U.S.S. Pensacola, 1875*

Writing this in my seventy-eighth year and glancing backward, I am constrained to say that the amount of time that has been wasted in my life is an extraordinary indictment. Yet, after all, I was living, going about, traveling, finding people, places. One can get a lot out of life just by looking at it. The things one sees are amazing, especially when old man Wanderlust has one in his power and leads him, as he did me, fifty-seven years ago, in search of material for this story of adventure, and when my own thrilling experience with the terrors of the ocean came to me in the North Pacific. I was then functioning as “Ship’s Writer” on board the United States flagship Pen­sacola, bearing the flag of Rear Admiral John J. Almy, and under command of Captain Bancroft Gherardi.

With a battery of eighteen 9-inch, two 11-inch, and one 6-inch Dahlgren muzzle­-loading guns, of a type now obsolete, and having a complement of officers and crew ranging around 500, the Pensacola at this period in our naval history was deemed a first-class man-of-war. The ship had been recently placed in commission (November, 1874) after what was believed to have been a most thorough overhauling. However, in view of the disaster about to be nar­rated, it may be relevant to add that this “overhauling” which occurred at the Mare Island Navy Yard, took place at a date prior to the placing of navy yard employees in the classified civil service, and on the eve of a general election, so that quite a number of precinct captains and ward heelers were having their services re­quited by being placed on the navy yard pay rolls, and thus they took part in this overhauling, their zeal, if any, being con­fined to listening for the signal to cease work. True, after having been placed in commission, the Pensacola was given an apparently rigid inspection by a board of officers convened for that purpose, but this inspection, occurring in a landlocked harbor and in fair weather, failed to dis­close the defect in her rigging which subsequently came so near to wrecking the ship in mid-ocean.

Toward the end of January, 1875, sail­ing orders were received which directed that the Pensacola drop down to San Fran­cisco, receive on board King David Kalakaua of Hawaii, who had been on a visit to President Ulysses S. Grant, and convey him home to Honolulu. As to these “sail­ing orders,” although the Pensacola was termed a steamship, her bunker capacity was so limited that, for an extended voy­age such as this, sail power was her main dependence, steam being employed only when leaving or entering port, and for distilling drinking water while at sea.

Accordingly, in the bay of San Fran­cisco, we received on board, with royal honors (which comprised manning of the yards, a salute of twenty-one guns, and raising at the main truck the royal stand­ard of Hawaii while our band played the national air of that country), his dusky majesty and his entourage, he being ac­companied by his kinsmen, John O. Dominis and John M. Kapena, Governors, respectively, of the Islands of Oahu and Maui. Another passenger was a soldier of fortune, named Sternberger, en route to Samoa to negotiate a treaty with the na­tives, under an appointment by President Grant.

Among their personal effects, and with­out any attempt at present-day camou­flage or concealment, they brought along enough champagne in baskets and other liquors in cases to have fairly well met the requirements of a convention of Shriners. And this occurring long prior to the advent of Josephus Daniels and the code of blue laws which he wrote into the naval regulations, the officers of the Pensacola, as befitted hosts to royalty, had them­selves been somewhat zealous in assem­bling further vintages suited to the occa­sion. For Kalakaua was nothing if not a bon vivant. He was, moreover, a real Beau Brummell for clothes, which he certainly wore with an air of distinction. Indeed, with his carefully trimmed “Burnside” whiskers, he was a veritable replica, in mahogany, of our former White House fashion plate, the late Chester A. Arthur. After thus featuring him as every inch a King is with some reluctance that I now chronicle the fact that one night after eleven o’clock, on this voyage to Honolulu, when it came time for the King to be put to bed, he was found missing; some of the watch were detailed to make a search with lanterns but were unable to locate him; finally, it occurred to someone to open the door of the Admiral’s office, where, to the great relief of his hosts, Kalakaua was discovered in a chair, with his feet on a desk, sleeping off what to­day would be spoken of as a royal jag!

The voyage to Honolulu began on the afternoon of January 27, 1875. For four days after we had cleared the Farallones nothing of consequence befell. Everyone appeared light-hearted, “all went merry as a marriage bell,” and, yes, there actually was “a sound of revelry by night,” re­calling that line in Hamlet, “the King holds wassail tonight.”

However, at about four bells in the morning watch on the fifth day out of San Francisco, while in my hammock on the berth deck, I was awakened by a crash of falling timbers, accompanied by an unusually heavy listing of the ship. Al­most at the same instant there ensued the silvery shrill pipings of the boatswain’s summons, followed by the hoarse and ap­palling cry of “All Hands Save Ship!” It was a distinct shock, like the sudden alarm stouter fellows than I feel when the cry of “Fire” is raised aboard a crowded ship. In an instant I had slipped into my shoes and trousers and rushed up on the spar deck.

It was raining hard, a gale was blow­ing, and the ship was rolling heavily. It would be difficult to portray a scene, as it at first seemed to me, of greater con­fusion. My first impression, as I hurriedly took in the situation, was a keen sense of the vastness and desolation of the sea. The surges tumbled in silver over the blue folds of the solemn-breathing, northward­trending swell and the trembling winds created that harp-like singing among the rigging, which ordinarily I had listened to with indifference but now seemed for just one moment of o’ermastering gloom, to be sounding a dirge. That is really how badly scared I was! Like any average landsman having his first contact with the terrors of the sea, I was stiffened all over, my hair stood up, my heart thumped so that it hurt me, and my feet were stone cold. Yet, this panicky feeling left me al­most instantly as I viewed the intelligent discipline, the energy and zeal displayed, every man at his appointed station carry­ing out the trumpeted directions of the executive officer. Everything seemed to be done at once with the sort of will that is found in seamen strong in numbers, proud of their ship, and rivals in watches. But, even with all hands remaining on the job, it was near sunset when the wreckage was finally cleared up.

The main mast had broken in two about half way from the deck; it had fallen over into the sea, bringing down with it the maintopsail yard, and had also carried along the fore and mizzen topgallant masts. The great weight of all this timber, with that of the canvas carried on the main and maintopsail yards, together with the cordage and rigging involved, hung over the ship’s side until disentangled and salvaged by the crew.

The disaster was found directly at­tributable to the parting of the maintopmast backstay, not properly set up at the time of the “overhauling” at the Mare Island Navy Yard, and it was considered providential that the psychological mo­ment for demonstrating this did not occur in the middle of the night.

I was one of those members of the ship’s company to whom the term “idler” is applied, because of being exempted from standing any watch on deck and not ex­pected to know how to “turn in a dead- eye” or “pass an earing,” but in this grave emergency I had to pull and haul on ropes for the first and only occasion during the entire cruise. And thus I did my bit with so much zeal that my delicate hands, accustomed only to penpushing, remained calloused for a week.

Further repair work ensued, and about a week later we steamed into the harbor of Honolulu, with the royal standard of Hawaii floating from a jury maintopmast rigged to replace the lofty spar at whose peak it had waved when the ship sailed from California.

At the date of our arrival at Honolulu there was an impending “Transit of Venus,” one of those extremely rare as­tronomical phenomena of absorbing in­terest to scientists, and it so happened that the island of Oahu was deemed the world’s finest focal point for witnessing the spectacle and recording the attendant data. This had led to filling the harbor with warships sent for that purpose by Great Britain, France, Germany, Italy, Austria, Denmark, and even little Hol­land. These had all “dressed ship” in honor of the King, and were spick and span from stem to stern, in marked contrast to our crippled state, greatly to the chagrin of our Old Man. With their yards manned and all seven of these foreign warships simultaneously firing a salute of twenty- one guns, and the entire population as­sembled on the near-by wharves shouting their heads off, it was assuredly a royal welcome. Conformably to their traditions and as evincing loyalty to Kalakaua, the natives had brought with them gifts of fruits, flowers, vegetables, fowls, and pigs in great abundance. The bulk of these foodstuffs was donated by the King to the crew of the Pensacola as an apprecia­tion of their fine seamanship in bringing him safely home. And, as the gobs of that period were not pampered like those of today, it was quite a treat.

Our ship made an extended stay at Honolulu. There was a great charm about the place in those days of its comparative isolation; the hybrid foreign clement of today had not yet materialized. Byron’s lines, “where all, save the spirit of man, is divine,” could at that period have been not inaptly bestowed upon the entire Hawaiian group.

To relieve the monotony, a dozen of us among the crew organized a minstrel troupe, sending to the mainland for such playbooks and paraphernalia as would meet our requirements, and rehearsing with such secrecy as might be afforded by a screened off section between decks. Then, when it was felt that each member of the troupe was letter-perfect in his work, we made our debut on the quarter­deck where with the aid of bunting and spare canvas an al fresco stage had been improvised. To witness this premiere the King and cabinet, a few foreign consuls and the editor of the pioneer newspaper were invited. We opened with the regula­tion black-face first part, the preset scribe being assigned the job of interlocutor, or “middle man.”

This was followed by an olio comprising several of what are now designated as vaudeville turns. Among them was a sketch in two scenes entitled “The Chinese Employment Office.” I wrote the script or it, as I had seen it produced in San Francisco by Joe Murphy, a popular comedian. In this sketch, “I did enact” (as Polonius says to Hamlet) the Protean Part of Shiner who, in the first scene was a bootblack and in the second scene was Shi Ner, proprietor of the Intelligence Of­fice. In that second scene I wore a pig-tail wig, celestial pyjamas, and goggles, and I spilled quite a lot of pidgin allee samee me no sabe talkee talkee. To use the phraseology of the profession, I got a big hand.

The editor and others among the in­vited guests proved enthusiastic press agents and, as a result of their unstinted praise of our histrionics, we were asked to repeat the performance ashore at the Royal Hawaiian Opera House. Accordingly, we billed the town and played to an appreciative overflow house, the “cate” netting about $800. It was deemed advisable to eliminate from the program “The Chinese Employment Office” for fear that it might prove offensive to the Chinese merchants who were very prominent.

As soon as the house had been emptied and we had removed the burnt cork and grease paint from our faces, we hurried to the box office and made an equal division of the receipts. Then we disbanded as a Thespian outfit and resolved ourselves into a poker club. Availing ourselves of a 48-hour shore leave, we had acquired an option on a patio connected with a cafe operated by a former British man-of-war’s man, the sign over whose establishment bore the legend “Licensed Victualler,” thus making it 100 per cent English. It was ideal for our purpose and we made a bee me for it. Anchoring ourselves at two 6-seat tables, in the open air, under an arbor the care-free dozen were soon en­gaged in a contest which was to determine a survival of the fittest. Eliminating those unfortunates who were “froze out” at earlier stages of the game, four of us re­mained anchored there until the end of our shore leave drew nigh. We had had our meals and fortifying beverages brought to us so that there might be no interruption to this hectic contest, a sort of forerunner to the many present-day tests of endur­ance! For once in a blue moon, Lady Luck abided with me till the end, and I was one of the four survivors who returned aboard ship with a roll of box-office dollars in my possession.

One day, while I was on shore leave, I struck up an acquaintance with a rather comely Kanaka maiden, attired in a neat Mother Hubbard gown of that period, possessed of a smattering of English and exhibiting in quite an ingenuous and coy fashion a willingness to be nice to me. We strolled along the suburbs where there was a swimming pool, into which a miniature waterfall was descending. It looked very inviting and, this being in the mid-after­noon of a rather sultry day, I fell in with the suggestion of my companion that we take a bath. When we had been in the water for a brief moment, she espied a fish, about 5 inches in length, and, making a graceful dive, actually succeeded in capturing the fish, coming up to the sur­face and holding it in one hand. Then, treading water, and indicating her pride over the astonishing feat, she proceeded to bite into the squirming fish and to cat it! For me, it was what might be referred to as an “embarrassing moment.” But, without further ceremony, I made a quick get-away, for, to paraphrase the words of Bret Harte, “the subsequent proceedings interested me no more.”

Among the occasional theatrical troupes en route to or from the antipodes, with Honolulu as a port of call, was one which presented a musical comedy at the local opera house. When leaving for Australia, their liner steamed out of the harbor at night. The moon was shining brightly, there wasn’t a breath of air nor a ripple on the water, and, as they approached our anchorage, their skipper slowed down to barely steerage way. The entire personnel of the troupe were assembled on the after deck and, as their ship passed abreast of us, they burst into song. They were sere­nading us! And what a thrill they gave us; they were rendering “Larboard Watch,” a melody with a powerful ap­peal for seafaring chaps, and especially so was the almost plaintive refrain,

But who can tell, the joy he feels,

As o’er the foam his vessel reels,

And his tired eyelids slumbering fall,

Pie rouses at the welcome call,

Larboard Watch, Larboard Watch,

LARBOARD WATCH

LARBOARD WATCH AHOY!

They may not have realized it, but that troupe sang to a spellbound audience, and they continued doing so until nearly out of sight and hearing when, for a conclud­ing number, they rendered Auld Lang Syne.

After leaving Hawaii and near the end of our voyage, the Pensacola ran into a northwest gale, a real “living gale” of the sort which are perennial in those waters: adjacent to the coasts of Northern Cali­fornia, Oregon, and Washington. For five never-to-be-forgotten days, the ship was reduced to carrying only a storm staysail and close-reefed foresail, equivalent, in our case, to what might have been termed “scudding along under bare poles.” The seas were mountain high and, as they struck the Pensacola squarely abeam, it seemed to result in her making more lee­way than headway. Though there was no regularity in her pitching and rolling, yet the thump of the surge was almost pen­dulum-like. First, a wild, staggering hesitancy, then a plunge, then the blow of the sea abeam, the long lean over, the quick shrieking recovery, then another plunge followed by the blow, and so on, and so on, with a squeak in every treenail) a groan in every timber, and a harsh straining of bulkheads. We had a ship built of the stoutest oak, and it may be said that it was being handled by men with hearts of oak, yet during these days of peril their faces, if not “blanched with fear,” were assuredly “sickbed o’er with the pale cast of thought.”

Then, with fair weather once more prevalent, the Pensacola entered San Francisco Harbor, without a casualty just a year to a day from the beginning of the cruise.