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| C H Lightoller (1874 - 1952) |
So, in the year of Our Lord 1900, armed with a letter of introduction and full of good resolutions, I made my appearance at 30 James Street, Liverpool, the headquarters of the wonderful White Star Line. It was customary in those days to have to wait anything up to six months before getting an appointment, so, feeling very virtuous at having done the great deed, I slipped away for a few months’ holiday. Within a week, to my utter disgust, I had orders to report; and on arriving in Liverpool, found I was appointed to the R.M.S. Medic, the first of the five huge White Star Liners that were to open the new Australian service. I suppose I ought to have felt flattered at being picked out from among the many, but it was rather a staggerer, since all my outfit happened to be roaming somewhere round the railways, more or less lost, and certainly unobtainable.
When the Marine Superintendent told me the ship was sailing within a couple of days, I blurted out, “Good Lord, I’ve no clothes.” His reply was short, and to the point. “Get some.” I did, and rambled off to Australia with slightly less than half an outfit. But it was the White Star Line, the summit, at that time, of my ambitions.
What a change after that precious old cattle truck. Here everything spotless and clean; everything just-so, discipline strict, but in no way irksome. Navigation such as I had never known it.
I soon fell into things and became frightfully keen at my job. Crowds of passengers and plenty going on. I lasted a whole voyage, and then I sent in my resignation in preference to being fired! Undoubtedly my own fault for again doing those things usually left undone by the discreet and wisely minded.
It came about this way. We were lying in Sydney, in Neutral Bay, and for one reason and another our sailing had been delayed. She was a show ship, the biggest that had ever been out there, and the people in Australia gave the time of our lives. Everything and everywhere it was the Medic.
I was always extremely fond of small boat sailing, and it was partly this amusement that got me into the scrape. I, as fourth officer (since she did not carry a fifth), with four midshipmen, had rigged up one of the ship’s boats. We fitted her with a false keel, and used to sail her all over the harbour, that most wonderful of harbours in the wide world, and the boat was no slouch either.
One day we had been across to Rosecutter’s Bay (sic), and, as an excuse for the jaunt, had taken sandbags to fill up with sand and bring back for the purpose of holystoning the decks. Now, standing in the middle of the harbour is a rock, on which is built a fort, known as Fort Dennison (sic), or more commonly Pinchgut, owing to the starvation diet on which the convicts were kept whilst confined in the fort. Mounted on this fort is a huge gun, that covers the whole of the harbour.
We were coming off with a light breeze, clad in our white ducks, thoroughly enjoying life, and went to pass windward of the fort. The boat did not seem inclined to lie up to it, and as it was of no consequence whatever, we ran close under the lee. One of the boys, Watson by name, lying on his back along one of the thwarts and looking up as we passed close under the fort, noticed the projecting muzzle of this huge gun. “What a lark,” he blurted out, “to fire that gun some night. Wouldn’t it shake ‘em up?” I looked up, and as they say in Yankeeland, fell for it. It was a proposition that appealed. So, with each one sworn to secrecy, we set about what proved to be a task that took over six weeks to accomplish, but it was worth it.
First, there was the powder to get, and, to avoid suspicion, it had to be obtained in very small quantities. There was fuse to get also, but before we committed ourselves very deeply, bearing in mind our very limited exchequer, it behoved us to go off some night and reconnoiter, and find out what sort of gun it was, and if it could be fired. For this purpose we commandeered a scow from Cavill’s Baths that lie off the Domain.
Sydney Harbour is reeking with sharks, as in fact is the whole of the water round Australia; any baths therefore, must have a shark-proof netting, and it is customary to have floating pontoons, on which are built the dressing rooms, and from which the shark-proof netting is suspended. These iron tanks rapidly become fouled in the warm water, and it was for the purpose of cleaning these tanks that this one man scow was used. It was capable of carrying one man, and one drum of tar, with a fair amount of safety.
Two of the boys were wise, and at this juncture backed out of the escapade, so the remaining two and myself boarded our noble scow one night, and proceeded to paddle out into the middle of Sydney Harbour. Our good Guardian Angel must have been pretty wide awake. Although it was dead calm and the surface like glass, we could not paddle quickly because the water came over the bows. As to what would have happened if the slightest breeze had sprung up, doesn’t need a very vivid imagination. However, I cannot say it bothered us; we wanted to get there and we got there, climbing up the lightning conductor and into the turret-like top of the fort.
The interior was a huge circular well, round which this massive gun carriage was supposed to revolve. The gun was an old muzzle loader, and I should think the whole outfit weighed somewhere in the region of twenty tons.
I was walking round the parapet on the inside with cat-like tread, looking to see what I could find, when I suddenly realised there was a face staring at me out of the darkness within two feet of mine. Instinctively I drew back my arm, in a way wondering who would get in the first knock when I realised that my opponent was my own reflection in the glass of the door, which led to the lower regions of the fort.
We found the bore and vent all clear, with ramrod, sponge, and extractor all complete. As the latter two could only be required in the event of a second shot, they did not interest us. If we could ram home and bring off the “One Gun Salute” as it was eventually called, we were going to rest on our laurels. Having completed our examination, we returned down the lightning conductor, into the scow, and back to Cavill’s Baths. That occupied one whole night, from just before midnight until five o’clock in the morning, and not a soul a penny the wiser.
We slowly collected powder, fuse, and masses of white cotton waste, which we marled down, with the object of ramming home in the form of three large wads, and so completing the charge. There were fourteen pounds of blasting powder alone, apart from a similar amount of fine grain, the former, of course, went in the rear of the charge, as it burns slower;
What really topped off the crazy joke, and gave it a real artistic finish, was the idea of hoisting the Boer colours on the flag staff of the Fort.
England was then in the throes of the Boer War, with Australia more loyal, more patriotic, more fervently keen for Empire rights, than was even displayed at home. It is notorious that the Australians are always more British than the English themselves, loyal to the heart’s core, and every thought for the homeland. The scene on the quaysides, and in the towns when a contingent was leaving for South Africa, simply staggered belief. The people were patriotic mad, and had there been the ships and the necessity, every man jack in Australia would have volunteered.
It was under these conditions that we conceived the glorious idea of hoisting the Boer Flag and flaunting a real roaring red rag to the Australian bull. It had, of course, to be made, and must not be made out of bunting, otherwise it would at once be traced to some ship in the harbour. Actually it was made out of linen pinched from the surgery, and painted with the Boer colours. All this had to be done behind locked doors, and after many days we were ready at last to put our scheme to the test.
We had located a boat which we could commandeer, and at eleven o’clock one night, with a nice fine drizzle falling, sufficient to keep most people in doors, we loaded up. I had the honour of carrying the fifty feet of fuse round my waist, and the bag of powder slung round my shoulder and under my armpits, covered by my coat. Three huge wads of waste and the coil of signal halyards, for hauling the ammunition up, were distributed equally between us.
With this, the three of us marched up George Street, Sydney, perfectly confident that every policeman we came to was going to arrest us on suspicion and trembling in our shoes in consequence; not so much I’ll say, in fear of ourselves, but that our plot might fail.
It did not.
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| Fort Denison, Sydney Harbour |
We got our boat; then out to the fort, and up the lightning conductor. Everything worked nicely to plan. Having hauled up the powder, I laid on my back, and with my heels on the inside edge of the Fort, I was just able to reach the muzzle of the gun, jam in the flannel bag containing the power, and ram it well home. Next followed the two wads of waste, and they also were rammed well home. Then, finally, the third wad, which had first been soaked in water.
Our only disappointment so far had been that we were unable to train the gun until it bore on a Russian man-o’-war then lying in the harbour. If this had been possible, we intended to insert one of the sandstone balls from off the top of Government Garden Gates, which would have burst on impact with her decks, and left little or no trace, but added considerably to the fun. This did not come off, however, as the gun couldn’t be trained.
Having rammed the charge home, until the thud of the rammer was loud enough to bring out the sentry, we quit. The plan was for the other two boys to hoist the flag, let go the piece of signal halyard, that we had used to haul up the ammunition, get down to the boat, turn her stern on the rocks, haul the signal halyards into the boat, lay on their oars, and stand by.
I had allowed three minutes for this operation.
In the meantime the fifty feet of fuse had to be coiled round the breach of the gun; the pricker then driven down the vent to pierce the flannel bag of powder, a small box of fine grain powder poured down the touch-hole, the business end of the fuse stuck down the vent, and then to stand by with a match. All this I finally finished, and there was still one minute to wait; it seemed like an hour.
At last the great moment arrived. Striking the match, I lit the frayed out end of the fuse, and, as it spluttered and hissed, blew out the match, and put it into my mouth. The flag was now gaily fluttering in the breeze, as I dashed for the lightning conductor, to find, in the first place, that Watson had forgotten to let go one piece of signal halyard. This I cast off; then I more fell than climbed down the slide of the fort, on to the rocks below, only to discover that a plank in the boat had been stove in on the rocks, by the wash from a passing tug, and she was half full of water.
There was no choice; the fuse was burning, so we had to go. In we jumped and pulled like mad. The others were both Conway boys, and they could pull. I had to strip off my shirt and jam it into the hole, and hold a foot on to it to keep the boat afloat at all.
It was impossible, in the circumstances, to return her. We had to land, just at the nearest point, draw her up where she would be safe, and scoot for our lives.
We went through the Domain, over the fourteen feet spiked gates of Government Gardens, and across Government Gardens—where Watson came to grief by putting his toe in one of the hoops round a rose bed, turning a complete somersault, landing on his back in the middle of the bed. We picked him up, and some of the more prominent thorns out, and continued the race. As yet we had not stopped even to put on our shoes.
We went over the gates on the far side of the gardens and on to Circular quay. There we pulled up to take breath. They, of course, wanted to know, “was everything all right?” “Had the fuse been lit?” “Would the gun go off?” and so on. I said I’d done everything, but the only thing I had a doubt about was that, in my excitement in driving the pricker down the vent hole, I could not say for certain if it had pierced the flannel bag. If this had not been done, I was afraid the main charge would not ignite, and, of course, the gun would not go off. This was going to be a mighty grievous disappointment; still, we consoled ourselves whilst putting on our boots, with the thought that, at any rate, they would find the Boer colours flying.
At this instant the whole sky lit up with a flash like lightning. Each of us stopped in his tracks, and held his breath. Was it, or was it not the gun? Surely not, with a huge flash like that. More likely lightning.
We waited and waited.
Then it came, and no mistake indeed. There was a crash like thunder, we could feel the concussion even where we stood.
We danced and shouted; threw down our caps and danced on them, and even shook hands, and, in short, behaved like lunatics. We’d done the trick.
We soon realised that it behoved us not to act like imbeciles, or we should attract attention; so, very sedately and circumspectly, we made out way back on board. The Quartermaster had been disposed of when coming ashore by sending him on a wild goose chase to make some coffee, and whilst he was away from the gangway we slipped ashore unseen. Coming back, our luck was still in, and we each got to our cabins without anyone being the wiser.
How we chuckled during the remainder of our stay in Sydney. The noise, the uproar, the jeers and recriminations. Imagine the feelings of the inhabitants when they found the colours of Britain’s hated enemy, fluttering in the breeze, and on the flagstaff of the harbour’s main fortification. Oh! It was great. The military authorities tried to throw the responsibility on the naval authorities, who retaliated by insisting the the Fort was a military garrison, and not their responsibility at all.
Somehow they managed to keep the papers in the dark for a couple of days, with the result that when the papers did get hold of it, they pulled the official leg, until the authorities were jumping mad, and would have cheerfully hung, drawn and quartered the culprits had they caught them, but luckily for our hides, they never did.
Reproduced from the book Titanic and Other Ships, by Commander Charles Lightoller. 1935 (1st edition) Ivor, Nicholson and Watson, London. Hardcover.
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