LA PROPIA HISTORIA DE STEPHEN CRANE

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CUENTA CMO NAUFRAG EL COMMODORE

Y CMO ESCAP L

NEGRO ENLOQUECIDO DE MIEDO CASI HUNDE EL BOTE

J OVEN ESCRITOR OBLIGADO A TRABAJ AR EN LA SOFOCANTE ATMSFERA
DEL CUARTO DE CALDERAS

VALENTA DEL Capitn MURPHY y HIGGINS

Intentaron remolcar A SUS COMPAEROS quienes estaban en la BALSA

LTIMA CARRERA HACIA la ORILLA a travs del oleaje.

J acksonville, Florida, 6 de enero. Era la tarde del Ao Nuevo. El Commodore estaba anclado en
su drsena en J acksonville y una procesin de estibadores negros se dirigan hacia l con caja tras
caja de municiones y bulto tras bulto de rifles. Como la boca de un monstruo, su escotilla los
engulla. Podra haber sido la hora de alimentarse de alguna legendaria criatura marina. Esto pasaba
a plena luz del da y la multitud de cubanos alborozados en el muelle no se privaba de cantar las
extraas baladas patriticas de su isla.
Todo ocurra perfectamente al descubierto. El Commodore fue autorizado a partir con una carga
de armas y municiones para Cuba. No quedaba nada de esa extrema modestia en el proceder que
haba caracterizado las partidas previas del famoso remolcador. Se lo cargaba plcidamente, como
si fuera a llevar naranjas a Nueva York en lugar de Remingtons a Cuba. Sumado a esto, ro abajo la
goleta guardacostas Boutwell, el viejo tringulo issceles que protege los intereses de los Estados
Unidos en St. J ohns, estaba anclada, sin seales de entusiasmo a bordo.

INTERCAMBIANDO SALUDOS

En la cubierta del Commodore se intercambiaban saludos en dos lenguas. Muchos de los hombres
que estaban por viajar en l tenan numerosos amigos ntimos en el viejo pueblo sureo, y nosotros,
que habamos dejado a nuestros amigos en el remoto norte, recibimos nuestro primer toque de
melancola al presenciar estas enrgicas y serias despedidas.
Parece, sin embargo, que haba ms dificultades en la aduana. Los oficiales del barco y los lderes
cubanos tuvieron que esperar all hasta que un crepsculo acongojado se instal sobre St. J ohns, y
las luces de J acksonville parpadearon dbilmente a travs de una espesa niebla. Luego, finalmente,
el Commodore se alej del puerto, entre un tumulto de adioses. Mientras viraba su proa hacia el mar

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Traducido por Vicente Costantini para la ctedra de Literatura Norteamericana, Depto de Letras, FaHCE, UNLP.
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distante los cubanos en tierra gritaban una y otra vez sus vivas. Como respuesta, el Commodore
hizo sonar tres largos toques de su silbato, que incluso en ese momento me impresionaron con su
tristeza. De algn modo, sonaban como lamentos.
Entonces por fin comenzamos a sentirnos como filibusteros. No creo que siquiera la mente
ms imperturbable pueda ingenirselas para creer que no existe una pizca de peligro en el
contrabando; y as, mientras observbamos las luces de J acksonville parpadeando detrs de nosotros
y oamos el tum, tum, tum habitual de los motores, nos dedicamos a reflexionar.
Pero estoy seguro de que no hubo pomposas emociones visibles en ninguna de las caras que se
enfrentaban con la orilla cada vez ms veloz. De hecho, desde el asistente de cocinero hasta el
capitn, todos estbamos envueltos en una satisfaccin y una alegra moderadas. Pero a menos de
cuatro kilmetros de J acksonville, esta niebla atroz hizo que el piloto hundiese fuerte la proa del
Commodore en el lodo, y nos vimos obligados a quedarnos en esta vergonzosa situacin hasta el
amanecer.

AYUDA DEL BOUTWELL

Fue ms que una calamidad fsica para todos nosotros. Ya no ramos filibusteros. ramos
hombres en un barco encallado en el barro. Una vez ms, fue necesario hacer una cierta pirueta
mental.
Sin embargo, se le haba mandado un aviso al capitn del guardacostas Boutwell en J acksonville,
y el capitn Kilgore apareci pronto, generosamente puso en marcha su viejo tringulo, y viaj a
mxima velocidad para asistirnos. El Boutwell nos sac del barro, y nuevamente nos dirigimos a la
desembocadura. El guardacostas sigui esforzadamente detrs de nosotros casi un kilmetro, para
asegurarse de que no subiramos a bordo hombres para el ejrcito cubano en algn lugar del ro.
Era temprano en la maana de Ao Nuevo, y los magnficos rayos dorados del sol sureo caan a
pleno sobre el ro. Brillaban sobre el antiguo Boutwell, hasta que sus costados blancos
resplandecieron como perlas, y sus jarcias se hilaron en pequeas hebras de oro.
Gritos de nimo saludaban al Commodore desde barcos que pasaban y desde la orilla. Era un
esperanzado y casi alegre comienzo de nuestro viaje. En Mayport, no obstante, cambiamos nuestro
piloto de ro por un hombre que pudiera llevarlo a mar abierto, y de nuevo el Commodore qued
varado. El Boutwell andaba de aqu para all a su venerable modo y, al vernos en apuros, vino de
nuevo a asistirnos; sin embargo esta vez, con los motores en reversa, el Commodore se arrastr a s
mismo fuera del escollo en la arena, y enfil de nuevo hacia el mar abierto.
El capitn del guardacostas sinti curiosidad. Se dirigi al Commodore:
Estn ustedes yendo hoy al mar?
S, seor respondi el capitn Murphy del Commodore.
Y luego, mientras el silbato del Commodore lo saludaba, el capitn Kilgore se quit la gorra y
dijo:
Bien, caballeros, espero que tengan un crucero agradable.
Y estas fueron las ltimas palabras de tierra firme.
Cuando el Commodore lleg hasta las olas enormes que sobrepasaban el banco de arena, cierto
buen humor se desprenda de la tripulacin del barco.

IMPOSIBLE DORMIR

A medida que la oscuridad caa sobre las aguas, el Commodore era una amplia estela llameante
de fosforescencia azul y plateada, y mientras su robusta proa arremeta las grandes olas negras,
arrojaba cascadas centelleantes y rugientes a cada lado. Y todo cuanto poda escucharse era el
rtmico y poderoso martilleo de los motores. Siendo un filibustero sin experiencia, este escritor
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haba estado expuesto a un entusiasmo mental considerable desde la partida del barco, y
consecuentemente an no se haba ido a dormir; as que me dirig a la litera del primer oficial de
cubierta para permitirme todos los deleites fsicos de quedarme en la cama. Cada vez que el barco
daba bandazos yo esperaba ser despedido a travs de un tabique, y no era divertido ni instructivo
ver a travs de la tenue luz cierta detestable valija apuntando hacia la boca de mi estmago con cada
bandazo del navo.

EL COCINERO ES OPTIMISTA

El cocinero dorma sobre un banco de la cocina. Su aspecto era corpulento y noble, y con la
ayuda de un tablero de damas se haba metido como cua contra el banco, de modo que el
movimiento del barco fuera incapaz de tirarlo. Despert cuando entr a la cocina y se descarg de
algunos sentimientos plaideros:
Dios dijo en el transcurso de sus observaciones tengo un mal presentimiento con este barco,
no s por qu. Se me ocurre que algo va a pasarnos. No s qu es, pero me parece que el viejo barco
las va a pagar.
Bueno, y qu hay de los hombres a bordo? dije yo. Alguno de nosotros va a salvarse,
profeta?
S dijo el cocinero. A veces me vienen estos malditos presentimientos, y siempre son certeros,
y se me hace que, de algn modo, t y yo vamos a llegar y encontrarnos de nuevo en algn lado,
all en Coney Island, quizs, o en algn lugar como se.

UN HOMBRE TIENE SUFICIENTE

Al ser imposible dormir, regres a la timonera. Un viejo marinero, Tom Smith, de Charleston,
estaba en ese momento al timn. No poda ver el rostro de Tom a oscuras, excepto cuando se
inclinaba hacia adelante para echarle un vistazo a la brjula y la luz tenue de esa caja caa sobre sus
rasgos curtidos por el tiempo.
Bueno, Tom dije yo, qu te parece el contrabando?
l respondi:
Creo que prcticamente ya termin con l. He estado en unas cuantas de estas expediciones y la
paga es buena, pero pienso que, si regreso a salvo esta vez, voy a cortar con l.
Me sent en un rincn de la timonera y estuve a punto de dormirme. Mientras tanto lleg el
capitn, de guardia, y estaba parado junto a m cuando el jefe de mquinas subi corriendo las
escaleras y le grit apresuradamente que haba un problema en la sala de mquinas. l y el capitn
partieron velozmente.
Me estaba adormeciendo all en mi rincn, cuando el capitn regres y, tras dirigirse a la puerta
del cuartito que hay justo detrs de la timonera, le grit al lder cubano:
Oiga, podra poner a estos hombres a trabajar? No hablo su idioma y no consigo que empiecen.
Venga y pngalos en marcha.

AYUDANTES EN EL CUARTO DE CALDERAS

El lder cubano se dirigi a m y dijo:
Vaya a ayudar al cuarto de calderas. Van a achicarlo con baldes.
La sala de mquinas, dicho sea de paso, representaba en este momento una escena tomada de la
cocina en medio del Hades. En primer lugar, haca un calor insufrible, y las luces ardan dbilmente
de un modo que creaba sombras msticas y horripilantes. Haba gran cantidad de agua de mar
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jabonosa arremolinndose y corriendo y arremolinndose entre las maquinarias que rugan y
estallaban y traqueteaban y humeaban; y, en segundo lugar, haba mucho mal humor ah abajo.
Aqu llegu a conocer por primera vez a un joven maquinista llamado Billy Higgins. Chapoteaba
por este inferno llenando baldes con agua y pasndolos a una hilera de hombres que se extenda
hasta el costado del barco. Despus se nos orden que cambiramos nuestro punto de ataque al agua
y que trabajramos a travs de una pequea puerta en la banda del barco que estaba a barlovento y
que conduca a la sala de mquinas.

SIN PNICO A BORDO

En ese momento hubo mucha discusin acerca de bombas averiadas y muchas otras afirmaciones
de tipo mecnico, que no llegu a comprender del todo; pero entend que haba habido un desastre
general y repentino en la sala de mquinas.
No haba ninguna inquietud en particular en este momento, e incluso despus no hubo nunca
pnico a bordo del Commodore. El grupo de hombres que trabajaban con Higgins y conmigo en ese
momento eran todos cubanos, y seguamos las rdenes de los lderes cubanos. Enseguida se nos
orden nuevamente que nos dirigiramos a la bodega de popa, y hubo cierta vacilacin en ir al
abominable cuarto de calderas de nuevo, pero Higgins se lanz escaleras abajo con un balde.

BAJ ANDO LOS BOTES

El calor y el trabajo duro en el cuarto de calderas me afectaron y me vi obligado a volver a
cubierta. Mientras avanzaba, escuch al pasar una charla sobre bajar los botes. Cerca de la
esquina de la cocina el oficial estaba hablando con un hombre.
Por qu no disparan una bengala? deca este desconocido. Y el oficial le respondi:
Para qu demonios querramos disparar una bengala? El barco est perfecto.
Al volver con un sobretodo de tela engomada vi que estaban por bajar el primer barco. Cierto
hombre fue el primero en este primer bote, y le estaban pasando una valija grande como un hotel.
Todava no me haba recobrado del todo del asombro y el placer de atestiguar tan noble tarea,
cuando vi que le entregaban otra valija.

APARECE UN CERDO EGOSTA

Quizs la valija no fuese tan grande como un hotel, pero de cualquier manera era una valija
grande. Despus le pasaron algo que me pareci un sobretodo.
Al ver al jefe de mquinas asomndose por una ventana pequea, le coment:
Qu piensa de ese ---, ---, ---?
Oh, es una marica dijo el viejo jefe.
Fue entonces que se escuch la orden de bajar el bote salvavidas, que estaba estibado sobre la
cabina de cubierta. La cabina era un lugar tremendamente patinoso, y con cada bamboleo del barco,
los hombres pensaban que terminaran zambullidos de cabeza en el negro y mortal ocano.
Higgins estaba encima de la cabina y, junto con el primer oficial de cubierta y dos fogoneros de
color, luchamos con ese bote, que (estoy dispuesto a jurarlo) pesaba tanto como un tranva de
Broadway. Era como si lo hubieran clavado a la cubierta. Podramos haber empujado una pequea
escuela hecha de ladrillos por un camino de troncos con la misma facilidad con la que podamos
mover este bote. Pero el primer oficial consigui atarlo al aparejo del pescante de sotavento, y desde
la cubierta inferior el capitn reuni suficientes hombres como para dejar una buena marca en el
bote.
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Entonces se nos orden que dejramos de empujar, y en esta tregua el cocinero del barco se me
acerc y dijo:
Qu vas a hacer?
Le cont de mis planes y l dijo:
Bien, por Dios, eso es lo que voy a hacer yo.

LA SIRENA DE LA DESESPERACIN

Ahora se haba disparado la sirena del Commodore, y si alguna vez hubo una voz de
desesperacin y muerte, era la voz de esta sirena. Haba cobrado un nuevo tono. Era como si su
garganta ya estuviera ahogada por el agua, y este grito en el mar, de noche, con un viento arrojando
espuma sobre el barco, y las olas rugiendo sobre la proa y arremolinndose blancas por la cubierta,
probablemente era para cada uno de nosotros una cancin acerca del fin del hombre.
Fue entonces que el primer oficial dio muestras de estar perdiendo el control. Lanzando
expresiones de encendida stira e insultos demoledores se encoleriz con nosotros, que con toda
nuestra capacidad y experiencia tratbamos de echar al agua el bote salvavidas. Pero por fin el bote
se movi y se precipit al agua.
Despus, yendo a popa, vi al capitn de pie, con el brazo en cabestrillo, sostenindose en un estay
con su brazo sano y dirigiendo la botadura del bote. Me dio una jarra de agua de cinco galones para
que la sostuviera, y me pregunt qu era lo que iba a hacer. Yo le respond lo que crea apropiado, y
l me dijo que el cocinero tena la misma idea, y me orden que me adelantara y me preparara para
botar la chalupa de diez pies.

EN LA CHALUPA DE DIEZ PIES

Recuerdo bien que luego se volvi para insultar al fogonero negro que estaba rondando por all,
todo emperifollado con salvavidas hasta parecer un colchn de plumas. Yo avanc con mi jarra de
agua de cinco galones, y cuando volvi el capitn botamos la chalupa, y me situaron en la borda
para que la apartase del barco con un remo.
Me pasaron la jarra de agua, luego el cocinero subi al bote, y nos sentamos all a oscuras,
preguntndonos por qu, por todas nuestras esperanzas de felicidad futura, tardaba tanto el capitn
en acercarse a la borda y ordenarnos que nos alejramos del condenado barco.
El capitn estaba esperando que partiera el otro bote. Finalmente pregunt en la oscuridad:
Est usted bien, seor Graines?
S, seor respondi el primer oficial.
Entonces, partan! grit el capitn.
El capitn estaba a punto de pasar por sobre la baranda cuando una silueta oscura se le acerc y
una voz dijo:
Capitn, voy con usted.
S, Billy, sube respondi el capitn.

HIGGINS, EL LTIMO EN ABANDONAR EL BARCO

Era Billy Higgins, el maquinista. Billy se arroj al bote y un momento despus el capitn lo
sigui, trayendo consigo el cabo de una plomada de cerca de cuarenta yardas. El otro extremo
estaba amarrado a la baranda del barco.
Mientras nos balancebamos a sotavento el capitn dijo:
Muchachos, nos quedaremos cerca del barco hasta que se hunda.
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Este anuncio alentador, por supuesto, nos llen a todos de regocijo. La plomada nos mantena
adecuadamente en direccin al viento, y a medida que nos arrastraban las olas monstruosas, en cada
subida veamos las luces oscilantes del agonizante Commodore.
Cuando lleg la sombra gris del alba, la forma del Commodore fue ganando lentamente claridad
mientras nuestra chalupa de diez pies remontaba las olas. El buque flotaba con un aire de optimismo
tal que nos reamos cuando tenamos tiempo, y decamos: Qu gracioso sera para los dems
hombres si no se hundiera para nada.
Sin embargo despus vimos hombres a bordo, y luego empezaron a gritarnos.

AYUDANDO A SUS OFICIALES

Haba olvidado mencionar que previamente habamos aflojado el cabo de la plomada y nos
alejbamos ms a sotavento. Los hombres a bordo eran un misterio para nosotros, por supuesto, ya
que habamos visto a todos los botes abandonar el barco. Remamos de vuelta al barco, pero no nos
aproximamos demasiado, porque ramos cuatro hombres en una chalupa de diez pies, y sabamos
que el roce de una mano en nuestra borda sin duda nos hundira.
El primer oficial grit desde el barco que el tercer bote se haba ido a pique de costado. Dijo que
haban hecho balsas, y que queran que nosotros las remolcsemos.
Muy bien dijo el capitn.
Sus balsas estaban flotando a popa del barco.
Salten! dijo el capitn; pero hubo una particular y angustiante vacilacin. Haba cinco
hombres blancos y dos negros. Esta escena, a la luz del resplandor gris de la maana, lo
impresionaba a uno como la visin de un lugar en el que los fantasmas se mueven lentamente. Estos
siete hombres en la popa del Commodore zozobrante estaban en silencio. A excepcin de las
palabras del oficial al capitn, no hubo ninguna conversacin. Aqu estaba la muerte, y sin embargo
aqu tambin haba un tipo de fortaleza particular e indefinible.
Cuatro hombres, lo recuerdo, se treparon a las barandas y se pararon all, mirando el fro brillo
acerado en el azote de las olas.
Salten! volvi a gritar el capitn.
El viejo jefe de mquinas obedeci primero la orden. Aterriz en la balsa ms alejada y el capitn
le dijo cmo aferrarse a sta, y l obedeci tan pronto y dcilmente como un alumno en una escuela
de equitacin.

LA DEMENTE CADA DEL OFICIAL

Lo sigui un fogonero, y entonces el primer oficial levant las manos por encima de la cabeza y
se zambull en el mar. No tena salvavidas, y por mi parte, incluso cuando hizo esta horrible cosa,
de algn modo sent que poda ver en la expresin en sus manos, y en las sacudidas de su cabeza,
mientras saltaba as hacia la muerte, que haba furia, furia, una furia indecible que estaba en su
corazn en ese momento.
Y despus vi a Tom Smith, el hombre que iba a dejar el contrabando despus de esta expedicin,
saltar a una balsa y volver su cabeza hacia nosotros. Tres hombres iban y venan a bordo del
Commodore, todava en silencio y con sus rostros vueltos hacia nosotros. Un hombre tena sus
brazos cruzados y se apoyaba contra la cabina de cubierta. Estaba cruzado de piernas, de manera
que su pie izquierdo apuntaba hacia abajo. All estaban mirndonos, y ninguna voz se alz de la
cubierta ni de las balsas. An permaneca el silencio.


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INTENTAMOS REMOLCAR LAS BALSAS

El fogonero de color de la primera balsa nos arroj una cuerda y empezamos a tirar. Por supuesto,
entendamos perfectamente la imposibilidad absoluta de tal cosa; nuestra chalupa estaba a slo seis
pulgadas de la superficie, haba una marejada enorme, y yo saba que bajo estas circunstancias ni
siquiera un remolcador hubiese tenido una tarea liviana tirando de estas balsas.
Pero lo intentamos, y hubiramos seguido intentndolo indefinidamente, hasta que algo
gravsimo ocurri. Yo llevaba un remo y estaba de cara a las balsas. El cocinero controlaba la
cuerda. De pronto la chalupa empez a ir hacia atrs, y vimos a un negro de la primera balsa tirando
de la cuerda, con una mano tras otra, y llevndonos hacia l.
Se haba convertido en un demonio. Se vea salvaje, salvaje como un tigre. Estaba en cuclillas en
su balsa y listo para saltar. Cada uno de sus msculos pareca haberse convertido en un resorte. Sus
ojos estaban casi en blanco. Su rostro era el rostro de un hombre perdido extendiendo su mano hacia
arriba, y nosotros sabamos que el peso de su mano en nuestra borda sera nuestra perdicin.

EL COMMODORE SE HUNDE

El cocinero solt la cuerda. Dimos unas vueltas remando para ver si no podamos obtener una
cuerda del jefe de mquinas, y durante todo este tiempo, puedo asegurarlo, no hubo gritos ni
quejidos, sino silencio, silencio y silencio, y entonces el Commodore se hundi.
Dio un bandazo a barlovento, despus se balance en direccin opuesta, se enderez y se
sumergi en el mar, y las balsas fueron tragadas de pronto por estas fauces aterradoras del ocano.
Y luego hubo palabras dichas por los hombres en la chalupa de diez pies que an as no eran
palabras, sino algo mucho ms all de las palabras.
El faro de la ensenada Mosquito sobresala por sobre el horizonte como la cabeza de un alfiler.
Volvimos nuestra chalupa hacia la orilla.
La historia de la vida en una chalupa durante treinta horas sera sin duda instructiva para los
jvenes, pero nada de ello se contar aqu y ahora. Por mi parte preferira contar la historia ahora
mismo, pues en ella brillara la esplndida hombra del capitn Edward Murphy y de William
Higgins, el maquinista, pero permtaseme adelantar en este momento que cuando estbamos
haciendo agua en la rompiente y haciendo el mayor esfuerzo por llegar a la orilla, el capitn daba
sus rdenes entre la furia de las enormes olas tan claramente como si hubiese estado en el alczar de
un acorazado.
J ohn Kitchell, de Daytona, baj corriendo a la playa, y mientras corra el aire se llenaba con sus
ropas. Si hubiese tirado de una nica palanca para desvestirse, tan rpido como el arns que les
montan a los caballos de bomberos, se me hace que no podra haberse desnudado con mayor
velocidad. Se lanz al agua y arrastr al cocinero. Despus fue hacia el capitn, pero el capitn lo
envi hacia m, y fue entonces que vio a Billy Higgins, yaciendo con su frente sobre la arena ya
fuera del agua, y estaba muerto.
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STEPHEN CRANE'S OWN STORY
HE TELLS HOW THE COMMODORE WAS WRECKED
AND HOW HE ESCAPED
FEAR-CRAZED NEGRO NEARLY SWAMPS BOAT
YOUNG WRITER COMPELLEDTO WORK IN STIFLING ATMOSPHERE
OF THE FIRE ROOM
BRAVERY OF Captain MURPHY AND HIGGINS
Tried To Tow THEIR COMPANIONS Who Were on The RAFT
LAST DASH FOR the SHORE Through The Surf.
J acksonville, Fla., J an. 6. -It was the afternoon of New Year's. The Commodore lay at her
dock in J acksonville and negro stevedores processioned steadily toward her with box after box of
ammunition and bundle after bundle of rifles. Her hatch, like the mouth of a monster, engulfed
them. It might have been the feeding time of some legendary creature of the sea. It was in broad
daylight and the crowd of gleeful Cubans on the pier did not forbear to sing the strange patriotic
ballads of their island.
Everything was perfectly open. The Commodore was cleared with a cargo of arms and
munition for Cuba. There was none of that extreme modesty about the proceeding which had
marked previous departures of the famous tug. She loaded up as placidly as if she were going to
carry oranges to New York, instead of Remingtons to Cuba. Down the river, furthermore, the
revenue cutter Boutwell, the old isosceles triangle that protects United States interests in the St.
J ohns, lay at anchor, with no sign of excitement aboard her.
EXCHANGING FAREWELLS
On the decks of the Commodore there were exchanges of farewells in two languages. Many of the
men who were to sail upon her had many intimates in the old Southern town, and we who had left
our friends in the remote North received our first touch of melancholy on witnessing these
strenuous and earnest good-bys.
It seems, however, that there was more difficulty at the custom house. The officers of the
ship and the Cuban leaders were detained there until a mournful twilight settled upon the St. J ohns,
and through a heavy fog the lights of J acksonville blinked dimly. Then at last the Commodore
swung clear of the dock, amid a tumult of goodbys. As she turned her bow toward the distant sea
the Cubans ashore cheered and cheered. In response the Commodore gave three long blasts of her
whistle, which even to this time impressed me with their sadness. Somehow, they sounded as wails.
Then at last we began to feel like filibusters. I don't suppose that the most stolid brain could
contrive to believe that there is not a mere trifle of danger in filibustering, and so as we watched the
lights of J acksonville swing past us and, heard the regular thump, thump, thump of the engines we
did considerable reflecting.
But I am sure that there were no hifalutin emotions visible upon any of the faces which
confronted the speeding shore. In fact, from cook's boy to captain, we were all enveloped in a gentle
satisfaction and cheerfulness. But less than two miles from J acksonville, this atrocious fog caused
the pilot to ram the bow of the Commodore hard upon the mud and in this ignominious position we
were compelled to stay until daybreak.
HELP FROM THE BOUTWELL
It was to all of us more than a physical calamity. We were now no longer filibusters. We
were men on a ship stuck in the mud. A certain mental somersault was made once more necessary.
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But word had been sent to J acksonville to the captain of the revenue cutter Boutwell, and
Captain Kilgore turned out promptly and generously fired up his old triangle, and came at full speed
to our assistance. She dragged us out of the mud, and again we headed for the mouth of the river.
The revenue cutter pounded along a half mile astern of us, to make sure that we did not take on
board at some place along the river men for the Cuban army.
This was the early morning of New Year's Day, and the fine golden southern sunlight fell
full upon the river. It flashed over the ancient Boutwell, until her white sides gleamed like pearl,
and her rigging was spun into little threads of gold.
Cheers greeted the old Commodore from passing ship and from the shore. It was a cheerful,
almost merry, beginning to our voyage. At Mayport, however, we changed our river pilot for a man
who could take her to open sea, and again the Commodore was beached. The Boutwell was fussing
around us in her venerable way, and, upon seeing our predicament, she came again to assist us, but
this time, with engines reversed, the Commodore dragged herself away from the grip of the sand
and again headed for the open sea.
The captain of the revenue cutter grew curious. He hailed the Commodore: "Are you fellows
going to sea to-day?"
Captain Murphy of the Commodore called back: "Yes, sir."
And then as the whistle of the Commodore saluted him, Captain Kilgore doffed his cap and
said: "Well, gentlemen, I hope you have a pleasant cruise," and this was our last word from shore.
When the Commodore came to enormous rollers that flee over the bar a certain
lightheartedness departed from the ship's company.
SLEEP IMPOSSIBLE
As darkness came upon the waters, the Commodore was a broad, flaming path of blue and
silver phosphorescence, and as her stout bow lunged at the great black waves she threw flashing,
roaring cascades to either side. And all that was to be heard was the rhythmical and mighty
pounding of the engines. Being an inexperienced filibuster, the writer had undergone considerable
mental excitement since the starting of the ship, and in consequence he had not yet been to sleep
and so I went to the first mate's bunk to indulge myself in all the physical delights of holding one's-
self in bed. Every time the ship lurched I expected to be fired through a bulkhead, and it was neither
amusing nor instructive to see in the dim light a certain accursed valise aiming itself at the top of
my stomach with every lurch of the vessel.
THE COOK IS HOPEFUL
The cook was asleep on a bench in the galley. He is of a portly and noble exterior, and by
means of a checker board he had himself wedged on this bench in such a manner the motion of the
ship would be unable to dislodge him. He woke as I entered the galley and delivered himself of
some dolorous sentiments: "God," he said in the course of his observations, "I don't feel right about
this ship, somehow. It strikes me that something is going to happen to us. I don't know what it is,
but the old ship is going to get it in the neck, I think."
"Well, how about the men on board of her?" said I. "Are any of us going to get out,
prophet?"
"Yes," said the cook. "Sometimes I have these damned feelings come over me, and they are
always right, and it seems to me, somehow, that you and I will both get and meet again Somewhere,
down at Coney Island, perhaps, or some place like that."
ONE MAN HAS ENOUGH
Finding it impossible to sleep, I went back to the pilot house. An old seaman, Tom Smith, from
Charleston, was then at the wheel. In the darkness I could not see Tom's face, except at those times
when he leaned forward to scan the compass and the dim light from the box came upon his
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weatherbeaten features.
"Well, Tom," said I, "how do you like filibustering?"
He said "I think I am about through with it. I've been in a number of these expeditions and
the pay is good, but I think if I ever get back safe this time I will cut it."
I sat down in the corner of the pilot house and almost went to sleep. In the meantime the
captain came on duty and he was standing near me when the chief engineer rushed up the stairs and
cried hurriedly to the captain that there was something wrong in the engine room. He and the
captain departed swiftly.
I was drowsing there in my corner when the captain returned, and, going to the door of the
little room directly back of the pilothouse, he cried to the Cuban leader:
"Say, can't you get those fellows to work I can't talk their language and I can't get them
started. Come on and get them going."
HELPS IN the FIREROOM
The Cuban leader turned to me and said: "Go help in the fireroom. They are going to bail
with buckets."
The engine room, by the way, represented a scene at this time taken from the middle kitchen
of hades. In the first place, it was insufferably warm, and the lights burned faintly in a way to cause
mystic and grewsome shadows. There was a quantity of soapish sea water swirling and sweeping
and swirling among machinery that roared and banged and clattered and steamed, and, in the second
place, it was a devil of a ways down below.
Here I first came to know a certain young oiler named Billy Higgins. He was sloshing
around this inferno filling buckets with water and passing them to a chain of men that extended up
the ship's side. Afterward we got orders to change our point of attack on water and to operate
through a little door on the windward side of the ship that led into the engine room.
NO PANIC ON BOARD
During this time there was much talk of pumps out of order and many other statements of a
mechanical kind, which I did not altogether comprehend but understood to mean that there was a
general and sudden ruin in the engine room.
There was no particular agitation at this time, and even later there was never a panic on board the
Commodore. The party of men who worked with Higgins and me at this time were all Cubans, and
we were under the direction of the Cuban leaders. Presently we were ordered again to the
afterhold, and there was some hesitation about going into the abominable fireroom again, but
Higgins dashed down the companionway with a bucket.

LOWERING BOATS
The heat and hard work in the fireroom affected me and I was obliged to come on deck
again. Going forward, I heard as I went talk of lowering the boats. Near the corner of the galley the
mate was talking with a man.
"Why don't you send up a rocket?" said this unknown man. And the mate replied: "What the
hell do we want to send up a rocket for? The ship is all right."
Returning with a little rubber and cloth overcoat, I saw the first boat about to be lowered. A
certain man was the first person in this first boat, and they were handing him in a valise about as
large as a hotel. I had not entirely recovered from astonishment and pleasure in witnessing this
noble deed when I saw another valise go to him.
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HUMAN HOG APPEARS
This valise was not perhaps so large as a hotel, but it was a big valise anyhow. Afterward
there went to him something which looked to me like an overcoat.
Seeing the chief engineer leaning out of his little window, I remarked to him:
"What do you think of that blank, blank, blank?"
"Oh, he's a bird," said the old chief.
It was now that was heard the order to get away the lifeboat, which was stowed on top of the
deckhouse. The deckhouse was a mighty slippery place, and with each roll of the ship, the men
there thought themselves likely to take headers into the deadly black sea.
Higgins was on top of the deckhouse, and, with the first mate and two colored stokers, we
wrestled with that boat, which, I am willing to swear, weighed as much as a Broadway cable car.
She might have been spiked to the deck. We could have pushed a little brick schoolhouse along a
corduroy road as easily as we could have moved this boat. But the first mate got a tackle to her from
a leeward davit, and on the deck below the captain corralled enough men to make an impression
upon the boat.
We were ordered to cease hauling then, and in this lull the cook of the ship came to me and
said: "What are you going to do?"
I told him of my plans, and he said:
"Well, by God, that's what I am going to do."

A WHISTLE OF DESPAIR
Now the whistle of the Commodore had been turned loose, and if there ever was a voice of
despair and death, it was in the voice of this whistle. It had gained a new tone. It was as if its throat
was already choked by the water, and this cry on the sea at night, with a wind blowing the spray
over the ship, and the waves roaring over the bow, and swirling white along the decks, was to each
of us probably a song of man's end.
It was now that the first mate showed a sign of losing his grip. To us who were trying in all
stages of competence and experience to launch the lifeboat he raged in all terms of fiery satire and
hammerlike abuse. But the boat moved at last and swung down toward the water.
Afterward, when I went aft, I saw the captain standing, with his arm in a sling, holding on to
a stay with his one good hand and directing the launching of the boat. He gave me a five- gallon jug
of water to hold, and asked me what I was going to do. I told him what I thought was about the
proper thing, and he told me then that the cook had the same idea, and ordered me to go forward
and be ready to launch the ten-foot dingy.
IN THE TEN-FOOT DINGY
I remember well that he turned then to swear at a colored stoker who was prowling around,
done up in life preservers until he looked like a feather bed. I went forward with my five-gallon jug
of water, and when the captain came we launched the dingy, and they put me over the side to fend
her off from the ship with an oar.
They handed me down the water jug, and then the cook came into the boat, and we sat there
in the darkness, wondering why, by all our hopes of future happiness, the captain was so long in
coming over to the side and ordering us away from the doomed ship.
The captain was waiting for the other boat to go. Finally be hailed in the darkness: "Are you
all right, Mr. Graines?"
The first mate answered: "All right, sir." "Shove off, then," cried the captain.
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The captain was just about to swing over the rail when a dark form came forward and a
voice said: "Captain, I go with you."
The captain answered: "Yes, Billy; get in."
HIGGINS LAST TO LEAVE SHIP
It was Billy Higgins, the oiler. Billy dropped into the boat and a moment later the captain followed,
bringing with him an end of about forty yards of lead line. The other end was attached to the rail of
the ship.
As we swung back to leeward the captain said: "Boys, we will stay right near the ship till
she goes down."
This cheerful information, of course, filled us all with glee. The line kept us headed properly
into the wind, and as we rode over the monstrous waves we saw upon each rise the swaying lights
of the dying Commodore.
When came the gray shade of dawn, the form of the Commodore grew slowly clear to us as
our little ten-foot boat rose over each swell. She was floating with such an air of buoyancy that we
laughed when we had time, and said "What a gag it would be on those other fellows if she didn't
sink at all."
But later we saw men aboard of her, and later still they began to hail us.
HELPING THEIR MATES
I had forgot to mention that previously we had loosened the end of the lead line and dropped
much further to leeward. The men on board were a mystery to us, of course, as we had seen all the
boats leave the ship. We rowed back to the ship, but did not approach too near, because we were
four men in a ten-foot boat, and we knew that the touch of a hand on our gunwale would assuredly
swamp us.
The first mate cried out from the ship that the third boat had foundered alongside. He cried
that they had made rafts, and wished us to tow them.
The captain said, "All right."
Their rafts were floating astern. "J ump in!" cried the captain, but there was a singular and
most harrowing hesitation. There were five white men and two negroes. This scene in the gray light
of morning impressed one as would a view into some place where ghosts move slowly. These seven
men on the stern of the sinking Commodore were silent. Save the words of the mate to the captain
there was no talk. Here was death, but here also was a most singular and indefinable kind of
fortitude.
Four men, I remember, clambered over the railing and stood there watching the cold, steely
sheen of the sweeping waves.
"J ump," cried the captain again.
The old chief engineer first obeyed the order. He landed on the outside raft and the captain
told him how to grip the raft and he obeyed as promptly and as docilely as a scholar in riding
school.

THE MATE'S MAD PLUNGE
A stoker followed him, and then the first mate threw his hands over his head and plunged
into the sea. He had no life belt and for my part, even when he did this horrible thing, I somehow
felt that I could see in the expression of his hands, and in the very toss of his head, as he leaped thus
to death, that it was rage, rage, rage unspeakable that was in his heart at the time.
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And then I saw Tom Smith, the man who was going to quit filibustering after this
expedition, jump to a raft and turn his face toward us. On board the Commodore three men strode,
still in silence and with their faces turned toward us. One man had his arms folded and was leaning
against the deckhouse. His feet were crossed, so that the toe of his left foot pointed downward.
There they stood gazing at us, and neither from the deck nor from the rafts was a voice raised. Still
was there this silence.
TRIED TO TOW THE RAFTS
The colored stoker on the first raft threw us a line and we began to tow. Of course, we
perfectly understood the absolute impossibility of any such thing; our dingy was within six inches
of the water's edge, there was an enormous sea running, and I knew that under the circumstances a
tugboat would have no light task in moving these rafts.
But we tried it, and would have continued to try it indefinitely, but that something critical
came to pass. I was at an oar and so faced the rafts. The cook controlled the line. Suddenly the boat
began to go backward and then we saw this negro on the first raft pulling, on the line hand over
hand and drawing us to him.
He had turned into a demon. He was wild-wild as a tiger. He was crouched on this raft and
ready to spring. Every muscle of him seemed to be turned into an elastic spring. His eyes were
almost white. His face was the face of a lost man reaching upward, and we knew that the weight of
his hand on our gunwale doomed us.
THE COMMODORE SINKS
The cook let go of the line. We rowed around to see if we could not get a line from the chief
engineer, and all this time, mind you, there were no shrieks, no groans, but silence, silence and
silence, and then the Commodore sank.
She lurched to windward, then swung afar back, righted and dove into the sea, and the rafts
were suddenly swallowed by this frightful maw of the ocean. And then by the men on the ten-foot
dingy were words said that were still not words-something far beyond words.
The lighthouse of Mosquito Inlet stuck up above the horizon like the point of a pin. We turned
our dingy toward the shore.
The history of life in an open boat for thirty hours would no doubt be instructive for the
young, but none is to be told here and now. For my part I would prefer to tell the story at once,
because from it would shine the splendid manhood of Captain Edward Murphy and of William
Higgins, the oiler, but let it surface at this time to say that when we were swamped in the surf and
making the best of our way toward the shore the captain gave orders amid the wildness of the
breakers as clearly as if he had been on the quarter deck of a battleship.
J ohn Kitchell of Daytona came running down the beach, and as he ran the air was filled with
clothes. If he had pulled a single lever and undressed, even as the fire horses harness, he could not
seem to me to have stripped with more speed. He dashed into the water and dragged the cook. Then
he went after the captain, but the captain sent him to me, and then it was that he saw Billy Higgins
lying with his forehead on sand that was clear of the water, and he was dead.
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