Wreck of Filibuster Commodore.
Graphic Description of the Sink-ing of the Vessel.
Account of the Voyage and Fatal End-ing of the Expedition.
Some Humorous Incidents Con-nected With the Short Cruise.
Stephen Crane, the Novelist, Tells of His First Filibustering Venture.
Special to The Times-Democrat.
Jacksonville, Fla., Jan. 6.—It was the afternoon of New Year’s. The Commo-dore lay at her dock in Jacksonville, and negro stevedores proceeded steadily toward her with box after box of amuni-tion and bundle after bundle of rifles. Her hatch, like the mouth of a monster, engulfed them. It might have been the feeding time of some legendary creature of the sea. It was in broad daylight, and the crowd of gleeful Cubans on the pier did not forbear to sing the strange patri-oticballads of their island. Everything was perfectly open. The Commodore was cleared with a cargo of arms and ammu-nition for Cuba. There was none of that extreme modesty about the proceeding which had marked previous departures of the famous tug. She loaded up as placid-ly as if she were going to carry oranges to New York, instead of Remingtons. Down the river, furthermore, the revenue cutter Boutwell, the old isosceles triangle that protects the United States’ interest in the St. John’s, lay at anchor, with no sign of excitement aboard her. On the docks of the Commodore there were ex-changes of farewells in two languages. Many of the men who were to sail upon her had many intimates in the old South-ern town, and we who had left our friends in the remote North received our first touch of melancholy on witnessing these strenuous and earnest good byes. It seems, however, that there was more difficulty at the customs house. The of-ficers of the ship and the Cuban leaders were detained there until a mournful twi-light settled upon the St. John’s,and through a heavy fog the lights of Jack-sonville blinked dimly. Then at last the Commodore swung clear of the dockamid a tumult of good byes. As she turned her bow toward the distant sea the Cu-bans ashore cheered and cheered. In re-sponse the Commodore gave three long blasts of her whistle, which, even to this time, impress me with their sadness. Somehow they sounded as wails. Then at last we began
TO FEEL LIKE FILIBUSTERS
I don’t suppose that the most stolid brain could contrive to believe that there is not a mere trifle of danger in filibuster-ing, and so, as we watched the lights of Jacksonville swing past us and heaved the regular thump, thump, thump of the engines, we did considerable reflecting. But I am sure that there was no hifalutin emotions visible upon any of the faces which fronted the speeding shore. In this ignominious position we were com-pelled to stay until daybreak.
It was to all of us more than a physical calamity. We were now no longer fili-busters. We were men on a ship stuck in the mud. A certain mental somersault was made once more necessary. But word had been sent in Jacksonville to the cap-tainof the revenue cutter Boutwell, and Capt. Kilgore turned out promptly, and generously fired up his old triangle and came at full speed to our assistance. She dragged us out of the mud and we again headed for the mouth of the river. The revenue cutter pounded along a half mile astern of us to make sure that we did not take on board at that place any journey-men for the Cuban army. This was the early morning of New Year’s day, and the fine golden Southern sunlight fell full upon the river. It flashed over the an-cient Boutwell until her white sides gleamed like pearl, and her rigging was spun into threads of gold.
Cheers greeted the old Commodore from passing ship and from the shore. It was a cheerful, almost merry, beginning to our voyage. At Mayport, however, we changed our river pilot for a man who could take her to open sea, and again the Commodore was beached.
The Boutwell was fussing around us in her venerable way, and upon seeing our predicament she came again to assist us, but this time, with engines reversed, the Commodore dragged herself away from the grip of the sand. And again the Com-modore headed for the open sea. The cap-tain of the revenue cutter grew curious. He hailed the Commodore:
“Are you fellows going to sea to-day?”
Capt. Murphey, of the Commodore, called back: “Yes, sir.”
And then as the whistle of the Commo-dore saluted him, Capt. Kilgore doffed his cap and said: “Well, gentlemen, I hope you have a pleasant cruise.” And this was our last words from shore. When the Commodore came to the enormous rollers
THAT FLEE OVER THE BAR
a certain light-headed song sprang from the throats of many of the ship’s crew. The Commodore began to turn hand-springs, and by the time she had gotten fairly to sea this turned into the eye of the roaring breeze that was blowing from the southeast. There was an almost gen-eral opinion on board the vessel that life on the rolling wave was the finest thing in the world. On deck amidships lay five or six Cubans, limp, forlorn and infinitely depressed. In the bunks below lay more Cubans, also limp, forlorn and infinitely depressed. In the captain’s quarters, back of the pilot house, the Cubans’ leaders were stretched out in postures of complete contentment.
The Commodore was heavily laden, and in this strong sea she rolled like a rubber ball. She appeared to be a gallant sea boat and bravely flung off the waves that swarmed over her bow. At this time the first mate was the wheel and I remem-ber how proud he was of the ship as she washed the white foaming waters aside and arose to the swells like a duck.
“Ain’t she a daisy,” said he. But she certainly did do a remarkable lot of pitch-ing, and presently even some among theseamen were made ill by the long wallow-ing motion of the ship. A squall con-fronted us dead ahead, and in the imp-pressive twilight of this New Year’s Day the Commodore steamed sturdily toward a darkened part of the horizon. The State of Florida is very large when you look at it from an airship, but it is as narrow as a sheet of paper when you look at it sideways. The past was merely a faint streak. As darkness came upon the waters, the Commodore’s wake was a broad, flaming path of blue and silver phosphorescence; and as her stout bow lunged at the great black waves, she threw flashing, roaring cascades to either side. And all that was to be heard was the rhythmical pounding of the engines.
Being an experienced filibuster, the writer had undergone a mental strain since the starting of the ship and conse-quentlyhad not yet been to sleep, and so I went to the first mate’s bunk to in-dulge myself in all the physical delights of holding oneself in bed. The ship lurched. I expected to be fired though a bulkhead, but was not. The cook was asleep on a bench in the galley. He was of a portly and noble exterior, but by means of a checkerboard he had himself wedged on his bench in such a manner that the motion of the ship would be un-able to dislodge him. He awoke as I en-tered the galley, and feeling moved he delivered some dolorous sentiments. “God,” he said. In the course of his ob-servations, “I don’t feel right about this ship somehow. It strikes me that some-thing is going to happen to us. I don’t come over me, and are always right, but it seems to me somehow that you and I will both get out and meet again some-where, down at Coney Island, perhaps, or some place like that.”
Finding it impossible to sleep, I went back to the pilot house. And old seaman, named Tom Smith, from Charleston, was then at the wheel. In the darkness I could not see Tom’s face except at the times when he leaned forward to scan the compass and the dim light of the box came up on his beaten features.
“Well, Tom,” said I, “how do you like filibustering?”
He said: “I think I am about through with it. I’ve been in a number of these expeditions, and the pay is good, but I think if I ever get back safe this time I will cut it.”
I sat down on the corner of the pilot house and went almost to sleep. In the meantime the captain came on deck, and he was standing near me when the chief engineer rushed up the stairs and cried hurriedly to the captain that there was something wrong in the engine room. He and the captain departed swiftly. I was dozing there in my corner when the cap-tain returned, and going to the door of the little room directly back of the pilot house, cried to the Cuban leader: “Say, can’t you get those fellows to work. I can’t talk their language, and I can’t get them started. Come on and get them going.”
The Cuban leader turned to me then and said: “Go help in the fireroom. They are going to bail with buckets.”
The engine room, by the way, presented a scene at this time, resembling the middle of hades.
In the first place it was insufferably warm and the lights burned faintly in a way to cause mystic and grewsome shad-ows. There was a quantity of soapish sea water sweeping and swishing among the machinery that roared and banged, clatteredand steamed; and in the second place, it was a devil of a ways down below. Here I first came to know a cer-tain young oiler named Billy Higgins. He was slopping around this infernal place filling buckets with water and passing them to the chainmen that wended up the ship’s side. Afterward we got orders to change our place of attack on the water and tooperate through a little door on the windward side of the ship that led into the engine room. During this time there was much talk of pumps out of order and many other statements of a mechanical kind, which I did not alto-gethercomprehend, but understood to mean that there was a general rush in the engine room. There was no particular agitation at this time, and even later
THERE WAS NEVER A PANIC
on board the Commodore. The party of men who worked with Higgins at this time were all Cubans, and we were under direction of the Cuban leaders. Present-ly we were ordered again to the after-hold, and there was some hesitation about going into the abominable fireroom again, but Higgins dashed down the companion-way with a bucket. The heat and hard work in the fireroom affected me, and I was obliged to come on deck again. Go-ing forward, I heard as I went talk of manning the boats. Near the corner of the galley the mate was talking with a man.
“Why don’t you send up a rocket,” said this unknown person, and the mate re-plied: “What the h—l do we want to send up a rocket for? The ship is all right.”
Returning with a little rubber and cloth overcoat, I saw the first boat about to be lowered. A certain man was the first person in this first boat, and they were handing him in a valise about as large as a hotel. I had not entirely recovered from my astonishment and pleasure in witness-ing this noble deed, when I saw another valise go to him. This valise was not per-haps so large as a hotel, but it was a big valise anyhow. Afterward there went to him something which looked to me like an overcoat. Seeing the chief engineer leaning out of his little window, I re-marked to him: “What do you think of that blank, blank, blank?”