A REIGN OF TERROR
Far more frequently than any shore-living people can imagine, there
occur times on board ship when it seems as if the whole condition of
things must be overwhelmed in one red holocaust. No ship, whatever
her position or character may be, is quite exempt from such crises
as these. For at sea all hands are compelled to feel that they have
been driven back upon primitive conditions, and the one paramount
question demanding answer is: ‘How much longer can I bear this?’ No
such problem ever confronts shore people, for the most obvious reason:
there is always a way of escape--at sea there is none. And, if the
true inwardness of all the awful sea tragedies that have ever been
known were inquired into, it would be found that nearly all of them
originated in a condition of things such as I have been sketching. A
brutal, unscrupulous villain (we have had them in the British Navy)
at the head of affairs, a vilely truckling gang of officers ready at
a nod to carry out that villain’s behests, and before the mast a mob
of men driven frantic by ill-treatment yet lacking initiative, the
one ignition spark which only a genius can supply. A case in point
is afforded by the tragedy of the _Bounty_. Concerning that terrible
mutiny reams have been written wherein the horrid crimes of the sailors
are continually held up to execration, but how seldom is passing
mention given to the true cause of the whole awful business--the
treatment of the men by the commander, who seemed to have felt it his
duty to make his men realise before death what sort of a place the
infernal regions must be. Only the lack of initiative has prevented the
tale of sea tragedies from being a hundredfold as many, not the desert
of those in charge, who seem to have exhausted the ingenuity of fiends
in their behaviour towards their hapless crews.
Still, it must be confessed, and gladly, too, that few indeed are the
captains or officers who set out with the deliberate intention of
goading their crews to the point of madness just apparently in order
to exhibit their power of command, their ability to control even the
most frantic crowd of men. Few men are as wicked as that. But Captain
Da Silva certainly was, and his visit to Brava was made with deliberate
intent to procure certain auxiliaries upon whom he could rely for aid
in the vile purpose he had set before himself--viz., that of trampling
under foot triumphantly men of the hated Anglo-Saxon race, with all
their nonchalant assumption of moral and mental superiority. Therefore
it was that no sooner had sail been made and filled away for the
southward than his plan of campaign began. The recruits--all of whom,
be it noted, had been to sea before--were carefully apportioned by him
throughout the two watches. They alone were allowed to steer the ship,
and with each of them while at the wheel the skipper would converse
in their own language, while the American officers could not help but
listen uncomprehendingly, with black rage in their hearts, yet in utter
impotence. For what could they do? If the skipper was powerful before,
sufficiently so to enforce his will, he was omnipotent now. And these
six black Portuguese felt it in their bones. They did not refuse to
carry out any order given them by the officers, but they behaved in a
singularly offensive manner as who should say, ‘We do this not to obey
you, but because we are your master’s cronies, and it isn’t yet time in
his opinion that we should show you how we regard you.’
If this state of things was hard of endurance for the officers, it was
trebly so for the men. In the foc’s’le the Dagoes were now about even
in numbers with the Americans and other white men, but in physique
the former were far superior. And all conversation ceased in that sad
place. No man dared to complain, even under his breath, for everyone
felt that the foc’s’le was a sort of Dionysius’ Ear, where every word
uttered immediately resounded in the private apartments of the skipper.
All the worst of the work was reserved for the white men, every soft
job was kept for the blacks, and no man durst say a word, for all
knew as well as could be that sitting in the midst of this web of
devilishness was the skipper pulling the cords and gloating over his
revenge.
Finest weather, bluest of skies, and an almost utter absence of squalls
attended the _Grampus_ as she crossed the Line. And through it all,
watch and watch, the sorely tried white portion of the crew were
kept at work scrubbing and polishing until even the flagship of our
Mediterranean Squadron would not, so far as cleanliness went, have
surpassed her. And it was with a perfect pang of delight that all hands
heard the long-drawn cry of ‘Blow’ from the mastheads when off Fernando
Noronha. Well knowing what bone-wrenching toil it would bring, they
yet welcomed the prospect of whaling almost gleefully--anything for a
change in the deadly monotony of their daily life. Poor fellows!
They had a grand day’s sport, about which I can say very little since
it was all so orthodox and free from extraordinary incident. The whales
were medium-sized cows--that is to say, ranging from twenty-five to
forty barrels each--and as the big bull leader of the school went off
to windward at top speed when the battle began, there was but little
fighting: it was just a butchery. The poor, silly creatures crowded
round each other quite helplessly, and submitted to be done to death
almost as complacently as does the great right whale of the Arctic
regions. Of course, Captain Da Silva took part in the slaughter. Else
it had been but a wasted day for him. For he had, in common with
some of the old Romans, an insatiable blood-thirst that could not be
gratified as he craved owing to the hampering laws of civilisation, and
he was therefore driven to quench it by conflict with the mighty whale,
utterly heedless, to all appearance, of any probability of danger to
himself. His absence from the ship tempted Priscilla on deck.
She has been neglected of late in this chronicle for several reasons.
First, any allusion to her must of necessity be tame, since she had
voluntarily taken upon herself the _rôle_ of a patient martyr, from
whom no taunt or even ill-usage could wring a complaint. Secondly,
any information about her is scarcely possible since she was more
like an automaton than aught else--moving, indeed, waking, sleeping,
and eating (very little), but speaking hardly ever, and apparently
determined to efface herself as much as possible from the life of the
ship. She was an insoluble puzzle to her husband. At first he was
brutal in the extreme, even to the length of striking her, but to this
treatment she opposed a stolidity of demeanour which alarmed him. Then
he became gentler, spoke to her civilly, almost kindly, with the same
result. Superstitious terrors took possession of him, for he began
to wonder whether, indeed, she had not died, only her body retaining
sufficient volition to keep about among them. He noticed that she
never spoke one word to anyone but him, and gave way to the opinion
that some change--he knew not what--had taken place, and unless he
wished to be haunted (of which, like the majority of Latins, he had
an awful dread) he had better let her alone. So, unconsciously, she
had been led to do just the right thing in order to secure what tiny
modicum of comfort still remained possible of attainment in her present
position. And, as for suffering--well, the edge of that was dulled
to such an extent that she often surveyed herself as it were from an
impartial mental standpoint, and wondered mildly whether she was indeed
the discontented, prideful Priscilla Fish of olden days or not. I do
not like, especially in a work of this kind, to insist continually
upon the sacred ability to detach oneself from the things of sense
that God gives His dear ones, yet how otherwise, I ask myself, can
the literalness, the common-sense application of real Christianity be
brought home to people who have been trained from infancy to believe
that religion is an excrescence, as it were--something of external
growth which can be applied like a poultice by a skilled professional
at hand at seasons when needed?--how otherwise explain that Christ
_does_ dwell in the hospitable heart, and there produces a toleration
of (not an indifference to) the world’s vicissitudes, so that ‘in the
world, but not of it’ becomes a fact of experience, not a pretty theory?
Priscilla had been taught this by the Teacher Himself; the Comforter
had come with His consolations to this poor soul, and there amid
all that made for misery she was as nearly happy as the flesh will
allow. Occasionally, in almost an ecstasy of joy, she sat communing
with God, forgetting all else, unconscious for the time of any other
environment than that of the Holy of Holies. Herein I can see lie
twin dangers--in the expression of this fact, I mean: the one that
this must be an argument for the conventual life, the other that such
matters are entirely unreal--the outcome of mystical meditation, and
as unsubstantial and inapplicable to the ordinary details of life as
is the hermetic philosophy of the ancients. Well, it takes all sorts
of people to make a world, and if there were no unbelievers in God’s
immanent companionship and no misunderstandings of His dealings with
His children, His Kingdom would be come, and we should no longer need
to pray for it. I can only reiterate with all simplicity and directness
that in such wise (as I have feebly tried to describe Priscilla’s
case) God _does_ associate with men and women. That the words, ‘Lo, I
am with you always, even unto the end of the world,’ are literally,
not figuratively, true; and that millions of His children, given the
opportunity, will gladly testify to the same. How else, do you think,
do men and women live on through long lives, seeing what they do see
of their fellow humans, knowing what they must know of the Powers of
Darkness visible, and still preserve intact their childlike faith in
Jesus and His love? Only because it is literally, absolutely true that
‘He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide
under the shadow of the Almighty.’
But in spite of her joy in the Lord, it must be admitted that Priscilla
occasionally felt an almost overwhelming longing to breathe the free,
fresh air of Heaven. For that had of late been a luxury denied her.
She had been practically forbidden to go on deck, to appear at table.
Her husband had developed along with his belief in her uncanny powers
a horrible jealousy of her--so much so that he would not allow her
to be seen by any of the crew or officers. And although he had not
actually in so many words forbidden her to come on deck, yet so many
obstacles had been placed in her way, even to locking her in her berth,
that at last she had dumbly acquiesced in this condition of things,
and submitted to breathe the fetid air of the little cabin, which, as
everyone who has ever been on board of even a trading vessel knows,
is foul and vitiated beyond description. It is no paradox to say that
there is more air and less ventilation at sea than anywhere on earth.
Therefore it was no wonder that, learning from the faithful darkey
steward of her husband’s absence at the whaling, she crept timidly
on deck and sat on the transom, looking out over the wide brightness
of the sea with feelings of almost intolerable complexity. She had
learned, in the same perfect way, to take the keenest delight in the
beauties of creation; scenes that so many of us pass over unheedingly
were to her almost poignant in their revelations of the Father’s
benevolent and beautiful designs, and in proportion as she was debarred
from enjoying them so she prized them. Perfectly natural. How many
an old sailor has gone grumbling through his long seafaring career
apparently all unheeding the glories so lavishly spread before his
sullen gaze, and then when retired to some dull, inland village in his
old age, perhaps blind and deaf, he has feasted on the treasures of
memory, and again in fancy watched his gallant vessel leaping blithely
from sea to sea, or breasting steadily as if with unconquerable
resolution and force the relentless thrust of the storm-wind and its
accompanying sea.
So Priscilla sat aft, soaking her soul in beauty and utterly oblivious
of her surroundings, until even her inexperienced eye detected a
returning boat--one that neared the ship at a great rate, the oars
rising and falling as if steam driven, and with a feather of spray at
her bow, showing at what a high rate of speed she was approaching.
Priscilla slipped quickly below, her heart full of thankfulness that
she had been enabled to get a glimpse of the sea and sky, and also that
she had succeeded in retreating before the advent of her husband. Truly
she had but little margin of time, for he, standing erect in his boat’s
stern, had been watching the ship with vulture eyes, and before she had
been ten minutes below he was on board, his awful voice ringing fore
and aft like that of some destroying angel.
Seven cow whales had been killed, and the securing of them alongside
meant a truly herculean task, which was prolonged until nearly
midnight, by which time the vessel looked as if she was the centre of
an island of flame. Surrounded by these great carcasses against which
the sea broke in lambent light, the rendezvous for tens of thousands
of sharks, whose swift coming and going through the phosphorus-charged
waves made them glow like the moon, the scene was one of almost awful
beauty. But none there took any notice of it. The crew, half dead
with fatigue, stumbled about obeying mechanically the orders given,
but hardly able to keep awake, much less pull or lift as they were
ordered. At last the mate approached the skipper, saying: ‘Cap’n Da
Silva, hadn’t I better order the men to rest awhile? I’m afraid we’ll
be losing some of ’em overboard if I don’t, they’re all so dead beat,
sir.’ Looking around to see if any of the men were within hearing, the
skipper took a step towards the mate, and with a perfectly devilish
glare in his eyes, said: ‘Yew lazy American pig, yew dirty helpless
dog, I’ll teach yew t’ interfere with _my_ business. I’d jes’ soon kill
ye as look at ye, f’r all th’ good y’ are. But I’ll do worse ’n that.
I’ll make yew wish yew was dead, hunderds of times ’fore I’m done with
ye.’ Up flew the mate’s fist as he made a spring towards his skipper,
but as he sprang he was confronted by the muzzles of two revolvers in
the skipper’s hands. He stopped with a groan--the thought of his dear
ones at home in Fairhaven was too much for him; and as he fell back he
heard a chuckle overhead, and there was a Portuguese harpooner on the
top of the house with another revolver pointed at him. ‘Wall,’ drawled
the skipper, ‘y’ see I’m heeled. I’m layin’ fur ye every time. Ef y’
git t’ windward of me yew’ve only one more t’ git ahead of, an’ thet’s
Satin himself. I tell ye, I’m goin’ t’ make this ship hell f’r all of
ye, but yew an’ th’ secon’ mate specially. But if y’ wa’n’t such curs,
yew’d take y’r chances. I don’t mind dyin’ a little bit, ’n’ ef yew
liked to try it on at a little risk why y’ mout git my gun an’ shoot
me.’
For decency’s sake it becomes necessary to draw a veil over the
proceedings of the next few weeks. No one likes to record the
degradation of his fellowmen or dwell upon their unmerited miseries.
And, indeed, every white man on board the _Grampus_ endured for the
rest of the passage such torments and indignities as make the blood
boil only to think of--endured them helplessly, hopelessly. Meanwhile,
every slice of good fortune imaginable seemed to attend upon the
miscreant. The passage round the Cape was made in lovely weather, and
as soon as ever they hauled up for the Mozambique Channel they fell in
with a school of whales extending to the horizon. It was at daybreak,
too, so for the whole of that terrible day they toiled at slaying under
the furious sun. No idea apparently was entertained by the skipper of
the enormous amount of labour being accumulated. When night fell there
were over twenty carcasses encumbering the sea, the ship was unable to
move for the weight already attached to her, and, had she been able,
the wind had fallen to an almost perfect calm. But not until every man,
including his own personal bodyguard, had succumbed to sheer weariness
did the skipper ‘let up,’ and say that a ‘spell-ho’ of an hour or
two might be enjoyed. In strict justice it must be said that he had
taken no rest--in fact, it appeared as if he had laboured harder than
any other man on board. But what of that? What would become of us all
if we were compelled to keep up to the physical standard of the most
sinewy and strenuous among us? Certainly a great thinning out of the
population would immediately ensue.
Therefore, at 8 P.M. a halt was reluctantly called, and one by one the
boats returned, their crews barely able to drag themselves on deck,
and utterly incapable of hoisting the boats when they had done so. Of
the difficulty of getting alongside, thrusting their frail boats in
between the massy bodies attached to the ship and tumbling gigantically
about upon the sullen swell, I dare not speak: it needs a chapter to
itself. It must be sufficient to say that all hands returned, succeeded
in getting on board, fell down where they alighted, and slept like
the dead--so much like that two happy fellows did not trouble to wake
again: they were found stiff and cold in the morning. But as that was
merely an incident of the campaign (in war it is thought nothing of)
there is no excuse for dwelling upon it--let it pass.
The matter worth recording is that at midnight, the placid moon looking
down upon the deck of the _Grampus_ as if it were a stricken field--the
corpses lying hideously scattered where they fell--there was a great
outcry. The skipper, ever alert, had seen along the moonbeams’ path the
oncoming of some suspicious-looking craft. His experience fixed them
at once as Arab dhows bent on plunder. Strange how the Arab is a born
thief and murderer, as is the Chinese, and neither of them ever feels
any compunction for his crimes.
[Illustration: THE DHOWS CREPT CAUTIOUSLY TOWARDS THE IMMOVABLE SHIP.
_P. 203._]
The dhows crept cautiously towards the immovable ship, and Captain Da
Silva watched them coming, the fierce light of battle in his eye. But
he wasted no time. He knew that his ship was surrounded by an almost
impregnable defence (at night), and so he devoted his leisure to
loading carefully the half-dozen Sniders possessed by the ship. (Those
old Tower Sniders have gone all over the world.) Then he called up his
chums, sailors and harpooners, and no small task it was to get life
into them. But he succeeded at last, and then posting them all aft
with a Snider and a revolver apiece, and much ammunition, he waited
gleefully the advent of the sea Bedawy. They came, and were astonished
to find that a barrier of something floating, slimy, massive, and
impassable interposed between them and their objective. And while they
groped darkling, the Sniders sang their awful song, red spear-points
of flame clove the darkness, and many an Arab sank down upon the
rough-timbered deck of his buggalow coughing out his foul life. Only an
hour, and the attack was over. It would never have been begun but that
the Arabs forecasted a helpless merchant ship whose crew they could
kill easily as sheep, and with as little compunction, and whose hold
they should find crammed with choicest merchandise only awaiting the
advent of the enterprising sons of the East.
It seems incredible, but such was the fatigue of the crew that
when morning dawned the majority of them were quite unaware of the
happenings of the night. Perhaps, dimly through their dreams had come
the ping of dropping shots, uneasy shudderings might have accompanied
the dying yells of the Arabs, but taking everything all round they knew
nothing about it. Nor did they greatly care. The dawn but brought them
bone-wrenching toil. Who among them would have given thanks for the
paternal (?) care manifested for them by the skipper during the dead
hours of the night? For their condition was that so amply and aptly
summed up by Moses in his dread warning to the children of Israel:
‘In the morning thou shalt say, Would God it were evening, and in the
evening thou shalt say, Would God it were morning.’
Long before daylight they were aroused and started upon the tremendous
task, too broken to give more than a passing regretful thought to
the two favoured ones whose trials were over. This will, I know,
strike many as an utterly uncalled-for exaggeration of horror, an
incident that could only have occurred during mediæval times. I beg
to say, however, that in the American whaleships mediæval disregard
of life persisted as nowhere else among civilised peoples down to
well within the latter half of the nineteenth century. Heroic figures
the commanders were, brave beyond praise were the officers, but with
that wonderful quality was, alas, too generally mingled an utter
callousness to suffering--an utter disregard of the elementary rights
of their fellow men which to a humaner age will hardly bear detailed
description. And, of course, this was an exceptionally bad case. The
cruelty of the Latin is inherent--generally speaking, he takes a
greedy pleasure in the suffering of others; while the cruelty of the
Teutonic races is incidental--an abnormality calling forth the fiercest
reprobation from those of the same race to whom it becomes known.
For the next ten days the _Grampus_ was a horrid shambles. She reeked
in every part with blood and grease, and the blazing sun, pouring down
upon her with never a cloud to temper his fierceness throughout the
long and weary days, made her foul with a fœtor beyond description.
Captain Da Silva and his Portuguese seemed to flourish and wax stronger
among the awful vileness of stench and filth, even as do the Arabs of
African coast-towns. But the American portion of the crew fell ill one
by one. Although haggard and woe-worn, they stuck to their work until
they fell at their posts. In this calamity Priscilla was involved.
Indeed, it would have been a miracle had she escaped. The confinement
alone in that terrible climate was sufficient to make anyone seriously
ill, especially when the miserable food and lack of exercise were
added, without the fearful foulness of that ten days.
The sickness of his crew gave the skipper no concern. He thought
grimly of the splendid recruits he would by and by obtain, supposing
all the cursed Americans were dead. But the illness of his wife gave
him pause. In some inexplicable way, he--well, I cannot say loved or
had a tenderness for her--I would not desecrate the holy word love by
associating it with such a monster of evil as he was, but he did not
desire to be without her. And so, cursing his ill-luck, he bore up
under all sail for the Cosmoledo group of islands intending to spend
there, amid the pure fresh breezes of the South-East Trade, and free
from the miasmatic vapours of a great port, a sufficient time to rest
his invalids, and by judicious distribution of quinine, fresh cocoanut,
and fresh food to bring them round again. Strangely enough, this
complication in the midst of his success, the dread presence on board
of fever, and the illness of half his crew gave this extraordinary man
no anxiety. He seemed to stand aloof from all merely human emotions
except the viler ones, and as for fear he apparently knew not the
meaning of the word. And his auxiliaries were the same. For them it
was a time of rejoicing. They were the undoubted rulers of the vessel,
and their superiority to the much-vaunted white man was overwhelmingly
manifest.
Two more poor fellows succumbed to their burden before reaching port.
One of them was the third mate. Their passing excited no comment, nor
did their informal burial (they were just dumped like so much lumber)
more than punctuate the day’s work. Then the vessel arrived, and was
piloted in between the reefs with consummate skill by the skipper. Down
went her anchor, and in the peaceful waters of a coral-locked lagoon
the _Grampus_ lay secure.