For the freedom of the seas

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Nelson saluted and made his way out. In the passage he looked down at his right sleeve and tried to vision a white silk eagle and a single red chevron and, possibly, the crossed cannons of a gunner’s mate. He smiled happily as he went on to pay a visit to Garey and tell him of his good fortune. The gun captain had been wounded in the left arm, but a week would put him right.

The Gyandotte laid up at South Shields for three days, during which time the sound of pneumatic drills and hammers made life hideous. Then there was painting to be done over the new plates. Ashore the Gyandotte’s crew swaggered a little, less from vanity than from a sense of pleasure in having contributed their bit, and no longer had to sit mum while “Limie” men told of desperate deeds in the North Sea. A message of praise from their own Admiral and one from the British Admiral were posted, and they learned that they had “worthily upheld the traditions of the United States Navy.” The public, however, received a very meager account of that engagement.

The Gyandotte hurried back to Queenstown as soon as repairs were completed and reported for duty. It may have been imagination, but it really seemed to Nelson that the little battle-tried cruiser held herself more cockily than usual when she steamed between the forts that afternoon. Two days later she was pounding the seas off Cape Clear, bound west to meet another covey of nervous transports, and the monotony of the old life threatened again.

Two trips to the border of the danger zone she made before an incident worth recording occurred, and then the incident was of more interest to Nelson than to others aboard. They were steaming westward, some eighty miles from the Cape at the time. Ahead and astern were three destroyers and two cruisers. The sea was as much like a mill-pond as it ever gets in that locality, where fathoms are few, and a bright late October sun made dancing ripples across the water as it climbed into the eastern sky. It was at about half-past seven when a lookout reported to the bridge that what seemed to be a small boat was in sight to the north. Signals were exchanged with the four-stack cruiser behind and presently the Gyandotte left her place and bore northward toward where a tiny dark speck lay on the blue ocean.

Rescuing “strafed” mariners in open boats had long since become an old story, but one never knew what would be revealed in the way of suffering and pathos, and as the cruiser drew near the little boat the officers and men flocked to the rail. At a quarter of a mile distant the tiny craft seemed empty, but the foretop lookout reported persons in the bottom of the boat. The Gyandotte gave a questioning blast and, in answer, an arm appeared above the gunwale and waved feebly. As the cruiser slowed and began to turn a boat was lowered and presently was pulling lustily for the derelict. Reaching it, the rescuers made a line fast to the bow and brought it alongside in tow, and then those on deck could see what was there.

It was a tiny boat, no larger than a yacht’s tender. In the bottom of it were five forms, three sailors and two officers. At first glance life seemed to have departed from all of them, but as they were lifted out two showed consciousness. Quickly they were raised aboard and carried to the hospital: an elderly officer whose salt-stained uniform showed him to be a British Naval Reserve lieutenant, a younger man with the insignia of a midshipman and three sailors. Something in the appearance of the younger officer stirred Nelson’s memory and he thrust himself through the throng for a closer look. And as he did so, the midshipman, being borne past, opened his eyes for a brief instant and his listless gaze encountered Nelson’s face, and in that instant recognition flickered in the blue eyes. Then the lids fell again wearily and he passed from sight, and Nelson, steadying himself against a stanchion, felt sick and faint. For the gray countenance had been that of Tip!

Nelson spent a miserable half-hour before he at last got word with one of the hospital apprentices and asked for news.

“Eh?” said the apprentice. “Him? Oh, he’ll pull through. The old chap’s been dead two days, though, I guess. One of the sailors, too. The midshipman and one of the others will come around. We haven’t got their story yet. Too weak to talk. I reckon a couple of them’ll be taking their meals regular tomorrow.”

He was very, very glad that Tip would live, so glad that for a moment he forgot the others. Then, recalling the somewhat melancholy and stiff-mannered elderly lieutenant to whom Tip had introduced him on the Sans Souci that day, he felt horribly sorry. He wondered what had been the fate of that gallant little patrol boat, and whether all the rest of the crew had perished. In the afternoon he took his courage in hand and made inquiry of the Medical Officer, explaining his interest. The officer was very kind and gave Nelson all the information he had, which was that Midshipman Tipper was suffering from hunger and exposure and at the moment was very weak, but that he was responding excellently to treatment and that he would undoubtedly be on his feet in a day or two. Then it was the Medical Officer’s turn to question, and Nelson told him what he knew of the rescued men and the Sans Souci, and the officer made notes.