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This book should be returned on or before the datefast marked
Below.

The
Emerald
Whaler

The
Emerald
Whaler
0m/. ^aet
Copyright 1960 by William J. Laubenstein
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
First Edition
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 60-12627
To all those lovers of Freedom
to whom the Emerald of Ireland
is the fairest color on
God's Earth . . . and
to the humble, trusting,
patriotic rank and file of
a great secret organization
who, out of small earnings,
contributed regularly and
generously to the fund that made
the Catalpa expedition possible,
meanwhile keeping their own
counsel and asking no questions,

"We will make war upon them to death
to recover the independence which is
our natural right; being compelled there-
to by very necessity, and willing rather
to brave danger like men, than to lan-
guish under insult."
-Donal O'Neill, Prince of Ulster
This book is a gift to the library by
Dr. Pasupuleti Gopala Krislmayya,
President, Krishnayya's News
Service and Publications, New York
City, as part of a collection of
American books given in memory of
His Beloved Twin Brothers
Rama (Med.Stu.) & Bala Krishnayya
(Eng.)

Foreword
In 1865 Irish patriots waited for word, as they had so many times
in the past, to rise and throw off English shackles.
Since 1171, when Henry II landed in Waterford, the Irish peo-
ple had fought for freedom desperately, bitterly, but never hope-
lessly. They had suffered the terrible anti-Catholic hatred of
licentious Henry VIII, the merciless wrath of Queen Elizabeth I,
the godless massacres of Oliver Cromwell, the frightful Penal
Laws which forced school and Church underground, the infamous
Union with England. The Irish people, decimated by the sword,
were nearly destroyed by the catastrophic calamity of the Famine
of 1847-48. It was then The London Times gloated: 'They are
going! They are going! The Irish are going with a vengeance!
Soon a Celt will be as rare in Ireland as a red Indian on the
shores of Manhattan!"
But always the Irish had hope. They had hope in the days of
the great Connor of Maenmagh, of Shane O'Neill, of Theobald
Wolfe Tone, of Robert Emmet, of Dan O'Connell.
And, in 1858 the Irish gained hope anew in James Stephens
and the Fenians.
Stephens had a bold plan for his "Rising." He would organize
not only the citizens in Carlow and Wicklow, in Kildare and
Athy, in Nass and Meath, in Longford, Wexford, Kilkenny, Cork,
Limerick, Mayo, Tipperary, Clare, Galway, Sligo he would re-
cruit to the Fenian cause Irish sympathizers in Queen Victoria's
armed forces in Ireland. He would smuggle guns from America.
He would hire American Union Army officers to lead his army.
Organize he did to the extent of three quarters of the Queen's
9
The Emerald Whaler
armies in Ireland and thousands upon thousands of citizens. Guns
he procured. American officers he hired. But, fatally, Stephens
waited. With the best conspiracy ever in Irish revolutionary his-
tory, he did not give the word. His "Rising" collapsed. Thou-
sands were arrested, imprisoned, exiled.
But out of the disaster of the Rising of 1865 came one of the
greatest rescue stories of all time the story of the Catalpa ex-
pedition.
I have had the help and guidance of many kind and co-operative
people in searching out the facts about the Catalpa adventure.
There is room here to mention only a few, such as:
Mr. Arthur Hand, of Roslindale, Massachusetts, a Clan-na-Gael
stalwart and long-time friend of Henry Hathaway, with whom
the project was first discussed and whose help in correction and
revision has been invaluable. He it was who introduced me to
many other Irish patriots, all of whom were enthusiastic about
the plan for the book.
Mr. James Reidy, of Brooklyn, New York, who was right-hand
man to John Devoy in editing The Gaelic American. Mr. Reidy
gave up his own newspaper in New Rochelle, New York, in 1903
to join Mr. Devoy on that crusading Irish-American newspaper.
He helped Mr. Devoy decode the message from Ireland reveal-
ing the date of the Easter Rising in 1916.
The untimely death of Mr. Reidy brought me into close contact
with his two daughters, Miss Nona Reidy and Miss Ethna Reidy,
who as tiny girls recall sitting on the lap of John Devoy. They
graciously and unceasingly searched through their father's valu-
able papers, unearthing many new facts about the Catalpa ven-
ture, and then permitted me to examine the files of The Gaelic
American.
No story that involves whaling in the days of wooden ships
could be written without the aid of Mr. William E. Tripp, curator-
emeritus of the Old Dartmouth Historical Society and Whaling
Museum on Johnny Cake Hill in the old-time whaling capital of
New Bedford. Mr. Tripp was patient and painstaking in his efforts
to provide authentic information about whaling in general, and
10
Foreword
the voyage of the Catalpa in particular. He provided the oppor-
tunity for an unhurried reading of the Catalpa s log and helped,
with his charts, to fix her position at various times during the
voyage.
For life aboard a whaler there could be no greater authority
than Mr. Reginald Hegarty of New Bedford, a member of the
Whaling Museum staff. He went whaling for the first time as a
baby of twenty months. By the time he was twelve years old he
had completed a four-year voyage on the Alice Knowles, with
his father as captain. The Alice Knowles holds the world's record
for oil taken in the shortest space of time, set another world's
record for cutting-in six whales in a single day, and at one time
had whales alongside for sixty consecutive days. Mr. Hegarty's
immense fund of lore about the ways of a whaler, unfolded as we
sat on the deck of the Museum's half-size model whaleship, the
Lagoda, was invaluable.
Authentic information about Captain George Smith Anthony,
his wife, his children, his home and his father-in-law, John Rich-
ardson, came from Leon M. Huggins, Captain Anthony's son-in-
law, of New Bedford.
From Father P. McCarthy, O.M.I., research grantee (post-
graduate), University of Western Australia, came most helpful
facts about Father Patrick McCabe.
Gordon C. Avery, of the Morse Twist Drill Works, New Bed-
ford, gave information relating to Captain Anthony's work there.
The Reverend Charles Thurber, of the Mariner's Home and
Seamen's Bethel, on Johnny Cake Hill, New Bedford, was par-
ticularly helpful with his tales of whaling and whalemen.
Authentic details about the convict ship Hougownont came
from co-operative gentlemen of the staff of the National Maritime
Museum, Greenwich, S.E. 10, London.
My special thanks go to Mr. Peter Conroy, of Boston, for his
kindness in lending me his own prized copy of John Devoy's
book Recollections of an Irish Rebel.
I wish also to acknowledge the assistance and co-operation of
Mr. C. Russell Mason and Miss Ruth Emory, of the Massachusetts
11
The Emerald Whaler
Audubon Society; the Very Reverend J. J. Rafferty, Chancellor,
Archdiocese of Perth, Western Australia; the Reverend John E.
Murphy, S.J., Boston College; Miss Mollie Lukis, Librarian, Battye
Library of West Australia History, Perth; and the British Informa-
tion Service, New York.
And thanks to the enthusiastic staff of the Mystic Seaport and
Maritime Historical Museum at Mystic, Connecticut, where I spent
many hours prowling around the last and greatest of New Bed-
ford's whalers the Charles W. Morgan, now permanently en-
shrined at her dock in the re-created New England seaport village
there.
Finally, thanks to Miss Sally Johnson for her extremely helpful
suggestions, her patience, and her enthusiasm for the whole story
of the Catalpa.
WILLIAM J. LAUBENSTEIN
12
- Contents
Chapter Page
1 Last Act of a Tragedy 17
2 Go Accurst 27
3 A Captain's Word
'
39
4 TheCatalpa 52
5 "Greasy Voyage!" 66
6 First Take 80
7 Mutiny 96
8 The Shore Agents 109
9 A Yankee Trader Arrives in Australia 117
10 Contact 126
11 "No News from New Bedford" 139
12 A Barrel of Rotten Pork 150
13 The Beach 162
14 Easter 176
15 The Catalpa Stands to Sea 189
16 Return Engagement 210
17 Made Fast 224
Epilogue 233
Bibliography 239
The following illustrations will be found after page 128:
The Catalpa, from a Painting by C. S. Raleigh, 1879
Captain George Smith Anthony
Samuel P. Smith, First Mate of the Catalpa
John Boyle O'Reilly
John Devoy
John J. Breslin
The Prison at Fremantle
Australia, Goal of the Catalpa (map)
The
Emerald
Whaler

1 . Last Act of a Tragedy
A biting wind swept slashing rain from the English Channel across
Chesil Bank and all the four-and-a-half-mile length of Portland
Bill, whipping the harbor into a lather of whitecaps, roaring
through the rigging of the ships that cowered behind the new
mole, and sending the sea pounding against the stone quays where
the town of Portland began. Behind the limestone walls of her
Majesty Queen Victoria's Royal prison only the monotonous tread
of the warders and the sleep-noises of a thousand-odd prisoners
stirred the silence of the dim corridors whose walls dripped water
like a sour kitchen sponge. There England's unwanted huddled
on planks under thin cotton coversand the oppressive blanket
of dread.
In this reeking catch-all special guards paced before seven
doubly locked and barred cells, in which languished seven men
with their legs in iron fetters. Each was classified as dangerous
in the extreme not only to Queen Victoria's government, but to
Her Most Gracious Majesty herself.
That these seven were alive was not due to any mercy on the
part of Queen Victoria, nor any twinge of conscience on the part
of here ailing Prime Minister, Edward George Geoffrey Smith,
14th Earl of Derby. Rather it was due to a surge of indignation
from civilized people of the globe aroused at last to realization of
the plight of tortured Ireland.
The English press had pilloried these seven as traitors. And so
the Crown charged in courts-martial: "For mutinous conduct . . .
in that coming to the knowledge of an intended mutiny in Her
17
The Emerald Whaler
Majesty's forces . . . did not give information thereof to his com-
manding officer" and "For conduct to the prejudice of good order
and military discipline in having . . . joined a treasonable and
seditious society, called the Fenian Brotherhood, having for its
object the levying of war against the Queen and subverting of the
government of the country."
But in all Ireland and elsewhere in the free world, these seven
were hailed as patriots, guilty only of love of country and hatred
of tyranny.
The sentence passed upon them by the Crown was death.
Death it would most certainly have been if fear had not struck
Her Majesty's ministers. George William Frederick Charles, Duke
of Cambridge, Commander-in-Chief of the Queen's Armies, had
pleaded to his cousin, the Queen, that the death sentences be
carried out with dispatch, to preserve British Army discipline.
But Lord Derby and his cabinet, fearful not of their consciences
but of what effect the executions might have on world trade if
the harsh demands of His Grace were carried out, persuaded Her
Majesty to commute the sentences of death to transport beyond
the seas and a lifetime of hard labor. The Duke of Cambridge
went into a pet that lasted for weeks.
The seven condemned men were Robert Cranston, Thomas
Darragh, Michael Harrington, Thomas Hassett, Martin Hogan,
James Wilson, and John Boyle O'Reilly. All were Irish, all were
patriots, all were Fenians, sworn in secret bond to shed blood to
set Ireland free.
What little luck of the Irish there was in Portland that early
morning of October 15, 1867 clung tenaciously to two of these
sevensallow-faced Mike Harrington and grinning Tom Hassett.
Their consecutive convict numbers had put them next each other
in chain and dungeon, from Dublin's Royal Barracks to Mountjoy,
to Pentonville, through the terribly solitary confinement of Mill-
bank and now to Portland. The pair had been brought to Portland
by steam train from Millbank twelve hours before.
With the suddenness of doom, guards shot back bolts, yanked
iron doors open, strode into cells and kicked shivering occupants
18
Last Act of a Tragedy
awake. Harrington was the first in his cell row to be routed from
slumber. A warder's copper-toed boot brought him up from his
planks snarling. He stumbled into the corridor, his fetters almost
tumbling him. In a moment he was joined by Hassett, who had
been just as harshly hauled from his cell.
As cell after cell was emptied, the normal bedlam in Portland
Prison rose to pandemonium. Guards roared. Fists thudded
against flesh. Prisoners howled.
Through the corridors trusties trundled barrows of food for
the morning meal a pint of cold oatmeal and potato gruel, a hunk
of sour bread the size of a small boy's fist, a mug of watery cocoa.
Harrington and Hassett were wolfing down the mess as the
pimply youth who had guard duty at their cell doors swaggered
toward them.
"We've seen the last of the like of you," he said with a smirk.
"Could we depend on that, we'd be thankful and happy," Har-
rington jeered.
"Depend on it, you're for Australia today."
"Australia?" Hassett flicked an exploring cockroach from his
sleeve. "How would a dolt like you know anything about such
matters of state? Did Queen Victoria herself dispatch her own
royal Knight of the Bottom to tell you to bid your guests in this
hotel prepare for a healthful voyage to a foreign clime?"
"I don't understand you," the boy said, "but you're for the con-
vict ship today, all right. She's the Hougoumont and she's wait-
ing down harbor ready to take you."
Hassett rubbed the stubble on his brown head, where the hair
had been torn out by the roots when he was pitch-capped his
head covered with melted pitch by English warders in the
Provost's Prison in Dublin's Royal Barracks. "Good enough," he
said slowly. "Australia's just far enough away from this damned
England to suit me."
"The lad is right," Harrington agreed. "They'd not boot us out
of our cozy beds so early this morning just to see our faces by
candlelight. What worries me is, will the rest of the boys be
making this voyage with us?"
19
The Emerald Whaler
Hassett's face lit up. "On the train coming down yesterday I
heard mind you, it may not be true that someone named O'Reilly
had escaped from Dartmoor but had got himself caught again.
That would be Boyle himself. The O'Reilly's not one to sit moping
in an English jail. They don't make their prisons tough enough
for him, nor for Jim Wilson neither. It sounds just like O'Reilly,
getting out of that spot. Now maybe some more of us were at
Dartmoor. There was a trainload coming here from the 'moor by
train today, and . . ."
Shouts of "Chains! Chains!" cut him off. Into the musty cor-
ridors trusties began dragging lengths of new iron chains. Ar-
morers and warders booted order into the chaos and began shack-
ling the wrists and ankles of screaming women. In three chains,
ten to each, they whimpered against the walls while 260 men-
murderers, thieves, pimps, cheats, political prisoners were mana-
cled in similar fashion, all in order of registered numbers.
Harrington, No. 9757, and Hassett, No. 9758, were fastened one
behind the other. An armorer knocked off their leg fetters.
In the wind-racked harbor, Her Majesty's Ship Hougoumont,
Moulmein-built converted merchantman, strained to her two bow
anchors as if anxious to get about the sordid business ahead. She
carried the broad arrow of the convict ship whitely on the 153
feet of her black hull. Her teak decks glistened in a rain so heavy
the marine at her gangway could scarcely make out the white
yards of her royals. The rain tore in sheets along her deck and
cascaded off her furled canvas. Under the cabin overhang, a
young lieutenant tried to keep at least part of his uniform dry.
"Ahoy, the Hougoumont\"
A ship's longboat emerged from the gloom. The voice came
louder:
"Ahoy, the Hougoumont! Surgeon-General Brownlow
requests permission to come aboard!"
The dripping lieutenant snapped to attention as the boat's crew
made fast. A gray-haired man in the uniform of Her Majesty's
Royal Navy picked his way up the slippery stairs, took the stiff
20
Lost Act of a Tragedy
salute of the lieutenant with a genial smile and said, 'Til see
Captain Cousins at once."
His nostrils twitched as he entered the companionway. Despite
the burning of sulfur candles and the sprinkling of lime, there
clung to the Hougoumont the odor of the human cargo that had
been all she had carried for the past two years. He held his breath
momentarily, grimaced, breathed again. An earlier voyage in the
Hougoumont had taught him his nose would grow accustomed
to the smella smell that would be a stench in the tropics.
Captain Cousins rose from an armchair as the surgeon entered.
The two officers shook hands as old friends. The surgeon looked
appreciatively at the polished mahogany, the gleaming silver, the
shining glassware and snow-white linen.
"Good morning, Captain," he said. "Though what's good about
it is beyond my poor intellect to fathom. This rain chills the
marrow. A fever-breeder if I ever saw one, my word as a physi-
cian on it." He looked around the cabin again. "It is pleasant
here."
"A dirty morning, indeed," Captain Cousins agreed, "and the
glass still falls. I hope we get all our cargo stowed before the
wind swings foul." He turned to the sideboard and poured two
brandies. "We embark three hundred-odd convicts, male and
female, this voyage feed them, sleep them, exercise them, teach
them Royal Navy discipline and deliver them to Fremantle, West
Australia. A straight ferrying task, sir! A ten-thousand-mile
ferrying task."
Mr. Brownlow nodded slowly, savoring his brandy. "Captain,
have you looked at the manifest for this 'cargo'!?"
"Can't say as I have, sir."
"Look closely, Captain. You'll find you have some special con-
victs aboard the Hougoumont this voyage."
"Convicts are all alike on my ship. You've sailed with me be-
fore. What have these scum specialized in? Murder? Rape?
Arson?"
"Worse than that, Captain. Treason!"
21
The Emerald Whaler
Captain Cousins raised a bushy eyebrow. "Treason, Mr. Brown-
low? That is special."
"Treason in Ireland to overthrow Her Majesty's government
there and usurp it for wild revolutionaries!"
Captain Cousins fingered his glass thoughtfully. "Ah, the Irish
military traitors. I heard about them and their 'Rising' when we
docked. Well, they'll get nothing special here unless they plot
aboard my ship. I'll have them triced to the triangle so fast their
heads will swim. And you, sir, can have the privilege of bringing
them back to life after they're flogged if you care to."
"But if they plot . . ."
"On my ship?" Captain Cousins looked at the surgeon incredu-
lously, then laughed belly-hearty. "Come now, Mr. Brownlow,
don't be fearsome. I promise you they'll all be meek as Irish lambs
by the time we fetch Australia. I've a 'cat' and a sovereign that
says I'm right."
He reached for the decanter. "A toast, sir! To Her Most
Gracious Majesty, our sovereign Queen Victoria, long may she
live, long may she rule and may God bless her . . . and may He
damn to everlasting hell such as these who were traitors to her!"
In Portland Prison it was past six.
The chief warder's voice echoed through the corridors: "Con-
victs! Stand! Attention! Ready! March!"
The gates of the prison's main portal swung open. To the steady
beat of drums and the rasping of iron against stone, the chains
emerged. A soldier, bayonet fixed, headed every third chain.
In spite of the early hour, a silent crowd had gathered to get a
last look at the wretches on their way to exile. In the drenched
throng were some who had come hoping for a last glimpse of a
loved one. A hoarse whisper, "Here they come," grew in volume.
The convicts trudged down the cobbled hill in a sort of shuf-
fling dance. First in line were the females, next the twenty-six
chains of men.
Every so often a shriek broke from someone in the crowd, fol-
22
Last Act of a Tragedy
lowed by a rush to touch, to kiss, to speak. Then a shove from
the butt of a musket, a heartless laugh and silent tears.
Harrington and Hassett were in the twentieth chain. As they
emerged from the main gate, Harrington turned his head slightly
back toward Hassett.
"Any of the rest in chain?"
"I've a plan, m'lad," Hassett whispered.
Before he could explain, a guard turned menacingly. Both pris-
oners watched his slow progress along the chains.
Then, startlingly clear over the shuffle of feet and the clanking
of chains, Hassett's tenor voice rang out:
"Out from many a mud-walled cabin
Eyes were watchin' through the night;
Many a manly chest was throbbin'
For the blessed warnin' light.
Murmurs passed along the valleys . . ."
"Who's that yowlin?" The sentry raced back. "Shut up or 111
slit your throat with my bayonet!"
From far ahead, down the cobbled hill, came:
"Like the banshee's lonely croon
And a thousand blades were flashin'
At the Rising of the Moon."
"Darragh! By all that's holy, it's Tom Darragh! I'd know that
voice anywhere," Harrington exulted.
Another voice caught up the song:
"There beside the singin' river
That dark mass of men was seen . . .
Far
. . ."
Again the singer was cut off by the angry shout of a guard. But
another voice picked up the song:
23
The Emerald Whaler
"Far above the shinin' weapons
Hangs our own beloved Green.
Death to every foe and traitor
Forward strike the marchin' tune . . ."
And a last triumphant voice shouted:
"And hurrah, me boys, for Freedom!
'Tis the Rising of the Moon."
Then, loud and clear, "Erin go bragh!" broke from a chain
waiting on the quay.
Tears ran down Harrington's face. "Cranston! Hogan! O'Reilly!
And that last cheer'twas Jim Wilson. All of us are here, Tom."
With the back of his hand the sentry fetched Harrington a
clout over the face. "I said shut up, goddam you. Let out so
much as a peep again, I'll stick you through."
Blood trickled from Harrington's nose down into his beard.
He turned to Tom Hassett. "That's what I love about the Eng-
lish. They're so kind and gentle to poor captive people. . . . Well,
a bit of blood was worth it. Now we know!"
At quayside, soldiers, warders and sailors shoved and cursed
the convicts aboard a small paddle-wheel steamer that puffed her
through the murk to the black-hulled convict ship. Tar-queued
sailors made her fast, and chain after chain of convicts stumbled
up the gangway stairs and stood dumbly on the deck, staring
about them as their chains were knocked off.
Forward, running out to the foot of the bowsprit from within a
few yards of the foremast, a V-shaped section of the main deck
was roofed over, the wide end of the "V" latticed with inch-
thick iron bars. This was the ship's punishment cell. Strapped
to the foremast itself a black gaff stood out against the sky. In it
two iron rings were set as wide apart as a man's arms could be
stretched. In the deck below were two more iron rings, just as
far apart and bolted down. This was the "triangle" for flogging.
Above the triangle and tied about the foremast was a new hempen
rope ending in a hangman's noose. Two of the main cargo hatches
24
Lost Act of a Tragedy
were open. Over each was an iron cage with barred door. At
each cage stood two marines and a prison warder.
Harsh voices called out registered numbers. As each convict
answered, he joined a line that sank into the bowels of the ship.
Harrington and Hassett, among the last to descend, stood blink-
ing at the foot of the ladder. Out of the howling crowd a man
shoved forward. Reaching their side, he said, simply, "Tom! Mike!
Welcome aboard!"
Hassett cried out in joy. "Jim Wilson!" He threw his arms
around the man.
"Didn't you hear me on the hill? I shouted my guts out. Come
on, the rest of the boys are waiting."
He led them through a bulkhead door into a smaller compart-
ment of the forward hold, where they found Darragh, Cranston,
Hogan, and O'Reilly.
O'Reilly hugged the two newcomers. "God alone knows how
glad I am you're here and we're all together again."
On the deck anchor chains screeched through hawsepipes. Sails
sheeted home to crackle in the wind. A straining of rigging, a
creaking of timbers, and the Hougoumont stood for the narrow
opening in the mole, for the English Channel and the open sea.
A great hush fell on the prisoners in the crowded hold as the lift
of the seas took the ship. This was the beginning of the fateful
words the judges had spelled out "transportation beyond the
seas."
Among the Fenians, "Red" Darragh was first to break the spell.
"Our past is past, that's sure. What's ahead can be no worse, now."
"There was a time I wasn't sure I had any future ahead at all,"
Wilson said grimly.
O'Reilly cleared his throat:
"Take my heart's blessing over to dear Eire's strand
And the fair hills of Eire O.
"To the remnant that love her our forefather's land
Fair hills of Eire O.
"How sweet sing the birds, o'er mount there and vale,
Like soft sounding chords that lament for the Gael
25
The Emerald Whaler
And I o'er the surge, far, far away must wail
The fair hills of Eire O."
Tears crept down Hogan's cheeks. He wiped them away as
O'Reilly finished. "That was grand, Boyle, just grand."
"Some day I'm going to string words like pearls, just as that
poet did. Some day I'll put words to paper and they'll sing a song.
Maybe that will be my way to bring freedom to Ireland."
"It's a farewell to a rotten England I want to say," Cranston cut
in, "farewell to an England I despise with all my heart and soul."
"Despise her we all do," Wilson said. "But right now we ought
to get organized, plan what we're to do."
"Right, Jim," Hogan agreed. "Set up a captain
"
"Moved, seconded and carried. Jim Wilson is our captain,"
O'Reilly interrupted. The rest nodded.
Wilson stepped forward, pointed to each of the men in turn.
"Once we're settled in quarters, Red, swipe some more blankets,
and get some planks or boxes to sit on. . . . Boyle, you look to some
extra tallow dips. . . . Mike, you're a baker, see what extra you can
dig up better than the slop they'll hand us. Bob, you and Tom
here, let's us try to grab us a corner we can call our own. Then
we can take time out to do our bit of despising of 'dear old
England.'"
26
2 . Bo Accurst
Hell began aboard the Hougoumont at precisely half after eight
o'clock the morning she sailed. At that hour she moved her stubby
bow out from Portland Harbor into the teeth of as savage a
Channel storm as Captain Cousins had ever experienced in his
forty-odd years at sea.
The wind and rain worsened as the last of the ship's human
cargo was bullied down the hatches. By the time the Hougoumont
had lurched into the Channel and wore ship for her southwesterly
course to clear the Channel Islands and the Scillys, a tremendous
tidal rip and mountainous seas tore at her hull. Within a half
hour all hatches were battened down against the white water that
sheeted the length of her reeling deck. Seamen raced aloft to
take in sail, but despite the officers' cries for speed, the foreroyal
split with a resounding crack before the men could hand it. Un-
der fore, main and mizzen courses, topsails and jib the ship shud-
dered along.
Few of the prisoners had ever before been to sea. Wails of
terror at the unknown were compounded with sobs of despair.
Slop buckets overflowed, then spewed their contents over the
planks. Each pitch and each roll hurled dozens sprawling across
the splintery decking. Blood flowed from countless cuts. Shins,
elbows, skulls cracked against timbers.
In this devil's din, the seven Fenians clung to the corner they
had picked out to defend as their castle. Warders had thrust them
into the forward hold with the hardened criminals murderers,
thieves, arsonists. There Wilson, with his quick eye to vantage
points, had chosen a spot where one of the few whale-oil lamps
27
The Emerald Whaler
guttered and where hammocks could be disposed. None was sea-
sick; long experience on army transports had accustomed them.
News of the conditions below took long hours to penetrate the
rarer atmosphere of officers' country. It was late on the second
nightmarish day that Surgeon Brownlow, with a medical aide,
made his way down the forecastle ladder into the male prisoners'
quarters.
He was momentarily appalled at the need for medical care. A
barked order sent his aide scurrying topside. He was back in a
few minutes with a whispered message.
The doctor frowned. "Broken arm? Too bad. He would have
been most helpful. We'll have to 'press some of these more rugged-
looking men here." He eyed the few still on their feet. "You . . .
you . . . you . . ." His finger pointed out Darragh, Hogan and
Cranston. "You look well enough. Step forward, you three."
The three hesitated, then at a nod from Wilson, stepped out
a pace.
"Names?"
"Thomas Darragh."
"Michael Hogan."
"Robert Cranston."
"Say 'sir' when you speak to your betters."
Silence greeted his order. The surgeon did not stress the point.
"So you're the Irish traitors, eh?"
None replied.
"I never thought I'd deal with traitors." Brownlow shrugged
his shoulders. "You men should know something about binding
up wounds. You were all soldiers, weren't you?"
More silence.
Brownlow pointed to Hogan. "Speak up, man."
"Yes," Hogan muttered.
Brownlow turned to his aide. "Take these men topside and load
them with splints and bandages."
By lamplight the surgeon and his new aides dressed the wounds
and splinted the limbs of more than two score prisoners. As they
28
Go Accurst
finished, Brownlow said: "Shouldn't say thanks to traitors, I sup-
pose. But . . . good job, lads!"
In spite of the storm, rigid Royal Navy discipline ruled the
Hougoumont. A midshipman, imprisoned in the main deck pun-
ishment cell the first day out for refusing to climb aloft on the
swaying mainmast, was taken out the third day quite dead, of
"exposure and ingestion of a quantity of sea water," the surgeon
determined. His body was hurried overside with the shortest of
committal services.
It was three days before the Hougoumont had battered her way
through the Channel storm and, all canvas set again topsails,
topgallants, royals, skysails, jib and staysails was on course
south. Morning of the fourth day saw the midships hatch cover
raised and windsails set to force a little fresh air into the stifling
depths of the ship. Able-bodied prisoners were set at scrubbing.
Lime was sprinkled about. Sulfur candles were ignited.
The morning of the fourth day, too, Captain Cousins decided
it was time to stop coddling the convicts. From then on, for the
duration of the voyage, at ten each morning, all miscreants caught
violating ship's rules were brought before the mast, their crimes
listed by a boatswain's mate and sentences pronounced by the
captain himself. By noon sentences had been carried out. The
bloodied "cat" was back in its place beside the foremast gaff. Con-
victs holystoned the red-stained deck under the
"triangle." Those
sentenced to the main deck punishment cell were set to picking
oakum behind its inch-thick bars, their fare bread and water.
As the seas moderated, the prisoners, under heavy armed guard,
were brought on deck in groups of fifty and marched briskly
about the fore and main hatches for a half hour.
The Hougownont put in at Funchal for fresh water, potatoes,
vegetables, good bottled Madeira wine for the officers and the
passengers, and casks of cheap red wine and lemons to ward off
scurvy from crew and convicts. Southward then, with good winds
and balmy weather toward Ascension Island, St. Helena and
Capetown.
29
The Emerald Whaler
Day followed interminable day. On one of them Mike Harring-
ton dumped his pannikin of food in disgust. "It's worse than the
rotten slop they fed us at Dartmoor. With one hand tied behind
my back and with my eyes blinded, I'll cook better than the sea-
swab that hashed up this mess." Which outburst got him fifty
lashes, a bloody back and a job as helper in the ship's galley
where the storm had taken its toll of broken limbs too. Plenty of
scraps of good food went under his shirt and found their way into
the common store in the Fenian stronghold in the forehold.
Red Darragh, lone Protestant among the seven, became assistant
to the Church of England chaplain and led the prayer the pris-
oners had to offer each evening: "O God, who art the arbiter
of the destiny of nations and who rulest the world in Thy great
wisdom, look down, we beseech Thee, from Thy holy place on
the sufferings of our poor country. Scatter her enemies, O Lord,
and confound their evil prophets. Hear us, O God, hear the earnest
cry of our people, and give them strength and fortitude to dare
and suffer in their holy cause. Send her help, O Lord, from the
holy place. And from Zion protect her. Amen."
Surgeon Brownlow, in his inspection visits to the prison quar-
ters, discovered that of the convicts few but the Fenians had out-
standing intellect. He was interested in O'Reilly in particular,
whom he found well educated and, through his apprenticeship on
the Drogheda Argus, with a distinct journalistic bent. At O'Reilly's
request, the surgeon provided him with pen, ink and paper.
O'Reilly began editing the first of what was to be seven issues of
The Wild Goose, named for those Irish soldiers of fortune who in
foreign climes had fought with the enemies of England.
One night while the Hougoumont was plodding between Ascen-
sion and St. Helena, O'Reilly called his friends together into the
circle of light the lamp gave the corner where they had slung their
hammocks. After reading the "news" in the single-sheet copy of
The Wild Goose, he began diffidently: "I have strung a few words
together into a sort of poem for this issue. It is a poor thing and
only half done, but I shall try to finish it for our next issue. Do
you care to hear the first part of it now?"
30
Go Accurst
"Read it, Boyle, read it. It can be no worse than the news, which
were somewhat less than that," Darragh quipped.
O'Reilly cleared his throat.
"
'The Flying Dutchman/
"
he an-
nounced, "by John Boyle O'Reilly.
"Long time ago, from Amsterdam, a vessel sailed away,
As fair a ship as ever flung aside the laughing spray.
Upon the shore were tearful eyes and scarfs were in the air,
As to her o'er the Zuyder Zee went fond adieu and prayer.
And brave hearts yearning shoreward from the outward going
ship,
Felt lingering kisses clinging to tear-wet cheek and lip.
She sailed for some far eastern clime and as she skimmed the seas,
Each tapered mast was bending like a rod before the
breeze . . ."
As he continued his tale of Captain Vanderdecken and his bout
with a terrific storm, O'Reilly's voice took fire. He fairly shouted
the Dutch skipper's challenge to God:
"Howl on, ye winds! Ye tempests, howl! Your rage is spent in vain!
Despite your strength, your frowns, your hate, I'll ride upon
the main!
Defiance to your idle shrieks, I'll sail upon my path,
I cringe not for thy Maker's smile, I care not for His wrath . . ."
Then, fearfully, O'Reilly recited the words from the Almighty:
"The judgment words swept o'er the sea, 'Go wretch, accurst,
condemned,
Go sail forever on the deep by shrieking tempests hemmed.
No home, no port, no calm, no rest, no gentle fav'ring breeze,
Shall ever greet thee! Go accurst, and battle with the seas!'
"
The next issue of the Goose carried the completion of the poem
with its final stanza:
"The doom of those is sealed to whom the Phantom ship appears,
31
The Emerald Whaler
They'll never reach their destined port, they'll see their home
no more,
They who see the Flying Dutchman never, never reach the
shore!"
The Hougoumont seemed more and more the phantom ship as
she coursed along, a grim ship on a grim errand.
She sighted other ships on the ocean highways and they
sighted her. But the menacing broad arrow on her hull made her
accurst on the sea. There were no friendly trumpet hails, no
leisurely gams those friendly visits between officers and men of
ships that crossed paths on the deep. Other skippers wanted no
contact with a convict ship's stinking cargo. And Captain Cous-
ins had neither the time nor the inclination to dally as he drove
his ship toward her goal.
In the six thousand miles from the Channel to the Cape of Good
Hope, the Hougoumont passed many other vessels, even if they
did not hail; but in the four thousand-odd miles of her easterly
course to fetch the coast of West Australia, she might indeed have
been a spectral ship on a ghostly sea. The illusion held even to
the moment she bore silently into a mist-shrouded Fremantle
harbor at three in the morning of Friday, January 10, 1868, and
lay to for the break of day.
Cranston, a light sleeper always, woke to the strange feeling
of cessation of motion, and the muffled creak of yards being braced
about. With his foot he touched the bare bottom of Wilson, who
was snoring in the hammock next to his. Wilson spun over in his
canvas sack and growled: "Why the hell are you waking me?"
"We've come to Australia, that's why!"
"Do you think I give a tinker's damn for the whole of the god-
dam country, let alone one part of it?"
"Don't you want to see it?"
"There's gold in Australia," young Cranston ventured softly.
"Gold! You got as much chance getting your hands on gold as
I got making my fortune raising pigs in Kildare. Stop thinking
of this fine Australia and get to thinking of how we're getting out
of it. That's what I'm thinking all the time."
32
Go Accurst
"Right, Jim," O'Reilly said. "I'm getting away. The English
don't make a prison that can hold me. I got away at Dartmoor
and I'd be back in Ireland if it hadn't been for an informer. I'll
get away from Fremantle."
The Hougoumont lay to offshore until the sun rose above the
peaks of the Darling Mountains, far inland. Then, in contrast to
her stormy departure from England, she glided toward Victoria
Quay on a breeze so light it scarcely riffled the clear harbor water.
Captain Cousins eased his ship's hull alongside the new gov-
ernment quay. The heavy-leaded monkey fists of the heaving
lines thudded against the planks of the dock, where waiting hands
grabbed them and hauled hawsers ashore to make them fast to
the bollards. Amidships a gangplank was shoved shoreward. The
iron gates at the hatches were unlocked and opened. Armed
marines lined the deck from hatches to gangway.
After about a half hour a cloud of white dust arose a distance
ashore. Down the street leading to the wharf a platoon of the
Enlisted Pensioners' Reserve swung smartly to the quay and took
up positions from the end of the Hougoumont 's gangplank to the
end of the dock.
Two by two, the convicts were prodded up the iron ladders to
blink in the sunlight. Shoved across the deck, they stumbled down
the gangplank and onto the quay. There they were lined up,
again two by two, to await the Reserve Captain's orders.
There were no chains. No attempt was made to form the con-
vict line in order of registered numbers. It was no trouble for the
Fenians to keep together. They stood well at the head of the
waiting line and so had a good chance to look at the town of
Fremantle.
The town was a collection of one- and two-story houses and
business places, built mostly of wood and wood-shingled, with
here and there a few constructed of limestone and sandstone.
Surmounting a slight elevation a few blocks back from the busy
waterfront shops were some imposing buildings, evidently resi-
dences for officials or for well-to-do businessmen and tradesmen.
Above, and dwarfing the rest of the town's buildings, was a huge,
33
The Emerald Whaler
star-shaped, walled, limestone structure that needed no sign to
proclaim it Her Majesty's Penal Colony-"The Establishment,"
as the Fenians soon found out it was called.
Hassett cast a critical eye on it. "Well," he said judiciously,
"
'tis no Dublin and that's a fact."
The last of the convicts were delivered to the dock by the
Hougoumont's marine guards. The Reserve Captain cast a mili-
tary eye along the double line and over his men.
"Ready! March!"
The long double line shuffled shoreward. Over the rail of the
Hougoumont Captain Cousins, Surgeon-General Brownlow and
the rest of the ship's officers on duty watched. The surgeon gave
a halfhearted wave of his hand. Only O'Reilly, far ahead at the
shore end of the quay, caught the salute and answered it.
The Hougoumont's "ten-thousand-mile ferrying job" was ended.
Through dust like a bitter cloud the line snaked its way from
shore uphill toward the prison.
"So the English call this thing a prison," Wilson scoffed as he
eyed the buildings ahead. "I could step over such walls. The
dungeon's got to be mighty deep and strong to pen me in that
place!"
Hearing him, one of the reserves said grimly: "Ah, you can get
out all right, lad. That's the easy part. But you can't stay out
and that's God's truth."
"A pound on that!" Wilson snapped.
The guard shook his head. "Keep your shillings if you have
any. You can't win that bet."
The walls were indeed not much higher than would have shut
in the garden of an English estate. Outside, and to the left of a
heavy, iron-studded wooden gate, an ancient fieldpiece pointed
drunkenly into the sky. As the head of the convict line reached
the wall, the gate swung open.
Inside was a motley collection of buildings that included a
three-story structure surmounted by a carved stone cylinder for
ornament, smaller barracks, storehouses, a Church of England
34
Go Accurst
chapel, several two-story residences and some guardhouses. All
were clustered about a large parade ground. From a staff a Brit-
ish flag drifted lazily in the light morning air. A few trees cast
sparse, speckled shadows on the glittering white of the crushed
limestone walks and the parade.
The reserves herded the prisoners onto the parade ground and
formed them into a rough, double line, all facing a rostrum-like
stone block. A stocky, gray-haired, red-faced man in a suit of
whites, with a tropical helmet shading his watery blue eyes,
strode army-style from one of the buildings and mounted the
rostrum. Glancing along the line of prisoners, he cleared his throat
mightily and said:
"I want your undivided attention. That is my first order.
"My name is Donan. I am superintendent of this Establish-
ment. I am the representative of Her Majesty Queen Victoria's
government in this penal colony. As her royal representative, my
word is law.
"I am a fair man. If you behave, you will receive fair treat-
ment. If you do not obey orders, you will discover that we have
in this prison colony a code which provides the most severe penal-
ties. You will learn that I do not hesitate to cany out these
penalties to the utmost.
"Mark well my words!
"For refusal to obey any order of a prison official, the punish-
ment is flogging, extension of sentence and solitary confinement.
"For refusal to perform any task while on work detail, the pun-
ishment is flogging, extension of sentence and solitary confine-
ment.
"For attempt to escape from any work party engaged in lawful
prison activities outside the walls of the prison, the punishment
may be death or extension of sentence, flogging and solitary con-
finement.
"For attempt to escape from the confines of the prison, the
punishment is death.
"For theft of any article whatsoever in Her Majesty's store-
houses, buildings, camps, the punishment is death.
35
The Emerald Whaler
"For any attempt, whether successful or not, to destroy by fire
the property of Her Majesty, the punishment is death.
"For the accidental killing of a prison official, the punishment
is death.
"For the willful murder of a prison officer, the punishment is
death."
Donan paused. He glared at the prisoners, then resumed:
"If you are accused of any infraction of the rules or of discipline
in this prison, I am the judge and I am the jury. I will hear the
charges brought against you and I will render the verdict. There
is no appeal from my judgment."
Again he paused. Again his eyes looked over the prisoners. The
convicts shuffled a bit, then stiffened as the superintendent held
up his hand for silence.
"Many of you say to yourselves: 'Those penalties will never
apply to me. I will escape/
"There is no doubt you will have plenty of opportunities to
escape. If you are not being punishedand we have dungeons
in which to pen you up when you are being punished you will
often be assigned to work parties outside the walls. You may
work on the jetties, or you may be assigned to a road gang or a
timber gang. You will think it easy to get away.
"But, if you do run away, you will be caught or you will perish."
Wilson turned a dark scowling face toward Hogan, standing
next to him. "He's bluffing. I got it planned right now. If I can't
break clean out of his little pipsqueak prison . . ."
The heavy right hand of a warder clamped down hard on his
shoulder. Wilson winced. The warder shot his left hand aloft
in signal. With scarcely a break in his harangue, the superin-
tendent said loudly: "Fifty lashes! Talking in ranks!"
A second guard ran up to the first. Between them they dragged
Wilson away. It happened so fast Hogan could only gulp.
Donan went on smoothly:
"I repeat, you will be caught or you will perish.
"There are two ways to escape from this prison. To save you
the trouble of thinking this out for yourselves, you can get away
by the sea or by the land.
36
Go Accurst
"So you will say, perhaps, 'I will escape by land/
"There are mountains in back of you. Just beyond them is the
most cruel country God ever turned over to the Devil. It is a
country of deserts, salt lakes, bitter springs, sun-parched plains,
red-hot rocks. It is a country in which nothing lives in which
you cannot live.
"Even to reach this hellish country you will first have to pene-
trate dense forests, where poisonous insects and death-dealing
snakes lurk. You can go mad from the stings of those insects. You
can die from the fangs of those venomous snakes.
"Perhaps you will manage, somehow, to survive these horrors.
You will reach the desert on the other side of the mountains.
There you will most certainly die of terrible thirst and slow starva-
tionunless I find you.
"And I will start searching for you the moment you are posted
as missing. While you are wandering, confused, thirsting, starv-
ing, dying, I will have trackers on your trail. These trackers are
aborigines. They are natives of the bush country. They can trace
the spoor of a man through forests, over barren ground, over sun-
baked rocks. They will find you. If you are still alive, they will
drag you back. If you are dead, you will not be worth dragging
back, and they will call to the carrion birds to feast on your
carcass.
"Suppose you try to escape by sea. It looks easy. There are
ships at the quay. There are ships standing offshore. There are
passing ships not too far at sea. But you will find that no English
shipmaster will conceal you aboard his ship. For one thing, there
is a price on your head that will be well worth his while to gain.
That and his duty to his Queen will be sufficient to impel him to
give you up.
"Perhaps you think you can swim to some passing ship of for-
eign registry. I tell you now that the waters here abound in
sharks the size of which would stagger your most vivid imagina-
tion. Those sharks wait to rip you to shreds.
"Escape from this prison is impossible.
"You have been warned. Do not be foolhardy enough to try
to get away.
37
The Emerald Whaler
"Warders, form work parties. Feed prisoners. Assign quarters.
Work begins immediately."
Superintendent Donan stepped smartly from the stone rostrum
and strode into the prison offices.
The Reservists marched out of the yard. The big gate swung
shut. The warders began to split the prisoners into gangs.
O'Reilly whispered to Darragh: "There'll be a way. There has
to be a path to liberty. I swear it, Red, I swear I'll find that path."
38
3 . A Captain's Word
For the forlorn prisoners in Her Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria's
Penal Colony in Fremantle, West Australia, days were weeks and
weeks were months and then were years.
In Ireland the star of Charles Stewart Parnell rose on Freedom's
horizon. England's Prime Minister William Ewart Gladstone,
confessing the fear instilled in him by the Fenians, allowed the
Land Act to become law.
General U. S. Grant, who had led the victory of freedom over
slavery, became the eighteenth President of the United States. A
golden railroad spike driven at Promontory, Utah, joined the
Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans with an iron band, and women
gained freedom to vote in Wyoming. Napoleon III surrendered
at Sedan, and Leon Gambetta escaped from Paris by balloon.
The Doctrine of Papal Infallibility was proclaimed, and in Ireland
the Established (English) Church was disestablished.
Victor Emmanuel II seized Rome, and the Pope became the
"prisoner of the Vatican." Wilhelm I of Hohenzollern became
Kaiser of Germany and France lost Alsace by the Treaty of Frank-
furt that ended the Franco-Prussian War.
Henry Stanley found Dr. Livingstone in the wilds of Darkest
Africa, and Mrs. O'Leary's cow kicked over a lantern and set Chi-
cago afire. The Panic of 1873 tore the heart out of New York's
financial world. Edward Stokes shot Jim Fiske to death, and Boss
Tweed came to the end of his racketeering days.
In the Establishment-John Boyle O'Reilly found "the path."
In New Bedford, Massachusetts, a burly young man in a sea-
man's peajacket slipped on icy granite paving and almost fell.
39
The Emerald Whaler
Regaining his footing, he strode on, shaking his head. Never
would he get used to these confounded sidewalks. Give him the
honest deck of a whaler, blubber-slippery though it might be.
George Smith Anthony was confused and out of sorts that chilly
February night in 1875. Some fool's errand he was on, surelya
fitting end to a tormenting day that had started out prosaically
enough with a good-by kiss from his young wife as he started to
work, and finally had brought him into such a mental snarl that
he scarcely knew what course he was sailing.
"Evening, Cap'n Anthony," a passer-by said, genially yet re-
spectfully, touching a finger to his cap.
Anthony responded with but a half glance at the well-wisher.
"Cap'n Anthony" indeed! Any tomfool who could row a skiff
from New Bedford across the Acushnet River to Fairhaven was
"captain." It was "Cap'n This" and "Cap'n That" from morning
till night, enough to turn a man's stomach.
As far as George Anthony himself was concerned, he figured
he hadn't a right to such a title, not now, with his feet anchored
to the ground like any landlubber.
A great deal had happened since that day three years ago when
he had seen the lines made fast to the dock and had stepped
ashore from the deck of the whaling ship Hope On into the arms
of his bride-to-be with the promise that he'd never go to sea again.
A good marriage it was indeed for him, for his Emmie was the
daughter of John S. Richardson, well-to-do ship outfitter and
agent. With the lay from the sale of whale oil and spermaceti
from the Hope Oris highly successful two-year cruise, Anthony
had bought a house on Second Street, with a fan-lighted doorway
and a view of bustling New Bedford Harbor. He'd got a shore-
side job with the Morse Twist Drill Company, makers of tools
and diesa good job. Now, there was baby Sophie, named for
her maternal grandmother. Innocent little Sophie was one of the
reasons he was out of sorts that frosty night.
That noon he had unexpectedly met up with Jonathan Bourne,
the owner of the Hope On, who looked on George Anthony almost
as a son, for he himself had picked George to be master of the
40
A Captain's Word
whaler. It had been a good choice for all concerned. Mr. Bourne
had mildly but earnestly scolded George for quitting the sea at
the age of twenty-eight, and never lost an opportunity to rub it in.
Wednesday, the twenty-fourth day of February, 1875, George
Anthony was thirty-one years old.
For three years his pledge to quit the sea had loomed larger
and larger as day followed day humdrum, as much alike as
mackerel in a school. Not too long ago, he had actually ventured
to his father-in-law that he wouldn't mind considering a com-
mandoh, not now, but later on when Sophie was older that is,
if a good command came along. John Richardson had looked at
him a little queerly, he thought, but had said nothing.
The yellow glow of whale-oil lamps beckoned from his windows
as he strode up the brick walk that was slippery with new-formed
frost, and stepped into the snug kitchen.
He kissed Emmie, hung his cap and peajacket on a peg by the
door. Month-old Sophie cooed in her basket near the kitchen
table. Emmie and George leaned over her. George's arm stole
around his wife's slim waist. He kissed a warm curl of the almost
black hair at the nape of her neck.
Emmie started up suddenly. "The chowder!'' she cried, and
fled to the stove where a big iron pot simmered.
As they finished their supper with Indian pudding, Emmie
said: "I almost forgot. Father sent word toduy that he wanted
you to come down to the store this evening. He didn't say why,
just that it was mighty important. At exactly eight o'clock!"
A new wave of discontent engulfed George Anthony. Here a
man was ready and pining for a quiet evening at home with a
loving wife at his side, a baby asleep in her crib, a log on the
fire the kind of evening a sea captain dreams about when he is
ten thousand miles from home. He sighed.
Emmie sympathized. "I'm sorry, dear, but Father doesn't often
ask favors. You'll go, won't you?"
George got back into his peajacket, pulled a blue knit watch-cap
down over his chestnut hair, and set out for his father-in-law's
store.
41
The Emerald Whaler
From Second Street he turned on Union. Ahead of him, all
black and silver under a waxing moon, lay the harbor of the
whaling capital of America. The riding lights of a hundred
whalers, merchantmen, coastal schooners and fishing craft rocked
on the tide.
It had grown colder. Anthony pulled his watch-cap down over
his ears and snugged the peajacket tighter around his broad
shoulders as he elbowed his way through the tide of boisterous
seamen and blowzy women that surged at the doors of the saloons
and bawdy houses. A drunken seaman lurched and almost knocked
him down. He shoved the befuddled lad away and hurried on
past Johnny Cake Hill. Around the corner, on Water Street, the
windows of John Richardson's store shone ahead of him.
There was only one customer in the store. He was picking over
a pile of heavy knit sweaters under the eye of Richardson. John
nodded to George, almost mysteriously. The seaman made his
choice, paid for it, finally touched his forehead in salute and was
gone.
"Evenin', George!" Richardson said, but gave George no time
to reply. Quickly he stepped outside. The heavy iron shutters
banged. He came in, closed the stout wooden door, shot the bolt
home, then bolted the shutters. After extinguishing all but one
of the big whale-oil lamps, he turned the wick in that one down
to a faint yellow glow.
"There's someone in my office wants to talk to you, George/'
Behind the main storeroom, John Richardson had his ship's
agent office, as familiar to George Anthony as his own parlor: a
walnut desk with heavy, round-turned legs, four big drawers and
two top cupboards; three sturdy chairs of pine, worn polished
with age; shelves that held boxes of ship's papers, each lettered
boldly and blackly with the name of a vesselOcean Wave,
Arethusa, Hope On, Mary Ann, Peru, Sarah B. Hale; a small cast-
iron safe with a huge brass padlock. On the wall was a tall
barometer in a wooden case and beside it, dangling from an iron
hook, a long iron tryrod with a small glass vial at the end for
tasting whale oil. A whale-oil lamp swung from the ceiling, its
42
A Captain's Word
twin wicks burning brightly. A potbelly stove glowed with greasy
wood from a returned whaler's galley.
Henry C. Hathaway was perched on the edge of the desk.
George had known him from childhood. Hathaway was chief of
night police in New Bedford. He was about George Anthony's
age, a big man with huge shoulders, a bull voice, piercing eyes set
in a face deep bronzed from years at sea. Like most New Bed-
ford boys, Henry Hathaway had shipped before the mast when
he was barely fourteen years old. He had won his mate's papers,
but then had quit the sea for the police job.
A stranger was seated in one of the chairs, his back partly to the
lamp so that most of his heavily black-bearded face was in shadow.
When George entered, the stranger rose and stood waiting.
"Captain Anthony," Hathaway said, "I want to make you
acquainted with Mr. John Devoy of New York City and of the
New York Herald. Mr. Devoy, sir, this is Captain George Anthony
of whom I have spoken."
"My pleasure, Captain Anthony." Devoy's voice was deep-
toned and cultivated. He clasped Anthony's proffered hand. For
a long moment two men stood appraising each other.
Anthony saw a bearded man in his early thirties, slim and erect,
a little taller than Anthony himself. His deep-set dark eyes gave
him the look of a scholar. His bearing was that of a man who
thought much, but could instantly translate his thoughts into
action.
Devoy spoke first. "I am an Irishman, Captain Anthony. Many
times my countrymen are accused of dramatizing insignificant
circumstances. But I hope you will not think me dramatic when
I say I think what we have to say to each other tonight is better
said with the lights out!"
He turned and extinguished the whale-oil lamp. The office was
plunged into momentary darkness. Then the glow from the stove
took over.
"Won't you gentlemen please be seated?" Devoy said, remain-
ing on his feet. "Captain Anthony," he continued, "before I go
any further, I wish your solemn word that no matter what you
43
The Emerald Whaler
hear tonight, no matter what comes of this meeting, you will keep
it a secret until I myself release you from your pledge. The lives
of many men depend on absolute secrecy. Mr. Hathaway and
your father-in-law have given me their word. Do I have yours
also?"
"Of course, sir."
"Thank you, Captain. I think you will understand later why I
asked that pledge. I know you must be curious as to why I am
here and why you are here. I want Mr. Hathaway to tell you."
Henry Hathaway leaned his big frame forward, clasped and
unclasped his hamlike hands, then ran one hand through his shock
of unruly hair.
"George," he began at last, "you are here because Mr. Devoy
wanted to meet the best and most trustworthy whaling captain
in New England. Don't deny it. When Mr. Devoy said he wanted
a captain who could keep his mouth shut and who was brave and
intelligent too, I knew you were the man."
George shook his head deprecatingly.
"Now I know you're wondering," Hathaway went on, "how Mr.
Devoy ever heard about Henry Hathaway that he should be ask-
ing him to find such a man. It started when I was third officer
of the Gazelle, Captain Gifford, whaling, out of New Bedford a
half dozen years ago. Remember?"
"Of course. The voyage when you picked up that escaped
convict."
Hathaway tried to keep his bull voice down. "Right! That
man turned out to be John Boyle O'Reilly, now a great Boston
editor and poet."
George nodded.
"I am proud that Mr. O'Reilly and I have been fast friends
ever since that rescue and the voyage back home. I had a letter
from Mr. O'Reilly a few days ago. He said a friend of his, a Mr.
John Devoy, was going to come up from New York to New Bed-
ford to see me, and asked me to do whatever I could for him. Mr.
Devoy and I had a long talk. He asked me to recommend a
whaling captain he could trust, who could keep his mouth shut,
44
A Captain's Word
maybe even under torture. Yoti are the man I recommended."
Hathaway sank breathlessly back in his chair, pulled a huge
kerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead.
Devoy nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Hathaway." He fixed his eyes
on Anthony. "Now, Captain Anthony, you know why you are
here this night. But you are still asking yourself 'what for/ are
you not?"
"You have me puzzled."
"Captain, I ask a favor of you. From what I have learned from
your father-in-law it is a great favor indeed. He has told me about
the promise you made never to go to sea again but I want you to
command a whaling ship for me."
Anthony spoke quickly. "That is a simple request, sir. I see no
reason for all this secrecy, nor any secrecy about my answer. It
is 'no/ Thank you, sir, for all the compliments you have paid
mebut no!" His hands spread in a gesture of finality.
"That really doesn't surprise me, Captain. Mr. Richardson told
me what your immediate response would be."
"Mr. Richardson knows my answer will be the same no matter
how many times you ask me," Anthony said. "I intend to keep my
pledge to my wife. I will never go to sea again."
"I respect your pledge, Captain, and your good intentions.
But Mr. Richardson seems to think that when you learn about
this voyage you may wish to change your mind."
"With all due respect to my father-in-law, sir, I don't think he
knows what he is talking about. You are wasting your time, Mr.
Devoy." Captain Anthony started to rise.
"Wait, George!" Richardson's voice was urgent. "The least you
can do is hear Mr. Devoy out. If I hadn't thought he had some-
thing worth while to say, I wouldn't have brought you clown
here tonight."
Anthony turned on him. "It seems to me, sir, that before
Emmie and I were married you heartily approved of that promise
of mine."
"Now, George, don't get angry," Richardson said. "I know all
you say is true. But let's take this calm-like. Times and men's
45
The Emerald Whaler
minds have been known to change before this. I seem to remem-
ber that only a few weeks ago you yourself talked to me about a
command, didn't you?"
"I was thinking about years ahead, when Sophie's grown up."
Anthony sank back in his chair, shaking his head stubbornly.
Devoy broke the tense silence. "Captain Anthony," he asked
quietly, "have you any Irish blood in your veins?"
"No, sir. To the best of my knowledge I have not."
"So much the better. Now, let me see if I can give you an
argument that will convince you that you should command our
ship."
"You can argue me a hundred arguments, Mr. Devoy, but for
every one I'll have the same answer."
Devoy nodded. "Captain, the more you talk against me, the
more I realize you are the man for us. Your persistence strikes me
as a most admirable quality indeed."
Anthony shrugged. "That's as may be, sir. Now, go on, if you
have idle time, and argue." He settled back in his chair, watching
the glow of the potbelly, puzzled at this futile word-play.
"My argument will be simple. It is based on a plain statement
of facts. And the facts are freedom and hatred of tyranny. I think
we can agree that they are most admirable facts."
"Yes, to that I would agree."
"Of course you favor freedom?"
"Certainly."
"And you hate tyranny?"
"What American would not?"
"You see, Captain, we agree again. We cannot argue."
"I'm not agreeing on anything. What can this talk of freedom
and tyranny have to do with commanding a whaler?"
"I'll come around to that directly, Captain. But first, did you
ever stop to realize what it means to be a free man in a free coun-
try? A hundred years ago Americans rose up against tyranny and
won independence from the English. Then in 1812 you fought
again and won the freedom of the seas for your vessels. By those
two wars you gained liberty and you gained the right to form
46
A Captain's Word
your own government. Some other countries have not been so
lucky. Now, Captain, would you like to have your own chance
to strike a blow in the cause of freedom?"
"What American would not?"
"Good! Captain, I have told you I am an Irishman. I am an
Irish patriot. There is a price on my head. I was a rebel in the
last Rising which was not successful. Now, Captain, have you
ever heard of the Fenians?"
"Vaguely. Some sort of Irish organization?" Anthony stirred
impatiently in his chair. "Mr. Devoy, what on earth has all this
got to do with me commanding a whaler for you?"
"Let me come to that in my own way, Captain. When an Irish-
man gets all wound up in his tale, you just have to let him unwind
himself the best he can."
Anthony shrugged again.
"In 1865 the Fenians planned a revolution we call them 'Ris-
ings/ It was the best organized Rising Ireland ever had. Our
leader was James Stephens. His idea was to recruit not only
civilians but all the Irish sympathizers in the Queen's regiments
stationed in Ireland. Thus, when he passed the word to revolt,
the regiments would rally to the cause, overthrow English rule
and regain our country.
"I was one of those Stephens chose to organize the regimental
recruiting. I had seven lieutenants, all of them soldiers in one or
another of the regiments stationed in or around Dublin. Within
a few months we had more than three quarters of the so ry
sworn in as members of the order, ready to rise at the word. All
of them had taken the same oath." Devoy's voice took on a hushed
tone. "Would you like to hear that oath, Captain?" Without
waiting for reply he said, solemnly: "I, John Devoy, do solemnly
swear allegiance to the Irish republic now virtually established;
that I will take up arms at a moment's notice to defend its in-
tegrity and independence; that I will yield implicit obedience to
the commands of my superior officers; and finally I take this oath
in the spirit of a true soldier of Liberty. So help me God."
Devoy went on, "For command, Captain, we had more than
17
The Emerald Whaler
two hundred American Union officers in Dublin waiting to take
charge. We had your President Johnson's assurance of full recog-
nition of the Irish Republic and we had the promise of your Gen-
eral Philip Sheridan to be our field marshal.
"But everything went askew. The English got wind of the
Rising. Thousands of Irishmen were arrested. The Americans
fled. Thousands of prison terms were meted out. Thousands
were deported. Thousands more fled to Canada and America. I
was one of those who managed to escape."
Devoy was pacing the office. The little room had become in-
sufferably hot. Richardson opened the firedoor to cool off the
potbelly. The flames danced on the walls and glinted on the
perspiring brow of the speaker. He mopped the beads from his
forehead with an already limp kerchief. Captain Anthony leaned
forward in his chair, now paying closest attention.
"In 1871," Devoy went on, "most Irish political prisoners were
released and exiled. I see some of them every day of my life-
proud men all, for they risked lives and fortunes for the cause of
liberty. But the English are still bitter. Six men still must rot out
their lives in a penal colony because they dared fight for freedom,
just as you Americans did.
"I know these six men, Captain Anthony. They are my friends
and my blood brothers. They were tried for their lives on the
testimony of informers and spies. They were sentenced to hang,
but the English, afraid of world opinion, gave them commutation
of sentence to hard labor overseas. They suffered in the most vile
prisons. They were jammed aboard a stinking convict ship with
the dregs of the English criminal world. They were transported
to an Australian penal colony, and there they waste their God-
given lives this very day."
Devoy's voice rose vibrantly. "Captain Anthony, as I stand be-
fore you and before my God at this moment, I swear that these
six men committed no crime save love of country, desire for free-
dom and hatred of tyranny."
Devoy sopped his brow again with the wet kerchief. His fingers
trembled as he stuffed it back into his waistcoat pocket.
48
A Captain's Word
"Captain Anthony, we are ready with more than thirty thousand
dollars in American gold to send an American whaleship, under
your command, to Fremantle, Australia, and rescue these men!"
After a moment of bewilderment Anthony's words came tum-
bling out: "Surely you are joking, Mr. Devoy! The idea is
unfeasible."
"George, don't be so hasty!" Richardson broke in.
But Anthony leaped up. "If I understand you correctly, sir,
you want me practically to invade an English colony. To do that
you would need ships of the linecannon an army. I am a sim-
ple seaman, no admiral. Your plan is impossible, sir, utterly im-
possible!"
Devoy faced him with a half smile. "Bravo, Captain! Once
more, you show an admirable quality that makes me realize you
are our man. You can estimate dangers and face up to them."
"I'm not facing up to any dangers. I'm just pointing out that
your plan won't work. Why, you could start a war!"
Hathaway laid a hand on his friend's arm. "It isn't as impos-
sible as you think, George. Sit down and listen some more!"
Anthony resignedly sank back in his chair.
Devoy took over again. "I don't ask you to create an interna-
tional incident. All we do ask is that you dare such units of the
English Navy as may be in those waters when you arrive. We
don't ask that you lead a landing party. We guarantee to deliver
our men to you on a beach of your own choosing. Only then will
it be up to you and your crew to take our men off the beach, carry
them to your ship and bring them back safely to America."
Hathaway broke in again. "It's just like the way O'Reilly got
away, except this time it will be by organized plan. It will be easy!"
"Easy?" Anthony shook his head. But in spite of himself he was
becoming interested in this whole wild adventure. "I'll admit it
sounds barely possible and also downright illegal."
"Captain, you are wrong!" Devoy exploded. "These men are
not criminals. All they have done is fight for freedom. Do you
call your Revolutionary War heroes criminals? Washington?
John Paul Jones? No, these men are patriots. They fought for
19
The Emerald Whaler
freedom and that freedom was taken away from them by force.
Now they are entitled to win that freedom back. Captain, this is
a God-given opportunity to right a great wrong, to rescue six
human beings from the same tyranny your own country rebelled
against in 76."
Anthony sat silent, his head slightly bowed.
"If it is a matter of money . . ." Devoy resumed. But Anthony
waved the suggestion off with a motion of his hand. "If it is a
matter of money, I repeat, you will be well recompensed. I prom-
ise to pay to you and to every man of your crew whatever the
average cargo of the top seven whaling ships voyaging out of New
Bedford the same time as you do will fetch. And I will pay you
and your officers a handsome bonus too."
Anthony spoke slowly: "I'm sure you will be generous. And I
will not deny that a profit from a successful voyage would be
welcome. I see merit in your venture. I think someone should
undertake it. I think it is barely possible that your plan might
succeed. Mind you, I'm not saying it will. But whether I am the
man to take the law into my own hands which is what you
ask I don't know . . ." His voice trailed off.
"Don't make a hasty decision, Captain," Devoy cautioned.
"But please do not discuss this with anyone save those in this
room. Not even your wife. We always fear some informer will
warn the English. Thousands of Irishmen have contributed to
our fund, and we will have to solicit more. Even so, only a few
know the details of our plan. I trust every one of them, yet I still
fear. Should we fail, the English will be forevermore on guard.
There will never be another chance to rescue these men. Let me
set a time limit of tomorrow night, in this room, for your decision.
And I shall pray to God that it will be 'yes.
9 "
Captain Anthony's elbows were on his knees, his chin in his
hands. The heavy breathing of Devoy and the crackle of the wood
in the stove were the only sounds in the room.
Finally Richardson spoke. "George, I said I wouldn't try to
make up your mind for you. I know how much you love Emmie
and Sophie. But I urge you to go. I think this plan has a good
50
A Captain's Word
chance of success. I have promised to advance Mr. Devoy and
the Clan three thousand dollars toward purchase of a vessel, pro-
vided you are the Captain. She will sail with my house-flag at her
masthead. As for Emmie and Sophie, you know we will look after
them."
Captain Anthony got slowly to his feet. He struck a lucifer and
ignited the twin wicks of the whale-oil lamp, turned the wicks up
full. The sudden brightness chased the shadows from every
corner of the office.
"Mr. Devoy," he said, "I see no more need of darkness here.
You have spoken from your heart. I have held back because of
the place my wife holds in mine. I do not want to break my vow
to her, for her trust in me is priceless. But if you say I am the
man to make this attempt, then I shall break my word to her and
give you my pledge instead. There is no need to wait. Here is
my hand."
Devoy grabbed his hand in both of his. "Captain, I thank you
from the bottom of my soul."
"Good boy, George." Hathaway slapped his friend on the back.
"I told Mr. Devoy you would do it. Now all we have to do is
buy a ship!"
51
4 . The Catalpa
The night was star-bright, the moon almost down. Captain George
Anthony scarcely felt the chill as he thought over the strange
events of the evening. There'd never be a whaling voyage out of
New Bedford like this one. And work! There'd be a devil of a
lot of it before ever a sail was hoisted outbound. A whaler laid
up idle and for sale could be a mighty big risk. You had to sail a
ship to get the feel of her and find out what the storms and the
smashing seas had done to her. The vessel bought, she'd have to
be repaired, caulked, sheathed. There'd be rigging to overhaul
and patch or replace. Masts to be inspected, maybe unstepped,
replaced. New sails to be cut and bent. Stores to be bought and
stowed. And a crew! And officers! Especially a first mate.
There was Sam Smith, in Edgartown on Martha's Vineyard. It
would be worth a trip over to the island to talk to him. Maybe
he'd want to go to sea again. There'd be no better first mate than
he. His footsteps rang on his frosty walk. Then he stopped.
Emmie! Enthusiasm for the venture oozed out of him like oil from
a leaky cask. Maybe, though, Emmie wouldn't be too surprised
after all. Maybe she saw how he was fretting away inwardly at
being anchored ashore to a dull job at the Works. Paperwork was
all right for the poor swab who had ink for blood, but if you had
salt water in your veins . . .
He squared his shoulders and took the last few steps to the
kitchen door. Emmie wouldn't be the only "whaling widow" in
New Bedford. The hardest job would be to keep the real reason
for the voyage a secret from her, but he could do that too.
As he tiptoed around in the warmth of the kitchen hanging up
52
The Catalpa
his cap and peajacket and taking off his shoes, Emmie's sleepy
voice came from upstairs: "Sophie's asleep, George. Don't wake
her. I was sleepy too. I'm sorry I didn't wait up."
He crept quietly upstairs and began to undress in the chill
darkness.
Emmie asked, in a voice that carried no thought of an answer:
"What did Father want, George?"
"Nothing just well, he wanted to know something . . . Whal-
ing stores and such. I'll tell you about it tomorrow . . . sometime."
He slid beneath the blankets against Emmie's warm body. Her
arms reached for him. He held her close to him. Fool! Fool! he
thought, to let yourself be argued into taking a ship! Your place is
here, in your wife's arms, with your baby nearby. There are other
captains. What made you think you could do the job better than
any other captain in New Bedford? Devoy could have got some-
one else. But you wanted to go to sea, and this is only an excuse
to feel a deck under you again. You promised, never a-whaling.
So this isn't whaling, it's a blow for freedom. Freedom to live and
to love. But you can't tell Emmie that. You can't tell anybody
that. All you can do is tell her you're breaking your promise
and breaking her heart . . .
George Anthony lay still, wide awake, counting the strokes of
the town clock until the black sky grayed.
There was no widow's walk atop his house, George Anthony
mused, as he looked back to wave to Emmie on his way to work
the next morning, his heavy secret still locked in his troubled
heart. In the bustle of her household chores Emmie had quite
forgotten to ask again about the visit to her father's store.
Maybe it was better that way. Too many "whaling widows"
had become widows indeed while they watched from rooftop
walkways for ships that never came back.
That Emmie would object to his going never entered his mind.
New Bedford, Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard women were brought
up from babyhood with the understanding that love came in
small moments sandwiched between long years of waiting.
S3
The Emerald Whaler
The morning air was raw with portent of storm. And storm it
did by nightfall a roaring easterly that started with snow, then
changed to slashing rain. For three days the storm raged, then,
by nightfall of the third day, with a rise of the mercury, the whole
coast from Point Judith to Cape Ann was swallowed up in thick
fog.
Clearing would certainly follow the fog. George realized he
could not long delay quitting his job at the Works to get about
looking for a ship with Henry Hathaway and his father-in-law.
The fog searched out every cranny, shrouded the ships in the
harbor, muffled the beat of the horses' hoofs on the granite-paved
streets, haloed the street lamps in yellow and muted alike the
clanging bells in the channel and the hour bell in the town clock.
It was a night for sad things. George set about breaking the news
to Emmie.
Sophie had been nursed and put to sleep in her cradle. Emmie
had wrapped herself in a challis robe that clung to the soft lines
of her body and lay open at the neck, half revealing, half conceal-
ing the roundness of her breasts. She and George sat together in
silence as the fire on the hearth died down to glowing embers.
George poked dismally at the coals. Try as he would, he could
not find the words.
Emmie spoke first. "What's troubling you, George?"
"Nothing. Not a thing . . ."
"There is something. I know."
He could not speak.
Emmie moved from her chair to his footstool and laid her head
on his knees. "You're going whaling again, aren't you?" she said
suddenly.
"How did you know?"
"I'm not blind, George. I know how you've fretted, cooped up
in the Works all day. I can see how you look to the sky in the
morning as soon as you step out the door, and to the harbor as
soon as you come to the corner. That night at Father's store, that
was about a voyage, wasn't it?"
54
TheCotolpa
George nodded, running his fingers desperately through her
hair.
She raised her face to his. "When do you sail?"
"We have to find a ship first. Til have to quit the Works. This
is sort of a different whaling voyage. Your father knows more
about it than I do. He's the agent. We're going to look for a ship
right away tomorrow, now this storm's blown itself out."
"And you're in command?"
He nodded.
"Well, I should think you would be," she said. "How long will
you be gone?" Her hands tensed as she waited for his answer.
"Two years, maybe. We'll outfit for that. Maybe not that long.
We might just have luck."
Emmie's heart shrank. Two years! So many whaling wives had
no more than half a dozen to share with their mates in a lifetime.
He took her into his arms. His words came choked. "Emmie,
I don't want to leaye you. This is a chance to have my own ship
again and to do almost anything I want with her. I've got to go.
This will be the last, I promise. The last voyage ... ever. I
mean it . . ."
She kissed him, slowly, tenderly. "It's all right, George. I want
it this way."
George Anthony, Henry Hathaway and John Richardson set out
the next morning to see what bottoms were available in New
Bedford port. They disposed of the Jeanette quickly. Her sails
were old and rotten, her rigging in need of complete replacement.
Her price was high and her planks were bad. "Wouldn't get to
Nantucket 'thout manning the pumps all the way," Henry scoffed.
The Sea Gull was a beauty, with near-clipper lines and speed
written in every plank of her sleek hull. But though she was sound
as Uncle Sam's dollar, she didn't look the part of the lumbering
American whaleship they needed.
George gave notice at the Works. The three made plans to look
further along the coast the following week.
55
The Emerald Whaler
On Saturday afternoon, Devoy arrived unexpectedly from Bos-
ton, where, he reported, he had been summoned by John Boyle
O'Reilly. The editor, nosing around the docks, had come on a
bark in active service that was for sale. O'Reilly was wildly ex-
cited, Devoy said, in such a hurry to pack him off to New Bedford
to summon them that Devoy hadn't had a chance to see the bark
himself. O'Reilly was demanding that they all come to Boston
at once.
Monday morning they all arrived at the Boston depot at South
and Kneeland Streets at 9:45 A.M. As they alighted, a tall, mus-
tached man in his early thirties rushed up. He threw his arms
around Hathaway's shoulders. "Henry, my true friend!" he almost
shouted. Then he wheeled and grabbed Devoy's hand. "John!"
he bubbled excitedly. "I've been to see it again! I know it's our
ship!"
As he spoke the word, his olive complexion turned a shade pale.
He clapped his hand over his mouth and spun sharply around to
scan the throng on the station platform with his great dark eyes.
Relieved that he saw no one to arouse his suspicions, he turned
back to Devoy. In a stage whisper he went on: "She's a beauty,
John! Just what we want! She's the answer to our prayers!
She's . . . but, gentlemen all, I'm sorry, forgive me for going on so."
"I told you the O'Reilly was like this," John Devoy said good-
humoredly.
O'Reilly hung his head sheepishly.
"We forgive you, Boyle," Devoy continued. "Now, let me in-
troduce . . ."
O'Reilly made a bow from the waist.
In his sonorous orator's voice, he said: "I am deeply honored to
meet you, Mr. Richardson, and you, Captain. So much have I
heard about you from our mutual friend, Mr. Hathaway, I feel we
are old friends already."
O'Reilly took a few impatient steps to start them along. "We
waste time. Valuable time. You must see our ship!"
"Captain Anthony and Mr. Richardson and Mr. Hathaway
must decide whether she's the right one," Devoy admonished.
56
The Catalpa
O'Reilly piloted them to the street, where they hailed a cab
and set out over the rough cobbles of Atlantic Avenue. They
skirted the vast area which had been the scene of the Great Boston
Fire of 1873. Most of the tons of blackened rubble had been
carted away to fill in the marshes around the city, and new fire-
proof buildings of granite and of brick were rising from the ruins.
Great carts carrying stone, bricks and cement rumbled through
the teeming streets. The spring air resounded with the noise of
construction.
They left the cab at the East Boston Ferry slip and within fif-
teen minutes were in East Boston. Then it was only a short walk,
as O'Reilly led them, to a wharf where longshoremen were un-
loading a sturdy, three-masted merchantman. O'Reilly gazed
with rapture at the bark, her tall masts silhouetted against the
bright March sky.
"There she is!" he said, his voice bursting with pride. "I prowled
the quays for days and thenthere she was. The Catalpa! Isn't
she grand?"
"Well, she looks like a whaler," Richardson said.
"She is a whaler," O'Reilly insisted. "At least she was until her
last voyage, when she was made over as a merchantman to pick
up logwood in the West Indies. She's 202 tons, ninety feet long,
has a width of twenty-five feet and draws twelve feet of water.
I've talked to some of her officers oh, I was very, very careful,"
he added with a nod to Devoy. "They said she is sound as a nut,
though a bit slow."
"We won't need speed," Captain Anthony said. "It would be
a mighty poor Royal Navy ship that couldn't sail rings around any
whaler. Let's get aboard and look her over inside. That's what
counts."
They shouldered their way up the gangplank past the stream
of longshoremen, cleared themselves with the officer on duty, and
went below. The ship was roomy, with a large uncluttered open
hold. In the stern was a fore and aft cabin which, Richardson
pointed out, could be remodeled into officers' quarters. A steerage
or lazarette for food storage, and a sail locker could be partitioned
57
The Emerald Whaler
off directly forward of the cabin. There would be plenty of room
for oil casks between that point and the forecastle bulkhead in
the bow. The forecastle itself was large for a whaler. While
Devoy and O'Reilly watched anxiously, the New Bedford men
poked at her timbers, looked to her planking, scanned the steps
of her great masts.
Back on deck, the three experts examined rigging, masts, spars,
sails, steering gear. Then, without a word, they headed back over
the gangplank. The two Irishmen trailed them, O'Reilly in a cloud
of dejection over their seeming lack of enthusiasm for his find.
Anthony walked slowly along the wharf for the length of the
bark, Richardson pacing with him. They looked closely to her
planking down to the wavelets lapping at her coppered bottom,
peered intently at her standing rigging, at her great bowsprit, her
heavy, square stern. Then Anthony went aboard once more.
Those on the dock watched him in animated conversation with one
of her officers.
When he finally came down the gangplank, silently joined the
others and stolidly eyed the ship, O'Reilly could stand the strain
no longer.
"Captain, please," he pleaded. "What do you think?"
Captain Anthony pursed his lips and gave the bark one more
look from stem to stern, from water line to royals.
Turning to Richardson, he said, "Could do with new sails."
Richardson said, "Needs new running rigging."
O'Reilly's face grew longer than ever.
Richardson said, "Looks sound."
Anthony nodded. "Seen better. Seen worse. Officer says she's
cranky as hell. Got to keep topsails on her all the time, else she'll
roll over and swamp."
O'Reilly shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
"Think we can make a whaler out of her again?" Richardson
asked.
"Reckon so," Anthony clipped.
"You mean she's all right?" O'Reilly demanded breathlessly.
"If you can buy her at a decent price."
58
The Cotcdpa
"That well leave to you, Mr. Richardson/' Devoy said. "You
know what she's worth better than we do."
"A grand celebration we'll have," O'Reilly exulted. "And I know
just the place for it. The ale is the finest in Boston and I'm sure
we can get something a bit more solid for our constitutions if we
wish."
After ferrying back to Boston they walked up State Street, then
on to Brattle Street, where they fetched up at a small public
house, not far from the Pilot Office on Washington Street, outside
the path of the Great Fire.
"It is a safe place," O'Reilly announced. "Timmie Sullivan,
who runs it, is a Clan-na-Gael man."
Richardson hesitated at the door. "By your leave, Mr. O'Reilly
and Mr. Devoy I think I'll just skip the celebration and get to
dickering for the Catalpa. You say you want speed, and we like
the ship. There's no sense wasting time and maybe having some-
one else grab her. I'll hunt up her agent and see what kind of a
bargain I can drive. Wish me luck."
"That we do, Mr. Richardson," O'Reilly said.
Richardson walked quickly away. The rest entered the tavern.
A red-faced man with a nose that some unkindly fist had sprawled
all over his face rushed around the end of the mahogany and
bowed low. O'Reilly put out his hand and the barkeep shook it
most respectfully.
"Timmie," the editor said. "We want your private room in back."
"Yours, Mr. O'Reilly, now or any time at all. You do me great
honor."
He led the way to a battered door leading to a tiny room, fur-
nished with a single round pine table and a half dozen whittled
armchairs.
O'Reilly motioned the others to be seated. To the barkeep he
said: "Now, Timmie Sullivan, get you to your tap and draw us
four mugs of your finest ale. Be honest, man, and draw ale and
not froth, for our throats are as dry as dust, though it is fresh
spring and there is no dust at all without."
Sullivan was back in a minute with the ale. O'Reilly lifted his
59
The Emerald Whaler
mug. "Gentlemen," he said. "To Ireland!" He looked at Captain
Anthony quizzically, a half-grin on his olive-tan face.
Anthony grinned back. "I'll go along with that."
"Timmie," O'Reilly ordered, as the mugs were drained. "Four
more and then I don't want to see your disreputable face again
until I shout for a sight of it. And we don't want anyone else to
see us either. This is a meeting that has to do with the freedom
of Ireland! Do I make myself clear?"
"The freedom of Ireland in my own pub!" Timmie walked out
as on a cloud, closing the door softly behind him.
O'Reilly checked the latch, then faced the others. His smile
faded as he picked up his mug.
"A toast, gentlemen," he said gravely. "To what we have done
this day!"
"And to what we shall do henceforth!" Devoy added.
Captain Anthony drained his ale and set the mug down de-
liberately. "Now," he said. "There is the heart of the matter that
puzzles me deeply."
"If there are questions you would ask, fire away, Captain. John
Boyle O'Reilly himself will answer your queries to the best of his
humble ability." O'Reilly bowed. "Your question, Captain?"
"Why are you so dead sure you will be able to do what you
plan? Why are you so sure you can get your men out of an Eng-
lish prison and spirited somewhere that I can reach with a whale-
boat? If your people are lodged in cells behind walls . . ."
"That's our problem, not yours," O'Reilly said. "But I can ease
your apprehension. Remember, I was there. The prisoners, ex-
cept when they are being punished, work from sun-up to dark,
gardening or repair work or loading lumber. Some go on details
building roads or cutting trees in the great forests."
"Roads?" Anthony asked. "Can't prisoners escape by them?"
"You can't escape through the 'back door' of the Colony. Be-
lieve me, I know." O'Reilly took a deep draught of ale. "Cannot
escape . . ." he mused, half to himself. Suddenly he yanked up
the sleeves of his coat. "Look!"
On his wrists were great white scars.
60
The Cotolpa
"Lookl" he said again, and drew up the legs of his trousers. On
his ankles were more scars.
Anthony stared in horror. Even on mutineers who had been
months in irons at sea he had never seen such brands.
"Those are the marks of English fetters, Captain. My souvenirs
of the 'back door/ " He readjusted his trousers and cuffs. "The
English have a quaint fashion of trussing up their helpless enemies.
Those scars are the result of my attempts to flee into the bush
country. I got the first of them when I was on a timber detail,
deep in the forest. It was noontime and blazing hot. The guards
were as drowsy as the prisoners. The air was heavy. You could
hear the rustle of millions of flying and crawling things.
"I watched my chance. Then like a red Indian I slipped into
the bush. I had no idea where to go, only to get away from my
accursed English jailors. Five days later, two native trackers
found me. After those five days in the heat without food, with
little water, I almost welcomed the filthy wretches. They brought
me back to the camp. There I was chained, wrist to wrist, ankle
to ankle, and ankles to wrists. They propped me against a tree. I
got bread, a dram of water. Then they took me back to prison
and a dungeon.
"Captain, I thought I was quite a hand at escaping from tight
spots. I had got away from Dartmoor in England, which took
some doing, for I made clothes from sheets and I hid a night and
a day in icy ditches waist deep in water before I made my way to
a road and right into the hands of an informer. But that was as
nothing compared to the horrors of the bush. I tried six more
times to escape at Fremantle. Each time my route was by the
'back door' into the bush and desert. Each time the trackers got
me. Then I made the eighth try . . ."
"And that was by the sea?" Captain Anthony said thoughtfully.
"Yes, Captain, by the 'front door'-the sea. But don't think that
was easy. You don't just jump off the nearest quay and swim to the
nearest ship. Not in those waters. If the Water Police don't grab
you, the sharks will. No, Captain, you must have friends, ashore
and at sea. That's where I was lucky. First I had a powerful friend
61
The Emerald Whaler
on shoreFather Patrick McCabe and a tremendous team at
sea Captain Gifford, Henry Hathaway here, and the Gazelle."
"This Father McCabe ... is he in the plan?"
"He is. Just as he was when I escaped. Henry has told you
about that, but I doubt he told you what happened before the
Gazelle picked me up."
"Can't recollect he did."
"Father McCabe's parish includes not only Fremantle itself but
all the coast from Perth to Bunbury. He and I became fast friends
soon after I reached the penal colony in 1868. He was always
sympathetic when I told him of my escape plans. He warned me
it was impossible to escape in the bush country. After that sev-
enth try, after I had come out from my dungeon, I told the good
father I would try once more, but I would not be caught again. I
would end my life rather than that.
"He laid his hand on my shoulder. 'My son,' he said, in that soft
voice of his, 'that is a mortal sin. Think of your soul! Wait, my
son, wait. Let me think. Let me plan.'
"I did wait. I grew more and more despondent. Then one day
a stranger he said his name was McGuire sidled up to me on the
dock where I was working. He told me Father McCabe had asked
him to arrange with one of the Yankee whaling captains expected
in Bunbury in February it was then December to secrete me
aboard.
"Two desperate months went by. I was sure I was forsaken.
Then I heard three whalers had put in at Bunbury. I determined
to flee the prison and sneak the more than a hundred miles there
to try to get aboard one of these ships. But on the very day I
planned this move, McGuire came to me again and said he had
arranged for me to be taken off by the whaler Vigilant, Captain
Baker, of New Bedford."
"Knew him well," Anthony grunted. "Never thought much of
him."
"You anticipate my story, Captain," O'Reilly said with a smile.
"I had been assigned to a timber party by then and that night I
hid in the woods. Toward midnight I heard 'St. Patrick's Day'
62
The Ccrtolpa
whistled. McGuire was there. We crept back along the road to a
spot where he had two horses tethered. We rode hard all night,
then hid in a marsh by the sea. We rode again the next night, and
hid by day. Darkness came again and we rode to a place where
McGuire had hidden a rowboat. In the late afternoon we saw the
white sails of the Vigilant. We launched the boat and rowed des-
perately toward her, making frantic signals, but she sailed on."
Anthony nodded. "That Baker!"
"McGuire left me to try to make arrangements with another
captain. But I was desperate. Alone I launched the boat and
rowed all day, looking for the sail of a whaler. I saw the Vigilant
again, but she paid me no heed. I rowed all night and in the
morning I found myself back on the sands of Cape Geographe
where I had started. I crept back into the sandhills and slept. I
ate wild berries. I drank brackish water. Five days went by.
Then McGuire returned. He had gone all the way back to Fre-
mantle, where he saw Father McCabe again. The good father
paid ten pounds of his own money money that really belonged
to the Church to a Yankee captain who had put in at Fremantle.
The captain promised he would watch out for us. Again we rowed
to sea. This time Captain Gifford spotted us and picked me up
and I saw the last of Australia forever."
O'Reilly lived again the moment of his escape. He breathed
deeply, then relaxed.
"You have heard from Father McCabe since?" Captain Anthony
asked.
Devoy answered. "We have. He has forwarded messages from
our men at great risk to himself. He has indicated he will give
all his support to any feasible plan we have to get the men out.
Through him we have heard from Martin Hogan and from James
Wilson direct. Wilson is always ready with ideas as you will
find out. He has, in fact, offered a plan of his own, but we think
ours is better."
"Do your men know what you propose?"
"Not yet. We have purposely allowed them to remain in the
dark until we have everything set up," Devoy said. "All we say
63
The Emerald Whaler
to them, through Father McCabe, is not to lose hope that we are
working for them and have not forgotten them. When our shore
party reaches Australia, that will be time enough."
Captain Anthony shook his head slowly.
"Does anything trouble you?" Devoy asked.
"It seems to me that a great deal of this whole venture depends
on your shore party."
"On the contrary, your voyage is paramount to success."
"My part is easy, a straight navigation job. I can put a whaler
in any port you name at any time you say."
"Of that we are certain. And we are just as certain that our
shore party can put our men on the beach waiting for you. Never
fear, Captain, we will get our men out. I pledge it."
Anthony spoke again. "Now if we get the Catalpa, always sup-
posing we do get her
"
O'Reilly interrupted him. "Of course we'll get the bark. The
Catalpa is ours, you can wager on it."
"I hope you're right," said Anthony. "You've found us a good
ship. When we get her, I'll have to have her refitted and over-
hauled. That will take some time."
"How long?" Devoy asked.
"Depends on her condition. Can't say till we see her bottom."
"A month?" Devoy prodded.
"Be crowding things ... I just can't guess."
"We want to get you under way as soon as possible," Devoy
insisted.
"I won't waste time. So when the Catalpa is ready, what then?"
"Sail just like any whaler and hunt whales at least for the first
part of your voyage. We want you to speak with other ships, play
the part of the wandering whaler. And we want you to ship home
what oil you take, just as you normally would."
"Then I'll sail for the Western Grounds, and ship from Fayal.
That's the usual procedure."
"Splendid."
"When do you want me in Australian waters?"
"Early next year. By late February or early March."
64
The Catalpa
"Then I should start from the Azores in late fall of this year. By
that time the bottom will be foul and the ship will be slower. I
can't risk careening her for scraping. I'll need the sailing time."
"I'm sure all will go well," O'Reilly said. "And now, I can do
with some food. Gentlemen?"
Before the day's end, Richardson had struck a bargain with the
Catalpas owners. The price was $5,250. He advanced $4,000 of
his own cash on a thirty-day personal note given by Devoy. On
Saturday, March 13, 1875, papers were signed and the Catalpa
belonged, nominally, to J. T. Richardson, agent.
65
5." i"
Clear of her logwood cargo, the Catalpa lay at her East Boston
wharf with only a caretaker aboard, waiting for her new owners
to take possession.
Both Anthony and Richardson determined it would be better
to do the job of overhaul in New Bedford, rather than in Boston.
They could trust local workmen more than could be said for
craftsmen in the big city and supervise repairs if the job were
done in the home port. George and his father-in-law arranged for
a tow, and at noon two days after she had been sold, the Catalpa
was under way at the end of a hawser, headed for Boston Light
and the open sea.
Their course took them east of, but within sight of the hook of
Cape Cod, off Provincetown. It was dark when they spotted the
flash of Highland Light. Nauset, Chatham and Monomoy lights
beckoned them on through the night. At dawn the tow captain
took a westerly course through Nantucket Sound. With Nan-
tucket and Martha's Vineyard to port, the tug brought the Catalpa
into Buzzard's Bay by way of the ferry channel between Woods
Hole and Nonamesset Island, They fetched City Wharf in New
Bedford in the late afternoon and made fast.
Early the next morning, Captain Anthony engaged John W.
Rowland, New Bedford's best ship's carpenter, to direct the
bark's overhaul. Anthony had decided views on the work views
that, to Rowland's mind, were widely at variance with normal
practice in remodeling a merchantman into a whaler.
For one thing, complained the carpenter, the captain, in plan-
ning quarters for officers and men, was cramping his stowage.
66
"Greasy Voyage!"
"You give the men so much room, George, where in tophet you
goin' to stow your ile?"
Anthony was firm, silently planning quarters for at least six
extra men and maybe three or four more of the land party on
the return voyage. "When can you finish her, John?" he asked.
"Well, lessee now . . . heavin* down, caulkin', sheathin', riggin*,
masts, spars, new boats, sails, cabin, hold . . ." Howland ran over
the items rapidly. "This is March 16. Give me good weather, no
complications, make it about the end o' May or the first o* June/'
Captain Anthony shook his head. "You got to do better than
that, John. I want her out of this port in six weeks!"
"
Tain t possible!"
"Put more men on. Push them. Get the sailmakers on the job
today. Order the small boats built. Get riggers here . . ."
Howland scratched his gray head. "A body would think you
was goin' a-piratin', way you want this here ship rushed outa port."
"I'm not going pirating, John, you can lay your bottom dollar
on that."
Next morning Howland had a swarm of workmen on the
Catalpa. The masts were stripped of their yards and rigging, then
royal masts, topgallant masts and topmasts were sent down. Only
the three masts themselves fore, main and mizzen rose stark
and stubby from the deck.
The bark was towed to shallows and hove down by chains and
heavy tackle so that her starboard side, clear down to her keel,
was exposed at low water. Anthony himself inspected the bottom
with Howland, saw it was sound and sighed in relief. Caulkers
stripped off her old sheathing, repaired some planks, pounded
fresh oakum into her seams and nailed on bright new copper
sheathing. Then the port side was similarly gone over. Two of
the Captain's allotted six weeks were gone before the ship was
tied up once more at City Wharf.
Busy as he was with details of ordering supplies for the voyage,
Anthony spent many hpurs aboard her, "gettin* in the way," as
Howland growled.
One noontime, shortly after the bark had been tied up again
67
The Emerald Whaler
at the wharf, Rowland came up the aft ladder with a long face.
"I got bad news, George," he said. "The riding keelson under the
mainmast is bad rotted. Wonder we didn't pull the mainmast
right outa her when we hove down. It'll take a coupla extra weeks
to fix."
"You just can't have extra weeks."
John Rowland came up with a solution unique in the business
of wooden ship repairs. He made a new oaken mainmast riding
keelson, eased off the ratlines, main chains, after shrouds, main-
stay and preventer stays at the maintop. Then, with heavy tackle
erected on stout shears, he hoisted the ponderous mast sufficiently
for his men to take out the rotted step and slide in the new. It
took five days.
With repairs booming along, Captain Anthony set about round-
ing up his officers. Richardson, as agent, took on the task of sign-
ing the crew Kanakas, Malays, Bravas, a few New Bedford boys,
some farm lads from "down East" eager for adventure but no
English subjects.
When Devoy had given him the Catalpa to command, George
Anthony fiad made up his mind that the man he wanted as his
first officer was the lad he grew up with in sail, Samuel P. Smith
of Edgartown on Martha's Vineyard. At twenty-nine Sam was a
rugged, two-fisted sailor, sandy-haired, round-faced, just back
from a two-year voyage. If it was humanly possible to coax him
to sign on again so soon after he had come ashore, Anthony de-
termined to do it. He took the ferry that called at the Vineyard.
Sam wasn't home when George knocked on the door of the salt-
stained shingle cottage where the Smith family lived. Sam's
mother allowed her son probably was down to Lucas Coffin's
wharf, and George set course for the waterfront again. He found
Sam painting a skiff bright red.
Sam stood off to admire his handiwork, then turned slowly to
acknowledge George's greeting. He wiped the paint splotches
off his hand and grasped George's palm in his. "I know why
you're here. I know what you're up to/'
George winced. "What do you mean, Sam?"
68
"Greasy Voyage!"
"I heard you had a bark. The Catalpa, ain't she?"
"What else you hear?"
"Coin' whalin', ain't you?"
George breathed an inward sigh of relief. "Sort of figured on
some."
"And you come over here to see if I'd ship with you?"
"Sort of had that in mind."
"Well, git it outa your mind. I aim to stay ashore a mighty
good long spell."
George shrugged. "Everyone to his taste, like the lady said
when she kissed the cow."
"Catalpa ain't so much." Sam paused. "Who you shipping aft?"
"Antone Farnham as second officer."
"Good Brava. Good man with a dart. Pretty old."
"Forty-three, but a stout man in a whaleboat."
"Who else?"
"George Bolles for third mate."
"Young un. Got plenty sand. Bit wild, maybe."
"He'll do with you to boss him. What do you say, Sam? First
officer."
"Told you no, George."
"Why not? Give me one real good reason."
Sam's face turned red. "Got a girl. Thinkin' I'll get married
some day."
"Who'd want an old salt cod like you? What are you going to
live on?"
"Thinkin' of doin' a little fishin'. Got a chance to buy a good
schooner with Lucus Coffin here. Catch us some cod, halibut
and such."
"Grown man like you fooling with bait!"
"Money in it. Gotta have money to get married," Sam said
thoughtfully.
"You can make a damn sight more in one good whaling voyage
than you can in ten years of fishing, and you know it."
"And be gone a couple year and get nothin' too."
"I know we'll get a full hold of oil. You'll get a top lay from
69
The Emerald Whaler
the oil and the spermaceti. And the ambergris too, if we're that
lucky. But more than that, I'll see you get a whopping bonus on
the side. You'll need money to fix up this girl of yours in a nice
house. Do I know her?"
"Cap'n Nate Jernegan's daughter," Sam said proudly.
"Lottie Jernegan! Lottie's a nice girl
"
"
'Tain't Lottie," Sam said in almost a whisper. "Amy Chase."
"Isn't that robbing the cradle? Amy Chase isn't more than
fourteen."
"Well, we sorta got an understandin'. You should hear her play
the pie-anna."
"Why don't you give Amy Chase a chance to grow up? I'll bet
she still plays with dolls. Two years from now, when you get
back from our voyage, she'll be past sixteen. And then you can
court her honorable-like, and marry her too, and Captain Nate
and his good wife won't object at all. Two years a-whaling and
you'll come home ready to take out your own ship."
"First officer?" Sam said shrewdly.
"Right!"
"Bonus?"
"Rightand a big one too. Amy's pretty eyes will pop out of
her head when you spill all the gold in her lap."
"When you sailin'?"
"John Rowland says he'll have the Catalpa ready by the end
of April. We got some good boatsteerers lined up already. Bob
Ranacker . . ."
"Ain't he sort of sickly?"
"The sea air will do his cough good. What do you say, Sam?"
Sam took his paint brush and gave a touch to a spot he had
missed. He put the brush back in the paint pot. He kicked the
beach pebbles. Then he stuck out his horny hand. "Put 'er there,
George. You talked me inta it. I never wanted to go shore fishin'
nohow. I'll ferry over one of these days soon . . . after I talk to
Amy."
Captain Anthony took the ferry back to the mainland with a
light heart. As his first in command he had a man he could trust,
70
"Greasy Voyage!"
a man who could handle the ship in any emergency, a man who
could bring the ship back home safe in case things went wrong
in the rescue attempt. He rubbed his hands in satisfaction.
April's end was fast nearing. The decks and the holds of the
Catalpa boiled with activity. Aft the foremast a copper camboose
was built which, filled with water, would protect the deck from
charring when the tryworks, built of bricks above it, were fired
to boil oil. Masons bricked in huge copper kettles with a hearth
beneath. Above these trypots rose a shelter so that boiling could
be done in the rain. Another shelter covered the aft ladder, the
galley and the wheel.
The oversized oak davits Captain Anthony insisted on were
bolted in place. New whaleboats glistened in fresh white paint.
Spare spars were stowed on deck and below. Standing rigging
was tarred, new running rigging reeved through blocks, new sails
bent.
As the painters took over, stores arrived hourly. Into the holds
went everything the crew would need for the two-year voyage:
2,400 casks either whole or in knockdown form, thousands of iron
hoops, 19 cords of firewood, 135 barrels of beef preserved in salt-
peter brine, 100 barrels of salt pork, 90 barrels of hard bread
baked, at Anthony's direction, in Watson's Bakery in New Bed-
ford, 70 barrels of packed flour, 1,100 gallons of good Cuban
molasses, two huge boxes of loaf sugar, 1,000 pounds of dried
apples, 100 bushels of potatoes, 1,000 pounds of butter, 1,000
pounds of lard, 700 pounds of dried codfish, 300 hickory smoked
hams, rice, dried beans and dried peas, cornmeal, salt, spices,
coffee, tea, chocolate, tobacco. Pens were built on deck for hens
and pigs to be used for fresh meat in the early part of the voyage.
There was a complete set of carpenter's tools, four big grind-
stones, six muskets, six revolvers, powder, ball, cartridges, nails,
rivets, needles, thread, sailmakers' palms, lanterns, pots, pans,
spiders, tar, rosin, tinware, crockery, copperware, blacksmith
tools, iron in rods and bars, lumber to repair boats, paint, cordage
in all necessary sizes, spare sails and spars, thousands of fathoms
71
The Emerald Whaler
of harpoon line, tubs for lines, knives, hatchets, harpoons, lances,
cutting spades, iron hooks, buckets, extra harpoon and lance shafts,
waif flags to mark killed whales, stationery supplies, prints and
ginghams for possible trading with nativesand a Bible.
In the medicine chest were simple remedies: boneset, penny-
royal, fennel, tansy and other herb teas, elixir of vitriol, opium,
tincture of laudanum, spirits of camphor, spirits of nitre, blue pills,
Atwood's Bitters, salts, castor oil, salves, opedildoc, bicarbonate
of soda, sulfur candles and other fumigants, bandages, splints, a
sharp knife, tweezers and forceps. Twenty gallons of good Med-
ford rum, two gallons of Holland gin, five gallons of brandy and
two gallons of port wine went into the captain's private "lazareet,"
the whaler's name for storage rooms below deck.
The Catalpa, ready for sea, cost the Clan-na-Gael committee
exactly $18,000.
On Monday, April 26, Richardson telegraphed John Devoy:
"Catalpa ready. Sail on your order." Devoy arrived in New Bed-
ford the next morning, and inspected the bark. Departure was
set for Thursday, with the tide.
John Boyle O'Reilly, Devoy told Anthony, had decided not to
come down to New Bedford to see the Catalpa off. Still fearful
that informers might link the whaler with a plot to rescue the
Fenians should he be at the wharf, he had elected to stay in
Boston. He had entrusted his farewell message to Devoy a slip
of paper with the words: "Go gcuiridh Dia an t-a'dh ort, Captain
Anthony. Go soirbhi' Dia dhuit." And the bold signature: "John
Boyle O'Reilly."
Anthony gave the paper back to Devoy, saying, "Now I am
puzzled." He smiled. "Will you read it to me, Mr. Devoy?"
Devoy crossed himself. "It says in Gaelic: 'May God send luck
to you, Captain Anthony. May God prosper you.'
"
Anthony bowed his head. "Tell Mr. O'Reilly I thank him from
the depths of my heart."
The night of Wednesday, April 28, Captain Anthony and De-
voy met again in John Richardson's office. This time the whale-
oil lamp burned brightly.
72
"Greasy Voyage!"
"There still is need for secrecy, of course/' Devoy said with a
smile, as Anthony commented on the bright light. "We are always
fearful, Captain. You have kept your promise manfully so far.
Now I beg of you, keep the secret of the Catalpas mission locked
in your heart . . ."
"Until?" Anthony questioned.
"Until there is no longer any possibility of her real purpose get-
ting to the English. The sad history of Irish plans is that there
has always been someone to blurt out the secret just for the sake
of seeming important, or selling his soul for mean profit. We are
still gathering funds to pay off the debt on the ship and the ex-
penses of our shore party. Thousands of Irishmen know some-
thing is in the wind. Yet so few of us know the actual details that
I am confident the English either will not learn of them, or, if
they do, will be so complacent in the supposed security of their
prison that they will call it 'just another silly Irish plot/
"
"There is one man I shall have to tell/' Anthony said slowly.
"My first mate, Sam Smith. I must let him in on the plot. He
will have to be in charge of the ship while I am ashore to pick
up your men."
"Tell him then by all means but not until you are almost at
your goal. Now, I think we should have a complete understand-
ing of what we expect of you, and what you should expect of us
in the Clan-na-Gael. You know your immediate goal, of course?"
"To put to sea like a whaler, act like a whaler, take what whales
I can like a whaler."
"Right. And ship your oil from Fayal in the Azores in late sum-
mer or early fall, just as you would on a regular voyage."
"And when I have shipped my oil?"
"Then set course directly for West Australia. We want you to
arrive in Bunbury, the seaport south of Fremantle, in February or
early March, 1876 next year."
"And there?"
"Now you should know something more about our shore party
and their plans. We are sending two men to Australia this autumn.
From New York will go John J. Breslin, the man who liberated
73
The Emerald Whaler
our chief organizer for the Republic, James Stephens, from prison
in Dublin. He knows English prisons. He knows the English
mind. There is a price on his head, of course, and if he is caught
in Australia or in any British port for that matter he will end
his days in the very prison from which he intends to rescue
our men."
"He sounds like a brave man."
"Brave and resourceful, too. You will never be disappointed
in John Breslin. Now, when he reaches San Francisco on his way
to Australia he will be joined by another Irish patriot still to be
chosen by our friends on the West Coast. The two will proceed
by fast steamer to Australia. Since our winter is summer in Aus-
tralia, they will have good weather to spy out the land, get in
contact with the prisoners and perfect their plans. They will pose
as strangers aboard ship and on arrival in Australia. They will
communicate with each other only in utmost secrecy or by code
messages.
"They will go by assumed names. Mr. Breslin will call himself
'Collins/ His aide will be instructed to call himself
'Johnson/
Remember those names/'
Captain Anthony repeated the aliases.
"Now, we will expect you to bring the Catalpa to Bunbury at
the time set. Meantime our two men will have everything in
readiness for the escape. When you get to Bunbury, anchor, go
ashore and register the arrival of your ship with the proper author-
ities. Then get in touch with Mr. Breslin."
"That is a vague order, Mr. Devoy."
Devoy shook his head, smiling mysteriously. "I have here,"
and he took out a penned manuscript, "a set of code messages
that I'm sure will cover every situation that arises. Guard this
code, Captain, it is vital to our venture. Mr. Breslin will have the
only other copy."
Captain Anthony took the papers and stowed them in an inner
pocket. "They will go directly into my ship's strongbox."
Devoy rubbed his hands. "Well, Captain, I think we have cov-
ered about everything. I am going to say farewell to you now.
74
"Greasy Voyage!"
I will be on the dock when you sail, but I shall remain in the
background. I do not want to run any final risk right at the mo-
ment of your sailing. So, Captain, good luck, good winds, God
bless you, and may the Holy Virgin protect you and bring you
back safely with our men." He took Anthony's hand and shook
it firmly.
"Thank you," Captain Anthony said gravely. "I promise you,
if your men on shore do their share, I'll land your party at the
Battery in New York City."
A sharp shower dashed over New Bedford before dawn Thurs-
day. The thrumming of the wind in taut rigging and the splatter
of rain on the deck woke First Mate Sam Smith from the uneasy
sleep of his first night in the tiny portside cabin he would call his
home for the voyage. The Catalpa rocked uneasily at her moor-
ing lines and bumped at the chafing gear hung between her
fresh-painted hull and the dock timbers. He groped for an oilskin
and slipped it over his shoulders before climbing the aft com-
panionway. Under the shelter of the housing he looked to the
bark's shore lines. In the eerie light of false dawn the yards and
furled sails were wrapped in a gray haze. Even as he looked, the
rain stopped and the clouds began to break toward the east. All
secure, he went below.
The moan of the wind and the dash of rain against the window-
pane woke Emmie Anthony from the sleep she had thought would
never come. She stirred, and George came half awake. His hand
sought her and his fingers came away moist from the tear that
had trickled down her cheek.
"Don't cry," he murmured.
"I didn't mean to, George. I just . . ."
"It won't be long. I'll be tied up at City Wharf again before
you know it," he said as he stroked her hair.
His weatherwise ears caught the noise of wind and rain. "Show-
ering?" He was out of bed in an instant and looking out the win-
dow. "Won't amount to much, breaking to eastward."
75
The Emerald Whaler
Then he was back in the warm bed, his arms holding Emmie
tight.
Dawn brought a bright sky flecked with tiny lacy clouds. The
sunlight gleamed on the brick and the granite of the whaling
capital, washed April-clean.
From his window in the hotel halfway up the hill on which
New Bedford was built, John Devoy looked out on the sparkling,
rain-drenched, rolling meadows bordering the town. Seaward,
harbor waves danced behind a lattice of shining, tall masts and
bright white spars, spidery shrouds and the gray-white furled
sails of dark-hulled ships. The shower, the brilliant dawn and
now the bright spring green grass and trees made Devoy's hopes
soar. It was an omen indeed, an omen of success. It was as if
the whole world were bathed in the glorious emerald of Ireland.
Shortly after seven o'clock, a light wagon rattled over the cob-
bles of Front Street and jolted to a stop at the gangplank. A
sweating clerk for Richardson jumped from the driver's seat and
rushed aboard the bark. To his hail Sam Smith, Antone Farnham
and George Bolles turned out on deck. With a couple of crew
members they hustled to the wagon and hauled the last of the
Catalpas crew over the wharf planks and up the gangplank to
dump them into the forecastle, paying no heed to the drunken
sailors' grumbling at this rude end to their last night's carouse.
At the stroke of ten from the town clock, John and Sophia
Wrisley Richardson drove up to the Anthony house in the family
surrey. Emmie brought out Sophie, bundled in white wool.
George came out with his spyglass and chronometer in hand and
closed and locked the door. He climbed into the carriage be-
hind Emmie and gave her the big brass key.
"I won't be needing this for a while," he said with a faint smile.
John Richardson reached over to George and took the telescope
from his hands. With a smile he said: "You won't need this
any more!" He picked up a parcel from the carriage floor. "Here's
a new one and a powerful sight stronger than the one you had.
76
"Greasy Voyage!"
Should be able to spot," and he paused for a split second and
winked covertly, "whales lots more miles off!"
"Take care of the old one, Emmie," George said, "you'll need it
when we're sailing into port again."
The dock was jammed with relatives, friends and well-wishers,
gathered to shout the traditional "Short voyage and a greasy one!"
that sent the whaleman on his way. Out of the corner of his eye
George spotted Devoy standing quietly aloof at the extreme sea-
ward end of the dock. Devoy gave no sign of recognition. Neither
did the Captain.
The family stood bound by an awkward silence. Richardson
took his son-in-law's hand. "Good luck, my boy. A profitable
voyage and may you succeed in everything you set out to do.
God bless you and bring you back safe to us."
Mrs. Richardson kissed him. He took little Sophie in his strong
hands, swung her aloft and held her at arm's length. "You'll be
running to meet me, day I get back," he said, as he swung her
down again and kissed her nose, then handed her to her grand-
mother.
George swept Emmie into his arms. She snugged her head
against the heavy cloth of his pea jacket. "Good-by, George. Take
care of yourself."
George tilted her face up, kissed her ardently, then broke away
suddenly. In a few strides he was on the deck of the bark.
A tug chuffed alongside the Catalpa. Under the direction of
Harbor Pilot Will Nickerson, lines were made fast from the tug's
bow and stern.
A crewman ran up the bark's red-bordered, white houseflag
with
"J.T.R." in bold black letters. Emmie's heart felt a bitter
pride as she saw the Richardson emblem whip to the breeze from
the mainroyal mast bitterness that her own father had been the
one to make George break his vow never to go to sea again, per-
verse pride that her man was in command of a ship again, just as
she knew in her heart he wanted to be.
Now to the peak of the foremast went the bark's burgee, a big
blue "C" on white. From the spanker flaunted the Stars and
77
The Emerald Whaler
Stripes. A string of bright signal flags snapped between fore and
main and main and mizzen masts.
Pilot Nickerson stood by Captain Anthony on the afterdeck.
The helmsman gripped the wheel spokes.
"Ready with your shore lines, Captain," Nickerson warned.
"Ready bow and stern lines, Mr. Smith!"
"Bow and stern lines manned, sir."
"Ahoy the tug!" Nickerson yelled. "Get her under way!"
The towboat's propeller churned white water. The towing
hawsers drew taut.
"Let go bow line, Captain," Nickerson directed.
"Let go bow line," Anthony ordered. A dock hand threw the
line off the dock dolphin.
The bark's nose swung away from the dock.
"Loose stern line!"
The sailor on the line let his line pay out slowly from its three
turns about the deck bit. The Catalpa moved slowly, ponderously
seaward.
"Now give him slack," Anthony called.
The sailor slipped one turn off the bit. The stern line sagged
in the water.
"Let go stern line!"
A dock hand slipped the stern line off the wharf dolphin. The
Catalpa was free of her shore fetters. Captain Anthony stood at
the rail. He waved to his family and to his friends, then threw a
kiss as Emmie held Sophie up. The gap between ship and shore
widened.
Devoy stood on the end of the dock. As they passed, he gave a
quick touch of his fingers to his hat. Anthony gravely returned
his salute, then turned to his First Mate. "I reckon we got enough
breeze to drop the tug directly we get her well down harbor,"
he said. "That is if Mr. Nickerson agrees."
The pilot nodded.
"Get some of our people aloft! I'll want fore and main tops'ls,
main t'gallant, gaff tops'l, stays'l, flying jib and spanker."
78
"Greasy Voyage!"
Ashore the crowd drifted away. The Richardsons, Emmie and
the baby went back to their carriage.
Long after the wharf had been deserted by all but the scream-
ing, diving, complaining gulls, John Devoy stood, collar of his
ulster turned up, watching the craft that carried his greatest
hopes. As she dwindled in the distance she seemed frail, whereas
nearby she had seemed stout and sturdy. Devoy sat on a bundle
of cask staves and kept his eyes on the fast fading bark until he
no longer could make out the forms of those on board. His mind
raced the thousands of watery miles to the six men in Australia,
and he held his rosary and murmured a prayer. Finally, the
Catalpa was a dot in the distance. He rose slowly from his perch,
his legs stiff in the early spring chill. He picked his way shore-
ward along the splintery-planked wharf, with its gull-fouled piles,
its jumble of casks and cask staves, rusting iron hoops, oaken
harpoon shafts, frayed cordage and stacks of greasy galley fire-
wood that had "been a-whalin' " before.
Pools of oily rainwater glistened in all the colors of the rainbow.
Over all, mingled in the fresh spring air was the fatty reek of
whale oil, the stench of tar and dead fish, the mustiness of rotting
wood and the salty tang of the sea.
His feet touched the cobbles of busy Front Street. He gave one
last look back. The Catalpa was out of sight.
To work now. There was so much more to be done.
79
6 . First Take
The white sails of the pilot boat blurred into the afternoon haze.
Under the Catalpas bluff forefoot, the Atlantic swells bore the
whaler up and up as if she were in the palm of some sea monster's
paw, then let her slide, hissing, down into their oily troughs. The
dark water burbled past her waist to trail bubbly-milky-white
astern where a few gulls screamed their strident "ha-ha-ha-haah-
haah." Whitecaps began to fleck the water. As the afternoon
wore on, the sky turned to the dirty gray that foretold rain and
squalls.
Captain Anthony stood easily at the side of his helmsman,
watching the leach of the main topsail.
"How does she handle?" he asked.
"She do good, sair," the Malay wheelman replied. "She pay
off. I got hard time keepin' she full!"
The Captain nodded shortly. The ship seemed alert enough as
she heeled to the wind. Her bow dug purposefully into the waves,
throwing icy spray over the forward deck.
The Captain strode from the shelter of the decked-over wheel-
house to the weather quarter and leaned against the rail. He took
a deep breath of the salt air. Astern, No Man's Land and Martha's
Vineyard were blue-gray blurs slashed with the dun-yellow of
beach sand where land and water met. He looked long at the
fading land. This would be Emmie's first night as a whaling
widow. How would it be with her? And how was it with him?
To be truthful with himself, tired as he was, he began to feel pride
that he was the one, of all New England's captains, who had been
chosen. Devoy could have had his pick of them, not only in New
80
First Take
Bedford, but in New London and Fairhaven, in Duxbury and
Provincetown, in Scituate, Marblehead, Edgartown, Nantucket
wherever that hardy breed called whalemen fretted "between
voyages." And many a one with more years at sea than George
Smith Anthony could boast.
But and for this he was proud indeedhe knew he could keep
his mouth shut, and some could not, for drink had a way of loosen-
ing a tongue. And that was the real reason why he stood on the
weather quarter of the Catalpa this momentous April day.
He turned his back to the rising sea and watched the business
of getting the bark shipshape for the long voyage ahead. The men
cleaning the deck of shore-side refuse were in the charge of Sec-
ond Mate Farnham, dark and lean with the far-seeing eyes of his
seafaring race. Farnham clipped his commands sharply.
In the bow, some sodden wretches, half sick from their night's
merriment before sailing, struggled to lash down the two bow
anchors under the sarcastic orders of First Mate Smith.
"Mr. Smith!" Captain Anthony called sharply. "All hands, Mr.
Smith! Let's see what dockside scum we got that calls themselves
seamen."
Smith cupped hands to mouth and shouted: "ALL HANDS!"
A boatsteerer picked up the cry below. "ALL HANDS!" echoed
through the bark.
The men below stumbled up the forecastle ladder whites,
Malays, Bravas, Kanakas bleary-eyed, dirty and whiskery.
"Line up on th' lee rail!" the First Mate shouted.
Shivering in the raw wind after the warmth of the forecastle,
the men shambled into a line. They were joined by the anchor
crew and the men who had been swabbing the deck. Only the
man at the wheel held his post.
Captain Anthony looked them over keenly. "You seem short-
handed, Mr. Smith. We shipped more men than this. Have some
gone overside already, gut-scared of a real whaler?"
"They's some more below, sir!" Smith said.
Captain Anthony's voice rose a peg. "Mr. Smith, I said 'All
hands!' and I mean 'All hands!' " His eyes darkened and his heavy
81
The Emerald Whaler
brows knit together. His voice rose another peg. "When I give an
order on this whaleship, I want every man jack to jump. And I
want you, Mr. Smith, and you, Mr. Farnham, and you, Mr.
Bolles
"
he pointed a stabbing finger at each in turn "to jump
faster than anyone. Now!" His voice rose to a commanding
shout: "ALL HANDS, MR. SMITH!"
Sam gulped. Farnham and Bolles stood stockstill.
The First Mate shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly. Wasn't
goin' to be much brotherly love on this voyage, that was for sure.
Well, that's the way it was, that's the way it would be.
"Aye, sir!" Sam clipped the words short and snapped to the
Third Mate. "Mr. Bolles, take Mopsy and Gingy and lay below!"
Bolles and the two Malays ducked down the forward compan-
ionway and into the forecastle. Inside three seamen lay in a
welter of broken bottles, unstowed seachests, scattered dunnage.
The scant illumination from the forecastle deadlight prism
showed matted hair, livid faces and red, swollen necks. Their
clothing was wet and slime-filthy, and they snored with the
drunken heaviness of cheap dockside rum.
"Him much drunk!" Gingy said.
"Him goddam much drunk," Bolles mocked. "Him all three
really goddam much drunk."
The two Malays shoved and hauled the three onto deck like
mealsacks.
Captain Anthony spurred one of the inert forms with the solid
toe of his boot. "And who are these able-bodied seamen, Mr.
Smith?"
Mopsy rolled the three face up. Smith touched each in turn
with the toe of his boot. "This black one is Robert Ceil, he's a St.
Helena islander. This one is John Coeking, he's from New Britain.
And this one is Cyrus Hill, he's from New Hampshire."
"All right, Mr. Smith. The introductions are over. Now slosh
them down and stand them up so we can get a good look at men
who couldn't answer a command." The Captain leaned dispas-
sionately against the weather rail.
"Mr. Bolles!" Smith ordered. "See to it!"
82
First Take
Under Holies' direction Mopsy and Gingy dipped buckets of
icy water from overside and drenched the three. Again they drew
the buckets inboard, and sloshed the icy contents on the men. A
third deluge did the job. The three crawled to their feet, sput-
tering, gagging, cursing.
"Belay that jabberin'," the First Mate warned. "Line up with
the rest."
"Belay hell!" Hill whipped the sea water from his black hair
with his fingers. His dark face twisted in rage, his brown eyes
looked almost as black as his hair. "I'll say what I goddam please
any time I want to. I got my rights. No man livin' kin slosh sea
water on me. No man alive can make me shut up
"
The First Mate's right fist shot out and caught Hill flush on the
point of the jaw. The seaman crashed to the deck. As he went
down, Captain Anthony studiously eyed the set of the sails.
Hill wobbled to his feet, shook his head, rubbed his jaw. Smith
unconcernedly stepped to one side.
Captain Anthony strode in front of Hill. "So you have your
rights, have you, Hill? All men have rights. But they are rights
guaranteed under the law. I am the law on this ship. If you obey
the law on this shipand that means meyou'll have all the rights
you can use, I promise you."
He walked along the ragged line, throwing back his broad
shoulders and fastening his gray eyes on each man in turn. Then
he strode to the center of the line and faced his men, rocking a
little on his heels as he began the traditional speech of a whaling
captain at the start of a voyage.
"Now get this into your thick heads. This is a whaler," he
snapped. "I am the Captain. Remember that, every mother's son
of you. When you get an order, you jump out of your hide to
obey it.
"That goes aboard ship and in her boats. We have good of-
ficers. Mr. Smith, Mr. Farnham and Mr. Bolles know how to chase
whales and kill them. We have good boatsteerers. And I have a
word for you boatsteerers too. When you dart that whale, you
bury that iron in her hump. Harpoons cost money. Good hemp
83
The Emerald Whaler
line costs money. I don't want any wasted. And when your of-
ficer goes forrard to lance and he wants blackskin on his boat, then
you put him right atop that whale, so's he can churn his lance. I
want no chicken-livered men working for me. Taking whales is
mighty serious and mighty dangerous. You can get in a hell of a
mess if one man in a boat shows the white feather. You know that
as well as I do. I don't,mind competition atween boats, but when
the time comes for everyone to lay together, so help me, if any
man don't pull his weight, then, by God, I'll break him.
"And now here's another thing. We've got plenty of good food
in our lazareet. We've got plenty of fresh water. But that doesn't
mean food nor water can be wasted. If I catch any one of you
wasting grub or taking more than his share of water, he'll go on
hardbread and water for a month. And, by God, I'll dock the
rations of his watch, too. I want no griping about the grub. It's
the same as you'll get on any whaler out of New Bedford. It may
not be fancy, but it'll stick to your ribs.
"You were shipped because you're all supposed to be old hands.
Some of you don't look dry behind the ears yet, so I'll soon find
out if you're lying. If you are, there'll be no watch below until you
know the ropes.
"You, man at the wheel! Your course is south by east. Hold it.
I'll have my eye on the compass day and night. You let her yaw
off I'll know it and you can bet you'll know it before I get through
with you.
"If you're square with me, I'll be square with you.
"Mr. Smith, you and the rest of the officers pick your watches.
Tomorrow you can pick boat crews."
Captain Anthony turned smartly on his heels. Without another
look at the men he walked to the aft ladder, took one last glance
at the sails and disappeared below deck.
The voyage of the Catalpa had begun.
At sun-up the next day Captain Anthony set about making the
Catalpa ready for the "serious and dangerous" business of chasing
and killing whales.
"All hands" were called as soon as the cook had slapped morn-
84
First Take
ing meal on pannikins and hot coffee in mugs, and the men had
polished it off.
The business of selecting boat crews was far more important on
a whaler than the choosing of watches. A good boat crew meant
the difference between killing a whale and losing valuable gear.
Richardson had signed up four of New Bedford's best boatsteerers.
These, with the officers, were the backbone of each boat crew.
The Captain's choice for his steerer was Antone Ferris, a Cape
Verde islander from New Bedford. He was past fifty, the oldest
man in the Catalpas crew. His gray hair shocked over a swarthy
skin and piercing black eyes. He was big for a Cape Verde man-
five feet eight inches.
First Officer Smith had Bob Ranacker as his boatsteerer, despite
the racking cough that often doubled him up. Ranacker was
just twenty-two, black-haired, black-eyed.
Second Officer Farnham chose thirty-year-old John Rosso of
New Bedford for his steerer. Rosso had a bit more education than
most of the islanders in the crew; he could write his own name
and was proud to sign the ship's articles "Rosso" and not just set
his "X" against "Malay" the agent's donation toward last names
when the native jargon got too complicated to translate into
English.
Third Mate Bolles picked the Yankee from New Britain, Con-
necticutJohn Coeking whom he had sloshed with sea water at
the Captain's orders. Coeking, at twenty-seven, was a runt among
the men, a bare five foot three, with bright blue eyes.
Boatsteerers stood beside officers as the rest of the boat crews
were chosen, offering suggestions, objections, approvals as the
men lined up.
Captain Anthony stuck to his secret decision to have none but
Malays or Kanakas in his boat. His choice of Mopsy Rosso, Gingy
Malay, Tom Kanaka and Zampa Malay brought an almost im-
perceptible raise of an eyebrow from Sam Smith.
Smith's crew included Caleb Gushing, from Harwich, Massa-
chusetts; Tom Knipe, a St. Helena islander; Joe Rosmond, from
Saint Lucia in the West Indies; and Mike Malay.
Faniham picked Henry Paine, a blond, seventeen-year-old,
85
The Emerald Whaler
Woodstock, Vermont, lad who already had been on two voyages;
Lumbard Malay; Henry Parrott, another St. Helena islander; and
Dennis Duggan, red-headed and about thirty-five, vaguely "from
Pennsylvania."
Third Officer Bolles had almost a solid Yankee crew in his boat:
Hill, the defiant New Hampshire lad; Edmund Gleason, a swarthy
thirty-year-old from Candia, New Hampshire; Walter Sanford,
nineteen-year-old six-footer from Raynham, Massachusetts; and
as his only black boy, Bob Ceil, a St. Helena islander just turned
eighteen.
The bark was under easy canvas, making good her south by east
course from her last landfall as the boat crews made ready for the
task ahead. Every man in the crew turned to, with the exception
of the man at the wheel. The thirty-foot-long, six-foot-beam
whaleboats the Catalpa carried four instead of the five customary
on a bark her sizewere checked from stem to stern, then loaded
with the equipment necessary for the taking of whales. Snugly
stowed were lantern kegs, with tight-sealed contents of lantern,
matches, candles and hardtack; water kegs, bailing buckets, mast
and leg of mutton sail; darts, lances these sharpened to razor edge
by the mates themselves, boat spades, waifs or identification flags
to put on the carcass of a dead whale that might have to be aban-
doned for the time being after the kill; oars, including the twenty-
three-foot-long steering oar the boatsteerer would handle when
the mate went forward to give the lancing death thrust into the
whale's foot-in-diameter jugular; hatchets and knives to slash
fouled lines.
Hundreds of fathoms of two-and-a-quarter circumference ma-
nila harpoon line fresh from the ropewalks at Plymouth were
left-handed coiled, then trailed in the ship's white-frothed wake
to take out kinks, stretched taut, then recoiled into the line tubs-
three hundred fathoms to a tub, two tubs to a whaleboat. But the
tubs, unlike the rest of the gear, were stowed on deck, waiting
for the first cry of "Ah . . . blows!"
The welcome shout was not long in coming.
By Tuesday, May 4, with good whaling grounds near, the
86
First Take
Catalpa ghosted along under her two lower topsails and a head
sail. Lookouts were posted in rings high atop the foremast and
mainmast.
"Five pounds of tobacco to the first man who raises a whale!"
Captain Anthony promised.
At ten of the morning, down from the foremast ring came the
cry: "Ah . . . blooows\"
A convulsion of excitement swept the deck.
Until that moment all had been quiet, the slatting of canvas
and the creak of rigging the only sounds. From dawn to dusk
when a bark was on the whaling grounds, it was a hard and fast
rule that no unnecessary sound should be made. Seamen cat-
footed in bare feet. Officers' orders were hushed.
The very slightest sound, magnified a thousand times through
the water, startles or "gallies" a sperm whale. Although his ear is
but a quarter of an inch across, for all his tremendous tonnage, the
sperm is equipped with the best hearing of anything that swims
or walks.
"Ah . . . blooowsr the lookout called again.
Captain Anthony rushed for the mainmast shrouds and started
aloft. Just as he yelled, "Where away?" Caleb Gushing, on the
articles as cooper, popped out of the forecastle hatch, hammer in
hand. He headed aft toward the tryworks, lost his balance when
the bark rolled to a sea, plunged headlong on deck, walloped one
of the two four-barrel trypots with the hammer as if he were
clouting the biggest gong in a Chinese temple, and fetched up in
a bloody-nosed heap at the foot of the workbench abaft the try-
works, bringing most of the bench, with its overburden of cut-
ting spades, lances, harpoons and other ironware about him in a
crashing heap.
From the lookout came the wail: "Thar she go flukes!" as the
whale dived for the bottom of the sea.
Captain Anthony swung angrily to deck.
"
'Fore God, Gushing,
you clumsy fool, another break like that and I'll clap you in irons
for the rest of the voyage!"
Bad luck rode high in the royal yards next day too. Once more
87
The Emerald Whaler
the lookouts saw the fine white spray that told of sperm whales.
Another spout and another. A whole school of sperm to wind-
ward! Captain Anthony crowded on all sail to head them off so
that boats could be lowered. But a heavy wind and rain squall
forced him to take in canvas.
Two days of bad luck in a row gave the still-rankling Hill a
chance to blow off to the watch below in the steaming forecastle.
The icy bath he'd got on the first day out had not faded from
Hill's memory; in fact, the more he thought about it, the more he
seethed. Hill was a rugged New Englander who spoke his piece
and be damned to what anyone else thought. Dark enough to pass
for a Brava, he aspired to be cock of the roost over such as the
runty Cocking as blond as Hill was dark and the black-haired
Ceil.
Hill sounded off loud about Captain Anthony and his ability
that night the Catalpa had sighted the pod of whales. "You seen
it, mates. You seen it, all of you. He ain't no whaleman. He
sailed this bark right acrost their slick. I seen it, plain's day. You
seen it too. He gallied them whales. We'd gotten some of them
if'n he hadn't. You can't sail no ship acrost a sparm's slick and
not scare the hell out of 'em."
Cocking, one of those who had the watch, nodded emphatically.
But sandy-haired Caleb Gushing, despite his bawling out by the
Captain, came to the skipper's defense.
"Cap'n ain't to fault," he said. "I scared hell out of the first
whale we saw. I admit it. I was a clumsy ox. I bin t' sea afore,
bin a-whalin' afore. What the hell does a hayseed like you know
about skippers or whales?"
"I bin t' sea afore," Hill said heatedly. "I ain't no hayseed. You
kin ask anyone here. I'm right, ain't I?" He looked defiantly
around the seamen, sprawled on "haystacks" or on seachests.
Gushing finally admitted Hill had a point. Sailing over a whale's
slick was poor seamanship and it sure had worked out bad for
them this day.
For a whole day rain slashed the sea and the hungry wind
whistled through the rigging. Only the two lower topsails and a
headsail were spread. It was useless to keep a lookout posted in
88
First Take
the mast rings. The keenest eyes in the world could never have
seen the spout of a sperm in that welter of gale-driven whitecaps.
The morning of May 6 the gale abated and a gentle breeze set
in. No more canvas was sent up, however, for with the whitecaps
vanishing, it was time to slog slowly along and watch for whales.
The Catalpa made but two or three knots. Lookouts went aloft
again that day: Antone Ferris climbed to the foremast rings; Henry
Parrott took the mainmast.
For almost two hours after sun-up their eyes swept the watery
waste. As the bark rolled first to starboard, then lazily to port,
their perches a hundred feet up in the masts swung in dizzying
arcs as if they were the bobs on giant pendulums that had sud-
denly gone mad and were swinging upside down.
It lacked a few minutes of six when their watch would end. No
eyes could take more punishment than two hours of intense watch-
ing. Parrott gave one final look about the horizon. His tired eyes
spotted something. It might be a distant whitecap. Then again . . .
He looked again. Yes, it must be ...
"Ah . . . bloooowsl" he yelled.
First Mate Smith was on deck. He leaped for the mainmast
shrouds, hoisted himself over the futtocks and clambered up to
the rings. He threw a knee over the main topgallant yard and
yelled at Parrott: "Where away?"
Parrott pointed excitedly. "T labbad, sar. Thar!"
Smith saw the spout as he followed the pointing finger. Just
then Ferris sang out from his foremast perch: "Ah . . . blowsl 'Bout
a mile ahead o' he!"
Captain Anthony was still buttoning his pants as he hit the
deck. "What do you say, Mr. Smith?" he called.
"Two sparm, sir! Just lazin' along!"
"How far?"
"About five miles, sir."
The Captain called to Bolles, standing by. "All hands, Mr.
Bolles! We got work to do!"
"All hands!" Bolles yelled, running to the fore ladder to screech
down into the forecastle.
Now the lookouts could see the two whales plainly. The ship
89
The Emerald Whaler
crept up on them. One of the whales was large, the other much
smaller. The lookout watched the bigger of the two. "Thar's 'e
or hump . . . thar's 'e ol' hump . . . thar's 'e oF hump . . ." Parrott
called as the whale swam in porpoise-like loops.
Suddenly: "Thar 'e go flukes!"
The whale sounded, its gigantic tail flukes slapping the water
and sending a tremendous shower of white water about. The
second whale dove at almost the same instant.
All hands waited, almost breathlessly. Captain Anthony said
softly, as if afraid the whale might by some miracle overhear:
"Mr. Smith, go alow. You and Mr. Bolles get them. Ready your
boats . . ." He raised his voice. "Mr. Bolles, ready your boat."
The bark ghosted along to the slap of canvas and the faint
squeaking of blocks and rigging. If the whales had been gallied,
the bigger one would stay down for a long time a minute to each
foot of length for a full-grown sperm. That could mean an hour
for the big one, which appeared about sixty feet long.
If the whale had not been alarmed. . . .
The tremendous bulk roared to the surface in a slather of
foam, heaved clear of the waves a scant two miles ahead of the
bark, then dropped back in a cloud of spray, with a splash such
as only sixty tons of living meat could make. Nearby, the smaller
whale also surfaced and blew a smoking, snorting mist through
its spout. Needlessly Parrott shouted: "Thar 'e Whitewaters!"
Oblivious to the whaleship, the two whales sported playfully.
Parrott kept up a running commentary as the boat crews raced
to get ready for lowering.
"Thar 'e pitchpoles!"
The larger of the great beasts stood on his tail, his enormous
boxlike head and half his length completely out of water.
The boat crews formed up alongside each whaleboat swinging
from the davits at the bulwarks. Oars, harpoons, lances, knives,
lantern kegs, water casksall were checked hurriedly but care-
fully by the officers.
"Steady, now," Captain Anthony ordered the helmsman. "Steady
as you go. You boatsteerers, when you get alongside, no misses.
I want oil. Steady . . . steady . . ."
90
First Take
"Thar 'e go lobtail!" shrieked Parrott as the large whale reversed
his tactics and stood on his head, waving giant flukes clear of
the waves. The smaller swam in circles as the big one put on his
show.
"Mr. Farnham," Captain Anthony called. "Ready to brace
round the yards. We don't want to run this bark atop of them."
"Thar's 'e ol
f
hump . . ." Parrott kept track again of the porpoise-
like leaps in which the whale now indulged.
"Now
. . . Mr. Farnham . . . main topsail aback!"
The thud of bare feet on the deck planks was almost simul-
taneous with the creaking of the great yards.
The big sail eased around.
"Main tops'! aback, sir!"
"Helm up, you at the wheel. More ... bit more . . ."
The ship came up into the wind.
Captain Anthony jumped to the deck. The whales were a scant
half mile away. Every man in the crew, every officer, was as tense
as hunters stalking a deer.
"Ready boats!"
The ship lay almost motionless in the water, the backed main
topsail balancing the drawing fore topsail.
"Hoist and swing!"
The two whaleboats were swung over the side.
"Lower away!"
The boats hit the water almost at the same moment. The crew-
men slid down the grip falls.
"Over tubs!"
The tubs of harpoon line were lowered to the waiting arms of
the boat crews.
"Mr. Smith, take the big one. Mr. Bolles, take the little feller.
Ready? Out oars . . . good luck." Captain Anthony waved the
boats off.
Once in the water, none of those in the boats could see their
prey. Smith, in his boat, and Bolles, in his, kept a sharp eye on
the signals the captain ran up on the bark. A hauled-up weather
clew on the fore topgallant sail meant "sail more to windward"; a
hauled-up lee clew, "sail more to leeward"; dropped colors on the
91
The Emerald Whaler
maintruck, "whales have sounded"; colors up, "whales have
breached again."
After an hour's hand-blistering row, the Catalpa signaled that
the whales were still to windward. Doggedly the men pulled at
the heavy oars. Again and again the signals came that the whales
had sounded or had breached. At least the hunters knew that
their quarry had not been alarmed.
In Smith's boat, Bob Ranacker fought for breath. A coughing
spell rocked his slim body. As boatsteerer lie had bow oar, with
harpoon at his side. His job was to dart the whale, hurling the
iron so deep into the whale's fatty hump that it would not tear
loose. He pulled as hard as the rest, though each stroke tore at
his lungs.
Two hours went by. Suddenly the whales breached within
sight of the men, the first time since the chase began that they
had actually sighted their prey. Both whales were swimming
lazily on the surface.
"He's ours, boys!" Sam Smith urged. "Pull, lads. Just a bit more
and we're on top of him. Ready, Bob, ready with that dart!"
Ranacker drew a deep breath. He shipped his heavy oar and
crawled to his place in the bow, resting his knee against the
"clumsy cleat" for balance. He took up the harpoon and ran his
eye along the line that carried from its sharp iron head to the
stern line tub.
"Pull, boys, pull!" Smith urged. The oars bent as the boat flew
through the water. His keen eyes sensed rather than actually saw
a great black mass streaking upward. "Stand by your iron!" he
warned Ranacker.
Suddenly, dead ahead, an enormous, mossy, barnacled mass
twice the length of the boat heaved out of water. There was a
hoarse whistle as the whale spouted. The rank, moist, pent-up
vapor blew damply over the boat and men. Waves sloshed at the
huge blunt head. Vast whitish patches of sea-lice specked the
whale's sides. The broad back was a glistening jet-black. The
great sides rippled. The flukes of the tail, twenty feet in width,
fanned the air.
92
First Take
Trained to their task, none of the boat's crew save Smith and
Ranacker actually watched the whale. They waited as tensely
for their orders from the First Mate as Ranacker did for his.
"
'Vast heavin'! . . . Ready . . . Bob . . . ready . . ."
The boat slid noiselessly up almost to the side of the whale.
Ranacker arched his back.
"Give it to him!" Smith yelled.
Ranacker heaved. The dart sank three feet into the whale's
hump.
The great beast shuddered, as if wondering what to do.
"Peak oars! Watch that line!" Smith warned.
The whale came to monstrous life. A deafening whoosh as the
mammal felt the harpoon was followed by a sobbing intake of air
as the whale drew breath and sounded.
A sudden jerk sent the unprepared into a shin-bruised heap in
the bottom of the boat. For an instant the bow went completely
under water as the whale took off. White water cascaded into
the boat.
"Bail! Bail, you bastards!" Smith shouted.
He scrambled forward, ready to give the whale the death thrust
of the sharp lancethe mate's privilege. Ranacker scrambled aft
to grab the steering oar. A paroxysm of coughing shook his body
and blood trickled from his lips, but he paid it no heed. The line
smoked around the loggerhead bit.
"Get outa th' way o' that line, goddam you lubbers!" the mate
yelled. "Dump some water on it. You want it to catch afire?"
The whaleboat churned at express-train speed with water pour-
ing over the bow and the gunwales and slashing the full length
of it. The crew, drenched to the skin, bailed frantically. The bow
rose slowly. The harpoon line writhed and squirmed from tub to
loggerhead, from loggerhead to chocks. The hemp whistled and
smoked, screamed and rumbled. Still the quivering boat flew
through the water, building up a sudsy wake.
On the Catalpa Captain Anthony watched the boats through
his glass. To his disgust he saw Bolles iron his whale, then watched
him slash the line with a hatchet, probably because the hemp
93
The Emerald Whaler
had snarled. A new iron gone. And God knew how much line.
In Smith's boat, however, the stern tub was empty and the
waist tub half gone before the whale slowed in his first dash. For
a minute the line ceased to run through the chocks. The boat
slacked its forward course.
"Stand by to haul line!" Smith ordered.
Inch by inch, foot by foot, fathom by fathom the line was re-
trieved and coiled in the sternsheets. Half had been recovered
when the whale breached, spouted, sucked in a cavern of air, then
sounded again. Once more the line smoked out, and the boat
scudded along on a "Nantucket sleighride." Then the pace
slacked, and again the crew heaved in the line. This time the
whale lay on the surface, spent with its mortal labor.
"Out oars!" Smith ordered as he stood ready with a lance
griped in his sinewy hands.
"Pull, Three! Pull, Two! Pull all!" The boat crept nearer and
nearer to the black, rippling hulk.
"
'Vast all! . . . Now! Pull all!"
Steady! Steady! 'Vast all!"
He bent almost double and grunted as he drove the razor-sharp
lance until it brought up at the socket a full six feet in the neck
of the whale. For an instant he churned the head of the lance.
"Stern all!" he yelled. "Stern all! Lively!"
The gigantic flukes lifted clear. They hit the surface with a
cannon-shot thump, flinging a fountain of water on the crew. The
line smoked through the chocks. Once more the whaleboat
skimmed the waves.
But the whale was rapidly weakening. When he surfaced now,
as he did at shorter and shorter intervals, his spout was pink with
blood. No longer did he swim with bulldog determination. He
altered his course, swimming aimlessly and with greater and
greater effort. Finally he lay on the surface, motionless again.
The whaleboat hauled close. Smith poised with another lance.
"Put me right on him this time, Bob. Gimme blackskin on this
yere boat!"
Cautiously the crew rowed, then, at Smith's order, peaked oars.
The boat slid along the body of the whale until the thin black
94
First Take
skin that covered the foot-thick blubber scraped off on the white-
painted planking.
Smith tensed, then drove in his second lance, aiming this time
at the spot he knew was closest to the foot-in-diameter jugular.
The lance sank deep and true. But as it dug in, and before Sam
had a chance to churn, the oaken shaft snapped. In a flash Smith,
cursing loudly, thrashed overboard.
The whale churned flukes, lashing right and left in death agony.
The flukes caught Smith and tossed him fifty feet into the air. He
squirmed, spread-eagled, then splashed into the roiled water,
knocked out.
The whale began to turn over on its side. A horrid gush of
clotted blood poured from its spiracle and drenched the boat
crew. The great barnacled carcass turned fin-up and lay awash.
Sharks gathered from nowhere and slashed in like vultures.
The sea was red with blood.
Ranacker put the whaleboat alongside the half-floating mate.
Gushing grabbed the collar of Smith's shirt and yanked him from
the shark-boiling water. He dragged the mate over the whaleboat
gunwales. The officer's body collapsed in the bottom of the boat.
His face was blue. Blood flowed from cuts on his head and neck.
In the distance the Catalpa boomed on with most of her canvas
spread. Captain Anthony, watching the end of Smith's chase
through his glasses, had seen the accident. In an hour the bark
was alongside.
Smith was still breathing faintly when his crew passed his limp
form up to waiting hands aboard ship.
Bolles made the whale fast to the Catalpas side. Cutting-in
could wait.
95
7. Mutiny
They carried Smith across the silent deck into the First Mate's
tiny cabin, and laid him on his bunk.
Captain Anthony and Gingy peeled off the First Mate's sodden
clothes. A giant purple bruise covered most of his ribs. Blood
still oozed from the cuts on his head and neck. He was breathing,
but faintly, his face death-pale, his hands and feet clammy.
This was a hell of a way to start the voyage, George thought as
he prodded the bruised side to see what was broken. Outbound
scarce a week, one skinny whale he didn't look as if he'd boil
more than forty barrels, even though he was a sixty-footer a new
iron and a hundred fathoms of new line lost by that blockhead
Bolles, and now Sam laid up and maybe like to die. If he did live
and was badly hurt, he'd have to be transferred to the first home-
ward-bound ship they met. Then what? How could he trust a
Brava like Farnham to handle the ship alone in Australian wa-
ters? And Bolles his first whale and a mess of it!
Perhaps it would be better to turn back. They weren't too far
from New Bedford less than a week's sailing. Devoy wouldn't
have even started talking to his shore party yet. They could get
another first officer that would measure somewhere up to Sam.
His searching fingers found no splintered bones grating under
the bruised flesh.
"Get some blankets," he told the Malay.
While he waited for Gingy to return, George rubbed Sam's body
with opedildoc. Gingy helped wrap him in the blankets so that
the camphor and castile soap ointment could soak in. The Cap-
tain mixed a mug of rum and hot water and trickled it between
96
Mutiny
Sam's lips. Sam stirred and his throat went through the motions
of swallowing. George gave him more of the hot drink.
Bolles came timidly in, braving the Captain's possible wrath, to
see how the First Mate was faring. He was set to work chafing
Sam's feet with more of the opedildoc.
A half hour ticked by.
Bolles said:
"Captain, want I should get the stage out and start
cuttin' in? It's gettin' late."
Sam opened his eyes and looked about him. He started to get
out of the bunk, but the Captain held him back.
"Wait, Sam, you aren't fit to get on your feet yet. You've been
hurt bad. That whale's flukes gave you a hell of a going over,"
he said.
Sam impatiently pushed the restraining hands away. He got
groggily to his feet, wincing as the muscles on his bruised side
took the strain.
"Where's my dry clothes? Ain't no damn whale livin' or dead
can make a calf outa me! I'll boss the cuttin'-in!"
And he climbed the companionway to the deck.
Captain Anthony shook his head. By God, now there was a man.
On the deck, all hands set to at cutting-in. The cutting stage,
a rectangular framework of wood, some twenty feet long and
fifteen feet wide, was run out from the starboard side of the bark,
and suspended by heavy tackle over the dead whale. Two huge
blocks were hung from the maintop. From them hung heavy
hempen tackle attached to four-foot-long wrought-iron blubber
hooks.
Smith took his place on the outer plank of the stage, with
Farnham and Bolles on the sides. With razor-edged cutting
spades, attached to twenty-foot long wood shafts, they sliced two
holes about four feet apart in the foot-thick blubber. A crewman
clambered down on the slippery carcass and rove a chain through.
One blubber hook was attached to the chain and crewmen put a
strain on the tackle. The mates began cutting through the blubber
to the pinkish flesh beneath. The tough, fatty mass began to peel
off the carcass. Leviathan's body revolved slowly as the blubber
97
The Emerald Whaler
strip came off much like the peel of an orange. Only an occa-
sional slash of the spade was necessary to free it from the flesh
beneath, but the spades were in constant use marking the spiral
vertical cut along the edges of this first "blanket piece/'
When the blanket piece reached the chock of the maintop
block, two holes were made in the blubber at the cutting stage
level and another chain was riven through. Then the second
blubber hook was attached and the first piece was severed and
swung down the main hatch into the hold.
It was dirty, greasy work and dangerous. The sea was bloody.
Sharks fought for the chunks of pink meat exposed by the blub-
ber-peeling and turned like cannibals on each other as lance-
armed crewmen slashed into their ranks.
Always the cry was "Sharp spades! More spades!" from the
three on the cutting stage. A man kept a grindstone sparking as
he put edges on the worn spades and fitted them back on shafts.
There was no time to light the trypots. With the coming of the
dark the glass plunged and the wind rose. By the time the whale
had been stripped and the guts searched in vain for any lump of
the grayish, fabulously valuable ambergris a sick whale might
form in its innards, the Catalpa was creaking and groaning under
the wind. Only the "case" the whale's giant head remained to
be salvaged.
A blubber hook was fastened in the head and the vertebra in
the neck severed. The fifteen tons dead weight of the case canted
the bark until the outer edge of the cutting stage was far under
water and the waves rushed into the scuppers. The head was
swung inboard and securely snugged on deck. The cutting stage
was run in just in time; the full force of the gale hit as night
closed in.
For two days the Catalpa rolled and shuddered in the hand of
a tropical storm, only a rag of her topsails showing. In the steam-
ing hold the blubber slimed, then began to rot. A million cock-
roaches appeared from nowhere. The stench from the blubber
penetrated everything bunks, blankets, clothes, food. Hill had
plenty of company to help him grumble in the forecastle, though
Mutiny
he knew as well as everyone else that the condition was not un-
usual in a whaler. But it was a chance for him to talk big, and he
grabbed it. There had been plenty of time to boil, he orated, only
the Captain was afraid to take a man-sized chance.
By the afternoon of the third day, the gale subsided enough for
the trypots to be fired with wood from the galley. The boiling
commenced. A hole four feet in diameter was cut into the "case."
Inside lay, honeycomb-like, the pearly-white spermaceti, the stuff
fine candles were made of and the most prized of all the oils a
whale could yield.
Into the snowy grease clambered two Malays, naked as the day
they were born. Armed with wooden bailing scoops, they bailed
the spermaceti into buckets, and the buckets were carried to the
trypots. There the spermaceti was hand-shredded and fed into
the pots, where it was brought only to the boiling point before it
was dipped out and run into cooling tanks. So precious was the
stuff that during the bailing of the case all scuppers were stopped
and every bit of slop from the head was scooped up and put into
the pots.
Once the head was drained and dumped overboard to the
ever-present swarms of sharks, the blanket pieces of reeking
blubber were hoisted from the hold, cut into smaller "horse-
pieces" about a foot in width and a little more than that in length,
then scored with a mincing knife, the better for the oil to be tried
out. The minced chunks were tossed into the trypots and the oil
boiled out. The tried-out scraps were used to feed the hot flames
under the great kettles. As the trypots filled, the oil was baled
into cooling tanks, then run into casks in the hold.
Hour after hour the exhausting work went on. Watch relieved
watch. The lurid flames from the trypots illumined yards and
rigging, where the flapping of the ghostly sails added to the weird
twisting of the flames. Black smoke belched from the tryworks
stacks, coating rigging and sails with soot. The decks became
skidways, with oil, bits of blubber, chunks of tried-out fat every-
where.
Below decks, shakes of staves were unbound and casks knocked
The Emerald Whaler
together. Iron hoops were driven on. Lukewarm oil from the
cooling tanks on deck was run into casks, which were then headed
and stowed.
With all the work the whale boiled but thirty barrels of oil and
a scant eight of spermaceti. A barrel for each foot of length was
the usual yield.
For a week pleasant weather held. The Catalpa, now on the
whaleman's famed "Western Grounds," took two whales on
May 13.
Two more weeks went by. On June 13 two more small whales
were killed. Then for another full month the lookouts saw noth-
ing from their masthead perches but the limitless sea. The weather
ranged from poor to foul.
Other ships, spoken one or two a day, had luck and boasted
plenty of oil. The Sarah B. Hale, out only two months, had ninety
barrels, the Wave had forty and only a week out. The Janet Gart-
land boasted four hundred and fifty barrels for her eight weeks.
The Pacific's casks held a whopping 1300 barrels and only three
and a half months out.
It didn't take the gloomy predictions of Hill to remind the crew
that, so far, their lay "wouldn't be wuth a-spittin' on." More and
more of the forecastle hands nodded soberly to his grumblings
that the Catalpa was a hard-luck ship driven to hell-and-gone by
a know-nothing skipper. They turned their wrath on the cook,
for his constant offerings of salt pork or salt beef, served up with
potatoes boiled in sea water. Even the lobscouse that weird com-
bination of hardtack, pork grease, molasses and water "waan't
fitten t' eat." And when would they get dandy funk, that delicacy
of powdered hardtack, molasses and water, baked brown? And
what about some plum duff, though the concoction of flour, yeast
and dried fruit might be as tough as a hunk of raw whalemeat?
In mid-August, Bob Ranacker, in spite of all the Captain could
do for him, died of the ravages of consumption. The crew stood
bareheaded and solemn as Anthony read the words of the burial
service. The body, weighted with some worn-out cutting spades,
slid into the sea.
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Mutiny
Forward, after the service, Hill loudly declared he knew what
had killed Ranacker. " 'Twasn't th' consumption at all," he in-
sisted. "It were th' rotten grub wasted poor Bob away. We got
a guilty man aboard this here bark an' it's the Captain, I sezl"
Heads nodded.
"I sez it's time to send a deputation aft an' make known that we
ain't goin' to starve to death like poor Bob did!" Hill declared.
Hill picked Paine and Gleason, both fellow Yankees, for his
committee. They marched determinedly from the forward deck
into the forbidden midship territory reserved for the boatsteerers
and the Second and Third Mates. The Captain yelled at them as
they stepped down the companionway abaft the tryworks.
"Who gave you permission to step in boatsteerers' country?"
he demanded. "Your place is forrard and you know it. If you got
no jobs to do, I'll mighty quick see you have!"
"We demand to be heard!" Hill spoke up. "We got our rights
to send a deputation aft!"
"I thought we drowned that talk out of you the first day at sea!"
"
'Twas the lousy grub what done Bob Ranacker in! We de-
mand " Hill dropped his eyes before the Captain's glare. Paine
and Gleason trembled a step or so backwards.
"Ranacker was a sick man afore he ever set foot aboard this
bark. You know that as well as I do. Ranacker thought 'twould
do him good to voyage a spell. I thought so too, else I wouldn't
have shipped him. That the sea air did him no good, God rest his
soul, is the Lord's doing and not mine. The grub on this whaler is
as good as that on any ship ever sailed out of New Bedford. Now
get forrard and get to work else I'll have the lot of you flogged
and put in irons on bread and water for the rest of the voyage."
It was August 27 before the Catalpas darts sank home in an-
other whale, a small one.
On September 5 the bark Draco, Captain Peakes, homeward
bound to New Bedford, hove into view. Captain Anthony eagerly
accepted the trumpeted hail of Captain Peakes that they "gam"
awhile. He bundled up the letters he had written to Emmie, to
his father-in-law and to Hathaway in hope he would meet just
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The Emerald Whaler
such a vessel bound to New Bedford. He and Sam Smith took
their boat crews over to the Draco, both officers standing ramrod
stiff as was the custom, holding to no support on the row over the
rolling seas. The first and second officers of the Draco boarded
the Catalpa for their share of the gam. For a half day the visiting
went on. It was like going home for Anthony, for he had served
on the Draco, under Captain Peakes, for almost ten years.
Captain Peakes suggested that since tunny abounded in the
waters near the Azores, it might be a good idea to turn out the
Catalpa s crew to fish for them, then swap the fresh fish for pota-
toes and other provisions.
But before the rugged outlines of the islands were raised by
the lookout, the bark had another chance at whales. Almost in-
credibly, Third Mate Bolles lost two more. The last one took away
a whole tub of good line. For ten minutes Bolles squirmed under
a torrent of tongue-lashing from the Captain that kindled a fierce
resentment in his heart.
In bad temper, the crew fished for tunny, using white rags as
lures, and boated over 2,500 pounds in a few hours. Captain
Anthony loaded his catch into one of the whaleboats and went
ashore at Santa Cruz, on the island of Flores, to try to barter.
His dicker with some natives on the town dock had just begun
when a customs authority clapped him on the shoulder and an-
nounced he was under arrest. "For smuggling," he was informed.
The fish, the customs man insisted, were products of American
fisheries and as such were being smuggled into the island. The
fish must be returned or full duty paid.
Captain Anthony turned to the native with whom he had been
dealing. "Dump the damn things in the ocean," he said.
Mollified, the customs man announced that the American no
longer was under arrest. The Captain returned to the Catalpa
after paying good American dollars for the potatoes he had hoped
to gain by barter. The whole episode was food for another heated
session in the forecastle.
"By the old harry, I got enough of this lugger," Hill announced
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Mutiny
to the edgy men. "Catchin' tunny 'stead of whales! I'm goin' to
jump ship soon's we git to Fayal. Who's with me?"
Cocking, Paine, Gleason, Gushing, Ceil, Joe Rosmond, Zempa
Malay and John Rosso joined Hill. It didn't take much 'persuad-
ing on the part of Hill to get Third Officer Bolles in on the plot.
The Catalpa fought for every foot of the hundred and forty
miles from Santa Cruz, on Flores, to Horta, on Fayal. Wild gales
and torrential rains swept the seas. The final stretch in the
treacherous Fayal channel between the islands of Fayal and Pico
was a nightmare of navigation before the bark could dock at Horta.
No sooner had she dropped her lines over the dolphins than
the ten mutineers leaped over the rails and raced for hideaways
on shore.
Local police did their best or said they did but six men went
uncaptured. Hill, Paine, Coeking and Bolles were caught in a
waterfront dive, before they had had a chance to absorb much
liquor and certainly without sight of a woman. Handcuffed, they
were brought back to face the captain.
Bolles was stripped of his officer's rank and ordered to the
forecastle.
"You come to your senses, and maybe I'll be easy on you,"
Captain Anthony said. With a six-man shortage in the crew, he
had to swallow some of his wrath and put Hill, Coeking and Paine
to work unloading the oil casks.
The Catalpa had taken only 210 barrels, worth at 31 l/i gallons
to the barrel and 50 cents the gallon, around $3,300.
Seven new men were signed for the crew: Antoine Sylvester,
Frank Perry, Manuel Antoine, Louis Tonquin, Antoine Maui,
George Duguin and Joe Dutton. The Captain moved the Catalpa
out in the harbor to prevent any more escapes.
New sails were ordered to replace those worn to rags in the
wild Atlantic gales from which the bark seemed never to escape.
A quantity of lumber was shipped to repair boats, the men and
the officers were told, but in reality to build accommodations for
the Fenians. The Captain drew on his agent for $3,000.
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The Emerald Whaler
There was an uneasy peace on the bark as work was pushed to
get her ready for sea again, but Hill wasn't one to give up. He
waited a full week, until things had quieted down. Then he and
Cocking made buridles of their shore clothes and their few per-
sonal belongings, wrapped them in bits of oilskin, hid the bundles
under the spare whaleboat atop the tryworks shelter, and waited
for the right time to slip off ship.
Sunday night, October 25, was heavily clouded. The sea was
fairly calm. In the town the yellow lights winked out, one by one.
Shortly before midnight the two slipped out of the forecastle,
picked up their bundles and crept to the Catalpas bow. The lone
watch on deck slumbered peacefully.
Silently Hill made a rope fast to the foremast shroud, and dan-
gled the end in the water. He and Coeking strapped their bun-
dles on their shoulders, slipped almost noiselessly into the water,
and swam strongly toward the dark distant shore. But the bun-
dles of clothing became waterlogged despite the oilskin covering.
The tide turned against them.
Coeking panicked. "I cain't make it, Cy! I'm a goner. I'm
a-drownin'!" He let out a lusty "Help! Help!"
The Catalpas watch on deck woke up. "AM hands!" he bel-
lowed. "Man overboard!"
The cry brought the Captain, Smith, Farnham and the crew
tumbling out of their bunks.
Coeking was still yelling for help between gulps of sea water,
but Hill kept swimming toward land.
"Mr. Smith, lower the waist boat and pick up those men!" Cap-
tain Anthony ordered.
Coeking was pathetically glad to clamber weakly aboard the
whaleboat. Hill fought savagely until a clobber over the head
with an oar knocked him half senseless and he was hauled aboard
and dumped in a heap on the bottom.
Only an hour after their break the two were back on the
Catalpa and Smith stood them before the Captain.
"I'll be goddamned if I'll have any more trouble from you two,"
104
Mutiny
Anthony shouted. "Mr. Smith, tie these mutinous sea-lice up un-
til they learn who's boss on this ship/'
The two men were bound by wrists and by ankles, made to
squat on the floor, and a wooden pole was passed back of their
knees and through the wrist bonds.
After three hours, Cocking, arms and legs and body aching,
said he'd had plenty. His hands and feet were uncast from their
spunyard bindings, and he went forward to work, rubbing his
cramped muscles.
Hill still was in a snarling rage. "You ain't got guts enough to
beat me down," he raged at the Captain. "You kin torment me
till you tire out, you ain't makin' no calf outa Cyrus Hill. And you
ain't makin' me work no more on this stinkin' starvation ship."
Two more hours went by. Hill's arms were freed so that he
could wolf down breakfast. Then he was tied up again. All day
he crouched, doubled up, the wood pole under his knees chafing
the skin. At sundown he was still raging. He and Coeking were
dumped in the steerage and put under guard.
The next morning, Coeking said he was sorry and was cast loose
and sent forward. Hill snarled a bitter "Go to hell!" when the
First Mate asked him if he was willing to apologize to the Cap-
tain. But two hours later he sang a different tune. He begged for
the Captain. "You win," Hill said, with an attempt at a grin. "I'm
sorry I sassed hell outa you. And I'm sorry I jumped ship."
His bonds were released. One of the crew rubbed his back and
arms and legs with opedildoc. The balm soothed his smarting
muscles, but didn't salve the hate in his heart, nor did it allay the
kidney block that developed from his salt water immersion and
his long stay in bonds. Before sundown he developed a high fever
and lay moaning in his bunk.
Captain Anthony sent a whaleboat ashore to fetch a doctor.
For two days it was nip and tuck whether Hill would survive.
But survive he did, and the ship went back to normal routine again.
Revictualing was rushed. Put aboard were more potatoes, fresh
vegetables, oranges, lemons, bananas, chickens and pigs. Some
105
The Emerald Whaler
of the water casks were filled, though the Captain counted on
taking most of his fresh water supply on board in the Canary
Islands where the water was known to be of better quality.
November 6, the Catalpa took her anchors and, clearing for
"the River La Platte," stood for Teneriffe in the Canary Islands off
the African coast last port of call before the long voyage to West
Australia, last opportunity for Sam to quit ship if he decided
against sharing in the plot to free the Fenians.
All the long hours of the voyage from New Bedford, George
had debated when would be the best time to tell Sam of the plan.
Many an hour he had stood by the weather rail, weighing the
words he might use when it came time to put the whole case
before the man he most needed to see it through. Above all, he
decided, it would not do to try to argue Sam into making his
decision. It would be better to make a simple presentation of
the facts, then let Sam make up his own mind. He couldn't blame
Sam if he decided to leave ship at Teneriffe and go home. The
rescue would be dirty work, dangerous work and maybe bloody
work. There was no reason for a man like Sam to risk his hide in
some other man's wild scheme. Now was the time for Sam to be
told. He would have to weigh the risks while there was still a
chance for him to leave.
A few hours out of Fayal, he called Sam to his cabin. The
Catalpa rolled along under light working sails in a gentle south-
easterly.
Sam sat uneasily on the corner of a bench. He was not used to
being invited into the Captain's private quarters, even though
George Anthony was his friend as well as his superior. All through
the voyage he had tried his best not to presume on their long
friendship. He had kept to his proper post on the lee rail and
what conversation he had had with the skipper was strictly ship's
business.
The Captain was all business at first. "Can we put Bolles back
in his mate's berth, you think?" he asked.
"Reckon we could," Sam clipped.
106
Mutiny
"Think he's learned his lesson?"
"Reckon he has."
"Any trouble with the crew? Any more talk of jumping ship?
Any one of the new men side with Hill?"
"Ain't heard nothing much. They'll all forgit it, come some
whales, decent-like whales. That's been the big gripe, us not
gettin' oil in our hold. Get us some big ones, the hands will come
around."
There was a brief silence. Then Anthony spoke. "But suppose
we don't go whaling again?" he asked.
Sam gave an involuntary start. "Not hunt more whales?"
"You thought we'd keep right on chasing sparm, eh, Sam?"
Sam looked at Captain Anthony as if the skipper had gone daft.
"Well, ain't that what we set out for to do?" he managed.
"We could go places in a whaler, Sam." The Captain's voice
was low. "Maybe Australia." George looked closely at his friend.
If there had been any leak on the Catalpas mission, Sam's face
would show it now, but his expression was one of bewilderment.
"Australia? What the hell . . ."
"Fix yourself comfortable, Sam. I've got a yarn to spin . . ."
For a half hour he told Sam the whole story. The First Mate's
eyes bugged as he listened. Finally the Captain finished.
"I'm going to free those men, Sam. The bark was bought for
that job and fitted out for that job. You got a right to get mad as
hell at me for making a fool out of you. And you got a right to
quit this ship at Teneriffe. You can easily get a berth there on a
ship homeward bound. You'll get your fair lay of what oil we've
taken, just as if you'd stayed with the ship. I don't want to argue
your mind up for you.
"But I hope you'll stick by me, Sam, and go with me. I picked
you because I figured you would. I need you as a friend and as
the most trustworthy first officer a captain ever had/'
Sam sat silent, his brow furrowed. Questions crowded into his
mind what would his job be in the rescue, what chance would
there be of ever getting out of an English prison if they were
107
The Emerald Whaler
caught, what would happen if George were arrested and he was
left with the ship? His face showed the strain. Then his mind
eased. If George Anthony said it was the job to do, then George
Anthony was right. His face lit up. He stuck out his calloused
hand and grabbed Anthony's.
"George, I'm with you. I'll stick by you in this here ship if she
goes straight down to hell and burns off her jibboom!"
108
8 . The Shore Agents
The Catalpa sailed with a debt clinging like barnacles to her broad
bottom. That debt was John Devoy's first concern when he
walked shoreward after the bark that carried his heart's hopes had
faded into the spring mist.
Devoy soon learned money was not, indeed, to be found on
trees. It was in the grimy overall pockets of the hod carrier. It
came from the greasy jeans of the engine hostler in the round-
house. It came from the fireman in the boiler room, from the
truck driver, the bricklayer, the track walker, the coachman, the
gardener. It came from the very poorthe "shanty" Irish and it
came from those who were pulling themselves up by their own
bootstraps and becoming known as "lace curtain" Irish.
The money came in nickels and in dimes, in greenbacks and in
gold pieces. But it did come in, despite the fact that all the con-
tributors could be told was that "something" was afoot to rescue
the last Fenian political prisoners of the Rising of 1865. By late
June the note to Richardson had been paid in full, the repair bills
and the outfitting bills had been canceled and the gold was
gathering for the expenses of the shore party.
When he opened his mail in the New York Herald office the
morning after Independence Day, John Devoy read one letter
with great interest. That night he hurried to John Breslin's mod-
est flat a few steps off South Street on the lower East Side water-
front.
"I had a letter from John Talbot today," Devoy told him.
"Ah-ha!" Breslin pulled nervously at his long beard, and leaned
forward in his chair. "Good news?"
"Good news indeed. They have over two thousand dollars col-
109
The Emerald Whaler
lected in California. More important, they have chosen the man
to go with you to Australia. They say they're ready any time we
give the word."
"Who is he? Do I know him?"
"The name Talbot gives is Tom Desmond."
Breslin shook his head. "I don't recall anyone by that name, not
that there aren't plenty of Desmonds in the old country. But I
recollect no Tom."
"Nor I. But it doesn't matter, so long as Talbot vouches for him,
as he does, without reservation. I'm sure Talbot has made a good
choice. How soon can you start?"
Breslin's hearty laugh boomed in the room. "By the saints,
John, am I never going to be able to stick to one job long in this
country?" He scratched his head and figured for a moment. "The
main thing is not to get anybody thinking the wrong things. Say
I quit work the end of this week. Then I'll wander around the
city a bit, and say I'm looking for a better job. Then I'll give out
like I got a big chance on a railroad way out west and I got to
hurry to Chicago to grab it. That ought to fool nosey ones."
"About two weeks?"
"Right."
"Then I'll write Talbot tonight and tell him he'll be seeing you
soon so that he can tell Desmond. Now, Johnny, for the sake of
all of us, and for the sake of our men, watch what you say!"
Breslin's hearty laugh boomed out again. "Didn't I hold my
tongue when it came time to free Stephens in Dublin? There
were some that couldn't stop their own cackling, you mind. Don't
fear, no one will ever learn anything from Johnny Breslin!"
The night of July 18, 1875, Devoy visited Breslin again. De-
parture was set for the next morning. Breslin's belongings were
packed in a single straw-matting suitcase and a bulging carpetbag.
"All ready, Johnny?" Devoy asked.
"All ready. I light out for my new job in the West tomorrow
morning at ten. I've dreamed up a grand job for myself. Like as
not I'll wind up president of the whole shebeen before I'm many
years older." He grinned. "Now what more ought I know?"
110
The Shore Agents
Devoy pulled an envelope out of his waistcoat pocket. "This
is a copy of the code I gave to Captain Anthony on the Catalpa"
he explained. "There are secret messages here to take care of any
situation. Guard it well, Johnny."
"I will!" Breslin tucked the envelope in his inner coat pocket.
"How long will it take you to get to the West Coast?"
"The ticket agent said if I make good connections in Chicago,
and the train from there is on time, and we don't run into Indians
or one of those big buffalo herds, about a week or ten days."
"Good. Now when you reach the Coast, get to Sacramento as
quickly as you can. Go right to Talbot's house. Hell be waiting
for you, for he must have my letter by now. He will get Desmond
there to meet you."
"Does Desmond know I'm the leader of this expedition?"
"I've written Talbot that you are in sole charge of the land
party and that your orders are to be obeyed without question by
Desmond or anyone else, and that goes in this country and in
Australia."
"You're sure Desmond understands that? I can't have any divi-
sion of command."
"I told Talbot those are my orders. Desmond will obey."
"What about money? I don't have too much of my own."
"This isn't any job for you to spend your own money on, Johnny.
The Clan will foot all the bills. If you ever have to use any of
your own cash, keep account of it and the Clan will repay you."
Devoy unbuttoned his coat and shirt and unfastened a money
belt, which he handed to Breslin. "In this belt you'll find fifteen
hundred in gold. And here" he handed him another manila
envelope "is five hundred in greenbacks. Buy your ticket with
the greenbacks and keep the gold on you at all times. When you
get to Sacramento, Talbot will have more money for you and
Desmond, and there'll be more in Australia. Any more questions?"
"What is Captain Anthony supposed to do when he gets there?
He won't know me and I don't know him. How is he going to get
in touch with me?"
"I've instructed the captain to make for Bunbury, which is
111
The Emerald Whaler
south of Fremantle, and register his ship with the proper port
authorities there. All ship arrivals are posted on the telegraph
bulletin board in Fremantle, O'Reilly says. All you'll have to do
is watch out for the posting of the Catalpa. Then, and only then,
will the code come into use. You'll find all the instructions written
out for you."
"When do you want Desmond and me to leave for Australia?"
"That's up to you and the steamer schedules. You ought to
get there in time for their summer, say in October or November.
That should give you good weather to get acquainted with the
town, spy out the prison, find a good beach for the captain to use
to take off our men. Desmond thinks you should stay at the
Emerald Isle Hotel in Fremantle. The proprietor is Pat Maloney,
a Fenian. But don't tell Maloney anything, Johnny. And don't
even breathe your right name. If anyone hears 'John Breslin' . . ."
"I never forget the English have a price on my head," Breslin
said. "And I know ten years isn't long in the memory of a venge-
ful Englishman especially when it comes to remembering an
Irishman."
"I know you will be careful, Johnny. This plan has to work.
We'll never get another chance like it. If anyone even so much
as thinks he recognizes you . . ."
"There's not much chance of that. I never had this before."
Breslin tugged at his full beard. "When I was in Dublin I had a
mustache, but now look at me, hiding behind this bush. Nobody
will recognize the John Breslin of the Stephens jail delivery as ...
have you a name for me now?"
"I told Captain Anthony you would take the name of 'Collins,'
that the man with you would be called 'Johnson/ Don't ever call
yourselves by any other names."
"Collins . . . Johnson. Right."
"One thing more, the one man in Australia you can trust that
is, outside the walls of the prison-is Father Patrick McCabe. He
helped O'Reilly. He has forwarded all the messages we have
had from the men. He should be the key to unlock the door."
112
The Shore Agents
"He is the very first man I'll contact when I get to Fremantle!"
Breslin promised.
Devoy put his arm around Breslin's shoulder. 'I'm not going
to run the risk of being seen with you when you leave tomorrow.
So I'll say good-by to you now and wish you Godspeed. May the
Holy Virgin guide you and protect you and bring you back
safely with our men."
He gave Breslin a final pat on the back and started back for his
own lodgings.
At ten o'clock the morning of July 19, Breslin took ferry to
Jersey City to board his train for the Far West. He made a good
connection in Chicago and, despite all the dire warnings about
unending buffalo herds that might block a train for hours, even
a day, and about marauding Indians who would tear up rails, he
arrived in San Francisco on July 26.
Next morning he secured accommodations on a river steamer
for Sacramento and arrived there three days later.
Breslin found Talbot well situated in a new house on a quiet
side street. A big man, and Irish to the core, he gave Breslin a
grand welcome and insisted that while he was in Sacramento he
must be his guest.
Talbot and Breslin walked around the town after the evening
meal. Yes, he had had Devoy's letters. Where was Desmond?
Only one man could put Breslin in touch with Tom. That was
John Kenealy in Los Angeles. Desmond was on the go a lot. So
a telegram should be dispatched to Kenealy. "Just wire Kenealy
'The fishing is good' and sign the name," Talbot said.
A whole week went by before two bearded strangers stepped
down the gangplank of the river steamer from San Francisco and
asked directions to the home of John Talbot. Distrusting the tele-
graph, Kenealy had come to Sacramento himself and had brought
with him the man who was to be Breslin's companion in the shore
party, Thomas Desmond.
Desmond was a tall, rawboned, bronzed man in his mid-thirties.
113
The Emerald Whaler
His quick blue eyes peered determinedly from beneath dark,
beetling brows and a heavy shock of almost black hair.
"So you like fishing, Mr. Breslin," he boomed, as he pumped
Breslin's hand. "We'll have a fine time trudging hither and yon
looking for likely spots and maybe talking a bit on the side."
"Now talking about fishing is something I like almost as much
as the catching of the fish." Breslin winked. He took an instant
liking to this brawny Irishman.
Talbot provided rods and lines and creels, and for two weeks
Breslin and Desmond tramped the woods and haunted the streams
and visited backwoods camps and villages. Each night they came
back with weighted creels.
But their catch was strange indeed. They netted not the blue
backs of quivering trout, but the blue steel of a half dozen six-
shooters; not the silver of a salmon's side but the nickel plate of
two single-shot pistols. Their creels came back to Sacramento
weighted with such things as ammunition, a half dozen caps, a
half dozen pairs of pants. And, had anyone cared to look closely,
he might have seen that on some of the nights when they returned
to the Talbot home they seemed dressed uncomfortably for Au-
gust, for under their fishing togs on at least three occasions each
wore extra coats.
Clothes and arms for the Fenians thus secretly provided, Talbot
urged they start for Australia at once. They left for Los Angeles
on August 26. Kenealy put them up at his home where he had
more money for them $1,000 collected in small gifts and in large,
from Irishmen who could ill afford to give more than a dime as
well as from those who could afford an eagle or a double eagle
in California gold. What greenbacks came in, Breslin converted
them to gold and silver. Money belts weighed heavily around
their middles.
"There will be more money for you when you get to Australia,"
Kenealy said. "We'll have an agent there who'll get in touch with
you at the Emerald Isle Hotel. I'll see he knows who Collins and
Johnson are. And it's time you started calling yourselves by those
names to get used to them before you sail."
114
The Shore Agents
Desmond bowed low to Breslin. With a chuckle he said: "Mr.
Collins, sir, thankee for your favors to a poor workman. Please to
remember my name is Tom Johnson. I'll be most happy to serve
you any time. May I know your first name, sir?"
Breslin shook his hand solemnly. "Mr. Johnson, I am happy to
have made your acquaintance. The first name is John, sir, John
Collins. Good-by now, Mr. Johnson. May we meet again on some
most propitious occasion."
"My feelings entirely, Mr. Collins. And a good-by to you."
"But half a moment, Mr. Johnson. May I ask what your profes-
sion may be?" Breslin inquired most politely.
Desmond pondered for a moment. "In the States, my dear Mr.
Collins, I have plied my trade as an honest carriage-maker," he
said. "Why am I not, well, let us say, a slightly dishonest carriage-
maker in Australia?"
"Capital!" Breslin nodded.
"And now, Mr. Collins, I do not think I have had the pleasure
of knowing how you make a living."
"Why, did you not know, Mr. Johnson? I am a rich Yankee
trader. I have pockets stuffed with gold and I'm seeking a chance
to build a fortune in that grand land of opportunity, the fairest
jewel in Her Gracious Majesty's Crown, the land of 'down under'
Australia." Breslin gave a courtier's bow. "And now, a true and
fond farewell to one Thomas Desmond. God speed his journey and
his voyage home."
Next morning they left for San Francisco and there engaged
separate passages on the first steamer due to depart, the fast mail
ship Cyphranes. As the wealthy Yankee trader, Breslin (as Col-
lins) engaged the best of the first-class accommodations. Des-
mond ( as the humble Johnson ) grudgingly paid out his gold for
second-class quarters and trudged aboard carrying his old-fash-
ioned trunk on his shoulder. They saw little of each other on the
voyage, as befitted passengers traveling in different worlds. At
Sydney, they changed ship for Melbourne, then trans-shipped
again to Albany, on King George Sound, and, finally, took the
government steamer Georgette to Fremantle.
115
The Emerald Whaler
As the sun rose on the morning of November 16, Breslin and
Desmond, now casual shipboard acquaintances, stood side by side
and saw for the first time the "Golden Gate" of West Australia,
Fremantle.
Desmond needed no words to tell him that the great glistening-
white limestone pile that dominated the town was the prison.
Breslin was interested in the activity going on at the dock, where,
working at huge piles of lumber, were the inmates of that prison-
all bearded and bronzed, all garbed alike, all healthy and strong,
all seemingly young.
For all Breslin and Desmond knew, each and every one of the
six men they had come so far to rescue might be working right
before their eyes. Wilson, Darragh, Hogan, Harrington, Hassett,
Cranstonthey were names, nothing else, as far as their rescuers
were concerned, for neither Breslin nor Desmond had ever laid
eyes on any one of them. There were advantages in the fact that
the rescuers could not know the prisoners, nor the prisoners the
rescuers. A momentary flash of recognition, one startled word,
one involuntary gesture and all would be lost.
Some of the convicts, under the direction of languid guards,
grabbed hawsers and made the ship fast.
Desmond and Breslin walked down the gangplank ashore at
last in Australia. Desmond, in keeping with his humble station,
trudged toward the center of the town, trunk on shoulder, asking
directions to the stage for Perth, where Breslin had decided he
should wait with the ammunition until the time for the rescue
arrived.
Breslin, the wealthy Yankee, loudly called for a carriage, had
his baggage put aboard, then, importantly, gave orders: "To the
Emerald Isle Hotel, my man, and be smart about it!"
116
9 . A Yankee Trader Arrives in Australia
Desmond's stagecoach journey to Perth took him ten dusty miles.
Breslin's comfortable carriage took him but a few blocks over
equally dusty but well-graveled town streets.
His driver pulled up with a flourish of whip before the door of
a two-story frame structure across which was emblazoned in
bright gold lettering: "Emerald Isle Hotel."
"I should like to engage your best roomyour very best room,
mind you. One that overlooks the busy street of this metropolis,"
Breslin said to Pat Maloney, the proprietor.
Breslin gave a critical look around the room to which he was
shown. "If it is your best, I dare say it will do," he said. "Now I
shall require fresh towels those look a bit dustyand some hot
water . . ."
He grinned happily after the towels and the water had been
delivered and he had turned the door key. Then he took two
letters from his portmanteau and read them over for the first time
since he had penned them back in New York.
New York, N. Y.
July 10, 1875
Mr. J. Collins, Esq.
Plains-on-Hudson, N. Y.
My dear Mr. Collins:
Please be advised that our syndicate directs me to inform you
that, as of this date, one hundred thousand dollars has been de-
posited to your credit in the Hollanders Bank. You are to draw
upon this sum as per our previous agreement. The other members
of the syndicate are agreed that they will allow you to be sole
117
The Emerald Whaler
judge whether to invest the funds in Australian gold shares, tim-
ber, farm or grazing land.
My most humble respects.
Your obedient servant,
C. Coddington Yardley
That sounded almost good as gold. But the second letter there
was the clincher, he thought admiringly.
New York, N. Y.
July 12, 1875
Mr. J. Collins, Esq.
Plains-on-Hudson, N. Y.
Esteemed Sir,
Please be advised that the sum of one hundred thousand dollars
has been placed to your credit in this bank. You may draw on it
through our home office or by draft on any one of our numerous
agents.
Most respectfully yours,
J. Carl. Hartman,
President,
Hollanders Bank of New York
Fondly Breslin gazed at his handiwork. That line of credit
looked good enough to spend right now!
He left the letters on the small writing table, washed and went
down to the lobby. Unless he misjudged human nature, the whole
town of Fremantle would know, within twenty-four hours, that
a wealthy Yankee trader was seeking opportunities for investment
in Australia, in timber or mines or land.
He had lunch in the hotel dining room, left a silver dollar for
the waitress, then took an exploratory stroll around the town. He
walked along Market Street, turned on High Street, again turned
on William, crossed Henderson, idled along the front wall of the
prison, then took Perry Street to the Catholic church and back on
Adelaide Street to High. The town seemed prosperous, with well-
stocked shops and some fairly imposing buildings.
118
A Yankee Trader Arrives in Australia
He wandered down to the quay. A full-rigged ship, the Horatio
of Liverpool, was being loaded with timber by a sweating gang
of convicts. Breslin learned that no conversation was permitted
with convicts. The slightest move on the part of a townsman even
to pass the time of day with one of the brawny, bronzed men in
prison garb brought an instant, sharp warning from one of the
guards. He made mental note of that.
After an hour or more of watching the waterfront activities he
wandered back to the hotel and up to his room. The letters were
still atop the desk but their position had been changed. Someone
a chambermaid, perhaps had read them. At supper time he could
sense that they had done their job. The service had a touch of
real deference. The waitress brought a few extra delicacies from
the kitchen. The food was tasty and well cooked. He left a gen-
erous tip again and was bowed out by the help. The new guest,
this polished man with the fine clothes, the imposing beard, the
cultured voice, the well-filled purse, was a man of great im-
portance indeed.
He repaired to the taproom for an after-dinner cigar and a
brandy. A few rounds of drinks as a treat by the "Yankee" did
no harm enhancing his status. So far, so good, he thought as he
sipped his brandy. Now, the next step: a visit to Father Patrick
McCabe.
It would, of course, be perfectly simple to call at the church
rectory immediately. But that was the dangerous path. His
meeting with the priest must be casual, it must have some sort of
open and aboveboard reason, yet their conversation must be in
secrecy. He'd have to put some real thought into the problem.
It was a hot, dusty walk the following Sunday from the hotel to
the church. It was cool inside, however, cool and peaceful. The
church, which might have held three hundred, was half-filled.
Breslin walked to a forward pew and waited with interest his first
glimpse of Father McCabe.
The congregation for this second and final Mass of the day was
decently but not fashionably dressed. To Breslin they seemed
honest villagers, small tradesmen, artisans, some probably from
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The Emerald Whaler
farms and hamlets nearby. Far in the rear sat a few aborigines-
black fellows, as he had learned they were called. On the left side
near the front, separated from the rest of the congregation, sat a
small group of convicts in scrubbed prison garb, under the eyes
of two guards.
The people hushed as the priest entered the sanctuary. Breslin
studied him closely. He was in his mid-fifties, short, with a ten-
dency to stoutness in his middle, and ruddy-cheeked from wind
and sun. His features were kindly, his gray eyes had the crow's-
feet of many smiles about them.
As he turned to the congregation, Father McCabe's eyes caught
the face of a stranger. Gossip reached the priest as well as the
villager. This full-bearded man with the fashionable clothes, the
erect bearing, the intense gaze must be the "rich trader" just ar-
rived from America.
His eyes caught, too, familiar faces in the convict group. Martin
Hogan was one. Young Cranston was there too. At the earlier
Mass others of the six he wanted so to help had taken Communion.
His thoughts raced back to a day about two weeks past, when
Hogan had come to the rectory and stood, hat in hand, at the
door, proffering a china dish, covered with a white napkin. "The
Governor's compliments, Father," he said. "Here's a comb of
fresh honey His Excellency says must do to pay in part for those
grand eggs you sent him."
As the priest reached for the plate, Hogan had stepped close,
looked furtively around, then, out of the corner of his mouth
whispered: "Is there any word yet, Father?"
Sadly, Father McCabe had had to shake his head. "Patience,
my son," he had said. "Patience. It is a long way to America.
The mails travel slow."
"Patience, you say, Father!" Hogan frowned. "Patience! Have
we not waited eight mean long years?" Hogan's voice grew even
more bitter. "Indeed, eight centuries!"
"Yet still patience, my son. Eight years are but a tick in God's
clock, a moment in the Eternity of man."
But Hogan replied: "Easy for you to say that, Father, you who
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A Yankee Trader Arrives in Australia
are free to move and to breathe and to live. But eight years away
from all you love that is Eternity. There must be word soon.
There must be a letter from America. You'll keep good watch,
Father, won't you?"
What could he do but say as cheerfully as possible: "Of course
I'll watch for the letter. Go into the church and pray to our
Blessed Mother. She will hear your prayers/'
The minutes with Hogan flashed through Father McCabe's
memory in a few seconds. Despite his years of serving before his
altar, the priest found himself standing motionless the while,
looking out into the dim recesses of the church and especially at
Hogan, kneeling there with the rest of the convicts. He turned
abruptly to the altar and the Mass.
He blessed himself. Then:
"]udge me, O God, and distinguish
my cause from the nation that is not holy . . ."
The Mass progressed to its impressive close. Breslin felt a
spiritual uplift. This simple bush pastor, in his quiet little church,
touched him more than would a cardinal in his cathedral.
The following Sunday Breslin again took his seat far forward
in the church and waited for Father McCabe to reach the point
in the Mass, before the Confiteor, when he would make his simple
parish announcements.
The priest had a bit of note paper in his hands as he raised his
eyes to the congregation. Smiling slightly, he said: "I have here a
communication that has touched me deeply. It is from one who
has been a stranger in our congregation but who, from now on,
must be reckoned as one to whom all our hearts will go out." His
smile broadened and his eyes twinkled. "Mine especially. I re-
fer, of course, to Mr. John Collins, the gentleman now seated
before me."
He bowed in the direction of Breslin, who rose slightly and
bowed in return. The congregation craned their necks to look.
A buzz of whispers swept the church.
"Mr. Collins, as we all know, is from America and he is here
on business.
"Now, I did not realize" again the smile flitted over the
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The Emerald Whaler
priest's ruddy face "that my vestments were so threadbare it was
noticeable to you people out there. I did know, of course, that
our altar cloths were sadly worn. Now I am happy to say these
particulars were quickly noted by the keen eyes of our visitor from
the States, and he has most generously informed me that he wishes
to present a set of new vestments and new altar cloths to the
church. He has asked to see me in the sacristy after Mass this
morning. Since I received the message just this very morning, I
have had no opportunity to reply to him. But" and he bowed
again to Breslin "if Mr. Collins will tarry awhile, I shall be most
happy indeed to talk to him."
Breslin smiled pleasantly, but inwardly his spirits surged. None
in the congregation or the town would suspect that today's con-
versation or any future ones with Father McCabe were anything
but on matters connected with the parish.
It was some time before the last of the congregation had left
off shaking Breslin's hand and departed. Finally he made his way
to the sacristy door and knocked. Father McCabe took him by
the hand and led him in.
"I don't know quite how to thank you, Mr. Collins," he said as
he offered his visitor a chair.
"Thanks are not needed, Father. I am only too happy to do my
little bit toward helping the church. But, first, Father, I have a
confession to make."
The priest's eyes narrowed. "There is a time and a place for
confession, my son."
"That I well know, but this confession is for your ears alone
your ears as a man, not as a man of God. I must tell you that my
name is not Collins, Father."
"There are many in this land who use names other than their
own, my son. That is no particular sin hereabouts."
"But I must reveal my real name and why I am here. First, let
me tell you that we have a mutual friend, though he is a man you
never saw. His name is John Devoy."
"John Devoy!" Father McCabe's eyes opened wide. "You know
John Devoy of New York City?"
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A Yankee Trader Arrives in Australia
"Yes, and of Dublin too, Father."
Father McCabe excitedly got to his feet. "You are the one
"
The priest halted his sentence in mid-air.
"I am, Father. I am John Breslin."
For a moment the priest looked puzzled. "Breslin? Breslin?"
he repeated.
"Would it help if I reminded you of James Stephens?"
Father McCabe took both of Breslin's hands in his.
"John
Breslin, the man who freed James Stephens! I might have known
Devoy would send the best here. I can't tell you how happy I am
that you are here, Mr. Breslin. Our poor men have waited so long
and so patiently. They've always believed their friends in America
would help them."
"I hope I can help them, Father. But there is a tremendous
amount of work to be done right here in Fremantle. I'm praying
that you will help me."
"Of course I am ready to help you. We and I speak for the
six you have conic afterknow nothing of what is planned. In
fact we have waited and waited for some assurance that there is
some sort of plan afoot."
Breslin outlined all that had transpired in the States and the
fact that the Catalpa probably was at this very moment heading
south from the Azores.
Father McCabe nodded approval as each step was unfolded.
"Excellent! Excellent!" lie said when Breslin had finished. "And
now, what are you going to do before the ship arrives?"
"First I want to get in touch with one of the men as soon as
possible. From what John Devoy has told me, Wilson should be
the one. He is supposed to be a good organizer and a good
planner. I would like to get a message to him, and then I want to
meet him in secret somewhere, if that is possible and safe. I ex-
pect that right now it would be more prudent all around if we
exchange messages through a trusted third party meaning you,
Father, if you will."
Father McCabe rubbed his chin reflectively. "I would be happy
to help you in getting wrord to the men. But I don't have the daily
contacts you need. The man we want to call in is Will Foley. He
The Emerald Whaler
was imprisoned here for his share in the Rising, but amnestied in
71 along with most of the other political prisoners except, of
course, our six. He is not a well man, his heart is ailing. But what
his heart may lack in physical strength, it more than makes up in
the way it beats for Ireland. He lives in Fremantle, does odd jobs,
runs errands. All the prison officers and guards know him. Not
one of them would suspect harmless Will Foley would be part of
a plot. Will Foley is the man."
"How do I get in touch with this Foley?"
"Leave that to me. I start on my weekly bush journey Tuesday
morning. Come to the rectory tomorrow night. I'll have Foley
there."
Will Foley, a wisp of an Irishman scarcely five feet tall, leaped
to his feet, bowing and scraping furiously, when the Yankee
trader entered the rectory parlor.
Breslin shook hands with the tiny man. "I've heard much about
you, Mr. Foley," he said. "I'd like to call you Will. Is that all
right?"
Foley turned to the priest, overwhelmed. "Do you hear that
now, Father? Mr. Collins would be friends with a poor soul like
meself! Ah, that such a day should come to Will Foley afore
he goes."
The priest laughed heartily.
"Come now, Will, it will be a long time before you join the
angels. Now, how about a bit of wine to hearten you?"
Foley's eyes brightened behind the spectacles. "Now would
you have a drop by you, Father?" he asked expectantly.
"Perhaps I have something a bit more equal to the task!" Breslin
interrupted. He pulled a flask from his pocket, poured a dram for
Foley, one for the priest and one for himself. Will put the glass
to his lips. His eyes widened. "Ah," he said. "'Tis been so
long . . . You can taste the smoke in the malt!"
Foley drained his glass and rolled the last drop lovingly on his
tongue. Breslin filled the glass again.
"And now, Will, I want to ask you some questions."
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A Yankee Trader Arrives in Australia
"Anything, your honor."
"You know your way around the prison, do you not?"
Foley laughed mirthlessly. "I spent five years of my life there,
didn't I?"
"Father McCabe tells me you have the run of the prison?"
"I do manage to get about in it, sir."
"Do you know a prisoner named James Wilson?"
Foley stared at him, thin lips tight shut.
"Do you?"
Foley looked at Father McCabe. The priest nodded.
"Maybe I do."
"Can you deliver a note to him so no one will know?"
Foley looked at the priest and again Father McCabe nodded.
"That may be."
"Let me fill your glass. Will you drink to the glory of Ireland?"
Fire lit Foley's deep-sunk eyes. "That I will, and glad I am!"
"To the glory of old Ireland!" Breslin said solemnly.
They drained their glasses.
"Will, that note must be delivered to Jim Wilson for the sake
of old Ireland. I have come from far off to get in touch with
Wilson
. . ." Breslin threw caution away. "And with Harring-
ton, and Hogan, Hassett, Darragh and Cranston!"
Foley grabbed Breslin's hand. His eyes were wet. "Ah, now I
know!" he said.
Father McCabe produced a bit of paper, a pen and ink. Breslin
wrote: "To James Wilson and all the rest, greetings. Those who
have not forgotten are close by. Take heart. The news from
J.D. and J.B.O'R. is good. Trust the bearer. He will give you more
news later. Destroy this for the sake of old Erin."
He did not sign it. He folded the bit of paper again and again
to the size of a postage stamp. "Here, Will," he said. "Mind now,
no one must see."
Foley stood erect as a soldier. He saluted. "And nary a soul but
Jim Wilson will!"
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In the prison, the whitewashed walls threw back the morning
sun's glare so brightly it almost blinded prisoners and guards alike
at parade.
After breakfast a pint of oatmeal and potato gruel, a chunk of
bread and a half pint of unsweetened cocoa the day's work par-
ties were assigned. The six Irish political prisoners were trusties.
Hogan drew his usual job of painter. Cranston reported to the
storehouse. Darragh repaired to the lodgings of the Church of
England chaplain where he daily acted as clerk and attendant.
Hassett turned to in the superintendent's garden. Harrington was
in solitary as punishment for trying to escape into the bush. Wil-
son, usually assigned to the clocks with Harrington, got a surprise
task as an ex-cavalryman he was ordered to report to the stables,
there to await the imminent arrival of the Comptroller General
of West Australia and to see that his Excellency's horses were
properly cared for and that the carriage was well washed and
polished.
After looking around the docks in vain, Will Foley found Wil-
son in the stables. Two or three other prisoners were working
nearby. Foley bided his time. In a moment when no one was
looking he sidled up to Wilson and whispered: "Take what I give
you. Don't look at it until you're alone." Into Wilson's hand he
slipped the folded note from Breslin, then rambled away, whis-
tling merrily.
Wilson grabbed a fork and began to spread bedding straw in
one of the stalls being readied for the Comptroller's team. As he
worked toward the rear of the stall he looked sharply about, saw
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no one in sight and unfolded the bit of paper. His deep-set eyes
raced over the words. Then he drank them all in again, this time
ever so slowly. Softly he slapped his hand against his thigh. They
had come! They had come! The prayers of eight years had been
answered.
He read the note again, fixing every word in his memory. Then
he put the bit of paper in his mouth, chewed it to a pulp and
swallowed it.
As he worked mechanically, his mind was in a ferment. How
were they going to stage the rescue? Would they dare the desert?
It might be possible, given horses, supplies, maps. The sea? Small
boats could never survive the voyage to a friendly port. A ship?
What ship captain would chance offending the might of England?
And who were
"they"? Why hadn't the writer of the note
signed it?
One thing was certain, the rest must know right away. Dar-
ragh would be the one to tell first. He had more freedom in mov-
ing around than any of them. He could spread the news.
He crowded next to Darragh in the mess hall that night. As
they wolfed down their fare of a quarter pound of boiled beef, a
half pound of soggy potatoes, a chunk of bread and a mug of tea,
he whispered: "Red, listen sharp!"
Darragh went on eating as if he had heard not a word.
"I got a message today."
Darragh's eyes flicked over to his, then back stolidly to his
pannikin.
Wilson looked cautiously around. "Will Foley brought it. It
said Those who have not forgotten are close by . . .'
"
Darragh's
jaws stopped working. Wilson looked around again. "J.D. and
J.B.O'R. say take heart. Trust Foley. He'll bring more news
later!"
Red mechanically swallowed another mouthful. "Thanks be
to God, Jim! Who sent it?"
"I don't know."
"Didn't you ask Foley?"
"He was gone before I'd even read it."
127
The Emerald Whaler
'Til lay for him tomorrow."
By the next morning, Red had spread the news to all but Har-
rington, still under guard in his dungeon cell.
Darragh met up with Foley shortly after noon that day. He
put the question to Foley direct: "Who gave you that note, Will?"
"Father McCabe said it was all right," Foley said nervously.
"Of course it was all right. But who gave it you?"
"A big bearded man. Name of Collins. Says he's a rich man
from America. Chaps here call him the 'Yankee/
"
There were visitors to the prison that very afternoon. If Red
and Jim Wilson had known, they could have touched the very
man who had written the mysterious message.
Bright and early that morning Maloney, the Emerald Isle
proprietor, endeavoring to demonstrate his importance in the
little world of Fremantle, asked his illustrious guest, Mr. Collins,
if he would care to visit the chief attraction in the town, Her
Majesty's prison. Mr. Collins would indeed be most happy to see
the prison. Could Mr. Maloney arrange such a visit? Mr. Maloney
could indeed. The superintendent, Mr. Donan, was a particular
friend of his. He would send a message this very moment, stating
that Mr. Collins, his noted guest, was desirous of seeing the Estab-
lishment. It would be no trouble at all, Mr. Collins could rest
assured of that.
Thus, on the afternoon of Wednesday, December 2, the Yankee
trader paid his respects to the man who headed the penal colony.
Superintendent Donan insisted on conducting his guest around
the grounds and the buildings in person.
"No doubt you are familiar with your great correctional insti-
tutions in the States, Mr. Collins," he said. "But you must realize
that here we do not have the escape problems inherent in estab-
lishments built in more populous places. We depend here not on
strong cells but upon our position betwixt sea and desert. The
number of convicts who have made good an escape from this penal
colony since it first was founded in the late 1700's could be
counted on the fingers of one hand."
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His visitor nodded appreciation.
"We have but one prisoner in our punishment cells at the mo-
ment," Superintendent Donan boasted as he showed Breslin the
dungeon block. "That speaks rather well for the discipline of the
prisoners as a body, does it not?"
"It does indeed," his guest agreed. "This man wouldn't be a
Yankee, would he?"
Donan laughed. "No, Mr. Collins, he's not a compatriot of
yours, though I believe we have one or two who may be Ameri-
cansif they'd confess it. He's an Irish traitor. We have a number
of them here. And, I must tell you, they are all real trouble-
makers."
They paused before a bolted door.
"This is the occupied cell," the superintendent said.
From within came a muffled, "Get the hell away! Let me
alone."
"He will be alone for quite a few weeks yet," Donan com-
mented.
The familiar iron door, the all too familiar iron bolts, the two-
inch crack at the bottom to admit air it was all much like the
prison Breslin had served in in Dublin. If he could only speak
for just one moment to that Irishman to assure him friends were
here, that escape was indeed possible!
Breslin turned away, sick at heart, yet more determined than
ever that he would succeed.
Foley carried another message to Wilson: "We have recon-
noitered the prison. We have a definite plan for your rescue. How
long will Harrington be in solitary?" This time Foley waited un-
til Wilson had a chance to read and destroy the message.
"Do you know any more about this man?" Wilson demanded
of the little Irishman.
"I do not, Jim, so help me."
Wilson thought awhile. "Tell him Harrington will be out about
the middle of January. Got it?"
In a few days there was another note. "Success depends on all
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The Emerald Whaler
of you men being trusties. You must be model prisoners at all
times."
This time Wilson scribbled a reply on the back of the note.
"Will it help if we know who you are? Can you identify yourself?"
When Breslin read this he decided he should have another talk
with Father McCabe. At the rectory, he put the problem squarely
before the priest.
"Father, these men have a right to know more about our plan.
And they have a right to know who is over here to help them.
There are too many things to settle on bits of paper. I must meet
Wilson. You're the only one who can help me. Foley can't do
more than he has done, that's sure."
A broad smile creased the priest's ruddy face. "I've been wait-
ing for you to say that. I haven't been idle, you know. In fact,
I've been doing a little planning of my own for just this occasion
ever since you first told me why you were in Australia. To tell the
truth, I've been a bit of a puzzle to some of the natives hereabouts
who thought they knew me through and through. Especially the
boys down at Albert's Livery. You see, I've most always hired a
horse or a donkey for my trips out back. But lately, strangely
enough, I've hired a trap. Now I really think they figure I'm get-
ting along in years and I can't take the saddle any more. Be that
as it may, with a trap . . ."
"You can carry a passenger!"
"You catch on very quickly for a Yankee," Father McCabe
jibed. "Yes, I can take a passenger. I seem to recall that one of
my parishioners has had some great trouble with one of his horses
lately. Wilson, you know, is pretty good with animals. I can't
think of any man who can help me out in this task other than
Jim Wilson, can you?"
"If by some miracle you can get him out of prison duties and
into the carriage," Breslin said, a trifle cynically.
"Now you just leave that to me. I haven't been in and out of
the prison here for a quarter of a century for nothing. Superin-
tendent Donan, pompous as he is, always has been most helpful
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when I have asked his aid in the past. I'm sure he will lend me
Jim for the day."
"You'll get Wilson out on the road somewhere and I'll meet up
with you . . ."
"Whoa, now, hold your horses." Father McCabe held up a
warning hand. "Let's get some details straight before we go off
half cocked. Here is my plan, listen closely. Do you know the
road that leads from Fremantle to Ten Mile Well and Rocking-
ham?"
"I think so."
"Be sure you know. Hire a rig and drive out the road. About
four miles out of town, on your left, you will see a huge lightning-
blasted gum tree. You can't miss it. Fix that spot in your mind.
Now, whenever I get Wilson for my helper, I'll send you a note.
I'll say, 'That timber deal is shaping up,' and add a time element,
like
'morning is the best time,' and I'll add the hour I expect to
be at the gum tree."
"And Til drive out and meet you there."
"I'm surprised at you." Father McCabe shook a finger. "The
liberator of Stephens should know better than that! I'll drive
past the tree and drop Wilson off. He'll go back into the bush a
piece. I'll pull ahead a few yards until I see you drive up. Then
I'll jog slowly for a mile or so. Now when you get to the tree,
get out of your rig and start back into the bush as if you were
going to make water. Wilson will be watching for you. I'll give
you twenty minutes. Then I'll be back and pick Jim up."
"Twenty minutes isn't much," Breslin said slowly. "But if that
is all you think we should risk, it will have to do. Now to get Wil-
son out."
"I'm not going to be in any hurry," Father McCabe warned.
Father McCabe was not in any hurry. It was not until the new
year of 1876 had come in that the priest made his move.
Fretting and fuming inwardly the while, Breslin put in his
time making carriage trips to various towns in the neighborhood
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The Emerald Whaler
of Fremantle. One of his first jaunts was out Ten Mile Well road.
He spotted the gum tree rendezvous easily. On another occasion
he visited Perth and, on pretext of having a bolt repaired on his
carriage, visited Sloan's Carriage Factory, where Desmond had
written he was employed, and managed to tell him of the progress
he had made and of the imminent meeting with Wilson.
At Christmas the "rich Yankee trader," who so far had paid lit-
tle heed to the glowing proposals made him by natives, found
himself invited to a reception for His Excellency, Governor Robin-
son. Hobnobbing with the genial state officials he hoped soon to
hoax gave Breslin a secret laugh.
Father McCabe sent his code note before breakfast Monday,
January 3. It fixed the hour of nine for the meeting. Breslin hur-
ried to Albert's Livery Stable and hired a good horse and buggy.
Within minutes of the hour he reached the gum tree. Ahead he
saw Father McCabe's trap. The priest waved to him, tapped his
nag, and vanished in a dusty cloud down the road.
Breslin tethered his horse to a tree. The road as far as he could
see in either direction was deserted. On its sides the forest closed
in like a green wall. The cries of thousands of cockatoos and the
strident buzz of millions of insects filled the air.
Breslin took a couple of steps off the road into the brush. A
twig snapped under his foot. Instantly the birds hushed into
suspicious silence.
From the bush to the right of the gum tree came a low whistle.
Breslin took one more look up and down the deserted road.
He entered the bush, pushing branches aside as he made his
way.
"This way!" came a hoarse whisper.
Breslin took a few more steps and came to a tiny clearing,
where stood a man in prison dress. He held his prison hat in his
hand. A shock of brown hair, parted roughly on the right side,
tumbled over a broad, high forehead and shadowed deep-set gray
eyes. A beard covered the lower half of his long, thinnish face.
He took a step forward and held out his hand. "I'm Jim Wilson,"
he said.
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Breslin grabbed his hand. "I've been looking forward to this
moment for months, Jim."
Relieved, happy though he was, Wilson could not keep the bit-
terness out of his voice. "Months!" he said. "We've been waiting
for eight years . . ."
Breslin held up a warning hand. "We haven't much time.
Father McCabe said he would give us twenty minutes. Has he
told you anything?"
"Only who you are. I am proud to shake the hand of the man
who freed James Stephens."
"Then we have a lot to cover in a few minutes. I am not alone
over here. We have another man in Australia, Tom Desmond
from America. You don't know him. We are here to carry out
the plan that John Devoy and John Boyle O'Reilly and your
friends in the States think is the only one that has any chance of
success."
"We had a plan of our own," Wilson countered. "It would have
worked too, had we some guns."
"Our plan is to get you off like John Boyle O'Reilly got away,"
Breslin said.
Wilson had an instant objection. "How are you going to bribe
a sea captain to take a half dozen of us aboard? It took a hell of a
lot of hard work on the part of the Father to get O'Reilly alone
away. You'll never do it with a gang of us!"
"There'll be no need to bribe a passing sea captain. We have
the ship!" Breslin paused to let the fact sink in.
"You have the ship?" Wilson asked, bewildered. "I don't rightly
understand."
"I mean just that. The Clan has bought an American whale-
ship just to rescue you men."
"Bought a whole ship?" Wilson still could not believe his ears.
"Yes, we bought it. We haven't been idle. Irish patriots all
over the world have almost thirty thousand dollars invested in
this plan."
Wilson shook his head in utter disbelief. "A ship! Thirty thou-
sand dollars! For us!"
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The Emerald Whaler
Breslin went on. "The ship is under command of a Yankee
skipper. She started out from New Bedford, in Massachusetts,
long before John Devoy sent me out to California to join up with
Desmond. She is due to arrive in Bunbury in late February.
When she gets here, the captain will get in touch with me. I'll
contact you men, you'll escape from the prison, the captain will
land a whaleboat on a beach somewhere near here and he'll pick
you up, row you out to his ship and set sail for New York. How
does that sound?"
"Too good to be true." Wilson still shook his head. "You make
it sound simple, but it ain't goin' to be that simple."
"We think it will work. The main thing is for all you men to be
on your good behavior and to be working outside the prison walls
when the time comes. That's something you'll have to figure out
for yourselves. You'll all have to be trusties."
"They call 'em 'constables' here," Wilson put in.
"Constables, then. You'll have to be as free to walk through
the gate as it is possible to be. Can you do it?"
"If you could say be ready in the next couple weeks, I'd say it
was easy. They're going to build a new reservoir at the prison
this month. All of the outback road and timber gangs have been
called in. All the work details will be on the reservoir and on the
docks where the materials will come in. But after that . . ."
"We'll have to hope for the best. Main thing is to make the men
realize rescue depends on all of them getting to the constable
grade. Tell them about the plan. Tell them I'll keep in touch
with them by notes through Foley to you. Tell them to trust us to
get them away. I'll figure out a code so you and I can communi-
cate if need be."
From the road came a low: "Cooee!"
"That will be the Father," Breslin said. "You'd better go now.
Trust us, keep your mouths shut, wait till you hear more from me."
They shook hands. Wilson pushed his way out to the road and
climbed into Father McCabe's trap. The priest whipped his horse
to a smart trot in the direction of Ten Mile Well. A few minutes
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Contact
later Breslin untied his horse and drove slowly back to Fremantle.
At the Emerald Isle, Breslin was buttonholed by yet another
one of the countless businessmen and bankers, miners and land-
owners who had been trying for weeks to get their hands on some
of his Yankee gold. He had listened to practically every get-rich-
quick scheme that could be dreamed up by willing and wily-
natives. Gossip was increasing because he never seemed inter-
ested in plans to double, triple or quadruple his investment. There
were rumors that he had no money at all, that he was only an
adventurer.
Truth to tell, the money belt that had been so heavy around his
middle when he had arrived in Fremantle was getting lighter and
lighter much lighter than was safe. Living like a rich man had
taken its toll of the eagles and double eagles. The latest drain had
been to Will Foley. Foley, convinced at last that his heart would
fail him soon, had confided in Father McCabe that he hoped to
live to see the old country once again. It seemed little enough,
Breslin thought, for all Foley was doing for him, to advance pas-
sage money and enough for him to have a few weeks back in
Erin. All he asked of Foley was that he postpone the voyage home
until he no longer was needed as a go-between.
That Sunday night at the rectory, Breslin broached the most
important step still facing him: the choice of a landing place for
Captain Anthony's whaleboat.
"You know the whole region, Father," he said. "I'm going to
ask you to pick the spot."
"I have given that much thought, too," the priest said. "In fact,
I've already done a little bit of looking."
"O'Reilly got off in a boat. How about the spot where he was
rescued?"
"Bunbury? Too far. You want a beach near enough to Fre-
mantle so you can get to it with your horses at a trot or a gallop.
You don't want to be so far away that your teams will fag out and
the police catch up with you. They'll travel a lot faster on horse-
back than you will in wagons. I have a spot in mind. Come with
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The Emerald Whaler
me on my bush trip this week. You can give out that you are go-
ing to look at some timberland around Rockingham. There's a
lumbering outfit working thereabouts."
Tuesday morning Breslin hired a pair of Albert's best horses
hitched to a light buckboard, then picked up the priest at the
rectory.
"Head out the same road where you met Wilson/' Father Mc-
Cabe directed. "After we pass Ten Mile Well and Rockingham
Hotel, it's about four miles farther."
The first ten miles to the Well was over a macadamized, convict-
built road. From Ten Mile Well to Rockingham Hotel were six
miles of heavier going, with deep sand patches that slowed the
horses to a walk.
Finally they turned off the road onto a track wide enough for
logging teams. The going was slow, with the sand deep. The air
was close and heavy as dense forest closed in on either side,
scraping the sides of the rig. Then the bush thinned and they
drove out on beach sand, fairly hard packed.
Breslin and the priest breathed in the fresh ocean air appre-
ciatively. A light surf sighed and whispered along a stretch of
pure white sand. Offshore, perhaps a hundred yards, the blue of
deep water showed. Breslin nodded. "It's right," he said. "Right
as rain."
They sat down for an hour until the horses were well rested,
then started the team on the home journey. Winding up with a
smart gallop on the hard road from Ten Mile Well to the out-
skirts of Fremantle, they found that the horses had covered the
entire twenty miles in two hours and twenty minutes.
"With a fresh team I can clip ten minutes from that," Breslin
boasted.
January dragged into February.
Breslin haunted the ship bulletin board.
There was no word from Captain Anthony.
There was no word either from the men Kenealy had promised
would deliver more gold for the expedition. He counted the gold
he had left, and concluded he could remain the "rich Yankee
136
Contact
trader" for just about one month more until about the first week
in March.
Foley brought a note from Wilson: "Harrington's got out of
solitary but they put him on a timber gang. They said there
wasn't going to be any more details until the reservoir is done,
but they cooked one up to punish Harrington some more and
some others that they wanted to punish. No word when he will
get back. He don't know about the plan. He's like to try to run
away. If he does he'll get solitary again. Nothing we can do now."
Again Breslin heard gossip about himself. To put a stop to the
rumors he used some of his dwindling store of cash to hire a team,
announcing he was going on a business trip. He drove to Guilford,
York, Northam, Newcastle and Perth. In Perth he managed a
few minutes with Desmond, still working steadily for Sloan.
"The ship has to show up soon," he told Tom. "When she gets
in and I've talked to the captain, I can send you a telegram about
starting. Have a good team ready to be hired at all times. And
when you start, don't forget the clothes and the guns and cart-
ridges."
On March 5 three burly strangers arrived. One bragged he was
from New South Wales and was heading for the goldfields of the
northwest. He demanded the names of the hotels in Fremantle
and settled for the Emerald Isle. His two traveling companions
wandered off in search, they said, of any cheap but clean lodgings,
any honest work and "To hell with the goldfields." The stranger
signed the Emerald Isle's register, "George Jones, Sydney, N.S.W."
"I understand you have a guest here by the name of Collins,"
he addressed the clerk. "I have a very personal letter from one of
his banking connections in Sydney."
The clerk took him to Breslin's room and introduced him. The
stranger closed the door behind him and slid home the bolt.
Breslin raised his eyebrows. "What was that for?"
"I want secrets kept too," the stranger countered. "]olm King,
at your service. I think I have what you have been waiting for."
He reached under his shirt and undid a money belt, and slapped
it down on the table. "There's eight hundred pounds sterling,"
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The Emerald Whaler
he said. "And I dare say I can put my hands on a few pounds
more if need be."
The funds, he explained, had been collected from Irish sym-
pathizers in New Zealand and in New South Wales.
He had been in touch by mail with Kenealy who had written
him some of the plans for the break. "You did not see my friends,"
he said. "There are two more in my party, Denis F. McCarthy of
Cork, and John Walsh, lately of Dunham, England. All three of
us were in the Organization and all of us were amnestied in '71.
What can we do to help?"
"Two men will be needed to cut the telegraph wires between
Fremantle and Perth and between Fremantle and Rockingham
and Bunbury. I'll need a man to ride rearguard when we head for
our rendezvous."
"I'm your man for the rearguard," King said. "McCarthy and
Walsh will cut the wires."
"It's lucky you arrived this day," Breslin said as they talked on.
"Tomorrow I'm for Bunbury to see if I can get word of our ship."
138
II . "No News from New Bedford"
In the days of sail, the whaler was a lonely craft. It was a ship
going nowhere, a ship that cruised endlessly and erratically on
the face of the deep. It had no port of call beckoning at the end
of weary miles. It had no freight to transport, no passengers to
take from one country to another. Its whole reason for existence
was to find a spot anywhere in the seven seas where a school of
sperm spouted.
This is what the crew of a whaler expected. That is what the
crew of the Catalpa was ready to take as a matter of course.
But the forecastle oracles were quick to note, now, that the
Calalpa was a whaler with a purpose. And that purpose certainly
was not the hunting of whales. Instead of the slow, monotonous
search of empty seas for her prey, she held to a steady tack that
took her well off the coast of Africa, past Ascension Island, rocky
outpost of England's might, on and on toward Capetown. Not
that the crew could see the log or the well-marked charts. Not that
any of them save Smith, Farnham and Bolles, now back aft again
as Third Mate, could have taken a navigational sight to fix their
position in the vastness. But to all of them came the realization
that the Catalpa was not acting like other whalers on which they
had sailed. Lookouts were always kept in the masthead rings,
but they raised no spouts. Three weeks went by and the Catalpa
forged steadily on. Forecastle mutterings grew.
Then, on December 19, the cry "Ah . . . blooowsl" rang from
aloft.
Luck was with the crews. Three small whales fell to the darts
and lances. But they boiled only forty barrels all told.
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The Emerald Whaler
Now the forecastle seethed. Months at sea and not enough oil
shipped or in the hold to buy a night's fun in a grogshop. Hill
found ready ears for his tirades.
"Who in hell ever heard o' such like whalin'?" he demanded.
"We ain't huntin' whales. We're a goddam ghost ship. We're
sailin' hell bent for nowhere. Why'n hell don't our goddam Cap-
tain get to the Plate? I bin down thar. Sparm thicker'n bones in
a herrin'. Who's with me to ask the Captain what the hell's he
doin' wastin' time?"
The deputation hadn't got as far as the tryworks before Captain
Anthony shouted the men to a halt.
"Now what's this? What devilment are you up to now, Hill?
Haven't you had enough of irons to last you the rest of your life?
Speak up if you got a gripe. I'll mighty soon settle your hash!"
"We want whales. We want more oil in the hold!" Hill said.
"Oil, is it? Don't you think I want oil in the ship's casks same's
you?"
"Then let's head for the Plate like we cleared for. Them's good
whalin' grounds."
"We'll head wherever I please. This is my ship. I'm earning
money for her owners. No seaswab aboard this bark gives me
orders. One more squeak out of you on this voyage and I swear
I'll chase sharks and the bait on the hook will be a troublemaker
named Hill. Now get forward, the passel of you!"
The Catalpa rolled uneasily along. At last there were favoring
winds, though they were light. The bark's fouled bottom held her
back in such airs, and there was neither the time nor the place to
careen to scrape off the seaweed and the barnacles.
Late in the afternoon of the day before Christmas, First Mate
Smith's boat darted and lanced a small whale. The tryworks
flamed all night. It was a hot, dirty, greasy, surly crew that tapped
the last of only twenty barrels of oil from the cooling tanks into
the casks.
That sultry holy night, under blue stars that flickered through
the pall of oily smoke, the bark crossed the Equator.
On Christmas Day the cook concocted a pudding from flour,
140
"No News from New Bedford"
water, molasses, whale oil, soda, spices and some of the dates that
had been shipped in the Canaries. He fried up some whale
tongue. The Captain doled out an orange apiece from the few
remaining in the crates and broke out a small cask of wine from
the vineyards of Teneriffe. Some of the men pounded hardbread
into powder, and mixed it with molasses to make samp.
For two months the bark bdre monotonously onward. Never
was there more than a hatful of wind. No more sperm were
sighted, though a few finback whales were raised. Once or twice
the boats were lowered and gave chase, but the finbacks gallied
and none was darted.
In his cabin, with Sam Smith leaning over his shoulder, Captain
Anthony worked with charts, protractors and dividers. There was
no getting around it, the bark could never make Bunbury in Febru-
ary. It would be almost a miracle if she got there much before
the end of March.
Four thousand miles from Teneriffe to Capetown. Four thou-
sand, seven hundred miles from Capetown to Cape Naturaliste,
off the West Australian coast south of Bunbury. There were no
short cuts. The charts were there, infallible. Mile after mile after
mile must be sailed. Promises had been made to John Devoy but
the facts were indisputable. Bunbury by the end of March
if then.
Captain Anthpny put his protractor down with a shake of his
head. "We aren't going to make Bunbury any time near what I
promised. We'll be lucky if we get there by the first of April at
the rate we're going."
"Mebbe well get some decent wind."
"Maybe. Something we can't bet on can only pray for, I guess.
I'm worried that Breslin will be figuring on the end of February,
as Devoy planned, and will have all his men ready then. Then
we don't show up and everything's ruined."
It couldn't be helped. They were somewhere off the southern
tip of Africa well at sea, away from Capetown and prying Eng-
lish eyes. If there were winds, perhaps they could make up a few
lost days in the long slant across the Indian Ocean. Just perhaps.
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The Emerald Whaler
The winds came. Thursday night, February 10, the sun went
down in a dirty sky. The Catalpa was bowling along under every
stitch of canvas Captain Anthony could hang on her yards. "Keep
pushing her!" he ordered Bolles when the Third Mate came on
night watch at eight in the evening.
Bolles kept pushing her. At ten o'clock a heavy breeze blew up
from the south-southwest. The bark dug her bow deep into
mounting waves, hurling stinging spray over the rails. Bolles
eyed the straining sails but kept the canvas drawing full.
By the middle of the morning watch, a tremendous cross-sea
built up. A full gale roared through the rigging, threatening to
carry away the few rags of canvas still spread. Solid seamanship
demanded that even these sails be taken in. But in the back of
Captain Anthony's mind was the warning of the Catalpas officer
back in East Boston: "Take in your topsails and she'll roll over!"
Great white-maned combers racing at each other from opposite
quarters in the maelstrom of wind and sea, slammed into each
other with a noise like thunderclaps and flung up mountainous
cascades of spray. In such a cross sea there wasn't a man aboard
who could not see the danger of being swamped. Neither ship nor
canvas could longer take such punishment.
"We'll heave to, Mr. Smith," Anthony ordered.
Slowly the bark swung into the teeth of the gale. A more violent
gust struck her. The ship balked and trembled. The lower fore
topsail split at the weather clew and ripped to shreds.
"Look alive, Mr. Smith!" Anthony yelled. "We're in for it, or
those chaps in Boston don't know what they're talking about."
By all the rules of wind and waves, a flat-bottomed craft like
the Catalpa had to have some sails showing so that she would
not roll to windward and be swamped.
The bark shook and plunged, then reared back like a frightened
horse, and came up into the wind gracefully and buoyantly to sit
the waves like a duck.
Captain Anthony wiped the sweat from his forehead. That was
one time when the prophets of doom were dead wrong.
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"No News from New Bedford"
By noontime the wind had abated somewhat and the bark was
put on her course again, with more sails spread and the wind-
shredded topsail replaced with one of the new ones bought at
Fayal. At midnight the gale blew itself out. The wind dropped
to a stiff breeze. Again all the Catalpas big sails were set and at
daybreak she was bowling smartly along.
For eleven days, from February 29 to March 10, the wind blew
strong from nearly dead ahead. The Catalpa lay to most of the
time under lower topsails and staysail. Rain squalls swept over
them constantly. When the skies finally cleared enough so that
Captain Anthony could take a fix on his position, he discovered
the bark had made only 120 miles in all that time, a month late
and still making so little headway.
But at last the ship's luck changed. The winds served strong
and fair. She coursed along like a race horse, as if knowing she
was on the homestretch of her voyage. Under full sail, she logged
more than two hundred miles some days. Late in the after-
noon of March 27, the masthead lookout yelled, "Land ho! Dead
ahead."
Blue-gray in the distance loomed what the Captain knew was
Cape Naturaliste. To the men it might be New Zealand, or it
might be Mozambique, or Africa, or the coast of South America.
All they cared was that land meant a port where the ship would
refit and revictual. A port meant a place where there was rum
and women. They could buy gear in the ship's slopchest, take it
ashore and trade for the rum and women. What did the country
matter? Rum was good, women were the same the world over.
To George Anthony, the blurred mass arching around the south-
ern and eastern horizon meant an end to a year of hard work, of
frustration, and of worry. The Catalpa was at her rendezvous
with Fate and weeks late for the meeting. What the delay would
mean to Breslin and his shore party and the six desperate men who
waited for rescue, only the next few days could tell.
The Catalpa skirted the shoreland, Cape Naturaliste well to
starboard. In the gathering dusk the lights of Dunsborough
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The Emerald Whaler
twinkled. Anthony set a northeasterly course through Geographe
Bay, heading for Leschenault Inlet near the harbor of Bunbury.
Fearing to hazard the shoal waters of the bay in darkness, he
ordered sails furled and a single bow anchor dropped.
At five o'clock in the morning, the anchor was hoisted, and the
Catalpa got under way again, under light sails. At ten in the
morning she was safely in the harbor of Bunbury.
"Both anchors, Mr. Smith!" the skipper ordered.
Anchors holding, sails furled, the Captain ordered his whale-
boat overside.
Second Mate Farnham was left in charge. "No shore leave un-
til I register, Mr. Farnham," the Captain ordered as he and First
Officer Smith slid down the davit falls into the boat for the trip
ashore.
Captain Anthony went at once to the customs office.
"Captain George Anthony, reporting the arrival of the bark
Catalpa, out of New Bedford, United States of America, whaling."
"Glad to have you in Bunbury, Captain," the customs official
replied. "Your papers?"
Anthony handed them over. The official scanned them rapidly.
"Captain, your papers seem in order. We require that you give
us notice when you sail."
"That you shall have, sir."
Captain Anthony bundled up his papers and left to look for
Sam. He found him gazing longingly into a shopwindow full of
glittering golden ornaments, his mind on a gift for his Amy Chase.
"Time enough for that later, Sam. Let's get back to the bark."
They had not been rowed more than a dozen yards from shore
when Sam pointed excitedly. "Look, Cap'n, her flag's upside
down!"
"Lay on them oars!" Anthony thundered. "What the devil's
wrong now?"
When they boarded the Catalpa, Farnham was screaming mad.
His words came in a sputtering torrent.
"That goddam Hill. He's no good fer nothin'. One minute I go
144
"No News from New Bedford"
below. One minute. That goddam Hill and that Cocking an' that
Duguin an' that Paine, they put boat overside. I come on deck.
I yell, 'Stop, you t'ieves.' They say, 'You goddam Brava you go t'
hell!' I run to side. I try to put belayin' pin in boat falls. That
goddam Hill knock belayin' pin outa my han's. Those t'ieves drop
boat in water. They grab oars. They row lak hell. That goddam
Hill t'umb nose at me. Me who am mate! I catch him I giv' him
hell like he never got afore. I skin blubber off him wid cuttin'
spade. No cap'n ever hire him fer sailor agin. I tell every cap'n
in whole dam woiT no ship goddam Hill!"
Farnham had lowered another boat, but Hill and his three com-
panions reached the beach far ahead of him and scrambled ashore.
Farnham had the deserters' boat brought back to the bark.
"Well, Sam, looks like we better row back ashore," Anthony said
in disgust. "We'll report them to the Water Police."
Halfway to shore, a Water Police cutter slipped alongside. The
coxswain in charge yelled: "Those your men got away, Cap'n?"
Anthony nodded.
"We'll round 'em up. They won't get far."
The Captain and Sam continued their journey ashore and went
to the Water Police barracks to wait. The police were as good as
their word. In three hours they had the four deserters under
arrest.
"Any charges, Captain?" the Water Police coxswain asked.
"No, no charges," he replied. "Just run them down to my boat
for me."
"All right, you men, march!" the coxswain ordered.
Cocking flew at him. "I'm sick of whalin'. You can't make me
go back." He hauled off and caught the policeman a glancing
blow on the shoulder.
"Strike an officer, will you? Now I have some charges to pre-
fer! Lock him up!" the Water Police officer shouted.
Hill, Duguin and Paine went back to the ship meekly enough,
where they were put in irons in the steerage.
"I'm going ashore again, Sam," Captain Anthony told the First
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The Emerald Whaler
Mate. "If Breslin does what he's supposed to do, he'll read news
of our arrival on the telegraph bulletin board in Fremantle. He'll
be trying to get in touch with me. If you need me, I'll be at the
hotel there only seems to be one decent-looking one."
He reached the town's best hotelSpencer's registered and
went to his room. It had been a busy day, and a bad day. A bad
way indeed to start the affair in Australia with the attention of the
local police drawn to the Catalpa from the moment she had
dropped anchor. But it could have been worse. Desertions were
an old story to the police. Many a whaler had the same experience
when the anchors were dropped and the smell of the land reached
the nostrils of sea-weary sailors. There was no use worrying.
Restless and awake by daybreak on March 29, Breslin stepped
out for his morning walk just as the sun was peeping up.
Hands deep in pockets, head bent, he walked listlessly toward
the telegraph office. Again he wearily pondered the possibilities
if the Catalpa had indeed been lost. There still remained almost
$3,000 of the gold King, Walsh and McCarthy had brought from
New South Wales. That wasn't enough to tempt any Yankee
skipper to try and smuggle out six convicts at the risk of his own
liberty. One, maybe, as in the case of O'Reilly, but six! Not a
chance. No matter how much he debated, it looked as if failure
was near. The Fenians would rot in jail the rest of their lives.
There would be no more news this day than in the days past.
As he approached the telegraph office he spotted several new
notices tacked on the board. Instinctively he quickened his steps.
But with accustomed disappointment he read: "Arrived at Syd-
ney, British ship Borneo . . . Arrived, Adelaide, mail packet
Gloria . . ."
Then, just below, almost hidden in the litter of bulletins, an-
other:
"Arrived at Bunbury, American whaling
bark Catalpa, out of New Bedford,
Capt. Anthony, March 28."
146
"No News from New Bedford"
Breslin slapped his thigh and laughed aloud. They made it! He
looked sharply the length and the width of the street, but there
were no other early-risers in sight to see his joy.
He dashed back to the Emerald Isle, hurried to his room, bolted
the door. From the bottom of his bag where it had lain all these
long months, he took Devoy's code. Nervously he thumbed the
pages. Here it was! Fingers trembling with excitement, he copied
the code message that would be his first communication with
Captain Anthony.
The telegraph office would not open until nine. He tried to
calm himself and went down to breakfast at his usual time, striv-
ing to look unruffled. Even though he stretched the meal longer
than usual he was finished long before the hour. Nevertheless, he
took off for the telegraph office and there paced the sidewalk un-
til the operator arrived for business.
"I have an urgent message for one of my captains who has just
arrived in Bunbury," Breslin said importantly. "I would appre-
ciate it greatly if you would transmit it immediately." He pushed
his message across the window, a silver piece weighing the paper
down. "For you," he murmured.
"Thank you, sir! I shall send the message at once."
The message read: "To Capt. Anthony, Master, Bark Catalpa,
Bunbury. Have you any news from New Bedford? When can
you come to Fremantle? J. Collins."
Captain Anthony arose that March morning after his first night's
sleep in a real bed since he had left the warm arms of Emmie. He
felt like a new man. After breakfast at Spencer's, he decided to
arrange for supplies, fresh meat and other provisions, and then
visit the local telegraph office to arrange for the delivery of any
messages for him.
From a ship's chandler, Captain Anthony trudged to the tele-
graph office. The operator in charge was a taffy-haired, pink-and-
white-complexioned English girl.
"My name is George Anthony. I'm master of the Catalpa, an-
chored in your harbor. I am expecting a
"
147
The Emerald Whaler
Just then the telegraph sounder clicked.
"Pardon me, sir." The girl stepped to the instrument. "I'll be
but a moment."
Within two minutes she came back to the window. "Well, isn't
that the strangest thing ever!" she said. "That message was for
you!"
She handed him Breslin's telegram neatly copied in a copper-
plate hand on the regulation form. "Will there be any reply, sir?"
"Thank you, miss, yes, I'll be back shortly with a message for
Mr. Collins."
In his room, he dug the Devoy code from his bag. Thumbing
through its pages he came on the proper message: "No news from
New Bedford. Shall not come to Fremantle." According to the
penciled note against the wording, this would tell Breslin that
there had been no suspicious incidents on the voyage, that all was
well, and that Breslin should come to Bunbury as soon as possible.
He walked back to the telegraph office, where he fretted a half
hour while the girl transmitted messages and received others.
Finally she gave the sending key a final rattle and came to the
window.
"Now, Captain, what can I do for you?" She brushed back an
errant blond curl with ink-smudged fingers.
"I have a message for Fremantle."
"Is it government business?"
"No, but it's urgent."
"I'll send it directly I have lunch."
"I tell you, it's urgent. It's to one of my owners!" Anthony
sputtered.
The girl's pink cheeks flushed. With tapping fingers she empha-
sized her words.
"Sorry, but I'm fair done in. First thing after
lunch." She slammed the window shut.
In Fremantle, Breslin fretted and fumed the whole day. What
on earth kept Anthony from replying? Flinging all caution away,
he asked the telegraph operator time after time if there had been
any answer to his message to "his captain" at Bunbury. With
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"No News from New Bedford"
more and more scowling a countenance, the operator told him
there was none.
Finally in the late afternoon the operator got up from his desk
with a paper in hand and shuffled over to the window, and called,
"Mr. Collins!"
Breslin almost tore the paper from his hands. After all the
strain, he felt his muscles sag. Everything was in order. Under
the Devoy code, the message meant that to the best of Captain
Anthony's knowledge the mission of the Catalpa had not been
revealed to or suspected by any English authorities. The Cap-
tain waited his arrival in Bunbury.
"Thank you," he remembered to say to the operator, and
remembered, too, to give him a crown to wipe the scowl off his
face. In two steps he was out of the door and on his way to the
Emerald Isle.
He pounded on the door of King's room at the hotel. King
opened the door, his face half-lathered, half-shaved. "What's up?"
he asked in alarm.
"The ship's arrived! Get that lather off your face and ride like
hell for Perth! Tell Desmond to get ready to leave at a moment's
notice."
Within twenty minutes, King was galloping for Perth on the
fastest horse Albert had in his stables.
Breslin, scarcely losing a stride, hurried to the stagecoach of-
fice. Was there a seat available on the Thursday run to Bunbury?
The agent was doubtful. A gold piece glittered on the counter.
Come to think of it, there might be a seat, yes, there definitely
would be a seat available. Breslin paid for it on the spot.
His luck held. Foley was in his room, readying himself for
supper.
"Will," Breslin said, "I have the news the boys have been wait-
ing for. You must take a note to Wilson. And it won't be long
before you'll be treading the green grass of Ireland."
Hurriedly he scribbled: "Our friend has reached port with
greetings from Old Erin. He wishes you all well and hopes you
are always amenable to your warders. He hopes to see you soon."
149
12 . A Barrel of Rotten Pork
Captain Anthony was in a quandary. He didn't know Breslin by
sight, and, by the same token, Breslin didn't know him.
The earliest mail coach Breslin could make left Fremantle on
Thursday morning and was due at Bunbury at four in the after-
noon of Friday. Anthony was sure Breslin would waste no time in
securing passage on it. When the coach arrived well, he'd just
have to look sharp at the passengers, pick out the most likely one,
and trust to luck.
At five minutes past four the coach rattled dustily up to Spen-
cer's Hotel.
Four passengers alighted from seats inside. One climbed down
from the box alongside the driver. He was a slight man in coun-
try clothes, and Anthony dismissed him immediately. Of the other
four, one was in regimentals. That eliminated him. Anthony
looked sharply at the other three.
There was his man, he was certain. He was big and he had a
full beard. He was stylishly dressed in a light suit, from which
he fastidiously flicked the dust with an expensive leather glove.
A tall hat topped his head, a gold watch chain spanned his vest.
He looked rich and important.
Anthony stepped down from the hotel porch and addressed the
imposing-looking stranger with a slight rising inflection: "Mr.
Collins!"
Breslin hesitated not a second. The seafaring man before him
had "Yankee" written all over his face. "Captain Anthony!" he
said, smiling broadly as if he had known the mariner all his life.
Captain Anthony led the way to the hotel desk. "My owner,
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A Barrel of Rotten Pork
Mr. Collins," he told the clerk. "He will have one of your best
rooms for . . ." and he turned to Breslin.
"For the night, at least," Breslin supplied. "As soon as I have
freshened up after that bone-racking journey I will be happy to
have you as my guest for supper."
Anthony bowed.
They had a generous meal. Then, the evening being fair, they
set out for a stroll around the town. Anthony guided their steps
to the wooden jetty on the harbor front and led Breslin a safe
distance out on the wharf. Breslin grabbed Anthony's hand. "Ah,
Captain! Thanks be to God you are here! You'll never know how
worried I've been indeed, all of us have been when the days and
the weeks slipped by with no word from you/'
"We had our worries too," Anthony smiled. "We had some
storms the like of which I've never seen in all my seafaring days/'
"Never mind the past. You're here and everything's all right,"
Breslin exclaimed.
Anthony shook his head. "I'd like to be able to go along with
you on that, but I've trouble enough."
"Trouble?"
"First, my bottom's bad fouled. I know we can't take the time
to careen and scrape her. Then I lost a lot of sails in the storms we
had. There isn't enough time to have new ones cut here. And I
haven't taken any oil not enough to waste hoops on casks."
Breslin was relieved. "We didn't hire you to take whales, Cap-
tain," he said. "All we asked was that you get the Catalpa here
to Bunbury. That you have done. The oil casks
"
"You don't rightly understand, Mr. Breslin. I know the oil in
our hold don't matter. But my crew figure they won't get enough
money to buy plug tobacco at the end of the voyage. They're
mad. I can trust only the men in my own whaleboat. I got three
men in irons aboard ship right now. I got one man in jail in Bun-
bury. They tried to jump ship. I tell you, my crew is near mutiny."
"I guess I can't help you there, Captain. But the man who
brought this bark here against storms, I'm sure can bring his crew
into line, no matter how mutinous."
151
The Emerald Whaler
'Til have your ship ready for you when you want her. No crew
ever got the advantage of George Anthony yet. Now, I've spilled
my troubles. What about yours?"
"So far, things seem all right," Breslin said cautiously. "Our
men are all working within the walls or right outside the prison.
None of them are on bush gangs. If they all continue just as they
are now, we can get them out of the prison and to the beach I've
picked out."
"Tell me about the beach."
"I think it is all right, and so does Father McCabe. It is far
enough away from Fremantle so that you can land without being
suspected, and close enough for us to reach with galloping horses
before pursuit catches up with us. If it doesn't suit you, then
we'll try to find another."
"All right, so your beach suits me. Then what?"
"I propose that you have the Catalpa stand by outside territorial
waters, under light sails, and that you bring your whaleboat to
this beach, under darkness, if that is possible . . ."
"Landing on a strange shore after dark and trying to hit one
spot? I don't quite like that."
"Then land in twilight. We'll get our men to the spot early
next morning. From the beach to the point where your bark
would be in neutral waters is about sixteen miles. How long
would that take to row?"
Anthony calculated briefly. "About five hours, if the weather
is good and there isn't too much of a sea running. I hope we can
use the sail. I have a good boat crew, though. They can do it in
that time without sail. But I'd like to see the coast between here
and Fremantle."
"I was going to recommend taking the steamer back to Fre-
mantle. The government boat, the Georgette, is due here tomor-
row. She carries the colonial mails. We can engage passage on
her, you can reconnoiter the coast and you can visit Fremantle.
You're one of my captains I'm a rich Yankee, you know." Breslin
laughed. "You can come back here to Bunbury and get the
Catalpa ready. I want to make the break by Thursday next week,
April 6."
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A Barrel of Rotten Pork
Captain Anthony pursed his lips. "That's mighty close figur-
ing. With the men in irons, I'm shorthanded for getting water
and stores aboard. And I can't abandon that man in jail. I'll have
to pay his fine, but I'll need every able-bodied hand if it comes
to a fight. I'll do my best."
Breslin hustled aboard the Georgette Saturday morning with
Captain Anthony in tow. He presented the Yankee skipper as
"The master of one of my ships just in from America." He de-
manded the best accommodations aboard from the purser ac-
commodations befitting the "Yankee Trader," part of whose get-
rich schemes now seemed on the point of fruition.
Anthony found a kindred spirit in Captain Grady, master of the
Georgette. Grady had once sailed as mate on a London-New York
merchantman. By the time the Georgette had cleared the harbor
the Catalpa master was in the pilot house, talking about the coast,
courses, bearings, Australian winds and storms. Sunday morning
he used Grady's spyglass to study the shoreline around Garden
Island, Rottenest and Rockingham.
As Grady eased his ship through Owen Anchorage toward
Fremantlc's Victoria Quay, both Anthony and Breslin saw at the
same time the British gunboat moored to the opposite side of
the quay.
The armed craft meant little to Anthony, but Breslin stiffened
in horror. The gunboat swarmed with sailors and the muzzles of
her guns poked menacingly from ports. As the Georgette eased
into her berth, Breslin made out the name on the warship's fan-
tail: H.M.S. Conflict. There could be no prison break while that
heavily armed Royal Navy vessel was in Fremantle. It would be
suicide to think of standing up to her guns in a chase.
Breslin whispered his despair to Anthony as the two walked
to the Emerald Isle. All Anthony could offer was that he would
go back to the waterfront later and try to find out something about
the gunboat. He returned from his spying expedition with bad
news.
"She has two guns and a crew of thirty," he reported. "She's
schooner rigged and everyone says she's mighty fast. We'd be
goners if she ever took out after the Catalpa in light winds. Maybe
The Emerald Whaler
in real heavy weather we could show our heels just maybe."
"Did you find out how long she'll be here?"
"About eight or nine days. Then she may sail to Adelaide in
South Australia or to Darwin in the Northern Territory. All the
dockwallopers know is that she goes one way or the other each
time she visits here."
"Well, we'll just have to sit tight . . ." Breslin began.
"You haven't heard the worst of it. There's another gunboat
due to take the colonial governor on a tour of towns in the north
part of West Australia. I couldn't find out when she's coming or
when she's leaving."
"Then the break's off, for now," Breslin decided with a heavy
heart. "We'll have to wait until the Conflict is gone and until we
find out when the other vessel is due."
They ate a troubled lunch together. Then Breslin brightened.
They need not waste all the time. This would be a grand oppor-
tunity for the Captain to visit the beach Father McCabe and he
had picked out.
Breslin ordered up the matched team he had found on previous
occasions to be the best Albert had in his stables, and brought
them out onto the sand of the beach in two hours, twenty minutes.
Anthony looked around critically. The beach was well shel-
tered from the open sea by Garden Island, a long low stretch of
land covered by tall grass and bush. At the north end of the is-
land there was a narrow passage to the sea.
"Here is where we expect to deliver our men," Breslin said.
Captain Anthony looked about to fix landmarks. A tall gum
tree served for a mark that could be seen from a couple of miles
off shore. With Breslin's help he dragged two driftwood logs
above high water mark and set them up in the sand as guides.
He stood off and looked at them. Then he said solemnly, "These
logs mark the place where I will meet you with my boat if God
spares my life."
"Amen!" Breslin added.
They devised code messages to cover the new situation pre-
sented by the presence of the warship. When the Conflict had
154
A Barrel of Rotten Pork
cleared, Breslin would send this message: "Your friend N. (or S.)
has gone home. When do you sail?" Captain Anthony would in-
terpret this to mean: "The gunboat has sailed north (or south).
Start from Bunbury." In the event the gunboat that was to take
Governor Robinson to the northwest arrived, the message would
be:
"Jones is going overland to Champion Bay. When do you
clear out of Bunbury?" Then, when the coast was clear again,
the message would read: "Jones has gone to Champion Bay. Did
not receive a letter from you." Then the Captain would get
under way.
Back aboard the Catalpa after a wearying hundred-mile jour-
ney by stage, Captain Anthony told the First Mate all that had
transpired.
"When we'll leave, I don't know. That gunboat could stay there
a couple of days or a couple of weeks. They didn't seem to be
doing any big work on her, just normal port jobs. Until she goes,
Breslin will just have to haul his anchors short and wait. The
Conflict could catch us before we got half our canvas spread.
She's a pretty schooner, and you can bet she has a good British
Navy crew aboard.
"Now there's no reason for me to stay on shore. I'm going to
take charge of building cabins for the Fenians when we get them
on board. I want you to get our water and our provisions in the
hold as soon as you can. I think you can trust your own boat
crew. Farnham can take my boat. Last thing to bring aboard is
wood. We could pinch along on what we got."
"How about word from Breslin?" Sam asked.
"Every time you go ashore one of your jobs will be to call at
the telegraph office. Got a mighty pretty girl operator there.
Mebbe Amy Chase'll have a rival here down-under."
Smith shook his head vehemently.
"Don't be too sure. Beatrice Warren's her name. I found that
out for you."
Beatrice might have been the most beautiful girl in Australia,
but Sam Smith had another image in his heart. The first thing he
did when he took a water cask crew ashore Saturday morning was
155
The Emerald Whaler
visit the shop of the jeweler and watchmaker. After a long and
careful inspection he bought a heart-shaped brooch made of Aus-
tralian gold for his Amy Chase. He could just see her eyes light
up at the shining trinket.
The water casks were filled by Saturday night. In the steerage,
Captain Anthony pushed his men building the additional cabins.
To their mutterings about taking up cask space for such things,
he said shortly: "We're taking some passengers back to the States.
You men'll get your share in the passage money." This was all
right with the crew. It was better than flensing whales.
By Monday night all provisions were aboard. Sam had made
several trips to the telegraph office, where Beatrice had engaging
smiles for the husky Yankee but no messages for the master of
the Catalpa.
Anthony went ashore to secure the release of Coeking, still a
prisoner of the Water Police. It cost the Captain two English
pounds to settle the assault charges. When Coeking had been
taken back on the Catalpa, he was put in irons with the three
other deserters.
Breslin haunted the waterfront. The Conflict's captain seemed
to be in no hurry to get underway. From the prison Foley brought
heartbreaking news.
"Red Darragh, he do be cryin'," Foley told Breslin. "He says
they ain't never gettin' outa the prison. And Jim Wilson says he's
about give up. He's fer breakin' out and cuttin' and runnin' for it.
I told him to take it easy for a spell. All of 'em, they's just fair
breaking with the waitinY'
Tuesday morning, April 11, when Breslin made his visit to the
quay, the Conflict was gone. Waterfront hands told him she had
sailed south, likely for Adelaide. No one had any idea when the
other gunboat would arrive.
Breslin took a long chance. Over the wires went the message:
"Your Friend S. has gone home. When do you sail?" If all was
well, he reckoned, the Catalpa should get under way that very
afternoon and the rescue could be made Thursday morning,
April 13.
156
A Barrel of Rotten Pork
All day he waited, scarcely daring to leave the telegraph office.
No reply came. The telegraph operator, surly over Breslin's con-
stant queries, slammed the message window shut, locked the
office and stomped off. Breslin went to bed puzzled, unhappy,
worried sick.
Tuesday morning Sam made another trip ashore to secure fire-
wood and a few remaining items for the ship. He made his usual
trip to the telegraph office.
"Anything for the Catalpa, Miss Warren?" he asked.
"Ah, Yank, why can't you call me Bea? I'd call you by your
first name, if I knew it." She eyed him archly.
"Well it's Sam, if you must know," he retorted.
"Now that's more like it, Sam. I wanted to ask you to go on a
picnic on Sunday after church, of course. That's Easter Sunday.
Some of us are going up river and we're going to have the last
picnic of the season."
Sam lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. "Well now, if we don't
sail . . ."
"You tell your old captain not to sail until we have our picnic,"
Bca insisted.
"You tell the old man. He'd chew my head off."
"Maybe I will. Do him good to get told off," Bea said. "If he
says he'll wait, then will you go?"
"Could be. Now, is there anything for the ship?"
"Come to think of it, there is." She handed him a telegram.
Sam grabbed it.
"Don't rush off so
"
But Sam was out of the door and on the way to the bark before
she could get out another word.
Captain Anthony read Breslin's wire. The ship was ready. All
he needed was port clearance. He ordered his boat overside.
Ashore he started the tedious procedure of obtaining official
clearance for the Catalpa. Customs men were dispatched to the
bark to search her for stowaways and for contraband material.
At the customs office he signed interminable papers and, after a
final snarl of red tape, secured all his necessary papers.
157
The Emerald Whaler
Heaving a sigh of relief, Captain Anthony started back to the
dock, but he hadn't taken a dozen steps before a harried customs
man ran after him.
"You cannot sail, Captain!" he announced breathlessly. "I have
just had word from our men at the quay. They have placed your
vessel in custody."
The bewildered Captain hurried out to his ship. Sam was sit-
ting dejectedly on a hatch cover. Some of the Catalpa crew lolled
around grinning expectantly. A uniformed customs officer sat
beside the First Mate.
"What's up, Sam?" Captain Anthony asked.
"This officer here says we landed a barrl of pork from the bark
and didn't pay duty."
"Did we?"
"You recollect the barr'l. 'Tweren't fit to eat. I give it to the
hotel man. He said 'twas fitten only for the pigs and that's where
'twould go."
"I can't give you clearance," the customs officer said firmly.
"You'll have to go back to the customs house and argue it out there.
Meantime, this ship is legally detained by Her Majesty. I am her
representative."
Captain Anthony rowed ashore gloomily. All this pother over
a mess of rotten pork. If he had his way, all customs menand
the pork would be fed to the sharks and the sooner the better.
The arguments consumed hours, finally entailing an official
visit to the proprietor of Spencer's Hotel, who confirmed the
Captain's story. The customs men were at last convinced that
the pork had not been fit for human consumption, that it had
indeed been presented to a pig farmer. The Catalpa could
proceed.
A whole day lost. Breslin must be frantic. Anthony hurried to
the telegraph office. It was shut tight.
Breslin didn't sleep a wink all night. He tossed and turned, got
up, looked out the window at the silent town, went back to bed
to toss some more. What in God's name was delaying the answer
158
A Barrel of Rotten Pork
from Anthony? Haggard and worn, Wednesday morning he once
more went to the telegraph office.
The operator gave him a curt good morning and turned to his
telegraphic apparatus. Message after message poured in, govern-
ment business taking precedence. Finally, just as Breslin had
about given up hope, the word he had been waiting for clicked in.
"I sail today. Good-by. Answer if received. Anthony."
Breslin's knees went weak. If Anthony left Bunbury that day,
he would be off Rockingham beach Friday morning. Friday was
Good Friday. Not only was it a church holy day but it was a gov-
ernment holiday too. All government buildings would be closed.
The telegraph offices in Fremantle and in Bunbury would be shut
down. There would be no work parties of prisoners. All of them
would be confined to the Establishment, for church services and
for an infrequent day of rest.
With trembling fingers, Breslin scribbled a message to the
Catalpa. The telegraph key buzzed. Breslin clutched his rosary.
If only the Blessed Virgin would grant him this one boon that
Captain Anthony would wait indeed, as he had said, to get this
answer.
Captain Anthony waited ashore Wednesday morning for an
answer to his sailing message. The harbor officials he gammed
with about the weather were pessimistic. Though the winds were
steady at the moment, they predicted a swing to the northwest
during the late afternoon or the night.
"Captain," his informant warned, "if the wind holds in the north-
west for a couple of hours, it will blow hard. If the wind then
swings to the south and abates, you'll have fair sailing. But if the
wind swings back into the northwest again, then batten down,
you're in for it."
Bea, with a saucy smile, handed him Breslin's message shortly
before noon. It read: "Your telegram received. Friday being
Good Friday I shall remain at Fremantle and start for York on
Saturday morning. I wish you may strike oil. Collins."
Captain Anthony could have kicked himself for not realizing
159
The Emerald Whaler
the holy day was at hand. He could only blame that infernal
argument over a mess of spoiled pork. He dashed off a telegram
in reply and gave it to Bea.
In Fremantle, Breslin ate a hasty lunch, then haunted the tele-
graph office again. One o'clock came and went. Two o'clock.
Four o'clock. He couldn't give a final alert to Desmond or to the
men in prison. Time enough when he had something definite.
King agreed.
Five o'clock and the reply came. "Yours received. Did not sail
today. Winds ahead and rising. Sailing in morning. Good-by.
Anthony."
The Catalpa would be off Rockingham Saturday morning!
Breslin shed his worries and his depression as he would a tattered
coat. Now was the time for fast, final action.
First, he alerted Desmond. He scribbled a telegram. "I leave
for York Saturday." That code message would bring Desmond
to Fremantle Friday night with his matched team, a wagonette,
the clothes, the guns and the ammunition.
Now, word to the prisoners.
It was late. Work parties were already back in the prison.
Tomorrow, the holy day, all would be confined within the Estab-
lishment. It would be impossible for him to give Wilson the
signal right forefinger laid along the nose, then moved across
the right cheek: "Get ready! We start tomorrow."
Foley must take one more chance. He must smuggle just one
more note behind the walls. He must find some way to get into
the prison on Good Friday. Then he could start for his beloved
Ireland.
At Foley's lodgings, Breslin penned his note on a bit of paper,
tiny enough so it could be swallowed instantly: "Our friends are
ready. They will be at the place Saturday morning. Obey Wilson
in everything he orders. He is the leader. We have money, guns,
clothes. Let no man's heart fail him. This chance can never come
again. Erin go bragh."
"Will," Breslin said gravely, "this note to Wilson means life or
160
A Barrel of Rotten Pork
death. Get it to him then sail for Ireland with the blessings of
the Clan upon you."
Will replied just as gravely. "I'll get the note to Jim first thing
Friday morning."
Breslin hurried back to the Emerald Isle, jubilant at last. Every-
thing was in hand. He slept lightly. At midnight he was awakened
by a deluge of rain dashing against the window panes. He rose
and looked out. Torrents of rain swept the deserted street, driven
by a wind that seemed to mount in ferocity with each gust. If this
storm lashed the whole coast, the Catalpa might be in serious
trouble.
"Oil, God," he thought, "how many more disappoint-
ments can come to me?"
For the rest of the night he lay sleepless, listening to the tem-
pestthe roar of the rain and the snarl of the wind.
161
13 . The Beach
Early Thursday afternoon, Captain Anthony went ashore to make
certain no more red tape stood between his ship and port clear-
ance.
Back on the bark, he looked at the barometer. At the noon
reading, the mercury had stood at a trifle over thirty inches. Now,
only three hours later, the column had dropped a full inch and a
half. The sky was darkening, and a fresh breeze from the north-
west whipped the bay water into whitecaps.
By nightfall, a wicked wind was lashing the harbor. The Cap-
tain ordered the royal and topgallant yards sent down and snugged
the Catalpa for foul weather. The anchor cables were payed out
full to ease the strain. She should ride the blow, he figured, and
went below.
Shortly before eleven o'clock, Bolles, who had the night watch,
called the Captain. The ship was taking heavy punishment in a
wind that was full northwest and nearing gale force.
As the weatherwise ashore had foretold, the wind began to shift
to the south. The barometer showed a drop of another half inch
to twenty-eight. The wind held south until two in the morning,
quieted momentarily, then switched sharply back to northwest.
Smothering rain squalls chased across the white-lathered water
as dawn broke. Huge seas roared down on the ship, cascading
her decks. Again and again she smashed her bow so deep that solid
green water sluiced over the forward deck, crashed against the
tryworks and flooded the waist.
First Mate Sam Smith came on duty with the midwatch, stood
beside Anthony watching the strain on the anchor cables, now
rigid as iron bars.
162
The Beach
"Another hour and she'll drag," Anthony said. "If the anchors
let go, we'll pile up on the beach. Get all our people on deck.
We'll have to work fast to save her if the anchors don't hold!"
"All hands!" brought grim-faced seamen to their posts, port
watch at foremast, starboard watch at main and mizzen. The
Captain told off a second man at the wheel.
The wind howled up to hurricane force and there was a lash of
coming winter in the bitter blasts. The Catalpa smashed hawse-
pipe deep. A giant wall of water raced the full length of her,
soaking every man. The bark shuddered, then reared like a crazy
stallion. There was a sudden lurch. Then another.
"She's dragginT Smith yelled.
"Set tops'ls!" Captain Anthony bawled.
Men monkey-raced into the rigging, loosed the sopping canvas
to the gale. The big topsails slatted, then slapped thunderously
belly-tight.
"Fore tops'ls aback!" Anthony shouted.
The ship lurched again as the four tons of anchors lost then-
grip on the sand and mud bottom. The great yard was hauled
about and sheeted home.
Sam looked nervously at Captain Anthony, who stood rain-
drenched, fists clenched.
The drawing main topsail, giving the bark headway against
the gale, should be balanced by the backed fore topsail. The ship
should hold almost stationary. The anchors should get a chance
to bite deep into new holding ground.
The bark plunged again. Green water sluiced her deck. An-
other sickening lurch meant a new slip and slide along the harbor
bed. The shore was a scant two cable lengths away. Again she
plunged and lurched, but on the next smash into a giant white-
maned wave the bark rose steady.
"She's holding, Sam!"
It was well past dawn when the wind began to abate almost as
fast as it had made up. The sun broke through the ragged edges
of the clouds but the seas ran heavy, and the now contrary wind
made it certain that the Catalpa could not clear for Rockingham
163
me .meraia wnaier
that day. Even if she set sail now, she could not be off the rescue
beach soon enough to keep the whaleboat rendezvous. Breslin
would have to be notified at once.
Anthony went below and thumbed through the code book. Not
a single message would take care of the situation. He dipped pen
in ink and struggled to put together words that would tell Breslin
of the delay, yet not alarm him too much. Finally he decided on:
"It has blown heavy. Ship dragged both anchors. Can you ad-
vance more money if needed. Will telegraph you again in the
morning."
Breslin should realize that a ship dragging her anchors wasn't
in much trouble. He would certainly translate "more money" as
more time.
"Telegraph in the morning" should tell him everything
could go ahead as planned with a day of delay.
It was past noon before a boat could be launched without
swamping. Sam carried the message for Breslin tucked in the
pocket of his pea jacket.
Captain Anthony stayed aboard to get necessary repairs made
and to prepare for sailing in the morning. He set the carpenter to
work and ordered the royal and topgallant yards hoisted again.
Ashore, Sam raced for the telegraph office. It was closed. A
grinning native, eying his salt-stained pants and shoes, called:
"It's a holiday, Yank Good Friday." He chuckled at Sam's look
of dismay.
"Where's Miss Warren?"
"Like as not home taking a beauty nap."
"Can I get her down to the telegraph office?"
"Not a chance, Yank, not a chance. Not Bea Warren."
Sam ran to Bea's house and pounded on the door.
"Why, Sam Smith! How nice!" Bea answered his thunderous
summons. "But you didn't have to knock the door down. I'd have
come if you'd just whispered."
She held the door open invitingly. As Sam hesitated, she said,
a little more insistently: "Your shoes are sopping. Come into the
kitchen and dry them."
164
The Beach
Sam entered the hallway. "Bea
"
he began.
"Why, Sam Smith! That's the very first time you ever called me
Bea, I do believe," she said happily.
"Look, Bea, I can't stay. I got a telegram my Captain says has
got to be sent today . . ."
Bea tittered. "Oh, bother your old Captain. Let him hire a
pigeon to carry his message. You come on back in the kitchen
and take those wet shoes off. Til fix something hot." She blushed.
"Momma and Poppa are out."
Sam shook his head doggedly. "Thank you, Bea, but I want
you to open the office. Please!"
"Work on a holiday? If I didn't think you were so nice for a
Yank I'd say you were daft. Me work on a holiday? Who ever
heard of such a thing?"
"Look, Bea . . ."
Bea tossed her flaxen head. "Even if I had a mind to go to the
office-which I haven't-I couldn't get anyone on the wire."
"Isn't the Fremantle station open?"
"The Fremantle and Perth stations are always open," Bea ad-
mitted grudgingly, "on account of the prison and the governor
and so on. But they'll only take government stuff."
"Couldn't you try?"
"Why should I, Yank? It's cozy here. You haven't even prom-
ised for sure you'll come to my picnic on Sunday."
"I will, so help me, I will," Sam promised.
"Your old Captain won't let you," Bea said archly.
"Then I'll jump ship, so help me, I will. Now, please, come on!"
"How can I depend on you?" Bea eyed him narrowly.
"Look!" Sam reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, and
pulled out the gold brooch he had bought for Amy Chase. "Look!
I was goin' to give it to you at the picnic. Don't that show I was
goin' to take you?"
Bea's eyes snapped in pleasure. "My," she said. "It is pretty!
Thank you, Sam."
"Now will you try to get someone on the telegraph?"
165
The Emerald Whaler
"Oh, all right."
At the office she tapped out the code for Fremantle. "Dot dash
dot space dot pause dot dotfor TR.
f "
There was no answer.
"I told you there isn't any use. Let's go back to the house."
"Try again! Please keep on trying!"
Halfheartedly she tapped her key again.
This time the sounder clicked.
"He says 'GA BIT . . . that's 'Go ahead, Bunbury.' Ill ask him
if he'll take a message."
The key rattled and the sounder clicked.
"He'll only take an emergency message, he says."
"This is a matter of life or death," Sam implored. "Tell him
that!"
The telegraph instruments chattered madly.
Bea said: "He'll take it. Give me the message."
That Friday morning, Breslin felt as if he had been personally
buffeted by the storm that had raged all night. He sloshed his
face with cold water and went down to breakfast.
There was a message for him at the desk: "Foley says he de-
livered the goods and they were received in good condition.
P. McC."
Breslin smiled in satisfaction. The day was starting well after
all. This should be the last they all would ever see of this hateful
part of the world. The men knew tomorrow was "the Day."
He walked up the hill to Good Friday Mass. The air was as
fresh and bracing as a breeze over the green fields of Ireland.
Father McCabe intoned the solemn Mass of the Pre-Sanctified
with tremendous dignity and feeling. Breslin could sense that the
good father was striving, in his words and in his tone and in his
prayers, to give his blessing to the perilous undertaking that lay
ahead. In nearby pews were the others who were deep in the
plot King and Walsh and McCarthy and wispy Foley.
After the service, Breslin walked slowly toward the Emerald
Isle. The others caught up with him. He ran through a last-
minute check of plans with them.
166
The Beach
"Foley! What of the men?"
"All got jobs nearby all week. Wilson's on the dock. He says
all right. They be ready."
"King! Hire your horse today. Be ready to follow Desmond
and me when we start out. Wait until nine o'clock. Watch out
for an alarm. Then ride fast after us."
"Right!"
"Walsh! McCarthy! You have your nippers? Walsh, you cut
the telegraph wires on the Bunbury road. McCarthy, take care
of the wires to Perth. I want the wires cut at exactly eight o'clock,
and I want them wrecked so it will take hours to fix them." He
grinned at their answering nods. "All right now, let's split up and
walk along. See you all in the morning."
After lunch Breslin ordered his usual matched pair at Albert's
and drove them out the Perth Road to see they were in condition.
Back at the stable in mid-afternoon, he left strict orders that the
same team must be harnessed to a light wagonette for use at seven
o'clock next morning. A crown tip to the hostler brought a quick
"Yessir, Mr. Collins."
As he walked back to the hotel he saw Desmond drive by with
a beautiful team of chestnuts behind a wagonette. An almost
imperceptible nod from Breslin told Desmond all was well.
Breslin continued on to the hotel. On the porch he chatted
awhile with other guests, then entered the lobby.
A telegram was waiting for him. He did not question how it
had been sent and received on the Holy Day, his eyes saw only
the dire words:
"It has blown heavy. Ship dragged both anchors. Can you ad-
vance more money if needed? Will telegraph you again in the
morning."
Breslin turned gray. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
The hotel clerk looked at him with concern.
"Is it bad news, Mr. Collins? Can I be of service?"
"No ... no ... yes ... bad news . . . I'll be all right. . . ."
He almost staggered up the stairs to his room, to slump into a
chair.
167
The Emerald Whaler
This message was no prearranged code. Something had gone
terribly wrong.
It was the storm. The Catalpa must have gone aground, her
planking stove in, her timbers cracked. There would be weeks of
delay. She must need repairs badly. Else why the words: "Can
you advance more money?" Anthony had been told their funds
were running low. Where could he and Desmond or King or
Walsh or McCarthy put their hands on more gold now? How
could he stay on in Fremantle, suspect as he must be right now?
Then, the first shock over, he began to rationalize. Perhaps
this was an improvised code message. "Can you advance more
money?" Could not that mean "Can you give me a little more
time to make minor repairs?" The message did not say there had
been any extensive damage to the ship itself. "Ship dragged both
anchors." Even if the anchors had been lost, if the captain had
had to cut their cables, new ones could be readily procured in
Bunbury. "Will telegraph you again in the morning." Surely that
meant that no serious damage had been done.
But even if Anthony sailed in the morning Saturday the rescue
attempt must be postponed until Monday. Everyone must be
notified immediately to stand by until further orders.
Breslin took a deep breath, and walked downstairs outwardly
composed. The clerk looked at him admiringly. That Mr. Collins
was a cool one got bad news, bounced right back again. A cool
one.
Desmond was at the hotel bar. Breslin stood alongside him.
"Go back to Perth, Tom. Something's gone wrong with the ship.
Wait the word!"
King was still in his room. Breslin told him about the message.
McCarthy and Walsh next. Breslin tried not to appear excited
as he walked to their modest lodging house. He dawdled along,
looking at shop windows, only hurrying his footsteps after he had
reached the corner of their stree*t. They took the news mournfully.
Foley would have to get into the prison once more and tell the
men the rescue was off until further word. He'd have to hurry to
168
The Beach
get inside the gates on some errand pretext before they were shut
for the night.
Breslin knocked on the door. Foley's landlady answered.
"Will? He ain't here. He went out. I don't rightly know
where. Said some friends was giving him a going away party.
He's for Ireland soon."
Breslin felt sick and frustrated. He could not blame Foley
everytiling had been in hand when they had met at church that
very morning. But Wilson and the rest had to be warned, else
they would make a premature break on the morrow.
"Only a miracle . . ." Breslin thought. Suddenly prayer seemed
right and properand the only hope. Surely God would be merci-
ful. He walked to the church.
The sanctuary lamp and a few votive candles added their tiny
light to the dying rays of the afternoon sun. Black covered the
altar in memory of the crucified Christ.
Breslin began to make the Stations of the Cross. With each
supplication he added a fervent prayer to the Virgin that some-
how, some way, she would help him in his trouble. After the
fourteenth Station he felt spiritually at peace for the first time in
days. He did not doubt for a moment that there would be an
answer to his prayers.
As he turned to the door, he saw, framed in the sunset glow,
one of the men he most wanted to seeMartin Hogan. He grabbed
the startled, gloom-blinded prisoner by the arm and pulled him
into a pew. "Martin! I asked for a miracle. The Blessed Virgin
Mary has given it to me. How on earth did you happen here?"
"Just another errand to Father McCabe. I figured I'd not be
missed if I took the time to make the Stations."
"Martin, we can't get away tomorrow!"
The saber cuts across Hogan's bronzed cheek stood out white.
"You promised, John Breslin!" h| lashed. "You said everything
was ready. You said the ship was here. You said you had the
guns."
"Don't get excited," Breslin soothed. "Everything is just as it
169
The Emerald Whaler
was. The ship is at hand but she's had trouble. She dragged her
anchors in the storm. She was hurt some too."
Hogan nodded. "Ah, that storm! We feared it might do hurt to
the ship/'
"It can't be serious. The captain said he'd telegraph me in the
morning. Now, make your Stations, pray hard, then go back and
tell the boys they'll have to be patient. Tell them I'll give the
signal myself to the first one I see. You know it." He put his right
forefinger alongside his nose, then drew it across his right cheek.
"That means 'tomorrow.' See that all of the boys know it."
"For God's sake, hurry," Hogan said. "They're talking about
building a new road. You know what that will mean I"
"There won't be a minute wasted."
Breslin felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.
Now, if things were only going well on the Catalpa . . . The mor-
row would surely tell.
By Saturday morning the wind had gentled fresh from the west,
and the clouds gave way.
Captain Anthony ordered his boat overside and went ashore,
first to reassure the port authorities that the only reason he had
delayed his departure was because of the storm, and second, to
send the word to Breslin that at last all was ready at his end.
He gave Bea this message for Breslin: "I shall certainly leave
Bunbury for the whaling grounds today. Suppose you and your
friends start for York Monday morning. Good-by. Anthony."
After lunch at the Spencer he went back to the telegraph office.
His reply was waiting along with a black look from Bea because
her picnic with Sam now was ruined.
Breslin's wire said: "Your telegram received. All right. Glad
you got off without damage. I wish you would strike oil. Au
revoir. J. Collins."
Anthony returned to the bark. Conditions were good. The
breeze was now moderate from the southwest, the skies were
clear, the weather pleasant and the barometer rising. The Catalpa
170
The Beach
took her anchors aboard. One fluke of the big two-ton port anchor
was gone, broken off when the bark dragged.
The bark stood to sea.
Breslin could not risk another telegram to Desmond. He dis-
patched King to Perth as soon as he had received the message
from Anthony that the Catalpa was sailing. Walsh and McCarthy
got their instructions all over again and a last warning: "I want
those telegraph lines really wrecked!"
As unconcernedly as he could Breslin strolled to the jetty, and
walked out on the tarred planks, puffing on an important-looking
cigar, pausing to look at the fleecy clouds, stopping to puzzle out
the play of the little fish around the salty piles, inching ever nearer
to the convict timber-loading party.
Now he was abreast of the convicts. He could see that Wilson
had spotted him, though he kept on working industriously.
Breslin laid his right forefinger alongside the bridge of his nose,
then moved it across his right cheek.
A look of disbelief and of disgust darkened Wilson's swarthy
face. Tomorrow? Breslin must be mad. How could they start on
Sunday? Didn't the man know that there were no work details on
Sunday, that every man was penned behind the walls of the Es-
tablishment that day unless he went to church?
Breslin sidled nearer. He took a big pull on his cigar, looked at
its fine white ash appreciatively, puffed out the smoke. "Mon-
day!" he murmured, and walked on.
Wilson's slight nod told Breslin he understood.
Easter morning Breslin, King, McCarthy and Walsh attended
Mass. At the church door Breslin tarried until Father McCabe
came out. Breslin whispered to the priest: "Your blessing, Fa-
ther. We try in the morning."
"May the Holy Mother protect you all!" Father McCabe's eyes
misted. Til pray the night for you. Write to me when you get
to America."
171
The Emerald Whaler
Breslin hurried to rejoin the others and went over his instruc-
tions again as they walked along: Walsh and McCarthy slash
telegraph lines at eight o'clock; King ride rearguard, start from
town at nine and gallop to catch up with Breslin and Desmond
in the wagons.
Back at the Emerald Isle Breslin packed a single bag. The rest
of his dunnage he would abandon. He went down to the hotel
lobby. "Fetch your employer," he said to the obsequious clerk.
Maloney appeared, bowing low. "Yes, Mr. Collins?"
"I shall be away for several days, my man. Keep my room
fresh for me."
"Of course, Mr. Collins. And may I ask where you are going?"
He saw the look of annoyance on Breslin's face. "Just in case any
inquire as to where you may be found."
Breslin froze him with a glance. "If you must know, I shall
drive first to Perth."
At about two in the afternoon, while Breslin sat on the hotel
porch, Desmond drove in from Perth, sawing viciously at a sorry
pair of nags, far different from the well-matched pair he had
brought on the false start.
He stabled his team and secured a room. "The devil take these
Australian bushwackers," he snorted to Breslin. "The crowbait
they gave me! All the way from Perth one of those damn nags
wanted to go to Fremantle and the other one wanted to get back
to his stable. Between the two of them they'd never beat a turtle
in a race from taw. And that thieving Summers got his sovereign,
in advance too!"
"But the team you had before?"
"Gone to York, so I was told. Hired just after I brought them
back yesterday. I held a pound in front of the hostler for a better
pair, but he said they were all spoken for."
"They'll have to do. Tell the stable boy you'll want them
hitched up at seven tomorrow morning." Breslin dropped his
voice. "Did your bring the goods?"
"They're in the back, covered safe with a blanket," Desmond
whispered back.
172
The Beach
When Breslin went to Albert's stables to hire the team he had
driven so many times, he found that the better horse of the pair
had been hired out to Superintendent John Stone of the Water
Police. Stone's brother-in-law, the sheriff, had been thrown from
his horse and was in critical condition in Perth. At least, Breslin
thought wryly, Stone would be ten miles away on Monday
morning.
Not only was the team broken up, but Albert told Breslin he
doubted if he could have a team for him at all in the morning.
The regatta at Perth over the Easter weekend had just about
cleaned him out of horses. He hoped there would be some teams
returned, but he wasn't promising.
Six rescued men, Desmond, King and himself in one small
wagonette behind two of the sorriest nags in Australia! It would
take them twice as long to pull to the beach. If the English set out
in pursuit, they would catch them before they even got to Ten
Mile Well.
The Catalpa stood northward along the coast under short can-
vas all Saturday night. With favoring winds, she was about eight
miles offshore and thirty miles southwest of Rottnest lighthouse
by Sunday noon. Closer to Fremantle than that, Captain Anthony
dared not sail. There was a signal station at the lighthouse from
which news of incoming ships was telegraphed to Fremantle. He
did not want his arrival tipped off.
In his cabin, Captain Anthony and First Mate Smith had a last
talk over a tot of rum and water.
"You got a big job ahead of you, Sam," Anthony said gravely.
"Here's what I want you to do: take the ship at least twelve miles
offshore and keep her that far out all the time. Always be certain
you are well outside Australian territorial waters. That way, the
law's on your side at least. The English can't touch you. And
don't let them bluff you.
"If everything goes right, we should take the Irishmen off the
beach at Rockingham about ten o'clock tomorrow morning. As
soon as we get them aboard the whaleboat we'll shove off and
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The Emerald Whaler
head for you. If the wind favors we'll use sail. If it's contrary,
then well have to pull for it. We should raise you long before
dark. Keep lookouts posted in both masts all the time and warn
them to look sharp for us. If the Water Police or a gunboat hails
you, tell them I've gone ashore to fetch a new anchor to take the
place of the one we broke. It wouldn't fool a whaleman, but these
English are stupid. Any rate, that's your story and stick to it.
They can't arrest you.
"I'm going to say good-by now, Sam. There's a mighty big
chance we'll be caught. If we are, I think the crew will get off
scot free. They don't know anything about what's going on. As
for me well, I reckon that Fremantle prison has a lot of empty
cells. If I don't show up by the time you figure I should, then the
ship is yours . . ."
"I'll sail her right in to Fremantle an' demand them swabs turn
you loose," Sam interrupted.
"You will not!" Anthony said grimly. "My orders are: if I'm not
back the ship is yours. Go whaling. Get the casks full of oil. Make
some money for yourself and Amy Chase. And when you get
home, tell Emmie what happened. Tell her Til get home some-
how."
He stood up. They clasped hands.
"Good luck, George," Sam said.
"I'll need it!" Anthony said drily. Tm going to take Farnham
with me. If something happens to me, the men will have a good
officer to boss them. Maybe they can get back to the ship."
Anthony picked up a heavy coat and climbed on deck, Sam at
his heels. The Catalpa was idling along.
"Get my boat overside, Mr. Smith," Captain Anthony ordered.
"And, cook, get me a couple hams, some hardbread and some
water casks. Mr. Farnham, I want you with me."
The Second Mate dutifully slid down the falls.
"You, Big Louie! You, Mopsy and Gingy! You, Tom. You,
Ferris. Go below. Get your coats. We'll be gone overnight."
The boat crew scurried below.
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The Beach
Sam pressed a bottle of rum on the captain. "Thanks, Sam,"
Anthony grinned. "I may be needing that."
Captain Anthony gave a last shake of the hand to Sam, then
slid down the davit falls after his men. He took the steering oar.
"Shove off!"
It was precisely one o'clock Sunday afternoon. The breeze
favoring, the Captain ordered the leg-o-mutton sail hoisted and
set course for the shore and his secret beachhead. The whaleboat
made the southern end of Garden Island in late afternoon. An-
thony ordered the sail furled, to lessen the boat's visibility from
shore. The men rowed steadily around Cape Peron and the south-
ern end of Cockburn Sound. As they came abreast of Collie Head
they were startled by a noise almost as loud as thunder. Farnham
spotted the peril. "Breakers ahead!"
Dead ahead huge seas boiled, seemingly from nowhere.
"Trail oars! Trim this damn boat!" Captain Anthony shouted.
The boat was tossed high in the air by three of the huge
combers, then settled down in the smoother waters of Mangles
Bay.
The men rowed on. It was growing dark. Straining his eyes,
Anthony spotted the big gum tree that was his first landmark.
The surf was light as they approached the shore. The whaleboat
lifted on the swell, then raced shoreward to hiss on the sand. The
men were overside in a flash to drag her up on the beach.
Captain Anthony found his markers not two hundred feet away.
It was eight-thirty in the evening of Sunday.
After a meal of cold ham and biscuits, washed down with rum
and water, the Captain ordered his men to lie down in the beach
grass and get some sleep. It was clear and warm and the weary
sailors were soon snoring.
Captain Anthony sat quietly, looking out to the dark that was
the sea. Overhead was a vast canopy of brilliant stars. In back
was the fearsome shadow of the bush and the forest.
He paced along the beach, looking, thinking, waiting.
He could not sleep.
175
H . Easter
A sense of complacency hovered about the person of Superintend-
ent Donan as he walked through the parade of the Establishment
that Easter Sunday afternoon. His ruddy face actually cracked
into a semblance of a smile as he accepted the stiff salutes of the
warders. There were a few scattered boos and catcalls from the
more troublesome prisoners, but even these seemed to his ears to
be given quite halfheartedly.
Superintendent Donan had reason for his feelings of elation. No
less a personage than His Excellency Governor Robinson himself
had informed him that on the last official inspection the Establish-
ment had been rated very high indeed. It would be the pleasure
of His Excellency to recommend that Superintendent Donan be
suitably rewarded, possibly in rank, certainly in his stipend.
Superintendent Donan was, in fact, so pleased with himself that
he had ordered the prison cooks to prepare a sumptuous holiday
repast for his inmates. Instead of the bully beef of common daily
fare, there was a whole mutton boiled, with fresh cabbage, newly
dug potatoes, and fresh carrots. There was molasses to sweeten
the cocoawhich was served piping hot for a change and plum
duff made from native fruits to top off the banquet.
There was a carefree attitude in the great yard after such a
magnificent feast. Prisoners gathered under what might well be
the last hot sun of the autumn. One group played at bowls, some
contrived a cricket match, others formed a hollow square for a
boxing match. Another group was earnestly engaged in a game
of cards.
No one, least of all Superintendent Donan, took note that the
176
Easter
card players were those oft-troublesome Irish political prisoners.
Nor did any of the warders note the undercurrent of serious con-
versation beneath the banter as each hand was played. Nor did
any of the guards observe that the greasy slip of paper on which
tally was being kept contrasted markedly with the piece of snow-
white paper one prisoner slipped to another.
Wilson studied the worn cards in his hand. "Two for me!" he
announced. Then, in a whisper: "You got it all straight now, Bob?
You play sick tomorrow morning. The medico don't come round
till nearly nine. You play you was took bad. You go to the latrine.
Then you wander to the gate. The gateman won't know you're
on sickcall. You show him that note. It's to the officer in charge
of the jetty details. You walk down to the jetty calm-like. You
give that note to the officer in charge . . . Your bet, Mike . . . The
note calls for you to take Mike and me to the Marine Residence to
move some furniture. We follow you . . . Raise it a pound . . .
but we walk right along out past the prison and out on the Rock-
ingham road . . ."
"See that raise . . ." Bob studied. "How much time I got?"
"All bets down? Breslin said he'd have the wagons a fast five
niinutes walk from the prison . . . he'll wait until nine o'clock. . . .
Mother of God, what beastly luck! . . . Red, you can make it out
easy any time. That Church of England chaplain of yours will
believe anything. You tell the warders you have to have Tom
Hassett to
"
"To help me plant old Broomhole's potatoes."
A warder sauntered near. They played a new hand in high glee.
"Damn you, Bob, if you could cash in your winnings you could
buy the whole shebeen," Wilson complained. The guard walked
on. "Martin, you're painting Fauntleroy's house, ain't you?"
Hogan nodded. "I'll stay . . . Right, still on the job."
"Watch for Tom and Red. When you see them, start off after
them. Carry your paintbrushes and your pail. Make like you was
going someplace else to paint. Then leg it out on the Rockingham
road. Got that all straight?"
They played another hand. Wilson had one last word: "Remem-
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The Emerald Whaler
her, every mother's son of you, like Breslin said, this is our last
chance. We'll never get out of this place if we don't make it to-
morrow. Breslin says he's all ready. Let's make sure there ain't
no slip-ups on our side."
At sunrise, Monday morning, Captain Anthony's crew stomped
their feet, finger-raked dried grass out of their hair and waited
orders from their Captain. Under his direction, they gathered
grass and twigs and started a small fire, broiled slices of ham over
the flames, and washed down the meat and hardbread with water
from one of the boat casks.
As the morning haze lifted, Anthony saw that they were within
a quarter-mile of the Jarrah Timber Company jetty. On his visit
to the beach with Breslin, he had reckoned on being much farther
away than that. As the whalemen watched, a gang of five men
walked out on the jetty and started to work on a timber pile. One
of them looked their way, then started toward them along the
beach.
"Who be ye?" he demanded suspiciously as he came up to them.
Captain Anthony explained he was master of a whaler, bound
to Fremantle for an anchor to replace one lost in the storm.
"An' whar mought this ship o' yourn be?"
"She's standing off shore. I didn't know the coast. We'll row
back to her when we've bought the anchor. We stopped here to
rest last night when it came dark."
"Look, lad," the man grinned wisely. "Stow that stuff. You've
hooked it from some ship. You better get goin'. This ain't no
place to hide. You be deserters."
"Like hell we are!"
"Mebbe you're after someone?"
"I told you why I'm here. Ask any of the men if we didn't lose
an anchor. Ask them who's Captain."
Finally satisfied, the man introduced himself as William Ball
and turned friendly enough. He gave Anthony some bad news.
Ball and his men were there to load some timber on the govern-
178
Easter
ment ship Georgette. When was she due? Matter of hours, Ball
said.
If the Georgette arrived and Ball told Captain Grady about the
Yankee who was fool enough to row for an anchor, then the
Catalpa master was going to run into some fancy questioning.
Ball turned to leave. Then, as an afterthought, he said: "Watch
out when you leave, Captain. Keep close to Garden Island. There's
a hell of a reef a bit outside. You'll get wrecked sure."
"But that's the way I came in last night!"
"Then the Lord had you in His hand," Ball said solemnly. He
shook hands and walked back to the jetty.
The Catalpa men were scared.
"Cap'n, him fella t'row dis fella in jail?" Mopsy asked tearfully.
"Him won't," Captain Anthony said firmly. "No one you fellas
is going to be thrown in jail. He knows we're not deserters. No
one will hurt you."
The men continued to mutter. The Captain decided that in
spite of his original decision not to divulge the real reason for the
stop on the beach, a little of the truth might be well used now.
"Look, you men! I said we were going to pick up some pas-
sengers in New Zealand and they'd pay gold for passage to the
States? I promised you'd all get some of that gold for your lay?
Well, those men have changed their minds. I had word they want
to be picked up off this beach today instead of in New Zealand.
They're prospectors and they're in the woods now. They will be
here soon. When they come they'll likely be in wagons I want
to get them on board ship as soon as we can sail or row them there.
When I give you the order to shove off I want every man to look
alive, get this boat off the beach like the Old Harry was after us
and row like hell for the ship! Mister Farnham, fetch me the bot-
tle. We'll have a bit of rum to wash the vittles down."
Easter Monday dawned fair and cool in Fremantle. For the
townspeople, it promised to be a busy day. At the site of the new
Freemason's Hall, a flag-draped speakers' stand, bearing a beauti-
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The Emerald Whaler
ful medallion of Her Most Gracious Majesty Queen Victoria,
waited to accommodate the notables from far and wide who
would attend, with hundreds of others, the cornerstone laying.
At Victoria Quay lay the government ship Georgette, thin blue
smoke lazily lifting from her funnel. Captain Grady had spent
the holiday and the night ashore. Her crew slumbered, some
peacefully, some soddenly, in her forecastle. Her officers snoozed
in more elegant berths. She needed more coal to fill her bunkers,
but this would go into her holds before she sailed on her regular
mail run this very day.
At the Establishment the day began, as usual, with reveille at
five long before the sun had peeped above the autumnal horizon.
Breakfast followed, then came parade inspection and assignment
of the prisoners to work parties for the day.
Along the road to Bunbury trudged a solitary figure, a bundle
over his shoulder, at the end of a stout stick. He lifted his feet
wearily. The road was long and lonesome. On the highway to
Perth, a similar walker plodded along. In each of the bundles was
just one object of note heavy wire-cutting nippers.
At the Emerald Isle, that hotel's most illustrious and best pay-
ing guest roused himself at five o'clock also. At that hour there
were no prying chambermaids in the dark corridors to note that,
still in his nightshirt, he stole along the hall and rapped discreetly
at the doors of two other guests, Messrs. King and Desmond.
Shortly afterward, attired for a dusty drive in the country, he
repaired to the dining room for an early breakfast. The sleepy-
eyed waitress paid little heed to the fact that two more of the
hotel's guests seemed greatly interested also in an early start for
whatever might be their activities of the day.
Outside the hotel the streets began to awaken to the usual
morning traffic. Clerks arrived at the various mercantile estab-
lishments. Shop shutters were opened. Lumber carts rolled pon-
derously toward the docks and the waiting ships. Riders on horse-
back went their purposeful ways. It was all quite usual.
John Breslin walked with unhurried steps past the hotel stables,
in his hand a small bag. He glanced into the stable yard. Des-
180
Easter
mend's sorry team already was hitched to the light wagonette he
had brought from Perth. A nod from Breslin brought an answer-
ing nod from Desmond. The "rich Yankee trader" continued on
his way to Albert's stables.
Desmond climbed on the box of his vehicle, glanced back at a
large bundle in the body of the wagon, tapped his nags with the
whip and wheeled away.
At Albert's livery, King, beside a big, sound-winded black, was
talking to a hostler. As Breslin approached, he vaulted into the
saddle, chirruped to his horse and rode off.
The door to the stable-yard was open. Breslin walked back to
the courtyard, the palms of his hands moist from nervousness.
There, to his wonderment, was the matched team he usually hired.
Not only were the horses there, but they were harnessed to a
light four-wheeled wagonette.
Breslin gave not a thought as to who had hired the rig. Without
a moment's hesitation he said: "Ah, you've my wagon ready, I see!"
The half-awake stable hand blinked.
"I'll take it now!" Breslin said, and tossed the hand a half crown.
He swung up to the box, clucked to the team, wheeled them
out to the street and tapped them to a trot. It was just half past
seven.
Bob Cranston waited until the woebegone sick of the day had
disappeared into the doctor's room. He wandered over to the
main gate, then straightened his back like the soldier he had been.
In his hand he held the forged order. "I have an order for Officer
Kooler on the dock, sir," lie said, giving the gate guard a military
salute.
The guard waved him on with half a glance at the official-
looking paper.
Without hurrying, Bob walked to the jetty and up to the
Warder Kooler.
"Sir," Bob saluted again, "here is an order from the superin-
tendent."
Kooler peered at it.
181
The Emerald Whaler
"It says
" Bob began.
"I can read," Kooler snapped. "So you got a job for Wilson here
and Harrington? Leaves me shorthanded as hell."
"An order, sir," Cranston said in his best military manner.
"All right. Hey, Wilson. You, Harrington. Go with Cranston
here."
Straight-faced, Wilson and Harrington fell in behind Cranston.
They marched solemnly off the dock and straight for the prison.
And straight past the prison.
Darragh and Hassett looked up as they passed.
"I think old Broomhole can dig his own potatoes," Hassett said.
They walked abreast, Hassett shouldering his spade as he would
a rifle.
Hogan saw the little company approach. He filled his brush
with a goodly dollop of bright green paint, took careful aim and
slapped it with great precision across the front window of Faunt-
leroy's house. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, picked
up his paint pail and joined the procession.
Breslin drove slowly up High Street as if on his way to Perth.
Then he reined sharply right and walked his team slowly by the
warder's quarters and the main gate of the prison.
The yard of the Establishment was almost deserted, the work
details for the day already scattered at their tasks.
Breslin walked his horses on the Rockingham road. Five min-
utes later wheels rattled behind him. It was Desmond in his
wagon. Breslin drove along, Desmond following, until they came
to a heavily wooded section of the road. He halted his team, and
Desmond came up in back.
In silence they divided the clothing, the guns and ammunition
Desmond had brought from Perth. Each took three six-shooters,
three caps, three pairs of pants and half the ammunition. They
looked to their own pistols and checked the loads.
Both wheeled their teams around. There was not a soul in
sight. On both sides of the road the forest of gum, wandoo and
jarrah rose in an impenetrable screen. White cockatoos fluttered
screaming through the bush. The air was filled with droning in-
182
Easter
sects, in a last frenzy before the cold of winter laid them low. A
snake rustled through the dried grass at the edge of the hard
macadam road. Bright lizards flashed. Though it was a cool
morning, Breslin mopped at the sweat beads on his forehead.
Looking at his watch, he nodded silently to Desmond. They
tapped thfeir horses and started slowly back toward Fremantle.
It lacked five minutes to eight. Beyond a bend in the dusty
Australian road lay success or failure for the months and months
of planning.
A minute passed. Two. Three. Then three men in the garb of
Her Most Gracious Majesty's prison hove in sight, marching
smartly abreast.
Breslin and Desmond whipped their horses to a trot to meet
the three: Wilson, Cranston and Harrington. They were grinning
from ear to ear. Excitedly, Harrington yelled: "Ireland forever!"
Breslin cut him short with a warning hand. "Quiet, for God's
sake, quiet!"
The three men jumped into the bed of Desmond's wagon and,
before he had a chance to turn back toward Rockingham and
whip his horses into a gallop, started to strip off their hated
"Broad A" clothes.
The dust cloud back of Desmond's wagon had not settled when
three more men came down the road: Darragh, Hassett and
Hogan. They ran toward Breslin's wagon, waving their arms and
yelling at the top of their voices.
Breslin sawed on the reins and tried to turn his horses around.
The three onrushing men startled his mettlesome team. The off-
horse reared and pawed the sky. Darragh grabbed at the horse's
head. The plunging steed dragged him clear off his feet.
"Let go! He'll kick your head off!*' Breslin shouted, forgetting
his admonition of only a few minutes before.
Darragh loosed his hold. He fell heavily but scrambled crablike
to safety. Breslin slashed at the frantic horse with his whip.
Startled, the animal brought his forefeet down. Breslin lashed
him again. Both horses started in an uneven gallop but a gallop
that was taking the wagon back to Fremantle!
Breslin hauled back on the reins and managed to slow the team
183
The Emerald Whaler
down. A wide spot in the road gave him the chance he was look-
ing for. He yanked hard and swiveled the horses sharply around,
almost upsetting the wagon. The horses headed toward Rocking-
ham. Breslin came abreast of his men and pulled his team to a
fast walk. His three passengers jumped aboard. A cut of the whip
again and the horses leaped into a punishing gallop.
The men fell 011 the heap of civilian clothes and started chang-
ing. As the wagon rocked along they hurled the prison garb over-
board and for the first time in eight years dressed as free men.
They took the tiny hamlet of Ten Mile Well at a sedate walk,
though the lathered, heaving horses belied the gait. They had
made the ten miles from Fremantle in just forty minutes. Outside
the town Breslin drove his team ahead of Desmond's and took
the lead.
The going got heavier. Breslin tried to prod the jaded horses
to a fast trot. Desmond held just far enough in the rear to escape
the clouds of white dust. Some patches of the narrow road were
passably hard, others deep sand. Miraculously they had as yet
met no other drivers.
They were almost at Rockingham Hotel when Desmond and
his passengers heard the drumfire of a horse at furious gallop. He
whipped his team up almost to the tailboard of Breslin's wagon.
"John! Someone's coming up on horseback!"
Breslin reined his horses back almost on their haunches. "Into
the bush!" he shouted.
From both wagons the six Fenians scuttled into the under-
growth like jackrabbits.
The galloping rider clattered around a bend in the road and
pulled his horse up short. It was King. He dismounted and
knocked the dust off his trousers with his hat. The men popped
out of hiding, to meet this partner in the escape and hear his
report.
King wiped the sweaty dirt off his face and talked fast. "I rode
past the prison a couple of times. There wasn't a sign that anyone
had noticed you lads had escaped. Just as I left the town I saw
Walsh. He said he'd cut the Bunbury telegraph wires in a dozen
places."
184
Easter
"Let's get going," Breslin said. "Fall back a half mile and keep
a sharp lookout for any of the English/' he ordered King.
Two hours out of Fremantle and ten minutes ahead of schedule,
the two dusty wagons wheeled onto the widening in the road that
was Rockingham.
The liberated men sat stolidly on the wagon seats, caps pulled
down over their eyes, hands on the guns they hid in their pockets.
Breslin waved genially to the proprietor of the Rockingham
Hotel, Tom Somers, with whom he had become acquainted on his
"Yankee trader" wanderings.
Somers called out: "Hello, Mr. Collins! Just come from Fre-
mantle?"
Breslin nodded.
"Has the Georgette sailed yet?" Somers asked.
"She was at the quay when I left," Breslin said.
"She's supposed to be due at the Jarrah jetty this morning. I've
mail to go by her," Somers said.
If the Georgette made the jetty just as the Catalpas boat was
putting to sea, Breslin thought, there might be a fight before they
ever saw the whaler. He waved good-by to Somers.
The road petered out in a trail through the sand, which took
all the remaining strength out of the horses. In spots all hands but
the drivers leaped out and shoved the wheels through dusty pits.
The last mile was an agonizing battle at a snail's pace. Precious
minutes slid by. Breslin's worries mounted. Sometime before
ten-thirty had been the time goal he had set with Anthony. It was
nearly that hour as the heavy forest finally gave way to the sea-
side bush. The goal was near.
On the beach, the bow of the Catalpas whaleboat was pointed
seaward. The mast was stayed ready for hoisting sail. The crew
lolled in the shade of the sea-edge bush.
Captain Anthony snapped open his big silver watch. It was
nearly ten-thirty. If Breslin had got his men out of Fremantle at
eight o'clock, then they should be here within the next ten min-
utes. He strained his ears for the noise of horses breaking through
the bush or the revolver shots that would mean a running battle
185
The Emerald Whaler
with the police. All he heard was the noise of the surf, the sighing
of the wind in the gum trees, the screams of the feeding gulls.
The keen ears of Gingy, the Malay deckhand, caught the sound
first. He jumped to his feet. "Cap'n!" he cried. "Wagon cornel
Horses come! I hear!"
Suddenly Breslin's team burst through the bush in a flurry of
sand. Close behind him came Desmond. Out of the two wagons
piled the bronzed, bearded escapees, waving their revolvers.
"Him pirates!" Mopsy screamed.
"No pirates, all friends," Captain Anthony shouted.
King and the six Fenians rushed for the boat, grabbed the gun-
wales and began to drag it to the water's edge.
"Him steal boat!" Gingy wrung his hands.
Breslin and Desmond yanked their steaming teams around in
the sand, leaped from the drivers' seats and slashed the frantic
horses across their rumps. The frenzied nags dashed blindly back
into the sandy trace from which they had just burst and tangled
traces inextricably with the underbrush. Snarled like that, they
would effectually block off pursuers. Breslin gave King's jaded
horse a belt on the flanks and sent him snorting into the mass of
harness and flailing hooves. Then he raced to Captain Anthony.
"We did it, Captain! We did it!" he cried. "They all got clean
away the whole lot of 'em. H6re they are, all free men at last!"
Anthony pounded him on the back. "There's not a minute to
waste. The bark's offshore, ready and waiting for us!" He started
for the boat. The Catalpa men stood stiff with fear. Under the
direction of King and Desmond the Fenians were trying to launch
the craft.
"Get the hell away from that boat!" Anthony yelled. "You'll
swamp it! Let my men handle it!"
The Catalpa boat crew jerked into action.
From the nearby jetty Ball came running. "What's going on
here?" he demanded. "Do you need help, Captain? What are you
doing to those horses?"
"In the boat! Everybody!" Anthony yelled.
Breslin shoved a sovereign into Ball's hand. "The horses can
go to hell!" he cried excitedly. "You drive them there!"
186
Easter
The loaded boat wallowed in the surf. Breslin splashed through
the white water and hurled himself aboard.
Ball stood open-mouthed, the sovereign clutched in his hand.
Captain Anthony grabbed the big steering oar.
"You passengers! Down! Down in the bottom of the boat!
Give us room to row!" he shouted.
Breslin, King, Desmond and the six threw themselves in the
bottom of the whaleboat, trying desperately to keep clear of the
feet of the oarsmen.
"Pull!" the Captain yelled. "Pull!"
The thirty-foot-long overloaded boat scarcely stirred to the first
ill-timed strokes. Waves lapped her gunwales. She began to drift
broadside of the surf. Water swept overside. She rolled loglike
under the weight of sixteen men and her gear.
"Pull!" the captain shouted again. "Pull like you were pulling
for a whale! Pull! Big Louie, come on! Give 'em stroke! Pull you,
Toby. Down on it, Mopsy. Pull . . . pull . . . pull! Down together!
That's the stuff!"
The great oars finally bit in unison. A white wake trailed aft.
Despite the confusion, scarcely three minutes had elapsed from
the time the rescued and rescuers had broken through the bush
until the Catalpas boat was driving steadily out to sea.
Ashore Ball broke into a run for the timber jetty. Breslin
watched through the captain's telescope. He saw Ball mount a
horse and whip him into a gallop.
At half after eleven, an hour from the time she had left the
beach, the whaleboat was two miles offshore.
Breslin kept the telescope trained on shore.
Suddenly he stiffened. "The police!" he said.
Where the whaleboat had been launched, a knot of uniformed
men had gathered. Some pointed toward the boat. Others worked
to untangle the snarled teams. Soon all the men mounted and
disappeared in the sand trace leading through the bush.
The excitement in Breslin's flashing eyes and in his vibrant
voice was contagious. Even the still bewildered crewmen joined
timidly in the three cheers he demanded for "The bravest captain
of them allCaptain George Anthony! Hip . . . hip . . . hurrah!"
187
The Emerald Whaler
As the cheers subsided, he said triumphantly: "Tis done, Cap-
tain. Now all I have to do is to inform His Excellency, the Gov-
ernor of West Australia, as to just what has transpired."
He reached into his coat pocket and fished out a folded bit of
oilskin. Unwrapping it, he withdrew a sheet of paper. He held
it up and, in a voice that choked with emotion, proudly read:
"To His Excellency,
The British Governor of West Australia:
This is to certify that I have this day released from the clemency
of Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, Queen of Great Britain,
etc., etc., etc., six Irishmen, condemned to imprisonment for life
by the enlightened and magnanimous government of Great Britain
for having been guilty of the atrocious and unpardonable crimes
known to the unenlightened portion of mankind as 'Love of
Liberty' and 'Hatred of Tyranny/ For this act of Irish Assurance'
my birth and my blood being my full and sufficient warrant. Allow
me to add that:
I'm taking my leave now, I've only to say
A few cells I've emptied ( a sell in its way ) .
I've the honor and pleasure to bid you good-day.
From all future acquaintance, excuse me, I pray.
In the service of my country,
John J. Breslin."
Breslin flourished the paper dramatically before the bewildered
eyes of the oarsmen, folded it carefully, wrapped it in its oilskin,
then tied the packet with a bit of spun yarn. Taking a hatchet he
hacked off a piece of one of the thwarts and bound the packet to
it. Then he took a red waif flag and set it in a cleft in the bit of
board to act as a sail.
The whaleboat was still well inside Garden Island with the
wind and tide setting full ashore. Breslin launched his tiny craft
and watched it as it danced shoreward. Grinning, he blew a kiss
to the little sailboat.
"Now, Captain Anthony," he said. "Let's for the Catalpa and
America!"
188
15 . The Catalpa Stands to Sea
Two flies butted their heads stubbornly against the sun-flooded
windows in Prison Superintendent Donan's austere office. Mr.
Donan eyed them critically as he reached for the sheaf of docu-
ments that required his official attention this April morning. Just
like the fools penned up here, he mused. Down-under winter
coming on, a frosty chill in the morning air, yet all they could
think of was getting out.
He checked the big wall clock against his heavy gold watch
10:45 A.M. Resignedly he turned to the papers before him. Atop
the pile was the list of punishments to be meted out next day.
He came to the bottom of the pile. "Approved!" he barked to a
waiting orderly. "Summon Mr. Atcheson and Mr. Ferguson!"
He drummed on the desk as he awaited the appearance of the
two prison officials. His thoughts drifted momentarily to the
pleasures that lay ahead this day. There was a fresh uniform
waiting for him at home. Thus attired he would mingle elegantly
with the guests of honor and even His Excellency, the Governor
himself, at the laying of the cornerstone for the new Freemason's
building this very afternoon.
Atcheson and Ferguson arrived. They bowed obsequiously and
took the chairs indicated by Donan. Scarcely had they been seated
than, from without, a bull-like voice bellowed. The door of the
office burst open.
Donan leaped to his feet, his face crimson. "Mister Fauntleroy!"
he roared. "What is the meaning of this intrusion? When I wish
to speak with you or any other of my officials, I'll send for you!"
189
The Emerald Whaler
Mr. Fauntleroy shook a bony finger accusingly at his chief.
"Where is he?" he shrieked. "Where is the despoiler of my 'ouse?
Where is that traitorous Irishman? I demand five hundred lashes
on his back. I demand solitary for six months for the fiend. My
'ouse! My 'ousel"
Donan's hand stemmed the tirade. "What are you screaming
about? What's this about your house?"
"He was painting it. Your blasted convict Hogan was painting
it! He ruined it! He's sloshed green paint right across my parlor
windows! I want justice!"
Donan turned to Atcheson. "Fetch Hogan here at once," he
ordered.
The warden started for the door, but before he could reach it,
another man stomped angrily into the office. "You, Atcheson!"
he shouted. "What do you mean taking away the men who were
planting my potatoes? If they ain't planted now, I won't have
none. What kind of a prison are we running here anyhow?"
Donan looked helplessly at Atcheson.
"Now what?" he asked.
"That would be Hassett and Darragh, sir!"
"Did you order them to cease work at Mr. Broomhole's place?"
"No, sir. Not me. Their orders was to plant them potatoes and
stay on the job until they was planted complete."
"Planted complete?" Broomhole shouted. "Two holes they dug,
then took off."
Donan's face turned a deep purple. "I'll teach those damned
Irishmen a lesson! You, Ferguson! You, Atcheson! Get them!"
The warders scurried off. Thirty minutes went by. Donan
paced angrily. Atcheson ducked into the room. Donan whirled
on him: "Well?"
Atcheson cringed. "We ain't found them yet!"
"A plot!" Donan screeched. "Sound the alarm bell! Recall all
work parties! Muster all prisoners!"
The clanging of the great bell hushed the streets of Fremantle.
Townsfolk looked at each other in surprise. Only a disaster at the
Establishment called for a general alarm.
190
The Cotolpa Stands to Sea
In the cool shadows of his church, Father McCabe heard the
bell's brazen voice. He looked at his watch. It lacked a few min-
utes of noon. If all was going well, the Fenians were safe in the
Catalpas boat. He smiled, then dropped to his knees in prayer.
The convict population of the Establishment was lined up on
the parade. Names were ticked off on the rolls. Six failed to
answer call.
"A plot!" Donan roared. "A damned traitor Irish plot! Get me
trackers. Get on their trail. I want those six men in chains before
nightfall!"
He wheeled on Atcheson, who trembled beside him. "This is
a matter for the highest authorities! Get to the telegraph office!
Wire the constabulary at Perth! Alert them that six of our most
dangerous criminals have absconded! Run!"
Ferguson dashed for the telegraph office on the waterfront a
half dozen blocks away. He found the operator twiddling his
thumbs.
"Something's wrong with the wires," the man said.
"Can't get through to Perth nor to Bunbury neither. We're trying
to find out what's wrong."
Ferguson stepped out on the street only to duck back as fast as
he could leap, as a horse thundered past the telegraph office at a
mad gallop. Its rider was shouting at the top of his lungs: "Help!
Pirates! Pirates! Police!"
The horseman pulled his steed back on its haunches as he came
abreast of the office of the Water Police. It was Ball, the only
witness to the dramatic happenings at the beach at Rockingham.
He had made the twenty miles in the almost incredible time of
one hour and forty minutes.
The Water Police office was quickly jammed with townsfolk,
all clamoring to hear Ball's story. In the midst of the confusion
Water Police Superintendent Stone arrived in the elegant equip-
age he had hired from Albert's livery for his visit to his ailing rela-
tive in Perth. Stone, a tall, angular, powerful man with a close-
cropped mustache and bristling iron-gray hair, shoved his way
through the crowd. Ferguson followed hard on his heels.
"What's all this now?" Stone demanded. "Constables, clear out
191
The Emerald Whaler
some of these people. Let's have order! Now, sir, what's this
about pirates?"
Ball blurted out his story.
Stone began questioning him. "How many men were there?"
"Nine."
"Describe them!"
"Well, the one that was the leader was big and had a full beard.
He was well dressed. Two others was well got up too. They all
had hats. Then there was six others . . ."
Ferguson pricked up his ears.
"They had on bad-fitting clothes and caps."
"Armed?"
"All of 'em had revolvers or pistols."
Ferguson asked: "Captain Stone, may I question Mr. Ball,
please?"
Stone nodded.
"Did you see any of those six close enough to tell what they
looked like?" Ferguson asked.
"Well . . . One was terrible dark, almost like a blackfellow. One
had real red hair . . . Another had a big scar on his face."
Ferguson gave a triumphant shout. "Them's our men!"
"What do you mean?" Stone asked.
"I mean, sir, that six of our most dangerous criminals the no-
torious Irish Fenian traitors absconded this morning. The men
Ball describes are those escaped Irishmen. Superintendent Donan
must hear of this at once!" Ferguson shoved through the crowd
and legged it for the prison. In fifteen minutes he was back with
a puffing Donan.
"Where are those dastards?" Donan screeched. "I'll hang them!
So help me, I'll hang them all!"
Stone calmed him. "First we'll have to get at the bottom of
what looks like a clever plot hatched under our very noses. Then
well have to catch them. Then we'll talk about hanging them."
Governor Robinson arrived in Fremantle at two o'clock that
afternoon, prepared to be the honor guest at the Masonic festivi-
192
The Catalpa Stands to Sea
Lies, but instead was thrust immediately into the maelstrom of
investigation. Stone and Donan had arrived at a pretty shrewd
conclusion as to just what had happened. The slashes in the tele-
graph lines had been found and repairs made. Townsfolk quickly
identified Ball's bearded man as the "Yankee trader" Collins. The
Fremantle telegraph operator dug up copies of the communica-
tions that had passed between Collins and the American whaling
captain Anthony. The ship was identified as the Catalpa, out of
New Bedford.
"Good detective work, men," Governor Robinson praised. "Now
what has been done to apprehend these desperadoes?"
Stone spoke up. "I have dispatched our Water Police cutter,
under command of Coxswain Mills a brave, capable man with
a crew of ten, to search the waters off Rottnest and Garden Is-
land. Mills has orders to intercept the whaleboat, arrest every-
one in it and bring them to port here."
"And, by the Eternal, I'll have ropes ready to hang them all-
convicts and Yankees alike!" Donan roared.
"First we must catch them!" Governor Robinson said drily.
"Then there is such a thing as international law."
"International law be hanged!" Donan said. "The law here is
the law we make. I'll see that the law calls for a noose!"
Governor Robinson shook his head. "This is evidently a well-
thought-out plot. It is too bad the Conflict has departed. We
could use her speed and her guns. I shall dispatch messages im-
mediately to all ports where she is to call, instructing her captain
to turn back for Fremantle at full speed."
"She'll arrive too late!" Donan said dourly.
"I fear that. If there only was another fast . . ."
"The Georgette is still at dock. I don't think she's coaled yet!"
Atcheson offered.
"Capital!" Governor Robinson beamed. "Mr. Stone, I commis-
sion the Georgette forthwith as a warship in Her Majesty's Navy.
You will be in complete command. Her Captain what is his
name?"
"Grady, sir."
193
The Emerald Whaler
"Captain Grady, then, will take orders from you, Mr. Stone.
What armed forces are available locally?"
"We have a well-drilled company of the Enlisted Pensioners'
Reserve, your Excellency."
"Muster them at once. Notify the Georgettes agent and her
Captain. Now I must make an appearance at the Masonic cere-
monies, but I shall be back shortly. Have the Georgette's Captain
here when I return."
The Governor was back at Stone's office by 4:30 P.M. Captain
Grady of the Georgette was waiting impatiently. Stone's face
was flushed.
"Ah, Captain Grady!" the Governor said. "No doubt Mr. Stone
has acquainted you with the facts in the case."
"He has," Grady replied gruffly. "And he has also informed me
that he is in command of my ship!"
"I have put Mr. Stone in complete charge of this action, Cap-
tain. You are correctly informed."
"Then I protest, sir, here and now. The Georgette is my com-
mand. I am responsible to her owners. I protest, sir."
"I quite appreciate your feelings . . ."
"I don't think you do, your Excellency. Besides, Mr. Stone is
already demanding the impossible. He wants to sail at once. My
crew is tired . . ."
"Tired because they caroused all the Easter weekend!" Stone
said.
"I resent that, sir!" Captain Grady flashed. "Besides, my ship
is not coaled. I cannot undertake a long voyage
"
"Is a voyage to Rottnest Island such an ocean adventure?"
Stone asked sarcastically.
"Gentlemen! We'll have no more of this bickering!" the Gov-
ernor interrupted. "My orders stand. You will work together in
this expedition. Remember, gentlemen, this is a duty to our coun-
try and our Queen!"
"The Queen!" Stone and Grady chorused.
The office door opened. Coxswain Mills strode in. He saluted
Stone.
194
The Cotolpa Stands to Sea
"What brings you back so soon, Mr. Mills?" Stone demanded.
Mills took an oilskin-wrapped packet from his coat pocket. "I
spoke a coastwise schooner shortly after leaving," he reported.
"Her skipper picked up this packet, tied to a bit of board, with a
waif flag foresail. I took the liberty of opening it and deemed the
message of such importance that I decided to deliver it to you
at once."
Stone opened the packet.
"It is a letter addressed to your Excellency!" He handed it to
Governor Robinson.
The Governor read the message carefully, first to himself, then
aloud.
"John J. Breslin," he repeated. "It sounds familiar but . . ."
A Water Police constable spoke up. "If it please your Ex-
cellency . . ."
"Yes, my man?"
"My name is Mulcahy. I'm amnestied. I was in prison . . . years
ago. You understand . . ."
"Yes! Yes! You know this Breslin?"
"That I do, sir. He liberated James Stephens from Dublin prison
back in the Ws, sir, beggin' your pardon for offering my word
to you."
"Ha!" Governor Robinson slapped his thigh. "That's it. Now I
remember. Breslin was a master conspirator. What a coup if we
can catch him! Mr. Stone, now we know the caliber of our enemy.
He has plotted carefully. He is cunning. It will take our most
valiant efforts to thwart him. Is your armed force on the
Georgette?"
"Within the hour, sir! The Pensioners are in charge of Major
Flaherty. The Water Police detail is in charge of Sergeant Mc-
Larty."
"Flaherty! McLarty! Have we none but Irishmen hereabouts?
Are you sure you can trust such men?"
Stone stiffened.
"Sir," he said with some hauteur, "they are
my most trusted officers. I can answer personally as to their loyal-
ties to Her Majesty. They will bring back the criminals."
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The Emerald Whaler
"I do not doubt it. Now, your orders. I will draft them and
sign the document directly, but I will give them to you verbally at
once. You are to pursue these fugitives, if they are still in the
whaleboat, or, if they are aboard the whaler, you are hereby di-
rected to identify the ship, to go alongside her, to demand the
surrender of the criminals being harbored thereon. You will warn
the Captain, with as much show of force as you may deem neces-
sary, of the consequences of his rash deed in defying the forces
of Her Majesty!"
"Thank you, sir! I shall do my utmost."
"England asks nothing more!"
Stone turned to Mills. "Coxswain, refresh your men, set sail as
soon as possible. You heard the Governor's orders. Obey them.
How are the winds?"
"Light and westerly, sir."
Stone rubbed his hands in satisfaction. "A lumbering whaler
can make little westerly progress under such conditions. If the
winds do not pick up, I am confident, Governor Robinson, that
our quarry will not be too far away by tomorrow morning. She
must depend on the wind. The Georgette has sails and she has
her engine."
Before Governor Robinson left for Perth Monday night, he
drafted this message for immediate telegraphic transmission to
all points in the Commonwealth:
"Detain, by force if necessary, American whaling bark Catalpa,
George Anthony master. Arrest said Anthony, his officers and
crew and any passengers who may be aboard. These passengers
are believed to be six life-term convicts who have this day ab-
sconded from Her Majesty's penal establishment in Fremantle.
Immediately upon seizure of ship and men, notify proper authori-
ties in Fremantle and Perth."
Telegraph sounders clicked in Adelaide, in Melbourne, in Syd-
ney, Brisbane, Darwin and in Bunbury.
Bea Warren took the message.
So that was why that Sam Smith never showed up at the picnic.
He was just a criminal. Why, he was like a traitor! Maybe they'd
196
The Catalpa Stands to Sea
hang him. She sobered at the thought. Maybe, though, since he
was a Yank, they'd just put him in jail for years and years. Maybe
she'd see Mr. Sam Smith again on visitor's day at the Establish-
ment. It would be worth the long stagecoach trip and she'd wear
the gold brooch tool
Sam Smith was a lonely mariner on a lonely sea. If his thoughts
wandered at all that Monday, they most certainly did not trend
toward Bea Warren. More likely they raced the thousands of
miles of ocean to a tidy spot in Martha's Vineyard, and to pretty
Amy Chase Jernegan there. And when he thought of Amy Chase,
his heart was heavy as a sounding lead. For the outlook was dim
that he would see her fresh young face for many and many a
day if he ever did see her again.
For Sam had made a great decision while he watched his Cap-
tain's boat merge into the shore haze on Sunday evening. If
George came back safely, with or without the Irishmen, all well
and good. If the English came after them, then he'd go down
with the ship, fighting beside his friend and captain with revolver,
musket, lance and cutting spade to the end.
But if George didn't come back, if he was caught by the Eng-
lish and thrown into prison, then he, Sam Smith, would be eter-
nally damned if he would turn stern and run for New Bedford-
whether that was orders or not. He would head straight for Fre-
mantle harbor and get George Anthony out of prison if he had to
shoot his way in and fight his way out. If he didn't do that, then
he knew he could never face Amy Chase or Emmie Anthony again.
But there was little time for planning so far ahead. Sam's im-
mediate job was to work the Catalpa far enough offshore so that
she would be in international waters and thus outside the legal
jurisdiction of Australian authorities. Not that Sam had any faith
whatever in international law. If the English wanted their men,
and their men were on the Catalpa, well it was a far piece to
America and it would be a long time before Washington ever
heard of any violation of sea law.
The winds were contrarily light all Sunday night. By daylight
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The Emerald Whaler
Monday the bark had made scarcely a mile more in her westward
course. The sails had hung limply until near sun-up, when a light
breeze from the west sprung up.
Sam drove his crew mercilessly, trying every sailing trick he
knew to win a few more miles offshore. Anthony had told him
twelve miles would be enough, but Sam took it on himself to add
four miles more to that a good sixteen miles of open water to
give them plenty of room to outsmart the British. By taking ad-
vantage of every little cat's-paw of wind he reached his goal by
noontime Monday. All canvas except a headsail and the fore and
main topsails were clewed, and the Catalpa began her slow patrol
of the Australian coast, waiting for the return of her Captain.
The afternoon wore along. Relief followed relief at the lookout
rings. There was no sign of the whaleboat.
Around four in the afternoon the wind picked up and the sky
clouded over. Whitecaps dotted the water, making it more and
more difficult for the men aloft to spot the small boat. The
Catalpa began to roll and pitch.
Darkness closed in. Sam climbed to the mainmast rings with
his spyglass for a last futile look. If Captain Anthony had taken
the men off the beach at half after ten, as he had planned, then
he should have been this far offshore hours ago. Maybe . . . But
Sam shut the ugly thought of capture out of his mind.
"Mr. Boles," he called, "keep a man in each ring for the rest of
the night. I want lanterns lashed at the topgallant doublings in
the foremast, mainmast and mizzen. I want her riding lights
bright and shining. And put another lantern at her bow. I want
her to look like a floating city, so even if we can't spot him, the
Captain can find us in the dark."
At four in the afternoon, Captain Anthony pointed the over-
loaded boat more into the wind. It was slow going with the
breeze still from the west, but by good seamanship the whaleboat
began to win an appreciable distance from shore. But there was
not a sail in sight, only the dipping terns, the dancing water, the
shimmering western horizon where the sun was getting low.
198
The Cotcdpa Stands to Sea
Captain Anthony leaned toward Breslin. In a low whisper he
said: "If we don't raise the bark soon, we'll have to spend the
night in the boat."
"What are our chances?" Breslin asked anxiously.
Suddenly Second Mate Farnham, in the bow, balanced him-
self against the clumsy cleat for another searching look. The
whaleboat crested a sea as he peered ahead. He waited for an-
other sea to raise the boat. Then he said, simply: "There ship."
By five o'clock any one of them could see the bark's upper
courses when the whaleboat was atop the crest of a sea. The
Catalpa was holding a course roughly parallel with the shore and
was about eight miles away from them. The whaleboat was gain-
ing on her but slowly. There was no indication from the bark that
her lookouts had sighted them.
With an awe-inspiring rush, great banks of ominous black
clouds suddenly blotted out the setting sun and the whole west-
ern sky. The wind shipped up sharply. A rain squall laid a curtain
about the bark, cutting it from view, doused the already soaked
men in the whaleboat, and churned the sea into froth.
The sail strained in the gusts and the boat picked up speed.
"In oars!" Captain Anthony ordered, and took a fresh grip on
the steering sweep.
Another knockdown squall heeled the whaleboat so her lee
gunwale shipped water.
"You! You!" Anthony pointed at Hogan and Cranston. "Grab
the scoops and bail! The rest of you, up on the weather rail the
one most out of the water! Quick, afore the next squall hits!"
Despite the balancing weight, the boat shipped another wave.
Water was inches deep in the bottom. Hogan and Cranston
bailed frantically. Wave after wave sent more water over the side
and threatened to swamp the overloaded craft.
It was pitch dark. There was no longer hope of fighting their
way to the Catalpa. It was a question now of survival.
With a rush and a roar another savage squall hit.
Panic gripped the Irishmen, none of whom had ever had ex-
perience in rough water in a small boat. Hogan dropped his
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The Emerald Whaler
bailing scoop with a splash to the bottom. "I'll drown!" he cried.
"I'll drown! Holy Mother of God, save me . . ."
"Don't be so damn selfish," Darragh said grimly. "Ask for help
for the rest of us!"
"Shut up," Breslin snapped. "We're all in the same boat, and
we'll sink or swim together. Now bail!"
Hogan grabbed his scoop and bailed furiously.
Darragh began to sing, so softly at first the wind carried his
words away. Then his voice gained strength:
"Jesus, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly.
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is high;
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life is past;
Safe into the haven guide;
O, receive my soul at last!"
Hogan wiped his eyes with salty hands, then blindly resumed
his bailing.
Wilson clapped Darragh on the back. "Well done! But let's
give these Catalpa boys something to cheer 'em. Give 'em The
Rising of the Moon!'
"
The Catalpa men grinned as the Irishmen shouted the words
into the teeth of the wind:
"Death to every foe and traitor.
Forward, strike the marching tune
And hurrah, me boys, for Freedom!
'Tis the Rising of the Moon!"
As they finished the song, another rain squall lashed the sea to
whitecapped fury and threatened to shred the sail or break the
mast. At a little past seven o'clock, the worst squall of all raced
down on them with the roar of an express train and a torrent of
rain. Captain Anthony heaved on the steering oar, trying to pay
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The Cotcdpa Stands to Sea
off the boat and spill wind out of the sail, but his efforts were in
vain. The mast snapped short at the step. Mast, mainsail, jib,
halyards, rigging all collapsed overside in a snarled mess. The
boat started to swing broadside.
The Captain battled to keep the near-foundering craft into the
wind. Luckily the mass in the water acted like a sea anchor and
aided him. White water cascaded into the boat.
Second Mate Farnham grabbed a hatchet and hacked away at
the ropes. By brute strength he and a seaman dragged the mess
inboard.
In the belly of the boat all the passengers bailed for their lives
with scoops, caps, bare hands.
Desperately the Catalpa men dug their oars into the seas, forc-
ing the boat into the wind so repairs could be made.
It was ten o'clock before Farnham had a jury mast rigged and
a rag of sail set.
The Captain gave the men a respite from the oars as he let the
sail fill, then spilled it when the gusts came too strong. With
aching muscles and bleeding palms he still clung grimly to the
steering oar.
Unless they could spot the lights of the Catalpa, there was no
chance of their reaching the ship before daybreak. A lighted lan-
tern would serve only to make the whaleboat easy prey for the
English. The provisions were ruined. The ham had been swept
overboard. The biscuits were a salty mush. There was some
water left, and in the boat's emergency kegs, put there months
before, were dry biscuits. There was rum enough for a swig all
around. He passed the bottle around. Stolidly each took his
swallow. Farnham doled out the biscuits and a gill of water to
wash them down. The next meal they would get would be aboard
the Catalpa or in an English prison.
Silently they worried through the night, cold, wet, fearful.
Toward dawn the wind moderated appreciably and the squalls
ceased entirely. Daybreak brought a blood-red sun that glinted
through ragged clouds on heavy seas.
201
The Emerald Whaler
The whaleboat actually had made a good mile more seaward
in her battle with the squalls. The land was dim gray about four
miles distant. But there was no sign of the Catalpa.
Wearily the crew took to the oars again. With the wind more
northerly, the boat made good progress seaward.
At about a quarter to seven, Tuesday morning, Mate Farnham
once more spotted the Catalpa. "She's a-headin' right for us!" he
cried jubilantly.
"We'll fetch her for sure now, Mr. Breslin!" Captain Anthony
pledged.
Breslin nodded, then turned his eyes astern. "Give me your
glass," he said suddenly. "Look! Is that smoke on the horizon?"
Captain Anthony studied the sea through the telescope. Finally
he said: "It's a steamer with engine going and all sails set too.
There's only one ship hereabouts with sails and steam. She's the
Georgetter
They alternated with the glass. Anthony shook his head. "She
can't have raised us at that distance. She's headed for the
Catalpa. We'd better make ourselves scarce as we can, just in
case some fool British lookout looks our way instead of at the
ship." He barked to Farnham: "Mr. Farnham, yank that sail down.
Drop the mast. You men, in oars. All of you, down on the bot-
tom. That goes for you too, Mr. Breslin. I'll crouch low, seeing
I've got to hang onto this sweep."
The Georgette steamed rapidly toward them, her funnel pour-
ing black smoke, her paddle-wheels churning a white wake.
She came within five miles of them on a course set directly for
the Catalpa. Evidently the men in her masthead lookouts had
eyes only for the whaler.
"I hope Sam's got a good story ready," Captain Anthony mut-
tered to Breslin. "He's likely to need it right soon."
First Mate Smith was weary after the stormy night. He had
had a few minutes sleep after the worst of the squalls had ceased,
but before dawn he was on deck, spyglass in hand, waiting for
202
The Catalpa Stands to Sea
enough daylight to look for the Captain and the whaleboat. Look-
outs were posted long before the red sun cracked the eastern sky.
There was no sign of the boat. What the wild weather of the
night just over might have done to her . . . Well, if anyone could
have kept an overloaded boat afloat, it was George.
At eight o'clock the foremast lookout shouted: "Sail ho!"
Smith leaped for the maintop. "I see her/' His hopes fell.
"Steamer, ain't she?"
"She smoke, sar. Sails too."
That would be the government ship, the Georgette. One sure
thing, she wasn't carrying the mails this trip.
On deck, he gave swift orders. "Mr. Bolles, get out a couple
muskets. Have some right sharp spades and lances ready.
Mebbe we'll be needin' 'em!"
In about two hours the Georgette chuffed alongside. Her pad-
dle-wheels were slowed down and she carried on by her sails.
Though Sam could not know it, she was manned by a crew
surly because their stay in Fremantle had been cut short, and
captained by a master who openly resented the high-handed
action of the Governor in giving full command of his ship to
Water Police Superintendent Stone. Captain Grady was barely
civil to Stone, though, as instructed by Governor Robinson, he
punctiliously obeyed every order. And an order came now.
"Bring me up to speaking distance, Mr. Grady," Stone said.
The two ships lolled along side by side.
Smith studiously kept his eyes averted from the Englishman.
Stone put trumpet to lips. "What ship is that?" he bellowed.
Sam turned languidly, sauntered to the rail of the Catalpa and
lazily put his own trumpet to use. "Bark Catalpa, outa New
Bedford, Massachusetts, United States of America. If you'd
looked at her fantail you could ha' read it yourself!" he replied
in the broadest Yankee drawl he could produce. "Who in hell
be ye?"
"This is Her Majesty's ship of war Georgette\
y>
Stone began.
"Hell of a lookin' warship," Sam jibed. "Whar's yer guns?"
203
The Emerald Whaler
"Never mind our guns," Stone said. "What is your business?"
"Business is mindin' my own business," Sam retorted. "What's
yours?"
"You'll find out mighty soon. I repeat, what's your business?"
"I'm on th' high seas, as any fool can see," Sam countered.
"I insist on knowing your business."
"We're whalin' if you must know."
"Your larboard boat is missing."
Sam looked at the empty davits. "So 'tis, so 'tis," he said.
"Where is it?"
Sam hesitated.
"Captain has it."
"Who is he?"
"Captain Anthony."
Stone smiled in satisfaction. "Where is he?"
"Gone to Fremantle to buy us an anchor."
"Why didn't you sail there?"
"That's th' Captain's business."
"Have you seen anything of a whaleboat with many men in it?"
Stone shouted. "We're looking for prisoners who escaped from
Her Majesty's prison in Fremantle."
Sam grinned from ear to ear. "Hain't sighted another craft all
mornin'
'cept you."
"I am going to board your ship!" Stone declared.
The ships were a hundred yards apart.
Sam dropped his trumpet to the deck. "Like hell you are!" he
roared.
"I'm going to board you and search for prisoners!"
"You try it an' you'll be goddam good and sorry! Tin on the
high seas, outside your waters! You got no right to board me!
What the hell did we lick the pants offn' you damn Britishers in
1812 about? You don't own the ocean!"
Stone ignored the jibe. "I'm coming aboard!" he shouted.
Sam boiled. His face was turkey-red. "By God, you ain't!
You'll git yourself in bad trouble! And you'll git me in trouble
too. I'm responsible for this here ship when th' Captain's off her.
You stay clear!"
204
The Cotalpa Stands to Sea
"Bring me alongside!" Stone yelled to Captain Grady.
The Georgette's master shrugged. He gave the order to his
helmsman and signaled the engine room. The government ship,
twice the size of the whaler, closed slowly in.
"Take your stinkin' coal scow off! You're smudgin' my canvas!"
Sam pointed dramatically to the already dingy, oil-greasy sails on
the bark. "Shear off, goddam you! Sheer off!" He grabbed a
razor-sharp lance, drew it back and poised it in his sinewy hand
as if he were going to kill a whale.
Stone held a hurried conference with the senior officer of the
Reservists and of his own police detail.
Captain Grady eyed the gesticulating huddle with contempt.
All this pother over a parcel of political prisoners. England would
be better off with their hungry mouths outside prison walls. Let
them all escape. What difference would it make to the governor,
the prime minister or the Queen herself?
Then a grease-daubed chief engineer emerged from the engine
room. He saluted and whispered agitatedly to the Captain.
Grady nodded and smiled in smug self-satisfaction, as he swag-
gered over to Stone. "A word with you, Mr. Stone!" he said. "If
you are done conferring, and don't want to row back to Freman-
tle, I'd suggest you give me orders to steam back immediately.
My engineer warns me we have barely enough coal in our bunkers
to take us there!"
"But I thought you were coaled . . ." Stone spluttered.
"Coaled, hell! We hadn't even got a pound aboard when you
ordered us out last night."
Stone bowed to the inevitable. "All right," he said. "You may
set course for Fremantle."
The Georgette sheared away from the Catalpa.
A puzzled Sam watched her every move. Well, he'd won that
round. Now to raise Captain Anthony.
A frustrated Water Police chief, a disappointed, half-seasick
company of Pensioners, a smug captain and a sullen crew watched
the Catalpa fade into the distance. Captain Grady ordered his
205
The Emerald Whaler
lookouts alow, keeping only one man in the bow as a gesture to
the search for the whaleboat.
Off Cape Bouvard, the Georgette spoke the Water Police cutter,
under Coxswain Mills, bowling along. Stone hailed it.
"Coxswain," he yelled, "we found the bark, but the prisoners
have not yet reached it. They must still be in the whaler's small
boat. Keep a keen eye out for it. It should be somewhere off
Murray Head, by my reckoning."
From about four miles away Captain Anthony and Breslin
watched every movement of the two ships.
They could imagine what was going on. The shortness of the
close encounter before the Georgette bore away indicated the
English were satisfied there were no escaped men aboard the
bark. The Georgette's northerly course after leaving the bark
would take her directly to Fremantle. The only strange maneuver
was the Catalpas setting off on a course that was south-southeast,
directly away from the area where Smith should have kept his
rendezvous with the whaleboat.
Captain Anthony studied the Georgette through his glass. Sud-
denly he said, "Mr. Breslin, that Britisher hasn't got a lookout
posted aloft."
Out came the oars. The Georgette was about eight miles away,
still on her northerly course. The Catalpa was about twelve miles
to the south, still on her southeasterly course.
Then Breslin warned the Captain the Georgette had changed
her course and now, while still heading toward Fremantle, seemed
to be continuing her search for them along shore. If she stayed
on the new tack and stood out to sea only a short distance, they
would be directly in her path. If that happened, only blind men
could fail to spot them.
The Catalpa was hull down on the horizon.
"She's a ghost ship," Wilson muttered despairingly as he and
the rescued men huddled disconsolately on the bottom of the boat.
The Georgette bore toward them. Once more Anthony ordered
206
The Cotalpa Stands to Sea
all down in the wet bottom. The whaleboat drifted like a weary
log on the heaving sea.
About one o'clock in the afternoon the Georgette steamed across
their stern so closely that, even without the spyglass, Anthony and
Breslin could make out the men on her deck. Thanks to the de-
cision of Captain Grady, they went unnoticed. The steamer
rolled right on, her plume of black smoke settling in her milky
wake. As soon as she was nearly hull down, Captain Anthony
ordered the oars out again. Wearily the men rowed after the van-
ishing Catalpa, now scarcely visible on the far horizon ahead.
Second Mate Farnham balanced himself by the mast and
watched the ship. "Bark's on new tack!" he announced suddenly.
The Catalpa began to loom larger and larger. Perhaps she had
sighted them after all and had stood away to befuddle the
Georgette's master. At any rate, she was heading directly for
them.
Breslin grabbed a red waif flag, and thrust it into Wilson's
hands. "Get up in the bow," he ordered. "Wave like hell."
The bark broke out all but her topgallant sails and headed down
on them. Sam Smith must have spotted them. It was half past two.
The set, grim faces of the men in the whaleboat gave way to
grins of delight. It was all over now. In a few minutes they would
be safe aboard. But in the distance another vessel under full sail
was racing for the bark.
"She's the Water Police cutter," Breslin said gloomily after a
study through the glass.
The cutter was booming along about as far distant on the land-
ward side of the Catalpa as the whaleboat was to seaward.
"Dig in! Dig in!" Captain Anthony yelled to his crew.
There wasn't any need for his exhortations. Every man knew
by now he had helped English Crown prisoners escape jail. Every
one of the Catalpa men knew that capture meant weeks, months,
maybe years in the very prison from which their passengers had
fled.
The six rescued men, King and Desmond huddled in the bot-
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The Emerald Whaler
torn, trying desperately to keep out of the way of the straining
legs and the muscular arms of the oarsmen. Breslin sat stiffly
beside the Captain, fingering his rosary.
In the freshening late afternoon wind, the cutter was forced to
luff frequently, to spill the wind from her overburdened mainsail.
Each time the cutter luffed, the whaleboat gained a tiny ad-
vantage.
White water curled from the slim bow of the police boat. The
heavily laden whaleboat lumbered on desperately. The Catalpa
pounded majestically toward both. The cutter still was a hun-
dred yards away from the Catalpa when the whaleboat swept
alongside the bark.
First Mate Smith and his crew were ready. As the whaleboat
slammed alongside he yelled: "Hard aback!" The great yards
were braced about to cut the bark's forward motion. He threw
the forward boat tackle to Farnham and the aft tackle to Anthony.
Both made fast.
"Grab those grip lines, you passengers!" Anthony yelled. "Get
aboard the bark."
Like monkeys the Irishmen clambered over the Catalpa s rail,
the whaleboat crew hard on their heels. Anthony was last aboard.
The cutter was only a scant hundred feet away.
"Show him our weapons!" Captain Anthony shouted.
Sam and Bolles aimed their muskets. The lance blades glittered.
The coxswain of the cutter looked at the arms he faced, then
eyed his ten-man detail. Hell, the Governor hadn't said anything
about getting killed in this hunt. Like as not someone would get
hurt boarding against such odds. This was a job for a big force.
Superintendent Stone himself could come out and get these men.
He luffed the cutter.
"He's licked!" Captain Anthony pounded Sam on the back.
The Catalpa wore ship. In two minutes she was on her new
course and the cutter was dropping behind.
In the twilight the shore of West Australia was fading into a
blue haze. Early stars specked the sky. The soft breeze sighed
208
The Cotalpa Stands to Sea
in the rigging. The Catalpa rocked gently, dug her bow decor-
ously into the swells. The sails bellied.
The men drank in the clear, free air.
Hassett said: "Take a last look at it, lads. There was times I
never thought I'd see that damned country from the deck of an-
other ship!"
The Catalpa worked slowly to windward under her full set of
canvas. The breeze was light from the southeast.
209
16 . Return Engagement
The Georgette crawled up to Victoria Quay in Fremantle, her
paddles barely turning over. The black gang in her stokehold was
shoveling the last of the coal into her hungry boilers as Captain
Grady ordered bow and stern lines made fast and the gangplank
overside.
He gave a stiffly correct salute to Water Police Superintendent
Stone as that disgruntled individual, after first dismissing the
Reservists, stalked ashore. Now maybe the Georgette could get
about her proper business of carrying the Queen's mail. All this
folderol of chasing after those Irishmen fair sickened the captain.
Besides, that Yankee skipper, Anthony, had seemed a proper sort
of chap. Too bad if he was caught by the likes of Stone.
The dockside was jammed. Crowds had gathered from as far
as Perth and Rockingham, waiting in a picnic-like mood all day
for the ship's return. One look at the dour countenances of Stone,
his officers and the Reservists told the story. "They didn't catch
them!"
The word flashed through the throng. It spread from dockside
to town. Father McCabe heard it, gratefully, in his study. It
flashed over the telegraph wires. Bea Warren heard it in far away
Bunbury. In Perth, Walsh and McCarty put their wire-cutters
away for keepsakes as the news reached them.
There was open rejoicing among the crowd on the jetty that the
police had failed and that the prisoners had made good their
escape. The general feeling was that the Irishmen had killed no
one, nor committed any vile offense against society.
210
Return Engagement
Superintendent Stone had no sooner arrived at his office than
an express messenger arrived with an urgent dispatch from Gov-
ernor Robinson, directing Stone to report posthaste to the official
Marine residence.
Gathered at a large conference table there Stone found the
Governor, the Colonial Secretary, the Comptroller General, Super-
intendent Donan and other high-ranking colonial officials. Stalk-
ing in angrily, a few moments in Stone's wake, came Captain
Grady of the Georgette. A few seconds later, all out of breath,
Mr. McCleery, agent for the ship, arrived.
"Gentlemen," the Governor began, "we are here for one pur-
pose. The wheels of activity in this coloney must come to a halt
until these Irish scoundrels have been apprehended!" He pounded
his fist on the table. "I repeat, there is nothing else that matters.
Mr. McCleery, as ship's agent, you are hereby informed that the
Georgette will remain a warship in the service of Her Majesty the
Queen until I give release. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly, sir. But, the mails?"
"The mails can wait. This is a matter of state! Captain Grady!"
"At your command, sir!"
"Your vessel must be coaled immediately. How long will it take
to fill her bunkers?"
"I can have her ready to sail by noon tomorrow."
"You will have her ready by midnight tonight. Mr. Donan, I
want work parties sent down from the Establishment to take care
of this coaling operation. Superintendent Stone, I want your
Water Police to refresh themselves and I want them aboard the
Georgette by ten o'clock this night. I want your company of
Reservists again mobilized and aboard at the same hour. I will
have a company of infantry under command of Colonel Harvest
here from Perth before that hour. He will bring artillery with him.
"The Georgette must sail by midnight. She must halt this im-
pudent Yankee whaler. She must recapture these traitors to the
Crown! Gentlemen, not only our personal honor but the honor of
the Colony and of the Queen herself is at stake." He raised his
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The Emerald Whaler
hand in salute. "Gentlemen! To the Queen, God bless her, and
quit yourselves like men!"
Sweating convicts rushed thirty tons of coal into her bunkers.
The Water Police and the Reservists, grumbling, were back on
board before ten o'clock. Colonel Harvest's company of Infantry
arrived from Perth with a twelve-pound fieldpiece which was
firmly lashed in the gangway. Powder, round shot and canister
were stored beside the cannon.
The Georgette beat the deadline by one hour.
Paddle-wheels churning whitely, she headed for the open sea.
As she gained headway, her sails were broken out and set to aid
her engine.
The crowd, which had gathered at the dock again in early eve-
ning when word of the new chase spread around the town,
watched silently as the ship faded into the night. There were few
who would wager a farthing against a pound that the Georgette
would fail.
Every muscle in George Anthony's brawny body ached from
his thirty-six hours at the twenty-three-foot-long steering oar. He
stripped to the waist and had one of the crew rub his back with
opedildoc. Then he went on deck. All through the night he stood
by the helmsman while the dead-tired crew of the rescuing whale-
boat and the equally exhausted passengers slept soundly.
With the first light of dawn Wednesday he was in the maintop
with his telescope, scanning the dim horizon for signs of pursuit.
It was not in the nature of the bulldog English to give up. He
knew the only reason the Water Police cutter had withdrawn yes-
terday was that her crew was badly outnumbered and her cox-
swain had realized he could not hope to win a fight. But the Eng-
lish would be back this time in the Georgette.
Breslin emerged from the aft ladder, rubbing the sleep from
his tired eyes, and joined the Captain on the weather rail. "You've
seen nothing?" he asked hopefully.
"It's too early yet."
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Return Engagement
"Do you think they'll be at us today?"
"No 'think' about it. They will. This time they'll mean business."
The nightshades drew out to sea. A ruddy glow spread over
the distant land. The wind was light, almost like a calm for the
heavy whaler.
"Sail ho!" the mainmast lookout yelled.
All thought of pain and weariness vanished for the Captain.
"Where away?"
"On tli' lee bow, sari"
"Can you make her out?"
"Not yet, sari"
First Mate Smith joined them. He swung up to the foremast
rings, peered through a glass, then slid rapidly to the deck.
"She's the Georgettel" he announced excitedly. "By God, sir,
we'll have a fight with them damn Britishers at last!"
The Georgette pounded directly for them. Her funnel belched
black smoke. All her sails were set but did little to help her in
the light air. She steered a course that would put her square
across the bow of the wallowing whaler.
The clouds that had been red with sun-up grew heavier. The
wind picked up and flecked the gray sea with white. The Catalpa
heeled a bit, and a twin curl of white water lashed from her
heavy bow.
By seven the Georgette had come abreast of the Catalpa. She
shifted course slightly and kept alongside about a mile away.
"She has a man-o'-war flag flying, and a vice admiral's flag too,"
Captain Anthony reported. "That means she's been commissioned
as a war vessel. She's armed, has soldiers aboard and is ready to
try to board us."
"If she can!" Sam cut in.
The Captain studied the Englishman again. "Yep, she's got a
fieldpiece on her deck. It's lashed at the gangway midships. I
can see its muzzle. Steady as you go, helmsman!"
The Georgette held to her parallel course. The two ships
plowed along, the rising wind now giving the Catalpa a slight
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The Emerald Whaler
advantage. The whaler began to inch ahead. For a few minutes
the Georgette lagged.
"Can't be she's going to quit!" Captain Anthony said incredu-
lously.
But the English ship's paddle-wheels began to churn faster.
"She's changed course," Sam said. "She's comin' fer us!"
The Georgette drew up abeam of the bark on a slightly con-
verging course. She still was well to windward, with the evident
intention of crowding the Catalpa closer to shore. The breeze
was getting stronger. Whitecaps frothed the water. Heavy clouds
darkened the whole sky. The Catalpa now had the wind she
liked. She dug her bow into the swells and began once more to
draw ahead of the Englishman. Again the Georgette dropped
astern, until she was more than three quarters of a mile behind
and still about a mile to windward. Again the bark's people began
to hope the pursuers might give up.
But the Georgette's paddle-wheels cut more hungrily into the
waves and she began once more to overhaul the bark.
At a quarter to eight she was so close that the gaudy red, white
and gold of the uniforms of the reserves, the regulars and the
Water Police could be made out. Bayonets were fixed on muskets.
Sabers dangled at the sides of the officers. A dozen telescopes
were leveled on the whaler. A longboat hung on davits ready for
use by a boarding party.
"Looks like they're spoilin' to fight!" Captain Anthony observed
in some satisfaction. "Well, I Didn't come halfway 'round the
world to show white feather to any Britisher. I think it's about
time we showed him we got weapons too. Mr. Breslin, you go
below and see that your men are ready and that their revolvers
and pistols are loaded. But, for the Lord's sake, keep 'em out of
sight. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of being sure your
men are aboard. And I want you for a reserve. When I need you,
come a fight, I'll yell for you quick enough. Mr. Smith, take a
couple of hands below and fetch the rest of our muskets. We got
six all told and there's a half dozen revolvers. Pass the weapons
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Return Engagement
on deck. The watch below can have cutting spades and lances."
The First Mate started for the aft ladder.
"And Sam," the Captain added, "bring up that newfangled
bomb gun Eben Pierce dreamed up. I never saw fit to use it on
sparm the noise of it would gallic a dead whale but I hanker
to see what she'll do against that vessel yonder."
The deck watch was soon armed with the muskets and revolvers.
Sam served fifty rounds of ammunition to each weapon. The
bomb gun ammunition consisted of brass explosive cartridges,
each fourteen inches long, with time fuses attached.
The captain patted the heavy shoulder gun. "Ugly-lookin'
thing, ain't she?" he said. "Cost aplenty. John Wadsworth sold
it to me. Said it'd kill a sparm quicker'n any lance. You take it,
Sam. Mind it don't knock you clear overside. I'll warrent she
kicks worse'n an old goose gun."
The Georgette had edged to about a quarter mile abeam. The
wind was considerably stronger and swinging more easterly.
Both ships were doing about seven knots. The Catalpa held a
lead of about half a ship's length.
"Sam," Captain Anthony said, "it's about time we showed 'em
we mean business too. Call all hands. Get our people on deck."
He nodded to Breslin.
"Keep your men below yet awhile, Mr.
Breslin."
"All hands! All hands!" Smith bawled.
The Catalpa men scrambled on deck. For those who had the
watch below, it was their first sight of the oncoming British ship.
They looked at her, bewildered.
"Mr. Smith!" the Captain ordered. "Serve out cutting spades
and lances "
Breslin interrupted. "Captain, with your permission, I'd like
to tell them what they're up against. May I speak to your men?"
"Certainly, sir. Men, pay heed to Mr. Breslin here."
Breslin pointed to the Britisher. "That ship there is an English
warship. She has a cannonyou can see it plain and you can see
the bayonets on the muskets of the soldiers on her deck. She aims
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The Emerald Whaler
to board this ship and take all of us passengers and all of you
crewmen back to shore and clap every last man in prison. You
all know the men some of you rowed here to this ship were men
who had escaped from the Fremantle prison. Maybe you think
the men that were taken off the beach were bad men, that they
killed people. Well, they didn't, and your Captain will back me
up on that." Anthony nodded. "They were put in prison because
they tried to free Ireland from the English.
"I know you all got mad because you've taken so few whales.
And some of you called Captain Anthony a hard-luck skipper.
This voyage to Australia to rescue these men was his big job.
This ship was bought and he was hired to do just that.
"You aren't going to lose a penny because you didn't have luck
whaling. I promise you that, at the end of this voyage, each one
of you will be paid a lay the equal of whatever the best of the
New Bedford fleet has earned in the seasons since the Catalpa
sailed. And you'll get a whopping bonus too."
He paused to let his words sink in. The crew stood silent. He
went on.
"The men over on that ship there" and he waved his hand
toward the Georgette "are ready to fight. If we lose and we are
caught, all of us will be thrown into the same prison from which
we freed these men. While you are in stone cells there, you will
hear the roll of drums that will tell you that us Irishmen have
gone to the gallows.
"That ship has sails and she has a steam engine and paddle-
wheels. She can rake us with cannon fire. She can shoot our masts
out. She can set us afire. But until she does, I propose to fight.
My fellow Irishmen will fight. So will Captain Anthony and First
Mate Smithand so, I hope, will you."
He paused again and looked full on the faces of the now mut-
tering men.
"Of course, you can save yourselves by not fighting. You can
give up the minute an Englishman steps on this deck. If you
surrender, likely you'll only get a few days or weeks in jail. But
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Return Engagement
if you want to back us up, if you want to stand alongside your
Captain and your officers it's up to you. Now, what do you say?"
Breslin folded his arms and waited.
The Catalpa men stirred uneasily, looking for a spokesman.
Then Cyrus Hill, bad boy of the voyage, stepped a pace for-
ward. Hill swallowed hard. "With the Cap'n's permit?" He
paused for Anthony's short nod. "With the Cap'n's permit then,
Mr. Breslin, I reckon you don't know it, but I bin at the bottom of
a hull lot o' devilment aboard this here whaleship. I jumped ship
and I sounded off 'bout my rights. Mr. Smith here give me a les-
son then!" He grinned sheepishly at the First Mate. "Now mind,
I ain't takin' back some o' the things I said. I got my rights and I
knows it. But it
'pears some folks ain't got some o' the rights I've
had all my life. I thought the Cap'n was puttin' it on to me. Now
I see what he was aimin' at, mebbe I'm glad he hauled me back."
He squinted his eyes and peered closely at Breslin.
"You say you're goin' to pay us a big bonus at the end o' the
voyage, Mr. Breslin?"
Breslin nodded. "That's right."
"And you're going to fight them Britishers?"
"We are that."
Hill turned to the captain. "You going to fight them Britishers
too, Cap'n?"
"I am!"
"An' you, Mr. Smith?"
"You're damn right I am."
Hill grinned. "Now them's the best words I ever heard on this
ship. I bin itchin' fer a fight fer months now. Guess I had it in
me blood. You going to fight" Hill took a stride towards Bres-
lin
"then, by God, I'm your man. I'm with you, Mr. Breslin, and
the crew's with you too!"
Hill stuck out his calloused palm. Breslin grabbed it.
"All right, speechin's over. Mr. Smith," Captain Anthony called,
"serve out the spades and lances!"
Aboard the Georgette, the fieldpiece had been run out. The
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The Emerald Whaler
gunners stood to their quarters. The Water Police ranged along
the rail. Behind them stood the regulars. Back of them were the
Reservists.
The wind had blown up to a near gale. White water from the
bows of the plunging ships showered decks with spray. The sky
was inky black, the sea a mass of froth-capped waves.
The Georgettes master had trumpet to lips. His sailors scur-
ried aloft and took in royals and topgallants.
Captain Anthony grinned. "We got a capful of wind at last,
Mr. Smith! Haven't we got a few staysails we could set? I think
we could get a mite more out of this bark if we spread all our
canvas!"
The Catalpas men sprang aloft and spread the bark's last rag
of sail. The whaler forged ahead under the worn-gray cloud. The
bark heeled to her lee scuppers. The great yards creaked and
the masts groaned. Now she drew rapidly ahead of the timorous
Britisher.
But the Englishman still had his engines. Clots of smoke
steamed into the wind. The Georgette evened up with the racing
bark, drew slowly alongside.
Suddenly Smith yelled: "Duck! He's goin' to shoot!"
On the Georgette Colonel Harvest's saber flashed in air. An
artilleryman blew his match to flame. The saber came down. The
gunner applied his match to the touch-hole of the fieldpicce.
The Catalpa people ducked behind the rail.
There was a puff of dirty smoke. A round shot screeched across
the bark's bow. The resounding thud of the explosion shattered
the air. The cannon ball geysered into the waves, a hundred
yards away.
Captain Anthony turned calmly to his white-faced helmsman.
"Steady as you go. Pay no heed to him. He couldn't hit a sparm
with an oar. Mr. Smith, ready for battle! Mr. Breslin, keep your
men below yet awhile. They'll get a bellyful of fighting when
the Britisher tries to board."
The Catalpas men ranged along the weather rail. The six men
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Return Engagement
with the muskets trained them on the Georgette. The others
gripped their harpoons, lances and cutting spades. Sam readied
the bomb gun.
Two anxious minutes crawled by.
The artillerymen ran their piece in, sponged, reloaded smartly
and trained again on the whaler. Again the saber flashed high in
air. The cannon roared and leaped in its lashings. Another round
shot sent water showering over the bark's headsails in a near miss.
The two vessels rolled along, side by side, about two hundred
yards apart, the Georgette very slightly in the lead. The gunners
sponged, reloaded and retrained their piece.
"This time they won't miss!" Anthony warned Breslin. He
stepped to the rail and raised his speaking trumpet.
"What do you mean by firing on my ship?" he yelled.
A tall man on the Georgette stepped out of the knot of gaudily
clad officers on the English ship, speaking trumpet in hand.
Breslin studied the man. "That's Water Police Captain Stone,"
he said.
"Heave to!" came the command from Stone.
"Why should I?" Anthony demanded.
There was no reply from the Georgette.
Captain Anthony raised his voice to an angry shout. "I said,
why should I stop for you? I'm on the high seas. What the hell
do you mean shooting at me?"
"Have you any convict prisoners aboard?"
Captain Anthony shouted back: "Every man on this vessel is
free just like every one in America. You talk nonsense."
"You have convict prisoners aboard!" Stone insisted.
"I tell you we have no convicts on board! Every man is a free
man!"
Again Stone hailed: "I give you fifteen minutes to consider. If
you don't heave to and surrender those convicts, I'll blow the masts
out of you, board you and take you all prisoners."
The Georgette started to close in.
Captain Anthony shouted with all the might of his powerful
219
The Emerald Whaler
lungs: "You see that American flag at our peak? That means we
are all free men on this ship! If you fire on this ship again, you
fire on the American flag! That's an act of war, sir!"
There was no reply from the Georgette. The officers on her deck
huddled together, talking, waving hands in air. Both ships coursed
along side by side, the only noise the roar of the wind, the crash
of their bows in the heavy seas, the groaning of masts, spars and
cordage and the heavy rumble of the English ship's paddles.
Anthony turned to Breslin. "He'll try to board. We'd best get
ready for it. Tell your men that when they hear the first shots
they're to hustle up on deck ready to shoot. Mr. Smith, have some
of our people break out those spare grindstones from below. And
fetch some extra spars too. If he tries to come alongside to board,
we'll heave them overboard and smash his boats to bits."
Suddenly the foremast lookout shouted: "Sail ho!"
"Where away?"
"On the lee bow, sar!"
A small boat was coming up between the Catalpa and the shore.
"We're getting in too close," Captain Anthony said quietly. "If
we don't change course we'll really be in British waters and we'll
be in one hell of a mess, without a leg to stand on and maybe a
ship to sail on. Sam! Man sheets and tacks. We'll 'bout ship. I
think we can scare the white liver out of this Englishman."
Captain Anthony eyed the enemy ship. "Keep her full for
stays!" he yelled to his helmsmen. The Catalpa men dropped
their weapons and manned sheets and braces. The sails held taut
in the gale.
"Ready about! Lee oh! Down helm!"
The helmsman spun the big wheel in the direction of the wind.
Working as a perfect machine, the bark's men eased the foresheet
and jib sheets to take the weight of the wind out of them. The
great yards pivoted about the masts. For a moment there was a
tremendous, thunderous shattering of canvas as the wind tore at
the sails in their new positions.
"Mainsail-/wM/J!"
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Return Engagement
The Catalpas sails filled with a roar on the new tack. Her heavy
oaken prow, built to crush six feet of Arctic ice, bore down on the
larger but more lightly built Georgette.
The sudden move on the whaler's part threw the Englishman's
complement into utter confusion.
On boiled the whaler, her great bowsprit a gigantic javelin,
her bluff bow a monster battering ram.
The line of the Water Police broke in fear. They raced from the
rail. The infantrymen joined the stampede to get away from the
menacing bark.
Captain Grady, petrified for a moment, leaped into action.
"Clear my decks! Get those tin soldiers out of the way! Haul
those sails aback! He's going to ram!" He jangled his engine room
frantically. "Full ahead port! Full astern starboard!"
The big paddle-wheels churned in opposite directions. Sailors
raced for sheets and braces, bowling over the soldiers who got in
their way. The sails slatted wildly. The Georgette hung for a
moment, then, with agonizing slowness, swung in a circle out of
the way of the onrushing whaler. The Yankee ship missed the
Georgette by a matter of inches.
Captain Anthony tipped his cap jauntily to the flustered Cap-
tain Grady as the two ships swept apart. Grady shook his head
but touched his cap in salute to the Yankee's audacity.
Cheers went up from the Catalpa men. But the English ship,
circling full astern, took a commanding spot to rake them. The
British officers had their men back in line of battle. The fieldpiece
was trained on the bark again. The gunners stood ready.
"Watch lively now, men!" Captain Anthony warned. "If she
means to rake us now's her chance. Watch that cannoneer. When
his match flares, duck below the rail. Mr. Smith!"
"Aye, Captain?"
"Have some of our men ready with axes to clear away wreck-
age. Have the others stand by to repel boarders. Mr. Breslin!"
"Ready, Captain!"
"Be alert to warn your men. When the shooting starts, yell
221
The Emerald Whaler
for them. That Englishman wants a fight. Well give him one."
Stone's ultimatum had ticked off minutes before. The Georgette,
her paddle-wheels slapping the waves at full speed ahead, surged
across the Catalpas white wake, a hundred yards astern. The
whaler's helmsman gripped the spokes of his wheel, the knuckles
of his bronzed hands dead-white. The Britisher was in perfect
position for a shot that would bring the Catalpas masts and rig-
ging down in a crashing mass.
On the English ship, the artillery officer again poised with his
signaling saber.
But the order to fire didn't come. Instead the Georgette's mas-
ter called on his engine room for more speed, ranged his ship once
more alongside the whaler.
Once more Stone trumpeted: "Won't you surrender to our gov-
ernment?" His words were a plea now, instead of an order.
Captain Anthony studied the set of his sails, scornfully refusing
reply.
"I see three of those convicts on board your ship right now!"
Stone insisted weakly.
"Those are three of my crew!" Anthony answered.
"I demand that you give them up. Heave to!"
"Try and make me. You've got the guns. Come on and fight!"
Anthony taunted.
The two ships held parallel courses about two hundred yards
apart for another two minutes. Aboard the Georgette the Eng-
lish officers huddled in conference.
Again Stone hailed the bark: "Can I come aboard you?"
"No, sir, not you nor any other Britisher on the high seas. I'm
bound for home and I won't stop!"
Still the Georgette clung to their side. For a half hour the ships
thundered along. From the deck of the bark all watched the
deliberations taking place on the English ship. Finally, as if
shrugging her wet shoulders, the Georgette sheared off and set
course for Fremantle, her military officers still in an animated
huddle, her artillerymen still standing by their piece.
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Return Engagement
"You can alert your men now, Mr. Breslin!" Captain Anthony
said, quietly.
Breslin ran for the companionway. Out of the hold the Fenians
tumbled, guns in hand. In the light they blinked, looking for the
foe.
"There!" Breslin pointed at the retreating Georgette. "There
goes the last you'll see of England!"
"Glory be to God!" said Hassett feelingly.
"And an amen to that," Harrington said.
223
17 . Made Fast
On June 6 the Catalpa came almost to Tristan da Cunha in dou-
bling the Cape of Good Hope.
John Boyle O'Reilly sat in his editorial office in Boston that day.
A copy boy for The Pilot brought him a cablegram. He opened
it and read, scarcely believing his eyes at first:
"LONDON, June 6 A dispatch from Melbourne, Australia, states
that all the political prisoners confined in Western Australia have
escaped on the American whaleship Catalpa . . ."
"They made it!" he breathed. Then his voice rose to a shout.
"They did it! They escaped!"
Feverishly O'Reilly dipped pen in ink for an addition to the
momentous dispatch. His pen spluttered across the paper, his
words poured out in a torrent. He closed: "There has never been
an enterprise so large and so terribly dangerous carried out more
admirably. It will be remembered of Irish patriots that they never
forget their suffering brothers. The prisoners who have escaped
are humble men, most of them private soldiers. But the PRINCIPLE
was at stake and for this they have been released. England will
now realize that she has made a mistake that will follow her to
her deathbed in making Ireland so implacable and daring an
enemy. . . . The men who sent the Catalpa to Australia are just
the men to send a hundred Catalpas to wipe British commerce
from the face of the sea!"
O'Reilly put a triumphant exclamation mark at the end of his
article. He called a copy boy. "Hurry! Get me a galley proof as
soon as possible/'
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Made Fast
Devoy must be told. He wrote a message to be sent by tele-
graph:
To John Devoy
Editorial Rooms
New York Herald
New York, N.Y.
Grand, glorious, complete success. Ireland triumphs. London
dispatch admits all our men safe aboard Catalpa. Watch your
cables from abroad for more details. Erin go bragh. O'Reilly.
Within the hour O'Reilly had ink-wet proofs of his story from
the composing room. He stuffed them into his coat pocket, an-
nounced he would not be available for the rest of the day, and
hurried to the railroad station to take the early afternoon train
for New Bedford. He wanted to be first to tell the wife of the
Captain of the Catalpa about the success of the adventure her
heroic husband had undertaken.
Emmie was taking wash from the line while little Sophie tod-
dled after her, putting clothespins into the wicker basket, when
the handsome, dark stranger walked into the yard.
Sophie dropped her little handful of pins as she toddled toward
him.
"Papa?" she asked.
"Ssh, Sophie," Emmie chided. "You know your papa is away
out on the sea hunting whales in a great big boat."
O'Reilly picked the little girl up. "I wish I were your papa.
He's a hero. The biggest hero in the world!"
Emmie's hand fled to her throat. "You know my husband?"
she managed. "Is ... is there anything wrong . . . Mister . . ."
"Wrong! I should say not. Everything is a thousand per cent
right. I am John Boyle O'Reilly. I do know your husband,
ma'am. And he is indeed a hero not only to those of us who
know him, but to all Irishmen all over the world and, indeed, to
all freedom-loving people all over the globe!"
Emmie looked at him blankly.
"May we go indoors? It will take a deal of telling . . ."
225
The Emerald Whaler
O'Reilly talked for an hour, giving Emmie all the details of
the plot, the voyage, and the news of the rescue.
"Thank you, Mr. O'Reilly," Emmie said finally. "I've been on
my knees many an hour praying God that He would take care of
my George, for my sake and for the sake of my little one. Now
I can ask Him for his safe return . . ."
"And I shall join you in those petitions, ma'am," O'Reilly prom-
ised solemnly. "He will be back soon. The moment I learn when
the Catalpa will reach America, I shall be in touch with you by
telegraph. The whole world will be awaiting him, I assure you."
The Catalpas bottom was barnacle-fouled. Great green stream-
ers of seaweed dragged from her hull. The southeast trades shoved
her along a hundred miles one day, fifty miles another, some days
as much as two hundred. Always Captain Anthony kept lookouts
posted, watching for an enemy sail, fearful that, by some devil's
anti-miracle, word could have been flashed to an English war-
shipat Capetown, Ascension, St. Helena.
In the tropic heat pitch boiled from the deck planks. Awnings
made from worn sails gave a doubtful shade for passengers and
crew alike.
John Breslin wrote a song. One soft tropic night, as the winds
eased the blistering heat of the day just past, he limned it out for
the Fenians. Thereafter, on many a night, the words rang out:
"Right across the Indian Ocean, while the tradewind follows fast,
Speeds our ship with gentle motion, fear and chains behind
us cast.
Rolling home! Rolling home! Rolling home across the sea,
Rolling home to bright Columbia; home to friends and liberty.
"Past 'the Line' and now the Dipper hangs glistening in the sky,
Onward still! In the blue water, see the gulf weeds passing by.
Homeward! Homeward to Columbia, blow you steady breezes,
blow,
Till we hear it from the masthead, the joyful cry, 'Land ho!'
"
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Made Fast
Anthony and Breslin had a conference late one night under the
whale-oil lamp in the Captain's cabin. "We can take some whales,
Mr. Breslin, if you have a mind," the Captain argued. "It would
earn a bit more for the ship mean more to my men and would
take some of the burden off the pocketbooks of your friends in
the States."
Breslin frowned. "I'd like to make a profit, of course. If we can
go back with the men and a nice cargo of oil to boot, I know the
committee would be happy. But the men want to get to America.
That's their land of freedom."
So again lookouts manned the rings, scanning the wide seas
for telltale spouts.
But once more the Catalpa proved a cantankerous, unlucky
ship. Light airs plagued her. She fairly crept along. Day fol-
lowed interminable day. Week dragged after long week, as she
slogged westward. Between decks the reek of rancid oil and the
stench of bilge became almost unbearable. When they took a
whale, the stink of its innards, the blubber fast putrefying in the
hot sun, the smudge of oily smoke from the trypots brought howls
of anguish from the Catalpa s guests.
The Catalpa plodded along, until finally on Friday, August 18,
1876, she neared New York Harbor. At last there was "Land
hoi-
There was freedom! There was Columbia! There was America!
There was home!
Harrington and Hassett, Hogan, Darragh, Cranston, Wilson
leaned against the port rail hungrily straining their eyes for a
better view of the land where their dreams would become sub-
stance, the land they had never even hoped to see.
The land was low. It made no more than a yellow-edged, dark
line on a sullen horizon. As the bark crept closer, the night
shadows rolled from the west and down the headlands and into
the sea. Only the hoarse chuff-chuff of the towboat's engine and
the slap-slap of small waves on the Catalpa's bow broke the
stillness.
227
The Emerald Whaler
Wilson spoke deliberately. "Ain't much to look at."
Breslin had joined the group. His deep voice commanded
silence. "America like that? That's no more America than the
tip of my little finger is my whole body. When I left New York
for Australia, lads, I traveled the breadth of America. Thousands
and thousands of miles wide it is, and thousands from Canada to
the south. There's hills and there's mountains and there's tens of
millions of acres of land waiting for the men who'll set plow to it.
There's cities and towns, and mills and mines and churches and
schools and stores. And ships and canals and railroads. You'll
find gold all right if you work for it . . ."
"Aye, work!" Wilson said gloomily. "John, we're old men. Look
at us. I'm forty-one. Hassett and Hogan are thirty-eight. Mike
Harrington's nearly fifty. Even Bob is thirty-seven and he's the
youngest of us jailbirds. Who'll hire such a scrawny lot?"
"You got your two hands, haven't you?" Breslin challenged.
"And you have heads on your shoulders! You're Irish, aren't you?
Did anyone ever lick an Irishman? Use your hands and your
heads. You'll find friendly people who'll be eternally glad you
came to help them build what will be the giant of the earth in
your time. Use your hands use them decently and lawfully.
They'll dig up the gold for the
"
"Lace curtains in th' windows!" Cranston sighed.
"Yes, the lace curtains in the windows!" Breslin concluded.
"Now get yourselves some sleep. It will be a great day in the
morning."
One by one they drifted below. Finally only Breslin remained
on deck with the silent members of the watch.
At midnight the Catalpa signaled the quarantine ship. The of-
ficial vessels was ablaze with lights. A dozen small craft-
launches, tugs, cutters, sloops, schooners clustered about her. A
small boat shot out from the quarantine ship; the rest of the fleet
of small craft surrounding it took off after the small boat. As they
neared the bark there was a chorus of shouts:
"Catalpa! Catalpa!
Catalpa!
f>
228
Made Fast
The official boat swept alongside. The doctor clambered
aboard.
"What goes on here?" Captain Anthony demanded.
"You'll soon find out," the inspector said, grinning mysteriously.
"Will you call your hands and your passengers . . ."
The doctor was brisk and efficient. His examination took but
a half hour.
"You may have clearance, Captain," the medical man an-
nounced. Then he stepped to the rail, cupped his hands and
shouted: "All right, you fellows! Come aboard!"
"Wait!" Captain Anthony objected. "I can't take on passengers
here. My towboat is costing my owners money. I can't delay
"
"You won't have to, Captain," the doctor said over his shoulder.
"These newspaper people will be glad to have a free ride back
to port. Give your towboat captain 'full ahead.' Good-by and
my congratulations on being a hero!"
He swung overside, fighting his way against a human tide of
wild-eyed men who swarmed over the rails from port and star-
board, bow and stern, yelling: "Breslin! Anthony! Where's th'
Fenians? Where's the Captain? Captain! This way . . ."
Over all came a booming voice: "Johnnie! Johnnie Breslin!"
"That's John Devoy!" Breslin yelled.
A black-bearded, black-haired man leaped from the starboard
rail and plunged across the deck. He threw his arms about Breslin.
"Johnnie! You did it! The saints be praised! Welcome home!"
Breslin sputtered: "John . . . How did you know. . . ?"
"How did I know? How did all these newspaper people know!
Johnnie, the whole world knows what a hero you are and what a
hero your grand Captain is too. These men here represent the
press of the world. They're here to get your own story of the
rescue."
"But we didn't send any message . . ."
"Fast mail steamers spotted you. Clipper ships sighted you
and raced into port to spread the news. The electric telegraph
station at Sandy Hook reported you nearing port. Now, enough
229
The Emerald Whaler
of that. Help me fight my way over to those brave lads you res-
cued m' own lads th' patient lads I swore in myself!"
Devoy, standing on an up-ended line tub, shouted some sem-
blance of order into the mob scene. Again and again the news-
papermen clamored for more about the adventure. Anthony,
Breslin, the Fenians, the crew were hoarse from answering the
thousands of questions. Reporters were still scribbling furiously
as the Catalpa dropped anchor off the Battery in New York's
harbor. It was half past one, Saturday morning, August 19, 1876.
The newspapermen boarded their chartered small boats that
had trailed the bark to anchor. Anthony pushed his hair back
from a streaming forehead as the last one went overside. "I don't
think you need be in any rush to report your arrival," he said
drily to Breslin.
By early morning small boats surrounded the bark, full of
curiosity seekers who had read the morning newspaper accounts
and were eager to see the valiant whaleship at close quarters.
Sam Smith had armed guards at the rails to keep any from com-
ing overside.
Anthony called the rescued men together. "Men," he said
simply, "I have secured official permission for you to go ashore.
I'm sorry to lose you as passengers. I have greatly enjoyed your
company, even though we've had our quarrels. I hope the voyage
has been profitable for you." He grinned. "And now you are at
liberty to go ashore when you please."
Darragh took it on himself to be spokesman for all. "Captain,
we're too choked up to say much. But . . : God bless you for
everything. May the road rise before you!"
He shook hands with Anthony. Gravely, each man in turn
clasped the Captain's hand. Then they ducked below for their
dunnage, dropped into a whaleboat and were gone.
Sunday was a welcome day of rest for Captain and crew. Mon-
day fresh water and fresh victuals were taken aboard. Tuesday
morning early the Catalpa weighed anchor. In the late after-
noon, Wednesday, she was near New Bedford.
230
Made Fast
Captain Anthony went below. He donned his best clothes, then
ruefully regarded himself. The good blue cloth that had fitted
him so well eighteen months ago hung like a sack. He had
weighed 163 pounds that long-ago April day. Now he was but a
few pounds over 120. He looked in his tiny cabin mirror. The
hair that had been dark chestnut was streaked with gray. He
shook his head. Well, guess Emmie would recognize him if she
looked hard enough.
He went on deck. The sturdy brick of the whaling capital
loomed near. Sam Smith stood at his side. Slowly the bark eased
in to City Wharf.
The dock was jammed with a cheering crowd. Hundreds, un-
able to fight their way on the wharf, massed in the streets shore-
ward. Police Chief Hathaway struggled to keep them in check.
Familiar faces took shape. There was the olive-tan of John
Boyle O'Reilly. There were Father and Mother Richardson.
There was star-eyed Amy Chase. And there was Emmie, little
Sophie clutching her hand.
There was a lump in George Anthony's throat as he asked: "All
lines fast, Mr. Smith?"
"All lines fast, sir!"
"Gangplank secured?"
"Gangplank secured, sir!"
He took Sam's hand.
"Good-by, Sam," he said. "Thank you for
everything. Never did a captain have a better first officer. Amy
Chase is waiting for you. Kiss her for me. Good luck . . . You'll
make a grand Captain."
George Smith Anthony took a last look at his ship. She had
served him well. Now it was over. She was one of the last of a
vanishing line. Steam was replacing sail. Whaling was dying.
Kerosene was taking the place of good sperm. Soon the whale
would be forgotten.
Now he was through with the sea. Never again would he have
to break a vow to the loving wife who waited there for him. Fate
had decided. There was a price on his head, just as there was on
the Irish patriots he had helped to freedom. The man who had
231
The Emerald Whaler
twisted the tail of the British lion could never again put in at one
of the Queen's seaports without being arrested instantly.
He squared his shoulders and started down the gangplank.
Under his arm was his telescope and the Catalpas log. On its last
page, in a bold hand, were the words : "Went to City Wharf. Made
her fast. So ends this day and a pleasant voyage for J. T. Rich-
ardson."
232
The Clan-na-Gael paid off the Catalpa s people as John Breslin
had promised. Devoy averaged the whale-oil take of the seven
most lucky whalers out of New Bedford in the previous two years.
The Abbott Lawrence took 312 barrels; the Charles W. Morgan,
375; the Peru, 600; the Pioneer, 700; the Precedent Second, 700;
the Sarah B. Hale, 400; and the Janet, 750. The average was 549
barrels. Oil was upwards of a half dollar a gallon. Each barrel
measured 31 Vi gallons. The Catalpa herself had taken 310 barrels.
George Anthony shared $2,165.63 of the amount earned directly
by his ship. From the average struck off from the seven most
successful vessels, his lay amounted to $877.99. The Catalpa com-
mittee gave him $1,000 in token of their esteem and gratitude.
His total reward for the voyage was $4,045.62.
Sam Smith, as First Mate, with a gift of $200 from the com-
mittee, received $2,230.41 as his share.
Total cost of the voyage was $25,858.02, according to Devoy's
final accounting.
The Catalpa was given by the Clan to Captain Anthony and
his father-in-law. She sailed April 24, 1877, under Captain Ariel
Chase, whaling. On October 27, 1879, she voyaged again under
command of Captain E. E. Hammond. Her final voyage out of
New Bedford was in 1881. She sailed November 10, that year,
under command of Captain John B. Tabor.
The bark passed out of American registry in 1884, when she
was "sold foreign." She was altered into a coal barge and ended
her career on the beach at Belize, British Honduras, where she
was condemned and burned.
233
The Emerald Whaler
Sam Smith did get his master's papers, as George Anthony had
predicted. A few months after the return of the Catalpa, Sam
captained the brig F. H. Morse out of New Bedford for an Atlantic
voyage. Returning, he signed as first mate of the Rainbow, and
then the Peru. He married Amy Chase in 1883. The blood of a
long line of seafarers ran in the Jernegans. So it was only natural
that Amy Chase voyaged with her new husband to the Pacific
coast where he took the Napoleon out of San Francisco. Amy
went with him on the cruise.
Amy died in San Francisco, January 7, 1899. In March that
same year the bereaved Sam sailed for the Arctic in the schooner
Bonanza. He was first officer of the steam whaler Belvedere, and
the captain of the Orca. He died in 1909 at the age of sixty-three.
His ashes and those of his Amy Chase are buried at Edgartown,
on the Vineyard, under white gravestones identical in every way
but one his is graven with an anchor, hers with a lyre, tribute to
her love of the piano.
Emmie soon restored the lost forty pounds to George's stocky
frame, but she never had to worry about the call of the sea again.
The moment the Catalpa made fast in New Bedford that hot
August day marked the end of his seafaring career.
The Anthony house on Second Street was in the path of com-
mercial development in New Bedford. So George and Emmie
put it on the market and, using the proceeds of the sale and some
of the money received from the Catalpa adventure, bought a
brand new home at 14 Bay Street, in a more fashionable section
of the whaling capital. There, on January 4, 1884, Emmie gave
birth to another daughter, named Ethel. Sophie was nine years
old.
For the first five years following the return of the Catalpa,
George was a hard working member of the New Bedford police
department, captained by his friend Hathaway. Then, in 1886,
under the presidential administration of Grover Cleveland, Cap-
tain Anthony received appointment as boarding officer for the
234
Epilogue
New Bedford Customs House. This position he held for the rest
of his days.
It was a post to his liking, for it put him in touch with fellow
mariners once more. He
"voyaged" again but on the two wheels
of a bicycle that he rode daily to and from work. Many in New
Bedford still remember the chunky, gray-mustached, gray-haired
man with the ruddy face, who could be gentle and commanding
almost in the same breath.
Always George Anthony was deluged with invitations to speak
before gatherings of Irish folks. Again and again, always modestly,
he recounted the adventure of the Catalpa and her rescue of the
Fenians.
As for those thankful men, they were soon assimilated into the
virile young bloodstream of America. August 6, 1896, three of
them, with Captain Anthony, were honored guests at a huge
Clan-na-Gael celebration in Philadelphia's Rising Sun Park.
There were ten thousand gathered there that day. The Phila-
delphia Times said: "The great feature of the day's exercises, and
that which attracted the most attention was the introduction of
Captain George S. Anthony and the presentation by him to the
Clan-na-Gael of the flag which floated from the masthead of the
whaling bark Catalpa which had on board the political prisoners
rescued from the penal settlement of Western Australia, when it
was overtaken by a British gunboat. Captain Anthony presented
the flag from a temporary platform erected on the grounds. After
it had been accepted in behalf of the Clan the scene was one of
great enthusiasm. The band played the Star Spangled Banner
and the Clan-na-Gael Guards fired two volleys in salute."
Martin Hogan was there. So too were Tom Darragh and Bob
Cranston. John Breslin had died only a short time before, but he
was represented by his brother Michael. John Devoy was there.
Captain Anthony spoke briefly to the throng: "Twenty years
ago you came to me with a request to aid you in restoring to free-
dom some soldiers of liberty confined in England's penal colony
of Western Australia. Your story of their sufferings touched my
235
The Emerald Whaler
heart and I pledged my word as an American sailor to aid in the
good work to the best of my ability.
"The flag which floated over the Catalpa on that April day in
1876 the Stars and Stripes which protected the liberated men
and their rescuersI have preserved and cherished for twenty
years as a sacred relic. I would fain keep it and hand it down to
my children as a family heirloom, but I am confident it will be
safe in the keeping of those who were associated with me in an
enterprise of which we all have reason to be proud. Your country-
men have always been loyal to the flag of the United States and
ever ready to shed their blood for its defense. I, therefore, present
you with this flag of the Catalpa as a memento of our common
share in a good work well done and a token of the sympathy of
all true Americans with the cause of liberty in Ireland, I know
you will cherish it as I do, and that if the interests of that flag
should ever again demand it, your countrymen will be among the
first to rally to its defense."
John Devoy accepted the flag for the Clan, saying: "I accept
it with pride as a memento of a noble deed and I promise you it
shall be cherished by us while life is left us.
"It is the flag of our adopted country under which Irishmen
have fought side by side with native Americans on every battle-
field where the interests and the honor of that flag were at stake,
from Bunker Hill to Appomattox. It is the flag which symbolizes
the highest development of human liberty on this earth. . . . The
battle of human freedom has not yet been won and the combina-
tion of which you formed such an important part may serve as an
example worthy of imitation and enlargement in the future. . . .
You bore yourself proudly and gallantly like a true American
sailor, and you placed the Irish people under heavy obligations to
you. . . . Many of those who took part in the rescue and three of
the men to whom you helped give liberty are here to do you honor
and thank you in the name of the Irish race for the gallant feat
you accomplished nineteen years ago, and for your generous gift
of this historic flag. . . . Captain Anthony, in the name of the
236
Epilogue
Clan-na-Gael, I thank you for the Catalpas flag and wish you a
long and happy life."
Captain Anthony had seventeen more years to fulfill that wish.
He died in New Bedford, May 22, 1913, lacking just three months
and one day of his alloted three score and ten.
His Emmie lived on for many years, finally joining him in the
quiet of the churchyard November 5, 1935, at the age of eighty.
237

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