of 1749 the Hawkhurst gang came to an end, for the crimes laid to its
account roused the Government to vigorous action, the smugglers were
caught one by one, and at last Kingsmill, the ringleader, was hanged at
Tyburn.
MODERN CORSAIRS
How the German Rovers were Destroyed
The outbreak of the Great War of the Nations found various German
warships in the Atlantic and Pacific, ready to prey upon the Allies’
shipping, and day by day the news flashed across the world of merchant
ships sunk or captured, and this despite the fact that Great Britain,
France, Russia and Japan were scouring the seas to find the destroyers.
First one and then another of the German marauders was caught and
sent to its doom. But even then a fair number were abroad; several
of them--the _Dresden_, the _Nürnberg_, _Leipzig_, _Scharnhorst_ and
_Gneisenau_--were tackled by Admiral Craddock, in command of a British
squadron of much inferior strength. The Germans won, only a few weeks
later to be trapped by Admiral Sturdee and a strong squadron off the
Falkland Islands. In the battle that ensued the Germans lost, and the
vessels were sent to the bottom.
Before the battle of the Falklands took place, however, there had been
certain other events of scarcely less importance--namely, the hunting
down of the _Königsberg_ and the _Emden_, the most noted of the German
corsairs. That they did fine work for their country, even British tars
will admit. They were as slippery as eels, and turned up in the most
unexpected places and at the most inconvenient times for the British
trading vessels. But at last Nemesis overtook them.
There was the _Emden_, for instance. She was at Tsing-tau when war
broke out, and immediately started out on her marauding cruise.
Slipping out of the harbour she steamed off for the Straits of Malacca,
with enemies hot upon her track. She hoodwinked them, and while they
were going southward, she swept into the Bay of Bengal, sinking various
vessels as she went, and finally shelling Madras, setting fire to the
oil tanks there.
Thence she went to Ceylon, sending four more boats to the bottom,
making nine in all. Another she sent into port with the crews of the
sunken ships, and yet a further one--the collier _Buresk_--she held
on to for the sake of the coal she carried. So, aided by wireless
installations in different places and by supply ships, she kept on her
destructive way, until by October 19 she had captured half a dozen more
ships.
Then something happened to annoy her. H.M.S. _Yarmouth_, which had
been following her doggedly, seized some of her supply ships; and the
_Emden_ slipped into hiding for a while, though trading vessels still
went in dread, expecting her to turn up suddenly.
She did turn up suddenly, though her quarry was something better than
merchant shipping. On October 21--Trafalgar Day--a four-funnelled
cruiser swept into Penang roadstead, and the French destroyer
_Mousquet_ and the Russian light cruiser _Jemtchug_ little thought that
this was the _Emden_, which they knew had only three funnels. What had
happened was that Captain von Müller, her commander, had rigged up a
jury funnel out of woodwork and canvas, thus altering altogether the
appearance of his ship.
The _Jemtchug_ saluted her with “Who are you?”
“_Yarmouth!_” was the audacious answer. “Coming to anchorage!” And the
_Emden_ immediately swung round stern on to the _Jemtchug_. Forthwith
she loosed one of her deadly torpedoes at the Russian, following it up
with a shower of shells from her 4-inch guns. Down went the _Jemtchug_,
the French boat going after her almost immediately, stricken to death
by the crafty _Emden_.
Having thus completed the destruction of her unsuspecting foes, the
German corsair went into hiding again, but on November 9 appeared off
the Cocos Islands--to meet her doom.
For the Australian cruiser _Sydney_ received an interrupted wireless
message from the Cocos to the effect: “Strange warship ... off
entrance,” and at once sped off at full steam, and at 9.15 the
look-out saw the tops of the coco-nut trees of the Keeling Islands in
the distance. Five minutes later the _Emden’s_ funnels were sighted,
twelve or fifteen miles away. Game, the German opened fire at a long
range, the _Sydney_ waiting for a little while, and then sending her
explosive replies. It was a gallant fight; the _Emden_ made some fine
firing practice, smashing the _Sydney’s_ No. 2 starboard gun almost
immediately, and putting practically all the crew out of action. The
Australian’s aft control was blown to pieces, and a fire broke out,
which her men soon got under while the fight raged.
The crew of the _Sydney_ worked well that morning, as the letter of one
of her officers testifies:
“The hottest part of the action for us was the first half-hour. We
opened fire from our port guns to begin with. I was standing just
behind No. 1 port, and the gunlayer (Atkins, First-Class Petty Officer)
said: ‘Shall I load, sir?’ I was surprised, but deadly keen there
should be no ‘flap,’ so said: ‘No, don’t load till you get the order.’
Next he said: ‘_Emden’s_ fired, sir.’ So I said: ‘All right, load, but
don’t bring the gun to the ready.’ I found out afterwards that the
order to load had been received by the other guns ten minutes before,
and my anti-‘flap’ precautions, though they did not the slightest harm,
were thrown away on Atkins, who was as cool as a cucumber throughout
the action.
“All the time we were going 25 and sometimes as much as 26 knots. We
had the speed on the _Emden_, and fought as suited ourselves. We next
changed round to starboard guns, and I then found the gunlayer of No. 1
starboard had been knocked out close to the conning-tower, so I brought
Atkins over to fire No. 1 starboard. I was quite deaf by now, as in the
hurry there had been no thought of getting cotton-wool.
“This is a point I won’t overlook next time.
“Coming aft the port side from the forecastle gun I was met by a lot of
men cheering and waving their caps. I said: ‘What’s happened?’ ‘She’s
gone, sir, she’s gone.’ I ran to the ship’s side, and no sign of a
ship could I see. If one could have seen a dark cloud of smoke, it
would have been different. But I could see no sign of anything. So I
called out: ‘All hands turn out the lifeboats, there will be men in the
water.’ They were just starting to do this when someone called out:
“‘She’s still firing, sir,’ and everyone ran back to the guns. What
had happened was a cloud of yellow or very light-coloured smoke
had obscured her from view, so that looking in her direction one’s
impression was that she had totally disappeared. Later we turned again
and engaged her on the other broadside.”
But, although she was still fighting gamely, the _Emden_ was in a poor
way; her three funnels and her foremast were shot away, and she was
on fire aft. To complete the work so well begun, the _Sydney_ swung
round again, and opened on her with the starboard guns, which sent her
running ashore on North Keeling Island. Then, having fought for an hour
and forty minutes, and realising that the _Emden_ could not escape,
the _Sydney_ went in chase of the German’s collier. Coming up with
her, they found that the crew had opened the seacocks and that she was
sinking rapidly. The crew was taken off, and the _Sydney_ steamed back
to have a look at the _Emden_. It was four o’clock when she arrived,
and almost immediately the Germans hauled down their colours and
hoisted a white flag; they were surrendering. In the ordinary course
the _Sydney_ would now have sent boats out on rescue work, but it was
too late in the evening to do that, especially in view of the fact that
at any moment another German cruiser--the _Königsberg_--might come into
sight, when the _Sydney_ would need to be ready to tackle her. She
therefore steamed away till morning, picking up a German sailor as she
went, making the fourth they had managed to rescue during the day.
Early next morning the _Sydney_ looked in at the cable station, to find
that a landing party from the _Emden_ had smashed the instruments, and
then stolen a schooner and escaped.
A little after eleven o’clock the _Sydney_ went back to where the
_Emden_ had run ashore, and an officer was sent over to her. He
was helped aboard by the Germans, and found the vessel an absolute
shambles. One hundred and eighty men were killed. Captain von Müller
gave his parole, and the wounded were quickly got over to the _Sydney_,
where they were attended to. The remainder of the crew were then
transhipped, and the _Sydney_ sped off for Colombo, where she received
a mighty welcome, though she went in silent, for her captain had
ordered that there should be no cheering over the defeat of gallant
foes, who had always behaved like gentlemen to those whom they had
captured.
When we recall that during the days of her marauding cruise the _Emden_
had captured and sunk shipping to the value of little less than four
and a half million pounds, it will be seen that the _Sydney_ had done
some very good work in bringing her career to an end.
The _Königsberg_, which the _Sydney_ had half expected to turn up
at the Cocos Islands, met her doom at the hands of the British
light cruiser _Chatham_ in the Rufigi River, German East Africa.
The _Königsberg_ had also been a danger on the seas, but she had
only succeeded in sinking one trading vessel and disabling the
obsolete cruiser _Pegasus_. The latter had snapped at the Germans at
Dar-es-Salaam in German East Africa, and had then gone over to Zanzibar
to repair. She was, however, surprised by the _Königsberg_ while her
crew were hard at this work. Before they knew what was what a hail of
shells was poured into the _Pegasus_, which shivered from the shock;
her steel work was bent and twisted, men fell dead or wounded, and very
soon the _Pegasus_ men knew that they were fighting a hopeless battle.
But they fought it as became men with the tradition of unconquerable
pluck behind them.
Their ensign was sent hurtling to the deck by a lucky shot; a man
seized it in his hand and held it aloft, a sign of defiance to
their overwhelming opponent. That man died waving the flag; another
snatched it from his dead hand, and flaunted it bravely; and when the
_Königsberg_, her work done, steamed away, the British ensign still
floated in the breeze above the shattered _Pegasus_.
This one-sided action took place on September 19, and just over a month
later the _Königsberg_ was run down by the _Chatham_, and her career
came to an end. The _Chatham_ found her hiding in the Rufigi River, six
miles up stream. The British cruiser, owing to her great draught, could
not go up after her, and the _Königsberg_ landed part of her crew, who
dug themselves into entrenchments on the Mafia island at the entrance
of the river, expecting an attempt to assault them. The _Chatham_,
however, shelled her and the entrenchments, but the dense palm groves
amid which she lay made it impossible to tell with what effect. To
ensure that she should not escape, the _Chatham_ took measures to
bottle her up; a German East African liner, the _Somali_, was sunk in
the mouth of the river, and later the s.s. _Newbridge_ was also used
for this purpose. This ship (Captain Willett) had a cargo of coal on
board. She was protected aft by sandbags and sacks of coal, and her
steering gear and engine-room were shielded by steel sheets so that the
_Königsberg’s_ fire might not prove too destructive as the _Newbridge_
made her way up river.
The men in the entrenchments on Mafia Island were prepared for the
coming of the _Newbridge_. By some means the Germans had discovered
that she was to be sent; and as they were armed with Maxims and
quick-firers, it looked as though the collier would receive a pretty
warm reception. She did!
Lieutenant Lavington, in command, and Captain Willett and two other
lieutenants were the sole officers on board, six or seven bluejackets
and a few artificers and stokers comprising the crew--a gallant company
going on a dangerous errand. As soon as the _Newbridge_ got within
range the Germans on the island began firing, without much effect.
Then, having passed the island, in spite of a perfect hail of bullets
and shrapnel, she was moored into the position decided upon, and the
last stages of the work begun. Down in her hold were several charges
of guncotton, with an electric wire connected to the launch that had
followed the ship. Having opened her port tank, so that the water
might pour in and give the _Newbridge_ a list up stream, and make
her satisfactorily withstand the strong current running, the crew
slipped into their boats alongside, the connection was set up; and
there followed three loud explosions. The _Newbridge_ sank; and the
_Königsberg_ was effectually bottled up.
For the men who had hazarded everything on this mission the serious
task now before them was to get back to the open sea; and to do this
they had, of course, to pass the island, with its force of Germans.
They sped back as quickly as they could, meeting a shower of shot,
which caused considerable damage; but at last the gantlet was run and
the intrepid men were safe on board.
Less than a week later the _Königsberg_ was sunk. As she was hidden by
the dense foliage, and had taken the precaution of covering herself
with leaves, the British had, as we have said, much difficulty in
telling whether the shell fire was effective. In order to get the exact
position, therefore, an aeroplane, brought by the _Kinfauns Castle_,
was used. The whirr of her engine, as she reconnoitred over them, told
the Germans that the end was very near, and they were quite prepared
for the well-placed shots which quickly followed the dropping of smoke
bombs, signalling the position of the lurking cruiser. The great,
destructive shells smashed into her, wrought havoc all through her,
broke her as though she had been a cardboard toy; and very soon she
sank. The _Pegasus_ had been avenged.
These two cases are typical of the way the British Navy dealt with
the modern corsairs and showed Germany that Britannia still rules the
waves.
THE WRECKERS
Stories of Human Ghouls
There are few things more fiendish to be found in the story of the
sea than the wholesale system of wrecking which was in practice from
early times up to comparatively recent years. The wreckers were nothing
less than ghouls who preyed upon mariners whom they had lured to
destruction. Very severe laws were made to deal with them, but it is to
be feared that they were very ineffective.
On September 11, 1773, the _Charming Jenny_, Captain Chilcot, was
battling bravely against a storm off the Isle of Anglesea. For a while
all went well, and Chilcot thought that he could weather the storm.
Away in the distance there suddenly appeared lights as of ships passing
in the night. But, had he known it, they were false lights--lanterns
tied around horses’ necks. Scoundrelly men were leading the horses
along the cliff-heads, taking care that they were near the rocks which
poked their cruel noses above water. Chilcot, taking these lights for
those of ships passing in the night, steered his vessel towards them,
thinking he would thereby be safe.
Then, when it was too late, he discovered his mistake; there was a
crunching, grinding noise as the _Charming Jenny_ hurled herself on the
rocks, and in an incredibly short time went to pieces, carrying all
her crew to destruction with the exception of Chilcot and his wife,
who were fortunate in getting on to a piece of wreckage, and after
some hours of agony and exposure were washed ashore in an exhausted
condition and were scarcely able to move. There, on the beach, they
lay for a while, hoping for succour, instead of which there came--the
wreckers. These, when they were satisfied that their fell work had been
successful, hurried down from the cliffs and, searching the shore, came
upon the almost lifeless bodies of the man and woman.
Chilcot they seized and took away, stripped him of his clothes, even
cut the buckles from his shoes, and then left him to shift for himself.
His first thought was for his wife, and hurrying as fast as he could to
the shore, he found her--dead. The wreckers had killed her and carried
away the bank bills and seventy guineas she had in her pocket.
The significant thing about this incident was that Chilcot, getting
assistance from two kindly people near by, put the authorities at
work, with the result that three men were arrested, and found to be
well-to-do folk--one of them, indeed, so wealthy that he could offer
£5,000 bail when he was arraigned at Shrewsbury Assizes! Probably these
gentry had fattened on the misfortunes of dozens of other unfortunate
mariners.
An incident of wrecking in Cornwall in 1838 is typical in many
respects. The wreckers in this case were the miners of Sennen, who
one day noticed a ship trying to beat up the Channel against a fierce
storm. As it was daylight, the miners grumbled at the fate which seemed
as though it had sent a prize to taunt them, for they could not lure
the ship to destruction while it was light. But knowing, with that
instinct of the coast-dwellers, that the storm would hold on for some
time, and that the ship could not hope to make much headway, they
set a number of men on watch on the cliffs to keep the ship in sight
until night fell. Meanwhile the wreckers went on with their mining.
When night fell they rushed to the coast, and soon were sent to a
particularly dangerous part. They carried a lantern, which they set on
a cliff-head.
To the mariners on the battling ship it seemed like a beacon. Where
they had been buffeting blindly before, with no light to guide them,
now they were able to take bearings. The captain set his course by the
light, but, past masters in their craft, the wreckers manipulated the
light so that the skipper was deceived, and, although he did not know
it, he was gradually getting closer and closer to the shore.
Crash! The ship hit the rocks, and at once realising that he had been
trapped, the skipper shouted commands; men flew to do his bidding, but
the ship refused to budge; she was fast on the rocks.
Then the wreckers fell to work. There were no fewer than two thousand
of them, and while the captain and crew were intent on getting ashore,
the wreckers busied themselves in taking out everything of value,
stripping the ship clean. The captain, knowing that the fiends had
lured him to destruction, rallied his men together to oppose them.
But what could a handful of men do against such a horde? Although the
mariners put up a gallant fight, they were defeated and many of them
cut down.
Then the coastguard turned up. Again only a handful to oppose
thousands, who, in possession of a rich prize, were determined nothing
should rob them of it. So there was another fight, fierce hand-to-hand
tussles at first, for the coastguards did not wish to kill; then, when
the wreckers began to menace their very lives, the coastguards opened
fire. This only enraged the wreckers more, and they fell upon the
officers, who were at last driven off, unable to cope with the force
arrayed against them.
Then the wreckers completed their fell work.
In 1731--during the reign of George II., that is--there sailed from
Copenhagen a Danish East Indiaman, the _Golden Lion_, with a valuable
cargo, including twelve large chests of silver valued at about £16,000.
Captain Heitman, of the _Golden Lion_, after encountering bad weather
in the Channel and being driven northward to the Kerry coast, at last
put into the Bay of Tralee, near the northern shore of which there lies
another bay, called the Bay of Ballyheigue, abounding with sunken rocks
and sandbanks, a place of terror to mariners.
How it happened is not clear, but on October 28 the _Golden Lion_
entered this treacherous bay. It has been asserted that the men of
Kerry lured her by false lights, though they vowed their innocence. In
any case, the _Golden Lion_ was in a serious fix, and the only way to
save the crew was for Captain Heitman to steer his ship ashore. This
he did, and succeeded in saving the sixty men comprising the crew, and
also the £16,000 of silver and various other things, though the _Golden
Lion_ herself became a total wreck.
To the credit of the Kerry men be it said that for a long time the
Danes were hospitably treated by them; the officers were housed at
Ballyheigue House, and their treasure was allowed to be stored in
an old tower, at the south-west corner of the court belonging to
the house. The crew were taken in to billet at various houses round
about. Meanwhile, Heitman sent news to London and Copenhagen of
his misfortune; but it would appear that these never reached their
destination, being held up in Ballyheigue, and the Danes had to wait
long, and as patiently as they could, for news that never came.
Then there began to be a change in the attitude of the Kerry men.
Thomas Crosbie, owner of Ballyheigue House, died, and a relative named
Arthur Crosbie came to the help of his widow and mother, executors
of the late host. Now, Arthur Crosbie was a queer customer--hard up,
crafty, always with his nose in other people’s business. He felt
that the Danes should be made to pay something out of their hoard
for all the hospitality shown them. Heitman, nothing averse to doing
so, objected, however, to the charges put down by Crosbie--namely,
£4,000--and he sent a letter of complaint--though how it got through
goodness only knows--to Dublin. The authorities at Dublin sent back a
message that the Danes were not to be imposed upon; and Crosbie knew
that he had been foiled.
But only in one direction, for his crafty mind soon set to work to
devise a plan whereby he could get some of that treasure in the vaults
beneath the square tower of Ballyheigue House; and he was not alone in
his plotting, for others of the Kerry men were of much the same mind as
he was.
A pretty plot was in the way of being hatched.
A man named Cantillon (a distant relative of the Crosbies) started
things seriously. He conferred with David Lawlor, who kept an inn
at Tralee, in April, 1732, and the result of their confab was that
they paid a visit to the farm at Beinaree belonging to the Protestant
Archdeacon of Ardfert, the Rev. Francis Lauder, who was also a J.P. The
plotters told their scheme to one named Ryan, tithe-proctor and steward
to the archdeacon, and he eagerly threw in his lot with them. The prize
was worth it. He promised to do his best to get other helpers, and that
night he tackled John Kevane, a labourer on the farm.
Now, Kevane was wary; he was not at all opposed to the plot, but he
wanted to be sure that it had substantial backing in the shape of “the
gentlemen of the county.” Ryan was evasive on this point.
“I’m going to see the master,” he said, “and feel sure that the gentry
will consent to it.” But Kevane was not at all convinced, and reserved
his opinion.
Having so far committed himself, Ryan naturally had to follow the
matter up with Kevane and get him into the plot, lest he gave
information; and next day he tried again to persuade him.
“If the gentry are really in it,” said Kevane at last, “then some of
them ought to appear in it, so as to spirit up the folk.”
“We can’t ask them to do that,” answered Ryan craftily; “it would
hardly do. But I can tell you, Kevane, that their servants are going to
help us.”
This sounded reasonable to Kevane, who therefore agreed to enter
into the conspiracy, and very soon Cantillon, Lawlor, and Ryan found
themselves with a fairly respectable (or disreputable) following,
including William Banner, the butler, and Richard Ball, the steward at
Ballyheigue, Captain Stephen Macmahon, and John Malony, his mate.
There was one other man Cantillon was anxious to have in with him.
This was Denis Cahane, a poor smallholder at Kilgobbin, who refused
at first, but at last asked time to think it over. Thinking it over,
he felt he would like advice, and, having been told that the gentry
were in it, had a talk with his landlord, Mr. John Carrick, a J.P. The
magistrate soon put Cahane right, and told him to have nothing to do
with the matter, and the poor chap gave his promise.
“Keep it quiet, sir,” he said tremblingly, “or they’ll kill me for an
informer!”
Cahane knew Cantillon and his roguish comrades!