Читать книгу The Five Walking Sticks - Henry R Lew - Страница 10

Call me Maurice! My Hebrew name ‘Moshe Ben-Yisroel’ translates as ‘Moses the son of Israel’ but I prefer to answer to Maurice, Maurice Brodzky! Many years ago - a foggy September morning in 1871 to be precise - having no real reason left to remain in Europe, I decided I might sail about a bit, see the watery part of the world, and visit far off Australia.

Alighting from my train at Gravesend Station, I marched down the platform and made for the exit. This small market town and river port, located on a mile or so of the south bank of the Thames, some twenty miles east of London, epitomised Kent’s rich past. Caesar had first set foot on English soil here in 55 BC and Pocahontas had died on board ship here, in 1617, and was supposedly buried in St. George’s Churchyard. Their presence had been in relation to long journeys just completed, whereas mine was for an even longer one but outward bound. In 1871 Gravesend was the London point of departure for ships of the Money Wigram Line sailing to Australia. The journey was tedious and usually required eighty to ninety days. I had only just booked my passage and was now here to see the boat for the very first time. As I approached the “Sussex” it was obvious that the crew was already on board, busily making preparations for our voyage to Melbourne.

Suddenly the cadence of a delicate feminine voice! It was soft and demure and had a lovely English ring to it. “Are you going to Australia?” it enquired. I turned around to view a beautiful young woman, barely more than twenty years of age, with jet-black hair, light olive skin, finely chiselled features and capping it all, a beautiful pair of bright blue eyes. Her slender figure was cloaked in a widow’s outfit but this in no way made her less appealing or desirable. “Are you coming too,” I asked, more in hope than in expectation.

“No,” she answered, “but this gentleman, my friend, is going to a brother in Melbourne and needs someone to be kind to him on the way.” One glimpse at his pale and strangely vacant face, older than mine but not yet thirty, with its bushy black beard, shaggy eyebrows and aquiline nose and I immediately knew he was Jewish. I then realised that his female companion was also Jewish. Had she similarly picked me out, I wondered. We Jews, you know, have an uncanny ability of recognising one another. She introduced herself as Miriam Green and her companion as Mr. Morris Abrahams. Her name may be Miriam, I thought, but for me she will always be Rebecca, the daughter of Isaac of York, from Scott’s Ivanhoe. Rebecca was the heroine of every young romantic Jewish boy, myself included, who had ever read that novel. In Scott’s own words, “Yonder Jewess is the very model of perfection.” I found myself so deeply attracted to her that some unexpected thoughts now made their way across my mind. Should I cancel my trip and instead direct my attentions towards this heavenly creature?

“Is Mr. Abrahams ill?” I asked. “He has been very ill,” she replied, “but is quite well now. He may feel lonely on the voyage and would benefit from a kind companion.” She had cast her spell and I found I could refuse her nothing. “Of course, I will be kind to your friend,” I volunteered, “people on board ship are always kind, one to the other.” She gracefully held out her right hand and I knew not whether to shake it or kiss it. I blushed as I held her hand in mine. The hot blood reflected a desire I had to embrace more than just her hand. But shake her hand I did and in so doing sealed the promise of kindness that she had so skilfully extracted from me. She was ever so friendly and invited me home, that very same evening, to her picturesque villa in Hampstead and served a dainty little dinner. We talked and philosophised with kindness being the central theme of our discussion and she permitted no deviation from it. I never contacted her again, something I regret it to this very day. I was worried that if I kissed her it would spell good-bye to any plans I had of seeing Australia.

The Sussex was a three masted wooden sailing ship of 1100 tons net, 230 feet long, 32 feet wide, and 22 feet deep. It was built in Blackwall Yard, East London, in 1853 and ours was its twenty-eighth visit to Australia. I was fascinated with the ship’s stores. Fresh milk was available courtesy the ship’s milking cow accommodated in its own special pen. Other pens housed sheep and pigs and there were coops for chickens and ducks. There were plenty of vegetables and pickles galore. Throughout the voyage the sailors would also catch fish and the odd albatross on a line cast overboard, carrying meat as bait. Good meals were therefore never a problem. Fresh food was available and the preservation of foodstuffs was already quite sophisticated at this time.

The saloon was a large area just below deck serving as dining room, drawing room, and parlour, all in one. The saloon class passengers had their cabins surrounding it. Each had a sliding entrance door that ran off the saloon and folding doors in-between that could be unlocked should a family take up adjacent suites. Small Georgian six-pane windows let in the light and the fresh salt air. Outside of them strong boards were fitted to protect against rough weather. The bunks had bookshelves over the bed-heads and other fixtures included a washstand, a mirror, a swing tray for bottles, and hooks on which to hang things. These cabins were small but not dreary or uninviting. Second and third class passengers, such as myself, were boarded in much less comfortable circumstances in more remote parts of the ship.

Our first stop was Plymouth Harbour to take on more passengers and to await winds favourable to our final departure, which took place on October 9^th 1871. John D. Collard was our Captain and in his care were 47 crew, 47 passengers and a general cargo of two hundred tons said to be valued at 44,000 pounds.

We passengers had no such responsibilities, just the problems of obtaining our sea legs and passing the time. We walked the decks and mingled actively. Numerous introductions were made. The traditional way of breaking the ice was to ask fellow travellers their reasons for undertaking such a long journey. Some were doing it for their health. A long sea voyage to Australia’s better climate was a frequently recommended prescription for lung complaints. Others were seeking fame, fortune or pleasure; perhaps escaping traumatic love affairs; or merely going to see what it was like. If conditions proved favourable, and they made a good living, they would stay; otherwise a return home was always on the cards. We even had a writer and a photographer on board. Books on travel were becoming increasingly popular now that steam and telegraph were shrinking the world. Photography yielded a more realistic impression of faraway places no longer compromised by artistic licence. But more important it offered work with the promise of a good income, so great was the demand for it, as an integral part of the new technology of the time.

We read, played cards and chess or deck games such as quoits, sang songs, arranged recitals, staged theatricals, and produced plays. Passengers were continually encouraged to write letters back home, as fellow ships passing in opposite directions pulled alongside to exchange the mail. The study of marine creatures - fish, large mammals such as porpoises or whales, or sea birds such as the legendary albatross - also helped us pass the time.

Soon after leaving port we ran into a ten-day tempest. The Sussex was tossed by fierce head winds, and our ship’s surgeon, Doctor Walsh, now in constant demand, was looking very tired. On one occasion he approached me. “Frenchy,” he said. It was a nickname bestowed on me by the crew. “Strange fellow in number 14! The passengers in his vicinity are complaining as to the terrible racket he is making. I spoke to him but, refusing to look me in the eye, he continued to prattle in some foreign gibberish. Perhaps you will understand him? Perhaps you can get through to him? Please come and see.” Naturally I obliged and went with Walsh. The strange fellow turned out to be Morris Abrahams who was travelling first class in a saloon cabin. He was praying in Hebrew. You couldn’t imagine a louder rendition of his penance, the Jewish death bed prayers and a detailed confession of his sins. Doctor Walsh tried to get through to him but with no success. “What is your name?” Walsh asked. No reply! “Are you ill? What is wrong?” Again no reply! The doctor then left him in my care and went off to attend another patient. “Friend,” I informed him, “the God of Israel is not deaf. You are disturbing the sick with your loud lamentations. Please try to say your prayers in a lower tone of voice.” I then tried some questions. “Why are you saying the death bed prayers?” Once more no reply! “But I promised Miriam that I would look after you,” I countered next, and at the very mention of her name he pricked up his ears, stopped praying and stared at me. “Are you ill,” I continued, “allow the good doctor to examine you!” He shook his head. “But you are saying death bed prayers,” I urged. “Are you expecting to die soon?” He made a downward motion with his right hand. I finally understood. He was afraid the ship was about to sink. “You certainly are a bad sailor,” I joked. “What would Miriam say if she heard of your behaviour? Fair ladies like her are reserved for brave men. If you are cowardly no pretty lady such as she will ever look at you.” He smiled faintly, continued his prayers almost in silence, and then became perfectly still.

Later in the journey there was a period when Abrahams refused to eat or drink. “Morris Abrahams is starving himself to death,” said Dr. Walsh. “He drank a cup of tea as a personal favour to me but only swallowed a tonic I prescribed when I poured it down his throat. See what you can do with him.” Again I calmed him by talking of Miriam and soon, like a puppy, he started to trust me and developed a dependence on me. Our ship had sailed swiftly, well past the Bay of Biscay into warmer latitudes. Now, believe me, there is no better place than the clean deck of a sailing ship in balmy weather should you wish to restore your health, so I walked Abrahams over it, back and forth, and he convalesced.

Our course took us south-west well across the Atlantic towards Rio de Janiero. Next we tacked south-east, just north of Tristan Da Cunha, our last sighting of land, before heading south of the Cape of Good Hope to the fortieth parallel. There those heavy westerly winds, “the Roaring Forties,” would propel us at two to three hundred miles a day, due east across the Indian Ocean towards Melbourne.

One afternoon, as near as our voyage took us to Capetown, one of our party shot a Cape pigeon flying overhead. The poor bird fell, bleeding, into Morris Abrahams’ lap. He jumped up in fright and gave a yell. When he realised it was only a dead bird he began to weep. I would have expected the initial shock and the tears that followed to be detrimental, but somehow they were beneficial and appeared to cleanse his soul. For a period he became less troublesome but now more than ever he liked to keep his eye on me and to know where I was.

This got me into a fight over Abrahams. I was in the saloon reading a book. Nearby three young men were playing poker. It was hot and they were thirsty. Drinking stout rather than lime juice or water, one of them imbibed rather more than he could handle. It affected his game and he started to lose. He became cautious and when the others raised the stakes he preferred to sit it out. At such times he amused himself by breaking off fragments of a biscuit and throwing them at Abrahams, who was watching me from in front of his cabin door, a grotesque blank stare all over his face. Half a dozen bottles of stout later and the young intoxicant became more aggressive. Thinking himself very clever he now hurled a recently emptied bottle at Abrahams’ head. Abrahams gave a yell and fell to the ground, blood gushing forth from a laceration on his forehead. I dropped my book and immediately confronted the drunken card player. Doctor Walsh had arrived and was attending to Abrahams’ wounds and I was doing my best to supply him with another patient. But before I could do much damage Captain Collard likewise appeared on the scene and ordered the first mate to separate us. “This won’t do Frenchy,” he said, “you two can fight it out in the morning before the decks are washed.”

Later that afternoon Captain Collard approached me about the disturbance. He had organised a stand up fight invoking the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules. “We never on these long voyages allow any bad blood to persist between passengers or crew. All differences must be settled as soon as possible. The ship’s safety demands that there be no long standing animosities.” “This proposition is absurd,” I countered. “I know how to use a pistol or a sword, but nothing about the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules.” “It’s no use Frenchy,” the first mate interposed, “on an English ship you fight like an Englishman. I’ll teach you.” He produced some boxing gloves and gave me my first lesson. Meanwhile the second mate, a former middleweight champion, had arranged to give me a second lesson after completing his round of duty and that second lesson was really something. This man knew his trade and seemed anxious that I should do him proud. When it was over he rubbed me down and sent me to bed. Then at four in the morning he woke me, showered me, rubbed down my biceps with resin, and gave me some final cardinal hints on how to face an opponent. I was ready.

The fight drew a full house. Spectators crowded the poop and fo’c’sle to view the entertainment. For five rounds they watched, almost in silence, while we sized each other up. We sparred but no significant punishment was meted out till, in the sixth round, I finally landed a tremendous punch, hitting my opponent smack bang on the nose and jerking his head back. Much applause followed, making him even more ferocious. He clenched his teeth and went for me. Fortunately I kept my cool, and as we came to close quarters slipped my left arm round his neck and wedged his midriff between the spare mast and the side of the ship. He could no longer move and was helpless. The applause was now deafening. I did not know if it was fair to punch an opponent pinned in such a position but held him there until I got a ruling. “Is it fair?” I asked the referee. “Perfectly fair,” he replied. I started pounding my opponent’s head much to the satisfaction of the spectators. They were urging me to really give it to him. He started to bleed but try as hard as he did he couldn’t break free. His strength waned so when at last he pleaded, “Let go Frenchy. I’ve had enough. I give in,” I don’t know who was more relieved, him or me. I was starting to worry that I might kill him. I let go and we shook hands. The mistreatment handed out to my sick fellow Jew had been suitably avenged. The second mate embraced me. “That was admirable how you got him into chancery,” he said, bursting with pride. “That was not one of the points you gave me,” I responded breathlessly. “It was chance,” I explained, “it was chance!” His slang usage of the word chancery had completely passed me by. The second mate laughed. “Where ignorance is bliss,” he retorted, “tis folly to be wise.”

Abrahams continued to cause trouble. When we hit the doldrums and our ship was becalmed, a splash was heard followed by the call “man overboard.” A boat was lowered and it was Morris Abrahams who was pulled from the water. He who feared the rough seas had now tried to drown himself in a calm one. Strange how a person attempting suicide may choose the vehicle he seems to fear most as his means of destruction.

Abrahams was now put into chains for his own safety. He appeared even more helpless than before, refusing to eat or drink except for me. I fed him, nursed him, and helped with his ablutions, all voluntarily and with a good heart, no longer feeling a need to keep my promise to Miriam. I had developed a need of my own to care for him.

Then on December 31^st we finally sighted ‘Australia.’ Thirteen thousand miles and eighty-three days had passed since Plymouth. We had sailed due east, missing the Crozet Islands to the south and St. Paul and Cape Leeuwin to the north and now the green vegetation of Cape Otway was only thirteen miles ahead. Ten more miles passed and the Sussex signalised its name to the lighthouse and had it signalised back. The lighthouse would now telegraph Melbourne to notify our ship’s presence. The passengers were excited and overjoyed. They had been advised to anticipate our arrival in Melbourne on New Years Day 1872. At 2 p.m. with Cape Otway just in arrears the passengers congregated in the saloon to celebrate the completion of a most uneventful voyage. To acknowledge gratitude a testimonial was collected. This was presented to Captain Collard in appreciation of his skill and kindness.

Afterwards I went to feed Morris Abrahams for the very last time. The poor wretch was sitting in his cell chained to the lower bunk. Once he saw me he started yelling, “Down, down she goes, down,” and then recommenced his loud lamentations and Hebrew prayers. I tried to console him by telling him that land had been sighted and this was our last night on board. He took some fluids but refused solid food. When he finished drinking he gave me a contemptuous stare and then lay down awkwardly. His head crashed rather heavily onto his pillow. I left him there looking exhausted, a truly pitiful sight, the long heavy chain attached to his dangling left arm rattling continuously.

Sunset heralded in a moonless night, dark and hazy. Preparations for the New Year’s Eve celebrations had already begun. A combined concert and dance was to be held in the saloon but I withdrew from the merrymaking having decided on an early night instead. I don’t hold my liquor well and more than anything I wanted a clear head when we landed in the morning. It was after 9 p.m. but sometime before 10 that a flashing light was noted on the starboard bow. Everyone on deck saw it, ‘on off, on off,’ and the second mate was sent up to the masthead to investigate. He reported additional lights on the port bow. Captain Collard took these second lights to be Queenscliff and ordered the blue lights for the pilot craft to be brought up on deck. Suddenly on the starboard beam a second ship was sighted firing blue lights and a rocket, and then land was seen close by, dead ahead. Captain Collard now mistakenly determined that the flashing light was Cape Schanck Lighthouse well to the east of the heads and that he had run his distance too far. At once he ordered the helm hard a-starboard and the crossjack yard braced. The ship was made to turn sharply and before the mistake was realised it had run aground on a reef and started to take in water.

Crash, crash, crash! The grating sound of the undersurface of the ship’s hull on the rocks startled me from my slumber. Water gushed into my cabin. I jumped down from my top bunk and pulled my trousers up under my night-shirt. The crushing and splintering continued; the undersurface appeared to be cracking up into pieces. The water had now risen up to my neck. I waded through it in darkness, groping for the steps that led to the deck. A young woman was on the steps struggling to save both herself and a young child that she was holding in her arms; both of them weighed down by her drenched garments. I grabbed her hair and pulled her out of a watery grave by dragging her up the stairway. There was no other choice. Despite the pain I had obviously inflicted on her she didn’t utter a whimper and couldn’t thank me enough.

On deck confusion reigned. It would eventually be revealed that Captain Collard had mistaken Point Lonsdale for Point Nepean. Instead of our ship entering Port Phillip Bay it had run aground on rocks just west of Barwon Heads, ten miles short of Queenscliff.

Morris Abrahams had been completely forgotten. It was left for me to remind Captain Collard about him. The captain immediately ordered the third mate to help me, and when we couldn’t find the key to the padlock on Abrahams’ chains, the ship’s carpenter was conscripted as well. The three of us made our way down to the lockup. Once again I plunged through the water finding poor Abrahams, standing up in his cell holding on to the top bunk with his free right hand, the water level up to his nipples. He was whimpering like a terrified animal. The carpenter knocked out the piece of board to which his chain was fastened and then we led him up through the water onto the poop. We released him there, when crazed with grief he made a rush for the side of the ship and attempted to jump into the sea. I grabbed him. “Tie him to the mast,” the captain yelled. And Morris Abrahams was tied to the ship’s mast - thus becoming the terrible centrepiece to an awful scene - that of a demented Jew, shivering in a wet night-shirt, appearing as crucified, with a chain and board attached to his left arm, and watched by close to a hundred agonised spectators.

The ship was still lurching and gave another terrific bump! We all fell to one side. The rolling seas tossed it over the rocks onto a sandbank. More bumps - how many is impossible to recall - and then it finally wedged hard aground. Only the poop, the fo’c’sle, and the saloon remained clear of the water.

Captain Collard ordered the blue lights fired and the rockets launched and this was repeated at intervals, until supplies ran out at midnight. The passengers were directed into the saloon. Sitting on tables they were reassured that they were safe, but warned that they may have to abandon ship soon and their luggage would almost certainly be lost. Many remained unconvinced as to their safety until a fire, lit on the beach six hundred yards away, provided relief by showing them that they were not alone.

A farmer by the name of Angus, who lived close by, had seen the rockets ascending, and ran down to the beach to find out what was wrong. Seeing a fully rigged ship run aground just six hundred yards offshore, he lit a fire on the sand hills to announce his presence. When a neighbour arrived to relieve him Angus got onto his horse and rode hard to Geelong. Within an hour he had reported the news to Mr. Bookey, the Police Superintendent, who, in turn, telegraphed Melbourne and Queenscliff, and requested that several ships be sent post haste to the wreck.

Meanwhile on the Sussex John Collard made his second serious error, a decision that resulted in five brave volunteers losing their lives. Third Officer O’Flaherty and seamen Graham, Churcher, Feast, Milliner, and Labton were launched for Queenscliff in a small boat to raise the alarm. They managed to row clear of the Sussex but after less than an hour their small craft was swamped. Only Labton, a particularly strong swimmer, managed to make it to shore.

By daylight assistance had not arrived. People were visible on the beach but they could not launch a rescue. The seas were too high and the breakers too dangerous. No boat or swimmer could have survived them. Several hours passed. We were hungry, thirsty and tired. It wasn’t till noon that we noticed a thin wisp of smoke in the direction of the heads. Half an hour later a small craft became visible on the horizon. It was the paddle steamer Titan, the first of several ships to arrive at the wreck. It anchored a quarter to half a mile seaward of the Sussex and the work of rescue was begun. By means of small boats dropped over the sides all those aboard the Sussex were transferred to the Titan. Women and children went first. The captain, the first mate, the boatswain, Abrahams and myself were the last five on board. We lowered Abrahams from the Sussex by a rope wound round his waist. I was in the waggling boat below entrusted with the job of catching him. Once more he attempted to jump into the sea and very nearly capsized our lifeboat in the process. “Sit on him Frenchy,” cried out the first mate. I sat tautly on Abrahams’ chest while the first mate caught hold of the remainder of the rope, which had been left dangling on the side of the ship. The captain and I baled out water while the first mate and the boatswain pulled hard at the oars. The lifeboat continued to take water but despite this and Abrahams’ incessant wriggling we managed to make it to the Titan. I leapt onto the deck, and then pulled Abrahams aboard with the rope tied around his body.

The Titan now steamed back to the heads but not before Abrahams provided us with a last diversion. Predictably he made a rush for the railing and tried to throw himself into the sea. We crucified him again up against the funnel of the Titan.

At Queen’s Wharf, Queenscliff, we were transferred to another paddle steamer, the Challenge, to take us on to Melbourne. It had been despatched to the wreck, but arrived too late to partake in the rescue.

So you now know how Maurice Brodzky, devoid of his personal possessions, with just a few coins in pocket, first set foot on Australian soil on New Years Day 1872.