Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 13 SEA FIGHTS AND CYCLONES
I soon got my marching orders, and joined up again, with a happy half deck crowd in the old Primrose Hill, we were particularly cheery, and, for the very good reason, we were bound for the Cape, and not for that monotonous nitrate coast where 50 per cent of sailing ships were now making their way. Steamers were quickly nobbling all the decent trades and ports. Cape Town was one of the few left, and that only till the docks and breakwater were finished.
We got away from England in September, which meant we should dodge the winter in the north and pick up the spring and summer again down south.
It always seems as though a ship on leaving port would never get clear of the accumulated muck and dirt, and we were no exception. Scrubbing decks, washing paintwork, and reeving new running gear till again she was all spick and span.
I was now in my fourth year and was expected to be able to get through any job that came my way, with all the despatch, accuracy, and neatness of a fully--fledged A.B. No longer one of the "skysail yarders." Anything up there was for first and second voyagers; nothing above a Royal for me now. As a matter of fact I was working just below the Royal yard one day, when I saw staged, a fight to a finish between a full grown bull whale, a sword fish, and a thrasher. In point of fact, the latter two do the attacking, and the whale does the running, or tries to, but it's not once in ten times that the poor devil escapes. Sometimes he does by sounding, and going down so deep that the sword fish cannot follow. But if the sword fish once gets in a position under the whale's tail, there's very little chance for that manoeuvre, as every time he attempts to sound, the sword fish drives home that vicious 4ft. bone snout, and sends the whale scuttling to the surface.
The thrasher (grampus of old) can only attack from above. He has two enormous fins, anything up to five feet long. One projecting from his back, and one from underneath, a short chopped off body and no tail. When the sword fish attacks and drives the whale to the surface, the thrasher then leaps out of the water, and lands on the whale's back, driving deep, one of those knife-like fins.
We had a ring side seat, and watched the fight from start to finish. It's not enough to say it was thrilling, which does not convey much; it was more than that, it was terrific, and almost unheard of. Even the watch on deck knocked off to (see) the sight. It did not last long, but it was terrible while it did last, to see that fifty ton whale thrashing the water into foam, in a vain endeavour to land one or the other attacker with its flail like flukes. At other times flinging its whole huge bulk right up in the air, and coming down on the water with a report like a 12 inch gun. Again, tearing round in circles, leaving a trail of blood and foam.
Then as suddenly as it started, it was over, and the old bull whale was dead, and then, from every quarter, came the scavengers of the sea, sharks, barracuda and so forth.
We were lying becalmed on a sea like glass, and nothing would have given some of us greater pleasure than to shove off and go to the assistance of the bull; but there is a trite saying from across the pond, "Don't monkey with a buzz saw."
The trip down the Cape was the same routing as with most any ship bound south. Across the one and only Bay, down past the western Isles, through the Roaring Forties and into the Trades. Then the pulley-hauling of the yards, working her through the Doldrums and across the Line. More Doldrums, plenty of fish, and torrents of rain till we picked up the S.E. Trades, and started to stretch away for the Cape in earnest.
Eventually we lifted the renowned Table Mountain above the horizon and finally came to anchor in Table Bay.
At this time the notorious breakwater was still under construction, and, although representing a cool million, cost the Colony little or nothing, as it was almost wholly built of convict labour.
It was a cheery gang that laboured there. "So many months," or "so many years on the breakwater," was a common saying, and quickly appled to anyone who was apt to sail a bit too close to the wind. Many proved I.D.B.'s--and many that were not proved--subscribed their little quota to that breakwater; in fact, culprits of petty crimes, which in the ordinary way would have been met with a small fine, were joyfully consigned to carry out Cape Town's ambitious scheme, of protecting the bay with that huge rampart of granite and stone. There is no doubt it was needed, for many and many a ship's bones lie rotting on the beach in Table Bay through lack of protection from the dreaded nor'wester.
First comes the "table cloth" on the mountain. Then the notorious south-easter, which literally brings fine stones and gravel skeltering down from the heights above. That is all right for the ships in the harbour; they are sheltered, but the fun commences when the wind swings round and comes screeching out of the nor'-west. Then the sea and the wind drive right straight into the harbour, and in those days it was a common sight to see a dozen or more sailing ships riding stretched out to their anchors.
On the occasion of which I am speaking in the Primrose Hill, when we rode out a black nor'wester, we paid out 120 fathoms on each anchor, and that is the limit of the cable carried. On to each cable we bent the end of a thirteen inch coir hawser (thirteen inches in diameter); this was laid along the decks and made fast to the mooring bits.
These preparations were, necessarily, carried out before the wind shifted round. Once the sea came into the harbour it was impossible to get forward along the decks.
Ships then are to be seen diving into hugh seas, in far worse condition than when out at sea under shortened canvas. Shipping them green over the bows, and everybody hoping against hope that the ground tackle will hold. It sometimes happens that one anchor, or even the coir spring on some ship will carry away. Then the trouble starts. That particular cable parts, the second anchor will not hold her, she then drifts down and fouls another ship. One or other either sink where they lie, or both part their cables and drive on shore. Once they hit the beach there is not a chance in a thousand of a single soul being saved. Shore lifeboats are called away, but with that gigantic sea running, accompanied by a terrific gale, there is barely time to get the shore lifeboat afloat before one, two and sometimes even three ships will go crashing up on the beach in a jumbled mass, to be pounded to matchwood in a very few minutes.
Perhaps if the warning is sufficient, a ship will prefer to get up her anchors, and get under way, and out of the harbour before the dreaded shift to the N.W.comes about. Every sailor prefers deep water and plenty of sea room to monkeying around in conditions like those that used to prevail in Table Bay.
Now, of course, the breakwater is completed, and one can lie in comfort behind it, and watch the seas doing their worst. They still come right over, but their force is broken.
Leaving Cape Town behind, we ran our Easting down before the usual old greybeards. Not an uncommon procedure running before an exceptionally heavy sea, is to erect a canvas screen so that the helmsman simply can't look astern at the sea which every moment threatens to come over the poop.
It often happens that the gale increases from hour to hour very slowly, very steadily, and the temptation to continue running, whilst making an excellent passage has often proved too great, and the undoing of more than one good skipper. The hope is always there that the gale has reached its maximum. The glass has, perhaps, steadied a little, temporarily; may even show a tendency to rise. The seas grow and grow, until the term "mountainous" becomes a literal and actual fact. Then the psychological time comes, when the choice must be made. Heave to, or run it out; either bring her up to the wind under shortened canvas, making no progress whatever towards your destination, but riding in safety, or continue to run with ever-increasing risk.
In the latter event, the opportunity for carrying out the manoeuvre of heaving to, with any degree of safety passes; in fact, from safety it quickly becomes a risk, then a heavy risk, and finally an impossibility.
No choice then remains. Run you must, and hope for the best; but if one of those mountainous seas of water should bank up astern and break, then every man must seize some immovable object and hang on to it like grim death, hoping against hope that she will lift to it and ride. If, on the other hand, it breaks over her, and she is what is termed "pooped," the chances are just about a hundred to one that this is the finish. Apart from sweeping everything before it, smashing up everything that it doesn't wash overboard, she is filled up, rail and rail, and before she can shake the water off, the next sea is on her. Fortunately, one is not held in suspense. About ten minutes has seen the finish of many a good ship, and the "gone to glory" of every man jack of her crew.
We got through all right, and after sighting St. Paul's, this time in safety, turned north for the sea of fragrant smells. Up through the Indian Ocean and past the Andaman Islands, where the scent of spice spreads over the sea like a glorified chemist's shop. It's round here one can realise the origin of the tale of the sea serpent, but in point of fact, they are conger eels, and abound in this sea, but can be seen when lying becalmed in a sailing ship. They may not encircle the earth, but they are quite big enough to encircle a good sized sailing ship--not that there is any danger of their ever doing that; in fact, such are the conditions of the menu on board ship, that they would be welcomed.
It was in the Indian Ocean that we got mixed up with my one and only cyclone. A hair raiser of the first order. There is, as a rule, plenty of warning when a cyclone is cruising about, and no excuse for anyone to be caught out. For instance, long before there are visible indications from the weather, the barometer will give ample notice, as it did in this case.
Twenty-four hourse later, it commenced to bank up to the south east, a big rolling sea got more and more confused, for no apparent reason. Little or no wind, but huge masses of clouds. As the underpart turned a bilious green and later on, as the edges were torn away, we saw flecks of lightning, vicious, and threatening.
Long before this, the ship had been snugged down to the shortest possible canvas; in our case three lower topsails. It is not only the canvas that is on her, but that which is actually furled, which has to be taken care of; for the wind when it comes, will rip a sail out of the gaskets, just as easily as it will blow away a paper bag. All hands must get aloft, literally marling the sails down to the yards; not a corner the size of a pocket handkerchief must be left for the wind to get hold of. Once a full cyclone has struck, no man can even hold on to the rigging, much less secure any sails that are started out of their gaskets.
We were lucky. We lost a couple of staysails, and a couple of flying kites ripped out of their gaskets, and one lower topsail blown clean out of the bolt ropes. This went with a report like a six-inch gun.
This would not have happened, only through some miscalculation we let the centre pass over us.
A cyclone, as is well known, is a revolving circualr storm, with the centre a flat calm. It was proverbial in the old days, and before the tonnage of ships reached four figures--that no ship could pass through the centre of a cyclone and live. The seas simply pounded over from all sides, filling her up rail and rail, so that she was literally swamped. With the high bulwarks and big washports, we proved that it is possible to pass through; and in the circumstances with not a great amount of damage. Apart from what happened to the ship, there were three broken ribs and a broken arm, to add to our total casualties. This happened whilst the centre was passing over. At all costs we had to get the yards round on the other tack to meet the change of wind, and in order to save ourselves and the ship, this had to be done during the time we were actually in the terrific maelstrom in the centre, with the seas leaping straight up in the air and thundering on board from all sides.
However, we managed it, and the yeads were hauled round before the wind struck us again, instantly and with full force, in diametrically the opposite direction from which it had been before. It was at that moment that the mizzen topsail, with a cannon-like report, went sailing away out of the bolt ropes. Having drawn clear of the cyclone, and the wind settled down to an honest gale, all hands were set about clearing up the wreck. Even yet, occasional seas came thundering on board, and a man caught unawares is quickly apt to lose the number of his mess--in other words, be washed overboard. Hundreds and hundreds of fathoms of rope to be hauled in through the wash deck ports and scuppers, disentangled from round spars; ripped sails to unbend, and fresh ones to be sent aloft. Everybody on deck and not a thought of sleep or rest; hot food, of course, is out of the question. A cyclone always seems a treacherous sort of beast compared with a good straightforward blow, that one gets with mountainous but regular seas, off Cape Horn, or running one's Easting Down, or even in the Western Ocean, where it can be notoriously spiteful and vicious.
