NATIONAL SALUTES AT SEA
Unique Meeting of United States and Argentine Ships 300 Miles
From Land--Grand Naval Spectacle--High Honors for Admiral
Evans and Cordial Greetings for All His Men--Fine Display of
Seamanship on South American Vessels--Picturesque Incidents of
the Voyage From Rio to the Most Southern City in the World--
Nature Put on Mourning as the Farewells Were Said and Signalled
at Brazil's Capital--The Man-o'-War Mail From Home.
_On Board U. S. S. Louisiana, U. S. Battle Fleet_,
PUNTA ARENAS, CHILE, Jan. 31.
The passage of the battle fleet from Rio to this the southernmost city
of the world was marked by a marine spectacle unprecedented, so far as
any one in this fleet can recall, in naval annals. A squadron of the
Argentine navy came out hundreds of miles to greet our ships, and
probably for the first time in the history of navies national salutes
were fired upon the high seas. Squadrons and fleets have passed one
another before time and time again, and honors have been exchanged, the
flags of flag officers have been saluted, but after these courtesies
have been finished they have gone their separate ways, all official
proprieties having been observed.
But this greeting was so unusual that Admiral Evans set a new naval
fashion, and after his flag had been saluted--seventeen guns, by the
way; the number increases on the way around, and if the warships keep it
up, each one giving the Rear Admiral more and more guns, he will soon be
an Admiral of the fleet in the thundered judgment of other nations, no
matter what action Congress may take--he ordered the salute of
twenty-one guns for the Argentines. The Argentine ships gave full
justification, for they had manned the rails on approaching our ships,
an honor paid ordinarily only to the head of a nation.
Admiral Evans met this unusual compliment by choosing to regard it as an
honor to our nation, not a personal matter, and he fired twenty-one
guns, to which the Argentine flagship responded at once. In addition to
those honors the crews of the various ships cheered one another as they
passed. It was all different from the accepted rule of fleets or
squadrons in passing and it left a fine feeling.
"I never saw sentiment carried so far in all my naval experience," said
one man who will soon have the right to hoist a two-starred Rear
Admiral's flag. "Perhaps it was unusual, but it was impressive; it was
impressive."
Our fleet had no sooner reached Rio than Admiral Evans was informed that
the Argentine ships would come out from Buenos Ayres to greet him on the
way to Punta Arenas. Three days before sailing inquiries were made as to
his probable course and the hour when he would be off the mouth of the
River Plata. The information was cabled duly and our fleet held itself
in readiness to do the proper and handsome thing for this unusual
occasion. Saturday, January 25, was almost a wonder day at sea. The air,
which had been accumulating a chill under cloudy skies and an eastern
wind, became balmy and the sea was as smooth as a pond. The sky
remained overcast and the fleet had been running for three days
practically by dead reckoning. Late on Saturday night the fleet overtook
the tender Yankton and the "beef boats," Glacier and Culgoa. They were
ordered to take their places with the fleet and when everybody except
those on watch went to sleep it was expected that the three smaller
craft would be in their places in the morning. But the wise weather
sharps who know this region sniffed the air and said:
"Weather breeder!"
Sure enough at daybreak a heavy sea began rolling across from the
southern coast of Africa and the wind began to blow. Before 7 o'clock
the ships were plunging and making heavy weather of it. On the log books
it was set down as a moderate gale. The waves sometimes were twenty-five
feet high. The ships with quarter decks cut down were smothered with
spray and solid water from time to time. The ships rolled very
little--never in the strongest gale have the ships of the Connecticut
class at least had their tables racks in place--but they yawed and
dipped, as all ships in heavy weather are expected to do. The Yankton
and Culgoa were not in sight. The weather had been too much for the
little Yankton and she was ordered to slow down and the Culgoa was told
to stand by her. The air was thick with rain squalls and mist and a more
miserable day could hardly be imagined.
The morning wore on and nothing was heard from the Argentine ships.
"Guess the sea was too much for them," was the general comment.
According to our reckoning we had passed the thirty-fifth parallel of
latitude, right off the Plata, just before noon. We were also in the
proper longitude, but all was thick, and the general supposition was
that the Argentine fleet had met our torpedo flotilla, which was more
than a day ahead of us, and had escorted that into the Plata.
It was just about 1 o'clock in the afternoon when a wireless message was
received from the Culgoa saying that the Argentine ships were asking him
by wireless for our longitude and latitude. The figures were sent back
promptly. Their figures were also given and some error was made in
transmission. It was figured that they were something like 110 miles to
the south and a little to the west of us. The weather began to moderate
and then the opinion was that if they steered straight for us we ought
to meet them about 6 o'clock that Sunday evening. But about 4 o'clock
there came another message from the Culgoa, saying they were about five
miles from that ship and going southwest, the same course as ours. It
was a surprise.
Admiral Evans also received by wireless through the Culgoa this message
of greeting from Admiral Oliva, in command of the Argentine ships:
Jan. 26, 1908, 2 p.m.
_To Rear Admiral Evans_:
The commander of the San Martin division of the Argentine navy
salutes Rear Admiral Evans, his officers and men, and transmits
to him the position of the Argentine division ordered to meet
him as by dead reckoning latitude 36° 46' S., longitude 53° 41'
W.
HIPOLITO OLIVA.
To this greeting Admiral Evans sent this response:
Jan. 26, 1908, 2:43 p.m.
_To Rear Admiral Oliva_:
Rear Admiral Evans thanks the chief of the Argentine division
for his courtesy and begs that he will transmit to the
Argentine Government his thanks for sending a naval division to
meet the United States fleet.
EVANS.
Then came another surprise. The Culgoa told us that the Argentine ships
were steaming at the rate of fourteen and a half knots and were only
fifteen knots away.
"Fourteen and a half knots, eh!" was the open eyed and arch browed
comment. "Wonder how long they can keep that up! Pretty smart that for a
South American squadron!"
The sun burst out from the clouds half an hour before sunset and the
navigators got satisfactory observations and it was possible to send
back our exact position. The Argentines had been groping around for us
up to that time and the best they could do was to find the Culgoa and
the Yankton. The long twilight of the high latitude in midsummer
followed, but just after 8 o'clock the Connecticut sent a signal to the
fleet and immediately shot its after searchlight high in the heavens. It
caught the clouds miles and miles back, a brilliant beam. Then came
another signal to the fleet and instantly the after searchlights of all
sixteen ships were combined in a monstrous shaft of light that cleft a
path gleaming with the brilliance of a comet's tail through the lowering
clouds. It vibrated and pulsated with the glow of an aurora borealis and
every quiver and dart seemed to say to the Argentines:
"Here we are! Here we are! Follow this and you'll find us. We're only
going ten knots an hour. You'll soon catch up. Hurry along; we'll be
glad to see you."
For twenty minutes that extract of the sun bored into the clouds
behind, showing the way. It was a veritable pillar of fire by night. The
combined smoke of all the smokepipes of the fleet would have made a
pretty good pillar of cloud by day had it been clear, but it was too
late for that now. Shortly before 9 o'clock, well astern, the faint
light of a ship could be made out with the naked eye. The quartermaster
on the bridge said there were four lights. Word was sent to the
Captain--the usual rule when any vessel is sighted--and the news spread
about, and soon dozens of men were straining their eyes to see the four
lights. By a little after 10 o'clock all had become so plain that it was
said the ships were within five miles. They came a little nearer and
then slowed down for the night, keeping the same speed as our ships.
When daylight came on Monday, January 27, one of the fairest days nature
ever provided, with a crisp southwest breeze, corresponding to the
northwest breeze with us, every breath of it a tonic, the Argentine
ships were about three miles astern of us. Shortly before 7 o'clock
Admiral Evans ordered a double evolution. The fleet was in four
divisions abreast, an Admiral leading each division. The second and
fourth divisions were slowed down, and then by an oblique movement two
squadrons were formed. These again were shifted into one column of
sixteen ships proceeding wing and wing. The colors were hoisted at the
gaff and the Argentines showed their beautiful blue and white ensigns.
Soon the Argentines were observed to put on more speed. The naval day
begins at 8 o'clock in the morning. No greetings would be passed before
that time. The Argentine ships kept creeping up, and when the first
passed the Kentucky, the last ship in our column, to starboard, it was
seen that her rails were manned. The Argentine ships were in war color,
dark olive green. Their crews were in white. Our crews had been shifted
to blue in the chilly blow of the day before, but our ships were white.
Up along the line came the Argentines. Every ship had received a signal
to pay the usual honors. Marine guards were drawn up, the crews were at
attention, the bands on our ships played the Argentine national hymn and
the bands on the four Argentine vessels played ours.
Sixty-four times the national air of each country was played as the
Argentines slowly forged ahead. Many of the officers had got out the
naval books to recognize the ships of the visitors, as they might be
called. Most of the officers made them out correctly. They were two
armored cruisers of the Cristobal Colon class and two protected
cruisers. They were the San Martin, Buenos Ayres, Pueyrredon and 9 de
Julio, and they made a smart show, each having a bone in her teeth. They
were at intervals of 1,000 yards, and they kept the intervals as
accurately as American ships would have done, and that is saying a great
deal, as any one can testify who has seen this fleet sweep into a
foreign harbor.
The San Martin had passed the Louisiana and Vermont and was abreast of
the Kansas and just behind the Connecticut, and about a thousand yards
to the westward, when up went the American ensign. It was a beautiful
new flag, and the bright sun lit up its folds gloriously. The ensign
could scarcely have looked better upon Old Ironsides. Then a gun barked
out the first detonation of the salute. One by one the guns were
counted. Thirteen roared out. Then came another flash and report.
"Hello! They're going to follow the Brazilians' example and give Admiral
Evans a Vice-Admiral's salute," was the comment.
Fifteen guns sounded and then came another flash and boom. Then there
was another and then they stopped. Well! The Americans were surprised.
An Admiral's salute!
"They do things in their own way down here," was the comment, and to
this was added invariably: "Wish it was really true," for it must be
recorded here in a spirit of accuracy that there is not an officer
or sailor or marine on this fleet who, if he had his way, would not
make Admiral Evans not only a vice but a full Admiral. It is the
honest opinion of this fleet that he deserves to be at least a
Vice-Admiral. The men in the fleet do not think it becoming to have
the Commander-in-Chief fly a Rear Admiral's flag, a sight that would
not be seen in any other navy.
The Connecticut responded to the salute gun for gun, as was quite proper
as naval things go. The salute from the San Martin had scarcely ceased
before the men on the Argentine ships broke into cheering, and well they
might, for they were looking upon a naval spectacle such as few other
navies have ever seen. The San Martin crept up beside the Connecticut,
forged ahead and then the Connecticut with the Argentine ensign at the
main fired the usual salute to the flag of another country upon the high
seas. It made the men familiar with the etiquette of salutes jump. It
was thrilling to them. The San Martin answered quickly and the exchange
of courtesies with guns and bands and manning of rails was ended. But
not all the exchange was over. The wireless keys were ticking now and
this message came from Admiral Oliva to Admiral Evans:
Jan. 27, 1908, 8:28 a.m.
_To Rear Admiral Evans_:
Having completed the honorable duty with which I am charged by
my Government, I am about to part company for Buenos Ayres, and
it would give me great pleasure to transmit any despatches for
Admiral Evans.
OLIVA.
Admiral Evans sent this reply:
Jan. 27, 1908, 8:57 a.m.
_To Rear Admiral Oliva_:
The Commander-in-Chief thanks you and the Argentine Government
most heartily for the graceful honor done his fleet. He will
thank you to transmit to Washington upon your arrival in port
that we are all well and proceeding to our destination in the
Pacific. He wishes you a pleasant cruise.
EVANS.
A further exchange of good wishes for pleasant trips followed.
Then the Argentine ships sheered off. They did it most politely.
Although their destination was more than 300 miles to the rear, they
turned a right oblique, the movement being done in a way that excited
the admiration of the Americans, and went off in the same general
direction in which our fleet was travelling.
"Don't want to turn their backs on us!" was the explanation given. In
toward the coast they went, and not until they were nearly hull down did
they turn about and head for home. It was a pretty compliment from most
polite men on extremely smart ships.
"That's a real navy!" said the Americans, "even if it is small!"
Coming, as the exchange of greetings did, upon the first bright day
after the departure of our fleet from Rio amid gloom and other
depressing surroundings, it warmed up the hearts of those on the fleet
and the cheers for the Argentine Republic and her navy were genuine
expressions of good will.
All that day and the day following the high seas greeting of the
Argentines, the ocean was remarkable for its placidity. It was about as
boisterous as the heaving billows of famous Cheesequake Creek under a
hot summer sun. On the night of the second day of this there came
indications of a change. The sea lumped itself a little, the wind
changed and on the following morning, Wednesday, January 29, there came
the first experience with fog on this voyage. The ships had been
manoeuvred into a different formation from that on the way to Rio. The
four vessels of the first division were abreast at 400 yards interval,
with the flagship as right guide. The three other divisions followed
each at 1,600 yards distance, the flagship of each division acting as
right guide and directly behind the Connecticut. It was a very open
formation and seemed to fill the entire circle of the horizon.
Along about 8 o'clock in the morning a fog bank was noticed directly
ahead. The temperature had risen about 10 degrees. The day was clear but
a blanket of mist hung over the water. There was no time, even had there
been any inclination to do so on the flagship, to order the fleet into
exact column and put over the towing spars, whereby each ship can tell
when it is exactly 400 yards astern of its predecessor.
Orders were given to turn on searchlights in case the ships were
obscured from one another. It wasn't long before each ship was cut off
from the rest. Then came the turning on of searchlights. One naturally
would think that this would be almost farcical when the sun was shining,
but not so. Those bright little suns could be seen on the ships near by,
gleaming through the mist, when the outlines of a ship only 400 yards
away could not be made out. You could keep your distance easily in this
way. You knew where your nearest neighbor was, and often you could make
out the position of two or three of your neighbors. The lights looked
like reflections of the sun in a mirror, only slightly obscured. You can
see that, you know, any time a looking glass is used in daylight, as
many a small boy has found out when he plays pranks. The glare from the
ships was truly a beacon in the gloom, and it made you feel comfortable
as you thought of the dangers of navigating those immense ships in close
proximity in a treacherous fog.
Sometimes the fog would lift and you could get a view of the ships of
your own division. Occasionally the ships of the division behind you
would be revealed in the same way. Then would come another thick bank
and you would be shut out from the rest of the world, and then you would
take particular notice of the signalling by whistles. Each ship would
sound its own letter by the toots which made the number corresponding to
its letter. This is the way it would go:
Connecticut--Letter F--Toot, toot--toot, toot--toot,
toot--t-o-o-t!
Kansas--Letter S--Toot, toot--t-o-o-t--toot, toot.
Vermont--Letter R--Toot, toot--t-o-o-t--t-o-o-t.
Louisiana--Letter W--T-o-o-t--t-o-o-t--toot, toot--t-o-o-t.
The Connecticut would sound her signal. Then across the line could be
heard the signal of the Kansas, and then the Vermont would sound hers
and then the Louisiana would get busy. After a short interval the
whistling would be repeated. This and the searchlights made it possible
to keep the line well fixed. The quartermasters were taking special
pains to steer the exact course that had been set. You saw how nicely it
all worked out when the fog lifted, and there would be the leading ships
almost exactly in line, ploughing their ways to the southwest, just as
if there had been no interception of vision. One glimpse of this really
fine work reassured you at once and you began to think that a fleet of
warships all huddled close together in a thick fog was not in the unsafe
predicament you had fancied it to be. About noon the fog lifted entirely
as the sun burned it away. One evening later there was about twenty
minutes of fog, but that was the end of this kind of experience on the
Atlantic coast.
For five days before Cape Virgin was sighted at the eastern end of the
Strait of Magellan the change in the temperature became marked. The
thermometer went down to the fifties. The air became bracing. Gradually
all white was eliminated from the uniforms. You put on your overcoat and
sweater when you went on the bridge to stay. You slept under a blanket
at night. Then you closed your port. You rubbed your fingers together
to warm them up in the morning. Preparations were made for turning on
steam. Only the cranks took a cold shower bath in the morning.
The men showed the change from the enervating climate of the tropics to
the bracing one of the lower temperate zone by their sprightly
movements. All hands felt good, as the saying is. We had gone from the
beginning of winter at home, with the snowstorms, into the oppressive
heat of the equator, and now we were back in the weather conditions of
the Nova Scotia coast in midsummer, only the cold winds were from the
south off the Antarctic ice, instead of from the frozen north, as at
home.
Things do get turned around in this Southern Hemisphere, sure enough. It
was strange to see the moon curving itself from east to west in the
northern sky. We have already crossed the line of the sun and that is
beginning to steal off to the north, although it is almost directly
overhead at meridian. You see new stars--such bright ones!--with the
beautiful Southern Cross as the most conspicuous constellation, just now
in such a position that it has its top turned toward the eastern horizon
as if to point toward Jerusalem. The winds come from an unusual
direction and you soon become so mixed that you are not sure whether a
clear, brilliant sunset with a dry air is an augury for clear weather on
the morrow.
Cape Virgin's fine headland came in sight on Friday morning, January 31.
It was thought desirable to swing ships before the strait was entered,
and then it was too late to try to make the run through the eastern part
of the strait to Punta Arenas, about 120 miles, with the first and
second narrows, that day, and so we anchored for the night in
Possession Bay, a great open sheet of water, with the Patagonian
mountains to the north. Early this morning we started on the first leg
of the picturesque passage that Magellan first revealed to the world,
and this afternoon came to anchor here.
The departure of our fleet from Rio was dramatic rather than
spectacular. Nature took a hand in the snapping of the heartstrings and
scolded and wept copiously. It was precisely as if an overwrought woman
had been keeping a smiling face up to the last moment before the parting
with some one close to her heart whom she might never see again and then
giving way to hysterical weeping and even lamentations, her face turned
away after one look and covered with a veil except for an occasional
peep until the loved one was out of sight.
The morning had been blistering hot. Shore leaves had expired at 9
o'clock, all were aboard except those sent ashore to look out for any
stragglers that had not reported and the mail orderlies who took off the
last missives. By 10 o'clock the seams in the decks of the ships were
exuding pitch. President Penna of Brazil was expected to come down the
bay soon after noon to call upon Admiral Thomas on the Minnesota. About
11:30 one of those delightful sea breezes that make the summer
afternoons in Rio not only tolerable but even attractive sprang up and
every one was happy.
Just before noon it was observed that a few fog banks with darkening
edges were being swept in over the tops of Sugar Loaf and Corcovado. It
was soon a little lowery in the southern horizon. Then the word was
passed that the Presidential yacht was approaching. At a signal from
the flagship the long lines of flags used to dress ship were swayed
aloft and all the American battleships, the Brazilian ships, the Italian
cruiser and the German cruiser in port suddenly were alive with snapping
pennants from bows to taffrails. The American ensign was at the fore and
the Brazilian ensign at the main of our ships.
The saluting signal came and the 3-inch guns on the ships roared out a
welcome of twenty-one guns on each vessel to the President. Slowly the
yacht approached the fleet and began to encircle it, passing first on
the side opposite from Rio. The Louisiana was the first ship to be
passed. The rail was manned with men with locked arms, the band played
the Brazilian national air, the officers stood at salute. Then the
Virginia was passed and the same greeting was repeated. Down around the
line the yacht went until it drew up near the Minnesota on the opposite
side. A launch steamed off to get the President. As he approached the
Minnesota gave him twenty-one more guns.
Then the fleet gave itself up to final preparations for departure.
Twenty minutes later the Minnesota fired another salute to mark the
President's leavetaking. He went to the Brazilian cruiser, Benjamin
Constant, which, with the rest of the Brazilian ships, sixteen in
number, was to escort the American fleet out of the harbor. By that time
the clouds had begun to descend from the hills, the wind to blow in
gusts and a few raindrops to fall. It was seen that the waterfront was
black with people. Then sharp dashes of rain swept over the city and hid
it from view. The clouds fell upon the shore in great fog banks.
The President by this time had gone to Fort Villegagnon, the naval
station in the harbor half a mile from the beautiful Flamingo boulevard
and beach. The starting signal for the American fleet was given
precisely at 3 o'clock. Anchors were aweigh on the minute. The harbor
was so thick and black that one could scarcely see 1,000 yards. With the
black smoke of the funnels of the ships being swept down upon the water
an inky darkness spread itself over everything, and often it was with
difficulty that the ship ahead at 400 yards could be made out clearly.
As one ship after another swung in toward Villegagnon and thundered her
twenty-one good-by guns the rain descended in sheets. If the President
was reviewing the fleet no one on board could see him. Rio was wiped
out. The thunder peals from Sugar Loaf and Corcovado at times outroared
those of the guns. Nature was saluting in angry tones. She seemed
indignant that the fleet was going away and made no bones about saying
it. From 'way back on the north where the majestic Organ Mountains
nearly pierce the clouds there came the roar of protest.
The mountain-encircled city was surely giving way to hysteria. Sackcloth
and ashes were in evidence, the furiously driving fog clouds being the
sackcloth and the soot from smoke of funnels and powder blasts being the
ashes. Half the ships had passed Villegagnon when the rain became a
patter suddenly and the veil was lifted from Rio. The waterfront was
still black. The people had stood there for nearly an hour in a driving
rain. Their fluttering handkerchiefs could be seen plainly.
More and more the clouds lifted and once or twice old Corcovado and
Sugar Loaf peeped out as if for a final look. Then they hid their faces.
Soon the entire American fleet could be made out in the murky
atmosphere. At last the line became clear. Directly behind it came the
line of Brazilian ships. They added their salutes to the noise of the
day in passing Villegagnon, but nature had ceased to cry out; the
thunder was over.
Down at the harbor entrance were launches, rowboats, sailing craft,
ferryboats, yachts and several ocean-going liners, all loaded down with
people. Dozens of them went outside with the fleet and rolled and tossed
about while their occupants waved and shouted good-bys. Some of the
little craft ran close to the ships in the hope of saying a frantic last
good-by to the American friends they had made at private dinner parties
and receptions. A mist soon settled upon the water and finally blotted
the harbor entrance from view. The Brazilian ships following were made
out from time to time. The good-by was over and every one was glad.
It was entirely different from the Hampton Roads departure. There was a
President present at each place, but there were twice as many ships
roaring out salutes at Rio. There were twenty times as many people on
shore. Nature smiled at Hampton Roads; nature not only sulked but made a
pitiable exhibition of her uncontrolled anger and grief at Rio. The
fresh breezes crinkled out the flags and made them beautiful at Hampton
Roads; the driving gusts tore ensigns to ribbons at Rio and made a
prolonged job of mending bunting on all the ships.
When darkness was beginning to fall and speed cones had been lowered
and masthead and other lights had been turned on a steamship was noticed
coming out of the mist behind the fleet. She was alive with bunting and
ran straight toward the middle of the fleet. Close at hand she began a
great tooting of the whistle. She was one of the ocean-going vessels
that had been chartered for the good-by, and she had run nearly
twenty-five miles in the thick weather for a final glimpse and farewell
shriek. Rio certainly hated to let the fleet go. Hospitality such as the
Brazilians showed was never experienced by an American fleet, or
probably any other nation's, before. It is likely to pass down as one of
the brightest spots in our naval annals.
The farewell had a double side. The emotions of the Americans were
divided for the reason that the mail had just arrived that morning--the
first mail from home in six weeks. Letters from loved ones took the
thoughts away from Rio for an hour or two, and then came the parting
with the memory of those back in the States freshened by the missives
that had come--well, naval officers don't show it when they are blue,
but that night you couldn't find three men in the Louisiana's
wardroom--the same was probably true of the other ships--and if you made
a trip around the ship, far out in some sheltered place where the rain
gusts did not fall and the wind did not blow, you would find some fellow
sitting looking blankly out in the darkness. When you gave him a
greeting you got a low growl for an answer and you passed on.
The ordinary civilian can scarcely appreciate what it means to a warship
to get mail. Officers and men talk about it for days. The departure of
the fleet from Rio was set for December 21, but it was seen that it
meant that the mail from New York would probably be missed by one day.
The fleet was all agog as to whether Admiral Evans would remain over one
day or would leave a collier to bring the mail on. When it was learned
that the official receptions and good-bys would require another day in
port there was rejoicing.
"We'll get the mail!" was on every one's lips.
Soon word was passed that the steamship Byron, bringing it, had reached
Bahia. Then came the announcement that she would reach Rio between 4 and
6 P. M. on January 21. The time came and no mail ship. Then came 8, 9
and 10 o'clock, and no steamship had been reported passing in. Long
faces were everywhere. Just before 6 o'clock the next morning the
lookout reported the Byron passing in. Word was passed around and many
an officer tumbled out of his bunk to catch a sight of the vessel that
had letters from home on her. The bluejackets were already at work, but
they stopped long enough with the others to give greeting to the ship.
"The mail has come! The mail has come! The mail has come!"
You heard it everywhere. Even the bugles seemed to sound it out. Good
cheer was on all sides. Soon it was learned that the ship had been
passed by the quarantine officer. Then came a race for her with
launches. More than twenty of these boats, counting those from
auxiliaries as well as battleships, began a race to reach her. The
engineers hit 'er up and the coxswains steered as straight as they
could. Over the rollicking waves the little craft plunged and rolled
and every snort they gave seemed to say:
"The mail has come. We're after it. We'll soon be back. The mail has
come!"
The launches clustered about the ship like an eager crowd of boys
scrambling for pennies. They had to be straightened out. The bags had
been arranged on deck and then there came a stream of men passing them
down. There was an average of twenty bags to each ship. As fast as each
launch got its load it dashed back at full speed to its ship. The bags
were hurried up the sides and fairly ripped open. Half a dozen men were
set at sorting out the letters and papers. In less than two hours after
the Byron had anchored hundreds of men were going about with a contented
but far away look upon their faces.
"Oh, yes, thank you," was a general remark. "They're all well and they
had a pleasant Christmas. Your people all right, too? That's good. 'Twas
nice to hear from home, wasn't it? Wonder when we'll get the next one?"
There are many stock questions asked on board of a man-o'-war. In time
of conflict the chief one is:
"Wonder where we'll catch the enemy?"
In time of peace the chief one seems to be:
"Wonder where we'll get the mail?"
To a passenger on one of these ships that seems to be the most important
question to be asked and answered. Speculation as to the time of
reaching port, of remaining in port, of departing, of the length of the
cruise, as to the routine or even unusual work to be accomplished--all
these seem to be of minor importance to the question as to when the mail
will come. The American man-o'-warsman surely does love his home and
people. "God's country and God's people!" is the way he puts it.
Apparently what he cares for most in all the world is mail from God's
country and God's people.
But there will be no mail for the ships here at Punta. There used to be
a hidden post office in the straits for sailormen. It was where the
Indians could not find it. Letters and papers were left there to be
mailed and reading matter was dropped behind for another vessel to pick
up. It is said that never was that strange mail box trifled with and
never robbed. But all that was years ago.
Now there is a modern city of something like 12,000 people here, with a
Chilean post office to see that things are managed properly; but the
mails are irregular, for they still depend for their despatch more or
less on the irregular calls of steamers. Of course there are certain
vessels which make regular trips, but these are few and far between, and
you never know when you mail a letter here how long it will be before it
reaches its destination.
If you don't find the old sea post office here there is one thing you do
find, and it exists nowhere else in the world.
Did you ever hear about the willywaws? No? Well, you see 'em here when
the season's right.
Did you ever see a hobgoblin? No? Well, a willywaw isn't a hobgoblin.
Neither is it anything like a willy-boy. Any one who knows what
willywaws are knows they are a thousand times worse.
Well, what is a willywaw? We'll save that for another article. You see
there might not be much else to write about.