This piece, an engaging tale, was contributed by my long-time friend and fellow salmon fisherman, Bob "Red" Rathborne. Red, who we also called "Lik'um and Stik'um" because he was postmaster in Half Moon Bay, CA for many years, is now retired to his trout fishing resort on the Williamson River in Southern Oregon. See: http://williamsonriverretreat.com/
THE WRECK OF THE ANGOLA By Edward E. Long
NOTE: This article contains the account of a shipwreck involving Hjalmar S. Johnson (1880 – 1964), son of Carolina Olsdotter (23) and Johannes Nilsson (see page 14f). The article originally appeared in the June 1921 issue of World Wide Magazine.
-1-
One of the most terrible stories of suffering at sea on record in that of the wreck of the “Angola”, a British barque, on a reef between the coast of Cochin, China and the Philippine Islands. Out of a crew of nineteen, only two survived to tell the tale of horror which happened during a period of forty-two days afloat on a raft in mid-ocean under a blazing tropical sun, and for long intervals together without food or water.
Mr. Long, who writes this account, was a the time a member of the staff of the Singapore Free Press when he interviewed the two survivors – Hjalmar Johnson, a Swede, and Miguel Martincorena, a Spaniard, when they landed at Singapore after a long voyage in a Chinese junk from the place where they drifted ashore and were found by friendly natives. Both men spoke Engilish, Johnson very well, and he narrated the following story, which he swore to as to being the truth, Martincorena substantiating his account, which was corroborated further by Tan Boo Foo, the captain of the Chinese junk which brought the two shipwrecked men to Singapore. Tan Boo Foo stated on oath at a Marine Court of Inquiry held in Singapore that he saw the raft on which Johnson and Martincorena were washed ashore on the island of Soubi, in the South Natuna group in the Indian Ocean, and that they were the only two white men on the island, who were pointed out to him by the inhabitants as the two castaways who had been washed ashore on the raft in question.
With this introduction we present to our readers the tragic story of the wreck of the Angola, told in the simple language of Johnson, the Swede.
I am an able seaman, Hjalmar Johnson by name, a native of Helsingborg, Sweden. I am just over twenty years of age and have been at sea for the past five years, having left Helsingborg in 1896. In August 1899, I shipped at Capetown as an A. B. on board the barque, “The Angola.” Capt. Crocker, officer #97,176, of Windsor, New Brunswick, and made a voyage in her to Newcastle, New South Wales; from Newcastle we went on the Manila run, making journeys from Newcastle to Iloilo, and then back to Newcastle.
On October 12, 1900, we left Cavite, Manila, for Singapore in ballast, intending if possible to obtain a cargo in that port for Newcastle. There were nineteen hands on board, including the Captain (Crocker), a Dane, and the officers. Their names were: Mr. Campbell, first mate, a Nova Scotian; Mr. Brown, a second mate, a Norwegian; Bjornsen, the carpenter, a Norwegian; Alexander, the cook, a Madrassi Christian; myself; Miguel Martincorena, a Spaniard; While and Brow, Germans; Bill and Tom, English; Pieder, a Russian; Antonio, an Italian; Emanuel, a Chilean; Lloyd, an American; Augustus, a Frenchman; Emil a Russian-Finn; Hjalmar Inquist, a Norwegian; and Euleys, the cabin boy, a native of Mauritius.
-2-
About six days out of Manila, a stiff gale began to blow, increasing in violence, and at 11:00 p.m. on the sixth night after leaving Manila, the ship drove right on a reef. By the captain’s reckoning we were then about 600 miles from Manila, a hundred and fifty from the coast of Cochin, China, and mid-west of Manila. We were under close canvass at the time, carrying foretopmast, staysail, foresail, and fore lower and main lower topsails. Immediately after she struck the Angola heeled right over on her lee side and terrific force, swept her decks from side to side, starting planks, ripping off stanchions, carrying away the bulwarks and everything movable, and creating great havoc. All night the gale continued and it was impossible for us to do anything to save ourselves. When day dawned, we found we were in a perilous position on a coral reef, with no prospect of getting off, and the ship fast breaking up, strained as she was from stem to stern by the huge crested breakers, which continually crashed against her sides with a noise like thunder.
Next morning, the 18th, the fore mast went by the board, and at three in the afternoon the Captain gave orders for the main and mizzen masts to be cut away, which was done immediately.
There were only three boats on board, and one of these it was impossible to get, it being on the lee side of the vessel, which was now heeled over so much that the boat was under water. We attempted to launch one of the boats from the davits on the weather side, but before it touched the water a heavy sea came rolling in and smashed it to pieces against the ship’s side. Finally we managed to launch the third boat from the lee side aft. We got the boat into the water all right, but the difficulty was to get in her. Eventually, we had to swarm down the mizzen rigging. After me into the boat came five others. Some had lifebelts on, and they soon needed them, for though we bent to the oars and tried with might and main to pull off the reef away from the ship, we were unable to do so. Presently a huge roller caught the boat broadside and overturned it, and in a second all six of us were battling for dear life in a boiling sea. Pieder, the Russian, and While, one of the Germans, could not swim. Both disappeared almost instantly and never rose again. The other three, with myself, got back to the vessel safely, but all of us were terribly battered and bruised by the waves and thoroughly exhausted.
Our only chance of taking to the boats was now gone and blank despair settled on us all. To add to our misery, that same day the ship turned completely over. All hands, however, managed to climb safely upon her bottom. There we sat for four days, our only food some cans of meat saved from the wreck, but he had no water to drink.
-3-
To escape as we thought, a lingering death, we decided on building rafts. We were lucky in saving some axes and other tools from the ship, also sails and cordage, and we soon rigged up two rafts from the materials at hand, the spanker boom being knocked down into one small raft and a larger one made from planks of the Angola’s sides. Getting there was only a little food – we set out on these rafts. On the smaller one were
Bill, Antonio, Brown, Emanuel and Euleys; the remainder, including myself, were on the larger one. All day long we floated together, but during the night we lost sight of the smaller one and never saw it again.
Our raft was about 45 feet in length and from 9 to 10 feet wide. Running down the center was a long narrow well, a foot or so below the level of the raft, and capable of seating several men. Fore and aft we rigged up a mast and on each we had a square sail, but we couldn’t fix up a rudder, and consequently we ere unable to steer.
For the next few days we drifted along before the wind and the tide. On the 5th day, a steamer passed us, but not within sailing distance. Then began a succession of cruel, burning days, with food getting scantier and scantier. We lay listlessly about the raft, too weak to exert ourselves, save when a vessel passed, as many did. I remember counting 13, but not one of them saw us. Nor could we succeed in attracting their attention. The nights – beautiful starry nights – brought little relief for our empty stomachs and parched mouths. For 20 days this state of affairs lasted.
We chewed our boots, tore barnacles from off the raft’s bottom and eagerly swallowed them but no rain fell and there was nothing wherewith to slake the burning thirst that possessed us. At last, in desperation, Lloyd, the American, started drinking salt water, and on the 21st day he died raving mad, and we reverently threw his body overboard, where countless sharks that had persistently followed us from the first day greedily seized, as if in anticipation of the awful feast that was to come. The next to go, he too had been drinking salt water, unable to resist the terrible cravings of thirst – Hjalmar Inquist, of the Norwegians, who died and was thrown overboard the night after Lloyd died.
On the 25th day, Augustus, the Frenchman, grew frenzied and, seizing an axe, rushed at the captain with a murderous gleam in his eyes. Apparently he chose the captain as his victim, because, up to that time, the skipper had been sitting or lying quietly by himself, apart from the other men. Mr. Campbell, the first mate, promptly threw himself between the maddened Frenchman and held up his left arm to ward off the threatened attack. In a second the axe fell with a sweeping blow, missing the mate’s head, but lopping off the first finger at the second joint as clean as a whistle. Before the mate could even cry out, the Frenchman raised the axe again and brought it down with tremendous force on the poor fellow’s skull. He fell like a log, stone dead.
-4-
We saw it all, but felt too weak and languid to do anything, nor had we much time to, for the whole thing happened in a twinkling of an eye. Presently the crazy Frenchman shouted he was going to kill the captain and the cook, but he did not proceed to carry out his threat. Instead, dropping the axe, he went to a corner of the raft and lay down to sleep, placing his straw hat over his eyes to shield them from the fierce sun glare.
The captain, the second mate and myself then held a conversation in Swedish, which we all understood. We agreed that if we didn’t kill the Frenchman, now that he had shed blood, he would murder all of us. We therefore decided to cast lots as to who should kill Agustus. We got three splinters of wood from the die of the raft, two long pieces and one short piece. These we in a hat, shook them up and down, and then drew. The second mate got the short splinter and thus the terrible task fell to him. There was no time for delay. Grasping the axe the mad Frenchman had relinquished, he walked up to the dozing man and dealt him a crushing blow just above the forehead. The Frenchman started up in terror, the blood streaming down his face. “You are going to murder me, then?” he shrieked. “Yes,” replied the second made, “Because you have killed Mr. Campbell.” With that, he gave him another blow with the hatched and with a deep groan Augusts fell back dead.
Soon after this double tragedy, Providence came to our rescue. By tearing up strips of canvass sailcloth and using bent nails from the raft as hooks, with pieces of white shirting for bait, we managed to catch several large dolphins and other fish, and once more the pangs of hunger were appeased. We still had ho water, however, and the sufferings of some of the weaker men were fearful to behold. On only a very few days did any rainfall, and then only in small quantities, that though we saved all that we could, it was little indeed.
Soon Emil, the Russian-Finn, went crazy from thirst and in his delirium he jumped overboard. The sharks got him at once; the blue water was streaked with red directly where he leaked. Very pathetic was the end of Tom, the Englishman. He was a good-natured chap, one of the best liked of the crew. Soon after Emil had gone, he developed madness. For hours together he would sit counting on his fingers an imaginary crew of 19. “Look,” he would say, “There’s Tom, While, Brown,” and then he would stop and begin over again, growing so frantic at last I tried to quiet him, but all to no purpose. At last he threw off his clothes, and before I could prevent him he was overboard. In a trice I hurried to the side of the raft and pulled him back again. Twice after he jumped over the side, by sheer luck missing the waiting sharks, and each time managed to pull him back.
-5-
The fourth time was the last-poor Tom had scarcely touched the water when a huge shark darted up like a steak of lightening, the yellowish-white belly gleaming in the sun like a silver shield and the next minute his cruel jaws had snapped and closed! That was the last we saw of poor Tom.
Bijornsen, the carpenter, was a strong man, but a last he gave way. The cursed seawater he drank to quench his dreadful thirst drove him mad, and he too died and was thrown to the sharks.
For four or five days no one else died. There were only 5 of us left now – the captain, Mr. Brown, Marticorena, Alexander, and myself – and we were all so bad we could scarcely speak to each other. Three times, in my agony, I tried to drown myself
and thus end my sufferings, but each time I found myself in the water, being a strong swimmer, the instinct to save myself became too strong and I started out and reached the raft again. Then the second cook sickened. I can see him now, lying prone to the raft, smiling in spite of his awful sufferings, because in his delirium, he imagined he was eating. He as shouting, “All right; have go mango, pigeon, dove, olive, bread, plenty eat, plenty eat…” At night he died and the waves bore his body away in a gleam of phosphorescence. Two days after this, the second mate went mad and died. We had now been away from the ship for 36 days.
Next the captain showed signs of insanity. Up to this time he had been the quietest of the lot, sitting apart by himself, steadfastly gazing over the boundless expansion of sea with sunken eyes, in search of the rescuing vessel that never appeared in sight. Just before he died he said, I’m all right.” I asked him whether I should give him some salt water to drink and he said, “No, I can’t understand.” These were his last words, for soon after this he passed away. Thus we two, Martincorena and myself, were left alone, so weak and helpless that it was as much as we would do to drag the captain’s body to the side of the raft and push it into the sea. We had not lost the use of our limbs and we could still fish; and now, strange to say, we caught numbers, where hitherto we had secured one occasionally, but out sufferings without water were terrible to think of – oh, it was an awful time!
For several days longer we drifted aimlessly about the ocean, at the mercy of the wind and waves, and then, on 42nd day after leaving the wreck, as near as we could make it by our reckoning, we drifted ashore on the island of Soubi, in a frightful condition, blistered by the scorching rays of the pitiless sun, chapped and scarred by the action of the waves, which at times almost submerged the raft, and covered with large boils.
We were unable to walk ashore, being far too weak, so natives, who showed themselves very friendly, carried us. They took us to the Chief’s house, pleasantly situated amidst tall groves of coconut palms. His name was Haji Sammaan, and there we lived for nine months.
-6-
The Malays made a healing compound from certain herbs and leaves and smeared this on our bodies, and in a remarkably short time we became well and strong again. The healthy diet of coconuts, mangoes, and fish helped, in great measure, to achieve this. At first we could not converse with the natives, but after a few weeks we picked up enough to be able to ask for most things, and thus all our wants were attended to whilst we were on the island. It was a beautiful spot, with rich tropical scenery common to so many similar islands in these latitudes, but after awhile the diet became monotonous, and we grew lonely for the want of white companions. We had longed to get back to civilization to let our relatives know of our safety and tell the world the awful fate which had overtaken our comrades. Some time later, therefore, we bade farewell to our Malay friends – not without feelings of regret, for they had been very kind to us - and set out on the junk for Singapore.
We were made as comfortable as possible on board, and being seamen, we gave our services in helping to sail the junk. After stopping at several places, we finally entered Singapore Harbor on April 3rd, after a lengthy voyage. And at once reported ourselves to the marine authorities, who kindly sent us to the Sailor’s Home pending a Court of Inquiry. We each received a suit of clothes and underlinen for we had lost our all in the wreck, and we were treated with every consideration.
I also certify that the above is a true account of my experiences.
S/Hjalmar Johnson.
Footnote: Hjalmar Johnson found himself in San Francisco just after the 1906 Earthquake working to help restore the city. There he met and married his wife, Senne Maki who had recently emigrated from Finland. They subsequently moved to Half Moon Bay, California and raised a family of five children, four daughters and one son. Two of the five children are still alive as of October, 2009. Son Nat G. Johnson is now 94. He and his son Jim operate a commercial fishing vessel out of Half Moon Bay. Nat has been fishing commercially since the early 1940s.
Bob "Red" Rathborne on the Williamson River in So. Oregon
Link Here for Bob's Web Site: http://williamsonriverretreat.com/
