12/22/03

  Falling from the ship in Hugli. Calcutta. The visit of Lord Mayo to Andaman Island. The tragedy. The white squall. Washed over the side and back in a gun port.

We left the harbor of Trincomalee on Christmas Day, 1871, with the ship decorated above and below with greenery of the country. The men had been provided with mess money so that they could purchase Christmas delicacies, and an extra tot of rum was issued, so that a seasonable spirit was abroad regardless of the insufferable heat. Out destination was Calcutta. As there was no wind to speak of, we used steam power for the entire voyage.

We had reached the mouth of the Hugli River, and were proceeding up that stream under full steam, as the current was strong. The men were furling the sails, and I was out on the jib boom with the men stowing the jib. Suddenly I slipped and fell into the water under the ship’s bow. As I fell I had sense enough to know that the danger was not in having the ship run over me, but from the propeller, and I struck out madly to get away from the suction that was drawing me in, How I cleared it is a mystery, but there I was in the backwash. A lifeboat dropped from the davits soon had me on board again.

Our arrival at Calcutta was signaled by a cloud of pigeons rising from the King of Oudhe’s palace, darkening the sky with their immense numbers. The ships company was given its usual leave while lying in the Hugli, and I visited the site of the famous Black Hole, where in 1756 one hundred and forty-five wretches were seized by the tyrannic violence of Siráju ‘d daulah of Bengal and crowded into tiny rooms where all but twenty-three were suffocated and their bodies thrown the succeeding morning into the ditch of the Ravelin. Another interesting sight was the wonderful zoological collection at Jumsagee Jebadehoy’s palace, a few miles out of Calcutta, near ‘Alípúr. At the estate of this Indian nabob is gathered one of the world’s most complete aggregation of wild animals in existence. The zoo is in the form of an amphitheatre, with great pools in the center which contained fish so tame that they eat out of your hand. Coolies at the top of the steps leading to the water sell a sort of dough which is kneaded in the hand to the right consistency and held just below the surface of the water. In a few minutes you will feel the delicate and pleasurable sensation of a fish nibbling, and there will be half a dozen trout waiting their turn to get at the food.

The Hugli, as well as the Ganges, is one of the sacred rivers of India, and the Mohammedans consider it an honor to be drowned in its waters. So sure are they that it is the “open sesame” to Paradise that the sick are brought down to the beach at low tide, and if its is decreed by the River God that they should recover, they are given strength to crawl above the high tide mark. While we lay at anchor in the river, scarcely a day passed that a corpse did not lie athwart the ship’s mooring cable. In addition to this, our marine corps almost every morning lost a man from the deadly miasma that swept down from the channel, and it was found necessary to abolish night sentry duty while at Calcutta.

The errand of the “Glasgow” to Calcutta was for the purpose of taking Lord Mayo, the Viceroy of India, on a trip of inspection to the penal settlement on Andaman Island. He came to the Bund with Lady Mayo and their retinue, escorted by the crack squadrons of cavalry for which the Indian army is famed, and were cheered to the limit by the dense crowds that filled the streets as far as the eye could see. Lord Mayo was a typical Irish earl, as democratic as Parnell, and an all-round good fellow. While on board the “Glasgow” the Lord and Lady and their party occupied the cabins of our Admiral, who had not yet transferred his flag to our ship.

We got under way without delay, and by nightfall the “Glasgow” was well out of the Hugli. For the first few days the voyage was uneventful, and then things began to happen. It was one of those typical hot days of the tropics. The ship was under all plain sail, but there was a little wind, and deck awnings had been spread fore and aft. It was afternoon, and everyone was hunting for shade to escape the infernal heat. Suddenly a lookout called the attention of the officer of the watch to a gray cloud that was coming along with the wind. The navigating officer recognized it as a white squall close in, and ordered in the upper sails. It was too late however, for the squall struck us with a terrific force, and before the royals and to’gallantsails could be taken in, they were blown to ribbons. The ship was almost thrown on her beams ends, and the boatswain’s shrill whistle was drowned in the screech of the gale as he called, “All hands on deck!” To make matters worse, the awnings obscured the ships hamper from view, and in the excitement the men ripped the lacing from the ridge ropes and tossed the canvas amidships.

Then the dreaded calm, the precursor of another squall, dropped upon us like a pail, and still not a drop of rain had fallen. Soon, with a peculiar whistling roar, the wind changed to dead ahead, bringing to us an entirely different storm as it struck the ship with a blinding force, and the to’gallantmasts went flying through the air accompanied by their yards and sails as if they were matchwood. Then came the downpour. It rained as if a miniature Niagara Falls were descending upon us, and all we could do was to cling to a rope and try to breathe.

With the ship gathering sternway, the topsails and courses aback, it looked extremely critical for the old “Glasgow,” but with a display of seamanship seldom encountered, the vessel’s head wore away from the gale and we were safe. The end of the storm was not yet in sight, however, for instead of subsiding the wind increased, and it was with difficulty that the remnants of the top spars were cut away and the flying ropes and blocks made fast until the storm should subside. The ship was heeling over to the blast, and wave after wave swept over the deck, washing everything that was loose into the lee scuppers. The men, watching the combers, would leave the lifeline at the quarterdeck and make a run for their lives to catch the rope around the fore hatchway. Sometimes they would make it. If not, they flung themselves on the deck and held on to a ringbolt. The guns were lashed to the open ports with their muzzles dipping into the sea with the roll of the ship. The danger was too great to move them so the ports could be closed. The main deck was awash, but all below was sealed tight and the old frigate rode like a cork. Though the vessel was under close-reefed topsails and staysail only, she was tearing through the mountainous sea at an eighteen-knot gait, and all a seaman could do was to hold a lifeline with one hand and cover his mouth with the other so that he could breathe

It was now time to heave the log, and I, with the paraphernalia under my arm, leaving my hold on the fo’castle steps, started for the run aft. I was either too soon or too late in reaching the open deck, for I had barely passed the foremast when a tremendous sea boarded us; my feet slipped from under me; and I was slammed against the hammock nettings. Then the receding wave carried me across the deck, only to meet another comber that went completely over, carrying me with it, half conscious. Only for a moment, however, was I in the open sea, for a returning wave washed back against the ship and I found myself wedged in between an open gun port and the muzzle of one of the guns, to which I clung. Before the next wave could carry me out again, I was inside the ship and clear of the port, making a break for safety. The log, reel, and glass were lost.

The following days were given over to clearing away the wreck above. Fortunately we carried spare spars, so that all the top hamper was replaced, and when we steamed into Andaman harbor we looked spic and span with all new gear aloft.

Andaman Island is to India what Devil’s Island is to France and Botany Bay to England. There were incarcerated malefactors ranging from nana Sahib’s followers in the Indian Mutiny (the real leaders were blown from the guns) to the rebel chiefs of the Kybeel Pass in the Afghan War. One of these Afghans was Shere Ali, an exceptional character of personified villainy. Being a lifer, he had no other ambition and purpose than to wreak vengeance on the powers that were, which at that time were vested in the person of the Viceroy.

Lord Mayo, who was a genial, benevolent, sympathetic, and typical old Irish gentleman, was loth to visit this penal settlement. He hated rules of high office that required him to inspect an institution that touched his heart as he gazed at the abject misery and despair that was depicted on the faces of the wretches behind the walls. He wore a look of palpable distress as he and his lady stepped over the gangway and were taken in the Admiral’s barge to the landing dock. Carriages for the party awaited their arrival, and a troop of cavalry was drawn up facing them. The warden and his staff were to offer a welcome, and the procession set out for the great institution.

Night had fallen before the inspection was completed, the clearance signed, and the vice regal party, dispensing with the carriages for the short distance to the dock, were walking amidst their escort by torch light. Suddenly there was a stir among the crowd, a rush, and Shere Ali, who by some means had eluded the vigilance of his keepers, broke through, knife in hand, and flinging himself on Lord Mayo stabbed him first in the back, and then as his victim fell backward, stabbed him again in the chest. Death came quickly, and the body was rushed to the ship.

Shere Ali was instantly captured and also taken to our ship. As the Afghan was dragged up the steps to the gangway he was bumped unmercifully by the seaman who had him by the hands and feet, and he yelled for mercy as he was dropped on the quarterdeck. The assassin was taken ashore again the next day, tried, and hung within forty-eight hours.