OUT OF THE SEA
Jacksonville, Fla. Jan. 6 — It was the afternoon of New Year’s, the Commodore lay at her dock in Jacksonville and negro stevedores proceeded steadily toward her with box after box of ammunition 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 Cubana on the pier did not forbear to sing the strange patriotic ballads of their island.
Everything was perfectly open. The Commodore was cleared with a cargo of arms and munitions Cuba. There was none of that extreme modesty about the proceeding which had marked previous departures of the famous tug. She loaded as placidly as if she were going to carry oranges to New York. Instead of Remingtons to Cuba. Down the river, furthermore, the revenue cutter Boutwell, the old isosceles triangle that protects United States interests in the St.John’s lay at anchor with no signs of excitement aboard her.
On the decks of the Commodore there were exchanges of farewells in two languages. Many of the men who were to sail upon her had many intimates in the old southern 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 custom house, and the officers of the ship and the Cuban leaders were detained there until a mournful twilight settled upon the St.Johns and through a heavy fog the lights of Jacksonville blinked dimly.
FELT SOME LIKE FILIBUSTERS
Then at last the Commodore swung clear of the docks amid a tumult of good—bye. As she turned her bow toward the distant sea, the Cubans ashore cheered and cheered. In response the Commodore gave three long blasts of her whistle, which even at this time, impressed 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 filibustering, and so, as we watched the lights of Jacksonville swing past us and heard the regular thump, thump of the engine, we did considerable reflecting. But I am sure that there was no hifalutin emotion visible upon any of the faces which fronted the speeding shore. In fact, from cook boy to captain, we were all enveloped in a gently satisfaction, and cheerfulness.
WERE STUCK IN THE MUD
But less than two miles from Jacksonville this atrocious dog caused the pilot to ram the bow of the Commodore hard upon the mud, and in this ignominious position we were compelled to stay until daybreak. It was to all of us more than a physical calamity. We were now no longer filibusters. We were men on a ship stuck in the mud. A certain mental somersault was made once more necessary. But word had been sent to Jacksonville to the captain of the revenue cutter Boutweel, and Capt.Kilgore turned out promptly and generously fired up his old triangle and came all full speed to our assistance. She dragged us out of the mud and again we headed for the mouth of the river. The revenue cutter pounded along half-mile astern of us, to make sure that we did not take on board at some place along the river 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 ancient Boutwell until her white sides gleamed like pearl and her rigging was spun late little threads of gold. Cheers greeted the old commoner from passing ships and from the shore.
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 sand. And again the Commodore headed for the open sea.
the captain of the revenue cutter grew curious. He hailed the Commodore: “Are you fellows going to sea to—day?”
Capt. Murphy of the Commodore called back: “Yes, sir.” And as the whistles of the Commodore saluted him Capt. Kilgeth doffed his cap and said: “Well, gentlemen, I hope you have a pleasant cruise.” And these were our last words from shore.
BEGAN TO TURN HANDSPRING
When the Commodore came to enormous rollers that flew over the bar, a certain light-hearted ness departed from the throats of the ship’s company. The Commodore began to turn handsprings, and by the time she had got fairly to sea and turned into the eye of the roaring breakers that were blowing from the south east there was an almost general opinion on board the vessel that a life in the rolling wave was not the finest thing in the world. On deck amidship 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 in the pilot house, the Cuban leaders were stretched out in similar postures. The Commodore was heavily laden, and in this strong sea she rolled like a rubber ball. She appeared to be a gallant seaboat, and bravely flung off the waves that swarmed over her bow.
At this time the first man was at the wheel, and I remember how proud he was of the ship as she darbed the white, foaming waters aside and arose to the swells like a duck.
WHERE FLORIDA SEEMS NARROW
“Ain’t she a daisy?” said he. But she certainly did do a remarkable lot of pitching, and presently even some American seamen were made ill by the long, wallowing motions of the ship. A squall confronted us dead ahead, and in the impressive 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 coast was merely a faint streak.
As darkness came upon the waters the Commodore 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 rhythmatical and mighty pounding of the engines.
Being an experience filibuster, the writer had undergone considerable mental excitement since the starting of the ship, and consequently he had not yet been to sleep, and so went to the first mate’s bunk to indulge in all the physical delights of holding one’s self in bed. Every time the ship lurched I expected to be fired through a bulkhead, and it was neither amusing or instructive to see in the dim light a certain accursed valise aiming itself at the top of my stomach with every lurch of the ship.
EXPECTED SOMETHING TO HAPPEN
The cook was asleep on a bench in the galley. He is of a portly and noble exterior, and by means of a checkerboard he had himself wedged on this bench in such a manner that the motion of the ship would be unable to dislodge him. He awoke as I entered the galley, and, feeling moved, he delivered himself of some dolorous sentiments. “God,” he said, in the course of his observations, “I don’t feel right about this ship somehow. It strikes me that something is going to happen to us. I don’t know what it is, but the old ship is going to get it in the neck, I think.”
“Well, how about the men on board of her?” said I. “Are any of us going to get out, prophet?”
“Yes,” said the cook, “sometimes I have these feelings come over me, and they are always right, and it seems to me somehow that you and I will both get out and meet again, somewhere; down at Coney Island, perhaps, or some place like that.”
Finding it impossible to sleep, I went back to the pilot house. An old seaman named Tom Smith, from Charleston, was then at the wheel. In the darkness I could not see Tom’s face, except at those times when he leaned forward to scan the compass, and the dim light from the box came upon his weather-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.”
ORDERED OF LOWERING REGIONS
I sat down in the corner of the pilot-house and went almost to sleep. In the meantime the captain came on duty, 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 drowsing there in my corner when the captain 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 fire-room; they are going to bale with buckets.”
SEEMED LIKE INFERNO
The engine-room, by the way, represented a scene at this time taken from the middle kitchen of hades. In the first place, it insufferably warm, and the lights burned faintly in a way to cause mystic and grewsome shadows. There was a quantity of soapish sea water swirling among machinery that roared and banged and clattered and steamed, and in the second place it was a devil of a ways down below. Here I first came to know a certain young oiler named Billy Higgins. He was sloshing around this inferno filling buckets with water and passing them to a chain of men that extended up to the ship’s side. Afterward we got orders to change our point of attack on the water and operate 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 altogether comprehend, but understood to mean that there was a general and sudden ruin 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 and I at this time were all Cubans, and we were under the directions of the Cuban leaders, presently we were ordered again to the after hold, and there was some hesitation about going into the abominable fire-room again, but Higgins dashed down the companionway with a bucket. The heat and hard work in the fire-room affected me, and I was obliged to come on deck again.
TALK OF LOWERING BOATS.
Going forward I heard as I went talk of lowering 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 replied: “What do we want to send up a rocket for? The ship was 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 boat, and they were handing him a valise about as large as a hotel. I had not entirely recovered from my astonishment and pleasure in witnessing this noble deed, when I saw another valise go to him. This valise was not, perhaps, as 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 remarked to him: “What do you think of that — — —?”
“Oh, he’s a bird,” said the old chief.
It was now that was heard the order to get away the lifeboat, which was stowed on top of the deckhouse. The deckhouse was a mighty slippery place, and with each roll of the ship the men there thought themselves likely to take headers into the deadly black sea. Higgins was on top of the deckhouse, and, with the first mate and two colored stokers, were wrestled with that boat, which I am willing to swear weighed as much as a Broadway cable car. She might have been spiked to the deck. We could have pushed a little brick schoolhouse along a corduroy road as easily as we could have moved this boat. But the first mate got a tackle to her from a leeward davit, and on the deck below the captain corralled enough men to make an impression upon the boat. We were ordered to cease hauling them, and in this lull the cook of the ship came to me and said: “What are you going to do?” I told him of my plans, and he said: “Well, that’s what I am going to do.”
VOICE OF DESPAIR AND DEATH
Now the whistle of the Commodore had been turned loose, and if there ever was a voice of despair and death it was in the voice of this whistle. It had gained a new tone. It was as if its throat was already choked by the water, and this cry on the sea at night, with a wind blowing the spray over the ship, and the waves roaring over the bow and swirling white along the decks, was to each of us probably a song of man’s end. It was not that the first mate showed a sign of losing his grip. To us who were trying in all stages of competence and experience to launch the lifeboat he raged in all terms of fiery satire and hammer-like abuse. But the boat moved at last swung down toward the water.
Afterward when I went I saw the captain standing with his arm in a sling, holding on to a stay with his one good hand and directing the launching of the boat. He gave me a five gallon jug of water to hold, and asked me what I was going to do. I told him what I thought was the proper thing, and he told me then that the cook had the same idea, and ordered me to go forward and be ready to launch the ten-foot dingy. I remember very well that he turned then to swear at a colored stoker who was prowling around, done up in life preservers, until he looked like a feather bed.
I went forward with my five gallon jug of water, and when the captain came we launched the dingy, and they put me over the side to fend her off from the ship with an oar. They handed me down the water jug and then the cook came into the boat, and we sat there in the darkness wondering why, by all our hopes of future happiness, the captain was so long in coming over the side and ordering away from the doomed ship. The captain was waiting for the other boat to go. Finally he hailed in the darkness “Are you all right Mr.Graines?” The first mate answered: “All right, sir.” “Shove off then,” cried the captain The captain was just about to swing over the rail when a dark form came forward and a voice said: “Captain, I go with you.” The captain answered: “Yes, Billy: get in.” it was Billy Higgins, the other.
Billy dropped into the boat and a moment later the captain followed, bringing with him an end of about forty yards of lead line. The other end was attached to the rail of the ship. As we swung back to leeward, the captain said: “Boys, we will stay right near the ship till she goes down.” This cheerful information, of course, filled us all with glee. The line kept us headed properly into the wind and as we rode over the monstrous waves we saw upon each rise the swaying lights of the dying Commodore.
When came the gray shade of dawn the form of the Commodore grew slowly clear to us as our little ten-foot boat rose over each swell. She was floating with such an air of buoyancy that we laughed, when we had time, and said: “What a gag it would be on those other fellows if she didn’t sink at all.”
THE THIRD BOAT HAD FOUNDERED
But later we saw men aboard of her, and later still they began to hail us. I had forgot to
mention that previously we had loosened the end of the lead line and dropped much further to leeward, the men on board were a mystery to us, of course, as we had seen all the boats leave the ship. We rowed back to the ship, but did not approach too near, because we were four men in a ten-foot boat and we knew that the touch of a hand on our gunwale would assuredly swamp us. The first mate cried out from the ship that the third boat had foundered alongside. He cried that they had made rafts and wished us to tow them. The captain said: “All right.” Their rafts were floating astern.
“Jump in,” cried the captain, but here was a singular and most harrowing hesitation. There were five white men and two negroes. This scene in the gray light of morning, impressed one as would a view into some place where ghosts move slowly. These seven men on the stern of the sinking Commodore were silent. Save the words of the mate to the captain there was no talk. Here was death, but here also was a most singular and indefinable kind of fortitude. Four men, I remember, clamored over the railing and stood there watching the cold steely sheen of the sweeping waves.
FATAL PLUNGE OF THE FIRST MATE
“Jump,” cried the captain again. The old chief engineer first obeyed the order. He landed on the outside raft, and the captain told him how to grip the raft, and he obeyed as promptly and as docilely as a school-boy. A stoker followed him, and then the first mate threw his hands over his head and plunged into the sea. He had no life belt, and for my part, even when he this horrible thing, I somehow felt that I could see in the expression of his hands, and in the very toss of his head, as he leaped thus to death, that it was rage, rage, rage, unspeakable, that was in his heart at the time.
And then I saw Tom Smith, the man who was going to quit filibustering after this expedition, jump to a raft and turn his face toward us. On board the Commodore three men strode still in silence, and with their faces turned toward us. One man had his arms folded and was leaning against the deck house. His feet were crossed so that the toes of his left foot pointed downward. There they stood gazing at us, and neither from the deck nor from the rafts was a voice raised.
TURNED INTO A DEMON
Still was there this silence. The colored stoker on the first raft threw us a line and we began to tow. Of course we perfectly understood the absolute impossibility of any such thing, our dinghy was within six inches of the water’s edge, there was an enormous sea running, and I knew that under the circumstances a tug boat would have no light task in moving these rafts. But we tried it, and would have continued to try it indefinitely, but that something critical came to pass.
It was at an oar, and so faced the rafts. The cook controlled the line. Suddenly the boat began to go backward, and then we saw this negro on the first raft pulling on the line, hand over hang, and drawing us to him. He had turned into a demon. He was wild; wild as a tiger. He was crouched on this raft, and ready to spring. Every muscle of him seemed to be turned into an elastic spring. His eyes were almost white. His face was the face of a lost man reaching upward, and we knew that the weight of his hand on our gunwale doomed us. The cook let go of the line.
We rowed around to see if we could not get a line from the chief engineer, and all this time, mind you, there were no shrieks, no groans, but silence, silence, and silence, and then the Commodore sank. She turned to windward then swung afar back, righted, and dove into the sea and the rafts were suddenly swallowed by this frightful maw of the ocean. And then by the men and the ten-foot dinghy were words said that were still not words, something far beyond words.
The lighthouse of Mosquito inlet stuck up above the horizon like the point of a pin. We turned our dingy toward the shore. The history of life in an open boat for thirty hours would no doubt be very instructive for the young, but none is to be told here now. For my part, I would prefer to tell the story at once, because from it would shine the splendid manhood of Capt. Edward Murphy and of William Higgins, the oiler, but let it suffice at this time to say that when we were swamped in the surf and making the best of our way toward the shore the captain gave orders amid the wildness of the breakers as clearly as if he had been on the quarterdeck of a battleship.
John Kitchell of Daytona came running down the beach, and as he ran the air was filled with clothes. If he had pulled a single lever and undressed even as the fire horses harness he could not to me seem to have stripped with more speed. He dashed into the water and grabbed the cook. Then he went after the captain, but the captain sent him to me, and then it was that we saw Billy Higgins lying with his forehead on sand that was clear of the water, and he was dead.
~ Stephen Crane