Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 29 GREYHOUNDS OF THE ATLANTIC
With the exception of one other voyage to Australia, which, as a matter of fact, although promotion at the time, was actually a punishment voyage, for a certain scrape I got into, the whole of my twenty years with the White Star Line, was spent on the Atlantic service: fifteen in the mail boats, and if ever there was a kill or cure, it was a Western Ocean mail boat in winter time.
In those days, although the ships were much smaller, everything was devoted to making a passage, with the result that the ship was driven smashing through everything and anything in the way of weather, pretty well regardless of damage done. Those ships were stronger in proportion than the mammoths of today.
I have seen a big modern liner push a plate in, where the old time ship would have just bumped and bounced off without a scrap of damage. Three times in the old Majestic I have seen the look-out cage, situated half way up the fore-lowermast, and built of steel, flattened in against the mast, but little or no damage on deck.
The officers' quarters were situated on the fore deck, and formed a kind of breakwater to the saloon. Immense nets were spread from the fore part of our quarters to the after part of the fo'c'sle to break up the seas as they came thundering on board. The ports with their inch-thick glass, were protected in bad weather with thick oak shutters with small two-inch bulls-eyes let into them. Notwithstanding these precautions, one afternoon, for instance, we shipped a sea, or, to be more correct, we drove into and under a sea, that dropped on top of us; and the first thing it touched was the nets. These it tore to pieces, and struck the fore part of our place with such force that although built of steel, and of immense strength, the fore part was completely bent in. The glass bull's eye was driven through the inner port, and a piece of this glass actually took a cup out of the hand of an officer sitting at the table having afternoon tea, leaving the handle in his hand. Any meal in those circumstances, was a series of gymnastics, and although not amusing at the time, very often became the subject of an interesting yarn when swapping lies with kindred spirits, later on.
On one occasion a huge roast of beef was planted on the Second Officer's pillow. He was on the bridge at the time, and although immensely fond of a practical joke at other people's expense, could never bear to have one played on himself; but this one was on him all right. The roast of beef was on one end of the mess room table which ran athwartships, and it was the custom, in this ship only, for the First Officer to carve. The boat gave one of her terrific lurches, which, when accompanied by the propeller coming out of the water, engenders a sensation immeasurably worse than an express lift dropping from the upper floors of a skyscraper.
The First must have thought the Chief was going to check the beef. One did not, neither did the other, with the result that it came careering across the table, and having got a good start, each officer cheered it on its way. At the far end of the table the dish was brought up with a jerk by striking the fiddle, or wooden stretcher that is placed there to keep the cutlery and plates with bounds. The edge of the dish had just sufficient lip to give the roast an upward trend, and, although there were two bunks, one above the other, and over ten feet of space, the roast described a graceful parabola through the air, across the rest of the messroom, through Barber's cabin, and came to rest on his pillow. The mess room steward at once set out to retrieve it, but we unanimously agreed that it was in far too good a place to be disturbed.
Barber had a habit of coming off the bridge and asking the steward what the others had had for their meal, as, of course, in these ships, there is a pretty long menu. We had coached the steward, before we had retired to our cabins and when Barber had made his usual enquiry, "Well, Davies, what have you got," followed by, "What have the others had? Oh, all right, I'll have the roast beef too," Davies replied, "The roast beef is in your bunk, sir." At first, Barber didn't know what to make of it, then, when he did realize this, as the song goes, "The air went blue for miles all round," and to this day he firmly believes it was put there. When you take into consideration that the edge of the bunk was five feet from the deck, and ten feet from the edge of the table, it certainly did seem pretty near an impossibility, but at the same time, it wall give a fairly clear idea of the contortions of a Western Ocean mail boat in an Atlantic gale.
These ships are not only the cream of the service, but the cream of the Mercantile Marine, and it is considered a feather in one's cap to be appointed to one. Therefore, despite the rigorous conditions, and the powers of endurance one has to exhibit, there is never a word of complaint. Time and again I have seen a ship driven into a huge green wall of water, crowned with that wicked, curling breaker, which it seemed utterly impossible for anything to withstand. An immediate dash is made for an iron stanchion, and, gripping this with might and main, one awaits the crash. Not infrequently the steel fronted bridge, stanchions and rail are driven back, and nearly flattened to the deck--to the discomfort of the O.O.W.
It certainly was not a paying game, although the Mail Boat companies were slow to discover it. As ships grew bigger and faster, and did more damage in consequence, Captains were warned to be more circumspect, and, when the occasion demanded, to slow down.
The bigger the ship, the longer she could be driven before she would take any weighty water on board, but when she did, then it was proportionately heavier. But the increased strength of the liner by no means kept pace with the increased volume of water she could, and would ship.
Then again, there is the increased speed of these vessels, and, of course, the seas have attained an increased speed by the time one does get its head up and come aboard, the cumulative effect is sometimes astonishing, and not infrequently, disastrous. In a word, we cannot drive the ships to-day like we used to, even if we would; just because their strength has not, and in point of fact, could not, increase with their size. The temptation to drive is there, but if she is not eased down, something will happen, as happened to one of our biggest and best ships, the Olympic.
She had a steel hatch on the forecastle, weighing about three tons. This was built with a turtle back, and comparatively close down to the deck, so as to give a sea, when it did come, the very least chance to get a grip. It was secured all round, inside and underneath by one and an eighth inch bolts, fifteen inches apart, each bolt individually screwed hard down before leaving port. Would you think it possible to lift it? Yet, she had such a hatch ripped off like a piece of paper and flung down the fore well deck.
Wicked though a Western Ocean gale can be, fog still remains a sailor's worst enemy, and this applies more so when he is in the region of ice than anywhere. For this reason the steamship lanes are altered to clear the Grand Banks altogether when ice is around.
Apart from the ice and fog, an added anxiety when crossing these banks is the cod fishermen, who put out from Newfoundland, and many other ports in the United States. One whole fleet comes over from France, mainly Fécamp.
A blanket of fog will suddenly shut down, with not only these vessels scattered about, but also their dories, small light skiffs, of which a large schooner will carry perhaps fifteen to twenty. The dories have no means whatever of indicating their presence to an oncoming ship; in fact, the schooners are not really very much better off, particularly when one takes into consideration the utter unreliability of sound in fog.
The Atlantic Mail Boats have been unfairly blamed for the loss of a great number of these schooners, whereas, knowing, as we do, the difficulties under which the fishing is carried out, every possible precaution and care is taken to avoid a collision. Two look-out men are always on their stations. In fog, these are always doubled, as also is the look-out on the bridge. The ship is slowed down, and an automatic steam whistle blows every minute. It has never been my misfortune to run of these poor devils down, although, heaven knows, I have been close enough to them. A slight loom ahead, helm hard over, and gliding by within biscuit throw, goes a big topsail schooner. A quiet exchange of glances on the bridge, a sort of general sigh at the escape, and everyone again freezes into immobility, and intense concentration--watching and listening.
The risks the individual fishermen take are not only confined to laying across the steamship lanes. They'll face almost any weather, and almost always freezing at that. I have seen dories out and fishing in weather one would have thought it impossible for a small open boat to live in. Up round the Virgin Rocks, where the water breaks in a heavy sea, it is a common custom in an increasing gale for these small boats to hang on and hang on, each man daring the other. This is one of the best fishing grounds, and the boats lie-to at anchor. The sea steadily rises, banks up, and eventually breaks. Many is the dory that has been lost here through sheer daredevil hanging on. See a couple of them riding at the sea when it has become an absolute wall. With a careful manipulation of the warp, they run their boat up the precipitous side of the sea, give a sharp snub on the rope, and she is over the top just as the crest is about to break. One by one the boats will slip and run, as the seas get too big for them and threaten to break. But there are one or two foolhardy ones that will strive for the honour of being the last to the leave, and not infrequently they are the last--the long, long, last. A slight misjudgment of the curl of the crest, maybe the anchor drags just as he goes to snub her over the top, or perhaps the rope itself breaks. Then the flimsy dory is picked up on that wall of water, flung in the air, and finally crushed to matchwood--another victim of the Virgins.
I got my severest mail boat training during the seven hard, though happy years I spent in the Queen of the Seas, as the Oceanic was then called. A wonderful ship, built in a class of her own, and by herself.
The usual custom is to build twin ships, as with the Britannic and Germanic, Teutonic and Majestic. Then, in lone and stately majesty came the Oceanic. She was an experiment, and a wonderfully successful one; built by Harland and Wolff, regardless of cost, elaborate to a degree, money lavished where it was necessary, but never gaudily as is so common nowadays. Her smoke room doors were a masterpiece in themselves, and cost £500. There was eighteen carat gold plating on the electric light fittings throughout the saloon and staircase, and paintings by well-known artists, worth a cool thousand apiece. Hand carvings of delicate work, and the joy of souvenir hunters. Every deck plank was picked wood. Last, but by no means least, her Captain, John G. Cameron. A martinet to his fingertips, who set a standard, that I, for one, found it difficult to live up to. He was deep voiced and bluff, but a splendid seaman, and proud of his ship. With his blue eyes and ginger beard he was a broad shouldered edition of Captain Kettle. Head erect and shoulders back, he would walk out on the bridge, and fire off a volley of questions, and woe betide the unfortunate officer that hadn't an answer ready. Not to be able to answer each, and every one, as quickly as they were shot at you, in his deep staccato tones, was to invite the brief but pungent query, "Then what the hell are you here for?" To give any back chat or even look what you felt would not only put a term to your services in that ship, but probably ruin your prospects in the Line. Yet to be appointed to her was the most signal compliment. Of course, we all knew the questions he was most likely to ask, and had answers ready. They usually ran: "What are the revolutions?" "What's on the log at eight bells?" "How's the barometer?" "Where's the wind?" "What time does the moon rise?" This latter was not an easy one to answer correctly, and meant a lot of figuring out. As a rule, a broad guess was near enough, for John G. didn't always bear your replies in mind. One officer, six feet three inches, and misnamed "Little," well liked throughout the Line, and not least by John G., was saluted one evening with the usual rattle of questions, the last one being, "What time does the moon rise?" to which Little replied, "Eleven-fifteen, sir." It then being seven-thirty o'clock and Cameron in full mess kit on his way down to dinner. With that Cameron turned smartly round and left the bridge, but as he was going down the ladder to the promenade deck, behold a cloud rolled away, leaving a full moon high up in the sky. Cameron saw it, and, for a wonder remembered what Little had said, so when he returned to the bridge after dinner, with his cigar a-cock-bill, his first question was in a particular "Now I've got you, my lad" tone:
"You told me the moon rose at eleven fifteen, sir?"
Little, not to be caught out, replied:
"I'm awfully sorry, sir, I got hold of last year's calendar."
"You did, did you? Bring it here and let me see it," said Cameron, with a suspicious squint out of the corner of his eye. Little immediately replied, in a tone of deep respect:
"I threw it overboard sir, so that no one else should make the same mistake."
Cameron looked straight at him and then turned on his heel with an irrepressible chuckle, and the slow, but pungent remark, "You damned liar."
He never minced matters in his remarks to his officers, although heaven help the man who took them literally.
The Oceanic's bridge was covered with expensive white rubber, laid in narrow strips, representing planks. This had to be scrubbed every morning with bath brick, until it was snow white. Incidentally if it was not scrubbed and got salt water on in, it became so abominably slippery that we had to lay down coir matting to walk on. She had a bow fronted wheel house, and covered in bridge amidships. After a shower I used to amuse myself, when she had got a slight roll on, by trying to slide from one side of the bridge to the other, without touching anything. It was rather difficult to negotiate the forward bulge of the wheel house, steering between this and the wheel on the bridge. With much practice I became so proficient that four out of five times I would make the passage without touching. One morning, after several ineffectual attempts, I at last came across in one beautiful sweep, shooting both wheel house and wheel, when, to my horror, on the opposite side, out stepped John G. Cameron.
"And what the hell do you think you're doing, sir?"
I replied, "I'm awfully sorry, sir. I slipped."
"Slipped, did you? I wish you had broken your damned neck, sir, as you nearly broke mine."
And with that the incident was closed.
No passengers were allowed on the boat deck, so all these episodes were kept a jealous secret. No doubt we were looked upon as models of rectitude and correct behaviour--or at least what they could see of us above the dodger. On the bridge, with rare exceptions, no doubt we were, but it was a different tale when we got below--that is, to our own quarters.
Then the fun started, particularly at four o'clock in the afternoon, when my watch ended and afternoon tea was served. It was usual for almost everyone off watch to have a caulk after lunch--sort of fortification for the night watches--when there's NO fooling. Unless a chap was off colour, and pinned a notice on his cabin begging that he might not be disturbed, he had to come out of his own free will or be brought out, usually by inserting a lighted blue light (which gives off a terrific amount of pungent smoke) in a copper fire nozzle to the ventilator at the bottom of his door. On one such occasion, the deck steward had to make a hurried visit so that he could assure some passengers that the ship was not really on fire.
From Second Officer of the Oceanic to First of the Majestic, then
temporary Chief of the Majestic and back again to First of the Oceanic,
such were the moves covering the next couple of years.
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