"Search all Chinese whose passes are signed in red ink; detain all who
cannot account satisfactorily for their property, and report."
At six that evening I received a telegram in Malay from one of the
police-stations:--
"Eleven Chinese with passes signed in red ink arrested this afternoon,
accompanied by a bullock cart in which is a box containing clothing and
jewellery and seven hundred dollars. Can give no satisfactory account
of themselves."
Within half an hour a sergeant and six Sikhs were on their way to bring
the Chinamen to head-quarters.
They arrived the following morning, and I at once sent for Ah Sing. As
soon as he entered the charge-room he exclaimed:--
"Why, Tuan, there is my box which the robbers took away; it has my
'chop' on it!"
Sure enough it was, and it contained all the stolen property, tallying
exactly with his description, even to the rolls of dollars in the
"chopped" wrappers.
If ever a detective was astonished, Sergeant Cassim was.
"Who has won the hundred dollars, Tuan?" he asked.
"I have," I replied.
"But how did the Tuan discover it?"
"You gave me the clue yourself," I said. "You told me the robbers spoke
the Fuhkien dialect, so I signed all the Fuhkien passes in red ink,
and ordered that every man with one of these was to be searched at the
frontier stations."
"The Tuan was right," cried Cassim. "Every man leaves some trace of his
crime, and I thank the Tuan for proving it to me."
No defence was offered by the prisoners--they had none; and in due
course they were sentenced to ten years' penal servitude each.
Thirteen years afterwards I was Secretary to the Council and Chief of
Police of the international settlement of Kulangsu, in the province of
Fuhkien.
One afternoon I was taking a walk on the mainland, when a Chinaman met
me.
"Tabek, Tuan," he said.
As about a third of the male population of the province have at one
time or another been immigrant coolies in the Malay Peninsula, it was
no uncommon thing to be greeted in that language.
I returned his salutation, and was passing on, when he stopped and
said:--
"Does not the Tuan remember me?"
"No, I can't say I do," I answered. "Where did you know me?"
"In Sungei Ujong. Does not the Tuan recollect a gang robbery at Towkay
Ah Sing's, when one of the Towkay's coolies was stabbed? The gang was
caught, and each man got ten years in jail."
"Yes, of course I remember it," I told him; "but what do you know about
it?"
"I was one of the robbers, Tuan. The Tuan saw me every day in the jail
for four years. I was put to mat-making."
"Oh, you were, were you?" I said. "Well, I hope you have given up gang
robbery now?"
He grinned.
"By the by," I continued, "there was another gang robbery committed
close to Ah Sing's and only two days before it. Did you ever hear
anything about that?"
[Illustration: THE "MALE" AND "FEMALE" KRISES REFERRED TO IN THIS
STORY.]
"Suppose the Tuan found out who did it, would he have the men
arrested?" he asked.
"It was so long ago that even if I found out it would probably be
impossible to get up a case, for it would now be only hearsay evidence.
No; I don't think I would do anything."
"We committed that robbery also, Tuan," he said.
At one time or another most people have gone in for collecting things;
for twenty years my hobby was savage weapons. My Malay sergeant-major
took a keen interest--or, with his innate courtesy, pretended to do
so--in my collection, and I owe many of the weapons I have to him. Many
of them have curious histories, but none more so than that connected
with two Booghis krises.
Under our paternal rule the Malay is not allowed to wear his kris.
He has a keen sense of his own dignity, and he wore his kris, as our
ancestors did their swords, to uphold it. The resenting of an insult by
the shedding of blood being contrary to our modern ideas, however, we
disarmed him.
One day Sergeant-Major Etot brought before me a man who had been
arrested for carrying a kris. He was an ordinary-looking Malay, but
he had a deep scar across one side of his face, from the nose nearly
to his ear. He said he was a Booghis, and that his tribe lived in the
interior of Sumatra; that he had only the day before arrived from
there, and did not know he was not allowed to wear his kris.
The sergeant-major showed me the kris, and said he had never seen one
quite like it before; he had questioned the man about it, and he had
told him that the Booghis had two kinds of krises only, which they
named the "male" and the "female," which were very similar to each
other, having but a slight difference.
The man in question was wearing a "male" kris. I asked him if any
distinction was made as to who wore either weapon, and he said that the
wearing of the "male" kris was dependent on a man's valour--in other
words, I take it, the number of people he had disposed of. It seemed
somewhat hard on him, a stranger, to be deprived of his weapon when he
did not know he was committing an offence by wearing it, so I gave him
a dollar for it.
"If you come back to this country," I said, "bring a 'female' kris, and
I will buy it from you."
Some two years later I was sitting in my office one morning when I
heard the sergeant-major order the reserve duty men to fall in with
their rifles; half a minute later he appeared before me and reported
that a man had run "amok" in the village, and after killing one man and
wounding two others he had bolted into the jungle.
Now an "amok" is akin to a mad dog, and can only be treated as such.
As soon as the fit has left the man he never offers resistance, but so
long as he is under its influence the only course to pursue is to shoot
him and so stop his murderous career.
"Serve out buckshot to the men," I ordered (we were armed with
Sniders), "and send them into the jungle in pairs to look for him. They
are to take him alive if they can, but if he is still 'gelah' (mad)
they must shoot him. When you have sent them, come down to the village
with me."
When we arrived there we found one man dead, stabbed through the heart;
two others had also been stabbed, but had only received flesh wounds.
No one knew anything about the affair save that a man had suddenly
appeared, had run "amok," and then made for the jungle. No one knew who
he was. I sent the body of the dead man to the hospital to await an
inquest, and the other two to the doctor to have their wounds attended
to.
About a couple of hours later the sergeant-major again appeared in
my office. He was accompanied by a Malay constable, who reported as
follows.
He and another constable had been searching the jungle for the "amok,"
but, not having found any trace of him, set off on their return to
head-quarters. As they were walking along a narrow path in Indian file
he suddenly saw a man dash out and stab his comrade, who was in front
of him, in the neck with a kris. Realizing that he must be the man they
were searching for, he jammed home the breech-block, cocked his rifle,
and let the stranger have the charge of buckshot in the head, dropping
him dead. The wounded policeman died within a minute or two, and,
seeing he could do nothing for him, the survivor returned at once to
report the matter.
[Illustration: "HE SAW A MAN DASH OUT AND STAB HIS COMRADE."]
The sergeant-major and I accompanied him to the spot, and there we saw
a ghastly sight. The unfortunate policeman lay dead, with his carotid
artery severed, while his murderer was sprawled on his face about a
couple of yards away, also dead, half the back of his head blown away.
The sergeant-major turned the man over on to his back, and there,
staring at us, was the Booghis from whom I had got the "male" kris a
couple of years before; there was no mistaking the curious scar right
across one side of his face.
Stooping, the sergeant-major picked up a kris which was lying close to
the man's hand. He eyed it intently for a moment, wiped the blood off,
and then, taking the blade between his thumb and forefinger, he handed
me the hilt.
"The 'female' kris, Tuan," he said, politely.
"Jack Ashore."
+By Albert E. Craft+.
The airy assurance with which "Jack Ashore" gets into--and out
of--serious scrapes has become almost proverbial. This story
describes the adventures which befell a party of British seamen
who went for a ramble in a Chilian port.
It was in the early months of 1896, and I was an able seaman on
board the ship _Micronesia_, of Liverpool, then lying in the port of
Antofagasta, Chile, where we were discharging a cargo of coals loaded
at Newcastle, New South Wales. A quarter of a mile away was the French
barque, _La Provence_, loading a cargo of saltpetre for Havre.
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR, MR. A. E. CRAFT.
_From a Photograph._]
Amongst our sailors was a Frenchman, and he, being one of our boat's
crew, had made the acquaintance of his countrymen on board the other
ship in his various trips, it being the custom of the captains then in
port to call upon each other and all to go ashore in the one boat. Thus
they benefited by having the full complement of their crew on board to
work cargo--which they had to do in those days, except on the occasion
when their particular boat had to act as ferry.
We had been there something like eight or ten days when part of the
crew of the French ship got the usual twenty-four hours' liberty in
which to go ashore and enjoy themselves.
Liberty day! The one bright day in the weary monotony of a long
sailing-ship voyage--the one day in which, with a month's pay in his
pocket, Jack is as good as his master, when he may eat what he likes,
drink what he likes, do what he likes, so long as he turns up when the
boatswain musters the hands to work after the all-too-short holiday.
So, with the jingling coins burning holes in their pockets, and their
hearts as light as school-boys', they pushed off from their ship. And
we, knowing where they were going, stared moodily across the bay,
longing to be with them.
A diversion occurred, however, when we saw the boat's head swing in our
direction, and a few minutes later range alongside our ship.
Up to our deck climbed the merry Frenchmen, laughing and jabbering
like so many monkeys. Soon they were in animated conversation with
our messmate, "Frenchy," whom we presently discovered, by adroit
questioning, they were persuading to obtain leave from our captain and
go with them.
And he got it, too--minus the month's pay--and immediately set about
rigging himself out in his shore clothes. This did not suit us at
all--at least, some of us. Why should he have leave of absence, and we
not? we asked each other. We would go and ask the captain, too.
The end of it was that we got the desired leave--five of us, Frenchy
making the sixth--but only for the one night. We were given to
understand we must be on board by four bells--six o'clock--next morning
ready to turn to.
"And look here, Craft," was the captain's parting injunction--"no
monkey tricks, mind. I look to you, as leading seaman, for the good
behaviour of the rest. Further, I shall hold you responsible for these
men turning up in the morning, or else"--he shook a warning finger at
me--"not another hour's liberty this voyage for any of you."
Promising obedience--I would have promised anything just then for a run
ashore--we hustled off to prepare ourselves. This did not take long.
Throwing aside our coal-grimed dungarees, we each donned white trousers
and jackets and broad-brimmed straw hats. With these on we felt equal
to the best, happily unconscious of a few small rents, a missing
button, or the fact that the virgin whiteness of our "shore togs" was
marred by many and various stains.
But what about money? For the moment we had forgotten that. True, the
Frenchmen had a month's pay in their pockets, but we had no intention
of sponging upon them. Well, then, we would take some clothing, we
decided. There were numerous places in Antofagasta where we could trade
them. There was old Don Carlos, as he was called, whom we had heard so
much about, and his Jew partner Miguel. Perhaps they were not so black
as they were painted, and we had been told they would buy anything from
a hard-up sailor. For myself, I was the envied possessor of a whole
Australian sovereign, so you may guess my bearing was in accordance
with my wealth.
"Now, then, all aboard!" sang out one of the Frenchmen. Into the boat
we scuttled with our bundles, and, giving way with a will, we soon
covered the stretch of water between the ship and jetty and pulled the
boat alongside, mooring her head and stern.
Not a hundred yards along the quay, who should we come suddenly upon
but Don Carlos and his partner.
"Talk of the old gentleman!" cried someone in the rear. "I shouldn't
wonder if the old sharks haven't been watching us all the while. I bet
you they know we have something to trade."
"Halloa, boys"--Don Carlos's greeting was hearty enough, as was the
hand-shake all round--"going to have a little run round? That's right,
_amigos_; nothing like it. Too much salt water is not good for anybody.
What! no money! Well, now, that's too bad. Got something to sell, have
you? All right, come along to the store and have a drink with me; then
we'll talk business. Come on, now, boys, every one of you. A drink at
my expense!"
For a Chilano he spoke excellent English, with a slight American
intonation and accent, and had a certain geniality of manner which
appealed to the simple minds of the sailors.
Off we sailed, the two Chilanos and myself in the van, and soon arrived
at the "store," a combination of ship-chandler's shop, café, card-room,
and billiard saloon.
Inside, our hosts were the very essence of geniality. They served us
with drinks and cigars--real Havanas at that--telling us to "Drink up,
boys, and have another," until we were unanimous in our verdict that
they were "true blue" and not the unscrupulous sharks we had been led
to believe.
A second drink was served out, and over this Don Carlos and his party
made an inspection of the articles we had for sale.
By a previous arrangement it had been agreed upon that our Frenchy was
to have the entire handling of this part of the programme, not only
because he spoke Chilano like a native, thereby putting a stopper upon
any by-play between the two merchants, but also because we knew him as
a man who could drive a hard bargain.
Therefore, knowing that our interests--and our capital, too, for that
matter--were in safe hands, we just lay back and smoked and drank our
"piscoe," and allowed him to do the haggling. Nor did we take the
slightest interest in the bargaining until our attention was suddenly
arrested by high words and a long, burring curse from our shipmate.
We looked up to see him on his feet, shaking his fist in Don Carlos's
face--which was as white as the Frenchy's was red--and talking thirteen
to the dozen.
The volubility and the rapidity with which he delivered himself were
simply marvellous. We could for the time being simply sit still and
gape at him, open-mouthed and wondering. Such a jargon of sounds, such
a jumble of languages, it would be hard to conceive. First French, next
broken English, and then a mixture of Spanish and Chilano.
At it he went, tacks and sheets, for all he was worth, never giving
the Chilano a chance to open his mouth. And from it all we gathered
that Don Carlos, polished rascal that he was, contended that the drinks
and cigars we had received--free, gratis, and for nothing, as we
thought--were sufficient pay for the "few paltry rags" we had brought
ashore. And he'd be hanged, he said, if he'd pay another cent!
"Gif me six dollars, you shark--zat ees une dollar for each piece of
us," hissed Frenchy; "or I vill, I vill----" He ended up with a mixture
of imprecations, while his fist, thumping upon the table, jarred every
glass upon it.
The Chilano was obdurate. Finding his voice at length, he swore by
all the saints in South America that he would see our man in Jericho,
or some even warmer locality, before he would give him a ha'penny.
Springing to his feet, he ordered us all outside, threatening to call
the _vigilantes_ to shift us if we did not go.
"Gif me ze monai first; gif me ze monai," shouted Frenchy, spluttering
with rage. "Or return to me ze artickeels."
Seeing trouble looming large on the horizon, and remembering the
captain's instructions and my promise, I stepped forward with the
intention of taking it upon myself to come to an amicable settlement.
I was too late, for Frenchy, beside himself with rage, reached forward
and, laying violent hands upon Don Carlos's prominent nose, gave it a
pull that made him squeak like a bos'n's pipe. At the same moment up
jumped old Miguel, who had hitherto remained a silent observer, and
seizing a stout malacca cane, loaded at one end, he brought it down
with a crash on to Frenchy's skull.
[Illustration: "LAYING VIOLENT HANDS UPON DON CARLOS'S PROMINENT NOSE,
HE GAVE IT A PULL."]
This was the signal for what followed. As the unfortunate seaman
toppled to the floor, his face covered with blood, we five
"Micronesias" made a forward rush.
What else could we do? I am peaceably inclined, and would rather run a
mile than fight a minute; but what Englishman could stand by and see a
shipmate keel-hauled for standing up for his rights, without wanting to
know the reason? Good intentions, captain's orders, my promises--they
all blew away like a royal sheet in a breeze.
With a "Come on, boys!" we got right down to business. The table, laden
with glasses, cigars, and bottles, the chairs upon which we had been
seated, as well as other sundries, instantly found a resting-place
against the wall, all in a more or less complete state of dilapidation.
While I and another fellow attended to Miguel and his wildly-swinging
malacca cane, with the intention of rescuing Frenchy, the other three
busied themselves with Don Carlos, who had now been reinforced by his
man-of-all-work--a big, lumbering, evil-faced Chilano.
The Frenchmen from the other ship formed the after-guard. They did not
take any hand in the fight, and for that matter we did not blame them.
Frenchy was our shipmate, not theirs. It was in our interests that he
had got a cracked skull, and so we had a double right to punish his
cowardly assailants.
This, by the way, did not prove a very difficult job. They were cowards
at heart, were these scoundrelly Chilanos. A short, sharp tussle, a
few well-directed blows given with all an Englishman's zest, and we
had Frenchy out of the mêlée, while, with a quick wrench, I possessed
myself of the loaded cane.
A horse-rug in the corner caught my eye, and in a twinkling we had
Frenchy in it and hustled him outside--I, meanwhile, calling off our
men and bidding them make tracks for the boat. As we gained the open
air, and stooped down with our burden so that we might get a better
grip of the improvised stretcher, the man-of-all-work made a flying
leap towards me and, with a savage downward blow, endeavoured to drive
a knife between my shoulder-blades. Only my quickness of movement saved
me. Almost before he could recover himself I had jumped up and caught
him a resounding crack on his figurehead that laid him low. Old Miguel
joined him next with a similar dose. Don Carlos had by this time made a
rapid exit and, running to the corner, was howling vociferously for the
_vigilantes_. But what did I care for _vigilantes_ now? My blood was
fairly up. Into the store I rushed, followed by my shipmates, leaving
the Frenchman to the care of his countrymen, and in less time than it
takes to tell the place was in the most artistic state of wreck you can
well conceive.
Then, triumphant, we marched off--a defiant, victorious squad, tattered
and torn to a degree. For myself, my white coat had gone entirely; a
cotton singlet which I wore was minus an arm, and that which was left
was splashed with blood; my white trousers were torn from the ankle to
the knee, and one of my shoes was missing.
We had not proceeded far, however, before we found that Don Carlos's
howling for the _vigilantes_ was taking effect.
From this street and that figures came running, and swelled a rapidly
growing mob, which followed on our heels, hooting and throwing
missiles. Higher up the street a shout was raised, which cry was taken
up and echoed by the mob. An officer of _vigilantes_, with drawn sword
and bristling moustache, pushed his way through the crowd and called
upon us to halt. Failing to get his way by word of mouth, he started
pricking us in the legs with his sword-point. Hearing me give the order
to "rush him," and seeing in me the man whom he believed to be in
command, he directed his attentions to me. "Halta! halta!" he cried,
peremptorily, but I pushed him aside and marched on. Then a sharp stab
in my leg made me hop. For a moment only did I hesitate, then my back
stiffened, my hand shot forward with the malacca at the first guard,
and with my old R.N.R. drill in my mind I engaged him--his sword to my
cane.
For some time we went at it hammer and tongs, while the crowd stood
back in awestricken amazement. Acting only on the defensive, I warded
off his cuts with a coolness which surprised me later on, but soon a
stinging sensation in the shoulder caused me to change my tactics.
Pressing him hard until an opening presented itself, I brought him to
the ground with a "cut one," delivered with all the force I possessed.
Then came the retreat. Away we flew--the Frenchmen, with our wounded
man, towards the mountains; some of our men up one street, some down
another, while I made a bee-line for the wharf and the boat.
The howling mob behind pursued me hotly. Occasionally I would stop
and shake my cane at them, which had the effect of bringing them to a
momentary halt. Then I was off again.
I don't wonder at their halting when I swung round upon them, for I
must have cut a most awful figure. Blood-stained and ragged, with
the excitement of battle showing in my eyes and face, they must have
thought I was mad, and for the moment I suppose I was.
Soon the wharf hove into view. Out in the bay I could see the lights
of my ship. With beating heart and laboured breath I sped on. Suddenly
someone rushed out at me from a dark corner. For a moment I staggered;
then, as he raced on at my side, I discovered, to my joy, that it was
one of my shipmates.
Another hundred yards and we should be safe. Then, without warning, we
ran straight into the arms of a cordon of _vigilantes_ drawn up in a
semicircle awaiting our approach!
It was all over. Unresistingly we allowed ourselves to be manacled,
and, guarded on either side by half-a-dozen men with shouldered rifles
and fixed bayonets, we were driven off to the "calaboose," two officers
on horseback bringing up the rear of the cavalcade.
Thrown into a cell, where I found my comrades already housed, I had
ample time to meditate upon the events of the last hour or two. I had
been in many a scrape before, but this was the first time I had ever
been on the hither side of prison walls, and now that the excitement
had passed, I fairly recoiled at the disgrace of it.
My head ached, my feet were lacerated, I was dirty, blood-stained,
and nearly naked. I looked around the filthy place, at the no less
filthy Chilanos--our fellow-prisoners, who jeered at us derisively--and
groaned aloud.
Though feeling my position keenly, I was by no means sorry for what
I had done. I had acted, I told myself, just as any other Englishman
would under the circumstances. I had been goaded into it, and the blame
lay with Don Carlos and his rascally compatriot.
Arraigned before the judge the next day we presented a bedraggled
appearance. Through an interpreter the charge was explained to us,
evidence was heard, and the case decided. After we had been removed
we found that the prison-sheet contained the following notice:
"Alberto Crafto, José Essien, Juan Andres, Carlos Parko, Tomaso Mahan,
twenty-five days' imprisonment each." The Frenchmen were not in
it--they had apparently got clear away to the hills.
[Illustration: "I BROUGHT HIM TO THE GROUND WITH A 'CUT ONE,' DELIVERED
WITH ALL THE FORCE I POSSESSED."]
Prison life was not so bad, save for the taint and the vile companions
amongst whom we were thrown. We were fairly well treated and fed, had
plenty of outdoor recreation, and labour of any description was never
asked of one.
This last was the thing which preyed upon me. I like being busy at any
time, besides, the enforced idleness left too much time for unwholesome
thinking.
At length I asked permission to work. "What can you do?" questioned the
Commandante. "Do? Anything!" I told him. "Mend a roof, make a chair, do
joiner work, paint----"
"Paint, ah!" he cried--some idea had evidently struck him. "Well, I
will think of it."
The end of it was that I was given the job to paint the office at which
ships received pratique. This office stood on the wharf adjacent to the
landing-place. It was a building constructed of inch-and-a-half deal
planking, and consisted of two rooms. I was also given tools with which
to do a little repairing.
Nothing could possibly have suited me better. The moment I entered it I
thought: "Here is my chance of escape!" A thin, wooden floor, a rickety
old wharf, and beneath that the water and safety--I could not have
wished for anything better.
Each morning I was escorted to the office by two _vigilantes_, who
locked the door upon me and immediately went off, returning only to
give me my midday meal, and later to escort me back to prison.
An hour after being left alone I had weighed up all the chances.
Another went by, and by dint of strenuous exertions I had made a very
fair show of painting on one of the walls--this in case of any undue
inquisitiveness.
Next I found a suitable place, away from observation, at a point where
the floor was covered with reed matting, and began, carefully and
noiselessly, cutting through the planks.
Between times I showed myself at the one window in case anyone should
be spying; then I would do a little painting and hammering, but I
always returned to my chief objective--sawing my way through to the
water.
Using every precaution--covering up and disposing of even the minutest
particle of sawdust--always on the alert, and working like a Trojan
whenever my jailers were expected, I made such good progress that by
the third morning a hole large enough to permit of my body passing had
been cut through the twelve-inch deals of the jetty, the pieces which
I had cut out being carefully stowed in the space between the floor of
the office and the jetty. The way of escape was open!
The only thing that bothered me was that I should be compelled to make
my attempt at escape during the day, as each night, of course, I was
securely locked up in the jail. Well, I should have to risk it. I would
wait until the hour after noon, I decided, when the greater percentage
of these indolent Chilanos indulged in their siesta. It was a hundred
to one chance against my being discovered, and as I had been taking
risks all along, there was no reason why I should shirk them now.
Noon came, and with it my dinner. My hand must have trembled as I took
the dish from the _vigilante's_ hand, for he calmly walked within a
yard of the hole in the floor! Certainly I felt my face pale with
suppressed emotion and fear.
He looked sharply at me. "Usted malo?" (you sick) he asked. I shook my
head, and, apparently satisfied, the man turned on his heel and left.
Hastily swallowing a few mouthfuls of food, I waited, with what
patience I could, for the time I had fixed upon for my escape. In this,
fortune favoured me. It was a stifling, suffocating day, with not a
breath of air stirring. The populace seemed even more eager than usual
to seek the shelter of their verandas, while the boatmen and quay
loiterers retreated to the comparative coolness of the shaded alameda.
A little while longer and only an occasional straggler disturbed the
stillness of the sleepy quayside. Then I knew the time had come.
Carefully, yet quickly, I slipped through the hole in the floor, and,
hanging on to the beams overhead, pulled the matting over the cavity.
Though my heart beat fast with trepidation, I could not repress a grim
chuckle at the thought of the consternation of my jailer when he found
me gone. Then I dropped silently into the water.
It was only a few yards to the nearest boat. Reaching it, I clambered
cautiously over the gunwale and lay flat in the bottom. Barely allowing
myself time to regain my breath, and inwardly congratulating myself
upon my success, I raised my body with the intention of casting off the
painter. Then a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and a guttural voice
spoke a short, sharp command.
It was a _vigilante_! Under an awning in the next boat he had sought
relief from the fierce heat, and the gentle bumping of my craft against
his had awakened him. And now I had been recaptured, just when victory
seemed within my grasp!
Back to the prison I was marched, being informed that thenceforth I
should be kept in close confinement.
Next morning, while communing with my moody thoughts, I was aroused by
heavy footsteps outside. A key grated in the lock, and the Commandante,
with my captain at his side, stepped in.
"Pretty mess this is you've got yourself into!" growled the captain.
"And you are the man I depended upon and held responsible for the good
behaviour of the others! Going around the place like a madman, killing
half-a-dozen police, and wrecking a store--not to speak of the disgrace
you have brought upon yourself and my ship. You deserve all that is
coming to you--and I'll see you get it, too!"
"Very well, sir," I answered, not without a little shame in my voice.
"You have heard what these people have to say against me. But there are
two sides to every story----"
"And my side," interrupted the captain, flicking a paper in my face,
"is that you'll pay this twenty-five dollars fine and come down to the
ship with me at once, where you'll be logged two days' pay for one as a
fitting finish to your holiday."[5]
[5] It is an understood thing--perhaps an unwritten law--that when a
seaman is sentenced to imprisonment in a foreign port as the result
of a "flare-up," the captain of his ship can, with the aid of the
Consul, pay any fine imposed, thereby claiming the man's discharge and
immediate removal to his vessel. The fine, with the further forfeiture
of the two days' pay claimed for every one absent from duty, is then
deducted from the seaman's pay at the end of the voyage.--+The Author+.
So, one way and another, we paid pretty dearly for our little trip
ashore at Antofagasta.
A Daring Voyage Down the Grand Canyon.
+By David Allen+.
An account of the unique feat accomplished by two intrepid
miners who, in frail row-boats, made a trip which has never
before been performed in its entirety by water--a voyage down
the rock-strewn torrent of the Colorado River, where it burrows
thousands of feet below the surface of the earth in a series
of tremendous gorges, the most famous of which is the Grand
Canyon. Time and again the two men faced death in the boiling
rapids, but eventually they emerged in safety after a journey
of seven hundred and fifty miles, lasting over three months.
Everybody has heard of Niagara Falls and the terrible rapids which the
tortured waters of the river form below the great cascade.
The Niagara, however, is a mere creek in size compared with another
American stream, the Colorado, which may well be called a river of
mystery, partly because of the strange region through which it passes,
and partly because so little is known about it. Unlike the Niagara,
the Colorado is far away from civilization. Making its devious way
through inaccessible mountains and arid deserts, very few human beings
live near it. But the Colorado flows _under_ the earth rather than on
the top; for hundreds of miles it rushes through vast gorges thousands
of feet in depth. The greatest gorge of all is well called the Grand
Canyon of the Colorado.
The Grand Canyon, however, is only one of a series of mighty clefts in
which the river has literally buried itself. The bottoms are so rugged,
so strewn with great rocks and boulders, that only in a few places does
the current flow smoothly. For miles and miles the surface of the water
is a mass of foaming wave-tops, tossed ceaselessly to and fro amid the
rocky obstructions, forming currents and fierce eddies beside which the
famous Niagara whirlpool seems insignificant.
There are places where the surface of the Colorado is seven thousand
five hundred feet below the brink of the gorge, and at nearly every
point it is close on six thousand feet. Looking across from one edge
of the canyon to the other, the distance seems to the novice to be two
miles. Say so to one of the guides or trailsmen and he may smile; for
at Bright Angel trail the width is no less than thirteen miles, while
the tourist who stands on the brink at Grand View and looks directly
across covers with the glance a distance of eighteen miles. The eye is
indeed deceptive here, for if you descend to what is known as the top
of the inner gorge and look down upon the river the Colorado appears to
be a muddy creek twenty or twenty-five feet wide. But these black walls
of granite, which descend almost vertically from the place where you
stand, are actually four times the height of Niagara's famous gorge,
being nearly fourteen hundred feet sheer, and the river itself is over
a hundred and fifty feet wide.
Yet, spite of its fierce current and deadly, rock-strewn rapids, men
have dared to attempt to float down this semi-subterranean river in
boats. They have tried it, but only two such adventurers can say that
they did it successfully, and can prove their story by photographs.
These men, who have accomplished a feat that seemed to be impossible,
are Charles Russell and E. R. Monett, two American gold-miners. Away
back in 1869 the famous explorer Powell tried to navigate the river
with an expedition consisting of four boats and eight men, but most of
the boats were wrecked long before the end of the gorges was reached,
and in several places they dared not trust to the waters, but carried
their craft bodily round the dangerous passages. Twenty years after
Major Powell made the attempt Stanton, another explorer, tried it with
three boats and twelve men, but his party did not complete the journey
by water. Since then several other expeditions have risked their lives;
and in some cases men have gone into those grim and gloomy gorges and
never been heard of again.
Russell and Monett expected to have a companion named Loper in their
adventure, but, as will be noted, Loper met with such disaster early in
the trip that he left them. How the trio conceived the daring exploit
is worth the telling. The plan, according to Russell, originated
several years ago in the mind of Russell's companion, Loper, while the
two men were working in a mine at Cripple Creek. In 1893 Loper had
been attracted to the San Juan River, a tributary of the Colorado,
in South-Eastern Utah, by the excitement created by the discovery of
placer gold there. He had never forgotten his experiences, and confided
to Russell his belief that the Grand Canyon of the Colorado offered
proportionately greater chances of much richer placer mining. The
two men planned to make their start in the spring of 1900, but the
dangers and almost insurmountable difficulties of the task they had so
lightly undertaken slowly became apparent to them, and they finally
decided to wait until they were properly equipped in point of money and
information. At the outset they found they must get at least one more
companion if they were to be successful--and four men were preferable
to three. According to Russell, their eight years' search for a partner
disclosed no individual with the necessary qualifications who was
willing to make the trip.
[Illustration: LOOKING DOWN UPON THE COLORADO FROM THE TOP OF THE
"INNER GORGE"--THE CLIFFS ARE NEARLY FOURTEEN HUNDRED FEET SHEER AND
THE RIVER IS A HUNDRED AND FIFTY FEET WIDE.
_From a Photograph._]
Consequently, it was not until April, 1907, that their long-laid plans
began to materialize. Loper met Monett--a boy in appearance, not
seemingly strong and unusually quiet--at the Mohawk Mine in Goldfield.
But that Monett was not young--in courage, at least--and not as weak
as a casual glance revealed, was presently evidenced when the young
man expressed not only a willingness to share the dangers of the trip
with the other two, but urged as proof of his strength his work in the
mines--a daily physical test calling for no little endurance. Loper
notified Russell, then foreman of a mine near Prescott, that the third
man had at last been found, and a meeting was arranged for Green River,
Utah, early in September. To this point were shipped the row-boats
Russell and Loper had determined to pin their faith to, together with a
three months' supply of provisions.
Realizing that the loss of the boats meant failure and perhaps loss of
life, the explorers took great care to secure suitable craft. They were
designed to be light yet strong, each large enough to hold one man in
addition to the food and clothing composing his outfit. Each boat was
sixteen feet long, with steel ribs, covered with a tough wooden "skin,"
which was still further protected by a covering of stout canvas. To
prevent them being swamped in the boiling rapids, the boats were
covered with decks made of steel sheets, carefully riveted together
so that the joints would be water-tight. A hole just large enough to
admit a man's body was left in the centre, and when the voyager took
his seat at the oars flaps of heavy cloth were stretched around his
body extending to the edges of the cavity. Each craft had a reservoir
full of air built into either end, like a lifeboat, to give it more
buoyancy. The little fleet bore the names of _Arizona_, _Utah_, and
_Nevada_, the respective States from which the intrepid trio hailed.
[Illustration: RAPIDS IN THE CANYON--AT ONE POINT THERE ARE FIFTY-SEVEN
RAPIDS TO BE NEGOTIATED IN QUICK SUCCESSION, SOME WITH FALLS TWENTY
FEET HIGH!
_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]
On the Green River in Utah, one of the sources of the Colorado, the men
launched their craft and began their strange voyage. They were four
days in reaching the Colorado, having to travel about a hundred and
twenty-five miles. It was not difficult to tell when the Colorado was
reached, for almost immediately they plunged into what is known as the
Little Cataract Canyon, where the smooth waters abruptly ended. For
forty-one miles they were swirled and thrown about in the grip of angry
currents. Luckily Russell and Monett came out safely, but Loper came to
grief. Their experience is thus described by Russell:--
"The rapids presented a terrifying appearance, the rushing, roaring
water, beaten into foam as it plunged over the rocks, rolling in waves
five to ten feet high at the foot. These extended for a hundred yards
and more before they became quieter, and ended in swirling whirlpools.
Hardly does the water quiet down when it takes another plunge, so close
are the rapids together. This was my first experience in shooting
rapids. I seemed to go very slowly until quite near the brink, when
my speed was suddenly accelerated and over I plunged, the boat taking
a stiff angle downward as she went over, only to rise abruptly as
she climbed the next wave. Then came another pitch downward for the
succeeding billow, but this she did not climb. The wave combed back
fiercely, and the stern end of the boat plunged under, the water almost
taking my breath away as it swept clear across the boat. She rose
nicely, however, and came out on top of the next one easily. We were
soon through the worst part, and pulled into the eddy.
"Before long we entered upon the worst part of this canyon. Rapids
Fourteen, Fifteen, and Sixteen are so close together that they must be
run without stopping, as there is practically no quiet water between
them; and so rocky is No. Sixteen that it seems impossible to get
through at all. Loper proposed to run it with his boat, the _Arizona_,
while we watched the result. He handled the craft very dexterously,
being an excellent oarsman, and was successful in striking the only
place in Rapid Sixteen that a boat could pass through. But even here
the current dashed hard against a huge rock, taking a vertical drop of
four or five feet off one side. Loper found it impossible to keep the
boat away from this boulder and she was swept heavily against it. She
turned almost on end, but luckily the water was deep and she came up
like a fish. After seeing Loper's experience Monett and myself were
fearful of our ability to get through, and Loper bravely volunteered
to bring our boats through, which feat he accomplished in safety."
[Illustration: "SHE TURNED ALMOST ON END."]
When they had pulled themselves together and looked over the little
fleet it was found that Loper's boat had been unfitted for further
service by the collision with the rock, and the greater part of his
supplies lost. After a consultation it was decided that the others
should leave their unfortunate partner at a little settlement just
below the cataract and proceed. Russell and Monett, pushing ahead,
put in many days prospecting along the shores of Glen Canyon. They
waited for Loper at Lee's Ferry, a Mormon settlement, more than twice
as long as the time agreed upon. Then, as there were no signs of him,
they determined to go on without him. Friday, the 13th of the month,
had no terrors for the intrepid pair, and they started off down the
river on the morning of that day, with the Marble Canyon acting as an
introduction to the Grand Canyon below. In dwelling on this stage of
their journey Russell seemed to lose sight entirely of the remarkable
nerve both men showed in going through what is admittedly the wildest
part of the river without the third companion who, at the outset, had
seemed absolutely indispensable to the successful accomplishment of the
trip. In seven days they had passed the length of the roaring stream
through the perpendicular walls of Marble Canyon, towering up on either
side to an average height of three thousand feet, and had come safely
through the worst rapids up to that point. At one place there were
fifty-seven rapids to be negotiated in quick succession, some of them
having falls from sixteen to twenty feet deep.
[Illustration: THE SURVIVING BOAT IN A QUIET STRETCH OF THE CANYON.
_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]
Entering the Grand Canyon, for the first fifteen miles below the
entrance of the Little Colorado they found the water comparatively
quiet. From this point onwards they found, however, their way was
threatened by the worst falls they had thus far met. But the good
luck which had attended them from the start still prevailed, and they
managed to force their way without damage to either boat down over
the almost continuous cataracts. Christmas found them only fifteen
miles above Bright Angel trail. In describing the manner in which
they celebrated the great day, Russell remarked, casually, that they
certainly hung up their stockings--to dry. From beginning to end of
their journey the adventurers had been obliged to depend for fuel
entirely on such driftwood as they could find lodged in eddies and on
the rocky shores. They spent more than one night in clothes soaked
through with the icy water of the Colorado, with no fire to warm
them. Their Christmas camp, however, was on a narrow strip of sand,
with a greater supply of driftwood at hand than they had found at
any point along the river. Immediately below this camping place, and
continuing for the succeeding ten miles, the river dashes through a
troubled stretch, the most perilous section of which is known as the
"Sockdologer Rapid." To make matters worse, Russell found it impossible
to follow his usual custom of "picking a trail" through these rapids.
When possible the elder man climbed along the precipitous sides of the
canyon beside each cataract, leaving Monett above the rough water in
charge of the two boats. In this manner Russell could observe the most
dangerous places through the rapids, and chart a course accordingly.
But in this ten-mile stretch the granite walls rise sheer and smooth
for the first fifteen hundred feet, and Russell could find no foothold,
so that the men faced the necessity of "shooting" unknown waters.
Russell led the way in his boat, swinging it into the boiling current
stern first--his own method of taking each cataract--making the frail
craft respond to his will when possible by a forward pull on one or the
other of his oars. After the first minute the cockpit in which each man
sat, shut off from the rest of the boat by water-tight compartments,
was filled to the gunwales with icy water, in which the oarsmen were
compelled to remain. The boats dashed through one wave only to plunge
into another. With less than a quarter of a mile still to be covered
before the less vicious water below was reached, Russell heard his
companion cry out in terror from behind, but before he could turn to
ascertain the cause he was driven into smooth water. Mooring his boat
at the foot of the rapids as quickly as possible, Russell half climbed,
half waded, along the shore of the river and made his way back.
Here was disaster indeed! Monett's boat had been thrown by a heavy
wave into a cleft between two jagged rocks. The craft was wedged in
so tightly that he could have done little to release her if she had
been "high and dry," but as it was he was literally a prisoner in
the rushing waters, and how to rescue him was the question to be
answered--and answered quickly. How Russell performed this brave feat
is best told in his own words: "Monett, with his boat wedged tightly
between two rocks, whose tops were about a foot below the sweeping
water, was hanging desperately to the gunwales of the little craft--his
body straightened out horizontally by the rush of the current. The
boat was completely wrecked, but when I threw the rope to him I was
astounded to see the boy carefully work his way closer to the craft and
begin to tie its contents securely to the one means of saving his own
life.
[Illustration: MONETT AND RUSSELL AT BRIGHT ANGEL TRAIL, SHOWING HOW
MONETT TRAVELLED AS "DECK PASSENGER."
_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]
"So loud was the roar of the rapids that it was useless for me to yell
to him to let the provisions go and save himself. Four times he made
me haul sides of bacon and sacks of beans through the thirty feet of
rushing water between him and the shore, before he finally caught the
rope himself and let me drag him to safety. He had been in the water
more than twenty minutes, and was nearly exhausted when I helped him to
his feet."
The loss of the boat seemed at first to mark the end of their attempt
to equal the record of their predecessors, but Monett insisted that
they should try the plan of carrying him astride on the stern of the
surviving boat. "If we strike too rough water, I can always swing
overboard," he urged, "and we've needed a drag that wouldn't get fouled
in the rocks all along."
So the adventurers continued, Monett managing to keep a grip on the
covered deck while Russell navigated the frail craft through the
foaming torrent, stern first. It was a case of "get out or die," as
they put it afterwards, for they could not possibly scale the black
walls that rose on either side for thousands of feet as sheer as a
stone falls through the air. They might abandon the boat and work their
way up to some rocky shelf, but they stood an excellent chance of
starving if they found farther progress impossible. Thus began one of
the most remarkable exploits in the history of adventure. For several
days they dodged in and out of the rapids, but finally reached the
little stretch of smooth water where the river flows past Bright Angel
trail. At noon one day, about two weeks after the second shipwreck, a
party of tourists were eating their luncheon by the river-side; they
saw two men in one little row-boat swing out of the rapids two hundred
yards up stream and row leisurely toward them. In the thirty years that
tourists have visited the bottom of the canyon at this point, it is
safe to assert that not one ever saw a sight like this. Two horses were
placed at the disposal of the explorers, whose clothes were torn and
soaking wet, while their faces were covered with many weeks' growth of
beard.
They had planned to climb out of the canyon at Bright Angel to send
and receive letters, but they had no intention of remaining here.
With all their provisions now confined to the limited quarters of one
boat, and with other incentives to make them push on with all speed
possible, it was with difficulty that they were persuaded to remain at
the hotel three days. During their stay here they were fêted and made
the heroes of the hour by the guests. Through it all they displayed an
equanimity and unfailing good nature which surprised those who expected
to find these ragged adventurers rather taciturn than talkative. Three
days later the entire community accompanied the two men to the river
edge and bade them an enthusiastic farewell as they pushed off into
midstream and headed down river once more.
[Illustration: THE BOAT EMERGING FROM THE CANYON.
_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]
[Illustration: RUSSELL AS HE APPEARED AFTER THE TRIP, WITH THE "FLAG OF
VICTORY" AT THE BOW OF THE BOAT.
_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]
Below Bright Angel they had more thrilling experiences, for one of
the ugliest canyons had to be "rushed," as Russell puts it. Here they
went through no fewer than fifteen different rapids in a distance
of twenty-five miles. Several times Monett was torn from the boat
by monster waves, but being an expert swimmer and very strong he
managed to keep himself from being drowned or dashed upon the rocks,
although his escapes were miraculous. At length they emerged from the
last gorge at the little town of Needles, California, where their
appearance excited the utmost astonishment. They had started on the
journey with clean-shaven faces, but their hair and beards had grown
until Russell and Monett looked twenty years older. Their clothing was
stained by exposure to the weather and torn by the rough usage they had
experienced, and they appeared far more like tramps than the heroes
they had proved themselves to be. Well they had earned the right to
hoist the "flag of victory" on their little craft, even though it was
only the remains of a cotton undershirt tied to a pole. During the last
part of the voyage the gunwale of the boat was swung against a ledge
with such force that the steel deck was torn from its fastenings, and,
to lighten the craft and keep her from sinking, they had to pull off
the useless sheets and throw them overboard.
[Illustration: MONETT, WHO MADE THE LAST STAGES OF THE VOYAGE CLINGING
TO THE DECK-PLATES.
_From a Photo. by Fred Harvey._]
During this unique voyage they floated down no less than seven hundred
and fifty miles of the Colorado, traversing over twenty gorges whose
walls ranged from three thousand to seven thousand feet--over a
mile--in height. While the Grand Canyon and its divisions was the
longest of the gorges, extending for three hundred miles, they also
ran the Marble Canyon--a gorge seventy-five miles long. The last abyss
from which they emerged was Black Canyon. At this point they came to
the first settlement of human beings they had found on the banks of the
Colorado since leaving Lee's Ferry over three months before, for the
Bright Angel trail is several miles away from any dwelling.
The men say that they were able to accomplish their exploit only by
doing the exact opposite from what a boatman usually does. They let
their boats go stern first down stream instead of bow first, and pulled
their oars against the current. In other words, they kept rowing away
from their destination, and up instead of down river. They followed
this plan because, as Russell said, it enabled them to see where they
were going. The current and rapids propelled the boats so swiftly that
they merely used the oars for steering. Thus they avoided rocks and
points on shore upon which the craft would otherwise have struck and
been battered to pieces.
[Illustration: THE BOAT AND HER CREW AFTER THE VOYAGE.
_From a Photograph._]
A Romance of Two Islands.
+By Frederic Lees+.
That romance, such as the writer of fiction is alone thought
capable of producing, often lies hidden in family records is
strikingly borne out by the following story of adventure. The
author recently came into possession of a bundle of letters
written from the West Coast of Africa in 1844 and 1845 by his
paternal great-grandfather, and from these, combined with
details handed down from father to son, he has put together
this interesting narrative. Fierce fighting and foul play on
sea and land is the subject; the scene, the Islands of Ichaboe
and St. Helena; the time, the early years of the reign of Queen
Victoria, when, as the reader will see from the dangers run by
the hero of the story, the early pioneers of British commerce
were brought face to face with difficulties and perils which
are now almost unknown.