In November, 1889, the U.S.S. Iroquois lay in the harbor of Honolulu awaiting her scheduled date of departure for Apia to relieve the U.S.S. Adams for a 6-month tour of duty as station ship in Samoa. All hands were looking forward to the voyage with interest and anticipation, for not only would there be a pleasant half year of duty in Samoa, but also the sailing orders called for visits to the Mar shall and Gilbert Islands where there were reported difficulties and friction between the natives and missionaries. Sea stores were laid in and the officers’ messes stocked up heavily against the long days at sea; extra assessments were laid on mess members. One young buck ensign, just reporting for duty, was faced with the necessity of digging down into his slim capital for $125 for the privilege of joining the mess.
On the morning of November 20, 1889, the Chief Engineer reported his 2-cylinder, back-acting engine ready for getting under way, and with a full head of 30 pounds of steam, and turning over better than 30 r.p.m., the Iroquois proudly put to sea. Once well clear of land, the Chief’s worries were over, sail was made, and the course laid for Jaluit on Kili Island in the Marshall group.
Author’s Note.—Grateful acknowledgment is made to Captain William W. Gilmer, U. S. Navy (Retired), whose diary account furnished the factual material for this story of the long and circuitous cruise of the Iroquois. Captain Gilmer is the only living survivor among the wardroom officers who made that extraordinary voyage, and with the recent passing of Rear Admiral T. Pickett Magruder, the last of the steerage officers has gone to his rest. The writer’s father was one of the youngsters in that steerage mess and here the writer passes on some of the facts and yarns of the time, a half a century ago, when rumors of the loss of a navy ship were greatly exaggerated.
The Iroquois was one of the so-called “mongrel ships” that gave mute evidence of the eternal conflict between navy conservatism and navy genius. Insistent demands for steam propulsion accounted for a pair of Martin boilers and a horizontal engine whose two 54-inch cylinders were capable of developing about 1,200 horsepower and driving the ship at the smart clip of 10 knots when the 4-bladed propeller was turning over in the neighborhood of 40 revolutions; in deference to diehard traditions of sail she was bark-rigged. Normally, at sea, the ship proceeded under sail and only used her engines for entering and leaving port or when conditions were unfavorable for sailing. The ship was built at the New York Navy Yard in 1858, was 198 feet in length, 33 feet beam, and drew about 16 feet of water when displacing a little less than 1,600 tons. She carried 19 officers and 147 enlisted men, and mounted a battery of two 8-inch muzzle-loading rifles, one 60-pound breech-loading rifle, four 60-pound muzzle-loading smoothbores, one 3-inch breech-loading rifle, one 12-pound howitzer, and one Gatling gun.
Sixteen days after clearing Honolulu, the Iroquois began a cautious approach to the anchorage in Jaluit; the navigator took station in the foretop and gingerly guided the ship through limpid water in which coral heads 5, 6, or 7 fathoms below the surface showed in such startling detail that it seemed as though the bottom would be ripped out of the ship at times. When the anchor was dropped it could be plainly seen on the bottom and countless varieties of gaudy tropical fish were observed.
The reports of trouble between missionaries and natives had apparently been in error for all was peaceful ashore when the Iroquois arrived. The visit to Jaluit was noteworthy only in that the schooner Lillian Morgan brought in the captain, mate, and one seaman of the schooner H. L. Turnan of San Francisco which had capsized on November 21 in lat. 5° N., long. 178° E. These shipwrecked mariners were taken aboard the Iroquois, and after coaling ship, the voyage was resumed and a course was laid for Butaritari on Taritari Island of the Gilbert group. After a pleasant voyage under steam and sail, the ship anchored in Butaritari Harbor on December 12.
The usual official amenities were given an added touch of color at Butaritari by the resplendent appearance of King Nab-a-to-Kia, who was most impressive in dark blue uniform, brass buttons, cocked hat, red-striped trousers—and shoes. The King was a big man, tall and well proportioned, and although he carried himself with appropriate dignity, it was obvious that the noble proportions of his feet were ill suited to the civilized ordeal of tailor-made shoes. The natives in the King’s retinue were curious but well behaved; they showed keen interest in every detail about the ship, but their curiosity partook of alarm when they saw the helmet of the diver who was busy scrubbing off the slime, grass, and barnacles below the water line. Even the native sharks were nonplused by this strange creature and hastily retreated when the diver occasionally released a stream of air bubbles.
Those of the ship’s company who enjoyed shooting found a rare treat in store for them ashore; by good fortune they had synchronized their arrival with that of plovers and other shore birds. Whence they came and whither they went was a mystery to natives and navy men alike, for it was not until years later that the amazing migratory habits of these birds were generally understood. At the time it was sufficient that the birds were present in great numbers; that many of them came from as far north as Alaska would have been regarded as impossible and fantastic. Their presence may have aroused mild curiosity but that did not deter the scatter-gun enthusiasts from indulging their love of wing shooting and their appetites for game to the point of satiation.
Social existence at Butaritari left much to be desired; the King was a notable figure, but the other natives were less ornate and even the scanty grass skirts and necklaces of the ladies failed to reveal charms of much interest. Those natives who had fallen under the influence of the missionaries made certain concessions to modesty and had adopted the Mother Hubbard as the uniform of the day. Both men and women perforated their ears; it was not apparent what advantage accrued to the males from this custom, but the girls made decorative use of the device as a means of wearing flowers in a fetching and provocative style.
Here at Butaritari it was decided to hold annual target practice and the ship became a veritable beehive as all hands prepared for this rare and exciting event. A triangular floating target was constructed and, when all was in readiness, the target was anchored about a thousand yards on the beam; the Iroquois was also anchored. The guns were fired one at a time and an officer in the foretop or maintop plotted the fall of shot in range by measuring with a sextant the angle of dip between the horizon and the slick. (It will be noted that that was 49 years ago.) Dip angle was converted by Buckner's Tables to determine the amount of shorts and overs and our old friend the rake was used to measure deflection errors. It is with regret that I cannot report on the merit attained at that practice, for the good gunners of those days had not yet begun to worry seriously about the vagaries of the MPI, the value of TMD, and such vital matters.
On December 21 the anchor was weighed and the Iroquois steamed out of Butaritari bound for Apia; everything went well until two days later a crash in the engine-room broke the pleasant rhythm of the screw. An inspection showed that the end of one of the piston rods had broken off and the nut had dropped down into the cylinder; with only a small clearance at the end of the stroke, there was not room for that nut, and something had to give. The cylinder was wrecked beyond repair as far as the ship’s resources were concerned. The propeller was uncoupled and the wreckage cleared away, but the good ship Iroquois was seriously crippled.
The light yards had been sent down before leaving Butaritari to reduce headwind resistance; ships of that type could not sail closer than seven points and the unfavorable prevailing winds had influenced the decision to make the passage to Apia under steam. But now the engine casualty altered everything; it would have been folly for a ship of such poor sailing qualities to take over the Samoan station assignment with only one good cylinder. There was no alternative but to return to Honolulu for repairs, so sail was made and way got on the ship; the propeller had been coupled up again and when the ship gathered way, the one cylinder could be started; the engine was not used all the time, but when storms were approaching, or winds were unfavorable, a little could be made good in the right direction with that one precious remaining cylinder. Furthermore, when fires were lighted off it meant that the distillers would be started and the fresh water supply replenished. There were 195 tons of coal in the bunkers and that seemed adequate for the situation facing the ship’s company; as yet they had no inkling of what was in store for them before they made port!
It was not until December 31—eight days after the disheartening casualty to the engine—that the last of the Marshall group was cleared and the ship squared away to the northward under sail. It was far from clear sailing; the drag of the big 4-bladed propeller did not make for fine sailing qualities. Tacking was impossible; to shift tacks it was necessary to wear ship, and the distance lost to leeward in that maneuver is a serious matter when a ship can sail no closer than seven points to the wind, close-hauled. The customary unstable weather of the tropics prevailed and calm alternated with fitful breezes; glaring heat was only relieved by rain and squalls. However, for two weeks the course made good was generally northward and by January 14 the latitude was observed to be 32° N., long., 170° E. A shift of wind permitted a little more easting but the trend was still to the north; when the date line was crossed the ship was about in lat. 40° N. That was on January 20 and the next day was, of course, also the 20th. The death and burial of one of the shipwrecked mariners of the Turnan cast a gloom over the ship on that second January 20; the very simplicity of the burial service was depressing and the feeling of isolation in that gray, restless waste descended over the ship’s company as the corpse was committed to the deep in its canvas shroud weighted with a 60- pound shot.
The burial of the unfortunate seaman was followed by three weeks of storms of unremitting fury; the ship wandered aimlessly at the mercy of the elements. Torrential rains and mountainous seas battered her; hatches were kept battened down but still the lower decks were wet and miserable; watch officers and men on deck scampered into the rigging from time to time to escape the rush of engulfing seas. On January 31 the winds reached hurricane force; when it seemed that wind could blow no harder, an even more furious gust would tear at the masts and rigging and rip the crests from the seas in a stinging, horizontal deluge. Suddenly, about midnight, the wind died down and the ship wallowed and labored in a confused and rhythmless sea; the luckless ship was in the center of the storm and the people braced themselves for the inevitable reversal of the gale as the center passed on. For two hours the quiet was only broken by the rattles and creaks and groans of the tortured hull and spars—and then, as abruptly as the wind had ceased, it struck again with renewed fury. The violent lurch under the first blow brought every officer and man up standing as the ship rolled gunwales under; but the Iroquois was staunch and weathered the gale if only that other storms might later be met and cheated.
The sights and sounds of foul weather became the commonplaces of life to the men of the Iroquois; the two men—sometimes four—at the wheel; the violent movements of the compass card in the binnacle; the disagreeable and inescapable smell of fish oil in the trough in the manger; the slosh and squirt of water through gun ports that no amount of work could make completely tight; the crazy swinging of the lamps in their gimbals; the watch on deck huddled under the protection of the weather nettings; the wake trailing away at an angle to the center line, testifying to the leeway; the crescendo shriek of wind through the rigging with every roll to windward.
In the meantime there was no word of the Iroquois at Honolulu; no ship had been spoken and there was no radio. She was long overdue, and as time went on grim certainty succeeded mere apprehension; it was feared that the Iroquois had been lost. In churches prayers were said for those in peril on the sea; the fate of the Iroquois bade fair to become one of the sea’s tragedies—possibly one of her mysteries.
And aboard the Iroquois food had been running short; on January 18 it was found that only 25 days’ full rations remained, and the captain wisely decided to cut to half rations. Before leaving Honolulu, the wardroom mess treasurer had commenced concocting a mess which he fondly called tutti-frutti; sliced fruit and sugar had been placed in a receptacle and fortified with alcohol. As the processes of nature began to work, the protests of the members of the mess increased in volume and venom; the odor had not been appetizing in the early stages of development, but as time wore on, and subsistence became a serious problem, this tasty tutti-frutti did much to cheer palates jaded with salt horse, hardtack, lobscouse, and similar staples of sailing-ship days.
Weevils have long been anathema in the cotton belt, but no Southerner could possibly feel the personal antipathy for weevils that grows in the bosom of the sailor who finds the ubiquitous weevil in his hardtack. However, hunger is a sure cure for finicky appetites, and it was said of the gentlemen of the wardroom and steerage messes of the Iroquois that weevils eventually ceased to be revolting, and were even regarded tolerantly in the light of fresh meat.
After three weeks, the storms subsided and a change of wind permitted working more to the southward for a time; but again hope was dashed by the arrival of a westerly gale before which the ship scudded under foresail and, at times, a close-reefed topsail.
Honolulu became a will-o’-the-wisp; every effort to get squared away on a course for that elusive paradise of the Pacific was abortive. Each bit of progress in the right direction was promptly nullified by contrary winds and violent weather. After weeks of struggling, Honolulu seemed farther away than ever. There was not sufficient coal to steam to Honolulu, so at last, in disgust and desperation, the captain decided to make for San Francisco. At least as far as the decision was concerned the Iroquois was now bound for San Francisco; but there still remained some adverse winds in the Pacific’s bag of tricks and persistent southeasterlies kept driving the Iroquois farther and farther north until early in March she found herself in the latitude of Puget Sound.
Little has been said of the month of February; Honolulu had been given up as a bad job, and San Francisco seemed no more attainable. The weather had been cold and damp; on February 20 food issues had been reduced again until all hands were on one-third rations. The ship was unheated and clothes and bedding stayed damp and musty; rain clothes that were worn out could not be replaced; amusements and conversation palled. All hands were fed up and discouraged by the never-ending head winds and contrary weather. A mild form of scurvy had begun to rear its ugly head. Tallow candles and molasses were the only commodities that were in sufficient abundance not to necessitate rationing.
Card games became tiresome and even wardroom arguments lost their savor or became dangerously acrimonious at times. For a while there was much interest in a “pool” on the date of reaching port; Cadet Ben Fuller, later to become the Major General Commandant of the Marine Corps, won that pool but even he missed the date by weeks, and interest in that venture died as time dragged on. In fact, the ship was so uncomfortable and clammy that most of the officers crawled into their bunks in their off hours for want of a better way to spend the time.
Dampness was the greatest tribulation during that foul February; in the very old days it had been the custom to dry out ships by actually building fires below decks, but that custom had passed into the limbo of forgotten things long before the Iroquois’ time. Many ingenious methods were devised for the simple function of drying out; one officer hoarded his candles and mounted six of them in a cigar box, then sat himself down in a cane-bottomed chair with the lighted candles under him, wrapped a blanket around himself, candles, chair, and all, and went to sleep warm and comfortable at last.
When the latitude of Puget Sound was reached, strong westerlies were encountered; running for the coast was now a simple matter but navigators familiar with that coast know well the treacherous nature of the shore that lay ahead. Latitude could be determined with reasonable accuracy but not much faith could be placed in the longitude observations; the chronometers had long been unchecked and had been subjected to rough treatment since leaving Honolulu. The accuracy of longitude observations depended entirely upon the accuracy of the chronometers—and that was something not to be counted on too heavily.
Vicious squalls harassed the thoroughly weary crew; enormous hailstones battered the decks; wind shifted as much as 8 to 16 points in a few minutes. At times the squalls hit with such suddenness that the only thing possible was to let go sheets—there would be no time to shorten sail properly.
Fog, the most dreaded enemy of all sailors, added to the troubles of the bewitched Iroquois; at one time the whistle of a west-bound steamer was heard close aboard. There was no steam on the boilers, so the bell was rung, pans were beaten with vigor, and the watch on deck even shouted. The whistle of the invisible ship gradually drew away; a ghostly threat that was never even seen.
On the morning of March 10 land was sighted; it should have been a welcome sight and probably was, but there must have been those among the ship’s company who regarded even the sight of land with suspicion after their many frustrated efforts to find a haven during the long weeks before. There were still about 50 tons of coal in the bunkers so the fires were lighted and the one good cylinder was started; gradually the ship was worked in close to Flattery where an alert towboat passed a line to the weary Iroquois and towed her into the Straits toward Port Townsend. At about 6:00 P.M. the towline was cast off and the anchor let go off Port Townsend—110 days out of Honolulu—80 days continuously at sea—and decidedly out of the most direct line from the Gilbert Islands to Samoa. For 70 days no land was sighted and, stranger still, only one sail was seen and that hull down.
The rest is anticlimax—the story of the prayers said in churches for those believed to have been lost with the Iroquois the justifiable celebration. After more than 9,500 miles of cruising, New York never looked better to sailors than did little Port Townsend to the officers and men of the Iroquois. With the end of the voyage, and the close proximity of markets, all hands promptly dismissed from their minds the grim fact that only 3 days’ rations had remained on board when the ship finally anchored—except of course for tallow candles and molasses.
Today’s troubles are tomorrow’s jokes; good sailors always look over the bow and never the taffrail; after the manner of seafaring men of all times, the Iroquois men had a good bath, a square meal, a liberty, all night in, and were ready for the next assignment. But we can feel reasonably certain that even the seasoned sailor of the old Iroquois was ready to let the record of that voyage stand until his cruising days were over.
★
TO DO the very best teamwork one must become closely identified with the team, as for instance, in football, and must get to feel personally affected by its successes and its failures. The leader or commander who fails to get such interest on the part of his men and who therefore gets something short of their very best effort, will do well to lay the blame on himself and make it a special problem to find what is the matter with his methods or in what particulars he is not succeeding in arousing the interest of his men.
It is a well-known fact that an individual will usually live up to what is expected of him; if he is regarded as being worthless he finds it very hard to be otherwise, while if great things are expected of him he is naturally aroused by the confidence and encouragement of others.—Bureau of Navigation, “Talks on Leadership.”