men--white men, Englishmen! So vast an army had come out against them!
It was more than piratic endurance and pluck could stand; and over the
side went the raiders, some being fortunate enough to drop into the
boats alongside, others tumbling headlong into the water. Such a scene
you never saw! Such yells of fear you never heard!
And four of those seven men were in a sampan that simply refused to
be steered, but spun round and round and round, so that they could
neither get aboard nor grab any of the pirates. Then, to add to the
consternation of the ruffians, another boat, with more Englishmen,
appeared in the entrance; and there were no men at the guns to fire the
grapeshot which they had hoped would blow the sailors from the sea!
And instead of doing that the pirates splashed and scrambled about in
frantic efforts to reach shore, all of them managing to do so except
about half a dozen who were taken prisoners. Then the Englishmen had a
bonfire, the junks forming the fuel for it.
Truly, pirate-hunting in the Far East is a fine sport!
A VOYAGE OF DANGER
The Mutiny on the _Flowery Land_
It is significant to note that, in the merchant service, most of the
mutinies on the record of shame have as their ringleaders--and rank and
file--foreign sailors aboard British ships; and the mutiny on board the
_Flowery Land_ was no exception.
The _Flowery Land_, laden with wines, and a mixed cargo besides, left
the Port of London on July 28, 1863, bound for Singapore. Crew and
officers numbered twenty, the captain bearing the honest, if common,
name of John Smith; with him, as a passenger, sailed his brother George.
They had not been at sea long before Captain Smith found that he
had a very tough set of men to deal with. They were a cosmopolitan
crowd--Spaniards, Turks, Greeks, Norwegians, Chinamen, and a sprinkling
of Englishmen, these latter being Karswell, the first mate, and William
Taffir, the second mate. The seamen, being far from sweet-tempered,
and giving evidence every now and then of insubordination, had to be
taken pretty strongly in hand, which took the form of rope’s-ending
some of them occasionally to quell their unruly spirits. Such
treatment, however, only seemed to arouse the antipathy of the crew,
who secretly plotted against the captain and his officers; and when one
day George Carlos, the Greek, after a particularly flagrant piece of
insubordination, was hauled on deck and strapped to the bulwark for a
while, it made them more determined than ever to get their own back.
Not that this treatment of Carlos was anything out of the way; it was a
very frequent form of punishment for the law-breaker at sea. And, as a
matter of fact, Carlos did not get all he deserved, for Captain Smith
took pity on him, and had him released sooner than he need have done,
and went so far as to physic him and let him go to his bunk for a rest.
But what harsh treatment did not effect, kind was unable to, and Carlos
nursed revenge in his heart. With his cosmopolitan comrades he worked
up a mutiny which broke out on September 10, at about three o’clock in
the morning.
The captain was below at the time, and Karswell was on deck, it being
his watch; and the conspirators had timed things so that the two
could not help each other. Suddenly the storm burst; one party made a
rush for Karswell, who, taken unawares, was felled to the deck with
handspikes.
“Mercy!” he cried in his agony; but the ruffians were out for blood,
and, not heeding his cries, struck him again and again, battering in
his head and smashing his face. Then, having taken so much of revenge,
they picked the still screaming man up from the deck, carried him to
the side, and heaved him into the sea.
Meanwhile, down in the cabin, the captain had heard the noise, and,
jumping up, had rushed half-way up the companion-way. He got no
farther; several men met him, including Francisco Blanco and Brasilio
de los Santos, and, armed with handspikes and daggers, they fell upon
him with fury. Clinging to the ladder, seeking to work his way up, the
captain was hacked, stabbed, and stabbed again, and then chased below
and beaten till his body was racked with pain.
Taffir, the second mate, also roused by the hubbub, tried to get on to
the deck, but was stopped by a struggling crowd on the companion, who
were treating another man as they had treated the captain. A handspike
sent him spinning down again; but once more he ran up, and caught hold
this time of the man, and tried to pull him out of danger. He did not
know then what had happened to Smith, and he called out lustily on the
captain for help. There was no answer; only another blow that sent him
hurtling below.
Picking himself up, he ran to the captain’s cabin, only to find it
empty. From there he hurried to the main cabin, and here the flickering
light of the untrimmed lamp showed him the captain lying in a pool of
blood. The mutineers had finished him off there. He was dead. Half
maddened by the horror of it all, Taffir rushed to the berth of the
captain’s brother. That also was empty. George Smith had been beaten
on the head with handspikes till the life was out of him, and then had
been pitched overboard. Realising now that there was little mercy being
shown to whoever fell into the mutineers’ hands, Taffir sought safety
in his own cabin, where he locked himself in, and waited in anguish for
about three-quarters of an hour, refusing to answer the calls of the
seamen as they pounded at his door.
In the meantime the mutineers were having a clean sweep up; they
knocked the carpenter, Michael Anderson, on the head, and ransacked
the ship to see what they could find. Then they bethought themselves
of Taffir again. Although he did not know it, Taffir was destined to
be saved, for the sole reason that, now that they had disposed of the
other officers, he was the only man who knew anything about navigation;
and, even when you’ve got a ship in your hands, it’s not much use
unless you can do something with it.
So down they went to Taffir’s cabin, and on his refusing to open the
door to them, they smashed it in and marched into the cabin, where, as
bloodstained, ruffianly looking a crew as man ever saw, they stood in a
half-circle round his berth.
“Come out!” cried John Lyons, a Spaniard. “Come out!”
Thinking that acquiescence was the safest thing, Taffir got out and
stood before them.
“Are you going to kill me?” he asked, anxiously waiting for the answer,
and half fearing what it might be. He had little reason to expect mercy
from men who had so far shown none.
“No,” said Lyons. “But we’ve killed the skipper and the mate, and the
captain’s brother has got away somewhere. We want you to work the ship
to somewhere. Will you do it?”
For a moment or so Taffir thought. To say “Yes” was to lend himself to
the crime; to say “No” was to ask for death. And, after all, refusing
would do nothing for the men who had been killed, whereas to agree
might lead to the bringing of the ruffians to justice.
“All right,” he said presently, and the party went on deck again.
Going to the main cabin, Taffir saw that Captain Smith’s body had a
rope round it, and that Watto, the Turk, was going to haul it up on
deck to heave it overboard.
“Hold! Let me sew it up in canvas,” cried Taffir, with all the sailor’s
reverence for the dead; and the mutineers, knowing that, after all,
they must humour the mate, consented. Taffir performed his sad office,
and Captain Smith had a decent burial at sea, minus the service.
It was five o’clock before Taffir went up on deck, and as he did so he
passed Santos, who flourished a big knife at him, as though he would
much like to do with Taffir as he had done with the captain.
Having seen that the ship was going all right, Taffir went back to the
cabin, and remained there till about eight o’clock, when all the hands
except the man at the wheel came down to interview him.
“Come into the captain’s cabin,” said Lyon sternly.
“What for?” Taffir asked, though he had already guessed what was afoot.
“We want to see what money and clothes he’d got,” was the reply; and
although he did not say so, Lyons’s idea was that, if they got Taffir
there, and made him share with them, they could say that he was a party
to the whole affair.
Needs must when the devil drives; and so Taffir went into the cabin,
standing by while Santos, Blanco, Carlos, Watto, and Lopez ransacked
it for everything of value. They broke open boxes and chests, wrenched
open the desks, and, gathering all the money they could find, took it
into the main cabin, where they laid it upon the table for division.
“Dole it out in seventeen parts,” said Lyons to Taffir.
“No!” screamed the Turk. “Make it eight!”
“Shut up!” said Lyons threateningly, and Taffir thought that the
thieves were going to quarrel amongst themselves. However, the matter
was smoothed over, and Lyons had his own way.
Into seventeen parts the money was divided.
“Here’s yours,” said Lyons to the mate.
“I won’t touch a cent of it,” said Taffir, seeing what the idea was.
“You’ll do as I tell you,” cried Lyons, “or----”
He let the rest go by default, and Taffir knew what he meant. There
was nothing for it, and, taking the share, the mate carried it to one
of the writing-desks and put it in there, though he never saw it again.
Perhaps the greedy Turk had it.
Next the mutineers allotted out the captain’s clothes, though they did
not give Taffir a share of them. When they came to Smith’s watch they
decided that, as they couldn’t very well divide that, they would keep
it till they landed, when they might be able to sell it. The timepiece
was therefore put into the writing-desk with Taffir’s money; but that
also disappeared, and later was a source of trouble.
Having settled up these little matters fairly amicably, the question
was to get to land, and Taffir was made to navigate the vessel,
while the crew, when it was not necessary for them to work, regaled
themselves with champagne and overhauled the cargo for valuables.
For some days everything went on smoothly, and then a ship was sighted.
She proved to be the _Friends_, of Liverpool, and Taffir steered the
_Flowery Land_ towards her. Acting on instructions from Carlos, who was
in charge of the ship, and had ordered her to be set for Buenos Ayres,
under threat of death Taffir told the _Friends’_ captain that she was
the _Louiza_, bound for Valparaiso.
Then the two ships parted company; and barely had the _Friends_ got
away when the crew rushed towards Taffir, and, with daggers drawn,
stood and jabbered at him like so many monkeys. Although he couldn’t
understand what they were saying, there was no mistaking their
attitude. Evidently they were angry with him for something, and it
would have gone ill with Taffir had not Lyons come along. Quieting the
angry crew, he abstracted from them the fact that they thought Taffir
had just told the _Friends_ the whole story of the mutiny. Lyons soon
put them right on that little matter, and they went back to their
champagne, appeased.
The incident showed Taffir how slender was the thread on which his life
hung, and he knew that he would have to be careful, for if these men
suspected that he was playing them false there was little doubt that
they would kill him out of hand, and risk what happened afterwards.
They were like so many madmen, and one day Taffir saw the Turk go up
to the Chinese steward and gash his arm open with a large knife for no
apparent reason whatever. It turned out that they were forcing him to
collect all the ship’s papers, which they threw overboard. Then they
had a row about the captain’s watch, which was missing, and accused
Taffir of having stolen it. It never was found, and was a sore point
all through.
On October 2 land was sighted, and now that they had no further use
for him, the mutineers sent Taffir to Coventry. No one spoke to him or
took any notice of him; they even refused to let him work the ship,
which they turned about. They sent Taffir to his cabin then, where he
remained all day. At night Blanco went down and ordered him up on deck,
where he found that they were clewing up the sails and getting the
boats out.
“What are you going to do?” he asked Lyons.
No answer; only surly looks.
“What’s going to be done with the ship?” he asked another of the
Spaniards present, Marsolino. “And what about me? Are you going to kill
me?” For Taffir was convinced that momentous things were about to take
place.
“We’re going to scuttle the ship,” said Marsolino. “And as for you”--he
leered--“as for you, I’m not going to kill you--but I rather think
Blanco is,” he added grimly.
Naturally, Taffir was now all anxiety. Here he was, with a ship full of
mutineers whose hands were already stained with innocent blood, and who
were evidently preparing to leave the ship he had navigated for them.
What a prospect was before him! He could almost feel the dagger eating
its way into his body as the bloodthirsty Blanco looked across at him
every now and again.
Three-quarters of an hour of such anxiety passed, and then Taffir was
flung into one of the boats, which contained the cook, the steward,
Frank Powell, Watto, and the ship’s boy, named Early. Evidently he was
not going to be murdered after all. In another boat, riding at the
stern, were several other men, while the rest were still on board the
_Flowery Land_.
Presently the boat in which Taffir had been thrown was pulled away from
the ship, but had only gone about a hundred yards when those on the
_Flowery Land_ called her back. Taffir’s heart sank. Was he, after all,
going to be hauled back to death? He took heart again the next instant,
for the men in the boat, with the exception of Watto, did not want to
go back, and refused to pull towards the ship. Powell, who steered,
refused to turn her head round, and Taffir thanked him in the silence
of his own heart. Suddenly Watto, seizing an oar, threatened to knock
Powell’s brains out if he didn’t do as he was told; and the boat’s head
swung round, and she sped towards the ship. They were anxious moments
for poor Taffir, whose mind was not set at rest when Lyons, on the
_Flowery Land_, ordered the lot of them to get back on deck.
Why they were called back Taffir did not know, and was not told;
probably it was because the others did not want one boat to start
before the rest. Anyhow, for a long time Taffir was kept on deck; and
though he could see but little in the darkness, he heard the noise
made as the scoundrels loaded the boats, not forgetting the champagne,
bottles of which they lowered into the craft riding at the sides. The
Chinese steward fell into the water while trying to get aboard from
the boat, and while struggling for life was pelted with bottles of
champagne till he sank. Taffir saw his own fate there.
Soon, however, as though to prolong his agony, they threw him into a
boat, this time the one in which Lyons and Blanco were to sail. The
fact that it was Blanco’s boat was anything but pleasing to Taffir,
who remembered what Marsolino had told him, and trembled for his life.
Durrano and Lopez, other Spaniards, also got into this boat, which was
presently pushed off; and almost immediately afterwards the _Flowery
Land_, which had been scuttled, and had begun to settle some time
before, gave a final plunge and dived beneath the surface. Through the
darkness Taffir could see the Chinese boy and the cook clinging to the
top; they had been left to their fate, and not a hand was held out to
save them.
Lyons’s boat towed the other towards land, which was reached at four
o’clock in the afternoon of October 9. Taffir was told that, if he
valued his life, he was to say that the vessel was an American ship
from Peru, bound for Bordeaux, and that she had foundered a hundred
miles from land, that the captain had got into one boat, and had not
been seen since, and that the two boats which had come ashore had been
at sea for five days and nights.
In his heart Taffir had made up his mind to tell of the tragedy as soon
as an opportunity presented itself. That night the party slept at a
farmhouse, and the next day the farmer drove them to Rocha. Watching
his time, Taffir managed to find out that at a place called Camp,
twenty miles away, was a man named Ramoz, who could speak English;
and one night he slipped out of Rocha and made his way to Camp. He
located Ramoz, to whom he told his tale, and later he was taken to the
authorities, where once more he recited the events that had taken place
on the _Flowery Land_, with the result that eight of the mutineers were
captured, and in due course put on their trial at the Central Criminal
Court, London. Lyons, Durrano, Santos, Watto, Blanco, Marsolino, and
Lopez were found guilty of murder, Carlos being acquitted.
Altogether, the mutiny of the _Flowery Land_ is a lurid story of the
sea.
THE GUARDIANS OF THE COAST
Stories of Coastguards and Lighthousemen
Although the coastguard and lighthouseman live their lives on land,
they are inalienably a part of the sea and its story. Day by day, night
by night, they are on guard along the coasts, and never know what may
happen; but, whatever it is, they are ready.
And they are always modest of their achievements, as the letters I
have received from some of them testify. It’s the hardest thing in the
world to get them to talk about themselves; but, by dint of judicious
questioning, I managed to get some of them to give me the plain stories
of what really did happen.
The first concerns Lighthouseman William Hunter, of Flamborough Head,
who, standing outside the lighthouse on a fine morning, talking with
his superior officer, saw a gallant little band of boys of the Lads’
Brigade coming along. Presently there was a sharp command, and the
lookers-on saw the boys disperse, and in a few minutes the laddies were
scattered here, there, and everywhere, enjoying themselves to the full.
But suddenly there was the blare of bugles, the cries of boys, the
hoarse shouts of men, and Hunter turned quickly to his officer and said:
“There’s something wrong!”
“Go and have a look,” was the reply; and off went the
lighthouse-keeper. Following the sounds, he found himself down on the
beach, just below the lighthouse. What a sight met his eyes! Before
him was a group of boys staring up the cliff, fear writ large upon
their faces as they saw one of their comrades clinging frenziedly to a
shrub, able neither to go up nor to come down, while down on the beach,
amongst the boulders, lay the huddled form of another boy.
The two boys had been engaged in a wild scramble up the cliff, seeing
which could reach the top first. Half-way up the foremost boy had
displaced a large stone, which hurtled down, hit his comrade, and sent
him tumbling down to the beach, where he now lay with a broken arm.
As soon as the boy above realised what had happened, fear took
possession of him; his wits left him, and he, finding that he had
reached a position where it was impossible to move with safety either
way, he sent up haunting screams for help! As though the call had been
necessary! The boys on the beach had seen the accident, and instantly
the bugles had blared out their calls for help. And so Hunter had
arrived on the scene.
Like lightning he dashed across an intervening gut of water, slipping
over seaweed as he went, and stumbling over rocks till he reached the
foot of the cliff. Then, hand over hand, gingerly but quickly, Hunter
made his way up the cliff, seizing anything that seemed likely to
afford a handhold to help him up; now making a fierce grab for a shrub
as the earth gave way beneath him. And at last, after a feverish few
minutes, during which the watchers down below held their breath and the
folk above sent for further help, he came almost within reach of the
boy.
“Hold on, sonny!” he cried. “I’m coming!”
“Come quickly!” cried the boy, shaking with fear. “I can’t hold out
much longer!”
Spurred on by the evident terror of the lad, Hunter covered the last
few feet quickly, and came alongside him just in the nick of time, for
the youth was almost exhausted. His hands were bruised and cut from
clutching at stones, and the lighthouseman’s were little better.
“You’re all right now, sonny,” he said. “We’ll soon have you down.”
But, though he said the comforting words, there was a little thought
at the back of his mind that it might be some time before they reached
safety, for he, too, found that the position was none too safe a one;
that while he himself might have been able to get away alone, he could
not hope to carry the unfortunate boy without further help. There was
no use in looking down; help could not come that way. But it might come
from above, and, glancing up, his heart gave a great bound as he saw
that the coastguards, under Chief Officer Young, had arrived on the
scene, bringing with them the one thing that was necessary--a rope! It
was a very lifeline to Hunter.
Down the rope fell; and then the lighthouseman saw that, owing to the
projecting edge of the cliff, it hung more than an arm’s length away
from him. He would have to move carefully away in order to reach it.
The boy seemed to realise this, and before Hunter moved an inch he
called out in fear:
“Don’t leave me, sir. I can’t hold on!”
“Now, see here, laddie,” was the reply. “You’re all right. I won’t let
go of you. But I’ve got to get that rope. Keep still.” And, holding on
to the boy with one hand, he moved gingerly away, digging his heels
deep in the cliffside as he did so to get a purchase. Once, twice, nay,
thrice he tried to catch the rope, and at last did so; but the strain
of holding the boy at the same time that he reached out for it was
terrible, and the soft earth gave way more than once, threatening to
send the pair of them hurtling below.
So far, so good. The next task was to fasten the boy on the rope. Once
again footholds had to be dug in the cliff--deep holes that would
not give way beneath his weight as he laboured. Adept at knotting,
accustomed to work of this kind, Hunter soon had the boy fast in the
rope. And then:
“Lower away!” he cried; and the coastguards let the rope out inch by
inch, while the rescuer steadied it, and kept it from swinging round
and round.
“Easy!” he yelled, as clods of earth and great stones, dislodged by
the rope as it slid over the edge, came tumbling about his ears,
threatening to knock him from his perch, threatening, too, to smash
into the boy being lowered to safety. And “easy” it was! Those
coastguards knew their work.
At last it was done; the boy was on the beach, thoroughly shaken,
dreadfully scared, but safe, thanks to the pluck of the lighthouseman,
who was soon hauled to the top, and, as he told me, “went indoors
and forgot all about it” until later he received a letter from the
secretary to the Carnegie Hero Fund Trustees, commending him on his
bravery and suitably rewarding him, though it goes without saying that
his best reward was the knowledge that he had been able to save the
life of the unfortunate youth.
* * * * *
Even when the sun is shining in a blue sky overhead there is an awesome
splendour in the majestic ruggedness of the coast about Land’s End;
but when the grey fingers of the dawn are creeping into the heavens,
and the elements are waging a tumultuous war, when waves dash with
tremendous force upon the rocks, to break upon them with a resounding
roar, and when some unfortunate ship has been caught in the grip of
the storm, then the scene is sufficient to strike terror into strong
hearts.
Such was the scene on the morning of March 15, 1914, at five o’clock,
when the coastguard at Sennen Cove was alarmed to see signals of a
vessel in distress. Away along the coast could be seen the dark hull
of a ship, stationary, except when great seas beat upon her and shook
her from end to end. Ever and anon the rockets whizzed into the air,
brilliant appeals for help. Instantly all was activity; the life-saving
apparatus and the lifeboat were summoned, and the work of rescue had
begun.
Coastguard A. Oddy, of Sennen, was in charge of the life-saving
apparatus. There was no time to be wasted, for the scene of the wreck
was four miles away, and every minute was precious, for it could not be
long before the vessel broke in two, hurling her human freight to an
awful death.