TRINIDAD TO RIO JANEIRO
How the Battleship Fleet Greeted the New Year at Sea--Good Will
Fore and Aft--Beautiful Spectacle of a Searchlight Drill With
Ninety-six Lights--Crews on the Whole Glad to Get Away from
Port of Spain Despite Official Cordiality--The Culgoa and the
Catamaran--Missouri's Man Overboard--The Sleepy Brigantine.
_On Board U.S.S. Louisiana, U.S. Battle Fleet_,
RIO JANEIRO, January, 14.
It is not exceeding the limits of strict accuracy to assert that there
was not a man on Admiral Evans's fleet who was not glad to leave
Trinidad. The statement must not be taken as reflecting in the least
upon the officials of the place. No greetings to a fleet of foreign
warships could have been more cordial and sincere than those given by
Governor-General Jackson and his assistants. There was no reserve about
it. It was genuine and from the heart.
But the Trinidad people did not wake up. Half a dozen merchants flew
American flags above their shops, perhaps fifty persons all told came
out to visit the ships, the clubs were thrown open to officers and now
and then some of the residents might drive or stroll down to the
waterfront to take a look at the fleet.
There were two reasons for this apparent indifference. One was that the
ships were anchored fully five miles from town. It was like anchoring a
fleet of vessels at Tompkinsville and expecting the citizens of
Manhattan to flock to the Battery to gaze at them or hire small boats to
go down to see them. A more powerful reason was that the Christmas horse
races were on. That meant three days of closing the shops at noon, three
days of betting, three days of sharpening wits to contest with three
card monte men, roulette men, wheel of fortune men; three days when the
most prosperous of the large Hindu population, in all their picturesque
garb, women with rings in noses, bracelets on arms and legs, brilliant
hued gowns, and men in their turbans and one garment of a sheet made
into coat and trousers--came into town; three days when the society of
the place imitated the Epsom and Derby customs and drove into the inner
enclosure with their drags and other turnouts, and had luncheons and
visits; three evenings of promenading and dining at the Queen's Park
Hotel.
How could any one expect the people to get enthusiastic over an American
fleet under such conditions? The people had talked for weeks, they said,
over the arrival of the fleet, but straightway when it was announced
that the races would be held at the same time--well, how can any person
attend to two important things at one and the same time? Didn't one of
the daily morning newspapers give a quarter of a column of space to the
fleet on the second day after its arrival? Talk about enterprise in
journalism! Trinidad is the place to go to see a specimen of it.
Admiral Evans expected to sail at 8 o'clock on Sunday morning, December
29, but there was some delay in coaling and he did not get away until 4
P. M. The night before sailing the flagship signalled this message to
the entire fleet, to be published on each ship the next day:
The Commander-in-Chief takes pleasure in communicating to the
officers and men of the fleet the following extract from a
letter just received from the Governor of Trinidad:
"I would ask to be allowed to offer my congratulations on the
good behavior of your men on leave. A residence of seven years
in Gibraltar, which is a rendezvous of the fleets of the world,
has given me some experience of Jack ashore, and I can assert
that your men have established a reputation which would be hard
to equal and impossible to beat."
The Commander-in-Chief wishes to express his gratification that
the conduct of the men has been such as to merit the words
quoted above.
That farewell banquet was fine. Every officer and man on the fleet
appreciated its kindly and sincere tone and every man was ready to vote
Gov. Jackson a brick. There was just one comment made throughout the
fleet, and it might as well be set out here, with no intention of raking
over the ashes of the past offensively. That comment was:
"There is nothing of Swettenham about Jackson. He's all right!"
The letter from Gov. Jackson sustains what has been said at the
beginning of this letter; the official welcome was cordial, sincere and
without reserve.
The trip to Rio was marked by two celebrations, New Year's Day and the
visit of Neptune on crossing the line. One should not think, because
these letters record considerable hilarity on three occasions--Christmas
and the other two--all within two weeks, that such is the normal
condition on an American warship. These celebrations happened all about
the same time--that is all. The prevailing condition on a warship is
anything but hilarity, as will be revealed later in these letters.
New Year's, like Christmas, was a general holiday for the fleet. There
were quarters in the morning as usual, but after that there was no work
and the smoking lamp was lighted all day. Extra things at dinners were
provided. As was general on shore, the new year was welcomed with due
ceremony and celebrations on the ships. As soon as it was night on
December 31 it was evident that something would be doing by midnight.
There was no concerted programme. About 10 P. M. the officers began to
drift one by one, into the wardroom. It was a very decorous assemblage.
Its members began to tell stories. Now and then a song would start up,
and all would join in. A fruit cake made by a fond mother at home was
brought out. In some way the eggnog cups seemed to steal out on a side
table. Then came a mixture that touched the spot and unloosened the
vocal powers.
It wasn't long before the "Coast of the High Barbaree," "Avast! Belay!
We're Off for Baffin's Bay," and other songs were being rolled out to
the swaying, dipping of the ship in the swells that the strong eastern
trades were booming up against the port side. Naval Academy songs were
shouted. One officer thoughtlessly sat in the barber's chair in the rear
of the wardroom. A great rush was made for him and he was tousled and
rumpled and pulled and hauled. He squirmed out of the grasp of his
tormentors and then the "Coast of the High Barbaree," with "Blow High,
Blow Low," was rolled out again.
Soon it became evident that a New Year's song must be sung. The
Christmas song of the Vermont, with the highrolling, lob-e-dob swing in
it, was taken as a model and there were a few minutes for adaptation to
the Louisiana. When it had been rehearsed properly, it was decided to
send a special New Year's greeting to the Vermont's wardroom, because
the officers of that ship had made a Christmas serenading call on all
the ships on Christmas night in Trinidad. One of the Vermont's officers
is Dr. F. M. Furlong. His mates on Christmas Day had nominated him for
president and so informed the Louisiana's wardroom when they reached
this ship. He was made to make a speech of acceptance and in apparent
seriousness he grew eloquent over his chances and his platform. The New
Years greeting from the Louisiana to the Vermont was something like
this:
"The Louisiana's wardroom sends happy New Year greetings to the
Vermont's wardroom and pledges the solid W. C. T. U. vote to Dr.
Furlong. Back districts, from the grassy slopes of the Green Mountains
to the saccharine depths of the Pelican canebrakes, all heard from.
We're happy and well. Happy New Year! Happy New Year! Happy New Year to
you!"
The greeting was sent to the bridge to be flung into the air on the
illuminated semaphore signals at five minutes to midnight. Then came the
final rehearsals of the New Year song, and just as the signals were
sending the greeting to the Vermont a dozen lusty officers stole up to
the quarterdeck and sang their song softly to see if it was all right.
Then they climbed on the upper deck, stepped quietly along the gangway
to the forward bridge. They were as silent as Indians. One of them had a
great Christmas palm branch fully twelve feet long. One by one they
sneaked up the port ladders and stowed themselves far out on the port
side of the bridge. All was quiet until eight bells was struck and then
eight bells more for the New Year. A great burst of song startled the
officer of the deck just as the last letter of the message to the
Vermont had been flashed. The song was:
Happy New Year! Happy New Year!
We're happy and well.
Here's to the Lo'siana
And don't she look swell!
We're a highrolling,
Rollicking crew;
Happy New Year! Happy New Year!
Happy New Year to you!
The great palm branch was swung around to the danger of utter
disarrangement of engine room signals, and the officer of the deck
growled out something about a lot of wild Indians. A high flinging dance
followed on the bridge, with the Happy New Year song shouted twenty
times or more.
"Get out of here!" ordered the bridge officer.
"All right; we'll serenade the Captain!" shouted the merry crew. Down to
the lower bridge, where the Captain has his emergency quarters while at
sea, they went. The Captain got a good dose of noise, but being a
discreet man he said never a word. There was a rumor that he wasn't
inside at all and that, knowing what to do on certain occasions, he had
decided to remain in his private rooms below, where not even unofficial
knowledge of any high jinks could reach his ears.
Then the procession started for the quarterdeck, and leaning far over
the rails on the starboard side with the stiff trade wind blowing the
sound from the megaphoned throats of the singers, happy New Year's
greetings were sung to the Georgia, 400 yards back and to starboard.
That ship heard it easily.
Then came a procession through the Louisiana. The members of the crew
were slung in their hammocks, but numerous noises of catcalls and horns
and shouts told that no one was asleep. At every section of every
division on every deck the sailors were greeted with song. They sat up
and cheered. It was fine to have a party of officers come around and
wish you a happy New Year. Every mess of the ship received a call. When
the warrant officers' mess was reached there was a brilliant display of
pajamas and--well, in print one musn't go into particulars too fully.
Regulations must be obeyed strictly even when you're having a good time.
All the regulations were obeyed--several times, and then some--in that
big roundup.
Didn't the bos'n sing:
Bad luck to the day
I wandered away.
and then go into the forty-seven verses about life on the "Old
Colorado"? Didn't the electrical gunner join with the chief engineer in
giving down the twenty-seven bells song? Didn't the carpenter dance a
highland fling? Didn't the scholarly warrant machinist from the Boston
Tech. twang a banjo and set the pace for the "Old New York" and the
"Dear Old Broadway" songs? And then didn't someone remark that "dear old
Kim" hadn't been seen in all the parading that night? A rush was made
for Kim's room but it was barricaded.
"Come out, Kim!" was the order.
"Not on your life," was the response.
And then, for revenge, didn't the crowd sing a song about Kim? Every man
who knows anything about the United States Navy knows Kim, the genial
paymaster's clerk, who sits in the junior officer's mess to keep the
youngsters in proper submission, and who has trained a generation of
officers in things naval; Kim, who has sailed the high seas in the
United States Navy for a quarter of a century and knows so much about
the ships and officers that he wouldn't dare to tell it all and ought to
be made an Admiral for his knowledge and his discretion; Kim, who has to
salute many a man with a star on his sleeve and some of them with two
stars, the minute he sees them, and then can call them Bill and Jim and
Tom in private; Kim, the best beloved, all around good fellow on the
ship; yes, everybody knows Kim. It isn't necessary to print the full
name of this obliging, hard working autocrat of the paymaster's office.
This is the song that greeted him:
Everybody works but dear old Kim,
He sits 'round all day,
Feet upon the table,
Smoking his Henry Clay;
Young Pay pays out money,
Old Pay takes it in;
Everybody works on this ship
But dear old Kim.
Howls of glee from warrant officers, from petty officers, from hundreds
of hammocks greeted the song. Kim chuckled but wouldn't come out.
Finally the siege could be resisted no longer and out came Kim in full
regulation pajamas and the din was terrific. It was a dance all around
and some more strictly regulation things to drink. Happy New Year was
sung for the 273d time and then came a further inspection of the ship.
Wasn't it time for the dinner for New Year's Day to be tested in the
cook's galley? Wasn't there as fine a specimen of the genus turkey as
graced any board in the United States all ready to be tested? And wasn't
it tested until nothing but the rack was left?
The fire rooms had to be visited and down slippery ladders with the
machinery chugging and rolling and plunging the piratical crew stole.
Where men were sweating in front of furnace doors in watertight
compartments the greeting was sung and the words "Happy New Year" were
chalked on furnace doors. Perhaps the engines lost a revolution or two,
or the steam slowed off just a bit and the officer of the deck wondered
why he was unable to keep his position of 1,200 yards from the flagship
exactly, but what did it matter?
And when the rounds were all completed and the pirates assembled in the
wardroom for their final song and final--well, never mind that--didn't a
messenger from the bridge come down with a signalled message from the
Vermont with a toast that was being offered in the Vermont's wardroom:
Here's to you, Louisiana,
Here's to you, our jovial friends?
Every ship was having a celebration something like that. It's impossible
to give the details because when a big fleet is going along at the rate
of ten knots an hour and fighting a mean Amazon current as well, and the
semaphores and other signals are being kept busy with official messages
it isn't exactly good form for newspaper landlubbers to ask to be
allowed to inquire what was done on the other ships, matters which, even
if told unofficially, would not look exactly attractive all written out
in a signal book, because you can't put much fun in a signal book entry.
There must have been a good deal of the happy-go-lucky spirit on some of
the ships, for on two or three of them the rollickers got at the siren
whistles and blew them. That is something that might prove serious to a
fleet sailing as this is, because the blowing of siren whistles, except
at a certain hour of the day, when all the whistles are tested--they
call the noise the loosening of the dogs of war--means grave danger and
it is time to act at once. But New Year's came in happily all around and
when the fun was over the one thought of the rollickers was that within
a week Neptune would come aboard and after that there would be a long
dry spell.
When quarters were sounded a little after 9 o'clock on New Year's
morning all hands appeared. The usual formality marked the occasion. The
Captain came up and looked precisely as if his ship had been as quiet as
a grave all night; the executive officer answered salutes with an
incisive manner, as each officer approached and reported his division
"all present or accounted for"; the members of the crew gave no hint
that they had seen any officer roaming about the ship only a few hours
before in a free and easy manner violating all ordinary traditions of a
naval officer's dignity. And as for the warrant officers, when they
saluted and gave you an icy stare, as if they might have met you
somewhere once upon a time but really had quite forgotten your name, you
felt relieved and glad that those two or three red streaks on your left
eye ball had escaped general notice, and then it was that you felt like
writing an apostrophe to discipline in the American Navy.
Of the trip itself to Rio--the mere sailing of it--there is not much to
record. It was done in squadron formation--two lines of warships, with
the supply ships Glacier and Culgoa bringing up the rear midway between
the lines. For six days off the upper part of South America there was
quite a heavy swell and a strong Amazon current that retarded the
progress of the ships to some extent.
One day the swells were so heavy as to make the sea moderately rough.
Every ship in the fleet buried its nose under the water constantly and
sometimes the seas would slip up the sloping fronts of the turrets and
splash their spray against the bridges. The sun was bright, and as these
seas would come over the bow and spread their aprons of water over the
forward parts of the ships the colors would change from blue to green,
with white fringes, and then the sun would arch rainbows over the
boiling torrents that would run from the sides as the ships rose to the
tops of the waves. The sea was tossing and tumbling far out to the
horizon circle, and as the ships dipped and rose they seemed like
veritable warhorses of the sea rearing and plunging in royal sport. It
was a beautiful spectacle, and it lasted all of one day.
Soon after rounding the far eastern corner of South America there came a
little comedy. The Illinois had dropped out of column formation to
adjust some trifling disarrangement of machinery and some one on her
thought he saw a raft to the eastward with two men clinging to it.
Those in charge were evidently new to this coast and did not recall that
fishermen of the Amazon region often sail 150 to 200 miles out to sea in
the small catamarans that look more like logs or rafts than fishing
vessels. A signal was sent to the Culgoa.
The fleet had no information at this time as to why the Culgoa suddenly
dropped out of column and headed to the east and then to the north until
she was nearly hull-down. Soon it became known that she was bent on a
rescue and the correspondents got out their note books and began to
prepare to make much of the incident. After two hours the Culgoa was
back in her place with what seemed to be a sheepish look to those
familiar with the situation. She had found two men on a raft--that is to
say, on a catamaran--and they were fishing and seemed content with their
station in life and especially honored because a naval vessel of the
United States had gone out of her way to greet them. The intention was
all right and good form did not permit the bantering of any humorous
personalities on the situation.
Three nights out from Rio Admiral Evans ordered the first searchlight
practice for the fleet. Let it be understood that there are certain
things which a correspondent may not send from this fleet or even reveal
afterward. They relate especially to tactical things, the things that
may give information or some hint of information of importance to other
nations. All navies have searchlights, however, and what will be said
here of the drill will be of that nature familiar to every naval man and
no more. It was merely a warming up, so to speak, of searchlight work,
just a test to see if all the apparatus was in good condition.
The drill was to begin at exactly 8 o'clock. Long before that time every
searchlight had been uncovered and connected up and all eyes were
waiting for the Connecticut to begin the flashing. Just as eight bells
were struck, when not more than half a dozen lights were visible on each
ship of the fleet, a great beam of white shot out across the starboard
of the Connecticut. Instantly ninety-six beams like it darted into the
air and the ocean for something like a square mile became illuminated as
though the full glory of the heavens had descended upon it.
You who have seen Coney Island lighted up on a summer's night may form
some idea of the scene if you can concentrate in your imagination the
lights down there turned into a hundred great shafts, sweeping, dancing,
swinging, soaring into space, each light with the sheen of a full moon
brought right down within the grasp of a man who turned a cylinder about
as he pleased and said to the rays go here and go there. It was like a
new world sprung into existence before your very eyes. Something of the
meaning of the power of a fleet of warships was revealed to you. It was
merely a small part of this power, just a trifle of the strength of
warships put on display because it could be tested in no other way.
Each ship had six of these lights. The rules do not permit the rays of
one ship to be displayed upon another because it imperils navigation for
one thing, and there are also other naval reasons. It required some
skill to avoid lighting up your neighbor ship. As soon as the lights
were turned on the men managing them began to swing and twist them, now
fast, now slowly, about each ship. When the rays struck the water, say,
about 300 yards away from a ship and each light was turned slowly
around the vessel, it was as if so many sprites of the sea were dancing
about like children around a May pole. Then a beam would go scampering
away as if it had the concentrated velocity of a hundred 12-inch shots.
Then there would come a period of helter-skelter playing of the lights
until a slow movement of searching on the waters was in progress. Each
ship looked as if it were a thousand legged spider, each leg made up of
a ray of light. Sometimes the lights of a ship would be interlaced;
again they would be centered on some spot far out in the water.
The rolling crests of the swells would be whitened with the gleam of
thousands of diamonds. The reflection of the light beams made bands of
purple and deep green upon the water. The stars lost their brightness.
It was as if the Yankee ships had reached out and stolen a good share of
the strength of the sun--which actually was the case from the standpoint
of science--had stored it in their holds and then had sprung it at
night, just to show what could be done in the way of robbing the powers
of darkness of their evil aspect. For half an hour the thrilling
exhibition continued and just as you were preparing to throw up your hat
and give three cheers for Uncle Sam and his navy an officer brought you
back to you feet with the quiet remark:
"Why, that isn't a patch compared with the real thing! This was just a
sort of tuning up process, no more to be compared with the real thing
than the tuning of a piano is to be compared with a Paderewski
performance."
You thought him a little strong in his analogy until of a sudden all the
lights went out and there were sixteen battleships quietly sailing
along a sea as smooth as Long Island Sound in the summer time, with only
regulation lights showing, distances kept perfectly and nothing to
indicate that there had been anything out of the ordinary in a sedate
and peaceful passage from one port to another.
An unexpected use of the searchlights followed about thirty hours after
this first display. It was 2:30 o'clock of the second morning after when
the unforeseen happened. A gun on the Missouri boomed out. It was the
signal for a man overboard. At once the life buoys were cast off from
the ship, their lights burning brightly, and the Missouri and the entire
eight ships of the second squadron, running parallel with the squadron
that Admiral Evans was leading, burst into a blaze of light. In two
minutes the entire fleet was stopped. Boats were lowered from the
Missouri, the Illinois and Kearsarge following. The searchlights were
thrown upon the water and upon the boats, showing the men at work rowing
about and searching for the lost man. It made a brilliant scene in the
dead of night. Carefully and systematically the boats were rowed about
for half an hour. Then, when it was evident that if a man had fallen
overboard he had been lost, perhaps by striking a propeller or being hit
by some other part of the ship, recalls were given and the boats
returned to the ships and the squadron proceeded. At that time the
Missouri signalled that she was not sure she had lost a man, but a
sentry had thought he had seen one fall overboard.
Later the facts came out. The alarm was given by a man who had a
sailor's nightmare. No one was found missing at roll call the next
morning and every one felt so sheepish that no formal report was made.
A few hours previous, at 10:35 in the evening, one of the perils of
navigation--especially for the other fellow was brought home vividly to
the fleet. A barkentine with a dim light was sighted about 800 yards to
the west of Admiral Evans's squadron. The vessel was going north.
Probably the man on watch had gone to sleep. He suddenly awoke and
before the officer of the deck on the Louisiana could recover from his
amazement he headed straight for that vessel, the fourth ship in the
squadron. It was soon plain that the barkentine would clear the stern of
the Louisiana and would become a menace to the Georgia, the following
ship. The officer of the deck of the Georgia had to sheer off and this
made the officer of the deck of the Rhode Island sheer also. The
barkentine went right between the Louisiana and the Georgia.
By that time the officer of the sailing vessel had got a lot of lights
out and apparently was in a state of complete obfustication. He had
never seen so many lights at sea in such a limited space in his life.
Clearing the first squadron he came into full view of another over to
the east. There he was, all mixed up in a fleet of warships going at the
rate of ten knots an hour. He became rattled again and turned to go
outside the line of the first squadron, which he had just pierced. He
came near hitting the Virginia, but finally got away safely. It was a
hair raising episode.
"That's what I call dancing a Virginia reel at sea by boats," said one
officer after the incident was closed.
"It seems to me," said another, "to show that not only does a kind
Providence usually watch over a drunken man on shore, but seems to guard
men at sea who go to sleep on watch."
It was a miraculous escape for the barkentine, threading her way in and
out of a fleet of warships proceeding at fair speed and only 400 yards
apart. No skipper would have dared take such chances in the daytime and
in full control of his craft. The officers of the fleet breathed a sigh
of relief to think that they didn't have to record against this cruise
the running down of a vessel at sea with the consequent probable loss of
life.
And so the voyage went on placidly with the usual drills and daily
ceremonies until Cape Frio, some sixty miles east of Rio, was sighted
and then there came the journey along the coast, the entrance into the
magnificent harbor, the splash of the mud hooks and the feeling that
one-third of the voyage to San Francisco was over, and the fleet was
shaking itself down into a smooth working condition better and better
with every day at sea.