It was in a gay café in Hamburg. In 1916, war times were growing
hard in Germany, but still the cafés were astir with life and gaiety.
A naval officer on shore leave could soon find surroundings that
would enable him to forget the harsh life on dreadnaught and cruiser.
My friend Dalstroem and I, over glasses of Swedish punch, chatted for
an hour and then another hour. But our confab had nothing to do
either with battle cruisers going down or with destroyers lifted out
of the sea by exploding torpedoes, or the other sights I had beheld
off Skagerrak. We talked of sailing ships, by Joe, and of the years
I had served before the mast.
An orderly wedged his way through the crowd and handed me a message.
It was from the Admiralty, ordering me to report at Imperial
headquarters on the morrow. Such a summons to a mere lieutenant
commander was decidedly unusual, and of course I was itching with
curiosity. I never was any good at waiting.
The following morning found me in Berlin, entering the naval holy of
holies, standing expectantly at attention before an old German sea
lord with a face as stern as the cliffs at Heligoland. The orders I
had come to hear were barked at me quick and short.
"You are to take command of a vessel," said the admiral. "We want
you to run the blockade and raid enemy commerce. Since we have no
coaling stations, a sailing ship will be the best. Do you think you
can do it?"
"Allow me," I felt like saying, "allow me to throw my arms around
your neck, my dear fellow."
"Yes, sir! I'd like nothing better."
Good health and high spirits had given me boundless confidence. I
was the sort of fellow who believes he can do almost anything--at any
rate, anything with a sailing ship. The admiral replied that the
mission was mine. And it turned out that I had been picked for this
venture because I happened to be the only officer in the German Navy
who had served "in sail."
But what if we should slip through? What then? What could one lone
windjammer do against the naval might of John Bull and his allies?
What chance had a romantic clipper ship in this era of giant ocean
liners, of hush-hush armoured cruisers, of speedy destroyers, and
against the combined strength of Jellicoe and Beatty's
super-dreadnaughts? For that matter, what chance had a poetic
sailing ship against an ordinary tramp steamer?
Well, it may sound mad, but the sea lanes of commerce can even be
disrupted by a lone sailing ship in wartime. But whether the idea
was mad or not, I was itching for action and ready for anything.
"What," the admiral asked, "should you consider of the greatest
importance for the venture?"
"Luck," I replied.
"All right; then take the _Pass of Balmaha_. She has already carried
British prisoners for us. She has been lucky for us once, she may be
lucky for us again."
The Admiralty officials had picked the _Pass of Balmaha_ because she
was a staunch ship, an American clipper, built in Glasgow.[1] They
had also picked her because she had suddenly arrived in a German port
with an unexpected present of some British prisoners for us. We
sailors believe in good and bad omens, and we are right. Some ships
are lucky and some unlucky. If something has happened to indicate a
certain ship is lucky for you, take that ship. You want Lady Luck on
your side when you put to sea.
[1] See Note A, Appendix.
Now, about the past record of this Yankee clipper that was to be
converted into a German raider. The _Pass of Balmaha_ had sailed
from New York with a cargo of cotton for Archangel. Her commander
was a Captain Scott, a well-known American shipmaster, a big-hearted,
bushy-bearded, New England skipper with a very red face. Off the
Norwegian coast, a British cruiser hailed her. Uncle Sam was then a
neutral, and the blockade was getting tighter every month. The
British were becoming suspicious of everybody, including neutrals and
themselves. The overcautious commander of this cruiser, although he
had no grounds for suspicion, ordered the _Pass of Balmaha_ to turn
back to the search port of Kirkwall in the Orkneys.
"Bah!" said Captain Scott, "here I am with a cargo for your allies,
the Rooshians, and you patrol fellows order me back to Kirkwall.
What do yuh mean by such nonsense? The wind is agin me, it'll take
me three weeks to reach Scapa Flow and the Orkneys, and I'll be
several months late in delivering my cargo to the Rooshians. Are you
chaps trying to win a war or lose one?"
"Never mind," replied John Bull; "you do as you are told."
Leaving an officer and prize crew of six marines on board, with her
funnels belching columns of black smoke, the British patrol cruiser
continued on her North Sea beat. As soon as the _Pass of Balmaha_
had turned her nose toward Kirkwall and Scapa Flow, the British prize
officer ordered the American flag pulled down and the British flag
run up.
"Go to blazes," bristled the irate Captain Scott, and he refused to
obey.
"Right ho," said the Britisher, and he told his men to haul down the
Stars and Stripes and hoist the Union Jack.
"I wish the Germans would come," raged the Yankee skipper. And the
very next morning his wish was granted! A U-boat popped up to the
surface about a half mile away. Captain Scott waggled his beard in
the Englishman's face.
"Serves you right! With the Stars and Stripes up there, they
wouldn't bother us. Now they'll take us all to Germany. So far as
you chaps are concerned, the war is over right now. You will get
cocky, will you?"
The Britisher was alarmed. He saw visions of himself locked in a
Prussian prison for "the duration." So he climbed down from his high
horse in a hurry and meekly placed himself in Captain Scott's hands,
begging the Yankee still to try and save the day.
"I ought to let you go as prisoners, by Joe, but I don't want to lose
my ship," said Scott. "So go below with your men and hide in the
hold while I put my flag back where it belongs. Maybe they haven't
seen yours. Soon the submarine was alongside and one of her officers
climbed aboard. The Germans had seen the Union Jack, all right, but
they hadn't seen it hauled down. Now they found themselves on a ship
flying the American flag, and they were puzzled.
"What's this?" the submarine officer demanded of Scott. "First we
see a British flag, and now it's an American."
"You must be mistaken," replied the skipper, "this here ain't no
Britisher."
The officer was bewildered and suspicious, so ordered the _Pass of
Balmaha_ to head for Hamburg. Leaving only a German ensign aboard,
he announced that his submarine would follow close behind. Of
course, this was only a threat, for the U-boat soon vanished beneath
the waves.
Now the ensign grew worried. Something told him that everything was
not right on the _Pass of Balmaha_. Had he known there were seven
Britishers on board, he would have been still more worried!
"Captain," said he, "I am going to stay at your side all day and
sleep with you at night. I've a hand grenade here in my pocket. At
night I am going to fix it so that if anybody opens the door of our
cabin it will explode."
Naturally Captain Scott lost no time in whispering to his mate:
"Fasten down the hatches and don't let those Britishers come up. If
they do, our goose is cooked. Don't say anything to them, or there
will be trouble. This German smells a rat."
So the prize crew in the hold was kept there. Two days later,
outside the entrance to the harbour at Cuxhaven, another party of
Germans came aboard, so Captain Scott said to the U-boat ensign:
"You wanted to know what was wrong here? All right, now I'll show
you." Then he opened the hatches and yelled for the Britishers to
come up. The tall officer of the Royal Navy, one eye blinking and
the other be-monocled, put his head up first.
"I say, where are we now?"
"You're in Germany. If you had left my flag alone, everything would
have been all right. But you are prisoners now."
So you see how the _Pass of Balmaha_ turned out to be unlucky for
Englishmen and lucky for Germans. That was just the ship we wanted,
by Joe.
The American flag that the Englishman pulled down was still there
when I took her over. So I kept it as a souvenir. We lost the ship
in the South Seas, but not the flag. It served as mascot on two
other ships that I lost. But on my present world cruise I hope to
visit San Francisco and return it to the original owner and tell him
what a fine raider his clipper made.
Our hope was to run the blockade disguised as a neutral--a thing
entirely fair according to the laws of war. Although on land a
soldier must wear service uniform, at sea you can fly a neutral flag
and wear ordinary seaman's clothes. But you must hoist your true
colours before going into action with the enemy.
We altered that British-built Yankee clipper from stem to stern, with
concealed places for our guns, rifles, grenades, bombs, and other
armament, with special quarters for prisoners, two ultra-modern
500-horse-power motors to fall back on in case of calm or when in a
big hurry, a tank holding 480 tons of fuel oil, another tank
containing 480 tons of sweet water, and provisions for a cruise of
two years.
In addition to 400 bunks for prospective "guests," I had special de
luxe quarters made for "visiting" captains and mates. These were
spacious cabins to accommodate two or three. We also designed a
separate dining saloon for them, with an assortment of books and
magazines in French and English, and a gramophone with late English
and French records. War or no war, I still considered all sailors my
pals, and had my own ideas as to how our prisoners should be treated.
A sailor is a sailor, no matter what his nationality, and if I took
any prisoners I wanted them to feel as though they were my guests.
Then, of course, we had to arrange quarters for my crew of fighting
marines as well as for the regular seamen required on a clipper of
this size. Moreover, we had to do all this so it would not be
noticeable to uninvited visitors.
When the work was done, below deck, the _Pass of Balmaha_ was an
auxiliary cruiser, armed to the teeth. Above deck she was merely a
poetic old sailing ship loaded with a prosaic cargo of lumber.
Timber made the ideal cargo for our purposes, because a ship carrying
lumber loads her deck as well as her hold. The piles of lumber even
cover your hatches, so no one can go below until you unload. Hence
no search crew would be likely to inspect us carefully at sea. They
would either order us to Kirkwall, or let us go.
Norway exports lumber and Australia imports it. So we decided to
pose as a Norwegian clipper bound for Melbourne. Having served on
various Norwegian ships, I spoke Norse, and I knew I would have no
difficulty finding men for my crew who could speak it also. But
first I had secret doors and hatches cut in the floor of the closets
in the officers' cabins, and another under the stove in the galley.
From keel to top deck we converted this American three-master into a
mystery ship of trick panels and trick doors.
But what would happen if we were ordered into Kirkwall to have our
deckload of lumber shifted and our hold searched, you ask? Ah! we
were ready for that.
Of course, if an enemy patrol vessel picked us up, a special prize
crew of half a dozen men would be put aboard us to make sure we
headed for the right port. I would have sixty-four men of my own to
handle the small prize crew.
Dinner time would come. I would say to the Britishers: "Gentlemen,
may you dine well."
"Cookie," I would call, "serve up the best we've got."
On their way to my private captain's quarters, they would leave their
coats and weapons in the vestibule, within sight and just out of
reach.
Right in the middle of the meal, I would signal to my fighting men
hidden on the lower deck. Seizing their rifles they would jump to
their appointed places. At another signal, the crew above deck would
clamber up the iron masts, open small secret doors, reach down into
the hollow chambers where their arms and uniforms were hidden, and a
moment later German jack-tars would appear where humble Norwegian
sailors had been a moment before. We would not attempt to recapture
our own ship dressed in civilian togs.
Although the floor of my saloon where the prize crew would be dining
looked like any other floor, it was in reality an elevator! All I
had to do was press a secret button hidden behind the barometer in
the chart room. Presto! down would drop floor, prize crew and all.
Before a man jack could jump for a weapon they would find themselves
dining on the next deck below. With the difference that they now
would be gazing down the barrels of twenty German rifles.
Then I would step forward, throw open my greatcoat, and present
myself as the skipper of a wind jammer suddenly metamorphosed into
the commander of an auxiliary cruiser.
I had carefully arranged all this because I knew full well that
British naval men will put up a stiff fight even with all odds
against them. Most naval men will. Of course, it would be easy to
overpower a prize crew of only six or seven men, but I wanted to
avoid spilling any blood. It is better sport to capture men than to
take their lives. The Allies were calling us Huns, and I for one
wanted to show the world how wrong they were.
And now, by Joe, suppose a British cruiser seized us and then we
seized the British prize crew. Then supposing another cruiser should
pick us up! We might have to do a bit of fighting, maybe take to the
boats with our prisoners, and then sink our own ship. So we prepared
for this by placing bombs where they could be touched off at a
moment's notice. We had no intention of letting our raider fall into
enemy hands.
I felt that it was so important to keep all of our plans secret that
I even fooled the workmen who were altering the ship. Had they known
what we were up to, the rumour might have gotten out. There were
spies everywhere. You must admire the British. They had a great
espionage system, and they paid their spies well. We Germans were
stingy. Bah! That was one reason we bungled.
So I told everyone, including the foremen, that the _Pass of Balmaha_
was being transformed into an up-to-date training ship, to be used in
training mechanics' apprentices who later on were to run motors on
submarines and zeppelins. That alibi was to explain our two motors.
The war had shown that German cabin boys were deficient in knowledge
of nautical rigging. So I also announced that one purpose of this
sailing ship was to give them a chance to learn a little about
handling sails. As to the accommodations in the hold for prisoners,
and the bunks for our big crew, I explained that these were to be for
apprentices and cabin boys. I even put up signs marking off one part
of the ship "for 150 cabin boys," another "for 80 Apprentices," and
so on.
It would have looked suspicious for a naval officer to be directing
work of this kind with such infinite pains, so at the ship yards I
posed as Herr von Eckmann, Inspector for the Naval Ministry.
An old retired captain of the Ship Inspection Service happened to be
stopping in the same hotel. His love for his old profession caused
him to take a most embarrassing interest in my work. One day, he met
a bona-fide ship inspector and asked him whether he knew me.
"Von Eckmann? Let's see, I know everybody in the service. There is
no Von Eckmann on the roster."
"Then," blurted out the old captain, "he must be a spy. I always
said he had a typically English face. I'll watch him."
Through mistake, two letters came for me without the usual cover
address. Both of them gave my full name and rank. I argued with the
head waiter, trying to get him to give me the letters for delivery to
"my friend, Count Luckner." The old captain happened to be snooping
near by, although I didn't know it. By now, anything I did was
suspicious. He already had me hung and quartered as his country's
arch enemy.
"What did that fellow want?" he inquired of the head waiter.
"He asked me to give him the letters for Lieutenant Commander Count
von Luckner."
"Ha!"
I suspected nothing. That evening I took the train for Bremen. A
detective entered my compartment and demanded my papers. I gave them
to him.
"Count von Luckner," he exclaimed, astonished and embarrassed, "I
must have made a mistake. I am looking for a spy from Geestemunde."
I grew worried. Could it be that enemy secret agents were watching
the work on my auxiliary cruiser?
"Where was the spy reported?"
"He lives at Beermann's Hotel."
That was my hotel. The spy was watching me. I told him that I would
take upon myself the responsibility of saying that there were the
most urgent reasons why this spy must be caught, and that he must
wire his principals that the utmost vigilance must be used.
"We already have the railroad covered at both ends. But we will
increase our precautions," he replied. "The spy will surely be
caught."
In Bremen at Hillman's Hotel I was again stopped by a detective who
demanded my papers. Again my papers confounded and bewildered him.
"The description of the spy fits you exactly," he said.
Once more I urged that the headquarters of the secret police be
commanded to catch the secret agent at any cost.
At the Trocadero, I sat with a bottle of wine in front of me. A
provost officer with two men in uniform came up to me.
"Come with us. You are under arrest."
I flew into a rage at these repetitions of stupidity, as I thought
them to be.
"I am a naval officer."
"You are a spy. Come with us!"
The usual spy mania spread throughout the restaurant. Blows were
threatened, chairs were brandished, and there were shouts of "Kill
the spy, kill him!" on all sides. If the officers hadn't fought the
crowd off, I would have been badly beaten.
At headquarters I was shown a description and even a picture of
myself. So there was no doubt but what I was their man.
"Under what name does this spy travel?" I demanded.
"Under the name of Marine Inspector von Eckmann.
"Why, I am he."
"But you just said you were Count von Luckner."
I was compelled, with great injunctions of secrecy, to take them into
my confidence, and had them telephone the Admiralty for confirmation.
The prying old captain at Geestemunde soon took himself to other
parts--by request!
As I explained, my plan was to slip through the British blockade as a
neutral and if possible disguised as some other ship that actually
existed. There happened to be a Norwegian vessel that was almost a
dead ringer for the _Pass of Balmaha_. She was scheduled to sail
from Copenhagen. I decided that we would take her name, and sail the
day before she sailed, so that if the British caught us and
wirelessed to Copenhagen to confirm our story they would receive word
that such a craft had left port at the time we claimed. This other
ship was named the _Maleta_. For some time she had been discharging
grain from the Argentine. From Denmark she was to proceed to
Christiania and there pick up a cargo. Why not a cargo of lumber for
Melbourne?
I went to Copenhagen, donned old clothes, and got a job as a dock
walloper on the pier where the real _Maleta_ was moored. That
enabled me to study her. There was one thing that promised to be
difficult to counterfeit. That was the log book. This precious
volume contained the life history of the _Maleta_, when she left the
Argentine, what kind of cargo she carried, what course she steered,
the wind, the weather, observations of sun and stars, etc., etc.
That log book must be in the captain's cabin and I must have it. But
a watchman was stationed aft, so how could it be done?
I discovered that the captain and both mates were still in Norway
with their families. So it would be some days before the loss of the
book would be noticed--if I got it.
So one night, in the uniform of a customs inspector, I stole aboard
the _Maleta_. The watchman, as usual, was sitting near the captain's
cabin. The ship was moored to the pier with ropes fore and aft.
Stealthily I tiptoed to the bow and cut the ropes, not quite through
but almost. A stiff wind was blowing. The ropes cracked and broke.
The ship swung around. The watchman ran forward shouting, and at the
same moment I ran aft. Fumbling around the captain's cabin I at
first failed to locate the log. Finally, I discovered it under the
skipper's mattress. Shoving it beneath my belt, I slipped out.
On board now, and also on the pier, half a dozen men were shouting
and throwing ropes to haul her back so she wouldn't side-swipe a
near-by ship. I joined in the shouting, pretended to help them for a
minute, then clambered on to the dock and hurried off in the dark.
We now put on the final touches that were to turn the _Pass of
Balmaha_ into the _Maleta_. We painted her the same colour as the
_Maleta_, arranged her deck the same, and decorated the cabins with
the same ornaments. In my captain's cabin, I hung pictures of the
King and Queen of Norway and also of their jovial relative, King
Edward VII of England. The barometer, thermometer, and chronometer,
and all the other instruments were of Norwegian make. I had a
Norwegian library and a Norwegian phonograph and records. We had
enough provisions from Norwegian firms to last us through the
blockade. It would hardly do to have any Bismarck herring,
sauerkraut, and pretzels in sight if the British boarded us, would it?
The names of the tailors sewn inside my suits and my officers' suits
were replaced with labels from Norwegian tailors. On my
underclothing we embroidered the name of the captain of the
_Maleta_--Knudsen.
I had learned in Copenhagen that a donkey engine was being installed
on the _Maleta_. Very well, we got a donkey engine of the same make
from Copenhagen and installed it on our ship. The log book of the
_Maleta_ was solemnly put in place, and the first entry was made,
"To-day put in a new donkey engine."
We got up our cargo papers in regular form, signed and sealed by both
the Norwegian port authorities and British consul. We also had a
letter signed by His Majesty's consul at Copenhagen stating that the
_Maleta_ was carrying lumber for the use of the Government of the
Commonwealth of Australia. The letter requested all British ships to
help us if any emergency arose. To prove that this document was
genuine, it was even stamped with the British Imperial Seal (made in
Germany!).
I also had a letter which a British officer had supposedly written to
my shipowner and which my ship-owner had forwarded to me, warning us
against German search officers, but advising us to place our trust in
the British!
A sailor with the loneliness of the sea upon him nearly always takes
with him on his voyages photographs of his people. Now the crews on
British warships know sailor ways, so I inquired all about the
procedure from captains of neutral ships who had had their ships
searched. They told me that the British always inspected the
fo'c'sle to see that everything looked right there. I immediately
got together a lot of photographs to pass as those of Norwegian
sailors' parents, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts,
sweethearts, wives and mothers-in-law. What did it matter whether
the sweethearts were good-looking or not? Sailors' sweethearts are
not always prize beauties. We sent a man to Norway for the pictures
in order to have the names of Norwegian photographers stamped on them.
The British are smart people, by Joe, and they know how to search a
ship. They attach special importance to sailors' letters. The
sailor eagerly looks forward to the letter he will receive at the
next port. He never throws the letters away either, but always keeps
a stack of them in his sea chest. Sometimes you will see him reading
a letter that his mother sent him eight years before. So we had to
get up a whole set of letters for our "Norwegian" sailors, each set
totally different from the other.
Of course, the stolen log of the _Maleta_ gave us a lot of useful
information about her crew, and our fake letters were made to tally
with this information. Women in the Admiralty and Foreign offices
who knew Norwegian wrote them for us. We got old Norwegian stamps
and Norwegian postmarks and postmarks of various ports the letters
were supposed to have been sent to. Then we aged the letters in
chemicals, and tore and smudged some of them.
I picked as my officers men who like myself had spent long years
before the mast, who knew Norwegian, and were of the right spirit.
First Officer Kling had been a member of the Filchner Expedition, in
which he had distinguished himself. The officer whom I selected to
go aboard captured ships was a former comrade of mine, a fellow of
six feet four, whom I met by chance on a dock. In response to my
question whether he wanted to accompany me, he asked:
"Is it one of those trips that is likely to send you to heaven?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm with you. My name is Preiss, and you are after prizes. So
I'll bring you luck."
My artillery and navigation officer, Lieutenant Kircheiss, was a
wizard navigator. Engineer Krauss was our motor expert. The
boatswain, the carpenter, and the cook, the three mainstays of a
voyage in a sailing vessel, I picked with like care. Of the men who
were to go with me I only needed twenty-seven with a knowledge of
Norwegian. There were just twenty-seven aboard the real _Maleta_.
In selecting my men, I interviewed each candidate personally but gave
him no hint of why I wanted him. I tried to read these men's souls
in order to discover in them the qualities of courage and endurance
that would be needed.
Without giving them any clue concerning the adventure on which they
were soon to engage, I sent them home on furlough to prevent them
from meeting one another and talking over the questions I had put to
them. Not until the hour of departure did I send for them.
Now we needed a name for our raider. We needed one that she could
take for her official name as an auxiliary cruiser after running the
blockade. I wanted to call her the _Albatross_ out of gratitude to
the albatross that saved me from drowning when I was a lad. But I
discovered that there was already a vessel with that name, a
mine-layer. Then I wanted to call the ship the _Sea Devil_, the name
by which I personally was afterward to be called. My officers
favoured some name that would suggest the white wings of our
sailship. So we compromised on _Seeadler_, or Sea Eagle.
On a pitch-dark November night, the _Seeadler_, with a small
emergency crew, raises anchor and sails out of the mouth of the Weser
into the North Sea. There, some distance offshore, we drop anchor.
At a remote place along the docks at Wilhelmshaven, men appear one by
one. By the light of a dimly burning lantern I gather my crew. None
of them has any inkling of what is afoot. I hear them ask:
"Where are we off to? What is it?"
We piled them into a little steamer, and off. Soon they saw an
imposing ship riding through the night.
"Hello, what sort of craft is this, a sailship?"
Aboard everything is ready, and everything is Norwegian. Their bunks
are all prepared. Photographs are on the walls. Norwegian
landscapes, photographs of Norwegian girls, Norwegian flags hang
draped. A fully equipped Norwegian ship awaiting the arrival of its
crew.
"Do you speak Norwegian, Karl?"
"Yes. Do you?"
"Yes."
"Strange business this!"
Some of the men do not speak Norwegian. The ones that do, have their
bunks above deck. The ones that don't, have their bunks below.
Germany below decks. Norway above. Strange!
We were away from all communication with land now. There was no
longer need for secrecy.
"Boys, the British say not even a mouse can get through their
blockade. But we will show them, by Joe, and under full pressure of
sail. Then, once we reach the high seas, we will sink their ships,
by Joe. Can we do it?"
"Sure, Count, we can do it! By Joe, you bet we can do it!" Not a
man quailed, and I was happy to be in command of such a crew.
Next morning a scow of lumber lay alongside, and we stacked timber to
a height of six feet over all the deck, and fastened it down with
wire and chains.
Every man had his rôle. Every man must now prove his mettle as an
actor. Officers and sailors were given the names of officers and
sailors aboard the _Maleta_. They had to get used to their new
names. Fritz Meyer was now Ole Johnsen, Miller became Bjornsen, Hans
Lehman became Lars Carlsen, and they knew me only as Captain Knudsen.
We had long practice drills until the new names slid off our tongues
without getting stuck.
Each man also had to learn a lot about his native town that he never
knew before! I had already assembled as much information as I could
about the towns listed in the stolen log book, and the rest we
invented. Each man had to learn the names of the main streets of his
town, the principal hotels, taverns, and drug stores, as well as the
names of the mayor and other officials. Much of this sort of
material had already been woven into the letters we had prepared for
the sailors. Each man had to familiarize himself with the set of
photographs that had been allotted to him, and the names of them all,
the contents of his letters, and fix in his mind a whole new past
life, according to the life of the sailor of the real _Maleta_ whose
rôle he was to play.
One of the mechanics' helpers, Schmidt by name, I had taken for a
principal rôle in our strategy. He was slender, beardless, and of
delicate appearance, and could pass well enough in woman's clothes.
Norwegian skippers often take their wives with them on their voyages.
The captain's wife aboard the false _Maleta_ would seem natural and
tend to disarm suspicion, and, besides, British naval officers are
always courteous and considerate toward women. In the presence of
the captain's wife, a prize officer who might board us would be more
obliging toward us all. We had a blonde wig for Schmidt and an
outfit of women's clothes. We took great pains in schooling him to
play the part of the captain's wife correctly. One difficulty was
his big feet. Not even a Norwegian skipper's wife had such feet.
There was, unfortunately, no way to make them smaller, so we arranged
that the captain's wife should be slightly ill and remain seated
during any possible search and have a rug thrown over her feet to
keep them warm. The other difficulty was Schmidt's voice. It was
too deep, and he knew no Norwegian. Well, the captain's wife can't
talk because she has an awful toothache. A wad of cotton stuffed
into Schmidt's cheek, and there was the swelling. He did know enough
English to say "all right." We trained him to say a high-pitched "all
right" something like a woman with a toothache. Except for that
phrase, he was to keep his mouth shut. We had a large photograph
made of Schmidt in his costume, signed it "thy loving Josephine," and
hung it in my cabin. Now the Britishers could compare the photograph
of the captain's wife with the lady in person. So from now on poor
Schmidt's name was "Josefeena" as the Norwegians pronounce it.
We were ready to sail when, by Joe, what comes but a telegram from
the Kaiser's aide. I am to report immediately direct to His Majesty.
I guessed what was up. I had gone into the navy from the mercantile
marine instead of through the usual cadet route. I had been a common
ordinary sailor, and this had aroused a lot of antagonism in naval
circles. There had been jealousy about my getting an independent
command--highest of all naval honours. So attempts were being made
to have my assignment annulled.
And now they had gone to the Emperor! Maybe I would lose this fine
sailship of mine. Already it had given me a new lease on life, just
by getting back into the old life, the life that had been so
difficult to survive and so delightful to recall. Maybe I would have
to go back to the navy, to the modern war of hissing steel, and
deafening guns of superdreadnaughts. I had an affection for them
too, but it was the enthusiasm of the mind. Here on the sailship was
my heart. Well, I would fight them.
"Luckner," I thought, "you always have to fight, or you sink. That's
life."
The Emperor had been very kind to the man who had risen from a common
sailor to a naval officer. He had paid for my naval training out of
his own private purse, and had taken a personal interest in my
promotions. Many a time on board ship he had commanded me to tell
stories of my adventures. I could talk to him. I could talk to him
more boldly than other officers dared. I knew that he understood me.
Even to appear in the Imperial presence was a trying ordeal for most
officers. Many took refuge in rigid "attention." Well, I had never
quite got used to high class manners at sea, and the ramrod
"attention" left me more embarrassed than otherwise. Even in the
Emperor's presence, I kept the same free, brusque manner of an
old-time seaman that was natural to me.
The Kaiser spoke bluntly.
"Well, Luckner, at the Admiralty they now tell me it is madness to
attempt the blockade with a sailing ship. What do you think?"
"Well, Your Majesty, if our Admiralty says it's impossible and
ridiculous, then I'm sure it can be done," I replied. "For the
British Admiralty will think it impossible also. They won't be on
the lookout for anything so absurd as a raider disguised as a
harmless old sailing ship."
The Emperor looked at me with a frown, and then his face relaxed into
a smile.
"You are right, Luckner. Go ahead! And may the hand of the Almighty
be at your helm."
I knew now that there would be no more official interference. The
true _Maleta_ was now due to sail in a day, so we made ready to pull
up anchor. Then a wireless came from the Admiralty:
Wait till the _Deutschland_ makes port.
Our giant merchant submarine, the _Deutschland_, was on her way home
from her famous transatlantic cruise to America. In an attempt to
cut her off, the British had set a double watch. So the _Seeadler_
would have to slip past twice as many cruisers and destroyers as
otherwise. I still hoped that, if only detained a day or so, we
might yet be able to slip across the North Sea ahead of the _Maleta_.
But we lay there for three and a half weeks, and the sad news came
that the real _Maleta_ had sailed and passed through the blockade.
If we now attempted to use her name and a search party boarded us,
the jig would be up.
So we hurriedly examined Lloyd's Register in the hope of finding
another Norwegian ship that might correspond to us. We picked out
one called the _Carmoe_. We had no idea where she was, but hoped she
might be in some distant port unbeknown to the wary British. It was
a long chance, but we could think of nothing better. Now we had to
change our ship from the _Maleta_ to the Carmoe. Painting out one
name and substituting another was easy enough, but changing all our
ship's papers was far more difficult. But with much use of chemical
eraser we finally accomplished it, and we had papers that would pass
if the visibility was not too bright during the search. Then, when
we were all set again, we picked up a copy of a Norwegian commercial
paper and found that the real Carmoe had just been seized by the
British and taken to Kirkwall for examination.
"By Joe, and they said this _Pass of Balmaha_ was a lucky ship! We
must have a Jonah on board!"
Now, if you haven't any luck, you must go and get some! All you have
to do is know how to do that, and you will be a great success at sea,
or anywhere!
So away with Lloyd's Register! Let's take life's register and name
our sea eagle after the girl of my heart. Surely she will bring us
luck. So, out with the paint and on with another new name--the name
of my sweetheart, _Irma_.
In that name was concentrated most of the beauty that I had found in
life. It symbolized strange moments of beauty that had crossed my
path during the most trying days I had so far known. It seemed to be
a lovely silken thread that had run through the years since that
first voyage, when as a miserable cabin boy I sailed to Australia on
that Russian tramp.
Of course, there was no such name as _Irma_ listed with Lloyd's, and
all any British officer would have to do would be to consult his
Register and the jig would be up. But somehow I had a premonition
that the name _Irma_ would bring us through.
When we applied eraser and ink to our shipping papers and wrote in
the name of _Irma_--disaster. Two erasures were too much. The ink
blotted. If we should be stupid enough to take the British for
fools, then we ourselves would be the real fools. Where was our luck
now? Fate seemed to be against us, but I had no intention of giving
up. Calling the carpenter I said:
"Come on, Chips, I am going to make you admiral of the day. Get the
ax and smash all the bull's-eyes, windows, portholes, and everything."
Poor Chips! He thought I had gone off my head, but he obeyed. The
smashing began.
"Bo's'n," I called, "half a dozen men with buckets of sea water!
Throw it around, drench everything."
And now the water flew in the cabins, in the drawers of chests, in
the officers' bunks, all over my Norwegian library, water everywhere.
I took my shipping papers and put each page between sheets of wet
blotting paper so that not only the name of _Irma_ and the other
entries we had changed were blotted; but every line. I even soused
the log book in a bucket of water.
Then I called the carpenter again.
"Now repair everything you have smashed, Chips. Nail everything."
He hammered planks over the smashed portholes and bull's-eyes, and
put the smashed chairs together as well as he could.
Now, if the Britisher came aboard, he would say:
"By Joe, Captain, you must have had a hard blow to get knocked about
like this."
And I would growl, "Yes, by Joe, everything is drenched, even my
papers."
Two days later a southwest wind sprang up. The moment was at hand.
To go raiding in a sailing ship and that sailing ship with the name
of _Irma_ painted on her bows--ah, it seemed more like a dream than
like setting out on a real adventure. It seemed as though all the
events of my life had been designed to converge to this one glorious
point. Our one hundred-and-seventy-foot masts creaked. Our nine
thousand square feet of sail bellowed before the wind. We sailed
north under a full spread.