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Was It All Cricket?
To
My Wife and Family
As a general rule, a book that takes the form of a personal narrative is accompanied by a prefatory note of explanation; this one appears to come within that category.
Many times over the years, friends have urged me to record the story of a fairly varied career, particularly that period when I visited many outlying parts of the world. When an occupation takes one over diverse routes and to unusual places, experiences of travel are often different from those gained by the ordinary tourist. Although my early reputation in New Zealand was that of a cricketer, this book is brought into being to relate travels as a marine engineer, and subsequent adventures in the business world, as well as experiences in first-class cricket in England, Australia, and New Zealand. What claims I may have to write with authority on these subjects must be decided by the reader. A brief summary of events may be of some assistance.
It was in 1898 that I first represented New Zealand; two years later I was a member of the Melbourne Cricket Club XI, under
Returning to New Zealand, I captained all New Zealand's XI's from 1907 to 1914. On the administrative side of the game I was for more than twenty years a member of the Management Committee of the New Zealand Cricket Council—three years as Chairman—and after these activities was elected President.
Relating to travels, I was at sea for three years as a marine engineer—part of the time on tramp steamers—trading to many distant lands. This book tells of journeys round Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope, of visits to the Far East, the West Indies, North, South and Central America, also to many ports in Europe, the United Kingdom and Australia. Travelling with touring cricket teams also enabled me to see many places of interest. Experiences in the shipping, commercial and industrial life of New Zealand will complete the story.
When turning from delightful experiences on the cricket
Was It All Cricket?!” The title impressed me, and I have taken his advice, for it suits the story I have written. Every time Mr. Kirk met me, he would laughingly say, “Have you begun it yet?” I regret to say that he died some years ago, and did not live to know that my half-promise would be fulfilled.
On another occasion, when discussing biographies,
I believe that in parts this narrative may interest cricketers and engineers, as well as those who feel attracted by stories of travel or of business venture. It is my hope that the reader will enjoy more than one section.
Page 9: for M. L. Donnelly please read M. P. Donnelly. Page 73, line 17: for Lockwood and Hearne please read Richardson and Lohmann.
Page 440, line 38: for 1935 please read 19937.
I Have chosen November, 1895, as a suitable date on which to begin my story. It was then, at the age of sixteen, that I was first selected to play in the Canterbury XI against Wellington.
My father's death in 1891, at the age of fifty, changed our family fortunes, and my wonderful mother was left with a family of nine, I being the middle one, aged twelve. Anyone able to go back to the early 'nineties in New Zealand will know they were hard times. All who could were needed to contribute to the family earnings. My education naturally had to be curtailed, and, when barely fifteen years of age, I found myself apprenticed to engineering with the firm of John Anderson—now Andersons Limited—one of the best-known engineering firms in New Zealand.
Limited chances of advanced education were now replaced by technical training. Five years in evening classes at the Canterbury College School of Engineering, under Professor Scott, in many ways repaired the damage that would have been done to me had I made no effort to study after leaving school. There is, in engineering, a practical training that I was later to find invaluable when applied to everyday life.
To return to my selection in the Canterbury XI—the thought of the inclusion of so young a boy in a representative side came as a surprise to many, and the critics were not too sanguine about the wisdom of it. However, Mr.
The previous year, when a member of my club's Second XI, and not yet sixteen years of age, I had gone to Wellington to
On resuming there was to be a sensational happening in my first over. Naughton, a promising young player, was stumped.
My selection in the Canterbury XI, to play Wellington on the Basin Reserve in the capital city, was my first appearance in representative cricket. I took three for 33 in the first innings, and three for 18 in the second, thus making a reasonably good début. As was the case on this ground the previous Christmas, I remember being very nervous when going in to bat, although not affected in this way when taking the field, or at the bowling crease.
A month later, playing against a strong New South Wales team at Lancaster Park, in Christchurch, I took five wickets for 95 in the first innings, and shortly afterwards, against Otago at Dunedin, took four for 29.
The following season my bowling seemed to lack the nip of the previous year, but my batting came on apace; a change of form that often takes place with young players beginning to develop all-round ability. My captain,
As I was also a left-hand batsman, Donahoo took a keen and kindly interest in my play, but it was Sammy Jones's advice that I remembered most. In the second innings I attempted to back-cut a ball, and was caught in the slips. That evening Jones said to me, “Look here, sonny, with such a range of strokes in front of the wicket, why in the devil do you want to tip them through the slips?” I did not forget his advice, although I suppose I nibbled at them occasionally.
He also advised me about my bowling. At that time I used now and then to bowl an off break, and, sending down one of these unexpectedly, clean bowled him. Later, in the pavilion, he said to me, “Now, my boy, forget all about bowling me with
The bowling of this ball raises the question of the origin of the word “googly.” It was about the year 1900 that Bosanquet discovered how to bowl an off break with a leg-break action, yet, in 1895,
During their stay in Christchurch, the Queenslanders were thrilled with the hospitality and attention shown them. “Thorrington,” the home of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Clark, was a charming place, and in the days when garden parties played an important part in the social life of the community, was the scene of much entertainment. When their elder son, Charles, was elected captain of the Canterbury XI, visiting teams were to enjoy many an outing of a kind that for a number of years was to displace the old-fashioned coach drive on Sundays to places of interest. The Queensland team was one of the first to be entertained at the Clarks' home, or, to be more correct, in the lovely grounds, and the best private garden in Christchurch. The site of this old home was on the banks of the river Heath-cote, close to Cashmere Hills. The lawn, alongside a picturesque artificial lake, was, on this day, to be the scene of a thrilling spectacle. On our side we had
All the Australian teams of the 'nineties, and the early years of this century, were entertained in this way, either at “Thorrington” or “Fownhope,” the home of Mr. and Mrs. Wilding; and it was a charming thought which, thirty years later, prompted Trumble and Armstrong to cable Mrs. Clark their congratulations on her ninetieth birthday.
The first Melbourne Cricket Club team to tour New Zealand was also entertained at “Thorrington.”
A fortnight after the Queensland match, when playing against Wellington, in Christchurch, I made 96, caught against the fence at deep square-leg. In this innings,
I wonder if any two boys were keener on cricket than we were? After net-practice, and when everyone else had gone, we would take turn about throwing or bowling to the one with pads on, and in this way practised particular strokes. As we had no fieldsmen the ball had to be hit into the side net. Sims had more strokes behind point than I had, for, remembering Sammy Jones's advice, my only back-cut was just behind point. On the leg-side we both became adept at playing off our pads. We would have fielding practice as well. On Sundays, right through the summer months, we would walk the hills all day, usually doing about eighteen to twenty miles.
Perhaps the strangest outlet for our keenness was the theory we each had that prior to a big match we should rest our eyes in pleasant green surroundings. In Christchurch, the river Avon flows through the centre of the city. The representative games start at 11 a.m., so each morning of a match Sims and I would hire canoes, paddle a little way up the river, and after about an hour return to the boatsheds and then slowly wend our way down to Lancaster Park. This may make some people smile, even be thought ridiculous, but I tell it as a story of youth's enthusiasm. I was always taught that keenness was more than half the game.
In 1896 Trott's great Australian XI visited New Zealand. They came early in the season, and had time for only a few matches. Canterbury agreed to forgo a game against them so that a New Zealand match could be played at Christchurch. It was the first time I saw in action Giffen, Trumble, Jones, and McKibbin, the great quartette of bowlers, and Trott, Darling, Giffen, Gregory, Graham, Iredale, and others at the batting crease. Clem Hill did not play at Ghristchurch on account of a family bereavement. This was a particularly keen disappointment to me, for I had been likened to Hill in my batting, and especially wanted to watch him. It is somewhat of a coincidence that at this time, Clem, too, was an engineering apprentice.
Two or three incidents in this match will suffice.
Still another happening out of the ordinary occurred when the Australians were properly under way, and Iredale, batting beautifully, had reached 75. Mr. Wilding, then a veteran well over forty—father of
Wilding had been one of our best players, scoring in New Zealand big cricket over 1,000 runs and taking a hundred wickets. Against an English XI at Lancaster Park in 1886, he took eight for 21, so there was no fluke about his bowling of Iredale. His finger display was as tantalizing as
Wilding could also be tantalizing when batting. After playing a ball, say, to cover-point, he would dance out of his crease a few yards, and call to his partner, “Can we?” Often, a fieldsman, taunted by such enquiry for an obviously impossible run, would shy at the- wickets, sometimes giving an over-throw. Wilding once did this to
It was this same umpire who, in answering a unanimous appeal for a catch behind the wickets when his own son was batting, said, “Not out! Over!” As the old man walked away towards the square-leg position, he called to his son, “Did you hit that ball, Leonard?”
“Yes, father,” came the reply, but the elderly parent continued his walk as though he had not heard the embarrassing answer.
Reverting to Trott's 1896 Australian XI, I finish with one more story. These Australians were a band of merry men, led by a genial captain. On their visit to Canterbury they were taken for the usual Sunday picnic. Calling at Sumner, a seaside resort near Christchurch, they were entertained on the lawn of one of the local residential hotels. Before leaving, the Mayor proposed the health of the visitors. After responding, Trott stepped forward, and in the manner of a Maori chief leading his tribe in a haka, called aloud, “What's the matter with the Mayor of Sumner?”—to which his team chorused, “He's all right!” “Who's all right?” cried Trott. Chorus: “The Mayor of Sumner!” All together: “That's all right then!” Using the name of anyone who entertained them, they carried out this
One more memory of boyhood days: It was in the second year of my apprenticeship when, beating the five o'clock whistle at Andersons, I raced to Lancaster Park on my brother's “penny-farthing” bicycle to see Cuff and Lawrence score the last hundred of their record first-wicket partnership against Auckland. By the time I reached the ground, the batsmen were on top and scoring at a great rate; batting as though with one eye on the clock they raced to make it an afternoon of centuries. In the last over of the day Canterbury's captain was stumped and the score read “one for 306, Cuff 176, Lawrence 123 not out.” The runs were made in three hours, with the last fifty coming at the rate of two a minute. It was a grand exhibition of forceful batting and. remains a record, unbeaten in New Zealand cricket.
In 1897 the Canterbury team toured the North Island, playing Hawkes Bay, Auckland, Taranaki, and Wellington. I was so seasick on the trip to Wellington that it was decided to send me overland by train to Napier, while the rest of the team went on by steamer.
Against Hawkes Bay we had a real fright,
A singular incident in this match was to cause much amusement throughout the tour. Pearce, our medium-fast bowler, opened, and the first ball of the match went for four byes. Fowke, our wicket-keeper, muttered something about a butterfly, and at the end of the over, Johnnie—as he was always called—walked down the wicket repeating, “That damned butterfly!” By evening it had become a story. When asked, and he was repeatedly, to explain those four byes, this is how he told of the happening: “Well, it was like this:
In Auckland I was to see R. B. Neill, one of the very best slow bowlers we ever had in this country. He took nine wickets in our first innings, so we had reason to remember him. I was taught to chase the slow bowlers, and was going well in each innings when the wily Bob trapped me with his subtle change of pace and flight. A lesson for youth. We had a hard fight in
This was my first game against Auckland, the side that over the years has been Canterbury's most formidable rival, and the taking of nine wickets in the match ranks as one of my best bowling performances.
It was but a short train journey to Onehunga, on the other side of the narrow neck of the Auckland Peninsula. We left by steamer for New Plymouth. Oh, what a trip! Peter B. Kyne's graphic description in Cappy Ricks of the Quickstep forcing her way over the bar at the mouth of the Humboldt River, exactly describes this voyage of the Mahinapua. Some of the passengers were terrified as she ploughed through and over mountainous seas on the Manukau bar, in her struggle out of harbour against a southerly gale.
Only two members of our side were able to make the deck throughout the journey. On arrival at New Plymouth we at once took the train to Hawera, some fifty miles away. Shortly after arriving at our hotel, Fowke was found in a chair in the smoking-room, absolutely exhausted from seasickness, but still holding in his hand an orange that had been given him on the ship. It was not until next day that he was fit to start off again with his, “Well, it was like this:
We were too strong for Taranaki—our bowlers had a real harvest.
To reach Wellington was a twelve hours' journey in the train, but it was decided to stop at Wanganui. In the railway carriage, Raphael, our manager, gave us much entertainment with his portable phonograph—now gramophone—one of the first to be heard in New Zealand. Besides regaling us with popular music and songs, he always set it going and opened a window just as the train was running into a station; soon there would be a crowd around. The Maoris caused us much amusement when they kept saying, “Pi kori, him the feller!” We visited a Maori pa just outside Wanganui, and their excitement over the phonograph was unbounded.
Against Wellington we were to suffer our first defeat of the tour. They started off with the score of 400, and we never looked like catching up. It was in this match that
I was to learn a valuable lesson in this match. Wellington did not begin as though they were going to amass such a big total, and lost three wickets for less than 50 runs; two of these had fallen to my bowling. There was a strong, northerly wind blowing straight down the wicket, and my captain, believing that it was too much to expect so young a player to keep on bowling against the stiff breeze, changed me to the other end. This reduced the effectiveness of flight, and my next two wickets cost over 100 runs.
In these four matches I took thirty-one wickets, and in batting, although my highest score was 44, rarely made under 20. People said I should have made more runs, but for a youth of eighteen, I suppose I did fairly well. It was now said that I had developed into an all-rounder.
This touring side was a very good Canterbury XI, being strong in all departments of the game. Charles Clark made an admirable captain, and was a fine influence with his team. He was an Oxonian, having been up at Exeter College in the years when C. B. Fry was so famous at Oxford. It is worth telling that when elected captain, Clark told us that he would accept the appointment only on condition that Mr. Wilding made all the speeches on the tour. As Wilding was probably the most polished speaker we have had among cricketers in New Zealand, it will be seen we were well served both on and off the field.
While I was having some success against our North Island opponents, I was, during these years, to share the fate of so many in my appearances against Otago, more especially at Dunedin. They had a magnificent combination of bowlers in Fisher and Downes; the former a medium-paced left-hander, and the latter a medium-paced right-hander—a slightly slower edition of Haigh, the Yorkshireman, but with a more pronounced off break. These two were supported by Lawton, a professional from Lancashire, and Hope, another left-hander, but faster than Fisher. The Carisbrook ground in those days was a real bog after heavy rain, and on this type of muddy wicket Otago
On our return to Christchurch, we were met at the railway station by a number of cricket friends and humorists who, forming themselves into a band, marched up and down the platform playing tin whistles to the tune of “See, the Conquering Heroes Come!” As each of us stepped off the train, he was presented with a tin sword. We all joined in the humour of this satirical greeting. That 27 still remains Canterbury's smallest score.
Canterbury v. Otago has been an annual match since 1864, thus nearly equalling the period of the New South Wales—Victorian matches, and far exceeding in time the games between Victoria and South Australia. The latter, in fact, did not become a first-class cricketing State until 1880. Considering that in the years before the through railway was completed it took two days by steamer to go from Lyttelton to Dunedin, the feat of maintaining this as an annual fixture is, indeed, a noteworthy one.
A dinner and smoking-concert on the Saturday night were a feature of these visits. Otago had some splendid talent among their performers at the concert; the handsome
He may not have been a tuneful singer, for his songs provided more mirth than melody, but he was certainly a jovial entertainer.
There was always a Sunday picnic. A four-in-hand coach would pull up at our hotel at about ten o'clock, and both teams would go out for the day. Is it any wonder that a delightful spirit prevailed, or that lifelong friendships were made in these matches? It should be said that despite all this happy fraternizing between the players of both teams, the games were always sternly contested, for there was great rivalry between the two provinces.
Two stories of
In another match at Dunedin, the visiting team, with runs to make on the last day, appeared to have a chance of winning. The captain, wanting his team to go to bed early, tried to induce Fowke to turn in about 9.30 p.m. However, Johnnie scorned what he called a “sissy” idea. In the end, only four of the team retired early. Next day, Downes bowled these four “early-to-bedders” with four successive balls!
Canterbury's most tragic performance against Otago was on our own ground at Lancaster Park. Left with 193 to get on a wicket which, though slightly worn, was still a good and hard one, we cut a sorry figure. With the score at 19, Fisher bowled our captain. I followed, only to have my middle stump knocked back first ball. Sims came next, and the first ball survived an l.b.w. appeal, then down went his leg stump with the next: three wickets in four balls! Fisher bowled as if inspired, and we were all out for 46—Fisher seven for n. Such figures could be understood when Downes secured them on a treacherous wicket at Dunedin the previous season, but, on a hard wicket, well, who would have thought it possible? Fisher was a fine bowler, and this was one of his greatest performances.
Lockwood and Hearne once dismissed the Australians at Lord's on a perfect wicket for 53; the West Indians, in 1906, did the same to the Yorkshire XI for a similar score, so these things do happen, even in the sphere of big cricket. As a matter of fact, we had been telling ourselves that we should play back more to Fisher and Downes, for they were terrors to us in Dunedin. This time, with the wicket fast, and Fisher quickening his pace a little, we paid the penalty for playing back too much.
As I also got 0 in the first innings, it was my first experience of getting a pair of specs. My being in the Provincial XI caused the employees of Andersons to follow closely the doings of our team. Dick Thorpe, the elderly foreman of the millwright shop, was noted for his chaffing or barracking of all the youths in the works. While no doubt-he would be pleased at any success I might have, he could not resist a tilt at me over these two ducks. He got a nimble lad to climb high on to one of the roof principals and paint “Reese bowled Fisher o. o.” -Every time I happened to go into his shop, he would fold his arms, and stand staring at the two noughts. No chance of getting a swelled head when surrounded by such men! Ten years later I dismissed Fisher in both innings for o: we both enjoyed the joke, but of course I relished it most.
I remember one of old man Thorpe's sayings when he was on his favourite topic of chaffing youths about young women—“Have a good look at the mother first!” There was also an old
This good-humoured banter, typical of the times, was as unceasing and subtle as could be heard on the Clyde; the reason no doubt being that with this firm, founded by a Scot, all the foremen and many of the workmen came from Scotland.
On my first day at work I began hammering and sawing with my left hand, but old Jimmy Paterson, my foreman, came along and said, “No, no, you must use the other hand I” I could be a left-handed cricketer, but I must be a right-handed mechanic.
One form of initiation to which new apprentices were subjected was to be sent to another department to borrow a tool — some ridiculous thing. I was told to go and ask Dick Thorpe for the loan of his “bowser”—a fictitious name for the occasion. The red whiskered Wheelwright pointed to a casting that was both heavy and awkward to handle. It-was as much as a lad could carry, and as I struggled through the blacksmith's shop I noticed everyone laughing; it was the same in the machine-shop, and when I dumped my load on the floor of the pattern-shop, in which department I began my training, all crowded round to laugh at and chaff the credulous youth. Yes, they waste no time in putting a lad in his place when he joins the staff of a big engineering works!
The season 1898–99 was to be an important one for New Zealand cricketers, the Cricket Council having decided to send a team to Australia.
Sims and 1 at once decided on an even more intensive training. For the time being we gave up Rugby football, and throughout the winter months went every Saturday afternoon to a cricket practice pavilion owned by old Mr. Dickenson, a member of the Canterbury team in its first match against Otago in 1864. This barn-like building was the only one of its kind I have ever seen. It was specially built for the purpose, being about thirty yards long, and five yards wide. There were plenty of skylights, so the light was good. The clay for the floor had been run in in liquid form, providing a level surface on which was stretched a six-foot width of coco-nut matting; it made a beautiful batting wicket. Netting was hung across the ceiling and down the sides, about a yard from the walls, so that we could walk from one end to the other without coming into the line of play. We were joined by Prankish, Cobcroft, Boxshall, and the two Ridleys, so it will be seen that we had splendid practice. In the early spring we transferred to a turf wicket at the home of Mr. H. Murray, at Avonside, and when the fateful season opened were all in our best form.
Great interest was taken in the selection of the team, for this was New Zealand's first overseas tour, although a Canterbury XI had visited Victoria as far back as 1878. Mr. Ashbolt of Wellington was appointed sole selector. This was a mistake, for New Zealand's principal cities are widely separated, and a single selector cannot always have the requisite knowledge of the form and ability of the players in every centre. This was to be illustrated in the selection of the team; the greatest mistake being the omission of Archie Ridley of Canterbury.
The standard of play in New Zealand was rated fairly high at this time, for we had splendid bowlers in Fisher, Downes, Frankish, and Upham, while the batting also was considered good. In 1894 Canterbury had beaten a New South Wales XI
These matches against the various visiting sides could be used as a guide in assessing our chances of making a good showing against the Australian State teams.
Returning to the selection of the team, we were to be disappointed when it was learnt that Holdship, Williams, and Pearce were unable to make the trip; Holdship would certainly have been captain of the side; Williams was the best batsman in New Zealand at this time; and Pearce was an excellent all-rounder. Added to this was the loss of L. A. Cuff, one of our finest players and best captains, who, two years earlier, had gone to settle in Tasmania. Williams and Pearce were unable to obtain leave—a common difficulty in those days—but Holdship, holding a responsible position, decided not to go. He thus joined Harry Moses and
We finally reached the point of leaving for Australia. All our bowlers could go, and we still had a sound batting side, although we tapered off too quickly about half-way down the list. The North Island members joined the Canterbury contingent at Lyttelton, and we went on to Dunedin by sea. I wonder what modern players would say of their executives sending them by steamer because it was cheaper than by rail?
The team, thus fully assembled, was now ready to play a two days' match against Otago. It was thought it would be an advantage to have us all play together, so as to become used to one another's ways in the field, and between the wickets. In the absence of Fisher and Downes from the Otago team, Hope-became their principal bowler. This player always had the misfortune of having to play second fiddle to the above pair. As a matter of fact, he was good enough to be on our side for Australia, but there just wasn't room for him. This first match of the tour was played on the proverbial Dunedin soft wicket, with runs hard to get. I will relate but the final innings.
The Otago opening batsmen made a better job of playing their own representative bowlers than Canterbury batsmen usually did; before a wicket had fallen, I was called upon to replace Fisher. I think it must have been the change to slower pace, and a more flighty delivery, but, whatever it was, there was trouble for Otago at once. First one wicket, then two, then three, in quick succession, but it did not end there, for at the finish Otago were all out for 37; Reese nine for 14, a performance that came in for flattering comment, for I was not yet twenty. As a youngster of fourteen, I had once taken eight wickets for 7 runs when playing for the Midland Club's boys' team against Christ's College Third XI, but in first-class cricket had not previously approached such figures as those obtained in this final innings of Otago's.
We went on to Invercargill by train to catch the intercolonial steamer at The Bluff. Out into the rough sea in Foveaux Strait over went my stumps again, for I was at this
The approach to the southern coast of Tasmania saw the gradual calming down of the sea, and the arrival on deck of passengers who had not previously appeared. We were close to the shore, passing the cliffs at Point Pillar, which resemble the pipes of an organ, before I made an appearance. It was late afternoon on a lovely summer's day when we steamed up the wonderful harbour at Hobart. Some of those to meet us on the wharf had been members of the Tasmanian team that visited New Zealand in 1884.
Fortunately, we had a day and a half ashore before our match against Southern Tasmania, and I was surprised to find how quickly one recovered from seasickness.
We practised the following day, and were a fit side to begin our first match. It was a typically hard Australian wicket, in fact, so hard that our spikes clinked when we walked on it, and the pitch had a sheen like bitumen. In all my later experiences in Australia I did not see a harder wicket. We won the toss, and made over 300 runs. Two or three of our batsmen shaped very well, but most of them found the pace of the wicket puzzling.
When it came to Tasmania's, innings, we knew that the strength of their batting was largely wrapped up in Kenny Burn and C. J, Eady. Burn had been a member of the 1890 Australian team to England, while Eady, who had gone as the second fast bowler to Jones in the 1896 tour, was also a first-class batsman. Burn, now a veteran, was still a very good player; Eady was in his prime, and trying hard to win a place in the 1899 team to England. They both got a good start. Burn just missed the half-century, and Eady had reached 64, when a remarkable incident occurred. Groping forward to my slower ball, Eady spooned one back about three-quarters of the way down the pitch; I threw myself forward to catch the ball just off the
I have mentioned before that our main strength lay in the possession of four bowlers who had so proved themselves under New Zealand conditions. I was the fifth bowler of the side. It was thus obvious that my inclusion as an all-rounder made it necessary to drop one of the “Big Four.” This was to cause some heart-burning. Upham was an excellent medium-fast right-hander, very similar in pace and delivery to J. W. H. T. Douglas with the same perpendicular arm action that gave him an occasional in-swing from the off, if the wind was against him. When Jim Phillips was in New Zealand in 1898, fulfilling a coaching engagement with Canterbury, he was so impressed with Upham's bowling that he wanted to take him back to England with a view to his qualifying for county cricket. F. S. Frankish was a tall left-hander of the same style, and about the same pace, as George Hirst, but two years ahead of the Yorkshireman in developing his disconcerting off-swerve. Like Upham, he was a fast-wicket bowler. Downes and Fisher, I have already referred to in earlier pages; they were both spin bowlers. To cricket experts, it will be seen that had either Upham or Downes been dropped, we would have been left with three left-hand bowlers on the side. In the end Frankish was preferred to Fisher, who stood down for the first match. When
As this match against Southern Tasmania was confined to three days, these substantial totals left no time for either side to force a conclusion, so the game ended in an even draw.
We were all thrilled with Hobart. The harbour was magnificent, and the town nicely placed on its shores, with Mount Wellington overlooking the scene. We were taken up the mountain on the Sunday, and after lunch were treated to a feast-of strawberries and cream. Tasmania, with its wonderful climate, is, as everyone knows, noted for its fruit. The apples are amongst the world's best, and a great export trade with England is a feature of the island's industry. Peaches, grapes, cherries and other luscious fruits are available in plenty.
In Hobart I was to meet Mr. Robert Dawson, an old rowing friend of my father's. Three Dawson brothers came to New Zealand about the year 1860, the year before my father arrived from Scotland. The Dawsons were all expert oarsmen, reared and trained on this beautiful harbour on the Derwent Estuary. The races at regattas in those days were between boats owned by different groups of young men, who usually had a pair-oared, and a four-oared racing boat. The Reeses and the Dawsons joined forces, and built the Black Eagle, a boat that was to become famous. Although I had heard from my mother and my uncle many rowing stories of early years, I was to hear from Mr. Dawson more delightful tales of their picnics, training, and contests. One story is well worth re-telling.
The big event in the rowing season was the annual regatta at Lyttelton on New Year's Day. There was then no tunnel between Christchurch and Lyttelton, and it was usual to have the racing skiffs taken over the hill from Heathcote on some wheeled vehicle. For the 1863 regatta, the Black Eagle crew in a moment of daring, decided to row their boat down the Avon to Sumner, a distance of nine miles, carry it two miles along the beach to Scarborough, launch it there, and then row leisurely round to Lyttelton. There are few days in the year when such a venture would be possible, for from Scarborough to the Lyttelton Heads meant about two miles in the open sea. This
Brothers' Pride—They were all sailing ships in those days—had arrived from Scotland, and dropped anchor about half-way up the harbour. The romantic part of this story is the fact that my mother, then in her teens, was, with her parents, a passenger aboard the Brothers' Pride, and witnessed the happening. Although my mother and my father came from the same part of Scotland, they did not meet until some time later, in Christchurch.
The Black Eagle won the four-oared championship at that regatta, and its crew carried the boat back over the hill, 1,500 feet high, by way of the Bridle Path. Launching their pet craft on to the Heathcote, they then rowed down to the Estuary, where this river joins the Avon on its way to the sea. The return journey up the Avon was but a pleasant run. It requires some local knowledge to be able to appreciate the magnitude of this adventure and performance. I left Mr. Dawson feeling very indebted to him for giving me some glimpses of the past about which I was too young to be told by my father.
The mention of names and places often reminds one of other incidents, and Kenny Burn being in the Tasmanian team makes me feel that I cannot leave Hobart—or Hobart Town, as it was once called—without telling one of
Burn, who had a slight impediment in his speech, answered in his own inimitable way, “We've got a b-b-bloke in Hobart T-town who could b-b-blow his b-b-blooming head off!”
We were sorry to leave Hobart, for we had enjoyed every minute of the five or six days we had been there. The weather was beautiful, and we were royally entertained.
A six hours' train journey took us to Launceston. It was a day trip, and we all keenly noted every town and village as we travelled north. Many books have been written of Tasmania, and we passed places referred to in stories of the old convict days, for Tasmania had more than her fair share of the people who were sent out from England, often for some trivial offence. Australians are able to joke about those old days, and quote cases of Jim Smith and Jack Robinson being sent out for stealing a canary, or poaching on some estate, a shooting pastime, which, even to-day, is enjoyed by many of our young men. I cannot imagine young Australians always asking the farmer, or the squatter, for special permission to shoot on his wide acres. There were, of course, criminals sent out for serious crimes, but they were like a drop in the ocean when these convict settlements were done away with.
We loved Launceston just as we had loved Hobart, but it lacked the glorious setting of the southern capital. However, situated as it is, on the banks of the Tamar, about thirty miles from the coast, the river running through the city adds to its picturesqueness. It is “The Gorge” which is the main attraction. This is a very charming spot, where paths cut out of the solid rock overlook the foaming waters swirling down to join the Tamar. This place is lit up at night, and on warm evenings it is pleasant to go for a stroll, and hear the band music—a feature in the summer months. It is a great meeting-place for young people. One concert night Sims and I were sitting on the slopes of “The Gorge” when we thought we heard a snake in the grass, and the four of us bolted for our lives!
Our match against Northern Tasmania was, up to a point, an even struggle, but they were left with fourth use of the wicket, which was, by then, showing signs of wear, and Upham
The outstanding player in this match was E. A. Windsor on the local side, for he played a beautiful innings of 181, then bowled like a champion—his off breaks being typical of McKibbin, who got more spin on his off breaks than any other Australian, except C. T. B. Turner. Windsor injured his shoulder in our second innings, or we would have had a harder struggle. Given more opportunities, Windsor would have become a Test Match player.
The inclusion of George Palmer in the Tasmanian side revived memories of a great name. Palmer was now a veteran, and I was disappointed to find him so far past his best that no basis of comparison could be made with the top-notchers of this time.
Having played three matches, we were now able to take stock of ourselves. It was clear that several of our bowlers would not succeed on these hard wickets. Except for a few overs, the swervers could not swerve much in the lighter atmosphere of Australia, and the spin bowlers could break very little. Downes was the first to show resource, and he began to vary his pace more than I saw him do in New Zealand. This bowler, by the way, played a remarkable innings in the second effort at Launceston. A hard hitter, never better than possibly an eighth wicket batsman, he this time took the long handle with a vengeance, and batted brilliantly for 74; the highest score he made in first-class cricket. I particularly remembered a slashing drive he made through the covers, which fairly brought down
Leaving Launceston in the early afternoon by the Oonah, we found the trip down the river most interesting. The Tamar runs into a long, narrow inlet, rather like a fiord, which is twenty miles in length. We then had to cross Bass Strait—one of the roughest seas on the Australian coast, for it catches the full force of the southerly gales, as does Cook Strait in New Zealand.
We had an uneventful trip over, and passing through the Rip, entered Port Phillip at daylight. Like Johnnie Briggs, who got up at this hour to see what the weather was like on the morning of his first Test Match, so I had a peep out of the porthole to catch the first glimpse of the Australian mainland. It was exciting for us to be met at the wharf by noted people about whom we had read. They certainly made us feel at home from the moment of our arrival. We were driven in a coach up Collins Street to our hotel. Melbourne did not disappoint us, even when measured against our extravagant conceptions.
An elderly New Zealand friend of mine was to say to me, years later, after a trip abroad, “The three things that impressed me most were the City of London, Great Britain's government of India, and the City of Melbourne.” Truly, it was then, and is more so now, a wonderful city, planned by Englishmen determined not to reproduce the narrow streets of London, and other English cities.
The River Yarra runs through the city a short distance from Flinders Street, and in this narrow strip is situated the great railway station that handles such an immense suburban traffic. It is the continuous beautifying efforts that have made Melbourne reputed for its picturesque surroundings. The Botanical Gardens on the banks of the Yarra, Alexandra Avenue nearby, and St. Kilda Road, with its layout of a double tram track in the centre, and one-way traffic parades on either side, separated by rows of trees, are all the result of splendid planning. Such places as the Fitzroy Gardens, and the parks and reserves in
But let us return to cricket, for the cricketer may be impatient to learn how this New Zealand team shaped when it met one of Australia's best State XI's.
Before the match started it was interesting to meet in the pavilion such famous old players as
We won the toss, and the Victorians had taken the field when Blackham turned to our manager, and said, “Well, how many do you think you will make?”
“It all depends on those two” Raphael replied, pointing to Baker and me as we walked to the wicket, for in three of the four innings in Tasmania our opening partnership had yielded more than half a century.
Laver opened from the Richmond end. His slight off break was not as troublesome as his sudden little swerve, which he always obtained with a new ball. It was soon 10 up, then 20, then 40 up, and at lunch-time, 80 for no wickets, of which I had scored 60. I remember there was quite a ripple of excitement in our camp, and this excitement was to be raised still higher when we went on to score 135 for the first wicket; Reese (out) 88. Worrall became fidgety as we passed the century and began to drive his team, which, as cricketers will know, is often the
In his younger days, Worrall had been a fair bowler; now he relied on subtle ways. In his second over along came that slower ball—higher and slower—and I was down the pitch after it like a trout after a fly. I must have been a good yard out of my crease when the wicket-keeper removed the bails. It was the old head out-witting the young; the impetuosity of youth. I disappointed my comrades, who were hoping I would score the first century of the tour. Baker went on to make 56, and other useful scores brought our total to 317, just before six o'clock. We were all very satisfied with that first day's play.
Next morning was to bring us more thrills. Worrall and McMichael opened against Downes and Upham. In the second over, Worrall hit the former for 21. It was magnificent hitting; two 6's? two 4's, and a single. We rubbed our eyes to see anyone dash in like this so early in his innings. Frankish replaced Downes, his third ball clean bowling Worrall with a beautiful off swerver. In the next over McMichael was out to a similar ball, and Frankish had taken two for 8. Could an innings have started more sensationally and fortunes change so quickly! From a bewildered side, following the initial onslaught by Worrall, we at once turned into a fighting unit, with our bowlers bowling better than ever, and every man on his toes, fielding brilliantly.
Victoria's troubles were not yet over. Downes replaced Frankish, and, undismayed by his previous rough handling by Worrall, had soon taken a wicket. When Armstrong was caught at point off my bowling, I had taken two for 24. The incoming batsman, Stuckey, was missed in the slips off my next ball. Victoria had then lost five wickets for 129; no wonder Worrall was pacing the floor in the pavilion. He was to tell me later that we gave them a scare. The wickets of Laver, Graham and Armstrong falling in quick succession was something for us to be jubilant about. But could we last the distance? From then on the tide turned with a vengeance. McAllister, who was batting beautifully, went on to make 224. Stuckey, G. L. Wilson, Murray, and Tarrant, all made runs, and Victoria reached the huge total of 602.
But how we let the horses out of the stable.! We dropped
Sydney Bulletin's old satirical story does not provide us with an excuse, namely, that 99 per cent of catches dropped are because the sun was in the fieldsman's eyes! What would have been more applicable to our performance is the old story told of Tom Emmett, famous Yorkshire bowler and humorist, who, when several catches had been dropped off his bowling, exclaimed, “There's an epidemic on this ground, but it ain't catchin'!” Downes finished with four for 125, Frankish two for 120, Reese two for 118, and Upham two for 114, so we all got a good trouncing at the finish.
Our second innings was on a slightly worn but still good wicket. We were all out for 153, Cobcroft, our captain, making 56. After hitting two 4's and a 2, I was clean bowled by a beautiful ball from Laver, who was bowling very well. Thus we suffered an innings defeat. Had we held even some of those catches, it might have been Victoria who would have had last use of the wicket. Who can tell?
At luncheon on the second day, when felicitations were exchanged, Worrall and Bruce, in their speeches, made kindly reference to my batting, and both advocated my inclusion in the team representing the Rest of Australia, which was about to be selected to play against the Australian XI.
On the Saturday evening of this Victorian match, both teams were the guests of the local association at a theatre party. This was in the days of sensational melodrama, so wonderfully portrayed by the Bland Holt Theatrical Company, then well known throughout Australia and New Zealand. Devotees of modern pictures will have no conception of the thrills of this class of drama; a hero and a heroine, an outstandingly bad man as a villain, with always a black-haired, dark-eyed associate, spurred on by jealousy, hatred and revenge. I have heard the gallery, or pit, as it was called then, hoot and hiss the villain, and sometimes, when he was about to commit some foul deed, yell, “Look out!” as a warning to the unwary hero who was
On the Sunday, the Melbourne Cricket Club entertained us at an all-day picnic at Beaumaris, on the foreshore of Port Phillip. We played on the beach like a lot of school kids, and the party was like one of those afternoons at
One more Melbourne story.
The send-off at the railway station was as enthusiastic as had been our welcome at the wharf on arrival. There was a good number of players and officials down to bid us good-bye, and so we left, with the happiest memories of this great city, and a genuine fondness for the people.
We were soon speeding along at a pace greater than we had been used to in railway travel in our own country. The Victorian Limited Express to the border was a smooth-running train. A dining car was a novelty to us. Dinner, and our interest in new scenes when passing through some of the best pastoral country in Victoria, made the journey seem all too short. Four hours brought us to Albury. Then came the change of trains. The arrangements were very good, and one simply had to cross from one side of the platform to the other. Sleepers, and a cool night, made it a comfortable journey. Breakfasting at Moss Vale, it was not long before we reached the suburban areas of Sydney, which seem to stretch so far out beyond the city. Next, we were rolling into the great Central Station. Horse cabs took us to Petty's Hotel a fine, old-fashioned place we were to like very much. Before the erection of some of the great modern hotels in Sydney, Petty's was the popular hotel of the pastoralists, or squatters, as they are often called in Australia.
Our match against New South Wales was so one-sided that it dampened the enthusiasm we had developed over our southern matches, despite the second half of the Victorian match
I was to learn later that the New South Wales Selection Committee met on the previous Saturday afternoon, when, following our first innings' score of 317, word had come through that Victoria had lost five wickets for 129, and they promptly decided to play their full strength. This was certainly a compliment to us, but with dire consequences.
I should say that outside the English and Australian Test Teams this was probably the strongest side in the world at that time. It included eight players of Test Match calibre, although Trumper and Duff had not yet won their International colours. Noble, Howell, and McKibbin, then all at their best, made a magnificent trio of bowlers.
New Zealand all out for 140. We were troubled by the fast pace of the wicket, but much more severely tried by their wonderful bowling; Howell taking five for 22. He fairly fizzed off the pitch. Four months later, making his first appearance in England, Howell was to take all ten wickets in Surrey's first innings. Then New South Wales batted, and their innings opened almost as sensationally as had Victoria's in Melbourne. Duff was at once caught at third-man off Prankish for o, and two overs later Upham secured Pye's wicket; two for 13. A promising player named Farquhar then joined young
The New South Wales score eventually reached a total of 588; it was the Trumper-Farquhar partnership that demoralized our attack. Our second innings was a worse disaster: we were all out for 64. McKibbin bowled so well that he was irresistible, and took seven wickets for 30. I have not seen anyone get so much off break on those hard Australian wickets. As McKibbin also bowled a very good leg break, it will be appreciated that our batsmen were up against a great Test Match bowler in his very best form.
As in Melbourne, we were to have the pleasure of meeting old Australian players of International fame:
On the Sunday we were taken for an all-day picnic up the Hawkesbury River, that great and picturesque waterway that flows out to the sea twenty-five miles north of the entrance to Sydney Harbour. It will, no doubt, be known to readers that the Parramatta, the other great river of the State of New South
Our match in Sydney finished on the Monday afternoon, and as we were not to sail for Wellington until the following Saturday night, we enjoyed three days' sightseeing and further entertainment before being the guests of the New South Wales Association at the cricket ground on the Friday and Saturday, to witness the match Australia v. the Rest of Australia.
When I stated earlier that we stayed at Petty's Hotel, I did not mention that we arrived there to find the two Perry sisters—leading ladies in the Geisha—also guests of the hotel. They were most attractive young women who had been brought out from England by Williamson and Musgrove, and their dainty appearance, acting, and singing, made them universal favourites with the Australian theatre patrons. Well, this was a nice environment for a band of young cricketers. I had not previously seen actresses at close range, as one would expect from my Presbyterian upbringing. I was disillusioned to find polished, refined, and highly educated Englishwomen. We had some gallant young men on our side, and the reader will need very little telling of how they were bowled over. As usual, our handsome Prankish was first favourite. His Launceston affair was now forgotten. This time he was in love; it was the real thing! We had great fun in passing back to him, in devious and subtle ways, alleged admiring remarks by the lady in question. One day our best humorist came to lunch and said that Miss Perry would love to live in New Zealand. He then started to calculate how far a bank clerk's salary would go, and how long it would be before Prankish became a bank manager. This all seems very boyish to-day, but those who remember Frankish's personal qualities, and his rippling and infectious laughter, will understand why our tall left-hander was such a favourite.
Mrs. Gannon was the proprietress of Petty's and by this time we had become her boys. She was a very gracious lady, and insisted on giving us a picnic. Other guests at Petty's were invited, but, of course, it was the Perry sisters who dominated the scene. Whatever may have been the effect of their Japanese costumes on the stage, their evening clothes, or their street
After lunch we all went to the water's edge and hired some rowing boats. There was no thought of bathing, for sharks find their way into the uppermost reaches of this harbour. We all felt grateful to our hostess who had given us what was probably the brightest day of our tour. We still had two more days, and it is not telling secrets when I say that some of the members of our team went again to see the Geisha!
The match between the two Australian teams composed of the best players in the Commonwealth proved of intense interest to us. As we had not played at Adelaide, it gave us an opportunity of seeing and meeting the great South Australians who had come over for the match. Giffen, Lyons, Jones, Darling, and Clem Hill—these are names to conjure with in the cricket world of those or any other days. If he looks back at the New South Wales team of that period, and adds the great Victorians and South Australians, the reader will be able to appreciate the strength of Australian cricket at this time. If the student of cricket will go farther and look up the imposing names of English Test players of the time, he will be able to see that this was of the period C. B. Fry, in his recent book, termed “The Golden Era” of cricket.
The evening we were to sail for New Zealand, the New South Wales Association gave a dinner to both Australian teams, as well as to the New Zealanders. It was a happy gathering, and our presence there no doubt contributed to the good-fellowship of the party. I remember sitting next to Jones, the famous fast bowler, and when he found that I did not like oysters, he gleefully exchanged his empty plate for
We were due to sail at 10 p.m., so this would account for any lack of restraint by some of the players. It was a merry band of men who came down to the wharf to see us off. Major Wardill, always a genial man, was in his happiest mood, and kissing me on the cheek, said, “I've made a bet that you'll beat Laver for a place in the Australian team.” This was something of a shock to me, for my failure with the bat in Sydney, and getting only two wickets, had dismissed any illusion about getting into the Rest of Australia team, let alone the Australian team for England. I do not know whether I was really considered; anyway Laver was selected.
At last we sailed for New Zealand. It was a calm trip, and there was not as much seasickness as on the way over. We now had plenty of time to hold post-mortems and review the tour in all its aspects. The point most manifest was the fact that we had been away for more than six weeks, and had played only four matches. We should certainly have gone to Adelaide and played South Australia, and also to Brisbane to play Queensland. The two New Zealand teams that have since toured Australia have done this, but excluded the Tasmanian matches, which I think was a mistake. In that island State one experiences the same hard, fast wickets as on the mainland, and meets players below Test Match standard, who provide a good try-out before meeting the great Australian players. I know we should never have shown the form of the early part of the Victorian match but for our experience in Tasmania.
When we turned to individual play, the greatest surprise and disappointment was in our bowlers. Had anyone said that Fisher and Prankish would not succeed, the reply would have been, “Well, the New Zealand side had better not go.” Measured by any standard, these two were fine bowlers, but they just could not adapt themselves to the Australian conditions, and discovered that it needs more than beautiful, swinging deliveries to get wickets over there. We had no rain throughout the tour, so every wicket was the typically fast one.
George Hirst was a failure on his first tour to Australia. I remember
The bowling honours went to Downes, Upham, and Reese. The wickets taken are a fair indication of the order of merit, but even totals are misleading, for Fisher stood down in two matches, and Frankish in one, and Downes and Upham bowled unchanged when Northern Tasmania was dismissed so cheaply on a worn wicket.
In batting, Baker was top of the averages, and deserved his position, for he always played soundly. I came second, and Lusk third. The latter played a fine innings of 91 against South Tasmania, followed by 83 at Launceston. All of our batsmen found these very fast wickets different from our own, and few became used to them, for in a tour of four matches only, there were not many chances to make up for failure.
And so ended New Zealand's first overseas cricket tour. We had been an extraordinarily happy family.
I have often wondered what would have happened had this New Zealand team gone to England instead of to Australia. In Fisher, Downes, Frankish and Upham we would have had, for English wickets, a bowling side that not many counties could have bettered. As this was two years before George Hirst had developed his devastating swerve, Frankish, with Young of Essex, would have been the first bowler of this type to startle English batsmen. At Leyton, in 1903, I saw C. B. Fry lift his bat over his shoulder and step across to protect his
The next twenty months were to be the most strenuous of my young days. There was at this time a great boom in gold dredging in New Zealand. The most famous dredge, the Hartley and Riley, operating in the Otago district, was winning gold every week in such quantities that it was an easy matter for promoters to launch dredging companies onto the market, and find ready and eager investors.
There was far more money being put into the ground than was ever taken out of it, but it took some years for investors to learn, to their sorrow, that while the Hartley and Riley continued to be a successful venture, there were many wildcat schemes launched. It will be readily appreciated that the building of many dredges meant a boom in engineering, and Andersons were being pressed for delivery of several new dredges. The firm had no chance of coping with all the work offering. As it was obviously a flash in the pan, there appeared to be little justification in enlarging their plant. The Andersons therefore chose, instead, to work overtime. We started at 7 a.m., and worked until 6 p.m., with a break of only three-quarters of an hour for lunch. In the winter-time it meant starting work at day-break, and finishing in the dark of the evening. As I was now in the advanced classes at Canterbury. College, struggling with Applied Mechanics, Hydraulics, Electricity, etc., it meant hurrying home four nights in the week to bath, have dinner, and then attend lectures from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. The year's term ended early in December, and started early in March. From this it will be seen how these long hours encroached upon the cricket season. The match Canterbury v. Otago, this season, was in Christchurch, and the wicket on the soft side throughout the game. As usual, Sims and I opened the innings to Fisher and Downes. I dashed into Fisher at once, hit him for two or three 4's, and when I was caught in the outfield off him, after a short, merry innings, had scored all the runs, the board reading: 17–1–17. In the second innings I repeated the performance, scoring 26 out of a total of 28. Some of our players considered
In this same season the Melbourne Cricket Club team toured New Zealand. Trumble, just back from the English tour, was, of course, their outstanding player. When they arrived in Auckland, an advertisement for the local match read—“Come and see Trumble., the world's greatest bowler.” No wonder New Zealand batsmen thought he was about eight feet high, and a demon beyond their ability to play. Assisted by a left-hander named Cave, a member of the professional staff of the Melbourne ground, Trumble was to go through New Zealand sides in a way that made us despair of ever approaching the Australian standard of play. Trumble was laughingly to tell me later that the advertisement got him a lot of wickets.
I failed in the Canterbury match, but struggled hard to get 26 in the Test Match at Christchurch. In this game,
Altogether this was one of the most unsatisfactory seasons I ever had, for it was a severe handicap to be unable to get much practice, I began to pick up my real form towards the end of the season, but too late for big matches.
The winter of 1900 was to see the end of my football career. I had started to play again in earnest after the Australian cricket tour, and at the age of twenty was elected captain of the Sydenham First XV. My entry into senior football had been somewhat similar to my first appearance in cricket. When
The following year I played full-back at the beginning of the season, the first match being against Ngai tu Ahuriri (The Big Tribe). This was a Maori team, with its ground at Wood-end, about fourteen miles from Christchurch. The Maori pa at Tuahiwi was but a mile or two away, and this always ensured a good attendance of Maoris at all their home matches. In this Maori team were three brothers Uru. They were young men of magnificent physique, all over six feet, and all over fifteen stone. Billy played centre three-quarter, Harry half-back, and Hape (Happy) in the centre of the scrum. To those who know the characteristics of the Maori, it will not surprise them to learn of the tricks of these native players. They used a sticky substance like bird lime on their fingers; the two front row forwards used not to shave for a couple of days before the match, and in a dozen other ways they brought in the light-hearted cunning of the Maori. However, with all this, they were not as clever as their city opponents, who generally outwitted them in team tactics more than in individual cleverness.
These Maoris played football with the joy and abandon of schoolboys, and were a popular and picturesque side. Billy Uru, their captain, was a real Maori chief in sport, if not in blood. He was also a representative cricketer, a champion wrestler, and in field games at athletic meetings outshone all others in his time. He was leader, with the rank of Captain, of the Maori contingent to Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee in 1897, and again of the contingent to the celebrations in
In this particular match, when playing against a fresh breeze, I was standing well back. Presently Uru broke through and came straight at me. Imagine fifteen stone against about ten stone! Just as he reached me he passed to the wing three-quarter who scored behind the posts. As they were getting the ball from the scrum at this stage, it was not long before Uru was through again, with thirty or forty yards to go to the youngster at full-back. This time he did not pass! The Monday morning's newspaper report of the match said of this incident—“… young Reese bounced off like an indiarubber ball!”
When the Urus' football days were over it was the end of this Maori team. Many an exciting incident took place on the Woodend ground. The Maori women used to get wildly excited, and in close contests have been known to attack, with umbrellas and sticks, supporters or barrackers of visiting teams. In one particularly hectic game when play was becoming rough, an excited old Maori woman on the side-line, urging on the men of Tuahiwi, shrieked: “We ate 'em before—eat 'em again!”
This famous
The season following my cricket tour to Australia was to be an auspicious one for my old football club that had for years been near the bottom of the ladder. In 1900 we gradually climbed to the top, and had only to defeat the lowest placed team in the competition to win the championship. Kaiapoi, our opponents, had themselves been the champions a few seasons previously, but most of their best players had now retired. Smarting under their low position on the list, they decided, unknown to us, to bring back some of their old players just to show that they could still play football.
Kaiapoi, the country town they represented, is twelve miles from Christchurch, so it meant going out by coach, leaving about mid-day. Another coach-load of supporters went, no doubt expecting to wave the flag and be in at the kill. But what an awakening we were to get! These husky country lads just tore through our ranks as if we were junior players, and although we rallied in the second half, we were well beaten by 17 points to 3. This now made us level with Christchurch. In the play-off at Lancaster Park, before a record crowd, the match ended in a draw; 6 all. It was a hectic game. Playing again on the following Saturday, before a still bigger crowd, the score, with ten minutes to go, was again 6 all. Christchurch then scored at the corner flag, and
I was then picked as centre three-quarter for Canterbury, to play against Wellington at Wellington. To my surprise I was refused leave that would enable me to go with the team on the Thursday night and return Sunday morning. I suppose my employers considered that they had been liberal enough in letting me off so much for cricket, and of course they had been generous. On the other hand, I felt that my previous refusal to ask for leave to tour the North Island with the Canterbury Rugby team because of the approaching cricket tour to Australia
There was a howling southerly blowing and pools of water on the ground, so it was not a very pleasant game in which to play my only football match for Canterbury.
Thus ended my strenuous but happy six years with the firm to which I have always felt indebted for a sound training. The four Anderson brothers had all been representative footballers, and must, I am sure, have felt as vexed as I did at the manner of my going. At any rate they showed no animosity when I announced that I was going to Australia, and gave me a good reference covering my services with them.
My earlier reference to Stoddart's English football team reminds me that
Stoddart's tour was the first visit of an English football team to this country. Although I was but nine years old, I remember my father taking one of my brothers and me to see the match against Canterbury. I have no recollection of any other players but Stoddart, and Paul, the full-back, who later played cricket
Pat Keogh was also a fair cricketer, and was to figure in a humorous incident. Playing in a club match, he was called upon to umpire, as players are often required to in junior grade cricket. With Keogh at the bowler's end, the batsman taking strike was the son of the local policeman. Presently there was an appeal for l.b.w. “Out!” said Keogh, loudly and emphatically.
As the batsman walked past the umpire, he said, “I wasn't out.”
“No,” said Keogh. “And I wasn't drunk when your father put me in the lock-up last Saturday night!”
I had always intended to proceed to England on completion of my apprenticeship. This had been the practice of many young New Zealand engineers, for the overseas shipping companies had, in those days, a system of allowing them to work their passage Home. They were signed on as assistant engineers at one shilling per month. It required some courage to go abroad and face the world in this way, and yet it was only what our fathers and grandfathers had done forty and fifty years earlier, when they faced the uncertainty of life in the Colonies. It was probably the cricket of Australia that was part of the
The celebration of my twenty-first birthday saw more than half our family grown up, and as we were all working, our total income was such that the earlier anxieties of our slender family purse had been overcome. It was particularly hard to face leaving the happy surroundings of my home life. My brave mother, undaunted by the years of anxiety following my father's death, showed little outward sign of the strain she had been through since she was left with the responsibility of rearing such a large family. She was the first to see that going abroad would open up opportunities greater than any likely to occur at home; my brothers and sisters all looked upon my going more as an adventure, and applauded the idea. And so it came to saying good-bye, which was more heart-rending than I had anticipated. I remember my mother's final words, “Now, be a good boy, Dan,” quietly spoken, and with a trust that was most touching. I was to hear those simple words in every part of the world. Those who know the atmosphere of a Scottish home will be aware of the standards of their family life, and appreciate the influence of a mother of the Victorian era.
One often reads of the achievements of Scotsmen in all parts of the Empire. Seldom is reference made to the women of Scotland who migrated to Canada, South Africa, Australia, and New Zealand, to play a noble part in transplanting the home life of the Old Country, and maintaining the character of the peoples of our race. If anyone should wish for a better picture of our family circle, I would refer them to J. M. Barrie's beautiful story in Margaret Ogilvy. There you will see my mother as the same mother that Barrie depicts, with her gentle, kindly, and self-sacrificing way of caring for her children.
I was later to see the leadership of men in its truest sense, as exemplified on the cricket field by great captains, but I have seen none finer than was shown by my mother in her handling of five sons and four daughters.
I Left Christchurch on September 22nd, 1900; I remember this day as though it were but yesterday. Joining the ship at Lyttelton, I was to go by the same route as that taken by the New Zealand cricket team two years earlier—calling first at Dunedin, then at The Bluff, and across the South Tasman to Hobart. On the one day at the latter port I was to experience the same glorious sunshine as had our cricket team. I have been to Hobart several times since then, and on no occasion have I seen rain in that city.
Back in the great city of Melbourne, I was now far from home and dependent on my own efforts. After booking in at an hotel, I called on Major Wardill, who gave me a delightfully warm reception. He said that of course I would have to play for Melbourne, and without delay put me up for membership. The Melbourne Cricket Club, like the great Marylebone Club, has always a waiting list, but there is provision in the Club's rules for the immediate entrance of players from other States. As a New Zealander, I was made very welcome, especially as I had so recently met all the officials of this club, as well as many of the members of the First XI. In those days the Melbourne Cricket Club had a programme of mid-week matches, and many of the players seemed able to get an afternoon off as they do for golf to-day. These were delightful games in which to play. I had not foreseen that there was a residential qualification of three months required for players in senior cricket. This meant that for this period I had to play in the Second XI, which team included two of the ground staff professionals, and was quite a good side. Striking form quickly, I reaped a good harvest of runs. I remember in my final match for them getting 89 not out against East Melbourne. In the last five minutes of the game I hit a slow bowler straight over his head for six, and the ball was lost among some shrubs at the Old Warehousemen's ground on St. Kilda Road. Time was up with the ball still not found.
The evening practices on the Melbourne ground were something
I envied
With the completion of my residential qualification, I was in due course selected for the First XI. My first match was against Fitzroy on their ground. It had rained hard on the Friday night, and Saturday turned out a hot, sunny day, so the condition of the wicket will be understood. With Frank Tarrant, the left-hand bowler on their side, the Fitzroy captain, on winning the toss, sent us in to bat. When the score was one for 6, Tarrant did the hat trick, dismissing Graham, Armstrong, and Trumble. It was thus four for 6 runs when I joined
It was certainly an encouraging start in such company, and Trumble put me in first with
This was the most advertised 0 I ever made, unless one counts those two o's up on the principals of the roof at Andersons' foundry. We went on to make a big score, Trumble getting 210. The following Saturday it rained, so my 0 was up on the score board for another week. In those days, open-air concerts were held on the Melbourne ground every Monday evening during the summer months. All the best musical talent of Melbourne performed there. A platform was erected in one of the grandstands, and the audience, according to their choice, sat in the stand or strolled round the cricket ground, on which they were allowed. Due precaution was, of course, taken to protect the wickets by having them roped off. For a number of years these concerts were immensely popular. They gave great opportunity for the youth of the city to entertain their lasses as they do at the pictures to-day. Of course my friends would walk round past the score board on these three successive Monday nights when the first name on the board was—Reese, o. I was kept being asked, “What! Made another ‘blob’?” Once, in the paper on Monday morning, was surely enough.
The summer of 1901 was an extremely hot one in Australia—one day in Melbourne it was 109° in the shade. This meant hard and fast wickets. The Merry Creek soil used in Melbourne gave them the fastest wickets in Australia. I found it difficult to become accustomed to them, and failed several times.
One day, when walking to open the innings with McLeod, he said, “Have a ‘crack.’ I think you're playing too carefully.” Taking his advice, I ran to 30 in a few overs, then threw my wicket away with a rash stroke. As I walked out past him, he said with a laugh, and in his soft voice, “You blithering idiot, why didn't you slow up when you had got a start?”
At any rate I had now got off the mark, and continued to make useful scores, although in those years in Melbourne I was never to run into centuries. As a matter of fact, from a cricketing point of view, I should have been better advised to play for some other club team, for Melbourne was such a powerful side that an individual success or failure hardly mattered. I doubt if there has ever been a stronger side in Australian club cricket.
It was very interesting to be playing against men like Worrall of Carlton, Tarrant of Fitzroy, Trott of South Melbourne, and so on, but the keenest struggle was always against East Melbourne. All clubs liked to beat the M.C.C. side, but there had developed over the years a strong rivalry between these two clubs whose grounds so closely adjoined one another. East Melbourne also had a fine club record, dating back to the days of Harry Boyle and
In my time it was
Those few years in Melbourne were a great joy to me, and my close association with such famous players provided a sound cricketing education. Batting at the nets to Trumble, McLeod, Armstrong, and the professionals, was, perhaps, the greatest advantage I enjoyed. To see them all in action, and to talk of old Test Matches, and cricket of earlier years, was a thrill to me, for I had always been a student of the history of the game. These sidelights on the great players of those times, and of the past, were a feast to my cricketing mind.
Bruce—
There is no need here to record details of his magnificent bowling. His last Test Match will suffice. When the English team of 1904–5 arrived in Australia, Trumble had already retired, but events went so badly for Australia in the first Test that Trumble was induced to don the flannels again, and he played in the remaining Tests. In the last innings of the final Test he took seven for 28, and this performance included the hat trick, so the manner of his exit may be imagined. There is a wealth of meaning in the title once used by C. B. Fry for a photograph of Trumble: “Knowledge is power.” More than twenty years later,
It will surprise cricketers to learn that Trumble practised slip fielding by throwing a tennis ball against a brick wall, catching it on the rebound, his theory being that it is impossible to retain hold of an air ball if one snatches at it. This practice accounts for the easy manner in which he always allowed the ball to fall into his hand, for it is also fatal to snatch at a cricket ball. The old maxim, “Practice makes perfect,” is also to be found in Trumble's early training as a bowler, for his father used to get him up early in the mornings to bowl at a white feather stuck into the pitch at the spot of a perfect-length ball. In telling me of this, old Hughie said, “Of course I couldn't repeatedly hit the feather, but I soon reached the stage when I was always pretty close to it.”
Another interesting character was Charles McLeod, the contemporary of Trumble in club, inter-State, and Test cricket. It does not, somehow, seem quite right to call him Charles. You may say Charles Fry, as MacLaren called him, but for McLeod it was always Charlie, and this was a term of endearment, for he was indeed a dear companion. He was, unfortunately, a little hard of hearing. Deaf people usually speak too loudly or too softly; McLeod was of the latter kind, and this characteristic seemed to make him more attractive. He made you feel you were his confidant. Trumble made us laugh when he told of an incident in the Essex match in the 1899 tour, which was McLeod's first trip to England. A. P. Lucas of the county XI was also a little deaf, and when McLeod spoke to him on the field, Lucas did not answer. At the luncheon adjournment McLeod said to Trumble, “What sort of a chap is Lucas?”—and explained what had taken place.
Trumble, with his quick wit, at once saw the humour of the situation and replied, “Oh, he's one of those stuck-up fellows who thinks no end of himself.”
Later in the day, Lucas was to address a remark to McLeod, but this time it was McLeod, feeling somewhat hurt, who did not answer. The Australians had a good laugh in the dressing-room that evening. Lucas and McLeod were eventually to become warm friends.
McLeod was to be the butt of another of Trumble's little jokes. It was in the county match at Manchester. MacLaren and Spooner opened the innings for Lancashire, and McLeod bowled to Spooner, who took first strike. Just before the start of play, McLeod turned to Trumble and said, “What sort of a batsman is Spooner?”
The artful Hugh replied, “Oh, he's just a stonewaller. Pitch him up a slow one to begin with.”
McLeod could bowl the slower ball very well, but the first one he bowled to Spooner, this brilliant batsman hit straight over the bowler's head for six. The look of disdain that the incredible McLeod gave to Trumble was the high-light of this humorous incident.
McLeod was a very good bowler of the type of Trumble, but a little faster. On a worn, dusty wicket his extra pace sometimes made him almost as dangerous as his tall club-mate, but on a good or rain-affected wicket there was no comparison.
At the end of his practice at the nets, Armstrong always finished by opening out and having a few hits, when it was positively dangerous to bowl to him, for the power of his straight drive was tremendous. A half-volley would come back like a cannon-ball, and I have seen bowlers deliver the ball from a few yards behind the crease in order to have time to get out of the way! He forced his way into the Australian XI in 1901, was selected for the 1902 Australian team for England, and from this time never looked back. It is remarkable that in the
Some of our opponents met on the field should be mentioned. Worrall, who had gone to England with an Australian team as early as 1886, was still a very good player. Hitting 6's over the long-on or long-off boundary are natural hitting strokes, but to hit a 6 over cover-point's head is another matter. I had read of either Bean or Brann, the Sussex batsmen, playing this remarkable shot, but I had not seen it done. In our match against Carlton, I saw Worrall, in one over, hit Trumble twice on the half-volley clean over cover-point's head for 6. On the second occasion, Trumble, knowing the dangerous nature of the stroke, enticed him to repeat it, but Worrall hit the second one even better than the first. I may say I have not seen that shot made since. Jessop once hit a 6 off a long hop clean over point fielding square, but a 6 over cover-point demands accurate hitting.
We always looked upon
It was a great loss to Australia when Frank Tarrant, to whom I have referred earlier, accepted an engagement with the Middlesex County Club, just when he was due to step into the Australian XI. In him a great player was lost to Test Match cricket, for he had an outstanding record in county cricket in England.
These sketches will enable readers to appreciate the happy atmosphere which prevailed, and the standard of club cricket in Melbourne at that time.
I cannot end this story of my cricketing days in Melbourne without referring to the Melbourne Cricket Club, second only
Most cricket clubs run their First, Second, Third and Fourth XI's, but Melbourne has just its First and Second XI's, and then about six other teams are entrusted to individual captains, who pick their own sides, and make all arrangements through the Club Secretary for the season's matches. It is an excellent arrangement. The games are played in the spirit of house or village cricket in England. Any promising young player is helped up quickly towards the Second XI, and consequently there is no retarding a young player's development on account of the holiday nature of the games of these teams, led by men who possessed personal qualities above the average. Dr. Daish, Dr. Strong, and Charles Robertson are some of the names of the captains of those years, who played no small part in maintaining the very special position the Melbourne Cricket Club holds in the hearts of cricketers.
When district cricket was introduced, the Melbourne Cricket Club was faced with a threat to its very existence as a participant in club matches, and this caused much heart-burning. The proposal to make a residential qualification apply to all the different suburban teams came at about the same time as the controversy between the players and the Board of Control, which, to some extent, involved the Melbourne Club. Fortunately, common sense prevailed, and a reasonable compromise made provision for the special circumstances and position of this great central club, which had no particular residential district to support it.
The magnitude of the Melbourne Cricket Club and its operations may be gathered from the fact that it has a membership of several thousand, and a waiting list nearly as big. Its figures for income and expenditure read more like those of a
When it came to English teams visiting Australia, it was the Melbourne Cricket Club that invited men like Lord Harris, Lord Sheffield, A. E. Stoddart and A. C. MacLaren to bring teams to Australia.
All the teams to New Zealand prior to 1894, in which year the N. Z. Cricket Council was formed, were, in the same way, brought by individuals or associations, who, while acting independently, rendered a great service to the game.
With the Marylebone Club now managing for England, the Boards of Control arranging all matters for Australia and for South Africa, and the Council for New Zealand, it is well to remember that while official control does the job well to-day, the players of those early years, and the Melbourne Club, did yeoman service for the game long before the present organizations came into existence.
Leading citizens play a big part in the management of the Melbourne C.C. Sir Edwin Grey, Chairman of the National Bank of Australasia, was President of the club in my time. Trumble, who was on the staff of this bank, was thus fortunately placed for getting leave of absence for overseas tours.
Two great Secretaries enhanced the reputation of the club. Major Wardill was an outstanding personality and a most efficient officer, while
During these three seasons I saw all the players of the other States in their matches against Victoria.
Present-day cricketers find it hard to believe the tales of Giffen's greatness. Some remember him as the batsman who
I believe there was a stage in
When batting, Giffen had a tantalizing habit of bending his left knee in front of the wicket as the bowler ran to deliver the ball. Harry Trott told the story of how, on arriving home one evening, he found young
“That's
When Harry Graham first met the famous George, he had plenty of advisers telling him to look out for old Giff's wiles. Nothing daunted, the youthful Graham dashed in straight away and hit with great vigour. He raced along to 84, but then old George prevailed; caught at long-on. Higher and
Giffen was a man of fine physique. In his youth he was a noted gymnast, and one of South Australia's best footballers. In the dressing-room he stripped like a modern Hercules. He could hit a 6 as easily as any player of his time, but his batting was noted for its soundness and he rarely indulged in big hitting.
But South Australia had a quintette of great players at the end of last century. Jack Lyons! How everyone sat up when he went in to bat. Here was a hitting batsman if ever there was one. Not a hitter in the sense of a Jessop, for he just stood up and played in-front-of-the-wicket strokes like any first-class batsman, but the power of his shots was amazing. In the days when the Adelaide Oval had a curbing round the ground, a ball would not last the 200 runs if Lyons got set. He and Darling would open the innings for South Australia, the latter, playing the rock until Lyons was out, would then open out into his natural Joe Darling game, for he, too, hit fiercely at times. Darling's mightiest efforts were against Stoddart's second team to Australia, when he hit Tom Richardson as he had never before been hit. With Giffen and Hill to follow, the great batting strength of South Australia will be appreciated. Joe Darling was a man of fine character and a splendid influence in the game. It can be said that the reputation of Australian touring teams was never higher than during the period of his captaincy.
Clem Hill was now in his middle twenties, and at the height of his career, even though his 188 against Stoddart's team in 1897 is always considered his greatest innings. Like Grace, he had been famous as a cricketer before he was twenty. The popular Clem was a colourful personality: in the dressing-room he was always the play-boy of the team; on the field of play he was of the type that could carry a side on his back, and this fighting spirit often enhanced the value of the performance. It was this characteristic which made him the greatest of all left-handers, with Woolley and Bardsley following close behind. For fifteen years Hill was a mighty force in Australian cricket. Holding his bat with a rather short grip of the handle, he put great power into his strokes. No other player so naturally placed the ball on the on side, and his range of strokes between
Hill ranks high on the list of the world's greatest players. Although in later years he was to lead Australian teams in Australia, it was unfortunate that the Board of Control's differences with the leading players, which resulted in their withdrawal from the 1912 tour, should have deprived him of the honour of captaining an Australian team to England where he was a great favourite with the public, and held in high esteem by the authorities.
Fast bowler Jones completes the list of champions that made South Australia such an outstanding side in those days.
I end these sketches with a glimpse of the superb Trumper. Ranjitsinhji alone equalled him in his variety of strokes, which covered all points of the compass from slip to fine-leg. Of all the great batsmen, Trumper had the most devastating effect upon the bowlers. When at the zenith of his powers, it mattered little how the field was placed. His unlimited choice of direction, backed by the timing and power of his strokes, often bewildered even experienced bowlers. As I fielded to his batting when he made scores of 253 and 293, I can speak feelingly. In 1902 he wrested from Clem Hill the laurels of Australia's cricketing idol, but it was a generous tribute when, after an amazing innings by Trumper on a difficult wicket, Clem said, “I take off my hat to Victor.”
There was a charm about Trumper that won a warm spot in the hearts of all who knew him. He was one of the most modest and unselfish of players. He accepted umpires' decisions as a matter of course, and no one ever heard him say there was a doubt about any ruling that sent him back to the pavilion. Australians and Englishmen alike honour the memory of
The New South Wales XI I had already seen and played against, but the matches against Victoria enabled me to obtain a more lasting impression of their best players. Trumper's brilliant play, Gregory's cleverness, and Iredale's graceful batting were a revelation to me.
Great though were the Victorian and South Australian
The great event of season 1901–2 was the visit of MacLaren's team. One has to live in Australia to appreciate the atmosphere that pervades all sections of the community, both before and after the arrival of an English cricket team. Australians are essentially cricket-minded, and when it comes to Test Matches, cricket talk is as common in drawing-rooms as it is in the workshops, offices, hotels, and clubs. It is always a surprise to visitors that so many women attend Test Matches in Australia.
On paper, MacLaren's team did not look as strong as Stoddart's two great teams of 1894 and 1897. Hirst and Rhodes were prevented by the Yorkshire County Committee from accepting MacLaren's invitation. This was thought to be a selfish attitude, prompted solely by consideration of their own county in preference to the interests of England; Lord Hawke got most of the blame for this. Ranjitsinhji, Jackson, and Fry also were unable to accept, so it will be seen at once how far this team was from being England's best.
England has always had far more players to draw on than Australia, but it is a fact that no English team that represented England's full strength has ever come out to Australia.
This was, nevertheless, a good side. The new men, as usual, attracted particular attention. Jessop's reputation had, of course, preceded him, and everyone was agog to see him in action.
Colin Blythe, the Kent left-hander, made a great impression. He had a fine action, with the peculiar habit of putting his bowling arm right behind his back just before making delivery. He had an ideal pace for a left-hander on Australian wickets, and in this respect resembled Peel, who, the Australians considered, was the best left-hand bowler England ever sent to Australia. He must have been pretty good to have been better than
Braund was at once more successful than he was expected to prove on the hard Australian wicket. His persistent length and direction, and appreciable leg-spin, made the batsman play him carefully. His plugging away at the legs and leg stump, with a cleverly placed, strong on-side field, seemed to cramp the play of the Victorians. Not since A. G. Steel had a right-hand leg-break bowler been included in an English side, but as Steel mixed an off-break with his leg-breaks, his attack was not as concentrated as Braund's.
Even with all this talent for batting and bowling, it was the
In Sydney, MacLaren's team had much the same experience as most previous English teams, for New South Wales at that time included about half the Australian XI, but it was the Test Matches we were now waiting for. Until Queensland became a competitor for the Sheffield Shield, Test Matches were allotted two to Sydney, two to Melbourne, and one to Adelaide.
The first Test was always played in Sydney, and, like Stoddart's team, MacLaren's started off with a handsome win. The Sydney wicket at that time was the slowest of Australia's fast wickets, and suited the English batsmen better than either Melbourne or Adelaide. MacLaren began with a glorious century. His batting on the Sydney cricket ground on his three tours of Australia was always brilliant. Old cricketers will remember what a majestic figure he was at the wickets. Ever a commanding personality, he seemed to take charge of the game when he was batting. Splendid batting, followed by the bowling of Barnes, Blythe and Braund, made this team look a formidable side in this match.
The second Test, at Melbourne, was one of the most extraordinary in the whole series of International games. There was the excitement over the selection of the team—always a matter of great interest to the Australians. Poidevin, who played finely in the New South Wales match, was selected, but an injured hand prevented him from playing. Everyone expected that McAllister of Victoria would be chosen in his
It is doubtful if Australia ever had a better Selection Committee than Darling, Trumble and Noble, who acted that season, and there is something fine in Trumble's faith in Noble's judgment.
The clouds banked up late in the afternoon of the day before the match, and about five o'clock there was a terrific thunderstorm. I have never seen hail like it in my life. Hailstones the size of bantams' eggs broke almost all the skylights in Melbourne, as well as the glass-roofed verandahs. Torrential rain followed. The morning broke fine and sunny, so here was all the making of a sensational start, with enormous interest in the result of the toss. The system of covering the wickets overnight and when it rains, as is now done in Australia, robs the game of one of its best features. It may ensure substantial gate takings for the match, but I will never believe that a Test Match of to-day can ever be charged with the electric atmosphere that prevailed on that Friday morning in Melbourne.
MacLaren won the toss, and promptly told Darling, the Australian captain, to bat. Trumper cut beautifully Barnes's first ball of the match, but third man fielded it brilliantly. In a moment, Trumper was out to Barnes before he had scored, and Australia began to struggle for runs. They were eventually all out for 112. Duff was top scorer with 32, and he played wonderfully well under difficult batting conditions against the really great bowling of Barnes and Blythe, who bowled unchanged throughout the innings.
The Englishmen fared worse than the Australians, and were all out for 61. Noble took seven wickets for 17 runs, but although he bowled finely, there is little doubt that MacLaren was bustling his men to get in quickly and get out quickly, for, like the Napoleon he was, he saw that he was racing against time. He knew that if he could get the back of the
With about an hour and a half to go, we all got a surprise when Darling came out with
The following day was to prove the wisdom of Darling's sacrifice of his tail-enders the previous evening. Hill was to play a fine innings for 99. Just as we were waiting for the other single, along came a short ball on the off from Barnes, which he hit with great force straight to Jones at point, who held a good catch. Clem looked disconsolate as he walked away from the wickets, but his cup of disappointment was to overflow in the next Test, at Adelaide, when he made 98 and 97. The Sydney Bulletin, noted for its facetiousness, as well as satire, said that these scores showed that Mr. Hill was obviously going off in his batting. But Hill's score in this Melbourne match was eclipsed by Duff's 104—a grand effort, and one
début in Test cricket, played very well for 45 not out, and stayed to allow Duff to reach his century. It is difficult to imagine the great Armstrong going in last in a Test Match, but that is what he did on this occasion.
England was left with over 400 runs to make, but it always looked too much for them. Tyldesley played finely, but rain falling again on the last night left the Englishmen no chance of making even half the number required.
It was an extraordinary match, and although MacLaren's men were soundly beaten, there were moments on that first day when it looked as if Australia was getting into a corner from which escape seemed improbable. Barnes, in taking thirteen wickets in the match, created a tremendous impression. Noble also took thirteen, an equally great performance. It is unique that Noble and Trumble between them took all the Englishmen's wickets in each innings.
In Australia's second innings the batsmen gave a remarkable demonstration of their cleverness and adaptability. Braund had bowled so persistently and successfully to a strong on-field that the Australians changed their tactics and just played him for singles, which was not difficult between his widespread field. Two, three, even four singles an over kept coming, and with Clem Hill at the wickets for so long, it will be seen how hard it was for Braund, and what an arduous task for the fieldsmen, when they had to change over for the lefthander. Braund finished with one wicket for 114 runs.
It was by the same tactics that the versatile Australians of the 1894 side ridiculed Humphreys, the underhand lob bowler, out of the later first-class matches in the tour of Stoddart's first team. After losing one or two wickets in attempting to hit his high-tossed, shoulder-high lobs, the batsmen settled down to singles, singles, and still more singles. Left-handers Darling and Bruce were in the game at that time, so it will be seen that Humphreys had the same tantalizing experience as Braund.
The fifth Test Match of the series against MacLaren's team was also played in Melbourne, and proved a keen fight from start to finish. Although Australia had already won the rubber, there was still great public interest in this second game in Melbourne. Rain had fallen prior to the match, and although
I remember in the 'nineties, when quite a lad, reading one of the English weekly magazines in which a questionnaire was put to all the English county captains of that time. Grace, Lord Harris, Lord Hawke, Stoddart, Hornby and others were asked independently, “What would you do on winning the toss on a soft wicket?” Practically without exception the answer was, “Bat first.” That is a rule that most captains follow, and, I think, wisely. MacLaren broke it in the previous match in Melbourne. He, no doubt, seemed justified in doing so, and it nearly came off, but in the end he was left with last use of the wicket, and more rain on the last night of the match spoilt any real chance of winning.
In this fifth Test, the Australians began at once to force the pace, and were all out for 144. Barnes' continued absence from the English team completely changed the strength of their attack. He had broken down in the third Test at Adelaide, but before this had proved himself an exceptional bowler; he was a temperamental man, and a little difficult to manage.
The opening of the Englishmen's innings was to bring a surprise and thrill to us all; MacLaren took Jessop in with him. Jessop had failed to get going properly on these fast Australian wickets, his best effort up to this time being 87 against New South Wales. He took first strike to Noble, and hit the first four balls of the innings for successive 4's. The Melbourne crowd cheered as each hit the fence. We knew this could not last, but on it went until he reached 35, when he was caught at long-on. How many batsmen have jumped
Jessop was the most remarkable hitter I have ever seen. We all expect a slogger to get down the pitch and hit the ball on the half-volley, but the man of Gloucester could hit the fast ball on the rise, just as
The Englishmen were all out for 189, giving them a useful lead in a low-scoring game. Trumble took five for 62. He was a tower of strength to Australia in this series.
An intense fight developed as Australia set about to wipe off the deficiency, and leave England sufficient runs to make to give Australia a chance. Clem Hill, as usual, was the stalwart of the side, but again he was to be denied his century. This time he made 87. When one reads the record of centuries in Test Cricket, it is well to remember this great sequence of scores by Hill that fell just short of the coveted three figures. Australia was all out for 255, which did not seem enough to give them victory. Braund bowled splendidly and took five for 95.
It was a new experience for the Australians to see a purely leg-break, right-hand bowler of the
To return to this stern contest in Melbourne; the Englishmen, with 211 to get to win, looked like fulfilling MacLaren's ardent wish to win this Test. MacLaren took little Willie Quaife in with him, and the English captain started, in his commanding manner, to take charge of the game. After Quaife went out, Jessop followed, and soon they were off as in the first innings. It was then that a really tragic happening occurred, which was instantly to change the fortunes of the visitors. Jessop drove Trumble straight past the bowler to Clem Hill fielding on the boundary. They ran one, and MacLaren turned and was off for a second run, but Jessop had run past the wicket, thinking there was a single only. By this time it was clear that he must send MacLaren back. At the critical moment Trumble called to Hill, “Right through,” and Clem, with a beautiful return, threw straight over the bowler's head to Kelly who whipped off the bails before MacLaren got home. The English captain slipped and fell as he turned, but even then, with a supreme effort, nearly managed to reach the crease in time. I can still see MacLaren walking back to the pavilion with head erect, but, as everyone knew, with anguish in his heart. He had batted beautifully for 49, and with three wickets down for 87 runs at stumps, the Englishmen still looked like winning.
Rain during the night ruined their chances, and Australia got home with 32 runs to spare. Tyldesley played finely on the bad wicket, and
And so came to an end my first experience of Test Matches. Although I was later to see more Australian—English matches, and Australian—South African Tests, not at any time did I get such thrills as from those two remarkable Melbourne matches in 1901. It was MacLaren's third and last visit to Australia with an all-England XI, and he enhanced his already big reputation. His captaincy was an outstanding feature of the tour. Barnes qualified to be rated among the world's great
As illustrating the keenness of MacLaren as a captain, the story of the sequel to his great first-wicket partnership with Hayward against New South Wales is worth telling. They had scored over 300 runs when Hayward was out to a bad stroke. He had just had his shower-bath when MacLaren, the next man out, bounced into the dressing-room. One would have expected a, “Well played, Tom!” Instead, he said, “Why in the devil did you want to make a stroke like that?” MacLaren's team came much nearer to disputing Australia's claim to supremacy than the scores and results would indicate.
This proved to be the last of the privately managed teams to tour Australia. Illustrious names appear in the list of those who have played a great part in the management of English teams. Lord Harris, Lord Sheffield, with Grace as captain, and A. E. Stoddart are the names best remembered of those who came after the pioneering efforts of the professionals. It is not generally known that the Melbourne Cricket Club had intended to invite Ranjitsinhji to bring out his team in 1901, but changed its mind and issued the invitation to MacLaren. Looking back over the years, one feels that great as MacLaren was as a player and a leader, a rare opportunity was lost in not asking the Indian prince. It would have proved an event of enormous Empire interest, and may have had far-reaching influences. A great deal of cricket is played in India by the Indians, and one can visualize the interest of both Hindu and Moslem in the doings of an English cricket team captained by one of their own princes.
Ranjitsinhji, later to become the Maharajah of Nawanagar, was not only one of the world's greatest cricketers, but also a great imperial figure. It will be of interest to record that “Ranji” had the same faculty for remembering cricket scores
Sims was more successful with H. H. Massie. On being introduced to this great Australian hitter of the 'eighties, he laughingly said: “You made 206 in your first match in England in 1882.” “No, 205,” said the elderly Mr. Massie, but Sims was right!
An event of historic importance to the British Empire, and one which created world-wide interest, took place in the first year of my stay in Melbourne. This was the inauguration of the Commonwealth of Australia. Long years of discussion and negotiations had finally solved this complex problem of bringing all the States into a federation, with a Federal Parliament paramount in national affairs. With this feat accomplished, Australians were desirous of showing the world that the “birth of a nation” such as theirs was worthy of ceremonial celebrations of the highest order.
The announcement that H.R.H. the Duke of Cornwall and York—later King George V—was coming to open the first Commonwealth Parliament, stirred the imagination, and gave an immense fillip to the enthusiasm and already high anticipation of Australians.
Melbourne was made the temporary political centre of the Commonwealth, pending the selection of a Federal capital, which, according to the Constitution, must be in New South Wales, but not within one hundred miles of Sydney. This was a compromise and solved a difficult problem.
Australia happily selected the appropriate date of the first day of this century for the adoption of the Federal Constitution. The inauguration ceremony took place in Sydney on January I, r 901, when Lord Hopetoun, the beloved first Governor-General of Australia, on behalf of the Queen, declared Australia a Commonwealth.
The election of members of the first Federal Parliament was held at the end of March, but as far as Melbourne was concerned, public festivities were reserved for the opening of Parliament two months later. Great preparations were then made. Flags and bunting were on every building, and at night the city was ablaze with lights. The railway stations at Flinders Street and Spencer Street, studded with a myriad of
Over every verandah on the route of the procession temporary grandstands were erected, and seats were soon at a premium. I sometimes feel ashamed of the price I paid for two seats in Swanston Street, midway between the stately Anglican Cathedral and the Town Hall.
The day of arrival was now at hand. To enter Melbourne via the Yarra or Port Melbourne is like entering a house through the back entrance, but St. Kilda, a beautiful seaside suburb, six miles from the centre of the city, with St. Kilda Road as the connecting avenue, provided the ideal setting for the initial reception.
The Melbourne people were thrilled with this arrangement, for anything of a national character was always measured by comparison with what Sydney could do, and they knew that once anyone passed through the Heads, Sydney could provide a view of one of the finest harbours in the world. To give Melbourne its due, the Queen city, on this auspicious day, gave the Royal visitors an entry comparable with the best that Sydney could furnish.
The R.M.S. Ophir, an Orient liner, had been converted into the Royal Yacht and made a fine picture as she steamed up Port Phillip accompanied by the flagship of the Australian Navy. As she drew near her anchorage, those along the beaches and foreshore were able to see the whole panorama, and later watch the Duke and Duchess of York being welcomed as they reached the pier and set foot on Australian soil.
St. Kilda was to play an important part throughout this week of celebrations, for warships of every naval power had come to represent their countries and were anchored in the bay off-shore.
The stage was now set for the principal event of the tour—
Australians do not wear their hearts on their sleeves about Royalty and loyalty, but get under their skins and you will find that besides possessing a national spirit of their own, there is the same pride of Empire as is general throughout the Dominions. Australians certainly did themselves justice this day; their warmth of welcome must have thrilled their future King and Queen, and enabled them to envisage the Empire being strengthened by Australia's becoming a nation instead of remaining a group of individual colonies.
The procession was most impressive, and a fitting introduction of the Duke and Duchess to the people of the Commonwealth, for there were many visitors from the other States. From my seat I had a view of the Royal carriage as it approached the entrance to the city. Halting for a moment on Princes Bridge to be welcomed by Sir Samuel Gillot, the Mayor of Melbourne, the Royal couple were soon in the heart of the city and in the hearts of the people. From the moment of their entry vociferous cheering greeted them as they drove at a slow pace along the route to the Exhibition Building, where the ceremony was to take place. An enormous crowd lined the streets, and mounted police, on white horses specially trained, had difficulty in keeping the enthusiastic people back.
But interest in the procession did not end with the passing of the Royal carriage, for there followed the Governor-General and Governors of other States, the Prime Minister and his colleagues of the first Federal Cabinet, and representatives of other countries, including Sir Joseph Ward of New Zealand, as well as soldiers and sailors of the Empire. It was a magnificent spectacle. The vividness of the Duke's uniform, followed by the Earl of Hopetoun in his uniform of State, lent a note of distinction to the appearance of the occupants of the leading carriages. By comparison, the bell-toppers and black coats of the statesmen and politicians looked sombre, but then followed a blaze of colour that was to astonish Australians, for every British regiment was represented. In
On reaching the Exhibition Building, the Duke and Duchess ascended the dais, in front of which were seated the Members of the first Federal Parliament, while accommodation was provided for a vast assemblage. Special prayers were read by the Governor-General, and the Old Hundredth Psalm was sung. The King's message declaring Parliament open was read by the Duke of York, followed by the firing of a Royal Salute by artillery stationed outside the building. The Governor-General then administered the oath to the Members of the new Parliament, and the greatest event in the history of Australia was over.
For a whole week the people of Melbourne gave themselves up to celebrations; banquets, dances and parties took place everywhere. The Duke and Duchess had a strenuous time, for there were many official functions. First, there was a levee at Government House, and on the following day a reception at Parliament House; there was a great Military Review at the Flemington Racecourse, when the Duke and the
One of the last acts of our future King and his Consort was attendance at the demonstration of the Victorian public schools at the Exhibition Building, when the Duchess, pressing a button, hoisted the flag that flies in so many parts of the world. At the same moment, Union Jacks were hoisted in every school in the Commonwealth.
It was a great privilege to be a witness of so much, and I am thankful that I was able to be interested in more than the ceremonial part of these great celebrations.
Among my intimate friends in Melbourne was one of
Before referring to them, one should ask, “What was behind all this ceremony, and why did it mean so much?” For many years it had been clear that individual effort by the separate Colonies was not the way to build a united and great Australia. Important national questions were looming up, and hastened the consideration of ways and means of unifying conflicting interests.
Queensland, for instance, used native labour from the
Next came New South Wales with her Free Trade policy, for the people of this State were disciples of Cobden and Bright, and not content with its adoption in their own Colony endeavoured to get others to follow. New South Wales had always been the “Mother State,” and more or less dominated the affairs of Australia in her earliest years. She had once controlled New Zealand from Sydney, on behalf of the British Government, until Governor Hobson was appointed to represent the Crown in this Dominion. Added to this was the old sore of the boundary between New South Wales and Victoria. A glance at the map will show that the Murrumbidgee would, have been a more natural and equitable division of territory. This may not have been fair to New South Wales on the eastern side of the State, but the fact remains that on the western side the railway lines of Victoria cross the boundary and run as far as Balranald, to serve the Riverina district of New South Wales. This means that the wool and grain from that territory come to the market in Melbourne. Accepted as the natural order of things, this did not figure largely in the minds of the people, as did the Protection Tariff policy of Victoria, which was used not only against goods from overseas countries, but also against New South Wales as well. There was a Customs Clearing Station at Albury, and the luggage of passengers travelling south was closely examined by Victorian customs officials.
It will not be hard for readers to visualize the dangers to inter-State friendships. Intense industrial activity developed in Victoria, especially as the industries in the southern State were not, at first, hindered as much as were those in New South Wales by the harsh spirit of the Trade Union movement that was then so rapidly gaining strength throughout Australia. When one turned to South Australia, it was found that the
Western Australia was, however, a different proposition and had a difficult decision to make. Perth was 2,000 miles west of Adelaide, and little more than a decade had passed since this State had been raised from the status of a Crown Colony to that of a self-governing one. The discovery of the great Coolgardie gold-field was followed by the equally great rush to the rich Kalgoorlie field. For ten years this Western Colony had forged ahead, and continued to attract adventurous young men from the Eastern States—“t'other-siders” they called them. This increase in the population, together with an ambitious Public Works policy, added to the prosperity of the State. While gold was the magnetic attraction for those who went west, other developments were taking place. Great tracts of the country were suited to wheat growing; the Jarrah forests were producing timber that found a substantial market in London; the apple crop was nearer the London market than those of South Australia, Victoria and Tasmania. What, however, exercised the minds of West Australians when federation was first mooted, was the fact that all manufactured goods were cheaper when purchased from England. No wonder they hesitated to become a State within the Commonwealth.
The discovery of the Coolgardie gold-fields, told to me by a man who took part in the rush, is an interesting one. Prospecting had been carried on for years up in the Kew district, where fair returns could be obtained by those who followed the bed of the river that was nearly always dry. There lived in the west a young man named Bailey, an adventurous spirit, who preferred the outdoor and lonely life of a prospector to that of a city occupation. He would return from the wilds with his gotten gains, lead a bright life for a week or two, and when broke, go back to his claim. He was a splendid athlete, and could run a hundred yards in very nearly even time. It is told how he would stroll into a country town in his mining clothes. In the pub at night, he would lead the subject round to running. It was not long before he had been challenged to race the local champion who was readily backed. It looked easy money for these habitués of a country hotel, and there was a good deal of side betting. The locals got their first shock when they saw the beautifully built Bailey strip for action.
Bailey was a studious sort of chap. He figured that if the storm-waters off the hillsides and gullies carried the gold into the Kew river-bed, it must come from the country inland. He placed his theory before a friend named Ford, and persuaded him to accompany him far into the interior. It was a trip full of hardship. They engaged black boys for the camp, and searched day after day, and week after week, for the gold Bailey had said was certain to exist. One day they sat down on a ledge for a rest and chatted. Bailey, with his little prospecting hammer, began idly tapping away at an outcrop without looking at what he was doing. As if by chance he looked down at the place where he had been aimlessly hitting. His eyes nearly jumped out of his head. It appeared to be almost pure gold. Soon they were ripping into it with their tools, only to prove that the find exceeded their wildest dreams.
When they got their first thousand or more pounds worth, it was arranged that Ford, a big strong man, with a shock of red hair and a beard to match, should take their winnings to the nearest town where there was a bank. Ford was not only strong, he was also shrewd. After depositing his gold and registering his pegged-out claim, he took every precaution against being followed on his return journey. He was too crafty for those who would shadow him, and by a devious route got back to the camp. Soon they had won another lot, and this time it was Bailey's turn for a trip to town. But Bailey was not as shrewd as Ford; he spent his nights in the tavern and must have become communicative. At any rate the sleuth-hounds were on his track. No sooner had he arrived back at camp than swarms of prospectors appeared on the scene.
Thus it was that Bailey, although he had collected fivers and tenners from the rustics of the district by his artful wagering and his pace on the running track, was now to repay them a thousandfold when he unwittingly led them back to Coolgardie and to fortune. The newcomers had to suffer the same hardships and privations as Ford and Bailey, who found the absence of water a great drawback. Water had to be carried
The Western Australian Government then decided to play its rightful part, and not only push on the railway into the area, but also provide the settlement with water, A clever New Zealand engineer named O'Connor put forward a grandiose scheme of pumping water through pipes across the three hundred miles of country between Perth and the new gold-fields. Many fierce arguments took place, for opinions were divided as to whether such an engineering feat was possible. The government of the day decided on its adoption, and O'Connor was entrusted with this scheme. It proved a tremendous undertaking; four or five great pumping stations, placed about fifty miles apart, were to pump the water from one to another. Hostility to the project continued throughout its progress, and it so worried O'Connor that he took his life at the moment when his goal was in sight. It was a tragic end to the career of a brilliant engineer. The scheme was a huge success from the outset, and from 2s. 6d. a gallon, and even more in drought years, the water rate dropped to make the cost of a thousand gallons no more than a single gallon had formerly cost.
We all know of the oil pipe-lines across Iraq, Syria and Palestine. Some people know of America's great water scheme, by syphon, to supply the Panama Canal area; but few people outside of Australia know of this wonderful system of water-supply for Coolgardie, and the area that is known as “The Golden Mile.”
In its early days as a Crown Colony, this Western State, like New South Wales and Tasmania, was used by the British Government as a convict settlement. Whatever the misdeed, the punishment carried the stipulation that never again could foot be set on the land of their birth. This restriction bore harshly on many who were guilty of some slight offence, yet afterwards became reputable citizens. The knowledge of this
Tasmania, the junior Colony, measured by population and industry, doubted its ability to pay the additional taxation required to cover the cost of administering the affairs of a great Commonwealth. While Tasmania had a great fruit export trade with England, she was in difficulties with Victoria over her potatoes and timber. The mainland Colony had her own hardwoods of a similar kind, and also wanted to grow her own potatoes. Most of Tasmania's trade in potatoes was with New South Wales through Sydney.
Besides these important points of view in each State, there were other difficult and overlapping problems. Defence was, of course, a matter for the continent, customs tariffs should also be on a national basis. Post and Telegraph offices operating separately meant the collection of some portion of the charges from the Colony to which telegrams were sent, and the unification of the railway system also figured largely in the discussions of the time.
I have written enough to show the complex nature of the interests of the different States. Here was a conglomerate mass of ideals. Could it be converted into an element that would serve the interests of all individual States, as well as the continent as a whole, thus forming one great Commonwealth worthy of being called a nation?
That it was accomplished is a credit to the wisdom of the Australian people, who confirmed by referendum the agreements arrived at by their respective leaders. Most of the credit, however, must go to a small band of capable and persevering men who, for years, had carried on negotiations to find a solution of the problems that would lead to the framing of a Constitution acceptable to all. It required all the patience, tolerance and genius of man to find a basis for settling some
The Queensland difficulty was overcome by giving that State a monopoly of the sugar supplies of Australia, and a bounty payment on their production, to cover the increased cost due to the substitution of white labour for the coloured workmen previously employed. It must cause some vexation to find colonies of swarthy Italians from Southern Italy now established in parts of Queensland, speaking their own language, and publishing their own newspapers. Ten years ago a cheeky Italian, when asked to give his evidence in English, told the magistrate that he should learn the Italian language!
It is not too late for Australia to make English the only language that may be set up in type and printed. Australia's maxim should be that every foreigner must learn English if he wishes to read an Australian paper. What a heap of trouble the United States of America would have saved herself had she adopted this policy a century and a half ago. The pre-war activities of the Italian nation provide an opportunity for the Commonwealth Government to take action.
The demand of the people of New South Wales that the capital should be in their State, was met when Melbourne opposition was toned down to a limitation of a minimum distance from Sydney. There was no doubt that at this time Melbourne was the most suitable site, but the future prospect of a railway line from Adelaide to Sydney overcame the objections of West and South Australia to the capital being in New South Wales. This cross-country railway has not yet been built, but some day it will be, and Canberra will then be more justified than it is at present. The transcontinental railway to the west, and now aeroplanes, have added to the comfort and speed of travel, but it will be easily understood what it meant in those early years for West Australian members to attend the sitting of the Commonwealth Parliament, and why the people of this Colony hesitated to join in the scheme. Their main objection, however, was with regard to questions affecting their own State, and the others had to go some way to meet them. In the end, all difficulties were overcome.
Tasmania was also to be met in some of her problems, and this brought to fruition the efforts of those able men who had laboured so long to bring into being their bold conception of a great Australia.
Who were these outstanding men who moulded into shape the Articles of Association for this company of States now banded together? Let us return to that great procession in Melbourne, and take note of them as they pass. Each in turn was singled out for the plaudits of the crowd. There was little or nothing of party politics in these early days of Federal Government, and on this day, in particular, these Cabinet Ministers were the champions of all the people.
First came
I am prefacing the names of Federal Ministers with their titles, even though the honour may not have been conferred upon them until a date subsequent to the events which I relate, for they are remembered best in the light of their highest attainments.
It is not generally known that Lord Hopetoun first summoned Sir William Lyne, as the Premier of the senior State, to form a Ministry. Sir William was a man of fine character but of taciturn nature, and was somewhat difficult-to work with. It must have been a great personal disappointment when he found that the leading men of the other States would not accept his leadership. In face of this opposition, he did not persist.
I do not know whether the original agreement provided for
Sir Alfred Deakin, Attorney-General in the Barton Ministry, was an outstanding man. He was a polished speaker, and was styled “the silver-tongued orator.” A fine, upstanding figure, tall and athletic in appearance, with a short, pointed beard, he always commanded attention. An ardent advocate for the development of the irrigation scheme covering the northwestern areas of Victoria, bordering South Australia, he was honoured in having the principal avenue in Mildura named after him. He subsequently became Prime Minister of the Commonwealth.
Sir John Forest was one of Australia's greatest men of all time. His faith in Australia, and Western Australia in particular, was unbounded. In his younger days he had been an explorer of note, and had visited most of the boundless spaces of this State. He became Premier of Western Australia and entered Federal politics with a great reputation. There seemed to be an extra cheer for Sir John as he passed along the streets of Melbourne on the day of the Royal procession. It was mainly on his shoulders that fell the responsibility of Western Australia's decision regarding federation. He was given the important portfolio of Minister of Defence, a post well suited to his wide powers of vision and great wisdom. He was a lovely character, and adored by all his colleagues. He will be remembered in history as the first, and so far the only, Australian Member of the House of Lords. At the end of his career he was created Baron Forest of Bunbury, his native town in Western Australia. It was on the voyage to England to take his seat in the House of Lords that he was taken ill and died at sea.
Sir George Turner's name is still revered for the part he played in the earliest days of Federal politics. As a wise and
Mr. C. C. Kingston, Minister for Trade and Customs, brings us to the end of the list of what might be called “the Big Men of the Cabinet.” He was a brilliant man, but always appeared to be of a somewhat dour disposition. His difficult task of combining and unifying the varying tariffs of the different States was in itself sufficient to try the patience and disturb the peace of mind of any Minister; in spite of this he did his job excellently. He was the bane of his secretary, and his department, for few could read his handwriting. It is said that one clerk, transferred from another department, received promotion due entirely to his ability to decipher Mr. Kingston's writing.
It is worthy of note in passing that forty years ago eight Federal Ministers were considered sufficient to manage the affairs of State for the Commonwealth. At the time of writing, Australia has a Cabinet of seventeen Ministers! This first Commonwealth Cabinet, composed of the strongest men in politics in each State, was regarded as a Cabinet of Captains, and it spoke well for the tact of
One regrets that Sir George Reid's hesitancy over the Federal issue, and his extreme advocacy of Free Trade, disqualified him for a position within the Cabinet. Australia had clearly decided to follow a Protectionist policy. At that time the division in Australian politics was Protection versus Free Trade. It was thus that Sir George Reid became the Leader of the Opposition. As Premier of New South Wales, he had led that State along the ways of his Free Trade fiscal policy. When it came to advising the people of New South Wales on the attitude they should adopt towards federation, he did not give them a definite lead. He would not say, “No,” but hesitated to say, “Yes.” The Sydney Bulletin dubbed him
In the first month of this century I went to hear Sir George Reid give an address on his favourite topic—Free Trade. The Athenaeum Hall in Melbourne was packed to the doors. During the day, word had been received that Queen Victoria was dead. When the great orator walked on to the platform, he at once said that the news of the death of our beloved Sovereign made him feel that it would not be appropriate to address them on the subject of Free Trade. Instead, he proposed to speak on the reign of Queen Victoria. For nearly two hours he told a thrilling story of the years between 1837 and 1901. Everyone sat in rapt attention as they listened to the almost fairy-like tale of the girl-Queen of England, later Empress of India, and ruler over an Empire greater than any the world has ever known. The climax came when Mr. Reid (as he was then), after referring to Germany's growing rivalry and apparent intention of disputing Britain's naval supremacy, paused for a moment, then with emphasis said, “Britain doesn't want to fight, but by jingo! …” Although but twenty-two years of age, I felt a thrill run down my spine, and cheered with Australians when tumultuous applause acclaimed this great man, who was ever a champion of the cause of the Motherland.
Stories are legion concerning his wit and clever repartee. Unlike the great Mr. Joseph Chamberlain's quick retorts, which often stung, the geniality of Reid always turned the terseness of the moment into laughter. Once, at a stormy political meeting in Sydney, a man in the gallery hit him on the shoulder with a small paper bag of flour which burst all over him. Looking down at his suit, then up at the gallery, he said in his usual high-pitched voice, “They always said I was a white man.” This led to an outburst of laughter and cheering, and won over the audience for the rest of the evening.
As showing how his opponents were afraid of his quick retort and wit in debate, this example of how they tried to counter it is revealed in a happening in the Federal House. One night, in Melbourne, I read big headlines on the parliamentary page of the evening paper: “A Conspiracy of Silence.” In an important debate, Members of the Government Benches decided to make no interjections, nor to
With his tubby figure, he was the joy of the caricaturists who revelled in the opportunities he gave them. The extremists drew him as a circle or oval, with an eye-glass in position, and a dangling piece of cord, and this gave a good representation of the genial Reid.
It is doubtful if there will ever again appear on the stage of Australian politics such another as Sir George Reid. He was later to become an outstanding Australian High Commissioner in London. His oratory and wit made him much sought after at big functions in England. Newspaper editors instructed their reporters to take down all he said.
The famous Dress Suit story is always attributed to him. Invited to be the principal speaker at the annual Press Dinner being held in one of the provincial towns, he lost his portmanteau on the train journey north. To the surprise of everyone, he arrived at the dinner in his ordinary clothes. When it came to his turn to speak, he explained in a jovial way the loss of his travelling bag and how, on arrival in the town, he had endeavoured to repair his misfortune. Sir George, although not tall, was a man of enormous girth. He said that all the fat men of the district had been sought out, but without avail, so he decided to try the shops that hire out suits for special occasions. Then, fixing his eye-glass, he said dramatically, “They all told me that I had no chance of hiring an evening suit for tonight, it being the occasion of the Press Dinner!”
Two other members of the first Federal Parliament, both still alive, are worthy of mention before passing from the scene of those early days of the Commonwealth. The Right Hon. W. M. Hughes needs no introduction. His services are still being utilized by the people of Australia, so it is unnecessary here to deal minutely with a career which, while reaching so far back into the past, continues to play an important part in the Federal Parliament. He became Prime Minister of Australia, and his magnificent lead during the last war marks the highest pinnacle of his fame. His fervent speeches were a clarion call, not only to Australians but also to the people of
The name of King O'Malley is remembered to-day only by the older people of the Commonwealth. Forty years ago he was held in high esteem in the field of State and Federal politics. The name in itself attracted attention. It may have been just the passing on of his mother's surname, but to the rank and file of Australians his unusual Christian name was looked upon as a freakish whim on the part of a doting father. At election time, when spirits ran high, the noisy interjectors called him everything from a crowned King to a tribal chieftain of the O'Malleys of County Galway, Ireland. But O'Malley would pay back in kind. At one meeting he told his audience that he was born on the border between Canada and the United States, but just a few yards on the Canadian side. He said he rather blamed his much-respected mother, for had he been born those few yards on the other side of the border he would, by then, have been President of the United States of America!
This lightness of touch and sense of humour, together with his general desire to appear picturesque, rather obscured for a time his outstanding ability. He came to Australia in the 'nineties, as the representative of a big American Insurance Company, on a salary which at that time was considered princely. The call of politics was too strong for him, and in a few years he found a place in the South Australian Parliament. He next appeared as a member of the Tasmanian Parliament before entering Federal politics. This proved to be the turning-point in his political career. He was later to become a Federal Minister with the portfolio of Home Affairs. It was then that he showed his capacity. He was responsible for the establishment of the Commonwealth Bank of Australia, the selection and establishment of the Federal Capital, and for the naming
One is reminded of the inexorable march of time when it is recorded that all the members of the first Federal Cabinet have passed away, and few of the members of the first Parliament remain. Their work has now passed to the pages of Australian history, and they are remembered by a grateful people.
It is necessary to go back to my arrival in Melbourne to begin this description of the most important phase of my career in the Queen city of Australia. The busy whirl into which I landed, with the opening of the cricket season, and the overwhelming kindness of Major Wardill, who immediately put me down for mid-week matches, as well as for Saturday games, made the first few weeks fly past. It soon, however, dawned on me that to get work was my first consideration.
I was far from home, dependent upon my own resources, and had but a slender purse, despite the fact that those long months of overtime at Andersons, with the accompanying “fat envelope” on pay day, had enabled me to save more than I had anticipated. Major Wardill thought he could get me into the Drawing Office of the Victorian Railways, and introduced me to the Chief Mechanical Engineer. Unfortunately, these were years following a drought in Australia. Mr. Norman told the Major that while he would have liked to have given me a position, in the existing circumstances he would not be justified. The Major had many friends in Melbourne, and was using his influence in several directions, while I was making personal application to a number of big engineering firms. For a few days I was to learn in no uncertain way how the value of the wool clip and the grain crop affected the prosperity of the country and the labour market in the city. It was not long before I became concerned, for I had not before this had any experience of seeking work. This feeling lasted long enough to leave its impression upon me, and in later years I was always able to understand and appreciate the feelings of an applicant for work.
Among the men I met at this time was Mr. Sam. Johnson, a Government Engineer-Surveyor, and he said to me, “I believe I can get you the very job you want. Howard Smiths want an engineer in their works, but he must also be a draughtsman.” My years at the University engineering classes gave me a certain limited qualification for a draughtsman's position.
I was soon to learn the greatness of the firm of W. H. Howard Smith & Company, changed to Howard Smith Proprietary Limited during the term of my employment with them. Captain Howard Smith was the founder of the firm which, like the Union Steamship Company of New Zealand, started in a small way. First one ship, then two, and so on, until the fleet of steamers with the white funnel and black top was one of the largest and best known on the Australian coast, with Melbourne its home port. The firm's workshop, while capable of carrying out ordinary repairs, did not attempt to handle big work, and only a small staff was employed, for there were big engineering works over the river, which catered for the repair work of all the shipping companies, and were capable of coping with any rush of work, such as frequently occurs with steamers' annual overhauls.
Captain William Howard Smith had four sons: William the eldest, who succeeded his father, had just retired before I arrived in Melbourne—I was to meet him later at a garden party at his home; Bruce was a well-known barrister in Sydney; Walter, who succeeded his elder brother, now retired in favour of his young brother Harry, or “H.B.,” as he was usually called.
Barely forty years of age, he was probably the best-dressed man in Melbourne, and, I should say, the most eligible bachelor in the City. Although he seemed aloof from the staff, he was always kind and considerate, had the manners of the Victorian era, and was very wealthy. Added to this, he had outstanding ability, and it is to him, and his First Lieutenant, Mr. C. M. Newman, to whom must be given the credit for the success and development that took place in the affairs of the company during the early years of this century.
I soon learned why the Engineer-Superintendent, when engaging me, had asked of my drawing ability. At first, most of my time was spent in the workshops, with occasional periods in the Superintendent's office, making drawings of small parts of machinery, and sometimes being sent down on to the ships to take measurements, etc. One day the new Managing Director came down to the works, and I met him for the first time. He explained to the Superintendent that he wished to start on the design of a new passenger liner, and would come down from time to time and confer with him. It was not long before this arrangement proved inconvenient to a man as busy as a Managing Director, and he suggested that I should be transferred to Head Office.
It will be easily realized what a change this meant to me. For some months my hours of work had been from 7.45 a.m. until 5 p.m. I rode a bicycle to work, and had to go to my lodgings and have a bath before going over to evening practice. Fortunately, I lived alongside the Melbourne Cricket Ground, but on arrival I often found Trumble and others getting dressed after practice. My new position now meant that I could go straight from the office to the ground, and join in the full practice with all the members of the First XI. This made all the difference to my form, but it came too late for my first season's cricket.
My work at once became most absorbing, and being the medium through whom my chief and his managers of departments put on to paper their combined ideas of a modern passenger liner, I was in a position of close association with the “Heads.” Each day after lunch the Managing Director would come up to my room for half an hour—after lunch was always said to be a good hour to meet a business man! Having got the opinions of his superintendents on the general design of the ship, he did not often call them up for further conference. He bought books on ship-building and construction for my use, as well as his own, and studied all the latest developments and improvements as embodied in the design of the most recent passenger ships to trade on the coast.
The Union Company's new Moeraki had just begun running on the Melbourne-New Zealand route, and she was the size and type of vessel they proposed to build, although trading to the tropical regions of Queensland meant a change from
Moeraki which was suitable enough for trade to the colder climate of New Zealand. The fruit cargoes from Queensland also meant more 'tween-deck space, for bananas are not like ordinary cargo.
Each time the Moeraki came into port, I used to go down and have a look at her, as well as other modern ships, such as the Yawata Maru trading to Japan. I became “a” friend of the Chief Engineer of this vessel, and several times had dinner on board with him. At this time the Captain, the First Mate, and the Chief and Second Engineers of all Japanese liners were either Englishmen or Scotsmen, usually the latter. All the rest of the crew were Japanese. Five years later, when I visited Australia again, only the Captains and Chief Engineers remained, while in another few years Japanese only were employed. It will thus be seen how the shipowners of Japan used the British to teach and train their juniors in navigation and engineering for their mercantile marine.
They had acted in a similar way with regard to their shipbuilding industry. Like Germany before her, she had imported the best brains of Scotland and the North of England at handsome salaries for the designing and planning of ships, as well as the training of her youth for the day when Japan could stand on her own feet.
The plans on which I was engaged were not working drawings, but showed in every detail the design of the ship, including the passenger accommodation and crew's quarters, sufficient to enable the ship-building firms in the Old Country to make their own drawings and specifications, and tender for the building of the steamer. This planning and designing was intensely interesting, and the weeks and months raced by.
In the midst of all this work I was called upon to make other plans. Mr. H. B. Howard Smith was, at this time, a member of the Board of the Melbourne Harbour Trust. He took a keen interest in the work of the shipping facilities, and in the development of the Port. Like all the other big men of commerce and industry in Melbourne at that time, he had overwhelming confidence in the future of his beloved city. It was to this future that he was always looking. He believed that as the place grew, and the size of ships trading to the port became bigger and bigger—as each new steamer launched showed this trend—some day Melbourne would need to adopt the use
Apparently his colleagues on the Harbour Trust did not support his grandiose scheme. It is doubtful whether this plan of extension will ever be revived, but at that time I was a convert to my chief's conception of the needs of the future.
I was to be given the opportunity of a pleasant interlude when I was asked to go to Adelaide with the Melbourne Shipping Offices' cricket team. I had arrived in Melbourne at a time when great events were taking place in the affairs of the shipping companies, and, for that matter, in all industrial undertakings. From the earliest years in the life of Australia, private and company businesses had developed along individual lines. They possibly had some understanding regarding the selling price of standard lines, but in the main, self-interest alone directed their energies, and each business, in its own way, sought turnover, profit, and power. So long as industry expanded there was room for development that satisfied the ambitions of the different interests. This did not prevent intense rivalry, but rivalry, unless judiciously controlled, may often lead to a trial of strength. The outstanding example of this is the fight of fifty years ago, for dominance in the New Zealand-Australia trade, between the Union and Huddart Parker Companies. Readers will find it hard to believe that in this stern contest the passenger fare from Auckland to Sydney was gradually reduced, until it reached the ridiculously low figure of twenty shillings return. It was a fight to the finish, and in the end the Union Company won, but as in war, both combatants were exhausted. The men of Dunedin had proved too determined and too strong, for the Directors of the Union Company were all sturdy Scots. It was common knowledge in shipping circles at this time that the rapid recovery, then advancement, of the Union Company, and their ability to buy new ship after new ship, as they did in the
The Australian Shipping Companies, while glad to come to working arrangements with regard to trade, were also forced to combine on account of the growth of Unionism. The Trade Union movement, a natural and legitimate development, had, from the early 'nineties, gained much strength, and proved formidable and threatening to the freedom of control by the owners. Had the movement developed along the lines of unionism in Great Britain, no great harm would have come, and peace would still have reigned on the ships and on the waterfront. Unfortunately, these Australian Unions, conscious of their t growing strength, often misused the power they possessed. Harsh and vindictive action, usually directed against an individual ship or owner, found the latter left to fight his own battle, and often he had to compromise or give way on matters that vitally affected the whole industry. There is nothing like danger or adversity to bring people together, and a few victories to the men soon convinced the owners that combined action alone could give them protection. And so, when it came to a case of one ship being singled out by the strikers, in order to enforce their demands, the owners held up work on all other ships in port until the first ship was manned. This put an end to the sectional strike.
Trade Union Secretaries and Executives, now faced with the combined strength of the shipowners, were not so ready to sanction a strike. The new arrangement of settling disputes by negotiation was to prove as beneficial to the men as to the owners, and resulted in both sides giving more sober consideration to points in dispute. It certainly steadied the hot-heads who had, in the past, created so many irritating and vexatious hold-ups on the waterfront.
Equally beneficial arrangements were made with regard to the companies' various and often conflicting interests. The Australian Maritime Act prevented overseas ships on foreign articles from carrying Australian cargoes between the ports of the Commonwealth. This protected Australian coastal
The above sketch illustrates the picture of events as they were unwinding themselves during my years of association with Howard Smiths in Melbourne.
Mr. Howard Smith and Mr. Newman represented our firm in all these negotiations, and I remember how we all had the feeling that Howard Smiths, at any rate, would hold their own in these important councils. From this it will be seen that office staffs, as well as cricket teams, can have their captains.
The part that employees can play, even in the affairs of big businesses, had not been overlooked by these industrial leaders. They chose inter-State cricket matches between the combined office staffs of the Adelaide, Melbourne and Sydney offices as a means of creating between their employees the same goodwill and friendship as was now being shown by the directors and managers of the companies. The first match I took part in was at Adelaide, on the famous Oval ground. I had not previously visited this beautiful capital of South Australia and, of course, the Adelaide Oval was to me a delight. We arrived a day early, and had practice the afternoon before the match. Who should turn out in his flannels, and practice with us, but must hit his wicket if he misses the ball.” He then added, “Mind you, that is only for a bad wicket; you must bowl for the field when you can't bowl them out.” And again, “It is
Our shipping office match at Adelaide ended in a thrilling manner. As two days only were allotted for the game it became a one innings contest. We were left a substantial number of runs to make, and steady scoring by our batsmen put us in a strong position. I was top scorer with 60 run out. Throughout my career it was not often I was out in this way. When our seventh wicket fell, we had but 15 runs to make. Harry Hill, a younger brother of Clem's, was then again put on to bowl, and he promptly did the hat trick in disposing of the last three batsmen. It was a thoroughly enjoyable match, and the trip had certainly illustrated the merit of building a spirit of comradeship between the staffs of the different companies. It was a pleasure to meet again Clem Hill, Jones, and Lyons, who, with Giffen, watched our match. I was also interested in meeting A. H. Jarvis, the famous wicket-keeper.
The following season we went to Sydney to play the officers of the shipping companies there. This time I was made captain. Being a member of the Melbourne Cricket Club First XI no doubt gave me a standing with my colleagues, and my special work on Howard Smiths' staff seemed to win me a status greater than I really deserved. At this time I grew a small moustache to make myself look older, and I can still get a laugh out of some old photographs, and especially from the reason for my adopting the appearance of a young officer from Sandhurst.
This match in Sydney was played on the Manly Oval, and it was quite a social affair, the local directors and managers, with their wives and daughters, attended in the afternoon. Charles Hughes was captain of the Sydney side. He was later to become Secretary of the Union Company at Head Office in Dunedin, and afterwards returned to manage the Sydney office for many years. He remained one of my lifelong friends. The match itself was evenly contested, with no outstanding performances, so need not be described. We were given a dinner at night, and among those present were Sir James Burns, head of the great Burns, Philp Company, and Sir John See, Premier of New South Wales at that time, and head of the North Coast Shipping Company. Unfortunately, none of
Howard Smiths always held an annual picnic. The Company had a very large staff, especially when the men of the various workshops were included. Hiring a suburban ground, they would play cricket matches in the morning, and have sports and games of all sorts in the afternoon.
It is the picnic at the old Scots College ground that I remember best. I entered for the bicycle race, and thought I was winning, when a practised young rider passed me nearing the tape. I had more knowledge of timing the hitting of a cricket ball than timing a sprint in a bike race; I remember lying on the ground after the event, suffering acute pain with the stitch.
The social side of this gathering was interesting and instructive. Our “big” men conversed freely with the rank and file. One word from the Managing Director was enough to stir the pulse of any young lad on the staff, while workmen whom our chief could make feel at home, responded in the same way.
These picnics continued for a few more years, but, like the inter-State staff cricket matches, they had already served their purpose, in days when there were fewer outdoor sports than there are to-day. I cannot imagine modern cricketers, tennis players, golfers or surfers wishing to give up their day's sport to go to a picnic—much less a firm's picnic!
Shortly after our cricket team's visit to Sydney, Mr. Howard Smith said to me, “Mr. Reese, I am going to send you to Queensland, and want you to go as far as Cairns.” Elaborating further, he said, “A new steamer has begun trading between Townsville and Cairns. She's much more modern than our own Lass O'Gowrie on that run, and to hold our share of the passenger traffic we'll need to build a new ship. Use your discretion in making enquiries about the opposition's ship, but you can speak quite frankly to our managers at Townsville and Cairns.”
I could hardly believe my ears when I heard him say this. Queensland in June! The mid-winter month when those who can leave Melbourne to go north to bask in the sun of this sub-tropical State, and see the beautiful scenery for which Queensland is noted.
In due course I sailed by the Peregrine, remembered as the Flyer of the 'nineties. It was not until we had crossed Port Phillip, and passed through the Rip at the Heads, that the passengers became aware—as the crew, no doubt, knew from the start—that the smoke from one of the steamers astern was from the Iniminca, a well-known steamer of a rival company. We had no sooner turned along the coast when out through the Heads crept our challenger—for a challenge it was. She was only a mile or two behind. I daresay the contest had really started in Port Phillip, but coming through the Rip is no place to race; however, once outside, it was a case of the “lid off.” The unlimited burning of coal in an ocean race is frowned upon by owners of to-day—except in the case of the Blue Riband of the Atlantic, when fuel-oil is scoffed without regard to cost. This day all hands and the cook were in the front line. Passengers, too, were partisans, and were to witness a stern struggle.
At first, the Iniminca appeared to be gaining. A fireman of the Peregrine would climb to the deck, and then dash back to report to his mates in the stoke-hold. The Chief Engineer paced the deck, keenly watching the Adelaide Steamship Company's
Modern practice is to have the boilers a little more powerful than the engines, thus making a continuous head of steam always available, without great physical effort on the part of the firemen. In the days of which I speak, the engines and boilers were balanced units, and only the most expert fireman could force the safety valves to lift when the engines were in full stride. “Blowing off” was considered a challenge to the engineers, so down went the Chief to his beloved engines and opened them out. The practised ear could soon hear the thud, thud, thud, with a rhythm that was like music to the engineers. The Captain, officers and firemen, too, knew that steady and powerful beat of the engines, for the old Peregrine had been in many a race. Modern ships, with their turbine and Diesel engines, and smaller diameter high-speed propellers, cannot provide that sense of power produced by the triple expansion engines of steamers in those early days. Passengers, aware of the special effort being made below, sent bottles of beer to the firemen.
This was indeed a great race. The engineers of the rival ship, while knowing the ordinary speed of the Peregrine, may not have known to what extent McPherson, the old Chief, could open her out, or what those great firemen could do. At any rate, it was that little extra that turned the scale, and we gradually drew away, until at nightfall the Iniminca was nearly out of sight.
The good old Peregrine! There will be many people in Australia who remember her well. She made Howard Smiths name in the passenger trade, and held the Blue Riband in the Melbourne-Sydney-Brisbane-Townsville run for many years.
It was my first experience of a race at sea, and at dinner that night passengers were able to celebrate what was then a certain win.
I had often heard of the Cutty Sark—Thermopylœ races, first
versus ship, over the same course at the same time, to get the thrill of racing at sea, and an insight into the personal qualities of those who wage the fight.
Next morning there was no sign of our rival, and it was not long before we arrived in Sydney. A day here enabled me to see one or two of my cricket friends, then we were off again to Brisbane, another five hundred miles farther north. As was the case coming up from Melbourne, a calm sea enabled us to make good time to the Queensland capital.
I had a letter of introduction to Mr. Bernays, the Clerk of the Queensland Parliament. His son, Harry, was very attentive, and showed me the sights of the city. In the evening, I had dinner with the family, and experienced the pleasure of seeing home life in surroundings similar to those of my own home. Old Mr. Bernays was typical of the best from the Homeland, and he and his wife made charming hosts. After dinner we went to the House of Representatives to hear the debate in the evening session. I still have a vivid memory of the fine type of men that controlled the destinies of Queensland. They were clearly representative of the best and most successful men of the State. As the majority wore beards, they appeared much older than would men of their age to-day.
During my stay in Brisbane I was to learn of the horrors of the shark menace in Australian waters. Although the port is some twenty miles from the open sea, sharks penetrate up the river, even as far as the city. One day a young lad was fishing from a boat, with his legs dangling over the side, when suddenly a shark snapped off his feet. Fortunately, the boy fell back into the boat, thus saving himself from being pulled into the water. It was a gruesome story to read. The warmer seas on this coast make the shark even more feared than in the southern States, though it is bad enough on the New South Wales coast, and in Sydney Harbour.
On the seven hundred miles run to Townsville we called first at Rockhampton, and then Mackay, staying only a few hours
On arrival at Townsville, I was at once interested in this far northern port, for under Mr. Howard Smith's directions I had once made drawings of the harbour from data he had in Melbourne. My chief was ever interested in improving port facilities, as well as wharfage accommodation for his own steamers.
As stated earlier, the object of my trip was to gather information and report on the rival steamer that had already begun running on the coast. My passage had been booked on our own old Lass O'Gowrie, now about to be replaced, but my own intuition told me I should travel one way on the new ship, even if she was a rival. I remember our Townsville manager hesitating a little, for friendly relations between the companies were now established, but my practical point of view prevailed, and I booked on the Kuranda, due to sail in a few days.
Suggesting I should fill in the time by making a short trip inland, he gave me a letter of introduction to the manager of the Day Dawn quartz mine, at Charters Towers, a famous gold-mining town about one hundred miles from the coast.
On the trip up from Melbourne, I had been impressed by the great distances between the main ports. When looking up the route to be taken by train from Townsville to Charters Towers, I was further impressed by the distance the railways penetrated into the hinterland. To enable the reader's mind to grasp the meaning of distances in Australia, the length of the railways across this State provides a good illustration. There are three different lines running due west into the back country; one from Townsville, one from Rockhampton, and the other from Brisbane, each extending about five hundred miles, equal to the distance from London to Aberdeen, yet reaching little more than half-way across Queensland.
Being shown over the Day Dawn workings was an interesting and instructive experience. Clad in overalls, we descended by lift to a depth of 3,000 feet. I had not previously seen a
On this trip I was to get a close-up view of the problem one so frequently saw referred to in the newspapers as the “Yellow Peril.” As a result of the inauguration of the Commonwealth, and the forming of a National instead of a State policy, all the Kanakas—the natives of the Solomon Islands—were replaced by white labour on the sugar-cane fields, yet here were the Chinese, the Japanese, and Japanese women, too, in this mining town. I confess it gave me a bit of a shock. I was to see this emphasized farther north, round the sugar mills, and the impression left was one of sympathy for the politician who preached “white Australia,” even though he was sometimes a loud-voiced advocate for big wages for white men working in these regions. High wages have long since been conceded, and the uneconomical effect on the industry has been met by a subsidy from the National purse.
The Kanaka was a peaceful, pleasant worker, who came to Queensland for the cane-cutting season only, returning to the Solomons and other groups, to bask in the sun for the rest of the year. The Japanese, however, made one feel that here was a menace—a real menace—with little restriction upon their entry into Australia. The Chinese, on the other hand, were much more under control, with a poll tax regulating their immigration. The Chinaman migrates to a country intending to stay but a few years, save enough money to return home, and live among his people as a relatively rich man.
We were, however, not so complacent in our views concerning the Japanese arriving in our midst. Too many cameras! “Too muchee the look around,” for he gave the impression of being on the quiz all the time. Australia was to become aware of the danger and better informed than she was in the days about which I write. It took many years of vociferous clamouring for protective legislation before Congressmen and Senators, representing California at Washington, forced the Government of the United States to wake up to the fact that the crafty little man from the Land of the Rising Sun was boring his way into every walk of life in that part of America.
The day following my return to Townsville, I sailed by the Kuranda for Cairns, two hundred miles farther north. Although
Cairns is more than two thousand miles from Melbourne, and the distance seems incredible to anyone used to thinking in terms of space in, say, New Zealand or England. Australia is truly a continent, destined to be a United States in the Southern Hemisphere. Although I was then but twenty-three years of age, I found myself assimilating some of the atmosphere and national spirit of Australia—a trait that gathered momentum with the Australians themselves following the amalgamation of all the States into one great Commonwealth.
I had, up to then, more or less measured Australia by her cricketers, who frequently toured New Zealand, and many of whom I had met and played with and against. Australians have a high reputation in the sporting world, but here, even in my youth, I was able to discern qualities of nation-building that were apparent right up into this northern State stretching into the tropics.
I spent several days in Cairns with our energetic representative of that port. He was an enthusiastic advocate for a new ship to compete with the attractive Kuranda whose presence was already being felt in the passenger trade. It is, however, a strange thing about travellers that they often persist in sticking to their “old love,” and the Lass O'Gowrie was not without friends, while, so far as cargo was concerned, it mattered little to shippers whether a ship was old or new.
I was advised to visit the Barron Falls at Kuranda; they were certainly well worth seeing, and rank as one of the beauty-spots of Australia.
The abundance of tropical fruit is a feature of the Cairns
Northern Queensland, with Cairns as the terminus of the voyage, has become more and more the great attraction for winter holidays in Australia. Just as English people go to the South of France, and Americans go to Florida and California, so do the people of Victoria and New South Wales create a busy tourist season in Queensland in the months of June, July and August.
After several days in Cairns I left by the Lass O'Gowrie for Townsville, to connect with the Peregrine for the long run down to Melbourne. Some fifty miles south of Cairns we called at Geraldton. The name of this Queensland port was later changed to Innisfail, a place that plays an important part in the sugar industry of the State. Our arrival in the early morning provided a highly amusing diversion. Manned by Chinese, large punts, loaded to the gunwales with bananas, awaited our dropping anchor in the stream, and there was then a mad rush to be first alongside. The Chinamen, in their native tongue, were loudly urging their mates on the punts to pull harder, and with a combination of poling and paddling, they fought for position. Two punts collided, and overboard went a man off the bow of his craft. The Geraldton River is a sluggish stream, with discoloured water, and as the man took some time to come up, we gazed expectantly at the spot. Presently he bobbed up, and immediately began laughing and yelling to his mates, who were all excitement in this contest for first place. I could not understand why they were so anxious to be unloaded first, but the Captain explained that the Chinaman, being a wily bird, knew that if his bananas were at the bottom of this small ship on the short run to Townsville. he would have his part of the cargo at the top of the hold
At Geraldton there was also a large sugar mill, and it was interesting to watch the different processes in the manufacture of this great staple product of Queensland. Here again I came in contact with the Japanese, for many of the men working in the mill were the sturdy little chaps from the Far East. Is it any wonder that the Queenslanders, in particular, had become alive to the danger? At a later date the immigration of Italians was fraught with the same sort of national danger, for they got together in settlements, spoke their own language and generally did not become typical Australians.
I had a unique experience on the night of our stay at Geraldton when the Company's agent asked me if I would like to see over Chinatown. A police detective, I was told, would accompany us—a precaution usually taken when visits were made to the underworld, for it was an opium den the agent wished to show me. I remember feeling scared as we wended our way through the dimly-lit, narrow right-of-way to the haunt of the opium smokers. The sight that met our eyes when we followed the police officer into the lantern-lit apartment is not a pleasant one to remember. Not a word was spoken, though some of the Chinese nodded to our guide. We were in a large, square room with bunks all round, like the old-fashioned saloon sleeping accommodation on coastal steamers of fifty years ago. There was a low table in the centre, with a naked light burning—this being where the smokers “lighted up.” The opium resembled a sort of treacle, and it often took some time to get a pipe lit. The Chinaman would then go to his bunk and puff away. Some of the men sat staring into spaces; others, with half-closed eyes, appeared to be dozing; while several, with eyes closed, completed the group. Whatever the attitude, they all seemed to be in a state of stupor.
The men of the Orient, both Chinese and Japanese, are probably the most expert in the world at presenting an imperturbable countenance in any set of circumstances, but for expressionless faces I have never seen anything to equal those of the opium smokers of Geraldton. I have been to many parts of the world since then, but have never had any desire
The old Lass O'Gowrie was loaded down to her marks when we left Geraldton for Townsville. There is little doubt that this ship must have been a profitable investment for her owners in those days. No motor-cars and no concrete or bitumen roads forced all traffic north and south to go by steamer. Modern mechanized transport must have taken away much of the passenger traffic up the coast of Northern Queensland. In some parts of New Zealand the motor-bus and private car have caused passenger steamers to cease running on certain routes.
We were in Townsville the following morning, and saw all our cargo transhipped into the Peregrine, which vessel had been down to Melbourne and back since I disembarked from her some weeks previously.
It was not long before she was heading south again to Melbourne, via Brisbane and Sydney. Just before leaving the latter place we got word of the result of the first day's play in the Test Match at the Oval, between Darling's famous Australian XI of 1902, and an equally strong English XI, captained by MacLaren. Australia had just notched a sensational win in the Manchester Test Match, when England failed by three runs to reach the total set them.
I have already described the public interest in Australia when a cricket Test Match is being played, whether it be in England or Australia. This was no exception, and we talked of the first day's play and discussed the prospects of each side, with the usual predominance among Australians of unbounded faith in their own men. This was before the days of wireless, so we heard no more news till we were nearly berthed at the wharf in Melbourne. As the mooring ropes tightened and we drew nearer the wharf, someone from the top deck called out, “Who won the Test Match?”
Back came the ready reply, “England won by one wicket.”
This anxious enquiry from the ship's deck revives the story
The Old Curiosity Shop. The American people, who were great readers of Dickens, had to await the arrival of the next ship from England to read a further instalment. As the vessel was being berthed at New York, and the mooring lines slowly pulled her nearer, an anxiously expectant voice called aloud from the wharf to the passengers lining the deck, “Did Little Nell die?” Hushed silence provided the answer.
It was a different atmosphere that prevailed on the Peregrine when that prompt and loud answer came from the wharf at Melbourne. Partisans of England cheered, while Australians, too, were loud in their praise of the Englishmen's magnificent win. It was an animated scene, with the exciting finish and Jessop's century the main topics of conversation.
It does not take passengers long to disembark when they reach port, and soon all were ashore. What most of us wanted to learn were the details of what was clearly a famous match. Jessop's wonderful innings stood out above all else.
Back in Melbourne, I was soon at work again after a month of interesting experiences. My eyes had been opened with regard to the potentiality of Australia, while the attractiveness of the physical features of the sub-tropical regions of Queensland had surpassed my expectations.
I had been fortunate in meeting many men in high positions, and was shown the greatest courtesy by all the managers of the branches of the Howard Smith organization. The technical nature of my mission appeared to win me greater respect than would have been shown to other young men on our staff, of a similar age, who would no doubt still have been looked upon as juniors had they been clerks in the freight, passenger or accountancy departments. Besides stirring my imagination, the sights I had seen kindled in me an even greater admiration for my chief's judgment and optimism with regard to the future of Australia. It needed vision to plan on a scale in keeping with the rapid development that was taking place, and Mr, H. B. Howard Smith was one of the many great Australians who contributed largely to what has been termed the birth of a nation.
In addition to making a full report on all I had seen on my voyage, I was able to make drawings of the steamer we were planning to compete against in the Townsville-Cairns run.
Kuranda, for my chief had set his mind on a ship with a maximum amount of upper deck space. It was, however, useful to have knowledge of the passenger accommodation we had to equal or surpass. There is no doubt that the finished plans of this pocket-liner made her an attractive ship on paper, but in reality not more attractive than she looked when she arrived on the coast. Named the Mourilyan, she was a popular ship until the big passenger vessels began running as far north as Cairns, which was the final blow.
It is interesting to record that the Mourilyan was later purchased by the Northern Steamship Company of New Zealand, for the Auckland-Whangarei run. Ousted by both rail and road transport she was purchased by the Anchor Shipping Company, re-named the Matangi, and is, at this date, in the regular run between Wellington and Nelson. She now meets a new type of competition, for who can say what the final effect of the daily air liner service across Cook Strait will be upon the fortunes of this much-travelled little ship.
At about this time I was becoming a little restless, having intended to stay in Australia but a year or two before going on to England. Nearly three years in the beautiful City of Melbourne had enabled me to make many friends and gain splendid cricketing experience. Although obtaining unique business training and enjoying the advantage of being in close touch with Mr. Howard Smith, whom I held in respectful, if not awesome regard, I saw no future prospect for my advancement from the niche into which I was so pleasantly settled. One day, with a feeling of hesitation, I told Mr. “H. B.”—as we always called him among ourselves—of my thoughts and ambitions, and to my pleasant surprise he said, “Well now, Reese, that'll suit me very well, for I wish to pay a visit to England and will be taking these plans with me. If you'll stay on for, say, another few months, to enable me to finalize my ideas of this latest ship, it will then make a very easy and suitable ending to your employment with us.”
One of the earlier plans was of the Bombala, a very good ship, but my final pencilled sketches, although not gone on with for some time, saw the hatching in Mr. H. B. Howard Smith's mind of the great Canberra, the best of Howard Smiths' fleet, and still one of the most popular ships on the Australian coast.
In this way I said good-bye to a man who inspired me, and who was to play a big part in the shipping and industrial world, for Howard Smiths reached out beyond the confines of shipping to become largely interested in the coal, sugar, steel and cement industries, all with interlocking benefits to their original freight-carrying business.
Mr. C. M. Newman, later to become Managing Director, Captain Lyttle, the Marine Superintendent, and Mr. A. B. MacDonald, the Engineer Superintendent, who were often at my drawing table, all wished me a pleasant farewell and loaded me with letters to people in England who they thought might assist me in getting placed. This association with the big men of the firm was a valuable experience, and gave me a confidence that might have taken years to acquire had I been climbing the ladder in the usual way of a junior.
Life in Melbourne in these few short years was pleasant indeed. I found the people very similar to New Zealanders, and private entertainment and dances played their part, just as in my own country. The present-day young men and women would have found getting home from dances a more exacting problem than it is to-day, when motor-cars and taxis are at everyone's disposal. In a large city like Melbourne, with the distances between the suburbs so great, it was often a case of the good old-fashioned horse cab—usually capable of holding six people—bringing a group back into the centre of the city, there to connect with other cabs going to one's particular residential area. Getting to a dance was an easier matter, for Melbourne had a wonderfully efficient suburban railway service, and one was soon out to such places as Kew, St. Kilda, Toorak and Camberwell. Getting home was a different matter when all the trains had stopped! To be called for at one's front door and delivered home again at the hour of her own choosing, makes the modern young woman's lot much easier than it was at the beginning of this century, but there was something pleasant even in the difficulties of those times.
Little or no bridge was played, but solo whist had many adherents. I have often regretted that I did not take up golf then, for living in a boarding house is the same all the world
After twelve months I moved from Jolimont Terrace to a more comfortable place nearby in Clarenden Street, and overlooking Fitzroy Gardens. These gardens, while a lovely place in the day-time, with beautiful trees, many of the English variety which found the Melbourne climate suitable to their rigorous growth, were held in awe at night, for stories had been handed down from the earliest years, telling of robbery by violence and garrotting. This made people timid about going through late at night or in the early hours of the morning, for there were no lights in this park. Despite the fact that it was a longer way home, I always made “discretion the better part of valour,” and kept to the road, yes, to the middle of the road, when passing between the gardens on the one side and Jolimont Reserve on the other, if walking home after the trams and trains had stopped.
One day there came to our boarding house in East Melbourne a quiet little German lady. A few days later a German battleship, paying a courtesy call to Australia, arrived at Port Melbourne, and it turned out that our fellow guest was the wife of the Admiral, and he came ashore to stay with her. They had a private suite, so we did not see much of the Admiral, but saw enough to judge that the arrogance of his race was strongly in evidence, even in those days. No wonder his wife was tractable and docile, for in no other way could there be peace in a home ruled over by such a man.
On another occasion an amusing interlude brightened the atmosphere round the dinner table. Strangely enough this story also refers to a German woman. Charles Arnold and his company were playing that humorous play Why Smith Left Home. Our German friend was a bright young thing—twenty-eight as usual—and, bubbling with excitement, said she was going to the theatre—pronouncing it “teatre”—that night. When asked what she was going to see, she replied in her broken English “Why Left Schmidt Home”! She joined in the roars of laughter, for she was very good-humoured about her efforts to master the English tongue. Why Left Schmidt
Home was laughed over for many a year afterwards, when any of those old fellow-boarders met.
During the whole of my stay in Melbourne, I lived under the same roof as an outstanding man, one William Montgomery, the leading stained-glass artist in Melbourne. He changed to the house overlooking Fitzroy Gardens at the same time as I did. He came originally from Newcastle, England, had studied art in Heidelburg, and specialized in church windows. His quiet manner, combined with his wisdom and sagacity, made a lasting impression upon me.
Another interesting fellow-boarder was a genial Swiss. He had a good sense of humour, and although he spoke fairly good English, it became a bit broken when he got excited, and caused great laughter, in which he always joined. So much for my first experiences of boarding-house life.
My cricket with the Melbourne Club continued to prove valuable experience, and in my last year
I visited many parts of Victoria with M.C.C. teams, and came to know the different districts of the State. One Easter tour in particular was outstanding for the amount of fun we had. We played matches on the Saturday, Monday and Tuesday, with parties or dances at night. We had with us Arthur Aiken, a good-looking young man and probably the best-dressed cricketer in Australia. He was just as fastidious over his cricket flannels as he was over his ordinary clothes. In his youth he had been nicknamed “The Duke,” which, as one would expect in Australia, soon became “The Dook.” When we arrived at Stawell, it was discovered that Aitken's cricket bag was missing. He had to be provided with borrowed flannels, and one never saw such discomfiture in anyone as he walked on to the field with trousers and shirt both badly crinkled and in need of cleaning and pressing. The fun old
Ballarat and Bendigo were two places that interested me and many thrilling stories were told of the gold-rushes of many years ago. These places made men rich overnight while others toiled without success. The storekeepers and the hotel-keepers were always on the regular vein of gold, and fortunes were made by these suppliers of merchandise and liquor. In one small gold-mining village in New Zealand, in 1865, there were as many as thirteen pubs, so it can be imagined how many there were in Ballarat and Bendigo in the early days.
Then there were the stories of Ned Kelly and his mates, known as the “Kelly Gang,” famous for their bush-ranging exploits, told by people who were able to point out the places where these daring and desperate men had operated. I saw, for the first time, the blue gum and mountain ash, species of trees that form the bush of Victoria. It was easily seen how these bush-rangers were able to commit robbery and then appear at another place many miles away, for with no undergrowth in this bush, it is possible to ride anywhere. In New Zealand the undergrowth in the bush is so thick it is impossible to ride through on horse-back, and this was the reason for the failure of the remnants of this bush-ranging group when they tried to operate on the West Coast of the South Island of the Dominion. What limited success they did have was by waylaying the successful miner when he followed the road or beaten track to a town to deposit his gold in the bank. They told me that Ned Kelly would not take a life if he could help it, but his brother and other members of the gang, when operating in New Zealand, acted on the policy of “dead men
The stories of Ned Kelly and his gang are still exciting to read, but it seemed more realistic to hear them in the districts where the bush-rangers had operated, and from men who knew the details, and in some cases knew the men.
These brief sketches will show that I was favoured with many opportunities for seeing the country districts of this the smallest mainland State of the Commonwealth. The wealth and importance of Victoria is not to be measured by its relative dimensions as compared with the other States, for practically every acre of land is either fertile or covered with valuable bush, while the manufacturing capacity of its capital city, even in those days, was rivalling that of Sydney. Truly, this part of Australia, of which I have seen so much, was to prove of great educational value to me.
When I left Melbourne, I was able to claim friendships that have remained constant throughout the years; my cricket friends, especially, brought much pleasure into my life. Sailing by the Moeraki, the vessel I frequently went down to see at the wharf, and to which I have referred earlier, I had an uneventful trip back to New Zealand.
Home! What it meant to me to return to my family circle! The reunion was a joyous affair, for we Reeses were indeed a happy clan. Many mirthful evenings were spent exchanging stories of incidents and happenings covering the period of my absence. In that arresting book, The Mortal Storm, the dear old professor says that the happiness of family life is founded on tolerance and a sense of humour: these qualities were certainly predominant in ours.
Lord Hawke's team had already arrived in New Zealand and was sweeping triumphantly through the country in a manner reminiscent of some of the great International sides that had visited the Dominion. Ever since 1878, Australian teams had regularly visited New Zealand every two or three years, but no English side had come to our shores since 1887, consequently there was immense local interest. On account of an injury Lord Hawke, at the last minute, was prevented from captaining his own side. His choice of
The strength of the side may be judged from the fact that later in their careers six of its members played for England! Just as MacLaren's was the last privately organized cricket team to tour Australia, so Lord Hawke was the last great Englishman to receive an invitation to bring a team out to New Zealand. It was about this time that the Marylebone Club, acting on behalf of all the counties of England, decided to take over the organization and management of all English tours overseas. New Zealand, with its Cricket Council, constituted in 1894, had led the way in setting up an organization based on all provinces and minor counties having representation on a body corporate that governed and controlled the game on behalf of the whole Dominion. Australia, on the other hand, owing to the antagonism that developed between the players and the Board of Control, did not effectively manage its affairs until many years later.
The arrangements for Lord Hawke's team were on a different basis from those of any previous tour. Our Council, feeling the financial responsibility of greater travelling costs than those to which they were accustomed for the much shorter trip for Australian teams, arranged that the members of this English side should be billeted privately with leading citizens in the different towns and cities. These dashing amateurs, some just out of the universities, were made welcome in homes
Although our local cricket authorities knew that I was spending but a short holiday with my family, it was natural perhaps that they should wish to include me in the Canterbury XI, due to play against the Englishmen in a few weeks' time. Coming straight from the higher standard of cricket in Australia, I was naturally in good form, and when, in a club match, I made 134 against Riccarton, a team that included
Warner and his men had by now finished an extensive tour of the North Island where, against the major provinces, they had played eleven-a-side matches, but in the minor association matches were opposed by eighteen players. The system of playing against odds has long since been discarded, but it was the common practice in this and earlier years. One remembers reading of W. G. Grace's making 400 against 22 of Grimsby, and all the very early English teams to Australia played against odds, even in the matches against the States.
After visiting Greymouth, on the West Coast of the South Island, a town that has rarely received visits from touring teams,
The setting for the match was in surroundings that must have pleased the Englishmen. Lancaster Park has remained the best cricket ground in the Dominion, and to-day compares favourably with any county ground in England, excepting Lord's, The Oval and Old Trafford. To add to these impressive features, two of the best umpires in the world were officiating in this match.
Fine weather prevailed throughout this match, and when Warner won the toss, he naturally elected to bat. Everyone sat back in a state of expectancy to see these dashing young amateurs exhibit their powers of defence and attack, and demonstrate that the coaching of the boy produces an orthodox style that is pleasing to the onlooker.
Colonial cricketers seem to develop in their own natural style. Their schools and associations are unable to afford the highly developed system of coaching that prevails in England. Even in Australia, most of the champions of the past and present are the products of a natural gift and their own development of a genius for the game. They get little coaching beyond being put on the right track during their primary education. In England, the great schools, the universities and the counties all have an organized system of coaching, usually carried out by retired county professionals who continue to have an influence on succeeding generations of cricketers. It is this, more than anything else, that enables England to square, and keep
It is doubtful if a better side for demonstrating the style of English batting ever left England than this team of Lord Hawke's. We did not have long to wait to have the above impression made upon our minds. Warner opened the innings with Burnup, the dashing Kent amateur. They both played exceptionally well, the score reaching 50, then 70, and on to 100, for the first wicket. Warner's graceful style was typical of the well-coached English schoolboy, with forward off-play predominating, but Burnup was strong on the on side, and playing back more than his captain, looked a safer player for slow and bad wickets.
After these two had been dismissed for more than half a century apiece, the Englishmen began to struggle for runs. Fane, Dowson, Johnson and Bosanquet did not make many, but T. L. Taylor, who in the previous season in England had impressed the Australians, was a hard nut to crack. When Thompson joined the Yorkshire amateur, our success came to an end for a while, and the day's play ended with them both undefeated.
The batsmen were never, at any time, really on top of the bowling, and were sometimes in difficulties when facing it. It was not until lunch-time on the second day that they reached their total of 352. This was not fast scoring, but in Callaway and Prankish we had a redoubtable pair of bowlers, worthy of the best class of cricket, who made our attack stronger than anything the Englishmen had so far met in New Zealand. They were backed by a first-class fielding side with one of the world's greatest wicket-keepers in Boxshall. His stumping of Burnup in this match was the finest I have ever seen. Burnup played very soundly on the on side, and scored frequently from a shot off his pads that sent the ball between square-leg and mid-on. He always moved forward as he made this stroke. Frankish was a left-hand off-swinger, and as Burnup moved to play a ball that swerved quickly outside his legs
The Englishmen took the field at two o'clock, with Sims and Reese opening for Canterbury. Thompson and Hargreaves, who did all the spade-work on this tour, took up the bowling. It was at once a keen contest. Sims and I were rated the best batsmen on our side, so it was a fair test of strength. To everyone's delight we handled the bowling comfortably and moved on from 10 to 20, then 30, then 40. At this stage Bosanquet came on. It was the first time “Bosie,” or as it is now commonly called googly, bowling had been seen in New Zealand. Naturally, great interest was taken in the tall, handsome Middlesex man's appearance at the bowling crease. To the batsman, there was, of course, not only interest, but also curiosity and, perhaps, anxiety. We did not know then of Jim Kelly's remark at Lord's, during the Middlesex match. Sent in to play out time, he was soon back in the dressing-room and disgustedly said to his team-mates: “There's a bloke out there bowling leg-breaks that come back from the off!” There was a shout of laughter at Kelly's remark, but next day the others were to learn for themselves.
Bosanquet bowled to Sims. The first two were leg-breaks which Sims patted to third man. The third ball, pitched about the same spot and played at in the same way, hit his leg stump. This was surely a good start for the “Bosie.” But that was the end of Bosanquet's success. We struggled along, keeping out
Our wickets kept falling regularly, but I was managing to take some toll of the bowling. I remember what a contest it was with Thompson and how hard he appeared to be trying to get my wicket. He had a beautiful delivery, was medium-fast in pace, with a good off-break that made pace off the pitch, but he also bowled a good ball that came with his arm. I was always taught to watch the bowler's fingers, and saw him keep putting his thumb well under the ball for this delivery, and was therefore not caught napping by it. I was able to drive even fast bowling, and when he overpitched a ball I cracked him hard once or twice, straight through to the fence. This seemed to make him bowl faster and shorter, which meant he was not as effective against me as he would otherwise have been. When I had reached 60 I had a bit of luck for, hitting Hargreaves hard and high to long-on, the ball went straight to Fane who was standing near the fence. To the amazement of the Englishmen—for Fane was a very good outfield—he dropped the ball. Needless to say, the Canterbury crowd was pleased. Our total moved on to 150, but seven wickets had fallen. I had previously experienced the batsman's usual struggle to get the remaining few runs to complete a hundred, but this time the three figures appeared in a flash. When I was 88, Burnup came on again and in one over I hit him to the fence with an off drive, a cut behind point and a swinging hit to long-leg. Naturally, there was some excitement and those country people must have been glad of the delayed departure of their trains. Thompson finally clean bowled me at 111, and our total reached 226. It was remarkable that there were only three other double-figure scores, with the next highest score, 29. Our side had scored at a faster rate than the Englishmen, and the total was considered a satisfactory one, despite the fact that we fell 100 short of our opponents' score.
The crowd had enjoyed the cricket and was in a happy mood when the visitors, with about an hour to bat, began their second innings. Warner and his men now forged ahead, showing the same batting skill they had displayed in their first innings, but still having to fight for runs. Warner again passed the half-century, and Dowson played dashingly. After forcing the pace, Warner declared, with the score at 159 for seven wickets. It was a remarkable performance of Callaway's and Frankish's to have taken all the wickets; five each in the first innings, and Frankish five and Callaway two in the second. They bowled unchanged in the latter innings.
Canterbury was left 288 runs to get and the whole afternoon to bat, for it was a three days' match. Sims and I again opened, but soon I was badly hurt by a rising ball from Thompson. Warner insisted that I should retire for a while. Bosanquet repeated his first inning's performance of bowling Sims with a googly, so we did not get as good a start as in the first innings, and never looked like getting the runs. On returning to the wickets I reached 21 before again being bowled by Thompson. At the finish, we were all out for 154, and lost by 133 runs. It was not a good batting performance, but Thompson was again in great form and bowled like a champion. He clean bowled all his five victims and thus hit the stumps ten times in taking eleven wickets in this match.
Up until the final innings it was a really keen contest and closer than the figures might show, for the only time the Englishmen looked masters of the situation was in the opening partnership of Warner and Burnup, and again when Taylor and Thompson collared our bowling at the end of the first day's play. From the point of view of public interest, one had to go back twenty-five years, to the visit of the first Australian XI, or better still, forty years, to the match against Parr's English XI, to find cricket matches in New Zealand that attracted so many people. It is stated that in 1864 the total attendance was 10,000 for three days, a number equal to the then population of Christchurch. In those days there were few competitive sports in the summer months, so one could say that the people were “cricket mad.” An illustration of this is to be found in a happening at the time of the visit of Lilly-white's team; when the workmen of Andersons' were gathered together prior to starting the day's work, someone said, “What
It is Rugby football that attracts enormous crowds in New Zealand to-day, but for many years cricket took more money at the gate than the winter game. It was surprising to learn from the old records of the Lancaster Park ground that cricket led all through the years in this respect, until 1912, when the present oval and stand accommodation converted the ground to a more suitable area for football and its supporters.
In Canterbury's second innings against Warner's team an incident occurred that momentarily held up the game in the manner of the Eady incident in Hobart, in 1899. Pearce was batting to Bosanquet and, bending his knees as he was wont to do when hitting to leg, was bowled round his legs. The batsman hesitated to leave his crease, and then, as he started to walk away, Sims called to him to go back and await the umpire's decision. Bannerman was at the bowler's end and, like Sims, could not see the stumps when the stroke was made, so would not give a decision. An appeal was then made to Spencer, but he, too, was unable to give a ruling, for he had momentarily ducked, expecting the ball to be hit his way. This meant that Pearce went on batting. The Englishmen, hurrying to force home their victory, did not take kindly to this decision. A barracker on the bank did not help matters when he called out to the wicket-keeper to keep his hands off the stumps. This caused a ruffled young English stumper to say things he ought not to have said. There is no doubt Pearce was clean bowled, but the fact that Sims was standing alongside Bannerman at the time is proof that his doubt as to what happened was a genuine one. Actually, I do not think Bosanquet could have seen his leg-break hit the stumps, for the batsman's legs covered the wickets. It was just as well that it was two such famous umpires who got into this tangle of indecision!
On the last day of the match I was to get a surprise when, just before play began, someone came into the dressing-room and said I was wanted outside. Going out, I found a large crowd gathered in front of the pavilion where Mr. A. E. G. Rhodes, the President of the Canterbury Cricket Association, with a few congratulatory and kindly words, made a presentation to me. It appears that after my making a century on the Saturday afternoon, the ever enthusiastic
My success in this match, followed by a keenly expressed desire by the authorities that I should stay and play for New Zealand in the two Test Matches to be played at the end of February and early March, created a problem for me. I had already been engaged to join the S.S. Maori which was due to sail for London in a fortnight. At this time there was a very laudable practice by the Shipping Companies of allowing young engineers to work their passages Home. To put the arrangement into legal form they were signed on as assistant engineers at the princely salary of one shilling a month! Cricket enthusiasts wanted to subscribe to my fare Home as a passenger, but I preferred to be independent and carry out my original intention. Rimutaka, the Company's most modern passenger liner. This allowed me another six weeks in New Zealand, which was a great joy to me as well as to my family.
Before the first Test there was a match at Dunedin, between a South Island team and the Englishmen. Our team was not well chosen, for it included six bowlers, and this left us with a batting strength no better than that of a provincial eleven. With Fisher and Downes, as well as Callaway, in the side, we felt we could at any rate hold the English batsmen down to a fight for runs, as had been the case in Christchurch.
Warner won the toss, and he and Burnup again put on 50 for the first wicket, but after that they were in real trouble, for Callaway and the great Otago pair bowled grandly, and the score was only 80 with four wickets down. Again the Englishmen were to be saved by a fine partnership. After the opening, Taylor was the only batsman to show any mastery over the bowling, and he was batting very well when joined by Bosanquet. I had no idea the latter was such a dashing batsman until he began to lay on the wood, and score at a very fast rate, with strokes in every direction. It was not slogging, but first-class, forceful batting. Our fielding let us down, for he was twice missed off Downes, but in the end Bosanquet was dismissed by a brilliant left-handed catch by Orchard, our captain, for a score of 82. Taylor's 105 was a beautiful innings
The pace of Bosanquet's scoring had enabled this total to be reached soon after five o'clock. No side likes starting an innings at the end of the day when the light is beginning to fail, as it does in late summer, but no one expected that we would have lost seven wickets by the drawing of stumps. The batting was not good, and certainly not true to form, but the chief contributing factor was the bowling of Thompson and Hargreaves. Next day, Boxshall, our wicket-keeper, played his well-known “cow shot” with some success, and in getting 15 was the only double-figure scorer in a total of 51. This was a bad performance and indeed spoilt the match. Thompson and Hargreaves bowled unchanged, the former taking four wickets, again all clean bowled, and Hargreaves six wickets for 12 runs—a splendid performance.
We did a little better in the second innings, but still very badly for such a side.N Again Boxshall, a left-hander, hitting everything to the on side, and caring not who was the bowler, ran to 40 before skying one that fell into safe hands. But for his innings we would have blushed at making two totals of under a hundred. This time it was Burnup, with his swervers, who did the damage, and he finished with six for 36. Our failure with the bat completely ruined the Saturday gate and damaged our reputation. While cricketers know how these things can and do happen, the public is not always so understanding.
It was Burnup who first showed New Zealanders how to swerve the ball at will. Frankish had been, and remains to this day, the greatest swerver ever seen in New Zealand cricket, but to him it was natural. Fisher was the first one to use Burnup's advice, but the knowledge came to him a little too late in his career.
The rout of the South Island team did little to destroy the faith of the people in the ability of New Zealand's chosen XI. It certainly did not affect public interest, for in the first Test Match, played at Christchurch, large crowds again came from the country districts, and the attendances were much the same as for the Canterbury match three weeks earlier.
When the Englishmen began their innings, everything was in their favour, for the wicket had rolled out well. Warner and Burnup opened as usual and were moving along steadily when we had the joy of seeing Downes clean bowl the English captain with a ball that nipped off the pitch quickly and turned sufficiently to beat the bat. It was the first time on the tour that double figures were not reached by Warner, whose sequence of scores in the South Island matches had been remarkable. We were certainly glad to see his back, but Fane, who came next, played finely, and was helped by Burnup to add 50. Then followed one of those partnerships that always seemed to come at the right moment for this side. It was Taylor
New Zealand's second innings was little better than the first, although we made a few more runs. Tucker and I, getting together again, repeated the first-innings partnership. This was the only time the googly bowler secured my wicket in the whole series. Tucker went on to play another fine innings for 67. Four of our remaining batsmen reached double figures, and all looked like producing the form we knew they were capable of, but did not survive the sustained attack. Our total of 214 was enough to leave the Englishmen only 75 runs to win. Thompson, on this occasion, got most support from Bosanquet, and they finished with four wickets each; both bowled very well.
Warner and Burnup soon disposed of any chance of quick success by our bowlers, for they took the score to 60, before being separated. Their wickets fell in successive overs, but by this time there were only a few runs to get. Callaway then clean bowled Taylor, but the game was soon over.
We were still not satisfied that this represented our true batting form, and went North for the next Test, at Wellington—the final match of the tour—believing our side was capable of holding the Englishmen to a more even contest. Fisher and Upham came into the team in place of Frankish and Downes who were unable to play, but this still left us with a strong attack, for Callaway, at this time, was in great form. It will be seen that the selectors were again spared the difficulty experienced on the Australian tour of making a final choice from such a group of fine bowlers. It was unfortunate that on
Public interest was as great at the end of this tour as at the start, and large attendances marked the final match. Richardson won the toss and took me in with him to open the innings. A hard wicket and a calm day for Wellington made conditions ideal. Thompson—it was always Thompson—started trouble for us when he clean bowled our captain with only 10 on the board. Tucker followed and we moved along to 30, then 40, then 50, when Thompson again hit the stumps in dismissing Tucker. Two more wickets fell quickly and Mahoney, an ex-Australian, came in. He was a stubborn batsman and held the fort for some time. He was a little deaf and took a lot of watching in running singles, or the last run from a hit to the outfield. The contest between Thompson and me, which had been evident in other matches, was renewed, but I kept taking a steady toll. I hit him so hard through the covers and past mid-off and mid-on that at times he seemed disconcerted. This, however, did not stop him from keeping the batsman at the other end on the defensive. When Mahoney was caught and bowled by Hargreaves I had already passed the century. Warner walked across to make a kindly and complimentary remark. Cricketers will know that after one passes the century, there comes a feeling that one can take some risks, and in the next half-hour I really paid back Thompson for hitting my stumps in the previous matches. I certainly hit him harder and more often, and raced to 148 when I was l.b.w. to him. Wisden's of this year, when referring to Thompson's performance in this match, said: “… but he was severely punished by Reese,” so I suppose it could be said we finished all square. Our total reached 274.
After a long day at the bowling crease Thompson's persistency was rewarded, and, taking the last four wickets, he finished with eight for 124. It was an outstanding performance and the culmination of a series of successes that has rarely been equalled in New Zealand cricket. His sequence of wicket-taking feats in the Canterbury, Otago, South Island and the two Test Matches was as remarkable as Warner's batting performances had been. No wonder some of our batsmen were awe-stricken and did not produce their true form!
Warner changed his order of batting this time, for Burnup's
Just as our opponents were left to play out time in the late afternoon of the previous day, so we were left with only a quarter of an hour to bat, but were not as successful as they were. I again accompanied Richardson to the wickets, but we had not been going long when I attempted to force a ball on the on side and was caught at deep mid-on. As Tucker, who followed, failed to score, it will be realized what a dent this made in our armour. This was bad enough, but on recommencing on Monday morning we were so overwhelmed as to make us feel chagrined. The wicket, now slightly worn, had dried hard over the week-end, and was much faster. A strong wind made conditions difficult for batsmen facing bowlers who could swing the ball. Difficult as Thompson, Hargreaves and Bosanquet had been, it was when Burnup took the ball, with the shine still on it, that we saw another whirlwind performance, similar to this bowler's routing of the
Thus ended a cricket tour that had been a brilliant success. No other touring team has ever reached the cricketing centres of all our minor associations as well as the main cities. It was certainly a strenuous tour, for in less than three months they played seventeen matches, and except for the last two weeks of the Test Matches, had played a three-day and a two-day match each week. The team comprised only twelve men—an arrangement to save the New Zealand Cricket Council expense —but in one or two of the minor matches, Warner took the opportunity of playing an Englishman resident in the district.
The strength of this team could not be compared with the great English and Australian Test sides that had visited New Zealand, but on our wickets would be equal to the full strength of New South Wales, Victoria or South Australia. Warner enhanced his reputation as a fine batsman and an able leader. He certainly paved the way for his future selection as captain of the All England XI in the contests against Australia. Fane, after starting brilliantly, slumped a little, but returned to his best form at the end of the tour—his century in the first Test, like Warner's in the second, being the foundation on which the Englishmen's victory was built. These two were always attractive. Their styles were very similar; strong on the off and in front of the wicket, and sound on the on side; this gave them a range of strokes that was to stand them in good stead when they reached the higher plane of Test Matches against Australia.
It was, however, Taylor who impressed me most. He held us up so often when our bowlers looked like prevailing, that before the tour was over we all had the greatest respect for
Burnup ranked close up to Warner, Fane and Taylor and was most consistent throughout the tour. His style was similar to Taylor's, with the same soundness as the Yorkshireman's in his on side play. Dowson and Bosanquet both batted with a certain amount of abandon, and seemed to relish hitting fours. Once or twice they had a demoralizing effect on our bowling and, fortunately for their side, at a time when runs were needed. In bowling, too, they were strong, with a varied attack. The tour was a personal triumph for Thompson, whose performances I have already recorded. With his beautiful, swinging, windmill-like action and a medium-fast pace that at times, on a hard wicket, appeared almost to equal a fast bowler's, he was too good for most of our batsmen. Hargreaves, a left-hander, had a lovely, easy action and kept a perfect length. Bosanquet was at times exceedingly difficult, but his length was not always good, though the knowledge that a googly might come down at any minute seemed to make most of our basmen stay at home. This meant playing into his hands, for his “Bosie” had a lot of spin on it and made pace off the pitch. Burnup put plenty of pep into his bowling, as was evidenced in those two performances in Dunedin and Wellington. Dowson, while a right-hand batsman, bowled left-handed, and might have proved useful, but was rarely needed.
The above picture of Lord Hawke's team will enable readers to judge that they were a very good side, and representative of the best county cricket of England. The surprise and disappointment from New Zealand's performances against them was the failure of so many of our batsmen whom we knew could make runs in company as good as this. Actually, our bowling, we considered, was as good as theirs, and Warner said at the end of the tour that this had impressed him most. Callaway, Frankish, Downes, Fisher and Upham were the greatest quintette of bowlers we have ever had in New Zealand cricket at one time, and as many of our batsmen could make runs against them, why not against the Englishmen?
This was Frankish's last season in first-class cricket, for after a long, lingering illness, he was to die at the early age of thirty-five. One speaks of a brilliant batsman, but seldom is this term applicable to a bowler, yet I think it could be used for Frankish. With a new ball he could at times, in a few sensational overs, break the back of a batting side. It is for these flashes of brilliance that he is best remembered. In one match, at Wellington, when the last wicket fell just before a quarter to six, a lenient Canterbury captain thought it hardly worth while taking the field for the few remaining minutes. Induced to go on, he opened with Frankish who, bowling into the wind, took three wickets in his one over before stumps! When two wickets had fallen, the next batsman drove a ball past mid-off and called for a run, but his partner,
As the Englishmen were returning via Australia and playing matches in Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide, Warner invited
In the early stages of each of the matches played against New South Wales, Victoria and South Australia these young Englishmen showed form that impressed the critics and looked like bringing them victory. Second innings collapses at Melbourne and Adelaide—typical of the way New Zealand wickets had fallen at Wellington—robbed them of what looked certain wins.
Some reference should be made to the match against New South Wales. The great Trumper-Duff opening partnerships were at this time the bane of Australian bowlers. On this occasion,
Later googly bowlers, like Vogler, Hordern, Mailey, Grimmett and Freeman developed a perfect length, but Bosanquet, the originator of this freakish ball, remained the type of bowler who had his day. On the occasions when he did strike form, his height of delivery, deceptive flight and quick break-back made him dangerous on any type of wicket. This was Bosanquet's day, and he finished with six wickets for 153. Dowson, who had batted in happy-go-lucky style in New Zealand, played splendidly in these Australian matches, and the best judges predicted that he would return with the next All England XI.
In the match against South Australia Thompson, in the first innings, took nine wickets for 85; seven of the batsmen being clean bowled—a remarkable performance on a hard Adelaide wicket. One of the stories handed down about the great Spofforth was that if he beat a batsman he bowled him. During all my cricketing experience, I did not see a bowler hit the stumps as often as Thompson.
This cricket tour was in every way an outstanding success. The matches in Australia proved invaluable experience for those members of this team who were to return with England's next Test Match side. The tour just described was, of course, in the main a New Zealand venture, and the way this team stalked through the Dominion, demonstrating the correctness and efficiency of the Englishmen's style of play, is still talked of to-day. Excepting the great International sides of representative strength, Lord Hawke's team, led by
Even though I was now going to the other side of the world, I did not experience, to the same extent, the feelings of emotion of three years earlier, when leaving home for the first time. There is a big difference between 12,000 miles to England and 1,200 miles to Australia, but it savoured more of an adventure to go so far away, with but a nominal sum of money, and mainly dependent on my own resources and ability.
Out of Wellington Heads we set course for Cape Horn, on what is probably the longest run in the trade routes of the world without sighting land. The opening of the Panama Canal has completely changed the route of shipping to and from New Zealand. In those days all ships to England went via Cape Horn, and returned via Cape of Good Hope. The prevailing strong westerly winds and gales across the Southern Pacific have always, as far back as the old sailing-ship days, made it, if not impossible, at least unprofitable to sail this ocean in a westerly direction.
We were no sooner clear of land than the long, heavy swell made our ship dip into the troughs of the sea, and conditions were far from comfortable. I was not at this time a good sailor, so the Chief Engineer said that I had better go and lie down, and take time to find my sea-legs. I was thus a “passenger” for several days. It was a really nasty trip all the way to Cape Horn, but I eventually became used to the motion of the ship. My duties were not onerous, for I was on the day shift throughout the journey, starting at 8 a.m. and working till 5 p.m. My work was mainly overhauling auxiliary machinery, of which there was a great deal on this ship. Time passed pleasantly, for the engineers on the Rimutaka were a genial lot. T was not only initiated into the engineering side of the ship's life at sea, but also into the fun and enlightening conversation in the mess-room. The mess-room stories were mostly new to me; altogether we were a jolly party. I also knew a good many of the passengers and in the evenings was able to fraternize with them, although it was not until we rounded Cape Horn and reached calmer
It was more than two weeks before the most southern part of South America was sighted, and everyone was filled with excitement in anticipation of seeing the famous Cape Horn. In earlier years the New Zealand Shipping Company's ships always went through the Straits of Magellan, a route that not only shortened the journey but also gave passengers a fine view of the scenery, for the Straits, with mountains and hills on either side, resemble a great fiord. The wreck of the Mataura put an end to this short cut. I went aboard the Mataura the night before she sailed from Wellington on her ill-fated voyage, to see my cousin who was Chief Refrigerating Engineer. Many years later he told me of his experience and how the accident happened. He said he was on deck on a beautiful day and on approaching the entrance to the Straits noticed they were fairly close in. Turning to his comrades he said: “By Jove, I've never seen her in as close as this before!” The words were hardly out of his mouth when the ship crashed on an uncharted rock. Everyone got away in the boats and made for the Straits close at hand. The shores of this part of Chile, which adjoins Patagonia, are far from hospitable, but the boats were soon in the secluded waters of the channel, and thus free from the danger of the storms that so frequently rage round the Horn. They were later all landed safely. It turned out that the Captain had been persuaded by passengers to go close enough to give them a good view of the shore. It is recorded that the Master of the Mataura was so distressed and humiliated at this disaster that he never left Patagonia, and ended his days there.
The Mataura was carrying to England the New Zealand University examination papers. As all the students were given a pass, there was much good-humoured chaff meted out to those who acquired what was satirically called a “Mataura” degreé.
Cape Horn was certainly an inspiring sight, standing out in its barren ruggedness. The storms of this area would seem to have formed the character of this famous Cape, and given it a unique place in the noted landmarks of the world. In the old sailing-ship days a man was not considered to be a sailor unless he had “rounded Cape Horn,” and the thrilling tales-of the sea, as told by Conrad and other sea-writers, enable one
No sooner had we got clear of this point and turned to a northerly course than we were in calm seas and a much warmer temperature. Out came the deck-chairs, and people who had not been seen since the ship left Wellington were soon walking the decks. It was not till then that shipboard friendships began to develop, and soon there was much gaiety on board; sports games were started, dances were held at night, and the boat-deck, known as the “pair-garden,” began to play its usual part in life at sea.
Days of warmth and sunshine brought us to Montevideo. It was my first experience of bunkering a ship, and as the junior engineers had to keep tally of the baskets of coal emptied down the bunker hatch I knew, before the night was through, what a dirty job it was. Clad in overalls, with a scarf round my neck to keep out the coal-dust, I sat there, ticking off every ten baskets as they were emptied. The coal contractor's tally-man was with me and called out in his Portugese tongue, “Uno, dos, tres, quatro, cinco, ciace, ciete, ocho, neuvo, tally!” this last in a higher pitched voice, to complete the count of each ten. All through the night it was, “Uno, dos, tres, etc.” Every now and then this cunning old devil would attempt to jump from seven to nine, or from eight to tally, so one had to be on the alert. No one got ashore at Montevideo, for we were anchored offshore and bunkered from lighters. The sea became choppy, and new passengers, arriving alongside in a lighter, had to be hoisted aboard in baskets. We were glad to get away and have the ship's decks and deck-houses washed down, and so get rid of the coal-dust.
In about five days' time we passed Rio de Janeiro. The weather became hotter each day, and as the sea was calm, life aboard was pleasant indeed. Our captain, Commander Green-street, R.N.R., was the Commodore of the New Zealand Shipping Company's fleet, and a most popular Master. Measured by the number of times he had sailed round the Horn, Greenstreet was the greatest captain on this run. He was outstanding as a host and left behind him a reputation that is still remembered by old travellers. I did not learn until after I was married that twenty years before this voyage, my wife's father, who was a clergyman, and had studied and learned to speak
We were now out in the middle of the South Atlantic, and nearing the Equator. Passengers were feeling the heat, and white duck suits and light and airy frocks were the order of the day. Crossing the Line was accompanied by all the usual ritual so long associated with the passing from one hemisphere to the other.
We passed Cape Verde, and next day were at Teneriffe, in the Canary Islands, off the north-west coast of Africa, The moment we dropped anchor many islanders, of Spanish origin, swarmed on board and displayed their wares. After taking aboard some fruit cargo, and replenishing our bunkers, we were off again, this time on the last leg of our journey. We were now beginning to feel the freshness of early spring, for it was April, the month that brings with it cold and showery weather round the British Isles. Soon we were abreast of Spain and Portugal, and presently were crossing the Bay of Biscay, famous for its rough seas. We were not to be disappointed, for a strong westerly wind was blowing, and although it was a fair wind to us. it tossed the seas into white-crested waves that would have made conditions unpleasant had we been outward bound. It was easily seen how these gales, blowing into the entrance to the English Channel, raised seas that spread themselves out into the Bay of Biscay, giving it the reputation of being one of the roughest seas in the world.
At last we saw England, the Mother Country of our great Empire, and the land spoken of so affectionately by all who live under the Union Jack. Land's End could be seen in the distance, but it was the headland of The Lizard, the southern-most point of Cornwall, that gave us the first nearby view of the shores of the Homeland. As was my wont on the coast of Australia, I had recourse to the atlas, for there is no better way of fixing in one's mind the geography of a place than by studying the map. We had pointed out to us the port of Falmouth, tucked in behind The Lizard and sheltered from the steady roll of the Atlantic. “Falmouth for orders”—how many people outside the seafaring world understand what this means? In the early days of the sailing-ship, and before the cables had been laid across the ocean, it was often necessary for vessels
Mayflower. Seeing renowned places always interests colonials visiting the Old Country, and revives memories of history learnt at school. There was a Trafalgar ship at anchor; on the terrace in the distance, was pointed out the place where Drake and his Admirals were playing bowls when the news came through of the approach of the Spanish fleet. Plymouth clearly stood out to me as one of England's historic places. A large number of our passengers disembarked here, and this brought to an end—not without regrets—some happy friendships.
Out in the English Channel again we passed the Isle of Wight before dark, then Beachy Head, Dungeness Point and on past Dover. It was the lights of Dover we saw, not the white cliffs, so famous in the coastline of England. Next morning we were in the Thames Estuary and I was to see something that astonished me. I had seen much shipping activity in the approaches to ports like Sydney and Melbourne, but London…. Well, it was unbelievable! There was everything from the great liner down to the smallest coastal ship, and innumerable barges. What great use is made of barges in big cities that have river harbours!
Next we were at Gravesend. As I gazed over the side of the ship at this Thames port, I thought of my father and mother who, in the early 'sixties, had transhipped from the Leith boat into the bigger ship about to leave for New Zealand. Imagine the term “bigger ship” being used for a vessel that did not register much more than 500 tons! They certainly were brave souls in those early days. No wonder an ocean voyage was considered an adventure! Soon we were moving up the Thames itself, and as the river narrowed the immense sea-borne traffic passing right alongside us presented a scene that was intensely
Slowly we moved up towards the docks, and at last were opposite Tilbury. We are prone, out in these parts, to refer to the far-sightedness of the pioneer settlers in Australia and New Zealand, but here one sees the great docks of London, and one must pay homage to the men who, through the ages, planned and carried out the work of constructing these great wet docks close up to the heart of the City of London. With the River Thames being affected as far up as this by the tide, the dock gates are opened only at the turn of the tide.
At last we were berthed at the wharf, with the usual excitement of friends and relatives meeting the travellers from far-distant New Zealand. As I had been signed on as an assistant engineer, I had to be signed off before I could finally leave the ship, so all the passengers had gone before we went down to the shipping office to get our discharge. I remember when being paid my one shilling and sixpence—for the voyage had taken forty-two days—an old shipping office attendant laughed and said, “Do you want the money?” I don't know whether I was expected to leave the cash for drinks, but thought I should like those two small silver pieces as a souvenir.
I have travelled many times on passenger liners since that voyage, but I do not think I ever experienced such splendid fun and entertainment as on the Rimutaka of so many years ago.
I Was fortunate in not having to look for lodgings. My cousin, Walter Sneddon, for twenty-one years Chief Engineer of the Remuera, trading to New Zealand, had married a London girl, and I received an invitation to stay with her people. They lived in South Tottenham, which is due north out of London, the nearby railway station being Seven Sisters. It was down High Road, where they lived, that Dick Turpin galloped his gallant and faithful Black Bess, and Mrs. Sneddon's father, old Mr. Bullock, a man of over seventy, loved talking of old England and revelled in retelling the story of this epic ride.
The Bullocks were a fine family, typical of so many in a great maritime nation like Britain. The father was a town traveller for the firm of Samuel & Company of the Minories, in the centre of London. His son, Ralph, was a departmental manager of the same firm, and his youngest daughter, in her early twenties, was her brother's secretary. All the other members of the family were connected with the sea. William, the eldest son, was Master of one of the Leyland Company's passenger liners in the Atlantic trade. They were all very proud of William, especially his mother, and they had reason to be, for he was a R.N.R. Commander, and typical of the men who qualify to act as Reserves for the Navy. Charles was Second Engineer of a tramp steamer trading out East. He should have been a Chief years before, but he was the hard case of the family and had the habit of slipping on the second-to-top rung of the ladder. He could talk of Vladivostock and Nikolaievsk of the far north of the Far East, and of Japan, China, India, the Persian Gulf, the Black Sea and goodness knows where else. He had always been on tramp steamers and this accounted for his peregrinations. Harold was an officer in the Union Castle line trading to South Africa. With the eldest daughter married to my cousin, and the second girl the wife of an officer in the Union Castle line, it will be seen what an atmosphere of the life of the sea I was to become associated with. I refer to this in detail because it was to have an effect on my future career.
My first day in London was to provide a unique experience. At Plymouth, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson and their daughter, of Auckland, passengers on the Rimutaka, were met by their son, who told them of a great concert that was to take place in the Albert Hall two days later. Before leaving the ship they invited me to join their party for this concert. Going into London, I was surprised how easily I found my way about. This was again due to my familiarity with maps and plans. On the Rimutaka, the barber's shop had on sale splendid maps of London which were exhibited as we neared England. They were so detailed and gave so clear a picture that I was soon able to find my way about in the centre of the city. Arriving at the Liverpool Street Station, it was at first just a case of following the crowd along Bishopsgate Street, but soon people were branching off in various directions until I had to choose my own route. Turning into Cornhill, I found myself gazing at the Bank of England, that great bulwark of the financial structure of the Empire. Opposite was the Royal Exchange, in front of which stood the imposing monument of the Duke of Wellington. Along Cheap-side, I turned in past St. Paul's and stopped to gaze upon Wren's masterpiece, the pride of the Empire and the admiration of the peoples of the world. Moving on, I went down Ludgate Hill to Ludgate Circus, there to see the big sign over the office of Thos. Cook & Son, of world-tours fame. As I went up Fleet Street I looked for signs of the activities of the newspaper world. I was soon in the Strand, and on reaching Trafalgar Square was over-awed with feelings of excitement, and stood watching the crowd. I felt I had done pretty well for my first day in London, but seemed unable to take it all in. The many outlets from this famous square made it less easy to decide which one to take. I knew that I had to keep on going west, but was undecided whether to go up through Haymarket or Regent Street, but soon found myself in Piccadilly. When leaving I had left myself plenty of time to reach the Albert Hall, but my many halts to take bearings and to gaze, stare and wonder at the marvels of this greatest of all cities had encroached upon my time. I therefore jumped into a hansom cab—it was always the horse cab in those days—and arrived just in time to join Mr. Jackson's party. It thus didn't take me long to learn of the London cabby's saying, “I leave it to you, sir,” when an American or colonial, on alighting, asked the fare!
It was a matter for astonishment to colonials to find the huge Albert Hall packed to the doors for an afternoon concert. The attraction was comparable with Grace, Ranjitsinhji and Trumper playing at Lord's, for the artistes this day were Madam Patti, the prima donna who preceded Madam Melba, Charles Santley, the famous baritone, and Ada Crossley, the attractive Australian possessing a lovely contralto voice and charm of manner which made her so popular in England at the beginning of this century. One does not need to be a musician to be able to appreciate what a feast it was to have three such artistes singing at the same concert. That I was never a highbrow so far as music was concerned, may be gathered from the fact that the only item I am able to remember as having been sung that afternoon is “Comin' Thru the Rye” as an encore by Patti. Had it been a Sims-Reeves concert, I suppose all I would remember would be his famous rendering of “Come Into the Garden, Maud.” I do remember, however, how I enjoyed the wonderful singing, and have vivid recollections of the quality of the voices of those stars of other days.
Among the many letters of introduction I had was one from
Mr. Reeves received me in the most friendly manner. It was
My escort and I arrived at Parliament Buildings about half an hour before the sitting was to begin, so that Members arriving could be pointed out. Most of them walked, but the old hansom cab played its part. It was a cold spring day, and all arrived in their heavy top-coats. I remember noting the fashion of the time of having an astrakhan collar on the overcoat. They were certainly well-groomed men, with the proverbial bell-topper much in evidence. It was from the Strangers' Gallery that I was to have pointed out to me the great statesmen of those days; Balfour, who was Prime Minister, Joseph Chamberlain and his son, Austen, Campbell-Bannerman, Asquith, Lloyd George, Bonar Law, Sir Edward Grey, and many others, including the Irish Members. Unfortunately, it was not an important matter that was being debated, so I did not have the privilege of hearing Cabinet Ministers or leaders of the Opposition, but the whole setting gave me a picture of the House of Commons at work. After taking in the whole scene, and listening to a rather desultory debate—during which I looked eagerly from bench to bench, studying the features of the various great men whose names were legends to me—we retired to see over the House of Lords. This House was not sitting, so we were able to walk around the famous Chamber. I sat on some of the beautifully upholstered seats and was keenly interested in this close inspection of the House where
The day after this visit to the Houses of Parliament I was back again in the Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross area to spend a few hours in Westminster Abbey. One could go many times and never weary of studying the picture that unfolds itself. The magnificence of the building gave a first impression that could not be improved upon, even with more minute examination; but the history of the State, the Church, and the lives of the men who, through all the years, have made England so great, and so revered, could be found in every nook and corner.
In New Zealand we look back with pride upon the men who founded our Dominion and praise their foresight, judgment and enterprise in the work they carried out so well in a colony even now but a century old. But, in England, the Abbey takes one back hundreds of years, and presents lasting memorials of “The Intellect and Valour of Britain,” and of the courage and devotion of men whose lives light up the path of British history and leave reputations that extend far beyond the shores of England. I was certainly glad to be privileged to see these historic places and that I so closely examined them. It was always England and Scotland that I wanted to see, and I became as proud as any Londoner of the city upon which we all look as the centre of our Empire.
Trafalgar Square and Charing Cross became as familiar to me as our own Cathedral Square in Christchurch. Walking past Parliament Buildings to Westminster Bridge, I turned to pass Scotland Yard, and along the Thames Embankment. The traffic on the Thames fascinated me; barges, barges, barges … tugs, tugs, tugs … all plying up and down stream. Surely this must be the world's busiest waterway for this class of traffic. On under the bridge that carried the trains into Charing Cross Station, I was in sight of Waterloo Bridge; passing this, I was next in sight of Blackfriars Bridge, which marks the end of the Embankment.
On this particular trip I was making for “The Monument,” from the top of which I had been told I would get a good view. I was certainly not disappointed. It was some climb, as the Americans would say, but worth it. Right below was London
I should, perhaps, finish with my visit to St. Paul's. I went by myself and was shown everything from the Crypt to the Whispering Gallery. St. Paul's leaves the same impression upon one as does Westminster Abbey—one of solemn grandeur, sacred and magnificent—and it will ever remain one of the Empire's most priceless treasures.
My next experience in England was to see the English Derby run. In Melbourne, in 1900, I had attended my first race meeting when I saw the famous Melbourne Cup run, the most important race in the Southern Hemisphere. An attendance of 80,000 people on the great Flemington Racecourse was an inspiring sight to me who came from a city with little more than that for its total population, but at Epsom this figure was to be far exceeded. Naturally I wanted to go, and with a friend who also wished to do it as cheaply as possible, joined a coach leaving close to Lambeth, on the south side of the Thames. I had seen the traffic on the road to Riccarton, in Christchurch, where the New Zealand Cup is run, had had my recent experience in getting to Flemington, but the journey to Epsom Downs surpassed all previous ideas of what a crowd could be. All transport was by buses, coaches, carriages and buggies, with many pearl-buttoned costers in donkey-drawn carts.
The traffic was repeatedly jammed, and this made for slow progress, but we had been warned of this, and started with plenty of time to spare. To see London lads moving among the traffic brought many hair-raising moments. These little chaps would do hand-springs and cart-wheels in the hope of getting pennies thrown them by passengers on the vehicles that moved at little more than walking pace. At any moment one of these youngsters might have been run over or kicked by a horse, but they were too agile. The fun and humour created by these Cockney boys is something to remember. It certainly can never be repeated in these days of motor-cars. The high spirits of
My friend and I were not making for the grandstands, but for the flat in the centre of the course. It was not the best place to get a view of the race, but we certainly obtained a close-up view of some sections of English life. It was more like a fair. All sorts of sideshows competed with the noise of the bookmakers, who called the odds incessantly. There were gipsy fortune-tellers, card-trick men, swings for the children, in fact everything that makes for a family holiday. It was only when the great race was about to be run that there was a cessation in this entertainment. A rush was then made to gain any vantage-point from which some part of the race could be seen. People climbed on the tops of the buses, coaches and other conveyances, and there were many parked out in the middle. The majority ran to the rails, getting just a glimpse of the horses as they flashed by. I did not have a good view, being in the second row on the rails, about half-way down the straight. After following the jockeys' colours down the back of the course and round the end, then losing them altogether as they turned into the straight at Tattenham Corner, I saw the flash-past I have referred to. A part I remember was the noise of the horses' hooves as they approached and galloped by: Rocksand won.
This was the first occasion on which I saw King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra. The King, in his frock-coat and bell-topper, appeared to be in a jovial mood? surrounded by his friends in the Royal Box. He was, of course, smoking his usual cigar, for which he was famous, as is Mr. Churchill to-day. In the early 'nineties, King Edward gave one of his cigars to a member of an Australian XI. This was too good to smoke, thought the Australian, and many years afterwards it was still held as a souvenir!
How the East-ender revelled in the fun of the fair was an eye-opener to me. I have never seen people so supremely happy. It was laughter all the time; there was a joke in everything. The Cockney slang was highly diverting, and it would be impossible
By this time I had begun to play some cricket, taking part in club matches, but continued to explore London, taking advantage of every opportunity. My elderly host had an intimate knowledge of old London, both East and West End, and used to tell me each evening what he thought would make a good trip for the following day. He had always been a traveller in the heart of the City, so was able to direct me to places off the beaten track of tourists. On Sundays he would come with me, and we had some happy jaunts together. The thrill of seeing the great places of the West was not more exciting than those of the East, when, with feelings of trepidation, I wended my way through Whitechapel, Houndsditch, Stepney, Shoreditch and Limehouse, and visited Paddy's Market. One time it was Mile End Road and Commercial Road; another, the London Docks and the waterfront on the Thames near by. It will thus be seen that my early sightseeing was not among the expensive restaurants and theatres of the great city, but I saw the London and her people depicted so wonderfully by the immortal Dickens. This experience brought back memories of our family circle round the fireside. My father was a great reader, with Dickens among his favourite authors. I can remember him saying, “Listen to this, mother,” and he would then read aloud some choice passages from Pickwick Papers, the greatest of all Dickens' works. Reading aloud was a feature of family life during last century.
I was also able to appreciate the noble work of Dr. Barnardo, who founded the Home that must rank as the greatest of all orphanages, and is subscribed to by all the peoples of the Empire. A thing that struck me was that in the midst of all this poverty and the poor dwellings the people seemed happy. One certainly saw wan faces and evidence of malnutrition, for these families all lived on the border of the bread-and-butter line. No open spaces were provided for the children, who played on the footpaths and streets. No wonder these little chaps could dodge the traffic and literally pick up pennies from among the horses' hoofs on the road to Epsom Downs on Derby Day.
The Cockney is a happy and humorous soul, and an integral part of old England. How important, and how brave, was amply demonstrated in the dreadful bombing that has so recently taken place over the very parts to which I have just referred. No other people in the world could have shown greater courage and fortitude in facing such desperate hazards than these brave men and women of the East End during the Battle of Britain.
I was later to see the London that most tourists see, but those first weeks in the great city remain with me as the most exciting and most illuminating of all my travels.
My first contact in London with first-class cricket was my meeting
Mr. Alcock proved to be all and more than Major Wardill and
Hargreaves, returning from New Zealand via Australia, came overland from Marseilles to be in time for the match, and on a wicket that was assisting the bowlers I saw him take nine wickets for 35 in Surrey's first innings. It made me feel that he was a class bowler in England.
Mr. Alcock, turning to his Surrey friends, said, “This is the young man who made two centuries against the English team in New Zealand.” It was a very kindly way of introducing me.
Imagine my surprise when, two days later, I received a letter from
Dr. Grace, in build and appearance, was very much like my own father, with the same hearty manner, and his reception of me was as warm and enthusiastic as could be imagined. He introduced me to Murdoch, Ranjitsinhji, MacLaren, Fry, Jessop, Beldham, Poidevin and others. Here was a galaxy of talent to be met at one time! The players waited, expecting
These great English cricketers all seemed just as friendly and chatty as the Australians I had been associated with in Melbourne. I had played against Poidevin in Christchurch when he came to New Zealand with the New South Wales team in 1896, and again in Sydney, in 1899, so it was a pleasant renewal of acquaintance with him. “W.G.” said, “Of course, you must play for London County,” and invited me to play in several matches ahead.
I had already played in a number of games for Tottenham, a team that was well known in London club cricket. Ralph Bullock, with whom I was staying, was a great supporter of the cricket club at South Tottenham. He must have told the club officials that I was staying in the district, for I was called upon, and asked to play in their next match on the following Saturday. I started off by making 4, and in my next game made a “blob.” I had the feeling that Bullock began to think that I was not as good as he had been led to believe. The next match was against Essex Club and Ground, who brought over a pretty good side, including several of the county XI. This time I scored 98, and as in the next match I made 102 against Cheshunt, in addition to taking a few wickets, my position was established. Later on I made 152 against Mitcham, the club of the famous Tom Richardson. The team included two sons of Bobbie Abel's, the well-known Surrey player. I thought one of these boys would go a long way in the game, but he never approached his father's class. In another match I took four wickets for 10 runs on a soft wicket, 30 began to be accepted as an all-rounder.
Tottenham had a very good First XI.
The return match against Cheshunt was to show me one of the most picturesque grounds it is possible to imagine. I had known our own Hagley Park in Christchurch, surrounded by beautiful trees, but Hagley is a large ground of about eighteen acres, and capable of providing space for six matches at one time. Here, however, was the regulation-size ground, bordered by glorious oaks, elms and chestnuts. These trees are all of a great age and, in their English setting, made beautiful surroundings for a cricket ground.
Our return match against Essex Club and Ground, at Leyton, was to bring me a unique experience. After I had had my innings, Mr. O. R. Borrodaile, the county secretary, asked me if I would mind having a knock at the nets. We went across to the practice ground, and who should be there but
So here was Shaw, All England player of the 'seventies, the great bowler of whom I had so often read. I have heard old Englishmen and old Australians, too, say that he was the most accurate length bowler the game has known, and this reputation is always likely to be associated with his name. As a young man, he used to practise in a barn all through the winter months, and around his name is built the story of his being able to hit a half-crown placed on the wicket at the spot of a perfect length ball. There must have been some great contests between Grace and Shaw in those days. The story is handed down that Shaw once said, “I puts 'em where I likes, and 'e puts 'em where 'e likes,” which rather suggests that Grace usually won. And this, too, was the Bobbie Peel I had endeavoured to emulate. Subtle change of pace and flight—sometimes going nearly over the crease, sometimes bowling almost an extra yard. They tell the story that he would at times go over the crease to distract the umpire's attention from the doubtful
The Tottenham ground, close to Seven Sisters Station, was actually in Middlesex County, but the sentiment of the players was always towards Essex, and the club remained a nursery for that county. There was a happy atmosphere about this club, and as is the case with many clubs in New Zealand, the players' women friends used to give afternoon tea; in this way one met many interesting people at the ground on Saturday afternoons. One day I was pleasantly surprised when introduced to Miss May Beatty, a Christchurch girl, who had made a name for herself in New Zealand as principal girl in the once-famous Pollard's Juvenile Opera Company.
My first match for London County was against St. Thomas's Hospital team, at Chiswick. Like the equally famous Guy's Hospital, this institution had both cricket and football teams. They had quite a good eleven, but Dr. Grace did not field his full strength, for having so many cricketers at his call, only too willing to make themselves available for the club matches that he organized between the county fixtures, he included in his team a number of lesser players. This match was almost a replica of my first game for Melbourne, against Fitzroy. The wicket was damaged by rain, and St. Thomas's had a good left-hand
My first big match for London County was against M.C.C. at Lord's, a week later. It was to prove, perhaps, the most remarkable match I have ever played in. Bad weather from the previous week continued, and on the first day of the match there was a drizzling rain, and no one thought of going to the ground. Tuesday was again wet, but on Wednesday there was brilliant sunshine. When my cab pulled up at the entrance gate at Lord's, who should arrive at the same time, from the opposite direction, but W. G. Grace. When he alighted from his hansom and saw me, he gave a hearty greeting and said, “Come along with me, Reese.” Perhaps he appreciated the feelings that a youngster from so far afield would experience on entering the famous ground for the first time. At any rate, we were soon through the gates, and there met Sir F. E. Lacey wearing his I Zingari blazer and flannels, for he had been having a knock at the nets, “Here, Lacey, meet young Reese from New Zealand.” After a pleasant welcome from the M.C.C. Secretary we moved on, but had not gone many yards before “W.G.” called out, “Here, Doyle, meet a young New Zealander!” It was none other than the famous Conan Doyle. In this way I was fairly carried into the precincts of the home of the M.C.C. Such kindliness, such warmth of welcome, soon allayed my timid feelings, and before I knew where I was, found myself in our dressing-room. More introductions followed, this time to those members of our own team whom I had not met before. I soon chummed up with Johnny Douglas, who was about my own age. R. M. Bell, from Melbourne—Dick Bell to his friends—had been resident in London for some years. C. Robson, the second wicket-keeper of MacLaren's team to Australia, was our stumper. Taken as a whole, it was a good side, but the M.C.C. team looked considerably stronger. Captain Wynyard, Burnup, back from New Zealand, J. T. Hearne of Test fame,
Grace won the toss and took Murdoch in with him. It was a thrill for me to see these old champions open the innings on this famous ground where they had so often met as opponents. Grace was fifty-four years of age, and Murdoch forty-eight, which confounds one when comparing their ages with those of the usual county players. There was no need for any softhearted or sentimental leanings towards these “old 'uns,” for on this sticky wicket they set about to play as though they were in their youth. Grace amazed me by the way in which he played Hearne. Llewelyn, a left-hander, was also difficult. On they went—20, 30, 40—taking advantage of every moment before the wicket cut up, as it was bound to do. Murdoch was out first for 20. I got a shock when I found the Dr. had put me in first wicket down, but making runs against the bowlers of St. Thomas's on a soft wicket was a bit different from making them against Hearne, Trott and Llewelyn, It had been my dream to see the famous “W.G.,” but to be at the wickets with him, at Lord's, was enough to upset the equilibrium of any young player. He went first for an excellent 25. The following over I jumped out to Llewelyn, missing the ball, and Huish had the bails off in a flash. This was the beginning of a procession, for our total was only 72, after a first wicket start of 40, Grace and Murdoch being the only double-figure scorers. Hearne and Llewelyn both bowled very well indeed.
Wynyard and Burnup batted as Grace and Murdoch had done, taking the score to about 50, when Burnup hit one hard and low towards me at long-on. It was almost identical with the hit of McAllister's off' Trumble, in Melbourne. Racing in, I caught the ball a few inches off the ground. Wynyard was next out. It was the first time I had seen Wynyard bat, and he certainly played well.
London County's second innings was a repetition of the first. Grace and Murdoch, with the wicket now cut up and more difficult than at the start, again batted like champions, taking the score to about 30. This brought Trott on for the first time in the match. Grace was the first to go this time, and again in first wicket down, I was thus at the wickets with the famous old Australian captain. It is a pleasant recollection that such an opportunity and privilege of batting at Lord's with these two great players should come my way. I was not, however, destined to stay long, for one of Trott's fast ones gave me a terrific crack on the inside of my left knee and, a few balls later, my leg stump was knocked back. I do not remember finding anyone so difficult as was the erstwhile Australian on that wicket. I had certainly seen two old champions in Grace and Murdoch, but I was also seeing a modern champion in
The Australians had opened their tour against Nottingham in cold weather, which the visitors felt very much:
M.C.C. all Out for 33! Five of the last six batsmen fail to score! Spofforth six wickets for 4 runs! Impossible! It couldn't be true! Then: Australia all out for 41 !
Whatever satisfaction the Englishmen felt over the dismissal of the Australians for a score that gave the visitors a first inning's lead of but 8 runs soon vanished when, in the M.C.C. second innings, four of the first five batsmen failed to score. The whole side was out for 19! This time it was Boyle who took the wickets, but throughout Spofforth remained the demoralizing
Ever since Grace had become the greatest star in the cricket world and a national figure as well, the Londoner has always, when he could, sneaked away from his office when the champion was batting at Lord's or the Oval. This day it was to see two great sides engaged in what proved to be an extraordinary and thrilling contest.
In later days this same hurried migration to the ground took place to witness Ranjitsinhji, to see Jessop, to be there when Trumper flashed his brilliant bat, or still more recently to watch the great Bradman run off his centuries. Both England and Australia have had many shocks since then, but no match did more to rock the foundations of England's cricket supremacy and disturb her complacency than did this one.
By comparison with such a clash of giants, our match against M.C.C. was a small affair. It was surely remarkable, however, and a commentary on the staying-powers of some players, that Grace and Murdoch, who both played in this match in 1878, should, twenty-five years later, still be predominant figures on the field in another “All-over-in-one-day” match on the same ground.
So far, much of the cricket I had played in England had been on rain-affected wickets, including my first two games for Tottenham. It was pleasing, however, that the sunshine of this day at Lord's proved to be the forerunner of beautiful weather.
As London County had no more first-class matches for a fortnight, I had some enjoyable games with Tottenham. Immediately after the matches against Essex Club and Ground, and Cheshunt, to which I have referred earlier, I joined Dr. Grace's team to play against the County XI of Leicestershire at Leicester. The fun on the field of the London County matches was equalled by the fun of touring with the team. Old “W.G.” and old
I had been fortunate in associating with many great Australian players, but this association with Grace and Murdoch was a rare privilege. Their views on the game, and the recounting of sidelights on old historic battles on the field, covering so
The match against Leicester began on Whit-Monday, one of England's most popular holidays. We were amazed at the crowd, for 10,000 people assembled, mostly, no doubt, to see the famous “W.G.” He was still a tremendous draw, and immensely popular wherever he went.
What a thrill we in New Zealand would get to see a man over six feet tall and weighing about nineteen stone, with a bushy beard gone grey, walk on to the field! His name had been handed down from generation to generation of cricketers, and small boys were just as enthusiastic about the old-time champion as they are about Bradman to-day. But the present-day champion cannot sport a beard or attract attention off the field as Grace always did with his commanding presence. The Leicester ground is typical of the county grounds of England. Perhaps it is a little smaller than most of them, and the embankment is not wide enough to hold large crowds. The attendance on this occasion taxed the accommodation to the limit, and in the afternoon people were sitting on the grass inside the fence around a portion of the ground.
Leicestershire won the toss and opened in fine style, the batsmen, one after another, taking toll of our bowling. The best innings was by A. E. Knight, a Test Match player, who just missed the century. He was among the best of the professional batsmen in those days. The brightest batting was by V. F. S. Crawford, an ex-Surrey player, who was now Secretary of the Leicestershire County Club. Twice he hit Grace clean over the pavilion with straight drives. He made graceful, sweeping hits, more like golf strokes, with a full follow-through. The “Old Man” would not give up, and kept believing he could trap Crawford, which he did at the finish, but took a “father of a hiding” in the process of getting his wicket. Grace finished with one for 112, which will show how over-persistent he was. Kermode, from Sydney, New South Wales, who was qualifying to play for Lancashire, was our best bowler. Medium-fast right-hand, with a ball that came from leg, he was often
When our innings opened we soon learnt that in Gill and Woodcock Leicester had two bowlers of pace. Cricketers would call them “pretty fast,” and as they made the ball lift from the pitch, our batsmen found them difficult to play. “W.G.” had changed the batting order on account of having to play out time overnight. Wickets fell quickly. The “Old Man” went in fourth wicket, Murdoch fifth. Three for 30 became four for 40 when Murdoch joined his captain, but Grace did not make many. The score was six for 70 when I joined Murdoch. We both stood up to the fast howling better than the earlier batsmen, and were soon forcing the pace. Runs come quickly off fast bowling if one is not tied down to behind-the-wicket shots. At any rate, on we went, appearing to gather speed as the score mounted. Soon 100 was up, then 120, 140 and eventually past 160. We had added nearly 100 runs in an hour and a quarter, when Murdoch was bowled for 57. It was not hard to visualize his greatness in earlier years. Shortly afterwards, Odell, who was a good medium-pace bowler and played for the Gentlemen against the Players that season, clean bowled me with a ball that beat me all the way. My score was 45. This partnership with Murdoch was one of the breeziest I ever took part in; he, at his age, preferred hitting fours to running threes. As the last two batsmen failed to score, our forcing tactics would seem to have been justified. Our total was only 178.
The Leicester captain preferred to bat again rather than make us follow on. C. J. Posthuma, a Dutchman, whose opportunities of cricket in Holland were not great, was a medium-pace left hander, with a wrist-action break similar to a righthander's leg-break. Getting a big break from the off, he puzzled the county batsmen. This was the very ball that Sammy Jones, some years earlier, had advised me not to bowl, Posthuma,
London County was not equal to the task set them, for Leicester's big first innings' score left us over 300 to get. We got only 160. There were four noughts on the side, of which I got one, caught behind the wicket. As Grace scored only i, it will be seen that half the side played practically no part in the small total. Murdoch was again top scorer with 31. I was deeply impressed with his batting, and drawn to him in a personal way by his friendliness, kindness and sense of humour. We were glad to finish this match early for, being due to begin a match against Gloucestershire, at Crystal Palace, on the following day, we caught an afternoon train to London.
The Crystal Palace ground, set in beautiful surroundings within the great park in which stood the marvellous glass structure that gave it its name, was not equalled in picturesqueness by any other ground in England where first-class matches were played. It was really a park within a park.
In the year 1899 Dr. W. G. Grace left the Gloucestershire County, the home of his birth, to become Secretary of the London County Club, formed by the Palace authorities in the belief that first-class cricket would add to the attractions of the great institution that they managed. What better man could be found than “W.G.” to organize and manage these matches! All the great players just loved the “Grand Old Man,” and in the times between their ordinary county matches were often available. It was his good fortune to be able to present Ranjitsinhji one day, MacLaren on another, and Fry, Jessop and other great amateurs, besides Tom Richardson, Brockwell, Braund and other leading professionals.
Great enthusiasm was shown at the start of London County's career, but the distance from the centre of London prevented anyone from going to the ground for an hour or two, as is always possible in the case of Lord's and the Oval. They could see “Ranji” when he came to these grounds and, in the main, that is what they did. Though the venture was a financial failure, there can be no doubt that it was a great cricketing
The match against Gloucestershire was remarkable in several ways. First, T. H. Fowler and Wrathall scored over 250 for the first wicket; it was “W.G.” who finally dissolved the partnership, getting Fowler stumped. After that it was Grace's match, for he bowled like the shrewd “old head” that he was, and had all the batsmen scratching. When Jessop came in we had visions of Crawford's slashing innings at Leicester, and imagined the “Old Man” was in for another hiding. The famous Jessop first hit him for a 4 and then, after a couple of singles, faced “W.G's” slows again. “Dolly drops” we used to call them, and the mighty smiter, starting out to put him over the fence, changed his mind and, playing forward over-carefully, spooned one tamely back. Seizing it with great glee, “W.G.” turned to Murdoch and said, “What do you think of that, ‘Mother’?” Jessop stood for a moment and then walked away with a broad grin on his face. On and on went Grace, finishing with six for 102. He was not a whit less bashful than
Members of the earliest Australian teams told me that Grace, in his prime, was a really good medium-paced bowler. They said no one was quicker in spotting a batsman's weakness and bowling for it. Woe betide the player who showed signs of flinching or drawing away! “W.G.” would then go on to bowl, pegging away at the leg stump as though there were but a single wicket to aim at. His persistence was disconcerting to a batsman, who might have a range of strokes on the off only to find himself unable to bring them into play because of the accuracy and direction of this attack.
Now I was to see the champion as a slow leg-break bowler, but with that lowered-arm delivery that comes to most bowlers in the veteran stages of their careers. Although his control of length was still remarkable, the nip off the pitch had gone, and he relied mainly on flight and subtle ways in his efforts to deceive the batsman. One of my earliest coaches used to say, “Diddle 'em out—that's what Grace did.” Gloucestershire's innings ended with a total of 397.
Grace's bowling was not the end of his proof of greatness. With half an hour to time, I was again lifted to first wicket position in the batting list, but had not been in long when, jumping in to hit Spry, their slow bowler, I was stumped—well out of my crease. When I got back to the dressing-room old
I have referred to MacLaren's being considered a majestic figure on the cricket fields of Australia, but the stature of Grace, plus the beard, which at this time was worn by no other player, surely made “W.G.” look the most masterful and impressive figure in the game. A Bateman cartoon, “How the bowler felt when he bowled to Grace,” would have made a choice addition to the picture galleries of the pavilion. So this was Grace—the giant of the game, about whom I had read in my youth: six wickets for 102, and a century and a half from his own bat. Is it any wonder I was profoundly impressed, and carry to this day memories of this marvellous cricketer? Our total reached 311, so it will be seen the old champion scored half the runs.
Gloucester collapsed in their second innings and were all out for 61, Hesketh Pritchard and Kermode proving too good for them. The former, with his high delivery and nip off the pitch, was a very good bowler who played for the Gentlemen against the Players in the Lord's match that season. Jessop injured his back and could not bat in the second innings: they certainly needed him. Left with 115 runs to get, London County won by seven wickets. I scored 27 in our second innings. It was a good win considering we faced a first-innings total of close on 400.
On the Saturday evening of this match I stayed behind with Johnnie Douglas and his father to see a great fireworks display. We walked up to the Palace, situated in a commanding position overlooking the grounds, and witnessed a marvellous exhibition of fireworks. In New Zealand we are used to Chinese crackers, Catherine-wheels and rockets, but in England it was Pain's fireworks—always Pain's—and this famous firm certainly did justice to its reputation, giving a display the like of which I had not seen before.
London County did not have another first-class fixture for
There is no need to go over the details of this match. One memory I have of Grace is seeing this huge man carrying his cricket bag like the rest of us, as we went to catch the train, but in his case it looked like a little handbag as he strode along the platform. In county matches the baggage was always cared for by an attendant, but in club games we sometimes had to fend for ourselves.
It was now becoming clear to me that I could not continue indefinitely leading the life of a gentleman. To play as an amateur in first-class cricket in England one needs a private income. The call to the pleasures and pastimes of life is often seductive and insistent, and the urge to a career but faintly heard. Money is a loud speaker always, and as my bank account became smaller and smaller I had to face up to the fact that I must leave something in the kitty in case of a rainy day. It was at this time that the Essex Committee, aware that I was shortly due to go to one of the engineering works in Scotland, made a move to see whether I would qualify by residence for the East Anglia county.
I was asked to call and see Mr. Charles E. Green, who was President of the Essex County Club; still more important was the fact that he was senior partner in the great firm of Green & Green, associated with the Orient Company. His family had large engineering works at Millwall, in Essex, and it was hoped that he would be able to arrange for my employment with them. I had met Mr. Green at the county ground at Leyton, but on meeting him in his own palatial office in the heart of London I
He then put on his hat and we walked along to the Fenchurch Street Station and took the train to Millwall. This tall, handsome man, with steel-grey hair, dressed in morning coat and top hat, made me feel I was in important company. On arrival at the works, we met his nephew, who was manager, and Mr. Green explained to him the object of his visit: would they employ me for six or seven months in the year, and then allow me off to play for Essex in the summer months? I should have done my thinking before going so far. When my elderly patron had just about completed the arrangement, I said to him, “I'm a little afraid of this, Mr. Green, for it is not what I came to England for, and I can't see any future in it.”
With a quick glance, and looking me straight in the face— no doubt to make sure that I meant it—he said, “You're right, Reese, and see that you stick to that viewpoint. Come, let's get back to the City.”
On the return journey he spoke to me more as a father would to his son, and his words were a comfort to me. He seemed more pleased than if he had made the arrangements that would have ensured my playing for Essex.
Dr. Grace had invited me to go to Bristol and to Manchester, and during the Gloucestershire match Jessop had asked me to join the team he was taking to Scotland to play matches in Glasgow and Edinburgh a few weeks later. Although I have always been glad of my resolve at that critical point of my career, there is no doubt that it was something of a temptation to accept these invitations. However, once my decision was made I did not look back with any regrets.
I was now preparing to go north, for the letters of introduction I had from the Howard Smiths of Australia would be almost certain to get me placed with one of the shipbuilding firms that had built steamers for my late Melbourne employers. One evening, at Tottenham, when discussing my plans, old Mr. Bullock turned to me and said, “Have you ever thought of going to sea?” and he then gave it as his opinion that this represented a short cut to the top in the mechanical side of engineering.
The following evening, when Ralph Bullock returned from London, he said to me at dinner, “How would you like to go to the Far East? I heard of a steamer due to sail in a few days that requires a junior engineer, and I think I can get you the job.” The Far East! The Orient! What an opportunity of seeing the world! The suddenness of such a prospect rather hurried my thoughts, and I promised him I would go up to London with him in the morning and inquire about the position. Bullock took me round to the office of the Superintendent Engineers of the company, and before I left them was taken on as Fourth Engineer of the S.S. Claverhill, due to sail from Cardiff at the end of the week. This was quick work and represented a definite milestone in my career.
When I told Dr. Grace he seemed surprised, even disappointed, and said, “Why, Reese, I thought that I was going to have you for the whole season.” I wonder if he, too, thought that I was a gentleman of means? This brings me to the end of the first phase of my experience in English first-class cricket.
Had I wanted to play a greater part in English cricket I should have gone on then. I should certainly have liked to play in more matches for London County. After my fielding at Lord's, old “W.G.” made me feel he would want me all the time, whether I made runs or not. He apparently remained in ignorance of the fact that I could also bowl a little. Without my ever having a practice at the nets with him, Grace had no opportunity of seeing me bowl. It was on that glue-pot wicket at Lord's, made for a left-hander, that I might have been tried. I could not, of course, say what
I Cannot pass from London County cricket, which was one of the brightest parts of my cricketing career, without giving my impressions of the great and only “W.G.”
His name has been sung through the years since cricket first won pride of place in the games of England and spread to all parts of the Empire. It is not possible to measure the part that cricket has played, or the influences it has had, on inter-Imperial relations. The great Test Match contests and the friendships made have certainly brought closer the players and the peoples of all the cricketing countries.
One great player stands out above all others in the history of the game and ranks not only as the greatest player, but the greatest personality cricket has known. What was it that made cricketers of the different generations of his time become so attached and devoted to this famous man—Dr. W. G. Grace? His character, his charm of manner, and his ways, which were often as playful as a schoolboy's, won for him a unique position. He was generous in his praise of good play, but could also change in a flash to a harsh exclamation if a fieldsman fumbled when a run-out was possible, or when a catch was missed that meant much to his side.
In the Gloucestershire match I was to witness a humorous piece of side-play that will illustrate this trait of his character. T. H. Fowler and Wrathall, in their great first-wicket partnership, were giving us a pretty rough time. Presently, one of them spooned a ball to cover-point. Who should be there but Murdoch and, to the consternation of all, he “put it on the carpet.” What would the “Old Man” say? He could say with a look what other men would have to call out aloud. But old Billy knew what this silence meant, and he wasn't taking any frowning look from his captain. He threw the ball back to the bowler, but wouldn't look at “W.G.” Another ball was bowled and it was the end of the over. Murdoch, with a face as expressionless as a sphinx, walked across, and the field was set for the next bowler when the culprit looked
At one stage of his career, Grace was as well known to the people of England as was their Prime Minister—to many, even better. Men in the highest positions in the land valued his friendship because, added to his greatness as a cricketer, there was a fineness of character and a warmth of companionship that made him an outstanding personality and a very desirable friend.
Except for the definite breaks made by two world wars, there has been little variation in the general standard of play from one generation of cricketers to another; on this subject opinions often differ, for the present-day critic is not always in a position to judge past performances in the light of conditions prevailing at that time. When Grace began his cricket career, wickets varied according to the nature of the turf of each playing field, but before his retirement, Nottingham marl, and other binding soils, had become the special top-dressing used on all English wickets, and changed the fortunes of both the batsman and the bowler. In both these periods “W.G.” remained the outstanding figure in the game and raised the standard of play until, in the early 'eighties, the game had been lifted to a level that is still regarded as being comparable with the best periods of later years. About 1885 cricket actually fell away, at any rate so far as Australia was concerned, to come back again in the middle 'nineties, stronger than it had ever been. Yet in 1896 Grace was still great, and was still England's captain. Just as twenty years earlier he had played Spofforth's fastest deliveries, so he stood up to Jones's tremendous pace and, although approaching fifty, was able to demonstrate that as the standard-bearer of other times, he could hold his own in modern cricket.
The very great players will always be able to carry on into the cricket of the next generation. One can imagine that Bradman, ten years hence, will be able to walk to the wickets and trounce bowlers who are at primary school to-day. This only goes to show that Grace did carry over the standard of play of a period which the present-day cricketers do not always appreciate or know of, to a period in the 'nineties that even
In 1906, when Grace was fifty-seven years of age, he captained the Gentlemen against the Players, scoring 74. When he was returning to the pavilion, everyone rose and cheered, for they marvelled at a performance so remarkable, considering he was facing some of the best professional bowling in England. He was naturally not active enough between wickets to notch the full value of the runs his batting entitled him to, or he would have probably reached his century.
Another great innings was by Murdoch. Called in as a substitute for Warner, who became ill on the first day of the Gentlemen-Players Match in 1905, he scored 140 against
Nearly twenty years after I played with Grace and Murdoch, I saw MacLaren, when fifty years of age, play a magnificent innings of 200 against New Zealand, at Wellington.
The mammoth scores made by Bradman, to-day's greatest batsman, have been so marvellous, and have so overshadowed everything else in modern cricket, that the impression created has been that never before have such scores been made. But let us take a telescopic view of the past and examine some of the purple patches of many years ago, when Grace towered above all others, as Bradman does to-day. Conditions then were less favourable to the batsman than they are in these days of the doctored and covered wicket, yet, even in the totals made, many of Grace's scores stand out so boldly as to defy being overshadowed by any comparison. One sequence of scores will suffice: in 1876, when Grace was twenty-eight years of age, he played for M.C.C. against Kent, and scored 344. He left immediately for Bristol to play two home matches for Gloucestershire against Notts. and Yorkshire. As the men of Nottingham were leaving by train after their match, the Yorkshire team arrived at the station. Tom Emmett, the famous Yorkshire bowler, ran across the platform and called out, “How many did the ‘Old Man’ make?”
“177,” came the quick reply.
“Hurrah!” called back Emmett. “He can't do it three times running.” He was reckoning without the Master who, on winning the toss, went in to repeat his performance against Kent, this time going right through the innings to finish with 318 not out. 839 runs in eight days. Is there need to say more?
It was at the end of the first day's play in this Yorkshire match that Tom Emmett, a great humorist, said, “Damn it all! It's Grace before meat, Grace after meat, and Grace all day. I suppose we'll have Grace again to-morrow!”
I cannot finish these comments without some reference to the delightful friendship that existed between this great Englishman and Murdoch, the former Australian captain. In his younger days Grace had the reputation of being a domineering man, but it must be remembered that Murdoch and other members of early Australian teams were equally unyielding when differences of opinion cropped up, as they did, in the first years of Test Matches. This makes the warm friendship of these two old captains and veterans of many battles on the cricket field all the more remarkable. When Grace won the toss for London County, Murdoch always put on the pads. The “Old Man” would say, “What have you got the pads on for?”
“I'm going in to bat,” would come the reply. It did not matter whether it was a county match or a club match—it was always the same.
In club matches, going in first meant more than in county games, as the following story will show.
Being a little nervous, Lusk replied, “If you don't mind, sir, I would rather not go in first.”
The “Old Man” just chuckled and said, “Oh, all right,” and put him in about sixth wicket.
When Grace walked away, old
Cricketers who afterwards took to golf will appreciate this story. Grace did not begin to play the ancient game until middle-aged and, like all golfers, was very keen in the early stages. In a cricket match at Crystal Palace, play was adjourned on account of a drizzling rain, so the “Old Man” put on an extra sweater and, taking a mashie-niblick and a dozen golf balls, went on to the field and from a distance of about sixty or seventy yards began to play mashie shots to the players grouped in front of the pavilion. The short game was the best part of Grace's golf, and he made a very good job of landing them on to the “middle of the green,” where many of them were caught and thrown back. Can anyone imagine a more ludicrous yet exhilarating exhibition of exuberance of spirit!
Someone said to Grace, “Don't you find golf interferes with your cricket?”—for the straight arm of golf and left elbow up of cricket are very different actions.
“W.G.” replied, “I find cricket interferes with my golf!”
Grace and Murdoch, at the end of their playing days, played golf in the same spirit as they played cricket. One day, when out on the links playing a four ball, all had played for the green, “W.G.” getting on and Murdoch landing into a deep bunker, made more difficult on account of a high mound on the edge—a customary hazard in those days. Getting down into the bunker and departing from all the rules of the game, Murdoch, picking up his ball with a handful of sand, threw it over the mound, the ball going close to the flag. The “Old Man” was caught napping, but discrediting Murdoch's ability to make such a shot, looked first at the other two players and then kept his eye on Murdoch as he trotted across the green with a delighted but innocent look. As at Crystal Palace, on the occasion of the dropped catch, their eyes met—more laughter.
Stories of Grace are legion and have been re-told many times, but I will risk one more that I think has never appeared in print. It wants
It may seem difficult to reconcile such playfulness with the character of one wielding such authority on the cricket field, but let no one doubt his seriousness and resolution when the occasion demanded! Even in his way of calling the ground professional at Crystal Palace there was a note of command; he would come out of his office on to the balcony, loudly blow a whistle and soon Murch would come hurrying towards the pavilion.
And so I leave this great man. My last impression of him as a first-class cricketer was of his retiring to the pavilion after scoring a century and a half against Gloucestershire. Perhaps a better picture of his final exit from the game is to be found in the photo of him, taken ten years later, when he is seen striding to the wickets in a village cricket match. No other picture that I know of shows up better than this, his magnificent physique and commanding presence.
Truly I can end with an oft-repeated phrase—“The Immortal Grace!”
Now came the time to say good-bye to London. My trunk did not take long to pack, and I was ready to proceed to Cardiff to join the Claverhill. Sailors will know that when a man goes to sea he takes the minimum amount of clothing. When he leaves his ship he has accumulated so much that he wonders whether it is all worth taking home. “Join a ship with a handbag, and leave it with a sea-bag,” is a saying at sea. Men, at any rate, are not much good at any time, but when at sea, especially visiting foreign ports, they have this and that palmed off on to them to a degree that is sometimes incredible.
I arrived at the Welsh capital in the late afternoon and, searching for my ship, my spirits went up and down as first I approached an attractive-looking vessel, then came to a real old tub. Which would it be? At last, after about half a dozen, my porter called, “There she is!” Yes, there was the Claverhill. My spirits went down to zero. Travelling as a passenger on steamers trading between Australia and New Zealand, the trip on the Peregrine to Queensland, and the voyage home on the Rimutaka had made me acquainted with modern passenger liners. Here was the good old British tramp. I steeled myself as I climbed the gangway, for I had the feeling that her accommodation would be in keeping with her outward appearance; I was not mistaken. She was just like thousands of others that sail the seas of the world, winning and holding trade that has made Britain the world's greatest maritime nation. I was later to learn, not without pride, the respect that is shown to the Union Jack in far-distant lands—even if flown from the masthead of a plain-looking and plainly-furnished cargo steamer.
The first man I met on board was the Chief Engineer, who was walking the deck awaiting my arrival, the owners having wired him the train by which I was to arrive. I received a pleasant reception from this sturdy Scot from Ardrossan. William McGill was his name, and of all the men I was at sea with, there was not one I came to hold in higher esteem.
This was a lovely summer's evening and after dinner I went for a walk ashore with one of my new shipmates. I got a great thrill when we came across the famous Cutty Sark. She had come down in the world since her racing days, and was now owned by a Portuguese company and traded on the short run across the Bay of Biscay. It was rather pathetic to see this once world-renowned ship, bereft of her smart appearance of the good old days, and ranking as just a common cargo carrier. Oh for the days of tea and wool cargoes which left her so much more buoyant and able to make a fool of steamers when she was favoured with a fair wind! A little farther along the wharf we saw women stevedores loading a cargo of produce into a small coastal boat. I could hardly believe my eyes. The following day the watches were set, and this enabled me to go ashore for a few hours, for we were sailing that night, and it would be my only chance of seeing Cardiff.
At 9 p.m. we moved out into the Bristol Channel and were soon under way. The Fourth Engineer always takes the Chief's watch, which is from 8 to 12. As it was my first time in sole charge, the Chief stayed down with me for most of the time. One did not have long to wait to feel her lifting to the swell of the Atlantic, which was enough to test my sea-legs, and I just escaped the seasickness stage. It took us two days to cross the Bay of Biscay. Our first glimpse of Spain was Cape Finisterre and we were soon appreciating a warmer atmosphere and calmer seas. In two days' time we rounded Cape St. Vincent and headed for the Straits of Gibraltar.
I was keenly interested in being shown the scene of the Battle of Trafalgar. Mr. McGill, our Chief, loved hearing the story my father had told us at the fireside when I was a small boy. It was of a Scot who was in one of those slogging matches, with British and French ships close together, firing at point-blank range. With rifle in hand, crouching behind what turned out to be a barrel of salted butter, he was picking off his victims on the French frigate. Suddenly, one of the old-fashioned cannon balls fired from the French ship struck the barrel, covering the man from the Clyde with its contents. Immediately he was heard calling excitedly, “Fecht on boys! Fecht on, for it's naethin' but bootter they're firin'!”
Another day's run brought us abreast of Gibraltar—the Rock of Gibraltar—one of the outstanding places on the map,
The Mediterranean lived up to its reputation as the bluest and calmest of all the seas. Not that it cannot be rough, but the smallness of the rise and fall of the tides, the limited depth and the locked-in nature of the sea, make it practically a huge lake. We had now been more than a week at sea, and long enough for me to gain a knowledge of the ship and the crew that manned her. The Claverhill, rated a good ship in her class of those days, was owned by the Hazelhurst Company of London, and one of a fleet of about six vessels, known as the Claver Line, all trading to the East. We were loaded with briquettes made from the slack of Welsh coal. It did not seem a very profitable cargo to carry so far, but tramp steamers do not get much of a look-in with the freighting of merchandise, which is so much better catered for by the regular services of the great P. & O., Orient and B.I. Companies. It is on the homeward journeys that the outsiders get a share of the seasonal cargoes that are always in excess of the carrying capacity of the liner companies' ships.
The old Claverhill, with engines that turned about eighty revolutions a minute, was typical of the ships designed to run at a minimum cost, with regard to coal consumption, and with the smallest number for a crew. I was impressed by the cosmopolitan nature of ours; Captain Urquart was from Glasgow, the First Mate from Liverpool, the Second from London, while the Chief Engineer was a Scot, the Second a Geordie from South Shields, the Third a real Cockney, and the Fourth a New Zealander; the Steward was a German, and our Cook hailed from Liverpool. Here were representatives from many
We soon settled down to the prosaic life experienced on a tramp steamer when at sea. One quickly gets to know a man's character when one lives with him, and we moved east with every confidence in a happy voyage. The warmth of the midsummer sun, and the calmness of the sea, made life pleasant indeed, although I had already found out the difference between a liner and a tramp steamer. On the former, the engineers have greasers on watch with them. The Americans call them oilers, which is a more appropriate name, for their duty is to oil the engines every hour and keep feeling by hand this and that bearing to make sure it is not getting hot. On a tramp steamer, the engineer on watch has to do all this himself and has also to look after the firemen in the stokehold. It was no white-collar job, this, and at the end of the watch the “Englishman's tub” in the engine-room could be compared with the shower bath at Melbourne, which, after hard cricket practice at the nets, was, perhaps, the most enjoyable part.
The people of England and New Zealand speak of distances in hundreds of miles, but when it comes to traversing oceans or sailing alongside a continent it is a case of thousands. From Gibraltar to Suez is two thousand miles, and the run along the north coast of Africa reminded me of the trip up the coast of Australia on the Peregrine, just a year before. The only difference was that this time there were no ports of call. We had steamed nearly a thousand miles before temporarily losing sight of the African coast on the starboard bow, only to pick up Sicily on the port side and were next passing Malta. So this was Malta! Another of the places that demonstrate the foresight of our ancestors. It does not impress one as does the giant rocky face of Gibraltar, but nevertheless wins a proud place in the hearts of all Britishers. It is almost as vital as the Rock, and stands as a lonely sentinel in the middle of this great calm sea.
In those days there were no refrigerators on ships of the type of the Claverhill. Having long since finished off the stocks of fresh meat, green vegetables, milk, etc., we were down to far less palatable food; meat out of the brine tub, tinned milk, a few vegetables that would keep well and dried fruits, with plenty of rice for puddings. Generally speaking, we were back to the standard of a second-rate boarding house. At first my appetite rebelled, and I began to eat very little, but soon became so hungry that it mattered little whether it was brined or pickled meat, rice or dried fruits. It is amazing what one can get used to.
The weather became warmer as we approached the eastern end of the Mediterranean, and naturally the men below began to feel the heat before anyone else. I was all agog to see our approach to Port Said and, rising in the early morning, came on deck to see a light ahead. Soon we were abreast of the lighthouse on the headland at the Damietta mouth, one of the many outlets that carry the waters of the Nile to the Mediter-ranean. Another light hove in sight; it was the entrance to Port Said. Dawn came and the sun was up by the time we entered this busy port.
Of the first things that catch the eye one of the first is the splendid statue of De Lesseps, the great French engineer who built the Canal, and in doing so became world famous. Port Said, the greatest of all coaling stations, needs little description.
Claverhill. Soon the gangways were fixed from these lighters to our deck, and streams of natives began carrying up the baskets of coal, dumping the contents into the bunkers. At this time it was and, I suppose, still is the most efficient bunkering system in the world. It is a human chain that moves up as the natives trot to empty their baskets and return to the coal barges. Black faces and black bodies soon became blacker and shinier as the coal-dust adhered to their sweating skins. They chatted and chanted as they worked, until the whole ship was buzzing like a bee-hive.
But the “coalies” were not the only natives who climbed to our deck, for, as soon as the ship was passed by the Port doctor, there arrived numbers of pedlars, selling all sorts of articles, such as cigarettes, scent, lace, etc. Sometimes an Arab of doubtful-looking character would exhibit postcards, at first showing beautiful illustrations of Cairo and all its ancient surroundings, then, if he thought it was safe, would produce some of the most obscene pictures one could possibly imagine. With no passengers on our ship, we did not prove a good investment for these sellers of wares who seemed to love being called by nicknames. There was a Jock, a Sandy, a Mac, and Paddy, and so on. The first-named seemed to be the chief of the tribe; he wore a bit of tartan in an effort to live up to his name, and could talk and laugh in a way that made him a real entertainer. He had numerous articles made mainly of wood, which he insisted were made from a piece of the “True Cross.” This greatly amused us. After doing their rounds, this motley crew went down the gangway, boarded their bum-boat, and pulled away to another ship to repeat the performance.
We finished bunkering in the late afternoon, and our ship was covered in coal-dust, far worse than the Rimutaka had been at Montevideo a few months earlier, but she was soon hosed down. I was surprised to see searchlights being installed on our bow. It was explained that the traffic in the canal is unceasing, and at night the ships steam along with headlights focusing ahead. Our speed was necessarily slow to avoid a sidewash that would damage the walls of this wonderful
Had I been possessed of more Biblical knowledge I should have been able to piece together some of the stories of the Scriptures. Despite my early training, the one about Moses leading the Tribes of Israel out of Egypt was the only one I could remember, and was soon to be reminded of this epoch-making event. It was not long before we were steaming full speed across the Great Bitter Lakes. Another short length of canal and we emerged into the head of the Gulf of Suez, with Suez itself on the starboard side. The distance through the canal is ninety-eight miles, and it had taken us a whole day. We did not take long to drop the pilot and were soon speeding—if you could call eight knots speeding—for the Red Sea proper. As we steamed along, our incorrigible Third said, “That's where they rowed across.” He obviously did not believe the story of the miracle that resulted in the parting of the waters. Our religious Second quickly corrected him, and pointed out that originally the Red Sea extended beyond the Bitter Lakes, and that the crossing took place somewhere about Ismailia. Producing his Bible, with a map showing the route of the trek from out of the Valley of the Nile, he explained how the fleeing Israelites turned south to assemble at Mt. Sinai and from there marched round the northern end of the Gulf of Akaba into Arabia. I did not expect to find such Biblical knowledge in the engine-room of a tramp steamer.
By this time I knew intimately my fellow officers. The mess-room talk was often exhilarating and instructive, as may be gathered from this story of Moses. There were stories, of course, some clever and subtle, with the Third's always risqué.
We were now finding it increasingly trying as we steamed south, each day getting hotter. I had felt the heat of Melbourne on those excessively hot days when the north wind from off the continent proved so oppressive. Sydney, while not registering such a high temperature, was even harder to bear, but the Red Sea, either on deck or in one's cabin, let alone down in the engine-room, was something hotter than I had ever experienced. Fortunately, the sea was as calm as a millpond, so that as evening came round conditions were more pleasant. It took us more than a week to pass through the Red Sea, for it is 1,400 miles from Suez to Aden, and our firemen found the temperature in the stokehold so overbearing that there was often not a full head of steam. We were all looking forward to getting into the Indian Ocean, for the Red Sea narrowed again as we approached and passed Perim, where it was hotter than ever. Steaming into the Gulf of Aden, we at once got relief, but it was not the relief for which we had been looking. We were rid of the heat, but the glass had fallen and the weather looked ominous. The Chief said that it was lower than he had seen it for a long time. “Monsoon!” said the Captain.
When abreast of the Island of Socotra, all on board knew
Fifteen hundred miles of this, from Socotra to Colombo, were not pleasant to anticipate. I hung on like grim death as I gripped the polished hand-rails and climbed round those engines on my watch. I sometimes had to pinch myself to make quite sure I was the same young man who had so recently played at Lord's with W. G. Grace. I wonder what the “Old Man” would have said could he have seen me. Had Murdoch been with him, they would just have looked at one another and roared with laughter. But I was not laughing, for I had to keep my watch, seasick or not. I was missing half my meals; even those our Steward brought to my cabin I could not always eat. My loss of weight in the heat of the Red Sea and of appetite in the Indian Ocean was making me feel miserable. My weight was always a little under twelve stone, but by now I must have been well under eleven.
I have already referred to a “father of a hiding”—well, we got one this time. Instead of reaching Colombo in a little under a week from the Gulf of Aden, we took a fortnight! I don't wish to experience a monsoon again. The sea gradually subsided during the last two days and, as we passed well to the south of the most southerly point of India, was fairly moderate. Long before we came in sight of land we saw catamarans, those quaint Indian craft that have the equivalent of a canoe as an out-rigger braced to one side. When the outrigger is on the weather side, a man goes out and sits there to prevent the craft heeling over, and with a stronger wind another man joins him. This is the origin of the Indians' saying of a “one-man breeze” or a “two-man breeze.” These
As we approached the entrance to Colombo harbour, we could see the heavy swell dashing against the breakwater, throwing up tremendous clouds of spray. We did not stay long at this, the principal port of Ceylon, and passing round Point Galle were soon out into the Sea of Bengal. By the following morning we were bowling along over the calmest of seas. Looking at the map, one would imagine that it is just a short hop from Colombo to Sumatra, yet the distance is a thousand miles. In this hot, calm weather we envied the deck officers in their white duck uniforms while we were sweltering below. As we approached Sumatra at sunset, there was a thick haze over the sea. It was not sufficient to slow us down, as does a fog, but was nevertheless not very helpful for picking up land. At about eleven o'clock that night I received one of the shocks of my life when the telegraph rang violently “Full Speed Astern.” It is always the Second's duty to take a steamer in and out of port. Usually, the junior engineer stands by the telegraph and answers back the rings that come from the bridge. At both Cardiff and Port Said I had been given some practice in reversing the engines from “Slow Ahead” to “Slow Astern” as we were warming the cylinders preparatory to sailing, so despite the suddenness of this ring and my lack of experience I remembered to open the drain cocks of the little reversing engine, and had the main engines running on the astern motion when Mr. McGill, hurrying down in his pyjamas, called out, “We've run ashore!” Until the Second arrived the Chief took the reversing engine and I stood by the telegraph. Next it rang “Stop,” then “Slow Astern,” “Half Astern” and “Full Astern” in quick succession, then “Stop” again, and there were no further rings for some time. At last the Chief went up and conferred with the Captain. The Second then went through the same performance, but even at “Full Astern” she would not budge. Luckily we had run on to a soft, muddy shore at the northernmost point of Sumatra; we were equally fortunate in having grounded on a rising tide. It was decided to wait an hour or so, and try again.
The Chief stayed down below, but sent me up on deck occasionally to see how they were getting on. It was always the same story; heaving the lead and taking soundings. At last
A glorious morning followed and when steaming down the Malacca Straits one realized the fascination of the tropics. Across the Indian Ocean, while the monsoon raged, the clouds overhead had given the sea an ugly greenness. Across the Bay of Bengal and in the Straits, the cloudless sky was reflected in a sea that, while not such a deep blue as the Mediterranean, was, nevertheless, beautiful.
All my shipmates had been out East before, and they were ever ready to point out this and that place of interest. It was the Chief, however, who proved my most valued mentor. Right from the first he had shown a kindly interest in me. He liked asking me questions about New Zealand and Australia, to which parts he had never been. The earliest years of his seafaring career had been on steamers trading between Glasgow and Canada, and he made us laugh when he told of how he came to get married. While still a young engineer, he found that on arrival at their home port of Glasgow all his shipmates used to go to their respective homes, so thought that he, too, had better get a wife. He was soon to transfer to tramp steamers trading East on voyages that often took twelve months. At the time I speak of, he was the father of five children. In his inimitable way, he told us that when he returned home he would think, on finding an extra youngster at the table, that it was a young friend who had been invited in to a meal,
We were shortly abreast of Penang, an important British outpost, but too far away to see more than its outline on the horizon. Our thoughts at this time were of Singapore, where we were to bunker for the last time before making our final run up to Hong Kong. On the days following our grounding, the Captain and Chief Engineer were often in serious conversation. We learnt that they were discussing the question of the advisability of calling at Singapore, and wondering at the same time whether we could make Hong Kong on the remaining bunkers. Having touched bottom the Captain would have had to report to the authorities at once, and this might mean discharging our cargo and going into dry dock. It is not hard to see that this was a serious position. As we had another two days' steaming before reaching Singapore there was no hurry for a decision to be made. Next afternoon the Chief took me with him into the bunkers and we carefully measured how much coal was left. I had not previously seen the weight of coal calculated by its cubic measurement. Finally, the Chief advised the Captain that he was prepared to give it a go, much to the relief of the “Old Man.” To me it was a disappointment, for I had set my heart on seeing Singapore.
It was daylight when we passed, and even these few hours in which we were in the vicinity were sufficient for me to gain some idea of its importance as a shipping port. Many more ships were now seen, for Singapore, the nerve centre of the East, is a half-way house to China and Japan, and a centre of trading for the whole of the Malay peninsula, as well as Java and other islands of the Dutch East Indies. The forceful competition of the Dutch of a hundred years ago and more, as told in The Surgeon's Log, is instructive to anyone interested in Britain's acquisition of her widely separated Colonies and Dominions.
We were now heading due north for the China Sea. Earlier, I have told how, in the race on the Australian coast, Chief Engineer McPherson had “opened out” his engines, but here we had another canny Scot reversing the process and “shutting in.” Opening out marine engines, while increasing speed,
This final part of our journey must have caused our Captain and Chief Engineer no little anxiety. I will ever remember the care that was taken. The firemen nursed their fires, and very little superintending was required. The Chief watched the bunkers so that nothing was left to chance. On the bridge, the Captain watched the barometer; to have struck rough weather would have been disastrous. The monsoon in the Indian Ocean was bad enough, but a typhoon, the most devastating of all cyclonic storms, would have found us struggling to make the nearest port. Although the glass did begin to fall, the weather remained fine, and the sea calm.
Lagging behind all other traffic on the route, we kept plugging away to cross the Gulf of Siam and steam along off the coast of French Indio-China, about half-way on this run north. Checking up on the coal position, the Chief told us we should just make it if the weather held. At last, to the great joy of all, it was announced that we would be at Hong Kong in the morning. I was up at daylight to witness our entry into the harbour of this great British possession. Here was the real East! The peculiar smell in the air as we approached our anchorage was something that can be experienced only in ports of the Far East.
Thus ended the excitement of our great run of 1,600 miles since passing Singapore. Instead of eight days, it had taken ten. It was a great co-operative effort, with most of the honours going to the firemen. I have an idea that the Captain or the Chief gave them more than a pat on the back, for there was merriment and song in the fo'c'sle that night.
They were a grand lot, these rugged men, some of them as rough as bags, but all made of the right stuff for a crisis. When leaving port there would often be several so drunk they could not do their firing. The engineer on the first watch at
It will thus be appreciated that an engineer's life on a tramp steamer is not merely a matter of walking the engine-room floor during his four-hour watches, especially when it is added that in fine weather the Third and Fourth have to work an extra two hours each day, overhauling the winches on deck.
We were now anchored in the harbour, and the sampans swarmed around us. Lighters came alongside, and as soon as the gangways and rope ladders were put over the side there was a wild scramble aboard. I naturally wondered what all this haste was about. The reason was soon evident. It was like the race for position that I had seen in Geraldton, Australia, when the Chinaman wanted to get his bananas loaded first. In Hong Kong it was also first come, first served. Working down in the hold is no joke in the tropics, hence the race for deck positions.
Chutes were hauled on board to enable the briquettes to be pushed along from man to man. They all showed a first preference for a position between the hatch-combing and the ship's side. The beaming smile of the Chinaman who won one of these positions recorded his satisfaction as he flopped down an old Panama hat to mark his place. It was amusing to hear them chattering in their own tongue, when, in these moments before unloading began, the winners of deck positions appeared to be chuckling over their good fortune. As with the coal bunkering at Port Said, so this hand-to-hand discharging was the human chain over again, with an efficiency that often compared favourably with mechanical appliances.
It was great fun to watch the sampans alongside. The father would be working on our ship with mother and family in their house-boat below, going about their work without the slightest concern for anyone. They cooked the meal on deck—it was
On the second day the Third and I went ashore for the day. We took one of the passenger sampans that were always waiting alongside. At that time, out of a population of 400,000 there were only about 15,000 white people. Hong Kong is a very much bigger city to-day.
It was interesting to watch the Chinese at different classes of work. I had been used to seeing only Chinese market gardeners and fruiterers in my own country, and was inclined to judge them accordingly. Here we saw the tradesman of China who is very deft with tools, and we stood for some time watching carpenters at work. On the foreshore we watched a shipwright rip-sawing a beam. One end was on the ground and the other on a trestle; he was using a saw very like the saws used by bushmen in New Zealand when cross-cutting a log. We noticed that the Chinaman made the saw cut on the up-stroke. On a downward cut the saw must be of sufficient thickness not to buckle, whereas, on a pull stroke, the thinnest of saws could be used, and less physical effort required. This may be the Chinaman's reason for using a draw-saw with the teeth the opposite way to ours, or it may be just a thousand-year-old custom.
We were about a week in discharging, but before completing were to learn how wise the Captain and Chief Engineer had been in steaming on past Singapore, for the Claverhill was ordered into dock for survey! Our Captain may have been vexed about the delay, but the junior officers were not perturbed at the expense to the owners, with the prospect of an extra week at Hong Kong! When the dock was pumped dry, sure enough there was the evidence of our having been ashore; a bad dent on the bottom of the starboard side of the bow. We had made very little water since backing off the shore at Sumatra, and could easily have withstood the trip back to England, but the surveyors insisted on a number of plates being taken off and the frames put back into their original shape.
Now we were to see the Chinaman in the workshop. Although the work was supervised by Britishers, mostly Scots, the Chinaman was the blacksmith, the boiler-maker, the ship-wright
As the days in port, when discharging, had enabled the engines to be gone over in readiness for the homeward voyage, the Chief was generous in allowing us to take turn about in having an afternoon and sometimes a day off. One now had time to see the city in a more leisurely way than the rush ashore of the tourists, who race here, there and everywhere. I took much interest in studying the people.
The merchant and the lady of position looked picturesque in their ornamental dress, and the sedan chair seemed to lift them, socially, above the rickshaw passengers and the pedestrians. When I saw the Chinaman of the higher classes, I could not believe he was of the same people as the laundry-man and market gardener whom I had seen in Australia and New Zealand. The Chinaman we see in our country is always an under-sized person, the reason being that practically all have migrated from the Canton area. The continuously oppressive heat in this low-lying part of China stunts the growth of the people, as it does in many parts of India; this does not mean that a well-fed Cantonese cannot be a sturdy little chap. In Hong Kong I saw some fine, big men and was told they came from the highlands of North China, where the extremes of heat and cold toughen the fibre. It is interesting to note that Frenchmen of Canada are bigger men than the Frenchmen of France. In Scotland, the Highlander is a bigger man than the Lowlander!
There is a story told of King George V, then Duke of York, when he visited New Zealand in 1901, which will illustrate the effect an imposing figure has upon the rank and file of a native race. Our late beloved King was a man below the average height. He visited Rotorua accompanied by he the fella for the King!”
The first time I had the whole day off, I went for a trip to
From the highest point of “The Peak” one gets a magnificent panoramic view. Looking east, the view is out over the China Sea, with always a ship in sight. To the west and north-west one looks upon the China that claims the oldest civilization in the world—the China with her teeming millions. The view looking down on Hong Kong, with its harbour sheltered by a dozen or more islands, was inconceivably beautiful. Lantao, the most western island, is bigger than Hong Kong itself, and stands like a sentinel at the mouth of the great estuary into which the Canton River flows. To the north lies the mainland portion of the British concession, with Kowloon its chief city, although it is always spoken of as part of the Colony of Hong Kong. I should like to have gone as far as Canton, a hundred miles up river, but this would have meant a day each way by steamer and, apart from having already been treated so generously about leave during our long stay in port, I had to remember my pay was that of a Fourth Engineer. The view from “The Peak” I have never forgotten.
One Saturday afternoon I took a rickshaw and was pulled out to Happy Valley, where I saw a cricket match. The teams were from the Army and Navy, and young men from the offices of banks and merchant houses. I watched the game for some time, saw some fairly good cricket with plenty of evidence of English public school coaching, then “drove” off to see more of the country.
One evening my Chief took me to dinner at the Hong Kong hotel; needless to say, it was like living for a moment in luxury. It was a very hot night, and afterwards we sat and smoked on the balcony; I had just begun to smoke and, considering I was then twenty-four years of age, it may be said I was of abstemious habits, especially when it is added that up till then I had not drunk more than “gin and ginger beer,” which was a popular drink in hot weather at the Melbourne Cricket Club's pavilion bar.
At this fine old hotel in the East, I was to see, for the first time, an old-fashioned punka circulating the air in the large dining-room. It was certainly fascinating to watch a Chinese youth, who appeared to be asleep, standing in a corner, carrying out his monotonous task of pulling the cord that worked short curtains reaching from one side of the room to the other. They were spaced about eight feet apart for the full length of the ceiling. I can still picture that young Chinaman pulling the cord as one rings a church bell, so deliberately and so slowly that we could almost believe the story they told us that these boys do actually fall asleep as they stand and pull, pull, pull….
The time was now approaching for our departure, yet no word had been received of our destination. The demand for tonnage must have slackened, for masters of ships usually receive instructions on arrival at the port of discharge. Just before we came out of dock, our agents told us they thought it would be Kobe. Some were thrilled, for we wanted to go to Japan, and Kobe was right in the heart of that country. Next day the order came to proceed to Manila to load copra!
All the time in port we had been continually pressed by persistent pedlars to purchase all sorts of goods and trinkets, just as we were at Port Said. The Chinaman, however, had better wares to sell and he was much more pleasant to deal with. This man of the Orient is a born dealer, from the merchant down to the humblest occupant of the sampan. His reputation for honesty helps him tremendously in transactions with the outside world, although we struck one or two who did not live up to this standard. By way of contrast, the Japanese, and there were many of them in Hong Kong, were not trusted in the same way as the Chinese. As a matter of fact, in the Japanese Bank at Hong Kong, Chinese tellers were employed! We were told they were considered more trustworthy. I have since heard it said that the Japanese are not quick at figures, but, leaving all else aside, the Jap is not such a pleasant fellow to meet as the Chinaman. Cheeky and arrogant, he was at this time standing up to Russia and using language much the same as an American boxer uses to his opponent prior to entering the ring.
We certainly had some fun on the decks of the old Claverhill during the last hours of our stay in Hong Kong. We had swung
An illustration of the Chinaman's cunning is to be found in his always addressing the Second as “Mr. No. 1 Engineer,” the Third as “Mr. No. 2,” and so on. It was the same subtle flattery that I heard referred to in Christchurch a few months earlier, when
These pedlars aboard the Claverhill persisted up to the moment of sailing. I bought a number of small things to post home to New Zealand. Strange to say, most of the fun at the
Steaming away from Hong Kong on a sunny afternoon, we had a fine view of this famous island. The sight of “The Peak,” the close, then distant, view from far out on the China Sea, was something to remember.
After three and a half days' run we steamed into Manila Bay in the early morning. Only a few years before, the great naval battle of Manila, in the Spanish-American War, had taken place at this very spot. When passing through the entrance, my Chief showed me where the American battleships had stood off and shot to pieces the Spanish fleet that had taken refuge in the Bay. It was amazing to learn that in a battle that began at dawn there was not one Spanish ship afloat by noon. Many hundreds of Spaniards were killed, while the Americans, although receiving several direct hits, suffered no loss of life. Neither in ships nor crews were the Spaniards a match for the alert and efficient men of the United States.
All this information added greatly to my interest in the
We anchored off-shore, and when the loaded lighters came alongside it was at once clear that we were to load at our anchorage and would not see as much of this city as we did of Hong Kong. A fairly wide river runs through the city and, as there were no bridges near the mouth where it enters the Bay, there was much boat traffic from one side to the other. It was astonishing to see so much life on these boats on the waterfront. It was a repetition of Hong Kong, where there appeared to be literally thousands of sampans. I had heard in Australia that in the centre of the continent one could meet children who had never seen rain, but it was still harder to believe the Hong Kong story that there were to be found old men who had spent all their lives in a sampan!
The Filipinos are a more coppery colour than the Chinese and Japanese. The Chinese are generally considered the originals of the term the Yellow Races. The men of the Philippines are small in stature—more like the Malays. They are good workers and as there were also Chinamen among them, loading the ship, our holds soon filled.
It was on the Sunday morning that we were to have our greatest excitement. On one of the large barges lying alongside the Claverhill, there gathered a crowd of Filipinos and Chinamen. They had organized a cock-fighting competition. I had often seen two roosters going at it in the fiercest combat with beaks and spurs. However, to see two trained fighting-cocks, with combs cut off, harnessed with steel spurs pointed as sharp as needles, was something different. It was a deadly-serious contest. We were told they bet heavily on these fights, and this, no doubt, accounted for the intense look on the faces of the Chinamen as the fight went on and the cocks flew violently at each other. When I saw one bird get an eye torn out and the other have him at his mercy I was nearly sick, but the coloured men didn't blink an eyelash. Fight after fight took place. An owner, awaiting his cock's turn, would keep the bird tucked under his arm, with a short rope tied to one of its legs. He would stroke away at it, and at times offer
In Manila I saw, for the first time, the American temporarily in charge of a Colony which, in these days, would be termed a Mandated Territory. Some of the port officers and officials were young Americans and their pleasant, droll voices were in sharp contrast to the harsh, nasal accent of some tourists I had heard in London. Although the Americans had not the experience of the British in colonization, they appeared to be very efficient in their control of the Philippines. The people were undoubtedly happier than they had been under Spanish rule. One saw a few Spaniards whose business interests had kept them in Manila, but they no longer dominated the docile Filipino.
Copra loaded in bulk looked less enticing than the kernel of the coconut that schoolboys love to eat. To see this cargo shovelled into the hold in the same way as coal is handled would have taken the edge off the appetite of any boy who looks upon eating a coconut as a treat. During loading operations we were continually pestered by swarms of flies, which were just as annoying as those experienced in Australia.
We now learned that our destination was Marseilles. While most of the crew would have preferred to be making direct for a British port, and their homes, the opportunity of seeing another foreign country appealed to me, for I was far from my homeland and bent on seeing the world.
Once outside Manila Bay I was surprised to see the same catamarans we had encountered when approaching Colombo. The Filipino handled them just as dexterously as the Indians, and their speed, even in a light breeze, was surprising. We had a straight run of 1,500 miles in a south-westerly direction across the China Sea, and continued to enjoy the warm and delightful weather we had experienced for many weeks. We were now approaching the tropics and it got hotter and hotter, for Singapore is but a few degrees north of the Equator. Our cabins became so unbearable at night that some of us slung hammocks under the awning on the poop deck. I was now to learn why the old hands did not rush to sleep out on deck. At sea, in the early hours of the morning, even in the tropics, the temperature drops so quickly that it is soon too cold to be sleeping outside. In the tropics, a chill in the back can be accompanied by more serious complications than in countries with a lower temperature. This was very different from being on land in Australia, where it remains hot throughout the night.
This was my first glimpse of the part played by the islands of the Netherlands East Indies in the oil supply of the world. The British and Dutch were wise to join forces in developing and marketing the valuable oil products of these eastern islands of the two nations; the Anglo-Dutch Shell Oil Company is world-famous. We passed quite close to one island and could plainly see the oil tanks on the shore.
Passing Singapore, I looked with longing eyes on this famous place. It was bad luck our not calling either on the outward or homeward voyage. Remaining uncomfortably hot all the way through the Straits of Malacca, there was little relief, even after turning west to cross the Gulf of Bengal. This time we passed the most northern point of Sumatra in daylight and our old skipper stood for a long time with his field glasses focused on the point where we had run ashore on the outward journey.
At Colombo we had the same short stay as on the way out. One of our firemen became very ill and he was put ashore here,
We were all worn out in this sweltering heat. It was so hot in the engine room that the hand-rails felt as if they had been heated over a fire.
When we reached Suez and dropped anchor, we were startled to see units of the Russian Navy pass out of the canal, one after the other, on their way to the Far East. There were light cruisers, destroyers and torpedo-boats—all spick and span—with their decks lined with sailors dressed in white uniforms, ready for the heat of the Red Sea we had just passed through. So the talk of war we had heard in Hong Kong was not merely comment on a threatening situation! This surely meant that
Our passage through the canal was a repetition of the outward journey. On arrival at Port Said there came the same rush of the occupants of the bum-boats. Again came the same story from “Jock,” when he repeated the tale about the “True Cross.” The Egyptians and Arabs are not alone in telling the “story” and producing materials or relics of the past. Many years after the renovation of the Victory, one could buy in England trinkets in oak and copper—always from the Victory! In Brussels, later, I was offered a sword dug up from the battlefield of Waterloo. It was certainly dug up, but it had been buried to be unearthed! At any rate, I bought a piece of the “True Cross” in the form of a blotting pad.
At the end of a long run such as we had just had, engineers are always busy in the engine-room, tightening this and adjusting that. The following will illustrate our Chief's dry humour, which was always in evidence. He told the Second Engineer about some work he wanted done; the Third of his job; then turned to tell me about a leaking joint on the boiler top, and said quietly, “And I'll hae a fou' o' the pipe—then we'll a' be daein' somethin'!”
After being so long away, it was but natural that the members of the crew wished to see English newspapers, and newsagents were not slow to fill the wants of homeward bound crews. Racing and football were the principal columns scanned, and it was amusing to hear a Geordie, a Scot, or a Cockney chaffing and barracking one another about this or that match when their side had won. Mainly, it was the huge headlines that arrested the attention of our Captain and Chief Engineer. “Mr. Joseph Chamberlain Advocates Change in Fiscal Policy”—then followed a verbatim report of his famous speech at Glasgow. His proposals split parties and divided families in England, but I don't suppose Chamberlain
Our Chief was a thoughtful man and, although not what one would call well read, had good judgment and was sound in most of his opinions. He could talk on many subjects and understood the tariff question. He was firm in his belief that Britain had to build some sort of a fence to protect her own industries. The Second and Third Engineers did not know much about these matters, and were chiefly concerned in being able to buy cheap bread, cheap tobacco and cheap everything. Mr. McGill was pleased to learn that my views were much the same as his. I had not known much about tariffs when I first left New Zealand. In Melbourne, however, I had heard Sir George Reid in his advocacy of Free Trade, when he toured the country attempting to persuade the other States to follow New South Wales. I had seen Victoria prosper under Protection and the Federal Government adopt Victoria's policy as the policy of Australia.
I read the full report of Mr. Chamberlain's speech. There were leading articles and comments in the different papers, for the Freetraders and Protectionists fought like the cock-fighters of Manila. There could be no rail-sitting; you had to be on one side or the other. Mr. Chamberlain was most convincing, and I can remember his arguments as if it were yesterday. He started from the days of Cobden and Bright, showing how industrial supremacy in those days enabled Britain to succeed, and how Free Trade was more or less Free Trade when other countries' tariffs were but a nominal charge on imports. He traced how foreign countries' tariff walls grew higher and higher, behind which they developed their own industries and then began to shoot back at England's own open market. Not content with ordinary methods of trading, they began to dump goods in the British market. He quoted tin plate being sold cheaper than the price at which Cornwall could produce it, and how steel plates were being dealt with in the same way. He told of how razors were forged in Sheffield and sent to Germany to be ground; of ships' crank-shafts being forged in Newcastle and sent to be turned in the lathes of Germany; how Belgium competition had closed down the glass factories in the North of England, and how the French had undercut and closed English glove factories. The gem of the evening was when he told his
We argued all the way to Marseilles, with the Captain and Mates joining in the debate, and must have resembled the old-fashioned family and party divisions in the days of the Whigs and Tories. It always amazed me how, generally speaking, the working man of Britain was a Free Trader, even though it was he who first felt the shock of this new form of foreign competition and who suffered low wages and unemployment. When the British workman became converted the final decision was easily reached.
The Mediterranean! Again it was beautifully calm, and we all enjoyed the pleasant weather. This time it was daylight as we steamed past the Nile delta and we were soon in the vicinity of the scene of another great naval battle, for it was but a few years before Trafalgar that Nelson, ever seeking contact with the French fleet, swooped down on the Mediterranean section of it, anchored near Alexandra, and literally annihilated it.
In five days we had steamed the thousand miles to the Straits of Messina. As we approached Sicily, the first glimpse of land was Mt. Etna, snow-capped and standing out majestically like some of our mountains in New Zealand. It was quite exciting to steam nearer and nearer, with no sign of any opening between Sicily and the mainland of Italy. Then, over went our helm, and we were steaming north in the middle of the Straits. I remember Reggio on the Italian side, and Messina nearly opposite in Sicily. I saw the spot where Shelly swam the Straits; this is always pointed out to passengers. Once out of the Straits, and turning to the north-west, the Lipari Islands could be seen in the distance, but all our attention was on Stromboli, “The Lighthouse of the Mediterranean,” for this famous volcano was in action. Although I came from a country noted for volcanic activities, I had not previously seen smoke and steam pouring forth from a mountain top. This island volcano is less than fifty miles from the northern end of the Straits and, steering a course that took us between the Islands of Panaria and Stromboli, we had a splendid view. Next day we were off Naples.
Two days later we were nosing our way into Marseilles. I was fortunate in seeing so many countries and so many nationalities on this trip. Here, it was the voluble, gesticulating people of the South of France. There was noise and good humour in plenty as we berthed, and the sellers of wares were soon pestering officers, engineers and other members of the crew to buy the many beautiful things produced by these industrious people of France. Silk shawls, silk handkerchiefs—no silk stockings then—pictures, scents, postcards, and a hundred and one other things. The people selling were a better class than those I have described at Port Said and Hong Kong, but some of the men looked real roués, while dark-complexioned, black-haired, black-eyed women, old and young, did not look exactly like Sunday School teachers! What an enormous industry this selling of wares on the decks of ships must be when all the ports of the world are taken into account. The postcard man was most persistent and just as daring as the Arab, who, if he scented a chance, would pull out of his pocket some of the obscene pictures that are plied for sale at all Continental ports.
There was one postcard that made us all laugh. No people in the world possess the sense of humour of the British, and the farther north they come from the more subtle their jokes. This one was not bad for the French, whose jokes are not always subtle. It was a serial postcard of about half a dozen pictures in booklet form. The first showed the bridal couple at the altar, the second their coming out of church, then the wedding breakfast, the going away and the arrival at their hotel. The
Marseilles is picturesquely tucked away in the north-west corner of the Mediterranean. It is the greatest port of France, and handles an enormous amount of traffic. I had already learned of the small amount of rise and fall of the tide in the Mediterranean. With a usual rise of six feet in ordinary tides and eight feet in spring tides in New Zealand and Australia, I had become used to the height of the wharves and to foreshore roads built accordingly. Here it was necessary to provide for a rise of eight inches only. It was strange to see pleasure boats and other small craft moored along the waterfront, appearing to be almost level with the road.
We were four days in Marseilles. The first evening, the Chief said to me, “What are you doing to-night, Mr. Reese? Would you like to come ashore with me?” I was naturally delighted to be asked by him, and of course went. He had been to this port many times and knew the places of interest to show me. The next two evenings I was on duty, but on the final night Mr. McGill again took me ashore. It was long afterwards before I realized the full significance of the kindly attention of this splendid Chief; he knew that I was a young man visiting a Continental port for the first time—and a French one at that; he knew the dangers that beset sailors the world over when they arrive in port where they know no one; he knew that young men would be sought after in the cabarets and on the boulevards. I look back with appreciation that there were, and still are, such leaders of men in the Mercantile Marine who care for the welfare and safety of their staffs.
Joe Darling, the famous Australian, was always regarded as Australia's finest captain—off the field. He looked after his young men as Mr. McGill looked after me. Many years afterwards
The highlight of our stay in Marseilles was a bullfight on Sunday afternoon. One always associated this sport with Spain, so it was a surprise to learn that Matador and Toreador versus the Bulls was a regular feature in some parts of the South of France.
When we reached the ground an enormous crowd had assembled. There prevailed the same bubbling excitement as is to be seen just prior to the start of an International football match. The people chatted and barracked in French, which we could not understand, but it was obviously good-humoured talk. The ground itself resembled a cricket ground, but the fence round the arena was of wood, about five feet high. All the way round the inside were steps, the purpose of which we were to learn in due course.
The bulls came into the ring from the opposite side of the ground from where we sat. Leaving a darkened stall, a bull dashed into the ring. The bright light of day seemed to dazzle him as he rushed out to the centre, where the Toreador, on horseback, awaited him. There were a number of attendants in the ring, each carrying a red flag, and all were dressed in yellow, blue and other bright colours that have no attraction for the bull. To start with, they all gave the bull plenty of the ring to himself. The poor horse, with a shield over one eye, was held so that he could not see the approaching danger. He was also harnessed with belly-shield that extended between his forelegs to protect him from the bull's horns. It was most exciting to watch this great animal bearing down on the horse and man. As he got near he lowered his head and one feared the worst. But the mounted Toreador held in his right hand a sharp steel-pointed rod, with a small disc on it, near the tip, to act as a stopper and thus limit the depth of insertion. When the bull, with his head down, came within striking distance, the Toreador thrust his spear into the nape of the neck of the bull. The disc stopped the spear going in too far, but the pain was
Then came the Banderillero, an important man in the events of the afternoon, his attractive costume distinguishing him from the attendants in the ring; he walked proudly to the centre of the arena to carry out his part of the performance, which was to insert darts into the shoulders of the bull. These darts were much like the arrows used by the American Indians, but decorated with ribbons instead of feathers. The business-end of the sharp arrows apparently had the same barb as a fish-hook to make them stay put. With red flag in one hand and dart in the other, he approached the bull. Soon there was the same wild rush, for by now the great beast was raging mad. The flag, placed over to one side, attracted the bull and, as he dropped his head and bore in to toss the target, the Banderillero dug one of these darts into his neck or shoulders. Away went the attacker with the arrow dangling and no doubt hurting this brave but now vicious animal. This was repeated several times, with the crowd cheering every time a dart found its mark. The attendants were ever ready to attract the bull away, but the Banderillero, unlike the man on the horse, could always turn quickly and be ready for a fresh attack. It will be easily understood that while the bull, with each fresh torment, became more and more maddened—and by this time he was frothing at the mouth—he was also tiring under the terrific pace of the contest. It was like a slogging match in the boxing ring with relays of opponents against one fighter, for he was given no rest.
Now came the time to kill; the climax to this contest between brave and skilful men, and a wild, roaring bull, so enraged that
The pent-up feelings of the crowd were let loose and they cheered wildly. The Matador, acknowledging the plaudits, bowed as profusely as an actor at the end of a play. For myself I could not cheer. I was dumbfounded and depressed. I had read of bullfighting and had pictured it as a single combat between man and beast. Here I had seen the animal so tormented, maddened and tired out that this Spanish sport gave another view to my young mind. Before the cheering had died down, one saw a pair of horses pulling a sledge into the ring. In a moment the dead body was hauled off the field.
The deck was now clear for another fight. After a short interval out came the second bull, to go through the same performance and to meet the same fate; and then another and another. It was organized much on the same lines as a race
Everyone was watching the entrance door to see the animal dash into the ring. “Here he comes! Hullo, this bull is different; he is smaller and has more speed!”—this must have been the thought of all present. We had previously been watching heavily built, heavy-footed animals, comparable in football parlance with the forwards of a Rugby side. This must be a half-back or a three-quarter; he can run; he can turn quickly; one could almost imagine he could dodge! At any rate, we were not long left in doubt as to whether he was of another class—he was no “Ferdinand”! He tore down the field, and was soon making straight for the horse and rider. A rod with a spike in its end was not going to stop him; his speed caused the rider to miscalculate, for, in a moment, the bull ripped into the horse, and over went both man and his steed. It was a sickening sight. I had to lower my eyes, fearing both of them would be ripped to pieces. Seeing red is always irresistible to a bull, and a flash of the flag, even at this critical moment when he had them both at his mercy, was too much for him, and next moment he was chasing the crimson flags of the attendants. He dashed past several of them and it was soon obvious there was consternation on the field; the attendants edged their way towards the fence. Presently the bull chased two of them right in front of where I sat; they turned and hurriedly clambered up the steps, getting over the fence with little time to spare. It was no use putting the Toreador on another horse to face this bull, or have the Banderillero try to put darts into him, so apparently it was decided to finish him off at once. The attendants, with their flags, managed to keep him racing about until the Matador appeared. The last-mentioned was not as confident on this occasion, nor was his job as easy as with some of the other bulls, for this one passed him the first time and a second; there were hoots from the crowd. Then an amazing thing happened—one would have thought this bull had human intelligence; instead of rushing in a third time, he came creeping up towards the Matador, stopped, and putting his two front legs out, looked for all the world as if he was going to spring at him. When he was in this position the Matador moved up as though to spear him, but the crowd yelled their disapproval, hooting so much that he desisted. However, they
This experience of seeing a bullfight was to enable me, many years afterwards, to enjoy to the full an incident worth relating, Maer, the well-known Spanish tennis player, visited Australia to take part in International matches being played there. The visitors were given a luncheon in Melbourne and in the afternoon were the guests of the M.C.C. at the Melbourne Cricket ground, where an important cricket match was in progress. They were all sitting in the members' stand and after watching two batsmen play slow and tedious cricket the Spaniard turned to
“Yes,” said Warwick good-humouredly, and added, “As a matter of fact, the record attendance here for a cricket match is 65,000.”
The incredulous Maer then said, “Well, Mr. Armstrong, all I can say is that they have never seen a bullfight!”
Two days later we steamed out of Marseilles, our destination being La Garucha, a small seaport on the Mediterranean coast of Spain, where we were to load a cargo of iron ore. I remember our Chief said that cargoes must be getting scarce when we were left only iron ore to pick up. The morning after leaving the French port it was discovered that we had a stowaway on board. The Captain decided it was too late to turn back, despite the fact that he knew there would be no chance of landing him at a Spanish port. The man turned out to be a French engineer, so he was signed on and made to work overhauling the winches and doing any odd jobs that could be found for him.
La Garucha proved to be a quaint little port, more like an open bay. It does not take long to load iron ore, and two days later we began our run for Home. It was real Home to most of my shipmates, but Britain is also Home for all the peoples of the Empire, and I was no less excited than my comrades at the
The Bay of Biscay was again settling down after storms in the Atlantic. The iron-ore cargo took us down to our Plimsoll marks, even though the holds were not half full. This lowering of the centre of stability made the Claverhill roll a good deal.
We were now approaching the beloved Homeland. When I saw the different lights and headlands, I, too, became sentimental. Picking up The Lizard, the most southern part of Cornwall, we passed points, lighthouses, and headlands along the south coast. I was fortunate on this occasion to pass in daylight those parts of the coast we had passed at night when arriving from New Zealand by the Rimutaka more than nine months earlier. On passing the South then the North Foreland, and the several lightships that provide extra protection to ships' Masters in thick weather, we were now steaming due north across the mouth of the Thames Estuary, for our destination was South Shields at the mouth of the Tyne. Our Cockney Third Engineer looked longingly towards his beloved London, but the Second, whose home was at Shields, chuckled with glee and counted the hours when he would join his wife and family.
England's coastline still attracted me. We steamed along the coast of Suffolk and Norfolk, passing Lowestoft and Yarmouth, famous as fishing ports, then following a straight course, to pass far out from The Wash and the mouth of the Humber. Soon we were abreast of and close to Flamborough Head. Next came Scarborough, famous in my mind for its cricket week at the end of the season. The last seacoast town we were to pass close to was Whitby, although Hartlepool could be seen in the distance on our port beam.
I had found the east coast of England almost as fascinating as the Channel coastline, and when we came abreast of Sunderland, knew there was but ten miles steaming to reach our destination.
The entrance to the Tyne reminded me of Greymouth, New Zealand. What they called the Tip Head was very similar to the training walls—or breakwaters—at our West Coast port. To illustrate the importance of the River Tyne and its surrounding district, one needs only to mention that it has three towns at its very mouth in North Shields, Tynemouth, and South Shields, while ten miles up the river is the important city of Newcastle, alongside of which is Gateshead. Half-way up this navigable stretch is Wallsend on the north side and Jarrow almost opposite. With all these towns engaged in ship-building, this hive of industry will be appreciated. The river is the boundary between the counties of Durham and Northumberland whose coal mines have played such a large part in the development of Tyneside into one of the most important industrial centres of Britain.
We had already discharged when word came that the crew was to be paid off, for the Claverhill was to be laid up. This was a severe blow, particularly to the officers and engineers, for they do not move from ship to ship as do firemen and sailors. When we were all going ashore to the shipping office to sign off, our First Mate, who was himself carrying a hand-bag, said to me, “Would you mind carrying this bag ashore for me?”
“Certainly,” I said and walked down the gangway quite unconcerned. It was not until we got to the shipping office that I learned that I had smuggled ashore a bag full of cigars! It was rather unfair to have asked me to do this, but we all laughed when we learned of the Mate's trick. He was certainly an old war-horse, and must have done this many times before.
On the morning we were to sign off, the Chief told me that I was to stay on with him. The Captain was also to keep a Mate aboard, as well as the Cook, for it was not known how long the ship would be laid up. It thus meant saying good-bye to all the others, and bringing to an end pleasant associations over a long period with a really happy band of men.
This trip out East was typical of the voyages that are made
I have endeavoured to paint a picture, not only of the movements of such steamers and the cargoes they carry, but also the life of those on board. The experience certainly established firmly in my mind a wholesome regard for Britain's sons of the sea. I think of those splendid firemen and their work in getting the Claverhill across the China Sea to Hong Kong on our limited bunkers; I think of the same splendid loyalty of everyone serving on board; I think of the anxiety of our Captain and Chief Engineer, not only with regard to the stranding of the Claverhill, but also their seeing that every voyage was made as profitable as possible for their owners. I was impressed at the outset with the discipline on this humble tramp. In a cargo-ship, such as this, there would be a good deal of “Jack,” and “Bill,” and “Bob,” if they were in the colonial service. On the Claverhill I was always Mr. Reese to everyone, whether it be the firemen or my own fellow-officers. This, in itself, was a splendid contribution to discipline, and prevented familiarity from undermining one's authority. The comradeship was splendid, and one learned the necessity and value of give and take. Humour was incessant and mess-room stories brought much laughter; the Chief with droll Scottish yarns, and the Second, though unable to appreciate some of the Third's jokes, could cause a laugh with a Presbyterian one! It was our Cockney friend who could rattle them off without a blink and without a blush. The Fourth could tell some colonial ones, so we were all performers.
I am afraid my shipmates remained incredulous over the “fish story” about the famous “Pelorus Jack” in New Zealand. It was always hard to convince people of the authenticity of the statement that a fish of the dolphin species used to meet the Nelson-Wellington ferry steamer at the entrance to French Pass. It was harder still to convince them that this big fish would swim alongside and rub itself against the bow on the starboard side of the ship. I have since seen this performance, but I did not have with me on the Claverhill any of the photographs that give such convincing proof. I do not know what my shipmates would have said had I been able to tell them of a later
I spent a month on the Claverhill, when she was laid up in this way at South Shields. There wasn't much to do in the engine-room, so I had the chance of seeing the surrounding district. South Shields was a solidly built old place. King Street and Market Place are the parts I remember best, although the Marine Parks are fine public reserves. These were laid out on a grand scale alongside the South Pier, with a fine beach in the foreground, from which the land terraced back on an easy slope. Walks and promenades overlooked the sea, with a lake in the foreground. I was to visit South Shields again in midsummer and saw this splendid park and beach alive with holiday-makers. They do make their own fun in the North! In the evening, a popular walk was along the Pier to the Tip Head. Cupid must have worked overtime during the summer months in Shields, for in Marine Park there appeared to be a garden seat every few yards!
The Chief and I had mess with the Captain and Mate, so I was able to benefit from the conversation of experienced men. At this time there was much talk on all ships about the Turbine engine. I was now on the Tyne where Parsons, the inventor, had experimented with his patent engine on a specially built vessel named the Turbinia. They told me how she would come down the Tyne and out into the North Sea to carry out her trials. The speed developed amazed everyone. Parsons was said to have carried out his boast that one day he would have breakfast at Newcastle and dinner in London. The turbine, passing from the experimental stage, was first adopted by the Allan Line running out of Glasgow to Canada.
The great ship-building yards on the banks of the Tyne had become rivals to Clydeside, acknowledged as the greatest shipbuilding centre in the world. I have explained earlier how foreign countries had stolen some of Scotland's best brains. The men of Newcastle and the Tyne did not need to go outside their own territory for tutors, for they had a natural gift for engineering. The Scots were beginning to feel this Tyneside competition, for firms like Swan & Hunter, as it was then, could hold their own with anyone. This rivalry between Lusitania and the Mauritania; the former went to the Clyde, the latter to the Tyne. They were wonderful and enormous ships. The Lusitania became immortalized by her tragic end, but, before this happened, the Mauritania had fairly won the Blue Riband of the Atlantic, greatly to the joy of the engineers and workmen of Tyneside.
Besides seeing the great shipbuilding yards on the Tyne I was fortunate to hear the opinions of our Captain and Chief Engineer who knew this part well. They discussed the Clyde as well as the Tyne, so I learned much about these two great centres of industry.
I made several trips to Newcastle. As is the case of many old English cities there is, in Newcastle, an old part of the town. I remember the narrow cobble-stoned streets, so narrow that they are but what we call a right-of-way to-day. This part of Newcastle must be very ancient. Though a sombre-looking city, the Newcastle of to-day is one of the big centres of the North, and typical of the people of the surrounding counties. They are indeed hard working and, like the Scots, probably suffer more than any other people in Britain when slumps occur in the ship-building industry. I saw Jesmond Dene, their picturesque park; fine old trees and lovely dells, together with a waterfall, combined to make this a restful place. The old flour mill on the “banks o' the burn,” as they would say in Scotland, is a reminder that before the days of steam, England ground her corn in mills driven by a water-wheel. The stepping-stones, which form a bridge across the stream, made crossing like stepping from boulder to boulder to get over mountain streams in New Zealand.
I paid a visit to a fine old gentleman—Mr. Montgomery, brother of the man who had been a fellow-boarder in Melbourne. He was glad to hear of his brother whom he had not seen for many years. The Sunday afternoon of my call was a cold, misty day—most days are wet and misty at this time of the year. In the course of conversation I passed some disparaging remark about the weather, and my host said quietly, “Ah, Mr. Reese, it does not always need a blue sky to make for sunshine in life!” I was unable to reply, and I have never forgotten his remark. One could not but admire his philosophy, which
The dialect of these northern counties is different from the South. The people of Tyneside had a peculiar habit of lifting the tone of their voice on the last word of a sentence. On the train to Newcastle one day, I heard two well-dressed young women talking. One said, “What time did you get home last night?”
The other replied, “About nine o'clock.” The “night” and the “o'clock” were several notes higher than the other words. This is typical. The boys call a girl “Hinnie.” “Hullo, Hinnie!” It sounds very strange at first, but it was the swearing of the men that astounded me. “How are yer, yer b… ?”—pronounced “boogger”—is an almost universal and affectionate greeting. They told of a man who could neither read nor write waiting on the railway station one morning to join the excursion train on a holiday. He saw all his mates buying the morning paper so thought he ought to do likewise. As he sat looking at it, one of his work-mates said, “Hey, yer b…., you're reading the paper upside-down!”
Illiterate, but quick at repartee, Geordie answered, “Any b…. fool can read it the other way!”
Throughout the shipping world, the men from Tyneside are known as “Geordies.” It was a Geordie who, after making his first voyage to the Baltic in the days before ocean travel was thought of, said he had been to the four quarters of the globe—Russia, Prussia, Memel and Shields!
We had been in South Shields for several weeks when the Captain received word to arrange for Mr. Reese to proceed to London to join the S.S. Savan as Third Engineer. I was thrilled with the news, more especially when told that the Savan was one of the Scrutton Line of ships trading to the West Indies.
Newcastle is about 150 miles farther north than Leicester, where I had been with the London County team, so I had the opportunity, while going up to London, of seeing more of the glorious country-side of England.
Next day I presented myself at the office of my employers, later returning to my lodgings in Canning Town in the real
Savan carried about a dozen passengers and was a better class ship than the Claverhill; this meant more attention to uniform and generally keeping more spruced-up than in the old tramp.
This change to another ship, belonging to different owners, explains my good fortune in seeing so many parts of the world. I have known seafaring men to spend all their lives at sea on the Atlantic, trading between Liverpool and New York; such would be the fate of anyone joining, say, the Cunard Company's service. On the P. & O., or Orient Companies' ships, it would be to the East or Australia. Coming nearer home, in the N.Z. Shipping Company, or Shaw Savill Line, it would be the one trade between England and New Zealand.
In the period of which I speak, there were many shipping companies in England that, owning only about half a dozen ships, found the overhead cost too great to maintain Marine and Engineer Superintendents, with all the attendant expenses of supporting such an organization. In the case of the tramp steamer companies especially, it would be difficult for their own shore staffs to handle and control all such matters as repairs and maintenance, and overhauls, apart from staffing arrangements. The ships might arrive in London this trip, Glasgow the next, and another at, say, Liverpool. The result was that there grew up in London a number of firms with organizations capable of handling all the steamers of half a dozen different shipping companies. Messrs. Jacobs and Barringer, of Gracechurch Street, London, was such a firm, and it was they who first employed me as Fourth Engineer on the Claverhill of the Hazelhurst Line, and now transferred me to the Savon of the Scrutton Line. It was in this way that I was to be moved about like a pawn on a chessboard and, in the process, to see so many places.
As Third Engineer, I was now as high as I could go without holding a Marine Certificate. Legally—for all ships sail under Board of Trade regulations—the Chief must have a Chief's Certificate, and the Second, a Second's Certificate. In practice, except on small coastal ships, the Second who held the qualification of a Chief was preferred; a natural precaution by the owners when ships went so far from home, with the possibility of accident or illness of the Chief.
In two days we were steaming down the Thames, thrilled with the knowledge that we were to call at Madeira. The traffic on the river was again enormous. Even after we passed Gravesend there were ships and more ships, both inward and outward bound. One could appreciate the Cockney fireman's saying, “Gor'-blimey, it's like Epsom Road on Derby Day!” It must be remembered, however, that this volume of traffic that one sees on the Thames, when passing up or down the river, is in part due to so many ships' passing, simultaneously, in and out of the docks, which are opened a little before, and closed a little after, the turn of the tide.
The weather was cold and miserable, and we tossed about in the Channel. At daylight on the second morning out we called at Dartmouth, situated on a lovely Sound on the south coast of Devon. Devonshire cream is what one associates with this famous southern county, and on the slopes of this picturesque Sound the cattle grazed peacefully. We stayed for less than half an hour and were again in the Channel, plugging steadily along into a heavy sea which was running before a westerly gale. At last I was to see the Bay of Biscay in all its fury. Each wave seemed bigger than its predecessor, and we were soon in the throes of a raging storm. The Savan had more powerful engines than the Claverhill, but could make only slow headway against such a sea. As Madeira was our first port of call, we were on a south-westerly course, and met the full force of the storm. The fact that it took us nine days to steam about 1,200 miles is surely sufficient proof of the heavy weather encountered.
By this time I had become more intimately acquainted with my shipmates. Again I found the same different characters, representative of the various parts of Britain; the Chief was a Scot, the Second a Londoner, the Third a New Zealander, and the Fourth a merry Welshman from Cardigan. It is not generally understood why the Scot predominates in the marine engineering world. In addition to his natural genius for engineering, the young man of the north has many more
Before the Tyneside and Northern Ireland became serious rivals to the Clyde, the position was even more marked than it is to-day. They told me a story out East of a man who made a substantial bet that he could go aboard any steamer in the port of Singapore and get an answer in the affirmative if he called down into the engine-room, “Are you down there, Mac?” His wager was duly taken and away they went to settle this unusual bet. Going to a ship selected at random, the “positive” man, standing on the engine-room grating above, called out, “Are you down there, Mac?”
Back came the answer, “No, but Sandy is!”
As we got nearer Madeira the temperature rose and the sea became calmer. I do not remember a more perfect day than the one on which we reached this beautiful Portuguese island. Funchal, the chief town, is on the south coast, and the morning sun shining on the white houses made the place look most attractive as we approached the port.
I must have been a “white-haired boy” with Chiefs at this time, for I was given the day off. It seemed strange to see the streets paved with cobble-stones and sledges and carts being hauled by mules. The mules looked much better animals than the donkeys I used to ride as a boy on holidays on the beach at Sumner, a seaside town near Christchurch. My chief excitement of the day in Funchal was a ride down the mountainside overlooking the port. I do not remember the height of this mountain, but, after climbing nearly to the top and sampling the national beverage in a wine shop there, I took the opportunity of having a ride down in a sledge. The track was no more than three or four feet wide—like a narrow footpath. It was paved with cobble-stones, the path being hollow-shaped. A single-seater sledge was the conveyance used for this exciting run. The Portuguese boys who plied for hire stood on a platform at the back of their sledges and, when they gathered too much speed, jumped off and held them back with a rope, just
It was a delightful experience to spend even but one day on this famous island which is the resort of tourists seeking warmth and pleasure during the months of extreme cold experienced in Britain and Northern Europe.
Next day we were steaming due west, and the lovely weather and calm sea made life on board pleasant indeed. I had become used to hopping off on a 2,000-mile run; this one was to be through seas as smooth as the Mediterranean. I had by now got to know more about my fellow engineers. The first tit-bit I heard was that my Chief was a woman-hater. He would often make caustic comment on the fair sex, but I had not interpreted this as real antagonism. Mr Reid, a tall, lean man, was about sixty years of age, with a short, grey beard. He could be stern, yet was kindly in his ways. In his young days he had been an engineer in the P. & O. Company, sailing
Savan the same time as I did. He had just been installed in a Masonic Lodge, and one day brought out his little apron to show us. I did not know the ritual of the Craft, but when the Chief—also a Mason—came on the scene, he tore into the Second with a torrent of angry words. But the Second's worst offence was to occur one steaming-hot Sunday morning when we were lying in harbour at Trinidad; he came to the mess-room in his pyjamas! This made “Old Jock” again fly off the handle. Mr. Reid, with his P. & O. training, was not only a strict disciplinarian, but insisted on the routine etiquette and decorum of good British ships. Williams, the Fourth Engineer, was a grand little chap. Like all Welshmen, he was fond of music and played the guitar very well. He and I became great chums.
This gives a thumb-nail sketch of the company on our side of the ship. It will also enable the reader to picture us in the mess-room, chatting and arguing on all sorts of subjects. Mr. Reid was a well-informed man and, like Mr. McGill on the Claverhill, held sound opinions on many subjects.
We were now approaching the delightful islands of the West Indies, one of the oldest colonies of the Motherland. The weather was very warm, for we were now in the tropics. Our first call was at the island of St. Lucia of the Windward Group. Steaming into the beautiful harbour at Castries in the early morning, I saw the same green vegetation as is to be seen on the coast of Northern Queensland, and in the Far East. There was a British warship at anchor, and the men of this man-of-war were over the side having their morning swim. As the Savan moved slowly to her berthage, a number of small boats
Being now on the twelve to four watch, I was able to go ashore for the whole morning. The happy, laughing natives, with their flashing white teeth, were a pleasant people. I was to see natives of a better type than I had expected. Since then I have met their young men on the cricket field, and know how well-behaved they are. A walk in the gardens enabled me to see not only beautiful shrubs and flowers, but also the fascinating little humming birds. These birds, with their beaks into a flower and their wings buzzing like those of bees, as they poised to suck from a bloom, made an interesting study. I stood and gazed at them at their work, for work it was. The coco-nut palms were also a joy to see. I gave one of the black boys a silver coin to climb one. He was up the trunk in a twinkling and with his little hatchet was soon hacking away at the nuts and throwing them down. It was refreshing, on a hot day, to drink the milk from the nut the moment it came off the tree. It was a different experience and had a different taste from the milk of the coco-nuts that are sold in the fruit shops in New Zealand. On my first day in the West Indies I was to see enthusiastic little black fellows playing cricket. It
Leaving St. Lucia in the evening, and steaming past the island of St. Vincent, we arrived at Grenada at daylight the following morning. These early morning arrivals were always a practice followed as we moved from island to island. Attractive as the harbour of St. Lucia had been, Grenada's port was to prove one of the most charming harbours I had ever been in. It was an entrancing scene as we steamed slowly towards St. George, the chief seaport town of the island. Bush right down to the water's edge, with palms as plentiful as are ferns in the native forests of New Zealand, and hills in the background, one of which, if in Australia or England, was high enough to be called a mountain, completed a scene of extraordinary beauty. In the evening we were off again. St. Lucia and Grenada are but tiny dots on the map of the world, and are of lesser historical interest than Trinidad, the island at which we next called.
My excitement quickened as we steamed towards the entrance of the Gulf of Paria which is an inland sea similar to Port Philip at Melbourne and about the same size. Port of Spain, the capital of Trinidad, lies tucked away in the northeast corner of the Gulf and again the early morning sun shone on the town and the tropical vegetation. Before leaving London? I had purchased an enlarged map of the West Indies, and my experienced Chief, who had been many times to these parts, was kindly and helpful in explaining both the historical and geographical features of the different islands. Here I was to learn for the first time that in this very harbour Columbus had anchored his ships more than four hundred years before. The advent of this great pioneer explorer put Spain in the lead in “first-footing” this part of the world, for it was many years before the English and the French began to cast covetous eyes on these rich and beautiful islands. When the ships of these two nations did appear on the scene, the Spaniards fought them each in turn, but Spain was already on the decline as a great power, and, apparently satisfied to be left in possession of the great island of Cuba, allowed England and France to fight it out for possession of the Leeward and Windward Groups of islands; and fight they did, for there was intense rivalry between the two greatest naval powers of
Port of Spain is an interesting town, with many fine old buildings, the architecture of which varies according to the period of their erection, and whether designed by Spaniards, Frenchmen or Englishmen. To cricketers, it is interesting to note that both Lord Harris and Sir Pelham Warner were born here. With the West Indies being a Crown Colony, many noted Englishmen have taken part in its administration; Lord Harris's father once being Governor. During this, my first trip to these islands, the M.C.C. English cricket team of 1904 was playing a series of Test Matches in Australia, with
When an attempt was first made to get down to an exact definition of the qualifications required of a player for International cricket. Lord Harris insisted that birth only should be the guiding principle. “He must be born in the country he plays for,” said his lordship.
Warner turned, and said neatly, “My Lord, under such a rule, rigidly adhered to, neither you nor I could have played for England!” It would also have debarred Ranjitsinhji, and as
After discharging more general cargo, we left Port of Spain for Georgetown, British Guiana, about 300 miles along the north coast of South America in an easterly direction. Passing
To complete discharging and begin loading outward cargo, we stayed several days in this port. One of our passengers was the attractive daughter of the owner of a sugar mill and plantation on the outskirts of the town. On board ship, deck officers have plenty of opportunity to make the acquaintance of passengers, for part of their duties is to assist in their entertainment. There must have been some dark horses on the Savan for, when it came to Sunday, it was the Third and Fourth Engineers who were invited to dinner at the home of the plantation owner! We were afterwards shown over the sugar mill, which I thought less up-to-date than the one I had seen in Northern Queensland.
During the day—in fact every day when I was there— Georgetown experienced a stifling heat, similar to the heat of Sydney on a hot day. The residents, however, received compensation when, late in the afternoon, a gentle breeze blew in from the sea. In Melbourne, it had been a popular custom between four and five to walk the “Block”; this was a famous stretch of wide footpath in Collins Street, between Swanston and Elizabeth Streets. In Georgetown, it was the fashion and practice to drive or walk along the foreshore during the last hour before dusk. In this way one saw all the leading white people of the place, and was able to appreciate how this change of temperature lifted Demerara from being a place in which it was unbearable to live.
I naturally went to see the cricket ground, for, with little black fellows playing wherever they could, it revived one's thoughts of the game. I have never seen grass as green as that of the Demerara oval! Situated as it was in the unique setting of surrounding tropical trees and vegetation, it made a picture that rivalled Cheshunt in England. I was fascinated with the enthusiasm of these native boys. On one open space, where the ground had a definite slope, I saw a group of boys playing away to their heart's content. Sticks for wickets, the crudest of
The interest of the Chief Engineer of the S.S. Claverhill in the kind of cargoes carried no doubt awakened my own interest in the cargo now being stowed in the holds of the Savan. The briquettes, copra, and iron ore on the Claverhill had certainly been far less profitable freights than the sugar, rum, and cocoa beans—to mention only three of the important exports from these prolific islands. Leaving Georgetown, we retraced our steps to the islands previously called at, besides visiting several others. Our last port of call was Antigua, and the Savan was nicely down to her marks when we set sail for London. The announcement that we were to call at Le Havre, to discharge part of our cocoa cargo, added interest to the return voyage.
The calm of the tropics was again with us, and we had a splendid run most of the way. After passing the Azores the wind changed, and we crossed the Bay of Biscay in squally weather. This time we were on the French side of the English Channel. We came abreast of Ushant Island, famous for its lighthouse opposite Land's End. Next appeared Brest in the distance on our starboard bow. The mention of this naval base on the extreme west corner of France raised for discussion the question of the Siege of Brest. It always surprised me how much seafaring men knew of incidents in historic naval actions of the past. This was especially so with experienced captains and chief engineers. As we approached this western naval base of France, I was able to appreciate more than I had at school the magnificent performance of the first Lord Hawke and his gallant men in keeping the French fleet bottled up in Brest at a time when England was threatened with invasion. It was in weather such as we were now experiencing that this famous Admiral maintained the blockade throughout the winter months, and frustrated the French plan to attack the shores of England. During a raging storm, and in thick weather, the French fleet managed to slip out of port, but Hawke, who,
After passing Brest, it was not long before we were steaming between the islands of the Channel group. Guernsey and Alderney were both passed close by and, rounding Cape Hague, we were soon abreast of Cherbourg. When passing this French port the Chief Engineer told us that it was here, in the 'nineties, where experiments with the first submarine were carried out. The little submarine used to submerge in Cherbourg harbour and come to the surface outside of the breastwork protecting the port, while crowds waited anxiously on the pier for the small craft to reappear. There was no periscope in the submarine at this time.
We were now in the estuary of the Seine, approaching Le Havre, situated at the tip of a peninsula that juts out into the Channel. One wondered why this great seaport was not built in a more sheltered part of the estuary of the Seine. That this was not possible will be seen from the following: When the tide is receding, the waters of the Seine flow serenely on into the Channel, but, when the tide turns, there begins a contest between the river and the sea, resulting in the building up of a wall of sand right across the estuary, just above Le Havre. At first this halts the flow of the on-coming tide, until the sea-level rises above that of the river; suddenly, the sea breaks through and over the sand bar, and at the peak of spring tides this tidal wave reaches menacing proportions, sometimes up to six or seven feet high, and does not spend itself until after passing Rouen, more than fifty miles up this
On arrival at Le Havre, the scenes on the wharf, and on our ship, were similar to those at Marseilles, when the Claverhill arrived at that port, except that the people were not as dark-complexioned, nor as excitable as were those of the South of France.
In British and American ports, seafaring men who go ashore to the theatre usually patronize those of the music hall or variety type. On the Continent, and in France in particular, entertainments of a similar kind are usually what one might call a little more daring. Every French city of note has its “Folies Bergères.” In the show we went to all the songs were in French, so at first it was the music, bare shoulders and dancing eyes of the female performers that held our attention. We were prepared for bare shoulders and the lower yokes of their dresses, but when the curtain rose on one scene, where a bevy of girls—practically nude—stood lined up and began to dance, well …! I, at any rate, was dumbfounded. So here were the naughty young women Chief Engineer McGill had shielded me from at Marseilles! The girls were all so young, so good-looking, and were so beautifully formed that one's first shock of amazement and surprise was gradually changed to impersonal admiration, for they were the perfect figures that sculptors and the great masters have hewn and painted from time immemorial. An elderly American lady once said to me, “If a woman has a beautiful figure, why shouldn't she show it off?” These were to prove prophetic words for, in these modern times, the more perfect the figure, the lower the bodice of the evening gown, the smaller the bathing costume, and the shorter the shorts on the tennis court. Certainly the young men of to-day cannot get the same shock that I got when these nymphs of France danced on the stage at Le Havre. Forty years ago it was considered immodest if a little bit of white petticoat was showing! There would have been consternation had a modern flapper walked into a drawing-room
As illustrating the excessive modesty of the Victorian era, and carried over into this century by the older generations of that period, I must relate a happening in Christchurch nearly twenty years after my visit to Le Havre. Harry Lauder had already won a world-wide reputation prior to 1914. During the Great World War he rendered splendid service entertaining the soldiers behind the lines—even after his only son had been killed in the trenches. When the war was over, a tour of the Empire was eagerly sought after by the Dominions, and when he eventually came, received an enthusiastic reception. He stirred the hearts of the men and women from Scotland as they had not been stirred since they left their “land o' the heather.” He revived their broad Scotch which had not been heard for many years. My mother did not go to the theatre, but, of course, she must see and hear the famous Lauder. Although his concert was given in the only theatre in Christchurch, this was different from a theatrical company, for he was an entertainer, not an actor, although acting was undoubtedly his long suit. We finally persuaded mother to come with us. She was then over seventy years of age, so it was somewhat difficult for her to make up her mind, and she was naturally excited as we made our way to a good position in the stalls. Lauder had a few vaudeville artists in his party, and the first item on the programme was a trapeze act by two young women. When these girls came on to the stage, dressed in tights displaying their shapely figures, my mother gave one look of horror and with an exclamation of “Oooh!” dropped her face into her hands for a moment, and would not again look up until the girls had left the stage. How we laughed! She was able to laugh with us afterwards, but insisted on calling them “bold hussies.” What would my mother have said of the performance at Le Havre?
The young engineers and officers of the steamer Savan did not drop their faces into their hands when confronted with the sight of these ballet dancers in their “Garden of Eden” costumes, nor were they as indifferent as was the American traveller visiting Coventry on the day Lady Godiva rode through the streets of the city. When called to the window of
Leaving Le Havre the following day, we were soon passing through the Straits of Dover, and next day were in London. So ended my first voyage to the West Indies.
Instead of living on board ship while in London, we were given an allowance to cover the cost of board and lodgings ashore. This meant I again took up my room in Canning Town, at the boarding-house that catered mainly for marine engineers; several other New Zealanders made this house their headquarters. The hours of work on the Savan were from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. each weekday, with a half-holiday on Saturday, and all Sunday off. This gave us much more freedom, for with no steam up there was no necessity for an engineer to remain on board at night. We always had about three weeks in London between voyages, and this provided further opportunities of seeing the great metropolis. There were several homes in London where I was made welcome, but I also saw a good deal of the theatre life. The music-halls were always an attraction for seafaring men, while light opera and musical plays were also patronized.
It was now mid-summer and I was able to fit in a game of cricket for Tottenham; this turned out to be the only cricket I was to get during my first three years at sea.
I was surprised to learn that instead of bunkering in London, the Savan steamed up the coast to the Tyne, took in coal, and was soon on her way back to London. Another week loading and we were away on my second voyage to the West Indies.
Again a good trip and once more making St. Lucia the first port of call, we went on to discharge our cargo at the same ports. Finishing at Georgetown, we returned to Trinidad, to load a full cargo of pitch. We steamed along the coast of this island to the port of La Brea, which is about thirty miles south of Port of Spain. It was interesting to walk over the pitch lake on Sunday afternoon. The name suggests a liquid like tar, but to my surprise the pitch was solid and except for a slight sponginess, was little different from walking on a bitumen road on a hot day. As the lake is about a mile from the wharf, the pitch, picked out as though it were coal, was shovelled into large buckets and conveyed on a wire rope to the wharf. The weather was extremely hot and to prevent the pitch sticking to the ship's sides and bulkheads, the holds were white-washed throughout. In a few days we were fully loaded and steamed out of the bay on our direct run to London.
Trinidad pitch is the best quality of all bitumens, but could not then have been faced with the present-day by-products of the oil-fields, for we were told that there was an export duty of five shillings a ton. This was, of course, a valuable contribution to the Exchequer, but in open competition with the newer product would be bound to prove something of a handicap.
Another fine trip across the Atlantic saw us make London in good time. When it came to discharging, it was found that the heat of the tropics had made the pitch settle down, and the
Part of our cargo was for Amsterdam so, when half discharged, we left for that port. It was my watch when we left the docks. Steaming slowly down the Thames, the engine-room telegraph suddenly rang “Stop,” “Full Astern.” Presently there was a slight bump. The Chief came down and told me we had hit a barge and that the old Savan was steering badly. It turned out that when we had discharged the London portion of the cargo the vessel was trimmed to an even keel, perhaps slightly down by the head. This made for bad steering, especially in a flowing river. Seafaring men will know that ships are always loaded a little by the stern to make them answer quickly to the helm.
We reached Gravesend only after many anxious moments experienced by the pilot and our Captain. Out in the estuary we had more room to manœuvre, but it was still not pleasant for those on the bridge. The old Savan was steering such a zigzag course that when darkness fell the Captain hoisted two red lights, one above the other on the masthead, to signify that we were not under proper control.
On the following afternoon we approached the entrance to the North Sea Canal. It was a thrill to see what I had been taught at school—that some parts of Holland are below sea-level. Amsterdam is about twenty miles from the coast, so it will be appreciated that it was a great engineering feat on the part of the Dutch to connect their capital city with the North Sea. Prior to the building of this canal, Amsterdam's only connection with the sea was through the shallow waters of the Zuider Zee. As we steamed along, it seemed strange to be looking down on the land beyond the wall of the canal. The old-fashioned windmills, typical of Holland, could be seen dotted about the countryside. We, in New Zealand, think of a windmill as providing only enough power to drive a water pump; in Holland, they grind their corn and do many other jobs with power develped by those huge latticed blades on the slowly turning wheels. From the deck of the ship we saw bright young women with coloured dresses, aprons and clogs, and one thought of the song, “Gretchen von Gretchen,
Ships naturally steam very slowly up this canal, so there was plenty of time to take in everything as we passed. On berthing at the wharf one noted the friendly attitude and pleasant manners of the Dutch people. Picking out our pitch cargo again meant more delay, but in a place like Amsterdam I'm afraid one forgot about the owners having such a bad time with a cargo that must have proved unprofitable.
A whole day off in this fine old city proved an unforgettable experience, for one was able to visit the Art Gallery and see some of the famous and priceless paintings that the old Dutch masters gave to the world. I engaged a man to show me over this gallery, so gained a far better impression than would have been otherwise possible.
It was interesting to see the canals that run through the city. Amsterdam is shaped like a half-circle, with streets radiating from the central area, and others, like rims crossing the spokes of a wheel, run round the city in ever-increasing semicircles. It would prove tedious to recite the buildings and places I saw. Suffice it to say that this capital city of Holland impressed me greatly. The people, too, looked jovial and happy. The world was a happy place in those days—at least it seemed so to me. I had seen the Chinaman at Hong Kong, the Filipino of Manila, the French at Marseilles and Havre, Spaniards at La Garucha, the natives of the West Indies, Portugese at Madeira and now the Dutchmen, all full of laughter, chattering and friendly, and appearing not to have a care in the world.
We received a visit from a man selling pictures in oils and water-colours, and many were good. To judge by his appearance he himself was an artist, for he wore a black felt hat, long hair, beard and large bow tie. Try as he would, he was unable to effect a sale. The prices of the pictures were in excess of the amount an officer or engineer usually spends at a port of call. Finally, in desperation, our artist friend turned to us with a look of scorn, and said disgustedly, “Englishmen! Roast beef and football!” and walked away. How we laughed! Many years afterwards I was to hear this jibe matched by a quick reply from an American who, when asked what had impressed him most in New Zealand, said, “Sheep and goal-posts!”
From Amsterdam we sailed straight to the Tyneside to bunker, then back to London, where we were soon loading again for the West Indies.
The Bay of Biscay was again kind to us, and on the rest of the journey we had our usual calm sea and warm weather.
By now I had discovered that these Scrutton boats did not get a great share of the passenger traffic between London and the West Indies. The Royal Mail Company, with ships of the liner class trading out of Southampton, won most of the substantial tourist traffic to the islands. We still carried our few passengers, but it will be appreciated that carrying cargoes like pitch, and leaving for London direct from the loading wharf over the bay, do not sound like catering for passengers.
On this voyage we called at several other islands farther north in the Leeward group. A stay of a few hours at Montserrat, then across to complete our loading at Antigua, and we were homeward bound. As on our first voyage, the return journey included a Continental port of call—this time Antwerp. Another fine trip and we were again steaming up the Channel.
On the first part of the run to the West Indies, we occasionally saw big liners that trade to the Far East, Australia, South Africa, New Zealand, or to South America. We were, however, far from the beaten track of the fast Cunard and White Star liners, which, at that time, traded between Liverpool and New York. It was, therefore, something of a thrill to learn that the Deutschland, Germany's crack Atlantic liner, was overhauling us when we were in mid-Channel. I was on watch at the time, but told the donkey-man to go up now and again to keep me advised as she rapidly gained on us. I first saw her when she was about half a mile astern, but was scarcely down below again when my man called out, “She's abeam, sir!” By the time I reached the engine-room door on deck she was actually ahead of us! Doing her twenty-four knots, this big, four-funnelled liner made a fine sight. She had won from the Lucania the Blue Riband of the Atlantic, and the Germans were justly proud. She was making for Bremen, so we did not see her again.
It was interesting to enter in daylight the wide mouth of the Schelde, the estuary of which is about thirty miles long, then steam on up the river for another ten miles to reach the busiest and greatest seaport of Belgium. Antwerp handles an immense
There were splendid monuments, the most outstanding being that of Leopold I. I got a surprise when I suddenly came upon what must be one of the most extraordinary pieces of statuary to be seen anywhere; this is the “Manneken Pis,” which represents a small boy in the nude standing on a pedestal making water, with the city water supply providing a steady stream. One had to stop, stare and laugh. They told me the legendary story of how, many years ago, it was the custom when a son and heir to the throne was born, it had to be proven in public that he was a male. Another version was that the little Prince got lost and when found was in the attitude depicted by the statue; I don't know which is correct.
I was rather ambitious that day, for late in the afternoon I enquired if it was possible to pay a visit to the battlefield of Waterloo. Although this famous place was less than twenty miles away, the fact that I had to be back in Antwerp that night made me abandon the idea. On the following day I had only the forenoon ashore, so had another hurried look round Antwerp. Like all old Continental cities, there was a wonderful cathedral.
Next day we left for London, berthing on the following morning in the East India Dock. After discharging the balance of our cargo the Savan went into dry-dock for annual survey, and all on boad appreciated this extra week in London. There are some ports one is glad to get away from, but never London. I was able to see numbers of friends, spend more evenings in the West End, and see more and more of the entertainments under the bright lights of the city.
At last we were away again on my fourth and last voyage
Four voyages to the West Indies had enabled me to acquire much knowledge of these famous islands, and learn of their importance in the fabric of the British Empire. Long before Australia and New Zealand had been discovered, and before any part of Canada figured as a British possession, these islands had been the scene of bitter fighting between three great powers. In the end, the indomitable spirit and the fighting qualities of the men of old England prevailed and, except for one or two islands, the Leeward and Windward Groups became a British Colony. Spread out like a string of pearls, no two islands are a hundred miles apart.
Although the Savan's main ports of discharge were the four I have already described, we always called at additional islands to complete our loading. On one voyage we steamed past the French island of Martinique and close to the port of St. Pierre, which, but two years earlier, had been practically obliterated by a devastating volcanic eruption. On the bright sunny afternoon when we passed, the volcano, at the extreme north of the island, and close to the port, could be plainly seen. It appeared as though someone had emptied a huge barrel of cement mortar over the mountain, for the grey-coloured lava was clearly visible as the setting sun shone on its western slopes.
This moving about from island to island presented me with opportunities of learning something about the nature and the potential value of the trade of the colony. I was surprised at the part cocoa played in the export trade, for its value exceeded that of sugar, which I had always thought was the principal product. Sugar and cocoa were common to all the islands, but at some we loaded coffee and cotton, as well as fruit. Mention of the latter reminds me of an amusing incident on the Savan. We had some cases of fruit stacked on deck and, to the Mate's annoyance, it was discovered that someone had broken into one of the cases, and each night more of the fruit disappeared. The Mate said to us, “I'll catch the b ….” He caught him all right, for that night he set a rat-trap in the case; next morning one of the firemen came on watch with a bandaged hand. Harsh and perhaps cruel—but effective! As we cruised among the islands, I was to learn of the lime-juice
All this study of the physical features of the islands proved extremely interesting, but even more fascinating were the tales of great adventurers and sailors of long ago. The names of Raleigh, Drake and Rodney will suffice to show that many of Britain's famous men of different periods played a part in the adventure and fighting that occurred in and around the islands of one of Britain's oldest colonies. As on the Claverhill, it was the Captain and Chief Engineer who supplied me with most information, but I never missed an opportunity of discussion with our agents, all of whom knew something of the history of their own particular island—if not of the whole group. On my second voyage, I purchased a history-book and re-read the lessons of schooldays, which, combined with the stories told me on board ship and ashore, helped me to gain a general knowledge of the eventful past of these famous islands. My previous assignment of Drake to a place in history was solely on account of his annihilation of the Spanish Armada. Here, I was passing over scenes of his earlier and daring exploits. The tale of his attack on San Domingo is an amazing one and is recalled by some of Mountbatten's Commando exploits of the second World War. Our old skipper never tired of reminding us that Drake was a product of the Mercantile Marine!
On this, my last voyage to the West Indies, we were ordered to proceed to Belize, in British Honduras, Central America, to load a cargo of mahogany for London. After being used to steaming overnight, distances of eighty to a hundred miles, from one island to another, this trip of nearly two thousand miles was like an ocean-going one. Completing our discharge at Georgetown, we set off in steaming hot weather. After passing between Trinidad and Tobago, we turned to a more westerly course and were soon travelling along the coast of Venezuela. There is little doubt that but for the difficulties in the way of penetrating the interior, the Spaniards would have developed this part of South America into a great colony that might to-day have borne the same relation to Spain as Brazil does to Portugal. Great rivers, of which Orinoco is the largest, give access to the hinterland, but tropical fevers strike down the strongest men. This accounts for Spain being content to
In a few days Curaçao was pointed out in the distance. The Dutch as well as the British were intrepid explorers, and here we find them in possession of islands right up against the mainland. This seemed to be further evidence that in the earliest years the Spaniards looked upon small islands as chicken feed, for all could have been theirs for the taking.
We were now crossing the great gulf that reaches down to Panama. On the starboard side we caught a glimpse of distant Jamaica, the biggest island of the British West Indies. In two days' time we reached our destination. Belize is a famous old pirate station where frigates, galleons and galleys raced with their plunder. Trade between Mexico and Europe was on a considerable scale long before the North Atlantic became the principal route between the Old and New Worlds. It mattered little to these desperate pirates whether it was bullion from the goldfields of Mexico, or valuable inward cargoes for the inhabitants of that Spanish colony. British ships trading to the West Indies were also fair game.
The island of Turneffe stands some distance off-shore, but there are many little islands between this and the mainland, and one could almost think they were sentinels keeping guard. Inside is a fine open bay, across which we steamed to drop anchor off the town just before dark. This far-distant place is seldom seen by tourists. It was interesting to hear stories of the old-time pirates and learn something of the history of the place.
At six o'clock next morning I was awakened by the rattle of a winch working and, looking out of the port-hole, saw a raft of logs being hauled from the shore. It was a slow job, but in time the timber was alongside and a quantity allotted to each hatch. The logs had been hewn in the bush, just as much of the hardwood in Australia is prepared for the market, and as are birch and silver pine railway sleepers in the forests of New Zealand. It would not have been possible to raft Australian iron-bark, for it will not float; mahogany, on the other hand, is very buoyant and the native lads ran from log to log without the slightest concern. Lifting from the water into the holds was very different from the usual loading methods of timber
We were busy in the engine-room, having broken one of the piston rings in the low pressure cylinder on the run from Georgetown. We had spare rings on board for the H.P. and M.P. cylinders, but not for the L.P.; this meant repairing the broken ring. The Chief told me to do the job, which meant fixing a steel strap on the inside of the ring and fastening with bolt studs. It was an easy matter to prepare the strap, but it was a more ticklish job to scribe the holes in the ring and bore so that the pressure was inwards, holding the broken parts tightly together. The Chief stood over me in the final stages.
It was on the Sunday that I was to have an experience that I cannot readily forget. Our Chief Officer, usually called the Mate on cargo steamers, was fond of yachting and asked permission of the Captain to take one of the life-boats, rig it up in sail, and spend the day among the islands—a thousand islands, they said, but there could not have been as many as that. On a warm, sunny morning away went two mates and three engineers. The latter did not know the first thing about sailing, but with a pleasant breeze and the Mate at the tiller, there was little to do. Everyone was as happy as Larry and we chatted and laughed, called our Mate a typical old pirate, and the ten to fifteen miles' run to the nearest island seemed little more than an ordinary harbour trip. On arrival there, we were to be repaid with an amazing close-up picture of luxuriant tropical vegetation and trees such as I had often seen from a more distant view in other parts of the world. The channels between the islands were often no wider than the streets and lanes of a city. With the sail hauled down, we paddled with the oars here and there, entranced with the scenery. The bottom of the sea was of pure white coral, and the water was as clear as crystal. We moved out of the sun into the shade of overhanging trees, and again into the open,
After lunch, we again moved in and out among the small islands, some of them only fifty and a hundred yards long, so it was easy to understand the term—“a thousand islands.” Presently we came to a jetty, and the noise of our laughter attracted the attention of an old man who invited us to have a drink. He was a Greek and said his place was known as One Man Island, for he lived alone in his snug little home, built of pit sawn and hewn timber. We sat round his living-room to have drinks of coconut milk with “something” added! He did not tell us what it was, but it had a pleasant taste; the “Belize Cocktail” would have been a good name!
As we sat talking, someone said: “What's that?” pointing to the side of the wall, about the height of the picture railing. We all turned to view what was obviously the backbone of a fish.
The old man said quietly, “Oh, that's the backbone of a shark I caught off the end of my jetty a month or two ago!” then added, “It's the biggest one I ever caught, so thought I'd keep it as a relic.” Our chaps stared, blinked, and looked at me. We all laughed, but it was not a hilarious laugh! When we told the Greek the story he shook his head seriously and said, “Oh, no—you can't swim here!”
The Royal Humane Society does not grant bronze medals for all forms of life-saving, but it is certain that had I not remained adamant that day, someone would have been torn to pieces in the warm, still waters around those islands.
Our stay at One Man Island had taken up a good deal of time and we realized the need to hurry to get back to our ship before dark. After thanking our host of this outlandish part, we rowed away along the narrow lanes of beauty, but did not have time for any further exploring, even though the late afternoon sun threw longer and darker shadows, making the scenery even more beautiful. We were soon out in the open bay and this time the Mate had to bring out his yachting capabilities, for we faced a light head wind, and this meant tacking from port to starboard and back to port. To our disgust we were soon to feel the breeze fall away with the setting sun, and before long were hardly moving. Presently the sail began to flap and our craft lost all way.
Here was a nice situation! Ten miles to go, with nothing but the oars to take us back. There was no alternative, so we took it turn about, with a long, long pull. The sun was fast setting and as darkness so soon follows sunset in the tropics, we were left with but the foreshore lights and the lights of our ship at anchor to guide us home. At first it was fun, with the engineers now pulling their weight, for we were younger than the mates. We sang songs and bucked ourselves up in other ways, but before long the swish of the oars was the only sound to be heard, for it was becoming hard work and to make matters worse the tide was against us. Two hours after dusk we reached the gangway of our ship to be met by our anxious Captain. By then we were all-in, tired and hungry, with blistered hands and sore seats. It was certainly a day of experiences. A hot bath and hot dinner from a kindly cook (in days when cooks did not demand overtime) who had kept our meals in the oven for us, soon restored our spirits. Lounging in deck-chairs in the hot evening brought comfort and rest to our limbs, and in the ensuing chatter it may be taken for granted that the shark story found a place.
Belize needs little description. Being anchored off-shore, none of us saw much of the place. This very old town had simply grown of its own accord. When I read recently of the town being practically wiped out by fire, I was able to picture
At last we were loaded. It had been a long stay. We got away in the forenoon and again had a good view of the protecting islands. We also understood the choice of Belize as a refuge for hard-boiled, plundering sea-dogs.
When leaving a port in which repairs have been carried out, it is the practice of marine engineers to keep a close watch on the parts that have been overhauled. Sound and touch are their chief guides. Needless to say I listened intently to the working of the low-pressure cylinder. The rattle of the broken piston ring had disappeared and the smooth-running of the engine denoted the success of the repair job.
As we steamed due north towards the Gulf of Mexico, the temperature of the sea made it apparent that we were at the fountain-head of the great Gulf Stream. Commencing in these parts, it flows around and across the Gulf of Mexico, through the Straits of Florida, up the North American coast for some distance and then turns across the Atlantic. It is this warm stream moving across the North Atlantic which alone saves Scotland and Norway from being icebound during the winter months, and gives England a more temperate climate than she would otherwise have. The temperature of the sea is regularly kept by each watch in the engine-room. In the north of the Red Sea the thermometer on the old Claverhill registered 82 degrees and in the region of Singapore it was the same. Here, in Central America, it jumped to 84 degrees; I think this must be the warmest sea-water in the world.
A few hours out from Belize there was a bang and a rattle round the back of the main engines. A feed pump valve was broken! The engines had to be stopped at once, and soon the “white feather” was showing; the blowing off of the boilers made a tremendous noise. The Chief rushed down and soon we were busy putting in a spare valve. It was unbearably hot—more so because we were at a standstill.
Presently we heard sounds from the deck: “Bang! Bang!” Then again the crack of firearms. As the Second was doing the repair job, the Chief turned to me and said, “Run up and see what that noise is.” On deck I was to see a sight I shall
Crossing Yucatan Channel, between the southern part of Mexico and Cuba, we passed Cape Antonio at the extreme end of this island. Turning almost due east, we passed Havana, known throughout the world for its cigars. Now in the Straits of Florida and fast approaching the shores of the State of that name, we felt the advantage of travelling with the Gulf Stream which flows at several knots. The Bahamas were on our star-board side, but we did not get a close view until passing between the mainland and the Great Bahama, the most western island of this famous group. Steaming on up the coast, we called at Newport News to replenish our bunkers, and in a few hours were on the last stage of our journey—the straight run across the Atlantic to London. My good luck held for, although we were now crossing at a much higher latitude than the usual run home from the West Indies, the weather was still good and the sea comparatively calm.
This was my last trip to the West Indies; these voyages had occupied twelve months and during the whole of that full year the only really rough weather I had experienced was during the nine days' run to Madeira on the first trip. My voyage out East on the Claverhill and these trips to the West Indies more than completed the eighteen months' service at sea which is necessary before qualifying to sit for a Second Engineer's certificate.
When we were berthed in the East India Dock I felt as though it was the end of one great voyage—as indeed it was— and I was loath to say good-bye to good comrades whom I
I was able to look back with a great deal of pleasure on these runs across the Atlantic. There had been a happy atmosphere on the old Savan, and this means a great deal in life aboard ship. Our Chief, John Reid, was a splendid Scotsman. This tall, gaunt man could be stern as well as kindly, but only once or twice did I see him lose his temper. Leaving London on the outward journey, we were often troubled with drunk firemen. There was never any difficulty getting out of port, for we always had the donkeyman to help in maintaining sufficient steam. The trouble usually started when the watches were set and the engineer had to do his best with his firemen. We were out in the Thames Estuary when the pressure gauge began to go back and back. Going into the stokehold, I found one fireman lying on the stokehold plates hopelessly drunk. The other fellow was also intoxicated, but able to stand up and was singing away as he tried to rake and slice, with but very little effect. I at once set about to help him. An engineer's ear becomes trained to the beat of his engines, and our Chief on deck could tell that the steady throb was not there, so down he came. When he saw the drunken fireman on the floor he gave a yell and with one bound to the ash cock, took hold of the canvas hose, turned on the sea water, and put it full bore on to the drunken man, with immediate effect, for he “came-to” quicker than Jack Hulbert's mother-in-law on the golf links! Only a Chief Engineer could have taken such action. One watch was always sufficient to enable these firemen to get over their bouts ashore and we would have no more trouble for the rest of the voyage.
The Second Engineer was a Cockney, like the Third on the Claverhill, but did not have the same sense of humour. It was the Fourth and I who chummed up most. Williams of Cardigan was a splendid companion. He added life to the ship with his guitar, laughed more than anyone else and when excited broke into almost pure Welsh. I liked him very much.
Savan, but the Mates were changed almost every trip. One Mate—a real hard shot—when he heard I came from New Zealand, said, “I know Riccarton at Christchurch.” He also knew Randwick in Sydney, so was obviously a racing fan. In all seriousness he told us that he was once so hard up in Sydney, New South Wales, that he preached a sermon one Sunday morning on Circular Quay. He said the collection was thirteen shillings and ninepence! On another occasion a new Second Mate joined the Savan. He was a dashing young fellow, with a name well-known in trade circles in London. He said he had to leave home as a lad because of an interfering, mischief-making old maiden aunt. When pressed for more details he admitted there was a parlour-maid involved, but still blamed the old aunt!
As on the Claverhill, the mess-room talk was not only bright and entertaining, but often instructive. The Chief, like Mr. McGill, was keenly interested in politics, believed in Chamberlain's new policy, and was a Conservative. It was strange to me that these two men, who had both risen from the ranks, should be against the Liberals.
And so ended one of the brightest periods of my seafaring career.
Back in my old rooms in Canning Town, I was now ready to prepare for my examination. There were several schools in London where marine engineers were coached preparatory to going before the Board of Trade examiners. I chose that of Mr. James Boyd—“Jimmy” Boyd as he was known to everyone. A breezy personality, with a long beard and a wooden leg, he used to come stumping round the room to overlook our work and always had something bright to say. An old engineer of the P. & O. Line, he had traded to Australia in his younger days. Most of the young colonial engineers went to Boyd's school for their coaching. I had done a fair amount of study on the Savan, so needed only the final cram—for cramming it was. To pass for a Second's Certificate does not need a great deal of scholarship; all the examiners want is proof of a level head, with a good general knowledge of the operations of the main engines and auxiliary plant. Electricity and turbines had already been added to the examination
Perhaps the most trying questions for young engineers are the oral ones. I was surprised to find how nervous some are. They would often know the answer, but could not explain it. Such experiences have resulted in many humorous stories being handed down over the years. Everyone knows the usual answer to “What is a spiral staircase?”
To engineering questions there are many such makeshift answers. “Explain suction,” said one examiner. After a long pause, the candidate drew in his breath like sucking up water!
On another occasion a young fellow was asked: “Supposing the salinometer cock blew out and the engine-room became filled with steam—what steps would you take …?”
“The engine-room steps, sir!” came the quick reply.
The most humorous of all these questions and answers was the one about cutting off steam in the stroke of the piston. I should first explain that the Aberfeldy is a famous hotel, half-way along the East India Dock Road, and known to all British sailors. The question was: “Where (under certain circumstances) would you cut off steam?” The pupil was puzzled and hesitated whether to say half the length of the stroke, or more, or less, and finally could give no answer at all. Changing the question to a fantastic simile, the examiner asked, “Supposing you had a cylinder as long as East India Dock Road, where would you cut off steam?”
“At the Aberfeldy, sir,” replied the now more confident candidate!
When I called a few days later at the examiners' office, I was pleased to learn that I had passed, and lost little time in sending a cable to my mother in New Zealand. It is a strange thing with colonials that a London certificate was more prized than any other. Both London and Edinburgh degrees were valued in the same way by the medical profession, although there was a time when the Edinburgh one was preferred.
It was now necessary to put in another twelve months'
Awaiting instructions, I enjoyed seeing London in every possible way and came to love the old city as all Londoners— all Englishmen, for that matter—love it.
In a week's time I was appointed to the S.S Dominion, then in London and about to proceed to Canada to enter the coastal trade between Nova Scotia and Montreal.
Having developed an enthusiasm for seeing the world, especially the British Empire, I welcomed this opportunity of seeing the famous St. Lawrence River and parts of Canada, and did not hesitate to accept the position of Third Engineer. The Dominion was a bigger ship than either the Claverhill or the Savan, but her engines were right aft, as also was our accommodation. This may not signify much to the reader, nor does it when in port. At sea, however, as far as position on the ship is concerned, it was as steerage accommodation compared with the saloon. I was to learn this before the end of my service on the Dominion!
It was good news to learn that we were loading a full cargo for Gibraltar and from there proceed to Halifax. Our cargo was mainly naval stores, and, as it turned out, this was to result in having five days in Gibraltar.
We arrived at this great fortress port to find the Royal Yacht was there, with Queen Alexandra and Princess Victoria aboard. Squadrons of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean fleets were in port. The whole place was decorated with bunting, and flags fluttered from every warship anchored in line down the harbour. At night it was a dazzling sight, for on every naval vessel the masts, rigging and hull were outlined with electric lights. Each ship stood out as did the railway stations in Melbourne on the occasion of the visit of the Duke and Duchess of York. Every berth was occupied, so we lay at anchor inside the harbour, and had a splendid view.
On the following morning most of us went ashore to see the Queen and Princess drive through the town. Crowds lined the streets and the Spaniards were just as excited as British residents. I got a close view of the Queen—far closer than I had in London—and she looked charming.
That the Dominion had arrived in Gibraltar at a propitious
Royal Albert steamed slowly out of port, and as we watched her sail away other ships were seen coming in. By this time we knew what to expect. It was the Hohenzollern, the German Royal Yacht, with Kaiser Wilhelm on board, escorted by two German cruisers. We were naturally excited, for while all on our ship had at some time or other seen Queen Alexandra, few, if any, had seen the Kaiser. On came the yacht, steaming slowly through the moles quite close to us. We could now see the Emperor's party on board. Without delay the Hohenzollern crept up between the two lines of British battleships and dropped anchor in their midst.
It seemed remarkable that the German Emperor should be received at a place like Gibraltar, for this was the key to the Mediterranean. He could not have been disappointed with his welcome, for he was warmly received, and the British know exactly how such receptions should be carried out.
After the Hohenzollern had anchored, the two accompanying cruisers came slowly through the moles, until all eyes were upon them. They were to berth at the breakwater right opposite us. A British warship, the Royal Sovereign, was already berthed there, bow on to their approach. Presently the first German cruiser manœuvred for position and then moved forward towards the British ship. We thought she was moving a bit fast, but knowing the power of a cruiser's engines, did not at first take more than casual notice. Next we saw the white foam aft, showing that the engines were full astern. To everyone's amazement the German cruiser did not stop, but crashed heavily into the British ship. One can show off in a pinnace when the engines are powerful and the hull light in structure, but not with heavy warships. No doubt this was the end of the German Captain's command, for we heard next day that the Kaiser was very angry over this untimely incident. There was a pilot on board, but we were told that the German commander overruled him. That the collision was no slight matter may be gathered from the fact that the British ship began immediately to settle by the head. The bulkhead collision-doors would naturally limit the amount of water, but without delay she was moved from her berth to the dock. We all went round to the dry-dock late that afternoon. Below the water-line of the bow there was a hole big enough for
That night there was again the brilliant display of illuminations on every ship and on every building on the shores of the harbour. Next day the Kaiser drove through the town, and later inspected British regiments who paraded in the barrack square. I got a front-line position in the crowd that lined the square. As the German Emperor walked down the lines of soldiers, he stopped not more than two yards from me; it was the closest view I ever had of Royalty. Here was the great Kaiser arrayed in the spectacular uniform he always loved being photographed in. He was certainly an attractive-looking personality and measured up well to the impression one had gained from the pictures of this imposing monarch. He had the florid complexion of the Indian Army officer. His “Kaiser” moustache was as perfectly kept as photographs of him led one to expect. He spoke English well, and chatted freely with the British commanding officer. He seemed pleasant and affable, and once joined in genial laughter. The Kaiser made rather a good impression upon me, but of course we did not know him then!
They told us the Kaiser had asked to be shown over the fortifications of the Rock. Ah, that was different! The German and Japanese cameras in those days could still click, taking harbours, but fortifications … No! The ordinary Englishman may be “roast beef and football,” but the men of the Navy are no fools, and we may entrust the secrecy of Gibraltar to them.
Captain Dawson, R.N.R., of our S.S. Dominion, was a most efficient commander and did everything in naval style. That evening, the chief steward came along to the engineers' mess and said, “The Captain presents his compliments and says: ‘Would you like the use of the pinnace for a run round the harbour to view the yacht and warships in port?’ “We did not take long to finish our meal, in order to make use of the one remaining hour of daylight; we had much to talk about on our ship that evening.
Next day the Kaiser took his departure. There was the same courtesy, the same ceremony and salutes as on his arrival.
In the midst of all this pageantry and gaiety, one often heard
As illustrating the precautions taken at Gibraltar, Spaniards, while allowed into the port during the day, all have to pass out through the gates not later than sunset. They always seemed to delay their departure until the last minute, so their exit resembled a crowd leaving a football or cricket ground when the match was over.
After three days of endless parades we were at last able to get on with the work of discharging our cargo. In two or three more days we were ready for sea.
I had by now become acquainted with my shipmates. They promised to prove as friendly and as pleasant companions as those of the Claverhill and Savan. My Chief, Mr. Johnson, was a Sunderland man. The Second Engineer, Andy Mills, from South Shields, was a typical “Geordie,” with all the sense of humour of the men of the northern counties. He was a difficult man to rouse out of his sleep, and as he relieved me at 4 a.m., I had many times to remain on watch for at least ten or fifteen minutes longer; sometimes he had to be called a second time—we nearly had words over it, but he never became punctual. The Fourth was a Cockney from Bermondsey and, like Morrison on the Claverhill, would not sit again for his exam., and was destined to remain at the bottom of the ladder.
Leaving Gibraltar, we were out of the Straits and heading a direct course to Halifax, Nova Scotia. Next day we crossed the route to South Africa and got a good view of one of the Union Castle liners; with her lavender-coloured hull and red funnels, she was unmistakable. The Scrutton Line ships to the West Indies were painted almost the same colours,
It is in early spring that great mountains of ice break away from the Arctic field. As this voyage was in the month of March, it will be realized that falling temperatures of both atmosphere and sea-water made the Captain and officers keep on the alert. Icebergs are feared more than anything else in the North Atlantic. We were now reaching the regions of Newfoundland, and almost as if by magic there was a cry “Iceberg!” This was long before it could be seen with the naked eye. Sure enough, in about half an hour a huge iceberg, shining in the afternoon sun, could plainly be seen. Before leaving England we had seen headlines displayed in the London papers about a party of sealers being rescued from an iceberg; a great area of ice had broken away and the sealers were placed in a desperate plight. Our course would have taken us a good many miles from this iceberg, but the old Mate, through powerful glasses, swore he could see life on the floating ice. Captain Dawson was sceptical, but the Mate was so insistent that our course was altered and we steamed closer. It was a magnificent sight. Bright sunshine made this huge block of ice sparkle like crystal. The light and shade, with colours that varied from pale blue to pale green, turned the iceberg into a memorable sight. There was no sign of life and we veered back on to our course. We looked forward to making fun of the Mate when he came off the bridge. However he got in first: “It was a polar bear,” he said!
Halifax has a fine harbour and is one of Canada's naval bases. It was extremely cold when we arrived and I felt the biting winds after the heat of the West Indian trade. We had only a few naval stores to discharge so did not stay long.
It is about a two hundred-mile-run up the coast to Sydney, on the Island of Cape Breton, the most northern part of Nova Scotia. One had to be careful addressing letters in these parts, for Sydney, N.S.—the abbreviation of the name of the province—was at once confusing with Sydney, N.S.W., in Australia.
It was bitterly cold for there was snow on the ground and ice on every pool. Like Halifax, Sydney is situated on the shores of a fine harbour. This seaport, established long before the discovery of the colonies in the Antipodes and when
In Sydney, the magnificent home of Mr. A. J. Moxham, the steel magnate and first great leader in the steel industry of Nova Scotia, stood out as an example of how far a man may go by his own efforts. From his home, situated high on the hill, he could look across the harbour to the furnaces, in operation day and night, which had brought this newly-won prosperity to Canada's most eastern province.
It was now early April and the St. Lawrence had been reported open for navigation, with the Dominion ready to enter the regular trade between Sydney, Quebec and Montreal. Sydney harbour, like the St. Lawrence, is frozen over in winter when the coal is railed to Louisberg, which becomes Nova Scotia's most northern loading port. We lost no time in berthing and, once under the coal shutes, it was an eye-opener to see the coal rolling down in an almost continuous stream. It was apparent that Sydney must be a busy port during the summer months. There were three enormous wharves to cope with the trade of the allied companies: the Dominion Iron & Steel Company and the Dominion Coal Company, with loading facilities equal to those of any of the coal ports of the world.
On our first trip we left Sydney in the forenoon and steamed due north to Cape North, at the entrance to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Newfoundland, to the north-east, is only fifty miles away and the straits between named Cabot. As we approached
In early spring, when the wind is off the sea, drifting blocks of ice from the river are met by those that have broken off the field in the Straits of Belle Isle and along the coast of Labrador, and fill the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Often, they merely block up the Straits of Cabot, and this is what happened on this occasion, for the look-out man reported from aloft that he could see patches of clear sea in the Gulf. Captain Dawson could not risk forcing his ship through this tightly packed ice, for it would remain impassable until the wind changed. He decided to run down the coast to the Straits of Canso, the narrow channel between Cape Breton Island and the mainland of Nova Scotia which provides another entrance to the Gulf.
There was a reason for not delaying long at the pack-ice field; the authorities at Montreal always presented a gold watch to the Captain of the first ship to reach that port after the winter snow and ice. Each member of the crew also received a present. The Dominion had been the first vessel of the season to load at Sydney so we thought we had a chance. There was keen anticipation and excitement as we entered the Straits at daylight next morning. We beheld a glorious sight; there had been a heavy fall of snow, and the fir trees growing on the slopes, right down to the water's edge, were covered with flakes that weighed down the branches. This blossom-like effect, with the dark foliage for a background, made a perfect picture in black and white. As the sun rose, the black appearance of the trees changed to a dark green, but the effect was the same.
In the narrow straits of Canso there were also floating blocks of ice, but we steamed slowly on, pushing our way through clusters here and there. Then would come an open space, and the telegraph would ring “Full Ahead,” soon back to “Half Ahead,” then “Slow Ahead” as we came to more ice. The bows of the Dominion were built with extra strength
Before leaving the Straits at the western end we saw the train ferry that enables a railway service to be run between Sydney and Halifax. These trains connect with the main line to Montreal. This service must be invaluable when the St. Lawrence is ice-bound during the winter months.
Out of the Straits we turned north and passing Prince Edward Island were in the wide open sea of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The spaciousness of this Gulf may be gathered from the fact that it is 200 miles east to west and 300 miles north to south. The Island of Anticosti, in the estuary, is 150 miles long by about 30 wide. From Cape Gaspe to Quebec is 450 miles and from there to Montreal, up the narrower reaches of the river, 140 miles. These distances will illustrate the fact that I am describing a great river. The Amazon and the Mississippi, the Danube and the Rhine, with their tremendous distances penetrating into continents, may appear to hold prior claims. Memories of geography lessons in school-days may tend to make length only the measuring-rod for greatness. The St. Lawrence is the most perfect specimen of river and estuary; the Thames, on a smaller scale, closely resembles. Traffic on the large rivers I have mentioned is carried on by special types of river steamers and barges. On the St. Lawrence it is Atlantic liners that race across the Gulf and continue at full speed to Quebec, then on to Montreal at reduced speed. One can easily be misled by the fact that the St. Lawrence ends about a hundred miles above Montreal. The waters of the Great Lakes must be added; not everyone realizes that the foaming waters of the Niagara Falls, which come from Superior, Michigan, Huron and Erie, calm down from a raging torrent when they enter the peaceful lake of Ontario, and thus make a major contribution to the volume of the St. Lawrence. The number of rivers that feed those five great lakes, and those above and below Quebec, that flow into this famous waterway, may make the reader agree
I eagerly studied every point of the estuary coastline, and was aided by those who had previously been on this run. Thoughts of Quebec ahead took me back to history lessons. It was here that the great Wolfe had sailed with his ships. Here that the great contest for supremacy in Canada took place between the British and French. The river, though still several miles wide, was gradually getting narrower. We passed one or two small islands, then the Isle of Orleans: immediately beyond was Quebec.
It was daylight as we approached this famous place, and it seemed like the realization of a dream to be creeping closer and closer to this city of historic and romantic associations. The finest view of Quebec is from the river. It looked impressive on this sunny day in early spring. Soon we were abreast of what is known as the Lower Town, with the dome of the great customs house shining in the distance.
We had nearly stopped when a pinnace raced out. A rope ladder was lowered to allow the ship's agent to come aboard with a message for the Captain. He stayed a few minutes only, and we were again under way. On the first rise to the Heights of Quebec stood the famous Château Frontenac, built by the Canadian Pacific Railway. One could not imagine a more commanding sight and, as the building of this hotel cost over one million dollars, some seventy years ago, its magnificence may be imagined. Dufferin Terrace was pointed out and then came the Citadel, standing on the solid rock of Cape Diamond. In early years, soldiers were quartered here. One wondered how Wolfe and his men ever captured this place which looks impregnable, but we had to wait to see the actual place of the scaling of the heights. As we steamed past Cape Diamond one noticed old-fashioned buildings on a narrow flat terrace beneath the cliffs. The wharves looked strange to me, for they were all boxed-in with timbers, as if to prevent anything from floating beneath them.
We were now approaching the place where Wolfe and his men, in the darkness of night, stealthily climbed, in single file, the narrow path that led to the plateau more than two hundred feet above. It must have been a breathless moment when a French sentry challenged the approaching boats.
This glimpse of the scene of an historic battle, the result of which was to change the whole future of Canada, urged me to learn all I could about the conquest of eastern Canada. Each voyage we made up the St. Lawrence I was to learn more about the final battle, more about the abortiye attempt of the British troops to storm the French position across the river Montmorenci, and more about the blazing ships that the French, in the dead of night, set adrift upstream in the hope that they would drift among Wolfe's fleet at anchor off the Isle of Orleans. In my voyages in the Claverhill and Savan I had been over and passed close to the scenes of many historic incidents in the past life of our Empire, but none thrilled me more than this fight for Quebec between two armies led by men whose names are immortalized.
From all these stories of the siege of Quebec there emerged the indelible picture of the brave and gallant Wolfe. His death, in the height of battle, was as touching as were the last moments of Nelson on the Victory. No one can read of the battles of Quebec and Trafalgar without being reminded of the genius, the devotion to duty and the love of country of these two great heroes. Defeat may have tarnished Montcalm's reputation in his own country, but the people of the British Empire respect the memory of this great French General and gallant foe.
Returning to the story of my first voyage to Montreal, the Dominion, now steaming in mid-stream, was soon past the site of the battle that was to win fame and glory for British arms. The St. Lawrence river, as far up as Quebec, remains an estuary, and the situation of the City of the Heights is similar to that of Gravesend on the Thames. It may surprise readers to learn that three or four miles below Quebec the river is about two miles wide and, though it narrows considerably when opposite the city, it again widens to a mile and a half abreast Wolfe's Cove, but from there on gradually narrows, until it is about half a mile wide at Montreal where it is joined by the wider-spread waters of the rapids. Every mile of this journey proved of immense interest. The river banks were now on a lower level, and through field-glasses we could see the people on the land, houses and carts, cattle, fields of
We berthed in the heart of the city. I was soon to learn that mechanical appliances for discharging cargo were to prove the efficiency of modern plant. We did not work our own winches or derricks at all for, high up on a staging on the wharf, was an overhead crane with a horizontal jib, on which was a carriage track. The winch was above this, giving the engine-driver a direct view down into the hold. The little carriage ran down the slightly sloping track, until it was over the centre of the hatch. The wire rope, to which a bucket grab was attached, went through blocks on the carriage. The open grab was then lowered, or really dropped, on to the top of the coal. As the winch engine hauled, the rope became taut, the grab automatically closed, and up it came with a load of several hundred-weights of coal. As soon as the grab cleared the top of the hatch combing, the friction driven drum wound in the rope attached to the carriage, and thus the coal-grab moved in and up at the same time. When the grab was over the chute, tripping gear made it open and the coal fell out to roll down into the coal bins, below which ran the railway trucks. Shortly, five of these grabs—one to each hold— were operating. I had seen coal handled on a large scale at Sydney, N.S.W., and Melbourne, but never with so little manual labour. All the trimmers had to do was to shovel the coal to the centre where the grab dropped. It was only when getting near the bottom of the holds that they had to do any real shovelling. I could see we were not going to have very long stays in Montreal, for so efficient was the coal discharging plant that our holds could be emptied in little more than twenty-four hours.
On my first day at Montreal I had only time to get a general view of the city and go to the top of Mount Royal, a place where all visitors go. I was fully repaid, for the view from the summit was magnificent and reminded me of The Peak at Hong Kong. Strange to say the mode of reaching the top was by a rack railway, similar to that on The Peak. One got a splendid view of the city and its surroundings. The St. Lawrence looked an imposing water-way. One could see how the river spreads itself out over a wide expanse below the rapids, and it is here that the great Victoria Bridge is built. It is one and
Montreal is a fine city. One immediately noticed how much French was spoken, and this seemed strange in a British Dominion. Petite French women chattered in their own language; in the streets and on the trams it was the same; on the waterfront more than half the men spoke French; some shops displayed signs “English spoken”—a remarkable notice for a Britisher in a British Dominion to read! The French have certainly played their part in the development of eastern Canada, especially the province of Quebec in which Montreal is situated.
Next day we went off on the return journey. After passing Quebec, we met the Victorian, famous as the first ocean-going turbine steamer. She belonged to the Allan Line of Glasgow. They told us that on her maiden voyage a leading German naval engineer was on board as an observer, who, on arrival at Montreal, cabled home that he did not recommend turbines. This was said to have resulted in the Germans getting a late start in this type of engine. What the owners of the Allan Line thought may be gathered from the fact that they immediately laid down the keel of the Virginian, a bigger and faster ship. I saw her frequently during those summer months. Once, in a dense fog, she flashed past us so close that it seemed as though we missed her by a matter of yards! Twenty years later when there was a terrific head-on collision in the St. Lawrence, between the collier Hochlaga, trading in the run from Nova Scotia, and the liner Leopold, I was able to picture how it happened.
And so, for eight months of 1905, we moved up and down the St. Lawrence. There was little variation in the nature of our visits to Sydney, Nova Scotia, but at the Montreal end I saw more and more of this beautiful city and visited the suburbs beyond. I always wanted to run up to Ottawa, but never managed to get there. On one of my trips in mid-summer, I
When mid-summer arrived I was surprised to find the weather becoming really hot in Montreal. On some days it was as stifling as Sydney in Australia. It is always the same in continents where great areas of land experience intense heat in summer and intense cold in winter.
The approaching autumn began to show itself in the foliage of the trees and it was fascinating to watch the changing colour of the leaves on the maples. We were back in Montreal about every ten days, and the trees on the river-bank, especially between Quebec and Montreal, gradually became more and more like our Virginian creeper in New Zealand—first a darker colour, then red, turning to brilliant red or crimson. In late autumn these trees made a beautiful sight. In New Zealand we occasionally get seasons when the autumn leaves stay on the trees for a considerable time, but generally speaking a strong southerly wind will suddenly strip the trees bare, long before the leaves are ready to drop off naturally. Canada is more favoured in this respect; when nearing the end of the summer there is usually a break in the weather and one thinks winter has come; this is of short duration, for there then sets in a six weeks' spell of the most glorious weather one could imagine. This period is known as the Indian summer: warm days and cool evenings with a total absence of wind. One
It was tantalizing to keep passing Quebec voyage after voyage but never berthing there. One regular run was to Montreal, but my shipmates told me that occasionally one of our Ships took a cargo to Quebec. I learned all I could of this city. I wanted to walk on the Plains of Abraham, to see Wolfe's monument and the monument to the brave soldiers who fell in that great struggle. Through field-glasses we could see the monument erected on Dufferin Terrace to the memory of Champlain, the famous Frenchman, who, more than two centuries earlier had gone to the New World to found a new France. He made Quebec the proud capital and went near to dominating a much wider field than the province of the same name.
It will be seen what a rich field this old historic city would prove to a keen student. I was not destined to get nearer than when, on my first voyage, we momentarily stopped to receive a message. At night Quebec was a magnificent sight; its brilliant lights could be seen many miles distant. The view, as seen from the decks of the Dominion, is not easily forgotten.
Throughout the summer months I had been obtaining from a news-agency in Montreal the Athletic News, an English sporting paper, similar to Australia's old Sydney Referee, while several members of the crew regularly received papers from Home. This kept us informed of county cricket, as well as of the Australian XI's tour of 1905.
September came, and our thoughts turned to football, for the New Zealand Rugby team was due to arrive in the Old Country. Tamlin, our First Mate, was a man of Devonshire, the winners of the County Championship the previous year. “Bah!” said Tamlin, when New Zealand's chances were discussed. He was encouraged by the opinion of D. R. Bedell-Sivright who, a year earlier, had captained a British rugger team to the Dominion. He had said that while New Zealanders played good football and would win most of the county matches, they would be no match for the International sides. This was faint praise, considering the New Zealanders had won the
There is little doubt that Bedell-Sivright's opinion was also responsible for the best joke of this tour. The canny Scots refused to give a fixed sum for a game against Scotland. Instead they offered the tourists the total proceeds of the gate. It was a strenuous match with a thrilling finish; five minutes from time the home side was leading by seven points to six when, like a bolt from the blue,
Week after week we read of the progress of the tour. Ireland and England also went down before the all-conquering New Zealanders. By now everyone wanted their scalps and people began to say, “Wait till you get to Wales,” the then champion Rugby side of the British Isles.
The Welsh Rugby Union, aware of the strength of the challenge, prepared as never before; it sent the members of its team away in twos and threes to watch the All Blacks play in different matches in England; they were to study the visitors' tactics; to see the two-three-two scrum formation in action, and, above all, to learn what they could of the wing-forward whose position on the field was new to Britishers and about whose play there raged a controversy throughout the British Isles.
The tenseness of the approaching contest began before the team arrived in Wales, for the question of the appointment of a referee caused some discussion. The New Zealanders wanted
The tourists had now played continuously for three months; the match against Wales was the twenty-eighth of the tour and, as two games a week had been played, it will be understood that the lads from “down under” were a jaded side when they reached the Welsh capital; and their players had suffered many of the minor injuries that all touring sides experience. It was, however, still a representative All Black team that took the field, but the absence of Smith must have caused some misgiving among the New Zealanders, for the speedy Aucklander was one of the greatest scoring three-quarters the game has known.
An enormous crowd had assembled and after the teams had cheered one another, 50,000 people as one man sang “Land of My Fathers.” We know how the skirl of the bagpipes inspires Scottish troops going into battle; we know how Mr. Churchill's “… we shall fight on the beaches …” uplifted an Empire when its Homeland faced the moment of its greatest peril; but players who took part in this match were to tell me later that while the singing of the Welsh national anthem was to inspire the wearers of the leek, its effect upon the New Zealanders was to create a feeling of awe, and make them realize the truth of an old saying of The Times: “A Welsh side, playing at Cardiff, begins with five points in its favour.”
The game had not long been in progress before it was evident that the Scottish referee was excessively rigid in his interpretation of the rules governing wing-forward play. Gallagher, the New Zealand captain and wing-forward, was unduly penalized and treated as though he were a transgressor; the crowd, too, was hostile towards him. This vexed the wearers of the Silver Fern and for a time upset their smooth-running organization, but when both sides settled down there was to be waged what many consider the greatest battle in all Rugby history. The advantage was first with one side, then the other, but few opportunities for scoring presented themselves. Then, in a flash, Owen, the clever Welsh half, whipped the ball out from the scrum, and away went the Welsh backs. Deans slipped in tackling his man and when centre-three-quarter Gabe was seen racing towards the New Zealand full-back, with his wing-three-quarter in a handy position, it was at once clear that the
The struggle became more intense than ever, with a delighted crowd roaring itself hoarse as it spurred its men on to victory. The game was well into the second spell, with the All Blacks now doing most of the attacking, but Wales still led by three points to nil. In such a contest openings to score had to be seized quickly, and just as suddenly as Owen's quick pass had paved the way for Wales to score, so Wallace's cutting infield and passing to Deans gave the New Zealanders their opportunity. There was tremendous excitement as the big centre-three-quarter dashed for the line. Wallace called to him to run round nearer the posts, but having got through the opening, Deans was content so long as he had grounded the ball over the goal-line. The referee, clad in ordinary clothes, was too slow to keep up with this piece of fast play, and when he arrived on the scene Deans was lying stretched full length on the ground, with the ball a few inches short of the line. A scrum five yards out was ordered. The New Zealanders did not question the fairness of the referee, but were heart-broken at the try being disallowed. The game ended without further score, and Cardiff belonged to the footballers amid scenes resembling Mafeking night.
Then began a controversy in the newspapers of Britain that was to last for weeks and reach all parts of the Empire. “Did Deans score?” caused arguments everywhere, even on the S.S. Dominion on the coast of Nova Scotia. C. B. Fry, then a big figure in journalism in London, wired to Deans for his version, and published the reply which read as follows: “I grounded the ball eight inches over the line.” “C.B.'s” brief comment was a charming and well-deserved tribute to the character of Deans, when he said, “If Deans says he scored a try, then a try was scored!”
Confirmation of what happened was to be given years later, when Bush, the Welsh outside half-back, in a newspaper interview, gave his version. This is what he said: “Deans rabbited the ball over the line, so we pulled him back into play …” Ignoring the old axiom of the arbitrator—“Never try to explain”—Bush not only stumbled into an unjust and incorrect
On returning to New Zealand I was to learn how the people of this Dominion received the news of their Rugby Waterloo. Throughout the week the one theme of conversation in this country was the match against Wales; it was typical of cricket Test matches in Australia. The news of the result could not reach New Zealand until the early hours of Sunday, but the Government arranged for the result to be posted outside every Post Office. In straitlaced Christchurch, people walked from the morning service in the Cathedral, across the Square, to the Post Office to learn the news, and when they gazed upon the notice board their expressions were as solemn as they had been in church!
An additional tit-bit is to be found in the story told of Mr. Seddon, New Zealand's Premier, who, on arriving from Wellington by the ferry steamer on the Sunday morning, called to people on the wharf at Lyttelton: “Who won?”
Back came the reply, “Wales!” and Mr. Seddon groaned, as all other New Zealanders had groaned when they first heard the result.
Deans's try, which still remains one of the most discussed incidents in the history of Rugby football, will continue to be talked about as long as the game is played.
The match against Wales was to provide the climax to months of discussion and argument aboard the Dominion. Now it was my shipmates' turn, for Britishers had reason to rejoice. Although the New Zealanders lost this vital match, they won for their country a world-wide renown in the field of International Rugby.
As the winter approached there was much talk of when we should be able to make our last voyage up the river. Ships had been known to make that “just one more” trip—a sort of Doc and Doris—only to find that the ice had beaten them. We were not to be caught like that i At last December came, and we received orders to load for Boston. So ended a unique
When one examines the position of eastern Canada it is at once clear that this great Dominion suffers a severe handicap from nature's closing of the St. Lawrence during the winter months. Halifax is the only other port on the Atlantic seaboard suitable for the import and export trade, unless one turns into the Bay of Fundy to small ports such as St. John, New Brunswick.
When the boundary between the United States and Canada was fixed, the shores of the five Great Lakes made a natural line of demarcation in the central area, and also made these lakes neutral waters. This arrangement gave Canada a tongue of land that projected south of the parallel, the line fixed for the boundary west of the Lakes. A glance at the map will show that the Americans took their pound of flesh on the eastern side and forced the boundary of the State of Maine right up into what appears to be Canada's natural territory. Portland, Maine, would have given Canada a splendid all-the-year-round harbour and one well-suited as an alternative route for the great and growing traffic of the St. Lawrence and the Lakes area. The final fixing of the boundary took many years; in fact, what was known as the North-East Boundary Dispute actually dated from the granting of independence to the American Colonies.
It was the lack of a clear definition in the original agreement that was to cause a long and at times bitter wrangle between two friendly countries. The matter was referred to the King of the Netherlands as arbitrator, but the United States refused to accept his decision. There were threats of war about this time. American and Canadian lumbermen had some rare old quarrels about where their logging rights took them to. At last common sense prevailed; the boundary question was again referred to arbitration; this time to two men, Lord Ashburton representing Britain, and Daniel Webster representing the United States; the present boundary is their finding. I met Canadians who still thought that Britain had sacrificed Canada for the sake of peace with the United States. I met men in Boston who thought Canada got more than her
From Sydney to Boston is about 600 miles and the moment we left the former port were in the open sea and subject to the full fury of the Atlantic. Before reaching Cape Breton, we passed Glace Bay, and saw the great aerial towers so recently erected by Marconi for his first demonstration of transmitting wireless messages across the Atlantic. The whole countryside was covered in snow, and the white background made the towers stand out clearly. Winter was near at hand, and this first trip gave forebodings of what was in store.
A straight run down the coast of Nova Scotia, a distance of about 350 miles, brought us to Cape Sable, off which stands Sable Island. We then made straight across the Bay of Fundy to Boston, berthing at the wharf, where the same type of mechanical appliances that unloaded us so rapidly at Montreal were awaiting us. It was always a busy scene when these coal-grabs began to operate.
Two things I already knew about this place were firstly, that it was the scene of the famous Boston Tea Party, and secondly, that the people prided themselves on being the most English-like of all Americans. I was to learn that Boston had many claims to be called a great city.
The population at this time was about half a million. Many imposing buildings were to be seen in the centre of the city. When visiting a place for the first time, I liked to get a general idea to begin with and then follow up with piecemeal exploring of the sights. My first visit fulfilled all expectation regarding the English-like appearance of the city. On looking at buildings in Sumner, Tremont or Washington Streets, the architecture was exactly the same as that of a similar period in London. This was in the days before the skyscraper. Most of the high buildings seemed to be about five or six storeys, although I saw one or two often storeys. The churches were in the old English style. The South Terminal railway station was a splendid building. There seemed to be numbers of statues. These were my first-day impressions of the first of many visits to Boston.
We left again next evening and I took with me a vivid picture of a great New-World city. Each trip I renewed my interest in seeking a knowledge of this place. There seemed so much to see. The great obelisk monument on Bunker Hill was of course the pride of the Boston residents. When I looked at these splendid people, I thought to myself, “How absurd it was for England to fight her own kith and kin of those early years; how equally absurd that they should fight us!” There are still to be found some Americans who, to this day, love to rake up the days of King George III and the actions of his Prime Minister, Lord North. They never quote the magnificent speeches of Chatham, Burke and others who so strongly opposed the war with America. The year 1775 is a far call, but there is a type of Irishman, always “agin” Britain, who would go back five hundred years if need be to find political ammunition to shoot at John Bull. Thank goodness, except for a few people who will never be reconciled, I found that closer friendship between the two peoples on either side of the Atlantic was already a fact. It would have been on an even firmer basis but for the anti-British writings of the Hearst press. It was distressing to read some of the articles. W. R. Hearst could have been a name honoured on both sides of the Atlantic; instead, he preferred to trifle with the affections that bound two great peoples. He found twisting the lion's tail more entertaining and more profitable than working for a closer union.
But there was more than the voluble, bitter tongue of the disgruntled Irishman influencing wherever possible a feeling against Britain. The German, who has always been intensely jealous of the British Empire, would put his spoke in as often as he could. Unlike the man of the Emerald Isle, who was always outspoken, the Teuton preferred to put sand in the bearings. When America has time to examine the operations of these mischief-makers, she will be astonished at the things she will discover and the subtleness of the influences that have been at work to keep America and Britain apart.
Many years later than the times of which speak, I was to have an experience with a rugged American on a visit to New Zealand that illustrates the need for an even better understanding. Meeting in a casual way, the visitor, after a few complimentary remarks about our country, astonished me by saying, “But, Jesus, I wish you fellows would break away from
Recovering from the shock that his words gave me, I said quietly, “But we do not wish to break away; New Zealand owes everything to the Old Country. Instead of holding us down, Britain has propped us up and shielded and protected us all our lives; she is the Motherland to us.”
This seemed to stir up his combatant spirit. “Well, why is the Empire breaking up?”
“But the Empire is not breaking up. It has never been so strong, so united and the Dominions so attached to Britain.”
“Well, why does India want to get out?” he retorted.
“We can hardly start to argue the Indian question now,” I said, for it was near midnight, “but you ought to know something about native problems. How did you handle the Indians in America?”
This made him blink a little.
“How do you handle the black fellow in your own country to-day?” To this he did not reply and I said, “Well, I will tell you. You allow him to occupy a suburban villa in Chicago, and won't let him ride in a tram car in New Orleans!”
He laughed heartily at this, but could see he had raised a question that was not as easily handled as he had imagined, especially when he learned that in South Africa they have a nine o'clock curfew for the natives, and in the day-time will not allow them to congregate in the streets. I emphasized that establishing the status of the native races was a world problem, and that, so far, no nation had handled it as well as Britain; no people had been kinder or more considerate to their coloured subjects. The conversation turned back to Britain and her Empire. He had never been to England, so, as we parted, I said, “Will you promise me one thing?”
“What is that?”
“That when this war is over and your young men return to America you will accept their opinion of Britain and the British people?” He said he would, and it was a pleasant good night we bade one another.
It was winter when I saw Boston's beautiful public gardens with the lovely bridge, the statue of General Washington on his
Then came January, then February—the two worst months on this coast—and the seas became rougher. Our accommodation being right aft we had an uncomfortable time. The Bay of Fundy is a notoriously rough sea. One night, when running before a gale with the sea almost catching us as our stern dropped into the trough, one big sea rolled on top of our deck houses. My cabin was near the stern; with a bang this heavy sea shook the ship, and water poured on to my bunk through openings in the caulked deck above. The Captain decided to turn bow on to the sea. One can always notice with the breakers on the shore that three successive waves, bigger than the rest, will roll in and then it is calmer until the next three arrive. Waiting for these three “old man seas” to pass, Captain Dawson turned her round quickly and we were all relieved when we were head on, for in such a sea one would not like to be caught beam on. We remained hove-to till daylight and then headed for Boston.
This was but typical of my five months on this particular run. After two or three voyages the ice drove us out to Sydney Harbour and for the rest of the winter Louisburg became our loading port. Louisburg was France's great naval base in the days when Quebec was a French colony. Its capture by Wolfe in the middle of the eighteenth century was his initial success in the great battles for supremacy in Canada. It was surprising to find that a port, only twenty-five miles farther down the coast, should be free from the danger of drift pack-ice. The explanation is that while Sydney Harbour is within the freezing area, it also faces north and acts like a funnel in catching the drift-ice that comes out of the St. Lawrence. Louisburg Harbour, on the other hand, faces south and is protected on the Atlantic side by a long promontory that acts as a shield. This makes Louisburg a port well sheltered from the ice-floes. We experienced no difficulty getting in or out, even in mid-winter, although they told me that on one occasion the ice was sufficiently thick to enable the steward of the Catalone, sister ship of the Dominion, to walk ashore one morning before his ship had berthed at the wharf.
I had been remarkably fortunate with regard to weather and calm seas on my voyages to the West Indies, followed by the
At the northern end of our voyage it was often so cold that spray coming on board was frozen at once. The bulwarks became covered with a solid mass of ice. The lower rigging ropes gradually got thicker and thicker, until they were the size of a man's body. The ice, and sometimes snow, on the decks would become many inches thick, and the winches and hatches would also be smothered. It was a remarkable sight. The photograph shown of the Dominion at sea off this coast in mid-winter makes a graphic picture of the Arctic-like conditions experienced. As illustrating the extremity of the cold in these parts, and the dangers of ice accumulating on deck, I was told in Boston of how a ship arriving in that port, on slowing up in harbour, heeled over on her beam-ends. It was estimated that there were seven hundred tons of ice on her decks.
Deck officers on ships trading to the tropics experience delightful conditions for carrying out their duties; white duck suits in the heat of the day and pleasant evenings on the bridge made them the envy of the engineers who faced the stifling heat below. Now the position was reversed; we enjoyed the warmth of the engine-room and the stokehold, while the officers on the bridge faced the rigours of winter. I have seen my friend, Tamlin, the Mate, come down off the bridge with his moustache a solid mass of ice. Our officers were clad in warm clothes, with balaclavas on their heads, but it was they who envied the engineers in those hard, wintry conditions.
Leaving Louisburg one night, we were to have a startling experience. It was pitch dark and as we approached the heads, a heavy swell made the Dominion rise and fall as if she were out at sea. Suddenly there was a heavy bump and the ship shook from stem to stern. I am not sure whether the ledge we struck was a menace in the middle of the fairway, or whether we were away from the middle of the channel—it mattered little—we had struck bottom. The Captain kept the vessel at “Slow-ahead.” Soundings were taken in all the holds. As our engines were aft it was the engine-room that was most minutely examined, for it was clearly the stern that had struck. Long
Halifax presented a magnificent sight. There were not inches, but feet of snow on the ground, which had to be shovelled from the roads and footpaths into the side channels where it was banked five or six feet high. Tracks were cut through, here and there, so that people could walk across the road between sections. It was a real thrill to see sleighs and sledges, drawn by horses, travelling silently along the streets. The only noise was the jingle, jingle of the little bells attached to the necks of some of the horses. In the cold atmosphere the breath of the horses shot out like puffs of steam. I had previously seen only the occasional fall of a few inches of snow in Christchurch, New Zealand, and a similar light fall at Newcastle, in England.
A diversion from a regular route is always welcome to sailors. When orders came that we were to load for St. John, New Brunswick, I was glad of the opportunity of seeing still another port of Canada. Rounding Cape Sable and passing Yarmouth on the starboard side, we steamed across the Bay of Fundy, known to all seafaring men in that part of the world. St. John proved to be a delightful place tucked away in this bay and sheltered from the heavy seas of the Atlantic. It was confusing to have St. John, New Brunswick, and St. Johns, Newfoundland.
At St. John I was to see one of the most remarkable sights to be seen in any part of the world. It will be difficult for the man in the street to visualize a reversing falls. It just does not seem to make sense to say that a waterfall could fall both ways: nevertheless, that is exactly what I saw. In New Zealand and Australia we are used to a tide that rises and falls from six to eight feet. As already stated, the rise in the Mediterranean is only eight inches. In the Bristol Channel it reaches the remarkable figure of over forty feet. I have seen the beach at
Back on the regular run to Boston, I was to be favoured with the opportunity of seeing two of the world's greatest celebrities of the stage. Sarah Bernhardt—what a name to conjure with fifty and sixty years ago! She played the leading role in “Magda.” I have seen many actors and actresses, but none impressed me as did the “Divine Sarah,” with her dramatic acting and her wonderful voice. If she no more than whispered, her voice carried to all parts of the theatre. The other celebrity was lovely Maxine Elliot. Could there be a more beautiful woman on the stage? Mr. Winston Churchill, in his book My Early Days, refers to meeting the attractive Maxine and having supper with her after the play. I saw her from the gallery, but admired her no less than he did.
I cannot complete this story of five months at sea in these boisterous parts without reference to Captain Dawson, R.N.R., of the Dominion. He was easily the most outstanding master I had sailed under since Captain Greenstreet on the Rimutaka. It mattered not whether we were at sea in the roughest of weather or densest of fogs—no one ever turned a hair with Dawson in command. I have known us leave Boston in a fog, steam full speed all the way, pass between Cape Sable and Sable Island and pull up off Louisburg, without having seen either land, lighthouse, or ship. He must have been a good money-maker for the owners. Captain Dawson was proud of-his Naval-Reserve rating and ran his ship in the manner of a naval commander. Even on this big coal carrier, he expected everyone to dress well and look the part; men like being well led.
On the S.S. Catalone, engaged in the same trade as the Dominion, was another New Zealander,
After spending the night at Buffalo, we got an early start for the Niagara Falls, not many miles away. When we stood on the bridge below the falls we were enthralled. Although winter was over, there were still some icicles hanging here and there like stalactites, and added to the brilliance of the scene. There were lumps of ice in several places on the rocks at the foot of the falls, but the full volume of water falling over the precipice had been restored on the break-up of the ice. The clouds of fine spray, created by the dashing waters at the foot, made the Maid of the Mist an appropriate name for the small passenger ship that cruised about on the lake below. Across the bridge we came opposite the Horseshoe Falls of Canada, generally conceded to be the most beautiful part of Niagara. It was here that several freakish and hazardous stunts had recently been performed. They told us of a man who had been sealed into a barrel which was well padded on the inside, and, with his little dog for a companion, had been pushed into midstream above the falls, drifting over into the swirling waters below. The barrel bounced up like a cork and was recovered by a boat crew before it could be carried on to the rapids farther down. A little later another man repeated the attempt, but this time the barrel, an oil drum made of steel, did not come up! We were shown where Captain Webb had met his fate when attempting to swim the rapids and saw where
Returning to Buffalo in the afternoon we saw Lake Erie, and after dinner caught the night train for New York, three hundred miles away. In the early morning we found ourselves racing towards the great metropolis, first through the outer suburban areas, then the more dense residential parts, and presently into New York itself.
We were all excitement as we alighted and took a cab to the old Waldorf Hotel—not the Waldorf Astoria! After a bath and breakfast we decided to have a shave at the barber's shop near by. This proved our first experience of American salesmanship. I do not know whether the sailor is more susceptible than the man on the land; at any rate we were soon like putty in the hands of those alert and obliging hairdressers. After a long run in the night train of course we would have a hair trim, a shampoo, a face massage. Yes, the attendant could brush our hats and the boot-black could shine our shoes. We felt refreshed. “How much is that?”
“Five dollars, sir.”
Outside the shop McLean and I stopped, looked at each other and said almost simultaneously, “That'll teach you!”
Booked to sail by the Cunard liner Lucania, we had three days in which to see New York. Keen to see this great city and its environs, we soon were going here and there. Avenues going lengthways of Manhattan, on which the city is built, and streets across, with numbers for their names, were new to us—Fifth Avenue, 43rd Street, and so on. Some of the abbreviations amused me: “St.” for street and “Av.” for avenue was natural, but “Wash. Av.” for Washington Avenue seemed something more than a short cut. One was at once struck by the high buildings. There were many of the fine old English style, but this was the New World, in which concrete had already begun to oust brick and stonework, for the New Yorker wanted height, and height he must have. With a sandstone bed for foundations, there appeared to be no limit in height for reinforced concrete. The skyscraper had already begun to appear.
The Americans chuckled over a story they told of this building. A young New Yorker visiting Australia was impressed with the prolific growth of the tree and plant-life of that country. When he praised the peaches of Melbourne and the grapes and oranges of Adelaide and Sydney the glib answer was, “Climate!” It was always climate, until the use of this word became a little tiresome, especially as it was sometimes said in a manner almost suggesting the Australians' claim to share with Providence the honour of providing the sunshine and sun-showers enjoyed by the coastal belt of their continent. In due course his cousin from Sydney visited the New Yorker and one day, walking down Broadway, they came to the “Grid Iron,” the first of the skyscrapers. The Australian stood still in amazement, and looking up exclaimed, “Good heavens! How do you get to the top of a building like that?”
“Climb it!” said the American!
We spent the first day among all these skyscrapers, saw the great wharves on the Hudson riverside and the Brooklyn Bridge over the East River, on the other side of the city. When we walked along and through the Bowery, I had the same feeling of trepidation as I had experienced when exploring Houndsditch in London.
On the second day I looked up a distant relative connected with one of the big financial houses in Wall Street. He was extraordinarily kind, insisted on both of us going that evening to his home in Brooklyn, and mapped out a number of trips round the city.
We followed Fifth Avenue to Central Park, which is bordered
On our last afternoon in New York McLean and I hired an old four-wheeler. We drove along the Riverside Drive, past General Grant's imposing monument and had a splendid view of the Hudson River, with Jersey City on the other side. Our old cabman was proud to point out the new mansion home of Charles Schwab, Andrew Carnegie's successor, and a man who was to prove a staunch friend of Britain's in the first great World War. We paid a flying visit to Coney Island, but it was out of season and we saw only the beach, the buildings and some of the fun-making machines of the side-shows.
This racing round New York for three days resembled a Cook's tour on the Continent, but it gave us a very good general knowledge of America's greatest, and one of the world's greatest cities.
We were timed to sail at noon. Arriving on board about half an hour early, we found everything a hustle and a bustle on the ship and the wharf. A large crowd had assembled, for the departure of a big Atlantic liner was still an event, and the docks are close to the heart of the city. At last we backed out from the wharf and turned to steam down the Hudson past the great array of wharves that are such a feature of this great port. The ships all berthed square on to the river which forms the marvellous harbour for all the largest liners of the world. One saw ships of all nations—American, British, German, French, Italian—each country has its own wharves. When the ships depart it was usually for their own country; the British mainly for Liverpool in those days, the German for Bremen, the French for Cherbourg, and the Italians for Naples or Genoa. It was truly an international clearing-house for the ships of the world.
Passing Jersey City which was on the starboard side, we were soon in New York Bay and abreast the Statue of Liberty, then through the narrows and out into the Atlantic. This was still the days of reciprocating steam engines, and soon we felt the throb of the Lucania's powerful engines. No rival ship was in sight, yet we heard the thud, thud, just as was experienced on the coast of Australia when the Peregrine raced the Iniminca. Across the Atlantic it is a race against time—always against time—and so this twenty-two knot liner was soon pushing the white foam in front of her bows. This was the fastest speed I had travelled at in a steamer, unless it be for those few moments down the Lachine Rapids. The Deutschland, Germany's crack twenty-four knot ship, was now champion of the Atlantic, but the turbine-engined Mauretania and Lusitania were being built and speculation was rife as to what these great Cunard ships would do.
Selecting a berth on the Lucania was my first experience of the fare being based not only on different classes but also different prices for different cabins in each class. McLean and I preferred to have the money at the London end, so booked one of the cheaper two-berth cabins. The Lucania was a popular ship and carried many passengers, but they fraternized far less than those I had travelled with in Australia and New Zealand as well as on the Rimutaka; this was probably due to the number of different nationals on board. We met. a fine
We had a good trip across the Atlantic and in about five days were approaching the southern shores of Ireland. Passing the famous Fastnet Rock lighthouse, we were next off Krurale Head and soon steaming into Cork Harbour. Our stay at Queenstown was short. Passing several lightships at the southeastern point of Ireland, we were in St. George's Channel, then the Irish Sea, as we steamed past Holyhead and Anglesey Islands. Arriving at Liverpool in the early morning I experienced the same thrill that came to me each time I reached the Old Country in the Claverhill and Savan. It was grand to be back in England.
It was not long before the southern passengers were seated in the boat express and the train speeding on its non-stop run to London. The blossoms and new leaves of early spring, and the rolling downs of England were as beautiful as at any time of the year. We arrived at one o'clock on Saturday—the day of the great football Cup Final. Leaving our luggage at the station, we hurriedly had something to eat and took a cab across London to catch a train to Crystal Palace where the match was being played. There were eighty thousand people present and, arriving late, we could not get a seat, or even a place to see the game. It was no use getting just a glimpse of such a match, similar to the glimpse I got of the Derby three years earlier. There were boys selling old fruit cases and candle boxes on which one could stand and see over the heads of the crowd in front. Obtaining a box each, McLean and I were soon perched high enough to see the whole field of play. It was in this way that I saw Everton play Newcastle United in the final of 1906. I have already described how all England appeared to go to the Derby. As both teams in this football final came from the north of England, it was the Geordie who appeared to have taken possession of London. He certainly-made a picnic of it, and at the ground his merry laughter and his humorous sayings could be heard wherever one went. Late that night we recovered our luggage and wended our way to Canning Town.
We started at once at James Boyd's Engineering School and were soon in the midst of concentrated cramming preparatory
It was now the beginning of June, with a month of the English cricket season gone. Thoughts other than those of engineering problems had been running through my mind, even during the time I was at school preparing for the examination. I took stock of my financial position and estimated that I could manage about three months' cricket.
The Essex authorities had previously asked me to advise them as soon as I was available. I played a Saturday afternoon game for Tottenham, had one knock at the nets at Leyton, and was then invited to join the Essex XI going north to play Notts and Lancashire.
It was a mistake to walk straight into county cricket after three years at sea; I should have had at least a fortnight at the nets before playing first-class cricket, for one needed to be in form to meet the crack county bowlers of these days. It was also necessary to be physically fit to stand up to the three-day matches, with sometimes two in a week. During my years at sea I had had very little exercise, except for walking the deck, which we did continuously on fine evenings. My last five months on the Dominion in the midst of ice, snow, and gales on the coast of Nova Scotia gave little opportunity for this. I was, therefore, not very fit, and was soon to find this out. I was so sore at the end of a day in the field, usually in the outfield, that I was glad of a hot bath and early to bed. On my return to London after this first trip to Nottingham and Manchester I had to get my ankles massaged, for this is where I felt the soreness most; I thought I had rheumatism, but it soon wore off and proved to be the result of the lack of exercise. During those three years at sea I may have had to run to catch a train, or in some such emergency, otherwise I had no running at all, so my lack of condition will be understood.
My first match was against Notts. I started off by jumping in to one of Johnnie Gunn's slow ones, hitting it very hard, to be beautifully caught by
An incident happened in our first innings that must rank as something unique in first-class cricket. Johnnie Gunn, with his left-hand slows, was keyed up with his success. He was a very active fieldsman, especially to his own bowling, but had a bad habit of shying at the wicket if a batsman, in playing forward, moved out of his crease. He had done this several times, much to the annoyance of Gates, the Notts wicket-keeper. After one or two remonstrances from the keeper, Gunn did it again. The sequel was as amazing as it was unexpected; Gates stood up, folded his arms, and the ball, missing the wicket, raced to boundary. Whether A. O. Jones said to Gunn, “It serves you damn well right!” or upbraided Gates for giving away 4 runs, may be left to the imagination.
In this match I was to get my first impression of the batting of
I was by now becoming intimately acquainted with my Essex comrades. They were friendly in the extreme and, on tour, nearly as lively and boisterous as London County had been. Charlie McGahey was always the life of the party; he was a lovable fellow and a splendid player at a pinch. Perrin
I must relate an incident that occurred one evening in our sitting-room. Gillingham turned to me and said, “Where do you live in London, Reese?”
“Canning Town,” came the prompt reply.
They all laughed and were probably as much amused at my frankness as with the locality of my residence. Canning Town for an amateur county cricketer! Well, it simply did not make sense. One might as well say lower East Side, New York, for one of America's polo players, or Darlinghurst, Sydney, for
This visit to Nottingham was the first of a number of enjoyable journeys to the chief cities of the various counties. It was a pleasure to play on the famous Nottingham oval, more often referred to as the Trent Bridge ground. I was thrilled to meet the giant William Gunn, whose first-wicket partnerships with Arthur Shrewsbury had contributed so much to make Notts, in the 'nineties, a great and famous side. I should have loved to see Shrewsbury, but he had died just after my arrival in England.
When Shacklock, the old Notts player, was in Christchurch, I asked him if it was true that on his captain's winning the toss against Sussex, at Brighton, Gunn and Shrewsbury would open the innings, one other batsman would put on the pads, and the rest of the team would go down to the beach for a bathe.
Nottingham, like all old British towns, gave evidence of how it had grown from narrow streets and humble buildings. I did not see Robin Hood's caves, or have time to visit the surrounding countryside, so rich in historic associations.
We arrived at Manchester on the Sunday evening, and on the following morning began our match on the famous Old Trafford ground. The Lancastrians were a formidable side: Archie MacLaren, R. H. Spooner,
Essex did not bat well and were all out for 180, Brearley and Cuttell bowling splendidly. Lancashire's first three batsmen were MacLaren, Spooner, and Tyldesley. No stodgy start here! Tyldesley was one of the few professional batsmen who played with all the freedom of an amateur and appeared to cast to the winds any fears of spoiling his average. I had seen him in Australia where he was so successful with MacLaren's team. This time he played a rattling good innings for 83. England has had few better batsmen than
Lancashire led by 141. Perrin was at his best in our second innings. Left 125 to win, Lancashire lost six wickets. They had some anxious moments. In the second innings I stood and watched Brearley rattle out our last three batsmen and was left not out; perhaps I was safer at the bowler's end!
The picturesque Brearley deserves a line to himself. He was one of the breeziest souls I have ever met on the cricket field. He knew he could bowl and believed he could get anyone out. In the previous season he had remarkable success against the Australians, getting Trumper's wicket several times. This increased his confidence, as well as his reputation. MacLaren
Fry Not Out—Ranji Not in!” When Ranji joined in the fun next day, Brearley's discomfiture was complete. Several times he ran to the pavilion to get the spikes of his boots attended to. It would not have mattered if he had put crampons on the soles, for Ranji and Fry called the tune that day. By going to the pavilion Brearley was not running away from his job, for the best part of MacLaren's story was his description of how Walter would return and want the ball again to have another go! On this occasion he was up against a tough proposition, as tough as English bowlers ever had to face, for Ranjitsinhji and Fry in partnership were comparable with Grace and Shrewsbury at their best. Coming in to bat, Brearley was always in a hurry; his athletic figure and his look of determination gave him the appearance of a real batsman—until he took strike! On the way back to the pavilion he would be the target of good-natured chaff and banter which always made a merry ending to a Lancashire innings. Possessing extraordinary physical powers, they said he could hand-spring, on one hand, across a billiard table. Brearley could certainly be called a unique individual.
I left Manchester feeling that I had seen a really first-class English county side. The following day we were back in London, playing at Leyton against the West Indians then touring England. It seemed strange to be playing against this team after having seen so much of their islands, and visiting their leading cricket grounds. When Austin, their captain, learned of this, he was most interested and said, “Why didn't you look some of us up?”
Winning the toss, Essex got a bad start and Douglas Carpenter and Perrin were out with the score at 20. I then joined McGahey and we added 50 before the latter was bowled- We were eventually all out for 226, Reese being top scorer with 70. At last I was beginning to pick up form. I remember at first experiencing some difficulty in keeping a close watch on the ball leaving the dark fingers of these West Indian bowlers. I have heard other batsmen say they were affected in the same
The visitors gave us a fright when they rattled up 379, of which Layne made 105—a splendid innings. We ran to 395 in our second innings, and I was again to see the great Perrin at his best in making 106. My score was 20. The West Indians collapsed in their second innings and we won by over a hundred runs. One of the sensations of this season was the West Indians' dismissal of Yorkshire on a plumb wicket for 50 runs—Ollivierre taking seven for 23.
After this West Indian match we left for Bradford to play Yorkshire. On the journey north Lord Hawke joined our train at one of the stations en route. When I was introduced he expressed pleasure at meeting me and turned to Perrin, who was sitting opposite, and said, “I should like your seat. I would like to talk with Reese about New Zealand.” For the next half-hour I was to experience the thrill of talking with this charming Englishman. In his talk with me, Lord Hawke was as natural and modest as any man could be. He showed an intimate knowledge of New Zealand, of the provincial teams, and of the cricket grounds in this country. He must have followed closely the play of his team that toured New Zealand in 1903, and no doubt Warner would have an interesting story to tell him. His opening remark to me, “Well, Reese, they tell me you are quite the best cricketer in your country!” reveals his pleasant and kindly manner. In Yorkshire, they told a charming story of Lord Hawke. He was much attached to his mother, and when touring with the Yorkshire XI, during his long bachelor days, he always sent her a wire, giving the day's scores and adding a message of love.
In county cricket in England there is no arriving with a day to spare before the match, as is the case in Australia and New Zealand. Three-day matches and often two a week meant arriving at night and starting another match the following day. And so it was at Bradford. Yorkshire batted all day for 315. Rhodes started with a half-century and Den ton, Tunnicliffe, and Hirst all scored well. It was fine to see these men in action. For years the Yorkshire XI had been at the top, or
débâcle reminiscent of my experiences against Fisher and Downes in New Zealand when they tumbled Canterbury out for such scores as 27 and 46. Our ninth wicket added a few only, but it was left to our bowlers, Buckenham and Mead, to add 70 for the last wicket, which took our total past the century. Taking all the risks of the game, they gave us a real thrill and earned the plaudits of the crowd for their brave effort. When our last wicket fell there was still a quarter of an hour to go before lunch.
We followed on. Again Hirst's first ball bowled Douglas; it was a full toss, swerved about a foot and hit the top of the off-stump. Douglas a “pair” before lunch! Surely a record in county cricket! The wicket had improved by the time play was resumed, but still favoured the bowlers. Perrin and Carpenter, by skilful play, added 60 for the second wicket. This brought on Haigh. I had expected Hirst and Rhodes to bowl as they had, but had not realized how great was this third string to Yorkshire's bow. He was a faster edition of Downes of New Zealand. Perhaps a better comparison would be with Bill Howell, the Australian medium-fast off-break bowler. Haigh put great vim into his delivery. There was no doubt about their being attacking
My failure to get runs against these northern counties was off-set by the experience and pleasure of meeting and seeing in action county XI's that I had read about since I was a boy. Whenever I read of the War of the Roses on the cricket field, I am able to visualize these stern contests, watched by lively, interested, fun-making crowds, whose knowledge of the game is not exceeded anywhere in the world. The humour of the men of the North of England is proverbial: their dialect entertaining in the extreme, especially to one from the colonies. I remember hearing one of the Yorkshiremen say to a comrade, “T'oompires are out.” This preface of a “t” to so many words was fascinating. “Bah goom” was an oft-heard phrase. The people of the North took intense pride in their county sides. In Yorkshire, they worshipped George Hirst; “Oor Jarge,” they
This match being all over in two days, we were able to catch the afternoon train to Leicester and arrive in good time for dinner. This was more comfortable travelling than was often the case when playing till six o'clock, then catching a night train in moving to another county.
The Leicestershire team was much the same as three years earlier, when I was playing for London County, except that a very good bowler named Jayes was now included. Winning the toss, Fane lifted me in the batting list and I opened the innings with Carpenter. We put on over 60 for the first wicket, of which I made 31. Although my form continued to come back slowly, I still longed for some hard net practice. This was a good match. We scored over 300 in each innings. Leicester made 221, and in the final innings got such a good start that they gave us a fright. Vivian Crawford, who hit brilliantly for 45 in the first innings, repeated his form in the second. About half-way through the second innings, Fane threw the ball to me. I got Crawford caught at cover. Albert Knight, their best batsman, followed and he fell to my slower ball before he had scored. I went on to get four for 55, my best bowling performance for Essex. Reeves got three for 22. We thus succeeded where Mead, Buckenham and Douglas had failed. Leicestershire finished with a total of 268, which left us with a comfortable margin.
Back in London, I had more than a week's spell before the next match. I needed the rest, for I had been playing continuously
It was good to be back at Lord's, and a pleasure to meet Warner and Bosanquet whom I had not seen since they were in New Zealand. I had played against Tarrant in Melbourne, against Trott and Hearne in the London County-M.C.C. match three years earlier, and had met Beldam at Crystal Palace, so did not feel such a stranger on this occasion.
It was an extraordinary match. Essex, winning the toss, scored 471; Carpenter played a fine innings for 177. I had read of the Carpenters in English cricket from the earliest years. It may have been our professional's grandfather who came to New Zealand with Parr's team in 1864. At any rate his display was worthy of his ancestors. McGahey played solidly for 92. I was out l.b.w. for 5, just on time, at the end of the first day: I hit the first ball for 4, then a single, then plumb in front! Hearne and Trott, now advancing to the veteran stage, were a different pair of bowlers from what they had been on the soft wicket three years earlier.
Middlesex replied with 460. Tarrant played soundly for 124, but the handsome Bosanquet hit brilliantly for 75; he had shown glimpses of this form in New Zealand, but this time looked a real batsman. Warner made a good 48, and nearly all the others made runs. Reeves stuck gamely to his task and finished with six for 120—a good performance, for it was a hot day.
Next day away went Essex again. This time it was Fane and Perrin, and real Test Match batting. Fane declared at four for 226, and the game ended with Middlesex having made 119 for three; another dashing innings by Bosanquet, who reached 60 in quick time. This brought the grand total for the match to 1,276, so it will be seen that the batsmen were on top all the time.
I was interested to see in action Gregor MacGregor, famous as the greatest of all English amateur wicket-keepers; he certainly lived up to his reputation.
Lord's is the only cricket ground where I had the experience
It was a long and tedious journey to Neath, in Glamorganshire, where we were to play our first match. It was not a county match, for our visit was in the nature of a holiday tour, to play matches at Neath and at Llanelly in the adjoining shire. Beautiful weather prevailed and, as the Welsh people received us enthusiastically, we had a pleasant time. Mr. David, a leading barrister of Neath, was very hospitable. He took a great fancy to Charlie McGahey, a confirmed bachelor. There was a pleasant social side to our matches and the local young women turned out in large numbers. One Welshman, bent on making a match for McGahey, said he could get him a girl “with a coal mine”! Needless to say, we all joined in the hunt for Mrs. McGahey, but our Charles was good on the defence and came through unscathed. After our match at Neath., Mr. David arranged a grouse-shooting party and gave us a splendid luncheon. The entertainment reminded me of my earliest days of cricket in New Zealand and Australia, when there was so much hospitality.
When we went to Llanelly, the parties were more hectic; there was champagne for dinner the first evening, and a late night to follow, for many sportsmen of the district were present. Next day we were to witness an extraordinary performance. Dear old Charlie McGahey, as always, was the life of the party “the night before.” When he went in to bat he had obviously not recovered. He said he didn't see the first ball at all; the second also missed his stumps; he then cocked one over short-leg's head and later put one through slips. After running one or two for his partner he gradually improved and began to get them more in the middle of the bat. On he went, first to 20, then 50 to 100, then 200, and eventually reached 300; the last two centuries being the result of fearless hitting. It was a small ground, so he hit many boundaries both to and over the fence. We certainly celebrated the event. I believe old Charles got more kick out of that innings than any other he ever played.
It was on this ground that the Welshmen had beaten the
v. Wales, played at Cardiff a few months earlier, was often discussed. The Welshmen were very proud of having beaten the All Blacks and, of course, Deans's “try” always cropped up. The great majority of the 50,000 spectators took the referee's decision as being correct, for only those able to look along the goal-line could give a definite opinion, but I did meet Welshmen who admitted that it was a try; best of all was to be told that the splendid
This week of holiday cricket in Wales was one of the brightest parts of my stay in England. I got to know my Essex colleagues as intimately as I had known the men of Grace's London County XI, and Trumble's team in Melbourne. They were splendid comrades.
Back in London we began a match against Surrey at Leyton. It was my first experience of seeing Hayward and Hobbs in an opening partnership. In the previous week the famous Tom had made double centuries at Nottingham and Leicester, and when he and his young partner ran to 100 for the first wicket, then on to 150, it looked as though he was going to make his fifth century in succession. Buckenham then clean bowled the Surrey champion. Hayward was their greatest batsman of that time and 1906 one of his best seasons. I had seen him play in Melbourne, but I was immensely impressed with the batting of Hobbs, who went on to make 130. It was a grand innings, sound, attractive and enterprising. Surrey totalled 342.
When Essex batted next morning, they ran into some sensational bowling by N. A. Knox, the young Surrey fast bowler. There was no doubt about his pace, and he could make the ball lift off the pitch. A long slim lad, he took about twenty yards' run and for short spells could be extremely dangerous. Essex lost five wickets for less than 40 runs; both Perrin and McGahey had failed to score. I then joined Captain W. M. Turner, who was a sound player and the only one to shape well against Knox. We added nearly 50 before I was run out. A brilliant piece of fielding by
In the second innings we got rid of Hayward and Hobbs for nominal scores, but Surrey had lots of other good batsmen. Reeves played a characteristic innings and passed the half-century in his usual breezy, confident manner. After I had scored a dozen, Crawford bowled me neck and crop, with one on the blind spot.
I had now seen another of England's great county sides. With such an opening pair, Surrey was bound to make runs. As Knox, Lees and Crawford each took over one hundred wickets that season it will be understood that they also had a good bowling side. Strudwick, then on the threshold of a Test Match career, provided much amusement in the way he chased the ball. Standing back to Knox, he had to cover a good deal of ground, for the Surrey “Speed Merchant” was not as accurate as a Richardson or a Lockwood. If a ball hit the pads and went for leg-byes, the crowd watched the wicket-keeper; he was as active as a Rugby half-back and his large-sized pads did not seem to impede his speed when he raced for the ball as if his life depended on it. I was impressed with young Jack Crawford; he bowled with the same energy and vim as Haigh, the Yorkshireman; he made pace off the wicket, had a nice off break, and bowled a ball that came with his arm—like
As was my experience in 1903, when playing for London County, there arrived a moment when I realized my bank account was dwindling; lunches, dinners and theatres with young men who always seemed to have money in their pockets placed a limit on the time my “sea-life” savings would last. I found I would be able to play in but one more match. It was now mid-July and the height of the cricket season, with glorious weather prevailing, so my disappointment will be understood. I had expected to be able to carry on until about the middle of August; even this would have been hard to bear, for August is usually the best month of an English cricket season. It is then that schoolmasters spend their holidays on the cricket field, and dashing young amateurs, knowing that they have reached the limit of their claims on their fathers' generosity and that a city career must be faced, play a few county matches. Great amateurs, reaching the end of their cricketing careers, also made July and August the occasion of their dwindling appearances for their counties. Yes, the height of the season is the correct description for these months! I had swallowed my disappointment when I said good-bye to W, G. Grace in the mid-summer of 1903; I could swallow it again now.
And so it came that the return match against Lancashire, at Leyton, was my last appearance for Essex. It turned out to be a great match. Each side made just over 200 runs in their first inning, and when we dismissed Lancashire again for 145, and were left only 156 to get, we felt confident of victory. Gillingham played finely, as did Carpenter, but Lancashire squeezed home by 13 runs. I remember being impressed with the way MacLaren whipped his team along to victory. They fielded like a Test side, and made it appear to the batsman as though there were more than eleven men in the field. A bowler whose surname was Harry did not bowl in the first innings, but took seven wickets for 53 in the second. He bowled a very good off break and, after lunch, on a wicket that was worn a little, was irresistible. I was again lifted to first-wicket position and felt sure that I was getting the ball in the middle of the bat and hitting with a degree of confidence.
I had time to see two days of the Essex match against Kent, at Tunbridge Wells, close to the border of Sussex. K. L. Hutchings was at this time one of the most brilliant amateur batsmen in England and I saw him play a glorious innings for 90. His drive past mid-off was tremendously powerful and a feature of his play. His fine physique, shining black hair and tanned face made Hutchings stand out as a fine example of English youth.
To be no-balled seven times in one over is surely an extraordinary experience, but that is what happened to Johnnie Douglas in this match. Each no-ball seemed to make him more upset, until he bowled the last two balls at reduced pace and more deliberately. Imagine Johnnie's feelings when two or three catches were held off no-balls!
Kent was the most evenly balanced side in the county championship. No other county in England organizes its cricket on such a scale; Canterbury week is one of the features of an English season; Maidstone, Tunbridge Wells and other towns get a share of home county matches, with Folkestone coming in for the holiday cricket of the early days of September. The county's organization of its young players, through what is known as the Kent, or Canterbury Nursery, is the finest of its kind in England. Whether it be village, club, or county cricket, there is no part of England that equals Kent in demonstrating the part that the great summer game plays in the life of the people of the Homeland. The retention of a large proportion of amateurs in their county XI has contributed much in maintaining public interest, as well as keeping alive the social side of the cricket of this county.
It was not only the present that appealed to me in connection with Kent cricket. Here was the county of Alfred Mynn and Fuller Pilch. I once heard a woman, getting heated in an argument on the Irish question, say, “You want to read history to understand the Irish point of view!” I read history,
In retrospect, my cricket experiences in England in 1906 make an interesting picture to me. The enjoyment of what was to me a holiday leaves happy memories. After the first few weeks of soft wickets, the summer broke brilliantly fine, and everyone revelled in the sunshine that made 1906 a notable season.
My Essex comrades were a grand bunch, as the Americans would say. F. L. Fane made a good captain—perhaps a little too stereotyped—but sound in judgment. He was certainly kind to me. Having played against me in New Zealand I suppose he was expecting me to reproduce the same form. Charlie McGahey was always a source, of amusement, whether on the home ground or away on tour. He was still a good player, although advancing to the veteran stage. I could never understand MacLaren preferring McGahey to Perrin for the Australian tour of 1901. To my mind, Perrin was one of England's greatest batsmen at a time when the standard was very high. He was magnificent against fast bowling. It has
Essex had a fine side, one of the best they ever had, and only the want of a couple of good slip fieldsmen prevented them from finishing nearer the top of the list. It was heartbreaking to Buckenham and Douglas to have so many catches put on the carpet for the want of a Trumble, a Lohmann or a Braund.
Looking beyond the play of the Essex XI, this view of county cricket completed my education, in that I was now better able to appraise the respective merits of English and Australian cricket, both past and present. My intimate association with Bruce, Trumble, McLeod, Armstrong and Hill, and talks with Trott, Giffen, Darling, Noble and Worrall, had given me the Australians' view of the great English players and great matches; in 1903, Grace and Murdoch had enthralled me with stories of the 'eighties and 'nineties; now I was to have the views of other great players of England, and learn what they thought of the Australians.
English cricket in 1906 was extraordinarily good. Kent won the championship, largely on account of being such a uniformly good side, right down to the last man. Fielder and Blythe were an exceptional pair of bowlers. It was after seeing Blythe bowl in Australia, and again in England, that I quickened the pace of my own bowling a little. Originally, I had
In this season of 1906, Yorkshire came second to Kent. It is amazing how this great northern county maintains its position at, or near the top. Since the days of Emmett and Peate, they have always possessed great left-hand bowlers. Yorkshire gets more soft wickets than most of the counties, and they seem to make a point of being always in search of left-handers. Hirst, this year, was as great as ever, and Rhodes, though thought to have gone back a little, was still a fine bowler. Lord Hawke had lifted his restraining influence, so far as Rhodes's batting was concerned, and at times run-getting may have taken some of the edge off his bowling.
When one turns to Lancashire and finds such names as MacLaren, Tyldesley, Spooner and Brearley, it is easy to understand why this side finished so near the top of the list. It is champions that make great sides, and Lancashire had her share of great players.
Surrey, finishing third, owed much to the Hayward-Hobbs combination.
There has always been a “Big Four” in English county cricket: Yorkshire, Lancashire, Surrey and Kent being nearly always in the van, with Nottingham or Middlesex not far away. This time Nottingham won fifth place, but Middlesex was a long way down.
I finish this story of county cricket on three great names—Jessop, Ranjitsinhji and Fry. Jessop still captained Gloucestershire and, although he did not have a very successful season, remained one of the greatest draws wherever he went. Even 30 or 40 from this great hitter was enough to lift the spectators to a state of excitement. Gloucestershire beat Yorkshire by one run at the end of the season. It was this defeat that lost the championship to Yorkshire, and enabled Kent to slip into first place.
I was glad I had seen Ranjitsinhji and Fry play in 1903, for the Prince did not return from India for the 1906 season, while Fry suffered an injury to his leg and played in just a few matches. I had seen, read and heard enough of these two famous players to know what their influence on English cricket was. I was always an admirer of C. B. Fry's—I think all boys of my time were. New Zealanders have reason to remember at least one part of his outstanding athletic career. In 1892 he created a sensation with a record long jump of 23 feet 5 inches and, in the next year, again won this event at the inter-Varsity sports. The year 1895 was Fry's last at Oxford, It was also
Fry's triple blue at Oxford would have become a quadruple blue but for a leg injury that kept him out of the Rugger XV. Next came his cricket, and long sequences of centuries. What a tragedy for England that he never came to Australia! The Australians would have attempted to block his on-side
It was not until I went to England that I learned of Fry's scholarship and brilliant attainments at Oxford. It is interesting to read in “C.B.'s” book, Life Worth Living, of how, in examinations, he and John Simon and F. E. Smith would compete with one another as though it were an athletic contest, and tell each other, “I'm after you this time!” Is it any wonder that Fry, in England, stood out as a peer among young men?
It took strength of mind for him to retire from cricket when he had scored 94 centuries and looked certain to be the first to follow Grace to make a century of centuries. But Fry had already tarried too long. It is true that he had long been a success in journalism, for Fry's Magazine was widely read. He was one of the best of all cricket writers; no one could condense his story and yet tell so much of a cricket match; his short, pithy sentences illustrated incidents of the game. No better example of his powers of brief yet adequate description could be found than in an incident of forty years ago. During the progress of the second Test in Australia in 1904, a cricket dinner was held in London. Fry asked leave to propose a toast; this is what he said—“Gentlemen: the Test Match in Melbourne—a treacherous wicket … Hirst and Rhodes the English bowlers … Trumper first man in, last man out! I ask you to drink to the health of
Fry left the cricket field to take up an important post in a Naval training college at Portsmouth, which became his life's work. The sporting world will always rejoice that such a personality was given to cricket and athletics. When I think
Of Ranjitsinhji there is little need to say much. His greatness as a batsman, admitted by all, lifts him to the level of W. G. Grace. He was the first player to dispute the great “W.G.'s” right to stand alone and above all others. Conservative Englishmen were loath to have their old champion threatened, let alone displaced, but the dazzling performances of the young Indian prince, beginning in 1896, were so wonderful that Englishmen and Australians alike were compelled to herald the arrival of another champion of champions.
These sketches of famous players and great county sides may assist the reader to picture English county cricket as I saw it in 1906.
Reporting again for service, I soon received word of my appointment as Second Enginer on the S.S. Cymbeline, a big oil-tanker trading across the Atlantic. The ship was in London at the time, so I had to put up with short notice. Promotion to Second gave me much more responsibility and, incidentally, more money.
Shortly after receiving our sailing orders one of the firemen could be heard singing, “For I'm off to Philadelphia in the Morning!”—the Pennsylvanian oil-field was our destination. Out in the Channel, then the Bay of Biscay, then mid-Atlantic. It was not a bad trip, for it was mid-summer, but sailors well know that to sail the Atlantic light ship is not a thing to look forward too. Oil-tankers do not carry cargo on the return journey, but, with our engines aft and the ship sitting by the stern, we were spared the racing of the propeller usually experienced on steamers with engines amidships.
Coming after delightful experiences with Grace's London County team, my voyage out East, with the prospect of seeing the Orient, provided compensation and lessened the disappointment naturally felt at leaving England at that time. Meanwhile I had seen much of the world and I'm afraid I faced this Atlantic trade with less of the spirit of adventure than I had three years earlier. Touring England with a county XI, staying at first-class hotels, and eating the best food England can provide was a very pleasant experience. It had lifted me far away from the frugal meals of cargo steamers. Now I was back again to life on a ship without refrigeration, and after a few days at sea reverted to the same diet as on the Claverhill. Years later I was to receive a delightful reminder of this change to plain food. It was in 1910 when Armstrong led an Australian cricket team through this country. We were playing at Wellington; on our side was young Donald Sandman, playing his first Test Match. We stayed at the Grand Hotel, one of the best in the city. At dinner on the last night, before catching the steamer for Lyttelton, there was a lull in the conversation and
Present-day ocean liners cross the Atlantic in less than a week. We took over a fortnight, for the old Cymbeline, though bigger than any of my previous ships, had little more speed. At last we approached the famous Delaware Bay, into which flows the river of the same name. This bay is more like a deep gulf and makes a fine harbour entrance to Philadelphia's wharf accommodation, which is up the river.
I had always pictured Philadelphia as an Atlantic coastal port, but, like New York, this great city is tucked away and well sheltered from the rollers of the Atlantic. It is significant that all the great harbours on this Atlantic seaboard, as far north as Nova Scotia, are placed well back from the coastline. After passing Cape May, on the north side, we steamed about sixty miles up the bay before coming to the river, then another thirty miles to the city itself. America's harbours are surely worthy of a great continent. All this was breaking new ground for me and, despite the amount of the world I had seen since going to sea, I was just as inquisitive and anxious to learn all I could of this historic part of the United States.
Loading a 5,000 ton cargo steamer was usually a matter of many days when general cargo was being handled. I had experienced the mechanical appliances that quickened the loading of coal cargoes and shortened one's stay in port: here was something new—oil carried in bulk and pumped into the ship by great pumps ashore. Huge flexible pipes were laid across the wharf and into the holds of our ship. All fires were put out, including the cook's stove, for there were oil fumes everywhere; this was in the early days of carrying oil cargoes in bulk. We rarely had more than two nights in port, so it will be realized what a hard run it was. There was some delay in our getting a loading berth, consequently I had a chance of seeing Philadelphia on this first trip. What a fine city I found it to be!
Like New York and Boston, Philadelphia had been settled by men of vision. They saw far beyond the precincts of their city; they measured the future by the size of the continent that lay behind them. Great buildings were erected and have remained worthy of the days that were to come. Like her rivals
It was not long before we were away out into the Atlantic again, bound for Antwerp, so once more I was able to roam round this old city I had visited two years earlier in the Savan.
And so I crossed and recrossed the Atlantic. The Cymbeline usually loaded for London or Avonmouth, at the head of the Bristol Channel, which tapers to become the estuary of the River Severn. The return journey was always to Philadelphia so I had further opportunities of exploring this old city. The people were proud of their Quaker colony, as it was called, when founded by William Penn in the year 1683. The more I saw of this city the more I realized the justice of their claims to be the pioneers of industry in the United States. Cramps' great ship-building yards, established in 1830, were here, as well as a naval dockyard that ranked as one of the most important in the United States. I discovered many things that surprised me, among them being the fact that these people of Quaker origin established the first paper-mill in the United States, the first great foundry, the first insurance company, the first bank and the first medical school. This was an amazing performance that goes to the credit of these sturdy pioneers.
While these people have created a hive of industry in their own state, they have also left behind them some of the brightest pages of American history. Philadelphia was actually the capital of the United States for ten years following the civil war. It is rather sad to relate that just as I found on Bunker Hill at Boston, evidence of actual armed contest with the English—as
Americans are proud of their independence and it was at Philadelphia that the declaration of Independence was signed. Independence Hall, where the signatures were attached, and Independence Square stand to-day as monuments of that great epoch-making event.
I came across all sorts of places of historic interest. Right in one of the main streets is still preserved Betsy Ross House: it was here that the woman of this name designed the first American flag of stars and stripes. A huge statue of William Penn is to be seen; he looks quaint in his big Quaker hat, braided coat and knee breeches. It must be about a hundred feet high. It is said that a team of horses could be driven round the brim of his hat! The wooden statue the Germans made of Hindenburg in the first World War was of similar proportions. Prompted by charming sentiment, the Philadelphians dismantled, transferred and rebuilt the old home of William Penn in Fairmount Park. It looked fine in such beautiful surroundings. Americans look back and remember affectionately their old founders and leaders, just as do the British who have so many names to honour. The Americans speak of Billy Penn, just as the New Zealanders speak of
To go into details about the old and modern buildings of Philadelphia would be repeating the story of Boston, described in earlier pages: there was the same growth and development, and the same change in architectural design. I finish on Fair-mount Park. In Christchurch, New Zealand, we are proud of our Hagley Park, an area of 630 acres in the heart of the city, which was once thought to be too generous a provision made by our pioneers. Sydney has her Moore Park and Centennial Park, the latter covering many acres. London, too, is proud of her many parks and great areas like Wimbledon Common, but I believe the Philadelphians can substantiate their claim that Fairmount Park exceeds in size, and equals in beauty, any of the city parks in the world. In my own home city we are pleased to claim Christchurch as a place of beautiful residences. Philadelphia justly boasts of being the “City of Homes” in America.
Philadelphia is one of the few cities in the United States where cricket is played. I am sorry not to have seen J. B. King play. The Englishmen rated him among the best bowlers in the world, and the first of the swingers. He once flicked Ranjitsinhji's off-bail off before that batsman had got the hang of his bowling. The Indian prince squared matters next time they met. The Philadelphians have made many cricket tours of England, and were very well liked, while English teams often went to Philadelphia. The Americans play the game in the delightful spirit of English amateur cricket, and had they taken to cricket instead of base-ball the English-speaking world would have seen contests as stirring as those between England and Australia.
The Atlantic continued in amiable mood, for August and early September are the calmest months in the northern hemisphere. We were often on the beaten track of the Atlantic liners, and the sight of one always created interest on board our ship. They would slip past us, just as the Deutschland had raced alongside and passed the old Savan in the Channel. There was now even greater international rivalry, and the ships that made for the English Channel were frequently seen. It is strange that American ships did not attempt to win the coveted honour of the Blue Riband. Italians were building bigger and faster ships, and these crossed our tracks to enter the Mediterranean. The French had entered the race and crossed to Cherbourg, but just as Test Match cricket has remained mainly England versus Australia, so the real fight for supremacy in the Atlantic was Britain versus Germany.
September turned to October and this meant the beginning of winter. The autumn tints of the maple on the banks of the St. Lawrence which had been such a joy to me the previous autumn were very different from the white-crested tops that now began to appear with monotonous regularity on the waves of the Atlantic. November followed, and now I knew that the stories of this great ocean were true! On my trips to the West Indies the only place really rough seas were encountered was in crossing the Bay of Biscay. To Philadelphia it was the North Atlantic all the way. A 5,000-ton ship was considered a fair-sized oil-tanker in those days, but she was like a toy to those mountainous seas. The giant liners, while sometimes finding it necessary to slow up a little, continued to
Cymbeline, when light ship we simply went right over the top and down the other side. It was at times a hair-raising experience, for in mid-Atlantic the seas can and do reach heights that justify the name of mountainous seas. Of all the oceans I travelled, none equalled the North Atlantic for roughness in a raging storm. The monsoon in the Indian Ocean was a terrifying experience, the gales across the Bay of Fundy were bad enough, but the great depth of the Atlantic enabled the hurricanes of that ocean to beat up a bigger sea than in any other. The fury of the typhoon must, of course, be the most terrifying storm in the world, but, then, no ships willingly attempt to ride it out; all make for shelter. In the Atlantic there is no turning back—ships great and small ride out the storm and take what is coming to them. With the engines of the Cymbeline situated right aft and the engineers' quarters over the stern, no description is necessary to enable anyone to appreciate the discomfort experienced when an Atlantic storm lashed its fury on our innocent-looking tramp steamer, playing its humble part as a unit in the great British Mercantile Marine. In rough seas, when loaded down to her marks, she often resembled a submarine breaking surface! These were my last months at sea and they were packed with incident and experience.
Philadelphia had proved to be a rich field for my enquiring mind. The countryside was near where the troops of the north, little more than forty years before, had marched to do battle against the brave men of the South. I met men who could speak at first-hand of this tragic happening in the life of America. My preconceived idea was one of sympathy for the South, yet we know that Lincoln was right—there just had to be one United States. The strained feeling between the North and South remained long after the war was over. It was amusing to read in Bobby Jones's book, Down the Fairway, of the famous American golfer, a Southerner, on his first visit to New York, saying in a note to his father, “These Yankees aren't half bad after all!”
I wish I had known then of Colonel Henderson's classic on the life of “Stonewall” Jackson, which tells so vividly of the happenings that took place little more than a hundred miles from Philadelphia, or that it had been possible to read
Gone With the Wind which, on its appearance, so thrilled the world and gave a glimpse of the domestic side of the times of the great civil war.
It is remarkable how eagerly one seeks the opportunity of getting a close view of historical events of the past when able to visit the actual scene of a battle. On one of his visits to England, via America, my old friend,
These visits to great American cities enabled me to get to know something of the people of the States. Many of them said, “I guess,” and “I calculate,” but in the South it reminded me of New Zealand to hear them say, “I reckon.” The great majority of Southerners had a pleasant, easy roll in their speech, for the men of these parts did not have that nasal accent that characterizes too much American speech.
As on the waterfront at Boston, I often heard the term “the God-damned Britisher,” which was matched by “the b … Yankee,” but these were just slang expressions and did not represent the real feelings of the people. I found the Americans friendly to a degree. That there was rivalry cannot be denied. I thought some Americans were jealous of the outstanding position held by the British Empire. The Hearst Press had made great play of the South African War and had created the impression that it was the case of a big fellow hitting a little chap. Hearst omitted to tell his readers that it was Kruger and his men who set about to drive all Englishmen out of South Africa. Naval supremacy was another bone of contention. Britain insisted on having the largest navy in the
On one of my visits to Philadelphia, we met undue delay in getting a loading berth and the Chief gave me leave for a week-end in New York. I stayed with my relative in Brooklyn, to whom I have previously referred. Six months earlier, my few days in the great American city had been at the end of winter. Now it was glorious autumn weather. Central Park looked a different place with the tinted leaves of the trees and the park crowded with visitors.
After one of my voyages, I had the great joy of a visit from my brother Alex who had come to England before going to America to enter a theological college at Xenia, in preparation for a life in the mission field. Afterwards he went to Brazil where he has worked for the Presbyterian Church for nearly forty years. He came to Avonmouth to urge me to return to New Zealand and take his place with my eldest brother who had, the previous year, started in business as a builders' merchant dealing in timber, cement, lime, etc. He painted a rosy picture of an income far beyond my modest earnings as a second engineer, but it was a difficult decision to make. My father had been a building contractor, and any young man knows something of his father's business; part of my engineering training had been in the pattern shop, so naturally I knew a good deal about certain timbers. This possibly encouraged me to give the matter consideration.
I remember we went up to Bristol in the evening and talked and talked until the last train left for Avonmouth. As I had not seen my brother for three and a half years, it will be understood how much we had to say to each other. He, too, was a keen cricket enthusiast and as we were now in the home county of the Graces we probably talked cricket more than any other subject.
In the end I said I would give a definite answer after another
Cymbeline I had gained considerable experience in the handling of men. The Second Engineer on a ship has responsibilities far greater than those of the Third or Fourth; he not only directs work to be done according to his Chief's instructions, but runs the engine-room staff in his own way; it is the Second Engineer who selects the firemen. One learns to tell by the look of a man whether he will be suitable for the job. While every engineer on watch controls his own firemen, it is the Second who plans the work in port, unless it is a major job, when the Chief would always be consulted. I had been long enough in my present position to have gained all the confidence required to carry out a Second Engineer's duties. But where would it lead to? I had never intended to adopt a seafaring career; my object was to get my Chief Engineer's Certificate. I remember Mr. McGill saying to me on the Claverhill, “If you want to leave the sea, get away before you are made a Chief, or you'll never leave.” I had seen Chiefs who had rapidly become “fair, fat and forty” and then, not inclined to risk leaving on the chance of getting a shore position as good, would remain at sea. The Chief Engineer always ranks next to the Captain on board ship, so has already reached a comfortable and responsible position. It was obvious to me that it would not be long before I would move up to No. i position, and that I might find myself, as McGill had said, unable or unwilling to leave, and thus be destined to a life at sea. My love of home life helped me in my decision, as did the rough Atlantic seas we were then experiencing!
On arrival at Philadelphia I cabled my resignation, and the run home brought to an end eventful years at sea. Signing off at Penarth, where we went to take in bunkers, I went on to Cardiff, saw the South African Rugby team play Glamorganshire, heard a Welsh crowd sing their national anthem, and next day was in London.
I Cannot finish these reflections on my life at sea without some reference to the men with whom I sailed. “He or she was a shipmate of mine,” was a phrase frequently used by the early pioneers to New Zealand. I have often heard my mother say this when referring to Mrs. Russell or Mrs. Rankin, to mention two of the women who in their teens shared with her the adventures, perhaps perils, of the six months' voyage to New Zealand in the old sailing-ship The Brothers' Pride in 1862.
Shipmates at sea has a different meaning and in my case meant being in a team of engineers, sharing the responsibilities of the job at sea and passing from one to another the four-hour watches that go the rounds of the clock. It often meant continuous association for long periods at a time. It was a greater test of comradeship than living ashore in a hotel or boarding-house where one sees his fellow-boarders only at breakfast and in the evenings, or at the week-ends. Virtues and failings soon become evident, but tolerance, good temper and, to a large extent, good leadership by my Chiefs, always welded together the teams I was with.
All this experience gave. me an inside view of Britain's wonderful Mercantile Marine, and enabled me to measure the part played by the crews of her ships in establishing her reputation as the greatest maritime nation. Many of my old shipmates will by now have passed away and most of the others will be too old for active service; but in the first World War I was able to visualize the services they would be rendering. Captain Harry Dawson, R.N.R., would be bound to rise rapidly to some high command; I have never met anyone more typical of “the boys of the bulldog breed.” His outstanding capacity, courage and determination would have made him invaluable in the Navy. When his ship was steaming in submarine infested waters, it would be William McGill who would quietly go down to the engine-room and by his presence give confidence to his junior engineer on watch. He would walk into the stokehold and speak words of encouragement to
I was fortunate in the Chief Engineers I sailed under: they were all men of fine character and all good disciplinarians. At sea, as in all other walks in life, men respect a good leader. Efficient control has far-reaching effects on the work and the behaviour of a ship's crew. Of the men on deck, the same story can be told. The Captains and the officers under their command were typical of the British sailor; they inspired confidence in everyone on board. It mattered not whether we were in a storm, were groping our way through fog, or feeling our way amongst the islands of the West Indies on a dark night, no one turned a hair.
Next would come Tamlin, the man of Devon with his ruddy complexion and pleasant voice of the western counties. With ice on his moustache and his square jaw set, as I have seen it set on the coast of Nova Scotia, he would prove a tough fighter and a courageous man on the bridge when hunting submarines in the seas around Newfoundland and Iceland in the far north of the Atlantic.
This is an imaginary picture, but it is drawn from a knowledge of the characters of men capable of performing deeds of great heroism and thinking only of the Homeland they loved so dearly. Yes, in war these men rise above their ordinary status and win the gratitude of the Senior Service, and of the nation, for the part they play in keeping Britain's life-line open. In World War II they were beset with all the dangers of the Navy itself, but without the same power to hit back. It was a fitting tribute to all ranks of the Mercantile Marine that the wartime name given this service should have been such an appropriate and inspiring one as the Merchant Navy.
It is not all work aboard ship. I have already told how, when in port, the theatres, and music hails in particular, were the greatest attractions. It was in the mess-room, in one another's cabins, and on deck in the summer evenings that we were able to fraternize and develop firm friendships. It was when we were all together at mess that conversations were general, and subjects were discussed that covered a world of thought and Claverhill, and the Second on the Dominion from telling, on the side, some that would not pass at the mess table. It is hard in these days to tell stories that are not chestnuts and I often hear allegedly modern ones that are but a re-hash of those of forty years ago.
I risk telling some that I have not heard since I was at sea. As a preface to the first, I must explain that anyone seeking a position in Australia or New Zealand must present a testimonial covering his qualifications and experience. In England one must also have a character reference. One day the Second of the Savan, after being ashore, said to us, “Did you hear the story of the girl from Holland who crossed over to Newcastle to obtain a domestic position? Well, when she arrived at the palatial home she was to work at, her new mistress asked her if she has a character. The Dutch girl answered quietly, ‘I had one, but I lost it on the boat coming over!’”
The Second Engineer of the Dominion made us laugh with a snappy story about a young fellow who was engaged to a school-teacher. The young man was slovenly in his speech, and kept speaking of “me” hat and “me” coat, until his
“My pants, Arthur!” quickly corrected the little schoolmistress!
Two more will suffice.
This time it was the Third on the Claverhill. He loved having little digs at our religious Second. Morrison turned to him one day and asked, “Did you ever hear the story of the young man who was to sing at a church concert on a Saturday night?”
The Second blinked, for, knowing the Third, he wondered what was coming.
“Well,” he continued, “on the Saturday afternoon the young fellow went to a football match. When he got home he said to his wife, ‘By Jove, it was a great match and we won!’ As he spoke huskily and little above a whisper, his wife asked, ‘What's the matter with your voice?’ ‘Oh, nothing,’ he said, ‘Just barracking; it'll soon be all right.’ But it did not get all right, and immediately after dinner, when he was still speaking in a whisper, his wife said, ‘You'd better go along and tell the Minister you won't be able to sing to-night, for he'll need to arrange for someone to take your place.’ Reluctantly he agreed and off he went. The Minister's wife came to the door, and the would-be singer asked in his whispering voice, ‘Is the parson in?’ Replying in the same hushed voice, the lady of the manse whispered, ‘No. Come in!’”
Many amusing stories are told of the New Zealand Maoris. One that I related always caused a chuckle in the mess-room. It was about a member of Uru's native contingent that visited England for Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee celebrations. On his return to New Zealand this amateur soldier went back to the happy-go-lucky life of the Pa. One day this Maori met a
“Yes.”
“Who keep the pub at the corner now?”
On every ship I was in, a frowned expression could always be converted into a beaming smile by asking this delightfully absurd question.
These bright side-lights will help to illustrate some of the fun and good-humour that prevails on Britain's seagoing ships.
Recalling these years of service as a marine engineer brings back a clear picture of my impressions; I think of the many places visited, of the peoples of these lands, and of their status in the community of nations; I remember the calm and the heat of the tropics, the snow and the ice of a Canadian winter, the mountainous seas of the Atlantic, and the terrifying monsoon of the Indian Ocean.
Travelling along and crossing so many trade routes enabled me to see the ships of many countries. My experience in the drawing office in Melbourne, when I placed on paper designs of modern passenger and cargo ships, gave me the key to this fascinating picture of old and new liners engaged in the world's sea-borne commerce. I could thus make comparisons and assess the development that had taken place and the further advances that were being made.
The Claverhill was what they called an old tub, although the flattering picture of her, reproduced from a painting by a Chinaman at Hong Kong, makes her look like a modern ship. Her gross tonnage was barely 3,000 and her engines of the old triple expansion type. Except for feed and bilge pumps, she had little auxiliary machinery. The Savan was more up-to-date and had electric lighting, which took the place of the unhygienic oil-lamps in cabins and fo'c'sle, and gave a better light in the engine-room. The Dominion and the Cymbeline were still more up-to-date, but it was the ships I saw at sea and in port that gave me a clearer perspective of the world's shipping; the voyage on the Lucania sharpened my already keen interest in ship-building development.
The design of ships on the various trade routes improved and advanced with the needs of the countries they served, and with the progress made in engineering. It was in the Atlantic trade that, spurred on by intense international rivalry, there developed a stern contest for supremacy, and the building of ships that were often ahead of the times. The competition was not merely a question of great and speedy ships, for the quality of
A brief sketch or bird's-eye view of this struggle for supremacy, including great feats of engineering skill, may prove of interest to the layman, although it may be necessary to use some technical terms.
It is worthy of note that, over many years, the Cunard Company has always arranged for its crack liners to be built in pairs. Fifty years ago they built the Lucania and the Campania; fourteen years later the Mauretania and the Lusitania; and lastly, the Queen Mary and the Queen Elizabeth. It seems ludicrous to compare the first steamer to cross the Atlantic with these modern giants. But what of the first ships to sail this famous ocean? Of the three that comprised the original expedition of Columbus's, in search of the New World, the largest was about 100 tons! The Great Eastern was before her time; not so much from being so big as from being ahead of the engineering progress needed to provide engines with sufficient power to propel such a great ship. How rapid development has been is to be seen in the increase in the size of ships and the enormous power of their engines. The Lucania the first of the modern champions, was built in 1893, and had a gross tonnage of 13,000 —about the same size as the Union Company's Niagara in New Zealand. Four years later the Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse jumped into the lead; her solitary successful attack on the record was not without incident, for, when nearing New York, she suffered a serious breakdown in her engine-room, but managed to steam slowly into port without the passengers becoming aware of what had happened. The world acclaimed the new winner of the Blue Riband, but few people ever learned
Kaiser Wilhelm limped back to Germany on one engine! In 1900 the Deutschlandy, 16,500 gross tons, with a speed of 24 knots, appeared on the scene. Then came the Mauretania of 32,000 tons, with still greater and more powerful engines capable of driving her nearly 27 knots. Other ships of greater tonnage, such as the Aquitania, Majestic (ex-German Bismark), and the Vaterland, to mention but three, entered the Atlantic trade, but they made no attempt at speed records. They were comfortable ships to travel in, but much too big to be driven at the speed of the Mauretania, unless the owners were prepared to face enormous costs.
After this, a period of sensible planning reigned. More big ships were built, but the designing was always carried out with an eye to keeping running costs within bounds. International contests do not end when one nation establishes a lead, even though the maximum results may appear to have been attained. Money is no object when it comes from the public purse, and Germany set about to plan ships that would wrest from the great Cunard liners the proud position they held. Speeds were now so great, and comfort and attention so satisfying, that it was not an easy matter to improve upon them.
Years had passed by with the red-funnelled liners still mistresses of the seas. Then Germany struck again; this time she followed the Cunard policy of having ships built in couples. The Bremen and Europa made their appearance, and the Atlantic contest reached a new pitch of intensity. It was the old story of bigger and faster. They were splendid vessels, designed to exceed the speed of the pride of the Clyde and of the Tyneside, while their accommodation was more palatial than that of any previous ship. In addition, the service was made more like that of the great hotels ashore. The discipline of the crews was comparable with that of the German Navy—in fact some of the key positions were held by officers who had gone through a naval training, and this was to raise suspicions as to the use to which these ships might be put in the event of war. How justified these fears were was to be proved at the beginning of the first World War when, immediately after the outbreak of hostilities, the Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse, armed as a merchant cruiser, and getting astride of trade routes, began sinking allied ships. She was quickly cornered off the coast of North-West Africa and sent to the bottom by the guns of the British cruiser Highflyer.
The Bremen proved formidable opposition for the Cunarder, and won back the Blue Riband for Germany. The night life on board also scored over their more staid opponents. Lights out at 10.30 p.m. is the rule on all British ships. The Germans transplanted Continental life on to these floating palaces. The bars and lounges were open until 2 a.m., even longer. Stewards were always in attendance and the scene resembled the night clubs ashore. Men and women have been likened to moths in the dazzling light. Is it any wonder that to some people these bright nights were an added attraction and won many patrons?
It was during this period that the fight reached its highest pitch, for the challengers were not allowed to go unchallenged. It is a very human story that tells of the manner in which the firemen and engineers of the Mauretania coaxed their beloved ship into greater effort. It was as though the proud Cunarder knew of the challenge and that the Blue Riband was at stake. One would need to see the Mauretania in dry-dock and look upon her four, great three-bladed propellers to realize the tremendous power that could be transmitted through these screws to learn the secret of her speed. Although now a veteran, she was to attain even greater speed than in her youth and to astonish the shipping world with performances that held the newcomers to an even contest. If ever a merchant ship was to win the applause and gratitude of a nation, it was the Mauretania. Her record of holding the Blue Riband of the Atlantic for twenty years may never be equalled. Had it been possible to assemble the people of England along the headlands of Cornwall and Devon, to watch their favourite pass up-Channel in the final dash for Southampton, they would have cheered her in the manner Australians cheered old Carbine, as he galloped to victory in that memorable Melbourne Cup of more than fifty years ago. To the workmen of the Tyneside, in particular, the Mauretania remained the reigning toast for many a day.
The Italians made one great effort with the Rex—51,000 tons—and notched a win in 1933. Then came the Normandie a magnificent and beautiful stream-lined ship. France had not, for many a year, been rated as a great maritime nation. In Australia I had often seen her ships of the Messageries Maritime Line, and was later to meet them out East, for this Marseilles company had important services trading to the Orient, These French ships, however, could not be compared
Normandie; with a gross tonnage of 83,000, and a speed of 29 knots, she was to sweep the seas in triumphal runs, beating all records of the past.
How came it that the French who, up till then, had more or less been spectators in watching British and German ships carry on the struggle, should now burst in and astonish the shipping world. It was long suspected that the German government was subsidizing her shipping companies. It began with excessive mail subsidies, then developed into unadulterated government backing of private enterprise. The early success of this subtle move tempted the Germans to extend the system to other great industries, and the world was to witness the destruction of the old adage, “fair play is bonnie play.” Who can say how much this system of trading engendered the ill-feeling that crept into and disturbed international trade and relations? Although Germany at first got away with it, she was to learn that two can play at this game. Italy followed suit and the copyist nation of Japan was soon to be met on the oceans and markets of the world with services and goods backed by a forceful and ever-grasping government. Then America took a hand, but the help she gave her ship-owners was for the purpose of winning trade in overseas markets, rather than for breaking records in the Atlantic contest. Now it was France's turn, and she appeared to put all her eggs into one basket. The Normandie commanded the admiration of the world.
A special tribute is due to the Gunard and White Star companies for their valiant effort and performance in continuing for so long, by their own enterprise and exertion, this competition against such odds. John Bull moves slowly—but he does move—and in the end national pride and prestige, as well as necessity, compelled him to come to the assistance of these great shipping companies. There was no secrecy about
Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth were laid. A gross tonnage of 82,000 and an estimated speed of over 30 knots made the re-winning of the Blue Riband of the Atlantic a mathematical certainty. Britishers the world over cheered the performances of the Queen Mary during the short period prior to the outbreak of the second World War.
It will be remembered that the great races between the Cutty Sark and the Thermopilae were, in their time, just as thrilling as those between modern liners, but they ended when sailing-ships lost pride of place on the sea. At one time there seemed to be no likelihood of an end to this Atlantic fight for more knots, without an international truce. Speed costs money, and the huge ocean liners reached the stage where such vessels could not be profitably run without government assistance. International rivalry became the main factor in these contests. It seems clear that in the future air liners will leave to ships the slow-moving passenger traffic only, and this, in itself, may put an end to the present suicidal competition, although, at the moment, unless wiser counsels prevail, it looks as if the scene of contest may be transferred from the sea to the air.
Behind all the advancement made in search of comfort, size and speed, there lies a romantic story of engineering and science. Long before the days of motor-cars and aeroplanes, sea-going steamers were passing through distinctive evolutionary periods. The first ships driven by steam were paddle steamers, and it is hard for us to realize that the engines of the first Atlantic liners—if they could be called that—transmitted their power through great paddle wheels. Then came the single-screw steamers, driven by compound engines, followed, many years later, by the triple expansion engine. Quadruple expansion engines were tried, but in the main did not prove such well-balanced jobs as the three-cylinder engines. It is remarkable that the compound engine should go unchallenged so long, for it was not until 1881 that the Matabele, the first ship fitted with triple expansion engines to make an” ocean voyage, set out from London on her maiden trip to
Engine designers were soon to be faced with the problem of overcoming the difficulties created by the excessive weight of the propelling machinery, resulting from the larger and larger engines required for the bigger and bigger ships. The diameters of the cylinders of the Savan were 25″, 40″ and 65″; on the Deutschland, the low-pressure cylinders went up to 106″, that is, nearly nine feet in diameter. It will thus be seen that the limit was now being reached, for this made a very heavy piston casting to be driven up and down from eighty to a hundred times a minute. For many years the increased power required to drive bigger ships was provided by increasing the size of these triple expansion engines. Then came the twin-screw steamers. Two smaller engines would now develop more power than one set of big engines. Ships soon became so large—particularly the Atlantic liners—that the engines of twin-screw steamers created the same difficulties that had previously to be faced by the use of big engines in single-screw ships. The ingenuity of the engineers of that time staved off the day of the maximum-sized reciprocating engines by the introduction of multiple cylinder jobs. The Deutschland, following the Lucania, was the last liner to have this type of engine.
The turbine engine then came to the rescue of the designing engineer; its rotary drive enabled great power to be developed without great weight, and the thud of the reciprocating engine was replaced by the hum of the turbine. First there was the direct-driven turbine. In practice it was found that this proved more efficient and more economical if driven at its maximum high speed, which, however, meant too many revolutions per minute to obtain the fullest efficiency from the propellers. This difficulty was later overcome by the introduction of the geared-turbine. The decisive factor in obtaining maximum efficiency was the finding of a correct balance between the speed of the engines and the speed best suited to the design of the propellers; increased revolutions had already forced a
Then came the Diesel engine, and great hopes were entertained for this new type. Wonderful success was obtained on small craft, but when bigger models were built they did not fulfil original expectations.
The oil engine was given a further chance when the Diesel-electric was developed, but by this time it was clear that the future lay with steam, and the turbo-electric then made a bid for supremacy. Turbine engines, driving a generator that transmitted electric power through motors to the shafting, enabled the speed of the propeller to be regulated with greater efficiency. This manner of controlling the revolutions of the propeller shaft went a long way to effecting a solution of the problem, but the British engineer's faith in steam alone never wavered, and his belief that a partnership with electricity was unnecessary found expression when he turned his attention to perfecting the geared-turbine. With little or no loss in transmission, this mode of propulsion was to prove the most efficient yet known, for the turbine could now be run at its maximum and most efficient speed, while the ship's main shaft could be geared down to a speed that obtained the best results from the propeller. And so the turbine remained the monarch of the engine-room, and continued to drive warships and ocean liners at speeds undreamed of in earlier years.
It should be recorded that present-day speeds of large ships could not have been attained but for the researches of Michell, the Australian, into the use of forced lubrication, which enabled even the biggest and heaviest bearings literally to float in oil, eliminating practically all danger of a hot bearing. But Michell's crowning achievement was his ingenious method of lubricating the thrust-block with oil circulated under pressures that automatically varied with the amount of power transmitted from the main engine to the propeller.
Other factors emerged in this development of power and search for speed. There was a difference in the nature of the call made upon boilers and engines for a maximum effort. The Atlantic liners, once under way, maintained the highest possible speed throughout the voyage. On the other hand, commanders of ships of the Navy made such sudden calls for
All the problems I have discussed were engineering ones, but what was the man of science doing while the engineer was moving from goal to goal? He was at work on the materials with which engines and ships are built. The manufacture of steel was responsible for many changes. Iron frames and plates first began to displace wood as far back as the eighteen-forties, but steel made for stronger and lighter ships, and later was used exclusively in all ship-building work. It also made possible higher pressure boilers. In the earliest years of ocean-going steamers, less than 100 lbs. per square inch was the limit of saftey, then it became 120, then 150, now it is several hundred pounds to the square inch. It will at once be appreciated how this affected engine designing and enabled the development of power far beyond anything ever anticipated.
The use of steel in ship-building was to have far-reaching effects on Britain's position in the shipping world. Although
It should be said that America's high tariff protectionist policy, often harshly administered, restricted imports and was a factor in halting her progress as a mercantile power, whereas free-trading with all countries assisted in making Britain not only the greatest importer of raw materials, but also the biggest exporter of manufactured goods.
While all this planning of engines and ships was proceeding apace, scientists were wrestling with the problems of navigation. Lord Kelvin's name is the one best remembered: his improvements to the magnetic compass were to aid enormously the work of navigators. Next came the invention of the gyrocompass, which eliminated magnetic disturbances and indicated the true direction of the ship's head; to this was fitted a mechanical device known as the Iron Mike, which automatically steered the vessel. Startling as these ingenious inventions proved, they were to be followed shortly by the echo-sounder and the direction-finder. One night, on the turbo-electric driven Rangatira, going to Wellington, Captain Cameron gave me a demonstration of the working of the echo-sounder. It was amazing to see depths recorded when the ship was at full speed; how different from the old days of heaving the lead, of which I saw so much when the Claverhill ran ashore at Sumatra! This brings me to the limit of my knowledge of the scientific instruments used on the bridge.
The picture I have drawn is not intended to portray the full story of the more than century-old fight for supremacy in this great Atlantic contest, or to give more than a brief description of the work and inventive genius of the engineers
In London again, I booked my passage to New Zealand. As I had already been through Suez, and via America or Canada was too expensive for me, I chose the Cape of Good Hope route and booked by the S.S. Suevic, a White Star, one-class boat. Apart from a desire to see Capetown, it was the cheap fare that attracted me.
I decided first to pay a flying visit to Scotland where I wanted to see Motherwell, the birthplace of my father, and Wishaw, where my mother was born. It was a thrill to be on the Scotch Express, known throughout the world. It was from this train that the boastful American got his greatest shock. He argued to the last breath that American trains were the fastest in the world, and told stories of their performances. His counterpart on the British side, not to be outdone, undertook to disprove this claim if the American would come a trip with him on the “Flying Scotsman.” He told his visitor that this express went so fast that the telegraph poles appeared to be like a forest of trees. It was at night when the train steamed out of King's Cross. They were soon asleep, dreaming of fantastic speeds. Dawn was breaking when the American awoke, and the express happened to be passing a cemetery. He gave one look and exclaimed, “Good God! Look at the milestones!”
At Motherwell I sought out the oldest inhabitants, for it was more than forty years earlier that my parents had left for New Zealand. I found a man, William Black, who remembered my father. He was interested to hear of him, and of Bob Smellie who left for New Zealand on the same ship. He showed me the old school they went to. He took me down to the Ca'der Brig, alongside which the Reeses had lived. There Was the “wee hoose”—a brick cottage typical of the homes of the village folk of Scotland. The people who then lived there kindly showed me the inside of the house. I remember the small bedroom of my father and his brother; it was very like a ship's cabin, for one bed was above the other. My thoughts ran back to the days when these two boys, and four sisters, with their parents,
The following day Mr. Black took me to Wishaw, three miles away. There was the grey stone cottage in Cleland Road, where my mother had lived; there was Lady Belhaven's School—which she attended—almost opposite the gates of the castle. Scotland has reason gratefully to remember many such patrons of education as the beloved Lord and Lady Belhaven of eighty years ago.
In my mother's childhood days Wishaw was the village of a countryside of farm lands and meadows. This school for the children of a farming community was akin to a kindergarten school of to-day. Although the gift of Lady Belhaven, it was often spoken of in Wishaw as Annie Lindsay's School, but my mother always referred to her as Miss Lindsay. This splendid woman was its first, probably only headmistress up till the passing of the Education Act of 1870. It is worthy of note that Scotland was in advance of England in education before the latter placed her schooling on a national basis. The Scots are an independent race, and have never believed in something for nothing. It intrigued me to learn that the fees for this school for tiny tots were one penny per week for the primer class, two-pence per week for class one, up to fourpence for the highest class. When I looked around this school in Wishaw and saw the texts and proverbs on the walls of the class-rooms, I realized what a religious atmosphere had surrounded my mother's earliest schooldays before she passed on to the higher standards of the other school in Wishaw. Now I understood why the theatre and the ballroom had played no part in her life.
We walked in the castle grounds. There we saw evidence of the sentimental Scots; under the trees were numerous
For generations the Canadian Scots have paid visits to Scotland. At first it was the old pioneers themselves who made one trip to see their dear Homeland, revisit the scenes of their youth and renew acquaintances with friends and relatives who might still be living in their native town or village. Then came the second generation, who wished to see the birthplaces of their fathers and their mothers. Next came the descendants, more numerous and more prosperous, but still imbued with the desire to see the land of their forefathers. It was thus that the Canadian was a well-known visitor both to the Lowlands and the Highlands.
With a New Zealander it was different: the Scots had emigrated to our Dominion in but hundreds, as compared with thousands to Canada. New Zealand was far away—it was a distant British Colony. Relatively few of the early New Zealand Scottish emigrants were ever able to revisit the Homeland. Increased prosperity in the Dominions changed this and many New Zealanders now see the land of the oatcake and the heather, but at the time of which I speak, a visit from a New Zealander was something of an event. I remember how Mr. Black seemed proud of showing me round. He would stop people in the street and speaking of my father would say, “Do you remember
On the following day we visited Hamilton, but a few miles distant. I remember standing with him on the Cadzo Brig. He showed me where my father had once worked. We then walked round Hamilton Castle and the Duke's estate which revived memories of my childhood. My father was a wonderful story-teller and every Saturday night some of us would climb on his knee, some on to mother's on the opposite side of the fire, to hear our weekly story. I can still see that scene as a lovely picture of family life. Among the stories my father told was one
On the way back to Motherwell we passed “Dalziel House.” My father's mother's name was Jean Dalziel, of a generation less prosperous than the original family. Our family records show that the first Ralph Dalziel signed the Scottish Covenant, so we have some sturdy Scotch blood in our veins, even though the original
I left these scenes with happy thoughts of the early days of my parents. I also left with feelings of gratitude to Mr. Black for having spent three days in showing me the countryside of this part of Lanarkshire, and enabling me to get such a vivid picture to take back to my mother, and my brothers and sisters in New Zealand.
Next day I was in Edinburgh, so rich in its historical associations. My visit was a hurried one, typical of the speed of the American tourist. Princes Street, the University, the castles, the stories of Mary, Queen of Scots, the many places of historic interest—it all enthralled me. I did not know anything of golf in those days or I would have been bound to go to St. Andrews. I knew a Jennie Geddes in New Zealand, so of course I had to see the place where the original Jennie hurled the stool at John Knox. Then a visit to the great Forth Bridge. A few miles away was Leith, the estuary port from which my mother and my father sailed for Gravesend to transfer into the ship for New Zealand. It will be seen that wherever I turned in these parts I was to be stirred by memories of the stories told by my parents. From Edinburgh I went to Glasgow. The Clyde! So here it was; the man-made port in the higher reaches of the river. What an inspiring sight! Ships on the stocks in various stages
I called on a distant relative on the Dalziel side of the family; I also called at the home of Mr. McGill, my Chief on the Claverhill—he was away on still another trip to the Far East. I spent an evening with a brother of my uncle Wattie Sneddon, who was married to my father's sister in New Zealand. I was overwhelmed with the welcome from people of Scotland whom I met.
After old friends of my mother's had paid one of their visits to our home in New Zealand when they would often revert to the words and accent of their youth, one of us would cause merriment by saying to mother, “It's a braw, brecht moonlecht necht, the necht!” This was the limit of our Scottish vocabulary. Here they all spoke Scotch! In Edinburgh the speech was more cultured; in fact, the educated people, like those of Boston in America, prided themselves on speaking perfect English, Glasgow, on the other hand, was a great industrial centre, with a preponderance of the artisan class and, while one detected varying degrees of accent in the speech of the educated, the man in the street spoke of “doon the river,” “o'or the brig,” “she's a braw lassie”; this was like music to my ears, and much more melodious than the “hinnying” of the Tyneside.
The philosophy of old Mr. Montgomery of Newcastle was even more evident in Scotland. The Scots are a happy people; their sense of humour and the subtleness of their jokes were always apparent wherever one went.
I wanted to see something of the countryside, so set out for
I had time for one more trip. Where should I go? The call of the Land o' Burns was insistent and irresistible. I still have my father's well-worn volumes of Burns's works. Bobbie Burns was one of the best-known names in our old home. I was born on January 26th, the day after Burns's birthday. I learned many years afterwards that my father laughingly chaffed my mother about not going to bed a day earlier! Two years later, my brother Alex was born on January 25th! I have already referred to our own “Cotter's Saturday Night” that we had around the fireside. Needless to say, Burns's stories figured prominently. My father, reading aloud and then putting the poems into story form, used to thrill our little hearts, and we kept on asking for “just one more”: “Bonnie Mary,” then “Wee, Sleekit, Cow'rin', Tim'rous Beastie,” followed by the charming explanatory story of the plough turning up the mouse's nest in the stubble. “Tarn O'Shanter”! This story always moved us. Our volumes are what is known as the Kilmarnoch edition of Burns's works; they are beautifully illustrated with steel engravings. The somewhat terrifying picture of Tarn O'Shanter on his mare Maggie, being chased by witches, thrilled us all. It depicted him just reaching the centre of the bridge that he must cross to escape the visionary clutches. One witch grabs the horse's tail; this is the climax to a sensational story. It will thus be seen that I just had to go to Ayrshire.
The pride of the Scots in their immortal Bobbie, or Robbie, as they always call him in Scotland, is to be found at every turn around Ayr. His original cottage is preserved just as it was when he lived in it; the large grandfather's clock, the bed in the recess of the living-room, the kitchen table with hundreds of names carved on it—even on its legs (the work of visitors of earlier years); the kitchen crockery still in the rack. The whole scene enthralled me. The tavern in the town, where Bobbie and his friends used to forgather, still preserves his wooden mug.
The Ayr and the Doon were beautiful rivers and added further claims to the title of Bonnie Scotland. I should have loved to see the tree that figured in one of Bobbie's escapades. This is the story. Burns loved the lassies, as well as the bright nights with his cronies in the tavern; he arranged to meet Jean “So-and-so” at dusk on a lovely summer's evening. The appointed place was under a spreading tree. Jean was there- to time, but soon Mary turned up.
“Hullo, Jean,” says Mary, “what are you doing here?”
“I'm meeting Bobbie Burns.”
“So am I,” said Mary.
Then Marion, pronounced Merr'n, arrived. She, too, was meeting Bobbie! Then Annie came, then Maggie, until seven wenches were mixing anger with laughter. The conclave turned into a conference. The Scots are a determined race and these young women decided to find Bobbie and teach him a lesson; off they went back to town, but had no chance of finding the culprit for he was up the tree all the time, listening to their chatter, chuckling away to himself and getting great amusement from his joke. Had the girls found him that evening it is certain he would have been dumped into the river!
And so I left Scotland. I was filled with sentimental thoughts. My father's stories had been true ones. His pride of race and of his native heath had been justified. I could now understand the wistful look of old
Again back in London I still had a few weeks before the Suevic sailed. A young New Zealander named Plimmer, son of a pioneer family of Wellington, was a fellow-boarder with me. He had just passed his examination for a Chief Engineer's Certificate. As neither of us had been to Paris, we decided to go together. A Cook's tour seemed to provide a suitable opportunity for the hurried visit we proposed to make. From Dover we had a rough crossing to Calais, and a longer train journey to Paris than I expected duly landed us in the great and brilliant capital city of France. “Follow the man from Cook's,” was an old phrase used by Punch in giving title to one of its inimitable cartoons. It represented not one, but a number of tourists following close on the heels of Cook's man, as the gallant suitor followed Charlie's Aunt in the famous and screamingly funny play of that title. We were forever on our guide's trail and went here, there and everywhere at bewildering speed. In all my travels around the different cities in various parts of the world, and about which I am still able to remember so much, my knowledge was gained from visits to different and varying parts of a city and from talks with local people, especially old people who could tell me of earlier happenings. No such system of enquiry was possible on this trip! Speed seemed to be the essence of the contract. The sooner we could be landed back in London, the sooner another batch of tourists could be assembled and despatched. This may seem like an exaggeration, but it was my impression at the time, and still remains. One compensating factor that we were spared was the continuous description of the nasal-voiced narrator one hears in a 'bus tour of New York.
In Paris the even height of the buildings was at once noticeable. Regulations stipulated that no building could be higher than one and a half times the width of the street it faced. Needless to say, in the heart of the city everyone built to the limit
A much appreciated spell from “following the man from Cook's” was the half day we spent in the Louvre. This world-famous Art Gallery enthralled us all. I remembered noticing students and artists seated at their easels, copying famous pictures or making drawings of statues such as the world renowned “Venus de Milo.” The latter attracted much attention and our guide told of the many attempts that had been made by sculptors to reproduce the statue with the missing, broken-off arms in the position they imagined they originally had been. The Louvre was truly a feast for anyone interested in art, and needed days, instead of hours, to make a complete survey of so many wonderful works.
Back in England again I still had some time left, so spent an interesting week-end at the ancient town of Colchester. My host had spent several years in New Zealand, and took a delight in showing me round this district so full of historic interest. It was fascinating to learn that the town was a thousand years old, dating back to the days of the Romans and the Danes. The old castle was a feature of the place; it was rebuilt by the Normans somewhere about the year 1400. I remember the I had when we went inside and saw some of the eerie reminders of medieval times. There was a cavity in the stone wall just big enough to take a man's body. Fastened to the wall was a wooden frame that held a beam through which passed a threaded wooden screw. Turned by a handle, the plank at the end could be made to squeeze a man to pulp. Whether it was
A few months earlier I had enjoyed seeing another historic place in Essex when, during a week-end stay with the Douglases, we drove to Epping Forest on the Sunday. This was in the early days of motoring and I remember how we thought we were speeding when, with Johnnie's father at the wheel of his red Daimler, we chugged along at twenty-three miles an hour! Lunch among the trees of this famous forest was an ideal place to entertain a colonial visitor.
My last days were spent in farewell visits to friends who had shown me the utmost kindness and hospitality. At last I gathered my baggage, and thoughts, and left for Liverpool. I say “gathered my thoughts” because I was bringing to an end four of the most eventful years of my life. Whatever may have been my feelings of a few years earlier when assimilating some of the national spirit of Australia, I was now a citizen of the Empire, with a special attachment for the people of the Old Country. I had lived with, worked with, played cricket with, and met people of all ranks from almost every English county and from Scotland and Wales; this experience gave me a unique opportunity of gaining a knowledge of the manner of life and the character of the people of Britain, and to win my profound respect and admiration.
When I returned to New Zealand and said the Britisher was the greatest man in the world, I was sometimes looked upon with astonishment, for in New Zealand we have a “guid conceit o' oorsel's.” I once expressed this opinion to an Australian friend, but he did not agree with me. He preferred the Americans with whom he had large business dealings and all of whom called him Alec, generally showing towards him that quick matey friendship which is certainly pleasant to a stranger, but is not more real than the solid friendship of an Englishman. My friend said he found Englishmen cold and slow to make
With this the old man put his face down in his hands and burst out crying! Presently he looked up and speaking between his sobs said, “I've been a member of this club for twenty-five years and you're the first member who has ever spoken to me!”
A more realistic story of the Englishman's reserve was told me by the late
Yes, that is the Englishman when you get to know him, but it usually takes time.
Leaving Liverpool, we were now steaming out into the Irish Sea, and I turned to say good-bye to old England. I say England because it was the English shores that receded in the distance as we steamed towards the Atlantic. We are all apt to say England when referring to the Homeland. Foreigners nearly always refer to Britain as England. There are many incidents in our history that help to perpetuate this habit; Nelson's famous signal hoisted to the masthead of the Victory when sailing into battle at Trafalgar is perhaps the best illustration.
I learned my lesson many years ago. I was having breakfast at a well-known New Zealand hotel with an old friend of my father's. We were later joined by an elderly, rugged Scot whom my friend knew. His name was McPherson and he came from the Highlands. During the conversation I referred to the Motherland as England. “Brritain!” snapped the Scot. I blinked and felt as though someone had hit me, but the conversation went on pleasantly. As the topic of our talk was in reference to Imperial matters, it was not long before I repeated my error. “Brrit-ain!” said McPherson, this time a bit louder. So ingrained was the habit with me that, before our meal was finished, I had said “England” for the third time. This time “Brrit-ain!” rang through the dining-room like a military command. We all laughed aloud. This lesson, or one might say, rebuke, I have never forgotten. The Scots rightly claim equal partnership with England. They insist on its being Britain and pronounce it with a double “R”—Brrit-ain! The fact that the Scots represent but 10 per cent of the total population of Great Britain does not prejudice their claim to equal rights.
The cold winds of early winter and the rough seas of the Atlantic made things unpleasant for a day or two. Crossing the big westerly swell at an angle, as we steamed a course more southerly than westerly, the old Suevic both rolled and dipped. It was, however, not long before we reached the calm and
The Suevic's passengers comprised people from Britain, South Africa, Australia and New Zealand. Warmth and sunshine soon start sports and games on ocean liners. There were many young men on board and there were sufficient to raise cricket teams representing the different Empire countries. We might thus be said to have anticipated by half a dozen years the Triangular Cricket Contests of 1912. We had great fun and there developed a rivalry that made our matches keenly contested. It is no criterion of the cricket strength of the countries represented that New Zealand won the series, both before and after South Africa dropped out at Capetown.
We played every morning and in the afternoons joined in the deck games. There were some attractive young women on board, so the afternoons were as bright as the mornings, to say nothing of the evenings! Sometimes we had mixed cricket matches and these added to the amusement. The day before we arrived at Capetown a South African girl named Wells, when bowling asked, “May I bowl over-arm?” She did. An English girl named Darby, who was on her way to Western Australia to be married, was fielding at silly mid-on. It will be understood that with the narrowness of the field of play on deck, short mid-on was very nearly in line with the flight of the bowler's deliveries. Darby turned to watch Wells bowl over-arm But the latter was not an accurate over-arm bowler and her first delivery hit Miss Darby fair in the eye. At the moment we all laughed hilariously, for it seemed so funny, but it was soon evident that Miss Darby had suffered a painful blow. There was no more women's over-arm bowling! Next
Arriving at Capetown in the early morning, we obtained a splendid view of Table Mountain with its flat top, standing four thousand feet high, supported by Devil's Peak on one side and Lion's head on the other. This made a fine background to South Africa's capital city. As we crept slowly across Table Bay towards the docks bounded by a breakwater on three sides, it seemed impossible that there could be a great city between the waterfront and the mountains. The precipitous mountain rocks were certainly deceptive, for, at a distance, they appeared to leave little more than a narrow strip of land in the foreshore.
Quite a number of passengers disembarked here. This meant the breaking up of parties and saying good-bye to some whom we knew we should never see again. It was a blow to the young men on the ship when two most attractive Scotch lassies, sisters, left us at this port. They were not only attractive-looking, but were bright and vivacious and spoke with that fascinating accent of the Scot which is always so pleasant to hear. It could be said of these young women as
We were all ashore soon after breakfast. It is surprising how much one can see of a place even in one day. It was not long before I was in the good old horse cab and driving from place to place. My cabby proved to be a splendid guide. The architecture of Capetown was a mixture of old Dutch style and modern English design. It seemed a pity that the mountain sides were not less precipitous. This would have enabled great suburban areas to be built on the rising slopes, and a most attractive city would then have been overlooked by residences and villas that would also have taken in a glorious panoramic view of Table Bay and the ocean beyond. Owing to the limited amount of flat land beneath the mountain, it became necessary, as the population increased, to extend the suburban areas along the foot of Devil's Head and often these suburbs were a considerable distance from the centre of the city. The gardens in the outlying suburbs of the city were very beautiful.
I was surprised to find that there was a Malay Quarter. The native costume of the Malayans and the picturesque
Adderley Street, the principal thoroughfare in Capetown, was comparable with the splendid Collins and Bourke Streets of Melbourne, and its buildings were equally imposing. Parliament House, in its attractive grounds and situated close to the foot of Table Mountain, looked worthy of the great men, both Dutch and British, who at that time were engaged in the attempt by legislation to create a peaceful and happy South Africa. Even to this day the outstanding feature of South African politics has been the magnificence of Botha and Smuts. I remember a beautiful avenue of oaks running from the end of Adderley Street towards Table Mountain. It must have been a mile long. This was very similar to the avenue of oak and chestnut trees in Christchurch that runs along the west side of Rolleston Avenue, bounding on the Botanical Gardens, the Museum and Christ's College. As it was mid-summer and a hot day in Capetown, this Covernment Avenue, as it is called, proved a restful and shady spot. They told me these oak trees were two hundred years old; it may have been true, but they did not look big enough in the trunk to be that age.
Of course I had to see the cricket ground. I had already played in New Zealand, Australia and England, and had seen the game played in such widely separated places as Hong Kong, Montreal and Trinidad, so it was natural I should want to see the headquarters of South African cricket.
There is little need to say more. I explored Capetown as I did Philadelphia and Boston, although on this occasion it was one day instead of many visits. We steamed out of Table Bay before dark on a lovely summer's evening. The view of the mountains as we drew away and turned eastwards on our long run to Western Australia was just as fascinating as was the first glimpse on our approach in the early hours of the morning. Table Mountain is one of those sights a traveller remembers.
Now began the long, uninteresting run to Western Australia. The Captain of the Suevic was a Welshman. The Welsh are reputed to be a superstitious people. It had been predicted by a noted clairvoyant that the White Star Company
Suevic duly completed her voyage, but it is worth recording that on New Year's Eve, Captain Jones remained on the bridge till midnight. No doubt the anxiety of the last days of December was soon forgotten, but the tragic irony of fate is to be found in the fact that, on her return trip, the Suevic, when groping her way into the English Channel in thick weather, went on to the rocks at The Lizard. The clairvoyant was but three months out in his forecast. By a remarkable piece of salvage work the Suevic, which was held fast on the rocks, was cut in two—forward of amidships—and the stern end towed to Portsmouth. A new bow was built at Harland & Wolf's works at Belfast and this, in turn, was towed to the same port and joined to the salvaged portion of the hull. The Suevic again resumed her trading to Australia.
After calling at Albany we steamed across the Great Australian Bight to Adelaide. One day ashore and we were off again to Melbourne. I had a few days to spare before catching one of the Union Company's steamers to New Zealand. These were merry days in the Queen city of Australia spent among my intimate friends of but a few years earlier.
Calling at the Bluff, then Dunedin, I landed at Lyttelton and was soon in the bosom of my family. At sea, a marine engineer, spending so much time below deck, usually gets a complexion typical of what the Red Indians once called all white men—“Pale face.” Six weeks at sea and playing games on deck all day saw me arrive home tanned and sunburnt, so no wonder my mother remarked on how well I looked.
Then followed the bright and happy days and nights of a joyous home-coming. My eldest brother and sister were both married, and my brother Alex was now out on the mission field in Brazil, but we still had a goodly number in our family circle in the evenings.
I had maintained a steady flow of correspondence all the time I was away, but I had not had time to write of my visit to Scotland, and the story of this was perhaps the part my mother enjoyed most. It was inconceivable to her that the village of Wishaw was rapidly becoming a great industrial centre with its coal mines and steel works. But the personal
Anyone knowing the characteristics of Scots who have long left their own country will have noted how they nod their heads and, with a glow in their eyes, look back and beyond when you speak of their Bonnie Scotland. I can still see my mother lost in reverie when I spoke of the places she had known so many years ago. Wishaw, Motherwell, Edinburgh, Leith, Glasgow and the Land of Burns, were the high-lights of my stories, made more so by the fact that my listeners were all hearing for the first time of my experiences in these places. Family reunions are often but fleeting events, but as the days and weeks went by, I soon became an ordinary member of the family.
I had come home to work, and joined my brother immediately. I was now twenty-eight and noticed many changes since I first left home. Most of the young women whom I had known were now married, but all my boyhood friends were still here and former cricket chums still playing.
One of the first men I called on was my old schoolmaster, Mr. T. S. Foster—Tony Foster to all the boys of my time. He wanted to hear all about my travels, and my visit extended into several hours. On rising to leave I happened to mention that I wished I had had a few more years at school. With that he put his hand upon my shoulder, for he was a tall man, and said, “Reese, you are the best educated member of the Reese family!” There was great amusement in our family when I told this story, for my eldest brother was at school until he was nineteen, my eldest sister nearly as long, while my youngest sister had attained a university degree. My youngest brother used to score off the others and perhaps have a jibe at me too, when, in discussion or argument, he would interject and in facetious manner say, “Dan must be right, for he's the best educated member of the family!” Mr. Foster's remark seems to show that even schoolmasters place a high value on general knowledge.
It will thus be seen that I was now just one of the family, and quickly settled down to a happy home life.
I Arrived back in New Zealand in the summer of 1907, when Captain Wynyard's M.C.C. team was nearing the end of its tour. There were still two Test Matches to be played. I immediately began playing club cricket and found that the continuous deck cricket on the Suevic had helped to bring back some of my form of earlier years. I was elected captain of the New Zealand XI for the First Test, but the Englishmen proved too strong and won handsomely.
The New Zealand team for the Second Test was a stronger side. It was a great match. In New Zealand's second innings Haddon and Williams both played grandly each to pass the seventy mark on a wicket that was beginning to wear and with P. R. May making the ball fly shoulder-high. England failed by 56 to obtain the required runs. It was a fine win for New Zealand. Fisher took nine wickets and Upham seven, so it will be seen how the inclusion of these two bowlers strengthened the side.
It was from then on that I was to experience what proved to be the brightest period of my cricketing career. I was captain of all New Zealand Test sides until 1914, and played in many stirring inter-provincial matches. I propose to record but a few of these games.
In 1906 Lord Plunket presented a shield to be contested by the four major provinces. It had been decided that it should be a challenge shield. The New Zealand Cricket Council awarded the trophy to Canterbury whom they adjudged the best side of season 1906–7. Auckland was not satisfied with the decision and promptly challenged Canterbury. The match of December, 1907, was thus the beginning of the great Plunket Shield series in New Zealand. Our friends from the north backed their freely expressed opinion with a performance that left no doubt which was the better side. Their first innings total of 539 was more than enough for Canterbury's two innings. Relf, 156, and Hemus, 148, wore our bowling down until the making of runs by the remaining batsmen looked
For the next half-dozen years and more, there was to be seen in New Zealand cricket a revival of interest that was to have far-reaching effects on the standard of play. Canterbury's reply to Auckland was to engage
It was a different Canterbury XI that went north as challengers the following season, for, apart from the added strength through Humphreys' presence, we had all sharpened our blades following the beating we received the previous year. This time we also played Test Match cricket, and the game developed into a grim struggle. We were left with 220 runs to get in our final innings. After a bad start it looked as though we might still win when Anthony and I were well set and had reduced the runs to get to 75, with five wickets to fall. But Relf was in fine form and we lost by 32 runs. The Sussex professional took twelve wickets.
One incident in this match was to give us a thrill. Relf, who was always a thorn in our flesh, faced Orchard, a lefthander, bowling round the wicket. The Englishman seemed puzzled at the placing of the field, for nearly everyone went over to the on-side. Orchard was an ideal change bowler for a moment such as this—just before the tea adjournment—for his high-tossed off-break slows had tremendous spin on them and were best dealt with by the batsman's going down the pitch to him; few players care to do this when they also have
The Aucklanders now fended off repeated challenges from the other provinces. Otago's first challenge match provided a unique incident. Canterbury had arranged the date for her match against Auckland, and Otago then endeavoured to make a similar arrangement. The date they wanted was one week ahead of the Canterbury fixture. Auckland agreed, but stipulated they would play a three days' match only. The Otago Association agreed. Before tossing, the captains agreed to play a fourth day if necessary. This would still have left two clear days between these important matches. The arrangements between the captains did not become known to the Auckland executive until the morning of the third day, when the northerners had drifted into a difficult position. They at once refused to endorse the captains' arrangement and the Aucklanders, left 302 to get, managed to play out time. The irony of it, from Otago's point of view, was that it rained in torrents that night. Bright sunshine next day, and with Fisher on their side, a win for Otago was a certainty.
The incident caused a good deal of heart-burning. The Auckland Committee had reason to feel vexed at the departure from arrangements made between the Associations, but the question of the legal rights of the matter was not, to my knowledge, ever settled. It will be seen that to have won within three days, Wilson, the Otago captain, would have needed to declare his second innings and no doubt would have done this had he known earlier. The Canterbury team, arriving early to obtain some practice before their match, witnessed the finish of this Auckland—Otago game.
Having got so close to winning the Plunket Shield, Otago redoubled her efforts and for the following season engaged as their coach C. G. Macartney, the brilliant Australian. Wellington followed suit by engaging
Each of the major Associations now had a professional. Their participation in these matches resulted in a wave of public interest throughout the country, and the effect upon
To prevent the extension of this importation of first-class players, the Cricket Council introduced a rule limiting each side to one player only who need not comply with the six months' residential qualification required.
Auckland's powerful side, staving off challenge after challenge, created a new problem. Taking all the gate money for its home matches, except for a small percentage to the Council, it soon began to grow opulent, while the challenging Associations struggled to raise the money for their professional coaches and the travelling expenses of their teams. An amendment was then added to the rules, giving challengers a percentage of the gate money.
Relf had a good business head, as well as great cricketing ability. He raised his price and got it; he raised it again and got it, but in the end killed the goose that lays the golden egg. Humphreys raised his fee also—we thought he was prompted by Relf—but Canterbury could not find the extra money and his re-engagement fell through. On behalf of the Canterbury Cricket Association, I then cabled Buckenham, the Essex fast-bowler, who accepted at once. Unfortunately, owing to a misunderstanding with regard to remitting the passage money and booking his berth, which, I believe, was mostly my fault, there was a delay that proved fatal to completing the arrangements in time for that season. Canterbury then engaged W. Carlton of Melbourne. Pearson, the Worcester professional, took Relf's place and the following year
The foregoing will give an idea of the calibre of these imported players and the uplift they gave the young New Zealanders. It will also help the reader to appreciate the increased interest of the cricketing public in matches that became stern contests with rivalry resembling Yorkshire v. Lancashire, or New South Wales v. Victoria of many years ago.
During this period, the Wellington XI never really extended
The Otago match of 1910 is worthy of comment. Their captain, G. G, Wilson, an Australian, was a keen player and stuck to his belief that they could beat Auckland. On paper his team looked equal to the task. Downes was persuaded to play, and with Fisher and Macartney also included, their bowling was certainly strong, while an array of batsmen such as Wilson, Siedeberg, Macartney, Hiddlestone and Mac-farlane, all of our Test Match standard, completed a side that appeared to be as good as any in the Dominion. But Fisher and Downes were now veterans and while still good bowlers on a pitch that gave them some assistance, were in no shape to face a four-day match on a hard wicket.
Winning the toss, Auckland set about to repeat the wearing-down tactics that brought them success in the first Plunket Shield match. Hemus, Relf and Sale each made centuries and a total of 579 was more than enough to register a win by an innings.
A delightful story is associated with this match. J. H. Hope, one of Otago's best bowlers of a decade earlier, maintained his interest in the game and continued as a member of the executive committee. He was appointed manager of the Otago touring team. It is the custom in New Zealand cricket for the manager of a team on tour to send telegrams at frequent intervals to the local sports depot, giving the scores as the match progresses. These wires are posted outside the shop, where cricket enthusiasts know they can learn the scores. It should also be said that Hope, in business, was an undertaker; his partner's name was Wynn and their chief rival in the funeral furnishing business in Dunedin was a man named Gourlay. When the first wire came down, some wag, seeing the signature “Hope” and prompted by a spirit of mischief, wrote “… and Wynn.” after it. Everyone chuckled and the next wire was made to appear as signed “Hope to Win.” Next it was “Hope and Glory.” The wires were arriving every two
For the Otago team the match was not such fun. Auckland's 200 had become 300, then 400. The tone of the humorists' additions altered when the Auckland score passed 500. A two-lettered word in front made the signature read “No Hope”—four letters at the end and it read “Hopeless.” Otago's follow-on, which began disastrously, prompted the original wag to go to the Post Office and send Hope a final telegram which must have reached the cricket ground when the Aucklanders were busy hammering the last nails into Otago's coffin. The wire read: “Send for Gourlay!”
I hvve heard the man on the bank at Lancaster Park call to Lowry, “Put Cunningham on,” when the pride of Sydenham had been omitted from the New Zealand side. When English batsmen were taking toll of Australian bowling, I have heard the familiar voice on the hill in Sydney yell to Woodfull, “Send for Grimmett,” when that great little slow bowler had been left out of the Australian XI. But of all the jokes of this type I think “Send for Gourlay” the wittiest.
The stage was now clear for Canterbury's third challenge. The Aucklanders, by their skilful play and team-work, had withstood two invasions from each of the southern provinces. It was an outstanding performance. Like Yorkshire in England and New South Wales in Australia after a long sequence of wins against the other counties and states, this Auckland side had stirred in the minds of the rest of New Zealand a desire that someone should wrest from them the Plunket Shield which seemed to become more coveted with each failure of the challengers. Canterbury, by its repeated victories over Wellington and Otago, and an outstanding performance against the Australians at the end of the previous season, appeared most likely to succeed. The Aucklanders had always looked upon the men of the Plains as their most redoubtable
The Canterbury Cricket Association's total funds had been absorbed by coaching fees and travelling expenses, but this did not prevent a challenge being issued.
It had taken three years to build this side. Partick and Sandman had developed into budding champions, while young
Our keenness was shown in other ways. Up till this time, New Zealand players dressed according to their tastes; a white aertex-like shirt was mostly worn. This type of shirt was first seen here when Trott's 1896 Australian XI toured New Zealand. All dressed alike, they presented a fine, uniform appearance. The Aucklanders were neat in their dress, but too many of them persisted with silk shirts. Hemus, like Ranjitsinhji, would play in nothing else. I had recently seen in England the universal use of the cream flannel shirt, which, matching the trousers, produced a pleasing effect. It was not long before I had all the members of the Canterbury XI in flannel shirts. Lusk and I always carried a couple extra in our bags in case anyone let us down. The effect was immediate, for personal pride in one's appearance is no hindrance to success. One of our bowlers always wore trousers that were too tight for him. When I got him a bigger pair of tailor-made pants, his fielding improved fifty per cent! The outcome of all this was that the Canterbury XI took the field looking like a county side and, I believe, the public liked our appearance as well as our play. We were now ready for the Auckland trip.
Our lovable
At Wellington we were spurred on again, for now everyone wanted Auckland's blood. We allowed ourselves two days'
The battle began. I lost the toss. Opening the innings in an atmosphere typical of a Test Match in Australia, the Aucklanders began as in Christchurch, three years earlier. No risk, no hurry—50 up, then 100 for no wickets. Hemus got his usual century, but still went on. Haddon, the Auckland captain, joined him and things looked ugly when 250 was passed with only three wickets down. I had not bowled much up till this time. I was not often accused of bowling too little! I then clean bowled Hemus who was approaching the century and a half, and dismissed Haddon in the next over. The game altered in a flash, though Auckland was still in a strong position. Haddon was an Australian player. I have never seen a more determined or a better player at a pinch. An Auckland enthusiast always used to bet him a pound to nothing that he wouldn't make 50. We had some fun and listened to a burst of lurid language when, on one or two occasions previously we dismissed him when just short of the half-century. This time he won a pound in each innings. Auckland's total was 349. Reese five for 43.
We left the ground that evening fairly satisfied with the day's play, for they were a good batting side. It had been a glorious sunny day, followed by a warm evening which gave no indication of what was to happen. In the middle of the night we heard thunder, then heavy rain. It rained and rained, it seemed for hours. Many of us turned uneasily in our beds that night. In the morning the sun burst through the clouds and soon it was a clear, hot day. When we reached the ground there was a crowd round the wicket, which was roped off. Old Auckland cricketers shook their heads and quite genuinely commiserated with us: the match was ruined. We thought so too. In the circumstances, young Norman, a left-hander who opened the innings with Lusk, played finely to reach 47. Our
Auckland, with a lead of 80 runs, began their second innings with a confidence that betokened trouble for us. Hemus was off again, and after a good innings by Pearson, the English professional, Haddon played finely. The score was now three for 120, with their two best batsmen going strongly. As in their first innings, the persistence of our attack and keenness of our fielding reaped its full reward. This time it was Sandman's day. He bowled his leg-breaks with Braund-like precision and had all the batsmen in trouble. Haddon jumped out to hit him, and Boxshall had the bails off in a flash. This marked the end of Auckland's run-getting vein, for the remaining batsmen struggled to keep their ends up. The last wicket fell just on time, when the total was 199. Twenty-one-year-old Sandman finished with five for 55 runs—a splendid performance.
Now we felt happier, but were sobered by the knowledge that 280 runs were required to win with fourth use of the wicket, and on the fourth day. In those days it was not often in New Zealand cricket that a match ran into four days. It was still anybody's game. The people of Auckland and Christ-church had their hopes alternately raised and dashed to the ground as the game passed through its different stages. On this final day the citizens of the northern city were able to attend in large numbers to witness the finish of a great match. In Christchurch the enthusiasts had to be satisfied with the
The ever-confident Lusk was an ideal batsman for such an occasion and from the outset he dominated the scoring. After the first wicket had fallen at 32, Caygill lent valuable assistance, but it was soon two for 60, then three for 90. When it became four for 126 we began to feel anxious, for at this rate we were going to leave the tail-enders to get as many runs as the leading batsmen on the side. I then joined Lusk, my club mate, who was playing the finest innings of his career. At first I played the role I have already described when Joe Darling used to leave Jack Lyons to do the scoring. The first time I opened out I drove Sneddon hard and low to cover-point. The fieldsman got both hands on the ball, but dropped it! This was Auckland's last chance. We were now past the 200 mark, with Lusk well over the century. We approached 250, then raced on to the 280 required. In the final stages we were scoring as fast as we usually did in club cricket. It was the first time in the match that ca' canny methods had been discarded and was evidence that even in hard-fought games there are moments when free hitting can be more profitable than safety first. Lusk finished with 151 not out and Reese 67 not out; this was the second 150-run partnership of this match in which I had taken part. Canterbury won by six wickets. I have described this game in some detail, because it was, and still remains, one of Canterbury's greatest matches.
In their sequence of wins the Aucklanders had been good winners; now they were to prove themselves splendid losers. They were loud in their praise of the way we extricated ourselves from the hopeless position we appeared to be in at lunch-time on the second day. There was a presentation of the shield which took place in front of the pavilion, when Mr. F. Earl, their President, said some nice things. It was a scene of excitement with the spectators applauding our meritorious win.
By the time we arrived back at our hotel, telegrams had begun to arrive, not only from Christchurch, but from many parts of New Zealand, for our victory had stirred cricket enthusiasts to a pitch of great excitement. We learned that in our own city the crowd had blocked the High Street, making it impossible for the trams to pass. It will thus be seen that
Just before dinner that evening, Champagne for Canterbury XI.”
For three years we had stayed at “Glenalvon,” then a private hotel at the old Admiralty House, since pulled down to make room for Anzac Avenue. The landlady had become proud of her Canterbury boys and when we went in to dinner, all the tables were decorated with red flowers and red and black ribbons—Canterbury's colours. It was a graceful compliment.
There was a humorous sequel to the champagne incident when an excellent but parsimonious treasurer checked over my accounts for the tour and complained over the Association's money being used to purchase “bubbly wine,” as the Maoris call it. There were two things he did not allow for: firstly, the circumstances in which it was ordered, and, secondly, that the money for the tour was subscribed by the people of Christchurch and that they would have allowed us to swim in champagne that night!
The end was not yet. On our arrival back in Christchurch we were met at the station by a crowd of enthusiasts and driven in a four-in-hand coach to the Civic Hall, where the Mayor and citizens gave us a public reception. It was like going back to the 'seventies and 'eighties in Australia when English cricket teams arriving, or triumphant Australian teams returning, were driven straight to the Town Halls of Adelaide, Melbourne or Sydney, and given a reception typical of their country.
Three successive trips to Auckland had developed many friendships that were to have far-reaching and beneficial effects. Friendships developed with Wellington in the same way, and our old ties with Otago completed the development of a general all-round spirit of understanding and agreement.
And so ended the first phase of Plunket Shield matches. It would have done the donor's heart good could he have seen the standard of play and the type of cricket contests that developed in this country following his generous gift. I was one of a deputation that had called upon Lord Plunket and presented him with the first ball used in the first Shield match.
The story of a few more matches and experiences will complete the picture of New Zealand cricket as it was in the years before the first World War.
The Canterbury match against Armstrong's team in 1910 was a notable game. It was the first Australian XI to visit New Zealand under the auspices of the Board of Control. The inclusion of eight Test Match players made them a formidable side. Armstrong, Hopkins, Kelleway, Whitty and Emery made them strong in bowling, while Bardsley and Mayne, with Kelleway and Armstrong, were their best batsmen. The Canterbury team was at the peak of its form. The province had a fine record against overseas teams; in 1878 it had beaten the Australians, in 1894 a New South Wales team had been defeated and in 1907 the M.C.C. team lost its first provincial match at Christchurch.
We made a bad start and six wickets had fallen for 80 runs when young Carlton joined me, and a hundred runs were added for the seventh wicket. I passed the century and Carlton made 63. This young Melbourne lad had an extraordinary style of batting; like all left-handers, he was strong on the leg side; he had not the deft leg glance of Harry Moses, or the more forceful style of Clem Hill, but had a stroke that was a mixture between a glance and a push. The ball seemed to rest momentarily on the bat before being guided away to fine-leg or somewhere behind the umpire. Carlton showed great skill in choosing the ball that was just off the leg stump. Hopkins was bowling when the lad came in. After a few balls, the bowler changed from round the wicket and began pelting at his leg stump; up would go the bowler's hand, thinking he had hit him on the pads, only to see the ball deflected to leg. Hopkins was stubborn and would not strengthen his leg field as we always did to this unusual type of batsman; instead he bowled faster, but with the same result. I can still hear the Australian saying, “I'll get the young devil in a minute!” Sandman and Boxshall were in merry mood, adding 40 for the last wicket.
The Australians got a bit of a shock when they were dismissed for 240. Bennett and Sandman bowled finely, while our fielding earned unstinted praise from our opponents.
Another good batting performance, with everyone getting runs, saw us reach 259 in the second innings. Now it was to be a match!
Australia was left 340 to win. The opening of the innings was sensational. Bardsley was brilliantly stumped before he had scored, and Smith clean bowled by Bennett added another nought to the score sheet. The keenness of the bowling and fielding might well be imagined. When Kelleway was caught behind the wickets, the unanimous “Howzat?” could have been heard in the city! The score was now five for 39. Mayne, who had been batting well, was joined by Armstrong. Now we were to see how Australian XI's fight their way out of a tight corner. Without taking the slightest risk, yet scoring at every opportunity, the runs came steadily. Mayne passed the century and was then out with the total at 215. Two more wickets fell, but Armstrong was still there; the score was now eight for 282, with Facey and Whitty the sole remaining supports for their captain. We had arranged to play an extra quarter of an hour. At six o'clock, with the score at 300, Armstrong hit one to me at cover-point. Cricketers will know what it is to snatch at a ball. The tenseness of the moment must have made me grab. I dropped it. Silence … dead silence from the large crowd. In Sydney it would have been, “Get a bag!” I have always interpreted that silence as a token of sympathy from a kindly public. I had been top scorer in each innings with scores of 108 and 41 and thus contributed largely to the winning position we were in; apparently they thought I did not deserve to be reprimanded.
With ten minutes to go I relieved Bennett who had bowled wonderfully well throughout the afternoon. My first ball, turning sharply from leg, beat Armstrong all the way, but grazed the off stump. Boxshall always swore that the ball did touch the wicket, but as he appealed when he took the ball, his contention may be discounted a little. Fate might have been
In both Tests the Australians proved too strong for us. In the match at Wellington we had lost five wickets for about 50 runs when I was joined by Sims, who had played an excellent innings of 51 not out in the Christchurch Test. We were the only batsmen able to handle the fast bowling of Facey, the Tasmanian, who was pretty quick and made the ball lift on this Wellington wicket. Our partnership added nearly 80; Sims made 37 and as Facey then rattled out the remaining batsmen, I was left with 69 not out. Facey finished with seven wickets for 71. Hemus got a “pair” in this match; I had been used to seeing him make runs—always.
The visit of the Australian team created great interest, for it included several new champions not previously seen in New Zealand. The fact that our visitors came at a time when the great struggles for the Plunket Shield were taking place, gave an added interest to the tour.
Then began what might be called the second phase of the Plunket Shield matches. Canterbury was now the defender. Otago was the first to challenge. The southerners had previously come north confident of victory, for they had in their team none other than the famous
Next time, in their first challenge match, our Otago friends gave us a real fright. Hopkins, an Australian, batted finely and when he was joined by
Next came Wellington. With Jack Saunders, the famous Australian left-hander, on their side, they also rated their chances as being good. They had not reckoned on the foil our four left-hand batsmen would prove to Saunders' bowling. We had already twice beaten them with this Australian in their team. In this, their first challenge, we started off with 277 and led by 100 in the first innings. Saunders took three for 92 in the first innings, but got five for 75 in the second, when our total was 192. Left with 302 to win, they never looked like getting them and we won by over 100 runs.
Auckland then came south in quest of the shield. The atmosphere surrounding this match was again like a Yorkshire-Lancashire game; perhaps a better comparison would be Yorkshire v. Surrey at the Oval, for it was a case of the North against the South. All New Zealand followed the match, for, good as Otago and Wellington teams were at this time, a special rivalry had developed between the teams now about to meet again.
Fending off the repeated challenges of recent years had nailed down the Aucklanders to home matches only, and made it impossible for them to arrange any extensive southern tours. Their defeat by Canterbury had lifted this restriction and they were glad to give their young players an opportunity to travel. A tour as far as Dunedin was arranged, but the main object was to challenge Canterbury for the shield.
Rain overnight had left the wicket on the soft side; I won the toss and elected to bat; most of my colleagues thought I made a mistake. We lost four wickets before lunch—all to Thompson: two of them were yorkers, so it was not all the fault of the wicket! We never recovered and were all out for 86. Oliff, a clever little bowler, came with a run at the finish and took the last six wickets. Auckland replied with 220. So far they had all the advantages of having second use of the wicket. It was in our second innings that we should have regained a fighting position and left them a reasonable number of runs to get. We were all out for 192; Auckland left 59 to win. The real story of this match can be compressed into these 59 runs.
As there was still an hour to go before stumps, Hemus came to me and suggested we play on and finish the match that evening; he said his men would rather have the whole day off on the morrow. I readily agreed. Off they went. Hemus and Sale, their two best batsmen, opened to Bennett and me. Runs came slowly, the usual Auckland gait for the opening of their innings. The score was twenty odd when I bowled Sale and immediately afterwards had Hemus caught at short leg; 0 for 24 became two for 25. Then Bennett got two wickets quickly, and the score was four for 35. Now there was a flutter in the Auckland dove-cote. All except two or three of the visitors had changed into their ordinary clothes. Our bowlers again took it turn about and the score was six for 40. More players getting back into their flannels! Next was seven for 48. The time was now ten minutes past six and Hemus came out and appealed against the light. I said, “But, dash it all. Chummy, we always play till 6.30 at this time of the year in our club matches.” On we went. Hemus came out again. I referred him to the umpires. They said go on. Eight
When we came off the field and were chattering in the dressing-room, for we were all excited, dear old
As I made the second highest score in the first innings, was top scorer in our second and took five for 61 and four for 35 it was a strenuous match for me. The way Bennett and I were able to spin the ball in those final stages left me with the conviction that had our batting been as good as it should have been in the second innings, we would have won the match because of Auckland's being left with fourth use of the wicket. My old friend Lusk does not agree with this, and still says that
We were now nearing the end of a decade of cricket in New Zealand in which was witnessed the greatest continuous stream of visiting teams to the Dominion. Lord Hawke's team of 1903 was followed by the Australian XI in 1905, and the next year came the Melbourne C.C. In 1907–8 Marylebone sent out Captain Wynward's team; Armstrong's Australian team followed in 1910. Next came
A fortnight later a return match was played; this time the position was reversed; they collapsed on a good wicket for a total of 80. Bennett and Sandman bowled splendidly. We had lost four wickets for about 70 when a lad named Paterson, making his debut for Canterbury, joined me. There was an hour to go before stumps, and we added 100 in that time. Old players still say it was one of the breeziest home-side partnerships seen at Lancaster Park. Young Paterson kept pace with his captain, and eventually reached 53. Our total was 384; Reese 130. Giller and Kyle were again the most successful bowlers, but this time we made them pay for their wickets.
The visitors' second-innings total of 270 failed to save them from an innings defeat. Trott said some nice things about my batting, and was loud and generous in his praise of the Canterbury XI. He said there was not a better fielding side in
A delightful story told by members of the 1896 Australian team, returning via New Zealand, will bear re-telling. Iredale was a fine batsman with a style resembling Lionel Palairet's. He was a very temperate young man, almost a teetotaler, and always a nervous starter. On the English tour he had failed several times and was fretting about it. The next match was a Test and Trott said to him, “Look here, Frank, what you need is a tonic. I often have one myself and will mix one for you.” After Iredale had donned his pads in readiness to open Australia's innings, the beloved
I approach the end of this second phase of Plunket Shield matches with another Auckland—Canterbury contest. We were not satisfied that the sensational match at Christchurch was a fair test of strength, so off we went again in quest of the now much coveted shield. On the way up in the train Lusk said to us, “We must hit Oliff more.” I had heard Cuff say that of Fisher and Downes in my first season of first-class cricket.
This time Auckland failed to get the better of our bowling and were all out for a total of 190. Lusk and Caygill opened our innings and were going along nicely when, to our amazement, Lusk jumped out about a yard to hit Oliff. Finding the ball was dropping short he stopped and tried to play it, but was clean bowled. Lusk was always quick on his feet, but we did not expect him to try and play like
The Aucklanders fought back in their second innings, but Bennett maintained his fine form throughout the match; Auckland's total was 292. The wicket had shown some signs of wearing, but we had no misgivings about getting the 122 runs required.
As Lusk left the dressing-room he turned and said in his confident manner, “I'll show you how to lift a bally shield!” This time he was as good as his word. He took Oliff by the scruff of the neck and dealt with the other bowlers in the same way. He was the Lusk of club cricket in Christchurch. The brilliance of his performance may be gathered from the fact that he made 82 and was out before our total reached 100; his runs were made in exactly an hour. We won by eight wickets. Harry Trott had said the Canterbury XI was a team of hitters, while after this match was over old
The Aucklanders needed the help of a player like Relf or Thompson, for Canterbury had now developed into a formidable side. The northerners missed Haddon who was a fine player and shrewd captain. Macartney, Saunders and
It will be seen that our natural game was to hit the ball. It was Relf's coaching and his making of the Auckland XI into such a match-winning combination that for a time made us reply with “Safety First” methods. We were now on top, felt
We had no sooner got back to Christchurch than Otago was at us again. This team had given us one or two frights, but had not beaten us for some years. On one occasion in Dunedin we lost eight wickets for 66 and looked a goner, when Syd. Orchard, our hard-hitting left-hander, demoralized the attack and, with the help of Bennett and Boxshall, lifted the total to 206. In the second innings we scored 259, Reese making 83, and we eventually won by 245 runs. Humphreys and Bennett were too good for their batsmen. In another match against Otago the “biter was bit.” Emulating Peel and Briggs, I occasionally delivered a ball from about a yard behind the crease. Alloo bowled one of these to me. I hit him hard and high to be caught in front of the sight board! This was meat to the genial
In this latest challenge from Otago, Alec Downes, who had not previously captained the southerners, was paid a nice compliment at the end of his long cricketing career by being asked to lead the side. This time there were no exciting moments, as at the finish of the previous match against them. All our batsmen made runs, and an evenly balanced score of 242 enabled Canterbury to win by an innings. I had first played against Downes as far back as Christmas of 1895, when the Fisher-Downes bowling combination was an outstanding feature of New Zealand cricket.
A pleasant surprise was in store for me in this game. At luncheon on the last day, Downes rose and said that when his team heard that Mr. Reese was to be married the week following this match, they felt they would like to make him a presentation, and he then handed me a handsome silver tray inscribed as “a marriage gift from Otago cricketers.” It was a nice tribute from opponents, and remains a treasured possession.
Many more matches were played in these years, for the ordinary inter-provincial games went on as usual, despite the challenges for the Plunket Shield. Although Wellington, in a later period, was to become the best team in the Dominion and the holder of the shield, they were not at this time equal to the strong Auckland and Canterbury XI's.
An amusing incident in a match with Wellington is worth relating.
This period of inter-provincial cricket in New Zealand was among the busiest and brightest years of my career. The Canterbury team had travelled so often that the members all knew each other intimately. Dr, A. J. Orchard managed the team on one of its visits to Auckland and said to me, “Upon my soul, I didn't realize a cricket team could talk so much cricket: it's cricket all the time—and stories!” Yes, we had three or four good story-tellers on our side and we had great fun wherever we went. When I first came back from England, my team mates wanted to know all about Grace and Murdoch; about Ranji and Fry. How did they bat? Was Hirst the same sort of bowler as Frankish, and was Rhodes like Fisher? What was MacLaren like? To say that I had also seen
My mess-room stories, most of them new to New Zealand, lasted for a long time and added to the mirth of our travels. It was only the other day that
‘Of course I am!’ came the reply.
The boy let go and said, ‘Well, you hold the b … sheep yourself!’”
We laughed and laughed until the tears ran down our cheeks. It was a good story from anyone, but from McEwen…!
It was during one of these talks that I was to learn, with surprise, how incidents on the cricket field can impress the mind of a small boy in a way different from what one would expect.
I finish these sketches with one more Auckland-Canterbury match that is worth recording. The shrewdness of Patrick is disclosed in the incident I quote; it is a study of psychology. Cricketers will know that it is modern practice to open with bowlers who can swing the new ball; they will also know that even a Bosanquet or a Grimmett would bowl a few leg breaks before mixing in an occasional googly. Patrick had figured it out that if a googly was bowled first ball, the batsman would not be prepared for it. The Canterbury XI was in the train on its way to Auckland when Patrick turned to Sandman and said, “If you go on first, will you bowl a googly to begin with?” Everyone laughed, but he was persistent, for he wanted his
The last ball of this match was to prove as thrilling as the first one. Sandman was also in on this. Canterbury had been left 293 to win. It was even going all the way. Runs kept coming, but wickets kept falling. With the score at nine for 289, Boxshall joined Sandman. Our wicket-keeper was now past the middle forties, had grown rotund and required “nursing” between the wickets. Sandman, ever eager for runs, already had the field rattled. Presently they went for what appeared an easy single. The active Sandy, after running half the length of the pitch with Boxshall having covered not more than a quarter of the distance, decided he had more chance of getting back than our wicket-keeper had of reaching the other end in time. With a yell, the mercurial Sandman called, “Go back!” and wheeling round, scooted for the home base; he ran like a hare to beat the throw in. Both sides were now wildly excited, with the crowd unable to contain itself, but old Boxie steadied his youthful partner, who in the end made the winning hit. And so, sensational is the word that best describes the beginning and the end of a great match.
It was now six years since the inception of Plunket Shield matches, yet competition remained as keen as ever and public interest as great.
The New Zealand Cricket Council's decision to send a second team to tour Australia added enormously to the intensity of individual effort during the season 1912–13, for the touring side was to be selected on the form of that year's cricket. As was the case with the 1899 team, we were faced with the disappointment of a number of our best players not being available:
Canterbury provided seven of the fourteen players selected; it is indicative of the relative strength of Canterbury cricket at that time when it is stated that with so many players away the province withstood challenges from Auckland, Wellington and Otago. Two splendid young all-rounders in
I had urged the Cricket Council to give us a few days' practice on the hard wickets of Australia before beginning match play. My experience had been that it was more difficult for young batsmen to come off the wickets of England and New Zealand to the faster wickets of Australia, than for Australians playing away from their own country; English touring teams of last century always had a week's practice at Adelaide. We were ready to sail when a maritime strike occurred in New Zealand. Our boat was delayed and we arrived in Sydney with only one day left for practice. In the afternoon it rained and we left for Maitland that night without having had the practice considered so necessary.
At a civic reception, the Mayor of Maitland proceeded to laud New Zealand football, but almost apologized for our cricket; we responded by giving this strong country district team a good hiding, and won by 303 runs. All our batsmen made runs, but Hickmott and Sandman were brilliant; Sandman took eight for 28 in the second innings. Rain had made the pace of the pitch more like a New Zealand wicket.
Going on by rail to Glen Innis, we met another combined country district team. Again we were too strong for this class of cricket and won by an innings. I remember how troublesome the flies were on the field of play; Hemus made us laugh by fielding with a woman's veil pinned to the rim of his white hat.
Our next match was at Brisbane against Queensland. It was good to meet some of the old players who had visited New Zealand sixteen years earlier. We anticipated that Queensland would be a team about our own weight and expected a keen match: it was a keen match all right! Heavy rain had made the wicket soft and on winning the toss the Queensland captain made us bat first. It was soon evident we were in for a rough time; Ironmonger, the left-hander, was making his first appearance; Barstow was the other bowler. I had not seen a really bad Australian wicket since my days with the Melbourne Club. The bowlers not only broke back quickly, but often kicked high—one ball from Ironmonger flew straight to first
The pitch had improved by the time Queensland batted, but it was still a bowlers' wicket. I was determined not to make the same mistake as Ironmonger, and plugged away at the leg stump. I had clean bowled the first two batsmen and had a third caught at forward short-leg before Marshall got someone to stay with him. Alan Marshall, not long back from England where he had phenomenal success with London County when that county side dropped back to club matches, showed rare skill on this wicket, but just when they appeared to be making too many runs for our liking I bowled him. It had been a ding-dong go between us, but as he had scored 42 it cannot be said that he lost the contest. Evans slogged to some purpose, but this was their last spasm, for on this wicket the tail-enders had no chance and the innings closed for 124. “Not so bad,” we thought, for they still had fourth use of the wicket. Reese took seven for 53 and Bennett three for 40. But for Marshall we would have had remarkable figures.
We had a good laugh going home in the tram that night. Changed into our ordinary clothes, no one knew we were members of the New Zealand side. A group of rugged Queenslanders of the artisan class, who had obviously had a drink at the hotel opposite, got into the tram and sat behind us. Presently one said in a loud voice, “By Jove, that ‘boogger’ Reese knows how to bowl!” What terms of endearment one hears in Australia, although he really sounded like a Geordie!
In our second innings we got a jolt when Snedden was out before a run had been scored, but Tuckwell stayed with Hemus until 60 was passed, when they were both out; two more wickets fell and we were again in trouble. Patrick then
Left 127 to win, the Queenslanders entered upon their task in light-hearted fashion, for the wicket was now faster, though still showing the effects of the damage done when it was soft. Their complacency soon changed to anxiety when Robinson bowled the first batsman before he had scored and I clean bowled the next two! The score-board now read three wickets for 7 runs. From then on it was an intense struggle; our bowling and fielding nailed them down to a defensive game. As in the first innings, Prout stayed with Marshall and the tide appeared to be turning in their favour. The score was past 40 when Sandman relieved me and at once bowled Prout. Now it was Marshall on one side and Sandman on the other. Another wicket fell, then another and another, but Marshall kept taking toll. How we fought him! How he fought back! He manœuvred for the strike … we closed in to prevent a single at the end of an over. It was Test Match strategy on both sides. We felt that if we could prevent Marshall from getting more than his share of the bowling we could settle accounts with the remaining batsmen. Now it was seven for 71, then eight for 95. The excitement was intense. The ninth wicket fell at 113. When Ironmonger, the last man, walked to the wicket, there were 15 runs to get. The left-hander was not a good batsman, but hit his first ball powerfully to long-on for a single. Marshall then hit what looked like an easy 2, but a glorious piece of fielding by Hickmott in the outfield turned it into a single. Sandman again bowled to Ironmonger. Our leg breaker's ordinary leg break was an off break to Ironmonger, who again swished for a drive to long-on, but this time it was a wrong 'un, and down went the stumps! It looked an inglorious stroke, but we knew that better batsmen than Ironmonger might have fallen to that ball.
It mattered not to us how it happened—we had won by 12 runs! It was a great match and a great victory. The Queens-landers praised our fielding, our tenacity and fighting spirit. We could have hugged our Donald Sandman when that last ball of the match found the middle stump. How literally he
I cannot pass from this scene of excitement without reference to Alan Marshall's batting; he had gone in first and remained not out with 66 to his credit. We did well to appraise correctly his ability and keep the bowling away from him as much as we could. He had played two splendid innings. Marshall should have become one of Australia's greatest batsmen.
We had a unique experience in Brisbane; an evening pony race-meeting was held the night after our match and we were the guests of the Racing Club. It was a lovely warm evening and the ground had a bright appearance with lights all round the track. Betting played its usual big part in the races. A keen Queensland cricket enthusiast was in our party. He was a jolly companion with a good Irish name. He said to our lads, “Now, don't put any money on until I come back.” Away he went and returning with a knowing look, said, “Back ‘so-and-so.’” Sure enough it won. This made more of our fellows drop their fancies for the second race. Again, his “back ‘so-and-so’” proved he was a good judge! The third race, and the fourth, it was just the same; now everyone was laughing; it was easy money. He finished by tipping five wins out of six races. Our friend did not take the card and mark the ponies to back—it was always, “Wait till I return.” Where he went or whom he saw, we did not know. Some said he had a word with the horses! It was an eye-opener to us to see what pony racing in Australia was at that time. We left Brisbane with happy memories.
Now it was New South Wales we were to face on the great Sydney cricket ground. As with the 1899 team, a good performance preceding this match made New South Wales put its best team in the field. We were soon to learn how disastrous it was for us to have played so far only on two rain-affected wickets, and one matting wicket. The Sydney wicket was hard and fast and when Kelleway, medium-fast, and Scot, fast, began to bowl our batsmen were all at sea.
Hemus and Snedden opened the innings, but the Auckland champion was out for 0. Tuckwell and Hickmott, who followed, also failed to score; both clean bowled playing back and beaten by the pace. Snedden, the Auckland colt, was shaping well, but two more wickets fell quickly. This was a tragic start, with the bowlers making us look the veriest novices. Then came Sandman: stockily built and with a spring in his stride not unlike Jessop's as he walked to the wicket, he wasted no time in causing the man on the hill to wake up. The crowd that sits there loves a fighter, and they found one in this Canterbury lad. Bang! went a square cut to the fence off a short one from Scott. A straight drive off Kelleway brought more cheers of encouragement from the embankment. Now there was no holding him and while Snedden continued to play soundly, the would-be Jessop hit 4's and more 4's. Snedden was out for a splendid 44. Robinson, our young fast bowler, played as breezily as he had when he helped to save our second innings at Brisbane. Now it was a case of two colts with the bit in their mouths, each appearing to be trying to outdo the other. Sandman was a footballer-cricketer and could run like a hare between the wickets; he was also as daring as a Syd. Gregory or a
Bardsley and Andrews opened for New South Wales and we got a thrill when Robinson, our speed merchant, clean bowled the great left-hander for 7; he, too, played back to a ball that was faster off the pitch than he thought. This was the end of our success, for Collins came in and played the
We batted again. Kelleway started as though he would repeat his first innings performance. It was, however, Mailey and Andrews who wrought havoc this time. Our first few batsmen shaped confidently, but their wickets fell just as they appeared to be settling down. More wickets fell quickly and we were once more in the cart—almost as badly as in the first innings. Young Carlton was now joined by Sandman, who was cheered by the men on the bank as he walked to the wicket. He wasted no time and was soon hitting fours and running the short ones; again they shied at his wicket; again there was a 4 for an over-throw. But this time they got him as the Englishmen got Clem Hill in that famous exhibition of batting and of short runs, with Trumper as a partner, against the M.C.C. team in 1903. In the end Sandman was run out for 33, and was again top-scorer on our side. Our total was 105. It was most disappointing to have all our best batsmen fail in each innings; our opponents knew how we were troubled by the pace of the wicket, but the public measures a team by results and we must have left Sydney with a damaged reputation.
At this stage of his career Sandman was developing into a fine all-rounder. If he could have been restrained a little he would have become a very good batsman; he could square-cut with great power, drive through the covers, straight-drive fours and hit sixes with the greatest of ease; he was. the quickest-footed batsman on our side. In his first appearance at Lancaster Park, against Armstrong's Australian team in 1910, coming in at the end of the innings, he had two balls only from Armstrong and finished with 12 not out; both sixes were beautiful hits over long-on's head! Audacious is the word to describe this
From Sydney he went to Goulburn, and, after a match against a combined country team there, went on to play at Albury, where it surprised New Zealanders to find an old-fashioned custom still being carried on as though it were a town of old England; here was the Town Crier who marched the streets ringing his bell and calling aloud the day's announcements. It was a mistake to go back to this class of cricket and, particularly, go back to matting wickets. What we wanted was plenty of play on the typically hard and fast wickets of Australia. I remember how the South Africans, coming off the matting wickets of their own country, suffered from playing back too much.
At last we were in Melbourne. The great M.C.C. ground was a revelation to our players.
Patrick and Hemus opened our innings. When facing McDonald, the former snicked his first ball to Armstrong at first slip; he dropped it! His second ball went to-second slip; he dropped it! Patrick left the third ball alone and it hit the top of the off stump! Was a 0 ever more fully deserved? McDonald then clean bowled Snedden for 0, and we looked like repeating our Sydney performance. When Tuckwell was out, the score was four for 24; we were crestfallen. It was the pace of the wicket again, plus beautiful bowling by McDonald. I then joined young Hickmott, who alone had stood up to the fast stuff. We soon got moving and began to score freely; Hickmott was out for a finely played 46 and I followed shortly afterwards for 47. We were the only double-figure scorers on our side, and the total was 141. Lampard, who a few years later was to bowl well for the A.I.F. team, came with a run at the finish and with his very accurate leg breaks took five wickets.
Robinson started bowling with great vim, and dismissed Carroll, Victoria's opening batsman, for 2. I remember
Our second innings saw more of our batsmen picking up form. Snedden got a nice 51, but our total of 188 could not be called a very worthy effort. The most encouraging part was that six of our batsmen ran into double figures, and all appeared to be shaping better on the fast wickets.
We then left for Adelaide. Though not as strong numerically in players as New South Wales and Victoria, the state of South Australia has made a notable contribution to the list of Australia's greatest players. It was a pleasure for me to renew an intimate friendship with Clem Hill and again to meet
I had not been able to find an opening partner for Hemus, who would provide the good start which means so much to a side; this time young Hickmott accompanied him, but it made no difference; the first wicket fell at 15 and the second at 24. Then Hemus and Snedden made a stand, taking the score to about 80 before the former was out for a soundly played 46. I then joined Snedden and, getting quickly off the mark, we were soon making runs at a good rate. The partnership added 136 runs for the fourth wicket, and we were at last on the way to a substantial score. Young Snedden, fast becoming one of our best batsmen, was then out for 88; we were sorry he did not reach the century. Taylor stayed while another 40 was added. Then came the i popular Sandman. The crowd had read of his performance in Sydney and the man on the bank called, “Give it to 'em, Sandy!” and, sure enough, our Donald dived in at the deep end at once; he hit hard, he overhauled me between the wickets when running the 2's and 3's, he
It was now their turn to bat. They got a good start; one for 25 became two for 113, then more wickets fell and the score was five for 158. That was the end of our success, for Clem Hill showed all the form of his younger days, and played a beautiful innings for 92. Pellew got 94, so there was plenty of just missing the century in this match. Their total finally reached 433.
We again got a bad start; both Hemus and Hickmott were out before 20 was up. Tuckwell stayed with Snedden while 40 were added, then Snedden and I became associated in a partnership that was to put our batting on top. The young Aucklander played finely for 52 and this completed an excellent double. When Taylor came in we added 100 in quick time, and went on to make the fifth wicket partnership yield 147 runs. When I passed the century Clem Hill, in crossing at the
In this match I was to witness how stubborn a bowler can be. Crawford was one of the first medium-paced bowlers I had seen who tried to bowl without an outfield. As a youngster I had been taught that in such circumstances it was a safe stroke to lift the ball over the bowler's head, provided you played with a perfectly straight bat. I did this several times to Crawford, and Hill suggested an outfield, but the Surrey man wouldn't have one; in the second innings the same thing happened. This reminds me of the story of Bill Howell, the Australian bowler. At a time when Australian cricket was in the doldrums, with all the young players following the style of Collins, Woodfull and Ponsford, Howell came down from his bee farm to see a New South Wales-Victoria match. After watching the game for some hours he turned to Syd. Gregory and said in his dry way, “When did they bring in the new rule, Syd.?”
“What new rule?” replied Gregory.
“Over the bowler's head is out!”
They all had a good laugh, but that was the state of the game in the Commonwealth when Bradman arrived to put it back where Trumper, Duff, Hill and Darling had left it.
My wife accompanied me on this cricket tour, and her presence was responsible for an amusing incident that occurred in the grandstand at Adelaide. An old school friend of hers had married an Adelaide doctor, and the reunion was a happy one. Her friend, while being fond of tennis and golf, knew little or nothing about cricket, but this did not prevent her from sitting with my wife throughout the match against South Australia. Everybody within hearing distance derived great amusement from her comments on the game. She was of an enthusiastic and excitable nature and every now and again she was heard to exclaim loudly, “Dan's hit another 4!”, accompanied by a quick hand-clap. The climax came after lunch on the third day when I hit the slow bowler clean over the sight board; in a tone that almost betokened incredulity
We had been royally treated in this fair city of Adelaide, and left in a much happier frame of mind over our cricket than we had been when departing from Sydney and Melbourne.
We now returned to Melbourne to play the final match of the tour. The First XI of the great Melbourne Cricket Club had paid visits to New Zealand in 1900 and 1905. This was our first opportunity of returning their calls. Included in their team was the lovable
This was the end of New Zealand's second cricket tour of Australia; the only blots on our performances were the débâcles at Sydney and Melbourne. I finished top of both the batting and bowling averages, a performance which, considering that excepting Boxshall I was the oldest member of the side, could perhaps be ranked as one of some merit.
Going by train to Sydney, we caught the Victoria for Auckland and were soon on the high seas. It had been a most enjoyable tour, and seeing so much of Australia was a great education, for few members of our team had previously been away from
Aboard the Victoria with us was the Australian team organized by
In a way, it was a pity that the visit came right on the heels of our Australian tour, for our players now had to ask their employers for more leave the moment they got back. However, this was a small matter compared with the advantages that would accrue from such a galaxy of cricket talent being seen in action in New Zealand. Noble paid Sims a nice compliment by insisting that he captain his own side. The team played dazzling cricket throughout the tour, with Trumper the particular star. I need not refer to all their matches.
The first game against Canterbury will ever remain a memorable one. The home side gave an inglorious display and were all out for 92. The Australians started badly and in a dull light lost five wickets for about 100 before stumps were drawn. Trumper had been held back for the Saturday crowd.
When the great Victor joined Sims we were to witness one of the most amazing exhibitions of batting ever seen in this or any other country. One can quote numerous brilliant performances where a batsman has scored a century in an hour, but to keep this rate up for three hours is another matter! In the end Trumper was out for 293. Sims, in his later years, had become a dashing batsman, but on this occasion he played for Trumper and reverted to the steady, correct style of his youth. The partnership added 433 runs for the eighth wicket and when the innings came to an end the total was 653—Sims 184 not out. It was a splendid innings and a fitting finish to an excellent cricketing career, which included a
It was rather bad luck that I had ricked a muscle in my left shoulder and was unable to bowl. Wilson, who came into the side to make up for my mishap, was a leg-break bowler of the type of Sandman, so our all-round and varied attack of recent years was not in evidence, but in any case all bowling would have been the same to Trumper that day. Canterbury, in her second innings, made 197. Sandman played splendidly for 80; he was a real batsman at this period of his career.
The first Test Match, at Dunedin, found us in the position I had feared; none of the Aucklanders could come south, so we were not a truly representative side. Sims's team won by seven wickets.
In the second Test, played at Auckland, the Australians fairly overwhelmed New Zealand. Their single innings produced 610 runs, including four centuries. This was the end of the tour; it was also the end of first-class cricket for another four years, for in a few months the first World War was to cast its shadow over all the lands of the earth.
When the war was over, it was found that cricket had been badly hit. The saddest part to us was that Hickmott, Crawshaw and Wilson of the Canterbury XI had been killed in France. These were all lads of great promise. Hickmott, in particular, was a fine all-rounder and to my mind would have become a
I had always said I would never play cricket after I was forty years of age, but, with so many breaks in our ranks, they persuaded me to play in one or two matches. I went to Auckland and this time the northerners gave us a really good beating.
My last appearance was in our next match against Auckland, in Christchurch.
The Aucklanders won comfortably. It will be seen that in the years immediately following the war the northerners were again on top. Snedden was now their captain—he had developed into the best all-rounder in the Dominion, and captained New Zealand teams for a number of years.
Patrick succeeded me as captain of the Canterbury XI, and in the next few years helped to rebuild it into a fine side; he was a clever tactician and able leader and, in turn, succeeded Snedden as New Zealand's captain.
This brought to an end my career as a cricketer; it seemed a long way back to my first appearance in 1895.
On the administrative side of the game I was also to gain experience at an early age. When twenty I was elected Honorary Secretary of the Midland Club. A year later I was paid a graceful compliment in being elected captain of the First XI; I had already played five seasons of senior cricket and had all this time played in the Canterbury XI, as well as visiting Australia with the New Zealand team, so may have been thought an experienced player; MacLaren captained
Lancaster Park is the principal football and cricket ground in Christchurch, and on my return from England Mr. Wilding asked me to become a member of the Board.
Everyone was anxious to assist in the effort to safeguard for posterity this fine ground. Great as Charles Clark's work had been in the control of Hagley Park, he was now to show even greater administrative ability in steering Lancaster Park through the rapids of difficult times. The company struggled along, with but little improvement in gate takings, and the mortgage on the property continuing to prove a severe handicap. In 1912, when the management was faced with financial difficulties which seemed insurmountable, the Canterbury Rugby Union agreed to join forces with the Cricket Association and paid £1,000 cash to become half owner of the park. A system of ground members was instituted and this ensured a certain fixed income. In response to a further appeal for assistance, generous patrons subscribed several thousand pounds and the greatest crisis in the history of Lancaster Park was over.
The board was now in a position to make much-needed improvements to the ground, for the increasing interest now being shown in Rugby football called for better accommodation for the public. The oval was reduced to the standard size of a county cricket ground, the fine old pavilion was moved to an end-on position, a new grandstand was built at the
In 1919 there was a general desire to have the ground made free of debt for the young sportsmen who were now returning from the war. The Canterbury Commercial Travellers' Association made a handsome offer when it placed its organization at the service of the Board. Cricket and football supporters subscribed sufficient money to purchase three bungalow cottages, and the Association's energetic members then set to work on a series of Art Unions, each with a cottage home as first prize. In a whirlwind canvas of the province they startled everyone by the success of their efforts, and the amount of money raised was more than enough to pay off the entire indebtedness of the park. Their action is remembered with gratitude by the cricketers, footballers and athletes of Canterbury.
All this experience came to me during my cricketing career, and my close association with such men as Wilding and Clark, as well as the Rugby Union representatives on the Board, proved invaluable.
It could be said that Lancaster Park might just as suitably have been renamed to commemorate the memory of the Wilding family, as is the fine tennis ground that to-day bears the name of Wilding Park. It was on Lancaster Park that début. It is perhaps telling a family secret to say that in the first instance Mr. and Mrs. Wilding would have
My connection with the New Zealand Cricket Council and the management of the game in this country began immediately after my return from England in 1907. In these early years it was the Council's practice to invite touring teams to visit New Zealand every two or three years, so it will be seen there was much work involved. I served with many splendid men who gave much of their time to the game. A member of the executive all through my cricketing days, I was able to bring experience of first-class cricket to our counsels. My business took me to many parts of New Zealand and to Australia. I was thus in close touch with the players and authorities throughout our own country as well as the Commonwealth. In the late twenties I was made chairman of the Executive and three years later was elected President of the New Zealand Council.
The Australian tours of New Zealand were always profitable ventures, and contributed largely to the working expenses of the Council. English teams, while always including some attractive players, were sometimes less successful, partly due to the high steamer fares. Lord Hawke's team was the one exception.
In the more recent English teams that visited this country, players such as MacLaren, Chapman, Duleepsinhji, Woolley and Hammond played brilliant cricket, but rank and file batsmen were often stodgy in the extreme. In these post-war years New Zealand will need to revise her International programme. Great Test sides, like Jardine's and Allen's, showed us cricket of the world's highest standard, but fleeting
The tours of England by New Zealand teams opened up a new field for our players and gave greater opportunities for distinction than against crack Australian State teams on their own fast wickets. When I saw Dempster play on his return from the first tour of England I thought, “Here's the best batsman New Zealand has produced.” There was no doubt that this country now had more good batsmen than ever before. The same could not be said of the bowlers, some of whom could not even keep a length. One thought of how differently Lowry would have been served had he been able to call upon Fisher and Downes, or Frankish and Upham.
“The March of Time,” applied to cricket, might be a more appropriate title for this chapter. If old Father Time were interested in cricket, he would, from first-hand knowledge, be able to unfold a story that would thrill sportsmen throughout the Empire. He would begin with the romance of the earliest days of cricket, of under-arm bowling, then round-arm, then over-arm; he would tell of the men of Hambledon, of the great county sides of Kent, of Sussex and of Hampshire, and of the spread of the game to the northern counties; he would describe two wonderful players in Alfred Mynn and Fuller Pilch; coming nearer to more recent days, he would herald the arrival of W. G. Grace, the giant of the game, who was to become the founder of modern cricket.
But so far Father Time will have been discussing the teams and the players of England only. The sides were evenly matched and the contests keen. Presently, in a far-off country, he would espy eleven men playing against odds. At first one side had 22 men in the field, later reduced to 18, then to 15. The story would begin to sound familiar to colonials who remembered the touring teams of many years ago and the cricket coaches who, possessed of great skill and patience, taught the lads of “down under” the game that was watched by many people.
As he went from playing field to playing field, Father Time would note the improved play of the tutored. He would finally hazard the opinion that one of the pupils played as well as his master—that another was nearly as good. He would further record the other members of the family as having shown considerable improvement in their play. This may sound somewhat fantastic, but it is a true picture of the way Englishmen developed the cricket of the Empire and lifted the game in Australia and South Africa to a standard of play comparable with that of England herself and gave the West Indies and New Zealand a start that may yet lead them to rank as worthy opponents.
As each year passes it becomes increasingly difficult to find
Among the most interesting glimpses I have had into bygone days, were conversations with two very old men. Edward Pavitt, the eldest son of a family that arrived in New Zealand in the eighteen-forties, told me that he had seen Alfred Mynn play at Colchester. Mr. Pavitt was ninety years of age when he related to me his impression of this memorable event of his boyhood days. His chief recollection of seeing the champion of one hundred years ago was of a man with a magnificent physique, of how hard he hit the ball, of the great crowd that assembled to see him play, and of the public adoration of the cricketer who, in their estimation, stood head and shoulders above all others.
The other experience was a talk with Charles Forder, who had just celebrated his hundredth birthday. On this notable occasion he had been interviewed by a newspaper man and mentioned that on arrival at Christchurch his first job had been with my father. This prompted me to call on the centenarian. His mind was very clear, especially when recalling events of his early years. He laughed heartily in telling me the story of his first job here and how, in his earliest experience in the use of corrugated iron for roofing, he had driven the nails through the iron in the hollows of the corrugations! He chuckled when he said, “And I didn't get the sack!”
I was surprised when he turned the conversation to cricket. He remembered my cricketing days. Mr. Forder then told me that he came from the same village in Surrey as Julius Caesar and could tell me all about the players of Stephenson's pioneer team to Australia. He said that in his village there was a family
All these unique experiences, which cover so many phases of the game, may at least give me some qualifications to review and to express opinions on International cricket back to the time when Australia and the other Dominions became grown up. Reference to, and reliance upon text-books have seldom been necessary, because, on the historical side, I am relating knowledge assimilated in my youth and imprinted upon my mind so strongly that I can never forget. For the rest, what I write is from personal observation and experience, or first-hand stories that players of other generations have told me.
It is not generally known in the Dominions that there was a time when enthusiastic young men of Philadelphia looked as though they might carry the game of cricket to the fathermost parts of the United States. England fostered their efforts. First-class teams went across the Atlantic, and the Philadelphians were invited back to Lord's, the Oval and other county grounds. It will surprise colonials to know that W. G. Grace visited America years before he was seen in Australia. English players have told me of the pleasant and friendly manners of the Americans, and how well liked they were in England. These included some good players, of whom perhaps the best was J. B. King, whom the Englishmen rated as a really first-class bowler; on one occasion he flicked off the off bail with a ball that surprised even the great Ranjitsinhji, but the Indian prince got even with him next time. This effort to introduce cricket was of no avail; baseball proved too strong; the seeds of cricket were being sown on barren soil; the national game of the United States was more suited to the temperament of the American people. To-day, one sees about as much cricket in America as, say, baseball in Australia or New Zealand where spasmodic attempts are made to create an interest in the game. With the Dominions the position was different; wherever the home-life of the Homeland and the sports games of England were transplanted, there developed the same love of cricket as in the Old Country itself.
The first English team to visit Australia was in 1861, and
In the late 'seventies the Australians, who have never been accused of being bashful, threw oft' any inferiority complex they may have had, and challenged Lillywhite's team to a Test Match; it was played at Melbourne in 1877, when the Australians won by 45 runs;
Looking back over the years that led up to this great Test Match period, one is amazed at the part played by great English professionals in pioneering the game in the Antipodes. The first team to go to America was a professional side in the year 1859, but after that the amateurs took up the responsibility of fostering cricket on the other side of the Atlantic. Perhaps the professionals found the visit to Canada and the United States did not pay; after all, they had a business side to their enterprise and were entitled to take a practical view. It was not long before they discovered that there were “goldmines” in Sydney, Melbourne and Adelaide, as well as at Ballarat and Bendigo. Wonderful stories are told of those early visits; the players were received like Royalty and on arrival were driven through the streets in a four-in-hand coach; crowds gathered round their hotel to see the champions they had read about. There were banquets, and more banquets, and much entertainment. Bass's ale and Guinness's stout could be had everywhere and Johnny Walker—going strong— had reached Australia before them!
In Australia I met men who had played against Stephenson's team, and in New Zealand I knew several elderly men who, in
When Lillywhite's team, with whom
How these races originated is both amusing and interesting.
There was another extraordinary happening in connection with this match. Pooley, the English wicket-keeper, having met with an accident in the North Island, arrived in Christ-church some days ahead of his team-mates. At Warners Hotel, the evening when the names of the Canterbury eighteen chosen were posted up, Pooley, to the crowd around the notice board, said, “I'll take tens to one on each man's score and pick what he'll make!” A well-known Christchurch man at once took up the wager in pounds sterling. Pooley then wrote against the name of each player the score he thought he would make and lodged with the hotel proprietor the sealed envelope, to be held in the safe until after the match. As can be imagined, many of the local batsmen were no match for bowlers of the calibre of Shaw, Emmett and Ullyett and a number of them failed to score. When Pooley's envelope was opened it was found that he had put 0 against every batsman's name. There was a dickens of a row at Warners that night when the irate loser, thinking he had been fooled, refused to pay Pooley the money that was clearly due to him. The Englishmen narrowly escaped defeat in this match.
I am afraid the young men of these teams were more lively on tour than were members of one of the Australian elevens of recent times, when eight of them were reputed to be
“Just to catch fellows like you,” he replied. “It's got me lots of drinks!”
As a youth, like many other boys of my time, I kept a newspaper clippings' book. The primary object of owning such a book was to paste in any references to one's own play. My scrap-book covered a wider field: I cut from the newspapers all the cabled reports of matches between English and Australian teams, and never missed an opportunity of securing photographs of teams and players, including those of reprints of the earliest years. One thing that always impresses me when I look at those old photographs is the character in the faces of some of the professional leaders of English teams who were the first to spread the “gospel” of cricket to the farthermost parts of the Empire. Parr, in particular, looks a fine personality and a real leader of men; Stephenson has a venerable appearance.
Although the English team in the first Test Match did not represent England's full strength, the performance of the Australians left no doubt in the mind of anyone that they were now good enough to visit the Old Country. Lillywhite urged them to go and they did not need much persuading.
It is a remarkable fact that an Australian cricket team had already visited England. In the earliest years of cricket in Australia, the aboriginal showed great aptitude for the game, and his keenness, equal to that of the New Zealand Maori for football, was encouraged. Someone suggested they should visit England. I fancy the thought was that they would attract attention and gate money! Although some of these natives played the game fairly well they were not any match for a county eleven. In Tuppenny they had a pretty good bowler; Charles Richardson told me that as a lad he had batted to him at the nets. The climate of England settled any chance of
Twenty-five years later I saw Jacky Marsh, the Queensland aboriginal fast bowler, taking part in first-class cricket in the Commonwealth. He was actually a candidate for Test Match honours. The keen controversy that ensued as to the fairness of his delivery made the authorities hesitate to select him. He was certainly a very fast bowler. Apart from his delivery, I think they were wise to exclude an aboriginal, for the status of the Australian native is not very high in the world, even among the native races.
On arrival in England, Gregory's team of 1878 was amused when, at some of the provincial railway stations, people who went to see them arrive expressed surprise that they were not black. Nearly thirty years later the New Zealand Rugby side of 1905 heard similar expressions, for the first New Zealand Rugby team to visit England had been a Maori one in 1889.
I have already told how the Australians of 1878 amazed the people of England by their defeat of a great M.C.C. team that was as strong as any side England could put in the field. It was not until then that the Mother Country awoke to the fact that a “Caesar” had arrived. It was typical of England's conservatism that such a thunderbolt had to fall before it was conceded that the Australians were entitled to Test Match status. With the season's programme already arranged it was now too late to include a Test. An agitation was started in England to have one of the county matches cancelled so that a trial of strength could be arranged, but the match did not eventuate. When one “compares the teams of the two countries of that time it is hard, at first glance, to see how the colonials could hold England's wonderful all-round side to an even contest. What Australia lacked as an evenly balanced side she made up for with a quartette of magnificent bowlers, two great batsmen in
Throughout the history of the game there have been many examples of players and teams making a special effort in preparation for a coming match or tour, but none equalled in thoroughness that of the first Australian XI. Assembling in Melbourne early in November, 1877, they began a series of matches in the capital cities and country districts of all the States. They then crossed the Tasman and toured New Zealand from Invercargill to Auckland. Returning to Australia, more matches were arranged until, in all, twenty-two games had been played before the team left for England. Had Englishmen known of the effect this playing together was to have upon the team-work of the eleven they would have been more prepared for the shock they received at Lord's in the second match of the tour, and understood better how it was the Australians established themselves so quickly as an International side.
The team returned via America, where more matches were played, and on reaching Australia began another tour of their own country, including a match against Lord Harris's team, then touring the Commonwealth. This Australian team played continuously for fifteen months, in which time it took part in seventy-seven matches. It is astounding to find that in this series of games Spofforth took no fewer than 764 wickets for six-and-a-half runs apiece!
The Australians were back in England in 1880. It seemed tardy recognition to arrange for one Test Match only. There had been a scene on the Sydney Cricket Ground the previous year when an umpire's decision threatened to create a riot. It is told that when some of the spectators jumped the fence on to the playing area George Ullyett pulled a stump out of the ground and said, “I'm ready for them!” That this match at the Oval would be a stern contest was not hard to visualize;
The Englishmen led off with 420; the great “W.G.” getting 152, thus making a century in his first Test Match. Australia made only 149 and following on looked like loosing by an innings. Murdoch, who had gone in first, was then ably supported by the tail-enders and the total reached 327. The captain had gone right through the innings and was left with 153 not out; it was a magnificent effort. Left only 57 runs to get, England lost five wickets before the winning hit was made. Spofforth had injured his hand and was unable to play in this match, so the full strength of the two countries had still not met.
The Test Matches were now under way. Back and forward went the touring teams, each paying a visit every two years. Rivalry was keen and public interest intense. It will be of interest to cricketers throughout the world to learn that the extraordinary interest of the Australian people in these early matches against England, and their genuine love of the game for the game's sake, prompted the leading bookmaker in Australia to say to his fellow members of Tattersall's Club, “Cricket is too wonderful a game to be spoilt by betting and I think we should all agree not to lay the odds on Test Matches.” Throughout the years this sporting attitude has been maintained.
The 1882 match at the Oval has so often been told as one of the greatest of all times that there is no need for me to retell it. Suffice it to say that it was the first time these teams had opposed one another at full strength and Australia's win by seven runs in a breathless finish carried her to a position that entitled her to rank as equal with her mighty opponents. Spofforth took fourteen wickets!
This 1882 team was often ranked as Australia's greatest, but in the late 'nineties and 1902 the magnificent sides led by Trott and Darling were considered to have raised the standard of play to a pitch not previously attained. The 1884 team was another great side, but soon after this Australia was to lose Spofforth, then Murdoch, and Ferris, all of whom settled in England, and it took many years to repair the loss sustained.
During these years, largely on account of Grace, England maintained her supremacy in, her Home matches; those
The first match of this 1894 series stands out as one of the greatest matches of all the Tests. Australia started off with 586, of which little Syd. Gregory made 201. England's reply was 325, and in the days of the compulsory follow on made 437 in their second innings. This was a splendid achievement, but it left Australia only 177 to get. At stumps they had scored 113 for two wickets. Old cricketers who took part and others who were watching this game have told me that during the last hour's play they saw the clouds banking up and blamed Giffen for not hurrying when the pitch was good. It is easy enough after an event to say “I told you so,” but it rained heavily that night. Next day there was bright sunshine. Still, the Australians were not unduly worried, for they had eight wickets to fall and only 64 runs to get, Giffen and Darling, the not-outs, added close on 20 more. Now less than 50 to get. Who could doubt the final result? But Peel and Briggs, the left-handers, were now bowling—the wicket was beginning to take the bite. When an Australian bad wicket reaches the stage when the ball no longer cuts through and, instead, assists the break and the kick, it is the worst pitch in the world; it was now such a wicket. Darling went first; this was serious, for the dashing left-hander was Australia's best foil to the left-hand bowlers. Giffen soon followed and the bowlers were on top. Stoddart, always a fine captain, had his team keyed up, and brilliant fielding backed up the inspired bowling. More wickets fell; the crowd sat aghast, silent and afraid. Fourteen were wanted when Blackham, with an injured hand, went to the wickets as Australia's last hope. But it was all over; Peel and Briggs were too good and England won by 10 runs.
A remarkable happening occurred in the final stages of this
When the Australians went to England in 1896 with such a bowling quartette as Giffen, Trumble, Jones and McKibbin—the best since the days of Spofforth, Boyle, Palmer and Garrett—the Englishmen were up against the strongest side they had met since 1884, but won the rubber just the same. This was Clem Hill's first visit to England.
The match at Manchester was a stern contest and provided more than one outstanding incident. Trott, the Australian captain, was a determined player at a pinch, but on this occasion he was overwhelmed by the excitement of the moment and unable to watch the final stages of one of the most dramatic finishes in the history of Test Matches. Richardson's magnificent bowling had made it appear as though the Australians might fail to get the 125 runs required. Runs came slowly, but wickets continued to fall; the Surrey express bowler had taken six of the seven that had fallen and still kept blazing away at the wickets of Trumble and Kelly now holding the fort, with only McKibbin and Jones to follow. At last Trott could watch no longer; he left the ground, jumped into a hansom cab and drove round the block to return in time to see the winning hit made and Australia win by three wickets, although the players of both sides knew that it was almost as close as a single wicket victory.
In 1897 Stoddart took his second team to Australia and the inclusion of Ranjitsinhji made it appear even stronger than that of 1894. But the Australians were too strong and won four of the five Tests.
Back in England again in 1899, the Australians looked a formidable side, even better than the 1896 team, but England, too, had a great side and had the best of an inconclusive series. England won the first Test and the other four matches were drawn. It was on this tour that Grace was last seen in Tests, and
The tour of MacLaren's team in Australia in 1901 I have already described.
Then came the 1902 Australian team to England. The Test Matches included those sensational games at Manchester and the Oval. Australia won the rubber. This was the first time since 1882 and 1884 that it could be said that Australia had successfully challenged England's supremacy in matches played in England. It is significant that it was the first time Grace had not played in the series. Victor Trumper played dazzling cricket. All bowlers were alike to him and many of them were nonplussed by his daring and superlative play.
Many years later I said to Trumble, “Which do you think was the best team Australia ever sent England?”
“1902,” he replied without hesitation.
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, to start with, we always batted thirteen men.” This cryptic reply puzzled me and to a further enquiry he said, “Well, just as Grace in his hey-day was as good as three men for England, so Trumper was as good as three batsmen for Australia!” The same could be said of Bradman today.
The year 1902 will always be remembered as Trumper's year; the crowds flocked to see him as they had flocked to see Grace, and just as they were still eager to go wherever they could see Ranjitsinhji batting.
The winning of the rubber in 1902 by the Australians was the climax to a sustained effort to win the ashes in England. The fourth Test, at Manchester, was the deciding game. On the last day of this match there was some spirited cross-chat at the luncheon table. For the Englishmen the tenseness of the struggle had lessened and they now appeared certain to win. When MacLaren sat down next to A. G. Steel and opposite Trumble, the English captain in happy mood said, “Well, Hughie, I think we've got you this time!”
“I'm not so sure about that,” replied old Hugh. “I've a feeling that in the conditions out there, unless you get them quickly, you may not get them at all!” The sage Australian made no attempt to gild the lily and the conversation turned to the usual light-hearted talk that takes place when two cricket teams lunch together. It is impossible to say what effect, if any, Trumble's oracular remark was to have on the run of play, but the Australians always maintained that it did influence the tactics adopted. The fact remains that on resumption of play the Englishmen did hurry up, and lost several wickets in forcing the pace. It should perhaps be said that in the wretched weather conditions, had the batsmen not hit out, and failed, they would have been equally blamed.
One more tit-bit of this famous match is worth recording. When England's ninth wicket fell Trumble had to finish the over to Rhodes. His comrades say it was the best half-over old Hughie ever bowled. Then Saunders bowled to Tate who was over-awed by the occasion. He snicked the first ball down to fine leg; Armstrong chased it. Would it reach the boundary? While Warwick ran his hardest to stop the four, shrewd heads on his own side were hoping the ball would reach the fence, for they wanted to keep the bowling away from Rhodes. The ball won! Saunders again bowled to Tate and down went the stumps. Australia had won by 3 runs. What a match! What a finish!
In the Australian dressing-room afterwards. Major Wardill acted as though mistletoe hung from the ceiling, for he embraced all who came near him. It was one of those moments when
The story of the Manchester Test should never be told by itself, for it requires the Oval match, played three weeks later, to complete the true picture of the great sides that were pitted against one another in 1902. The final innings of the latter game will suffice. Left with 263 to make, England lost five for 48 and the position looked hopeless for MacLaren and his men. Jackson, alone—it was always Jackson—was proving capable of withstanding the attack of Saunders and Trumble. But then came Jessop! The entry of this mighty hitter into the playing area on his way to the wickets always caused a flutter of excitement, which differed from the expectancy created by other champions of his time. It was not only the spectators who were stirred, for the players knew they had to get him out quickly, or else…. A fielding side would know how most batsmen would score, but there was no knowing what Jessop would do, that is, on his day, for a hitter is not so regularly successful as the orthodox batsman. Well, this was indeed Jessop's day, and the speed of his scoring and power of his hitting nonplussed the Australians. His 104 in seventy-five minutes tells its own story. Darling was criticized for bowling Trumble unchanged throughout the innings, as he had done in the first, but Trumble was then the world's greatest bowler and his immaculate length was always tantalizing to a hitter. This time Jessop mastered him, and it certainly was Jessop's turn, for he had had his share of failures against the great Australian. The most remarkable part of Jessop's innings was his hitting of Saunders. Here was a wicket a bit on the soft side, and the Australian left-hander spinning from leg. Cricketers will know how much harder it is to hit against the break—“against the tide” as some of the English professionals call it. Stoddart always brought Bobbie Peel on as soon as he could to Jack Lyons, for that great Australian hitter found Peel more troublesome than other English bowlers. But Peel had more command of flight than Saunders, and there is little doubt that if the latter could have now and then sent down that slower ball, Jessop would have found him more difficult to hit.
After Jessop's dismissal there was still a long way to go, but Hirst was superb in the crisis. When his fellow Yorkshireman,
Some of the tit-bits arising from the ashes of this match came out of fireside conversations with players of both sides. There was a touch-and-go l.b.w. decision in favour of Hirst when there were 8 runs to get, and Armstrong could have caught Rhodes in the slips when there was but i to tie and 2 to win, so there was plenty of excitement right to the finish.
It was a grand win in every way, and Jessop's innings so wonderful that it would have been a shame had it not carried England to victory. It was also a well-timed and stimulating honour for MacLaren, the English captain who succeeded W. G. Grace in the 1899 series and took his own team to Australia the following year. The Australians were tremendous admirers of MacLaren's. They reckoned the great Lancastrian was unfortunate in meeting Australia at the very peak of her long and brilliant career. As the Australians had already won the rubber they could afford to say, as they did say, that they were glad for Archie MacLaren's sake that this Oval match had brought him victory.
As such an authority as
But the Englishmen were not to be denied; two years later
As we come nearer to modern times, there is little need to go into the details of matches that so many people are able to remember. The exchange of visits continued. The Australian team of 1905 called at New Zealand on the way to England. At Lancaster Park, Christchurch, on a sodden wicket, Trumper played one of his greatest innings. Under appalling conditions he played with the confidence and ease of the ordinary batsman on a good wicket, and his placing was a revelation; they told me it was amusing, as the field was moved here and there to block what looked like a favourite stroke, to see the next ball sent to the exact spot the fieldsman had left. I was away from New Zealand at this time, but his innings is still talked about in Christchurch. Trumper, getting little of the bowling at the start, had not made double figures when Duff reached 40, but Trumper had passed him when Duff was out for 42! The brilliant Victor scored 87 not out.
Trumper was a sick young man on reaching England and his play was not comparable with the dazzling performance he gave in 1902. Darling had been anxious to retire, and did not wish to make this tour, but his team-mates insisted; they wanted his left-hand hitting to knock Rhodes off his length as it had done in, the crucial Test at Manchester three years earlier. But England was not relying on one bowler. This time it was
Next came
The 1909 Australian team to England was destined to give the Old Country a shock. Noble was captain and at once impressed the critics as a great leader—the best since Trott; some thought him the greatest Australian captain. His team won the rubber. Bardsley and Ransford, both left-handers, were amazingly successful and worthy successors of Darling's and Hill's. Macartney both batted and bowled well, so it will be seen that Australian youth was, as ever, ready to replace retiring champions. This was the last Australian team to arrange its own tour. The Australian Board of Control had come into being and insisted on arranging the 1912 tour. It
The early English teams organized by Stephenson, Parr and Lillywhite were financed by guarantors and speculators. The Australians, from the outset, had worked together as a co-operative party. The Melbourne Cricket Club's help,'to which I have referred in an earlier chapter, enabled them to get a start in England until their share of the gate-money was available. At the end of the tour the players evenly divided the net profit. In wet seasons, or when their team was not as attractive as usual, they did not make much, but in the main these young men did well out of the tours. Imagine what a good wicket do sacrifice their business careers this story will make clear. One day in the dressing-room in Melbourne, little Jimmy Russell made us laugh when he had a tilt at Trumble for having such an easy job. He had figured it out that after thirteen years at the Bank Hughie had worked only seven years in the office. Russell created a further laugh when he said, “You're worse than Clem Hill, for he does manage to work about three-fifths of his time!” Trumble eventually became a branch manager, but it will be appreciated how cricket interfered with his promotion.
In 1878 the English authorities accepted the Australians as amateurs and the wisdom of this decision has never been seriously questioned. In cricket it is hard to find an exact definition of an amateur. When the Australians managed their tours as a business venture, the matter of money rarely
With regard to allowances to amateurs in English cricket I can speak from experience. Essex is not a wealthy county and may not have allowed as much for expenses as some other counties, but even these never allowed more than a nominal amount. While I was playing county cricket my bank book showed a progressive reduction, until I had eventually to get back to work. I would say that an English amateur is an amateur in the true sense of the word. I admit that when a player takes a position as assistant secretary to his county his position is not so easy to define, but these are isolated instances only. Equally disturbing is the case of the Australian player who accepts employment as a salesman in a sports depot. One recent team to England included seven such players. However, in the main, I do not think the Australian can be called a professional. I have heard Australians delight in quoting W. G. Grace's expenses; what does it matter how generous Lord Sheffield was when he asked the “great man” to lead his team to Australia?
I now turn to the Australian Board of Control and its quarrel with the players. There is little doubt that the Board was undertaking something that had to come. The game had become more democratic; organized clubs supported organized associations. These associations, in turn, created the Board of Control for the purpose of handling the cricket of the Commonwealth. A proportion of the profits from the Test Matches and tours was to be distributed among the associations and clubs. The only question should have been: What is the best line of approach? No doubt both sides were indiscreet, but the
But this squabble was going on for some time prior to 1912. The ranks of cricketers became divided into Board's players and Players' players. In one team that came to New Zealand they were as divided as two political parties. There was an undercurrent of feeling that even reached the field of play. This was the state of affairs when Warner brought out his second M.C.C. team. Such a pair of bowlers as Barnes and Foster required, without any diversion, all the combined strength of Australia to meet their attack. The quarrel was carried to the selection of teams. Prior to the Melbourne Test match the selectors met to choose Australia's side. Uncontrolled tempers led to words and Clem Hill shot out his fist to hit a fellow selector who had made an insulting remark. The newspapers got hold of the story and made the most of it. There was no doubt where the great majority of the general public stood, for when Clem Hill went in to bat he was cheered from the moment he came through the gateway until he reached the wickets. Old Bob Crockett, the famous umpire, told me that when Clem reached the batting crease tears were in his eyes. How could anyone play their best under such circumstances? The Englishmen were too strong and won easily. Barnes and Foster, as a pair, were to become as famous as the Turner-Ferris combination in Australia's 1888 team to England.
The mention of this great pair of Australian bowlers reminds me of an amusing story. In the earliest years of his married life
The Board of Control was to learn its lesson in selecting teams for overseas tours. The position might have been made more difficult for them, for some of the younger players offered
When the war clouds had lifted and the splendid young men of the A.I.F. touring team returned to Australia, all the old bitterness was brushed aside. When Armstrong led his 1921 team to England they at once won back for Australia the position previously held. But this team never quite reinstated the fine old spirit of comradeship that had existed between the players of the opposing sides in earlier years. A new element seemed to come into the game. A change in the spirit of the contests was noticed. It was astonishing to learn from members of this team that Armstrong would not even read English newspaper comment on the matches played. It was in this way, like Pitt and Balfour in their political worlds, that the Australian captain was more out of touch with public opinion than any of his predecessors. On this tour the Australians played cricket with the same will to win, and win all the time, as the New Zealanders played football, a feature of Dominion Rugby that not all New Zealanders approve of. One of the English papers likened the Australians, taking the field, to
The climax to this fighting for the ashes came in 1932 when Jardine was to show Australians, on their own grounds, what dourness of purpose meant and how far it could carry the game away from the happier times of earlier years. There was an amusing sequel to the angry scenes that were witnessed when the English captain and his fast bowler so relentlessly carried out their policy of leg-theory attack. Two years later the South African football team played matches at Sydney on their way to New Zealand. Included in the African team was a very good forward and good fellow whose name was Bastard. The man on the hill called him Jardine—others called him Larwood! This is typical of the sense of humour of the Australian barracker who usually gets away with many of the things he says because he is really funny.
Bennie Ostler struck the right note when, as captain of the South African touring team, he said at the reception in London, “I hope someone will hurry up and beat us so that we'll have no unbeaten record to maintain.”
Huge in stature as were Mynn and Grace, it is possible that
As the Australians walked off the field at the finish of the Test Match that completed their winning of the rubber,
The answer was prompt and expressive: “Go for your life, Mac, and I'm with you!”
Following Armstrong's retirement and the rise of Collins, Woodfull, Ponsford, Kelleway and others, the game in Australia slowed up considerably, for Macartney alone carried on the traditional fast scoring of earlier champions. Collins and Woodfull would open for Australia: Hobbs and Sutcliffe for England. It was as though the Barlows and the Scottons and the Alec Bannermans had become the leading batsmen of the sides; everyone seemed to be a stonewaller and played as though his life depended upon it. The long-suffering spectators must have longed for a Grace, a Stoddart, or a MacLaren, to mention but three noted English opening batsmen of the dashing order—a Lyons, a Trumper, or a Duff on the Australian side. Bardsley was a fine player and had a majestic style, but towards the end of his career he scored little faster than the others.
I had a remarkable experience in 1924. The first Test Match had been in progress for three days when I left Auckland on the Monday evening for Sydney. It was a three and a half days' journey by steamer, yet I arrived in time to see the finish of the match on Saturday, the seventh day's play! Going on to Melbourne I saw every ball bowled in the second Test. It lasted from Friday to Friday—seven days! The Adelaide match also lasted seven days. The first hour's play in the Melbourne match produced 30 runs. The opening batsmen made no attempt whatever to make a scoring stroke off Tate. It was block, block, block.
In 1928 it was worse. In the Melbourne Test Australia batted all day for 142 runs. J. C. White, a slow left-hand bowler, bowled 57 overs for 61 runs! England followed and took all day to score 165. People would watch Test Matches because they were stern International contests, but they had begun, to cease going to watch the inter-State matches. There were fewer people at their club matches in Melbourne and Sydney than we get on Saturday afternoons at Hagley Park in Christchurch, New Zealand.
My first glimpse of the new champion was on the Melbourne cricket ground when he was playing for the Australian XI against the Rest of Australia. When batting his whole attitude was one of eagerness for runs. The bowlers tried harder, the fieldsmen became keener, the public sat up and watched. The off theory that for years had been left alone was now dealt with as it had been twenty and thirty years earlier. His cut behind point, his hitting the ball between the fieldsmen, was the same as that of the Grace I had seen at Crystal Palace. Soon he was scoring half as fast again as the previous batsman had done. It was a delight to see him scoring freely off bowling that other batsmen found difficulty in playing. I found myself comparing him with the champions of the past. I saw flashes of the genius of Grace and Trumper, but his techique was the technique of Grace, and his scoring strokes, also, more like those of “W.G.” Like Grace, he was busy—busy all the time—and runs came from his bat at a rate that made the score mount rapidly. Cricket could never be a dull game when Bradman was batting. Although Bradman has a wide range of strokes it is mainly his placing that enables him to score at such speed. Imagine this in a Test Match when he scored a century before lunch, another before the tea adjournment and still another before stumps! Grace twice scored 300 runs in a day against the best bowling in England, and Trumper got a similar number in a county match in 1899, while Macartney has scored a century before lunch, but since then no other player, till the arrival of Bradman, has scored as fast and kept it up for so long. He has not the poise and graceful style of Ranjitsinhji and Trumper, but has all the mastery of strokes and machine-like precision of Grace.
The hold that Bradman had on the people's interest is to be seen in an experience of a New Zealand friend of mine who,
“Oh, Bradman's out,” was the prompt reply!
I finish my picture of the Australians on this story of the Bradman of the nineteen-thirties. Thirty years earlier, when Trumper was at the height of his career, the drivers of delivery vans in Sydney would work their way round to the Paddington Oval on Saturday afternoons to see the brilliant Victor, in a club match, making the hitting of 4's look as easy as shelling peas. His dismissal always started an exodus from the ground. Now the crowd follows Bradman. He regenerated Australian cricket. His influence will be felt for many years, for the boys of the Commonwealth now try to emulate their new idol. To many, his entry upon the fields of play heralded a new era in Australian cricket; to others, it was but the revival of the classic batting of the few great champions of the game.
The appearance of a South African team upon the cricket fields of England did not excite the same interest as did the Australians of 1878. England had fostered the cricket of the colony of the Cape of Good Hope, just as she had helped to develop the game in Australia and the other colonies. The Africans were slower off the mark than the men of the Commonwealth. Playing on matting wickets was a handicap compared with the billiard-table grass wickets of Australia. Over the years, English professionals had been engaged by the South Africans, and many young Englishmen migrated to the land of gold and diamonds. The regular flow of English touring sides to the Cape completed their education on the cricket field.
At last they were ready to be as bold as the Australians, and challenge English sides on their home grounds. They were to make a modest start. It takes an attractive side if the gate takings are to exceed the cost of such a tour. The Springboks failed to do this. When I met
But these young men of the Cape were not to be denied. A splendid patron arose in Sir Abe Bailey who spared no expense to lift his country's cricket to International standard. In 1902 the Australian team returned from England via South Africa. This was great experience for the South Africans who so far had met English players only. As showing the difference in playing conditions, it is worth noting that on the matting wickets, when Trumble beat a batsman with a good length ball, it always popped over the top of the sticks. His team-mates had great fun barracking him to hit the wickets. Spofforth had a similar experience in New Zealand, when, playing against Wanganui in 1880, the Australians were beaten.
The 1906 English team that toured South Africa reported a big improvement in the game there, but when the South African team of 1907 arrived in England it did not at first attract any more attention than previous teams. England's complacency was soon to be given a jolt, for the inclusion of three googly bowlers on one side was something that had not previously been encountered. Vogler, Schwarz and Faulkner began to reap a harvest of wickets. County match after county match was won, and with the approach of the one Test Match to be played, the Springboks were looked upon as having an even chance. England won, but it was a good match. Faulkner was ranked among the great batsmen and Sherwell one of the world's best wicket-keepers.
It was now generally admitted that South Africa had become a third great cricketing country. Four years later I saw this African team play in Australia. I was immensely impressed with Faulkner's batting. The bowlers, however, were not so happy on Australian wickets; they met Trumper in splendid form, and three great left-handers in Hill, Bardsley and Ransford were a disturbing element for the googly bowlers. It was an exasperating experience to have a right- and a left-hand batsman nearly always at the crease.
Australian batting was exceptionally strong at this time, as may be judged when the names of Armstrong and Macartney are added to the above four. One might well ask; was it ever stronger? Schwarz bowled extraordinarily well, but I was
It was a great pity that Vogler was not seen at his best in Australia; like Lockwood, when out with Stoddart's team, he never settled down to the hard and serious cricket that one is called upon to play on such a tour. Australia won four out of the five Tests against Sherwell's team.
When the South Africans were in New Zealand in 1932 I asked Tandy, the manager of the team, whom he considered the best of all African bowlers. His immediate reply was: “Vogler.” He said that in South Africa he could start off as a first-class medium-pace bowler with an off-spin and swinger, and then, when the ball began to get “feathers” on it, change to his regular googly bowling. Neither before nor since have I heard the word feathers used to describe a ball that gets worn by repeatedly hitting the matting wicket. Vogler was a little faster than Schwarz and it was harder for batsmen to jump in to hit him. It will thus be seen what it meant to the South Africans to have their best bowler out of form on this Australian tour.
The Springboks on their first visit to this Dominion played two Test Matches. New Zealanders at this time were basking in the reflected glory of the improved status won for our cricket by the performances of the fine sides Lowry had led on English tours in 1927 and 1931. We had the feeling that in the cricket world we were catching up on the South Africans. These ideas were soon knocked out of our heads, for the
In the second Test a splendid century and 73 by young Vivian, and a good innings by Dempster, went some way to show the visitors that we had batsmen who could bat. If ever a country's cricket got a cold douche, it was New Zealand's in 1932.
These pictures of the South Africans' tours of England, Australia and New Zealand may enable readers to estimate the relative strength of the Springboks and their status in the world's cricket.
Cricket in the West Indies remained for many years much about the same standard as that of the 1906 team that toured England, and to which I have already referred. Then two giants of the game arrived on the scene and startled the cricket world. Constantine became one of the world's best all-rounders, and Headley a great batsman. It will be appreciated what an effect such a pair had on the West Indians' cricket. Not satisfied with tours to England, we next find them touring Australia. Our friends over the Tasman were too strong, but the players mentioned held their own in the best company. Constantine's versatility was amazing. His fast bowling, his dashing batting and his extraordinary fielding were a revelation. E. A. Martindale, also, was a splendid fast bowler. Headley was the outstanding batsman of the West Indian teams for a number of years and their best to date. His solid defence and correct style were more like that of an English professional; they called him the “Black Bradman,” for he was a prolific scorer.
En route to Australia, the West Indian team played a match in New Zealand. I was interested to meet Constantine, for I had played against his father at Leyton in 1906. During this
I must record an interesting conversation of fifteen years ago. A team of English women cricketers toured New Zealand. The two opening batsmen were Miss Snowball and
To my surprise she answered, “Constantine.” He was then playing League cricket in England and had coached these young women.
Although New Zealand is of lesser stature than other members of the Imperial cricketing family, the early history of the game in this country makes a chapter both interesting and eventful. It also reveals a beginning that was different from Australia's, but in some ways similar to that of South Africa's.
When the first Australian XI went to England in 1878, it was composed of young Australians who had so readily absorbed the lessons taught them by visiting English teams, and the coaching of Caffyn and Lawrence who remained to become outstanding coaches of the ardent youth of the Commonwealth. On the other hand, the members of New
The game in Auckland received its start from the presence of officers and men of British regiments stationed in that province at the time of the Maori Wars. Canterbury was a purely English settlement conceived by
Wellington remained a cosmopolitan city, drawing recruits from all parts and was always able to field a good eleven.
The above sketch will show that it was Englishmen who played and maintained such a high standard until young New Zealanders grew up and became the cricketers of the Dominion.
The first great bowler in New Zealand cricket was
On my first visit to Dunedin with the Canterbury XI, Frith, then a veteran, bowled to us at the practice nets and his bowling impressed me as George Palmer's impressed Trumble. The ex-Canterbury bowler was a tall man and the nearest comparison I can make to his beautiful delivery is the bowling action of
The first great batsman was
What may be termed the middle period of the game in this Dominion is covered by the picture I have drawn of matches played and players met during the twenty-five years of my own cricket career, so need not again be referred to in this summary.
In the post-war years of the early nineteen-twenties, New Zealand had two splendid batsmen in
Tours of Dominion sides to England opened a new page in the history of the game in this country. Lowry's captaincy had much to do with the first impressions made upon English critics. He was one of the best of attacking captains, and always “chasing” the batsman. He drove rather than led his side. I sometimes doubted the wisdom of his over rapid changes in bowling; this may have the effect of upsetting some batsmen, but it also upsets the bowlers. I am sure that Giffen or Barnes, with their quick tempers, would have rebelled against being given one or two overs only; Turner would have slammed the ball on the ground as he was known to do. A few overs at a time would not have suited the schemers of earlier years who required time to develop their plans of attack. A. P. F. Chapman, Lowry's brother-in-law, was the first Test Match captain to adopt the system of quick bowling changes, but, obviously, there are two sides to the argument as to the wisdom of this strategy. When Jardine made Larwood and Allen bowl alternate overs from the one end it was not for the purpose of unsettling the batsman, but to conserve the strength of his famous fast bowler.
These overseas tours developed Dempster into New Zealand's finest batsman. They also made Blunt and Wallace splendid players, and Dacre a hitter more brilliant than any other New Zealand player. And last, but not least, was the emergence of young Vivian as a fine all-rounder, batting and bowling left hand. New Zealand batting was now stronger than it had ever been, but the same cannot be said of the bowling and fielding. It is surprising to find that three tours of England produced only two bowlers who can be classed with the very best of earlier years. Merritt was New Zealand's best bowler on the first two tours and developed into a googly bowler comparable with Sandman at his best; then came Cowie, who was at once rated as the greatest of the Dominion's few really fast bowlers; had Pritchard been selected in the 1935 touring team, as was urged by
These sketches may enable the modern critic to get an outline of New Zealand cricket from its beginning and make possible a comparison between the play and players of the different periods. A study of the historical side should prove no less fascinating than that of other cricketing countries.
Just as this book was about to be sent for press the author added the following note about the matches played between representative New Zealand sides and the M.C.C. tourists of 1946–1947.
The first post-war team to visit New Zealand was the 1946 Australian XI, but they overwhelmed our sides even more than Trott's 1896 team had done. Most of our players seemed overawed by the occasion and found the cleverness of O'Reilly and the pace of Lindwall too much for them. Our sole crumbs of comfort were two outstanding performances, when
The following season, Hammond's M.C.C. Team found our players more sure of themselves; Hadlee again batted splendidly with a dashing 126 in the Test Match, and a new star shone when
It will thus be seen that New Zealand Cricket is already approaching pre-war standard.
The names of Ranjitsinhji, Duleepsinhji and Pataudi complete this picture of Empire cricket. The Indian prince will always remain as one of the greatest batsmen the game has known. His entry into Test Match cricket at Manchester in 1896 caused a sensation. His playing of Jones made a great impression upon the Australians; he could back-cut so late as to be able to guide the fastest deliveries through the slips. Fast rising balls he could flick away on the leg side in a manner that no one had ever done before; several times Jones thought he had hit him in the ribs, even on the head, only to see the ball flying to the fine-leg boundary. Ranjitsinhji batted with even greater ease and grace than Palairet and Trumper, and made strokes neither of these batsmen attempted. While most of these amazing strokes were on either side of the wicket, usually behind point or square leg, his off-drive was timed so sweetly that only the most fleet-footed outfield could intercept the ball before it reached the boundary. The Prince was just over thirty years of age when I saw him play in 1903. Although still a wonderful batsman, Australians who played against him on three tours in England told me that he was greatest in 1896 when he was named “The Wizard,” a title suited to one whose style of play has been likened to the deftness of a magician. They told me stories in England about his thoroughness when at university. He was a rich young man and at times engaged the best professionals to bowl to him at practice. It is significant that he often had England's fastest bowlers bowling to him at the nets. No wonder he played Jones with such ease and confidence!
Duleepsinhji, who visited New Zealand in 1929, gave glimpses of the same artistry that his uncle had shown some thirty years earlier, and New Zealanders who saw “Duleep's” batting will be able to appreciate how great a batsman “Ranji” must have been. Pataudi took five hours to make a century in a Test Match at Sydney, so it cannot be said that all Indian batsmen are brilliant.
In the years when India was developing her cricket, a great patron in the person of the Maharajah of Patiala was to play a notable part. He engaged leading English professionals to coach the young Indians, invited teams from England to tour the country, and in many other ways proved as great a benefactor to Indian cricket as Sir Abe Bailey was to South African.
Each cricketing country has its own noted players who make reputations in their own land, but it is England and Australia who provide the great and very great players whose names and reputations become known in every country. The very great are a few super players who stand out above all others and by whose feats the standard of play of the different periods is usually judged.
In my schooldays, it was Grace, Spofforth and Blackham whose names were handed down to me as being the greatest in their respective departments. Shaw, Shrewsbury and Murdoch came next. Looking back to the days before the 'nineties, it is hard to find fault with those first impressions of youth.
As far back as the 'seventies,
And so one could go on, grading and re-grading the great batsmen of the game, but the moment comparison is made between those who came after the famous first four—Grace, Ranjitsinhji, Trumper and Bradman—the subject becomes more controversial, and better left to the critics. As in the case of these super players, so one hesitates to separate MacLaren, Hobbs, Macartney and Hammond, though modern opinion would probably place Hobbs first. The fact that none of the great left-handers are included in the first eight will show what openings there are for argument, but Clem Hill would come next, though I hesitate whether to place him above or equal with
Reference to two more great players of the past will end this analysis of famous batsmen. The Hon. F. S. Jackson played for England when still at Cambridge and for more than ten years was an outstanding figure in English and International cricket. His success against the Australians was remarkable. I once asked Trumble what it was that made Jackson such a great Test Match player. “Because he wouldn't let us get him out in the first quarter of an hour,” was the surprising reply. Trumble said he was more proof against temptation than all other great English amateurs; it mattered not whether the ball was over-pitched or a short one on the off, Jackson refrained from attempting his usual scoring strokes until he had got a sight of the ball and the pace of the wicket.
Arguments about the past versus the present seem to be an integral part of the game, yet there is no means of proving one's opinion, no matter how firmly it is held. Different conditions over different periods, the state of the wicket, the quality of the opposition when this batsmen or that bowler has performed a notable feat, may put an entirely different complexion on the actual performance. Harry Graham's 105 at Sydney in 1895, and Jessop's 104 at the Oval in 1902, will always be ranked among the greatest innings ever played, yet they are a long way down the list of great scores in Test Match cricket if comparison is to be made on the basis of runs. For classic batting, Maccartney's 99 at Lord's in 1912 will always stand out as a gem in Test cricket.
While there may be debates about whether Australian cricket is as good as it was, or New Zealand cricket is better than in earlier years, the chief argument, in an International sense, is around the names of Grace, Ranjitsinhji, Trumper and Bradman. There were arguments in my day, before Bradman arrived, and it is certain that the phenomenal scoring of Australia's latest wonder will have intensified the efforts of some of our Australian friends to dislodge the one and only Grace from the pedestal upon which he has stood for so long. In a fireside chat one evening, Trumper said to me, “I always reckoned that if Grace and Trumper went in first together, Victor would have 75 runs on by the time the ‘Old Man’ got 50,” then added, “Of course Victor might get out at 100 and ‘W.G.’ go on and make 150!” There is a nice problem for students of the game and the self-appointed judges of past and present cricketers.
If Grace and Shrewsbury, or MacLaren and Hobbs were to open the innings, the amateurs would soon be far ahead of the professionals, while Macartney would score still faster than either of the English amateurs. Now we have Bradman equalling Grace in the speed of run-getting. But no one could keep pace with Trumper. He played more brilliantly, took greater risks and, as a consequence, did not so often make the mammoth scores of Grace and Bradman. This raises the question, what is the basis on which great players are to be judged? Is it their skill and outstanding performances, the merit of which experts alone can be judges, or is it to be the runs they make, or the wickets they take? Trumble was one of the best judges and fairest minded of all cricketers, yet even his comparison is between Grace in his thirties and forties, and Trumper in the prime of his youth.
Mr. C. E. Green, the President of the Essex County, always maintained that the Australians never saw Grace at his best. If he had said they did not meet him during the most brilliant part of his career I would agree with him. Mr. Green played with Grace in the 'seventies, so was in a position to judge.
The records of the game go a long way towards proving that a batsman reaches the height of his career at about twenty-four or twenty-five. Here is a list of innings or short periods in the careers of famous players which are generally conceded to be their greatest performances: Murdoch was twenty-five in 1880 when he made his century and a half at the Oval; Ranjitsinhji, born in 1872, scored 62 and 154 not out against the Australians in 1896; Trumper was twenty-five in 1902;
I am aware that the critics can submit an almost equally imposing list of great performances in the later years of these same players, but I am dealing only with the greatest moments of their careers.
The same intriguing story can be told of the feats of the great bowlers, but in bowling, more so than in batting, physique and stamina enter as factors in helping to determine the moment of greatness and length of career. Thus it is that all the very fast bowlers are at their best when young. On the other hand, it is found that the Trumbles and Giffens, the Peels and Rhodeses, depending mainly on subtle ways and aided by experience, enjoy a longer period of greatness. It is surprising to find a bowler of Lockwood's pace lasting so long, but, like Spofforth, he lost some of his speed as the years advanced. Barnes, too, although a little faster than Trumble, retained his form in the same way, but, as a general rule, veteran bowlers require some help from the pitch to be able to perform as they did in their younger days.
Spofforth stands apart. This was the opinion of all the old players. Murdoch was emphatic on the point and, to quote his own words, “Spoff was the daddy of the lot,” but it must be remembered this was said in 1903. Grace, always prompted by a kindly and generous heart, would have lent a hand to Ranjitsinhji, Trumper and Bradman to climb up on to the pedestal on which he stood; he would have applauded the play of Bradman as I have heard him praise the Trumper of 1902. On the other hand, Spofforth, the man who would not allow Blackham to speak words of encouragement to the young incoming batsman, may have been more jealous of his claim to stand alone on the platform set aside for the greatest of bowlers.
In the earliest years of what is termed modern cricket,
Sammy Jones, the graceful Australian batsman of the 'eighties, once told me that he thought Turner, on certain wickets, was more dangerous than Spofforth. In these conditions the latter always reduced his pace a little, as he did in the Oval Test Match of 1882. I have heard Murdoch claim that Spofforth, at one and the same time, was the greatest fast bowler and the greatest medium-fast bowler in the game. The tallness of Spofforth gave him a very high delivery which he used to the utmost. His whole attitude was one of hostility to the batsman. He would “stare out” a player as he approached the wickets; it was war. Old players always said that Spofforth had to be seen in action to appreciate the amount of devil he put into his bowling, and to understand why he was called “The Demon Bowler.”
It will interest readers to know that at first Spofforth was just a tear-away fast bowler. He was not a bashful young man and claimed that he was the fastest bowler in the world. It was after seeing
We are apt to think of Giffen as the greatest of the schemers; this opinion is probably prompted by the number of times his trap came off, but it must be remembered that when he was captain he just kept on bowling until it did come off! Peel and Trumble were noted for their cleverness, but the brainiest of all the bowlers was Spofforth. His accuracy of pitch enabled him to put into effect any of his many plans of attack. How he and Blackham would conspire to bring about a batsman's downfall was often told by old Australians, and provided some of the brightest tit-bits of cricket of sixty years ago. Some years after Spofforth had retired from first-class cricket, Stoddart, who was his team-mate in the Hampstead Club in London, surprised his listeners at a reception in Melbourne by saying: “Spofforth is still the greatest bowler in the world!” This was said in an era of great bowlers!
Spofforth had a business brain, as well as a genius for cricket strategy. Reared as a banker, he was later to have a successful career in the commercial world in England. He argued with his father-in-law that, while Derbyshire is in the middle of England, it is not the centre. His persistence won for him the opportunity, with his brother-in-law, of opening a branch office in London, which, in due course, became the headquarters of the great tea company founded by his wife's people.
For more than a decade after Turner's bid for supremacy, there appeared, both in England and Australia, a stream of mighty bowlers more numerous than in any other period of the game. Lockwood and Trumble were perhaps the best, but the latter did not quite equal Turner, let alone Spofforth, while Lockwood also failed to win a first place.
This clears the deck for a final comparison, for modern critics have begun to place
Barnes bowled with the precision of a machine and it was his persistent, relentless length, always a few inches on the short side, more than his slight turn from leg, that pegged down the batsman and made his bowling so difficult to score off. It can hardly be claimed that these qualities could match the genius of Spofforth.
It may come as a surprise that none of the great left-handers find a place in my first group, but Peel comes very close to it.
Coming nearer to present-day cricket, one would find McDonald ranking high among the fast bowlers, and O'Reilly as the only other Australian bowler to approach Trumble's class. Larwood would be ranged alongside the Lockwoods and Richardsons of the Old Country, while Grimmett and Mailey would be classed with Bosanquet, Vogler and Hordern. How to place the googly bowler is the most difficult problem that confronts those who would select a world's team. It is hard to see any of them finding a place.
The earlier mention of Blackham's name suggests that some reference should be made to the wicket-keepers. From the moment of his first appearance in England in 1878, Blackham
I was in Trumble's office in Melbourne shortly after Blackham died. The famous wicket-keeper had left a note for Hugh to select from his old cricket trophies anything he thought would be of interest to the Melbourne Club. Among the things selected were Blackham's wicket-keeping gloves. They were lying on the table alongside a pair of modern gloves. Blackham's looked about half the size and were more like a pair of motoring gloves. With a chuckle old Hughie asked, “With which could you stump a man the quicker?”
Grace and Murdoch saw Blackham and Pilling, and were still playing when Lilley, MacGregor and Sherwell were at
Hesitating for a moment the witness replied, “Did I say 16 feet?”
“Yes,” said the lawyer.
“Well, I'll stick to it,” said the witness!
The story of the fieldsmen of the game would require a volume in itself. I have already discussed the great slip fieldsmen, but I have not said that the finest catch in the slips I ever saw was when Duleepsinhji caught Dempster at Lancaster Park. The ball appeared to have passed him when the young Indian shot out his right arm at full length. It was like a praying-mantis catching a fly. This was a truly wonderful catch.
Cover-point is always considered a key position in the field and I finish with a word about one who has had few, if any, compeers. From Vernon Royle to Hobbs, England has had many fine cover-points, but none to equal Australia's Syd. Gregory. A delightful story that
In different parts of this story I have referred to players who excelled in more than one department of the game, but no summary would be complete without setting apart the very great all-rounders. Though they are relatively few in numbers, the records show what a mighty part they have played. In modern cricket Grace was the first of those whom we call “double-barrelled” but, like C. T. Studd, Jackson, Armstrong, Faulkner and Woolley, he was a great batsman who could bowl, rather than a balanced all-rounder like Giffen. On the other hand Peel, Rhodes and perhaps Lohmann were great
To decide who was the greatest of the genuine all-rounders the choice would be between Giffen, Hirst and Noble; old players of the 'eighties would include A. G. Steel in this select group.
And so, Mr. Critic, I hand over to you this fascinating subject—impossible of unanimous agreement—of analysing and comparing the standards of the play and players of the past. As each generation continues to throw up its very great players, as it has done over the years, the time will come, if it has not already arrived, when increasing numbers will make it necessary to judge them in groups according to class. This takes me back to my first impressions of youth, except that it will be a number of Graces, Spofforths and Blackhams who stand out as the game's super players.
This brings to an end the reminiscences and reflections of a veteran of the game. They tell of “great contemporaries” and of great players, both before and after my time. A memory that can penetrate far back into the past, and first-hand stories told me by players of earlier generations, have been my chief aids in the writing of this sketch of cricket and cricketers of long ago. It is possible that old Father Time, with his longer reach, may wish to make some corrections in the summary I present, but I think that in the main he would pass it as a fairly accurate survey.
My re-entry into the cricket life of New Zealand in 1907 was easily accomplished. To change from engineering to commerce was another matter and meant taking a step that involved me in activities very different from those for which I had been trained. Some of my friends doubted the wisdom of my decision; they could envisage an engineer becoming engaged in the business side of engineering, but to transfer to the materials and requirements of the building industry seemed to them an unusual procedure. The fact that my father had been a building contractor, as I have already stated, and that sons usually acquire some knowledge of the business of their father may, in some way, account for the change proving less difficult than I had anticipated.
It was now two years since my eldest brother,
My cricket had naturally made me well known throughout the country. My brother was also well known and held in high esteem, not only in the cricket and football worlds, but also by the people with whom he was trading. We were soon to learn the value of the good name handed down to us by our father. Many of the builders of Christchurch at that time had served their apprenticeship with him. He had begun business in Christchurch in 1864 when only twenty-three years of age. Arriving in 1861, he had in a few short years saved enough money to pay the passages of his father and mother, his brother and four sisters, who all wished to come to New Zealand. This was an achievement. He was capable and energetic, and reward soon came his way. During the 'seventies and 'eighties he had become the biggest contractor in Christchurch. Among the most
The 'eighties opened in the same atmosphere of prosperity as the previous decade, but by 1885 the clouds of depression began to bank up. At this time New Zealand's principal exports were wool, tallow and wheat; the country had no reserves to meet the effect of depressed world markets; the banks had not the cash to help primary and secondary industries in the manner they did in the trade depression which came again some forty years later. With little or no credit available, people suffered even greater hardships than in the slump years following 1929. The clouds were just beginning to lift when my father died. His modest fortune had disappeared, but he had left behind him a name that riches could not buy. This family misfortune was to prove of assistance to my brother and me in the early stages of our business; the setbacks my father had suffered, and the manner he had borne them were remembered by his old workmen, some of whom were now among the principal contractors in the city. But they remembered him for something else.
In the earliest years of the building trade the contractors acted as individual units, with no central point where they could discuss problems vital to their industry as well as to the welfare of their own businesses. During this period the architects were also individualists; they each had their own form of specification and their own conditions of contract. Some of the architects were harsh and unreasonable—some were unfair; the builders had no redress. Several of the last contracts my father carried out were under conditions which contributed to his final losses. The builders at last realized that they must have an association through which they could negotiate. On getting together, their first task was to draw up a set of conditions of contract that would be fair to all concerned. The architect was no longer to be a dictator. There was to be an arbitration clause covering any dispute. The builders were now united, and strong enough to say they would not tender for the work unless fair conditions were attached to the plans. In the end they won. The Articles of Association drawn up and finally signed, converted the builders into a compact and friendly body.
We were soon in the throes of an active business life; out all day on bicycles as our own salesmen and then back at the office at night. Some of the tales of bicycle rides far into the country are hardly credible to-day. I was often away from 7 a.m. until 7 p.m. The motor-cycle next played its part, then the motor-car came into general use, largely because Henry Ford produced his “Tin Lizzie” at a price that was within the reach of people of moderate means.
Salesmanship came to me quite naturally, but I found that business and finance were another matter. A young accountant friend of mine who was glad to earn extra money, agreed to come to my office two nights a week and put me through the elementary stages of debits and credits, Cash Book and Ledger. He told me of books to get, and in many ways assisted me in gaining knowledge wherever possible. Another man advised me of a book that taught the niceties of letter writing; I had not realized till then the important part that correspondence plays in business, and this study of the art of properly expressing oneself was to prove invaluable.
A man of commerce will know that extended business operations mean extended finance, and we often found ourselves stretched to the limit of our resources—sometimes beyond. At times we had to resort to the Promissory Note—even a P.N. renewed. Often a builder, who as a rule could not arrange an overdraft at the bank, would pay his account with a P.N. There was a stage, early in our business, when we were both receiving and giving P.N's. This often meant anxious moments at three o'clock on certain days when we had to meet a Bill or an overseas Draft. My brother did not like having to fight out these narrow escapes with the bank manager, and it was not long before I frequently found myself on the mat. We banked with the National Bank of New Zealand, the Christchurch manager of which was Mr. Alexander Ferguson, one of the most able bankers in the Dominion. We often referred to him as “old Fergy,” as one would speak of a beloved school-master. Possessing all the characteristic qualities of the Scot, he was kind and always considerate, but knew when to be stern. On
On another occasion I had to interview Mr. Ferguson with regard to a cargo of timber purchased from overseas. I had expected the shippers to draw on us, but instead they requested us to establish a Letter of Credit, a term I had not previously heard. My seeing “Fergy” involved not only the Letter of Credit, but also the large amount of money that would have to be put up so much ahead of the time we could collect from the consignees at our end. After explaining the transaction, and to whom we had sold the timber, to my surprise the amount required was not questioned, even though it ran into thousands of pounds. In a few minutes he explained the whole procedure of putting up money overseas to cover the f.o.b. or c.i.f. value of goods. Taking the side of the shipper to illustrate his point, he explained the difference it made to have access to the money the moment the goods were placed aboard ship, instead of putting through a Draft to be met at this end long after the ship had sailed. He said, “Supposing you failed to meet the Draft; what then would the shipper do with his timber?” This was another of the lessons learned from experience that I was not to forget. When the transaction showed a substantial profit Mr. Ferguson was as pleased as if he himself had made the deal. Such actions will show that this is not the cold, hard world that some people would make it out to be. Mr. C. J. Ronaldson, who succeeded Mr. Ferguson, was an equally kind and considerate banker, so it will be seen how fortunate we were in these early days of our business when we often needed assistance.
At about this time two acts of kindness and splendid generosity favoured our fortunes and stirred the hearts of the two Reeses. In the early 'seventies, two young men from Lincolnshire had arrived in Christchurch. They were brothers and both were pattern-makers. The engineering trade was not busy at that time and they were unable to get work at their own trade. It was two anxious young men who applied to my father
The second act of generosity was almost identical with the above. One day, in the city, I met Mr. James Cow who had also worked for my father many years before. It was the first time he had seen me since my return from England and he showed great interest in my travels and in our business. He said abruptly, “How are you off for money?” The question rather embarrassed me. Before I had time to answer, he said, “I know! I started in the same way!” Mr. Cow lived in Ashburton, a country town fifty miles from Christchurch. On the following Wednesday—he always came to town on farmers' day—he walked into our office and in my room put his hand in his hip pocket, pulling out a roll of notes. There was humour in this action, for he was a farmer and grudged paying exchange on cheques! He then said, “You may have the loan of this for as long as you like; and fix your own rate of interest.” Then, like Mr. Scott, he said, “This is in return for what your father did for me.” He told of how it was made possible for him to become his own master. Working in the coopers' shop, making tallow casks for the freezing works, his wages were ten shillings
These incidents will illustrate the value of a good name and show how helpful its influence may become, even though its reputation had been established in a prior generation.
I had now been back in Christchurch long enough to realize that New Zealand was a country in which young men could both work and play. As I looked around I saw many striking examples;
The earliest years of our operations saw us make rapid progress. The days seemed to fly past. Business was just buying and selling, with few governmental restrictions, and no forms to fill in, as in these days, when a firm almost needs an extra
The timber merchants and builders were excellent men with whom to deal. The latter were jolly fellows, full of fun, with a highly developed sense of humour. They followed my cricket, chaffed me if I made a “blob,” but sometimes said nothing if I made a score; it was Andersons' foundry over again—no spoiling the young man with undue praise.
Our clients enjoyed two small, framed pictures we had in our office. One was a cartoon of an American class-room, with the boys seated in their forms, and the school-master standing on a raised platform. One of the boys in the front row was standing with his hand up. On the bottom of the picture were these words:
Teacher: “What was responsible for the fall of Babylon?”
Pupil (Builder's son): “Crook cement!”
The other was a letter, short and to the point. My youngest brother, a lad of about eighteen, was waiting to begin work in an architect's office. Thinking he could sell cement, he asked if he might go out on the road in the country for a few weeks. Away he went to the accompaniment of much banter. In two days' time we received his first orders, but by the same mail came a letter from a farmer. He wrote as follows:—
Sir,
I beg to cancel the order I gave your traveller for three bags of cement as I was drunk at the time I gave the order. I do not want the cement as I have no money to pay for it, so therefore do not send it.
This was too good to miss. We cut the signature out, framed the letter and this still hangs on our wall. This incident provoked much fun in our family circle. I was now able to counter the facetious remarks of my young brother's whenever he got on to the subject of “the best educated member of the Reese family”; “I was drunk at the time I gave the order” would always silence him.
Up till the time of our starting business, and for some time afterwards, English cement held a dominating position on the New Zealand market. The associated cement companies of
Our already strong connection with the builders gave Golden Bay a good start. Soon getting our full share of colonial cement sold on our market, we were taking an appreciable proportion of the works' output. But the fight was also against English cement. New Zealand still places a premium on anything British, so it will be appreciated that we had an uphill fight. The architects continued to specify “K.B.,” but later were persuaded to specify “approved brand of cement.” If one of our clients got such a contract, it was then up to us to get the use of Golden Bay allowed. Prejudice is a hard thing to break down and it took a persistent effort. We were checked now and again by a variation in the quality of our cement. England had long since brought science to bear upon her cement industry; the chemist was an important man. In New Zealand the companies were slow to appreciate this, but competition forced their hands. To-day, continuous testing ensures a standard quality of New Zealand portland cement that is equal to the best in the world.
An example of the earliest troubles may prove of interest. The builder was a friend of my brother's and had persuaded the architect to agree to his using Picton Anchor brand cement; it was cheaper than English cement, so it was not all “friendship.” Two days after the foundations of the building had been put in, the builder rushed in and said to my brother, “Come and have a look at these foundations!” Off they went to the job, and sure enough the cement had made no attempt to set. The builder was in a great state, for the architect was sure to visit the site the following day. Imagine the anxiety and cost facing the builder—or agent, or cement company—if those foundations had to be re-made! On the following morning the concrete had set as hard as a rock. My brother told me that
It was great fun launching this campaign to place our new cement on the market. We all talked Golden Bay Cement. At home we had a gramophone record “The Church's One Foundation,” which my youngest brother facetiously called the Golden Bay cement record. Our first newspaper advertisement was rather a good one. Brett's history of New Zealand told of the tragedy that befell some of Tasman's crew. It also told of the gold rush and the re-naming of the bay, followed by the discovery of coal at Puponga, on the other side of the bay. We then wrote a short article on the place, giving its history and finishing on the last line “… and now a great industry has sprung into being with the erection of works that manufacture Golden Bay cement.” The title of the article was Tasman's First Voyage to New Zealand; this innocent-looking headline, and a recital of interesting historical facts carried the reader right down to the advertisement. Some of our friends laughingly chided us with fooling them. I do not claim originality for this form of advertisement, but it served our purpose well so far as Golden Bay cement was concerned.
Another good advertisement was from a map of New Zealand. It could have been the forerunner of the modern German maps which show the seas as a black background and countries white. I drew a small map of our Dominion, using Indian Ink for the sea. There was nothing printed on the map except the sea route from Tarakohe to Lyttelton, and the words “Where Golden Bay Cement comes from.” This map arrested attention, was informative, and proved a great help to salesmen. We printed thousands in post-card form, sent them to clients to use when ordering, and used them ourselves in acknowledging country orders.
Cement moved on to become one of New Zealand's greatest industries. A higher tariff and improved quality sufficed to win the battle against English cement. Wilson's absorbed its Auckland competitors, to become Wilson's Portland Cement Company, the biggest manufacturers in New Zealand, while, after taking over Burnside, the Milburn Company also became
To-day, New Zealand cement is universally used in the building industry in this country. The Golden Bay Company had developed into a fine concern that produces cement comparable with the best that England can make. We have remained their Canterbury agents since the inception of the company in 1910.
An interesting story runs through our earliest operations in the lime business. Many years ago, James McDonald, his wife and family of small children, arrived in New Zealand from Scotland. McDonald, who was a man of immense stature and stood 6 feet 4 inches in height, established lime kilns at Milburn, and became the foremost lime burner in Otago. The business proved a great success, and he was soon a wealthy man. Although his life had been spent solely in the lime business, he had a fanatical belief that he could manufacture cement; he founded what is now the Milburn Cement Company. While profits continued to flow from the lime kilns they all went into the new cement works. Without scientific assistance, his product was subject to all the variations arising from rule-of-thumb methods. It was a hard struggle, even in normal times, but when the depression years of the 'eighties and early 'nineties fell like a blight upon both the primary and secondary industries of the country, McDonald was submerged in a sea of trouble that overwhelmed so many businesses. He lost not only his cement works, but his lime kilns as well. The Milburn Cement Company of Dunedin was then formed and bought out his interests.
It was a broken-hearted man that moved with his family to the district of Oamaru, noted for its rich limestone deposits. With the determination of the Scot he started afresh and built lime kilns at Totaratahi, six miles from Oamaru. He had just
In the earliest years of their operations the eldest sister used to travel to Christchurch and other places to sell her lime. She had many heart-breaking experiences. Firstly, she was handicapped by prejudice against a woman in a man's business; and secondly, it was hard to get on to the market against old-established firms. She got plenty of sympathy, but few orders. It needed a firm with a store to handle lime successfully, so she appointed my brother her agent in Canterbury. As in the case of cement, a connection with the builders gave McDonald's lime its start. City buildings in those days were all built in stone or brick, with lime mortar, so the contractors and plasterers were big users of lime.
My brother had already established a good lime business by the time I returned from England. We continued to have long years of happy relations and successful business with the McDonald family. It was an unusual experience to have to do all our lime business with two women. They both had a great sense of humour and this helped them tremendously. It was not until they floated their business into a company, in which we took shares, that we knew and were astonished to learn how much money they had been making; it was necessary for them to disclose this to justify the amount they were claiming for goodwill.
They had reason to feel grateful for the part we played in helping them to do so well. The first time I visited the kilns was in the winter of 1907. The works were three miles from the railway station, the lime being carted by road, with the drays often nearly axle-deep in mud: after heavy rain it was sometimes impossible to cart for several days. When I looked over the ground I said to the Misses McDonald, “Why don't you put a railway siding into the kilns?”
They had never thought of it. “It would cost too much! … It couldn't be put along the road … We would never get permission to cross the paddocks or farm lands.”
These all seemed formidable obstacles, but I stuck to my guns and said they would never make money unless they did. The next time I went to Oamaru we again argued the point. They now wanted to talk about it. They could picture the possibilities. Perhaps Mr. Shale would allow them to put a line through the fields. But they had no money! The rails and sleepers represented the principal part of the cost. I asked the McDonalds if they could finance the labour and formation part of the work if I could arrange terms for the materials. They thought they could. At that time the New Zealand Railway Department was lifting 40 lb. rails on branch lines to replace them with heavier rails. On my return to Christchurch I went to Wellington to interview the
I also helped the McDonalds in the negotiations with the farmers for the right to pass through their properties. From the moment the branch line was put into operation they began to make money. They always showed their gratitude, but this did not blunt their bargaining powers, or soften their hearts when it came to the matter of price for their lime! We still fought for pennies when fixing the rate per bag.
The lime business received a severe check when concrete forged ahead practically to eliminate bricks and lime mortar from all big buildings erected in the city. It is worth recording how the bricklayers themselves contributed to their own eclipse. The pioneer tradesmen from the Old Country brought with them skill and energy which were to establish building costs that seem incredible when compared with those of the present day. The second generation was equally proficient. In the bricklaying trade 1,000 bricks per man was the minimum standard rate; in America, with smaller bricks, it was more than 2,000. The work of carpenters was of the same high standard. It should be said that this was in the days when
The boom time which followed the first World War saw a changed labour market, and powerful trade unions were able to exert an influence never previously felt. A more independent spirit prevailed among the men. Soon the ca' canny policy I had seen in some parts of Australia was to creep into New Zealand, but with boomerang effect. The 1,000 bricks per day dropped to 800, then to 600, then below 500. A well-known brick-maker in a North Island town told me the position became so bad that he organized a meeting between the brick-makers, contractors and the Bricklayers' Union to discuss the effect reinforced concrete was having upon their industry. A standard of 800 bricks per day was agreed upon, but it was too late, for the concrete mixer had already forced the use of cement into all kinds of buildings previously built in brick. I suppose this would have happened in any case, but it was hastened in the manner I have shown.
The bricklayers of this time certainly deserve the reproach that is to be seen in a question asked by a small child. When a man and his daughter were walking in the city they stopped to look up at the parapet of a new brick building, nearing completion. The little girl asked, “Why do they have all those statues on the top of that building, Daddy?”
The father's reply was: “They're not statues, my dear, they're bricklayers!”
An important business was added to ours when, in the year 1910, we became associated with the third generation of the Deanses, the pioneer family of the Canterbury province. Their old estate of “Homebush” was situated about thirty-six miles from Christchurch, on which estate were a coal mine and pottery works. They had a city depot and railway siding in Christchurch, which now became the yard for our combined interests, under Reese Brothers' management. This gave them the assistance of our selling organization; it also gave us the advantages of a railway siding for the handling of all our cement and lime, etc., as well as reducing overhead costs to both parties. This brought us into the coal business and also the sale of drain pipes. Coal was first discovered on the Homebush Estate in the Malvern Hills as far back as 1871, and “Homebush,” a lignite coal, became known throughout
Another important agency is our representation of the North British Rubber Company, one of those fine old concerns that have helped to win for Britain its world-wide reputation for the manufacture of quality goods. Whilst at times unable to compete with the low costs of mass production by great American concerns favoured with an enormous local market, this staunch Scottish Company has nevertheless held its ground in the many important lines manufactured by them. I remember when a boy at Andersons how workmen referred to North British belting as being the best in the world. Throughout the years this reputation has stood them in good stead. The years of business relations with our principals in Edinburgh and London have given us an insight into the character and methods of the men of the Old Country who have made Britain the most respected and most trusted of all trading nations.
Early in our careers, my brother and I realized the value of combined effort and it was not long before we had around us a group of able young men whose exertions and team-work were to play a notable part in the development of our business. I cannot conclude this story of the early days of Reese Brothers' trading without referring to the loyalty of Claude Peters, Frank Drake and Leslie Petrie, whose combined services with the firm aggregate a hundred years, and who now play leading parts in the control of our organization.
My brother first entered the timber business when he was appointed selling agent for Messrs. Jack Bros., one of the leading sawmilling firms on the West Coast of the South Island. Next was added the agency for Messrs. Craig & Sheedy, whose mill was situated on the Greymouth—Otira line. There was no Otira tunnel in those days and all timber from the coast, destined for the Canterbury market, was railed to Greymouth for shipment to Lyttelton. At this time steamers predominated, but there were still a few scows and schooners engaged in the coastal trade, with some of the bigger sailingships loading occasional cargoes for Australia. Canterbury was the principal market for the West Coast sawmills, for the North Island was still heavily timbered and, generally speaking, the northern mills were able to fend off any serious competition from the South Island.
This was the position when I joined my brother. My first work was selling timber and this proved most interesting. I had a fair knowledge of timber and could, to some extent, talk intelligently about it. We started as free lances and this soon brought us up against a strong association of merchants. As in the case of our trading in cement and lime, we were to benefit from the support and goodwill of old friends of our father's. We were soon operating on a considerable scale and extending beyond the confines of Christchurch. Ashburton was our first extension to a wider field, and was followed by shipments to Timaru, with some of the timber going to inland towns. My first trip to these latter places was made by taking my bicycle on the train as far as Timaru, and riding through Washdyke to Temuka, then on to picturesque Geraldine, situated some ten miles from the railway. I called wherever there was a timber merchant or a builder. It was great fun, but looking back over the years and comparing this mode of travel with the motor-cars of to-day, one wonders at the urge that inspired such energy and enterprise.
Next we were operating on the Wellington market, which
The builders-cum-timber merchants who had supported us were now a force in the timber trade and, backed by our supplies, were in a position to hold their own against older-established firms. There was now a tenseness in the trade which might at any moment have developed into severe competition and brought about a break in the market rates; fortunately wiser counsels prevailed. In the end an association, enlarged by the entry of the outside merchants, became the controlling body, and all differences disappeared, although there remained a slight cleavage between the old and new members. The new arrangement curtailed our operations with outsiders, but opened the way for us to trade with the old members. That the older generation were men of generous natures may be gathered from the fact that they did trade with us in friendly fashion.
I cannot leave these Christchurch merchants without reference to the high standard of the code of honour in which they conducted their business. Names like England, Waller, Goss and Keighley, to mention some of the most honoured, live on in the timber trade.
This sketch of events in the early years of our business may prepare the reader for our entry into the industrial side of the timber industry.
It was still less than two years since my return to New Zealand, and I was still under thirty years of age. With such keen rivalry in the timber trade, and the development of the other branches of our business, plus the close shaves at three o'clock at the bank, it will be seen I had plenty to do.
It was about this time that simultaneously with the development of a close friendship with
Taking up Government bush areas in those days was like gold-mining prospectors trying to establish a claim. Secrecy was necessary, so instead of entering the valley from the end we were now at, and risking being seen by rival interest, we decided to return to Havelock and stay the night there. Hiring a launch the following morning, we went to Nydia Bay, a branch arm of the beautiful and famous Pelorus Sound. This bay was the only port from which the timber from Opouri Valley could be shipped, unless it was to fall into the lap of William Brownlee and the logs railed to his big, new mill already erected at the mouth of this long valley. Brownlee had for many years been the Timber King of this particular district. First erecting a mill at Havelock, his logging operations had eventually reached the Rai, Ronga and Opouri Valleys, some thirty miles from Havelock, to which port they were connected by both road and Brownlee's railway line.
On arriving at the head of Nydia Bay we were surprised to learn that Mr. Brownlee had worked a mill in this district some thirty years earlier, and smiling farms now stood where his mill and bush had been.
An examination of the contour of the country soon showed us why the Opouri Valley bush had not been cut out many years before. The obstacle had been a range of hills 1,500 feet high, which stood between the forest and the bay from which we proposed to ship. We camped at the foot of these hills and next day climbed the range, going down into the timbered valley to find that it contained splendid bush.
Craig and a bushman named “Tassy” Morris, whom he had brought with him, began a survey of the areas. They were
The bush was magnificent, probably the best ever grown in New Zealand. The protection given by the hills forming the sides of the valley enabled the trees to grow to a great height and almost as straight as lead pencils. The climate being warmer and dryer than on the West Coast, and the soil better, the trees were at least, on an average, six inches bigger in diameter than in the Greymouth area. The percentage of heart timber in these trees was comparable with that of the North Island trees and this added greatly to their value.
Each night in camp the conversation was always about the forest. Craig kept saying it was the finest bush he had ever seen and that we must find a way of getting the timber out. Our first hope had been for the possibility of making a sideling, but the hill was steep and there were too many ridges and gullys. We discussed placing a steam-hauler at the top and laying a tram-line straight up the face of the hill and hauling and lowering truck loads with a wire rope. The grade on both sides was about one in three, but this did not frighten us away from the hauling idea, although we saw no clear way of holding the timber on the truck.
After long discussion we returned to Nydia Bay, then to Havelock and on by coach to Blenheim. There was no time to be lost. The regulations covering the purchase of Government bush stipulated that not more than 800 acres could be taken up for each mill erected, and extended areas would be granted only when the previous one had been nearly cut out. We
We had heard there was a mill in the North Island, at a place called Shannon, where timber was hauled over a hill much the same as the one we had just seen. Craig had to get back to the coast, so it was arranged that I should go to Shannon. Leaving Wellington I stayed the night at this country town and having found out all the local knowledge required, set off next morning, on an old white horse, to ride the five miles to the foot of the hill. Tethering the hack, I climbed up the tram-track to where the hauler was situated. As soon as the first truck of timber was hauled up I saw at a glance the point we had not been able to solve at Nydia Bay; the end of the wire rope, instead of being attached to the truck, was taken round the timber like a sling—this meant that the truck merely carried the weight. There was no fear of the timber sliding off sideways or endways, for the steeper the grade the tighter the pull of the rope round the timber. Next day I wired Craig “Easily Done,” and he told me afterwards what these words meant to him.
We lost no time in getting to work, landing materials at Nydia Bay for the erection of a wharf and laying the tramline to the foot of the hill. The first thing to decide was where to erect the wharf. Two brothers named Gould had settled on the land in the valley at the head of Nydia Bay. With the wharf on the one side we had to make arrangements to go through both farms; on the other side it meant a right-of-way through one farm only. On taking soundings from a rowing boat, we found that deep water was more readily found on the side that would mean getting a right-of-way through both farms, but so tense was the rivalry between the two brothers we decided it would be safer to deal with one only.
The place soon became a hive of industry, with more and more workmen arriving and regular shipments of materials being delivered. It is interesting to record that the Gould who failed to win our patronage and get the wharf built on his side of the bay, was in the end to win the richest reward. He owned a launch and used to bring the men from Havelock, some twenty miles from Nydia Bay, charging one pound per
The building of the wharf and the laying of the line went on apace. Soon we were at the foot of the hill, and then started up a spur. Up a grade such as we had to tackle was no small task, but Craig and his team steadily plugged their way, chain by chain. At last the top was reached, a steam-hauler installed, and the first wire rope put into operation; the men and materials were now hauled up every morning.
We were unfortunate in not being able to find a spur on the other side that would be directly opposite. This meant we had to cut a track along the top for more than half a mile before finding one. As illustrating the ingenuity of Craig in what we call bush surveying, he laid off this line with no instrument other than an aneroid. Even with this he provided a track along the top that gave a slight downhill run for the loaded trucks. A second hauler was now installed and the camp moved over into the Opouri Valley. The finding of a pig track gave us the spur that led down to the mill-site.
By the time the bottom of the hill had been reached, and the erection of the mill begun, we saw clouds gathering on the horizon. The original sum put up by Craig and ourselves had long since been spent and we were now carrying on on Reese Brothers' credit. We already had plenty of financing to do for our own growing business, so our anxiety will be appreciated. I used to go to Nydia Bay about every two months, and in the talks at night with Craig the question of finance was now our chief topic. Our original budget had proved too optimistic; now we were budgeting again. More work to do, more machinery to pay for, the mill building, the houses and huts to be built; it was obvious we were up against it. Craig used to laugh and say that all he knew about money was spending it on the job; he could estimate the time needed to finish, he could add up the cost of contracts let for machinery for the mill, haulers for the bush, rails for the tram-line and a locomotive, to mention the principal items, but we had to find the money! We were now reaching the stage of having spent
if we got through, may shield us from being judged super-optimists. We finally agreed there was no alternative but to enlarge our partnership into a company.
What could be more natural than for us to turn to the splendid men who had so generously traded with Reese Brothers from the inception of this business? And so it came that Peter Graham, John Greig, Richard Scott and Andrew Swanston, all men who had worked for my father, each took up shares, as did William Banks of Papanui, Fred Smith of Ashburton and Harry Cornelius, a wealthy farmer who had married my eldest sister. This made a strong company, made still more powerful when T. G. Russell, the lawyer who prepared the Articles of Association, noting the estimates placed before the new shareholders, asked to be allowed to come in. As all these men, except Cornelius and Russell, were clients of Reese Brothers and large buyers of timber, it will be realized what a dual strength was given to the Marlborough Timber Company, the name decided upon for this new saw-milling concern. It was, in fact, the coming of our new company, and the increased supplies now open to the men who previously relied upon timber from Jack Brothers and Craig & Sheedy, that was in the main responsible for bringing about the enlargement of the Timber Merchants' Association that I have already referred to. It also had the effect of giving us a more direct interest in maintaining market prices.
When the mill was finished all our anticipations about hauling the timber over the hill proved correct. The output of the mill was about a quarter of a million feet per month, and it was not long before the returns began to have an effect upon the Company's banking account.
On my first trip to Nydia Bay after the mill was operating, I decided to call on old Mr. Brownlee at Havelock, where he had a fine home overlooking the head of Pelorus Sound. I was anxious to remove the tenseness from the rivalry that had naturally developed. I had also a good reason to make a personal call. Mr. Brownlee, like many of the Scots of his time, had been a keen draughts player, and when he came to
He certainly showed his keen disappointment, but repeated that he had no grudge against us. He then made kindly references to my father and said how much he had enjoyed playing draughts with him. At this time, Mr. Brownlee was in his late seventies. He was tall and straight with a white beard. The afternoon I spent with this strong, determined, but kindly Scot and his wife, whose gentleness reminded me of my own mother, remains with me as a charming picture of old age spent in happy and pleasant surroundings.
Despite the sincerity of Mr. Brownlee's reception of me and his words of encouragement, this was not the end of our contest with this great timber man. When our original saw-milling area had been granted to us, Mr. Brownlee was so insistent in his claims for the greater part of the remaining forest to be reserved for him, that the Under Secretary of Lands finally decided to fix a boundary line across the valley which was to limit the operations of each party. This was a departmental arrangement, but as it was not a matter of law it could hold good only so long as each side agreed. We would have preferred an open field, but as the area already reserved for us was going to provide twenty years' cutting, we agreed. On account of his larger operations Brownlee was given more than half of the timber areas in the valley; although this
I left for Wellington at once, and interviewed Mr. Kensington, the Under Secretary of Lands. He referred me to the Prime Minister, Sir Joseph Ward, for Mr. McCallum, the forceful member for Wairau, had made it a political matter. When I met the Prime Minister, he made it clear that he had decided upon prompt action to clarify the position. He said, “Well, Mr. Reese, I am determined that a matter of this sort will not be allowed to intrude into politics. I have been continuously pressed to alter the original boundary fixed by the Under Secretary. I have to-day written Mr. Brownlee, and have also written your firm, advising that the law governing timber areas must be allowed to take its course.”
I realized there was no time to waste. I wired to my brother to arrange a special meeting of the Marlborough Timber Company's Directors for the following morning. We did not take long to decide, despite the fact that we were just emerging from the financial strain caused by the cost of building the first mill. I left for Wellington again the same night and lodged our application for a further eight hundred acres of land, and undertaking to build another mill. There was great joy in our camp when we got word that our application was lodged just twenty-four hours ahead of Mr. Brownlee's! Fighting for bush is an old, old story in the timber industry. Peter B. Kyne, in his Valley of the Giants, tells a thrilling tale of contests for forest areas on the Pacific coast.
The financing of the second mill was arranged by an increased overdraft at the bank, supported by guarantees. I do not know what we would have done without the bank. It was not long before the second mill was erected. Additional bush haulers had to be purchased, but the haulers on the top of the hill proved capable of handling the doubled output. In the winter months there was little time to spare between the lowering of the last truck and the setting in of darkness. The total output from the two mills was five million feet per annum, so it will be realized we had jumped into a concern of
The number of men coming and going was responsible for many jokes. Some said Craig was a sleeping partner of John Gould's in his launch enterprise—a pound fare for every man he sacked and a similar amount for the man who replaced him! The climax of these facetious references came when our old engine-driver visited Christchurch for a holiday. He had spent all his money and called at our office for an advance. He was hopelessly drunk and I was called into the main office to try and get rid of him. When I was endeavouring to humour him, he said, “Do you know how many men Jack Craig has had on the payroll at Nydia Bay?” When I replied no, the rugged and very intoxicated man said, “Three thousand of the booggers!”
I visited the mills frequently and in the summer months it was more like a short holiday than a business trip. The scenery to be seen from the launch in the run up Pelorus Sound and into Nydia Bay was very beautiful.
When the housing accommodation was completed, two separate settlements had sprung into being. The bushmen and sawmill hands made up the greater number of our employees, so their village, situated in one of the most isolated spots in New Zealand, was made as comfortable as possible. A dance hall was erected, and then followed a billiard room; the latter proved such a success that we doubled the size of the building and installed a second table, thus providing the men with plenty of amusement. A library, with a suitable range of books, completed the amenities of this far-away bush settlement. A grocery store, a bakery and a butcher's shop gave the place the appearance of a country village. On the Nydia Bay
While the number of men employed in the yard, on the wharf, and as truckers was much less than on the other side of the hill, the two Gould families and local settlers from small farms in the little bays and on the hillsides of the beautiful sound brought the numbers who attended the Saturday night dances about equal to the “Bush Cabarets” held at the head of the Opouri Valley. As was natural, there were occasionally combined dances. Modern young men and women, with motor-cars and good roads available in even the most remote districts in New Zealand to-day, will find it hard to believe that the youth of those days, aye, and the older ones too, in going to a dance, negotiated that hill by the same route and on the same trucks used for taking the timber from the mill to the wharf. Even though a moonlight night was always chosen, it required some nerve on the part of the young women to make what appeared to the layman to be a somewhat perilous journey. I can still hear voices echoing round the hillsides in the stillness of the night, as parties of merry men and women sang while the trucks, with their passengers, were being hauled up and lowered on the other side. On the homeward journey especially, one noticed gallant young men holding their partners even more tightly than they had held them in the men-to-the-centre movement of the lancers, in the dance hall below!
My brother was an excellent dancer and revelled in the Saturday night parties at the mill. He tells an amusing story of one of our rugged bushmen, who, being without gloves, put a bright red silk handkerchief on the hand that went round his partner's waist; he thought more of saving the girl's frock than worrying about giving her his brawny, ungloved left hand.
Another of my brother's stories of these dances was of one he went to when there were present many more men than women. Bad weather had prevented the people on the bay side from coming over the hill. There were no programmes at this dance, so it can be imagined what a scramble there was for partners. Instead of booking for the next dance, my brother kept booking for the one ahead of the next, and it was about
When our tram-way line had been extended a number of miles down the valley and Brownlee's line crept closer, the employees of our rival used to come all the way up Opouri Valley to dance at our mill settlement. They travelled by truck to and from the terminus of each line and, following the track, walked the remaining distance through the native bush. More laughter and song as they groped their way, with lanterns to light up their path.
This brief sketch may help the reader to picture a happy settlement in a very remote part of New Zealand. It will also show that the Marlborough Timber Company, led at the mill end by
I finish this part of my story with an incident that was often talked of in after years. Craig would not tolerate intemperance on working days. This was easily enough avoided except on days when ships came in to take away cargoes of timber. As in all such outlying settlements the sly grog seller on the ship, usually the cook, found a way of getting liquor ashore. When loading one of the bigger ships for Australia it was necessary to bring a number of men over from Opouri Valley to enable the vessel to work two hatches. By the time the S.S. Inga had completed her loading, most of the men were well under the influence of liquor, some of them quite drunk. Several were quarrelsome; a fight started on the wharf and one of the men was pushed into the sea. Craig arrived in time to see him being pulled out of the water. He sacked seventeen on the spot, including some of his best men who had been with him for years. Feeling he could not discriminate, he was adamant when some appealed to him to overlook the incident. No wonder his authority was undisputed and his force of character enabled him to hold a tight rein on such a large number of employees who, with a less determined boss, might easily have got out of hand. Now it will be
The picnic side of visits to Nydia Bay was not confined to my brother and me; the other directors enjoyed an occasional visit when they could get away from their own businesses, and many a party we had on the Sounds. One day was usually set aside for a launch trip as far as Pelorus Sound, where there was a splendid fishing-ground. Blue cod, probably New Zealand's most delicious fish, were to be caught in abundance. On one occasion, when my wife was with me, five of us caught a total of one hundred. My wife had not previously fished and was all excitement when we lowered our lines. It was not long before we heard an agitated voice call, “Oh, Dan, I've got one! I've got one!” She began to haul away, but when it came to the surface was too frightened to pull it into the launch. When I landed the fish and it wriggled violently on the floor, she was up on the seat as quickly as women jump on to a chair if anyone says, “There's a mouse!” How we all laughed! My wife caught twenty-seven fish that day. I caught four. I spent most of my time landing her fish and re-baiting the hooks! Multiply this story many times and you have the picture of the fun we all got from the sawmilling end of this venture.
Then came the problem of marketing the output of these mills, two-thirds of which was rimu, sometimes called red pine, and used almost exclusively in the building and furniture trades; the balance was mainly kahikatea—white pine—with a sprinkling of matai, commonly known as black pine. The rimu portion added great strength to the trading position of the men who joined forces with us. With Brownlee's, it was the best timber on the market. Our rivals' agent in Christchurch was an elderly, dour Scot. He also was an old friend of my father's, but he had not the human touch and kindly spirit of his principal. He apparently considered the Reeses were splendid young men—until they began to sell timber! He had held an unrivalled position for many years and, in competition with the West Coast mills, had always dominated the market. We regretted the transfer of rivalry with Brownlee to the selling end, but had no qualms in fighting his agent. The contest that developed was really between our clients and Brownlee's, through whose yards the timber reached the retail market.
Pelorous Sound is less than half the distance Greymouth is from Lyttelton. This meant a cheaper freight for timber of a better quality. In competition with the West Coast mills the dice was thus loaded very much in favour of Brownlee and ourselves.
New Zealand white pine is probably the finest timber in the world for use in boxes when packing butter for export. New Zealand has been called the “Dairy Farm” of the Empire and exports enormous quantities of butter and cheese to Great Britain. It is in the North Island where most of this is produced, and there were plenty of sawmills in the north capable of supplying all the requirements of the dairy factories, besides having a surplus for export to Australia. Apart from supplying the freezing works with tallow-cask timber, the South Island mills relied almost entirely on the Australian market. As soon as our first mill was completed, I went to Sydney and established relations with Messrs. R. S. Lamb & Co., with whom we were to have many years of profitable business and happy personal relations. The senior partner, always known as Bob Lamb, was a New Zealander, but had lived in Australia for about thirty years. His partner was his nephew,
Lamb was an extraordinary character. Brought up in the atmosphere of a colonial Scottish home, where his father always stood up and said a long grace before meals. Bob Lamb showed little evidence of this early training, for at times he could swear like a trooper.
It mattered not to whom he was speaking. I heard many amusing stories about him. On one occasion, when developing a very good export trade in rabbit skins on behalf of an English company, he was visited by a representative of this firm. The Englishman was immaculately dressed, in days when frock-coats and tall hats were worn even in business. In the midst of some negotiations, in which they did not see eye to eye, Mr. Lamb burst out with a flow of words, natural to him and
But Australians are not the only people who use swear words, for in New Zealand recently, at the end of the children's hour on the wireless, the broadcaster, Uncle “X,” thinking he was off the air, was heard to say, “Now, you little b … s, off you go to bed!”
As Mr. Lamb did not smoke and was a teetotaller, it was astonishing that he should fail to check himself from the use of profanity. In his case this was but a veneer, as it is with most people. Behind it all was a man of sterling parts. Keen, but kindly, and fair in his dealings was my first impression, and this remained with me throughout my years of trading with him.
This business trip to Australia was to prove the forerunner of many others. During the next twenty years I crossed the Tasman more than a dozen times. My first contract with this firm was for a million feet of timber, but the doubled output from Nydia Bay necessitated future contracts being increased. I was able to benefit from the experience of others who, in earlier years, had risked large contracts which often took some years to complete. The Australian timber merchants are astute buyers, and it was always a certainty that any keenness shown by them for the purchase of large quantities, signified that they thought they were operating on a rising market. I did not book beyond quantities that could be delivered in from twelve to eighteen months.
One thing in business leads to another and this was soon to be my experience. Messrs. R. S. Lamb & Co. were interested in the hardwood business and, being closely associated with Messrs. R. J. White & Co., assisted me in getting Reese Brothers appointed South Island agents for this well-known Australian firm in New Zealand.
Messrs. Alan Taylor, and Pike & Co. were, at that time, the principal suppliers of the New Zealand market. All
We immediately urged Mr. White to come to Christchurch and get to know personally the man who was to pass his timber. In the end he came. Mr. White senior was of the old school; as a young man he had chopped, sawn and hewn the trees of Australia's famous iron-bark forests. He was practical to his finger-tips and when he met
The contract was carried out to the satisfaction of all concerned and proved to be the fore-runner of many others. We had experienced keen competition when establishing the agency for Messrs. Chesterman & Co., of Hobart, Tasmania, but our greatest thrill in the hardwood business came from the first big ironbark contract.
It was also due to Messrs. R. S. Lamb & Co. that we were appointed South Island Agents for Cessnock Collieries. New Zealand at this time was a large importer of Newcastle coal and the agency for such a well-known coal immeasurably strengthened our position in the coal trade, which was to be made still stronger when the Moody Creek and Cliffdale Co-operative Parties of the West Coast entrusted their outputs to us.
In 1908, when on my first business visit to Australia, I was one of an enormous crowd that stood at the heads and watched the American fleet enter Sydney Harbour. The warships steamed along the coast in single line ahead and when opposite the entrance the leader turned out to sea and steamed due east for several miles, then turned about and steamed back; by the time the first ship was about to enter the harbour the “croc” was again in a straight line, and one by one majestically entered the port. It was a magnificent sight.
The following week I was in Melbourne when the Americans steamed up Port Phillip. In both cities the Americans were given a wonderful reception.
Perhaps the greatest service Mr. Lamb rendered was the encouragement and help he gave that enabled us to enter the coastal shipping business of New Zealand. We were, by now, in command of supplies of timber sufficient to keep a nominal sized ship running regularly between Greymouth, Nydia Bay and Lyttelton.
On one of my trips to Australia I discussed this phase of our business. R. S. Lamb & Co., by this time, were already established in shipping between Australia and New Zealand, and were in much the same position as we were, for their operations in timber gave them sufficient freight to keep two steamers trading across the Tasman. Mr. Lamb was at once enthusiastic in his advice to go ahead with our shipping proposition, and said he would put money into it. He said, further, that they were sending Charles Rawson, their superintendent engineer, to Scotland and offered to allow him to look after the building of any steamer we might require. My optimistic nature needed little spurring on, and it can be imagined how, on the three days' voyage back to New Zealand, my thoughts raced round the size, type, speed, and general design of the steamer we would order.
The startling success of our sawmills left no doubters among our original group and the money was soon found. My three years with Howard Smiths, together with my years at sea, were now to prove invaluable. My sketch-plans were soon approved and posted direct to Rawson in Scotland. The ship was to be of 600 tons gross. In due course he cabled the price quoted by James Fullerton of Paisley, which, in the light of present-day costs, seems ridiculously cheap. We accepted at once, and in 1912, coming out via Suez, the S.S. Opouri—named after the valley where our sawmills were situated—arrived at Lyttelton with a cargo of hardwood from Hobart.
At this time ships with engines aft were rare in New Zealand, but my experience on the Dominion and Cymbeline prompted me to favour this type. The Union Steamship
Kowhai running on the coast, and I had often cast covetous eyes upon her. The Opouri was of similar type and was greatly admired when she arrived. We had stipulated ten knots at sea and as the Opouri reached nearly ten and a half knots on her trial run on the Clyde, there was no doubt about her speed. All cargo steamers on the New Zealand coast at this time had a speed of about eight or nine knots. When our little greyhound appeared on the scene, she was to put up performances that were the envy of all her rivals. What this extra speed meant is to be found in a series of voyages to Greymouth that can have no parallel in the cargo-carrying trade in New Zealand. The West Coast port is 420 miles from Lyttelton. Leaving the latter port on a Saturday night, the Opouri was back in Lyttelton on the following Friday with a full cargo of timber. She was to repeat this Saturday night sailing for six weeks in succession. Meeting some rough weather, she was put out of her stride, but, fitting into the next Saturday night sailing from Greymouth, there followed five successive Saturday night sailings from the West Coast port. Eleven trips in eleven and a half weeks! Is it any wonder the warehousemen and store-keepers on the coast began to issue instructions to their Christchurch merchants to ship by the Opouri?
This competition was a bit hard on the Union Company, for, possessing an almost complete monopoly of New Zealand's coastal shipping, they had responsibilities in serving all ports. One of their ships would, for instance, on leaving Dunedin, call at Timaru, Lyttelton and Wellington, and there was no certainty when she would arrive at Greymouth. especially if a call also had to be made at Westport. The Opouri, with her express, two-port service, soon won a large share of the back cargo from Lyttelton.
I cannot leave the story of the Opouri without reference to the men who manned the ship and the men on the waterfront; they were a grand lot and took pride in her performances. Captain Pearson, the Master, and Burgess, the Chief Engineer, were a splendid pair and always had an efficient crew with them. The speed of loading and discharging played a major part in the ship's success, and this spoke volumes for the energy and loyalty of the wharf labourers of thirty years ago.
It was not long after the Opouri had proved herself that we
On one of my trips to Australia, Fin Stewart who, on the death of his uncle, had taken over the control of R. S. Lamb & Co., told me of a fine little ship that would suit us, and was for sale. We went to Pyrmont to inspect her. She was slightly bigger than the Opouri and a perfect model of the engines-amidship type. I was immediately impressed and Stewart and I met the owners to enter into negotiations. Both sides were tenacious and we wrangled for hours; they wanted £15,000 and we started at two thousand less. We met again in the afternoon. To fill in the lunch hour, Stewart and I went to a mid-day picture show. In the end we had to go more than half-way to close the deal. For years afterwards Stewart used to chuckle about my going to sleep at the pictures when in the middle of such a deal!
The name of the vessel was the Tay I. We re-named her the Orepuki. On her arrival in New Zealand she attracted as much attention as the Opouri had done, except that she was not her match in speed. We now became real ship-owners, and these two vessels were to become as well known at Lyttelton as any other ships trading to the port, excepting the ferry steamers in the daily service to Wellington. Our Lyttelton agent, Mr. F. E. Sutton, was an active representative, and he handled increasing quantities of outward cargo. Our own interests in timber and cement always ensured the inward cargo.
So far, we had enjoyed uninterrupted success. We were like a cricket side that had scored a hundred runs without the loss of a wicket. Soon we were to learn the meaning of disaster. When on a visit to Port Craig, I received an urgent telegram advising that the Opouri had been wrecked on the bar at Greymouth when entering port the previous night. Richard Scott, the chairman of our timber and shipping companies, was with me. We telephoned for a car to meet us at Tuatapere, a small township across the bay from Port Craig, and set out
Opouri's first trip after her annual overhaul, and looking so smart in her newly painted hull and deck-houses seemed to make her fate more tragic as the waves dashed over her at high tide. There was no alternative but to abandon her to the underwriters, especially when we received notice from the Harbour Board that they would hold us responsible if the ship broke in half and any part of the hull fell into the river.
I was now to receive my first experience of negotiations with insurance companies, covering both hull and cargo. The general average clause, so innocent looking on the parchment of the policy, unfolded itself as a very intricate and important condition of contract. The underwriters, also wishing to get rid of the liability of this wrecked steamer, held fast on the breakwater, lost no time in putting her up for sale. A large crowd filled the auction room. The Harbour Board's notice, read by the auctioneer, warning the owners of their responsibility, had its affect upon the bidding. Beginning at a fairly low figure, the auctioneer was held down to small but steady advances in the bids made. Finally the ship was knocked down to Captain Monro of the Canterbury Shipping Company. The reader will be able to imagine the chagrin of our Captain and his crew when they saw the ship they loved pass into other hands, but their disappointment was short-lived. Going into the auctioneer's private room I completed the deal I had made with Captain Monro before the sale, to pass her over to me. I had figured that if I bid up to a few hundred pounds only and then dropped out, speculators would hesitate to gamble on a ship on which one of the owners placed little value. Captain Monro, although to some extent a rival of ours in the coastal trade, was a great friend of mine and willingly fell in with my proposal that he should buy her on my account.
There was no time to lose, and a gang of men was at work on her the following morning. I arranged to pay them three shillings an hour, wet or dry, early or late, for we had to take full advantage of low tide. This was in advance of the ruling
I was indebted to the Harbour Master for the loan of his foreman, one Williams, who had an all-round ability eminently suited for the work. He had an intimate knowledge of explosives as well as the use of tackle. The first thing was to get rid of the fo'c'sle head that was overhanging the river and might break off should another storm arise, Williams reckoned he could blow it off, not in one piece, but so as to scatter the parts that it would not matter if some fell into the river.
After dismantling the fo'c'sle deck and getting ashore the windlass, anchors, chains, etc., and removing anything else of value, Williams laid his lengths of gelignite under the main deck, up the inside of the stem, and alongside some of the frames. These looked enough to blow the roof off anything. We then all scattered well clear and sought shelter. With electric wires leading to a safe spot, Williams then pulled the switch which caused an explosion that could be heard miles away. The whole of Greymouth heard it. Plates, frames, rivets and bolts, soared hundreds of feet into the air. Rising from their sheltered places, the watchers saw a shower of debris almost like the aftermath of a bomb explosion. One piece of plate landed in a back yard in Blaketown, on the other side of the river! We all heaved a sigh of relief when it was over.
When the smoke cleared away it was soon seen what a complete job had been made of the nose of the ship, for there was nothing left. Now there was no fear of a claim for damages from the Harbour Board. The next thing was to get all the gear ashore, for there was no chance of salvaging the ship as a whole. As the two boilers each weighed twenty-five tons it will be appreciated that there was work of some magnitude to be done. Acetone welders were hired from the Dispatch Foundry and they cut a great hole in the side of the ship, opposite the boilers. Through this hole the boilers were rolled
Opouri.
This wreck and salvage are still talked about in Greymouth as a notable event. In the history of this port more than thirty vessels have been wrecked on the bar and only one or two have been anything but a total loss. We were, of course, lucky in that our ship went on to the centre breakwater instead of either the North or South Tip Heads, where most of the other ships were wrecked with little chance of being salvaged. It took more than a month to complete the job. We worked according to the tides, and on some mornings started as early as five o'clock. The whole of the salvaged machinery was shipped to Lyttelton on the Orepuki. When it came to getting the boilers across the Cobden bridge to Greymouth, it was
I end this story with a tribute to Williams, the sturdy Welshman who handled both the men and gear with understanding and marked ability. To him most of the credit of this salvage is due. As for the men of the waterfront, they worked splendidly. I have never met a more loyal group. They appeared to take the same interest in our ship as did the officers and engineers and other members of the crew. Most of them had for years worked on the Opouri in unloading and loading her cargoes and this, no doubt, contributed to the interest they showed in the work. It was perhaps natural that I should think there was also a personal response to the manner in which they were always treated, and on this occasion in particular.
It will be realized that the salvaged machinery and other gear were now of considerable value, but without a hull its worth could be counted only with regard to what it would bring on the market as second-hand machinery. The boilers were readily saleable, while the engines from such a crack ship would have been likewise sought after, as would the windlass, winches, etc. With these disposed of, there would still have been left an immense amount of gear, such as masts, funnel, deck-houses, steel plates and a hundred and one other parts which would be worth their value only if used in ship construction, but otherwise hard to dispose of except to the second-hand dealer.
To make the fullest use, and obtain the greatest value, it was therefore necessary to find a hull into which all this machinery could be placed. In those days many a good hull, especially of sailing-ships come down in the world, would reach humble service as lighters or hulks in the ports of the world. A dismasted sailing-ship, at a time when her class was being ousted from the trade routes, was often considered unworthy of being refitted. I was fortunate to hear of one such ship, the Lilla, that was doing duty as a coal hulk in Wellington. A few years earlier the Union Company had purchased her in Adelaide and had her towed to New Zealand. After making a casual inspection, I asked the Union Company if they would tell her.
The story I have told of our competition with this great
Opouri. As a check-up I cabled James Fullerton of Paisley and asked for the price of a repeat order for another Opouri. The answer came quickly and was certainly enlightening. Three words sufficed: “Thirty Thousand Pounds”! This was more than double the price of five years earlier.
As the Lilla would give us the opportunity of converting to a steamer double the tonnage of the Opouri, we had to compare the cost with what the price would be for a new steamer of more than a thousand tons. When values were compared with costs, the proposition appeared in a better light, although the estimated cost of conversion was to bring the total to a rather formidable figure. On securing this option I cabled R. S. Lamb & Co. in Sydney, asking if they would lend Charles Rawson who had superintended the building of the Opouri. The reply came: “Rawson Sailing First Steamer.” I had always believed in using expert advice and, like Williams at Greymouth on the salvage work, Rawson was to prove that he had a gift for reconstruction. I met him in Wellington and we had the Lilla put on the slip at Evans Bay. If ever a ship's hull got a pounding with a hammer, the Lilla's did! Built in 1884, a thorough examination was necessary. I knew her plates were of Lomore iron which, without the rusting qualities of steel plates, gave an assurance of a condition at her age that would not be possible with steel. The hull proved to be in magnificent condition. We could not find a flaw. The docking also dispelled the fear that the Opouri engines would not drive her fast enough to be an economical proposition, for her fine lines were a picture. We estimated she would steam at least eight knots. I spent days and nights with Rawson, planning, estimating and measuring. It was a different type of anxiety from that of sitting for an engineer's
Lilla towed to Lyttelton, where the work was to be carried out.
Messrs. Andersons Ltd. had their ship-repair works at Lyttelton and the placing of the contract in their hands revived memories of the days of my apprenticeship with them. It also brought me into close touch with the men who had once employed me, for Mr. John, Mr. Andrew and Mr. Fred Anderson were still in active control of this engineering firm. I found additional interest in meeting men working on this ship who had been apprentices when I was serving my time some twenty years earlier.
The excitement and the anxiety of the work of salvaging the wrecked Opouri and of the negotiations for the purchase of the Lilla were now to be followed by more months of anxious moments. To convert a sailing-ship into a steamer—for that is what it meant—was an unusual undertaking in this part of the world. Rawson had spent a good many years at sea as a Chief Engineer and added greatly to his knowledge of ships by his experience gained in supervising the construction of several new steamers built in the yards of the Old Country. I had in my possession Walton's splendid work on ship construction, and the detailed drawings and plans supplied in this book proved invaluable to Rawson when setting out the work, much of which had to be planned as the job proceeded. I had my own business to look after, so naturally left all details and staff control in Rawson's capable hands. He proved to be an outstanding man for an enterprise such as this, and amazed everyone by the ability he showed. The planning that preceded the beginning of the work called for many decisions; the first and most important being the position in which the engines were to be placed. Rawson was a great believer in the Opouri type, with engines aft. Without ballast tanks this was likely to make the new ship somewhat unwieldy at sea when light ship, it was, however, the shape of the hull that was the deciding factor; the midship section of the Lilla was comparable with that of any cargo steamer, but the fineness o
It was now a race against time, for war-time costs could be met only by war-time freights which were offering at very lucrative rates. Every available boilermaker and riveter was sought out, for the earliest part of the work concerned beams, frames and plates. The cutting of the Lilla's decks to make openings for the engine-room casing and the making of the two hatches that were to serve the long, undivided hold, proceeded apace. As soon as the new, raised floor of the engine-room was completed, the engineers set to work to instal the machinery. The ship at once became a hive of industry, and great interest was shown by the people of Lyttelton. Week by week the work proceeded, but we suffered from a shortage of boilermakers.
Perhaps the most intricate job was the making of the aperture in the stern of the ship, in which the propeller does its work. The fine lines made it difficult, if not impossible, to make use of the Lilla's own stern-post for this purpose and Rawson showed great ingenuity in solving the problem. He fixed the Opouri's aperture forging several feet forward of the Lilla's stern-post, thus making it easier to have the plates bossed to the shape of the former's stern-post and, on the inside of the hull, provided sufficient width to erect the watertight bulkhead to which the forward end of the stern-tube is fastened. This ingenious arrangement, to be found on all steamers, enables the tail-shaft to pass through and have the propeller keyed to it. A gland and packing then complete the conventional way of keeping the sea-water from passing through the stern-tube into the ship. During the time the vessel was in dry-dock having this alteration carried out, every engineer who visited the port must have gone to inspect this unusual piece of work. Rawson was justifiably proud of the manner in, which he solved a knotty problem.
As the time approached when this composite ship would be ready for sea, it became necessary to consider which trade to
The final touches were now being given to the ship. With her clipper bow shortened, the masts re-stepped to new positions, the funnel and deck-houses in place, she began to assume the appearance of a real steamer. Keeping to names beginning with “O,” she was christened the Opihi and was at last ready for the loading berth. The work of reconstruction had taken six months. The task proved even more formidable than was anticipated, as did the financing of such a big undertaking. Again it was the bank who gave a helping hand.
When the loading was nearly completed we decided to carry out a trial run in the harbour, and invited a party of friends to join us in the test of speed, which, while a commonplace on the Clyde, is rare in New Zealand waters.
Captain Thorpe had marked out the “measured mile,” as they call it. There was much excitement on board as the Opihi gathered speed in readiness for the flying start in her dash from post to post. Bang! went the pistol. Everyone had their watches out and when the Harbour Master, who was the official time-keeper, rang out the shot that announced the crossing of the line at the other end, pencils and paper were soon working out her speed in knots. We must have looked like a lot of school kids at exam. time. To the surprise of all
Lyttelton Harbour is about eight miles in length. We steamed out to the Heads and, turning for home, again approached the measured mile; the same performance, the same excitement, with approximately the same result. This time a speed of nine and a quarter knots was recorded. That settled it! To say that the performance cheered our hearts is to put it mildly. Charles Rawson was as proud as punch. Naturally his thoughts were of the consummation of a notable engineering feat. While I was able to share his satisfaction and joy, and to praise and applaud his fine work, my own thoughts raced ahead to the affect it would have upon the venture as a shipping proposition.
This trial run was to prove to the layman and to seafaring men what scientific calculations prove to the expert designer of ships. Here were engines that drove the Opouri—with a beam of 27 feet—at a speed often and a half knots on trial, now driving the Opihi—with a beam of 34 feet and a proportionately deeper draught—at more than nine knots. The answer to the riddle is to be found in the fineness of lines, with the finely tapered stern counting as much as the fine bow. Back at the wharf after the trial, the Opihi completed loading and was soon ready for sea. We had a jolly dinner party on board that evening.
The illustration of this unique ship, as she steamed out of Lyttelton Harbour, will, perhaps, assist the reader to get a more realistic picture than I may have been able to sketch in this story.
As I stood on Gladstone Pier at Lyttelton and watched the Opihi steam down the harbour on her way to Vancouver, my thoughts went back over the months of anxiety that lay between the sensations of this moment and the sight of the helpless Opouri piled up on the breakwater at Greymouth. So much had happened that it all seemed like a fairy tale and became even more dream-like when the Opihi passed out of sight.
As the freight was pre-paid, the weight of financial worry had been lifted. I remember the shock the bank received when the cheque was paid into the account.
The progress of the Opihi was watched with intense interest.
Opihi's speed at a little more than two hundred miles a day, was able to keep an approximate check on her movements. The times of her arrival at Suva and Honululu, where she called for bunkers, showed that in fine weather the trial run performance was an accurate recording of her speed. The Opihi's arrival at Vancouver seemed to establish her reputation as being something more than a freak steamer. With plenty of cargo offering, it was not difficult to fill her for the return journey at rates approximating those paid for the outward cargo.
It was as though I had entered Alladin's cave, for these two freights represented riches that exceeded even my highest hopes. Another such round voyage and the cost of the Opihi would have been more than liquidated—but Fate chose otherwise.
This was the last year of the first World War. New Zealand had already made great inroads upon the manpower of the Dominion. I was now called up for military service in the last batch of married men with one and two children. Just before I was due to go into camp, word came through that our draft was held back, then a further delay. Next came the news that an Armistice had been signed. How that magic word, which came as a prelude to peace, was flashed round the world to lighten anxious hearts and restore to fathers and mothers and wives the sons and husbands who had fought so magnificently and been spared the fate of so many, including my youngest brother who was killed at Messines. What did it matter if glittering prizes were to be wafted away from those who had not been called upon to make an equal sacrifice?
I had been on the point of completing another charter of the Opihi to the Pacific coast. The terms were agreed upon, but the charter was not finalized. The freight rates from New Zealand to America and Canada fell away the moment the Armistice was announced, although the return freights kept up. The Opihi was too small a ship to rely upon a one-way good freight. At this moment a personal friend, Mr. A. G. Rowlands, who was one of New Zealand's ablest men in the meat export industry, asked me if I was prepared to take a risk with the Opihi. Explaining that he anticipated a rising market in tallow, he was prepared to offer a very good freight
Opihi if I would send her to Marseilles, with the option of diverting her to any other Mediterranean port. Mr. Rowlands was quite frank, and admitted that the attractive freight rate offered was based on market anticipations; it was my responsibility to get the ship back to New Zealand. I hesitated for some days. No one knew what was going to happen, or how long it would be before a revival of world trade set in, or what form it would take. The freight offered was such that I could not lose, even if the Opihi had to come back in ballast. In the end I accepted. I must confess I had little knowledge of the freight market on the other side of the world, but was prepared to trust the ability of good agents to pick up cargoes from ports on the ship's return journey to New Zealand.
Away went the Opihi, calling first at Melbourne, then Fremantle and on to Colombo before crossing the Indian Ocean and up the Red Sea to Port Said. No change had taken place on the tallow market, so Marseilles remained the port of delivery. How close Rowlands was to a great scoop may be gathered from what happened to the tallow market in England shortly after this voyage of the Opihi.
The Stores Controller, who held large stocks of tallow in Britain, was anxious to dispose of them as soon as possible. He offered the whole lot to Lord Leverhulme, then the biggest buyer of tallow in England. The price he wanted was something like fifty-five pounds a ton. Leverhulme, sitting back in his chair, laughed, and said, “Why, the tallow market is going to drop!” and would not buy any, even if the price were shaded. But he reckoned without the Ministry of Munitions—or was it the Ministry of Supply? Neither did he anticipate the suddenness of the trade revival that followed soon after the war ended. Favoured by the latter happening, the Controller used great judgment in disposing of the stocks he held. When buyers found they had to go after the tallow, if they wanted any, the price advanced rapidly. In the end, Lord Leverhulme was paying for his immediate needs more than double what he was originally asked. This judicious handling ot the stocks in England was to have its repercussion on the export markets of the world. In New Zealand large quantities were held by all the freezing companies, for, during the war, meat and butter had been given precedence in the allotment
So far the voyages of the Opihi, favoured by good fortune, and backed by a daring policy and high freights, had won dazzling success. By the time the vessel had discharged her cargo at Marseilles, our active London agents had chartered her to load a cargo of salt at the Balearic Islands in the Mediterranean, for delivery at the Faroe Islands, due north of Scotland. The rate of freight was many pounds per ton. From the Faroes, she was to load dried fish for Norway at an equally lucrative rate, and from there load mine-props for England. This was a programme that would have left her to return to New Zealand with freight-earning performances seldom equalled by tramp steamers. But this was not to be.
The incidents that were to follow make up a chapter of events that must rank with some of the old stories of the sea. There is always a “bush lawyer” in every fo'c'sle; he was aboard the Opihi. Discovering that the Faroe Islands were two degrees north of the latitude provided for in their agreement, he did not take long in persuading his comrades to refuse to sail. In the articles which all crews sign when joining a ship, it is always provided that the voyages will be within the latitudes of sixty degrees north and sixty south. This is a reasonable restriction on owners, for, even on a tramp steamer, seafaring men have a right to know in advance if they are being taken into the Arctic or Antarctic regions. Unfortunately, tact and tolerance were not outstanding qualities of the Captain of the Opihi, and instead of humouring the men, he flew into a rage and swore at them for what he called an act of disloyalty to an owner more than ten thousand miles away. There was nearly a riot on board and some of the men went into the ship's galley and threw all the cooking utensils into the harbour. When the Captain cabled me, I replied at once to offer the crew a bonus to make the voyage. It was a tragic happening that the passing of these cables coincided with a complete breakdown of the cable services of the world. Cables were taking more than a week—even a fortnight—to and from England. Although my reply was made urgent, it arrived too
It was now clear that it was impossible to exchange views with regards to freights offering. I therefore cabled our London agents to take complete charge of the Opihi and move her in accordance with their own judgment. With no outward cargoes offering at Mediterranean ports, and the delay at Marseilles now being a serious matter, they fixed her to load at Algiers for Dunkirk. By the time the Opihi had delivered her cargo at this now famous port, the plums of the freight market were fast disappearing, as more and more ships were being released from war work to resume their old trading.
In the end we had to be satisfied with the commonplace cargo of coal from Cardiff to Port Said. Then to Calcutta light ship and again load coal for Singapore, finally loading case petrol for New Zealand. From this it will be seen that the last leg of the return voyage was to be the only profitable part.
Singapore was reached without incident and after discharging, the Opihi moved across to a nearby island to load her cargo. The crew lived ashore while loading proceeded. When ready for sea, with officers and men aboard, there was to be a repetition of the scene at Marseilles. The bush lawyer had now assumed the position of ringleader; going to the fo'c'sle, he went round the cabin sniffing; he sniffed here and sniffed there, then, turning to his mates, he said, “I can smell petrol fumes. I refuse to sail!” It was not hard to make rebels of the others and a deputation waited on the Captain. The latter had not learned his lesson. This time he outdid the exhibition of impatience and temper he had given at Marseilles. “So you refuse duty, do you?”
The spokesman was no novice at leading a deputation, and calmly answered, “No, not in that way. All we say is that it's not safe to sleep in our quarters,”
“You refuse duty!” yelled tire Captain.
“No? we just refuse to sleep in the fo'c'sle.” Although he really meant they would not sail.
Uncontrolled wrath is no match in argument for a cool head, and the spokesman stood his ground. In a state of anger the Captain called for a launch and going ashore brought back some Chinese firemen to take the Opihi over to Singapore. On arrival there, he had the men arrested for “refusing duty!” Justice is a fairer arbiter than an angry sea captain, and the men, aided by a clever Singapore lawyer, were immediately released.
It was the implications arising from this happening that were to make us pay dearly for having a Captain who seemed unable to see any point of view but his own. If a ship loaded with petrol was unable to provide safe sleeping quarters for its crew, then it should not be carrying an inflammable cargo. A special survey of the vessel was ordered and the verdict of the surveyors was that the ship was not suitable for such a cargo. This was a heavy blow. One could not blame the men for complaining of fumes in the fo'c'sle, but I have always thought that though they exaggerated their statement of the case, they would have sailed for a more considerate Captain.
It was unfortunate that the way of the Opihi's Master in handling men was so different from the manner in which we had always treated the crews of the Opouri and Orepuki. My experience of the sea had taught me that though firmness was necessary, kindness and consideration were better weapons than a hard heart and a harsh tongue.
There was no bunting flying from the masthead of the Opihi as she crept out of Singapore on her way to Bunbury in Western Australia to load a cargo of jarrah timber for ourselves at Lyttelton. To anyone who knew the story just told, she must have appeared like a ship whose colours had been lowered and whose grading marks had been reduced.
When the Opihi steamed into Lyttelton, she was hailed as a traveller to many parts of the world. Of those who watched her arrival, I alone knew how close she had been to winning a great fortune. Shorn of some of the glory that might have been hers, and with some of her profits disbursed in the long delays at Marseilles and Singapore, she still had to her credit a performance that justified the original faith placed in her.
The final episode of this round-the-world voyage was to
The Opihi was now put into the New Zealand-Australian trade, carrying cargoes of timber from Hokianga, Kaipara and Opua in the North Auckland Peninsula, to Sydney. The return cargoes were hardwood or coal to ports like Wanganui and New Plymouth, where the rates of freight were higher than those to the main ports.
It was now time the Opihi was put into a regular trade where a more direct personal control was possible. The most suitable trade in New Zealand was between Lyttelton and Auckland. There was always plenty of freight offering from Lyttelton, while, with the Golden Bay Cement works closed down and the Company supplying our requirements from Wilsons' great works at Whangarei, there was also substantial back cargo.
This brought us in direct competition with the Union Company. Their most jealously guarded trade on the coast of New Zealand is that carried on by a fleet of fine cargo steamers running from the Bluff, in the extreme south, with calls at Dunedin, Oamaru and Timaru, Lyttelton, Wellington, Napier, Gisborne, and then on to Auckland. Canterbury, with its fertile plains, made Lyttelton the principal port for shipping produce. Without any responsibility towards the other ports, such as the Union Company had, we were in a favoured position.
When the Opouri first began running on the coast, old Bob Lamb said to me, “Look out for a clout behind the ear from the Union Company.” I did not forget this warning, and yet, throughout the years, I received nothing but friendliness from them, not only with regard to our very considerable freighting arrangements for cargoes from Australia and the Pacific coast, but also when we were in competition; firstly
Opihi was to sail, and one could not blame them for this. In the case of the Opouri to Greymouth, this would have been effective enough in keeping us down to a proportionate share of the trade but for the fact that this speedy little ship so quickly developed an express service of her own between the two ports. The Opihi did not possess this advantage in the run to Auckland and had to meet a more persistent attack from the ships, just before and after.
We had many friends among the shippers, and the contest was largely one of personal support against powerful business influences. I remember the manager of an Auckland firm, when explaining why he was not making shipments by the Opihi, saying quite frankly that his firm did considerable business with the Union Company and he must give them preference. Then there was a contest for cargo for transhipment at Auckland. We seemed to miss our share of these shipments, and so replied by freighting direct to Whangarei, the largest of the northern ports and to which the Opihi had to go to load cement. This was the last straw. It must have become obvious to the Union Company that so long as we could get a cargo of produce from Lyttelton, our own cement ensured back loading, and success for the ship. One day I received a letter from Mr. David Aiken, the General Manager of the Union Company, asking if I would come to Wellington to see him about the Opihi.
I sensed the purport of this invitation and went prepared for negotiations. A pleasant skirmishing conversation brought to the surface an offer to buy the Opihi. I felt I was in a strong position, but realize there were limits beyond which I could not go. The high price they had charged me for the hulk Lilla was now to react like a boomerang in our favour. The negotiations began in the old-fashioned way of the seller asking more than he expected to get, and the buyer beginning at a figure below that which he was prepared to pay. A new element in bargaining was soon in evidence when I found that Sir Charles Holdsworth sitting in his own adjoining room,
The Opihi continued to trade on the coast of New Zealand for another ten years and was then taken out into the middle of Cook Strait to be scuttled and become an addition to Davy Jones's locker.
And so ends the romantic story of a ship that came into being in a remarkable way and for a few years played a part that was to make her a somewhat distinguished tramp steamer and roamer of the seas.
The Opua was the fourth member of our family. She did not leave behind her a record comparable with that of her sister ships, Opouri, Orepuki and Opihi. She was always a bad buy, and it must be confessed that although the circumstances were different, I did not show the same judgment in the purchase of this vessel as with the others. It was at a time when we could not get ships to go to Port Craig to lift timber cargoes for the Dunedin and other markets, and few suitable steamers were then for sale.
I was now to learn my most severe lesson in ships and ship buying. The Government Surveyors were much more exacting than Lloyd's man had been. The repairs insisted upon cost several thousand pounds and this added considerably to an already high price, for ships were still scarce.
The Opua was a twin screw, light-draught vessel and not of such rugged structure as the Opouri and the Orepuki. With the former out of existence, the Opihi overseas and the Orepuki unable to cope with the trade offering between Greymouth and Lyttelton, and cement from Tarakohe, the Opua was transferred to this trade. She was a fine-looking ship, but could not show results equal to the others. Her light draught made her suitable for such harbours as Wanganui and Gisborne, and she made occasional voyages to these ports.
When the Otira Tunnel through the Southern Alps was completed, the effect upon shipping was felt immediately, for all timber and coal for Christchurch now came by rail. This forced our ships on to the North Island trade with timber cargoes. Their control and management became more difficult when Lyttelton ceased to be the regular terminus. Clearly our position in the shipping world was not as strong as it had been. The sale of the Opihi, and the price obtained, had sown a seed of thought in my mind and it was fortunate for us that it germinated while the price of ships was still high.
The Anchor Shipping Company of Nelson had of late felt our competition more than the Union Company, for, with the Golden Bay Cement Company again in operation, cement freights, previously carried by them to North Island ports, were now an important part of our carrying trade. The extension of our operations to such ports as New Plymouth and Wanganui made this more apparent. Mr. William Rogers, the Managing Director of the Anchor Company, was a man of whom I was very fond, and although many years my senior, had always treated me with the utmost courtesy, and showed no signs of being upset at our increasing competition. When he learned we were prepared to consider selling, he seized the opportunity and opened negotiations. As the freighting contracts for cement went with the ships I had something to bargain with.
I went to Wellington to meet Mr. Rogers and his Chairman, Mr. Cock. The interview was a repetition of the Opihi negotiations, except that Mr. Cock was present all the time. Two to one is not an easy position for the individual in negotiations, but we fought the position out on the question of values as they were at that time. The Anchor Company's new steamer had just arrived from the Old Country and knowing the fabulous price they paid for her, it will be seen that this knowledge was a help.
We came to terms and I think both parties were satisfied; we got a good price, and they got two good ships and a connection that made their company stronger than it had been for many a day. Reese Brothers were appointed their Lyttelton and Christchurch agents.
The Orepuki became one of their best ships, but in little more than a year the Opua, in foggy weather, ran ashore between
This concludes the tale of four steamers that for a few short years played a small but virile part in the history of New Zealand's coastal shipping. It also brings to an end the story of how an engineering career that was seemingly cast aside, was later to prove its value and be made use of in a manner never dreamed of when at the parting of the ways; little did I think that some day I would become my own Superintendent, and have so many engineering problems to deal with in our sawmilling ventures. The experience I gained with Howard Smiths in Melbourne, and my three and a half years at sea, proved invaluable. A seafaring man who is given the opportunity of seeing the world must often find opportunities ashore such as presented themselves to me.
The sawmilling industry has passed through many ups and downs in New Zealand. In its earliest years, mills were owned by individuals who had moved up from the ranks. With their practical knowledge they had, within certain limits, been able to manage their own affairs and cope with the growing demand that came from a population that was ever increasing. At first a standard mill produced an output of approximately one million feet per annum, if worked full-handed. For the most part they were worked single-handed; that is, the men from the breaking-down bench, after cutting the log into flitches, moved over to the breast bench to cut into boards and scantlings. These two benches represented the total sawing plant. The bush was always handy to the mills. In Southland and Auckland bullocks were used to haul the logs; when the length of this haul increased, a wooden tram-line was laid and horse-drawn trucks took the logs to the mill. Many concerns were of the most primitive nature, yet, though they pulled and hauled and sawed in a manner that would be considered old-fashioned to-day, they nevertheless maintained the output necessary to supply the needs of every district.
At the time of the formation of the Marlborough Timber Company, with its mills at Opouri Valley, a limited number of sawmilling companies were already operating in different parts of the country. The day of the bullocks had passed, and horses were fast disappearing. The introduction of steam log-haulers, steam locomotives and more modern mill plants now involved much greater capital expenditure.
It was this fact, more than any other, that hastened the formation of combined company interests, for only they and the successful sawmiller of the past were able to keep up with the increased expenditure required. The mills Craig erected in Opouri Valley were already an advance in the way of improved methods of production. The old-fashioned saw benches had
Timberman, one of America's best industrial magazines. Over the years he had read of the development of modern sawmill practice and logging operations.
The building of an extra mill in the Opouri Valley shortened the life of our operations there and in a time that was all too short, we began to look for another area of bush. We were now strongly established on the different markets, and planned an enterprise on a bigger scale. In anticipation of more modern plant in the mills that we would build, it was decided to send Craig to America and Canada to see the industry at work on the Pacific coast. He came back with immense enthusiasm for the methods Americans and Canadians had developed to such a high state of efficiency. He became a convert to the overhead logging system, and was able to tell a tale of operations the like of which we had never dreamed. We all became enthusiasts for the building of a mill such as was now outlined by Craig. He told us many delightful stories of the kindness of the Americans and Canadians and how they went out of their way to show him everything that could be of interest.
We had now to find an area of bush worthy of the mill we would build. Craig visited Wairoa in Hawkes Bay to inspect an area of freehold bush on the banks of the Mohaka River, in which Cornelius, my brother-in-law, was interested. The bush was splendid, but there appeared to be no way of getting the timber to the markets on which we operated, for the Mohaka River was not navigable and Wairoa a shallow draught harbour. Next, a property on the shores of West Haven Harbour, at the extreme north-west of the South Island, and a little south of Farewell Spit, was inspected. This was originally a large area of forest, but several small mills had already nibbled here and there and spoilt what was an otherwise ideal place for our combined timber and shipping interests: it was now too far encroached upon to fulfil our requirements.
Shortly after this we learnt of a very large area in the
For two weeks we explored the territory. The country proved to be an enormous area of bush that ran back into the hills behind our camp, along the coast to Sand Hill Point, about five miles to the south, and from there, in a westerly direction, beyond the Wairaurahiri River, towards Preservation Inlet. Lake Hauroto, more than twenty miles long, the source of this fast-flowing river, lies some twenty-five miles inland and as the best tracts of mixed bush covered extensive milling areas on both sides of the river, and around the lake, the amount of timber available may be imagined. We estimated that there were more than five hundred million feet of timber, including a considerable percentage of beech. This staggering figure fired our imaginations, and we began to plan for the future. The only anxiety at that time appeared to be the harbour facilities; our first intention was to build a breakwater that would give protection to steamers of the size of the Opouri, and load the bigger ships from lighters in the bay.
I was en route to Australia when this first inspection was carried out, and Craig came with me, making his first visit to the Commonwealth. We left from the Bluff and on the first afternoon out, as the Manuka steamed along the south coast, were able to get a good view through field-glasses of the country we had so recently explored.
When we told our timber friends on the other side about
On returning to Christchurch we had a number of meetings to discuss the proposition. It was decided that we should all go down to inspect the place. It was a big party, and all went in holiday spirit. We took the train to Invercargill, and then on by rail again to Tuatapere. There we hired conveyances to drive us to the coast and along the beach to Bluecliffs, a distance of about ten miles. The last leg of the journey was through the surf in a flat-bottomed surf boat to a launch waiting to take us to Mussel Beach. It was as though the vendors of the bush had put on a special treat for us for, although it was mid-winter, we experienced perfect weather and crossed the bay in a sea calm enough for a rowing boat.
We pitched tents and soon learned who were the good housekeepers. Richard Scott, our Chairman, who was used to camping out, was champion—as the Geordies say—at managing affairs at cooking and meal times, and although we had our two batmen he was the real chef. Fish was plentiful, and with so many birds in the bush, we again fed as Craig, Collins and I had a few months earlier. A warm gulf stream runs through Foveaux Strait and gives Stewart Island the temperate climate for which it is noted; it also affected Mussel Beach and gave it a climate much wanner than other parts of Southland. Tucked away in the corner of Te Wae Wae Bay, it was sheltered from the sou'west winds, which made it a peaceful spot.
The inspection of the bush was cursory, but pleasant. Most of the party were past middle age and a walk as far as Sand Hill Point was enough, though some went farther afield. We spent a week in this camp. The walks, the weather, the tucker and merry camp life were a real tonic to men used to a city life. The success at Pelorus Sound had made everyone an optimist so far as sawmilling was concerned, and Craig's considered judgment of the place was sufficient to convince all that here was a place that our sons would be able to carry on for many a day.
On our return along the beach we again stopped at “Kelly's Pub,” discovered on the outward journey by Peter Graham and John Greig; this was a wonderful little waterfall from a spring above that gave ice-cold water as clear as crystal. As these old Scotsmen were of a generation when flasks were carried in the hip pocket the brightness of the “morning tea” party may be imagined.
It was now decided to take up options on four thousand acres of bush surrounding Mussel Beach. This would have the immediate effect of locking up all the areas of bush in the back country, most of which were native lands. It could hardly be called deliberate “gridironing,” for Mussel Beach was the only suitable port for the whole district.
Craig always stayed with me when he came to Christchurch, and after the decision to proceed with the scheme we spent days and nights planning—always planning and estimating. My wife used to say we were crazy and laughingly asked, “Can't you talk anything but sawmills?”
At last all was decided and orders placed for the sawmill plant. The total cost was enormous compared with the more primitive New Zealand saw benches and log-haulers, but this modern machinery was estimated to reduce considerably the cost of sawing and logging. For the mill, we decided upon a complete plant from the Sumner Iron Works of Everett, U.S.A., and for the bush, the Lidgerwood Overhead Logging Plant; these had impressed Craig as being best on the Pacific coast.
With our Nydia Bay mills nearing the cutting out of the bush, it was decided to transfer one mill to Mussel Beach to be used for sawing the timber required for the building of the big mill and all houses, stores, and huts, as well as the dance hall and billiard room that were to make up this new sawmill village. Away went Craig, full of zeal and enthusiasm for the great undertaking he had in hand. Always a tremendous worker, he was now to work harder than ever before. In the middle forties, he was in the prime of life.
The work progressed rapidly, although at times a shortage of labour made our manager very impatient, for he was always working against the clock. At last he advised us that the small mill would be cutting timber on the following Friday. The day after I had returned to Christchurch from salvaging the wrecked Opouri at Greymouth we received a wire from the south which
Surf Boat Washed up on Beach Craig and Parry Missing.” Our hearts were chilled and the worst feared, for what else could the wire mean, but that Craig and the boatman had been drowned. As the southern express left at mid-day, I just had time to ring my wife to pack my bag, and she was down in time for me to catch the express for Dunedin. Mr. Norman Heath, the New Zealand representative for Cooke's wire ropes, with whom we did much business, was in my office when the telegram came to hand, and kindly offered to come with me. At Dunedin I hired a car and we travelled all night over the same route taken little more than a month earlier when racing north to the wreck of the Opouri.
We arrived at Tuatapere at day-break and on reaching the beach found a heavy sea, backed by a southerly gale, dashing up on the foreshore where numbers of our men were patrolling. During the night the launch had broken away from her mooring and was being pounded by the breakers as she lay broadside on to the sea. The surf boat above high water mark, the launch lying helplessly in the rough sea, and the anxious expressions on the faces of the watchers, left little doubt in our minds that the worst had happened. It is perhaps idle conjecture to try to piece together the events that caused the tragedy. On my previous visit to the mill I had said to the boatman, “What would happen if you were thrown into the water with those gumboots on?” Parry, the best boatman in the district, laughed and said that would never happen to him.
The story may briefly be told. The small mill was completed and ready to get steam up. Craig had ordered a hand pump to fill the boiler, but bad weather had delayed the small cargo steamer that traded to our mill settlement. Becoming impatient, Craig telephoned, ordering the pump to be railed to Tuatapere to catch the wagon that maintained a connection with the mill by carting along the beach to the launch that ran across the bay from Bluecliff.
All went well until the cart reached the Waikoau River which was in flood. The carter decided to lighten his load before attempting to cross the swollen stream. As bad luck would have it, and not knowing how anxious Craig was to get the pump, he took it out and left it on the bank. When the launch arrived at the mill Craig was on the wharf to meet it. He was distressed and angry!, It would have been easy, if slow,
Off they went. After the departure of the launch the wind freshened and some of the men told me that they watched with anxious eyes the progress of the small craft when crossing the bay. Knowing the Waikoau was in flood and the pump lying on the far bank, they apparently decided to go straight to the river mouth and land through the surf of the open beach. This was frequently done in a calm sea, but white tops were showing by the time they reached their destination.
That is all we know of the story, but there is evidence sufficient to piece together events leading to the happening. Craig's boots were found above high water mark, and it is surmised that when he saw Parry in difficulties, as he would be with his gumboots on, he returned to the surf to try and save his boatman. When, in due course, the bodies were washed ashore, it was found that Parry had managed to discard one gumboot only. It is possible to picture the scene of these two men bravely fighting for their lives and making desperate efforts to get rid of the waterlogged gumboot that stood between life and death for them both. Additional light is thrown upon the character of Craig when it is said that a well-worn copy of the New Testament was found in his pocket.
This tragedy of the sea was to cast a gloom over our saw-milling township. In John Craig we lost a very dear friend, as well as a manager of outstanding ability. He was one of New Zealand's foremost men in the sawmilling industry.
We were now to learn how difficult it was to find a successor to Craig. First one manager, then another, then a third was tried, but the job proved too big for them.
In the midst of our dilemma we were to suffer another cruel blow. Less than a year after Ketch at anchor ready to cross the bay to Riverton where there was a hospital. He died three days later. James Craig, like his brother, was a fine character; his courage in this moment of anguish will ever be remembered.
The machinery from America was now arriving and the work of landing it on the site was a task of some magnitude. We hired a ten ton crane from the Timaru Harbour Board and this, stationed on the wharf, was able to handle most of the heavy lifts from the lighters. It was impossible to handle the boilers in this way; these had to be put over the ship's side into the sea. Although the tubes were plugged, there was very little buoyancy, and they looked like submarines when being towed ashore to the little sandy beach where they were rolled above high water mark.
But the all-important work was to get the big mill erected and the tram-lines laid into the bush. The first five miles of this line had to cut across the lay of the country, and this meant numerous cuttings, many of them through rocky points of the spurs that fanned out to the foreshore. Round Sand Hill Point two expensive bridges had to be built; one of them across a deep gully, at the bottom of which ran a stream one hundred and twenty feet below.
Even before the building of these bridges we had become anxious about the management of the place. The control of a settlement of a hundred men, many of them with wives and families, called for a man with wider experience and qualifications than are required of the ordinary mill manager. The construction part of the job was big enough without the responsibility of providing the amenities and services that were required to make the people happy and contented. The Sumner Iron Works of America had sent to us a man named Wright to plan the mill on the site and work in the alterations Craig had
We then appointed
I have referred to Bob Lamb's habit of swearing, for it was a habit and always liable to occur in ordinary conversation. With Daly it was different, for it was only when angered that he burst into “song.” Then he could be heard for miles around. An Irishman's flashing anger is over in a moment and no one took umbrage at what he said. His friends told a good story of his young days, when, working with his father on a bridge contract, Daly junior struck his thumb with a hammer and then let go with a flow of profanity that shocked his father who rebuked him with a pious reference to his church, but Peter, still suffering pain, yelled back, “To hell with the Pope!”
Daly's management and capacity for construction work was soon to restore order out of chaos. He also tackled the liquor question in resolute fashion. Just as at Nydia Bay, we found there was a sly grog seller on every ship that came into the port. It mattered not whether it was a Monday or a Friday when the ship sailed, there was bound to be a carousal in the settlement that night. It was not an easy matter to smuggle ashore unnoticed, say, a crate or a keg of beer; on the other hand, it was easy to manage bottles of whisky. The result was that men used to drinking beer would soon feel the effects of taking spirits. Some would become merry and bright and want to sing, others turned sullen and quarrelsome. Inevitably the end would be laughter and song, sometimes turning to fights that resulted in black eyes and bleeding noses. Next morning several men would be absent from work Daly watched this happen several times and then decided to act. Calling the men together he announced in characteristic manner that these drinking bouts had to stop. He threatened to sack any man on the spot and
This system remained over the years at Port Craig, and proved to be a successful way of handling what is often a difficult problem. Apart from illustrating
The men now worked better, and we moved on towards our goal. But the hand of Fate still hovered over us, for another fatal accident was to fill us with grief. The launch was going over to Bluecliff to meet the wagon and bring back stores. The tide was unsuited for carrying the goods along the short stretch of beach from the cart to the landing stage; so that both launchmen could do this work, young Basil Cox, in his middle teens, a son of our head yardman, was sent to help them. The launch had been anchored a short distance away and the surf boat moored close to the overhanging landing stage which was reached by a rope ladder. A rope from the stern of the boat was then attached to the landing stage. When the men went away to get the stores they left young Cox to look after the boat
Was there to be no end to this sequence of tragic happenings that had so sorely distressed us and cost the lives of four men? It was as though there was a hoodoo over the place. Men began to be scared to make the trip in the launch and surf boat and later many preferred to go by the timber steamer to the Bluff across the stretch of rough sea in Foveaux Strait.
We had now passed through a period that was full of anxiety and sadness. The progress of the work had suffered in consequence, but was now sufficiently advanced for the installation of the machinery. The Sumner Iron Works sent out a man named Wilder. He could beat Daly at swearing, but many of his expressions grated on one's ears, for he was continuously blasphemous. His sense of humour was his saving grace.
Next came Markey, sent out to break in our team to the working of this American plant. He was a quiet man with a pleasant, genial nature, and was to prove the butt of many of Wilder's jokes. All his front teeth were heavily stopped with gold fillings. One day Wilder said, “Shut your gob, Markey, or someone'll rob you!”
Wilder facetiously called our logs “tooth picks”; they were certainly smaller than some of the Pacific coast timbers that grow to such height and girth. He was a great raconteur, and told amazing stories of his experiences in Burma, where he was sent to erect an American sawmill plant. His stories of tigers and snakes were lurid—even frightening. He always painted with a heavy brush and his colouring and filling in of details often held his audience spell-bound.
We were now nearing the completion of the job, but worries other than fatal accidents were now looming ahead. As in the early days of Nydia Bay, the strain on our resources became very great and a darkened horizon was warning of an approaching storm; first it seemed a long way off as we crowded on sail to finish. The long delay in completing the work, and the
Shortly after Daly had taken over the management, he expressed to me some doubt about the possibility of the expenditure being kept within the bounds required to make the undertaking a financial success. As he had not traversed the back country as Craig and I had at the outset, I suggested he should see what was behind the venture and what had made Craig plan so boldly. Taking a bushmen with us, we went away around Sand Hill Point and spent many days in the bush. On our return to Port Craig—the new name given to the place in memory of our late manager—we spent a day climbing to the trig station where, from a height of 1,500 feet, there was a wonderful view in every direction. As we stood and looked down on the terraces along the south coast and saw the miles of bush country extending far beyond that which we had just traversed, Daly turned to me and said, “Now you can spend your damn money!”
This view from the trig station was always an inspiration to us and more than anything else maintained the fixed determination of everyone to see the job through. All my co-directors were from ten to twenty years my senior, so we had plenty of sage judgment on our side. No one ever suggested giving up; all found additional money when required, although the heaviest load fell on Reese Brothers.
It was about this time that I first met, at the Midland Hotel, Wellington, Mr. H. A. Massey, the foremost sawmiller of Southland. He at once wished to discuss Port Craig, for some years earlier he had taken up the same bush area, but allowed the licence to lapse on account of the difficulties and estimated expense of establishing mills there. After lunch one day he asked me if I would accompany him to the Lands Office to look at the plans of the district. Having been to the place, he knew all about the work involved. After studying the contour
A seemingly far-fetched, but authentic story, which illustrates his nearness in money matters, is told of his negotiations for the stabling of a pony he had purchased for his young sons. He approached the owner of nearby stables and asked a price for stabling, feeding and grooming the horse.
“A pound a week,” replied the stableman.
“Tut tut!” said Mr. Massey, using an exclamation he was noted for.
Fifteen shillings was the next offer, but another “Tut tut!” reduced it a further five shillings, for the stable owner received much patronage from Mr. Massey and did not wish to fall out with his valued client.
After completing the arrangement, the winner of the deal walked away, then turned back and said, “Oh, about the manure from the pony—I would like you to save it for my garden.”
By this time the stableman had overcome any feelings of servility and apparently thinking it was now his turn, said quite seriously, “Oh, Mr. Massey, at ten shillings a week there won't be any manure!”
Mr. Massey, in his interview with me, was most persistent in his enquiries about Port Craig. He said he would call and see me in Christchurch on his way back to Southland. A week later he called, and I was surprised at his resuming the role of interrogator and asking many pertinent questions about our enterprise in the south. When I replied that our operations could not in any way be a threat to his interests, he answered, rather wistfully, I thought, that he once owned eight sawmills in Southland and all were now cut out except two. This meant he would be entirely out of the sawmilling industry in a few
He left in a happy frame of mind. He was still to be the Timber King of Southland! It was arranged that he would catch our little steamer Oreti, leaving Invercargill on Saturday. On Thursday we received a wire from our agent, saying Mr. Massey wished to take his wife with him—could we arrange accommodation? On Saturday morning we received another wire from our Invercargill agent. It read as follows: “Mr. Massey Died Suddenly Last Night.” And so ended negotiations that might have meant much to the Marlborough Timber Company. As Mr. Massey left an estate valued at half a million, it will be realised what accession of strength would have been added to our sawmilling company had he lived to carry out what he wished, and obviously intended to do.
Fate had dealt us heavy blows, but now seemed determined that assistance would be forthcoming. It came in a manner of approach only slightly less direct than that of Mr, Massey. It was not long after this that my old cricket friend
By this time Sims, Cooper & Company had become a powerful force in the frozen meat export business, as well as in wool, with enormous interests not only in New Zealand but also in Australia and in England. Sims, always venturesome,
With Sims, Cooper & Company, and
Now I was to see at close range the amazing qualities possessed by this genius of commerce, the greatest we have had in this country. The work could now race ahead, speed was essential. It was like one of our old cricket partnerships, but this time Sims was the attacking batsman. Experience in the control of Freezing Works had taught him the effect that turnover had upon overhead charges. The excessive cost of the whole venture now called for a greater output than that on which we had based our original estimates. Additional plant would be required for this. “Put it in,” says Sims. A bigger locomotive would be needed to cope with heavier loads and longer distances. “Buy one.” It will thus be seen what driving force our new partners brought into the concern.
The last big job was the building of loading arrangements on the wharf to convey the timber to ships lying off-shore. In our earliest planning Craig and I had sat on the terrace above and studied the little bay that was to be our harbour. Craig turned to me and said, “What a pity we couldn't convey the timber to the ship with an arrangement similar to the Lidger-wood method of bringing logs in from the bush.” It was obvious to both of us that in the swell of the sea, a ship's mast would not be steady enough to keep the main cable taut and always clear of the water below. We finally came to the conclusion that for big ships, loading by lighters was the only way. We planned accordingly.
At the time we were completing the work at Port Craig there came to New Zealand four jolly American lumbermen, representing the great Californian Redwood Export Company. As Reese Brothers were their representatives in Christchurch I saw a good deal of them. An evening of billiards at my home was a merry party. I showed them around our city and introduced
“Yes,” I replied, “I understand that somewhere on the Pacific coast there is a mill that loads timber by wire rope into a ship lying off-shore. Could you find out for me how it is done?”
Mr. Cochran burst out laughing, slapped me on the shoulder and said, “That's at our mill, my boy!” and named the place on the coast. “I sure will send you plans and photographs of the loading operations.”
In due course they arrived. One glance at the illustrations and I saw the single point missing from Craig's conception of utilizing the Lidgerwood logging system. Instead of the main cable being attached to the mainmast, it went through a strong block on the far side derrick and away to a heavy mooring in the sea. The ship could thus roll or surge backwards and forwards from its moorings, while the main cable remained taut and always over the centre of the ship's hatch. I was thrilled with this information. The rest was simple, for in Daly we had a man who was most capable in planning anything in connection with machinery. He erected a tower on the wharf, installed at its foot a log-hauling winch, and combined with it a friction winch to control the hauling of the carriage that ran on the main cable to and from the ship. It was all very well done. A heavy mooring, like a mushroom anchor, was made of concrete, with pointed railway rails cast in and protruding, to ensure its holding fast on the papa sea-bed. This never failed us in holding the wire rope.
Now we were ready to load. There was great excitement when the first big ship came in to try out the scheme. Some of the sea captains were very timid about their ship being trussed up to moorings when so near the shore. The Union Company sent one of their best skippers for this trial shipment. Great care was taken in getting the ship held in position. After dropping anchor, she backed away and mooring lines were then taken to buoys anchored on the port and starboard sides, both fore and aft. The ship was thus like the centre figure in the five of diamonds. Up went the sling of timber to the top of the tower, to be hooked on to the carriage, and there was a cheer from the shore as this first parcel of timber raced towards
There was but one hitch in this first day's operations; the hauling rope, being only five-eighths of an inch in diameter, would swing about like a whip and coil round the main cable. At night one could see sparks flying as the ropes rubbed together. But Daly was not easily beaten. By the simple process of making this rope run through blocks attached to a guy that led it slightly off the line of the main cable there was no further trouble. There was now no limit to the size of coastal steamers that could load. The Union Company sent in three and four thousand ton vessels that would load up to half a million feet of timber for Auckland or Wellington and then call at ports en route to complete their loading with produce and general cargo.
We were now under way. The output climbed higher and reached three-quarters of a million a month; the record being 769,000 in May, 1928. This was the largest output of any sawmill in New Zealand and was a tribute to the machinery of the Sumner Iron Works. Nothing like the “shot gun” feed saw-bench had been seen in this country before.
The marketing of this huge output took me to many parts of New Zealand. We were more firmly entrenched on the North Island markets than in Otago and Southland, where merchants seemed able to buy from inland mills at less than “list” rates. One day I learned that the old-established business of McCullum & Company was for sale; their main business in Dunedin had branch yards in Oamaru and Invercargill. This firm had a fine reputation, but was being undermined by virile competition. When I told Sims about the business being on the market, he said, “Come back and see me in a week's time.” Realizing the interlocking strength that absorption would give to the Marlborough Timber Company, he finally said, “Buy it.” His friends, the Baillieus of Melbourne, who had asked for an opinion on West Haven, now came in with him in this southern venture. This well-known Melbourne family was a powerful and influential force in the Australian financial world. They found half the additional money required to enable the Marlborough Company to purchase McCallum's business; Sims, Cooper & Company found the other half. By this deal we reached the peak of our success. The work over these years had been marked by ups and downs reminiscent of some of the great business concerns established in the earliest years of colonizing efforts in this Dominion. We now set sail in search of the success we all thought would be ours, and to which we seemed entitled. Timber was in great demand, the country was prosperous, and the future looked bright indeed. Any survey of what was thought to lie ahead encouraged confidence.
Then came the economic blizzard that was to sweep the business of the whole world off its feet. There was no falling barometer, no low reading of the glass to give warning of an approaching storm. It came like a cloud-burst out of a blue sky. Fortunes were lost overnight, old-established firms staggered to keep their feet. The overseas market for meat, wool, butter and cheese fell at an appalling rate and reached a disastrous figure. People were bewildered, discouraged and distressed.
What chance had our sawmilling company in the face of such circumstances? Many mills closed down. Disintegration is a natural sequence when associations are unable to ensure to members a fair division of trade. Millers began to break
I remember Craig saying, when he returned from America, that a shrewd old sawmiller had told him that in a trade depression it was the small mill that fixed the price. How true this was to prove during the slump in New Zealand. Overhead costs can be cared for only by a proportionate turnover. Without the latter, the big company mills are worse off than smaller ones operated by a working owner. There became no alternative but for Port Craig to close down, for our financial obligations were very heavy and the mill could not be run at a loss, for we had relied too much upon the bank, to whom security had been given as well as guarantees. Reconstruction was inevitable. It was a crash comparable with that of the great Huon Timber Company in Tasmania, when so much English capital was lost. There, too, it was the small mill that got down to a price at which the big company, without a reasonable turnover, could not operate.
We were in a dilemma and knew not what to do. The bank remained patient and considerate and left us to make our own decision. The slump continued and something had to be done. The fall of the Marlborough Timber Company affected the affairs of the Forest Sawmilling Company in Westland with which the former had interlocking capital arrangements. Finally, Sims said that our group had better save what it could from the West Coast mill, and he would take over Port Craig and McCallums'. The write-off of capital and payment of guarantees was but a passing phase with Sims and his group, for they were all wealthy men, but for the rest of us it was a severe blow. Reese Brothers, with the most shares and biggest guarantees, felt it most, but our banker stuck to us like a trusted friend.
The depression lasted for years. At the first sign of revival, Sims opened up Port Craig, but the market had not fully recovered and he closed it down again, never to be reopened. On the other hand, the merchant business of McCallums' prospered and to a considerable extent compensated for the sawmill losses. There is irony in the fact that under present-day conditions, with the greatest timber boom this country has ever experienced, Port Craig could be successfully contributing to the supply of timber so urgently required. As the
I have quoted Lord Leverhulme's forecast of the immediate future of the tallow market. An equally classic example of great men misreading the future is to be found in the decisions made by Hirsch, a man of many parts and an American millionaire of outstanding capacity who had made his great fortune from trading in Brazilian diamonds, rubber and pelts. He owned a great rubber plantation in Brazil. When on a visit to England he was offered three million dollars for his plantation, but refused. By the time he got back to America the bottom had fallen out of the rubber market and his trees were not worth one million dollars. As the market slumped further, he pulled out all his rubber trees and planted coffee. When the latter crop had reached the stage of supplying a world that apparently wanted coffee, the bottom fell out of the coffee market! One would need second sight to be able to anticipate such happenings.
In this tale of venture and adventure, I must include a story that is good enough for Punch. After the drowning of young Basil Cox, an inquest was held at Tuatapere, the nearest town. The principal witness was the man in charge of the launch; he was a big Maori named Wakapere, against whom I had played football when he was a member of Uru's team. The local newspaper, in a report of the case, referred to Wakapere as a “Master Mariner.” The sawmill village was tickled over this title given to our boatman. His wife and family were as thrilled as though an honour had been conferred upon him. A week later, the school-master at Port Craig gave a talk on shipwrecks, and told his pupils some stirring stories of the sea. At the end of the lesson he asked the class if anyone could explain what a marine disaster was. Wakapere's young son was in the class and up went the little Maori boy's hand. “Please sir, my father is a marine disaster!”
As I approach the end of this chapter, it may be fitting to tell one more story; it was told me by one of my American friends. We should all have heard it before we went into the Port Craig venture.
A pioneer farmer in the Middle West was clearing his land of forest. He had erected a small sawmill and sold timber to neighbouring farmers. One day he was visited by an old friend who also had bush lands. The visitor at once saw the possibilities that would be open to him if he had a sawmill plant on his farm. He eagerly sought information and sent a wire to the makers, asking for a quotation for a plant similar to that supplied to his friend. Next day, back came the answer, “One Hundred and Fifty Thousand Dollars.” He did not take long to decide and drove across to the country post office to send the following reply: “If A Fellow Has a Hundred and Fifty Thousand Dollars What the Hell Does He Want With A Sawmill?”
I have endeavoured to tell a plain story of an enterprise that called for courage and determination. It is not intended to be a hard luck story. It is true that we suffered grievous setbacks, but we also made many mistakes; we underestimated the cost, we miscalculated the time it would take to complete the work, our judgment was sometimes at fault. It will thus be seen that we made the openings for Fate to deal out her heavy blows. There was one satisfaction; we saw it through to the end. One day Mr. Peter Graham, the oldest and dearest soul among us, said to me, “Well, Dan, I'm glad we didn't give up before the job was completed.”
Intimate friends associated in business enjoy to the full all the success they may win. It is not always possible to maintain an unbroken front of friendship in the face of defeat and disaster. It was an outstanding feature of our failure to succeed that no one upbraided the other; all shared in the responsibility, as all shared the heavy losses suffered. That Sims and his partner were good losers is illustrated in Arthur Cooper's remark to me, when he said: “Now, you mustn't think you can carry a broken market on your shoulders.” What we regretted most was the fact that the Baillieus of Melbourne did not get a run for their money, for they were no sooner in than the whirlwind of trade depression toppled over a venture that deserved a better fate.
And so, in this southernmost part of New Zealand, there still remain these many millions of feet of timber that await the axe and the saw of the pioneer. It is unlikely that another big mill will be erected in place of the one that promised to be
As a supplement to the story of Port Craig, some reference to the Tongariro Block should perhaps be made. This was the name of a huge area of splendid bush situated just north of Mount Tongariro and on the western shores of Lake Taupo, containing a high percentage of totara and matai, the most valuable timbers in New Zealand, excepting kauri. The land belonged to the Maoris. A twelve months' option, held by a London Syndicate, had expired and the bush was offered to us. Owing to the difficulty of connecting this area with the railway there were few competitors. Sims and Cooper thought we had better have a look at it; the reason was that although Port Craig was in full stride and the markets were absorbing the total output, there was always the danger of the North Island sawmillers again being able to meet the big demand in the northern cities and towns for heart timber. South Island mills could supply only a small percentage of heart, so when the millers of the north were able to stipulate that a buyer must take his full percentage of other grades of timber, they dominated the market. Given heart totara and matai, the Marlborough Timber Company, with its rimu supplies from Port Craig, would have become unassailable at all the seaports, for it was here, with a single sea freight, that we would meet the inland miller at his most extended transport position.
In 1927 the Hon, W. A. Watt, ex-Premier of Victoria, representing the Baillieu interests, came over from Australia, and Arthur Cooper and I met him at Wellington, where we were joined by Captain Mclntosh Ellis, Director of Forestry in New Zealand, who had undertaken to show us over the areas; he brought with him his leading forester, while Woolsey Allen, a well-known Auckland sawmiller, met us at Taupo.
We camped at Tokaanu, at the southern end of the lake, and slept in a big Maori whare. Next morning, all. mounted on horseback, we left like a team of Australian stockmen going into the back country. I had not previously seen the pumice lands of the. North Island, and its effect upon the growth of bush was surprising; instead of being a tract of solid bush—
Impressed with the possibilities we left for Waimarino, then on to Kakahi, the station on the main trunk line where the mills would most likely be built. Looked at from this end, it was at once obvious that a railway line into the bush would absorb a considerable portion of the capital expenditure, which was estimated to run into several hundred thousand pounds. I must confess that having surmounted the early difficulties of Port Craig by such a narrow margin, I had some misgivings about facing a new venture of such magnitude, but Sims, Cooper,
Convinced that this, one of the few remaining big areas of totara and matai forest in New Zealand, was worth exploiting, our party returned to Wellington to take up the option and to have the whole scheme thoroughly gone into. Imagine our surprise and disappointment when we learned that the London Syndicate had asked for, and, on payment of another substantial deposit, been granted a renewal of their option.
The depression came before much work could have been done, but had we taken up the areas, the annual payment of timber royalites over the slump years would have reached a considerable sum. The rise in bush values after the depression to a figure higher than in 1927 would, of course, have more than cared for these early payments, while the subsequent boom in timber, now greater than ever, would have ensured the successful development of the undertaking, but I felt that, for some of us at any rate, Fate, this time, was on our side when she placed the option on Tongariro beyond our reach.
After these sketches of Nydia Bay and Port Craig the story of a third sawmilling venture may not prove as interesting, yet, when the tale is unfolded, it will be seen that here, too, there were difficulties to overcome.
When nearing the end of our operations in the Opouri Valley, our old friend James Jack, the head of the firm of Jack Brothers, asked me if we would be prepared to join them and the Nyberg brothers, who, in order to protect their flanks from rival sawmilling interests, had built a mill at Nelson Creek. This was intended to prevent a wedge being driven between the holdings of Jack Brothers and the Lake Brunner Sawmilling Company, in the latter of which the Nybergs were partners. From this Nelson Creek mill they had been hauling the sawn timber by road with a steam traction engine. The road was getting cut up, and the County Council took out an injunction against their using the highway. The only alternative was to lay a tramway line from the mill to Ngahere, a distance of about seven miles. The building of this line, plus the cost of a locomotive and timber trucks, as well as a yard at Ngahere, was beyond the purses of Jack Brothers and the Nybergs. After examining the proposition and getting our
The Forest Sawmilling Company, thus extended, became a substantial concern. As Ngahere is the Maori word for forest, the company was well named. James Jack became manager, although he still had some responsibilities with regard to Jack Brothers. For a while the Forest Company prospered; the bush was close to the mill and James Jack was a forceful manager of the old type. However, it later became evident that the joint arrangement was not a satisfactory one to either party. Jack's appointment had been for a term of five years and at the end of this period he decided to return and manage his own mills.
At this time William Brownlee, already the principal shareholder in the Lake Brunner Sawmilling Company, bought out the interests of the Nybergs and became sole proprietor. This change created an extraordinary situation; the Nybergs' sole sawmilling interests were now in the Forest Company and John Nyberg succeeded James Jack as manager. We thus automatically became the wedge between Jack Brothers and the Lake Brunner Company which the Forest Company was formed to prevent, but regretted that circumstances had again made us rivals of the fine old man with whom we had contested for bush in the Opouri Valley. This situation could not be helped, for we had now become the principal shareholders in the Forest Company and had to keep finding more and more money to complete the erection of a second mill.
It was not long before this rivalry made itself felt, for the back country bush areas were valuable, and on them depended the life of our respective mills. Soon we were racing along with the laying of tram-lines; they did the same. When the workmen of the Forest and Lake Brunner Companies met in the bar of the country pub, there was banter and chaff about who would get there first. The whole atmosphere was one of rivalry and competition. Both parties were adversely affected by this unreasonable contest, but nevertheless the fight continued.
Nyberg's term of management sped along with much expansion and much work done, but no dividends came from the very considerable quantities of timber produced. He was of the old school and did not appreciate the value of team-work.
Coming from Sweden in the 'nineties, they told many amusing stories of him and his brother Emil, when they were learning to speak English. There has always been a shortage of trucks on the West Coast when extra shipping is in port. This often greatly inconvenienced the sawmillers when their timber skids became fully loaded. The Railway Traffic Manager was not to be envied during these periods, for his telephone would ring all day. Once, when Nyberg rang him, only to get the same old answer, the irate Swede yelled back into the receiver, “Send us the bloody veels and ve'll make ze trucks!”
Nyberg's son-in-law, John Becker, now took over the management, but had not been long in charge when the trade
It was found that only six out of forty odd mills were now selling on the East Coast market where most cutting of prices took place. Several other mills were still shipping timber to the Wellington market. Nine only of the millers on the coast met to attempt to work out a scheme. There is nothing like adverse conditions and hard times to make people 'umble, as Uriah Heep said. We met in friendly but chastened spirit. The trade of the past twelve months was taken as an estimate of the immediate future turnover, and the capacity of the different
We began on that basis. We raised the price by sixpence a hundred feet only, for we knew that any substantial increase would stir the closed mills into activity and reduce the already small proportion of cutting provided for each mill. Greymouth had always been the centre of control of previous Associations, but there had developed a rivalry between the milling interests of that district and those in the Hokitika area, and the meeting decided that we should make Christchurch the headquarters, for several of the larger milling companies had their head offices here. I was elected chairman, and A. O. Wilkinson, a well-known public accountant, appointed secretary. We met once a month. This proved to be the beginning of a remarkable illustration of what a group of men can do, provided there is trust and goodwill. Knowing the part that mistrust had played in smashing previous associations, I stipulated, on taking the chair, that there were to be no inner councils and that every member was to know all that was going on; this proved a wise policy and did more than anything else to make members trust each other.
The rise of even sixpence caused another mill to start. We brought him in to get his share of the market. Another small rise and two more mills reopened and came in under our umbrella. Although these extra mills affected the turnover of the first members, the price still held. Fortunately, trade improved, and soon all mills were in operation again. There is a minimum turnover below which no mill can operate; we had several small millers whose proportion of the trade brought them below this minimum. We gave them a little more at the expense of the big mills. These men now knew we were genuine in our desire for fair play all round, and trusted us implicitly. It was a splendid spirit that prompted the big fellows to agree to this disbursement of extra cutting. It was also a remarkable achievement to have a body of men held so firmly together without any rules to bind them.
The interests of the industry were as jealously guarded as self-interests. There was only one clear understanding—one out, all out. There could be no runaway mill now. We left each miller to sell his own timber, and thus maintain his own connection, but he was not permitted to exceed the quantities allotted
The advantages of getting to know one another are to be found in the following incident. Old William Brownlee had long since died, but his son, John, remained chairman of their company. John B. Reid, a sturdy Scot from Glasgow and grand-nephew of William Brownlee's, had taken over the active management of their large interests. One day I said to him, “Why do we go on fighting one another for back country bush areas? Can't we come to some arrangement?” I explained how it happened that we had again become their next-door neighbour and rival. Reid at once agreed, and we fixed our respective spheres of operations. John Brownlee approved and the Forestry Department gave its sanction. It is a tribute to the character of the Brownlees that their friendship with us remained unaffected by the rivalry in business. We were now both free to meet opposition, should it approach from the roadside, and this was not long in showing itself.
The North Island market, in particular, now showed signs of recovery, but, on the other hand, Australia, once a big importer of red pine, continued to take little interest in our rimu supplies. It was decided by our Association that I should go to Australia accompanied by J. W. Callwell, one of our most experienced members, with an intimate knowledge of the Australian trade. I represented the view of those who believed in the policy of operating through the organized timber merchants; I had always followed this method of trading and knew personally all the merchants of Sydney and Melbourne. Mr. Callwell, on the other hand, had been the principal supplier to agents who took the short cut to the user. This often meant getting a slightly higher price for the sawmiller, made possible by ex-ship delivery to the factories.
We had not been long in Australia before learning that there were reasons other than a sluggish market that were retarding the sale of rimu. The operations of these “book and pencil” agents, or “bootleggers” as they are sometimes called, had created the
Visiting Sydney, Melbourne, Adelaide and Newcastle, we found the same conditions existing on each market. Retracing our steps, arrangements were completed with the Merchants' Associations in each city, whereby, on our undertaking to supply their members only, they agreed to buy all their rimu requirements from our Association, and guaranteed that only seasoned timber would be sold.
Before leaving Australia we visited Canberra and interviewed Mr. Lyons, the Prime Minister, and his Ministers of Customs and Trade; we were well received. Australia, with steel now added to her exports, already held a great advantage over New Zealand in the balance of trade, and could not reasonably object to our drive for more trade with the Commonwealth.
We also met timber representatives from Queensland, the only Australian state that grows soft woods. These cornstalks had always objected to New Zealand's competition. Being in a position to discuss white pine, their principal competitor, as well as rimu, we found them less hostile than we expected and were able to make arrangements that were to their advantage as well as to our own.
It will thus be seen that the diplomatic side of our mission was not neglected. Our visit took six weeks, and the results which followed are perhaps best illustrated by the fact that during the next twelve months our rimu trade with Australia increased five-fold.
I was Chairman of the Association for seven years and I look back with satisfaction on the growth of the ties and friendships that contributed so much to moulding our organization into
It has been necessary to recite the story of this combined effort, for the progress of our New Forest Company depended upon the success and survival of the Association. It will thus be understood how hard I fought to overcome all difficulties, and there were many in the early stages, for men used to freedom of action in the conduct of their own business are not always amenable to the sacrifice and discipline that a united effort demands.
And so the years rolled on. Our mill was now among the biggest and best on the West Coast. A Dutch oven on the furnaces, similar to those used at Port Craig, enabled us to burn sawdust; one man was thus able to fire two or more boilers. Our output had risen to more than four million feet per annum. At last we had set sail to wipe off the bank overdraft, the interest on which had been such a severe drag on the company. Confidence in the venture had been restored and we were looking to the good times that appeared to be ahead.
This was the state of affairs when the hand of Fate took another turn at the wheel. I was on a visit to the mill, and staying at the hotel at Nelson Creek. Anyone acquainted with the West Coast of the South Island will know of the license that is allowed country pubs, especially on the evening of a cricket or football match, or a sports meeting. On this night there was a din in the bar that kept on till long past midnight. Just before the break of dawn, someone came into my room and walking stealthily across to the bed said in a droning voice, “The mill's burning.” Thinking he was one of the lads who had had too much to drink, I told him he was in the wrong room, and turned over to go to sleep again. With that he shook me and said in a louder voice, “The mill's on fire. Look out of the window!” On pulling up the blind I could see the bright glow in the sky, and dressing hurriedly, reached the site shortly after daybreak. The fire was a devastating one, for a gale was blowing and soon it was apparent that nothing could save the mill. Flames raced along the beams of roof principals, leapt from boiler room to the filing room, from saw-bench to saw-bench, from benches to log skids. The fierce wind made it appear as though a blast furnace was blowing the flames into a white heat. Four-inch shafting
As I watched this blazing inferno destroying buildings, machinery and plant representing many thousands of pounds, I thought of the loads we had already carried, and wondered why Fate should be so unkind. Surely this would be the last straw in adversity. Seven or eight years had passed since the beginning of the depression years when we had been hit so hard and hit in more than one place, yet here was another disaster of formidable dimensions. This time there could be no blame attachable to us from mistakes committed. We had water laid on to the mill, fire pumps installed, and also had a night watchman. But these men who guard property are not immune from human frailty. The party that night at the pub in Nelson Creek had spread to our sawmill village. A bottle of beer, perhaps two, sufficed to make our trusted man drowsy, and he was sound asleep in his hut when the fire started. It began on the weather side of the building. This fact and the gale combined to make a clean sweep. In less than three hours nothing was left.
When the work of fighting the fire was over and we went to breakfast, I was to witness a contradiction that surprised and touched me. Joseph Tibbles, a young man in the middle thirties, who was now our mill manager, had been in our employ since he was a boy. Working hard to bring the mill up to its present state of efficiency, it was due to his efforts that our output gradually climbed until it was one of the biggest on the coast. He was a determined, hard-working manager, with no outward signs of being sentimental, and had conducted the fire-fighting with all his men around him. There was no time to think of anything but the saving of the engineering shop, and to prevent the fire from spreading to the timber skids outside the mill. At breakfast I turned to speak to Tibbles and saw tears running down his cheeks. His loyalty and pride in his
Before the day had passed we were planning the rebuilding. The proper site for the mill was at Ngahere, but when we first built our mill a rival concern was in possession of the only site available there. Some two years before the fire occured, the Lake Brunner Company and ourselves had bought out a roadside mill that was threatening our respective bush interests. We took the mill building, plant, and rails, and they were glad to accept the adjoining bush areas as their share; it was a satisfactory arrangement for both parties. Now we were to receive great advantage from the transaction, for the mill was immediately available for re-erection. We decided to build two separate mills at Ngahere and thus not put all our eggs in one basket, for this was not the first time we had suffered from fire. I secured an option for the purchase of land for the mill sites and returned to Christchurch.
Death had taken a heavy toll of our old comrades; Richard Scott, Peter Graham, John Greig and Andrew Swanston were no longer with us. Of the original group, my brother and I alone remained. Although the estimated capital expenditure was considerable, we were able to show a budgeted position that would place the new mills in an even more favourable light than the big mill had been before the fire, due to the fact that the mills were now to be situated alongside the government's railway. We turned to our old stalwart—the bank. I paid a special visit to Wellington to interview
With banking experience so similar to the Baldwins of Bewdley, is it any wonder that my brother and I felt as Mr.
It is interesting to remember the connection which has lasted for about one hundred and twenty years, between my own family and the old bank of Worcester. It was from the old bank, one hundred and twenty years ago, that we raised, with infinite difficulty, five hundred pounds. It was the old bank that helped us through the crisis in the 'twenties of the last century, and much credit is due to them for having survived a period which brought down so many banks throughout the Kingdom. Time and time again did they stand our friends in days when we were less able to stand on our own feet than we are now, and I shall never forget it!
No words are better suited to express Reese Brothers' gratitude to the National Bank of New Zealand.
In these days, when so many people speak glibly of the banks, it is well to remember the assistance they have rendered to the business community, and the number of people they have hauled back from beyond the breakers, when any further drift from the shore meant disaster. The banks of this country have a record of which they might well be proud.
The erection of the first mill was now proceeded with. As our disastrous fire had originated in the boiler-room, and as a previous fire which had partly destroyed our original mill had also started in the same place, we decided to abandon steam as our means of power. A Ruston Proctor Diesel engine was installed. When the mill was completed it was realized that even a full output from one mill was not sufficient to carry the overhead expenses of our company. We therefore decided to work a night-shift, an arrangement to which our workmen willingly agreed. In this way we were able to make profits while the second mill was being built.
Tibbles and I inspected a small electric mill on the West Coast and, impressed by its possibilities, decided to install this power in the second mill. With a separate motor for each saw-bench, as well as for hoists, hauler and conveyors, the arrangement proved an overwhelming success. Although the cost of electric power equalled the wages of an engine-driver-fireman, the advantages of full power all the time, even in the heaviest cut in breaking down the logs into flitches, meant no slowing up of the saws.
Before the big mill had been burnt down Tibbles had carried out the finishing touches that had made the plant so efficient. This was experience and training for him. It was during the period of constructing the new mills at Ngahere that our young manager showed outstanding ability. There was nothing he could not learn. A month after the completion of the first mill he knew all about Diesel engines. Next came electricity. Soon he could talk of volts and amps, direct and alternating current, motors, starters and transformers. It was as though he had served an electrician's apprenticeship in a few months. We had had our Craig and our Daly, but here was a young man who delved deeper into the mechanical and engineering side of sawmilling than had his predecessors. In all my experience I had not met a man in our industry who showed a keener conception of what plant and machinery could be made to do. Every possible labour-saving device was put into the mill; high-lead logging was adopted in the bush, bulldozers and steam shovels for tram-laying and ballasting. This may seem commonplace and ordinary practice to-day, but Tibbles was early on the scene with his ideas of mechanical power wherever possible.
He had great organizing ability, and his handling of men was in keeping with the more tolerant ways of to-day. He had not Craig's impetuous way of “quick-firing” men. He was quiet and calm, compared with Daly's resounding shout. Tibbles did not speak often, but his men all knew that he meant what he said. To this description one must add a fine physique, finely chiselled features and the portrait of our manager is complete.
How comes it that a young man of such capacity is to be found in the ranks of the rugged, practical sawmiller? The story is an interesting one and shows how easily a boy can be diverted from a chosen career. Young Joe Tibbles, the son of one of our bushmen, attended the Nelson Creek school. He was always a bright pupil and top of every class he was in. When he passed the sixth standard he was the cleverest boy in the school, and the pride of his school-master. At the age of fourteen he sat for a scholarship which, at that time, was the only way a boy could win a secondary school education if his parents could not afford to pay for it. When the results were published there was no sign of Tibbles' name; to the school-master it was incredible that his prodigy had failed. A re-count of his marks would have
Thwarted in his ambition to get into the civil service, young Tibbles now turned to “follow in his father's footsteps.” He became a whistle boy in the bush with the New Forest Company. As he grew up heavier work was given him. He next took a turn in the mill; first a slabby, then a log fiddler, then a tailer out, with occasional lessons in sawing, but the youth preferred the open-air life of the bushman, and so went back to felling trees. He became a champion with the axe and the crosscut saw, and took part in many Axemen's Carnivals; his saw was always the best kept, and his axe as sharp as a razor. Success in this field of competition, together with being captain of the local cricket and football teams, contributed to his becoming an accepted leader among the men with whom he worked, This brief sketch illustrates the personal qualities of a born leader of men who played such a part in restoring the fortunes of the New Forest Sawmilling Company.
An Axemen's Carnival in a bush district in New Zealand is worth going a long way to see. It is here that the magnificent physique of young bushmen is to be seen. The Maoris are fond of taking part in chopping and sawing contests. It is amusing to watch great, hefty lumbermen nursing their axes and saws as affectionately as the Chinamen and Filipinos caressed their fighting cocks. Some axemen always cover the heads of their axes with leather cases, just as one sometimes sees a golfer with a cover over the heads of his golf clubs.
We had long since moved on to days when there are no longer anxieties and fears in the matter of finance. When the tide turned in our favour it proved to be a spring tide. Old Bob Lamb of Sydney had a bluff saying about the ebb and flow of business prosperity; he said, “When the tide comes in, the b …. comes in at both ends!” This was to be our experience in this welcome change of fortune, for all sections of the timber and building industry prospered.
We had experienced the short, sharp, but severe slumps of 1908 and 1921; we had felt the full weight of the longer period of depression which began in 1928; now we were to enjoy a harvest of better times and show results greater even than those of our first venture at Nydia Bay in its best days. When we moved from overdrafts to credits at the bank I received a letter of congratulation from
I finish with an exciting event. The supervision of our saw-milling interests has, over the years, meant frequent visits to the West Coast. The completion of the Otira Tunnel, and the change to an express train journey that takes little more than six hours from Christchurch to Greymouth, makes it difficult for present-day travellers to appreciate the trying, even hazardous nature of the old-time coach journey to the coast.
On my first visit to Westland, in 1907, the train went only as far as Broken River. This left a long coach journey through mountainous country, then over the famous Otira Gorge and down to the railway terminus on the other side of the Southern Alps. The highest point of the Gorge road is 3,333 feet above sea-level. Evidence that there were risks attached to this coach journey over a road that in places is cut out of the solid rock on the mountain side is to be found in an experience I had more than twenty years ago.
It was raining in torrents when we left Arthur's Pass, so no passengers ventured to take outside seats alongside the driver. This point is important, for the driver was thus left with no one to assist him by pressing the foot-brake lever on the left-hand side of the coach. After reaching the summit there is a short, steep run down to Peg Leg Creek before reaching the level road that leads to the Otira Gorge proper. We appeared to go very fast down this hill, and at the foot the driver got down to inspect
If ever Providence put out a protecting hand it was on this occasion, for when the coach turned over we were within a hundred yards of the precipice. One of my fellow passengers inside the coach was badly injured when his shoulder struck the ground. His wife, seated in the middle, had several ribs broken, and the man on the back seat was thrown out on to the road and suffered grievous injury to his back. The driver had his head badly cut. Being on top of the “sacks on the mill” when the side of the coach hit the road, I was, when it rolled over again, thrown forward among the mail bags piled in front of us, and was thus the only one unhurt. It was a miraculous escape.
The whole happening just missed being the most tragic disaster in the history of this coach service which had been carried on so efficiently since the gold-mining days of the 'sixties, firstly by Cobb & Company, then Cassidy & Company, and at this time by Cassidy & Hall. There was consternation among the passengers in the other coaches following us when they came upon the scene of the accident. The severely injured were placed on stretchers and conveyed to Otira, then on by train to the Greymouth hospital.
There was a sequel to this accident that is worth relating. The passenger, King, sued the coach proprietor for £2,500; he had been many months in hospital, still had his arm supported by a bracket, and was permanently incapacitated. The
“Yes.”
“And the brakes were in good working order?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Mr. ‘So-and-so’, you built this coach?”
“Yes.”
“And you carry out all the repair work for this firm?”
“Yes.”
“Then it would be in your own interests to find that the coach was in good condition when it came back to you?”
Before the witness realized where he was being lead, he replied, “Yes.”
“Thank you,” said Sir John. “That is all.”
The next witness was the man who drove the coach back to Arthur's Pass to be railed to Christchurch for repairs. He swore that the brakes were in good order—he had no difficulty in holding the coach on the steepest grades of the road. Then he faced Sir John who took him over the same ground, made him repeat what he had said so emphatically to his own counsel about the condition of the coach and the brakes in particular.
“Now,” said Sir John, “supposing you had been driving this coach with its load of passengers, and you found that on the short, steep run down to Peg Leg Creek you were not able to hold the coach, would you have gone on and down the more dangerous road in the Gorge?”
The poor chap was clearly in trouble, for he had heard his fellow-driver admit that he had inspected the brakes at the bottom of Peg Leg Hill. He did not answer. Sir John put the
“Thank you,” said Sir John.
But the highlight of the case was counsel's contest with the defendant, who was eighty years of age. Following the trend of modern business practice, this coach proprietor had turned his business into a limited liability company. The object, no doubt, was to have some limit to his personal liability in the event of a major disaster such as this one might have proved. He had, however, been far from fair to the travelling public, for the nominal capital of his company was out of all proportion to the assets of the concern. Sir John Findlay had all the facts. This is how he interrogated defendant when in the witness box:
“Now, Mr. Hall, you turned your business into a limited company?”
“Yes.”
“You then took a debenture over the assets of the company?”
“Yes.”
“The debenture was for £5,000?”
“Yes.”
“Now, do you mind telling His Honour and the gentlemen of the jury what the nominal capital of your company is?”
The shrewd old man was obviously embarrassed, and hesitated to answer. Sir John said, “Perhaps I had better tell them. It is £750, is it not?”
“Yes,” was the reluctant reply.
“Now, Mr. Hall, would you mind telling how the shares are held?” Again there was hesitation to answer. He seemed to sense the adroitness of the questions asked and saw that he was being led down the garden path. Once more Sir John said, “Well, perhaps I'd better tell His Honour. You hold 749 shares, and your wife holds 1!” then quickly added, “I suppose you hold a meeting of directors every night!” The court rocked with laughter, in which His Honour joined, and the discomfiture of the witness was complete.
In his summing up, Mr. Justice Herdman said: “The defence did nothing to shake the testimony of the one independent witness in the case.” Plaintiff got judgment for the full amount of his claim. Sir John Findlay was kind enough to
The hazards of sawmilling are to be seen in the following incident: Some years ago I took my two youngest daughters and a school friend for a trip to our mills; they must see trees felled in the bush, always an exciting experience for city people. Coming back on the locomotive bringing in a load of logs, all went well until reaching a decline down a grade of 1 in 22; drizzling rain had made the rails greasy and when the brakes were applied the locomotive began to skid. Soon the log-train was gathering speed; the driver and fireman, finding they could not hold her, yelled “jump” and both leapt from the engine. Our manager was thus left in the cab of the locomotive with three young girls; my youngest daughter tried to push him aside so that she might jump off, but the imperturbable Tibbles told them to hold on tightly while he tried to slow up the train, but it was too late. Providence alone could now save them. At terrific speed the train raced toward the foot of the hill; near the bottom the loco left the rails, but her bolsters ripped into a clay bank; when clear of this the engine shot off the track and rolled over on its side, couplings broke, away went the trucks, and at the bend logs sixty feet long and weighing about five tons each were scattered over a wide area. With their faces blackened from coal dust and legs burnt by hot cinders, it was a bedraggled party that walked back to the settlement. Tibbles suffered some broken ribs, but had the satisfaction of knowing that while it was an unseen hand that guided their destiny, his prevention of panic also helped to save the lives of his young charges. It was a miraculous escape and never-to-be-forgotten experience.
And so I leave the story of West Coast experiences and this sawmilling venture as a tale of ups and downs. Set-backs—and there were many—were eventually overcome and the favourable trade wind that carried us back to the prosperity of earlier years was a factor in bringing success to our efforts.
In 1931 the Prime Minister of New Zealand invited me to become a member of the Railways Board set up to manage the country's state-owned railways.
On two previous occasions New Zealand had decided to follow the example of Australian States, and lift this great service out of the arena of politics. The trials were short lived. Political power is something that is cherished by the parliamentarian, and the control of 20,000 odd workmen places great power and opportunity of patronage in the hands of a Minister of Railways. Is it any wonder that efficient management is often sacrificed for expediency and the welfare of the party machine? In the reverse way, civil servants have been known to misuse their powers; it is, in fact, on record that an Under Secretary, leading a deputation of civil servants to interview a Prime Minister, thumped the table with his fist and exclaimed, “Don't forget we represent 26,000 votes!” To-day it would be nearer 100,000 that could be thrown into the scale against a government. This surely makes a case for independent authority and control!
Mr. Forbes's government decided to set up a Royal Commission of enquiry into the administration and working of the railway system in New Zealand. It was on the Commission's report and advice that it was decided to place the management of the railways in the hands of a Board that would be entirely free from political influences; Mr. H. H. Sterling retired from the position of General Manager of Railways to become Chairman of the Board; the others were
We were impressed with the ability of the men who had risen to the highest positions in the service. They often told us of the benefits derived from having their authority unquestioned and their decisions on staff matters backed up by the Board. This was one of the principal advantages gained from the elimination of political control.
There is no need to relate in detail the work of the Board. It was a great experience to see the inside of the running of a concern so big, and which was by far the largest employer of labour in the Dominion. The visits made by the Board, covering the inspection of all the railway lines throughout the Dominion, took us to many outlying places; they also brought us in touch with many interesting people. The Board was always received officially, and if the district had any claims for the improvement or extension of the railway service, opportunity was given for stating the case.
We heard interesting stories of the pioneering days, and of the early political life of the country. One of the brightest was about Mr. Seddon's first visit to Pahiatua, after becoming Prime Minister. He was to address a big meeting in the local hall. Arriving early, he was busy in his room at the hotel receiving visitors. He enquired who was to propose the vote of thanks, and on being told, asked, “Where is he? Send him to me.”
After an exchange of greetings, the Prime Minister said, “You are going to propose the vote of thanks to-night?”
The man beamed with pride and said, “Yes.”
“What are you going to say?” asked Mr. Seddon. The local orator was taken aback and could not find words to express himself. Mr. Seddon then said, “Well, I'll tell you.”
Pahiatua is a farming centre, and after the meeting the
In 1935 a change of government brought into power a party that believed in direct Ministerial control of all things of the State and in the following year the Railways Board was disbanded. As the party of the new government had not previously been in power, it is perhaps natural that it should wish to rule in accordance with its own avowed principles. I am sure that experience will teach them otherwise as far as the railways are concerned, and that some day all parties will agree that such a great industrial and transport organization should be kept apart from the influences of politics. Australia provides shining examples of the advantages of independent control.
My term on the Railways Board was to be the closest I got to entering public life. Over the years a number of attempts were made to induce me to stand for Parliament, the most serious one being when, on my return from the Australian cricket tour of 1913, Mr. Massey delegated one of his Ministers to see me with regard to a seat he was anxious to win for his party. I had learned from my mother of the mistake my father made in entering Parliament at the height of his business career, and how our family fortunes had suffered in consequence, for the slump of the 'eighties hit New Zealand during his term as an M.P. It was, therefore, not difficult to say no to the flattering words of the Prime Minister's envoy. In any case, I had no inclination for a political career, even though I had always closely followed parliamentary debates and knew many leading politicians.
My first glimpse of a political giant was in an incident as unique as that which enabled me to remember seeing the 1886 English cricket team play at Hagley Park.
That boys of my time were taught the value of money is to be found in a story of my first visit to Wellington, with the Midland XI, when I was fifteen. Before leaving, my mother gave me ten shillings for pocket money. As this was in the days when visiting cricket teams were always driven to and from the ground in a coach, when moving pictures were not known, and even ice-creams not on sale, there were few
An example of quick retort on the cricket field is to be found in a club match in Christchurch, when
“Yes,” said Barrett. “It's always the last ball that troubles me most!”
A bright tale emerges from the post-war years of the early twenties, when Canterbury had again become the leading provincial eleven. In the match against Wellington an unfortunate incident occurred when
A few months later Canterbury became the champion football province, and their performances included a win against the South Africans. At the end of the same season a Canterbury junior representative football team went to Wellington and defeated the local juniors. When the ferry steamer was about to depart, the jubilant Canterbury lads, leaning over the ship's railing and led by a spokesman, called to the big crowd on the wharf:
“Who won the junior rep. match?”
Chorus: “Canterbury!”
“Who won the Ranfurly Shield?”
“Canterbury!”
“Who beat the Springboks?”
“Canterbury!”
“Who won the Plunket Shield?”
“Canterbury!”
This was their last triumphant call, for a loud voice from the wharf asked:
“Who watered the wicket?”
When Shacklock came to Ghristchurch in 1921 as a coach to the Canterbury Cricket Association, a wicket at Lancaster Park was in the course of preparation for a match against a team from overseas and the old Notts professional said to me, “Why don't you use fowl manure as a top dressing?” He then explained how it was used in liquid form and sprinkled on the pitch through a watering-can; in other words, here was a recipe for a “doctored” or doped wicket as it is often called, and explains why wickets now stand up to so much more wear and tear than they used to. A few years later when on a visit to Australia I asked the groundsman at the Adelaide Oval what he used as a final top dressing, and to my surprise he said, “Pigeon manure!” Is it any wonder that matches in Australia sometimes last seven days? I had heard of a mixture of clay and cow manure being used in England, but this was my first knowledge of the use of bird manure.
I end with some references to the game of golf, and tell of a match played at Auckland on one of the visits of the Railways Board to that city. Although I once got down to the four mark, I was never a good golfer. I was a scratch player with the putter and the mashie, was good with the mid-iron, but my left-hander's slice made me less adept with wooden clubs. This explanation will help to give a background to the story of a game of chatty golf played against
I leave the newspaper report, under the heading of “Phenomenal Golf,” to tell of the sudden change and sensational finish to a game I shall always have cause to remember:
Playing at the Auckland Golf Club's links at Middlemore during the week-end, Mr. D. Reese, a member of the New Zealand Railways Board, registered a phenomenal performance over the last four holes of the course. He was playing with
Both as a school-master and a sportsman, Lusk displayed a sarcasm that provoked laughter, rather than anger, and possessed a humour that was subtle. When I holed out with my brassie at the 15th I was subjected to a typical attack of banter, but on repeating the performance at the 17th, Lusk was so dumbfounded that he could not find words to express himself. One of the things I remember about the 2 at the 17th, was my caddy excitedly calling out, “It's in again, sir!”
Slipping away from one's office for a mid-week game is frequently indulged in by the enthusiastic golfer. The implications that may arise when the player is an employee are shown in the following incident which happened when I was on a business trip to Australia. Val Johnston was the popular and efficient manager of the Union Steamship Company's office in Sydney. He was a strenuous worker, but liked his game in the middle of the week. When Sir Charles Holdsworth, head of the Union Company, paid a visit to Sydney, Johnston was fully engaged all the week. When it came to the week-end, the local manager took his chief to Rose Bay for a game on these famous links. As they walked on to the first tee, one of Johnston's friends, not knowing who Sir Charles Holdsworth was, called out, “Hullo, Val! Why didn't you turn up on Thursday afternoon? You didn't come on Tuesday either!”
One more allusion to the ancient game. A well-known member of the Australian Golf Club celebrated his' sixtieth birthday with a four-ball game on the Kensington Links and invited his companions to dine with him at the club-house. It was late that evening before four jolly golfers decided they had done justice to the occasion. The first port of call was the home of the host, who invited his friends to have “one more.” They thought it was too late. One said, “What'll your wife say?”
“My wife?” exclaimed Mr. “X,” drawing himself up to his full height, “I'm Julius Caesar in my own home!”
The party, in hilarious mood, entered the house, which was close to the road. With decanter on the sideboard and glasses filled, ready to repeat the toast for the umpteenth and last time, the door opened quietly and in walked the host's wife in her dressing-gown. With one withering look at the visitors, she pointed to the door, and turning to her husband said, “As for you, Julius Caesar, you go to bed at once!”
The other was of the first time he stood at the bowler's end to Spofforth. The Demon Bowler rarely went over the crease, but Phillips caught him with his toe on the chalk line and called “no ball.” The Australian seemed a bit nettled; next time he went six inches over, and again was no-balled, but the bowler had not delivered the ball. “I'm sorry,” said Spofforth, “my foot slipped.” Next ball was a perfectly fair delivery, but once more he was no-balled. “What was that for?” asked Spofforth. “I'm sorry,” answered Phillips “my tongue slipped.” There was no more “foot-slipping”!
From the story I have told it will be seen that in cricket, travel, and business, my experiences have been somewhat different from the general rule.
The cricket chapters which give a personal glimpse of so many of the great players from Grace to Hammond and from Murdoch to Bradman, cover most of the champions of the game, and span the period from the first Test Match. The opinions of so many great judges of the game, which I have freely quoted, will certainly help to establish a basis for comparison between the past and the present.
The travel part of this narrative, stretching from New Zealand to London, and from Nova Scotia to Hong Kong, spans distances, if not time, and tells of peoples and places not usually seen by the ordinary traveller.
It could, perhaps, be said that I played business as I played cricket; the “higher and slower” ball, the most tempting and often the most deceptive of all bowling deliveries, frequently appeared on the fields of commerce and industry when alluring propositions presented themselves and were tackled with the same vigour as were the innocent looking half-volleys of cricketing days. The results were sometimes as disastrous as on that day in Melbourne when I chased down the pitch to hit
The original purpose in writing these memoirs was to leave to my family a sketch of events in the early life of their father. Being persuaded to publish them opens the pages to a wide field of readers. The peep into my early home life cannot be of the same interest to them as it will be to my own kinsfolk,
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Armstrong, W. W., 23, 45, 46, 65, 68, 72, 73, 77, 86, 226, 315, 320, 376, 377, 378, 395, 397, 400, 402, 422, 424, 427, 429, 430, 431, 434, 435, 444, 452, 453
Austin, H. B., 303
Badcock, F. T., 440
Bardsley, W., 78, 318, 376, 377, 394, 425, 431, 434, 446, 447
Barnes, S. F., 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 89, 90, 419, 428, 440, 449, 455
Barrett, J. S., 552
Barton, W. E., 439
Bean, G., 73
Bevington, T. A. D., 174
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Boxshall, C., 35, 140, 145, 146, 372, 377, 381, 385, 388, 400, 441
Bradman, D. G., 177, 178, 188, 189, 387, 399, 410, 431, 432, 444, 445, 446, 447
Brann, G., 73
Brockwell, W., 180
Brown, J., 419
Bruce, W., 36, 37, 47, 50, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 86, 133, 315, 400
Burnup, C. J., 139, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 146, 147, 149, 150, 151, 173, 174
Caffyn, W., 437
Callaway, S. T., 137, 139, 142, 144, 146, 147, 149, 151, 439
Carroll, E. V., 396
Cave, J. W., 57
Cody, L. A., 395
Crawford, J. N., 310, 311, 316, 366, 384, 397, 398, 399, 402, 463
Crawshaw, E. E., 403
Cumberbatch, C. P., 304
Cunningham, W. H., 368
Daish, Dr., 74
Dalmeny, Lord, 312
Darling, J., 24, 52, 70, 78, 84, 85, 86, 87, 221, 315, 373, 397, 419, 423, 425
Dickenson, G., 35
Donahoo, S., 21
Donnelly, M. P., 441
Downes, A., 30, 31, 32, 33, 35, 36, 37, 39, 43, 44, 46, 47, 48, 49, 54, 56, 61, 144, 146, 147, 151, 305, 367, 383, 385
Fane, F. L., 7, 139, 141, 146, 147, 149, 150, 307, 308, 314, 315
Ferris, J. J., 428
Fielder, A., 315
Fitzsimmons, E., 20
Foster, R. E., 446
Frankish, Stanley, 22, 23, 35, 39, 46, 47, 49, 51, 53, 54, 139, 142, 145, 146, 147, 148, 150, 151, 152
Fry, C. B., 20, 30, 52, 54, 55, 70, 71, 72, 81, 169, 180, 281, 303, 317, 318, 319
Garrett, T. W., 50
Gill, G., 179
Giller, J. F., 382
Goodman, P. A., 304
Grace, W. G., Dr., 7, 78, 87, 90, 137, 169, 170, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 185, 186, 192, 242, 303, 312, 314, 315, 316, 318, 319, 409, 410, 418, 421, 427, 432, 443, 444, 445, 446, 447, 451, 452
Graham, H., 24, 45, 46, 57, 65, 67, 69, 70, 77, 88, 383, 445, 446
Gregory, Sidney, 24, 25, 49, 68, 399, 419, 429, 435, 446, 452
Gunn, W., 301
Hadlee, W. A., 441
Hanlon, A. C., 31
Hardstaff, J., 300
Harry, F., 312
Hay, D., 146
Hayes, E. G., 311
Headley, G., 436
Hemus, L. G., 363, 367, 370, 371, 372, 378, 380, 381, 383, 384, 388, 390, 391, 394, 396, 397, 398
Hesketh Prichard, H. V., 183
Hickson, C., 146
Hiddleston, J. S., 439
Hiddlestone, J. S., 367
Hill, Clem, 24, 52, 78, 79, 85, 88, 89, 117, 315, 376, 395, 397, 398, 399, 421, 426, 428, 434, 444
Hill, H., 117
Hirst, George, 39, 53, 54, 81, 152, 304, 305, 306, 307, 316, 318, 419, 423, 424, 453
Holdship, A. R., 36
Hornby, A. H., 302
Howard, E., 398
Hughes, C., 117
Humphreys, W., 86
Hunter, D., 307
Hutchings, K. L., 313
James, K. C., 441
Jayes, T., 307
Jessop, G. L., 73, 78, 81, 82, 87, 88, 89, 90, 129, 177, 180, 181, 185, 317, 419, 423, 424, 445
Jones, S. P., 21, 22, 24, 25, 52, 66, 72, 79, 117, 179, 188, 397, 398, 420, 442, 448
Lampard, A., 396
Lawrence, C., 437
Lawrence, J. D., 27
Layne, O. H., 304
Lees, W., 311
Lindwall, B., 441
Lucas, A. P., 71
Lusk, Harold B., 369, 370, 371, 373, 381, 382, 383, 384, 389, 459, 553, 554
MacLagan, Miss M., 437
MacLaren, A. C., 70, 71, 72, 75, 82, 83, 84, 85, 87, 89, 90, 169, 180, 183, 189, 302, 303, 312, 313, 314, 316, 383, 404, 405, 407, 422, 423, 424, 432, 443, 444, 446, 448, 450
Macartney, C. G., 365, 366, 367, 378, 384, 395, 425, 432, 434, 443, 444, 445, 446, 453
Marsh, Jacky (aboriginal cricketer), 416
Martindale, E. A., 436
May, P. R., 363
McLeod, R. W., 41
Mendelson, W., 317
Midlane, F. A., 23
Mold, A., 311
Murch, W., 192
Murdoch, W. L., 7, 79, 87, 169, 174, 175, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 187, 188, 189, 190, 191, 315, 404, 416, 418, 443, 444, 446, 447, 448, 451
Naughton, M., 20
Noble, M. A., 49, 77, 84, 85, 87, 89, 315, 383, 402, 425, 453
Norman, A., 371
Nott, A. S., 181
O'Connor, “Dodger,” 66
Oates, T. W., 300
Odell, W., 179
Oldfield, W. A., 451
Ollivier, A. M., 19
Ollivierre, C. A., 304
Palairet, L. C. H., 441
Pataudi, 442
Paterson, J. L., 382
Patrick, W. R., 369, 371, 372, 382, 386, 387, 388, 396, 404, 438, 440
Peate, E., 316
Peel, R., 69, 82, 171, 172, 316, 385, 419, 420, 423, 449, 450, 452
Perrin, F., 170
Perrin, P. A., 170, 300, 301, 302, 303, 304, 305, 306, 308, 310, 314, 315
Pickett, A., 43
Pilling, R., 451
Pooley, E., 414
Pritchard, T. L., 440
Prout, J., 392
Pye, L. W., 49
Ramsden, J., 379
Ranjitsinhji, K. S., 79, 81, 90, 91, 169, 177, 180, 303, 317, 319, 324, 370, 421, 422, 442, 443, 444, 445, 446, 447
Raphael, J. E., 311
Redgrave, W., 386
Reedman, J. C., 76
Ridley, A. E., 35
Robertson, Charles, 74
Rowntree, R., 441
Royle, Rev. V., 452
Russell, J., 426
Salmon, W., 20
Sandman, D., 320–321, 369, 371, 372, 376, 377, 379, 382, 383, 387, 388, 389, 390, 392, 393, 394, 395, 396, 397, 398, 399, 400, 403, 440
Scott, J., 305
Sharp, J., 302
Shepherd, J., 439
Shuter, John, 169
Siedeberg, H. G., 369
Sims, Arthur, 23, 24, 33, 35, 38, 42, 56, 91, 140, 142, 143, 314, 326, 370, 374, 378, 379, 389, 402, 459, 521, 525, 526, 528
Smith, D., 377
Snowball, Miss B., 437
Spofforth, F. R., 176, 177, 188, 314, 416, 418, 434, 439, 443, 447, 448, 449, 450
Stanning, J., 149
Strong, Dr. R., 74
Strudwick, H., 311
Stuckey, H., 46
Studd, C. T., 452
Sutcliffe, B., 441
Sutcliffe, H., 431
Sykes, Dr. L., 171
Taylor, H., 404
Thomas, Evan, 170
Thompson, G. J., 139, 140, 141, 142, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 151, 152, 153, 366, 380, 381, 382, 384
Thoms, R., 138
Trick, Stanley, 171
Trumper, V., 49, 50, 79, 80, 84, 152, 153, 177, 302, 318, 395, 402, 421, 425, 427, 432, 433, 434, 441, 443, 444, 445, 446, 447
Tuppeny (aboriginal cricketer), 425
Tyldesley, J. T., 81, 82, 85, 86, 89, 90, 302, 305, 313, 316, 444
Ballance, John, 551
Ballantine, Capt. E. W., 387
Ballarat, 134
Balranald, New South Wales, 97
Banks, W. H., 475
Barnardo, Dr., 167
Barrie, J. M., 63
Bass Strait, 44
Beatty, May, 172
Bedell-Sivright, D. R., 278–279
Bendigo (Victoria), 134
Bernays (Senior), 122
Bernays, Harry, 122
Bernhardt, Sarah, 291
Brownlee, J., 535
Brussels, 252
Burgess, W., 487
Burns, Sir James, 117
Bush, P. F., 281–282
Callwell, J. W., 535
Cape of Good Hope, 7
Cape Verde, 157
Cape Verde, 157
Cape York, 125
Cardus, Neville, 318
Charters Towers, Queensland, 123
Cherbourg, 243
Cheshunt, Buckinghamshire, 171
Chile, 155
China and the Chinese, 124, 126, 127, 128, 207, 208, 210, 211, 212, 213
Christchurch, 19, 22, 23, 24, 31, 36, 40, 41, 57, 138, 145, 245, 361, 362, 369, 370, 372, 373, 405, 406, 413, 414, 438, 454, 455, 456, 457, 458, 459, 460–4, 465, 466, 467, 469, 470, 478, 506, 511, 512, 522, 523, 539, 552, 553
Cock, Mr., 506
Collins, J., 510
Conrad, Joseph, 155
Cook, Captain, 38
Coolgardie Gold-field, 98–100
Craig, John, 470, 471, 472, 473, 474, 475, 478, 480, 508, 509, 510, 511, 512, 513, 514, 515, 519, 521, 522, 523, 526, 531, 541
Crossley, Ada, 162
David, Mr., 309
Dawson, Captain (of S.S. Dominion), 267, 269, 271, 288, 289, 290, 291, 292, 329
Deakin, Sir Alfred, 104
Dover, 158
Doyle, Conan, 173
Drake, F. E., 468
Earl, F., 373
Edinburgh, 348
Elliot, Maxine, 291
Ellis, Capt. McIntosh, 529
Elsom, Harry, 247
Epsom, 165
Falla, Brigadier N. S., 504
Fisher, A. H., 30, 32, 33, 35, 36, 37, 39, 40, 53, 54, 56, 144, 145, 146, 147, 149, 151, 305, 363, 365, 367, 369, 383, 459
Forbes, Right Hon. G. W., 548, 549 (New Zealand Prime Minister, 1931)
Ford (Prospector), 99
Forder, C., 410–11
Forest, Sir John, 104
Foster, T. S., 362
Fullerton, J., 493
Gabe, R. T., 280
Gaddon, Mrs., 51
Gallagher, D., 280
Germany, 106, 113, 132, 218, 219, 252, 269, 266, 267, 268, 276, 286, 327, 335, 336, 337, 338
Gibbs, Isaac, 144
Glen Innis, 390
Godley, J. R., 438
Great Barrier, The, 125
Greenstreet, Commander R.N.R. (of the Rimutaka), 156, 157, 291
Grenada (West Indies), 239
Greymouth, New Zealand, 487, 488, 489, 490, 491, 492, 496, 505, 524, 534, 542
Gunson, Sir James, 548
Guthrie, A., 511
Harper, E. T., 60
Heath, N., 513
Henderson, Colonel (author of “Stonewall” Jackson), 325, 326
Hinchenbrook Channel, 125
Hinchenbrook Island, 125
Hirsch, 527
Hobson, Governor, 97
Houses of Parliament, London, 163–4
Jackson, Mr. and Mrs., 161
Java, 97
Johnston, Val., 554
Johnston, Capt. (of The Suevic), 361
Jones, Bobby, 325
Kalgoorlie Goldfield, 98
Kanakas (natives of Solomon Islands), 124
Kelly, Ned, 134–5
Kelvin, Lord, 343
Kensington, 476–7
Kingston, C. C., 105
Kirk, Andrew Ross, 8
Kuranda, Barron Falls, 125
La Gardia (Spain), 226
Lacey, Sir F. E., 173
Le Brea (Trinidad), 248
Louisson, M., 184
Lyons, 536
Lyttelton, New Zealand, 31, 37, 40, 484, 485, 486, 487, 488, 491, 494, 495, 496, 497, 502, 503, 504, 505, 506
Lyttle, Captain, 131
MacDonald, J., 464
Maer, 226
Magellan, Straits of, 155
Malta, 197
Manchester, 302–3
Marconi, 285
Markey, 518
Martinique, 253
Massey, Right Hon. William (New Zealand Prime Minister), 550, 551
McCallum, J., 477
McEvedy, P., 184
McGill, William (Chief Engineer of the Claverhill), 193, 194, 200, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 207, 208, 209, 212, 216, 217, 218, 220, 221, 228, 229, 230, 231, 244, 328, 329, 349
McLachlan, N., 88
Melba, Madam, 162
Melbourne, 36, 44, 45, 47, 48, 63, 64, 66, 83, 84, 86, 87, 89, 92, 93, 97, 102, 104, 106, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 118, 120, 123, 125, 126, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 135, 165, 200, 241, 361, 485
Menzies, R. G., 181
Messina, Straits of, 219
Michell, (inventor of forced lubrication), 341
Millar, Hon. J. A., 504
Mills, Sir James, 466
Milsom, E. B., 184
Monro, Captain, 489
Montevideo, 156
Montgomery, M., 231–2
Montgomery, W., 133
Montserrat, 251
Morris, “Tassy,” 471, 472
Moxham, A. J., 270
Murrumbidgee (River, New South Wales), 97
Netherlands East Indies, 215
New Plymouth, 29
Newman, the Hon. Edward, C.M.G., 548
Nydia Bay, New Zealand, 471, 472, 473, 474, 475, 476, 477, 478, 479, 480, 481, 483, 488, 512
O'Brien, A. B., 184
O'Connor, 100
Ollivier, A. M., 405
Ollivier, C. M., 522
Orchard, Dr. A. J., 386
Ostler, Bennie, 430
Parkes, Sir Henry, 104
Parsons, Sir Charles (inventor of the turbine engine), 230, 342
Patagonia, 155
Paterson, James, 34
Patiala, Maharajah of, 442
Patti, Madam, 162
Pavitt, E., 410
Pearson, Captain (of the Opouri), 487
Perry Sisters, The, 51
Peters, C. L., 468
Petrie, L. H., 468
Plymouth, 158
Port Craig, 488, 389, 505, 510–17, 518, 519, 520, 521, 522, 523, 524, 525, 526, 527, 528, 529
Pride, Peggy, 248
Randall, Harry, 247
Rattray, C. W., 459
Reese, D. (Senior), 345, 347, 348, 350, 351, 454, 455, 456, 457, 458, 459, 550, 551
Reese, T. W., 20, 58, 327, 328, 361, 362, 454, 456, 457, 458, 459, 460, 461, 462, 463, 464, 465, 466, 467, 468, 469, 477, 479, 480, 539
Reid, G. W., 548
Reid, J. B., 535
Reid, J., Chief Engineer of the Satan, 234, 235, 236, 237, 239, 243, 256, 259, 261, 262
Rhodes, A. E. G., 143
Rio de Janeiro, 156
Riverina District, New South Wales, 97
Roberts, F., 62
Robey, George, 247
Rodjesvensky, Admiral, 217
Rogers, W., 506
Ronaldson, C. J., 457
Rotorua, New Zealand, 208
Rotterdam, 252
Russell, T. G., 475
St. George (Granada, West Indies), 239
St. Kilda, Melbourne, 93
St. Lawrence River, 272, 273, 274, 275, 276, 277, 278, 282, 283, 288, 289, 291
Santley, Charles, 162
Saxton, A., 511
Schelde, The, 251
Scotland, 34, 40, 41, 63, 234, 235, 344, 346, 347, 348, 349, 350, 351, 352, 357, 359, 361, 362
Scott, Professor R. J., 19
Scott, Bros., 458
Scott, J.L., 458
Seddon, Right Hon. Richard S., 162, 163, 208, 282, 249, 550, 551
Shelley, P. B., 219
Sicily, 219
Smith, F., 475
Smith, Bruce Howard, 111
Smith, H. B. Howard, 111, 112, 113, 116, 118, 120, 123, 129, 130, 131
Smith, Walter Howard, 111
Smith, Capt. W. Howard, 111
Smith, W. Howard, 111
Sneddon, Walter, 160
Sterling, H. H., 548
Straits of Canso, Nova Scotia 271–2
Stromboli (Mediterranean), 219
Sumner, New Zealand, Mayor of, 26
Sydney, Australia, 48, 50, 51, 52, 83, 92, 93, 97, 102, 114, 117, 118, 122, 128, 200, 485
Teneriffe (Canary Islands), 157
Thorpe, Captain (Lyttleton, New Zealand Harbour Master), 496
Turner, Sir George, 104–5
Turpin, Dick, 160
Urquart, Captain (of the Claverhill), 195, 200, 203, 204, 205, 207, 211, 215, 217, 219, 226, 228, 229, 230, 231, 232
Wakefield, Edward Gibbon, 439
Wardill, Major B. J., 45, 53, 64, 67, 68, 76, 110, 169, 400, 422
Watt, Hon. W. A., 529
Wellington, 19, 20, 28, 29, 36, 130, 147, 438, 473, 477, 493, 504, 509, 506, 507, 519, 551
West Indies, The, 237, 238, 239, 240, 241, 242, 248, 251, 253, 254, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 260
Westminster Abbey, 164
Wilder, D., 518
Wilkinson, A. O., 534