In the early ‘nineties, when a sailing ship arrived at her home port, it was still an event, but with the advent of the steamboats it became merely an incident.
I still retained a good deal of the square-rigged man’s contempt for the steamboat sailor, though, as it proved, it wasn’t going to be long before I was one myself.
We sailed from England in the March of ’93, and plunged into a series of gales that became notorious, even for that month of evil repute. In three weeks, no less than eleven sailing ships had gone to their last account, between the Scillies and Dungeness, and we should have added one to their number if we had not been a particularly well found ship. As it was, I blame the three weeks of battling about in the Wesern Ocean for our later troubles.
We were loaded with an unromantic cargo of coal, and with the everlasting working of the ship, there had evidently been just sufficient friction to cause it to heat up, and eventually catch fire. When we did get wind of what was going on down below, it was only after we had been thoroughly smashed on deck. Bulwarks stove in, boats nearly all gone, and a head wind to beat up to the land.
Had we possessed boats to carry us all it would not have been so bad, but, situated as we were, if she did go up, there wasn’t a ghost of a chance for a quarter of us. Our one remaining boat, the pinnace, would just about take twelve, with any reasonable degree of safety, and that only in a smooth sea. Then the rest would have to make out as best they could on the cumbersome raft we had put together out of spare spars. No doubt it would float all right, but the question of hanging on to it in a breeze was a horse of quite a different colour.
Then again the pinnace could not stand by the raft. She must shove off and try to make the land, and find something that would come out and search for the raft — and a fine search it would be. No, look at it anyway you liked, we’d about as much chance of surviving as the sailors’ proverbial snowball in the lower regions.
The next long drawn out couple of weeks gave us lots of time to argue it out. It was the only subject we could discuss with any degree of naturalness. We tried singsongs; but what was the use of trying to forget it, when, instead of joining in the chorus, a fellow would casually stroll over, and put his hands on the deck above the fire. Of course, the singing at once petered out, whilst someone would call out, “Any hotter, Bill?”
“Aye,” the casual reply would be, “just a bit.”
Did we jump to those braces to trim the yards to each little variation of the wind? Did we not! And let me say, not only the watch on deck, but the watch below as well — in fact there was no watch below. Neither was there much likelihood of rest during the day, or sleep at night, with a potential volcano immediately underneath one, and level betting that if you did sleep, the chances were you’d wake to find yourself rising on the rim, getting a good start heavenward.
During the last few days the boys nearly grew corns through sitting on the fore sky sail yard looking for the land, whilst the decks grew ever hotter and hotter. If it had lasted much longer we should have been able to dispense with the galley fire altogether. Then, one Sunday morning, bright and fine, a good stiff and steady breeze came away from the S.E. sending her through the water at a ten knot clip. But, would it hold, without hauling into another head wind and the consequent tack and tack?
Forty-eight hours more and we should sight the land. Every sail was tended with a care never even lavished on a prospective cup winner! Tighten up a halyard here. Another pull on a sheet there, till the most critical eye was satisfied, and we were getting the very last ounce of speed out of her.
That Monday evening, just on the edge of twilight, when we had almost given up all hope of seeing anything that night, came the glad cry, “Land-o!” and our troubles were nearly over; at least the chances of being frizzled or starved were. No more need for a look out aloft. If she could stick it for another few hours, we should be able to make the shore even with our precious raft.
As the darkness shut down we judged we were close enough in, seeing that we had no chart of that coast, and the water was shoaling quickly. Finally, “Stand by, halyards and sheets.” Then the welcome order, “Lower away and clew up,” and down went the anchor. Nothing mattered now. We could nearly swim ashore. Much too cold for sharks. All the same, we couldn’t see a sign of a town though Bahia Blanca was marked on the chart as being right on the coast. The only chart we had was one of the South Atlantic, where a spider could spread its legs over a hundred miles.
There was nothing for it but to take the pinnace. Though I tried to cheer them up by pointing out that if the ship did go up what fun they could have, running through the surf on the old raft!
At it turned out later, there was a joke on all of us, for just where we were anchored — if a S.W. gale came up — there was nothing but breakers, that would have extinguished the fire, the ship, and ourselves included. However, the S.W. gale held off, and we got ashore through what surf there was, without smashing up the boat. Having pulled her up high and dry, the Captain and I went off prospecting.
As a result of beaching her in the surf I had got pretty well soaked, so I discarded shoes and socks, as the country seemed to consist of limitless sand and nothing but sand. Not hillocks, or the ordinary decent sand hills, but sheer precipices of sand with sides like walls. It made the going rather bad, but we managed to forge ahead till, eventually, we came across a sharp line of demarcation between sand and vegetation. “Oh!” we thought, “this was fine. Vegetation, now we’ll strike something soon.” We did — or rather I did — prickles! Prickles an inch long, in fact the first one I trod on felt six inches. I tried picking my way, but it was no go. I had to sit down and nurse my feet, picking out the spikes. Then I got the Captain’s handkerchief and my own wrapped round one foot, and a heavy weather cap round the other, and away we went again. Every now and then in the cussedness of things, either the cap or the hankies would slip, and I’d do a hurried squat.
So it went on. At any rate, we weren’t sitting on our tame volcano! And that was some blessing. We could see the ship every time we mounted a precipice. Then we both cheered as we sighted some horses, and made up our minds there and then that we were going to have a ride until we found habitation, and chance being shot for horse thieves. Having picked out a likely couple of nags, the Skipper approached his, whilst I stalked mine. I don’t know what aroused my suspicions; perhaps I had got to recognize a potential volcano when I saw one. Be that as it may, I felt quite contented to look over my horse’s back from the near side, and at the Skipper and his mount on my off side. Incidentally, I kept my hands to myself. He clicked his tongue, and cheerily walked up and put his hand on its withers, stroked and patted it. That was all right, but he couldn’t see what I saw. Apart from abruptly ceasing his browsing, a distinctly saucy little look became apparent in that gee gee’s eye — a look I’ve seen before, and sometimes suffered through not having seen.
“Come on, man,” shouted our noble Captain, at the same time planting his six foot two on the horse’s back. That did it — sort of put the match where it was wanted — and up he went. You might call it a graceful curve; it didn’t look it! And the thud with which he landed on his back fairly shook the ground. I could not have stopped laughing to save my soul. When the Captain did get his wind, and could speak, he just grinned and said, “Let’s walk.”
About an hour later we walked up to a hut full of about the most cheerful looking cut-throats you could meet in any Chamber of Horrors. Fortunately the Skipper was in uniform, and, as the British Consul said later, it was that, and that alone, which saved us both, and quite possibly the ship. They got the idea that he was a one time big feller, and best left alone. Incidentally, he did not improve his chances by hauling out a handful of sovereigns and giving an old dame, who evidently shared the hut, a couple. Then the blokes that were going to pilot him to Bahia Blanca wanted some, and he cheerily gave them a few. They were so utterly flabbergasted — and I was — that they never thought of knifing him and taking the lot.