Moreover, do not lose sight during these events of Virginia and the four Slocum children. Henry Slater’s recent boast in a Port Elizabeth saloon, that he would seize the Northern Light, was as serious as a heart attack. While this might have been the effluvia spewed by a braggart drunk on gin and pirate yarns, it wasn’t incidental that under United States articles of war at the time, talk of mutiny—even in jest—was a hanging offense, as Philip Spencer and his friends had learned aboard the Somers.
A subsequent episode, presumably “hours” later, placed Slater before Slocum, who ordered acting second mate William McQuaker, Dimmock’s immediate superior, to trice Slater in irons. In Dimmock’s elliptical account:
McQuaker, the sail maker, was acting as second mate. When he told the men to do anything, Slater would order them not to obey, saying “I’m second mate of this ship.” A pair of shackles was put on Slater’s wrists, and he was placed down on the half-deck, where there was plenty of room. Boatswain carried down his dinner, but could not find Slater and reported the fact to the captain. A search was ordered with lanterns, and Slater was found stowed away in [a sail locker]. He had the shackles on, and he said he didn’t want anything to eat, but wanted to be left there to die. The captain finally concluded to let him have his own way. He was offered supper, but refused. That night was very dark. Slater came out, his hands free, and went on the poop deck. No one on deck but mate and man at wheel. Slater went into mate’s room and took revolvers, and cases of ammunition, and then went across to second mate’s room, where McQuaker and boatswain were. Told McQuaker to hold up arms while he searched for firearms. Slater told boatswain that if he made any noise [Slater] would blow his brains out … We were called up with McQuaker and the boatswain by Captain Slocum, who said that there was more trouble. A consultation was held, and … the mate was ordered to place Slater in irons at all hazards, but not to hurt him, unless absolutely necessary. Slater was found in the starboard forecastle … McQuaker told him that he must go in irons, and that it was useless for him to resist. The men went about their duties, most of them cheerfully, some sullenly. It was evident that Slater had “stirred” them up. Slater said he would go aft and talk with the captain. He went on the poop deck. Captain Slocum told him that he must be put in irons. Slater said: “No [expletive evidently deleted] man on ship can put me in irons,” and started to run forward to the sailors. Captain Slocum shot at him twice as he was running off. The captain then insisted that Slater must go in irons, as he was too dangerous a man to be left free. Slater then went forward, and seeing that he could not take charge of the ship he returned aft and allowed himself to be put in irons. Two pairs of handcuffs were placed on his wrists at that time, and he twisted them off as if they were string. He broke seven pairs of handcuffs…
The difficulty of nonfiction is that the reporter is stuck with the documents he finds, however far-fetched. The benefit of nonfiction is that however risibly far-fetched the document, the reporter cannot be blamed for having created it. If you’re wondering about the odd outbreaks of calm between the storms aboard the Northern Light that night, so am I. The problem with discrediting out of hand Dimmock’s account of pistol waving and misfired gunshots is that his version of events was sworn to by his fellow crew members in court in New York, after a postmutiny passage of fifty-three days, with Henry Slater in irons the whole way.
(Victor Slocum has little to say about this final passage aboard the Northern Light, other than to assure his readers that his father brought her into New York “spick and span, and in much better condition than when she was towed out through Long Island Sound eighteen months before.”)
It was in irons that Slater was discovered on November 22, the day the Northern Light docked, and interviewed by the Police Gazette. This tabloid republished its story, titled “A Specter from the Sea,” four months later, as an extended caption to a photograph of a robust, dark-haired, mustachioed bruiser with fists raised and huge chains shackled to his ankles:
The horrible story of this gallant sailor’s sufferings was given in these columns at the time that he arrived in this port, laden with chains and confined in a dark closet in the hold of the vessel. The captain had him arrested on a charge of mutiny, but investigation developed the fact that if justice was to be done complainant and prisoner should change places. For a trifling offense the poor man had been brutally treated and placed in confinement, loaded with over 300 pounds of chain. When found by the officers of the law, who were sent to arrest him, he was a pitiful object. Hunger and cold had reduced him to a skeleton, and the rats had almost torn the clothing from his body. It took two men more than twenty minutes to cut off his shackles.
The portrait shows him with the chains and clothing that were found on him when he arrived in this port. Slater is now but a wreck of his former self. He was at one time one of the most robust sailors that ever trod a deck. Some five years ago, while on board the Garribaldie, lying in an English port, he took part in an athletic contest at the Adelphia theatre, London, and took the first prize for heavy lifting … He also won a medal for athletic sports at Rio de Janeiro some three years ago, and another at Port Elizabeth, Africa, in September, 1883.
The Police Gazette’s account dovetails perfectly with Henry Slater’s account, twelve years later, to a reporter for the Daily Telegraph of Sydney, Australia. One might almost imagine that he had his copy of the tabloid at hand in Sydney, as an aide-mémoire. Here is Slater’s story:
In the year 1883 I signed articles as second mate [sic] of the ship Northern Light, then under the command of Captain Joshua Slocum, at Port Elizabeth, South Africa. In the course of conversation the captain told me that he had a very mutinous crew, and that as the other officers were afraid of the men he wanted an officer of my stamp to keep them in order. He gave me to under stand that I was to be a regular “Bucco,” or bully, on board, said Slater.
Shortly after I had come on board, the next morning, I heard Mrs. Slocum, the captain’s wife, scream, and running to the gang way found that one of her children had fallen overboard. I jumped over after the child, as also did a man in my watch named Hansen, and succeeded in saving the child and bringing it safely on board. The harbor, I may state, is infested by sharks. Mrs. Slocum was effusive in her thanks, but the captain never mentioned a word about the matter.
All went smoothly until the day before we started on the voyage to New York, whither we were bound. The captain and first mate being ashore I was in charge of the ship. I told the third mate, M’Quaker [sic], to do a job with some of the crew forward. Shortly afterwards I heard a row, and going forward, saw M’Quaker unmercifully beating one of the crew. I remonstrated with him, whereupon he answered me in a very insulting manner, and said that my time would come when we got to sea. I ordered him to his cabin, when he began to use most disgusting language, and on his way aft kicked a boy whom he passed, saying at the time that he was one of my favorites. I was so incensed that I gave him a thorough thrashing. The captain and mate came on board a little later, and M’Quaker was for some time closeted with Slocum.
Some days after we had sailed from Port Elizabeth, Captain Slocum came to me and asked me when I “was going to start on the crew,” explaining that I had said that I would play the deuce with the men when we got to sea. I intimated that I was not prepared to beat and ill-treat the men for his satisfaction, as I found them good seamen and respectful and obedient. I also warned him that if he ill-treated any of the men I would be a witness against him. He went away muttering to himself. About a fortnight after leaving port the captain came up while I was directing a job on the mizzen mast, and found fault with the work. I pointed out that I was competent to do the work, and had satisfactorily superintended the same work on the fore mast. He had a sheath knife in his hand, and he rushed over and struck at me. I caught his hand, twisted the knife out of his grasp, and threw it over-board. He then went below.
That evening I slipped and fell, fracturing my right ribs, and the next day cal
led the captain and told him that I would have to lay up. He replied that he would have no loafing on his ship, that he would disrate me, and ordered me forward to the forecastle. I told him that he dared not disrate me, when he rushed at me, knocked me down, and kicked me about the face and head. I was carried forward by the other officers, and placed in a berth in the forecastle. The next morning the captain, first and third mates, carpenter, and boatswain dragged me on deck, and the captain spat at me and struck me in the face with a belaying pin. I managed to crawl back to the forecastle, and then fainted. When I woke up in the evening the men held a consultation, and agreed that they would not stand by and see me ill-treated in the manner I had been.
The men began arming themselves and sharpening their knives, but I begged of them not to interfere, as the officers were armed, and I feared that there would be bloodshed. I entreated them not to interfere with the captain and officers, pointing out that they would be severely punished as mutineers if they did, and I would be charged as the ringleader. At first they would not listen, but finally I got them to promise not to interfere, whatever happened, but to take note of everything, taking day and date, so that when we reached port we could have justice meted out to us.
The next morning the captain and officers and carpenter and boatswain came forward, armed with revolvers and cutlasses, and handcuffed my hands behind my back. They then threw me down the half-deck, and kept me there all day without food or water. About midnight I wrested my hands free, and crawled on deck, and into the mate’s cabin, where I secured a revolver. After deliberating for some time, I threw the revolver over-board and went forward and lay down.
About 8 o’clock the following morning the carpenter came to the forecastle and nailed up one of the doors and the shutter. Then the captain and his officers and petty officers came forward and ordered all the men on deck. The officers then began to fire their revolvers into the forecastle. Fortunately I was not struck by any of the bullets. After a time the mate, Mitchell, called upon me to surrender. He was afraid to enter the forecastle for some time, but at last came in when I told him that I was unarmed. He told me that the trouble would blow over, and that he would see me reinstated as second mate. I got up, and he helped me to the door. When I got out on deck I was seized from behind, knocked down, and two pairs of handcuffs were put on my wrists. I was then dragged aft to the poop, where shackles were put on my ankles. A chain was then placed round my throat, crossed behind my neck, wound around my body under my arms, down through the handcuffs, down through my legs, then up to the back of my neck, and made fast. Then a length of chain was made fast to the shackles on my ankles, and the whole lot of chain riveted together. I had then over 80 lb. of chain on my body.
The captain then told the carpenter to partition off a portion of the lazaret [locker] for my reception. This was … about 4 ft. wide and 4 ft. deep. One end was nailed up, and I was dragged up and thrown down the hatch into the lazaret. The captain then ordered the other end to be boarded up. I was then in a space 4 ft. by 4 ft., and 5 ft. long. I am 5 ft. 10 in. in height, so I had not too much room in which to lie down, I could not reach my mouth with my hands on account of the chains. A hole was cut in one of the boards, and one end of the chain attached to my ankle was pulled through and made fast to a stanchion outside my “box.”
At first my daily fare was one ship’s biscuit and a half pint of water. That did not kill me, so the same amount of biscuit and about three or four tablespoonsful of water was tried. Still I did not die. For the first three weeks in this “box” I suffered the tortures of the damned, my hunger and thirst were intolerable. I begged Captain Slocum to give me water and food; but in vain.
After I had been for about thirty days in the box I heard Mrs. Slocum playing a hymn on the organ [sic]. She played, “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” and I joined in, and began to sing.5 Suddenly, while I was singing, the chain attached to my ankles was hauled up to the hole, bringing my feet up about three feet from the deck. I was kept in this position for over three days without food or water. At the end of that time the captain came down fully armed to see me. He let my legs down again.
I begged of him to give me some water. He laughed, and said, “Are you very thirsty, old man? Very well, I will give you a good drink if you promise to behave yourself.” I promised I would not sing again, and he went and got me a big dipper of water. I said, “God bless you, Captain Slocum, for your kindness in bringing me this water.” I then began to drink, and found that he had given me a dipper of sea water. I had drunk quite a quantity before I ascertained that the water was salt, and naturally my thirst was increased a hundredfold. The next day I received my usual allowance of water and biscuit.
I began to find the rats troublesome about now. I would often wake up and find them running all over me, and even biting my skin—I had no flesh. I wondered why they came after me, as I was nothing but skin and bone. I soon found out. I frequently fancied about this time that I could smell butter or melted cheese. I found out later on that Captain Slocum used to pour melted butter or cheese on to what remained of my clothes to attract the rats.
After I had been about 40 days in the box, a large rat was running over me, and I succeeded in catching him in my hands. I was in such a desperate state of hunger that I squeezed the life out of the rat, and then ate it. I never, however, managed to get this change of diet again.
My box was never once cleaned out for the period of 53 days during which I was confined therein, nor was I allowed to wash myself. After the first couple of weeks I broke out into a rash, and found that I was covered with vermin. The rats had almost stripped me of my clothing, and were often gnawing at my legs and arms. Captain Slocum would occasionally come down, bringing with him bread and meat or cakes or doughnuts, show them to me, and then deliberately eat them before me. Shortly before we arrived in New York, the captain brought down some carbolic acid to disinfect my box, and sprinkled some on my body and face, drops falling in my mouth and eyes.
On arriving at New York I was arrested and tried for mutiny, and honorably acquitted. Captain Slocum and his two mates were then arrested, and were each severely punished for their cruelty to me. The captain was fined 500 dollars.6
The sequence of events in New York after the Northern Light docked in Brooklyn is easier to follow than the story’s underlying facts are to know. From the moment Slater was shipped aboard at Port Elizabeth, reversals of fortune became commonplace. On November 22, 1883, a dispatch from New York to the Milwaukee Sentinel (an indication of the national interest in shipping news) reported that Slocum had gone immediately upon docking to the U.S. marshal’s office to charge Slater with “having fired on one of [his] sailors and an attempt to get up a mutiny.” Two deputy marshals accompanied Slocum to the Northern Light to remove Slater from the vessel, having been warned by the captain “to look out for Slater, as he was a ‘dangerous man.’ ” They found the prisoner bound in “heavy iron chains” and unable to stand. With assistance from the deputy marshals he was taken before a U.S. commissioner, who remanded him to the infamous Ludlow Street jail. Confined to his cell, Slater “sank to the floor and fainted,” but not before asking his keepers “for God’s sake to give him something to eat as he was starving.” When food was delivered he “revived … and he ate ravenously … After eating a hearty meal he fainted again and became delirious.” The form of delirium was “begging for more biscuit[s].”
Three days later, the New York Times reported that Slocum had been charged by Commissioner Shields with “cruelly and inhumanly treating his prisoner … [whose] condition had much improved since leaving the vessel.” The newspaper also noted that during this busy day in court mate William McQuaker had testified that Slater “had attacked him with a pistol at 11 o’clock [the night after he’d been put in irons], and when he came into the cabin where the witness and ship’s boatswain were sleeping he said: ‘A word out of you and I’ll blow your brains out,’ holding a revolver about six inches from [McQuaker’s] foreh
ead.”
The Times, having described the Northern Light crew assembled in the courtroom as presenting “a picturesque appearance with their bronzed faces, heavy whiskers, and nautical attire,” pictured Slocum as “mild-mannered, of inoffensive appearance,” as he listened to “the pitiful story [Slater] told of his sufferings without seeming in the least moved.” At the end of the day, the captain was released on $2,500 bail, paid by his partners Benner and Pinckney. Slater’s own trial was held over. Less than a week later, after one witness, “a rather thick-witted Swede,” according to the Times’s court reporter, “glaring at Capt. Slocumb [sic] with hatred in his countenance,” testified that “the crew often heard Slater, from his pen between the decks, calling for food and water, and shouting in agonized tones that he was dying,” the New York Times editorial page branded Joshua Slocum a “brute.”
Across the country, in the San Francisco Evening Bulletin of December 4, 1883, the story appeared with appropriate embellishments, including the brandishing of cutlasses. The Bulletin added that when the deputy marshal boarded the Northern Light in Brooklyn and peered into the darkness of the ship’s dungeon,
Slater cried out, “Are you the officer come to arrest me?” The Marshal said he was. “Thank God,” said the prisoner fervently. The miserable man was lying on his back, with one foot hoisted into the air and strapped to the ceiling. Attached to the ankle of his other leg was a heavy iron manacle, to which was fastened an enormous chain weighing about eighty pounds. His only clothing was an undershirt and a sock which covered the foot which was raised in the air. The unfortunate man had been confined in his pen for fifty-three days, and had torn off his clothing while the ship was crossing the equator, when the heat must have been one hundred and forty degrees at least.
William Dimmock’s version of this event, however, contradicts this account:
The Hard Way Around Page 13