Take a windjammer out as a cruiser? Sneak through the blockade and
go buccaneering on the high seas?
"By Joe!" I thought, "that's something."
It was a romantic thing all right in this day and age, when the
sailing ship is getting to be something of a relic of the fine old
times, the heroic age of the sea. But it wasn't because I had read a
lot of sea stories and had become fascinated with the old world of
rigging and canvas. I had been there myself, had been there good and
proper.
The reason I was assigned to the command of the _Seeadler_ was
because I was the only officer in the German Navy who had had actual
experience with sail. I was born Graf Felix von Luckner and was now
a lieutenant commander, in the Imperial Service, but I had spent
seven years of my early life as a common jack-tar before the mast.
The fo'c'sle was as familiar to me as charts are to an admiral. That
was why this windjammer cruise of war meant so deuced much to me, why
it hit so close and was so personal.
I cannot make that part of it clear without telling you something of
my early life at sea, a thing or two about the old days when sailing
before the mast was all they say--and more. It's a yarn about
shipwreck, storm, and cantankerous captains. So, sit yourself down
there, by Joe, while I light my pipe and weigh anchor.
My first mental picture of life at sea dates away back to the time
when I was a little fellow living in quiet, charming old Dresden. I
saw a bill of fare from the liner, _Fuerst Bismarck_. By Joe, there
were fine delicacies on it. I read it until my jaws began to move.
So that was how people feasted at sea? Ah, then, how wonderful it
must be to be a sailor. Perhaps, some day, I might become the
captain of a great steamer where they had meals like that. The more
I thought of it, the better I liked the idea, and from then on I had
my mind set on going to sea. I read of the voyages of the wily
Odysseus and of Sindbad the Sailor. On the river near our home I
built a boat of an old box and christened it the _Pirate_.
"Oceans, straits, and gulfs are all very fine, but of what concern
are they to a Von Luckner?" asked my father. "You are to be a
cavalryman."
You see, my great-grandfather had started the cavalry tradition among
us Von Luckners. They had tried to make a monk of him, and had put
him in a monastery. But he didn't like that job, and among his
fellows at the monastery he was called "Luckner libertinus." When he
was thirteen years old, he ran away and joined the army of the Turks,
in a war against the Austrians. In those days, the cavalrymen all
had boys to feed and look after the horses, carry munitions, and
clean rifles. So, while still a mere lad, my great-grandfather
became a professional soldier, a soldier of fortune. After he had
learned a lot about the Turks, he left them and joined the Austrians.
That was when he was fifteen years old. Later on, he joined the
Prussian Army, as a lieutenant of cavalry, under Frederick the Great.
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[Illustration: On board the _Cæsarea_, the skinflint captain and part
of his crew, Phelax Leudige standing fifth from the left. ~ The
wreck of the Cæsarea.]
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Finally, he formed his own regiment, which became famous throughout
all Europe as "Count Luckner's Hussars." They had their own
specially designed brown uniforms, and as mercenaries they fought in
any war that came along. In those days, it was the custom for
soldiers to fight for whoever could afford to pay them. The King of
Hanover was in the habit of buying regiments, and my
great-grandfather sold him his on the condition that it was still to
be known as "Count Luckner's Hussars." The King broke his word. So
my warlike ancestor went to the King's castle, boldly charged him
with treachery, then took off his mantle and tunic covered with the
decorations that the King had given him and threw them into the open
fire.
"Henceforth I will fight against you," he shouted.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: The runaway sailor came home at last, but not until he
had worn the Kaiser's uniform with honour. He dropped the name
"Phelax Leudige," and after completing his studies and examinations
saved five lives, became famous, and was promoted, to the rank of
Lieutenant-Commander in the Imperial Navy.]
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Shortly after this, he joined forces with the King of France, and
then, during the French Revolution, he continued to serve the new
French government as the commander of the Army of the Rhine. When
the _Marseillaise_ was written, it was dedicated to him because he
happened to be the commanding general in the region where this
immortal song was composed. After winning a number of important
victories in Belgium, he was made a Marshal of France.
When the campaign was over, he led his army to the outskirts of
Paris, and then, accompanied only by his aides, he went into the city
to demand the back pay that was due to his soldiers. But instead of
getting it, he was treacherously seized and sent to the guillotine.
You see, it was cheaper to kill him than pay him. Although always a
Royalist at heart, he was above all a soldier, and fought faithfully
and valiantly for any monarch or government willing to hire his
famous regiment. All our histories tell of him and his gallant deeds.
From then on, all Luckners became cavalrymen. It seemed to be in the
blood. My grandfather, an officer, was accidentally killed while on
a hunting expedition. My father fought in all the wars from 1848
down to the World War. In 1914, when he was ninety, he wanted to
join up again. He insisted that he was still able to do patrol duty,
because his eyesight was unimpaired and he was still a horseman.
When the general staff refused his request on the ground that he was
too old, he was very angry.
"It is because I am so old that they _should_ take me," he said.
"Let me serve as an example to the younger soldiers. I have fought
in many wars, and will be living proof to them that the surest way to
live a long and healthy life is to be a soldier."
Ships, harbours, the seven seas had nothing to do with a Von Luckner.
My father scoffed at my talk of becoming a sailor, so I never spoke
to him any further about it. He tried to tell me what a fine
cavalryman I would make, and asked me to promise that I would wear
the Emperor's uniform with honour.
Now, in Germany, unless you had a good education, there was no hope
of your ever becoming an officer. And the courses were stiff.
Instead of studying, I preferred to read your American Indian
stories, especially those of James Fenimore Cooper. I knew the names
of many of your famous Indian chiefs, and as a youngster I dreamed of
voyaging to America to hunt buffalo.
My father hired a tutor to cram me with book knowledge, but after six
months that worthy went to him in despair and said:
"It is no use; the boy doesn't learn. There is a devil in him."
Next they put me in a private school in the country, thinking that
association with other boys would fill me with ambition to learn.
Instead, I learned how to fight. Although only ten years old, I was
a husky young devil, fond of sports, and ready for anything that
would provide a thrill. My father thought the teacher was too soft
for me, so he sent me off to another school, where the teacher was a
strong man and something of a ruffian himself. By Joe, how that man
used to pound me! My father also gave me many lickings, and I
considered he was entitled to do so. But this other man? Well, I
stood it from him just once. Then, when the second beating came, I
ran away. For eight days nobody knew where I was. I lived in the
fields like an animal, eating apples and other fruits. Then they
found me. My poor father was ready to give me up as hopeless, but I
still had a true friend, my grandmother. She told my father he had
been far too stern with me, and said to him: "Give me the boy, Henry.
A little kindness may still make a good lad of him."
"You are welcome to try," responded my father, "but you will only
spoil him the more."
Well, Grandmother had the right idea. She made a bargain with me.
There were thirty-four boys in my class at school, and in my studies
I always stood thirty-fourth.
"My lad," she said, "study conscientiously and I will give you fifty
pennies every time you advance a place. I will continue doing this
until you are at the head of the class!"
I couldn't figure right then how much I stood to make. I never was
much at arithmetic. But I guessed it would be considerable, and I
considered Grandmother a good fairy.
I studied with all my might. The next examination came, and others
were ahead, but not I. I was in despair. My grandmother encouraged
me, and I studied still harder. Another examination came, and I
moved up four seats! She gave me two hundred pennies, and I felt
like a millionaire. But at the following examination I dropped back
two seats. She was not discouraged with me and said she hardly
expected me to go ahead without a few rebuffs. I was afraid she
would demand a rebate for the places I had lost, but she did not. I
now saw myself clear of all financial difficulties. By going ahead
with an occasional dropping back, my income would be endless.
I turned into quite a despicable swindler, but it was not out of pure
avarice. I had formed the idea of breeding rabbits and had set my
eye on a fine rabbit sire that would cost me several marks. To get
the sum needed I would have to be promoted several seats which, I
reasoned, could be easily done, especially with occasional slidings
back. But I had bad luck and got no more promotions. What was to be
done? I needed the money. So I told Grandmother that I had been
promoted two places. I got the pennies. Another week I told her I
had gone ahead three places; another week one; and still another week
four. The intricacies of finance and greed led me to a series of
fake promotions that soon landed me at the head of the class. I had
the cheek to put on that I had gained that honour.
Of course, Grandmother was happy and very proud of the success of her
policy of kindness with me. One day, she happened to meet my school
superintendent and could not resist expressing her elation.
"And what do you think of our Felix? Here he has progressed to the
first place in his class by that simple method of mine of giving him
fifty pennies for every form he moves up. I tell you, there is
nothing like kindness. It takes a grandmother to handle a boy."
In utter astonishment, the superintendent replied:
"What, Felix in first place? That's some misunderstanding. So far
as I know, Felix is in thirty-fourth place."
My grandmother rushed home and began to overwhelm me with reproaches.
It happened that she had two bulldogs, one thirteen and the other
fourteen years old. They suffered from asthma. The wheezing dogs
started a commotion in the next room. That diverted her attention
from me, and she bustled out to see what was the matter. When she
returned, her flare of temper had subsided, and she merely said
laconically and finally that she was through with me. "In you there
is a devil," she cried.
She did not tell my father of the adventure, for fear it would make
her ridiculous. All he knew was that, when Easter came, I was
promoted on probation, with the accompanying suggestion that it would
be best if I left school. So he sent me to a school in Halle, a city
of Prussian Saxony, and engaged a private tutor to coach me in
addition.
The end of my school days now came speedily. My father, perhaps
taking a leaf out of my grandmother's book, resorted to a promise.
If I were promoted, I would be allowed to visit my cousin, who lived
on an estate in the country, a thing that I wanted very much to do.
When the examinations came, my father was away. He had left me with
the tutor, who was to permit me to depart for my cousin's estate if I
gained the promotion. As usual I flunked the examination, and came
home angry and sullen. The tutor met me, eagerly asking whether I
had been promoted. I bit my lips and lied impudently. I said I had
been promoted, but that the superintendent was away and had not been
able to sign my report, which would be mailed later. The tutor,
delighted that his coaching had been so successful, gave me immediate
permission to leave for my cousin's.
I took my father's big boots, his water boots, his little coat, his
trousers, his sport shoes. I was big for my thirteen and a half
years, and they would fit me. My brother and I each had a savings
bank. I had eighty marks in mine. He had one hundred and ten marks
in his. I took my savings and forty marks of his. I would repay him
later.
I was away. Where? If I had a devil in me, surely it must be a sea
devil, because I now dreamed of nothing but the sea. I had promised
my father to wear the Emperor's uniform with honour. I would not
return home until I wore the Emperor's naval uniform, and with
honour. I was firm in my decision about this.
I was all excited when I stepped off the train in Hamburg. Here was
the great seaport town, and here was I, a lad going to sea. In the
railroad station I saw a large sign advertising the Concordia Hotel
with the prices of accommodations listed, from fifty to seventy-five
pfennigs a cot. That seemed a little high to me, but never mind. A
porter took my baggage. I was well dressed, and he treated me with a
good deal of respect. When I directed him to the Concordia, he
looked at me.
"So you are one of those fellows driving out to sea?" He changed
instantly from polite German to common, vulgar, Low German in
addressing me.
I had stumbled on the sailors' favourite hotel, but sailors didn't
seem to be held in much respect by porters.
When I got to the Concordia, I soon discovered that sailors do not
frequent palatial hostelries. It was a "rear house," situated in a
back yard. Here in America you would call it a "sailors' flop." I
asked the clerk for a cot, for seventy-five pfennigs. He showed me
into a room where there were six cots. I remonstrated that, when I
paid the highest rate, I didn't want to sleep in a room with five
other people. He laughed and replied that if I was not satisfied
with five companions he would give me a fifty-pfennig room with
forty-nine companions. I chose the five.
My first evening I spent along the famous Hamburg water front, Sankt
Pauli, known to sailors the world over. There was the gigantic
"Vanity Fair," or White City with all its lights and excitement.
Here I saw all manner of seafaring folk, from Malays to West Indians.
In front of some of the amusement halls stood African Negroes in
weird costumes.
At the shipyards, where I offered my services as a cabin boy, I was
told that, since I was only thirteen and a half years old, they would
have to have a written permission from my father before they could
engage me. So I decided I had better address myself directly to
captains aboard their ships. When I went to the part of the harbour
where sailing ships rode at anchor, I found it an immense basin with
a forest of masts, and the vessels moored at considerable distance
offshore.
While gazing longingly at them and wondering what to do next, I came
upon an old man and got into conversation with him. He was a
salt-bitten tar. For thirty-five years he had sailed before the
mast. Now, in his old age, he operated a little ferryboat. So I
asked him to row me out to one of the ships. The old tar handled his
jolly-boat with amazing skill. Never before had I seen anyone scull.
As I gazed up at the lofty masts all around us, old Peter told me
that sailors had to climb these in storms when it was impossible for
a greenhorn to hold on.
I went aboard several ships, but the captains also insisted on my
showing them permission from my father. After I had been turned
down, old Peter saw that my spirits were at low ebb. When I admitted
to him that I had run away from home, it seemed to touch the sympathy
of the old wanderer. But when I told him my father was a landowner
and a count, he looked at me in awe.
"A count? Why, that ranks next to a king!"
He could hardly get over it--a count's son running away to become a
sailor before the mast! The tragedy of it made him take such an
interest in me that we instantly became warm friends, and he asked me
to come and share his humble quarters. From then on, for a week, I
spent most of my time with old Peter Boemer.
"For thirty-five years, for my whole life," he pleaded in his broad
Hamburg dialect, "I was a sailor. What have I now? All I am is
captain of this little rowboat, carrying people for a few pfennings a
trip. Go back to the Count, your father, and when he gives you a
licking for this, thank him for every lick."
I must go home. He was certain of that. He must persuade me to go
home. But the idea of notifying my parents never occurred to him.
That would be squealing, and squealing is not a virtue among sailors.
I saw him every day for a week, and notwithstanding all of his
unanswerable arguments, still I refused to go home. At last he saw
that it was hopeless to plead with me any longer, so he agreed to
help me get on a ship without having any papers.
He got me a post as cabin boy aboard the _Niobe_, a craft the memory
of which grows more vivid with the passing of the years. Then he
insisted upon seeing to it that I was properly outfitted for the sea.
Under his direction, I expended the last of my money for warm
underclothing, oilskins, a sheath knife, tobacco, and a pipe. I was
very proud of the pipe. He took me to his room high up in a dingy
house on a dingy street. Suspended from the ceiling was a stuffed
flying fish. On a wall hung the painting of a ship on sail canvas.
I was filled with admiration when Peter told me he had painted it
himself. In a cage was a parrot, as old and dishevelled as Peter.
He had brought it from Brazil, and it spoke only Portuguese. On the
bureau were Chinese curios and other souvenirs of long voyages.
"And this is my sea chest," he said, as he hauled forth an ancient
weather-beaten but staunch box, and emptied out of it various
examples of his own weaving and knitting.
"Every sailor needs a sea chest," he continued. "It is watertight
and will float. For thirty-five years it travelled with me around
the world. It is yours now, by Joe, and I hope it will serve you as
well as it served me."
That old sea chest was destined to serve me well as long as I had it.
I lost it when I ran away from the lighthouse at Cape Leeuwin,
Australia.
He put me aboard the _Niobe_, that never-to-be-forgotten argosy,
showed me to my bunk, and fixed my mattress and bolster.
"You are born a count"--he shook his head--"and you become a sailor.
Count and sailor don't go together. It is like a Paris shoe on a
Russian peasant's foot. You are Count Felix von Luckner no longer.
You must change your name."
Then and there I rechristened myself, took the name of my mother's
family, and called myself Phelax Luedige. Under that name I sailed
the seas for seven years.
My last gift from old Peter was a motto. Putting his hands on my
shoulders he said:
"My boy, always remember, one hand for yourself, and one for the
ship."
By this he meant that, when aloft, I must hold on with one hand and
work with the other. But the motto had a wider meaning than that.
In every channel, sea, or backwater of life--one hand for yourself
and one for the ship.
I stood at the rail while the tug towed the _Niobe_ out of the
harbour. Old Peter, with his marvellously skilful stroke, sculled
alongside the slowly moving vessel all the way out past the piers of
Sankt Pauli.
"My boy, God speed you," he shouted. "This is as far as I can go. I
will never see you again. It's hard on old Peter to see you go away."
I wanted to shout something in return, but tears were streaming down
my cheeks.
Peter had carefully packed my sea chest, and when I opened it I found
his picture right under the lid. Across the bottom he had scrawled,
"Don't forget your old Peter."
The low coast gradually melted into the haze. Years were to pass
before I should return to my homeland and to the friend who had
helped me get to sea.