THE WRECK OF THE _BLENDEN HALL_, EAST INDIAMAN
In this harassing modern age of a world turned upside down and
bedeviled with one more problem after another, fancy turns with fond
regret to those lucky sailormen who lingered on little, sea-girt isles
and lorded it as monarchs of all they surveyed. Many an old forecastle
had a _Robinson Crusoe_, hairy and brown and tattooed, who could spin
strange yarns of years serenely passed among the untutored natives of
the Indian Ocean or the South Seas. Now and then one of them had lived
in more solitary fashion on some remote, unpeopled strand, a hermit
cast up by the sea, and was actually contented because he had freed
himself of the tyranny of bosses and wages and trousers and all the
other shackles of civilization.
Alas! there are no more realms like these. The wireless mast lifts
above the palm-trees, and the steamer whistle blows to recall the
tourists from the beaches where the trade-winds sweep. There are still
some very lonely places on the watery globe, however, and one of them
is the tiny group of three volcanic islands in the South Atlantic
which is known as Tristan da Cunha. These bleak rocks lie two thousand
miles west of the Cape of Good Hope and four thousand miles to the
northeast of Cape Horn. They loom abruptly from a tempestuous ocean,
which lashes the stark, black cliffs, and there are no harbors, only an
occasional fringe of beach a few yards wide.
Tristan, the largest of the group, lifts a snow-clad peak almost eight
thousand feet above the sea as a warning to mariners to steer wide of
the cruel reefs. It has a small plateau where green things grow, and
living streams and cascades of fresh water. The islands were discovered
as early as 1506 by the Portuguese admiral, Tristan da Cunha, and in
later years the Dutch navigators and the pioneers of the British East
India Company hove to in passing, but it was not thought worth while to
hoist a flag over the group.
It remained for a Yankee sailor, Jonathan Lambert of Salem, to
choose Tristan da Cunha as his abiding-place and to issue a formal
proclamation of his sovereignty to the other nations of the world. Said
he, “I ground my right and claim on the sure and rational ground of
absolute occupancy.” This was undeniable, and the British Empire rests
upon foundations no more convincing. Jonathan Lambert was of the breed
of Salem seafarers who had first carried the American flag to India,
Java, Sumatra, and Japan, who opened the trade with the Fiji Islands
and Madagascar, who had been the trail-breakers in diverting the
commerce of South America and China to Yankee ships. They had sailed
where no other merchantmen dared go, they had anchored where no one
else dreamed of seeking trade.
It was therefore nothing extraordinary for Jonathan Lambert to tire
of roving the wide seas and to set himself up in business as the king
of Tristan da Cunha which had neither ruler nor subjects. What his
ambitions were and how a melancholy end overtook them is to be found
in the sea-journal of Captain John White, who sailed the American brig
_Franklin_ out to China in 1819. He wrote:
On March 12th we saw and passed the island of Tristan da Cunha
which was taken possession of in 1810 by Jonathan Lambert. He
published a document setting forth his rights to the soil and
invited navigators of all nations whose routes might lie near that
ocean to touch at his settlement for supplies which he anticipated
his industry would draw from the earth and the adjacent sea. He
signified his readiness to receive in payment for his produce,
which consisted of vegetables, fruit and fish, whatever might be
convenient for the visitors to part with which could be in any way
useful to him.
In order to carry out his plan, Jonathan Lambert took with him
to the island various implements of husbandry, seeds of the most
useful plants, tropical trees for transplanting, etc. After he had
been on his island for about two years it was apparent that his
efforts would be crowned with success, but unfortunately he was
drowned, with his one associate, while visiting one of the nearby
islands.
Another adventurous seaman, Thomas Currie, succeeded to this lonely
principality by right of occupation, and was joined by two others. They
lived contentedly and raised wheat and oats and pigs until in the War
of 1812 the American naval vessels began to use Tristan da Cunha as a
base from which to harry British commerce in the South Atlantic. Then
Great Britain formally annexed the group, and kept a garrison of a
hundred men there for two years.
When the garrison was withdrawn, Corporal William Glass of the Royal
Artillery was left behind at his own request, with his wife and
children, and two privates decided to join him as the beginnings of a
colony. A few other rovers or shipwrecked sailors drifted to Tristan
da Cunha from time to time, and they found girls at St. Helena and
Cape Town who were willing to marry them, so that there was created
a peaceful, unworldly little community on this far-away island over
which Corporal William Glass ruled as a wise and benevolent patriarch.
The _Blenden Hall_ was a stout ship bound out from England to Bombay
in 1820, an East Indiaman of the stately fleet that flew the house
flag of the Honorable Company. Their era was soon to pass, with all
its color and romance, the leisurely voyage, the ceremonious formality
and discipline, the pleasant sociability. The swifter Yankee merchant
ships, hard driven under clouds of cotton duck, used to rush past these
jogging East India “tea-wagons,” which shortened sail at sunset and
snugged down for the night. They carried crews for a man-of-war, what
with the midshipmen, the purser, the master-at-arms, the armorer, the
calker, the butcher, baker, poulterer, gunner’s mates, sail-maker, six
officers to assist the commander, and Indian servants to wait on them.
The passengers enjoyed more comfort and luxury in these handsome old
sailing ships than the modern reader might suppose. The cabins were
much more spacious than the liner’s state-rooms of to-day, the saloon
was ornate with rugs and teakwood, with silver plate and the finest
napery, and dinner was an elaborate affair, with a band of music, and
the commander and the officers in the Company’s dress uniform of blue
coat and gold buttons, with waistcoats and breeches of buff. Wines,
ale, beer, and brandy were served without cost to the passengers,
and the large staff of cooks and stewards was able to find in the
storerooms and pantries such a varied stock of provisions as beef,
pork, bacon, and tongues, bread, cheese, butter, herrings, and salmon,
confectionery, oatmeal, oranges, and dried and preserved fruits, while
a live cow or two supplied cream for the coffee, and the hen-coops
stowed in the long-boat contributed fresh eggs.
The _Blenden Hall_ was commanded by Captain Alexander Greig, a sailor
and a gentleman of the old school, who had laid by a comfortable
fortune during his long service. The trading ventures and perquisites
of the master of an East Indiaman often yielded an income which a
modern bank president would view with profound respect. The captain’s
son, young Alexander Greig, sailed as a passenger on this last voyage
of the _Blenden Hall_. He was a high-spirited lad, bound out to join
the army in India, and life was one zestful adventure after another.
The modern youngster may well envy him his luck in being shipwrecked on
a desert island, where he wrote a diary, using penguin’s blood for ink
and quill feathers for pens.
If the tale were fiction instead of fact, the beginning could be no
more auspiciously romantic.
Captain Greig and his son left their English country home in their
“travelling carriage” for the journey to Gravesend to join the ship.
While crossing Bexley Heath they made their pistols ready, for the
stretch of road was notorious for highwaymen, and as young Alexander
Greig enjoyably tells us:
I soon observed that my father’s attention had been attracted
by two horsemen riding across the Heath at full gallop, and
notwithstanding the postilion was evidently exerting himself to
outstrip our pursuers, they appeared to gain fast upon us. And in
fifteen minutes they called loudly to him to stop, one of them at
the same time discharging a pistol to bring us to. My father, after
urging the postilion to drive faster (and we seemed then almost to
fly across the Heath) told me to be prepared to receive the man on
the left, “for,” said he, “we will give them a warm reception, at
any rate.”
I was just about to follow his advice when I fancied that the men
allowed us to gain ground and were out of pistol-shot, as I could
see them curbing their horses while they discussed the prudence of
keeping up the pursuit. It was fortunate for them that they did so,
for one of them would have received the contents of my Joe Manton,
as I was resolved not to fire till he came so close to the carriage
that I could make sure of my man.
At the next tavern they described the adventure, and when young Greig
mentioned that one of the rascals wore a red waistcoat with white
stripes, the landlord exclaimed:
“Jem Turner, by the Lord Harry! Aye, as sure as fate! There is two
hundred pounds reward for him, dead or alive. The boldest rascal that
rides the Heath!”
Captain Greig concluded, no doubt, that he was safer at sea again. The
_Blenden Hall_ was ready to sail, and several of her passengers came
on board at Gravesend, while the others were taken on from Deal while
the ship tarried in the Downs. Sixteen in all were of a social station
which permitted them to meet at the cuddy table for dinner while the
ship’s band played “The Roast Beef of Old England” and Captain Greig
pledged their health in good Madeira. With a most precocious taste
for gossip, young Greig managed to portray his fellow-voyagers in an
intimate manner that would be hard to match in the true tales of the
sea.
It is just as well to let you gain some slight acquaintance with them
before the curtain rises on the tragedy of the shipwreck. The most
conspicuous figure was Mrs. Lock, wife of a commodore somewhere on
foreign service. She was very fat, with a hurricane of a temper, and
of mixed blood in which the tar brush was undeniable. Her English
was badly broken, and her manners were startling. She had been the
commodore’s cook in his Indian bungalow, so the rumor ran, until for
reasons inscrutable he decided to marry her. Such a person was enough
to set the ship’s society by the ears. Social caste and station were
matters of immense importance. The emotions of Dr. Law, a fussy old
bachelor of a half-pay naval surgeon, were quite beyond words, although
he was heard to mutter:
“A vulgar black woman, by Jove! And, damme, she flung her arms around
me when she was taken seasick at table.”
There was also consternation among such exclusive persons as Captain
Miles, and six assistant surgeons in the Honorable Company’s military
service, Major Reid of the Poonah Auxiliary Forces, and Quartermaster
Hormby and his lady, of his Majesty’s foot. The dignified commander of
the _Blenden Hall_ felt it necessary to explain that passage for the
chocolate-hued spouse of the erring commodore had been obtained under
false pretenses. As if this were not enough, another social shock was
in store.
Lieutenant Painter, a bluff, good-humored naval man, had come on board
at Gravesend. While the ship was anchored in the Downs, he was one
of the passengers who asked the captain to set them ashore in the
cutter for a stroll in Deal. When they returned to the boat, Lieutenant
Painter was missing. Nothing whatever was heard of him for two days,
and Captain Greig felt seriously alarmed. Then a boatman brought off a
letter in which the gallant lieutenant explained that he had been
most actively engaged not only in beginning but in finishing a
courtship and that it was his intention to join the ship before
dinner when he would do himself the honor to introduce Mrs. Painter
to the captain and passengers. He requested that a larger cabin
could be prepared, in which he could “stow away his better half.”
There was great excitement and curiosity in the cuddy of the _Blenden
Hall_ as the dinner-hour drew near. The impetuous romance of the
brisk Lieutenant Painter was sensational. At length a boat was pulled
alongside, and a chair rigged and lowered from the lofty deck. The
boatswain piped, and the lovely burden was safely hoisted to the poop,
followed by the beaming lieutenant, who scrambled up the gangway. First
impressions were favorable. The bride was young and handsome. Her
physical charms were so robust, however, that she stood a foot taller
than her bantam of a husband, and the audience was amused when she
grasped his arm and heartily exclaimed:
“Come, little Painter, let me see this fine cabin of yours.”
It was soon perceived that the vigorous Mrs. Painter _was not a lady_.
The dreadful truth was not revealed, however, until a grizzled Deal
boatman was discovered lingering at the gangway. When one of the mates
asked him his errand, he answered:
“Why, I only want to say goodbye to my gel, Bet, but I suppose the
gold-buttoned swab of a leftenant has turned her ’ead. Blowed if I
reckoned my own darter ’ud forget me.”
Hiding in her cabin, the daughter wished to avoid such a farewell
scene, but she could hear the old man ramble on:
“She ’as no occasion to feel ashamed of her father. I’ve been a Deal
boatman these fifty years and brought up a large family respectably, as
Captain Greig well knows.”
At this the emotional Mrs. Painter rushed on deck to embrace her humble
sire and weep in his gray whiskers, a scene which the fastidious
passengers found too painful to witness. Henceforth, through varied
scenes of shipwreck and suffering, the dominant figures were to be
the youthful, upstanding Mrs. Painter and the dusky and corpulent
Mrs. Lock, heroines of two rash marriages, and foreordained to hate
each other with a ferocity which not even the daily fear of death
could diminish. In the presence of such protagonists as these, the
ship’s company was like a Greek chorus. There was something almost
superb in such a feminine feud. It was no peevish quarrel over the
tea-cups. Moreover, it could have no dull moments, because both women
had vocabularies of singular force and emphasis. The forecastle of the
_Blenden Hall_ could do no better in its most lurid moments.
It began with an affectionate intimacy, then squalls and
reconciliations, while the stately East Indiaman jogged to the
southward and the band played on deck for dancing after dinner. How far
these two stormy women were responsible must be left to conjecture, but
there seems to have been a vast deal of squabbling and bad blood among
the passengers, as indicated by the following entry in the journal of
young Alexander Greig, the captain’s son:
Although I endeavored to detach myself, as much as possible, from
any particular party (by giving two entertainments a week in my
private cabin and sending around a general invitation) I received
one or two polite requests to meet the writers at the first port
we might touch at and to grant them the satisfaction due from
one gentleman to another, &c., &c., for alleged affronts that
I had unconsciously committed. For the life of me I could not
have defined what the affronts were, but I wrote each party an
answer that I should be happy to accept, and then deposited their
beautiful gilt-edged little notes in my desk.
There was an occasional diversion which patched up a truce, such as
meeting with an armed brig which was suspected to be a pirate. The
chief officer, in the mizzen-rigging with a telescope, shouted down
that the brig was cleared for action. The second mate rushed forward
and yelled to the boatswain to pipe all hands on deck. The gunner
served out pistols and cutlasses to the seamen and the passengers,
boarding-pikes were stacked along the heavy bulwarks, and the battery
of six eighteen-pounders was loaded with grape and canister. Things
looked even more serious when the brig hauled down a British ensign and
tacked to get the weather gage of the East Indiaman.
Some of the passengers were frightened, and others professed an
eagerness to engage in a “set-to.” Dr. Law, the half-pay naval surgeon,
strode the deck with a drawn sword. He was filled with valor and Scotch
whisky, and offered to wager any man a hundred guineas that he would
be the first to board the enemy. Mrs. Commodore Lock waddled about
uttering loud lamentations, and vowed that a friend of hers had been
eaten alive by pirates. Nightfall closed down, however, before the brig
could overtake the _Blenden Hall_, which surged before the wind with
studding-sails spread.
Captain Greig was in some doubt as to his reckoning, because of thick
weather, when the ship had entered the lonely expanse of the South
Atlantic, and he therefore steered for a sight of Tristan da Cunha in
order to make certain of his position. He proceeded cautiously, but
soon after breakfast, on July 23, 1820, breakers were descried close
at hand. The wind died, and the ship was drifting. Anchors were let
go, but the water was too deep to find holding-ground, and a dense
fog obscured the sea. The ship struck in breakers so violent that
the decks were swept, the boats smashed, and the houses filled with
water. The masts were promptly cut away, but the _Blenden Hall_ was
rapidly pounding to death with a broken back. All hands rushed forward
and crowded upon the forecastle just before the rest of the ship was
wrenched asunder and floated away.
Two seamen had been killed by falling spars, but all the rest of the
ship’s company, eighty souls of them, were alive and praying for
rescue. After several hours of misery, a few sailors managed to knock
a raft together and so reached the shore, which had disclosed itself
as frightfully forbidding and desolate. The ship had been wrecked among
the reefs of Inaccessible Island, one of the Tristan da Cunha group.
By a sort of miracle the bow of the ship finally detached itself from
among the rocks and washed toward the tiny strip of beach. Clinging
to the stout timbers of the forecastle, all the survivors were safely
delivered from the terrors of the sea.
Through the first night they could only shiver in the rain and wonder
what fate had befallen them. At dawn they began to explore the island,
which appeared to be no more than a gigantic rock, black and savage,
which towered into the clouds. Fresh water was found, but hunger
menaced them. The first bit of flotsam from the wreck was a case of
“Hibbert’s Celebrated Bottled Porter,” which was a beverage with a kick
to it, and for the moment life looked not quite so dismal. On the beach
were huge sea-lions, creatures twenty feet in length, but there was
no way to slay and use them for food. Many sea-birds were killed with
clubs and eaten raw, which postponed famine for the time.
And now there floated ashore bales of red broadcloth, which was
promptly cut up for clothing. It was grotesque to see the sailors and
passengers parading in gorgeous tunics and robes of crimson, with
white turbans fashioned from bolts of muslin. With bamboo-poles, also
washed from the ship, Captain Greig set his men to making tents for the
women. There was very little material, however, and most of the people
sat around in a sort of wretched stupor, drenched, benumbed, hopeless.
Several barrels of strong liquors came rolling in with the surf, and
the sailors, of course, drank all they could hold. One of them, an
old barnacle named John Dulliver, showed a streak of marked sagacity.
After tapping a barrel of Holland gin and guzzling to the limit of his
stowage space, he stove in one end, emptied the barrel, and crawled
snugly into it to slumber. This seemed such a brilliant notion that as
fast as the ship’s water-barrels drifted ashore they were tenanted by
castaways who resembled so many hermit-crabs.
For six days the party forlornly existed in continuous rain, with no
means of kindling a fire, and eating raw pork that was cast up by
the sea and such birds as they could obtain. Then a case of surgical
instruments was found on the beach, and it contained a providential
flint and steel. Fire was made, and spears were contrived of poles,
with knives lashed to them, so that the monstrous sea-lions could be
killed and used for food. There were millions of penguins, and their
eggs could be had for the gathering. It was hard, revolting fare, but
other castaways had lived for months and even years on food no worse,
and the horrors of famine were averted.
Captain Greig was taken ill, and his authority therefore amounted to
little. His officers were not the men for such a crisis as this, and
they do not appear to have been able to master it. The sailors were
insolent and lazy, no doubt of it, and young Mr. Greig devotes many
pages of his diary to abuse of them. It is quite evident, however, that
the officers and passengers felt themselves to be superior beings and
expected the sailors to wait on them as menials. In such a situation
as this one man was as good as another, and the doctrines of caste
and rank properly belonged in the discard. It was rather pitiful and
absurd, as one catches glimpses of it in the ingenuous narrative of the
very young Mr. Greig.
For a few days after the wreck it was hail fellow, well met, but
Jack, once put upon an equality, began to take unwarrantable
liberties, and as familiarity is generally the forerunner of
contempt, so it proved in this case. Quarrels soon began and
the passengers now took the opposite course of attempting to
issue orders to the sailors and treating them as servants. This
exasperated the crew and they swore that no earthly power should
ever induce them to render the least assistance to the passengers.
Large sums of money were offered the sailors to forage for
provisions, but I am firmly persuaded that the man who accepted
such an offer would have been murdered by his comrades. Mrs. Lock,
for instance, incensed a seaman by telling him,--“You common
sailor, why you no wait on lady? You ought to wait on officer’s
lady! You refuse me, captain will flog you plenty.”
Inaccessible Island was properly named, and one week after another
passed without the sight of a sail or any tangible hope of rescue.
Flimsy shelters were contrived, and nobody died of cold or hunger,
but they were a gaunt, unkempt company, with much illness among them.
Arrayed in their makeshift garments of crimson broadcloth, the camp
was more like a travesty than a tragedy. No hardship could dull the
militant spirits of Mrs. Commodore Lock and that young and handsome
virago, Mrs. Lieutenant Painter. During one of their clashes, which was
about to come to blows, the little lieutenant was trying to drag his
strapping spouse into their tent while several passengers laid hold of
the ponderous Mrs. Lock. Poor Captain Greig was heard to murmur:
“Thank God we have almost no respectable ladies with us to witness such
scenes as these!”
Mrs. Lock had two small children with her, and it pleased the fancy
of Mrs. Painter to say that, in her opinion, the paternity of the
offspring would have been better established if the commodore had
offered marriage a few years earlier. Mrs. Painter put it even more
forcefully than this. At the deadly insult Mrs. Lock broke out in
impassioned accents:
“What you think? That vile hussy of a Painter woman, she say me
no Commodore Lock’s wife. Me lose my--what you call it--wedding
’tifcate on board ship, so me no have proof now--but when we come
to Bombay, my commodore he kicks dirty little Painter out of the
service, and me get ten thousand rupees of defamation damage. That
Painter woman’s father am a common, dirty boatman!”
At this Mrs. Painter, with lofty disdain, let fall the remark: “Behold
the she-devil and her two little imps!”
The sailors felt so little respect for the commodore’s wife that one of
them coarsely observed, within her hearing:
“If we run short of them penguins’ eggs, Bill, and there ain’t nothin’
else to eat, we’ll pop the old girl’s young ’uns into the pot for a bit
of broth.”
This was reported to Captain Greig by the explosive Mrs. Lock, who
declared that the sailors had called her names much stronger than “old
girl.” The chivalrous commander was resolved that no man of his crew
should insult a woman and go unpunished, wherefore he mustered the
seamen loyal to him, and they maintained order while the boatswain gave
the chief offender fifty lashes on the bare back with a rope’s-end. The
dreary exile was further enlivened by the discovery that Lieutenant
Painter’s tent had been robbed of jewelry and other valuables. A formal
trial was held, with young Alexander Greig as judge and a water-cask
as the official bench. A sailor named Joseph Fowler was accused of the
theft, and Mrs. Lock surged into the proceedings by announcing that, in
her opinion, the relations of Mrs. Painter and this common sailorman
had been a public scandal.
“Very ladylike of you, I’m sure, Mrs. Lock,” cried Mrs. Painter, “but
what could a person expect?”
Such episodes as these were trivial when compared with the tragic
problem of survival and escape from Inaccessible Island. Exploring
parties had climbed the lofty peak, and in clear weather were able to
discern the snow-clad summit of the larger island of Tristan, only
fifteen miles distant, which was known to be inhabited. It might have
been a thousand miles away, however, for the lack of tools and material
had discouraged any efforts to build a boat. In a mood of despair a
flagstaff was set up on the southwestern promontory, which faced the
open ocean, and a bottle tied to it which contained this message:
On the N. W. side of this island are the remaining part of the crew
and passengers of the _Blenden Hall_, wrecked 23rd July, 1821.
Should this fall into the hands of the humane, we trust, by the
assistance of God, they will do all in their power to relieve us,
and the prayers of many unfortunate sufferers will always be for
them.
Signed,
ALEXANDER GREIG, _Commander_.
This was a month after the shipwreck. Another month passed, and the
ship’s cook, Joseph Nibbs, a colored man, had begun to build a clumsy
little cockle-shell which he called a punt. For tools he managed to
find a hand-saw, a chisel, a bolt for a hammer, and a heavy iron hinge
ground sharp on the rocks for an ax. It seems extraordinary that
this enterprise should have been left to a sea-cook, what with the
carpenter and all the officers who should have taken the initiative.
At any rate, this handy Joseph Nibbs pegged his boat together and went
fishing in it. This appears to have shamed the others into activity,
and the carpenter set about building a larger boat. It was the heroic
cook, however, who decided to risk the voyage to Tristan in his little
floating coffin, and his farewell speech was reported as follows:
[Illustration: GOVERNOR GLASS AND HIS RESIDENCE]
“I little thought, Captain Greig, ever to see this day; but I will
bring relief to you and young Mr. Alexander, if I perish in the
attempt. If I never see you again, sir, God bless you for your kindness
to me during the years we have been shipmates.”
In the punt with the cook went five volunteers, three able seamen, the
gunner, and the sail-maker, but not one of the ship’s officers. These
six fine fellows were ready to risk their lives for others, but the
quarter-deck failed to share in the splendid action. The punt hoisted
sail, the cook and his comrades shouted three cheers, and they stood
out from the lee of the island to face a heavy sea. This was the last
ever seen of them. They must have perished soon after.
The castaways waited week after week, desperately hungry and wholly
discouraged. Meanwhile the carpenter had finished his boat, but delayed
his voyage until certain of fine weather, and wasted much time in
skirting the island in the hope of finding some trace of the cook. It
was late in October, almost three months after the loss of the _Blenden
Hall_, before the carpenter attempted to reach Tristan. Nine men were
with him, five able seamen, the boatswain, the steward, a boatswain’s
mate, and a carpenter’s mate. Again the list was conspicuous for the
absence of an officer.
On the following day two boats were seen approaching Inaccessible
Island. They were stanch whale-boats, in one of which was the ruler of
Tristan da Cunha, Corporal William Glass, late of the Royal Artillery.
He brought provisions and a warm welcome to his kingdom. It was found
that more than one trip would be necessary to transport the castaways
to Tristan. In the first boat-load were Mrs. Lock and Mrs. Painter,
whose animosities were lulled by the blessed fact of rescue. It was
an armistice during which they wept on each other’s necks and mingled
their prayers of thanksgiving while the crew of the _Blenden Hall_ sang
“God Save the King.”
All hands were safely landed at Tristan where they found a neat hamlet
of stone cottages thatched with straw, and green fields of grain and
potatoes. Mrs. Glass was the only woman of the colony in which there
were five Englishmen and two American sailors. To provide for eighty
shipwrecked people severely taxed their resources but the spirit
of hospitality was most cordially displayed. The captain and the
passengers signed an agreement to pay Governor Glass at the rate of
two shillings and sixpence per day for board and lodging, which was
no more than fair, but nothing was said about the sailors. They were
expected to pay for their keep by working as farm-hands. This rubbed
the long-suffering tars the wrong way, and as the diary explains it:
“The passengers walking about at their ease was a sight to which
Jack could not long submit; at last they all struck, declaring that
they would not work unless their ‘mortal enemies’ were compelled
to do the same. Upon this, the captain begged Governor Glass to be
firm with them and on no account to serve out any provisions unless
they returned to their duty. Consequently several meetings with a
great deal of ill feeling took place upon the subject, and when
prayers were read the following Sunday at Government House, every
sailor absented himself.”
Food was refused the striking seamen until they threatened to break
into the potato sheds and then burn the settlement. The boatswain and
his lash tamed the mutiny after Joseph Fowler had been tied up and his
back cut to ribbons with _nine dozen_ blows of the rope’s-end. After
this the seamen marched off to another part of the island and fed
themselves by fishing and hunting wild goats and pigs. To their simple
minds there was no good reason why they should sweat at building stone
walls and digging potatoes while Captain Miles and the six assistant
surgeons of the Honorable East India Company, Major Reid of the Poonah
Auxiliary Forces, and Quartermaster Hormby of his Majesty’s foot were
strolling about in idleness.
For lack of something better to do, the passengers began to find
fault with the food supplied by the worthy Governor Glass, and this
caused much difficulty and several formal conferences and protests. He
promised to do better, and honestly tried to, bearing the situation
with unfailing good humor and courtesy. If the rations were scrimped,
it was no doubt because he feared he might be eaten out of house and
home and left without reserve supplies.
On New Year’s day there was a notable celebration, when the four
children of the Glass family were formally christened by Dr. Hatch of
the _Blenden Hall_, who had taken holy orders in his youth. Governor
Glass wore his scarlet uniform of the Royal Artillery, “Mrs. Lock stuck
so many white feathers in her hair that it resembled a cauliflower,
while Mrs. Painter sported a white turban of such ample dimensions that
the Grand Sultan himself might have envied her.” Bonfires blazed, flags
flew from every roof, and the islanders were dressed in their best.
On January 9 the English merchant ship _Nerinae_ hove to off Tristan
da Cunha to fill her water-casks. She was bound from Buenos Aires to
Table Bay with a hold filled with live mules. Uncomfortable shipmates
these, but the people of the _Blenden Hall_ were not in a captious
mood. They were taken on board, and sailed away from Governor Glass
after spending three months with him, and it is to be fancied that he
felt no profound regrets.
A bit of romance touched the parting scenes. The night before the
_Nerinae_ sailed from Tristan, the pretty maid servant of Mrs. Lock
slipped ashore in a boat, with what few belongings she had, and joined
her sailor sweetheart, Stephen White, who had decided to remain behind
on the island. This Peggy was a Portuguese half-caste from Madras who
is referred to in the diary as a “female attendant.” Seaman White
is called a worthless fellow, but this may be taken for what it is
worth. The important fact is that he had found a sweetheart during
the weary exile on Inaccessible Island and that they were resolved to
stay together and let the rest of the world go hang. Governor Glass
was quite competent to unite them in the bonds of a marriage that was
proper in the sight of God.
There is one final glimpse of Mrs. Lock and Mrs. Painter shortly before
the good ship _Nerinae_, with her freightage of mules and castaways,
anchored in Table Bay.
The two ladies having for a considerable time been very
quiet, Captain Greig thought he would make another trial at
reconciliation, and begged Mrs. Lock to shake hands with Mrs.
Painter which the latter was willing to do, but the commodore’s
wife declared, “Me do anything Captain like, but me will bring
action for defamation against little Painter and his damn wife,
please God me ever get back to Bombay.”
Mrs. Lock used to say that she fully expected to find her dear
commodore dead with grief. Mrs. Painter repeatedly retorted that it
was far more likely she would find him with another wife, but she
might make up her mind it would not be a black one.
Thus concludes the story of the _Blenden Hall_, East Indiaman, but
it is so interwoven with the fortunes of Tristan da Cunha and its
colonists that further tidings of them may prove interesting. In 1824,
four years after the wreck of the East Indiaman, an author and artist
of New Zealand, Augustus Earle, was accidentally marooned at Tristan,
and stayed six months as the guest of Governor Glass before another
ship touched there. He had sailed from Rio for Cape Town in a sloop,
the _Duke of Gloucester_, which passed so close to the island in calm
weather that the thrifty skipper concluded to land and buy a few tons
of potatoes for the Cape market.
The artistic passenger went ashore to stroll about with dog and gun
while the sailors were loading potatoes into the boat. A sudden storm
swept the sea, and the boat was caught offshore, but managed to reach
the sloop, which was driven far from the island and gave up trying to
beat back to it. The skipper was a practical man and it was foolish to
delay the voyage for such a useless creature as an author and artist.
Mr. Augustus Earle was compelled to make the best of the awkward
situation, and he seems to have enjoyed his protracted visit of half a
year.
The village then consisted of five or six thatched cottages “which had
an air of comfort, cleanliness, and plenty truly English.” The young
sailor Stephen White, whom the _Blenden Hall_ had left behind with his
precious Peggy, was still happy in his bargain, and their babies were
playing with the lusty little flock of the Glass family. The island was
no longer a hermit’s retreat. The marooned artist noted that “children
there were in abundance, and just one year older than another.” Small
wonder that he saw little of the two women, who were fully occupied
with their domestic duties.
The worthy Governor William Glass had a curious yarn to tell of that
first ruler of the island, Jonathan Lambert of Salem, who had published
his grandiose proclamations and whose ambitious dreams were so soon
eclipsed. The accepted account is that he was drowned while out in his
boat, but the British garrison had found on the island a man who said
he had been there with Lambert and that he suspected another companion
of the first king of Tristan da Cunha of having made away with him in
order to secure his hoard of gold. Afraid of discovery, the regicide
had fled the island, leaving the treasure behind him.
The ingenious inventor of this narrative had professed to know where
the treasure was buried,
and that he would some day reveal it to the man of the garrison
who pleased him most, thus insuring good treatment from the men,
each hoping to be favored. But one day after drinking immoderately
of liquor he was taken suddenly ill and expired before he could
explain to his comrades where his treasure was concealed.
At any rate, the story sufficed to supply the imaginative vagabond with
free rum and tobacco, which, no doubt, was the end in view.
Augustus Earle hunted the wild goats, which had multiplied on the
mountain-slopes, and he has left us this pleasing picture of the simple
and righteous existence led by these dwellers on remote Tristan da
Cunha:
Governor Glass informed me that the last time they had ascended
the mountain after goats, one of the party got too close to the
precipice and fell down several hundred feet. They found the corpse
next day in a miserably mangled state. They interred it in the
garden near their settlement and placed at the head of the grave
a board with his name and age, together with an account of the
accident which caused his death, and the remark that it happened
on a _Sunday_, a dreadful warning to Sabbath-breakers. The people
all say they will nevermore ascend the mountain on that sacred day.
Indeed, from all I have seen of them, they pay every respect to the
duties of religion that lies in their power.
My clothes beginning to wear out, my kind host, who was an
excellent tailor, made me a pair of trousers consisting of sail
cloth and the rear of dried goat’s skin, the hair outside, which
they all assured me would be very convenient in sliding down the
mountains. I laughed heartily when I first sported this Robinson
Crusoe habiliment. “Never mind how you look, sir,” said my kind
host, “His Majesty himself, God bless him, if he had been left here
as you were, could look no better.”
Governor William Glass ruled over the island for thirty-five years,
until his death in 1853. By that time the population had increased to a
hundred souls, and a flourishing trade was carried on in provisioning
the fleet of American whalers out of New Bedford and Nantucket which
cruised in those waters. A few years later, twenty-five of the younger
men and women emigrated to the United States, stirred by a natural
ambition to see more of the world. At the death of Governor Glass, an
old man-of-war’s-man, William Cotton, who had been for three years one
of Napoleon’s guards at St. Helena, became the head of the community.
To-day the settlement consists of a hundred people or so, most of
them of the old British strain, and many of them descended from the
families of Corporal William Glass of the Royal Artillery and the young
seaman Stephen White and his devoted Peggy who were wrecked in the
_Blenden Hall_, East Indiaman, a century ago. They manage their own
affairs without any written laws, and are described by recent visitors
as religious, hospitable to strangers, industrious, healthy, and
long-lived.
The British Government has kept a paternal eye on them, and from time
to time a minister of the Church of England has served in the stone
chapel and the trim little school-house. Their worldly wealth is in
cattle, sheep, apple and peach orchards, and they are unvexed by
politics, the League of Nations, or the social unrest. Enviable people
of Tristan da Cunha! And peace to the memories of old William Glass
and Jonathan Lambert, and the faithful sweethearts of the stately old
_Blenden Hall_!