A round of the islands and we loaded up in New Orleans for home. Deep loaded with grain, and cattle on deck, she wallowed her weary way, far worse than the proverbial canal barge. All went comparatively well until crossing the Grand Banks of Newfoundland. Here, owing to the shallowness of the water, a wall sided sea gets up that is the terror of all small and moderate-sized ships. It is well known to all Western Ocean sailors, and with a small deep loaded ship, it behoves one to treat it with respect and heave to in plenty of time.
One afternoon it blew up and there was every indication that we were in for a dirty night.
The Knight Companion was really an Eastern trader; so was the Captain. The ship was not built to face the Western Ocean, and the Skipper lacked Western Ocean experience. She was running heavily all afternoon, and when I left the bridge, I half suggested that it was getting time to heave-to. The skipper jokingly, though, half seriously said, “Oh, I thought you Western Ocean sailors were never afraid of bad weather.” There was nothing more to say, so I went below. Even then she was lurching and labouring far too heavily for anyone to remain long in his bunk, so I made myself up a bed on the floor of my cabin and jammed myself in as best I could. The pitch and heave to the following sea rapidly grew worse, one could feel her difficulty in rising and getting away from the seas racing after her, and threatening to overwhelm her. An hour or so later I felt that horrible and unmistakable feeling of a ship pooping. A sea had broken over her stern, and she shuddered horribly as it tore its way along the decks, crushing and smashing everything in its wake.
There was no object in dashing up on deck and chance getting washed overboard; if the ship were going down, one might as sell stay where one was. A few minutes later I felt her broach-to, and over she went, almost on her beam ends, being pounded all the time by the huge seas breaking on her. After a few long drawn minutes she eventually came to, head on to wind and righted.
Of course, by this time, my cabin, along with everybody’s was all afloat. Water everywhere, but evidently some of the fires in the stokehold were still alight, and the ship was able to keep head to wind. I went on deck. What a ghastly wreck! The sea had simply crushed down flat the whole of the cattle pens fore and aft, and cattle in all shapes and forms were lying dying, maimed, bruised and broken, all over the ship. Numbers, had, or course, mercifully been washed overboard. Unfortunately, steam had been left on deck, and was running through many of the pipes, which only added to the horror. There was nothing for it but to release what we could, and simply let them wash overboard. Seas breaking over us all the time, but the main aim and object was to save the ship.
We remained hove-to for the best part of forty-eight hours before the gale eased down and we were able to keep her away again for our home port. So much for the Western Ocean in general and the Grand Banks in particular. When we did get home, I wasted no time in getting ashore, and finding something a little more orderly and seaworthy.
After another year or so of knocking around, a good part of the time spent ashore, mostly doing things of not much interest to anyone but myself, I discovered one day that I had arrived at the mature age of twenty-five, and it struck me that it was just about time that I quit this roving and settled down to something really permanent. I fully realised that I might quite easily have been much ahead of where I was; still, I never regretted the time I had lost. I had had good times and I had enjoyed them. Experience is always a good companion, if you look at it that way. Granted there had been a considerable element of luck that had always enabled me to catch up; in fact, in the end, when I joined the White Star Line, I was still ahead of the average age.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
WHITE STAR LINE
So, in the year of Our Lord 1900, armed with a letter of introduction and full of good resolutions, I made my appearance at 30 James Street, Liverpool, the headquarters of the wonderful White Star Line. It was customary in those days to have to wait anything up to six months before getting an appointment, so, feeling very virtuous at having done the great deed, I slipped away for a few months’ holiday. Within a week, to my utter disgust, I had orders to report; and on arriving in Liverpool, found I was appointed to the R.M.S. Medic, the first of the five huge White Star Liners that were to open the new Australian service. I suppose I ought to have felt flattered at being picked out from among the many, but it was rather a staggerer, since all my outfit happened to be roaming somewhere round the railways, more or less lost, and certainly unobtainable.
When the Marine Superintendent told me the ship was sailing within a couple of days, I blurted out, “Good Lord, I’ve no clothes.” His reply was short, and to the point. “Get some.” I did, and rambled off to Australia with slightly less than half an outfit. But it was the White Star Line, the summit, at that time, of my ambitions.
What a change after that precious old cattle truck. Here everything spotless and clean; everything just-so, discipline strict, but in no way irksome. Navigation such as I had never known it.
I soon fell into things and became frightfully keen at my job. Crowds of passengers and plenty going on. I lasted a whole voyage, and then I sent in my resignation in preference to being fired! Undoubtedly my own fault for again doing those things usually left undone by the discreet and wisely minded.
It came about this way. We were lying in Sydney, in Neutral Bay, and for one reason and another our sailing had been delayed. She was a show ship, the biggest that had ever been out there, and the people in Australia gave the time of our lives. Everything and everywhere it was the Medic.
I was always extremely fond of small boat sailing, and it was partly this amusement that got me into the scrape. I, as fourth officer (since she did not carry a fifth), with four midshipmen, had rigged up one of the ship’s boats. We fitted her with a false keel, and used to sail her all over the harbour, that most wonderful of harbours in the wide world, and the boat was no slouch either.
One day we had been across to Rosecutter’s Bay (sic), and, as an excuse for the jaunt, had taken sandbags to fill up with sand and bring back for the purpose of holystoning the decks. Now, standing in the middle of the harbour is a rock, on which is built a fort, known as Fort Dennison (sic), or more commonly Pinchgut, owing to the starvation diet on which the convicts were kept whilst confined in the fort. Mounted on this fort is a huge gun, that covers the whole of the harbour.
We were coming off with a light breeze, clad in our white ducks, thoroughly enjoying life, and went to pass windward of the fort. The boat did not seem inclined to lie up to it, and as it was of no consequence whatever, we ran close under the lee. One of the boys, Watson by name, lying on his back along one of the thwarts and looking up as we passed close under the fort, noticed the projecting muzzle of this huge gun. “What a lark,” he blurted out, “to fire that gun some night. Wouldn’t it shake ‘em up?” I looked up, and as they say in Yankeeland, fell for it. It was a proposition that appealed. So, with each one sworn to secrecy, we set about what proved to be a task that took over six weeks to accomplish, but it was worth it.