Ever taken a trip at sea where the company aboard was dull and dead,
the passengers uncongenial to one another, and everybody sitting
around day after day and bored to death? You have? Well, then, you
know what it's like, eh?
Give me a lively, companionable crowd of shipmates, and I don't care
how long or how stormy the cruise. On land, if you don't like the
company, you can seek better mates elsewhere. On shipboard, do your
darnedest and you can't get away from 'em. You have to take your
company just exactly as you find it. You are married to it. A
genial lot of shipmates and a long cruise, say from New York to
Melbourne, and what more can any man ask for at sea?
Although our old jolly-boat was a raiding auxiliary cruiser, she also
degenerated into a breed of passenger ship, too. Our passengers were
our prisoners. That made the situation somewhat unusual and added a
bit of spice. I've served as an officer aboard a dozen or more
liners, and have seen all kinds and strata of society aboard,
including dull, delightful, ill-natured, jovial--both the quick and
the dead. Yes, I have had some splendid passenger lists on voyages
where every hour was gay and bubbling with fun. But no group of
passengers on a liner ever enjoyed such happy comradeship as did we
aboard our buccaneering craft. The fact that we were captors and
captives only seemed to make it all the jollier. We took the
greatest pleasure in making the time agreeable for our prisoners,
with games, concerts, cards, and story-telling. We tried to feed
them well, and I think we did, which helps a lot, as you'll agree.
We didn't throw it at them either. In fact, we served special meals
for all the nations whose ships we captured. One day our own German
chef cooked, and that boy was _some_ cook, as you say. The next day
an English cookie, then the French chef, then the Italian to make us
some _polenta_. The English food was the worst. It usually is. On
the other hand, the Americans fed their sailors best of all. It's
long been a tradition on Yankee clippers. In the old days, the
American sailing ships were famous for frightful work and much
brutality, but the food was good. To-day the work is not bad and
there is no brutality, but the food is still good.
The prisoners seemed to appreciate our intentions thoroughly. They
wanted to do everything they could for us in return. Feelings of
patriotism should have made them hope for our early destruction. But
more elemental sentiments of gratitude and friendship obliterated the
more artificial passions of war hatred. I am sure that very few of
our passengers wished us any ill or gloated in the hope of our being
sunk by the cruisers of their nations. I think it really hurt many
of them to realize that the day probably would come when we would be
caught and go down under a rain of Allied shellfire. That
magnificent Frenchman, the captain of the _Charles Gounod_, kept
aloof from the general fraternizing, and scrupulously kept up his
manner of cold politeness and stately hostility toward us, but even
he thawed out a few degrees, although he tried hard to keep from
showing it.
There was only one of our prisoners who behaved himself in any way
that could be considered improper. That was Captain Lecoq of the _La
Rochefoucauld_, that same Captain Lecoq who had cherished hopes that
we would run afoul of the British cruiser. You see, the skippers
aboard were quite free to go where they liked on the ship, except
that I asked each one, as he came aboard, not to go into the fore
part of the ship, and I explained why.
"My magazines," I said, "are in the forward half of the boat. I do
not want you to know exactly where they are placed. After you are
released, you might reveal the secret. Then, one of these merry
days, if some cruiser takes a shot at me, and if the location of my
magazines is known, they'll aim right at that spot. A shell there
and up in the air we go. I must ask you to give me your word of
honour that you will not go into the foreship, else I will have to
keep you confined."
Each skipper gave me his word, including Lecoq.
Captain Lecoq broke his promise. He not only went secretly into the
foreship, but he made sketches of the layout there. Captain Mullen
of the _Pinmore_ saw the sketches, knocked Lecoq down, and reported
him to me. I berated Lecoq soundly.
"And as a result of your dishonourable action," I said, "when I
release my prisoners and send them off to some port, there will be
one Frenchman who will remain behind, and that Frenchman will be you.
You will continue your cruise with us. You know where my magazines
are, and I cannot trust any promise that you now give me."
He turned a bit green around the gills at that, but there was nothing
he could say in reply.
Our only woman aboard, the skipper's little bride, grew melancholy.
We did everything we could to make the time pleasant for her, but she
pined for the society of other women. It was rather a trial for her
to be so long the only woman among several hundred men.
"Count, I do so wish there were a woman aboard that I could talk to,"
she said to me a bit coaxingly one day. "Why don't you catch me one?"
I always like to oblige a lady, particularly one so charming and
agreeable as she, but catching another woman was a game of chance
with us. You don't often find fair company aboard freighters,
especially in tropical waters. However, I said:
"Madam, we will do our best."
At times I used to amuse myself by joining the crowd on the lookout
in the rigging. It was a misty day, and nobody had much of a chance
of seeing anything. Then it cleared a little in the west, and
Boarding Officer Preiss, who was beside me, thought he saw a ship. I
instructed the helmsman to steer in than direction, and after fifteen
minutes a large British barque appeared through the mist. As we drew
near her, I saw a white figure on the deck. Sure enough, a woman.
"Madam," I shouted, to the Canadian skipper's bride, "get ready to
welcome your companion. She'll be paying you a call in a few
minutes."
Everybody, prisoners and all, swarmed on deck to witness the
exceptional capture. The _Seeadler_ bore down on the unlucky barque.
The captain looked curiously at the crowded figures standing at our
rail, of every colour and race. They waved gaily. Our gramophone
blared out, "It's a Long Way to Tipperary."
"Hello," he shouted through his megaphone, "collecting volunteers?"
He thought we were picking up war volunteers from the Atlantic
islands.
"Volunteers?" I called in return. "Oh, yes."
Our prisoners laughed a bit.
"Any news of the war?" he asked.
Officers and sailors and the woman on his deck craned their necks for
a reply.
"Much news of the war," I responded. "I will signal it."
They stared, awaiting the signal.
"C-I-D," our signal flags went up; "heave to or I will fire."
I could see the captain rapidly thumbing the pages of his book. His
head jerked up suddenly. His binoculars focussed themselves on our
masthead where the German flag now waved. Our gun mask dropped, and
the cannon peered forth. By Joe, but it raised a commotion on the
deck. When she saw it, the woman darted into her cabin. The sailors
ran to the boats. Even the helmsman deserted the wheel. The captain
was the only one who kept his head. He seized the helm with a firm
hand, and the ship hove to.
Our guests were always interested in the prospect of having new
additions to their company. They had an ever-ready, cordial welcome
for fresh arrivals. This time, the coming of a second feminine
passenger made the occasion a gala one. Everybody put on his best
manners. The members of our "Captains' Club" marshalled their forces
on deck, ready to greet the officers and the lady from the captured
craft with suitable dignity and formality.
Our little woman put on her best clothes and asked me for a nosegay
from a supply of artificial flowers we had captured. The newly
arriving woman, who scarcely knew what to expect aboard our dreadful
pirate craft, was surprised when she was greeted not only by our
Captains' Club with all of its stately courtesies, but also by a
brightly smiling young woman who presented her with a bouquet of
flowers that made up in brightness of colour what it lacked in
sweetness of perfume, since they were imitation ones.
The two women immediately became the best of friends, and the
convivial spirit aboard made our happiness complete.
The captured barque, the _British Yeoman_, carried a rare store of
provisions, including some live pigs and chickens. She also had two
pets, a curious pair--a rabbit and a pigeon. We promptly adopted
them and called the pigeon "the dove of peace" in honour of the
spirit aboard our raiding ark. That rabbit and pigeon were
inseparable. If the rabbit strayed, the pigeon would coo and coo for
it to come back, and the rabbit would obediently respond.
Then we also had two dachshunds aboard, Piperle and Schnaeuzchen.
Piperle was a friendly little rascal and most intelligent. He seemed
to understand what our work was, and grew most enthusiastic. He went
out with the boarding parties, barked furiously if anything seemed to
go wrong, and wagged his tail with a tremendous enthusiasm when
things turned out all right. He seemed to take it as his especial
task to give a friendly welcome to prisoners brought aboard. He
would bark and leap upon them, as though saying:
"Hello, you'll have a good time here."
Schnaeuzchen was an ill-natured specimen of dachs bitch. She looked
on satirically at Piperle's demonstrations, and people had to make
many amicable overtures before she became friendly. She and Piperle
were of discordant temperaments. They got along together in a
resigned sort of way, with many a quarrel in dog language, something
like husband and wife. I think she nagged him a lot.
We gave the rabbit and pigeon quarters in Piperle's kennel, which
delighted the good-natured dog. He welcomed his guests with cordial
demonstrations. He licked the rabbit's fur continually, which at
first made the pigeon jealous. The bird sulked and made angry
sounds. The unfortunate rabbit seemed in a quandary, torn between
his liking for the new friend and the old. He must have been a
diplomat, though, for presently he found a way to reconcile the
pigeon to his fondness for Piperle, and the three became excellent
friends. When the three were asleep in the kennel, they made an
edifying picture of harmony, Piperle on his side, the rabbit huddled
against his belly, the pigeon perched on his side.
Schnaeuzchen, malign and crafty, watched this beautiful friendship
with a jaundiced eye. She was the villain of the piece. She often
made attempts to devour the rabbit or the pigeon or both, or at least
to take a bite out of them. She was quick and cunning with her
snapping jaws and sharp teeth. I spent a great deal of time trying
to convince her that she had better leave the three pals alone, and
Piperle had to be on the alert all the time to protect his two
friends. One night Schnaeuzchen, with bold and bloody resolve,
raided Piperle's kennel. I suppose she reasoned that she had better
end the obnoxious situation with one fell blow. She got in before
Piperle knew what had happened, and the rabbit barely escaped her
jaws. Piperle turned on her and chastised her properly. After that
she resigned herself to the inevitable. She kept the peace with the
other pets, and while she never became really friendly with them, the
pigeon and rabbit were at least safe.
Talking about animals brings to mind one remarkable piece of good
fortune that blessed our entire adventure. Before it was over, we
were destined to suffer pretty nearly all the hardships that the sea
can bestow upon the sailor--arctic ice and tropical sun, storm and
calm, frightful labour and deadening idleness, shipwreck, life as
castaways on a desert island, the terrors of weeks in an open boat,
hunger, thirst, and scurvy. But we never had any bedbugs. I had had
enough experience with those vermin in my early days before the mast.
I was determined to have none of them now. Bedbugs are a constant
pest aboard sailing ships, and doubtless some of the vessels we
captured had plenty of them. But aboard the _Seeadler_ we had a
magnificent fumigating plant, and every article that was brought
aboard was given a thorough treatment. That fumigator was one of our
most treasured possessions. Without it, we would surely have been in
a fix. We could not have put comfortably into a port and called for
the vermin exterminator, and if we had taken aboard any bedbug
guests, our long voyage would have given them plenty of time to
multiply and overrun our ark. We would have been eaten alive.
I remember a time during my jack-tar days when we had a magnificent
collection of bedbugs in the forecastle. A comrade and I went to the
captain, a mean old German skipper, and told him we were being eaten
alive and begged him to go to the slight expense of getting a vermin
exterminator.
"Bedbugs," he grunted, "_Gott im Himmel_, catch them."
We did catch them. We caught a match box full of them, and put them
in his bunk.
The next day the vermin exterminator came aboard.