PIRATE-HUNTING; AND A DINNER PARTY
The only time I can recollect being in comparatively abject terror,
knowing that I must be killed to a certainty, and among the first to
die, was when I was employed pirate-hunting on the coast of Asia Minor,
in the _Foxhound_ sloop, commanded by the late Hobart Pasha. I was sent
away cruising for a fortnight at a time on the south coast of Asia
Minor in a 10-oared cutter. I used to lie in some creek on the coast.
Sometimes we slept in any old hovel, in any cover, we could find near
the shore, but generally under our awnings and sails in the boat; and
by day we used to sally out, and board any suspicious coaster that was
passing. As it turned out, we frightened far more poor devils than the
pirates scared. We were constantly boarding some craft or another, and
we never knew until alongside what the vessel might turn out to be.
I felt certain that Mr. Pirate would not show the slightest attempt
at resistance until we were close alongside, and that then he could
quietly pot every mother’s son of us before we laid our oars in. That I
should be the best target was unquestionable. Standing up in uniform,
I made the most conspicuous figure. And I often noticed that on my
giving the order to draw cutlasses and stand by to board, there were
anxious looks on the faces of my boat’s crew. Pulling with their backs
turned to what might prove to be the enemy was not a pleasant position.
I could see, but they could not; and with my glasses I often noticed
men looking over the coaster’s bulwarks, crouching down in dire funk at
our approach: of course, they might suspect us of being the pirate, and
possibly send a shot or two at us on spec.
Thus there was a sort of “double event” about this job: of being taken
for the pirate oneself, and of finding the apparently peaceful trader
a pirate in disguise. There was much relief when we discovered each
other’s charms; and many a laugh over a cigarette and bottle of resin
wine followed, especially pleasant after a long hot pull of two or
three miles under a broiling sun. I never caught a pirate; though I had
the luck to drive a boat full of the beggars ashore, when they burnt
their boat and scattered up into the hills.
The other Lieutenant of the _Foxhound_ did not fare so well in his
cruise after the pirates. Bent on a ruse, he left his man-of-war’s
boat, hired a native caique, and sailed about, disguising his crew by
making them wear the regular Greek dress, in which he attired himself
as well.
Unfortunately, the Pasha of Rhodes had left in a Turkish gun-boat bound
for Smyrna, and, on calling in at the island of Symi _en route_, heard
from the natives of that island that a caique, apparently a pirate,
had been seen becalmed off the north-west point of the island the day
before. This was a fine chance for the Pasha. As it was calm weather,
he sallied forth in a north-westerly direction, and, to his delight,
saw the caique in the offing. Guns were loaded; shots were fired across
the caique’s bows; and he ran his gun-boat alongside. Up went the
English Ensign, which poor Turk naturally thought most improper, seeing
a Greek boat and a Greek crew on deck. To cut my story short: They were
boarded, taken prisoners, and thumb-screwed. No power on earth, for a
long time, could dissuade the old Turk from his way of thinking. So the
caique was taken in tow, and a return journey made to Rhodes, where
all on board seemed like to be thrown into a dungeon. Luckily, there
happened to be in their gun-boat a Scotch engineer who, on being called
up, soon discovered who everybody was, and explained the ruse. The poor
old Pasha would even then not have it for a long time, and kept them
prisoners for the day; and when he had to release them, was furious at
having been taken in himself.
As soon as the _Foxhound_ returned from her cruise, all this, of
course, was reported; and Hobart, not being a man to allow the British
Flag to be trifled with, rushed off in chase of the unfortunate Pasha,
caught him entering Smyrna Bay, fired a shot across his bows, hove him
to, boarded him, gave him an hour to return all the officers’ and men’s
effects that had been bagged, pay a sovereign apiece to all the English
crew, and salute the British Flag with twenty-one guns--or be blown out
of the water. Poor Turk, it is needless to say, did what he was told.
The incident found its way to our Ambassador at Constantinople, and
there was nearly a big shindy.
The _Raleigh_ anchored in Simon’s Bay on arrival at the Cape; and we
remained there a few days, refitting and putting matters in order.
During a fresh gale we dragged our anchor and parted our cable; but no
harm was done, though we drifted rather near the only rocky part of the
Bay. All the officers who could be spared went up to Cape Town. There
being no railroad, we drove or rode all the way.
The second night of our stay at the hotel, the middies took it into
their heads to entertain the Commodore at dinner. That pleased him
very much, and we had a very cheerful evening. After he left, it
being necessary to pay our bill, the head waiter, a gray-headed old
Kaffir, was sent for. On producing the bill he was much abused for its
proportions, and was told that if he could not get it reduced there
would be a bad look-out for him. The poor creature reappeared shortly,
looking miserable, and told us that nothing could be done. Forthwith he
was hauled over the end of the table, and cobbed, we tying knots in our
napkins and inflicting chastisement on the spot. Poor devil: he yelled
sorely; but we had no intention to hurt him, and did not do so.