Hans Neilsen was a big Dane, with a great wave of blond beard blowing from just below his pale blue eyes, and a leonine head covered with a straw-coloured mane. Although he was a giant in stature he was not what you would call a fine figure of a man, for he was round-shouldered and loosely jointed. And besides these things he had a shambling, undecided gait and a furtive side-long glance, ever apparently searching for a potential foe. Yet with all his peculiarities I loved him, I never knew why. Perhaps it was the unfailing instinct of a child—I was scarcely more—for people whose hearts are kind. He was an A.B. on board of a lumbering old American-built ship owned in Liverpool and presently bound thence to Batavia. I was “the boy”—that is to say, any job that a man could possibly growl himself out of or shirk in any way rapidly filtered down to me, mine by sea-right. And in my leisure I had the doubtful privilege of being body servant to eighteen men of mixed nationalities and a never-satisfied budget of wants. Of course she wasn’t as bad as a Geordie collier, the old Tucson. I didn’t get booted about the head for every little thing, nor was I ever aroused out of a dead sleep to hand a fellow a drink of water who was sitting on the breaker. Nevertheless, being nobody’s especial fancy and fully conscious of my inability to take my own part, I was certainly no pampered menial.
They were a queer lot, those fellows. Nothing strange in that, of course, so far, remembering how ships’ crews are made up nowadays, but these were queer beyond the average. In the first place no two of them were countrymen. There were representatives of countries I had till then been ignorant of. The “boss” of the fo’c’s’le was a huge Montenegrin, who looked to my excited fancy like a bandit chief, and used to talk in the worst-sounding lingo I ever heard with Giuseppe from Trieste and Antone from Patras. Louis Didelot, a nimble black-avised little matelot from Nantes, was worst off for communication with his shipmates, not one of whom could speak French, but somehow he managed to rub along with a barbarous compound of French, Spanish, and English. Neilsen chummed, as far as an occasional chat went, with a swarthy little Norwegian from Hammerfest (I believe he was a Lapp), whose language did not seem to differ much from Danish. The rest of the crew were made up of negroes from various far-sundered lands, South American hybrids including one pure-blooded Mexican with a skin like copper, a Russian and two Malays. That fo’c’s’le was Babel over again, although in some strange manner all seemed to find some sufficient medium for making themselves understood. On deck of course English (?) was spoken, but such English as would puzzle the acutest linguist that ever lived if he wasn’t a sailor-man too. Nothing could have borne more conclusive testimony to the flexibility of our noble tongue than the way in which the business of that ship was carried on without any hitch by those British officers and their polyglot crew. And another thing—there were no rows. I have said that Sam the Montenegrin (Heaven only knows what his name really was) was the boss of the fo’c’s’le, but he certainly took no advantage of his tacitly accorded position, and except for the maddening mixture of languages our quarters were as quiet as any well-regulated household.
But as long as I live I shall always believe that most, if not all, of our fellows were fugitives from justice, criminals of every stamp, and owing to the accident of their being thus thrown together in an easy-going English ship they were just enjoying a little off-season of rest prior to resuming operations in their respective departments when the voyage was over. I may be doing them an injustice, but as I picked up fragments of the various languages I heard many strange things, which, when I averaged them up, drove me to the conclusion I have stated. From none of them, however, did I get anything definite in the way of information about their past except Neilsen. He spoke excellent English, or American, with hardly a trace of Scandinavian accent, and often, when sitting alone in the dusk of the second dog-watch on the spars lashed along by the bulwarks,[364] I used to hear him muttering to himself in that tongue, every now and then giving vent to a short barking laugh of scorn. I was long getting into his confidence, for he shrank from all society, preferring to squat with his chin supported on both hands staring at vacancy and keeping up an incessant muttering. But at last the many little attentions I managed to show him thawed his attitude of reserve towards me a little, and he permitted me to sit by his side and prattle to him of my Arab life in London, and of my queer experiences in the various ways of getting something to eat before I went to sea. Even then he would often scare me just as I was in the middle of a yarn by throwing up his head and uttering his bark of disdain, following it up immediately by leaving me. Still I couldn’t be frightened of him, although I felt certain he was a little mad, and I persevered, taking no notice of his eccentricities. At last we became great friends, and he would talk to me sanely by the hour, when during the stillness of the shining night-watches all our shipmates, except the helmsman and look-out man, were curled up in various corners asleep.
So matters progressed until we were half-way up the Indian Ocean from St. Paul’s. One night in the middle watch I happened to say (in what connection I don’t know), “It’s my birthday to-day. I’m thirteen.” “Why, what day is it den?” he said listlessly. “The 25th of June,” I replied. “My God! my God!” he murmured softly, burying his face in his hands and trembling violently. I[365] was so badly scared I could say nothing for a few minutes, but sat wondering whether the moon, which was literally blazing down upon us out of the intense clearness above, had affected his weak brain. Presently he seemed to get steadier, and I ventured to touch his arm and say, “Ain’t you well, Neilsen? Can I get you anythin’?” There was silence for another short spell. Then he suddenly lifted his head, and said, not looking at me, but straight before him, “Yes, I vill tell him. I must tell him.” Then, still without looking at me, he went on—“Boy, I’m goin’ t’ tell ye a yarn about myself, somethin’ happened to me long time ago. Me an’ my chum, a little Scotch chap, was ’fore de mast aboard of a Yank we’d shipped in in Liverpool. She wuz a reg’lar blood-boat. You’ve herd o’ de kind, I ’spose, no watch an’ watch all day, everythin’ polished ’n painted till you c’d see y’r face in it ’low and aloft. Ole man ’n three mates alwas pradin’ roun’ ’ith one han’ on their pistol pockets ’n never a ’norder give widout a ‘Gaw-dam-ye’ to ram it down like. I tell ye wot ’tis; sailors offen tawk ’bout hell erflote, but der ain’t menny off ’em knows wot it means, leest not nowdays. I’ve sailed in de packets, the Westerun oshun boats I mean, under some toughs, ’fore steam run ’em off, an’ I ’low dey wuz hard—forrard’s well’s aft—but, boy, dey wuz church, dey wuz dat, ’longside the ’Zekiel B. Peck. W’y! dey tort nuttin’, nuttin ’tall, ov scurfin’ ye way frum de wheel, you a doin’ yer damdest too, ter pint her troo d’ eye ov a needle, ’n lammin’ th’ very Gawdfergotten soul out ov yer jest ter keep der ’and in like. I wuz a dam site biggern dose days den I am now, fur I wuz straight ez a spruce tree ’n limber too, I wuz; but I got my ’lowance reglar ’n took it lyin’ down too like de rest. ’N so I s’pose ’twoud a gone on till we got to ’Frisco an’ de blood-money men come and kicked us out ov her as ushal. Only suthin’ happend. Seems ter me suthin’s alwus a happenin’ wot ye ain’t recknd on, but sum things happen like ’s if de devil jammed a crowbar inter ye somewheres ’n hove de bes’ part of ye inter hell wile de rest ov ye goes a grubbin’ along everlastingly lookin’ fer wot ye lost an’ never findin’ it. Well,’twuz like dis; we wuz a creepin’ along up de coast ov Lower California, de weadder bein’ beastly, nuttin’ but one heavy squall on top of anoder, ’n de wind a flyin’ all round de compass. It wuz all han’s, all han’s night’n day, wid boot ’n blayin’ pin ter cheer us up, till we wuz more like a crowd o’ frightend long-shoremen dan a crew o’ good sailor-men. One forenoon,’bout seven bells, we’d ben a shortenin’ down at de main ’n wuz all a comin’ down helter-skelter, de mate n’ tird mate standin’ by in the skuppers as ushal to belt each man as he touched de deck fer not bein’ smarter. I come slidin’ down de topmast backstays ’n dropped on to de deck jest be’ind de mate as Scotty, my chum, landed in front ov him. De mate jest let out and fetched Scotty in the ear. Pore ole chap, he flung up his arms, ’n spoutin’ blood like a whale, dropped all ov a heap in his tracks. I don’t rightly know how ’twuz, but next ting I’d got de mate (’n he wuz nearly as big as Sam) by de two ankles, a swingin’ him roun’ my head ’sif he wuz a capsan-bar. He hit sometin’, I spose it wuz de topsl-halliard block, ’n it sounded like a bag ov eggs. De rest ov de purceedins wuz all foggy like to me, ’cept dat I was feelin’ ’bout as big ’n strong as twenty men rolled inter one ’n I seemed ter be a smashin’ all creation into bloody pieces. I herd de poppin’ ov revolver shots in hunderds, but I didn’t feel none ov ’em. Presently it all quieted down ’n dere wuz me a settin’ on de deck in de wash ov de lee scuppers a nursin’ Scotty like a baby ’n him a lookin’ up at me silly-like. The ship was all aback an de rags ov most ov the canvas wuz slattin’ ’n treshin’ like bullock whips, while long pennants of canvas clung to de riggin’ all over her. I put Scotty down ’n gets up on my feet to hev a look roun’. De deck was like a Saladero, dead bodies a lyin’ about in all directions. Seein’ Scotty standin’ up holdin’ on ter de pin-rail I sez to him, ‘Scotty, what in hell’s de matter, hev we ben struck by lightnin’?’ He jest waggled his head ’sif he wuz drunk ’n sez, ‘Yes, chum, I guess we hev. Ennyhow I’m glad ter see it’s hit de right ones.’ ’N den he laughed. ‘Sounded like breakin’ dishes it did.’ Well, I begun to git scared ’cause I couldn’t sort it out at all, until some ov de other fellers come from somewhere, ’n we sot down along de spars while dey told me, all de while keepin’ deir eyes on me, ’n lookin’ ’s if dey wuz ready to git up and scoot if I moved. It ’peared I’d simply sailed in ’sif I’d ben made of iron, ’n slaughtered dem officers right an’ left with nottin’ but me bare hands ’n takin’ no more notice of deir six-shooters dan if dey’d ben pea-guns. I wonderd wot made me feel so stiff an’ sore here and dere, seems I’d got two or tree bullets plugged inter me while we wuz playin’ de game. ’N right in de dick of it, down comes a reglar hurrikin squall ketchin’ her flat aback ’n rippin de kites offn her ’sif dey wuz paper. Most o’ de fellers, seein’ de hand I had, chipped in, ’n two ov em laid quiet ’longside ov de der corpses. It wuz a reglar clean sweep. All tree mates, carpenter, and stooard, an’ de ole man, blast him, wuz dead, ’n dey said I’d killed em all. Well, I cou’dn’t conterdickt em, but somehow I didn’t feel s’if ’twas true, I didn’t feel bothered a bit about it, ’n as ter feelin’ sorry—why I wuz just as contented as a hog in a corn-bin. But sometin’ had ter be done fer we none of us tought de late officers ov de ’Zekiel B. Peck wort hangin’ fur, so we made shift to run her in fur de land, due East. When we got widin twenty mile ov it we pervisioned a couple ov boats an’ set fire to her, waitin’ till she got well a goin’, ’n den lowerin ’n pullin’ fur de beach. We didn’t take nuttin’ but some grub, dere warnt a pirut among us, an we ’ranged ter separate soon’s we got ashore, after we’d smashed de boats up. It come off all right, ’n me and Scotty wandered up country till we got steady work on a ranch (sort o’ farm) an’ we ’lowed we wouldn’t never go to sea no more. We wuz very happy for ’bout a year until Scotty begun ter weaken on me. He’d picked up wid some gal at a place a few mile off ’n I wuz out of it. He useter leave me alone night after night, knowin’ he wuz all de world ter me, knowin’ too det I’d gin a good many men’s blood fer his’n. Last we fell out, ’n after a many words ’d been slung between us, he upn and call me a bloody murderer. ’Twuz all over in a second, ’n I wuz nussin’ him in my arms agen like I did once before, but his head hung over limp, his neck wuz broke. ’N I ben talkin’ to him ever sence ’n tellin’ him how I’d gin forty lives ef I had’m ter see him chummy wit me agen, but I never get no answer.”
He stopped, and almost immediately “eight bells” struck. I went below and slept my allotted time, waking at the hoarse row of “Now then you sleepers, seven bells,” to get the breakfast in. The morning passed in humdrum fashion, the wind having dropped to almost a dead calm. After dinner I was looking over the side at the lovely cool depths smiling beneath, and the fancy suddenly seized me to have a dip, as I had often done before, although never in that ship. I could swim, but very little, so I made a bowline in the end of a rope, and making it fast so that about a couple of fathoms would trail in the water, I stripped in the chains, slipped the bowline over my head and under my arms, and slid down into the sea. It was just heavenly. But I found the ship was slipping along through the water just a little. So much the better. Putting my left arm[370] out like an oar I sheered away from the side until the rope that held me was out straight, and there was a wide gap of blue between me and the black hull of the ship. I was enjoying myself in perfect fashion when suddenly I saw a huge black shadow stealing upward from under the ship’s bottom towards me, and immediately, my bowels boiling with fear, I lost all my strength, my arms flew up and I slipped out of the loop. I heard a splash, and close beside me an awful struggle began while I lay in full possession of all my senses, just floating without motion. Neilsen had sprung into the sea and seized the shark by the tail, being all unarmed. Suddenly I felt the coils of a rope fall upon me, and with a sense of returning life I clutched them, and was presently hauled on board. I must have fainted, for when I again realised my surroundings Neilsen was lying on deck near me, a wide red stream creeping slowly down from him to the scuppers. Opening his eyes as I staggered to my feet, he said feebly, “Dis’ll pay, won’t it, boy?” and died.
Towering in lonely majesty for two thousand feet above the blue waters of Foveaux Strait, the mighty mass of the Solander Rock seems to dominate that stormy region like some eternal sentinel set to hail the coming of the flying fleets of the northern hemisphere to the brave new world of New Zealand. To all appearance it is perfectly inaccessible, its bare weather-stained sides, buffeted by the tempests of ages, rising sheer from a depth of hundreds of fathoms without apparently a ledge or a crevice wherein even a goat could find precarious foothold. Not that landing would be practicable even were there any jutting shelves near the water’s edge; for exposed as the rock is to the full range of the Southern Ocean, it must perforce meet continually with the effects of all the storms that are raging right round the southern slopes of this planet of ours, since there is absolutely nothing to hinder their world-engirdling sweep in those latitudes. Even when, as happens at rare intervals, the unwearying west wind stays for a brief space its imperial march to meet the rising sun, and the truce of storm and sea broods over the deep in a hush like the peace of God, the glassy bosom of the ocean still undulates as if with the throbbing of earth’s heart, a pulse only to be timed by the horology of Creation. That almost imperceptible upheaval of the sea-surface, meeting in its gliding sweep with the Solander Rock, rises in wrathful protest, the thunders of its voice being audible for many miles; while torn into a thousand whirling eddies, its foaming crests chafe and grind around the steadfast base of the solitary mountain, in a series of overfalls that would immediately destroy any vessel of man’s building that became involved therein. And this in a stark calm. But in a gale, especially one that is howling from Antarctica to Kerguelen—from Tristan d’Acunha to the Snares—over the most tremendous waste of waters this earth can show, then is the time to see the Solander. Like a never-ending succession of mountain ranges with snowy summits and gloomy declivities streaked with white, the storm waves of the Southern Sea come rushing on. Wide opens the funnel of Foveaux Strait before them, fifty miles from shore to shore at its mouth, and in its centre, confronting them alone, stands the great Rock. They hurl themselves at its mass, their impact striking a deeper note than that of the storm; as if the foundations of the earth were jarred and sent upward through all her strata a reply to the impetuous ocean. Baffled, dashed into a myriad hissing fragments, the sea recoils until the very root-hold of the rock is revealed to the day, and its strange inhabitants blink glassily at the bright glare of the sun. Then are the broken masses of the beaten wave hurled aloft by the scourging wind until the topmost crag streams with the salt spray and all down the deeply-scored sides flows the foaming brine. So fierce and continuous is the assault that the Rock is often invisible, despite its huge mass, for hours together, or only dimly discernible through the spindrift like a sombre spectre, the gigantic spirit of the storm. Only the western face of the Solander is thus assaulted. For to the eastward the Straits narrow rapidly until at their outlet there is but two or three miles of open water. Therefore that side of the Rock is always comparatively peaceful above high-water mark. During the fiercest storm, the wind, meeting this solid obstruction, recoils from itself, making an invisible cushion of air all around the mountain, within the limits of which it is calm except on the side remote from the wind, where a gentle return breeze may be felt. But down below a different state of things prevails. The retreat of the mighty waves before that immovable bastion drags after them all the waters behind it, so that there is created a whirlpool that need fear no comparison with the Maelström. Its indraught may be felt at a great distance, and pieces of wreckage are collected by it until the tormented waters are bestrewn with débris twirling in one mad dance about those polished cliffs.
It is therefore easy to understand why the Solander Rock is left lonely. Passing merchantmen give it a wide berth, wisely judging the vicinity none too safe. Fishermen in this region there are none. Only the whalers, who knew the western end of Foveaux Straits as one of the most favourite haunts of the sperm whale, cruised about and about it for weeks and months at a stretch, like shadowy squadrons of a bygone day irresistibly held in a certain orbit by the attraction of the great Rock and doomed to weave sea-patterns around it for ever. One by one they have disappeared until now there are none left, and the Solander alone keeps the gate.
Now at a certain period of a long voyage I once made as a seaman on board a South Sea “Spouter,” it befell that we descended from the balmy latitudes near the Line, where we had been cruising for many months with little success, to see whether better luck might await us on the stormy Solander “ground.” From the first day of our arrival there the old grey mountain seemed to exercise a strange fascination upon the usually prosaic mind of our elderly skipper. Of romance or poetic instinct he did not seem to possess a shade, yet for many an hour he would lean motionless over the weather rail, his keen eyes steadily fixed upon the sphinx-like mass around which we slowly cruised. He was usually silent as if dumb, but one morning when we were about ten miles to the westward of the Rock, I happened to be at the wheel as the sun was rising. The skipper was lolling over the quarter, pipe in mouth, his chin supported upon his left hand, apparently lost in thought. Suddenly the dark outlines of the Rock became illuminated, the abrupt angles of its crags took on a shimmering haze of tenderest glow, while from the jagged summits a lovely coronal of radiant colour shot forth delicate streamers into the clear morning sky. Towards us from the Rock’s black base crept a mighty sombre shadow whose edges were so dazzling in brilliance as to be painful to look upon. As this marvellous picture caught my dull eyes I held my breath, while a strange tightening of the skin over my head bore witness to the awe I felt. Then the skipper spoke, unconscious I believe that he was uttering his thoughts aloud—“Great God! haouw merv’llous air Thy works. The hull airth an’ the sea also ez full o’ Thy glory.” There was utter silence again while the glow deepened into blazing gold, crimson lances radiated from the central dark into the deep blue around until they mellowed off into emerald and violet, and then—the culminating point of the vision—the vast fervent disc of the sun crowned the mountain with a blaze of ineffable splendour.
Meanwhile we were steadily nearing the Rock, and as the wind freed a point or two we headed straight for its centre, the vessel being close-hauled on the starboard tack. The bright day came full circle, the ordinary everyday duties of the ship began, but still the skipper moved not, still I steered directly for the mountain’s broad base. I noted several curious glances cast by the two busy officers, first at the Rock and then at the motionless skipper, but they offered no remarks. Nearer and nearer we drew until a great black space opened up in the centre of the huge cliffs, looking like some enormous cave extending far into the heart of the mountain as we rapidly lessened our distance from it,[376] and what was at first only a supposition became a certainty—that enormous mass of rock was hollow. At last when we were within a mile of it the skipper ordered me to keep her away a couple of points, and had the yards checked in a little. Then, binocular in hand, he mounted to the main-top and gazed long and earnestly into the gloom of that tremendous cavern, whose floor was at least fifty feet above high-water mark. In and out of it flew a busy company of sea-birds, their snow-white wings gleaming brightly against the dark background. We were so close now that we could hear the sullen murmur of the restless waters about the base of those wall-like cliffs, and even with the unassisted eye could see a considerable distance within. Much anxiety began to be manifested by all except the skipper, for everybody knew well how strong an inset is always experienced in such positions. And as we got dead to leeward of the rock we lost the wind—it was shut off from us by that immense barrier. All hands were now on deck, and as “eight bells” was struck the crisp notes came back to us with startling distinctness from the innermost recesses of the great cavern. It was undoubtedly a trying moment for us all, for we did not know what was going to happen. But the old man descended leisurely, saying to the mate as his foot touched the deck, “I’d give five hundred dollars to be able to look round that ther hole. Ef thar ain’t suthin’ on-common to it I’m a hoss.” “Wall, Cap’n,” answered Mr. Peck, “I guess one o’ these yer Kanakas ’d hev’n all-fired hard dig at it fur a darn sight less ’n that. But doan’ ye think we mout so well be gittin’ a bit ov’n offin’? I’m er soshibul man m’self, ’n thet’s a fack, but I’ll be gol durned ef I wouldn’t jest ’s lieve be a few mile further away ’s not.” As he spoke the reflex eddy of the wind round the other side of the rock filled our head sails and we paid off to leeward smartly enough. A sensation of relief rippled through all hands as the good old tub churned up the water again and slipped away from that terribly dangerous vicinity.
The old man’s words having been plainly heard by several of us, there was much animated discussion of them during that forenoon watch below to the exclusion of every other topic. As many different surmises were set afloat as to what the mystery of that gloomy abyss might be as there were men in our watch, but finally we all agreed that whatever it was the old man would find a way to unravel it if it was within the range of human possibility. A week passed away, during which the weather remained wonderfully fine, a most unusual occurrence in that place. A big whale was caught, and the subsequent proceedings effectually banished all thoughts of the mystery from our minds for the time; but when the ship had regained her normal neatness and the last traces of our greasy occupation had been cleared away, back with a swing came the enthralling interest in that cave. Again we headed up for the rock with a failing air[378] of wind that finally left us when we were a scant two miles from it. Then two sturdy little Kanakas, who had lately been holding interminable consultations with each other, crept aft and somehow made the old man understand that they were willing to attempt the scaling of that grim ocean fortress. Their plan of campaign was simple. A boat was to take them in as close as was prudent, carrying three whale lines, or over 5000 feet. Each of them would have a “Black fish poke” or bladder which is about as big as a four-gallon cask, and when fully inflated is capable of floating three men easily. They would also take with them a big coil of stout fishing-line which when they took the water they would pay out behind them, one end being secured to the boat. Thus equipped, they felt confident of being able to effect a landing. Without hesitation, such was his burning desire to know more about that strange place, he accepted the brave little men’s offer. No time was lost. In less than a quarter of an hour all was ready, and away went the boat, manned by five of our best men and steered by the skipper himself. She was soon on the very margin of safety, and without a moment’s hesitation away went the daring darkies. Like seals they dodged the roaring eddies, as if amphibious, they slacked off their bladders and dived beneath the ugly combers that now and then threatened to hurl them against the frowning face of the rock. Suddenly one of them disappeared entirely. We thought he had been dashed to pieces and had sunk, but almost immediately the other one vanished also. Hardly a breath was drawn among us, our hearts stood still. The skipper’s face was a study in mental agony. Silently he signed to us to pull a stroke or two although already we were in a highly dangerous position. What we felt none of us could describe when, sending all the blood rushing to our heads, we heard an eldritch yell multiplied indefinitely by a whole series of echoes. And there high above our heads on the brink of the cave stood the two gallant fellows apparently frantic with delight. A big tear wandered reluctantly down each of the skipper’s rugged cheeks as he muttered “Starn all,” and in obedience to his order the boat shot seaward a few lengths into safety. Thus we waited for fully an hour, while the two Kanakas were invisible, apparently busy with their explorations. At last they appeared again, holding up their hands as if to show us something. Then they shouted some indistinct words which by the gestures that accompanied them we took to mean that they would now return. Again they disappeared, but in less than five minutes we saw them battling with the seething surf once more. Now we could help them, and by hauling steadily on the fishing-lines we soon had them in the boat and were patting their smooth brown backs. They said that they had found a sort of vertical tunnel whose opening was beneath the water, which they had entered by diving. It led right up into the cave, which was of tremendous extent, so large, in fact,that they had not explored a tenth of it. But not far from its entrance they had found the bones of a man! By his side lay a sheath-knife and a brass belt buckle. Nothing more. And the mystery of the Solander was deeper than ever. We never again attempted its solution.
Once more the logic of events is compelling the attention of all and sundry to the fact, hardly realised by the great majority of people, that in the personnel of the Navy we have a force of warriors that on land as well as at sea have not their equals in the world. The overwhelming preponderance of our naval power deprives these magnificent men of the opportunity to show an astounded world what they are capable of on their own element; how they can handle the terrible engines of war with which modern engineering science has equipped them; but in spite of the fact that as a nation we know little of the doings of our new Navy upon the sea, there is undoubtedly a solid simple faith in its absolute pre-eminence. Like the deeds of all true heroes, the work of our sailors is done out of sight; there are no applauding crowds to witness the incessant striving after perfection that goes on in our ships of war. We rarely see a company of bluejackets ashore unless we have the good fortune to live at some of the ports favoured by men-o’-war. There, if we feel interested, we may occasionally get a glimpse of a drill-party landed, and watch the way in which Jack handles himself and his weapons freed from the hampering environment of his ship’s decks. And[382] to those who enjoy the spectacle of a body of men at the highest pitch of physical development, clothed in garments that permit the utmost freedom of limb, and actuated every one by an intelligent desire after perfection, the sight is worth any trouble to obtain. Really, it is “heady” as strong wine. To the dash and enthusiasm of public-school boys the men unite an intense pride in their profession and an intellectual obedience that is amazing to the beholder.
Yet it should be remembered that shore-drill is for them only a small interlude, an occasional break in the constant stream of duties that claims every unit on board of a man-o’-war throughout each working day. There is so very much to do in the keeping up to perfect fitness of the vast complication of a modern ship of war that only the most careful organisation and apportionment of duties makes the performance possible. But sandwiched in between such routine work comes so great a variety of marine evolutions that the mind is staggered to contemplate them. It would be well for all landsmen reading of the doings of a Naval Brigade ashore to remember this—to bear in mind that if Jack excels as a soldier, preparation for which duty is made in the merest fag-ends and scraps of his time, he is superexcellent in the performance of his main business, which he does in the privacy of the sea, with only the approval of his superior officers—and his pride in the British Navy—to encourage him. How would it be possible to convey to the lay mind the significance of even[383] one of these complicated evolutions that are sprung upon Jack at all sorts of times without a moment’s warning? How reveal the significance of such a manifestation of readiness for all emergencies as is shown by, say, the bugle-call “Prepare for action”? The ship is in a state of normal peace. Every member of the crew is engaged either upon such private matters as making or mending clothes, school-room duties, or other domestic relaxations peculiar to a watch below; or on the never-ending work of cleaning steel and brass, &c., that must be done whatever goes undone. At the first note of alarm every one springs to attention, before half the tune has vibrated they are swarming like bees round an overturned hive, and by the time that any ordinary individual would have realised the import of the command the whole interior of the ship is transformed. Great masses of iron that look immovable as if built into the hull have disappeared, every aperture whereby water could gain access below is hermetically sealed, each subdivision of the ship is isolated by water-tight doors, and from hidden depths with ponderous clangour is rising the food for the shining monsters above. The racks are stripped of revolvers and cutlasses, the mess-traps and tables have disappeared from the lower deck, and, showing all her teeth, the mighty weapon of war is ready for the foe. If the watchful head of affairs has noted with satisfaction the number of minutes absorbed in this general upheaval of things, his word or two of approval circulates with electric swiftness from fighting-top[384] to torpedo-flat; should he frown darkly upon a few seconds’ delay, there is gloom on all faces and frantic searching of heart among those who may be held responsible therefor.
For be it noted that the perfunctory leisurely performance of any duty is unthinkable in the Navy. The Scriptural injunction, “Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might,” is fully acted upon there, not only by command, but with the gleeful co-operation of those commanded. And hence it is that whenever a Naval Brigade is called upon for service ashore, their behaviour is such as to call for wonder and admiration even from those who know least about the difficulties they overcome. Their high spirits, the frolicsome way in which they attack the most tremendous tasks, compel even their bitterest enemies to bear witness in their favour, while hardships that would disable or dishearten landsmen only seem to heighten their enjoyment. It has often been said that during one of our West African campaigns the conduct of the Naval Brigade in one peculiar direction was unique. Orders had been given that in consequence of the danger of lying on the ground every man should collect a sufficient pile of brushwood upon which to raise his body while he slept. To the rank-and-file of the Army this duty, coming at the end of a fatiguing day’s march, was a terrible one, although it was practically their only safeguard against disease. They wandered wearily about in the darkness seeking sticks for their couch, and trying all kinds of dodges to evade the salutary regulation. But Johnny Haul-taut thought it fine fun. Not only was his pile of sticks collected in double-quick time, but he was noways backward in lending a helping hand to his less adaptable march-mates of the Army, and after that he had still so much superfluous energy to spare that he must needs dance a great deal before retiring to rest, flinging himself about in uproarious merriment while tired soldiers were still seeking material for their couches.
Amid all the revenges that time affords the sons of men, could there be anything more dramatic than that exemplified by the relative positions of soldier and sailor to-day? Recall the infant days of the Navy, when the sailor was looked upon as a base mechanic, one degree perhaps better than the galley-slave who, chained to the oar, enacted the part of machinery whereby the warship was brought into action, and lived or died as it might happen without ever having a say in the matter or an opportunity for self-defence. Picture the proud mail-clad warriors striding on board the ships, hardly deigning to notice the mariners who trimmed the sails and handled the vessels—mere rope-haulers, coarse and uncouth, destitute of any military virtues, and only fit, indeed, to be the humble attendants upon the behests of warlike men. Think of the general taking command of a fleet, fresh from leaguers and pitched battles ashore, and giving his orders to the ships as to a troop of horse. And then remember the great change in the relations of soldier and sailor now. Not only is the sailor a man of war from his youth[386] up, but all his training tends to bring out resourcefulness, individuality, and self-reliance, not only in the officer but in the humblest seaman. Without in the least intending the very slightest disparagement to our gallant and able Army officers—men who have proved their ability as well as their courage on so many battlefields—it may be permissible to quote the recent words of a first-class petty officer, a bos’un’s mate on board of one of her Majesty’s ships, who said: “There ain’t a General livin’ as can handle a fleet, but I’ll back e’er a one of our Admirals to handle an army agenst the smartest General we’ve got.” He probably meant an army of sailors, for the behaviour of even the finest troops would hardly satisfy the ideas of smartness held by an Admiral. He has been taught to expect his men to combine the characteristics of cats, monkeys, game-cocks, and bulldogs, with a high order of human intelligence to leaven the whole. Remembering all this, it would be interesting to know, if the knowledge were to be had, the history of the struggle that resulted in the sailor throwing off the rule of the soldier at sea. That it was long and bitter, admits of no doubt, for it has left its traces even now, traces that it would, perhaps, be invidious to point out. Foreign critics sneer at most things English, and institute unfavourable comparisons, but it is gratifying to note that such comparisons are never made between the British naval officer and any other warriors soever. The task would, indeed, be an ungrateful one for any critic attempting it in the hope of proving shortcomings on the part of these splendid sailors—well, perhaps the word “sailors” will hardly fit them now. The handling of ships still forms an important part of their manifold duties, but when one realises what their scientific attainments must be in order to discharge all those duties, it becomes quite a mental problem how ever the naval officer of to-day manages to know so much at such an age as he usually is when he becomes a Lieutenant. That he does manage it we all know, and not only so, but, instead of shrivelling up into a sapless, spectacled student, he retains a sparkling boyishness of demeanour, a readiness for fun and frolic of all kinds that is contagious, making the most morbid visitor admitted to intimate acquaintanceship with the life of a warship feel as if the weight of years had suddenly been lifted from him.
With that keen insight which always characterises him, Mr. Kipling has noted in marvellous language what he terms the almost “infernal mobility” of a battleship’s crew—how at a given signal there suddenly bursts from her grim sides a fleet of boats, warships in miniature, each self-contained and full of possibilities of destruction. The sight of “Man and arm boats” simultaneously carried out in less than a dozen minutes by every ship in a squadron, the sudden mobilisation of an army numbering between two and three thousand perfectly equipped sinewy men in whose vocabulary the word “impossible” has no place, is one that should be witnessed by every thoughtful citizen who would understand the composition of our first line of defence. Better still, perhaps, that he should see the operation performed of transhipping guns, such guns as those landed by the tars of the Powerful and used with such effect at Ladysmith. One would like to know for certain whether it is true, as reported, that her 6-inch rifles were landed as well as the 4.7 guns. The latter were a handful, no doubt, but the former! They are twenty feet long, they weigh seven tons, and have a range of 11,000 yards;—penetration at 1000 yards, 11.6 inch of iron. Yet it is reported that some of these pretty playthings were landed by the bluejackets, mounted on carriages designed by one of their officers and built by the ship’s artificers, and taken up country into action. Truly a feat worthy of Titans.
Is it any wonder that Jack is proud of his shore-fighting record? Wherever and whenever he has been permitted to join in the work of the Army he has made his mark so deeply that he has come to be looked upon as indispensable, invincible. His effervescent humour never seems to desert him, as the following anecdote, told the writer recently, fairly well illustrates. It was at Gingihlovo, and the Naval Brigade was face to face with an apparently overwhelming force of Zulus, numbers of whom were armed with rifles. The sailors were reserving their fire, only sending an occasional volley when a favourable opportunity presented itself. Forth from the Zulu host stepped a warrior laden with an ancient firearm, which he calmly mounted upon a tripod in the open, while the sailors looked on admiring his pluck, but wondering much what he was proposing to do. At last one jovial tar suggested that their photographs were going to be taken, and, by common consent, no shots were sent at the supposed photographer. Having loaded his piece with great deliberation, the Zulu primed it, sighted, and, leaning hard against its breech, he fired. The recoil—for the thing was much overloaded—knocked him head over heels backward, while a great roar of laughter went up from the delighted sailors. He sat up looking hurt and dazed, and then, the amusement over, he, along with a suddenly charging impi of his countrymen, were annihilated by a volley from the steadily aimed pieces of the little cheerful band of bluejackets.