Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 16 FIRE AT SEA
Next voyage saw me Third Mate of the last of Greenshield, Cowie and Company's sailing ships. Another big four masted barque, the Knight of St. Michael. Like so many other firms, they were being forced into steam.
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 Western 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 pinnacle, 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 pinnacle 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 sing-song's; 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 dry, "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 chard 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 pinnacle 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 fellow, 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.
Off he went, on his sixty mile ride to Bahia, whilst I pushed off back to the boat. I had only to do about ten miles on the back of the hacksaw they lent me, but that was enough and to spare. I wasn't a bit surprised to learn later, that, on arriving in Bahia, Captain Dodd fell off in a dead faint. I should have split up the middle long before.
I was given half a sheep, as a sort of peace token, I suppose. It had been killed on the spot, and was still bleeding profusely. This I had slung across in front of me, and accompanied by three most choice villains, set off on the return journey to the boat.
These horses are evidently born to walk, my old saw-bones seemed so anyway; though I will say, the way they could take those precipices of sand, beat creation, and came very near beating me, and would have done, most likely if I hadn't just leaned back and unhesitatingly seized the beast by the tail. Let 'em laugh, thought I, it's better than getting mixed up with bleeding sheep, and both going over his nose. When we arrived on the beach, what with digging him in the ribs with my bare heels, and whooping and yelling like a Red Indian, I managed to get up a gait, something of a cross between a trot and a canter. Whatever the hybrid motion was, the effect was awful, for every time I came down, he was sure to be in the act of coming up. This, in conjunction with his serrated vertebrae did not improve matters. Fortunately I hadn't far to go to fetch the boat. The combined effect of the fellows lying under her lee was grand.
The picture, from their standpoint, was me, bare-back on a horse, with the bleeding remains of the Skipper hung in front, bawling and yelling for assistance, whilst being viciously pursued by three perfectly typical cut-throats.
One could hardly blame them for seizing boat hooks and stretchers to hold off the attack. I think the old pirates astern of me were registering astonishment too, but their surprise and amusement was, that anyone should want a horse to run.
Though we could not speak a word of their lingo, they knew we were mad Englishmen, and that, I suppose, covered everything. We were soon very good friends. Seeing the way they had been received, and that in any case there was nothing worth stealing, they eventually returned to their respective hutments, whilst we tried to find the soft side of the perishing cold sand, and so spent the night with one man keeping a bright look out in case out friends of the sombreros should change their minds!
In the morning when we got back to the ship, we found the mate had taken the bull by the horns, and after rigging all the hoses and buckets available, had whipped off the hatches, and with improvised smoke helmets, attacked the fire at its base, and got it out; if not exactly out, at any rate, sufficiently under control for all hands to get to work, and dig down night and day, until they had got a trunk way clean through the lower hold. Also, we hammered up the ends of several lengths of three inch iron piping, after drilling it full of holes. These we drove down into the coal in different places, and then tucked the business end of a fire hose. By the time Captain Dodd arrived with a steam launch--or as they called it a tug--the fire wasn't worrying us a bit. It wasn't out, but we'd definitely got it where we wanted.
With the "tug" also came a pilot who gave us the cheery news that if a S.W. gale had by chance sprung up, the whole area where we'd chosen to anchor would have become a mass of breakers.
The next order was to "Man the windlass and loose all sail." We didn't need any hurrying either. The "tug," bless its little heart, took the tow rope, and promptly got it round her propeller.
Some cheery soul suggested we should hoist her in the davits to clear it. Meanwhile, instead of towing us, we did the towing, whilst they cleared the rope, and before that came about we'd fetched the narrow part of the channel, close hauled. We went about, but before we could get way on her to go about again, she stuck her nose into the opposite bank, fortunately mud.
With blessings pouring from aloft, we furled all sail, and in case the reader has forgotten, I'll say again that she was a four masted barque.
We decided that the function of our little matey, with the smoke and stink, should in future be confined to just pulling our head round each time we went about. That seemed a fairly simple proposition, but again it proved too much.
After getting our nose out of the mud, and once again responding to the order "set all sail" (which in the ordinary way, comes once a passage, and that once is quite enough) we stood over to the opposite bank, and, of course, rammed that. I'll just say we again furled all sail and leave it at that. Later, we once again "set all sail." We had steam on deck by now, to the winches and windlass, otherwise the order would have been futile. The spirit was willing, all right, but there is even a limit with old shell backs, though you would not perhaps think it, to watch them. Anyway, we'd reached that limit, so when she inevitably took the mud again, and we'd got the canvas stowed once more, we decided she could stay there, till the tide rose and lifted her off. That would be in the morning, so we hailed our little chum, and told him to come and tie up alongside. Whether he didn't like being out all night, or not, I don't know, but anyway the agent who was on board the little hooker hailed us, and with a very ultra Oxford accent, imparted the information that they'd "sprung a leak, and couldn't pump, unless the main engines were going." (I heard one of our chaps say that he didn't know she had any, and if those were the main engines probably the auxiliary would be a foot pump.)
Whether the yarn was rigged on the spur of the moment it is hard to say, they didn't wait to argue, but hiked off up the river as hard as they could go. Neither did they show up again, so we remained at anchor as it was hopeless to attempt to beat up a narrow channel with a ship of that size.
Later the following day the wind came away light from the S.W. This was a fair wind, so we up anchor, and under six topsails and foresail picked our own way with what ought to have been the help of the pilot, but it wasn't and she soon stuck in the mud again. After that, we decided to dispense with all local help and rely on our own instinct and a couple of good lead lines, with the result she was soon anchored within some ten miles of Bahia. That was as far as we dare go, till we could get hold of a real live tug. Meantime we must do the journey, when required, in the one remaining boat. I wasn't sorry, as it gave me a real good excuse for rigging the pinnacle up with mast, sails, and false keel, all complete. I was always crazy on boat sailing, anyway.
One day, coming off with a Mr. Jones, Lloyd's Surveyor, the Skipper addressed me by name. Lloyds Surveyor pricked up his ears and said, "What's your name, Lightoller?" I could tell by the easy way it slipped off his tongue that he'd said it many times before.
Now some ten years previously, a relation of mine, one Charles Lightoller, had left England (no, not necessarily for the country's good, though I will admit he was hot stuff) and no track or trace of him remained. That branch of the family had tried for years to get some authentic news of whether he was alive or dead; but the United States had seemingly swallowed him up, when he went in at New York. I asked the Surveyor whom he had known of that name. Of course, it was Charles, all right, and not only that but he had died whilst actually a partner with Jones in that out of the way little spot in the Argentine of South American (and once again, how small, etc.).
After six days swinging to an anchor, with always an eye on our slumbering friend down below, giving him an occasional sousing with the hoses, along came the s.s. Toro from Buenos Ayres. (sic) A full blown tug, with no doubt about what he could and would do. He just kicked up his heels, and stretched out that thirteen inch coir hawser of ours, till it looked like a fishing line. We could now send the sails down, and did, gladly. Another couple of hours, and we were moored alongside the one and only wharf the place possessed. A rickety contraption at its best. As a precaution we dropped a couple of anchors just in case we should wake up some bright morning and find ourselves bound down river with wharf attached.
There is over thirty feet of a rise and fall in the tide, at Bahia, and as we broke the end of out precious teakwood companion ladder the first night, to say nothing of a couple of mooring ropes, I, as Third Mate, took on the night watch. The broken gangway was one reason, and another was that being a pretty fair shot I was able to keep the ship supplied with game. I wasn't asked how I managed to stay awake night and day, so long as no more gangways were broken. Most nights after everyone was in the hay, I piped down on the galley seat. First, I led a line from one of the wharf piles in through the scupper holes in the ship's side, through the scupper hole in the galley, and made the loose end fast to a pile of kids (double handled tin dishes the food is carried in). As the ship rose to the level of the wharf, so the line tightened up and eventually landed all the kids with a mighty crash on the deck. As an additional precaution, I tied the bare end to my foot, so I was pretty sure to wake up--at least at any rate before I went through the scupper hole. The noise of the kids was enough to waken the dead, and it always worked.
Then, after slacking up the moorings, and tending the gangway, I was free again. In this way I scrounged a good few hours' unofficial shut eye. After breakfast, instead of turning in, I made for the Saldero, where I was certain of a mount and a dog from one of the Directors--a Major Dicks. Then, with a gun I had purchased, I hit the trail for the foot of a low range of hills, where there was heaps of game. Partridges, also a kind of grouse, and, best of all, a Martinet; about the size of a Buff Orpington hen, white flesh, and good eating. I was always sure of enough for at least two good meals for all hands--officers and crew. This was good luck for everyone, including the skipper, for although he lived ashore, it eased his hand in providing meat.
Ships' allowances for food in foreign ports those days were notoriously low. I suppose owners thought all we had to do was to slip ashore and pick peaches, bananas, and oranges, to our heart's content. I expect they also thought that wild pigs came to the foot of the gangway, or perhaps the galley door.
One day I bagged a wild cat, though it should have bagged me by rights! I'd got tired of the level plain at the foot of the hills, and started in one day to explore the hills themselves. Mostly pretty sheer cliffs. Climbing round a particularly awkward bit, I just got footing on a small plateau, when, at the same time, my long whiskered friend decided to come out of her lair to see what the row was about. She put her belly to the ground and waved her wand in an unmistakable manner. It was a case of who's going to be first; well, I was, by a split second, which I believe is the shortest measurement of time. She got both barrels as she rose, and before she could rise again, the contents of a Derringer I had, by luck, in my pocket. Dicks fixed the skin up for me at the Saldero, and I think someone in England still has it.
One night before leaving Bahia Blanca, whilst cruising around the shore with some of the other chaps, I had the distinction of being jailed for murder. Just how it came about in the first instance, is rather difficult to say. We were on the pampas or open plain, and I somehow or other, lost touch with the other chaps; I suppose I must have been taking a short cut, and I'm afraid my short cuts are rather notorious. Be that as it may, the fact remains, that I got completely lost, and to make touch with the others again, as evidently shouting seemed ineffective, I blew my whistle, the ordinary whistle that every officer on board ship carries. They answered, and we came together all right.
We were journeying along in the dark, quite cheerfully, when we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by gendarmes. What they said we didn't know and for what we were saying they didn't seem to care. They went through us each individually, and pretty effectively, until they came across my whistle, gave a slight blow on it, gurgled with what might have been anger or delight--and about three of them seized me by various portions of my anatomy and shuffled me off, just as hard as they could go. Our other fellows naturally thought, "Here, this won't do," when they saw me vanishing into the dark, and several of the gendarmes soon found themselves sprawling on the ground. This added to the fun, and also fuel to the fire, for more gendarmes seemed to spring up out of the ground. In any case, they were on us like a shot. We got a downright sound whacking, with the flat of their swords, and I was pushed into a tin tabernacle they called the jail. It behoved one not to be too violent, or, judging from appearances, and the way it swayed, the whole thing would come clattering down.
There were two or three drunks sharing the cell, and I passed an interesting hour or so until the other chaps routed out the British Consul, who gave me back my whistle and my freedom. The only fact that I could sort out from a jumbled up story was that a man that night had committed a murder, and he had a whistle. Heaven help the whistlers on a night like that!
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