natives who owned cows and mules, but they seldom thought of taking the
mules along to carry up the provisions or themselves.
It had always been the custom of their women to make pack-baskets out
of their backs, and they would never think of doing otherwise. It is
not easy to get these people to talk of themselves to strangers; they
often resent being asked questions about their work and ideas.
Yet the young women take interest in the pretty clothes of strangers.
One of them came up to me and touched a blue lapis-lazuli ring I was
wearing, her eyes simply devouring it, and the other trinkets I wore of
the same stone. Finally, she exclaimed that she liked them very much,
and also the frock of the same colour. I am quite certain there was a
momentary pang of feminine envy in her heart, and a hatred for her own
incongruous garments.
[Illustration: RETRIBUTION.
BY CAPTAIN G. F. PUGH.]
A story of the bad old “shanghaiing” days, showing how a
villainous crimp had the tables turned upon him in dramatic
fashion. Captain Pugh heard the first part of the story while
in Newcastle, N.S.W., as mate of a ship, and its sequel upon a
return voyage.
In 1872 Newcastle, New South Wales, was a busy, thriving little
seaport. The harbour was full of large sailing ships, loading and
waiting to load coal, and bound chiefly to China, San Francisco, and
the Pacific Coast ports.
Very few of these ships had their full complement of seamen on board.
Most of the sailors deserted during the vessels’ stay in port--and one
cannot blame them, when it is remembered that the pay in these ships
from British ports was two pounds ten a month, with the poorest quality
of food that it was possible for the ship-owner to buy, and only just
sufficient of that to keep body and soul together.
The pay out of the Australian ports was, for homeward-bounders, five
pounds ten, and in the coast and inter-Colonial traders seven pounds a
month, with a sufficiency of good, nourishing food. In addition to the
inducements offered by the coast traders, there was plenty of work to
be found on shore, for the Queensland, Victorian, and South Australian
goldfields were in full swing. The consequence was that there was great
difficulty in getting men to man the ships when they were ready for sea.
Like most seaports in those days of sailing-ships, the town was full
of sailors’ boarding-houses. The tactics and ways of procuring men
employed by the proprietors of these places were not such as would
stand the light of day, but nevertheless they did a thriving business.
One of the most noted characters in the town was a boarding-house
keeper named Dan Sullivan, a scoundrel to the backbone. He was
notorious for the number of men he had “shanghaied” out of the port,
but, strange to say, he had gained a certain amount of power in the
town, and shipmasters requiring men were, under the circumstances,
compelled to deal with him, although at the same time many of them had
the utmost contempt for the fellow.
Sullivan kept a low-class drinking saloon with a free-and-easy
dancing-room attached to it. The boarders lived in the rooms overhead.
This was the only dancing saloon in the town, and was thronged with
sailors every night. The liquor sold was, needless to say, vile
stuff, but men who have been living for months on weevily biscuit and
“salt-horse” have very little taste left in their mouths, and as long
as the decoction was hot and came out of a bottle it passed muster.
Sullivan was an adept at drugging liquor, and he always kept materials
at hand for that purpose. Just a little tobacco ash dropped in the
glass when pouring out the drinks, and the thing was done. When he
required a few sailors for a ship ready to sail, he picked out the
likeliest men in the room--usually strangers--and when the seamen, hot
and thirsty with dancing, ordered drinks through the women who acted as
waitresses, these Delilahs would bring the prepared stuff, and soon the
men would feel muddled and sleepy and would go into the side room and
sink down on the benches.
Sullivan would then slip in among them.
“Halloa, mates! What’s the matter? Feel queer, eh? Ah, it’s the dancing
and the hot weather. I’ll send you a good tot that will put you all
right.”
He would then send one of the girls in with a good glass of hot
whisky--drugged, and that would be all the men would know for some
time. When they came to their senses they found themselves in a
strange ship, out of sight of land, without a stitch of clothes beyond
what they stood up in. Of course, there was generally a row, but it
invariably ended in their turning to work and making the best of a bad
bargain.
[Illustration: “HALLOA, MATES! WHAT’S THE MATTER?”]
One day in February, 1872, it happened that there were three British
ships lying at the buoys, loaded and ready to sail, but each was in
want of a few seamen to make up her complement. Not a man could be
got at the shipping-office for love or money--the news of a fresh
gold-field on the Barrington had reached Newcastle that morning, and
all the disengaged men had made tracks for that district. So the only
possible way to get hands for the vessels ready to sail was to obtain
them from the ships that had lately arrived, and which would have some
time to wait for a loading berth.
The captains of the ships at the buoys sent for Sullivan, and arranged
with him to supply them with four men each that night, as the trio
would sail at the turn of the tide. When Sullivan got back on shore,
he sent some of his runners to quietly let the crews of the ships in
harbour know there was to be a free concert and dance at his place,
with plenty of whisky into the bargain.
When night came the saloon was packed with seamen, and among the lot
were six fine young American sailors from the ship _Jeremiah Crawford_,
of New Bedford. Now, New Bedford ships are very often “family
ships”--that is to say, the captain, officers, and seamen are related
to each other. Of the six young fellows who went to this dance, two
were nephews of the captain, one was a relative of the mate, and the
others were related to members of the crew.
Long before the dance was over there were several seamen lying
helplessly drugged in the side room. Just before midnight, and while
the dance was still going on, Sullivan and his fellow-crimps removed
the helpless men down to a boat, and took them off to the ships at the
buoys. Then Sullivan pocketed his blood-money, and before daylight the
vessels were at sea under all plain sail.
The following day, when the six American seamen did not turn up on
board the _Jeremiah Crawford_, inquiries were quietly made, and it was
soon found out what had become of them; they had been among the twelve
men “shanghaied” aboard the three waiting ships. The men’s shipmates,
boiling with anger, wanted to go and wreck Sullivan and his saloon, but
the captain called all hands aft, and from the poop told them they must
not let it be known that they knew where their shipmates were.
“I know how you feel over it,” he said, “and I know how I feel too, but
I intend to pay that rascal in his own coin. Those Britishers are off
to ‘Frisco, and we are bound there, too; and you can bet your bottom
dollar I mean to make the ship move when we start. And what is more, I
intend to take that rascal Sullivan with me!”
“All right, captain,” answered the men. “Mum’s the word. We will wait
events.”
Two days afterwards Captain Monk, of the _Jeremiah Crawford_, told
Sullivan to get him six men by the time the ship was loaded.
Sullivan agreed, on condition that he was paid three pounds per man.
This Captain Monk agreed to, and when the ship was finished and hauled
out to the buoys, Sullivan sent word to the captain that he would bring
the men off about eight p.m.
Now, that day a young Irish police-constable had been transferred from
Sydney to Newcastle, and promoted. He was appointed to this district
with a view to watching the goings-on at Sullivan’s, rumours of which
had reached police head-quarters.
The constable was married to a fine strapping Irish lass, who was a
great help to her husband. She wore her hair short like a man’s, and
was not a stranger to the wearing of men’s clothes. It was partly owing
to her, in fact, that her husband had got his position.
The constable knew he was there to get proof of Sullivan’s shady
doings, and it was accordingly arranged that his wife should disguise
herself as a seaman--as she had done before--and watch the inside while
her husband watched the outside of Sullivan’s saloon. The policeman’s
wife was a splendidly-built woman, as straight as a reed, and muscular
as well.
So it happened that, when Sullivan was picking out the men he wanted
for his purpose that night, he saw this likely-looking young fellow
among them. But he was not taking any liquor--only a bottle of
ginger-ale. Sullivan obligingly opened a bottle for him, and it was a
simple matter, as the stuff fizzed out, to knock the ash from his cigar
into the glass with his little finger, and the mischief was done.
Presently one of his spies cautioned the crimp that there was a
constable knocking about in the street.
“We must get the beggar out of the way, Mike,” said Sullivan. “I’ll
soon settle him. You watch him.”
Going outside, Sullivan walked up the street past the constable,
smoking a splendid cigar. The constable got a whiff and wished he
had one like it. In a few minutes the crimp returned, still puffing
away at the cigar. As he passed the policeman he quietly dropped his
cigar-case. The constable, just behind him, saw the case and picked it
up, and, seeing there were two or three fine cigars in it, succumbed to
temptation and put it in his pocket.
He could not long resist the mute appeal of those cigars, so, slipping
into the shadow behind some houses, he lit one, and was soon enjoying a
good smoke. It had a wonderfully soothing influence, and he leaned up
against the wall, thinking of the sharp bit of work that had brought
him promotion. He felt that already he had Sullivan in his power, and
he saw himself in imagination with his sergeant’s stripes. Then, all
of a sudden, he smiled a sickly smile, his head fell forward, his legs
gave way beneath him, and he sank in a heap on the ground.
A few minutes afterwards the spy, who had been watching him all
the time, cautiously approached. He took the cigar-case out of the
unconscious man’s tunic, removed the remains of the drugged cigar from
his mouth, and left him there.
The night was dark, and about eight p.m., while the dancing and singing
were still in full swing, Sullivan and his tools got the selected men
off in a boat. The tug was ahead of the ship, all ready to start.
When the crimp got alongside with his men the _Jeremiah Crawford_ was
hanging to a slip-rope, and the captain was in his cabin waiting for
Sullivan and the sailors.
“Hurry up and get those chaps on board,” the mate called out. “I want
to get under way.”
“All right, Mister Mate,” answered one of the crimps. “We’ll soon have
them on board. Get out of that, you brutes!” he added, giving one of
the dazed men a kick.
Sullivan and his men soon got their victims on board, but on getting
on deck one of the fellows, a fine-built young Swede, seemed to partly
recover his senses.
“I don’t belong to this ship,” he said, and made for the gangway. With
an oath Sullivan sprang at him. A terrific blow on the side of the
head, and the poor fellow dropped senseless on the deck. They then
bundled the lot forward.
[Illustration: “EACH OF THEM WAS KNOCKED SENSELESS WITH A BLOW BEHIND
THE EAR FROM A KNUCKLE-DUSTER.”]
Finding no light in the forecastle Sullivan and his men stepped inside,
and were in the act of striking matches, when each of them was knocked
senseless with a blow behind the ear from a knuckle-duster. They were
then dropped into the fore-peak and the hatch fastened down, while the
new men were lifted into berths to sleep off the effects of the drugged
liquor.
In the meantime, the second mate slipped down the gangway, and,
standing on one side of Sullivan’s boat, capsized her. When she filled
with water he cast her off and let her drift up-river.
The tug-boat dropped down, the tow-rope was secured, the buoy cast off,
and before midnight the ship was outside the Nobbies and under all sail.
At daylight the “shanghaied” men were getting over the effects of the
drug, and the captain called all hands aft to give them a good glass
of grog. The new men were in a terrible state when they came to their
senses and found they had been “shanghaied.” One young fellow, in
particular, sat down on the hatch and, placing his head on his hands,
seemed to give way to despair. He took no heed of what was going on,
and spoke no word to anyone.
The young Swede who had been so brutally struck by Sullivan stepped up
to the captain.
“Who brought us on board?” he asked.
“Dan Sullivan,” replied the mate. “He said you were his boarders. I
saw him come alongside, and then I went forward, and have not seen him
since.”
“Did you pay him any advance for us, captain?”
“No; I have not seen him,” said the skipper. “He must have gone on
shore again. I cannot understand it. I do not know the man,” added
Captain Monk. “I wrote him to get me six men, and told him I would sign
them on board. I heard him come alongside with you, and when I came out
of my cabin I saw no boat alongside, and we got under way at once.”
“Thank you, captain,” replied the Swede. “Sullivan and I will meet
again some day.”
“Halloa, halloa! What’s all that about?” rang out from the forecastle,
accompanied by a heavy thumping.
The mate started to run forward, and all hands turned, to behold a
remarkable sight.
Out of the forecastle bolted three men. Casting their eyes in the
direction of the land they rushed aft, past the seamen, and were about
to mount the poop-ladder, when the mate barred the way.
“Get down out of this, you skunks!” he roared. “Who are you fellows,
and where do you come from?”
“You know jolly well who I am,” roared the biggest of the three. “And
you had better land us as quick as you can, or it will be a bad job for
you, so I tell you.”
The mate looked at him in silence for a moment; then the skipper chimed
in.
“Who the deuce are you?” demanded Captain Monk; “and what are you doing
aboard my ship?”
“What are you trying to get at, captain?” cried the crimp, furiously.
“You know very well I’m Dan Sullivan. I brought you six men last night,
and when we took them into the forecastle--”
There was a shuffle among the men, and the next minute the young Swede
had sprung at Sullivan’s throat and the two were tossing about the deck
battering each other like wild beasts.
“Stand back, everybody!” cried the mate. “Let them have it out.”
Sullivan was the bigger and heavier man, but the Swede was a perfect
young athlete, and had a cruel wrong to wipe out. The muscles of his
arms and neck stood out like strong cords as the two rolled from side
to side.
Not a word was uttered by the officers or crew, who stood calmly
looking on.
Suddenly, by a quick movement, the Swede pinned Sullivan against the
fife-rail around the mainmast, and with his right hand battered his
face unmercifully. Then, seizing him by the throat, he flung him into
the lee-scuppers, where he lay without movement.
The Swede looked at his foe for a moment, then coolly walked over and
wiped his boots on him. Next, turning towards the poop where Captain
Monk and the officers stood, he touched his cap and said:--
“I am second mate of the Swedish ship _Oscar Brandi_, and my father
is captain. I went on shore for a walk, and hearing the music I went
into a saloon and called for a drink. I sat down to watch the dancers,
and knew no more until I found myself on board this ship. What will my
father say or think? What will my employers say?”
He stopped abruptly, and walked forward with his head bent, overwhelmed
with his grief.
Within another minute the two remaining crimps were hotly engaged with
two of the ship’s crew whose relatives had been “shanghaied” aboard the
Britishers. The sailors made short work of the crimps, and fairly wiped
the deck with them.
Captain Monk then ordered the hapless three to be locked up in separate
cabins and fed on bread and water for a few days.
“It will give them time to repent,” he said to the mate. “It won’t do
to put them with the crew yet awhile--there would be murder done. In a
few days they can go forward, and the crew will save us dirtying our
hands with the scoundrels. Our chaps will lead them a dance, and they
will wish to Heaven they had never laid their hands on my crew.”
Just then the mate noticed the young fellow sitting on the hatch with
his head in his hands. He seemed utterly dejected and oblivious of
everything about him. The rest of the men had gone forward, and were
excitedly discussing the matter of Sullivan and his mates being on
board, each one swearing to have his pound of flesh out of the hated
“shanghaiers.”
The captain and the mate walked along to the young fellow on the hatch.
Putting his hand kindly on his bowed head, Captain Monk said: “Come,
come, young man; you must not give way like that. Sailors should always
make the best of everything.”
Lifting his head at the kindly touch and words, the young fellow
replied:--
“Oh, captain, whatever shall I do? I am not a sailor.”
“Oh, never mind that,” said the mate. “You will soon learn here; so get
forward with the others.”
“Oh, captain, take pity on me!” cried the supposed young man,
tremulously. “For Heaven’s sake, take pity on me! I am a respectable
married woman! My husband is Police-constable Hogan of the Newcastle
police.”
The captain and mate were astounded, and for a moment could do nothing
but stare at her. Then, seeing some of the men forward looking at them,
Captain Monk said: “Come aft to the saloon and I will hear your story.”
When they got into the cabin Mrs. Hogan told how the authorities at
Sydney had heard something of the doings of Sullivan and his crimps,
and had sent her husband to the district to get evidence against him.
She had assisted him before, and on this occasion had dressed up in
her present clothes and joined the sailors in the dance room to watch
Sullivan and his satellites.
“I called for a bottle of ginger-ale,” she said. “I watched him open
the bottle, and I am sure there was nothing in the glass, for I saw
it standing upside down on the counter; but I had not drunk it many
minutes before I felt my head getting light, and I remember no more
until I found myself on board this ship. I have abundant evidence
against that blackguard Sullivan now, but it is no good as he is on
board here. What shall I do? I have no clothes but these. I cannot go
among those men.”
“Steamer ahead, sir! Coming this way,” rang out the cry.
“Aye, aye!”
Captain Monk took a look at her through the telescope.
“Run the ‘Urgent’ signal up!” he shouted. “It is the Union Company’s
boat bound to Melbourne. I will send a letter and this woman on board.
Back the mainyard, and get the boat out quick.”
Up went the signal, and the steamer bore down towards the ship. Her
decks were crowded with passengers.
“You will go in the boat, Mrs. Hogan,” said the skipper, “and you had
better explain things to the captain at once. My letter will tell him
also. Mr. Patter, you go with the boat, and take four of our own hands
with you. As soon as you give the letter to the captain, put this woman
on board and return at once.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Ship your oars! Let go forward!”
The boat shot away and was soon alongside the steamer, and the mate and
Mrs. Hogan climbed on board. Going along the bridge, Mr. Patter handed
the letter to the captain, who read it and said:--
“All right. Tell Captain Monk that I will take the woman to Melbourne.
I am glad he has that blackguard on board. Good-bye.”
The mate got back into his boat, the engines were rung ahead, the
ensign was dipped three times, and before the boat was on board again
the steamer was out of sight.
Then the sails were filled once more and the _Jeremiah Crawford_ stood
on her course.
Five days afterwards Sullivan and his mates were released and sent to
live in the forecastle. Sullivan was put into the mate’s watch and the
two crimps in the second mate’s watch.
There was another row at once, and again the blackguards got a good
thrashing. They were put to the most menial work, were made to wait on
the others, and do all the dirty work about the decks; in fact, their
lives were made a misery to them from morning till night. Hardly a day
passed that one or other of the scoundrels did not get a licking. They
had a taste of the misery they had caused many another man, and, as the
captain had prophesied, they had time to repent of their misdeeds.
When the _Jeremiah Crawford_ arrived at San Francisco the pilot
informed them that two British ships had just gone to the anchorage,
adding that he noticed they were from Newcastle. This was good news to
all but Sullivan and his crimps.
As they moved up the harbour to their anchorage they passed close to
the _Commonwealth_. On board her were some of the _Jeremiah Crawford’s_
crew, and as they passed, one of the sailors called out, “We have
Sullivan on board!”
After the sails were unbent, all the running-gear triced up, and the
decks washed down, the crew were dismissed.
“Pay off to-morrow,” said the mate.
“Aye, aye!” answered the crew.
All hands went on shore, and Sullivan was forced, much against his
will, to go with them. On the wharf where they landed stood the six
American sailors whom Sullivan and his mates had “shanghaied” from
Newcastle! Let us mercifully draw a veil over the crimp’s final
punishment.
Neither of the three blackguards turned up when the crew were paid
off; no questions were asked, and no explanations given. But two
years afterwards Sullivan appeared again at New South Wales--not the
unscrupulous bully and braggart, but a broken, decrepit old man.
[Illustration: Mountain Tragedies of the Lake District.]
BY A MEMBER OF THE ALPINE CLUB.
A contribution appealing to climbers and non-climbers
alike. Although the writer prefers to remain anonymous, he
is a well-known mountaineer. In this article he gives an
authoritative and most interesting account of the various
climbing fatalities which have occurred in the English Lake
District, pointing out exactly how each disaster occurred.
Photographs by G. P. Abraham, Keswick.
In these days of hurry-scurry mountaineering, when the words of the
wise are on every climber’s tongue and the intention to obey them in
few men’s minds, a great deal is written concerning the perils of the
mountains. The object of the greater part of these writings has been to
elaborate in detail the various phases of mountaineering dangers and
how to obviate them: in other words, how best to avoid accidents.
[Illustration: MICKLEDORE RIDGE AND THE BROAD STAND--THE CIRCLE MARKS
THE SPOT FROM WHICH MR. HAARBLEICHER FELL AND THE CROSS THE POINT WHERE
MR. PETTY LOST HIS BALANCE.
_From a Photograph._]
It is a somewhat singular fact that, beyond a few generalities and
platitudes evolved by non-climbing reporters, no record has been
written of the accidents themselves. And yet, in the case of the
accidents that have occurred in the Lake District, much is to be
learnt. Every disaster on the mountains, if properly understood,
should teach a lesson, for the majority of them are only accidents in
part, and have been directly due to the disregard or violation of some
cardinal law governing the sport of mountaineering.
If a man who has never been on a mountain in his life before endeavours
to scale a steep precipice and loses his life in the attempt, can such
be truly called an accident? Surely it would be more of an accident if
he succeeded in winning through without mishap; a fatal fall may under
such circumstances be called a tragedy--a disaster, but surely not an
accident.
And yet the circumstances of the so-called accident to Mr.
Haarbleicher, a Manchester merchant, in 1892, were almost in accordance
with the above instance.
He arrived at Wastdale Head Hotel with his sister, and, being “anxious
to climb his first mountain,” ascended Scawfell.
[Illustration: SCAWFELL PINNACLE--PROFESSOR MARSHALL HAD JUST RETURNED
FROM THIS CLIMB WHEN HE MET WITH HIS FATAL ACCIDENT.
_From a Photograph._]