Italian prospector sails into Korea's tempest of 1885

By Robert Neff

On Nov. 25, 1885, Signor Luigi sailed into Jemulpo (modern Incheon) harbor aboard his small blue schooner, the Prospector, with the Italian flag proudly fluttering from its mast. Although the Prospector was the first Italian merchant vessel to visit a Korean port, it was not the first to sail into Korean waters. That dubious honor belonged to the 666-ton Italian barque Bianca Pertica, which wrecked off the coast of Jeju Island during a powerful typhoon in 1878, shortly after departing Nagasaki. Only one crew member survived, and he provided an account of his ordeal at sea and subsequent rescue by the islanders — an account both fascinating and, at times, almost unbelievable.

We know almost nothing about Signor Luigi, as his name does not appear in the regional directories. However, according to regional newspapers and Korean Customs records, the Prospector departed Nagasaki on Oct. 31 with a 5-ton cargo of general goods. There were only five men aboard the ship: Luigi, his unnamed German captain and three Japanese sailors. They sailed around Jeju Island to Geomundo (known as Port Hamilton on contemporary Western maps), a group of Korean islands then occupied by the British navy.

Judging from other accounts, Luigi and his ship were likely not welcomed by the British garrison’s commander — even for a short stay — and were probably encouraged to leave immediately, likely without ever setting foot ashore. From Port Hamilton, the Prospector sailed through the treacherous Korea Strait, where many ships in the past had met their doom. Fortunately for the schooner, it was smooth sailing, but several Korean junks were lost to storms in the following month — some of their crews eventually drifted to Japanese waters and were rescued.

But Korea was plagued with storms — and not just those at sea.

When the schooner arrived in Jemulpo, the port was abuzz with activity. Chen Shutang, the Chinese representative to Korea, was preparing to return to China. Although this was ostensibly due to poor health, it was more than likely due to his inability to negotiate the increasingly turbulent Korean politics and Russian influence that had prompted the “preventive” occupation of Port Hamilton.

Prior to his departure, Chen attended a tiffin (luncheon) given by Carl Wolter, the representative of the German firm, Messrs. E. Meyer & Co., which at the time was the leading Western mercantile firm in the port. According to an eyewitness:

“His Excellency [Chen] was met there by the local Consular body (excepting the Japanese representative, who, unfortunately, had been unavoidably prevented from [attending] the gathering) and most other leading residents. Mr. Wolter did the honors of the day in his usual hospitable style, and a few hours at tiffin were most agreeably spent. The health, prosperity and success of the Minister were the subject of a very able toast by the host, to which His Excellency responded immediately in eloquent and fluent English, pronounced, however, with somewhat of an American accent; which cannot be wondered at considering that Chen formerly held a consular post in California.”

The “unavoidable” absence of the Japanese was due to the ongoing political maneuvering in Korea between the Chinese and Japanese governments following the failed Korean coup the previous year. The Chinese government supported the conservative Korean court, while Japan sided with the defeated progressive revolutionists — even providing sanctuary to several of their leaders.

Unfortunately, neither Luigi nor his crew left an account of their stay in Jemulpo. The only detail we know is that Luigi unsuccessfully tried to sell his schooner. However, from other sources, we learn that the country was wracked by uncertainty and change.

Horace Allen, an American missionary, wrote in his diary on Dec. 1 that “altogether we don’t feel secure here just now.” Rumors circulated that the Korean revolutionists in Japan “had been supplied with dynamite in America and are now on their way back to blow up the Royal Family and others.” According to Allen, the Korean monarch was so alarmed by these reports that he asked George C. Foulk, the naval officer serving as the American representative in Seoul, if there was any truth to the rumors. Many other “ugly questions” arose within the Korean court and on the streets of the capital, asking why the American government had not returned the “traitors” to Korea.

In a letter to his parents, Foulk described Koreans as being deeply “superstitious about dates,” noting that “the whole city believes” violent unrest would sweep through Seoul on Dec. 4, the anniversary of the previous year’s failed coup. Foulk explained, “When people make up their minds a row is coming in this part of the world, it is rather reasonable to suppose one will come.”

Almost as if tempting fate, an official dinner was held at the Foreign Office to honor the arrival of the new Chinese representative, Yuan Shikai. Foulk recalled that the streets were “perfectly deserted” as he made his way to the event. Unsurprisingly, he found only the Chinese representatives, four Korean officials and the secretary of the Russian Legation in attendance.

Foulk continued:

“In a few minutes, the President of the Foreign Office said he was sick and went home. I asked where the other foreign officers were, and learned the Englishman had a headache, the German, dysentery (good! scared into it!), the Japanese were not well, and the Russian minister had hurt his leg! I snickered at all these lies, and felt comfortable because a coldness in my back made me think of the revolver, which was strapped up and down my spinal column.”

The dinner was a quiet affair. The atmosphere was heavy with fear and anticipation, heightened by the sound of servants poking holes into the paper doors and windows to peek in at the diners.

On Dec. 5, Paul Georg von Mollendorff — the former German adviser to the Korean government — and his family departed Korea for China. Given his staunch anti-Japanese and pro-Russian sentiments, few foreigners in Seoul — save the Chinese and Russians — mourned his departure.

However, many Koreans, including the royal family, were saddened to see him go. According to Mollendorff’s biographer, Yur-bok Lee, “Thousands of Korean well-wishers came to see [him] off.” While Lee’s statement might be an exaggeration, a correspondent for a Chinese newspaper lends some credence to the claim. He observed that as Mollendorff and his family prepared to board a Chinese warship, “a large company of Chinese, natives and foreigners, assembled on the new jetty, where there was no end to the leave-taking. The Japanese, however, were conspicuous by their absence.” As the ship departed, “three hearty cheers for the [German] rent the air.”

On the following day, Jemulpo was once again filled with excitement. A foreign resident, writing as a correspondent for a Chinese newspaper, reported on the day’s unusual festivities:

“[Today] our Japanese fellow residents celebrated — well, what do you think? Nothing less than the massacre of last year! An enviable occasion to celebrate, truly. The Japanese burial grounds and the settlements for the live [Japanese] were gaily decorated with flags and illuminated at night, and during the daytime, many of our amiable Japanese fellow residents were fairly well illuminated themselves. Temperance Union, please don’t copy.”

Although the exact date is uncertain, around this time, the Prospector departed the Land of the Morning Calm for Japan. The seas were, unsurprisingly, stormy, but on Dec. 21, the little blue schooner safely sailed into Nagasaki harbor. Within days of its arrival, another small schooner departed Yokohama, reportedly bound for Jemulpo.

According to a Tokyo newspaper, on Dec. 26, the Penelope, an otter hunting schooner, departed Yokohama carrying a few boxes of dynamite, which were to be delivered to Korea — presumably to Korean revolutionists. However, due to “the strict vigilance of the Japanese authorities, the schooner diverted to Oshima Island to avoid suspicion.” Unable to complete her mission, the Penelope returned to Yokohama on Jan. 3, 1886.

A Yokohama newspaper, however, disputed this account from its Tokyo rival. It claimed the Penelope had, indeed, left port but “not for ‘Oshima Island,’ nor to ‘avoid suspicion,’ but simply to sail down the ay with a party on a picnic.” There was no dynamite.

Despite this dismissal, the Yokohama editor conceded there was some “grain of truth” to the story:

“Some Japanese, apparently strangers in Yokohama, were last month seeking to charter a small foreign vessel at this port, and from their answers to the interrogatories of the owner of a suitable ship, they appeared to be persons entirely unaccustomed to the business proposed, and much disinclined to state the actual destination of the vessel.”

The strangers admitted their intended cargo was gunpowder. One schooner owner “entertained the proposal” but ultimately declined the charter. For his trouble — and perhaps to keep the business secret — the prospective charterers paid him $200.

As to the fate of the Prospector, it remains unclear. A review of my copies of the Nagasaki shipping reports (printed in the local newspaper) yield no further mention of the ship. It is not difficult to imagine, however, that the schooner found new opportunities in one of the treaty ports of Japan or China — the details of its adventure forgotten in some diplomatic archive.

I wish to thank Diane Nars for her invaluable assistance and for allowing me to use her image.

Robert Neff has authored and co-authored several books, including "Letters from Joseon," "Korea Through Western Eyes" and "Brief Encounters."