An Inevitable Collision
The Wachusett had made a delightful cruise among the South Sea Islands. Samoa, Tahiti, and the Marquesas, far from the madding crowd, basking in the sun, care free and happy, had made us think more kindly of the Bounty mutineers and inclined our hearts toward a more tolerant view of the simple life led by the people in these far-away isles, the world forgetting and the world forgot. But now a new page had been turned and the pleasant memories of dreamland were growing fainter as we approached the shores of Peru, the land of romance, of daring, adventure, and conquest.
The officer of the forecastle, getting in the way as usual, of the real workers intent on their morning watch duties, but with a sincere desire to do his bit, splashed around barefoot in the warm sea water, and glanced occasionally at the distant horizon. At length he was rewarded by the sight of a sail— dim and faint, it is true, but unmistakably a sail. Here was something to do. “Sail, O!” he shouted to the officer-of-the-deck, “Broad off the starboard bow, sir!” With amusement he recalled a story he had heard of an entry in a log book wherein it was recorded by the officer that at sunrise he “sighted a sailing ship hull down on the horizon and knew that a collision was inevitable.” Then, little dreaming of what was in store, he dismissed the incident from his mind and resumed his playful duties.
Later on, incredible as it may seem, the ships, the only ones in sight in that part of the broad Pacific, came together, and then things happened.
The captain appeared, clad only in a long white nightie, and was soon joined by a self-appointed Board of Strategy to go into conference. First, the executive officer, stern of mien and ready to apply the axe impartially to all and sundry, hove in sight, closely followed by the navigator, vaguely wondering if he were out in his reckoning. The marine officer, abruptly aroused from dreams of the Halls of Montezuma, and eager to uphold the traditions of his gallant corps, placed himself near the “old man,” ready for what might befall. Then the chaplain emerged from below, ready to perform the rites of his priestly office, and the paymaster with a bag of coin to bestow, no doubt, upon the author of all the trouble as a prize for accomplishing the impossible. And last, as befitted their lowly estate, tumbled up the youngsters from the junior officers’ mess, anxious to see if things were to be done according to Luce, and ready to contribute from their store of knowledge recently acquired at the Naval Academy. In the midst of this noisy and questioning group was the Beau Brummel of the ship, a lad distinguished for his correct attire and upright behavior. On this occasion, alas, he was properly attired in all respects except as to his legs, which, owing to lack of time, were clad only in nature’s garb. On his arm dangled a pair of trousers, and at his feet, barking and cavorting in a state of pleasurable excitement, was the beau’s inseparable companion, his pet dog. Seeing his master’s grotesque attempts to complete his toilet while balancing on one foot, a difficult feat under the trying conditions, his dogship, thinking it all in sport, caught the spirit of the game and the trousers at one and the same time and dashed below closely followed by the beau, who having contributed his mite to the interest of the occasion, faded from the picture.
Meanwhile the Board of Strategy having exhausted all means of separating the ships, gazed helplessly at one another and hoped for better days. Finally a puff of wind carried the bow of the unwelcome visitor clear and started her on her erratic course. Our loss included two boats, several bent and broken bulwark frames, and many hurt and lacerated feelings. Some one hoisted an international signal asking the barque if she needed assistance, which so far as we could see was treated with lofty disdain, and the question remains unanswered to this day. It was thought, however, that her greatest injury was to the temper of her skipper, whose language during the altercation between the ships was sorely lacking in restraint and delicacy and so rich in picturesque adjectives as to be unfit to print.
When the shouting and the tumult died our ship was again headed for the land of Incas, and the officer of the forecastle, idly pacing the deck, pondered the extraordinary happenings of the morning and longed for the ability to paint the scene and call the picture, “Ships that don’t pass in the night.
Divining the Future
Many years ago (why be particular about the exact number) the U.S.S. Trenton, the first warship of any nation equipped with electric lights, fitted out at the Norfolk Navy Yard for a cruise that promised to lead to interesting and pleasant waters. However, from rumors rife at the time, the first leg of the voyage was to be of such a nature as to dampen the enthusiasm of officers due for sea. The first duty of the noble ship was to take a draft of men and officers to relieve those on board the U.S.S. Lancaster lying at Rio de Janeiro, then to return to a home port and prepare for a cruise in the Mediterranean. The danger to those without influence was of being among those left on the South Atlantic Station, a very unpleasant cruising ground in that period of yellow fever, black smallpox, and blue days. It was much better, thought the timid ones, to side-step the Rio trip and make sure of the Mediterranean part of the cruise. Why not have things pleasant while you are about it? Life is short and cruises are long, reasoned the careful and cautious, who at once bombarded the Navy Department with appeals for a change of orders.
When the smoke of the barrage cleared away it was found that 50 per cent of those first gained their ends, and the Trenton sailed away with replacements made up of the silent, simple, and satisfied. A compromise was made in the case of a few who were assured of a return in the Trenton. The lordly and patronizing airs of this favored group did not tend to lessen the gloom of their less fortunate shipmates, a gloom that deepened when, on arrival at Rio, it was learned that yellow fever was raging in the city and smallpox was taking the joy out of life aboard the U.S.S. Alliance, a gunboat to which two of us were transferred on the following morning. As we went on board over the starboard gangway, two victims of the dread disease were carried away over the port gangway. That, as noted at the time by a wag, left the total number on board unchanged, a pleasing coincidence.
A few days later, from a shunned and remote corner of the harbor, the Alliance witnessed the departure of the Lancaster for Montevideo, while the Trenton, with band playing and homeward-bound pennant flying, sailed gaily away for home. Then was the winter of our discontent.
Rio is justly ranked high among the beautiful harbors of the world, but we should not be blamed if, at that time, we failed to be impressed with the attractions of mountain and sea. We summoned philosophy and fatalism to our aid and affected an indifference we did not really feel. The most consoling thought, after all, was that things could not be worse. A cruise at sea, touching at Bahia and Pernambuco, finally cleared the ship of disease, and after a time we found ourselves gingerly admitted to the company of the Lancaster off Montevideo.
Not long thereafter several hoists of fluttering multicolored signal flags directed that the two marooned officers be transferred at once from the Alliance to the Lancaster. There it was learned that the flagship was under orders to proceed to sea to a certain latitude and longitude, open a sealed envelope and be governed by the orders found therein—a situation full of mystery and pleasing possibilities. What a shout went up and what a grand and glorious feeling filled all hearts when the carefully guarded missive proved to be orders directing us to proceed to the Mediterranean for duty as flagship on that playground of the world.
And now! Many months later we learned that on a certain day in the past two ships crossed the equator, one, the Lancaster, bound north to a station where life was one glad song, and the other, the Trenton, not many miles away, bound south to her doom in far-away Apia.
This episode was not unlike one in which many years later the same officer took part. There at San Francisco, unhappy and depressed at the prospect of what he, in his infinite wisdom, thought would be a dreary and uninteresting cruise, he busied himself with efforts to gain a transfer to the Philadelphia, flagship of the Pacific squadron then preparing for a South Sea cruise. His plan fell through, and several months later while serving on the Asiatic Station he was given food for serious and sober thought on reading that the officer whose billet he would have filled on the Philadelphia had fallen in battle with the Samoans.
The lesson to be learned? Well, as Captain Cuttle would say, “The bearings of this observation lays in the application on it.”
Crowns
On a day in the long ago it was the good fortune of a young naval officer to take part m the ceremonies attending the coronation of Kalakaua, King of Hawaii, the land of liquid sunshine and soft breezes, summer skies and sweet music, of rainbows in the valleys, and friendly greetings everywhere. The ceremonies, dignified in character as they were and marked by all the pomp and circumstances of monarchial procedure, made a deep and lasting impression on the observer, an impression that was to be recalled later by a widely different scene.
Many years after the gold crown had been placed upon the head of Kalakaua, the first of the dynasty, the last of that royal house, ex-Queen Liliuokalani, not reigning then, it is true, except in the hearts of her devoted people, passed away and was carried to her last resting place beside her predecessors. The same officer who had been _ so deeply impressed with the regal and joyous ceremonies attending the beginning of the reign, was, thirty-six years later, by a strange turn of fortune, present at and took part in those that marked the ending of that reign. As the catafalque that had borne the remains of the ex-queen was withdrawn from the cemetery its surmounting wooden crown was caught under an overhanging branch and thrown to the ground where, in the dust, it rolled to the officer’s feet. Truly a dramatic incident ending a period that witnessed the passing of crowns of gold to crowns of wood, the change from triumphant shouts for the mighty to sorrowful wails for the dead. “The Captains and the Kings depart—”
Doubtless to many on the night of wailing that followed that memorable day were recalled the words of Lincoln’s favorite hymn, “O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!”
Captains Cautious and Courageous
Commanding officers while resembling one another in a few respects often differ most widely in others. Perhaps it is just as well that this is so for if they were all of the same mold, or even similar, as to methods and characteristics, life for the juniors would lose the zest and interest that come with the varied types of captains that appear and disappear in a fast-moving procession while the junior remains on a full cruise. This very variety of traits is helpful in teaching both how and how not to do things. Calmness and coolness may be learned from one while vigor and resoluteness mark the character of another. An observant and discriminating youngster thus has presented before him opportunities—often, alas, neglected—for shaping a course blending the best characteristics of his seniors.
These observations are prompted by recollections of a Pacific cruise in prehistoric times when four commanding officers—Lull, Glass, Pearson, and Mahan—served in succession as chief of operations on board the U.S.S. Wachusett.
Lull, rotund, bewhiskered, benevolent cautious, was the first to ascend the throne, from which he ruled with a kind and gentle hand. Bad weather made him unhappy and apprehensive, while sun and calm filled his soul with gladness and content. He was quite satisfied to surrender all rights concerning deep water to the whales and other denizens of the sea so long as he might keep in sight of land where his great abilities as a surveyor found a natural field for their exercise. The beginning of an Alaskan winter found us, while still under this dynasty, moored off Sitka all snug and safe, sails and rigging ashore in the storehouse, the prospect of an easy and restful season before us, our director at peace with mankind, when along came—
Captain Glass, alert, energetic, daring, untiring. Back came the sails and rigging, the stores and provisions, and we were off to a winter s cruising in deep and narrow channels, while snow and wind and darkness hedged us about, all hands filled with wonder the while that such things could be. “I am glad that this has happened,” remarked the new director on a particularly trying occasion, “for I did not know whether I had the nerve for it. I find that I have.” His hearers made no comment but thought deeply and wondered how the same school could turn out so many different types.
Came Captain Pearson, tall, distinguished, dignified, faultlessly attired, precise of speech and manner, little known at the time but with a record of twelve continuous years of shore duty. “Now what shall we get?” asked all hands. “Easy work now; he will probably be seasick all the time,” said Jack. Not at all! While not claiming to be a Nelson or a Luce, he was so blessed with good common sense, such a knowledge of human nature, and such a correct estimate of his own merits and deficiencies, that he soon had the confidence and respect of all his subjects, who were ready to follow wherever he might lead. “Is the bureau right, did we really neglect that regulation?” said he to his young aide, who was worrying over a reproof from the Navy Department. “Yes, sir, I am afraid we did.” “Well, then, tell them that we did and that it will not occur again. There will be no reply, for that admission and promise will close the incident.” Thereupon he lighted his cigar and turned his attention to other matters. Truthful, honest, and sensible! No wonder he kept his health and good looks!
In due course it came time for Pearson to return home and he was relieved by A. T. Mahan, who, of course, needs no introduction. That distinguished officer, modest, courteous, considerate, unmistakably a gentleman, assumed command off Callao, Peru, far from the home he loved so much and for which, even in the busiest times, he never ceased to long. “What a life for a family man, Pearson,” he remarked with a tremble in his voice as the latter in his faultless civilian clothes took his leave at the gangway. The new chief was even then turning his mind and pen to the line of work that was afterwards to make him famous, but, nevertheless, he was far from neglecting the duties that demanded his attention on his new station. This was all the more to his credit if, as some believed, his heart and real interest were elsewhere.
These four men representing as many distinct types, bore themselves most worthily (if, in my presumption, I may be permitted to judge them), upheld the traditions of the service each in his own way, and, although differing so widely in many respects, were alike in their unwavering loyalty and devotion to duty.
A Look Over the Side
The Yorktown had completed her task of finding and rescuing the merchant steamer captured and beached by the Filipino insurgents, and was lying at anchor in Lingayan Gulf waiting for favorable weather in which to tow her prize to Manila. So far as outward appearances went the world was at peace; a gentle breeze tempered the heat; quiet reigned on the near-by beach, where not a single moving figure could be detected by even the best of our keen-eyed quartermasters. The crew were lazily taking their ease under the protecting awnings, when the officer-of-the-deck, moved by a fortunate impulse to take a look over the side, mounted to the bridge and swept the gulf to the westward with his glasses. It was well that he did for there, in plain view, was a British man-o’-war, a bone in her teeth, headed at a high speed directly for the Yorktown anchorage.
Now, lying between the stranger and the Yorktown was an ugly reef completely hidden in calm weather by the few feet of water by which it was covered. To the growing amazement of the deck officer, on came the warship, heedless, apparently, of the danger in her path. Suddenly the officer, sensing disaster, shouted to the quartermaster to hoist the international signal “You are standing into danger,” fired a blank charge from a 6-pounder, and rushed to the cabin to report his action. There he met a mild reproof from his captain, who observed dryly that the English were good navigators who knew their way about and might resent suggestions from young and over-zealous Americans. “Nevertheless, captain,” replied the unabashed junior, “that same good navigator will be on board before long to thank the Yorktown for saving him from a sorry wreck.”
And thus it proved. The Briton on seeing the signal, stopped, lowered a boat, and investigated with lead and line. Then, rounding the southern end of the reef, he anchored near us, and the captain and navigator came on board with many and hearty thanks for saving their ship. “In a few minutes,” said Captain K-H of the N—, “we should have been hopelessly wrecked.” It transpired that the Briton, homeward- bound from Manila, had been entrusted with mail to deliver to us, and on sighting the Yorktown, believing that she was anchored to seaward of the reef, had headed straight for us.
A few months ago the officer who had the good fortune to be of service to the N—, now somewhat grayer but still with a zest for reading, read somewhere that a young daughter of Captain (now Rear Admiral) K-H, had won great fame as the writer of a work of fiction. With old and pleasant memories revived, the party of the first part is now trying to get in touch with his friend of earlier days to congratulate him on his daughter’s success and to express the hope that he is in the harbor where he would be with sometimes a thought for his friends of long ago. Verily, service people in their time play many parts.
A Cup of Coffee
The long and trying official day was drawing to a close as the head of a bureau in the Navy Department sat in his office thinking of his many callers, statesmen, and near statesmen, all sorts and conditions of men, threatening or requesting, truculent or beseeching, belligerent or pleasing, as seemed best suited to their several needs according to their various moods and temperaments. Pope was right, he thought, “the proper study of mankind is man,” and the national capital is the school ground thereof. Dejected and disillusioned, he was about to call it the end of an imperfect day when in came another, easy of manner, clear and concise as to speech, respectful in bearing, and with an air of quiet dignity. “Sir,” he said, “I have come to you with a request for help. I am emboldened to take this step by the remembrance of an incident that occurred many years ago. I am employed at the navy yard where there is a vacancy in a better-paying billet for which I am eligible, but am told that I must have recommendations from former employers or associates. You don’t remember me, I dare say, but in the Spanish War I served under you on the Puritan. One rainy and unpleasant morning you were officer-of-the-deck and sent your mess boy for coffee and rolls. As the boy was leaving the bridge you said to him, ‘Fetch some hot coffee and rolls for those two quartermasters!’ Sir, I was one of those quartermasters, and remembering the incident all these years, have never lost track of you. That is why I knew where to come today.”
After the visitor had gone the officer, with a new and pleasing turn to his thoughts, gazed out of the window to the westward where the clouds were breaking away, giving every promise of fair weather for the morrow.