The Sea: Its Stirring Story of Adventure, Peril, & Heroism (Vol. 1-4). Frederick Whymper
the Royal Sovereign called out, “The admiral’s gone down!” She righted again, however, but was terribly disabled. Lord Collingwood said afterwards that the heavy guns were suspended almost vertically, and that “he thought the topsides were actually parting from the lower frame of the ship.” Admiral Smyth, in his important physical, hydrographical, and nautical work on the Mediterranean, relates that in 1812, when on the Rodney, a new 74-gun ship, she was so torn by the united violence of wind and wave, that the admiral had to send her to England, although sadly in need of ships. He adds, however, that noble as was her appearance on the waters, “she was one of that hastily-built batch of men-of-war sarcastically termed the Forty Thieves!”
Many are the varieties of winds accompanied by special characteristics met in the Mediterranean, and, indeed, sudden squalls are common enough in all usually calm waters. The writer well remembers such an incident in the beautiful Bay of San Francisco, California. He had, with friends, started in the morning from the gay city of “Frisco” on a deep-sea fishing excursion. The vessel was what is technically known as a “plunger,” a strongly-built two-masted boat, with deck and cabins, used in the bay and coast trade of the North Pacific, or for fishing purposes. When the party, consisting of five ladies, four gentlemen, the master and two men, started in the morning, there was scarcely a breath of wind or a ripple on the water, and oars as large as those used on a barge were employed to propel the vessel.
“The sea was bright, and the bark rode well,”
and at length the desired haven, a sheltered nook, with fine cliffs, seaweed-covered rocks, and deep, clear water, was reached, and a dozen strong lines, with heavy sinkers, put out. The sea was bountiful: in a couple of hours enough fish were caught to furnish a capital lunch for all. A camp was formed on the beach, a large fire of driftwood lighted, and sundry hampers unpacked, from which the necks of bottles had protruded suspiciously. It was an al fresco picnic by the seaside. The sky was blue, the weather was delightful, “and all went merry as a marriage bell.” Later, while some wandered to a distance and bathed and swam, others clambered over the hills, among the flowers and waving wild oats for which the country is celebrated. Then, as evening drew on, preparations were made for a return to the city, and “All aboard” was the signal, for the wind was freshening. All remained on deck, for there was an abundance of overcoats and rugs, and shortly the passing schooners and yachts could hear the strains of minstrelsy from a not altogether incompetent choir, several of the ladies on board being musically inclined. The sea gives rise to thoughts of the sea. The reader may be sure that “The Bay of Biscay,” “The Larboard Watch,” “The Minute Gun,” and “What are the Wild Waves saying?” came among a score of others. Meantime, the wind kept freshening, but all of the number being well accustomed to the sea, heeded it not. Suddenly, in the midst of one of the gayest songs, a squall struck the vessel, and as she was carrying all sail, put her nearly on her beam-ends. So violent was the shock, that most things movable on deck, including the passengers, were thrown or slid to the lower side, many boxes and baskets going overboard. These would have been trifles, but alas, there is something sadder to relate. As one of the men was helping to take in sail, a great sea dashed over the vessel and threw him overboard, and for a few seconds only, his stalwart form was seen struggling in the waves. Ropes were thrown to, or rather towards him, an empty barrel and a coop pitched overboard, but it was hopeless—
“That cry is ‘Help!’ where no help can come,
For the White Squall rides on the surging wave,”
and he disappeared in an “ocean grave,” amid the mingled foam and driving spray. No more songs then; all gaiety was quenched, and many a tear-drop clouded eyes so bright before. The vessel, under one small sail only (the jib), drove on, and in half an hour broke out of obscurity and mist, and was off the wharfs and lights of San Francisco in calm water. The same distance had occupied over four hours in the morning.
In the Mediterranean every wind has its special name. There is the searching north wind, the Grippe or Mistral, said to be one of the scourges of gay Provence—
“La Cour de Parlement, le Mistral et la Durance,
Sont les trois fléaux de la Provence.”
The north blast, a sudden wind, is called Boras, and hundreds of sailors have practically prayed, with the song,
“Cease, rude Boreas.”
The north-east biting wind is the Gregale, while the south-east, often a violent wind, is the dreaded Sirocco, bad either on sea or shore. The last which need be mentioned here, is the stifling south-west wind, the Siffante. But now we have reached the Suez Canal.
M. LESSEPS.
This gigantic work, so successfully completed by M. Lesseps, for ever solved the possibility of a work which up to that time had been so emphatically declared to be an impossibility. In effect, he is a conqueror. “Impossible,” said the first Napoleon, “n’est pas Français,” and the motto is a good one for any man or any nation, although the author of the sentence found many things impossible, including that of which we speak. M. de Lesseps has done more for peace than ever the Disturber of Europe did with war.
When M. de Lesseps88 commenced with, not the Canal, but the grand conception thereof, he had pursued twenty-nine years of first-class diplomatic service: it would have been an honourable career for most people. He gave it up from punctilios of honour; lost, at least possibly, the opportunity of great political power. He was required to endorse that which he could not possibly endorse. Lesseps had lost his chance, said many. Let us see. The man who has conquered the usually unconquerable English prejudice would certainly surmount most troubles! He has only carried out the ideas of Sesostris, Alexander, Cæsar, Amrou, the Arabian conqueror, Napoleon the Great, and Mehemet Ali. These are simply matters of history. But history, in this case, has only repeated itself in the failures, not in the successes. Lesseps has made the success; they were the failures! Let us review history, amid which you may possibly find many truths. The truth alone, as far as it may be reached, appears in this work. The Peace Society ought to endorse Lesseps. As it stands, the Peace party—well-intentioned people—ought to raise a statue to the man who has made it almost impossible for England to be involved in war, so far as the great East is concerned, for many a century to come.
After all, who is the conqueror—he who kills, or he who saves, thousands?
To prove our points, it will not be necessary to recite the full history of the grandest engineering work of this century—a century replete with proud engineering works. Here it can only be given in the barest outline.
Every intelligent child on looking at the map would ask why the natural route to India was not by the Isthmus of Suez, and why a canal was not made. His schoolmaster answered, in days gone by, that there was a difference in the levels of the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. That question has been answered successfully, and the difference has not ruined the Canal. Others said that it was impossible to dig a canal through the desert. It has been done! Lord Palmerston, the most serious opponent in England that Lesseps had,89 thought that France, our best ally to-day, would have too much influence in Egypt. Events, thanks to Lord Beaconsfield’s astute policy, by purchasing the Khedive’s interest, have given England the largest share among the shareholders of all nations.
It would not be interesting to follow all the troubles that Lesseps successfully combated. The idea had more than once occurred to him, when in 1852 he applied to Constantinople. The answer was that it in no way concerned the Porte. Lesseps returned to his farm at Berry, and not unlikely constructed miniature Suez Canals for irrigation, thought of camels while he improved the breed of cattle, and built houses, but not on the sand of the desert. Indeed, it was while on the roof of one of his houses, then in course of construction, that the news came to him of the then Pacha of Egypt’s death (Mehemet Ali). They had once been on familiar terms. Mehemet Ali was a terribly severe man, and seeing that his son Saïd Pacha, a son he loved, was growing fat, he had sent him to climb the masts of ships for two hours a day, to row, and walk round the walls of the city. Poor little fat boy! he used to steal round to Lesseps’ rooms, and surreptitiously obtain