The war maker

by Horace Herbert Smith

But he was mistaken, for in the darkness their gunnery was not up to the standard of British marksmanship, for which I have a wholesome respect. They kept at it hard enough but all of their shots went wild, except for one that punched a hole in the port bulwarks forward, though from the way the shells whistled I have no doubt our canvas would have been punctured many times, had it been up. We were soon under cover of the Myrtle Bank Hotel and after that two ships protected us until we were far enough away so that only a chance shot could reach us. When we were well enough out in the harbor so that we could manœuvre and get the full effect of the light breeze that was blowing over the salt flats, we set all of our sails and pulled away.

At daylight I had the carpenter at work fixing up the little damage the fort had done us, and it was well that we were quick about it for during the afternoon we met the old warship “Bellerephon,” which was attached to that station, coming in from a trip around the island ten days ahead of time. We were preparing to salute her when she stopped and hove us to with a blank shot. I don’t think I have ever been more surprised, for there was no wireless telegraph in those days and I could not conceive how she had gotten word that we were suspected of filibustering. While I was racking my brain for some solution of the problem Lorensen ran forward, leaned out over the side, and came back and reported that there was a blue shirt under the bobstay. That explained it, for in those days it was an unwritten law in the British Navy that when a sailor on a merchant ship had any pronounced complaint to make, regarding either his own treatment or general conditions on the vessel, he would hang a shirt in the chains, under the bowsprit, where it would not be seen by the officers unless they were looking for it, as a signal to any warship they met that there was something wrong on board. Whenever and wherever a warship saw a shirt fluttering under the bobstay the vessel was held up and carefully investigated.

I suspected at once that it was Jimmy Donovan who had hung out the shirt, and I had him bucked and gagged and stowed away in the hold before he could have said “Jack Robinson.” Then, quickly, I made an entry on the log which showed that he had been left in the hospital at Kingston, with pernicious fever. By that time the lieutenant from the “Bellerephon” was alongside. When he came aboard I assumed a look of injured innocence and profound surprise. He ordered me to muster the crew aft and called for my papers. To my great satisfaction he merely glanced at the certificate of registry, which was forged, and centred his attention on the crew list. The men answered to their names as he called them off. When he came to Donovan I explained that he had been taken sick at Kingston and left there, and produced the log, which satisfied him.

“Who among you has any complaint to make?” he asked of the men. There was no response, and he repeated the question.

“Don’t be afraid,” he encouraged them. “The ‘Bellerephon’ will protect you. If you have any complaint to make, step out and make it. We will see that you get fair play and, if necessary, take you on board.”

No one moved, and after waiting some time the lieutenant turned to me with the remark that everything seemed to be all right. I told him I had heard of no complaints from any of the men and asked why they had “stood us up.”

“Why, there is a shirt out forward,” he explained. I suggested that perhaps some of the crew had been washing. Hearing my remark a quick-witted fellow named Bill Johnson, who had shipped on my first trip with the “Juliette,” stepped out and said he had washed his shirt that morning and hung it in the chains to dry, without knowing that it meant anything. “I’ve been a sailor for a good many years but that is one signal I never heard of before,” he said.

“Is that true, Bill?” asked the lieutenant with what seemed like just a shade of suspicion.

“It is, sir,” replied Bill with the steady gaze of an honest man.

“He is a ‘True Bill’ all right,” I told the young officer as I shot a grateful look at the grizzled sailor that meant a raise in wages. “He is the oldest man on the ship and one of the best. That shirt signal is a new one on me, too, and I thought I knew all the signs of the sea.”