MABARNST-L Archives

Archiver > MABARNST > 2002-03 > 1015179440


From: Bobbie Hall <>
Subject: [MABARNST] Cape Cod Pilot, Ch. 7, part 1
Date: Sun, 03 Mar 2002 12:18:50 -0600
References: <200112191104.fBJB48Q10270@lists2.rootsweb.com>


======================================================================
Cape Cod Pilot, by Jeremiah Diggs, American Guide Series, published by
Modern Pilgrim Press, Provincetown, MA, 1937. This was a work
underwritten by the Federal Writers Project, Works Project
Administration (WPA) for the State of Massachusetts.
======================================================================

Chapter VII - ORLEANS [part 1]

ATTENTION VISITORS

>I have the largest assortment of bric-a-brac, old
>books and other ancient articles to be found in
>the place. Also dories and small boats of the
>best makes at prices to suit.

Drawn by the wording of the advertisement, I found the dories and small
boats in the yard out back. They were priced "to suit" their
condition, which, I found, did not suit me. So I went back in and
bought books. One was a scrapbook. Then there were some charts and a
couple of pilot books, and a great family bible. Inside the cover of
the bible I read the name, J. Swift, and the date, 1844.

"Ah! Swift. A good old Cape name. Ought to be a birth and death log in
the back, with perhaps some of those reverent or philosophical little
asides that are somehow thought to befit such occasions." So I turned
to the back. In fancy scrawl, across the columns reserved for the
solemn record, was this:

I like fried mackerel better than boiled.
J. Swift.

I asked my Orleans dealer in bric-a-brac and small boats if he could
tell me anything of interest about the old Bible or its owner. (You
are traditionally entitled to at least one good story from the best
second-hand dealers. For myself, I set it down as axiomatic that if I
don't get a story along with it, whatever I've bought, I probably am
not getting my money's worth.) But this time my friend shook his head.

"You've got me there," he said. "I'm sorry I don't know the feller. If
I did, I'd give you a whackin' good yarn about him.!"

They do have some "whackin' good yarns" in Orleans; one tale, still
fresh in its memory, belongs in the history books, and you may be sure
that when the rest of the world has forgotten, the children of this
town will still hear the story of the 'Perth Amboy.'

Joe PERRY came from the Cape Verde Islands. In New Bedford, and on the
Cape, Joe PERRY's people are called "bravas," a dark race, part
Portuguese and part African, descendants of the natives of the little
island group off Senegambia. Joe met thousands of his own race, picked
one for his wife. The PERRYs came to Provincetown and Joe went
fishing. The PERRYs had a little girl, and Joe worked hard to make
more money. He took out citizenship papers. Joe was reliable, and
after many years at sea, in one pursuit or another, he was finally
made captain of No. 740. No. 740 was a barge, and Joe liked her, and
so did his wife and their daughter. They lived on her, they found life
pleasant enough, and mainly, for Joe, it was nice because she was "so
safe." His family was safe there.

At 1 A.M. on the morning of July 21, 1918, the tug 'Perth Amboy'
chugged into Gloucester Harbor with two barges in tow, and picked up
No. 740 at the end of the line, as per schedule, bound around the
Cape. Joe had aboard his "crew," which consisted of one man, and the
"crew" had brought along his wife and child, for a cool ride on smooth
waters in mid-July.

All went well until the tug and her fleet reached the entrance to
Nauset Harbor, just off East Orleans. Mrs. Perry had cooked eggs and
'linguica,' and was calling the others to mess. Joe sat on his "back
porch" and smoked and looked across at the long gleaming sands of
Nauset Beach, and tried to remember when he had last been to church.
Suddenly a sharp boom startled him. It echoed through the Sunday
morning quiet. Then another boom. Joe jumped up. He ran to the
fore-end of the barge. And there, half a mile to leeward, he saw a low
lying gray form which he recognized from the pictures in the papers. A
German U-Boat!

"All hands on deck!" Joe yelled. The others came running out. Joe
herded them into the dory. They started rowing furiously for the
beach. Their terror was dulled a little because they didn't really
believe what they saw. They couldn't. And yet, the shots kept coming.
They watched the explosions demolish the tug's pilot house. Then down
went the barges, one, two, three. Joe cursed when No. 740 sank, and
Mary wept. But some of the shells fell dangerously near their dory,
and there wasn't time to pause for a last goodby to home. The
submarine dove under, and was seen no more. In all, she had fired 147
shots, according to one count, and one of these came ashore - the
first and last German shell to fall on American soil during the World
War.

"Observers of the U-Boat gun-fire last Sunday," remarked the
Provincetown "Advocate," "were unanimous in their criticism thereof.
The German marksmanship was downright poor."


[more to come]
transcribed by and all errors attributed to
Bobbie Hall







This thread: