Louis Becke - Yorke The Adventurer

In that delightful and exciting book, written by Captain Joshua Slocum, and entitled, “Sailing Alone Round the World,” there is a part wherein the adventurous American seaman relates how he protected himself from night attacks by the savages by a simple, but efficient precaution. It was his custom, when he anchored for the night off the snow-clad and inhospitable shores of Tierra del Fuego, to profusely sprinkle his cutter’s deck with sharp tacks, and then calmly turn in and sleep the sleep of the just; for even the horny soles of the Fuegian foot is susceptible to the business end of a tack; and, as I read Slocum’s story, I smiled, and thought of dear old Yorke and the Francesco .

I first met Yorke early in the “seventies.” Our vessel had run in under the lee of the South Cape of New Britain to wood and water, and effect some repairs, for in working northward through the Solomon Group, on a special mission to a certain island off the coast of New Guinea, we had met with heavy weather, and had lost our foretopmast. In those days there was not a single white man living on the whole of the south coast of New Britain, from St. George’s Channel on the east, to Dampier’s Straits on the west—a stretch of more than three hundred miles, and little was known of the natives beyond the fact of their being treacherous cannibals. In Blanche Bay only, on the northern shore, was there a settlement of a few adventurous English traders—the employees of a rich German company—and these were only acquainted with the natives in their own vicinity. Even the masters of trading vessels avoided the south coast of the great island, not only on account of the dangerous character of its inhabitants, but also because there was not, they thought, anything to tempt them to risk their and their crews’ lives—for the shore nearly everywhere presented a line of dense unbroken forest, with but scanty groves of coco-palms at long intervals, and even had there been many such groves, no communication could be had with the people. In the wild days of the “seventies” the practice of cutting up and drying the coconut into what is known as “copra” had scarcely made any headway in those parts of New Britain, New Ireland, and the Solomon and New Hebrides Groups which were visited by trading vessels—the nuts were turned into oil by a crude and wasteful process known as “rotting.”

The captain of our little vessel was one of the oldest and most experienced trading skippers in the Western Pacific, grim, resolute, and daring, but yet cautious of his men’s lives, if not of his own; so when he decided to anchor under the lee of the South Cape, he chose a part of the coast which seemed to be but scantily inhabited. The dense forest which came down to the water’s edge concealed from view any village that might have been near us; but the presence of smoke arising from various spots denoted that there were some natives living in the vicinity, though we could not see any canoes.

We brought to about half a mile from the shore. Two boats were at once lowered, manned, and armed, and under the captain’s guidance, set out to search for water, which we knew we should have but little difficulty in finding, even on the south coast of New Britain, which is not nearly so well watered as the northern shore of the island. In the captain’s boat were six men besides himself; I was in charge of the covering boat, manned by six native seamen and carrying three water-casks—all we could stow.

Pulling in together, close to the shore, the captain then went ahead, my boat following at the regulation distance of fifty yards, only four hands rowing in each, leaving four men to keep a look-out for natives.

Presently the skipper turned to me, and pointed shoreward.

“That’s the place for us, Drake—between those two spurs—just round this point. There’s bound to be water there.”

The place which he indicated was about two miles distant to the eastward, and the crews gave way with good will, for the prospect of having a drink of pure water after the brackish and ill-smelling stuff we had been drinking for a fortnight, was very pleasing. Although but a little past nine o’clock in the morning the day was intensely hot, and windless as well, and the perspiration was streaming down the naked chests and backs of our sturdy native sailors. The only sounds that broke the silence were the cries of birds—cockatoos and large green and scarlet parrots, which screamed angrily at us as the boats passed close in to the dense, steamy jungle of the littoral.

Just as the captain’s boat rounded the point, we heard a cry of astonishment from his crew, a cry that was echoed by ourselves half a minute later; for there in the centre of a small landlocked bay, was a cutter lying at anchor! She appeared to be of about thirty or forty tons, had an awning spread aft, and presented a very weather-worn appearance; her rudder was gone, and the upper part of her stern badly damaged. There was no one visible on deck, but presently, in answer to the captain’s hail, the face of an old, white-haired man, appeared above the companion.

“Come on board,” he called out in clear, vigorous tones, and we saw him take up a broom, which was lying on the skylight, and begin to sweep the after-deck vigorously with one hand, the other being in a sling.

“Guess he’s a lunatic,” said Captain Guest, turning to me with a laugh. But we had no time to indulge in surmises, for in a few minutes we were drawing up alongside; the stranger was standing at the stern, broom in hand, watching us.

“Step on board here, over the stern, please,” he said, and then he added quickly, “but are you all wearing boots?”

“No,” answered the captain, now quite sure the old man was wrong in his head, “some of my men have no boots.”

“Then they had better not come aboard,” he said with a quiet, amused smile, as he saw our puzzled faces.

The moment Captain Guest and myself stepped over the rail and shook hands with the stranger, we saw the reason for the broom—the entire deck, except the small space aft which had just been swept, was covered with broken glass!

“Glad to see you, gentlemen. My name is Yorke, and this cutter is the Francesco .”

“And my name is Guest. I am master of the brigantine Fray Sentos , of Sydney, lying just round the point, and this is Mr. Drake, my supercargo.”

“Sit down here on the skylight, gentlemen, out of the way of the glass—my cabin is very small.”

“Guess it would have to be a pretty big one if you had another two men like yourself to share it,” said Guest with a laugh, as he surveyed our new friend’s proportions. And indeed he was right, for Yorke was over six feet in height, rather stout, and with a chest like a working bullock. His face and neck were deeply bronzed to a dark tan, and presented a striking and startling yet pleasing contrast to his snowy-white hair, moustache, and eyebrows; his clear, steely blue eyes were in consonance with the broad, square jaw, and the man’s character revealed itself in his features—strong, courageous, dominant, and self-reliant.

The moment Captain Guest mentioned that our men were thirsty and would like a drink of water, Yorke became the soul of hospitality, and told them to come on board and help themselves, while for Guest and myself he produced a couple of bottles of excellent Tennant, and took a glass of it himself.

“Now, do you know, gentlemen,” he said as he sat down on the cutter’s rail, facing us, “this morning I had a dream? I thought I heard some one call out, ‘All ready there, for’ard?’ and I heard the rattle of a cable through the hawse-pipes. Then I woke and looked at the clock—it was just half-past seven.”