Whale Fought Ocean Liner

1905

The Pacific Mail Company's liner Acapulco, which arrived early yesterday morning from Panama and way ports, had an exciting experience with a whale off San Blas. The leviathan, floating high out of the water, was enjoying a morning nap and giving its tough hide a sunbath, when the Acapulco came along.

The lookout sighted the whale and called the attention of the man at the wheel to the slumbering mountain of flesh that floated directly in the liner's path. The quartermaster, who was steering, gave the spokes of the wheel a twist and the Acapulco's head sheered off a little. A collision was avoided, but the Acapulco's side grazed the starboard shoulder of the big fish and jarred the whale from slumberland.

The whale was fully awake before the liner had entirely passed. He awoke in a bad temper and made a furious rush at the Acapulco's stern. The whale found the disturber of his dreams a pretty solid sort of fish, but, undaunted by his failure to ram his head through the steel plates, gathered himself for another charge.

He struck the steamer under the stern, and as he bounced off, slashed at the retreating hull with his tail. Then one more rush. This time the whale found his match, for the rapidly revolving propeller landed a bewildering succession of uppercuts on his lower jaw. With a splash of defiance, the leviathan dived and disappeared and the people of the Acapulco saw him no more.

Chief Officer Bailey interviewed the quartermaster, who had avoided the whale by such a narrow margin, and concluded a heart to heart sailor talk by advising the steersman in future to "let sleeping whales lie." — San Francisco Call.

A Salute Wasted — Was Old Negro Cook, Not the General

1900

The flag-ship Monongahela was anchored off the navy-yard at Pensacola Bay in 186—, and Admiral Farragut, who was then in command, was on board. He had been very busy the week before paying official calls on the mainland, and among those who had entertained him was General Canby. When, therefore, word was received that the general would visit the ship the next day, the admiral was determined to have everything ready to receive him in a style becoming his rank.

The old boat was scrubbed and holystoned from stem to stern, the bright work was given an extra rub, and things generally were put into the best of order. Captain Heywood, now brigadier-general commandant of the marine corps, had a special inspection of his company of marines, and not a spot of rust or a dull helmet spike escaped his notice. When night closed in, darkness settled down over a very clean ship and a very tired ship's company.

Bright and early the next morning the admiral's launch was sent off to bring the general aboard. At the last moment it was discovered that there was no fruit for luncheon, and Pompey, the admiral's cook, was sent in the dingy to get some.

Pompey was a character in his way, and had been with the admiral for many years. He was very proud of what he called his military bearing, and wore his beard carefully trimmed to a point. His hair and beard were nearly white, and although he was sixty years old, he ruled the other negroes with a rod of iron.

By ten o'clock every one was standing by in full dress, when the quartermaster came aft and reported that the admiral's launch was returning.

The officer of the deck walked to the rail and took a squint at the boat through his glasses. A man clad in a blue uniform was seated in the admiral's cane chair in the stern, but as the gunwale struck him just below the shoulder and the awning hid his head, the officer of the deck was not certain that it was General Canby until, as the wind lifted the edge of the awning, he caught a glimpse of a gray beard.

Word was passed that the general was coming off. The crew were beat to quarters, the marine guard paraded, and the gun squad, detailed to fire the salutes took their stations.

Everything was in readiness, and the admiral and his staff stood at the head of the gangway to receive the guest. A hush of expectancy settled over the ship.

The boat drew nearer. Just as the launch scraped alongside, boom! boom!! came the salute from the guns.

"Present arms!" came the command to the guard, and at a sign from the flag officer the band struck up "Hail to the Chief."

Amid all this military pomp and splendor the occupant of the launch was slowly clambering out, feet foremost, and just as the last gun was fired he stood erect at the top of the gangway.

Merciful heavens! It was Pompey, with a bag of fruit in each hand!

Confusion! The honors intended for a general had been rendered a negro cook! As the situation dawned on the men, even discipline could not check a general shout of laughter. The old admiral himself laughed until he could laugh no more.

It seemed that in some way the dingy had gone off and left the old negro, and that he had managed to convince the coxswain that "Marse Farragut was jes' bound to have dat fruit befo' the general came."

Pompey wanted to land at the port gangway, but the coxswain insisted that the admiral's launch never went to the port side, and that the old man would have to land on the starboard side, aft.

Had the awning been a little higher, the mistake in identification would not have occurred. As things were, no one could be blamed, and the affair was treated as a joke, while Pompey was nicknamed the "General."

When, an hour later, General Canby did come off, he was received with all due ceremony, and on being told the story, laughed till the tears rolled down his cheek; and demanded to see the man who had stolen his salute. — Youth's Companion.

Birds Warn a Vessel

1900

Captain Henriksen, of the Norwegian steamer Panan, on reaching Philadelphia after a recent voyage, told a reporter of a Philadelphia exchange the following remarkable story:

"We loaded coal at Cape Breton, one of the wildest and most inhospitable spots in North America, and on January 24th weighed anchor and steamed slowly out to sea in the face of weather conditions which, to say the least, were alarming. That night the gale increased in fury until it blew at the rate of sixty miles an hour.

"Its direction changed also, to make matters worse, and blew on shore. This part of the Atlantic coast has been but imperfectly surveyed, and almost as soon as night closed in we were in doubt as to our exact location. The lead was cast for several hours and varying depths were recorded. Toward eight bells we were in seventy fathoms, with ample room under the keel, and as we seemed to be off the shoals, the speed was increased.

"While moving along at an eight-knot speed on a course west by southwest, and with the assurance that the land was no more to oppose us, the man on the lookout forward suddenly heard a confusion of sounds resembling the humming of millions of bees. The headway of the vessel was at once checked, and then the noise resolved itself into the voices of birds.

"It was an immense volume of chirping, and rustling of wings, which could be heard distinctly above the roar of the storm. In the succeeding moments of fear and doubt, the Panan was allowed to drift, while we sought anxiously to pierce the intense gloom of the night. Then the motion became easier and the anchor was dropped.

"When morning broke, an astonishing spectacle greeted us. Scarcely a quarter of a mile away was an immense towering rock, which, had the vessel struck it, would have dashed her to fragments in an instant. Stranger than all, the vast granite pile was inhabited by myriads of white birds, which reposed on its barren pinnacles and fluttered about the lonely apex. It was their warning cries, resounding through the night, which had saved the steamer."

One of the sailors would have tried a shot at them, but the captain would not permit it, simply as a matter of sentiment. He recognized the birds as of a species which frequent the rocky Newfoundland headlands in great numbers during the winter season. — Youth's Companion.

An Old Anchor

1900

Not long ago the crew of an English trawler engaged in lobster-fishing, near Kinsale, had great difficulty in getting their anchor aboard. It was firmly fixed in some massive, hard substance in the sand-bank.

When at last they succeeded in bringing it to the surface, there was attached to it a very ancient anchor five tons in weight, the shank being over ten feet long and the bend of equal proportions. Fastened to the anchor was a small cannon.

The anchor, which probably belonged to one of the ships of the Spanish Armada, wrecked on this coast, had become covered with marine matter, and this, in the three centuries during which it had been imbedded in the sand, had been converted into a rocky fossil substance.

The anchor is, of course, considerably worn; but it still presents a very massive appearance, and must have belonged to a large ship. — Youth's Companion.

A Brave Man's Gentleness

1900

The Army and Navy Journal gives a touching incident, which shows how gentle a nature may exist beneath the sternness which at times reckons not the life of men while in the pursuit of victory.

The late Commander James W. Carlin was in command of the Vandalia at Apia, Samoa, during the terrible storm of March 16, 1889.

One evening, some years afterward, on retiring to his room while visiting his sister, he found a mouse that had fallen into a basin of water, and was struggling for his life.

"There was agony and defiance in that little fellow's eye," said the commander, speaking of it the next day. "As I gazed on that helpless little creature I thought of that terrible night on the Vandalia, and going to the open window, I gently emptied the contents of the basin. I didn't dry him with my towel, but I saved his life," the commander added. — Youth's Companion.