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White Wings Vol I. Fifty Years Of Sail In The New Zealand Trade, 1850 TO 1900

Boarding The Ships

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Boarding The Ships.

Life of the Marine Reporter—Strenuous Times in the 60's—Out in Fair Weather and Foul—Some Close Calls.

For many years I have been requested by members of the Press and others to publish some of the experiences of the Auckland shipping reporters fifty years or more ago, when all intercolonial and foreign news, and all news south of Auckland, was obtained by "the man in the boat." In those days every vessel from a full-rigged ship down to a coasting cutter had to be boarded by the reporter.

We had to go out and meet everything that came in—fair weather and foul. Having been a keen oarsman in my home town of St. Leonards-on-Sea, the boat work was interesting to me, but nowadays, when I look out on Rangitoto Channel, lashed by a nor'-easter, I often wonder at the reckless way one used to run risks in stormy weather, with hardly a thought of the danger. But I was a young man then, strong and keenly interested in my work, and if the truth were known I rather suspect that the spice of adventure about the work made it all the more fascinating.

Dangerous Work.

Sometimes, however, our experiences went beyond the adventurous, and a man never knew whether he would get back to the wharf safe and sound. There was poor Harry Lewis, of the "Herald," for instance, the man whose place I took in 1865. His mother, by the way, used to keep a school for girls in Shortland Street, and many of the belles of early Auckland received the rudiments of their education from her. In 1864 Harry Lewis had a nerve-racking experience when going alongside a sailing ship in a gale of wind. His boat swamped, and he had a narrow escape from drowning. The following year he met with a very painful accident which put him out of commission altogether as far as shipping reporting was concerned. While his boat was lying alongside a steamer which was letting off steam a stream of hot water shot out of a porthole immediately above his head, and he was so badly scalded that he had to give up his post on the "Herald." Then, again, there was the sad accident which happened in 1867 to two watermen employed by the late Mr. W. Wilkinson, the well-known journalist, who was then shipping reporter on the "Southern Cross," the paper on which I started in 1863. One of the watermen was drowned and the other had a close call; but I will refer to this incident more fully later on.

On The Look-Out.

Shipping reporting in the sixties was at the best of times strenuous work, and frequently meant getting up at daybreak no matter how late you had finished the night before. Repeatedly in the summer months I would be up from 5 a.m. until 2 a.m. next morning, because small vessels arrived at all hours, and some of those from the East Coast ports were often, during the Maori war, of more importance than the larger vessels. Whenever the wind was in from the North one had to be continually on the look-out, from early morning until the paper went to press, and the only time that a shipping reporter could really take his ease, and not keep his eye glued on the flagstaff at Mount Victoria was when there was a dead calm on or a strong wind from the South, with the tide running out, which would mean some hours for a vessel to beat up from Tiri to Rangitoto. When available I usually engaged one particular waterman, Tom Munro, at first, and then Joe Cook, both fine oarsmen. Watermen were quite a feature of the waterfront in the sixties, and they used to have their waiting room, or rather house, on the western side of the old Queen Street wharf, just about where the Ferry Buildings stand at the present time.

As an instance of the lively work we had, I may mention that on March 2, 1868, I boarded twenty-eight vessels, mostly coastal schooners and cutters. The skippers always endeavoured to be in port on Sunday. I took a keen interest in the work, and naturally got to know many of the skippers and other officers very well, and they would keep newspapers or news for me.

Nearly Run Down.

As I have said before, fair weather or foul, we had to be out and about, and time and again I was down the Rangitoto Channel in a howling gale in an open waterman's boat. When the westerlies swept down from the Waitakere Ranges the work was not only hard but dangerous, and more thanpage 6 once I came near to finding a watery grave. On one occasion I remember only too well the narrow call I and my boatman had when waiting for the barque Kate, one of the Circular Saw Line of clippers. It was a thick dark night with a stiff westerly blowing, and we were well down the Rangitoto Channel, intending to board the vessel when she came up. When the barque was signalled inside of Tiri lighthouae, there was only a light westerly breeze, and so we expected to have to row out beyond the reef, but when we were about two miles outside the North Head the wind freshened. Suddenly as we lay there endeavouring to pick up the red light on the barque a huge black hull loomed out of the night and swept by our boat—so close that we could have jumped aboard if her speed had been less like a shot out of a gun, or if we had not been so thoroughly scared. That incident happened on March 12, 1864.

Dark Night And Heavy Gale.

On another occasion in the same year I had an exciting adventure which began one night, extended into the next day, and finished up by my paper bringing off one of those scoops which were the spice of journalistic life in those days. The ship Scimitar had arrived during the afternoon and reported having passed another full-rigged ship on the coast, so when at sundown "Sail in sight" was hoisted at Mount Victoria I made for the wharf with my binoculars. It was then blowing a snorting gale from the west, and this raised a sea which made a harbour trip anything but a pleasant prospect, especially at night. About eight o'clock a red light showed round North Head and then disappeared in the direction of Rangitoto, and after waiting half an hour I knew that the craft had anchored for the night. There were in those days some dozen licensed watermen, and of that number two were compelled to be on duty at night. Turning into their waiting-room I said: "Come along; here's a fare for you." "Where are you going?" asked the men on duty, and when I said "North Head," they replied with fervour, "No jolly fear; we are not going down there to-night." Even an offer of £3 did not move them, so I made my way round to Wynyard Pier where there were two well known watermen, Strong and Conolly. Mention of Wynyard Pier reminds one how these old landmarks are disappearing. This pier used to run out from the pohutukawa-fringed beach of what was then Official Bay, opposite Short Street, but all traces of it have now been obliterated by the reclamation extending from Beach Road well out to sea.

After a good deal of persuasion Conolly agreed to take me down the harbour. With such a gale blowing we went down with "bare poles," as sailors say, and ran under the lee side of the new arrival. I managed to climb on board, but there was such a howling wind that it was a long while before I could attract anyone's attention. At last the second officer appeared and aroused the captain, when I obtained a full report of the voyage, with passengers' names and a list of the cargo.

We left the Gladiator, for such was the ship's name, at about eleven o'clock and started to pull over towards the North Head, but wind and tide were against us (it was still blowing a furious gale and as dark as pitch), and so we could make no headway. The only thing left for us to do was to try and make for the southern shore, somewhere about Kohimarama. Broadside on to sea and wind we had a terrible struggle, and I thought we would never get over. In order to dodge the Bean Rock reef, which had no light then, we had to keep well down to the eastward. Eventually we did make inshore enough to miss the worst of the westerly, and then began a tedious and exhausting pull along the shore up to town. At last, after a great battle, we managed to make Wynyard Pier which we reached about 4 a.m.—five hours of hard plugging since we left the ship.

But that wasn't the end of it. I at once made for the "Southern Cross" office at the corner of O'Connell and Chancery Streets, and when I got there found that all the compositors had gone home and the machinists had started printing the paper. Telling the manager of the machine room to send up a page I sent word to the foreman, Mr. Gimble (who for many years afterwards was foreman printer on the "Herald"), and in the meantime I got out a pair of cases and started to set up the type. We had to go to press to get off a certain number of copies in time for Cobb and Co.'s coach, which in those days was our only means of communication with the Waikato, and started at about 5.30 a.m. As soon as the Waikato papers were run off we again got the page up, and with the aid of two other "comps" who boarded at the Auckland Hotel only a few yards from the office, we set another half-column, giving a list of the cargo and consignees. In these days every item on the manifest, with consignees' names, was published, as this was frequently the first advice merchants received, owing to the irregularpage 7 mail service. So ended one of the most strenuous days, or rather days and nights that I had ever put in during what was always a more or less strenuous time.

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.

Fisticuffs.

The duties of a shipping reporter were a pretty fair training for the "ring" away back in the good old days. When I left the "Southern Cross." in 1865, five men were tried in my place within two years, and I sometimes had a brush with my rival for the time being. Once when clambering up the narrow companionway of a barque with my bundle of papers under my arm, I felt a tug. Turning round I was in time to see the rival reporter trying to make off with the parcel, so I was under the painful necessity of knocking the gentleman down the stairway, where the captain added some appropriate remarks.

Only a few instances are given of the many trips made during heavy gales to meet vessels, frequently outside of Rangitoto reef, on the darkest nights, and on those occasions when hugging the shore from Takapuna up we on several occasions ran ashore or touched a rock, necessitating either the waterman or the writer getting out to push the boat off.

The Cattle Boats.

With News From Australia.

There were in the early sixties during the years of the Maori War what were then considered some noted vessels trading from Australia to Auckland, such as the Claud Hamilton, the Auckland, the Otago, and the Prince Alfred, a craft of 700 tons, the last-mentioned being very little bigger than the Northern Company's steamer Clansman. These steamers were subsidised for a few years to bring over from Sydney the English mails, and return with the outward mail and passengers to connect with the steamers leaving Australia for England. The Phoebe, in command of Captain Worsp, who in later years settled with his family in Auckland, also traded between Sydney and Auckland in 1864. These steamers were engaged in bringing over from Australia troops and provisions. Auckland being the first port of call, the young town was for three or four years more regularly supplied with mails and news from the outside world, but when the war in the Waikato ceased, we had again to rely mainly upon sailing vessels for Australian papers, which from time to time would contain summaries of English, Continental and American news brought to Albany, and sent on the wire to Melbourne and Sydney.

Walking To Onehunga.

When the gold rush started at Hokitika, on the West Coast, steamers, including the Aldinga, Gothenburg, and Albion, used to bring over thousands of miners from Melbourne to Hokitika. These boats invariably brought a mail and late papers from Australia. The boats running between Nelson and Manukau would then bring Australian papers on to Auckland. That was why the steamers coming up the West Coast had to be watched by the shipping reporters as keenly as the boats from overseas, and when the signal was hoisted at the Manukau Heads for a steamer arriving the reporters made their way to Onehunga.

In those days there were no motor cars or motor bikes, the only communication being by bus, which ran twice or thrice a day from Hardington's stables, situated near the fine building now occupied by John Court, Ltd. Reporters frequently had to walk either to or from Onehunga, and on more than one occasion when steamers arrived late I walked to Onehunga and back again. In those days, however, we thought nothing of a fourteen-mile walk. A marine reporter had to be always alert and the only safe plan to follow was to board everything and leave nothing to chance.

The Cattle And Coal Boats.

Many an important bit of news was brought to Auckland by the "white wings" of the Circular Saw line, but as they were the regular traders they generally brought complete files of the Australian newspapers for the Auckland daily newspapers. It was the unexpected arrivals that used to lead to the "scoops." There were for instance the boats that came from Australian ports,page 9 such as Newcastle, Gippsland, Gladstone, Port Curtis, Two Fold Bay, Port Albert, and others, with fat cattle, coal and produce for the young colony of New Zealand, which was not of course so self-supporting as it is to-day. Perhaps only one newspaper, and perhaps only half a newspaper, would be found on board these craft by the enterprising shipping reporter, so that naturally the keen man used to watch these stray arrivals with double vigilance. Five o'clock in the morning, during the summer months, would find me aboard such an unexpected boat making a search for anything in the shape of a newspaper. There was always the chance of a choice column or two of cable or important Australian news for the Auckland reporter who first got his hands on the journal.

The Kate Waters, Island City, and other barques made regular trips from Australia, and they were especially fitted up for the carrying of fat cattle. The steward of the Island City, having on previous occasions observed the keenness of the reporters for newspapers, took advantage of this knowledge. On one trip, when the vessel anchored off the Tamaki river, where the cattle were generally landed, I was on board about six in the morning. Not a scrap of any newspaper was available, either from the captain, mate or crew, and I was about to leave the vessel when the steward came to the side of the ship and stated he had a copy of the "Sydney Morning Herald" containing important English and Australian news for which he wanted payment. I immediately offered him a shilling, but this was indignantly refused. The steward all the time had his eye up the harbour to see if other reporters were coming down. There were two, and before they reached the side of the ship my offer for the paper had risen to 5/-. The steward would not "part," and when the other reporters arrived on the scene the paper was put up to auction and was eventually handed to me for 10/6. When I opened the paper and found it had over a page containing the summary of a month's news from England, which had been telegraphed from Albany to Sydney; also important Australian news, I was well satisfied with my bargain; but when I told my employer, Mr. W. C. Wilson, of the "Herald," the money I had paid for the paper, he did not appear over pleased, but on the following day, after being congratulated upon the "scoop" by several merchants, he with a smile, said the paper was cheap and I had done well in securing it.

The cargo of these boats—fat cattle—gives us an admirable picture of early Auckland, which to-day ships its thousands of carcases of frozen meat to the London market. Although these sailing craft were specially fitted up to carry cattle, the loss when bad weather was encountered in the Tasman Sea was very severe, the vessel arriving occasionally with only one-third to one-half the number of cattle shipped. Other barques brought coal from Newcastle and wheat from Adelaide. The wheat was ground at Firth's and Partington's mills, the former being a steam-mill on the Queen Street site now occupied by Smeeton's, and the latter a windmill, which oddly enough, has survived all the innovations of this busy age, and its whirling sails are still one of the landmarks of the city.

Happy Days.

It was these spasmodic cattle and coal boats that the active reporter marked for his own, and many a scoop was brought off by the early bird. The Auckland merchants, particularly those closely connected with shipping, such as Thomas Henderson, J. S. Macfarlane, S. J. Edmonds, Coombes and Daldy, and others would often, after a "scoop" had been made, slap the young reporter on the back as he went down the east side of Queen Street between ten and eleven in the morning (when most of them were standing on the side walk smoking their pipes) and say to him: "Well done!" There was a distinct personal pleasure about the work of a newspaper reporter in those days, and when recalling my experiences I say, without any reservation, "The best time of my life was the eight years that I was marine reporter in Auckland's early days." There was ample scope in those days for enterprise in securing "scoops," but ever since the United Press Association was started over forty years ago, and now that the Journalists' Union (recently formed) has a time limit of eight hours work only, and other arbitrary conditions, everything is brought down to a dead level and it is seldom any paper makes a real "scoop." The Journalists' Union, however, has had one good effect—reporters are now paid an adequate salary for their labour. When I was reporting on the "Southern Cross" and "Herald," I was for several days at work from five in the morning until two or three the next morning, and never on any occasion, with the exception of Saturday, left the office before 1 a.m. For this I received less than the salary of a present day junior reporter.

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The Te Kooti Massacre.

How The News Came To Auckland.

An event which caused a great stir in Auckland, and in fact, throughout the colony, was the massacre of settlers at Poverty Bay by Te Kooti and his murderous band in December, 1868. The news of this horror was brought to Auckland by the Lord Ashley (Captan Worsp). She used to tie up on the western side of the old Queen Street wharf, but on this occasion I was alongside before she rounded the jetty. Mr. Moss, the purser, who had been on the coast for a number of years, was an old friend of mine, and when I went alongside he shouted: "Catch this and pull for your life." And I did not wait to hear any more, but got ashore and ran as hard as I could for the office—I was on the 'Herald' when this happened. We went at it right away, and brought out a really good edition, and before the other reporters had collected their information from the people on board the "Lord Ashley" we were selling the "Herald" in the street. The papers then publishing were the "Herald," the "Southern Cross" and the "Evening News." It was a great scoop for the "Herald," and we came in for a good deal of commendation for our smartness in getting out such an account in such a short while.

A Savoury Derelict.

"Scoop" That Miscarried.

A good yarn, illustrating the keenness for a shipping story scoop, even after I had long discarded the reporter's pencil and had become the head of the "Star" centres round a mysterious derelict that had been sighted floating bottom up off the North Cape. One day in February, 1886, a well known skipper of those days, Captain Savory, then master of the steamer Herald, running coal from Westport and Greymouth, reported that he had seen either a wreck or a new island, and there was much excitement and speculation when the morning paper came out with the report. As soon as I saw the paper I went down to the waterfront, and after some negotiation chartered the Awhina, a wooden steamer of 136 tons, which for a number of years plied as a tug in Auckland, and afterwards was sold to a Fremantle firm. It was agreed that the "Star" should pay £50, and that newspaper and tug should halve the salvage, the vessel to go out under "sealed orders." I arranged with Mr. J. Liddell Kelly (sub-editor) and Mr. A. S. Reid (then shipping reporter, and now sub-editor of the "Star") to join me in the excursion, and went over to Takapuna to pack a few things. The arrangement was for the vessel to sail at 11 a.m. and pick me up off the Takapuna Beach. There was no appearance of the craft until late in the afternoon, and I became suspicious when I saw the Glenelg steaming out of harbour. Knowing it was not her regular day for leaving port, I at once guessed that the "Herald" had also decided to send out a search party.

When I got aboard my vessel half an hour later, I naturally raised a bit of a dust, but Captain Campbell, the skipper, was quite easy in his mind. "Never mind, Mr. Brett," he said. "We'll get there before the Glenelg. Shortly after passing Kawau the Awhina, the boat I had chartered, left the Glenelg behind, and we were well ahead before the night was out. When off Mangonui, early next morning, I decided to go ashore, so as to gather any news which might come to hand during the day from natives and settlers along the coast, while Mr, Kelly and Mr. Reid went on with the Awhina to hunt for the wreck. During the day circumstantial reports filtered in to Mangonui of a wreck having been seen out at sea and of wreckage having been washed ashore further north. It was fine, sensational stuff, and I saw to it that my telegrams made good reading for the patrons of the "Star."

Some time after midnight the search vessels were seen coming round the Mangonui Heads. In those unregenerate days it was first come first served on the telegraph wires, and as I could not be certain in the darkness which steamer was coming in first—the "Star" or the "Herald"—I made up a long message ready to hand in at the telegraph office in order to get possession of the wire to Auckland. In those days the telegraphist used the "tape," and the sending of a message was a much longer operation than it is to-day, so that once a reporter got possession of the wire it was not a difficult matter to keep it and block the other paper. As it turned out, however, this precaution of mine was not necessary. The "Star" steamer was first in after all, but I was greatly disgusted when in answer to my questions I was told that no ship had been sighted but they had discovered a dead whale, "and a very high one at that."

It was a sad end to the elaborate preparations that had been made (not for-page 11getting getting that we had agreed with the owners of the Awhina to share the salvage), but still news is news, and in order to let the "Star" get the explanation first it was necessary to capture the telegraph wires and hold them until it was too late for Mr. W. Berry, of the "Herald," to get his stuff through. As I mentioned my "stop gap" telegram was not wanted, the reason being that Mr. Kelly had sent ashore a long message giving an account of the Awhina's search. I at once made for the telegraph office and handed it to the officer in charge, who began sending it to Auckland. When the "Herald" man saw through the manoeuvre, he was wrath, and at about half-past 1 a.m. he demanded to be put through to Wellington to ask if an evening paper could monopolise the wires when the copy was not needed for several hours to come. Wellington sent through instructions to give the "Herald" preference at that time of night, and the "Star" stonewall broke down.

Captain Savory did not hear the last of his wreck for a long while. It was certainly a very large animal, blown out to the size of a small vessel and those who saw it also reported that it had a fine large smell—in fact it was so high that they did not want to get within quite a long distance of it.

It is interesting to recall that the skipper of the Glenelg on this voyage of discovery was Captain Norbury, who is now on the Manaia, on the Auckland-Whangarei run, and is one of the most capable and popular masters trading out of Auckland.

Clipper Days.

I am eighty years old and somewhat,
But I give to God the praise
That they made a sailor of me
In the good old clipper days.
Then men loved ships like women
And going to sea was more
Than signing on as a deck hand,
And scrubbing a cabin floor,
Or chipping rust from iron,
And painting—and chipping again.
In the days of clipper sailing
The sea was the place of men.
You could spy our great ships running
White-clouded, tier on tier;
You could hear their trampling thunder
As they leaned-to, racing near;
And it was "Heigho and ho, my lad!"
And we are "Outward bound."
And we sang full many a chantey
As we walked the capstan round.
Aye, we sang full many a chantey
As we drove through wind and wet,
To the music of five oceans,
That rings in memory yet!
Go, drive your dirty freighters
That fill the sky with reek—
But we—we took in skysails
High as a mountain peak!
Go, fire your sweaty engines,
And watch your pistons run—
We had the winds to serve us,
The living winds, my son!
And we didn't need propellers
That kicked a mess about;
But we hauled away with chanteys,
Or we let the great sails out.
And I'm eighty years old and somewhat,
And I give to God the praise
That they made a sailor of me
In the good old clipper days.