<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></SPAN></span></p>
<h2>THE PILOT</h2>
<hr style="width: 65%;" />
<h2>I</h2>
<h3>SOME STIRRING TALES OF THE SEA HEARD AT THE PILOTS' CLUB</h3>
<div class='cap'>OF all the clubs in New York, I know none where
a man who values the real things of life may
spend a pleasanter hour than at the Pilots' Club, far
down on the lower water-front, looking out of lofty
windows in one of those great structures that make the
city, seen from the bay, a place of wonderful fairy
towers.</div>
<p>Here on the walls are pictures that call up thrilling
scenes, as this painting of pilot-boat No. 11 (they call
her <i>The Phantom</i>), rescuing passengers from the
<i>Oregon</i>, helpless in the great storm of 1886, sixty
miles beyond Sandy Hook. We shall find men sitting
about these rooms, smoking and reading, who can tell
the story of that night in simple, rugged words that
will make the water devils dance before us.</p>
<p>Look at them! These are the pilots of New York,
greatest seaport in the world, with its tidy annual total
of twenty-odd millions in tonnage entered and cleared,
against fifteen millions for London. These are the
boys (some of them nearing seventy) who bring the
mighty liners in and take them out, who fight through
any sea at a vessel's blue-light bidding, and climb her
fortress sides by a slamming whip-lash ladder that
shames the flying trapeze. And this in trim derby hat<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></SPAN></span>
(sometimes a topper), with gloves and smart necktie,
and some New-York "Heralds" tucked away in a coat-tail
pocket.</p>
<p>Look at them! These are the boys who stay out
when every other floating thing comes in, who face an
Arctic rigor when masts are barrel big with ice, and
ropes like trees, and when climbing to a steamer's deck
is like skating up an iceberg. These are the boys who
know, through fog and darkness, the call of the whistling
buoy that sings at the mouth of Gedney's, and
can say "Good morning" to every bobbing juniper-spar
that marks the long ship lane (red lights on starboard
buoys, as you come in, white lights on port buoys), who
know the way even when the glass and iron lamp-frames
are all but sunk with ice—west-northwest and a
quarter west for a mile and a half, till the beacon lights
of Waackaack and Point Comfort line out straight on
the Jersey shore, then west by south until the Sandy
Hook light lines with the old South Beacon, then a
short way northwest by west and a quarter west until
the Conover Beacon lines with Chapel Hill, and so on
straight to the Narrows.</p>
<p>These are the boys who know every rock and shoal
in this most treacherous bay, with its thirteen lighthouses,
its two light-ships, and its eighty danger spots,
marked by nun-buoys, bell-buoys, electric-light buoys,
whistling buoys, all familiar to them as their own
homes.</p>
<p>Great boys they are for story-telling, these pilots,
and by the hour I have listened to their memories of
the sea. Two things made deep impression on me
(so do we of less heroic lives take note of weakness in
the strong)—one, that many pilots cannot swim (the
same is true of deep-sea divers), the other, that pilots,
even after years at sea, may be victims of seasickness<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></SPAN></span>
like any novice. Pilot Breed, for instance, as trusty
a man as stands at a liner's wheel, assured me that
every time he goes out for duty he goes out for torture,
too. And he does his duty and he bears the torture, so
that after all we must count this rather strength than
weakness.</p>
<div class="figright"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus29.jpg" width-obs="355" height-obs="450" alt="THE RESCUE OF THE OREGON'S PASSENGERS." title="" /> <span class="caption">THE RESCUE OF THE OREGON'S PASSENGERS.</span></div>
<p><span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"How can you do your work," I asked, "if you are
in such distress?"</p>
<p>"Because I have to," he answered, with a wistful
smile. "You know sailors are often seasick, but they
go aloft just the same and work—because they have
to. You could do it yourself if you had to. And
yet," he added, half shutting his eyes, "I've many a
time been so bad when we've tossed and tossed for
days and nights on the watch for vessels that I've come
pretty near to dropping quietly overboard and ending
it."</p>
<p>This he said without any special emphasis, yet one
could see that it was true.</p>
<p>"Why don't you give up the life?" I suggested.</p>
<p>"Perhaps I would," said he, "if I could do as well
at anything else. Besides—"</p>
<p>Then came the queerest reason. His father, it seems,
a pilot before him, had suffered from seasickness for
thirty-seven years, and then for thirty years more had
been quite free from it. "Now," said Breed, "I've
been a pilot for twenty-two years, so I figure if I stick
to it fifteen years more I may be like my father after
that, and have no more trouble."</p>
<p>Think of that for a scheme of life!</p>
<p>Presently another pilot joined us, and set forth a
remarkable experience. "I was taking the steamer
<i>Lahn</i> once," said he, "through a heavy fog, and the
captain and I were both on the bridge, anxious to locate
the light-ship. You know she lies eight miles off the
Hook, and gives incoming vessels their first bearings
for the channel. Of course we didn't expect to see
her light—you couldn't see anything in such weather—but
we listened for her fog-horn. How we did listen!
And presently we heard it. You get accustomed
to judging distances over water by the sound,<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></SPAN></span>
and I put that light-ship at five miles away, or thereabouts,
and I wasn't far wrong. Well, we headed
straight for it, and heard the fog-horn all the time for
about a mile. Then it suddenly stopped.</p>
<p>"'Hullo!' said I. 'What's up?'</p>
<p>"'Confound those light-ship people,' growled the
captain. 'I'll make complaint against them for stopping
their horn.'</p>
<p>"'Wait a little,' said I, and kept listening, listening
for the horn to blow again, and all the time we were
running nearer to the shoal. Pretty soon we slowed
down, and went on a couple of miles, then another mile.
It seemed as if we must have reached the light-ship,
and the captain was in a state of mind.</p>
<p>"Then suddenly the fog-horn sounded again, not
four lengths away, sir, and the queer thing is it had
been sounding the whole blamed time—we got positive
proof of it afterward—only we hadn't heard it.
The explanation was that we had passed through two
sound zones—that's what the scientific people call 'em—and
I can tell you those sound zones make considerable
trouble for pilots."</p>
<p>To this perplexing statement the others nodded grave
assent, and Breed capped the tale with a sound-zone
story of his own. It was just off quarantine, and
he was turning a liner to bring her up to dock when
another liner came along, also running in. Breed
gave the signal three times for the other liner to port
her helm, and she signaled back three times for him to
port his. By good luck each vessel did the right thing,
and they passed safely, but neither pilot heard the
whistle of the other, and each made angry complaint
that the other had failed to whistle: yet witnesses testified
that both had whistled, and each one swore that
he had.<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>The truth was, according to the gentlemen who explain
acoustic puzzles, that these two steamers happened
to be placed there down the bay like two people
in a whispering gallery, who cannot hear each other
where they are, but would hear plainly if they moved
further apart or drew closer together, so as to be in
the foci of sound. Thus it was that distant vessels
heard both sets of whistles, although there was a nearer
region where these were inaudible.</p>
<p>Investigation has shown that these sound zones frequently
establish themselves at sea (they vary in extent
with wind and tide), so that the sound of horn or bell
may be heard for a mile or two, and then become inaudible
for, say, two miles, and then become audible
again, almost as plainly as at first, for several miles
more. The theory is that the sound-waves somehow
go skipping over the sea, like a flat pebble over a mill-pond,
in long jumps, and that a vessel under the highest
part of one of these jumps is out of the sound
influence, but will come into it again by going ahead
a certain distance or going back a certain distance.
Whether this explanation be the true one or not, the
facts are abundantly vouched for, and are believed to
explain various collisions and wrecks that have long
been looked upon as mysteries.</p>
<p>"There are lots of queer things about our business,"
reflected an old pilot. "Now, you take steamers,
they're just as different as people; each one has her
own ways, and most likely her own partic'lar kind of
crankiness. They talk about twin steamers, but
there's no such thing. You can have 'em both made
in the same yard, with every measurement alike, and
they'll be as different, sir, as—as two violins. Why,
I never saw a craft that'd sail the same on both tacks;
they're always harder on one than the other. And as<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></SPAN></span>
for compasses—well, I don't suppose there's ever two
that came into this port with needles pointing just the
same way. They all lean a shade one way or the other,
same as watches."</p>
<p>"Lean a shade!" put in another man. "I've known
'em to lean a whole lot. I've known a steamer's compass
to point plumb northeast instead of north. And
that time we nearly went on the rocks by it. We were
coming along past Fire Island, and the night was pretty
thick. I felt something was queer and wouldn't go
below, although the captain wanted me to. I kept
looking up, looking up, searching for the north star,
and pretty soon I made it out, or thought I did, through
a rift in the blackness.</p>
<p>"'Hold on!' said I to the captain, 'something's the
matter with your compass. There's the north star
ahead of us, and it ought to be abaft the bridge.'</p>
<p>"'North star nothing,' said the captain. 'You're
tired, man; you need a rest. Now, you just turn in
for an hour, and I'll run her.'</p>
<p>"'You'll run her on the rocks,' said I, 'inside of
fifteen minutes unless you pull her out of here. I tell
you that compass is crazy.'</p>
<p>"Well, sir, he began to get scared when he saw me
so positive, and a little later he pulled her out—just in
time, too, for we were right on the breakers of Long
Island, thanks to that lying compass. I've heard it's
the magnetic sand at Shinnecock that devils compasses.
You know there's acres and acres of it along there."</p>
<p>This led to a discussion of magnetic sand, and it was
edifying to see how well informed these pilots are in
the latest advances of science.</p>
<p>They set forth, for example, the clear advantage of
literally pouring oil upon furious waters, and were all
agreed that the foam of a spent wave, spreading around<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></SPAN></span>
a life-boat, will often protect her against a succeeding
wave. The foam seems to act like oil in preventing
a driving wind from tossing up the surface—getting
a hold on it, one might say.</p>
<p>"Taking it altogether," I asked, "do you men regard
a pilot's life as very dangerous?"</p>
<p>It was Breed who answered: "Taking it altogether,"
said he, "I regard a pilot's life as about the most dangerous
going. Here's a little thing to show you how
fast they go, these lives of pilots. When I was received
as apprentice there were eighteen other apprentices
ahead of me, and the only way we could get to
be pilots was through somebody dropping out, for
there were never more than just so many licenses
issued. Well, when I had been an apprentice for three
years the whole eighteen had been received as pilots,
and there were seven vacancies besides. That makes
twenty-five dead pilots in three years, and most of 'em
killed. Why, in the blizzard of 1888 alone ten of our
boats were wrecked."</p>
<p>At this there was a solemn shaking of heads, then
stories of the taking off of this or that gallant fellow.
There was Van Pelt, one of the strongest men in the
service—a pilot from a family of pilots—killed by the
stroke of a tow-line—a big hawser that snapped across
his body like a knife when the towing-bitts pulled out,
and cut him clean in two.</p>
<p>Then there was that Norwegian apprentice, who was
lost when they tried to send a small boat after Denny
Reardon on the <i>Massachusetts</i>, in the storm of November,
1897. The <i>Massachusetts</i> was loaded with
lions, tigers, and elephants—the whole Barnum &
Bailey show—and Reardon had just got her safely
over the bar. There was a fierce sea on that night,
and Reardon waited at the steamer's side—waited and<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></SPAN></span>
peered out at the flare-up light, while the boys on the
<i>New York</i> tried to do the launching trick. And in
one of the upsets this Norwegian chap was swept astern
and churned to death in the screw-blades.</p>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/illus30.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="404" alt="A PILOT-BOAT RIDING OUT A STORM." title="" /> <span class="caption">A PILOT-BOAT RIDING OUT A STORM.</span></div>
<p>Then there was Harry Devere, a Brooklyn pilot,
who happened to be out in the cyclone of 1894, miles
from land, in the little pilot-schooner, with its jaunty
"17" on the canvas. There they were, riding out the
storm, as pilot-boats do (facing it, not running), when
up loomed a big West Indian fruiter, burning a blue<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></SPAN></span>
light forward, which meant she was in sore need of a
man at the wheel who knew the dangers in these parts.
The old ocean was killing mad that night, air and water
straining in a death struggle, and already four pilots
had been carried on by liners, carried on to Europe
because there was no human way of putting them off.</p>
<p>To start for that vessel now was madness, and every
man in the pilot-crew knew it, and so did Devere.
But he started just the same. He said he would try,
and he did—tried through a cyclone that was sweeping
a whole heaven of snow down upon the bellowing sea
as if to smother its fury. Down into this they went,
three of them, and somehow, by a miracle of skill, got
the yawl under the vessel's lea. Then smash they were
hurled against the iron side, and Devere sprang for
the rope ladder—a poor, fluttering thing. He caught
it, held fast, and the next moment was torn away by
a great wave that cast him back into the waste of
waters. And so he perished.</p>
<p>You ought to hear them tell these stories!</p>
<p>On the whole it seemed clear there is danger enough
in this calling for the most extravagant taste. And
the chief danger is not this boarding of vessels in
storms, nor yet the dancing out of tempests in cockle-shell
craft, where a steamer would scurry to shelter;
neither of these, but the everlasting peril of being run
down. That is a danger to break men's nerves, for always,
night and day, the pilot-boats must lie in the
swift track of the liners—right in the track, else they
will pass unseen—and it must be known that this is a
narrow track, a funnel for the ships of all the world,
which pass ceaselessly, ceaselessly, converging from all
ports, diverging to all ports, in storm, in fog, in darkness,
and there the pilot-boats must lie, flying their
square blue flags by day, burning their flare-up lights<span class='pagenum'><SPAN name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></SPAN></span>
every fifteen minutes by night, waiting, waiting, in
just such strained suspense as a man would feel before
the rush of a silent locomotive, sure to kill him if he
does not see it, before the rush of many silent locomotives
which come while he sleeps, while he eats, perhaps
while he prays.</p>
<p>And constantly in the pilot records is this laconic
entry: "No. 8 run over and sunk; all hands lost."
"No. 11 run over and sunk; one man saved, the rest
lost." "Pilot-boat <i>Columbia</i> cut down by a liner; ten
men lost." No chance for heroic struggle here, no
death with dramatic setting and columns in the papers,
but a stupid, blundering execution while the men rest
helpless on weary bunks, lulled by the surging sea—"run
over and sunk."</p>
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