With Cochrane the Dauntless

Volunteers were asked for, and the whole of the sailors and marines from the three ships offered to follow Lord Cochrane wherever he might lead them. This was a much larger force than he required, and one hundred and eighty sailors and eighty marines were chosen for the work. This force was gradually transferred to the flag-ship, and the other two vessels sailed out of the bay just before darkness came on, as if in chase of some ship they had sighted—a ruse well calculated to lull the Spaniards into security. The men intended for the service then took their places in fourteen boats that lay hidden behind the flag-ship. All were dressed in white, with a blue band on the left arm, in order that they might distinguish each other in the dark. At ten o’clock the boats pushed off in two directions, commanded respectively by Captain Crosby and Captain Guise, while the admiral led the way in his launch. It was just twelve o’clock when the boats arrived at a small opening in the boom. The oars had been muffled, and so perfectly had silence been observed, that the admiral’s launch ran against a guard-boat lying at the entrance, without its approach having been observed by the Spaniards. There was a hasty challenge by the startled officer in command, to which the admiral himself replied by threatening the occupants of the boat with instant death if they gave the slightest alarm.

The threat, and the appearance of the boats dashing in through the opening, had its effect. No word was spoken by the Spaniards, and in a few minutes the flotilla of vessels, rowed down in line upon the frigate, and boarded her at a dozen points simultaneously. The Chilians had been ordered not to use their pistols, but to rely wholly on their cutlasses. The sentries on the frigate shouted the alarm, and the Spaniards, snatching up their arms, rushed up from below. Many were cut down at once by the Chilians, the rest retreated to the forecastle and made a gallant stand, and it was not until the Chilians had made three charges upon them that they gave way, some leaping overboard, and others running below. The Spanish marines gathered on the quarter-deck, and they too fought with great bravery. Not one among them asked for quarter or sought safety in flight, but continued the struggle until the last man fell.

The admiral himself had been very unfortunate. He had swung himself up into the main-chains the moment his boat touched the frigate, and was about to leap upon the deck of the Esmeralda when he was struck on the head by a Spanish sentry with his clubbed musket and fell back into the boat. He fell upon one of the rowlocks, which entered his back near the spine, inflicting a very severe injury, from whose effects he suffered for several years after. In spite of the agony caused by the wound he again clambered up on to the deck, and was almost immediately shot through the thigh. He bound a handkerchief tightly round it, and managed to direct the operations until the capture was complete. The affair occupied but a quarter of an hour, the Chilian loss being eleven killed and thirty wounded, while a hundred and sixty of the Spaniards fell. While this was going on, the garrison of the forts, awakened by the uproar, ran to their guns and opened fire on the Esmeralda, several of the Spaniards, among them their captain, and two or three of the Chilians, being killed or wounded by their shot.

It happened that in the harbour at the time were two neutral frigates—one British, the other an American. It had been arranged between them and the Spanish authorities that in the event of a night attack they were to show lights in a particular position, so that they might not be fired upon. This they did, but by the admiral’s orders similar lights were at once hoisted on board the Esmeralda, thus causing much confusion among the Spaniards. Both the neutral frigates were hit several times, while but few shots struck the Esmeralda. Lord Cochrane was now forced by his wounds to leave it to Captain Guise, the next senior officer, to carry out the orders that he had previously given, namely, that the brig with the bullion on board was first to be captured, then that every ship was to be attacked and cut adrift. The success of these operations was certain, as the Spaniards, directly they saw the Esmeralda captured, had taken to their boats and made for shore, and the whole of the Spanish vessels might have been either burnt or captured. Captain Guise had all along thwarted the admiral’s plans to the utmost of his power, had fomented several mutinies, and should have been tried and shot long before. He now, instead of carrying out the orders, cut the Esmeralda’s cables, hoisted her sails, and steered through the opening in the boom.

Although marred by the treachery, or at any rate gross misconduct of Cochrane’s subordinates, the capture of the Esmeralda exercised almost as great an influence on the fortunes of the struggle as did that of Valdivia. It was a death-blow to the Spanish naval force in the Pacific; for although they had still two frigates and some smaller craft in those waters, they never afterwards ventured to put to sea, of which the Chilians now became absolute masters. The action, in fact, ensured the success of the Chilian effort to free Peru.

San Martin now requested Lord Cochrane to re-embark the army once more, and carry it to Huacha. This was done, and there San Martin remained without doing any more than he had done at the two other ports. After having landed him the fleet returned to Callao, where they used every effort to tempt the Spanish war-ships to venture out, but without success. The effect, however, of these operations showed itself in other ways. On the 3rd of December six hundred and fifty Peruvian soldiers deserted from the Spanish service, and two days later forty officers followed them, and from that time defections took place almost daily.

San Martin now made no secret of his intention to assume the dictatorship of Peru. He had for so many months kept his army inactive, in order that he might in time be able to enforce his authority. What he would not do, however, was accomplished by Lord Cochrane. Weary of the long delay he offered in the following March to capture Lima if two thousand soldiers were assigned to him. This offer was refused, but after some time he obtained a force of six hundred. With these he effected a landing at port after port along the coast, and so harassed the Spaniards that, on the 6th of July, Lima capitulated and Peru was free. San Martin at once proclaimed himself protector of Peru, and appointed two of his creatures as chief ministers. Lord Cochrane in vain attempted to obtain from him payment for the sailors of the fleet, who had been very many months without receiving a penny.

San Martin insolently replied that he would pay nothing whatever to Chili, but that he would make Lord Cochrane a Peruvian admiral if he would leave the service of Chili for that of Peru. Lord Cochrane knew that Chili would decline to pay for work that had been done to make Peru, like itself, free and independent, since it was now as prostrate at the feet of San Martin as it had been at those of the Spaniards. The army it had raised had betrayed it and taken service under San Martin, as had the two mutinous scoundrels, Captains Guise and Spry. Lord Cochrane, therefore, determined to take by force the money due to the fleet. At Ancon there was a large amount of treasure seized from the Spaniards. It had been deposited by San Martin there, and in the middle of September the admiral landed, and took possession of it without opposition. Of the two hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars found there, he paid a year’s arrears to every officer and man in the fleet, taking nothing, however, for himself, and reserving the small surplus for the pressing wants and equipments of the fleet.

In June, 1822, Lord Cochrane returned to Valparaiso, from which he had been absent twenty months. He was received with a popular ovation; but his enemies were still at work, and struck at him in the matter upon which he was most sensitive, by refusing any payment whatever to his officers and men, many of whom almost died of starvation.

In October a revolution broke out in Chili, and such indignities were heaped upon the admiral himself that upon the 12th of the month he formally resigned his commission, and in January, 1823, quitted Valparaiso in a vessel chartered by himself, taking with him several European officers and gentlemen, who, like himself, were tired of Chilian ingratitude, and were ready to follow him in whatever service he engaged.

Stephen had taken no part in the later operations of the fleet. After the capture of the Esmeralda he had been knocked down and very severely injured by a splinter, caused by a shot from the Spanish batteries passing through the bulwark close to where he was standing. Lord Cochrane had sent him, with other wounded, in one of the small war-ships down to Valparaiso, and there he was tenderly nursed by Lady Cochrane. It was three months before he fairly recovered his strength, and as soon as he was convalescent he took a berth in a craft that was sailing with stores and provisions for the fleet. They had been out four days when she was caught in a storm on-shore. In vain they tried to beat out; the vessel was a poor sailer, and drifted to leeward faster than she could work to windward.

“What sort of ground tackle have you?” Stephen asked the captain.

“I have two good anchors, señor lieutenant, but the cables are rather old.”

“I should advise you to have them brought up on deck and overhauled, and if you find any specially bad places we can cut them out and splice the ends again.”

The cables were brought up, but it needed a very short examination only to show Stephen that they were old and worn from end to end. “It will go hard with us if we have to rely upon these,” he said. “They would not hold a bluff-bowed craft like this two minutes; the very first roller that struck her would snap them like pack-threads. The worst of it is, captain, that if we escape being drowned we have but the inside of a prison to look to, for we are off the Peruvian coast now, and any of us who get to shore will be seized at once.”

“With such a sea as this, señor, there is little chance of any of us being saved if we once strike. We are now somewhere off the mouth of the San Carlos river. In calm weather there would be water enough on the bar for us to run in, but not now; we should strike and go to pieces to a certainty.”

“Well, that would depend; we might bump over it. But even if we did break up on the bar, we should have a much better chance than we should if we went ashore anywhere else. Instead of being dashed on the beach by the waves, and then being swept out again, we should be likely to be carried on into the still water behind the bar, and so of making our way to shore. There are eight of the crew and ourselves. You had better get up ten small casks—those wine barrels would do very well—let the liquor run off, then bung them up again, and fasten life-lines round them; with their help we should have a fair chance.”

“It is worth trying at any rate,” the captain agreed. “The surf on the bar will be tremendous, but if we could stick to the casks we might get through it.”

“Do you think that you are north or south of it now, captain?”

“North, perhaps two or three miles.”

“Well, we will go on fighting as long as we can, captain; it is of no use throwing away a chance, and the wind may possibly drop or shift so as to enable us to make off shore; but if we do not see the land before three o’clock I would turn and run in towards it, and then when we get near enough to see objects plainer, head for the south until you see the entrance. When you do we will go straight for it. It is better at any rate to do it while there is daylight to help us.”

The barrels were got up and prepared to serve as life-buoys. They had just finished when Stephen made his way a short distance up the rigging. “I can see the line of surf, captain; it is not more than three miles away. You had better take a look at it—you may be able to tell where we are. I think I can make out a place of some size a short distance along.”

The captain joined him. “Just as I thought,” he said; “that is San Carlos, and the mouth of the river is about a mile beyond it.”

“Then you may as well bear away for it at once—the sooner we get it over the better.”

“Make your casks fast to something, men,” the captain ordered, as he stepped on deck. “The surf will get higher as we get inshore, and will, I have no doubt, sweep our decks. When the time comes let each man go to his barrel with his knife in his hand ready to cut the lashings just before we strike.”

In half an hour the captain made out the entrance to the river and headed the ship for it.

“There is a heavy sea indeed on the bar,” Stephen said as they neared the line of breakers. “You see, I have changed my togs since the gale began, for I saw that unless the wind changed we should find ourselves in difficulties. We have not much mercy to expect as Chilian sailors. I should have none if it were known that I am a naval officer. Will you tell the men that if we get ashore and I too am saved, they had best hold their tongue about my rank. In the first place it would do me harm, and in the next it would damage you all were it known you had one of Cochrane’s officers on board, for it would show at once that you were on your way to our fleet; whereas if it is supposed that you are merely an ordinary coaster you may be let off unharmed.”

“There is not much chance for us either way,” the captain said. “If we fall into the hands of the Spaniards they will probably hang us at once, while the country people may cut our throats so as to save themselves the trouble of handing us over to the Spaniards. We are no more than a hundred miles from the frontier, and if we do get to shore our best chance will be to try and make our way down the coast, travelling at night and lying up in the daytime. But anyhow I will tell the men what you say.”

“Get all the sail upon her you can, captain—the faster she is travelling the more chance she has of getting over the bar.”

“I will shake out the mainsail,” the captain said. “Then all hands had better gather aft—the masts are sure to fall over her bows as soon as she strikes.”

In a few minutes the ship was nearing the breakers at a high rate of speed. The men were all gathered aft, each with his barrel. Stephen held his breath as they mounted the last great wave outside the surf. Borne along by the great wind and the impetus of the waves, the vessel plunged head-foremost into the surf, which poured in cataracts on to her deck. There was a slight shock, which caused the vessel to tremble, but she was swept along by the fury of the surf. Another wave lifted her high into the air, and as it passed from under her she struck again. This time the shock was tremendous. Every man was thrown off his feet, the masts went over with a crash, and most of the hands were swept overboard by the torrent that poured in over the stern. Stephen had grasped one of the back-stays, and though it seemed to him for a moment that his arms were being pulled from their sockets, he still maintained his grasp. Another and even greater sea than those that had preceded it thundered down upon them. There was a forward move and then another crash, and Stephen felt himself floating in the water, holding on to the keg. Glancing round he saw that the ship had gone altogether. She had broken up completely, and the sea was covered with floating timbers.

The danger from this was greater than from the waves, and he let go his hold of the barrel and dived, swimming under water at right angles to the run of the waves as long as he could hold his breath. When he came up he looked round. He was beyond the wreckage, and was also inside the line of surf. Had the wave carried the ship her own length farther she would have been out of danger. The river bank was but a couple of hundred yards away. The water was still rough, but it was a long heavy swell rather than a stormy sea, and Stephen, who had kicked off his shoes before the ship struck, at once swam for the shore, and was not long in reaching it. After resting for a minute or two he walked along the bank, and soon made out four barrels that had men still clinging to them. Gradually, too, these made their way ashore; the swimmers were all men who had been carried away by the first wave that had swept over the boat. Of the others he could see no signs. He thought he could make out two or three barrels in the middle of the wreckage, but of this he was not sure, and had little doubt that those who were with him at the time the ship went to pieces had all been killed by the floating timber.

“Now, men,” he said, when the four survivors had joined him, “shall we keep together or try to make our way separately?”

The men consulted together, and then said that they thought they would have more chance of making their way south were they to separate. Stephen was glad of this decision, which, he had no doubt was arrived at from the fear that if they were taken, and he was recognized to be an Englishman, it would make their treatment worse than it would otherwise be. He himself much preferred to go alone; he had no authority over these men, and five men together were more likely to attract attention than one alone. Looking across the river they saw a number of people on the opposite bank. They were evidently inhabitants of the town, who, having seen the ship running for shore, had come down to watch her fate, and to give any assistance in their power. Stephen saw that they were waving their hands for them to make up the bank, where there might be a ferry-boat to take them over. He pointed this out to the men, and said, “I am afraid we shall be pursued ere long. Of course, at present they take us for their own people; but when they see that we do not cross, they will suspect the truth, and will send over to see whether we have taken shelter in some village there may be on this side. When they hear that we have not done so, they will guess that we are Chilians, and there will be a hot pursuit for us. We will walk together for a little way along the bank as if going in the direction that they point to. They are not likely to stay long where they are; some will go back to the town now that there is nothing to see, others will no doubt remain on the bank to collect wreckage that may be washed ashore, a few may go on to the ferry and wait there for us. If there are any boats in the river you may be sure they will soon put out to collect floating casks and bales.”

The little crowd was indeed just beginning to break up, and after going a short distance Stephen and his companions left the river and started south. After going two or three hundred yards they shook hands and separated, the sailors striking more inland, while Stephen took for the present a course that ran parallel with the sea-coast. It was already growing dark, and Stephen was worn out with the excitement of the day, so that after going on for an hour, he lay down in a clump of trees and went to sleep. It was broad daylight when he awoke, and on walking to the edge of the trees he saw a village a few hundred yards in front of him. He made a long detour to pass it, and was proceeding along a well-beaten path when he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs behind, and looking round saw four Spanish troopers riding towards him. Escape was out of the question, and he walked quietly on in the faint hope that they might pass without stopping him. This, however, was improbable; his hair was matted with sea water, his clothes still wet—his whole appearance too evidently that of a shipwrecked man. They stopped when they reached him.

“You are one of the men who were cast ashore last night?” a sergeant said.

“I am,” Stephen replied frankly.

“My orders are to take you back to San Carlos. Where are your companions?”

“I do not know,” Stephen replied. “We separated at once; I went my way and they went theirs.”

“You are a Chilian,” the man said; “anyone can tell it by your speech.”

Stephen by this time spoke the language so fluently indeed that he could have passed as a native. There was, however, sufficient difference between the dialects of Peru and Chili for it to be seen at once that he was not a Peruvian. He did not reply directly to the question.

“We were on a trader,” he said. “The captain and four of the men were lost; five of us gained the shore. We were not on an armed ship, and cannot be considered enemies.”

“The whole race of you are enemies,” the sergeant said. “You are rebels and traitors every one of you. Gomez, do you and Martinez take this man back to San Carlos, and hand him over to the governor. I will ride on with Sancho and see if we can come up with the other fellows; as there are half a dozen parties out in search we are pretty sure to lay hands on them before nightfall.”

On the way back Stephen, as he walked between the two horsemen, debated whether it would be better to allow them to remain under the impression that he was a Chilian, or declare himself an English officer. In the former case he would most likely be shot without ceremony, in the latter he might probably be sent up to Callao or Lima. It might make no difference in his fate, but at least might delay it; and if he could but manage to communicate his position to Lord Cochrane, the latter would certainly take instant steps to offer one or more of the many Spanish officers who were prisoners in his hands in exchange for him, or would threaten that if any harm came to him he would give no quarter to Spanish officers in future. At any rate the latter seemed to promise him the better chance, and accordingly when on his arrival at San Carlos he was taken before the governor, he replied boldly to the question, “Who are you?”

“I am Lieutenant Stephen Embleton, flag officer to Admiral Cochrane.”

The words created a sensation among the officers standing behind the governor.

“You dare to say this!” the governor exclaimed furiously.

“I am giving a simple answer to your question, señor,” Stephen said quietly. “When we ask the Spanish officers who fall into our hands what their names are, they reply as I have done, truthfully, and they are treated as I expect to be treated, honourably; especially as I have not been captured by you when in arms, but have simply had the misfortune to be shipwrecked on your coast.”

The quiet tone of the reply had its effect. The officers spoke a few words together in a low tone, and the governor said more calmly than he had before spoken:

“How am I to know that this story is true?”

“I have no means of proving it now,” Stephen replied; “but if I am taken to Callao, a message sent to Lord Cochrane under a flag of truce would speedily bring back a letter verifying my story.”

“But how did you come to be on board that craft that was wrecked?”

“I was wounded, señor, at the action in the port of Callao. A splinter caused by a shot from one of your batteries struck me when on the deck of the Esmeralda. I was sent down to Valparaiso. Your surgeon can examine me and will find that the wound has but lately healed. Being anxious to rejoin my ship as soon as possible, I did not wait for a ship of war going up, but took passage in a Chilian trader.”

“Doubtless conveying stores to the Chilian fleet,” the governor remarked.

“She may have had stores of that kind on board,” Stephen said, “but that was no affair of mine. I simply took a passage in her, and paid for it. The admiral is expecting me, and will, I am sure, be ready to exchange an officer of superior rank for me.”

By the governor’s orders Stephen was now taken into another room. In a quarter of an hour he was brought back again. The governor had left the room, but a Spanish colonel said to him:

“It has been decided to send you to Callao, where, no doubt, inquiries will be made into the truth of your story, and his excellency the Viceroy will himself decide upon your fate.”

Stephen bowed.

“I can have no doubt, señor, that his excellency will treat me with the same courtesy with which some score of Spanish officers are at present treated by Lord Cochrane; especially as he will know that were I,—which I cannot for a moment believe,—badly treated, it is in the power of our admiral to carry out wholesale reprisals.”

The colonel made no reply, but ordered the guards to remove the prisoner. An hour later a young Spanish officer entered.