I suppose that all seamen have cherished a particular liking for some particular ship they have sailed in; a long association seems to establish a sympathy between the mind that controls and the dull steel that gives effect to the task required of it. Kipling had some such idea in his mind when he wrote “The Ship that found Herself,” and almost insensibly the idea is imbibed that the ship is a sentient thing whose behaviour can be accurately forecasted under any given conditions. I never had that feeling quite for the Mexican—my acquaintance was not long enough to permit it to grow into absolute confidence which it assuredly would have done had time been granted, but for my new ship it was altogether different. I took her twenty-three voyages round the world, and she never disappointed me, or failed to come up to expectation at any time. She could do anything that was reasonably asked of her, and I am vain enough to think she sulked when she lost the hand upon her that she had grown accustomed to, for she never did much afterwards. As it was put to me by a prominent official, “She never seemed to have a day’s luck after you left her.”

On my way to Glasgow I was delighted with the idea that there was to be a really big ship for me. I knew that she was to be forty feet longer than my last one, and at that time a five thousand ton ship was thought to be a pretty fair size. At all events many of us had the idea that with over four hundred feet in length the evil of pitching would be reduced to a minimum. Both Mexican and Ruapehu were 390 feet, and at times they could under provocation really distinguish themselves, but this extra forty feet, it was thought, would put an entirely different aspect on a ship’s behaviour in a heavy head sea. It was a vain hope, for I have known the Kaikoura, when light, pitch and scend through a vertical arc of thirteen degrees, which was both trying to the stomach and the temper, for although I was never actually sea-sick after my second voyage to sea, a heavy bout or spell of pitching always made me feel uncomfortable.

From the train, when nearing Fairfield, I saw two ships in the yard alongside one another; one appeared to be big, the other small, and I said to myself that the big one was mine. It was a vain surmise—the big one was the Cunard Etruria and the small one the Kaikoura, but she was a fine ship for all that. She was too far advanced in building for me to suggest any but minor alterations, but I was glad to see that many defects I had pointed out in the earlier ships had been remedied. She was not, however, nearly so far advanced as the advertised date of her sailing led me to suppose she would be, and after being with her some little time I wrote to London saying it was an utter impossibility for us to leave the Clyde on the date mentioned. A reply came back saying that Sir William Pearce (the head of the Fairfield firm) assured them she would be ready by the time specified. Then began a wonderful piece of work—a small army of workmen invaded the ship, each bringing some part of the ship’s internal fittings with him. For instance, you could see the panelling of the saloons grow as you watched, the pieces having all been fitted in the workshops, and only requiring to be fixed in place; further, the work was well done, for up to the time of my leaving the ship she showed no sign of hurried workmanship. The engines had all been erected and tried in the engine-shed before being placed in the ship. She arrived at completion without a hitch, and on the appointed day we went for our steam trials on the measured mile and made, as nearly as my recollection serves, nearly fifteen knots. Mr. Bryce Douglas, the engineer to the firm, represented the builders, and Mr. Strickland the Company. Mr. Bryce Douglas and I got on very well together, and I for one regretted greatly his death shortly afterwards.

It must not be supposed that the saloon or passengers’ quarters were in any way completed. We had, in fact, some scores of workmen going round to London in order to finish the work by the time she arrived there. There were also some dozen gentlemen with us, mostly scientific men who had been given a complimentary run round. In one respect there was a marked advance on former ships, for the electric light installation was a great improvement and scarcely ever gave any trouble; in fact it may be considered that by this time the problem of lighting ships by electricity had been satisfactorily solved. We left the Clyde on the morning of October 20, having on board a channel pilot in whom the builders had the greatest faith, for I scarcely think that the Company were to take the delivery before she arrived in London Docks in a completed state. On that point I am not certain. There was no doubt I was master, but the pilot was not in any way anxious to get orders from me. I had no great reason, however, to be dissatisfied. All went well until the evening of the 21st, when we were off Portland, a dark, clear night with a light westerly wind. We were passing many sailing ships standing off shore on the starboard tack, and, in attempting to clear a Danish barque, there unfortunately developed a difference of opinion on our bridge as to what was to be done, and we hit her very hard. Fortunately she was timber loaded and did not sink, although her crew left her and came on board my ship, seeing red, after the manner of excited Scandinavians. I was a little puzzled what to do, for I had no time to waste, so for the first and last time called a council of my officers, asking for suggestions. It was decided that we should send a lifeboat with a crew to stand by her, to keep a light burning to warn off other ships, and to see if she could be got into port. When we proceeded to carry out the plan the master and crew of the barque begged to be given the lifeboat and to go themselves, and I, very weakly as I now think, did as they wished. At all events it let us get on, and that was the all-important point just then, for we were in no way damaged and our paint on the bow was hardly scratched. The barque duly got through the Needles and I think put into Cowes, from which place our lifeboat was returned. We arrived in London without further adventure, and once again I had an experience of law. The short stay we had was fully taken up with depositions and consultations, but as I have already expressed my views on that subject I need not recapitulate further than to say it was “the same old game” to get clear of this matter. When the case was tried it was given against us, the truth, as I believe, being that they got scared at our close proximity and tacked the ship under our bows, thinking we were not giving way to them. I think the court was of this opinion also, but I can imagine that our ship, (a blaze of light being kept going for the workmen) and approaching a sailing ship at great speed, was perhaps a trial to weak nerves. At all events they were all in a howling funk when I saw them. That was No. 1 collision. We had all our work cut out to get the ship ready for sailing day. She was booked up full of passengers, and there was an apparently endless stream of stores and equipment coming down to the last minute. To the credit of the Company be it said that the work was done, and done properly. I cannot remember that anything was omitted.

The worst part of the business was that I had in the main a new set of officers, although my chief engineer from the last ship was with me. It is of the greatest advantage in a case like this to have people with you that you know you can depend upon, and with the best intentions in the world you cannot have this feeling with strangers. It must be remembered that a new ship is always something in the nature of a surprise-packet. On the afternoon of October 25 we left the dock, and by the time we got to Gravesend it was quite dark with a strong ebb tide running, and the reach full of ships, mostly at anchor. As we were to stay there the night it was necessary to turn the ship round, and when we got across the river there was not a great deal of room for anything to get past us. This was discovered by one of the Aberdeen steamers called the Ban Righ, for in sweeping past and under our stern she cleared the whole of her starboard side of bridge, deckhouses, bulwarks, etc., and she also dented our stern and carried away rudder chains and some of our ornamental gilt work. There were circumstances connected with this that would have made a cat laugh, but a very stiff upper lip had to be kept, and I greatly admired the admirably cool way in which the incident was treated by Mr. Strickland, the London manager, who had come down the river with us and alluded to the collision as “a river bump.” I went down the river in a tug to see the extent of the damage to the other ship, and the next day we left for Plymouth. This collision No. 2 was, I believe, settled by both parties bearing their own damages, for not even a bench of judges could have rightly apportioned the blame in this case. I find by abstract that we left Plymouth at 7.30 a.m. on the morning of the 28th, after a fairly strenuous week’s work.

The ship, as I have said, was full of passengers. In the saloon we had a number of representative Christchurch people, and they were very nice to get on with. In every community there is nearly always some prominent spirit that will give the rest a lead, and this is especially the case on board ship on a long voyage. From extended observation I would venture the remark that nineteen days is about the maximum period for which people will dwell together in unity. After that time a great deal of forbearance and tact is required to make things go smoothly and well. As may be imagined there were in this case little shortcomings that might with some degree of justice have been found fault with, but there was one man who was determined that all should go well. His name was Tom Acland, and we became great friends. He has now, alas, gone to join the majority, but his memory remains a pleasant one with many. He ensured peace in the saloon, but in the second cabin it was another business. There were a lot of old Australians bound for Hobart, and nothing was right so far as they were concerned. On more than one occasion it was necessary to talk very straightly to some of the ringleaders, and eventually they sent a letter to the directors complaining of my conduct to them, the result of which was a unanimous vote of confidence in me by the Board. We got to the Cape without any incident calling for special mention, this being the first time I had called there since joining the new Company. It was pleasant to see the old faces once more and, further, to find they were glad to see me. As we had to take in a lot of coal the people travelling had a fine chance for a run on shore, added to which the ship was steaming well and giving every satisfaction. This, unfortunately, was not to last, but still, when we got away once more, she began to show me what she really could do when she got the canvas on her. I find there was one day’s run of 369 miles for a day thirty-six minutes short of the twenty-four hours, and that was faster travelling than I had ever done before. One day it became necessary for some reason to open up the high-pressure cylinder. I had been down in the engine-room having a look at what was going on and saw nothing very out of the ordinary for a new ship, but I had noticed that something was being done to the escape valve at the lower end of the cylinder. When the engines were again started there was a great crash and they immediately stopped. This was a twenty-fours hours’ job, for a piece was broken off the rim of the high-pressure piston, and the explanation I accepted for the accident was that a small spanner had been left in the steam port by the builders and that it had just rolled out. There are some explanations that it is well to accept even when they may not be altogether satisfactory. I thought in this case the main thing was to get the damage repaired, and let those immediately concerned fight it out when they got home. The engineers made a good job of the repairs and in due course we proceeded gaily. There had been a fine fair wind during the stoppage of the engines and we had sailed 155 miles.

There were various incidents between this and Hobart more or less unpleasant, one in particular. A young married couple had the misfortune to see a child of theirs die of some infantile ailment and it had to be buried that evening. There was in the saloon a very charming elderly lady who was great on evangelism and preaching, appealing to the emotions after the style of the Salvation Army. While I was reading the Burial Service this lady had got an audience of women in the saloon and was rapidly making a scene. The burial had been kept as quiet as possible, but after it was over the doctor came up to me and said, “I wish you would come down to the saloon, sir, and say a few words, or else Mrs. —— will have every woman in the ship in hysterics.” I did so, and many speedily recovered sufficiently to suggest that I was a brute for stopping the proceedings—very funny the ideas that strike people under certain conditions.

It was always my endeavour to have the men prepared for emergencies, and many have thought at times that I was unduly particular in this matter. The crew, for instance, never knew when they would be called to fire quarters. Saturday was of course the most convenient day, but the objection to a fixed day was that every one had a fair surmise that the bell rang for drill only, and that was not the same thing as calling upon people unexpectedly. When it came to the actual test my scheme worked well. Again, when boats were manned, they were always provisioned, for stores were kept in a portable state in order to facilitate this matter. I found that boats could be provisioned and swung out ready for lowering in four minutes, and that as a general thing without taking any undue risks; I have only seen one man go overboard at boat drill. That was in the African during a fresh breeze, but we soon had him again. There is more harm done by undue haste than by the trifling delay in first seeing that things are properly prepared for the work to be done. Another very good spirit to introduce is to make the crew fancy themselves and take a pride in their ship. It seemed to me that this plan also worked excellently.

There was no further incident on that passage, but on arriving at Port Chalmers we discovered that our misfortunes were not quite over. There was a Government tug assisting to get us alongside the jetty, and by some bad management on its part it ran into our propeller, which cut through its side as though it had been a piece of paper. The tug consequently made the best of her way to the beach, getting lower in the water as she proceeded, but she eventually reached the shore. This was the third smash I had had in just over seven weeks. I was about tired of being made a cockshy of, and the occurrence generally had not improved my equanimity.

When we had made fast I went on the jetty, and having had the turning gear put in, was watching the blades of the propeller to ascertain what, if any, damage had been done to them, when an elderly man whom I did not know came fussing up to me asking, “What’s the matter?” I replied, I am afraid rather shortly, that I did not see what business it was of his, on which he informed me that he would soon let me know all about that, and took himself off. I then discovered that he was a Government engineer surveyor, but one of the very old school. There was no great damage done to anything, and we soon made arrangements to repair the damage done on the passage, but I did not consider it a casualty, nor did I think it necessary to report it as such to the customs. But gossip spreads, and the next day I received a little note from the collector of customs asking me to go to Dunedin and see him. I did so, and found in the room my friend of the previous morning. The collector, who was a very nice man, liked and respected by every one, told me he had heard I had had a casualty on the outward passage, and had not reported it. I replied that I did not consider there had been a casualty and therefore no need to report anything, as the damage was slight and to be easily repaired. Upon this the engineer broke out that he considered there had been a casualty and “What did I know about it anyway?” This elicited the reply from me, as I considered under extreme provocation, that “I had a steam certificate and he had not.” This closed the conversation and I was not further molested. How it was finally settled I really forget, but my engineer opponent and I were afterwards very good friends. I write of this incident because I have frequently been put to considerable trouble by Custom House officials who have pressed for unnecessary details, and in fact have told me that if even so small a thing as a piston-spring breaks it should be entered in the official log as a casualty, but this I always stoutly refused to do, claiming in this a reasonable amount of discretion. And again, in colonial ports a ship’s name is nearly as delicate as that of a woman, and as easily damaged. A report of a casualty at the Custom House is good copy for every newspaper reporter that can get hold of it, embellishing what may have happened with every fanciful idea that it can possibly bear. There is yet a graver aspect in which this subject may be viewed—it reduces the discretionary power of the master of the ship, and that appeared to me to be a thing quite worth fighting for.

During the remainder of our stay in New Zealand we went the round of the big ports and left Wellington finally for home. I find that I had not adopted then a high southern route to the Horn, for although we made an average speed of 13½ knots we did not make a good passage to Rio. We passed the Horn, however, in broad daylight and I came to the conclusion that there were several matters connected with hydrographical details that would be better for being looked into. The old stagers had gone on their way accepting everything on the chart for granted. I was navigating so far as I could to learn. Here is a case in point. I was passing Cape Horn at what I believed to be a mile’s distance. I took the danger angle at its recorded height and immediately hauled out, for the angle put us apparently too close in, and I could trust my eyes. That was jotted down for future investigation, as were my compass deviations nearing the Horn, which, if the variation lines on the chart were correct, I could not account for. We made the passage home under forty days total or thirty-eight days actual steaming time, but I hoped we should some day do a great deal better than that. We were given a fair spell at home this time, for there was a lot to put in order, and as it happened our collision case had to be tried. I did not like the ordeal, nor do I think I came well out of it. We lost the case, but not one word of fault-finding was said to me. About this time Sir W. Pearce commenced to take more interest in the Company and various changes began to manifest themselves, but they did not at that time detract in any way from the efficiency of the ship or cause any inconvenience.

On our next voyage we started with the best of luck and made a fine passage out to Santa Cruz. We had on board a great number of single women emigrants, who were berthed right aft in the ship, and were really in charge of the matron and the doctor. I was not supposed to have anything to do with them, save inspect their quarters once a day, and to settle differences if the matron and doctor could not do so. On more voyages than this one it happened that the said matron and doctor would goad the women into rebellion over some trifle, and when they had become unmanageable would send for me to put matters straight. I had learned by experience that you could lead a crowd like that by dint of a little judicious humbug, but drive them you could not. By the time I had sat and talked for ten minutes, the row was always over, but it was necessarily at the sacrifice of some apparent or fancied dignity on the part of the officials in direct charge of them. Scarcely to be wondered at, for matrons are given rather to domineer, and young doctors mostly are green as cabbages outside their own particular job.

There was one other event on this voyage. I had been permitted to select my own chief officer, and I induced a man to come with me who had been third in the African—Tom East—the son of Quartermain East of Claimant fame. He was of the bulldog breed, a good sailor, a good officer, and loyal to the heart’s core. We had disagreements at times, but we liked and respected one another, and when the separation came it was with mutual regret. Further, I grieve to say he has now joined the majority. Half the trouble is lifted from the shoulders of the master if he has a chief he can rely upon to carry out his orders. For if the master’s voice is heard at all, it should be a clear intimation that the attention of every one is called for, and that the ordinary routine is departed from.

Two days out from Santa Cruz we lost a propeller blade, and we consequently waggled down to the Cape at reduced speed, thankful that we encountered no really bad weather, for we were only making about eleven knots to the hour. On arriving at Cape Town we went alongside the outer jetty and made arrangements with a diver to take off the broken blade and put on a spare one. I was assured that the operation was practicable, and that it had been successfully done in other similar cases. It did not strike me, however, as looking very promising. In just under a day and a half the job was done for what it was worth. I knew it was a risk, but desired to save the expense of dry docking the ship. On the other hand, I should not have been justified in taking the ship from a place of safety with a damaged propeller, so the course adopted I hoped would prove the happy compromise. In this I was mistaken, for ten days afterwards the new blade dropped off altogether. By that time we were half way to Wellington with a nice fair wind and, by easing the engines considerably, could make very fair running. In point of fact, in spite of our mishaps our average speed for the entire distance was 12·94 knots, and the steaming time was forty-one and a half days. We went south to Lyttleton in due course and were again put into working order, but there was not much time given us in the country, for in less than a fortnight we were on the track again for home, the round trip taking three months and six days. By this time I was getting acclimatised to the surroundings down south, and was making shorter cuts to Cape Horn each passage. On this particular occasion, although it was the depth of the Antarctic winter and a little ice was seen, we had fine fair winds. Every one concerned was delighted with the ship, and the passage home was made in a total time of thirty-seven days nine hours, or steaming time of thirty-six days four hours—an average speed of 13·3 with the freezing engines all working. To deal with this matter once for all it may be said that her best passage out was thirty-nine days eight hours total time.

No pains were spared on my part to make the ship as fine a specimen of a first-class steamer as possible, and it was always a matter of certainty that when we arrived in port we should be the best-looking ship there. By a little contriving I had succeeded in getting dummy yards made for the mizzen mast. They were only used in port, and they came down with the Blue Peter when we started on homeward passages, for although they were used once or twice in London, it was never possible to do the ship’s appearance justice with no proper crew on board her. On the other hand, in colonial ports that matter had my special attention, and I so impressed my views upon the officers that in time they had as keen an eye as myself for a slack rope or a yard not quite square. I have reason to know that this peculiarity of the ship was noticed on all sides, and only quite recently I got a letter on business from a complete stranger who reminded me incidentally that he had seen the ship years ago and recalled her appearance and her smartness.

Things at times go very wrong even with the best intention, as the following case will illustrate. The Governor of New Zealand was then Sir William Jervois, an officer who had served his country in many ways with great distinction. One day in Lyttleton he accepted an invitation to come and see the ship and to lunch on board. I was very keen upon doing the thing in first-rate style, so, having two Naval Reserve officers and a crew of Reserve men, it seemed to me that we might turn out a decent Guard of Honour. My second officer was given charge of that business, for I knew that he was well up in his drill. We borrowed the arms and the men were very decently turned out. When his Excellency came on board there was a decent “present,” the Governor’s flag was broken at the main, and all went very gaily, the lunch was excellent and every one was pleased, but here was disaster. Many ladies and townspeople had come on board as visitors and were chattering gaily with the officer of the guard, who had let his men disperse for dinner or stand easy. The Governor rather suddenly rose from the table to depart, and before my officer again got his men together, the necessity for them had departed. I do not think that I ever felt quite so angry, but a sense of the ridiculous reduced the feeling to some sarcastic remarks that I should not have liked to be the recipient of. His Excellency, however, in no way remarked upon the incident, but I doubt not he enjoyed a quiet laugh at the contretemps. He was uniformly kind to me, and I entertain a grateful remembrance of hospitality and courtesy displayed to me and mine by Lady Jervois and himself.

About this time the late Admiral Sir George Tryon, K.C.B., was Commander-in-Chief on the Australian station, and his was a personality to be remembered. He was good enough to treat me with a great amount of consideration, and indeed went out of his way to encourage a growth of good feeling between the Royal Navy and the Merchant Service. I saw a good deal of him, and so far as I could discern he made no distinction between me and one of his own captains. I think I may truly say that it was mainly the intercourse with him which turned my mind to a study of naval matters, and caused me to write the various papers I have on the possibilities of war service by merchant steamers.

This was just after the Pendjeh war scare, when a Russian cruiser had turned up most unexpectedly at Wellington. My ship had been taken by Government, but for some reason was returned, and the Coptic was taken in her place. There was some little trouble in getting the crew of that ship to take war risks, but having mustered my men and put the question to them, they agreed to a man to do as I did. With that assurance I went to call on the Governor to ask him to requisition my ship, but for some reason unknown to me it was not done, much to my disappointment.

They were a splendid lot of officers on board the flagship H.M.S. Nelson, but a matter of thirty years makes a great clearance. It is not so very long, however, since I met a man who reminded me of an incident concerning a lot of them who, having been to a ball, had come on board my ship to put up for the night, and wanted to know what I could do to amuse them. I had then on board as guests two parsons, one of whom was the Rev. Eliot Chambers, an old navy man himself, so I replied that there were two parsons on board and they were at liberty to draw them if they pleased. Chambers heard this, slipped out of bed and bolted his door, but the other fellow was fetched out in scant attire to join the general revelry, and a very pleasant time it was.

The flag captain was Atwell Lake, now an admiral, and he was a tireless talker. One evening General Sir George Whitmore, who was commanding in New Zealand, invited two members of the Government, Lake and myself, to dine with him, and a very fine dinner he gave us too. But Sir George was also a tireless talker, and I fancy that Lake went there prepared to vanquish him at the game, for he started to talk at the commencement of dinner, kept us all interested, and Sir George never got a word in edgeways the whole of the time.

It must not be supposed that during the Russian war scare New Zealand was altogether unprepared. There were both forts and mine fields, and the latter were very well equipped. As for the forts, they had been constructed, I believe, under the directions of Sir W. Jervois himself, who was a skilled engineer, though, as I happened to know, he and the naval commander-in-chief held different estimates as to their specific value. At various times I think I went over nearly all of those forts with Sir George Whitmore, and formed the impression that the material was excellent, for they seemed to have ordered the best of everything. On one occasion, some years afterwards, I was visiting the forts at Otago Heads in company with the then Minister of Defence, afterwards the Right Hon. Richard Seddon, and this seems a fit place to give an anecdote quite characteristic of the man. The officer commanding expressed a wish to have another gun mounted in a particular place that he pointed out. After some demur Seddon agreed to give this, but said the Government could not afford luxuries. Some one chipped in with “That’s what the Daily —— says about you having a special train to go from —— to ——.” “Oh,” replied Seddon; “they say that, do they? Well, in future I will have a special train a great deal oftener than I have done.” He quite understood the way to deal with his fellow-countrymen, and most of them admired him immensely for his sheer dominating personality.

The social clubs in the principal towns were great institutions and of most hospitable tendencies the whole time that I was in the mail service. I was free of them all as an honorary member, and it seems to me rather a pity that we do not reciprocate this hospitality to any great extent when colonial visitors come to London. There is, of course, reciprocity between certain clubs all the world over, but generally speaking it is a difficult matter to obtain for a colonial friend in this country. The Fernhill, Northern, Wellington, Canterbury and Christchurch clubs were most kind, and I have pleasant memories of them all. Perhaps the last named appealed to me more than any, but then Christchurch itself was the most English place I ever set foot in. It had evolved its own atmosphere, habits and customs. There was also another famous institution known as “Coker’s Hotel.” Here the personality of the proprietor was decidedly an asset, and Jack Coker was liked and respected by every one with whom he came in contact. He had been a sailor, I think an old man-of-war’s man, but had the instinct of good breeding which made him welcome in any company. I remember on one occasion there had been a great ball in Christchurch given to the officers of the Australian squadron. Many of them were staying at Coker’s, and when we returned in the early hours he was chaired in recognition of something he had done by two post captains, a first lieutenant and myself, and as he expressed it afterwards, “It was the proudest moment of my life, but a little bit risky,” and it was. But there was a homelike atmosphere in that hotel which I have never found elsewhere, and which disappeared with the man who had created it.

There was an incident connected with a dinner to celebrate the inception of the Midland Railway which is noteworthy in the light of recent events and would no longer be possible. The function was held on October 21, and I was called upon to respond to the toast of the Navy, having had due notice of what was expected of me. I did so in some sort of fashion, but when I went to lunch on board my ship the next day, my chief observed in his plain-spoken way that I had made a nice mess of it the preceding evening. “How?” I asked. “It was the anniversary of Trafalgar,” he said, “and you didn’t mention it.” It is well to remember that a similar lapse would no longer be possible, for through the genius of Arnold White in suggesting that a wreath should be laid on the Nelson Columns on Trafalgar day, and the efforts of the Navy League in giving effect to the idea, the event is now celebrated from one end of the empire to the other. Certainly there is no child in New Zealand to-day ignorant of the fact that October 21 is Trafalgar day, and attaches due importance to it accordingly.

It was rather the fashion both in Australia and New Zealand about this period to take great interest in anything that resembled a race between two well-known steamers. In fact it reminded me of Mark Twain’s stories of racing on the Mississippi. There were two vessels on the coast about the speeds of which all sorts of tales were told. One was the Takapuna, an express vessel carrying the mail from Wellington to Auckland via the west coast; the other was the Rotomahana, a beautiful vessel built by Denny’s and credited with a speed of seventeen knots. At all events she was supposed to be the fastest thing on the coast and I dare say was. But we in the Kaikoura had rather an idea that we could do a bit of steaming on a pinch, and so it came to pass that these two ships were lying in Wellington harbour one fine afternoon both bound to Lyttelton and to sail about the same time. The idea of racing had not entered my head at the time of my leaving the wharf, and as lookers-on said afterwards, “I went down the middle of the harbour as usual with a leadsman in both chains.” That was chaff, of course, but I never cut corners unduly fine. On this particular occasion the Rotomahana left a short time after me, and to my astonishment came and squeezed in between me and the first turning point. She was crowded with passengers going down to Christchurch races, and they howled at us in derision, holding up rope ends and offering us a tow if we wanted one. We had started under easy steam, as was usual in coasting, and we had in fact been overhauled very quickly, but the indignity of the proceeding rather vexed me, so I sent for my chief engineer, and pointed out that it was not desirable we should be made a laughing-stock of. He replied that he “supposed it was to be Elder (meaning Fairfield) against Denny,” to which I assented, and he went below, but I shall always hold the opinion that there had been some talk on shore between the rival engineers. Be that as it may, the lead the Rotomahana had got by this time did not increase, but she still ostentatiously trailed her coat. There was no doubt under ordinary steaming conditions our then rival was the faster ship, for she had far greater horse-power proportionately than we, but on this occasion she had a full load of cargo and we were flying light. Our displacement, in fact, was inconsiderable, and as the water was smooth as a mill pond, it was equal to having our horse-power in a vessel half our size. To make a long story short, we let my ship go and we simply raced past our friend Rotomahana, got to Lyttelton an hour and a half to the good, and were safely moored and piped down before she got into dock. The race caused a good deal of comment, for the result was surprising. Every one did not see that we owed the win to being light, and having the luck of smooth water, but the fact remained that we had the fastest run between those ports to our credit for many years, until H.M.S. Orlando took it away from us. The captain of the Rotomahana was a very splendid skipper named Cary. He had done numbers of fine things on the coast, and was commonly spoken of by a somewhat fiery sobriquet. I was informed that he did not like his beating, but he was not the first challenger to fail.

I had two outbreaks of fire which deserve to be chronicled. One happened at sea and the other in harbour. On the first occasion it was midway between New Zealand and Cape Horn when it was reported to me that one of the coal bunkers was on fire. It gave me a nasty sensation for a moment, but it was night time, no fuss was made, and a few hours put an end to the trouble. It tires me to hear men talk about the bad behaviour of British merchant seamen in emergencies of this sort. It is my experience that, except during periods of strike or general labour unrest, you can do anything with them.

The next fire was a more serious matter, for there were complications which made the matter more difficult. It is a most excellent maxim to keep on good terms with the port authorities wherever you may be, but occasionally you come across personalities with whom smooth working is impossible. The port captain at Lyttelton had on one occasion fallen foul of my second officer, who was carrying out some order I had given him, and my man had retorted in language perhaps more forcible than polite. That was, strictly speaking, quite wrong, although natural, for all my people knew quite well that though I exercised the right of free speech to them, I did not permit any one else to do so, and was always ready to take their part if it were necessary. In this case the port captain complained to the head office in Christchurch, and I received a letter written by the order of the directors instructing me to severely reprimand the officer in question for his unguarded language to the port official. I regret that I have destroyed that correspondence, for I remember replying to the directors that I had carried out their instructions, but that the “cavalry forms of speech” indulged in on both sides had not originated with my ship, and so the incident closed with a rankling remembrance on the part of the port captain, and a sort of civis Romanus sum feeling on the part of my ship’s company.

Well, one Sunday evening in Lyttelton harbour we had just finished dinner when East came to me and reported that there was a big fire in the forward coal bunker, and that the refrigerating-room bulkhead was very hot. We were to sail for home in three days, we were coaled up, and had on board a large quantity of frozen meat stowed in the immediate vicinity of the seat of the fire. I shall never be sufficiently thankful that it was my habit to spend Sundays on board, for had I not been there it would have been very awkward. Without any fuss we got the pumps to work. The men, being fortunately most on board, fell quickly into their places, and having put an officer in the gangway to prevent any one coming on board, I thought things were in a fairly satisfactory condition. But about this time two things happened. One was the advent on the scene of the port captain, who demanded admittance, which upon consideration I could not well refuse, for, as he argued, you don’t start pumps on a Sunday evening unless there is something the matter. The other occurrence was the intimation that the deck of the second saloon was getting hot and smoking. The port captain wished to summon the local fire brigade and take charge; to this proposal I would not listen, but said I would accept the services of his tug-boat’s pump if she could come alongside, which in course of time she did. By this time it was known in Christchurch that something was wrong, but as there were no trains running so late on Sunday, the Company’s manager, Mr. Bennett, made, I believe, record time over the hills down to Lyttelton, arriving in time to see the end of it all.

Underneath the wooden deck of the second saloon was a steel one which was now red hot, and flames were showing. My endeavour was to pierce the steel deck so as to get water directly upon the fire, but this was rather difficult, and for one awful moment the idea flashed across me, “You have refused help. Is the job going to beat you?” Now H.M.S. Rapid was in port, and Lieut. Sparks, R.N., her first lieutenant, a friend of mine, was, I knew, in command at that time. To him I dispatched my second officer to ask that he would send me means to blow a hole through the deck. Like the good fellow he was he did exactly what I asked, no more and no less, for it would have been easy for him to have gained a lot of kudos had he done more than I asked. He sent his gunner and a cake or two of gun cotton, and with that in reserve I knew it would be all right. As it turned out we did not need it, for the carpenters had managed to get through the steel, and we were then able to put a heavy flow of water right in the heart of the fire, and our troubles were soon over.

My fellows had worked splendidly—Clifford, the third officer, going into such an atmosphere of smoke and heat in the endeavour to get a hose to bear on the flames, that I had to order him to desist, and he was dragged up by a rope that was fast round his waist. No set of officers and men could have given a better performance, for by midnight the fire was entirely subdued, and the damage done was confined to some twisted steel decks and woodwork that could be repaired before it was time to sail for home. The directors caused a letter to be written thanking me and the officers for our exertions, and sending a sum of money to be divided between those men of the ship’s company who were actually employed in putting the fire out.

On the succeeding voyage to Lyttelton my friend the port captain tried to induce the Company to make me appear before a Harbour Board tribunal, at which matters concerning the line of action I had taken were to be inquired into, but the Company said they were not intending to play that game, and as the powers that were were equally anxious to avoid any unpleasantness, no more was heard of the affair. I suppose that technically I was wrong, for a ship in port is to some extent under the orders of the local authorities. But I was always very jealous of any attempt to encroach upon my prerogative as “master.” It is a very fine designation and title, but to my mind it carries with it the obligation to maintain its meaning. I was never particularly anxious to take the courtesy title of captain which is commonly assumed on shore by those in charge of merchantmen. Mr. ——, master s.s. ——, looks quite well enough on a visiting card.

In this same year 1889 I was asked to attend a meeting of the Hobart Chamber of Commerce in order that I might receive the thanks of the Chamber for taking my ship alongside the Dunn Street pier. It reminded me somewhat of an old Mexican episode. A most flattering resolution was passed and I was congratulated upon the fact that the light on the western land I had advocated seven years previously was now actually in course of construction. That sort of thing was gratifying, although no special merit attached to my action, for the pier was large enough to accommodate a far larger ship than mine was.

Among the intimates that I had in New Zealand was Captain Edwin, R.N., the meteorologist, who resided in Wellington. We had many tastes in common, for he was one of the old school and had learned his business thoroughly, commencing with the bombardment of Sebastopol, at which time he was serving as a midshipman in the Albion, and his stories of the bluejackets of the period, of fights between the men on the lower deck, of men, when dying of cholera, asking an officer to hold their hands, these and other matters were graphic in the extreme. As a specimen of his powers as a raconteur the following is an extract from one of his letters to me— “By the bye, I had a curious dream lately; I had departed this life and found myself covered with feathers and fitted with a pair of three folding wings like an albatross, and was outward bound; being not used to flying, and off my first letter, I did not get on very well; and found I was putting my tail too hard over, which frequently brought me broadside on. After a while I settled down, but made rather heavy weather of it; and a lot of clipper chaps passed me on the way. When I had been out about a month, I heard a fellow coming up astern, and before long he hailed me and it turned out to be you: ‘Hullo, Crutchley,’ said I; ‘where are you bound?’ ‘Gabriel for orders,’ said you. ‘Same here,’ said I; and we flapped along together. After a good while we saw a faint sort of pale light ahead and you remarked that you thought we were running into ice; after some time we made out that it looked like a fog bank, with a bright place in it, and on coming nearer we saw that in this bright part there was a high gate, so we eased down and worked our tails a little so as to be sure we had everything in readiness; for not being accustomed to being up under feathers we were a little anxious; all, however, went well and we both perched on the gate in a masterly style and folded our wings very neatly. We had no sooner landed, so to speak, when a bell rang twice, and immediately a voice hailed us and asked who we were; when we had replied, the voice said: ‘Tell the Recorder that two fellows have come for orders!’ Presently we heard someone say, ‘What name was it? Ah! yes: I see; Crutchley, Master Mariner, Lieutenant Naval Reserve, rather bad style both. Dear me! Dreadful record! I am afraid he must go on. Who did you say the other fellow was? Edwin: I have him! Why, dear me! This is very sad! Naval officer, and bad at that; send him on at once!’ So then we heard the first one hail us. ‘Outside there! You Crutchley! Edwin! Go round by the left immediately.’ But we didn’t see it, being sailormen and willing to contest the point; so we called out that we wanted a rest, being very tired and thirsty—could they not let us come inside and sit down for a while? (you see, that gate was not good holding ground), but a loud voice said, ‘Go away! be off immediately! We shall have others here to deal with directly.’ But we held on; presently a long pole came out of the fog and proceeded to shove us off and in so doing gave us some pretty hard knocks. Still we held on; but at last we each got a most awful punch with the pole end which made us let go, and we so far forgot ourselves as to say cuss words; whereupon there came a clap of thunder and we found ourselves tumbling about anyhow. When we got way upon us again and could see, we found that my starboard wing was singed and that the feathers on your head were badly burned. We consulted what to do, and as we could only just see the light we knew that we must have been blown a long way off shore; we therefore decided to work up to it again, and though we flapped our level best and tried all we knew, we could not rise the light at all and had to give it up. We then noticed that we seemed to be in a strong set, for the light was broad away on the starboard bow, while on the port bow there was a reddish glow which made us feel rather creepy, and we both remarked that we had got into a kind of haze which had a sort of burnt powdery smell. We saw the white light dip, but it comforted us a bit to see that the other did not get any redder—we kept ourselves under easy speed with a bright look-out all round, and to make all sure, one of us wore ship every hour, just dropping a little to leeward and coming up again. Time went by slowly, but we didn’t care about making much headway ‘to the left,’ and at last we sighted something moving, and carefully edged down on it in open order. As we got nearer we saw it had wings and we made it out to be a hoary old chap of a decidedly Egyptian head, but there was no mistaking him, for he was a real true blue old sailorman by the way he worked his wings, which showed he had been a long time afloat, and we could not but admire his style. As we came up he sheered off, but we were one on each side of him and had evidently plenty of wing power in reserve, so he stopped and took a long pull at a bottle that he hauled out from under his port wing and then hove a deep sigh. Now the sight of that bottle did us good and we hailed him, saying that if he didn’t want it all we should be glad of a drop, for we had come a long way; he looked at us compassionately and shook his head: ‘No such luck,’ says he; ‘why, I’ve been sucking this bottle for nigh on to four thousand years and can’t get a drop out of it! Though it seems to be good stuff, too! But there,’ says he, ‘that’s your job.’ He was a pleasant old fellow and was telling us that he commanded a squadron of war boats on the African Lakes under King Rameses the First, and was just deploring the degeneracy of the seamen of the present day, when he suddenly said, ‘Here comes the Old Man,’ and the way he spread his wings was a sight to see.”

There was one incident that may be set down here as worthy of notice. It relates to the period of unrest that was manifest in the maritime world both at home and oversea in the year 1889. Some portion of that time we were in New Zealand, and so far as we were concerned the affair culminated in the port of Lyttelton. On August 31 I had arranged for a dinner-party in the evening, but an urgent message came down from Christchurch that I was to attend a consultation at the head office that evening at eight o’clock. The strike at that time was in full swing, and the previous day we had seen officers leaving one of the Union Company’s ships owing to the pressure brought to bear on them by the men. They did, however, leave the masters of all vessels unmolested. By great good fortune my wife happened to be making that voyage by the courtesy of the directors, so that I could leave my chief to do the honours to my guests, and the lady to represent me. When I got to the office the matter for discussion was whether we could get the ship away to her date in spite of the labour troubles, and to that I gave an unhesitating affirmative, provided that I was allowed to manage the matter in my own way. This was on the Sunday evening, and with that understanding we separated. Monday passed by, so did Tuesday, with varying incidents, and as I did not leave the ship I formed the view that the next day might see trouble, so I was up very early. I knew we were ready for a move in the engine-room, and that my only chance lay in a surprise. The Company’s manager and myself were walking the quarter deck, off which was the only gangway, when a fireman came along and was going on shore, when I stopped him, and forbade him leaving the ship. He wanted to know why he could not go, and was told no one could leave the ship. That, of course, let the cat out of the bag, but I was prepared and they were not, so with the help of the officers we kept the crew on board until we got into the stream, where they soon found themselves, much to their disgust. To this they gave somewhat free expression, the firemen being the most aggrieved. There was one gratifying thing about it all. One of the quartermasters, a man that had been with me many years, and that I had rescued once from a painful ending with the help of another man, came to me surreptitiously and said he was asked by our men to say that if there was trouble with the firemen I had only to say the word and they would take them on and give them a hiding. This made me laugh, but there was no more trouble and we sailed to time next day. That time when we arrived in London we had to get the ship loaded as best we could, the officers driving winches and hydraulic cranes. It was then that the rumour was spread that John Burns was coming down with a crowd of dockers to stop the work, but fortunately the rumours were never crystallised, and I know that the ship’s reputation at this time facilitated greatly the task of getting a crew for the next voyage.