Chapter VII The Pursuit of the Patagonian
We Sight Her—A Stern Chase—We Overhaul Her—We Have to Apologize—Spinning the Yarn
Mr. Midshipman Glover’s Narrative continued
For the next two hours we were hard at work, and when we signalled that we were ready for sea, and hoisted the “permission to weigh and proceed in pursuance of previous orders”, “No. 1” semaphored, “Inform Laird that I cannot meet squadron, as condensers require repair”.
“That’s the misleading signal,” Mr. Parker said, as he and the Sub spelt it out; “I only hope those fellows read and swallow it, for if they do they will imagine we are going up the Red Sea again.”
To “create a diversion”, as the Sub put it, we steered W. after clearing the harbour till out of sight of land, as if we were going to meet the squadron, then we steered S.E. for a couple of hours, and finally altered our course for Colombo.
It was very hot, very tedious, and very monotonous work steaming across the Indian Ocean. We had to go slow to economize our coal, and all fresh food gave out two days after we left Aden, and I hate tinned stuff altogether. I had to do my share of watch-keeping during the day, and soon learnt to handle “No. 3” as easily as a ship’s steam-boat. You can imagine we grew excited as we began to approach Colombo. Whether we caught her or not depended almost entirely on whether they had believed the misleading signal at Aden, for if they thought we were on our way to Colombo, they would have, of course, hurried her away by telegraph.
“If we don’t catch her now we never shall, for there are any number of places she can hide in and coal between Colombo and Singapore or Saigon,” said Mr. Parker.
“Well, shall we shove her on a little?” suggested Mr. Chapman. “At this rate we shall get in to-morrow evening with eighteen tons of coal on board. I could give you another knot and a half if you like.”
There was a long discussion about it—I was too young, of course, and did not have anything to say—but they finally decided it would be safer to have some few tons in hand.
“You see,” argued Mr. Parker, as all three leant up against the bridge rails, “if they sight us before they know by telegram that we are on our way, they may think that we have no coal left and may ‘clear out’, imagining that we can’t chase them. That would be certainly their most reasonable plan, wouldn’t it? That’s what I should do if I were in their shoes. We will just shove on every knot you can give us, Chapman, directly we sight the lighthouse, and that won’t give them much time to get away.”
I had the morning watch from four till eight, and had gone below to get some breakfast—sardines, jam, and ship’s biscuit—when suddenly I heard the engine-room gong clang, and could feel the engines whizzing round. The plates began dancing about the table, and my coffee was nearly all spilt before I could drink it. I stuffed down the last two sardines in one mouthful and rushed up on deck. All the men were crowding forward under the bridge, gesticulating and pointing ahead. Climbing up to the bridge, I could make out the lighthouse and the long breakwater of Colombo.
“Is she coming out, sir?” I asked, for I could not see anything through my telescope—we were shaking so, and the ship was so unsteady. “The signalman says she is,” said Mr. Parker, with his eye glued to his telescope. “Yes, there she goes! Look at that dark patch on the breakwater. That’s smoke, and she’s underneath it. My eye! she’s getting up speed pretty quickly.”
In another half-minute we could see her with the naked eye. She was showing up dark against the white breakwater, and was tearing through the water, running almost at right angles to us till she cleared the breakwater and the rocks. We were drawing rapidly together when she put her helm over. We saw her heel over, swing round, right herself as she settled down on her proper course, and away she flew, the Patagonian flag stiffening out astern.
“Follow her, Davis,” sang out Mr. Parker to the petty officer at the wheel, as he tried to light his pipe behind the chart table. “Go to quarters, Collins (the Sub), and pass up ammunition.” The Gunner and Mr. Collins flew down on deck to see everything prepared, leaving only Mr. Parker and myself on the bridge.
He shouted down the engine-room voice tube, “How much coal have you left, Chapman?”
“Nearly fourteen tons.”
“How long will that last at full speed?”
“Rather more than an hour and a half,” came the muffled reply.
“Then give me every ounce of steam you can raise.”
At the time the Patagonian had altered course there was about one mile and a half between us, but she was rapidly gaining, for we had not yet reached our highest speed, and she was evidently doing all she knew. She was almost hidden under a great cloud of smoke, and occasionally entirely hidden by spray, for a slight choppy head sea, which we had not noticed before when going slowly, was now covering us fore and aft with spray.
Down I had to go to see the boats all ready for lowering, and when this was done run several messages to the Sub, who by this time had men at all the guns, and plenty of ammunition on deck. There wasn’t much doubt that Mr. Chapman and his men were doing their utmost, for now we could feel the engines humming round like sewing machines, the ship began to throb and vibrate with a funny wriggle which you could almost see when you looked aft along the deck from the bridge. It was just as much as I could do to hang on to the bridge rails with one hand and keep my cap on with the other, whilst the spray wetted us from head to foot. The 12-pounder’s gun crew had come up to the bridge and fondly cleared her away and loaded her. Then I felt that funny sensation in my stomach again, the sardines and the wobbling I expect it was, and hung on to the bridge and gasped for breath between the showers of spray.
You should have seen our funnels! What paint was left on them came off just like the skin of scarlet fever people when they peel, great roaring flames licked out of them, and clouds of smoke went rushing aft, whilst astern was a huge mass of churned-up foam, looking as if it would fall on board.
We must have been chasing her for nearly half an hour, and did not appear to be gaining. Mr. Parker kept on anxiously looking at his watch as we rushed along—now leaving Colombo behind us and running away from the dark belt of trees which marked the shore.
Presently Mr. Chapman came up on deck, sweating all over. “She’s doing as many revolutions as she did on her trials,” he shouted; “her engines won’t take any more steam, I’m only blowing it off,” and he pointed to clouds of steam hissing away from each funnel.
“Make a signal, ‘I wish to communicate and send a boat’, and keep it flying,” roared Mr. Parker to the signalman, who was evidently prepared, for he had already bent the proper flags and pendants to the halyards and quickly hoisted them, the bunting stiffening in the wind like painted steel. I forgot to say that the Chinese ensign, the Yellow Dragon, was flying at our stern. How we did wish it was our own white ensign.
We all watched for a reply, but none came. There was no doubt we were now gaining—we could plainly make out a few men on her bridge looking at us from time to time—and judging from the great masses of smoke which were pouring from her funnels, the stokers must have been working desperately hard to escape from us.
“We’re well out of the three-mile limit, I think, Collins?” shouted Mr. Parker.
“Yes, sir—ten miles away.”
“Then try a shot at twelve hundred yards, Jones (the ‘No. 1’ of the 12-pounder). Go as close to her as you can without hitting her.”
“Very good, sir.” And Jones, a huge muscular man pressed his shoulder against the mounting and bent over the sights. How we did throb and pitch—the muzzle of the gun never seemed still, and it seemed ages before Jones fired. There was a beastly sharp crack, the cordite smoke drove back into our eyes, and we all strained to see the result. The shell burst half a mile ahead of the Patagonian as it struck the water.
“No one can shoot from a platform like this,” Collins said angrily; “we’re dancing about like a lot of marionettes.”
Jones fired another shot, which burst astern, but not the slightest effect had either—still no answer to our signal, and no attempt to lessen speed.
Just then Mr. Chapman reported that he only had two more tons left, and had swept every bunker. Mr. Parker groaned, “She’ll get away, and I can’t even get back to Colombo. Carry on firing as fast as you can, Collins, with your two for’ard 6-pounders.”
Then we heard, below us, the joyful voice of the Gunner singing out, “Target, right ahead, at one thousand—independent firing—commence.”
Wasn’t there a banging. But I was too excited to mind the noise, and we all cheered as every now and again one of our little shells burst close to the Patagonian. We were closing rapidly, and could see all but two of her men clear rapidly down below. Then one of our shells struck a boat they had stowed inboard near the stern, and great pieces of it flew into the air. Didn’t we cheer, for at this they had evidently had enough of it, and clouds of steam came roaring out of their funnels as they stopped their engines. We were going so fast that we were almost on top of them before Collins jumped for the telegraph, and put the engines full speed astern and the helm hard over. With a great trembling and shaking our way was stopped, we swung clear, and lay still not fifty yards away from our prize. There was hardly need to use the engine-room telegraph to stop the engines, for they were gradually slowing down. Our fires were burning low, and there was no coal to replenish them.
“Train every gun that will bear on her,” sung out Mr. Parker, “and stand by to fire. Get out the boats.”
In two minutes the dinghy was in the water, and Mr. Parker was bobbing across the fifty yards that separated us. I had to follow him with six men in the collapsable Berthon boat, each of them armed with cutlass and rifle.
I felt jolly proud, you can imagine. We were alongside in a “jiffy”. “You first, sir,” said the coxswain, and shoved me up the smooth side, and I climbed aboard, followed by two of the men.
Mr. Parker was listening to a horrid little officer who was gesticulating and talking very furiously.
“Take six of your men to the fore bridge and don’t leave it till I give you orders, and kick everyone else out of it,” he ordered, so up we climbed and kicked the two men still left there down the ladder. They didn’t want much kicking.
In a few minutes Mr. Parker went below, followed by the little officer, still stamping and swearing. He seemed to stay there for ages, and I was wondering whether I had not better send some of my men down after him, but could not disobey his orders, and of course there was “No. 3” with her guns trained on us not fifty yards away, and that was reassuring.
Presently up he came on deck, followed by Hopkins and a man I knew must be Mr. Staunton. The men in “No. 3” saw them and raised a great cheer; indeed, it was splendid to have rescued them, and so jolly lucky too, for we could not have caught her if she had run away for another five minutes.
But the best part of the “show” was to come, for presently up poured a number of Chinamen, I should think quite fifty, and they were taken across to “No. 3” in small parties till there wasn’t one left. I felt jolly sorry for Mellins and the others of the Laird that they weren’t there to see that little man stamp and fume and curse, whilst Mr. Parker looked on perfectly unconcernedly, and my six men kept their rifles at the present. I made ’em do this—I thought it would look better. When all the Chinese had gone, Mr. Chapman and his stokers came across, and the last boat-load towed over a grass hawser. With this they hauled aboard one of “No. 3’s” cables, and then it dawned upon me that the Patagonian was going to tow us back to Colombo, for, of course, as I said before, we had no coal left, and were perfectly helpless.
It seemed rather rash to trust all those Chinese on board “No. 3” with only the very few hands left in her, but the leading seaman I had with me said, “Why, bless your ’eart, sir, them devils is all doves and sucklings now”, and as he had been out on the Chinese station and knew them, that settled it.
Well, we got back to Colombo all right, and tied up to buoys inside the breakwater, and then there was a proper row. The skipper of the Patagonian went ashore and wired to his Government, and they wired to Peking, and Peking wired to us, and the result was that Mr. Parker had to put on his No. 1 frock coat and apologize very humbly for his “unwarrantable and high-handed proceeding”. The fact was, you see, that the little man, who had been an officer in the Mexican navy, really had all his papers in order, and no doubt had a commission from the Patagonian Government. He swore he knew nothing about Mr. Staunton and Hopkins except that they had been put aboard at Aden from the other two destroyers, “and they take away all my good men there and give me Chinese pigs”. That explained why we had seen no Chinese in Aden on board the other two.
Mr. Staunton told us his adventures, and how he had been captured at Port Said.
When the Isis, bringing Mr. Staunton from Brindisi, had anchored at Port Said, a man-of-war’s whaler manned by men dressed as English blue-jackets, and flying the Yellow Dragon, had come alongside for him. Without the least suspicion he had been pulled across to a destroyer also flying the Chinese colours, naturally thinking it was one of our own.
Directly he climbed aboard he was seized and tumbled down below. They had not misused him, but you can imagine what his feelings must have been; and he said the food was awful, although they gave him whatever they could. “How that destroyer did stink on the way across from Aden, with all that crowd of Chinese on board!” he said, grimacing with disgust at the very thought of it.
Mr. Hopkins told his adventures too. “Just hustled ashore to have a squint at those cunning weasels alongside the coal wharf, guessed they’d played us a mighty smart trick way back at Malta, and was mighty inquisitive to see ‘the cut of their jibs’. Ain’t been looking at ’em time enough to see a cat jump, when round came two hands in front of my face, fingers on ’em, too, like steel claws, and laid hold of my windpipe as loving as a mother-in-law.
“Then someone caught me a whack behind the knees which brought me down, and before I could say ‘Johnny Jones’ I was lifted up, bundled on board, and plumped on deck like a bag of spuds.” Mighty pleased they both were to be rescued, and Mr. Hopkins kept on smacking his thigh and roaring with laughter. “My snakes, how those black-livered, herring-gutted, fried-up tar-brushes of Patagonians did get to wind’ard of you at Malta! Just about won this round though, Parker?”
“I should just think we had,” answered Mr. Parker, smiling.
Well, in the middle of all this off came a Cingalee telegraph boy with what turned out to be a telegram from Captain Helston. Mr. Parker came on deck after he had deciphered it, with a very grave face, and said: “Mr. Hopkins, I am ordered by Captain Helston to inform you that you must consider yourself under arrest for going ashore without leave at Port Said. I must request you to go below.”
This was a facer for everybody; but Mr. Hopkins, with a look of amazement, obeyed immediately, leaving us on deck wondering why Captain Helston had been so severe. “His worries must have made him confoundedly strict,” said Mr. Parker.
For the next days we lay at this buoy, keeping our eyes on the Patagonian, and with steam “up” in case she tried to leave.
We had a jolly good time ashore, and the dinners at the Grand Oriental Hotel in the cool of the evening, with the punkahs swinging to and fro, were simply ripping.
Then along came the rest of the squadron safe and sound, much to our delight, and Mr. Staunton and Mr. Hopkins were sent over to the Laird. The latter was certain to get a terrible wigging from Captain Helston, and we all felt very sorry for him.
Mellins and a lot of other midshipmen came over from the Laird, and Tommy Toddles from “No. 1”, bringing a big cake his mater had sent out by the mail. We had a tremendous chin wag, and it was jolly to meet them all again, and spin them the yarn of our chase and capture of the Patagonian. How they did envy me!
Whenever I see a big cake now, I always think of that afternoon, sitting round the after 6-pounder gun platform, with the awning over our heads, and the big scavenger-birds (Bromley kites we call them) swooping round us as we ate our way through Tommy’s cake.
A big P. & O. liner, too, homeward bound—she had waited an hour to take our mails—passed close to us, and the passengers all came to the side and cheered us, so we midshipmen gave a loud whoop all together, which brought Mr. Parker up on deck to order us to “chuck it”.
They went back to their ship soon, and we had to patrol the mouth of the harbour after sunset, in case those other two Patagonians came in.