My first sight of Callao was not one to endear it to my memory, for it is a dirty, unwholesome-looking town, and, as is well known, one of the most immoral places under the sun. Formerly it stood on the open coastline, six miles from the city of Lima, and is the port of call for this, the Peruvian capital. It had then no harbour, but is now a fortified seaport, situated on a river of the same name. In 1871 there was a population of 20,000, mostly seafaring. A railway links the port and capital together, passing at first through the centre of the streets of Callao, the station being merely a house in the street, opposite to which the train stops either to take up or set down passengers. The houses are built of adobe, and other light material, and as there is never any rain in this country, they do not need stone buildings. The valley of the Rimac, in which Lima lies, is not without a certain vegetation, dusty brown and burnt up it is true, and only obtained by constant care and irrigation. The fields, too, are surrounded by walls of adobe, made into blocks and the road following the line lies inches deep in dust.

When we dropped our anchor, we found over one hundred sailing ships here of all nationalities, but principally English and American. They were all anchored in tiers north and south, according to the nature of their cargo. Our anchor was no sooner down, and the sails furled than our deck was swarming with the most villainous looking touts, crimps, and boarding-house masters that ever cheated the gallows. They defied the master and mates, and walked into the forecastle, and hauling out some rot-gut they called whiskey, soon had every sailor on board in a state of stupidity, and actually took them out of the ship by force, even against the men’s own free will. Every one of the touts and crimps carried a six chambered revolver and would not have hesitated to use it if interfered with. There was no law to appeal to, might was right for the time being, and so before the anchor had been down an hour every man forrard was cleared out of the ship. The captain went on shore to complain, and to enter the ship, but he got no redress. The shipping master told him he ought to consider himself lucky that the crimps did not steal and shanghai him too. When he returned on board he brought with him an English boy about the same age as myself, Alec Taylor by name, who had been left ill in the hospital from an English ship, and as he was now quite recovered, the English Consul sent him aboard our ship for which I was glad.

One of the first things I learnt was that earthquakes were frequent here, and that much loss of He was caused by them. In the year 1746 what is known as the great earthquake took place, which demolished three-fourths of the city of Lima, and the town of Callao sank twenty-five fathoms below the sea. Three thousand seven hundred people are said to have perished, and the coast line was entirely changed. On the night of that awful catastrophe, an aged fisherman, San Lorenzo by name, went out in his boat with his nets and lines to follow his usual vocation. Never had he felt so loth to leave his home, a premonition of some coming evil hung over him, and would not be shaken off, so he more earnestly even than usual committed his wife and home to the care of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

For days and days there had been a kind of scum over the blue sky, and the face of the sun was veiled, for all the world as though you were looking through a smoked glass, and frequent internal rumblings had been heard in the mountain districts. He did not want to go out this night, he felt he should like to stay at home, but he was poor, and there was neither food nor money in the home, and he must needs go and catch fish. So out he went to the usual fishing ground—about seven or eight miles south-west of the town. The sea was calm and peaceful, not a breath of wind stirred the mirror-like surface of the ocean, all around was calm and still. He had been out some time, but not a sign of fish was to be seen or felt. The lines lay slack in the water. The old man grew drowsy, and fearful of some impending disaster. In the distance he could see faintly the lights of Callao, and beyond them, in the sky, the reflection of the lights of Lima City, gay, sparkling Lima, the city of gold and silver. He could not understand why, but an awful weight seemed to be pressing him down. His breathing seemed to choke him, what ailed him? Down on his knees he dropped and with hot, choking, gasping breath he poured forth his “Ave Maria.” An unnatural, unearthly stillness gathered all around him. Was he going mad? What was it? Dear God, what was it? He began frantically to haul in his lines, he would return to port and home.

“Jesu Christi, help me,” he muttered, a terrible fear clutching at his heart. Hark, what was that he heard? Was it the surf on the beach? No, it could not be, there was no swell in the bay, what was that rumbling noise, like distant thunder? He looked above, but now no sign of sky or stars could be seen—all was blackness. A choking, gripping feeling came in his throat. He looked towards the port, but no sign of lights could be seen. All was thick, black, impenetrable darkness. Then he thought of his wife and children, and breathing his “Ave Maria” once more he tugged again at the net and lines, and began to haul them in. Another loud rumbling sounded in his ears like peals of thunder, but nearer than when he last heard it. The sea around him began to bubble like a boiling pot. He sat down choking, then, to his horror, he found the water beginning to rush away from his boat on all sides. Suddenly the boat grounded on some hard substance, the water all vanished from around her, then he found himself and the boat rising up like a flash, higher and still higher, he ascended nine hundred and fifty feet above the level of the ocean, his lines and net still out, but the old fisherman did not mind—his fishing days were ended, his soul had left the regions of strife.

That night Callao, with its three thousand odd inhabitants, with barely a moment’s warning, sank beneath the sea, and that same night a gigantic island arose out of the sea just off the coast, and five miles from the site of the old town of Callao. The island is nine miles long, one mile wide and nine hundred and fifty feet high.

Many years after this terrible calamity, some men were surveying this great island that had been thrown up by the earthquake, and on the top they found an old fishing boat, and the name still decipherable upon her, and in the boat were the nets and lines and the bleached bones of their owner.

The island was called after the old Spanish fisherman, San Lorenzo, whose end was so sad and lonely, and it now forms the bay and harbour of the present town of Callao, which is built about three miles from the position of the old town.

Callao is a typical Spanish American town, and in the native quarters the houses are, with few exceptions, low and flat-roofed, built of adobe, but in the business portion, European and American enterprise is quite apparent in the large banks and public buildings.

Of all places on the earth, Callao, in 1871, was the most immoral and degraded. It reeked with vice and infamy. As I said before there were about a hundred sailing ships in the bay, with over two thousand seamen on board—all long voyagers, and about two-thirds of these men were on shore every night. The police force was simply a farce, they winked at crime and immorality in the most open fashion. Every third house in the place was a drinking den, and the majority of the men about the town were runners, crimps, and vile cast offs from other lands. All the human derelicts of the Pacific seemed to have joined that gathering of beachcombers who infested the place, and nearly every class of outcast, from an absconding bank official to a runaway sailor, was to be met with in those streets. Robbery and murder were the order of the day, seamen were drugged, stolen from their ships, and shanghaied aboard outward-bound ships, minus clothes and money. So-called blood money was paid to the crimps by the shipmasters to secure them a crew when they were ready to sail. Say, for instance, a shipmaster wanted a crew of twenty men to work the ship from Callao to Liverpool—a four months passage. He would be compelled to engage the services of one of the boarding-house crimps, or runners, to supply him with the men. Also he would have to advance three months’ wages to each man. This was paid over to the crimps. The men would be taken from the boarding-house to the Consul’s to sign the ship’s articles, they being in such a drugged, drunken condition as to be utterly unconscious of what agreement they were signing. The men were put on board the same night in a dead stupor, often without any clothes but what they had on, and nothing whatever to protect them during the long dreary voyage round the Horn, only to arrive in Liverpool or London penniless, robbed of three month’s wages before they left Callao, and the remaining month’s money owing to the captain for clothes and tobacco supplied during the voyage. It was also no uncommon thing for some shipmasters to participate in the plunder of the men they engaged as their share of the spoil. I remember one ship that came into Callao while I was there. Her captain always carried a well-filled slop-chest on board, and charged three times the value for all goods to be sold. He paid one shilling and sixpence per pound for tobacco from bond, and sold it to the crew for five shillings per pound. But on this particular voyage all his crew were Scandinavians, and would not buy anything from him, so he decided to get even with them. On arriving at Callao, he got in touch with a noted crimp, and the consequence was that night he gave each man five shillings to spend; in the bum-boat they went ashore, and that was the last that was ever seen of them by their late captain. The crimp was on the look-out for them, and he took them to a free and easy drinking den. They were all drugged, and shanghaied on board a large American ship that sailed at daylight. All their effects were left on board their old ship, the wages due to them were confiscated by their captain, and the amount entered in his slop chest book as goods supplied to them. Then, when he was ready for sea, he took a percentage of the new crew’s advance. (This is a positive fact). But thank God, all shipmasters at that time were not like that one, but there were a good many of them. I trust my readers will pardon this digression, but it will give them an idea of what being a sailor meant in those days. I will now return to my story:

We were several days at anchor before we commenced to discharge the cargo and during that time I was employed as boatman in our small dingy, rowing the captain about from the ship to the shore, and to and from various ships in the harbour. Many of these had been on the coast, and at the Chincha and Guanape Islands eight and ten months, and their stores were often pretty well all used up. Now Captain Glasson, being an old trader out to the west coast, and especially to Peruvian ports, was an ardent trader, or, to give it its proper name, smuggler, and on this voyage he had three hundred pounds worth of trade on board, consisting of cases of spirits, tobacco, clothing, cheap jewellery, coils of rope, rolls of canvas, etc. I was employed mostly at night, sleeping during the heat of the day, and I used to deliver the cases of spirits and other things to the various ships, whose masters had bought them from our captain during the day. Many a stiff chase I had from the harbour guards’ boat, but I always managed to evade capture, and enjoyed it. Each time I evaded them with the contrabands in the boat, I became more daring, and this was how we managed it. I had a canvas bag, with pockets inside and lead at the bottom to weight it. The bottles of brandy, etc., were placed in the pockets, the mouth was securely tied, and about sixteen fathoms of signal halliard line was attached to the bag. The plug in the bottom of the boat had a piece of cord fastened to it, which was left hanging in the water beneath the boat. After leaving the ship with, perhaps, two dozen bottles of brandy in the bag, I would be seen by the guard boat, then the fun began, for they immediately gave chase. Now I always managed to keep a certain amount of water in the bottom of the boat, and when I found the guard boat overtaking me, I ceased rowing, quietly dropped the bag over the side and started bailing the boat out. Up came the Guardiana.

“What have you got there?” he would ask, as he shot alongside, looking in the boat.

“Can’t you see what I have got?” I would reply saucily. “Water.”

“Where are you going?” was the next question.

“For the captain,” I would reply.

“Caramba!” he would mutter and sheer off.

I would go on bailing for a bit, then, with a boat-hook, I would get the line hanging from the plug, haul up the bag and deliver it to whichever ship it was for.

Now the Customs Guard boat had met me so often pulling about the bay among the shipping at night that they grew suspicious, and set a watch on me. A few days afterwards, the “Sir John Loman,” a large sailing ship came into port from the Guanape Islands, loaded with guano. She had just come in to get her clearance from the Customs House and was bound to Falmouth for orders. Her captain bought three dozen of brandy and a quantity of tobacco from Captain Glasson, but the great difficulty was to get the stuff to the “Sir John Loman” while the Customs were watching us so closely, but the captain offered me five silver sol (£1) if I would manage it, so I undertook to deliver it in spite of the watchers. I was running a great risk, but I was a bit reckless, though cute. I placed the bottles in one bag, and the tobacco in another, both were packed and the mouths secured with fifty fathoms of lead line attached to each. The “Sir John Loman” was anchored about three cables length from us, and a little to the left of a line between our ship and the landing-place. I arranged with our captain that he should take the boat ashore about eight in the evening, and let the second mate row him. I slung the two bags alongside the boat, and got into her, with nothing on but a pair of dungaree pants and my belt. The night was very dark, and the guard boat was lying about a cable’s length ahead of us. When we were ready we shot the boat clear of the ship’s side, and before the watchers spied us we were within two hundred feet of the ship. They then gave chase at once. I hooked the lines on to my belt, slipped the bags and slid into the water and struck out for the ship’s gangway. As soon as I was in the water, our boat pulled away to the right, and the guard, not seeing me chased after it, but, of course, they found nothing in the boat, and the officer could only apologise, while the captain complained loudly of being chased when he was only rowing ashore.

In the meantime I had swum alongside the gangway of the “Sir John Loman,” and climbed up out of the water. After getting my breath, I slipped on deck and got the officer to lend me a hand to haul the bags in. We got them up safely and I delivered the contents to the captain, who gave me half a guinea for my trouble and told the steward to take me into the pantry and give me some coffee and something to eat, for which I was always ready in those days! About an hour afterwards our own boat called for me and took me back on board.

For nearly a month I carried on this risky business—the captain paid me well for it, and I always got a few dollars from those I supplied. I was a very powerful swimmer, and several times swam off to other ships with the end of a long signalling halliard. Then the contrabands were slung under a cork fender and the line made fast to it, and I would haul it on to the other ship without the aid of a boat and afterwards swim back again.

They say you can trust to luck once too often. I did, and nearly lost my life in the bargain. I had delivered a parcel of tobacco on board a ship and was on my way back, when I heard a terrible noise in the water just ahead of me. It was too dark to see what it was, but I could see broken water, so I turned at once and swam back to the ship’s stern. Seizing the rudder chains I pulled myself up out of the water, only just in time to escape a school of porpoises. There were hundreds of them darting hither and thither in their mad rush among the ships at anchor, and if I had been two minutes later, nothing would have saved my life in the midst of that terrible stampede. It had given me such a shock that I had not strength left to swim another yard, so standing with my foot on the shackle at the back of the rudder, I banged the rudder-chains up against the stern. The captain and mate ran to the poop and looked over the stern to see what caused the noise and were very much surprised to see me there. When I told them why I was there they at once sent the boat for me and put me on board my own ship, and I made up my mind that I would do no more smuggling, the game was not worth the candle, and I wanted to see more of the world before entering Davy Jones’ locker.