Where Strongest Tide Winds Blew

As I peer into the dim past that haunts the scenes of my childhood in Aberdeen, Scotland, a thousand memories troop by like the scenes of a panorama with the footlights turned low; and when I contemplate them in a meditative hour it leaves me with as lonesome a feeling as if I had listened to the old time song, “Home Sweet Home,” which I have heard a thousand times in distant climes, sometimes sung to crowded audiences at the opera, and again by the pioneer as he rattled his prairie schooner over the plains.

It is a song that never grows old and never will so long as men leave the home of their childhood, around whose hearthstones still play ghost-like, the recollections of bye-gone years, tenderly touching their sympathies as they pause for a moment in their monied pursuits in other lands.

The old red school house on Princeton street, with the tall lank figure of Ellwood for its presiding master and who believed in and practiced the command of the Holy Writ: “Spare the rod and spoil the child,” was to me in those years of tenderness, a dismal contemplation. But Sundays had a brighter hue when Mother would dress me in full Highland suit of tartan, and adorn my cap with an eagle feather, surmounted with a brooch of the design of an arm with a dagger, bearing the motto, “We fear nae fae.” With my small claymore and buckled shoes and plaid, how proudly I would walk up to the barracks at Castle Gate, where the sentry would salute me, and give me permission to enter.

But those days had their troubles as well as pleasures. The West North street boys had a grievance against those of the East North street and one Saturday both sides met in battle array, armed with wooden swords, near the North church at Queen street. After a determined resistance West North street was victorious, when someone presented us with a flag. It was a common piece of bunting, but to our young heroes it was something to be looked up to and defended with our lives before the honor of West North street should be sullied.

That banner cost us many a headache, and many a soiled suit of clothes after the usual Saturday battle. On one occasion we sallied forth as usual to the battlefield, carrying our banner, and shouting derisively at our foe. The enemy had been reinforced and after a hard struggle, they captured our flag and carried it off in triumph to East North street.

Our fellows were a crest-fallen lot, as we sat on the steps of the church looking the picture of dejection. However, a few days later, I summoned the boys to meet in an old building in Ferrier’s Lane. There were fifteen of us and we came armed with our wooden swords. After much debate over the loss of our flag, a committee was appointed to notify the East North street fellows, that we were ready to offer battle, and dared them to meet us the following Saturday and bring the captured flag. They accepted the challenge. When we met again in the old building by the hazy and flickering light of a tallow candle, with upraised swords we swore to re-capture our flag, uphold the honor of our street or die in the attempt. I was chosen captain on this occasion, and never did a general rack his brain more for a plan of success than I did to win this battle. Finally I hit upon a stratagem and after school submitted it to all. It was to proceed to the usual place of battle, but at the corner of Queen street five boys were to be stationed out of sight, and when both armies met they were to rush in on their standard bearer and capture the flag. We met, and even to this day I shudder at the ferocity of that battle. Twice I was knocked down; several times our street was on the retreat when someone shouted–“Remember our oath!” and then another desperate rush, and along with the charge of the five secreted ones which so surprised the East North street boys that they finally yielded, and we carried off our flag in triumph. John Taylor’s head was cut, John Ingerham’s eyes were black, my right knee cap was out of place and six or eight others were more or less wounded. The boys of East North street fared about the same. Good old Doctor Ellis living in King street witnessed the fight, but he kept my secret, for I told Mother that I was hurt in running a race.

And so those delightful days of early boyhood passed like one long summer day. But a change came. My father died and in a few months more, my loving Mother, after a lingering illness, passed away. I then left the home of my childhood to live with my older brother, James.

Although every possible kindness was shown me, there was lacking a mother’s love, a mother’s sympathy and cheering words, things that touch the tender chords of a boy’s heart. At that time I was sent to the Ledingham Academy, but it was useless. The golden veil through which I had looked out on the world was lifted, the chain of love and affection broken. I saw the great ships come with their strange men from other ports of the world. I saw them unfurl their snowy sails and speed over the blue waters bound for the shores of other climes. I watched them until they were but a speck of white down on the blue horizon, and I longed to be on board–to feel the ship roll upon the billows and hear the wind whistling through the rigging, to climb aloft and view the limitless expanse of ocean and feel that I was a part of these white specters of the sea.

One day I saw in the windows of Knox & Co., a sign which read:

“Two apprentices wanted for the sea.”

I went in and told them I wanted to become a sailor. About this time another lad about one year older than myself came in on the same errand. An old gentleman, after surveying us both for some moments, remarked that in his opinion we were too young, but told us to wait a few minutes as Captain McKenzie would be in soon.

When Captain McKenzie came in he asked us if it was with the consent of our parents that we made application. Being answered in the affirmative by James Mitchell, the other boy, I answered that my father and mother were dead, but my brother would sign the necessary papers.

III.

THROUGH MISTS OF THE SEA

Captain McKenzie sprang from his berth in the wildest excitement. A moment before a low voice called “Captain,” at his state room door. “Who is there?” he asked. “Donovan,” came the guarded reply. “Captain, the mate has conspired with the crew to mutiny and your throat will be cut in an hour.”

James Mitchell and I were apprentices on board the bark “Aven of Aberdeen.” My brother James having reluctantly consented that I should follow the fortunes of the sea, signed the indenture papers.

The brig was bound for Archangel, Russia, and we had on board a large amount of specie and plate, the private fortunes of a Russian Jew returning to his native land after many years of success as a merchant in Alexandria. Our berth was near the captain’s, and Mitchell had heard the warning given by Donovan. He was out of his berth in an instant and gave me to understand there was mutiny aboard. Together we entered the captain’s cabin.

The Jew was apprised of the situation. It was the intention of the mate and crew to murder him and the Captain and put the vessel about for a piratical cruise in the Indian Ocean. They were a motley gang of foreigners, low bred and capable of any crime when led by a man like the mate, fresh from a career of lawlessness on the China coast.

The Jew was the most abject picture of terror I ever saw. His hands trembled and he shook like a man in a chill. He wanted to hide, but that was useless. Captain McKenzie armed himself with a belaying pin. He placed one in the hands of each of us boys and bade us follow him in silence. We cautiously went on deck and we found the helm deserted, and the mate and the entire crew sitting together and drinking in the fore part of the ship.

Captain McKenzie sprang into their midst and with one blow from the pin killed the mate. This subdued the others and they slunk away to their duties. The captain then called the men in front of him and after ordering Donovan to the helm, told them he was done with them and that their future conduct would determine their fate. At the same time he threatened to kill the first man that manifested a mutinous disposition, or dared to cross a given line on the deck without his permission. He then ordered the mate’s body overboard and told the men to return to their duties.

The Captain and Donovan took turns at the helm, while Mitchell or I was stationed as a lookout to give instant warning of any suspicious movements on the part of the crew. For more than a week we stood to our posts of duty, when one morning we sailed into the smooth waters of the port of Archangel, weary and exhausted from the intense nervous strain and loss of sleep.

The Captain notified the British consul and a file of soldiers came on board and arrested the crew. Six of them were afterwards sent to prison for life.

The home voyage of the Aven was fraught with all the dangers of the sea. We had secured another crew in Archangel but their seamanship was bad. When a sudden storm would strike us it required herculean efforts on the part of the captain and Donovan to prevent the ship from being driven ashore on the rocks.

Snow was falling and a wintry wind dashed the waves over our decks and coated the bulwarks with a mail of ice. Sleet and snow clung to the rigging, making every effort to handle the ship a hazardous one. For three days we battled against the elements and then we came in contact with ice floes. Once our position was so perilous that the Captain ordered the boats provisioned and ready to be lowered when the vessel should be crushed in the ice. By skillful maneuvering we escaped from the ice floes and had a pleasant day or two in smoother seas.

It was night and I was standing by the taffrail, when suddenly a giant specter seemed to come up from out of the sea, bearing directly down upon us. Her great lantern swung in a glow in a fog, by which I discerned moving objects.

“Collision! Collision!” I shouted at the top of my voice. The cry was taken up by the sailors, and ere it had died away there was the crashing of timbers, falling spars and the shouts of men.

We had been struck a glancing blow abaft midships but the damage was not serious enough to sink us. The other vessel, which proved to be the brig “Rapid,” belonging to the same company at Aberdeen, stood off until its crew ascertained the extent of our damage, then sailed away in the darkness.

A month’s delay on the docks at Aberdeen repairing damages, and we were again on the high seas bound for the ports of South America.

When off the West Indies the sky suddenly became overcast, and we were soon overtaken by a hurricane. The captain saw it coming and prepared for it, yet when it took the ship it roared and laid her down so that I thought she would never get up again. All that day and night we had heavy squalls, and by morning the gale was still increasing. Birds of sea and land came on board. Driven by the winds, they dashed themselves down upon the deck without offering to stir until picked up, and when let go they would not leave the ship, but endeavored to hide from the wind. By ten o’clock at night the storm had spent its fury, and when I went to my bunk I found it full of water. With the straining of the ship, the seams had begun to leak. I was surprised to note among the ship’s crew that the most swaggering, swearing bullies in fine weather were now the most meek and mild-mannered of men when death was staring them in the face.

Then followed days when the sea was smooth as glass. Our white sails hung idly beneath the scorching skies. Sea weed floated on the oily surface, as, day by day, we lay seemingly motionless on the bosom of the deep. The moon rose out of a phosphorescent sea and cast its long golden gleams on the azure blue, while the stars shone like isles of light in the sky. There was a dread in the infinite spaces about. Again, there was scurrying, fleecy clouds and our ship was scudding before the breeze.

When I awoke one morning, we were lying at anchor in the harbor of Buenos Ayres. While unloading cargo, the Captain desiring to go ashore, I was taken in the boat along with two of the seamen. After getting to the wharf, the Captain said: “I expect you fellows to employ your time cleaning that boat; it will be five o’clock before I return.” After he had gone, one of the sailors said to his mate, “We will leave Spriggings (meaning me) to clean the boat, and we will go to shore.” After they were gone, I concluded that I had been imposed upon and I left the boat and went into the city, having no intention of deserting the vessel at that time. In my wanderings in the strange city, and not knowing a word of Spanish, I lost my way. Finally, when I returned to the wharf, the boat was gone. It was late when I was picked up by a policeman and turned over to an Englishman, who kindly took me to his home for the night. The next morning I returned to the Aven and received a reprimand.

A few days later we weighed anchor for Valparaiso. The sky was overcast and the sea was rolling high off the Patagonian coast, when we heard signal guns of distress. Captain McKenzie changed the course of the ship and we soon came in view of the Spanish sloop Seville going to pieces on the rocks. Her bow was lifted high, while the waves were breaking over her stern. Her sails were in shreds, and a dozen sailors clung to the rigging. We lowered the life-boat, and after hours of battle with wind and wave, rescued the crew. They were in an exhausted and famished condition, having been for almost three days without food or water. They were given every kindly attention by our officers and crew.

We saw the dark, jagged, rugged bluffs and steeps of Staten and Terra del Fuego. We rounded Cape St. John, amid tempestuous gales and giant seas of the polar regions. We lost sight of the land, reefed the sails close down and then bid defiance to the storm. Strange sea birds shrieked their dismal cries, while dull leaden skies added to the gloom. We cleared Cape Horn in safety and were soon sailing over the smooth seas of the south Pacific Ocean beneath the Southern Cross.

“Sail ho!” cried the lookout. All eyes were turned to the leeward. A stately ship, under full sail, had suddenly appeared, bearing down upon us. She came silently, the water splitting in foam at her bows. We could see the crew working about her decks, but no sound came from the spectre. All at once we noticed her hull and sails were transparent. We could see through them to the ocean beyond.

It was only a mirage of the sea, but to our crew it was the spectre of the Flying Dutchman–a phantom ship had crossed our bow.

Once in port, no more would we walk the deck of the Aven of Aberdeen. She had seen a ghost.

IV.

GRAVES GAVE UP THEIR DEAD

I was in the streets of Arica, Peru, when the earth began to rock and reel. Buildings surged and fell, with a crashing noise. The dust rose dense, and darkened the sky. The earth gaped and swallowed up many of the people fleeing to the hills back of the town. I followed to an elevation where an awful sight met the terror-stricken populace. The hills of Arica had for centuries been the burying grounds of the ancient Agmaras, a race of Indians who ages ago it seems were fishermen. The convulsions of the earth threw to the surface hundreds of the dried bodies of the Indians, still wrapped in their coarse garments, the nature of the soil had prevented decay. When the people beheld this they believed the world had come to an end, and they threw themselves on their faces praying for mercy.

There was a thunderous roar from the sea, growing louder and louder as each moment of terror sped on, and then, with one mighty crash, a tidal wave fifty feet high,–the aftermath of the earthquake–struck the shore, bearing upon its crest the U. S. Battleship Wateree, one German and two British vessels, leaving them stranded far inland. A sailor from the Wateree was in a boat, and as he was swept past his vessel he waved the Stars and Stripes in farewell to his comrades on board.

The shocks had ceased and the storm that followed had spent its fury, when the pall of night came over the stricken city. Human wolves crept from their hiding places and began their work of prowling amid the ruins and robbing the dead. All night long they held high carnival amid the scenes of terror and desolation.

Through it all I had been a silent, bewildered spectator. I had fled to the hills only because others did, for I could speak but little of the language of the country. I was among the graves when morning dawned and I heard a voice in my own language. Going to the spot I found a man with a sprained ankle fighting away a thief. I seized a rock and he ran. I aided the injured man to a place of safety, where we remained for several days until a conveyance took us back to town.

The man whom I had helped was John L. Thorndike, an American, well known in Peru and all over South America, as having built the highest standard-gauge railway in the world, and a man who at once became my warmest friend.

But to return to my ship. When the Aven of Aberdeen reached Valparaiso, the mate and a number of sailors immediately deserted the vessel in a boat. The Captain saw them leaving but was powerless to stop them. That night John Mitchell and I stood watch alone. There being no boat it did not occur to them that we would attempt to escape, but about midnight Mitchell said to me, “Spriggings, I dare you to run away.”

“I’ll take the dare,” I said, “but how will we get ashore?”

“We’ll launch one of the hatches,” he replied.

It was no sooner said than we tied a rope around one of the heavy hatches, and bearing it to the side of the ship, we lowered it noiselessly into the water, then let ourselves down the rope and by holding to the hatch, one on either side, we safely swam ashore.

We avoided the business streets of Valparaiso and made our way to the country, where we hid in a grove until night. We were without money, our clothes were such as we wore at sea, night was coming on, we were hungry and with no place to sleep. Our only thought had been to escape from the Aven, for we had imbibed the superstition of sailors, and nothing could induce us to remain aboard that vessel since the phantom ship had crossed our bow.

I saw a light in a farmhouse in the distance and on our approach the inmates were aroused by the barking of their dog. The man was a typical Chilean, short and stout. He looked curiously at us and by signs Mitchell made him understand that we were hungry. He entered the house and returned with his wife and two children. Mitchell repeated his signs and the woman went inside and returned with a cup of milk, which we drank greedily. The man then beckoned us inside where we had a supper of meat, bread and coffee. They collected a number of sheep skins, gave us two mats for covering, and we slept soundly.

The next morning we helped the man in his garden, drew water for the cattle and made ourselves useful in other ways. I went almost every day for two weeks to the summit of the hill where I had seen a splendid view of the bay, to see if the Aven was still in port. One day I saw her spread her sails and I watched her until she was but a speck on the horizon.