“As she lifts and scuds on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new!”—Kipling.

The Ruapehu was a handsome ship; there were no straight lines about her, for the Clyde shipbuilders realised to the full that it was possible to combine beauty with utility. There was perhaps a suggestion of the Denny ships in the early New Zealand fleet, but, be that as it may, there was no mistaking the clipper bow which was the certain mark that indicated a ship turned out from Fairfield. I cannot say that she was in any way ideal, but she was decidedly good for her time, necessarily suffering somewhat from having been built in a hurry. With the Mexican still fresh in my memory I was naturally inclined to make comparisons, but all things being taken into consideration I found no great reason to be dissatisfied with new conditions. Indeed, so far as outward appearance went there was every reason to feel proud of my new command. She was a novelty in many ways, one being that she was lit by electricity, an advantage then quite exceptional. Another important feature was the freezing plant, which in reality represented the real raison d’Être of the whole line. It was then thought, and I am not certain that the idea does not largely obtain to-day, that competition for first-class passenger traffic could not be successfully carried on with the P. & O. ships. The fact remained, however, that we could land our mails in Melbourne via Hobart sooner than could be done by the P. & O. Company, and that fact must have had an important influence in speeding up the Australian mail contract via the Canal. Amongst the crew I found a strong leaven from the Union Company, including an excellent boatswain and quartermasters, for which I was very thankful; and I took an early opportunity in dock of mustering all hands so that I could see exactly what I had got. This step met with the strong approval of Captain Underwood, who warmly supported me in all measures that I suggested for ensuring a consistent discipline in the new company. Two ships had preceded mine, so that it might be considered a fair trial as to who would obtain the best result, but I had made up my mind that I was to work for the old fashions which had obtained in Southampton, and it is not altogether an easy matter to import into London any custom that may have obtained elsewhere.

There was one distinct novelty in the Ruapehu. We carried six midshipmen, or rather “company’s apprentices,” but this practice was discontinued after being tried for several voyages. It was a praiseworthy attempt to meet the inevitable demand for facilities to train officers, but it was a little too early. Indeed the New Zealand Shipping Company had from its commencement been remarkable for its forward and enlightened policy, and its constant endeavour to make use of the latest improvement found useful after scientific inquiry.

Our passenger list in the saloon was not a large one. There were about forty people, but let it be said at once that a more agreeable set were never got together in any ship. We called at Plymouth to embark mails and passengers, and I also received a wire from the manager telling me not to be beaten to the Cape by the Athenian; but as we were not calling there, it must have been sent under a misapprehension, which I could easily understand when I came to consider the track we had to follow to make the shortest mileage to Hobart. To decide upon a composite track is not an easy matter when the application of the great circle is possible. In this particular case, taking Cape Verde as the westernmost longitude, the great circle track to Hobart would pass somewhere close to St. Helena, but to follow it would have been to steam against the very heart of the S.E. trades, and that I knew would be a heartbreaking performance if they were blowing hard. I therefore decided to pass about 600 miles to the westward of the Cape, which would entirely do away with any chance of being reported from Cape Point, but which would, I hoped, bring me sooner into the region of the “brave west winds” and also to the latitude where the degrees of longitude were greatly shorter in actual distance, for according to the best advice I could then obtain latitude 45° S. was about the best parallel on which to run down the Easting. In later voyages when I had more experience I formed a somewhat different opinion.

Calling at Santa Cruz on the outward passage we were somewhat unfortunate, for Teneriffe had recently been visited by a serious gale from the S.E. which had greatly interfered with the coaling plant. I had not coaled there before, and greatly fear that I made myself very objectionable to Brothers Hamilton, our agents, for I was driving for all I was worth, and instituted comparison between their procedure in the way of coaling and what was done in Madeira, to the great disparagement of Santa Cruz. As it turned out, it was as well that I did give them a good shake-up, although I know it must have been a sore trial to both the brothers to stand anything in the way of faultfinding. They soon saw, however, that if their port was to get its share of the newly growing trade they would have to bring their plant up-to-date, and they did so as speedily as possible. Our little difference of opinion left no ill-effects, and was the commencement of a pleasant acquaintance only terminated by the inevitable. But as showing that I had reason for complaint, it cost me fifteen hours of a passage that I knew was being carefully watched at both ends of the world. This first passage was absolutely uneventful. I cannot recall any unpleasantness even, save and except the fact that we did not experience the westerly winds we anticipated, and had no opportunity of finding out what the ship could really do with a strong fair wind with canvas set. I can find mention of heavy swells, but only an occasional breeze at force 7, the highest day’s run being 328 miles. It must be remembered, however, that the day only contained about twenty-three and a half hours, so that the average speed for the passage was 12·8 knots. This put us into Hobart on February 21, and was not as good a passage as we had hoped for. Although the ship was only built to do 12½ knots, it was expected she would do considerably better than that in actual practice, and in point of fact she did.

Darkness in these days cannot be allowed to hinder one. If there are no lighthouses people have to do without them, as all those did who made Hobart from the westward. It was nasty navigation to go for that land in the dark, for there were several outlying dangers that might very easily bring a ship to grief. On this occasion I made the land at one a.m. and a dark night at that, but when I subsequently saw what the coast was like by daylight, I liked it even less. On the other hand when once the land is made the coast leading to and up the Derwent river is singularly beautiful, and many parts of it rejoice in good old Kentish names, showing very clearly the origin of some of its first settlers. My instructions were to make the ship a “show” ship, and to offer the townsmen hospitality. Accordingly after we had coaled we made preparation for a big luncheon party to which were invited members of the government and the leading people of the place. It was a most successful function, and in responding to a toast I took the opportunity of pointing out that if anyone on a future voyage lost wives or families on their way to Hobart by being wrecked on the west coast for want of a light, they would not be able to say that they had not been warned. The language might have been brutal, but I was feeling the matter keenly and I am glad to say the words went home. We had a most successful and enjoyable function, which every one appreciated, and the good people of Hobart had every opportunity of seeing what was described in the manager’s letter of instruction as “my noble ship.” It may be as well to state that we had anticipated the Brindisi mail. A lot of time had been wasted as far as a quick passage to New Zealand was concerned, first at Santa Cruz and then at Hobart, but no time was lost when the last of our guests was over the side, and we made the best of our way for Auckland. The remembrance of going into that port is very vivid even now, for although I had been there once as a boy, that gave me no help in taking a ship into what were practically unknown waters. On the passage out I had of course studied my charts carefully, and had formed my expectations of what the various places would look like, and as it turned out my surmises were not very wide of the mark. Indeed I am inclined to think that navigating a ship into port is better done if it is learned from a chart than by acquiring local knowledge by actual inspection. I found latterly even on the Cape route that it was better to steer known courses entering or leaving port than merely to con the ship by sight. And here I had a very curious experience tending to strengthen my argument. I steered perfectly safe but close courses round various corners, passed inside an island towards the entrance of the harbour, after which I picked up a pilot who told me that ships seldom used that passage because of the dangerous patches in it. That was quite true, but the dangers were charted and no hindrance to safe navigation, and a mile in distance often helps towards saving a tide or securing daylight into an anchorage. Further, if a ship is being watched carefully, as she must be in narrow waters, she is in my opinion far safer than if she is taking the broadest part of the channel anyhow. I do not, however, wish to dogmatise, only to point out that for many reasons it is desirable to be accurate even when traversing waters that are well known.

There is little need to say anything concerning the beauties of Auckland Harbour. Kipling has said it all in “The Seven Seas.” And certainly as I saw it that afternoon it well deserved the praises bestowed upon it. But my mind went back to that other afternoon, twenty years before, when I was there under vastly different conditions. In my mind I could see again that beautiful ship Tyburnia anchored under the shadow of that wonderful crater Rangitoto, and the harbour crowded with transports of all description, dominated by the imposing presence of H.M.S. Miranda. And in the very berth at the Queen’s Wharf where one lay in the little Alwynton we now lay in the finest ship that had yet been in the harbour. I confess to having experienced a feeling of pride, though unfortunately its duration was short.

It would have been difficult to find fault with the welcome that was extended both to the ship and myself personally. Perhaps the first feeling of annoyance was caused by the pertinacity of the newspaper reporters, for we had not had anything of the sort at the Cape, and I did not then realise, as I have since done to the full, how very useful it is to get all the advertisement possible. But it was gently hinted to me that interviews were the custom of the country and that it was desirable to fall in with it. This once being understood there was no more trouble.

Again we were to be a show ship, and do a lot of entertaining, and the Company’s directors were coming up from Christchurch to do the thing properly. I looked forward to their advent with no great degree of pleasure, for at best directors are kittle cattle to handle. But in this particular case I found myself confronted with as nice a group of men as one could wish to meet. Indeed, the general impression made upon me by the New Zealand men I had met was that they were as a whole vastly superior to the average colonial man one had been in the habit of meeting. In fact it was easy to recognise a considerable leaven of public school boys from the old country. The Northern Club at Auckland had opened its hospitable doors to me the day before the arrival of my directors from the south, and I was playing a game of billiards with an exceedingly nice fellow I had met there. His name was John Studholm, and at the conclusion of our game he observed casually that he was one of the directors of the New Zealand Steamship Company. I am glad to say that it was the commencement of a friendship that lasted.

When I met my group of directors on board the ship they were all highly pleased with what they saw, for I fancy that in one or two of the earlier ships they had not been altogether happy in the selection of a crew. New Zealand was not a very suitable place for the maintenance of good discipline if a crew were disposed to get a little out of hand, for the democratic element was very strong, and Jack got to assume that he was quite as good as his master. I had, however, been fortunate in the main in getting a decent lot together, and though the ship’s discipline was as strict as was consonant with its due maintenance, we had succeeded in persuading the crowd that they should fancy themselves as belonging to a smart ship and behave accordingly. An average good crew seldom go wrong if you handle them precisely as you would a lot of school-boys; in fact they are much easier to manage. I had an opportunity of hearing a curious instance of this esprit de corps. One night the San Francisco mailboat lay alongside us, the Alameda, and in the darkness I came out of my cabin to get cool before turning in. Below me I could overhear one of my Jacks talking to one of the men from the other ship, who asked what was the speed of the Ruapehu. Quoth my man, “Oh, she will steam seventeen easily, but we are not going to let her out this voyage.” After that piece of embroidery it would have been difficult to persuade me that Jack took no pride in his ship.

There was one thing that I hated about the ship, and that was the hideous yellow colour with which the masts and yards were painted. In London there were other things to do than point out its ugliness, but now was a fine chance. Mr. Murray Aynsley was the chairman. He had a brother, a celebrated admiral in the service, and had himself seen the work of our ships in the Black Sea at the time of the Crimean War. To him, as an authority, I pointed out how much nicer it would be to adopt a different style of colouring, and how much smarter the ship would look. My reasoning took effect, and I was given permission to use my own judgment on the matter. I promptly set my chief to work to transform her into the most approved Union Company fashion, and in a very short time she was looking like a yacht, with sail covers on, upper yards down and in the lower rigging, and not a rope slack or awry. She was a picture, and one worth looking at. All the Company’s ships were afterwards painted in a similar manner.

Bashfulness or undue modesty cannot be claimed as an attribute for our colonial fellow countrymen; they simply swarmed over the ship whenever they got the chance, and no place was sacred to them. I never found any one turned into my bunk, but it would not have surprised me had I done so, and I am afraid that many people did not like the strictness with which the gangways were kept. The first Sunday the ship was open to all, and at times the crowd was so great that we had to deny admission until there was room created by people leaving. The preceding day there had been an “At Home” which had been well attended by the youth, wealth and beauty of Auckland, and on one evening we gave a dinner to which all the notables in the Colony were invited and which was very well attended. Some doubt had been expressed as to the ability of the ship’s cook to carry it through, but this scepticism was unfounded, for it was a first-class performance and the function went off well. I had to speak, which was a little awkward, but I scarcely think I trod very heavily on any one’s toes. As the ship was to remain some time on the coast there was no great hurry to get away, and I made several very nice acquaintances. One evening I went to what was called a clairvoyant entertainment by a certain professor whose name I will not mention for obvious reasons. It was a clever, striking and withal an uncanny performance, for the lights appeared to burn blue to me, and if the evil one had appeared with a due smell of sulphur it would have seemed to be in perfect keeping with the surroundings. When it was over I made it my business to meet the professor, and ask him to lunch with me next day, which he did. He was a very nice fellow, and when I asked him to tell me how his performance was done he observed that it was a curious request to make, but if I promised secrecy he would do so. He did, with the result that since then I have never quite trusted my own senses, but he maintained that his mesmeric power over his wife, which was part of the show, was real and effective.

When sailing day came there was a great crowd on the wharf to see us off, and from photographs taken we must have looked very fine, but we had then to discover that coal counted as well as looks. The directors were going down the coast with me, and naturally desired to make a smart passage to Wellington. We had filled up with New Zealand coal; they said it was Westport and first-class steam coal. Be that as it may, our people proved unable to get steam properly, and there was considerable disappointment. I could not question the logic of proven facts, however, and had to make the best I could of a severe disappointment. It occurred to me about that time that the engine-room should occupy a greater share of my thoughts than it had hitherto done—the ship’s company generally were at their very best and my chiefs were delighted. It seems that they were curious to see how a complete stranger would take his ship into Wellington, and Murray Aynsley told me afterwards that it pleased them. Wellington is a perfectly easy place to enter, but its looks are against it in daylight, for the reefs and rocks at the entrance look nasty until the channel is open. As a precautionary measure I eased to half speed just at the entrance, but I had so learned the place from the chart that it did not give me the least uneasiness. When the head of the harbour was reached a pilot came off to take the ship alongside the wharf, and it must be confessed that for handling large ships under their own steam these men in all the New Zealand ports showed a wonderful aptitude. This Wellington pilot in particular was an extraordinarily good man.

As preceding ships had been show ships here, we had a comparatively quiet time. The question of good or bad coal cropped up when we were filling our bunkers, and I am afraid that any one with a less perfect temper than Captain Rose, our manager there, would have been seriously put out with me. I was acting for the best, as I thought, but my knowledge was limited. About this time the Orient Company had their ship the Austral sunk at her moorings in Sydney harbour. She was coaling at the time, and as it was night time only a warrant officer was in charge. I had long thought that an officer should always be on duty night or day in a valuable ship, and from that time forth, with the concurrence of my superiors, the third officer was relieved from all work in harbour save looking after the ship between the hours of 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. This was a distinctly good move in many ways; it certainly had the effect of causing men on leave to return quietly and not draw attention to themselves. From Wellington we went to Dunedin, or rather Port Chalmers as the port was then called. Here again was a sample of the pluck and energy of the colonists who would have ports everywhere. They were even then dredging a channel by which large ships would be able to reach Dunedin, and here a misfortune overtook me. The whole of the forepart of the ship was fitted as a cooling chamber for the carriage of frozen sheep. We had commenced taking in some, when suddenly it was reported that the freezing engine had broken down. An expert was telegraphed for to Christchurch and he duly came, shook his head and said nothing could be done, for the bedplate of the engine was broken and no insurance company would take the risk of a frozen cargo with a patched-up engine. It is useless now to say all I thought on the matter, but I believed the damage could have been made good. It was settled that we were to go home with a general cargo and no frozen meat. As the freight was then twopence per pound it will be seen this was a serious loss, incurred as I still believe by wilful damage.

Our final port of call was Lyttleton, the seaport of Christchurch, the cathedral city and the most English of all New Zealand towns. Here was the Company’s head office, and it was considered to be the home port of the Company. At the time I cannot remember whether we had the word Lyttleton or London on the stern as our port of registry, but I know that shortly afterwards there was some correspondence with the builders on that subject.

As we were continuing our rÔle of show ship, and as the ship was being delayed so as to ensure a full passenger list homeward, it was thought desirable to put her in drydock, and it certainly was a great advantage to start clean for the homeward passage. I found it necessary about this time to draw the reins of discipline a little tighter, and as an outward and visible sign ordered a Sunday morning muster. This was duly carried out as it would have been at sea, and it caused the growlers (mostly in the engine-room) to think I had behind me greater powers than I really possessed. But the plan answered.

We gave one beautiful dance on board, to which the directors issued invitations. It was a great success and brought together a great number of charming people. When we were ready to start for home I do not think that anything had been left undone that could have increased the popularity of the ship. The question of the route to be followed homeward was one that gave me considerable difficulty to decide. I was not in the least degree shy of accepting advice, in fact I sought it, but having had little experience in navigating southern latitudes, and bearing in mind all the tales I had heard about ice and kindred subjects, I was naturally anxious to do the right thing. I knew, moreover, that our two new ships had made excellent passages to Rio. By chance I met my old friend, Captain Gibbs, and from him I got the advice, “Hear what they all say, and when you get out, act as you think fit,” which left me exactly where I was. But the general impression left upon me was, get down to Lat. 50° S. by the great circle track and then run the Easting down on that parallel. I duly carried out the plan as far as human endurance permitted me to do so (for I had not then the practical knowledge of great circle sailing I afterwards acquired) when I attempted it. Let me explain. Lat. 50° S. was reached three days out from Lyttleton, and from there to Cape Horn by a Mercator line was a stated distance. But there are two sides to this line—one the polar side, or the great circle, which shortens the distance immensely, the other the equatorial side which very considerably lengthens it. Now to run the Easting down in Lat. 50 was to do so on the equatorial side of the Mercator line, and flesh and blood was not strong enough to do that. I tried for three days with something like the following result—A run of say 320 miles, and nearing my port only say 280. That would not do, so ice or no ice I took to the Mercator track, and having succeeded in spoiling my run to Rio saw not a scrap of ice, nor did I have the least trouble in any way. It must, however, be admitted that for a stranger to look at the ice chart he would think that bergs were as plentiful as potatoes in their patch, and might be inclined to disregard his knowledge that hundreds and thousands of voyages had been safely made by sailing-ships in high latitudes, and that what one man had done could be accomplished by another. However, both I and the Company paid for my lack of experience, though we both profited by it in the long run. It should also be said that upon this trip there was little help from canvas. The passage home was made by dint of sheer hard steaming, greatly assisted by the fact that we had not to provide steam to keep the freezing engine going. We left Lyttleton for the homeward passage full of passengers, and it would not be difficult to give the full details of the life on board if it were desirable to quote from the pages of the Ruapehu Satirist, a weekly journal that was read with considerable interest. Its editor was decidedly a free-lance, and spared no one. It may be stated, however, that it would be hard to exaggerate the mischief that can be made by a few sheets of paper, a little ink, and lively imagination. I think I can say that summary suppression was the fate of most on-board-ship newspapers with which I came in contact.

I was rather anxious about making the land near the Horn, for as the days went by it was evident that only by fine weather should we be enabled to see anything before dark. This may seem absurd to-day, but to run on a close course, as I was doing in darkness, for a land I had never seen, was not a very pleasant job. It had to be done, however, and this specially emphasises my former remarks as to the desirability of never losing a mile or a minute when making a passage. As luck would have it on this occasion we made Ildefonso, looking like a streak of smoke from a steamer funnel, just as darkness was setting in. After that there was no more trouble and we passed one mile south of Cape Horn about midnight. There was no difficulty in recognising its shape from the rough sketches on charts and in sailing directions. We ran through the straits of Le Maire, and arrived at Rio without incident.

Sydney may be beautiful, Auckland is acknowledged to be, but to my imagination Rio is unsurpassed in loveliness by any place I have seen. There is no intention of attempting to describe it here, that is beyond the power of any ordinary mortal, but until one has seen the sun rise in Rio Harbour the most beautiful sight in the world had yet to be experienced.

Naturally all our passengers went on shore, for the coaling was to take twenty-four hours, and I have a very keen remembrance of bringing a very lively crowd off with me in the small hours of the morning. I had picked them up in a cafe at the top of the Rua D’Orviedor, where every one appeared to be in a good temper and Englishmen exceedingly popular. Repentance, I doubt not, was the predominant feeling next day, for mixed drinks with strange and strong tobacco are apt to make the ordinary hat feel a little heavy in the morning.

The remainder of the passage was not such as to call for special comment. My attempt to dodge the N.E. trade was not the success I hoped it would have been; we ran through the anchorage at Santa Cruz at midnight, making noise enough to wake the dead, and leaving particulars behind us in a sort of pyrotechnic washing-tub, so that we might be reported home by cablegram, and finally arrived at Plymouth after a passage the steaming time of which was 38 days 8 hours and 37 minutes. I find that both Plymouth papers call this the fastest passage on record, and for some reason it made a stir in London, for when we got to town I met my old friend Mr. Trapp, and his words were, “Is that your ship that we are all talking about?” I said “Yes.” “I suppose,” he remarked, “you ran all night and did not shorten sail in the hours of darkness.” The old gentleman was back in his thoughts to the usages and customs that had obtained in the days of the Napoleonic wars when he had been privateering.

However that may be, the passage was a success; my chief had brought her into London looking spic and span in the most approved Southampton fashion. Both the chairman and the manager were waiting to meet the ship at the docks, and they were so pleased with her appearance that they altered the paint of all the other ships to the fashion we had set. In the Daily Telegraph of June 17, Clark Russell had an article on the passage. It was to all intents and purposes a good performance, but to the day of my death I shall always look back to it with regret, for had I taken a better course to Cape Horn than I did, it might have been a passage that would have held the record for years yet to come. I think, however, that at the finish I had the record for passages both ways.

On the next voyage I had with me the chairman of the company, Mr. J.L. Coster, who was in his way a type of the coming New Zealander. He was a keen, clever man, determined that whatever he had to do with should be the best procurable, daring and ambitious to the last degree. He stuck to his friends, and loathed his enemies with a deadly enmity. He had formerly been, I believe, manager of the Bank of New Zealand, but was now certainly the leading spirit of the shipping company and determined that no one should wrest from them their supremacy. I had seen a good deal of my chairman and others connected with the Company in London, and looked forward to a very pleasant passage, for Coster and I got on very well indeed.

About the time that we were to sail the Shaw Savill Company were sending out the White Star steamer Coptic, having on board her as passenger Sir Henry Loch, the governor of Victoria, who was to be landed at Hobart. It was the first run of the Coptic on this route, and to us she was an unknown quantity, but this I knew, that although she sailed three days before us it was my business to get to Hobart first, and I intended to spare no effort to do so. The fates seemed adverse to us, however, and gave the worst weather I ever saw. The run out to Madeira was a good one, but we lost nine hours there coaling. We spent the time very pleasantly on a ride inland, and enjoyed the proverbial hospitality of the Blandy family at their beautiful villa. We left filled up with coal and in the cheeriest spirits.

I should mention that I now had as chief engineer my old chief from the African, and knew that though stubborn as a mule he was a first-class man, and not likely to indulge me with unpleasant surprises. In fact he was rather safe than brilliant, and under the particular circumstances I could not have done better, for on this occasion I had not taken special pains in the selection of my crew, having left it to be done in the ordinary manner. When we were one day to the south of Cape Verde, it was a beautiful Sunday afternoon, we sighted a steamer coming towards us, and by her rig and the position she was in, I knew that it was the Athenian homeward bound, Warleigh being her captain. Coster, who was with me at the time, asked me to speak her and ask if she had seen the Coptic. And if so where; for if we had that information we should be able to judge fairly well what our relative speeds were. Accordingly we hoisted a signal, asking the Athenian to close as she was on our port side, but instead of doing so she sheered further off. Not to disappoint my chairman I steered across her stern and came up on her starboard side, when I found, much to my surprise, that Warleigh had stopped his engines, and his manoeuvre brought us a good deal closer that I intended. No harm was done, however, and we got the information that the Coptic had been spoken 150 miles to the southward of the Western Breaker. This gave us the information we wanted, and thanking Warleigh I put on full speed and resumed my course. But there was something about the business I did not like, we had been too near an accident to please me, and meeting Warleigh some voyages after in Cape Town I asked him why he had stopped his engines. There had been, I may say, a little coolness between us for some time over some misunderstanding that ought never to have occurred. He replied, “I thought that you intended to steam round me, to show your superior speed, and determined that I would stop to let you do it.” I was rather hurt to think he could have thought me capable of such a piece of rudeness, and told him so, upon which we buried the hatchet for good and all.

We were not to call at the Cape, so there was no need to debate as to the track to be pursued, as it was the winter months down south. I determined to go well south, and save all the miles I could, but reckoned without my host on this occasion. I had intended to go south of Prince Edward’s Islands, but had to turn tail to a S.W. gale and very heavy sea. Had I held my course I should not have made good progress, damage would probably have been done to the ship, and the passengers’ lives would have been unbearable. The chart I used on that voyage lies before me as I write. Again I tried to pass south of the Crozets, and again I had to turn and run. As the weather moderated I again tried to get south, but my chairman, learning my intention, observed that I was an obstinate man and if I got into trouble I was not to expect help from him. In other words, he had had enough of high southern latitudes. Of this I am certain—the weather down south runs in cycles; for the first four years I was on that route the weather was frequently more than average bad, and my tracks on the chart at times gave one the idea of a dog’s hind leg. For when there is plenty of sea room in a passenger ship, it is in my opinion worth while to run a point or so off a course, if by so doing the ship makes better weather and goes along comfortably. It was held by some experienced masters of steamers in that trade that a course once set should not be departed from. I still, however, hold to my view that it pays to let the ship take the seas as easily as possible, and it also requires no skill to knock a ship to pieces.

I was rather amused by an observation made by my chief engineer. The weather was fairly bad and I asked him how he liked it. He replied, “This is all right I dare say for sailing-ships, but it’s no place for steamboats.” Of course the engines required the greatest care, for at times they raced very badly. It was our luck, however, on this occasion to get a really fine specimen of a gale of wind, and although all things are comparative I think that it would not have been possible for it to blow harder than it did or for a bigger sea to get up.

It was my custom when running the Easting down to habitually carry a reef in the topsails, setting topgallantsails over them; it was the survival of an old Blackwall fashion brought about by long experience of whole topsails, which showed that they were unwieldy to handle in really bad weather. One seldom cared to reef so long as the wind was fair, and if by force of wind it became necessary to do so, more time was lost over the operation than if a single reef had been in all the time, for in most gales a reefed topsail could be carried so long as the wind was fair. Added to this, however, steamboat passengers were not fond of a disturbance overhead such as would be caused by a stiff job of handling canvas in the night time, and all things taken into consideration, I am certain that in stormy latitudes it was a good plan to adopt, for it did not pay to blow away canvas in a steamer. On this particular occasion we had struck a streak of abnormally bad weather. For some days the barometer had been showing a steady fall, and on the morning of July 1, 1884, at 8 a.m., it stood at 27·94, with a furious gale from the W.N.W. Shortly after 10 a.m. it was 27·73, after which the weather improved. The weather appeared so threatening the day before, and it was blowing so hard, that I had had the close reefs put in, with a reef in the foresail, so that when the worst came there was nothing more to be done than stand on the bridge and speculate as to what was coming next, sometimes dodging a mass of snow that was frequently blown out of the belly of the maintopsail. All the time there was the knowledge that ice might be encountered, for we had passed bergs a day or two previously. In the chart-room, which I occasionally visited, I could stand before the aneroid and see the hand going backward; in fact I have now the rough pencil notes I made from time to time of what was to me a novel experience.

Fortunately the ship steered beautifully, and also she was not by any means deep, for the coal burnt had lightened her considerably, but at times when going down the front of a wave she would throw her stern up and the engines would race furiously, giving them anxious times in the engine-room. When this took place, at the other end of the ship the bowsprit and a portion of the forecastle would be dipping into the rear of the wave ahead. I think it was the only time I ever saw such an occurrence, for be it remembered the ship was 420 feet over all, and by comparison to the size of the waves, she was behaving like a whale-boat on a big surf. As I do not wish my veracity to be impeached I forbear from speculation on the height of the waves from trough to crest, but I have often thought since that one might have been treated to an unpleasant surprise.

As it was we came through the breeze without parting a rope yarn, Mr. Coster expressing his regret that the builder of the ship was not with us to see how beautifully she behaved. We were running down our Easting in Lat. 47° S., and I eventually came to the conclusion that that was a bad parallel and that further south was much better. About this time too the chief engineer made the discovery that he was short of coal, and consequently we had to reduce expenditure, to the detriment of our speed. We again made the land at Tasmania in bad dark weather, and off the south point of the island I made out the outline of a big ship outside me. We knew it must be one of two things, either H.M.S. Nelson, the Australian flagship, or the Coptic. As daylight came in we found to our intense delight it was the latter ship, and the firemen of the watch below turned out of their own accord to help in the stokehold. We passed her easily and anchored at Hobart, reporting having passed the Coptic off Cape Connella. That was all very well so far as we were concerned, but the port authorities were anxious to keep the best berth for the Governor’s ship, and we were of the opinion that it should have been first come first served. She arrived an hour after we did and I am sorry to say got the best attention. When on shore that day I met the captain of the Coptic, and found that they had been in our vicinity when we had encountered bad weather, but further south. He told me he had never seen weather like it, even in the Atlantic at its worst. Three whole main topsails had been blown away, and in reply to my inquiry why he had not reefed down, said with a patronising smile that “it was not White Star fashion to reef; if a whole sail would not stand, then let it go.” I failed to see the beauty of the argument. We found that we had a serious shortage of coal in our bunkers, and there was considerable difficulty in getting a fresh supply. Eventually we did get a collier barque alongside, but there was a good deal of unpleasantness. Mr. Coster in his autocratic manner was furious at losing time, and I am afraid that I was very rude to that collier captain (who was a very good fellow) when he refused to let us have any more, because his ship was as light as was safe, while all the time I believed he was keeping it for the Coptic. We left the next day with a bare supply, trusting to good luck. Fortunately we got it, but if the truth must be told, we arrived at Wellington with less than forty tons of coal on board. However, we had made the passage to Wellington in forty-three and a half days, including two days stoppages, at an average speed of 12·99 knots, with which my chairman was well satisfied, for he had seen the difficulties. It was winter time in New Zealand when we arrived, but it was very pleasant. There was a general election taking place, and Mr. Coster stood and was elected for one of the Christchurch divisions. It is, perhaps, needless to observe that it was a period of great jubilation to us all, but it did not last long as our stay in the country was only to be a fortnight. We were to leave full of cargo, frozen meat, and passengers, but before we got away my chairman came to lunch on board. He told me to express his satisfaction to the ship’s company generally, but said he could not say enough to me. As a sign of his appreciation, however, he had cabled home that I was to have the big new ship and could always count upon him as a friend.

It must have been a bad spell of weather about that period, for it took fifteen days to get to the Horn. There was a great deal of head wind and sea, for I find in my abstract “pitching bow and stern under,” and a record of bad weather generally, while before we rounded the Horn we found that we had lost one of our propeller blades. This was a bad job, for it gave the engines a very jumpy action, and was equivalent to entirely spoiling the passage, for we could never now pick up the time we had lost. I have since thought that the foundry where these particular blades were cast must have hit upon a streak of bad metal, for I certainly seemed to have the luck of losing blades which was not shared by any other of our ships.

Our ill fortune lasted us to Rio; but before we got there I had one little excitement that may as well be chronicled. It was the custom of the ship, weather permitting, for the crew to bring out and air bedding, and clean out their quarters for inspection by me on Saturday mornings. This had been done hitherto without a murmur reaching my ears. The weather prior to rounding Cape Horn was too bad to permit the weekly routine, but when we were drawing near to fine weather I gave the usual order, and was astonished to hear that the firemen refused to comply. I really cannot remember now, but I think the seamen did; at all events, I gave the order to muster on the poop, and the malcontents obeyed the order. Now if they had graduated in a rowdy sailing-ship in the ’sixties and had meant business, they would have remained in the forecastle and placed the onus of getting them out upon me. But they were modern recreants and did not understand the particular methods by which a skipper may effectively be set at defiance. As soon as they had quitted the forecastle and come on the poop, I had the doors of their quarters shut and guarded, effectively cutting off retreat. Then calling over the names as they stood on the ship’s articles, I asked the first man if he intended to clean his quarters. His reply was that his mates in London had told them that they were not to obey that particular order. My reply was that they could reckon with their mates in London when they got there, but that in the meantime they had to reckon with me, here and now. A renewed refusal and my order was “irons,” duly carried out. Five men went through the same formula, and the rest gave in; they were all kept aft and sent forward in batches to do their share of the work.

This outbreak of insubordination could not have been put down so easily if I had not had a good lot of officers to back me, although, as the men knew, I should have taken extreme measures had there been any show of violence. Where they could have embarrassed me would have been for the entire lot to have continued their refusal, for then I might have been put to inconvenience to find lock-up accommodation for them all, but I knew the passage was hopelessly spoiled, so thought it just as well to fight out a question of principle when circumstances were in my favour. I recollected afterwards that when we left the London docks some men on the quay made loud and angry remarks concerning the importation of Southampton fashions to London and I have no doubt that a certain resolution of defiance had been duly arranged, although it was very ill thought out. After that little breeze things went on quietly and in due course we got to Rio. I remember taking some young ladies to see a circus, which was in some ways novel, and I doubt not that if these lines meet their eyes they will remember the incident well and laugh at the recollection. There was no other incident of note and I duly started for home, not thinking it worth while to make a fuss about the loss of one propeller blade, but some days before we got to Madeira we lost another, and then it became a serious matter, so I wired home for instruction, feeling that it was just as well that some one else should take a little responsibility. For although a ship can paddle along with only one blade or even a portion of one, it was due to every one concerned in the ship’s welfare that the risk should be known, in order that if trouble did come it might be met. I got a reply to proceed “with caution,” and it occurred to me that the last two words were rather superfluous if quite natural. We completed the voyage in safety, for the weather was favourable and our progress good, although there was a most objectionable vibration. What was very satisfactory was that the passengers left the ship well pleased with everything in spite of our mishaps.

That was the end of my connection with the Ruapehu. I had gained a considerable amount of experience in her, it had got me out of the old groove, and I had become reconciled to my lot. The worst of the business was the longer voyages, and the knowledge that in the near future our stay in London would be materially curtailed, as New Zealand was to be considered the home port. But with it all there was a fine sense of exhilaration. There was enough use to be made of canvas in order to get the best out of the ships—that reminded one of some of the best traditions of the sea—and we perpetuated so far as we could those of the old customs that would or could exist side by side with steam. The ships were well found and there was no stint of anything required to put them on a really first-class level. As, however, might have been anticipated in a new steam company, after some time it became necessary to take a more careful survey of what was really being done. Bidding adieu to my ship I now transferred my interest to the new ship Kaikoura.