My chief officer in the African was a man I have mentioned before, E. T. Jones, who wore an abnormally large black beard, from which he had acquired the soubriquet of “Black Jones.” I had the very highest regard for him in every way. When we arrived home in February 1881, as a matter of course I went to London to see the directors. At that time the Roman had been chartered to take out troops to Natal. There was then no master appointed to her, and I was questioned as to the ability of my chief officer, to which I replied that he was as good a man as I was. But, said one director, “is that the man with a black beard that looks like a pirate?” and the conversation closed with a laugh, and the intimation that they would come to Southampton to see about it. When I returned that evening I got hold of Jones, and much against his will took him to a barber’s and had his beard off. It was a time for heroic measures, for that use of the shears probably decided the matter in his favour. As, however, it would not do to send out troops with a man whose first voyage it was in command, he took the African and I the Roman, with orders to change again on the coast. As I write this I have before me a letter signed by the officers who travelled in the Roman, thanking me for a pleasant passage. The first signature is Finch White, major 85th Light Infantry, commanding troops. It is followed by F. Grenfell, lieutenant-colonel 60th rifles (now Field-Marshal Lord Grenfell). Amongst many others comes R. B. Lane, major rifle brigade (now General Sir R. B. Lane), D. N. Stewart, 2nd lieutenant 92nd Highlanders, who afterwards achieved honours in many parts of the empire, and Charles E. Knox, captain 85th regiment, one of our best generals in the late war. They were a pleasant crowd to travel with, and the passage passed without a hitch, but so far as I was personally concerned I had a little trouble, for on the line I discovered that my carpenter had been neglectful of his duties, and we had only one day’s water on board. I said nothing about it but put on the condenser night and day until we had refilled our tanks. I then put an officer in charge of them, but my chief engineer rose manfully to that occasion, for it was not pleasant to have many hundreds of men depending entirely upon condensed supplies. Major Lane and I became very intimate. He had a wonderful personality which attracted every one, and I doubt not he still retains it. One evening he and I caught a booby, and the question was the best use to put it to. Colonel Grenfell was then asleep, and we thought it might be a good idea to put the bird in his bunk. We put that squawking beast on top of him as he lay, but he never turned a hair, only said, “Ugh! take the beastly thing away,” and we did. It was no small test of a man’s nerve, however, since tried and verified in many a tight corner. One thing struck me, however, on that trip, and it was the great interest taken by the officers in theological works of all sorts. There was a fine collection on board, and I remember reading one called The Approaching End of the Age, by Gratton Guinness, which proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the world must end by 1894.
Going into Cape Town dock it was blowing a strong south-easter and the ship was listing heavily to starboard. We got the troops over to the port side and that put her upright in a trice. It was very smartly done, but they only wanted a word to do what was wanted. Then we learned that the war was over. I fancy that Lord Roberts had already arrived and returned, and there were loud murmurs of discontent all round. We went on to Natal, however, and landed our troops. The late Admiral Andoe and Sir Edward Chichester were there disembarking officers, and they gave me a very nice certificate for the manner in which the entire job had been performed. By the way, I had a bet with Colonel Grenfell that the Government that made the peace would not last six months, but I was wrong in the sequel.
On the way back to the Cape I had with me as passenger Sir J. H. De Villiers, the Lord Chief Justice, who told me that had peace not been made the whole of South Africa would have risen in revolt, so perhaps things were as well as they were. I got back into my own ship at Mossel Bay, and resumed regular work once more.
CHAPTER IX
“And the world went very well then.”—Mel. B. Spurr.
I was glad to make the transfer with Jones at Mossel Bay. For one reason it gave him a fair chance of retaining his command, for the Roman was to remain on the coast, and I also gave a certain sigh of satisfaction as I saw the blue ensign once again at the stern of the African, for she was a nice little ship and I was very fond of her. When I got on board I found that Ballard and his wife were taking the passage home with me. It is a curious sensation after you have been under the orders of a man to meet him upon terms of equality, and to this day some of my old officers, now in command, cannot get over the inclination to say “Sir” to me. I remember remonstrating with one of them some little time ago. He replied, “Well, I always said sir to you, and I always shall.” He was an Irishman, and the episode took place in the House of Commons, whither he had dragged me to meet some of the leaders of the Irish party. It was on that occasion that I first met John Burns, now the Right Honourable, who, speaking of the then recently concluded Boer War, observed that we had beaten “better men than ourselves,” from which statement, guided by my past experience, I mildly dissented.
On that passage home I lost overboard my boatswain, and to the best of my recollection he was the only man that parted company with me in that manner during my career at sea. I have known one or two instances of people disappearing on board ship, when the inference was they had gone overboard, but he was the only case of a man falling overboard, and not being picked up It happened this way. We were half way across the Bay and the ship was rolling, with the promise of bad weather coming, when I gave the orders to get the anchors inboard, for they had been left at the bows on leaving Madeira. It was neither a dangerous nor a difficult operation, but I had spoken to the man that morning and, curiously enough, remarked to my chief the far-away look in his eyes. I think now that he was what the Scotch call “fey,” and that the hand of Fate was upon him then. At all events he was unshipping a piece of iron rail when he slipped overboard, hanging on to the rail, and sank like a stone. I was on the poop myself and had a boat in the water immediately, but he never came to the surface again. We cruised round for at least an hour, and then I asked the men if anything more could be done. All agreed the case was hopeless, so we kept along on our course again. When next in Southampton I sent a circular letter to the captains of all our ships asking them to make a collection for the widow. They very kindly did so, and a sufficient sum was obtained to set her up in a small shop in comfortable circumstances, but she never forgave me, I was told, because when she came to my lodgings with a sister prepared to make a scene, I declined the interview. I dare say I was wrong, but I had had trouble enough of my own, and my old landlady, a very privileged person hailing from the West Country, when announcing the callers volunteered the advice, “Doan’t ’e see her, sir,” and I thought the advice good.
The ways of conscience are curious and it manifests itself at times in absurd fashion—here is an instance. Lodging in the same house was a chief officer, with whom I had been very friendly in years past, and was on good terms with then. One morning my landlady came to me with a request that I would go up-stairs and see Mr. —— who had something important to say. I went, and there was my friend in bed, crying. It seems he had been out on the spree the day before, had inherited a bad headache, and had sent for me to say that he was going round to see his captain and confess his delinquency. Words were no use for a case of this sort. A threat of a hammering, duly translated into fact, ultimately brought home the light of reason to a good fellow who would have made a most excellent curate, but was too gentle to be a success at sea.