Part 12 (1/2)
And yet the poetry has not gone out of it all. The poetry of the sailing-frigate was lyric. That of the steel battle-s.h.i.+p is Homeric.
Nothing save a war of the elements has the power of a battle-s.h.i.+p in action. Ten thousand tons of steel,--a mighty fortress churning speedily through the water fills the spirit with wonder at the works of man and makes any engine for his destruction a possibility. Away down below the water-line a score or more of furnaces, white-heated, roar furiously under the forced draught, and the monster engines move their ponderous arms majestically, and in rhythm and harmony mask their awful strength. Before the furnace-doors, blackened, half-naked stokers move, silhouetted against the crimson glare, like grim phantoms of the Shades. The iron uprights and tools are hot to their touch, the purple gases hiss and sputter in their very faces, yet still they toil on, gasping for breath, their tongues cleaving to their mouths, and their wet bodies steaming in the heat of it.
[Ill.u.s.tration: MODERN SEA MONSTERS IN ACTION]
The deck above gives no sign of the struggle below. Where, in the old days, the sonorous trumpet rang out and the spar-deck was alive with the watch who hurried to the pin-rail at the frequent call, now all is quiet.
Here and there bright work is polished, or a lookout pa.s.ses a cheery call, but nothing save the man at the wheel and the officer of the watch shows the actual working of the s.h.i.+p.
Seamans.h.i.+p, in the sense of sail-handling, is a thing of the past. Though there is no officer in the navy who could not in an emergency handle a square-rigger with the science of an old sea-captain, the man on the bridge has now come to be first a tactician and after that a master of steam and electricity.
In the sea-battles of 1812 the captain was here, there, and everywhere in the thickest of the fight, inspiring by his personal magnetism the men at the guns. He was the soul of his s.h.i.+p. To-day the sea-battle is a one-man battle. The captain is still the heart and soul of the s.h.i.+p, but his ends are accomplished in a less personal way. His men need not see him. By the touch of a finger he can perform every action necessary to carry his s.h.i.+p to victory. He can see everything, do everything, and make his presence everywhere felt by the mere operation of a set of electrical instruments in front of him.
The intricacies of his position are, in a way, increased. He may lose a boiler, split a crank, or break an electrical connection, but the beautiful subtleties of old-fas.h.i.+oned seamans.h.i.+p have no place whatever on the modern war-s.h.i.+p.
Let it not be understood that the handling of the great ocean fortress of to-day may be mastered by any save a craftsman of the art. With plenty of sea-room and a keen watch alow and aloft the trick is a simple one, for the monster is only a speck in the infinity of sea and sky, and there is never a fear save for a blow, or a s.h.i.+p, or a sh.o.r.e. But in close manuvre, or in harbor, the problem is different. Ten thousand tons of bulk cannot be turned and twisted on the heel with the swish and toss of the wieldy clipper. Observant transpontine voyagers, who have watched the gigantic liner warped out from her pier into a swift tide-way with a leeward ebb, will tell you what a complicated and difficult thing it seems to be.
The captain of the battle-s.h.i.+p must be all that the merchant captain is, and more besides. Mooring and slipping moorings should be an open book to the naval officer, but his higher studies, the deeper intricacies of the science of war, are mysteries for the merchant captain. All of it is seamans.h.i.+p, of course. But to-day it is the seamans.h.i.+p of the bridled elements, where strength is met by strength and steam and iron make wind and wave as nothing.
The perfection of the seamans.h.i.+p of the past was not in strength, but in yielding, and the saltiest sea-captain was he who cajoled both s.h.i.+p and sea to his bidding. The wind and waves, they say, are always on the side of the ablest navigators, but it was rather a mysterious and subtle knowledge of the habits and humors of G.o.d's sea and sky, and a sympathy born of constant communion, which made both s.h.i.+p and captain a part of the elements about them, and turned them into servants, and not masters.
The naval captains of 1812 had learned this freemasonry of sea and sky, and one incident--a typical one--will show it as no mere words can do.
Its characteristics are Yankee pluck and old-fas.h.i.+oned Yankee seamans.h.i.+p.
The frigate ”Const.i.tution”--of glorious memory--in 1812 gave the British squadron which surrounded her startling proof of the niceties of Yankee seamans.h.i.+p. There never has been a race for such a stake, and never will be. Had ”Old Ironsides” been captured, there is no telling what would have been the deadly effect on the American fortunes. It was the race for the life of a nation.
The ”Const.i.tution” was the country's hope and pride, and Captain Hull knew it. He felt that ”Old Ironsides” could never fail to do the work required of her. So for four days and nights the old man towed her along, the British frigates just out of range, until he showed clean heels to the entire squadron. The ingenuity and deft manuvring of the chase has no parallel in the history of this or any other country in the world.
With hardly a catspaw of wind, Hull drifted into sight of the British fleet off the Jersey coast. Before he knew it, they brought the wind up with them, and his position was desperate. There were four frigates and a s.h.i.+p-of-the-line spread out in a way to take advantage of any breath of air. Hull called away his boats, and running lines to them, sent them ahead to tow her as best they might. The British did still better, for they concentrated the boats of the squadron on two s.h.i.+ps, and gained rapidly on the American. Hull cut ports over the stern, and ran two 18-pounders out of his cabin windows, where he began a continuous fire on the enemy. The British s.h.i.+ps s.h.i.+fted their helms and took up positions on the quarters of the frigate, unable to approach too closely with their boats for fear of the ”Const.i.tution's” stern-guns, which dropped their hurtling shot under their very bows.
The desperate game had only begun. Hull, finding that he had but one hundred and fifty feet of water under him, decided to kedge her along. In a few minutes the largest boat was rowing away ahead with a small anchor on board, stretching out half a mile of cable. The anchor dropped, the men hauled in roundly and walked away with the line at a smart pace. It was heart-breaking work, but the speed of the s.h.i.+p was trebled. By the time the vessel was warped up to the first anchor another one was ready for her, and she clawed still further out of the enemy's reach. The British did not at first discover the magic headway of the American, and not for some time did they attempt to follow suit.
Then a breeze came up. Hull hauled his yards to it, picked up his boats without slacking sail, and went ahead. But hardly were the sails drawing when the wind died away again. One of the s.h.i.+ps came into range, and there was nothing for it but to go back to the kedging. Three times did this occur, the captain, with his eye on the dog-vane, jockeying her along as a skipper would his racing-yacht. The men had now been at their quarters for thirty-six hours without rest or sleep. But at the order they dropped into the boats again, ready for anything.
Another breeze sprang up now and held for two hours. Like logs the sailor-men tumbled over on the decks, nearly dead for lack of sleep. On the afternoon of the third day of the chase the ”Const.i.tution” lost the wind and the enemy kept it. Back again to kedging they went, weary and sick at heart.
But relief was in sight. A great cloud hove up on the southeastern horizon, and the black squall that followed was a G.o.dsend to the ”Const.i.tution” and her weary crew. Hull knew the Englishmen would not like the looks of the squall. No more did he. But he kept his boats at the towing, nevertheless.
He stationed his men at the halyards and down-hauls, and had everything in hand for the shock. He calmly watched the on-coming line of froth, growing whiter every minute, while his officers came to him and begged him to take in his sail. But wait he did until the first breath stirred his royals.
Then the shrill pipe of the boatswain called the boats alongside of the ”Const.i.tution.”
They were not a moment too soon. As the men were hooking the tackles the blast struck the s.h.i.+p. Over she heeled, almost on her beam ends, the boats tossed up like feather-weights. The yards came down with a rush, and the sails flew up to the quarter-blocks, though the wind seemed likely to blow them out of the bolt-ropes. She righted herself in a moment, though, and so cleverly had Hull watched his time that not a boat was lost.
Among the enemy all was disorganization. Every sail was furled, and some of their boats went adrift. Then, as the friendly rain and mist came down, the wily Yankee spread his sails--not even furled--and sailed away on an easy bowline at nine knots an hour.
The race was won. Before the Englishmen could recover, Hull managed by wetting his sails to make them hold the wind, and soon the enemy was but a blur on his western horizon. Then the British gave it up.
The superiority of Yankee seamans.h.i.+p was never more marked than in this chase. The British had the wind, the advantage of position, the force, and lacked only the wonderful skill and indomitable perseverance of the American, who, with everything against him, never for a moment despaired of pulling gallant ”Old Ironsides” out of the reach of his slow-moving enemy.
The difficult manuvre of picking up his boats without backing a yard or easing a sheet he repeated again and again, to the wonderment of his adversaries, whose attempts in this direction failed every time they tried it in a smart breeze. Hull's tactics at the coming of the squall were hazardous, and under any other circ.u.mstances would have been suicidal. For a skipper to have his boats two cable-lengths away from his s.h.i.+p, with his royals flapping to the first shock of a squall, is bad seamans.h.i.+p. But if tackles are hooked and men are safe aboard there is no marine feat like it.