Crossing from Holyhead to Ireland one night the captain of the steamer
and myself, during an hour's talk on the bridge, found that we each had
sailed in a certain Australian coasting steamer more than twenty years
before--he as chief officer and I as passenger; and her shipwreck one
Christmas Eye (long after), which was attended by an appalling loss of
life, led us to talk of “pig-headed” skippers generally. His experiences
were large, and some of his stories were terrible even to hear, others
were grotesquely humorous, and the memory of that particularly pleasant
passage across a sea as smooth as a mill pond, has impelled me to
retell some of the incidents I related to him of my own adventures with
obstinate, self-willed, or incapable captains.
My first experience was with a gentleman of the “incapable” variety, and
befell me when I was quite a lad. I had taken my passage in a very
smart little Sydney (N.S.W.) barque bound for Samoa _via_ the Friendly
Islands. She was commanded by a Captain Rosser, who had sailed her for
nearly twenty years in the South Sea trade, and who was justly regarded
as the _doyen_ of island skippers. He was a “Bluenose,” stood six
feet two in his stockinged feet, and was a man of the most determined
courage, unflinching resolution, and was widely known and respected by
the white traders and the natives all over the South Pacific.
In those days there was quite a fleet of vessels engaged in the South
Sea trade, and most of them were owned in, and sailed from Sydney, and
I could have secured a passage in any one of three other vessels, but
preferred the _Rimitara_ (so I will call her), merely because the agent
had told me that no other passengers were going by her. Captain Rosser
himself frankly told me that he did not like passengers, but when he
learned that I had been to sea before, and intended settling in Samoa
as a trader, his grim visage relaxed, and he growled something about
my finding the accommodation ample enough, as I was to be the only
passenger.
The _Rimitara_ was lying off Garden Island, and as she was to sail at
eleven in the morning I went on board at ten with the captain himself.
Just ahead of the barque was a very handsome brigantine, also bound for
the Friendly Islands. She had been launched only a few weeks previously,
and had been built for His Majesty King George of Tonga, at a cost of
£4,000, as a combined cargo and despatch vessel. As Rosser and I stepped
on the barque's poop the captain of the brigantine--whose decks were
crowded with visitors--hailed the former and challenged him to a race.
“Oh, race with yourself, sir,” was Rosser's abrupt reply, as he bade
his chief mate heave up, and then seeing that a number of ladies were
standing beside the captain of the brigantine, he raised his hat, and
added more good-humouredly that although the _Rimitara_ was not a yacht
like the _Tuitoga_, he would bet the captain of the latter ten pounds
that the barque would be at anchor in Nukualofa Harbour forty-eight
hours before him.
“Make it fifty,” cried the master of the new ship, amid the cheers of
his guests.
Rosser shook his head, and replied with apparent unconcern (though he
was really angry) that ten pounds was enough for any one to lose. “But,”
he added, “don't think I'm going to race you. I'm just going to dodder
along as usual.” (He kept his word most thoroughly.)
We got underway first, and were just passing out between Sydney Heads
under easy sail, when the brigantine overtook us, and passed us like a
race-horse galloping past a trotting donkey. She presented a beautiful
sight as she swept by with yards braced up sharp to a good south-east
breeze, and every stitch of her brand-new canvas drawing. One of the
officers had the bad manners to take up a coil of small line, and make
a pretence of heaving it to us for a tow rope. Rosser looked on with an
unmoved face, though our own mate made some strong remarks.
“Guess it's that champagne he's drunk,” was all that Rosser said as he
turned away, and I have no doubt he was right, for we afterwards learned
that nearly every one aft on board the brigantine was half-drunk when
she lifted anchor, the visitors having brought on board half a dozen
cases of champagne--as a matter of fact we had seen the steward opening
bottles on the poop. In an hour the _Tuitoga_ was a long way ahead.