A Close Call.

Another exciting incident, in which I came very near to losing the number or my mess, was connected with the arrival of the brig Papeete, a vessel of 300 tons, Captain Ludwig, which was inward bound from Tahiti. It was on June 6, 1864. She came round the North Head with a strong north-west breeze, and we went down the harbour to meet her and attempted to board her as she was standing across to Orakei. In those days our usual custom of boarding the vessels was for the boatman to hook on to the "chains" with the boat-hook, with myself at the tiller, and I would run forward and haul myself aboard. We followed the usual course, but the brig was going through the water at a great pace, and the boatman called out, "Hurry up; I can't hold on any longer!" Just before the boat-hook slipped from his hands I had barely time to get some sort of a hold on the "chains," but I could not get up, and there I was hanging on the lee side, my body occasionally going completely under water; and shout as hard as I could, I could not make myself heard against the wind that was blowing. Unfortunately, no one on board had observed our boat going alongside.

By the time the brig went about (it appeared to me a very long time), and the crew found me when they came over to attend to the ropes; I was well drenched, and getting near the end of my tether. They threw a rope ladder over, but I had not the strength to raise myself, and I was a pleased man when two sailors came down and hauled me on deck. My hands were much chafed through hanging on to the chains. Mr. Hart, the supercargo, a well-known man in the Island trade, filled me a "bos'un's nip" of good French brandy, put me into his bunk after stripping off my wet clothes, and I slept like a top for three hours.

These Island boats were always well worth watching from a news point of view, as they generally brought in some good copy concerning the Islands, which were then much more isolated than they are now, and wrecks were more frequent on the coral reefs when the trade was all done by sailing vessels. The Papeete was afterwards condemned in Auckland, and for many years her bones were lying on the beach at Devonport.

Illustrating the danger a man ran in boarding vessels in rough weather, I well remember an incident that happened to Mr. W. Wilkinson, an old newspaper man, for many years proprietor of the "Thames Advertiser," who died 1921. It was in the year 1867, when he was shipping reporter on the "Southern Cross" and I was on the "Herald." On November 23 of that year the ship Water Nymph, Captain Babot, dropped anchor in Auckland Harbour after an excellent passage of 85 days. She lay off Orakei, and as there was a severe westerly gale blowing none of the reporters boarded her. Early the following morning—it was Sunday—there was a slight lull in the gale, and I sailed down to her and got my report. As we left the ship Captain Babot came to the side and handed down a bottle of gin, saying: "You will want this before you reach town," After a hard slog at the oars against wind and heavy seas, we reached Queen Street wharf. When we were about an hour away from the Water Nymph we very nearly collided with another pulling boat under sail, in which Mr. Wilkinson was going down to the ship. Owing to the big sea that was running we did not see him until he was very nearly on us. In the evening the sub-editor of the "Cross" came to me and asked if I had seen anything of their shipping man, as he had not turned up. I told him I had seen Mr. Wilkinson going down the harbour to the Water Nymph. The "Southern Cross" then wanted us to let them have a report of the ship's arrival, but our people naturally refused, as there was keen rivalry between the two journals at that time.

By Monday the gale had blown itself out, and Captain Babot came up to town, bringing Mr. Wilkinson with him. We then learned that there had been a tragedy. After Mr. Wilkinson had clambered aboard the Water Nymph, his two watermen, W. Wright and Keane, in order to get what shelter there was, dropped astern of the ship and made fast to her. In a squall the ship began to drag her anchor, and the shore boat, getting under the ship's counter, capsized.

The wind was howling, so the cries of the two watermen were not heard on board the ship, and the first that was known of the accident was when someone noticed the body of a man floating in the water. The second mate and a sailor, with lines tied round their waists, jumped in to the rescue, and after great difficulty the watermen were got on board. Keane, who just managed to hang on to the cable, came round after about an hour's treatment, but Wright was gone beyond recall, although everypage 8 means was used to restore life. Wright was one of the oldest and most respected of the licensed watermen who then used to ply from Queen Street wharf. He had been a waterman for 27 years.

Captain Babot and the people of the Water Nymph subscribed £15 for the benefit of Wright's widow. This generosity is typical of the "blue water" sailors that used to man the beautiful clipper ships. Captain Babot was a very well-known master both in the sailing ships and later in some of the first steamers that flew the house-flag of the Shaw Savill Company. He was afterwards appointed ships' husband at Wellington, where he died a few years ago.