The Bay of San Francisco is certainly one of the finest natural
harbours in the world, let Sydney and Rio and Falmouth all contest the
claim. Land-locked to every wind that blows, with only a narrow
channel open to the sea, the navies of the world could lie peacefully
together in its sheltered waters. The coast that environs the harbour
abounds in natural beauties, but of all the wooded creeks--fair
stretches of undulating downs--or stately curves of winding river, none
surpasses the little bay formed by the turn of Benita, the northern
postern of the Golden Gates. Here is the little township of Sancilito,
with its pretty white houses nestling among the dark green of the
deeply wooded slopes. In the bay there is good anchorage for a limited
number of vessels, and fortunate were they who manned the tall ships
that lay there, swinging ebb and flood, waiting for a burthen of golden
grain.
On Saturday the little bay was crowded by a muster of varied craft.
The ships at anchor were "dressed" to the mastheads with gaily-coloured
flags. Huge ferryboats passed slowly up and down, their tiers of decks
crowded with sightseers. Tug-boats and launches darted about, clearing
the course, or convoying racing boats to the starting lines. Ships'
boats of all kinds were massed together close inshore: gigs and
pinnaces, lean whaleboats, squat dinghys, even high-sided ocean
lifeboats with their sombre broad belts of ribbed cork. A gay scene of
colour and animation. A fine turn-out to see the fortune of the
Merchants' Cup.
At two the Regatta began. A race for longshore craft showed that the
boarding-house "crimps" were as skillful at boatman's work as at
inducing sailormen to desert their ships. Then two outriggers flashed
by, contesting a heat for a College race. We in the _Hilda's_ gig lay
handily at the starting line and soon were called out. There were nine
entries for the Cup, and the judges had decided to run three heats. We
were drawn in the first, and, together with the _Ardlea's_ and
_Compton's_ gigs, went out to be inspected. The boats had to race in
sea-service conditions, no lightening was allowed. At the challenge of
the judges we showed our gear. "Spare oar--right! Rowlocks--right!
Sea-anchor--right! Bottom boards and stern grating--right. Painter,
ten fathoms; hemp. . . . A bit short there, _Compton_! Eh? . . .
Oh--all right," said the official, and we manoeuvred into position, our
sterns held in by the guard-boats. Some of the ships' captains had
engaged a steam-launch to follow the heats, and old Burke was there
with his trumpet, shouting encouragement already.
"Air yew ready?"
A pause: then, pistol shot! We struck water and laid out! Our task
was not difficult. The _Ardlea's_ gig was broad-bowed and heavy; they
had no chance; but the _Compton's_ gave us a stiff pull to more than
midway. Had they been like us, three months at boat-work, we had not
pulled so easily up to the mark, but their ship was just in from
Liverpool, and they were in poor condition for a mile and a half at
pressure. We won easily, and scarce had cheered the losers before the
launch came fussing up.
"Come aboard, Takia," shouted old Burke. "Ye come down wit' me an' see
what shape the German makes. He's drawn wit' th' _Rhondda_ in this
heat!"
Takia bundled aboard the launch and we hauled inshore to watch the
race. There was a delay at the start. Schenke, _nichts verstehen_, as
he said, was for sending his boat away without a painter or spare gear.
He was pulled up by the judges, and had to borrow.
Now they were ready. The _Rickmers_ outside, _Rhondda_ in the middle
berth, and the neat little _Slieve Donard_ inshore. At the start the
Rhonddas came fair away from the German boat, but even at the distance
we could see that the "Dutchmen" were well in hand. At midway the
_Rhondda_ was leading by a length, still going strong, but they had
shot their bolt, and the green boat was surely pulling up. The _Slieve
Donard_, after an unsteady course, had given up. Soon we could hear
old Schenke roaring oaths and orders, as his launch came flying on in
the wake of the speeding boats.
The Germans spurted.
We yelled encouragement to the Rhonddas. "Give 'em beans, old
sons! . . ."
"_Rhondda_! _Rhondda_! . . . Shake 'er up" Gallantly the white boat
strove to keep her place, but the greens were too strong. With a rush,
they took the lead and held it to the finish, though two lengths from
the line their stroke faltered, the swing was gone, and they were
dabbling feebly when the shot rang out.
"A grand race," said every one around. "A grand race"--but old Burke
had something to say when he steamed up to put our cox'n among us.
"Byes, byes," he said, "if there had been twinty yards more the
_Rhondda_ would have won. Now d'ye moind, Takia, ye divil . . . d'ye
moind! Keep th' byes in hand till I give ye th' wurrd! . . . An' whin
ye get th' wurrd, byes! . . . Oh, Saints! Shake her up when ye get
th' wurrd!"
The third heat was closely contested. All three boats, two Liverpool
barques and a Nova Scotiaman, came on steadily together. A clean race,
rowed from start to finish, and the _Tuebrook_ winning by a short
length.
The afternoon was well spent when we stripped for the final, and took
up our positions on the line. How big and muscular the Germans looked!
How well the green boat sat the water! With what inward quakings we
noted the clean fine lines of stem and stern! . . . Of the _Tuebrook_
we had no fear. We knew they could never stand the pace the Germans
would set. Could we?
Old Burke, though in a fever of excitement when we came to the line,
had little to say. "Keep the byes in hand, Takia--till ye get th'
wurrd," was all he muttered. We swung our oar-blades forward.
"Ready?" The starter challenged us.
Suddenly Takia yelped! We struck and lay back as the shot rang out! A
stroke gained! Takia had taken the flash; the others the report!
The Jap's clever start gave us confidence and a lead. Big Jones at
stroke worked us up to better the advantage. The green boat sheered a
little, then steadied and came on, keeping to us, though nearly a
length astern. The _Tuebrook_ had made a bad start, but was thrashing
away pluckily in the rear.
So we hammered at it for a third of the course, when Takia took charge.
Since his famous start he had left us to take stroke as Jones pressed
us, but now he saw signs of the waver that comes after the first
furious burst--shifting grip or change of foothold.
"'_Trok_!--'_trok_!--'_trok_!" he muttered, and steadied the pace.
"'_Troke_!--'_troke_!--'_troke_!" in monotone, good for soothing
tension.
Past midway the green boat came away. The ring of the German's
rowlocks rose to treble pitch. Slowly they drew up, working at top
speed. Now they were level--level! and Takia still droning
"'_troke_!--'_troke_!--'_troke_!"--as if the lead was ours!
Wild outcry came from the crowd as the green boat forged ahead! Deep
roars from Schenke somewhere in the rear! Now, labouring still to
Takia's '_troke_!--'_troke_! we had the foam of the German's stern wash
at our blades! "Come away, _Hilda's_!" . . . "_Shake her up,
there_!" . . . "_Hilda-h_! _Hilda-h_!"--Takia took no outward heed of
the cries. He was staring stolidly ahead, bending to the pulse of the
boat. No outward heed--but '_troke_!--'_troke_! came faster from his
lips. We strained, almost holding the Germans' ensign at level with
our bow pennant.
Loud over the wild yells of the crowd we heard the voice we knew--old
Burke's bull-roar: "Let 'er rip, Taki'! Let 'er rip, bye!"
Takia's eyes gleamed as he sped us up--up--up! '_Troke_ became a yelp
like a wounded dog's. He crouched, standing, in the sternsheets, and
lashed us up to a furious thrash of oars! Still quicker! . . . The
eyes of him glared at each of us, as if daring us to fail! The yelp
became a scream as we drew level--the Germans still at top speed.
"_Up_! _Up_! _Up_!" yells Takia, little yellow devil with a white
froth at his lips! "_Up_! _Up_! _Up_!" swaying unsteadily to meet
the furious urging.
The ring of the German rowlocks deepens--deepens--we see the green bow
at our blades again. Her number two falters--jars--recovers again--and
pulls stubbornly on. Their "shot" is fired! They can do no more!
Done!
And so are we! Takia drops the yoke ropes and leans forward on the
gunwale! Oars jar together! Big Jones bends forward with his mouth
wide--wide! Done!
But not before a hush--a solitary pistol shot--then roar of voices and
shrilling of steamer syrens tell us that the Cup is ours!