(continued from part 1)… and as she opens out Holyhead Bay and passes to the north of the flashing white light, marking the South Stack, she gets the full force of the gale, which has romped and roared across the Atlantic to measure strength, as aforetime, with these black – painted demons of steamers, in the hope of hindering the Queen’s Irish mails.
Captain Thomas, Commander of R.M.S. “Leinster”
(from a photograph)
Away, seven miles to the north-east of us, is the white fixed light of the Skerries, by which pass all the Atlantic liners outward bound from Liverpool; and now the captain and chief officer settle themselves comfortably in the starboard corner of the bridge behind the dodger or weather-cloth, knowing they have a long three hours before them.
To them staggers a courageous passenger, who hazards the original remark: “Dirty night, captain, isn’t it ?”
‘What – you here ?” says the captain. “Yes, it is dirty; you’d better go below-you can’t stay here, you know.”
At this moment the Ulster takes a tremendous plunge, and tons of green water come over the bow, deluging everybody; but the staunch vessel shakes herself free and springs forward like a racehorse, and then, besides ourselves, only the chief and the third officers, the man at the wheel, and the look-out man are left on deck, though the captain appears and re-appears at short intervals, and fidgets about, for he doesn’t like the look of the weather.
Presently the look-out man sings out : “Green light on the starboard bow, sir !” and we find it belongs to one of the North Wall Company’s boats from Dublin, with cattle, running before the gale. She passes by and goes into Holyhead, the boats showing each other their quarter-lights as they pass.
We are about three-quarters of an hour out, when a steamer’s red light on the starboard bow is reported, and from the height and size of this and other lights, she’s made out to be an Atlantic liner steaming down Channel, crossing our course from starboard to port. By the rule of the road, we are the giving-way ship, so the order is given “Port !” – “Port sir !” and we pass under the stern of the big fellow; then, “Go your course !”, and we resume our course.
After a while the ‘look-out’ sings out, “Green light off port bow,” and as it is a small, unsteady light, we see it is a poor sailing ship, close-hauled under close-reefed topsails, trying to weather the Skerries, and, as she is the weaker, we give way again. “Starboard !” is the steering order given, so as not to cross his bows and make him feel uncomfortable; we go round the sailing ship’s stern, and then, when she is cleared, the word is, “Steady-go your course.”
We are just coming to the conclusion that this howling waste of waters is rather crowded alter all, and that it is simpler to steer a bicycle than a steamboat, when we find that we have reached the half-passage, by noticing that the quarter-masters are changed.
Every half-hour the boatswain comes to the officer of the watch and reports, “All lights burning brightly, sir – and half-past nine,” or whatever the hour may be, for on these boats no bells are struck at sea, as the sound is found to be confusing and may drown that of steamers’ whistles, etc.
Suddenly, we nearly jump out of our shoes, for the look – out man literally yells, “Steamer’s light right ahead !!” (It must be some “tramp” or light steam collier returning from Ireland in ballast, running before the gale and blowing his smoke ahead of him and downwards, veiling his lights-for at first it is but a black spot, while the next second discovers the three lights of a steamer.)
Instant is the order, “Port ! Hard aport – hard over!”
“Hard over sir!” the steersman replies, the wheel flying round the while, and we hold our breath. She goes over to starboard, just getting out of the way in time, and this fellow shoots by, he himself, likely as not, unaware of anything being near till he sees our lights right close beside him.
Then some very heavy squalls accompanied by blinding sleet come down on us in quick succession, and wet, chilled through, with nerves a little disordered by the recent narrow shave, we go below, if only to get a brief cessation from the noise of the howling, shrieking wind. Here we find the captain, whom we had only missed a moment before from the deck, holding on to a stanchion with one hand, and with the other trying to lift a cup of hot coffee to his mouth.
“Doesn’t this remind you, captain, of a bad November crossing we once had, when you were second under Old Trip ? ”
“That was much worse,” answers the captain, between his sips. “I shouldn’t have thought you could have remembered it.”
“Who was ‘Old Trip.’? ” somebody inquires.
“What, never heard of ‘Old Trip’- the famous Captain Triphook ?
The Late Captain R.S. Triphook R.N., Commander of R.M.S. Leinster, with his dog ‘Chance’ (from a photo by Cranfield & Co., Dublin)
He was twenty-five years in the mail service, and when he retired in ’76, he had never lost a life, and had never once been fined for landing mails late.”
“Tell us about him, captain,” say several of the passengers.
The captain looks half inclined to try, takes a run up on deck to see that everything is going smoothly, and then, coming down again, commences :- “Well, ‘Old Trip’ – Captain Triphook – was formerly an officer of the Royal Navy. On one occasion when he was off the coast of Ireland in charge of a Revenue cutter – The Chance – he sighted a schooner in distress on shore in a terrible gaie. ‘Who’ll come with me in a boat to help that schooner ? ‘ he sings out to his men” ‘I can’t order a boat’s crew, but I’m going myself in the boat, and I want four men to help me – who’ll volunteer?’ The whole lot of them volunteered. ‘No,’ he says, ‘ I only want four,’ and four men and the captain left for the schooner, Trip in the meantime having given his second in command instructions how to manoeuvre the cutter. Well, gentlemen, he rescued that schooner’s crew and picked up his own cutter again, and for this splendid bit of work the Admiralty presented him with a service of plate.”
“Tell us some more about him,” chorus the knot of passengers, but the captain has again disappeared to the bridge, whence he presently returns with the smiling announcement that the weather shows signs of moderating.
“‘Tell you more about Old Trip ! I could spin enough yarns about him to keep you listening for a month. Once during the autumn gales, the guardship at Kingstown – the Royal George – (not the Royal George, of course), which had been in the Crimean War – an old, wooden line of-battle ship, fitted with auxiliary steam – broke from her regulation moorings
and drifted against the breakwater, where the wind held her broadside on. Trip came in in the Ulster, and, seeing the ship with her topmasts and yards down and canting over, could not make it out, not make it out, and signaled “Can I tow you off ?”
The answer came back ‘Yes, if you can.’ so he backed in-a very difficult piece of manoeuvring in cramped space when you’re unable to go ahead with one paddle and reverse with the other, as you are in some boats – and towed the warship out through all the crowd of small craft (which were moored so as only to provide a narrow lane for the mailboat to come in and go out), to where she could safely anchor. Then he went out him-self and came in again, same as usual, to the jetty -as he had to do, in order to get alongside from the position he had left the guardship
(continued in part 3)