an assumed name, saying that
I’d got a horse and shay to dispose of, and would drive down next day,
that he might view the lot, and make an offer—very reasonable it was, I
said—a reg’lar bargain. Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine
that’s in the livery and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day,
a precious smart turn-out, it was—quite a slap-up thing! Down we drove,
accordingly, with a friend (who’s not in the Force himself); and leaving
my friend in the shay near a public-house, to take care of the horse, we
went to the factory, which was some little way off. In the factory,
there was a number of strong fellows at work, and after reckoning ’em
up, it was clear to me that it wouldn’t do to try it on there. They were
too many for us. We must get our man out of doors. ‘Mr. Fikey at home?’
‘No, he ain’t.’ ‘Expected home soon?’ ‘Why, no, not soon.’ ‘Ah! is his
brother here?’ ‘_I_’m his brother.’ ‘Oh! well, this is an
ill-conwenience, this is. I wrote him a letter yesterday, saying I’d got
a little turn-out to dispose of, and I’ve took the trouble to bring the
turn-out down, a’ purpose, and now he ain’t in the way.’ ‘No, he an’t in
the way. You couldn’t make it convenient to call again, could you?’
‘Why, no, I couldn’t. I want to sell; that’s the fact; and I can’t put
it off. Could you find him anywheres?’ At first he said No, he couldn’t,
and then he wasn’t sure about it, and then he’d go and try. So, at last
he went up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft, and presently down
comes my man himself, in his shirt sleeves.
“‘Well,’ he says, ‘this seems to be rayther a pressing matter of yours.’
‘Yes,’ I says, ‘it _is_ rayther a pressing matter, and you’ll find it a
bargain—dirt-cheap.’ ‘I ain’t in partickler want of a bargain just now,’
he says, ‘but where is it!’ ‘Why,’ I says, ‘the turn-out’s just outside.
Come and look at it.’ He hasn’t any suspicions, and away we go. And the
first thing that happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend
(who knows no more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot
along the road to show his paces. You never saw such a game in your
life!
“When the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a stand-still
again, Fikey walks round and round it, as grave as a judge—me too.
‘There, Sir!’ I says. ‘There’s a neat thing!’ ‘It an’t a bad style of
thing,’ he says. ‘I believe you,’ says I. ‘And there’s a horse!’—for I
saw him looking at it. ‘Rising eight!’ I says, rubbing his fore-legs.
(Bless you, there an’t a man in the world knows less of horses than I
do, but I’d heard my friend at the Livery Stables say he was eight year
old, so I says, as knowing as possible, ‘Rising Eight.’) ‘Rising eight,
is he?’ says he. ‘Rising eight,’ says I. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘what do you
want for it?’ ‘Why, the first and last figure for the whole concern is
five-and-twenty pound!’ ‘That’s very cheap!’ he says, looking at me.
‘An’t it?’ I says. ‘I told you it was a bargain! Now, without any
higgling and haggling about it, what I want is to sell, and that’s my
price. Further, I’ll make it easy to you, and take half the money down,
and you can do a bit of stiff[1] for the balance.’ ‘Well,’ he says
again, ‘that’s very cheap.’ ‘I believe you,’ says I; ‘get in and try it,
and you’ll buy it. Come! take a trial!’
Footnote 1:
Give a bill.
“Ecod, he gets in, and we get in, and we drive along the road, to show
him to one of the railway clerks that was hid in the public-house window
to identify him. But the clerk was bothered, and didn’t know whether it
was him, or wasn’t—because the reason why? I’ll tell you,—on account of
his having shaved his whiskers. ‘It’s a clever little horse,’ he says,
‘and trots well; and the shay runs light.’ ‘Not a doubt about it,’ I
says. ‘And now, Mr. Fikey, I may as well make it all right, without
wasting any more of your time. The fact is, I’m Inspector Wield, and
you’re my prisoner.’ ‘You don’t mean that?’ he says. ‘I do, indeed.’
‘Then burn my body,’ says Fikey, ‘if this ain’t _too_ bad!’
“Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over with surprise. ‘I hope
you’ll let me have my coat?’ he says. ‘By all means.’ ‘Well, then, let’s
drive to the factory.’ ‘Why, not exactly that, I think,’ said I; ‘I’ve
been there, once before, to-day. Suppose we send for it,’ He saw it was
no go, so he sent for it, and put it on, and we drove him up to London,
comfortable.”
This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general
proposal is made to the fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, with
the strange air of simplicity, to tell the “Butcher’s story.” But we
must reserve the Butcher’s story, together with another not less curious
in its way, for a concluding paper.
“SWINGING THE SHIP.”
A VISIT TO THE COMPASS OBSERVATORY.
The noble ship with her floating battery of heavy guns, her hundreds of
seamen, smart and brave, her powder, shot, and shell for destroying an
enemy, and her tons of provender to supply her crew; with her anxious
captain and aspiring lieutenants, mates, middys, warrant officers, and
her pipeclayed marines are on board. The long pennon whips the winds;
the hurry, bustle, and noise of preparation has subsided into the
quietude of everything in its place; when the word passes that she is
“Ready for Sea.”
Next morning the newspapers find just a line and a half in their naval
corner for the announcement,—“Her Majesty’s ship Unutterable, 120 guns,
went out of harbour yesterday. After she has been swung, and had her
compasses adjusted, she will sail for the Pacific.”
“_Swing_ a hundred and twenty gun ship?” says the good citizen
interrogatively to himself, as he devours his coffee and his newspaper
at breakfast. He pays his taxes and is proud of Britannia and the
British navy, but his admiration of the nautical does not help him to a
solution. “After she has been swung!” he repeats, and then more
immediate affairs draw off his attention, and he leaves the Unutterable
to undergo the mysterious. He turns to the debates.
Naval officers are of course more wise on the point, and some of them
have more knowledge of the operation than liking for it. It’s apt to
spoil the paint now and then, and gives trouble, and upsets some of
their arrangements. Many, it must be confessed, have more experience
than science in their composition, and when they let out their true
feeling, indulge, perhaps, in a half growl, in which the words
“new-fangled” and “deal of trouble” might be heard. But the operation
goes on nevertheless, and little doubt but the toil is forgotten and the
growl repented when—far, far at sea, a murky sky shuts out the sun and
the stars, and forbids heaven to tell the navigator where he is—with a
waste of waters, hundreds, perhaps thousands of miles around him, he has
nought but his figures and his little trembling needles of magnetised
iron to guide him on his way; to direct him wide of the sunken rock and
the sandy shoal as he nears the wished-for coast.
The loss of British ships by wreck has been stated at between five and
six hundred in a year—or about “a ship and a half-a-day.” This terrible
loss has been ascribed to many causes—to the tides and currents of the
ocean; to imperfect logs; inaccurate charts; unsteady steerage;
inattention to the lead; stress of weather; defective ships, and
defective management; but last, if not greatest, says Captain Johnson,
who gives this catalogue of sources of disaster, we have the errors of
the compass. These errors were noticed—now nearly a couple of centuries
ago, and from those days to the present time careful mariners have often
called attention to the subject. “Officers in charge of convoys during
the war,” continues Captain Johnson, “will probably remember the care
with which the general signal was displayed at sunset, to steer a given
course during the night,” with what alacrity that signal was repeated by
the ships of war in their stations, and answered by every
merchant-vessel in the fleet; and they will also possibly remember with
what surprise,—nay, indignation,—they observed when daylight came,
almost the entire convoy dispersed over the ocean as far as the eye
could reach, and mayhap a suspicious looking stranger or two escorting
those farthest away, further astray, in despite of all the shots fired
during a morning watch to recall them. That such dispersements were in
part attributable to the differences of the compasses in each ship,
there can be no doubt; but the greatest delinquents in this particular,
in all probability, were not the merchant vessels, but rather the ships
of war; _the attractive power of their guns upon the compasses_ being
now a well-known and constantly proved fact.
The Apollo frigate, and forty merchantmen of her convoy, in 1803 were
wrecked together on the coast of Portugal, when they believed themselves
to be two hundred miles to the westward. The error of the frigate’s
compasses is believed to have been the cause of the disaster; and a
similar belief exists with respect to the dreadful wrecks of our line of
battle ships on the coasts of Jutland and Holland in 1811. The wreck of
the Reliance, Indiaman, on the coast of France, when one hundred and
nine lives were lost, in 1842, is another painful accident ascribed to
errors of the compasses induced by the presence on board of a large iron
tank forty-six feet long, the attraction of which had been
overlooked—for a hollow tank has a magnetic influence as great as a
solid mass of the same external dimensions—and such a mass would weigh
four hundred and sixty-eight tons.
These errors in the needle that guides the ship, so dangerous in their
results, at last attracted official attention in England. Inquiries were
extended in various directions, and it was found that “in some ships the
deviation was small; in others it was large enough to cause the loss of
a ship, even during a short run; whilst in others, again, from the
position of some iron stancheon, bolt or bar, or stand of arms, the
error might be changed in the opposite direction; so that the deviation
in one vessel was not a guide to its amount or direction in another; and
that there was no other remedy but ascertaining the fact by direct
experiment in each ship.” These facts were recognised by a committee of
English officers, appointed to investigate the matter, one of whom was
the Captain Johnson whom we have already quoted, and of whose subsequent
labours we shall have further presently to speak.
With these words of explanatory preface, let us set out on a visit to
the establishment where the dangers of those afloat are sought to be
lessened by scientific investigations on shore.
About two miles and a half eastwards from the Greenwich Observatory, in
the picturesque parish of Charlton, and on the extreme corner of the
high land that runs from Blackheath, till it juts out close upon the
banks of the Thames—stands the building we are in search of. Those who
may try to discover it will probably find some little difficulty in the
task, for the place is unpretending in outward aspect, and is little
known in the neighbourhood; has never before been publicly
described—except, perhaps, in those unread publications called Blue
Books, and in the technical volume of the naval officer who has charge
of this sanctum of science.
It is called the Compass Observatory; and its locality may probably be
more completely indicated by saying that it is not very distant from,
though on a far higher level than that corner of the Woolwich Dockyard
whence the great chimney soars up like a rival monument to that on Fish
Street Hill, and where the engine that sets the Dockyard Machines in
motion hums like a bee of forty-horse power. When the place is reached,
those who expect to see “a public building,” will be disappointed; those
who like to find that Science may abide in small and humble places, will
be pleased. A long strip of newly-reclaimed land, a detached brick
house, and in its rear, an octagonal wooden structure of little greater
outward pretensions than a citizen’s “summer house,” make up the whole
establishment.
Passing under the pleasant shade of two fine oak trees, and then between
a collection of very promising roses, we enter the house. Once inside,
we see that the spirit of order, regularity, and neatness, is there
paramount. The exactitude requisite for scientific observation, gives a
habit of exactness in other things. In one room we perceive a galvanic
battery ready for experiments; a disc of iron for showing a now defunct
mode of steadying the vibrations of the compass; a specimen of the mixed
iron and wood braced together as they are now employed in the
construction of first-class ships of the Royal Navy, like the Queen’s
Yacht; and more, interesting than all the rest, a copper bowl, contrived
by Arago, for stilling the irritability (so to speak) of the magnetic
needle.
The French astronomer and ex-minister of the Provisional Government here
claims our admiration of his scientific skill, and his work suggests the
reflexion how much more pleasant the calm pursuit of nature’s laws must
be to such a man, than the turbulent effort to enact rules and
constitutions for an impetuous and changeable people. Passing from this
room to another, we find books, and charts, and maps, on which are laid
down the magnetic currents over the great oceans, and amongst its
instrumental relics, a magnetic needle that belonged to poor Captain
Cook. It is a plain small bar of steel in a rough wooden case, but to
the mariner who loves his craft and its heroes, this morsel of iron has
an interest greater than the most perfect of nautical inventions—for
Cook was a seaman who achieved great ends with humble means and from
humble beginnings. A third room is full of compasses of all sorts,
sizes, and kinds, from China, from Denmark, from France; from the most
rude and simple, to the most complex and finished. All the schemes and
plans ever proposed for improving this useful invention are here
preserved. Many of the contrivances have been discovered more than once.
A sanguine theorist completes what to him is perfectly new. Certain that
he is to be immortalised and enriched, he sets off to the Observatory
with his treasure, to reveal his grand secret, and receive the
anticipated reward. He is shown into the compass-room, and there,—horror
of horrors,—upon the table, amidst a host of others, there is an old
discarded instrument the very counterpart of his own! It was made, and
tried, and discarded, years ago.
From the main brick building we pass through another line of roses, and
under a bower, boasting some fifty different varieties of that charming
flower, to the wooden structure in the rear, which is, in fact, the
Observatory.
This building is entirely free from iron. It is approached by stone
steps; the door has a pure copper lock, which being opened by a copper
key, swings on copper hinges to admit the visitor after he has first
cleared the dirt from his shoes upon a copper scraper. Nearly facing the
door is a stove to keep up the temperature in cold weather. It looks
black enough, and has a black funnel. When the visitor is told that
Captain Johnson has his coat-buttons carefully made without any iron
shank concealed under their silken cover; and that his assistant, Mr.
Brunton, repudiates buttons to his jacket altogether, and has pockets
guiltless of a knife; he is apt to turn to the stove, and hint the
presence there of the forbidden metal.
“Ah, ah!” is the reply, it looks like iron sure enough; but the
fireplace, the chimney, the poker, the shovel, are all alike. Nothing
but copper, copper, pure copper. This suggests an anecdote. When the
operations in this Compass Observatory were first commenced, there was
found to be a small variation in the magnet. The instruments were
readjusted; their character was investigated, their construction
re-examined; other observations were made—but still the variation
continued. Pockets were searched for knives; the garden looked over to
see that no stray spade or rake had been left outside the building, yet
near enough for mischief. Nothing could be discovered. At length the
_brass_ bolt on the window was suspected; and though brass had a good
character, not being thought capable of coaxing the magnet from its
truth, it was, in despair of finding any other delinquent, unscrewed
from its position. No sooner was this done, than the wayward needle
returned to its true position; the brass bolt was ejected in disgrace,
and no morsel of the brazen metal has since been allowed to show itself
within the precincts of the building sacred to the mysterious fluid that
draws the iron needle to the North.
Once inside the Observatory, the first impression is one of isolation
and quietude. Look up to the wooden roof, and you see two shutters, to
be opened when an observation is to be made upon a star. Through the
floor rise three pedestals of masonry, built solidly from the earth, and
isolated from the Observatory floor, so that no vibration may be
communicated to them. All three stand in a row, running north and south.
The object of two of them is to support with complete steadiness and
truth two instruments for determining, at any moment of time, the exact
magnetic north, whilst the third pedestal holds one by one the compasses
brought there to be tested. The most northern of these three narrow
stone tables is, in fact, a bed of trial—a place of ordeal—whilst the
other two support the instrumental judges, who are to pass sentence upon
the fluttering needles brought under their unyielding gaze. The test is
a severe one. It is easy, with proper means, to get the true magnetic
north with a fixed instrument on shore, but to make something that shall
tell it with equal truth upon the deck of a ship, as it heaves and
tosses, and plunges on the sea, is a very different thing. Yet,
instruments equal to such triumphs of skill are obtained, and in this
place it is that their qualities are first investigated. The south
pedestal has upon it a tall tube of glass, within which there hang some
long fibres of untwisted silk, supporting a magnetic tube so beautifully
poised, that it obeys without let or hindrance its natural tendency
towards the magnetic north. This tubular magnet has at one end a glass
on which a scale and figures are engraved, but so fine and small as to
be with difficulty seen by the naked eye. The second pedestal supports a
telescope, with which the observer looks down the tubular throat of the
magnet towards this tiny scale on the glass at its extremity. Our
friends, the “spiders,” have contributed some lines to the telescope,
and the centre one of these crosses the exact figure showing the
magnetic position at the moment.
With this figure in his mind, the telescope and the observer’s eye are
poised in the opposite direction, through the window of the Observatory,
towards a spot some half mile to the north, called Cox’s Mount; an
eminence on which a wall has been raised to bear a numbered scale
similar to that on the magnet—with this difference—that the one is very
minute, and the other very large. To the corresponding figure on the
distant wall the instrument is directed, and being thus pointed towards
the true magnetic north, it is brought to bear upon the pivot of the
compass—which by this time occupies a place on the top of the third
pedestal to be tested. Without a complex description, and the free use
of scientific terms, it would be perhaps impossible to convey a
thoroughly exact conception of the steps of the whole process. Such a
detail would be not only too technical, but unnecessary, here. It will
be enough in general terms to say, therefore, that the indication
obtained from a star, or from the instrument on the south pedestal,
called the collimator, is, by means of the instrument in the centre,
combined with a mark upon a distant object, and then brought down to
prove the true powers of the compass placed on the third pedestal. It is
a beautifully exact operation. The silence of isolation, the steadiness
of stone tables and practised operators, the most beautifully
constructed instruments, are combined to ensure accurate realities as a
result. The tests are so varied, and so often repeated, that no error
can escape, and the compass, when it leaves the building to begin its
adventures afloat, commences its career with an irreproachable character
as a Standard Compass of the Royal Navy—to be, on board the ship of war
to which it is sent, a kind of master instrument of reference, by which
ruder and cheaper compasses may be checked and regulated.
Just as the history of the stars and of the variations of the magnet is
registered and posted up at the Greenwich Observatory, so is that of the
compasses entered up here. Every compass that passes its examination may
be said to receive its commission, and be appointed to a ship. Its
number is taken; its vessel and destination are noted, and,
subsequently, its length of service. On its return home from successive
trips, it comes back to this place, when its character is again
investigated and note made of any loss of magnetic power, of any
deviations it may have exhibited, how it may have lost and how gained,
and of any other circumstances showing either improvement or
deterioration. Now and then one is blacklisted, but this seldom happens;
the greatest loss yet noted being 30 minutes. The Standard Compasses
cost, when made new, with tripod and all complete, 25_l._ each. After
they have been some years in service afloat, they are sent into hospital
for overhaul and repair. This costs generally 4_l._ or 5_l._, and they
are then again as good as ever, and ready to guide another ship on her
way over the mighty waters. The scientific part of the fittings of a
ship of war, though of greatest value, are thus of lowest cost. A
Standard Compass is, indeed, a beautiful result of human ingenuity.
Generations of seamen and men of science have discussed the best form
and materials, and the best mode of suspending the needle, that it may
most freely and truly follow its mysterious love for the north. From the
days of the old adventurers round the globe, to the date of the last
voyages to the Arctic regions, successive sea captains have thought, and
watched, and suggested, and the Standard Compass of the English Navy
combines, it is believed, all that is best in all their thinking. After
the Observatory was established, and one of its duties had been defined
to be to pursue investigations on the deviation of the needle, it was
thought desirable to have specimens of the instruments used in the war
ships of other naval nations. With the open liberality that unites in
brotherhood the scientific men of all countries, France and Denmark sent
specimens of what their best men had succeeded in perfecting for the use
of their navies. These instruments are very good, and attract deserved
attention in the observatory-collection of specimens. The Frenchman is
scientific, simple, and with an excellent contrivance for a moveable
agate plane to avoid friction in the motion of the needle. The Dane is a
good substantial instrument, even more excellently finished than the
compasses issued to our navy.
The English Compass is, however, believed with good reason to be the
best yet contrived. It has grown up to its present excellence by slow
degrees. Human ingenuity has been taxed to its utmost, and it has passed
to its present perfection through the various trials of needles of all
sorts of shapes swung in all sorts of ways, and by springs, and floating
cards, modifying the instrument to the varying conditions of a small
boat tossing on waves, or a line of battle ship jarring under the recoil
of a broadside. And now we find our Compass-needle made of iron that,
being got from the Swedish mines, has travelled to Strasbourg to be
prepared for clock springs; thence to Paris, to be still more highly
wrought by the watchmaker; and then to London, to take its sea-going
shape. Four bars of this choice metal, or of shear-steel of equally fine
quality, are ranged edgewise under a card, thickened and stiffened yet
kept transparent by a sheet of mica, brought from the Russian mines;
this card moves upon a point made of a metal harder than steel, and
incapable of corrosion; and which sometimes, under the name of Iridium,
but more correctly under that of “native alloy,” is found by the
refiners as they smelt the platinum and silver gained from the Ural
Mountains or the mines of Spain. The Iridium or alloy comes to the
workshop in the tiniest of glass bottles—bottles as small round as a
goose-quill, and about an inch long—in morsels not much bigger than a
pin’s head, and weighing each less than half a grain. Some of these
prove too soft, some too spongy, some too brittle, but at last one is
found hard and good, and it is soldered upon the pivot, that, when
sharpened and polished, is to work upon a cap, formed of a ruby, brought
from the East. A bowl of the metal suggested by the French philosopher
being prepared, from the produce of the mines of Cornwall; and the
science of the English philosopher, and the skill of the English
workman, having brought all these things into their proper shape and
places; we have, as the result, the Standard Compass, whose fitness to
guide her Majesty’s ship the Unutterable, we have just seen tested by
Captain Johnson at the Woolwich Compass Observatory.
Our favourite newspaper has just stated that that gallant ship “is now
at Greenhithe waiting to have her compasses adjusted.” So, then, the
instruments so accurate at the Observatory a few days ago, are all wrong
again on shipboard. Just so. The moment they get to their places afloat,
their fidelity to the north wavers,—in one ship more, in another less;
but in all in a greater or smaller degree in proportion to the quantity
of iron used in the construction of the vessel, and the nearness of that
metal to the compasses; in proportion to the number of the iron guns and
the total weight of metal carried; to the length of the funnel in
steamships, and to the condition of that funnel whether upright or
hauled down. All this is both new and strange enough. We have learnt
already what loss of ships convoyed and ships wrecked has arisen from
these deviations: deviations long neglected on board all vessels and to
this hour unrecognised or unattended to in our mercantile marine! Since
the Royal Navy, however, has a scientific officer, Captain Johnson,
especially employed in attending to the important duty of adjusting the
compasses: let us go with him and his assistant, Mr. Brunton, from the
Compass Observatory to the anchorage at Greenhithe, and see how he will
“swing” the gallant line of battle ship, the Unutterable.
The trip occupies a very short time, for we have steam at command.
Arrived in the Reach, we find five floating buoys anchored in the
stream, one forming a centre, and four being disposed at equal distances
about it, just as the five pips are placed upon a card—say the five of
spades. The good ship to be operated upon is already fast by the head to
the centre buoy, and Captain Johnson having mounted her deck, and his
assistant, Mr. Brunton, having been rowed ashore, a rope is run out from
the ship’s stern and made fast to one of the corner buoys. The Standard
Compass being fixed in the proper position which it is to occupy in the
ship, neither too high nor too low, and the guns and other iron being
round about it, as they are to remain during the voyage, the mooring
ropes are adjusted, and the ship’s head is put due north. Meanwhile, Mr.
Brunton has set up a compass ashore, and all being ready, Captain
Johnson, at a given moment, observes the bearing of a distant object—the
Tower at Shooter’s Hill—noting the bearing of the needle on board. At
that instant the pennant that floated at the mast-head is hauled down
from the truck. This being the concerted signal, at the same second of
time the assistant ashore observed the needle of his compass. The two
instruments vary, and the deviation of that on board, compared with that
ashore, is due to the iron of the ship. The stern ropes are hauled from
one buoy to another, and again made fast, the ship’s head now pointing
in another direction. The observations and the signals are repeated.
Each deviation of the ship’s compass is carefully noted upon a card
previously prepared for the purpose. The ship’s stern is then hauled
round to the third outside buoy, and the compasses being again examined,
she is next hauled round to the fourth buoy. Her head by this time has
been north, east, south, west; on each point the deviations of her
compasses have been tested, noted, and the card shows their character
and proper adjustment. _The ship has been swung._ Science has done its
best for her, and the word is given to heave anchor, for she is now
truly “Ready for Sea.”