Good-by to the American coast--Off Sable Island in a fog--In the open
sea--The man in the moon takes an interest in the voyage--The first
fit of loneliness--The _Spray_ encounters _La Vaguisa_--A bottle of
wine from the Spaniard--A bout of words with the captain of the
_Java_--The steamship _Olympia_ spoken--Arrival at the Azores.
I now stowed all my goods securely, for the boisterous Atlantic was
before me, and I sent the topmast down, knowing that the _Spray_ would
be the wholesomer with it on deck. Then I gave the lanyards a pull and
hitched them afresh, and saw that the gammon was secure, also that the
boat was lashed, for even in summer one may meet with bad weather in
the crossing.
In fact, many weeks of bad weather had prevailed. On July 1, however,
after a rude gale, the wind came out nor'west and clear, propitious
for a good run. On the following day, the head sea having gone down, I
sailed from Yarmouth, and let go my last hold on America. The log of
my first day on the Atlantic in the _Spray_ reads briefly: "9:30 A.M.
sailed from Yarmouth. 4:30 P.M. passed Cape Sable; distance, three
cables from the land. The sloop making eight knots. Fresh breeze N.W."
Before the sun went down I was taking my supper of strawberries and
tea in smooth water under the lee of the east-coast land, along which
the _Spray_ was now leisurely skirting.
At noon on July 3 Ironbound Island was abeam. The _Spray_ was again at
her best. A large schooner came out of Liverpool, Nova Scotia, this
morning, steering eastward. The _Spray_ put her hull down astern in
five hours. At 6:45 P.M. I was in close under Chebucto Head light,
near Halifax harbor. I set my flag and squared away, taking my
departure from George's Island before dark to sail east of Sable
Island. There are many beacon lights along the coast. Sambro, the Rock
of Lamentations, carries a noble light, which, however, the liner
_Atlantic_, on the night of her terrible disaster, did not see. I
watched light after light sink astern as I sailed into the unbounded
sea, till Sambro, the last of them all, was below the horizon. The
_Spray_ was then alone, and sailing on, she held her course. July 4,
at 6 A.M., I put in double reefs, and at 8:30 A.M. turned out all
reefs. At 9:40 P.M. I raised the sheen only of the light on the west
end of Sable Island, which may also be called the Island of Tragedies.
The fog, which till this moment had held off, now lowered over the sea
like a pall. I was in a world of fog, shut off from the universe. I
did not see any more of the light. By the lead, which I cast often, I
found that a little after midnight I was passing the east point of the
island, and should soon be clear of dangers of land and shoals. The
wind was holding free, though it was from the foggy point,
south-southwest. It is said that within a few years Sable Island has
been reduced from forty miles in length to twenty, and that of three
lighthouses built on it since 1880, two have been washed away and the
third will soon be engulfed.
[Illustration: "'Good evening, sir.'"]
On the evening of July 5 the _Spray_, after having steered all day
over a lumpy sea, took it into her head to go without the helmsman's
aid. I had been steering southeast by south, but the wind hauling
forward a bit, she dropped into a smooth lane, heading southeast, and
making about eight knots, her very best work. I crowded on sail to
cross the track of the liners without loss of time, and to reach as
soon as possible the friendly Gulf Stream. The fog lifting before
night, I was afforded a look at the sun just as it was touching the
sea. I watched it go down and out of sight. Then I turned my face
eastward, and there, apparently at the very end of the bowsprit, was
the smiling full moon rising out of the sea. Neptune himself coming
over the bows could not have startled me more. "Good evening, sir," I
cried; "I'm glad to see you." Many a long talk since then I have had
with the man in the moon; he had my confidence on the voyage.
About midnight the fog shut down again denser than ever before. One
could almost "stand on it." It continued so for a number of days, the
wind increasing to a gale. The waves rose high, but I had a good ship.
Still, in the dismal fog I felt myself drifting into loneliness, an
insect on a straw in the midst of the elements. I lashed the helm, and
my vessel held her course, and while she sailed I slept.
During these days a feeling of awe crept over me. My memory worked
with startling power. The ominous, the insignificant, the great, the
small, the wonderful, the commonplace--all appeared before my mental
vision in magical succession. Pages of my history were recalled which
had been so long forgotten that they seemed to belong to a previous
existence. I heard all the voices of the past laughing, crying,
telling what I had heard them tell in many corners of the earth.
The loneliness of my state wore off when the gale was high and I found
much work to do. When fine weather returned, then came the sense of
solitude, which I could not shake off. I used my voice often, at first
giving some order about the affairs of a ship, for I had been told
that from disuse I should lose my speech. At the meridian altitude of
the sun I called aloud, "Eight bells," after the custom on a ship at
sea. Again from my cabin I cried to an imaginary man at the helm, "How
does she head, there?" and again, "Is she on her course?" But getting
no reply, I was reminded the more palpably of my condition. My voice
sounded hollow on the empty air, and I dropped the practice. However,
it was not long before the thought came to me that when I was a lad I
used to sing; why not try that now, where it would disturb no one? My
musical talent had never bred envy in others, but out on the Atlantic,
to realize what it meant, you should have heard me sing. You should
have seen the porpoises leap when I pitched my voice for the waves and
the sea and all that was in it. Old turtles, with large eyes, poked
their heads up out of the sea as I sang "Johnny Boker," and "We'll Pay
Darby Doyl for his Boots," and the like. But the porpoises were, on
the whole, vastly more appreciative than the turtles; they jumped a
deal higher. One day when I was humming a favorite chant, I think it
was "Babylon's a-Fallin'," a porpoise jumped higher than the bowsprit.
Had the _Spray_ been going a little faster she would have scooped
him in. The sea-birds sailed around rather shy.
July 10, eight days at sea, the _Spray_ was twelve hundred miles east
of Cape Sable. One hundred and fifty miles a day for so small a vessel
must be considered good sailing. It was the greatest run the _Spray_
ever made before or since in so few days. On the evening of July 14,
in better humor than ever before, all hands cried, "Sail ho!" The sail
was a barkantine, three points on the weather bow, hull down. Then
came the night. My ship was sailing along now without attention to the
helm. The wind was south; she was heading east. Her sails were trimmed
like the sails of the nautilus. They drew steadily all night. I went
frequently on deck, but found all well. A merry breeze kept on from
the south. Early in the morning of the 15th the _Spray_ was close
aboard the stranger, which proved to be _La Vaguisa_ of Vigo,
twenty-three days from Philadelphia, bound for Vigo. A lookout from
his masthead had spied the _Spray_ the evening before. The captain,
when I came near enough, threw a line to me and sent a bottle of wine
across slung by the neck, and very good wine it was. He also sent his
card, which bore the name of Juan Gantes. I think he was a good man,
as Spaniards go. But when I asked him to report me "all well" (the
_Spray_ passing him in a lively manner), he hauled his shoulders much
above his head; and when his mate, who knew of my expedition, told him
that I was alone, he crossed himself and made for his cabin. I did not
see him again. By sundown he was as far astern as he had been ahead
the evening before.
[Illustration: "He also sent his card."]
There was now less and less monotony. On July 16 the wind was
northwest and clear, the sea smooth, and a large bark, hull down, came
in sight on the lee bow, and at 2:30 P.M. I spoke the stranger. She
was the bark _Java_ of Glasgow, from Peru for Queenstown for orders.
Her old captain was bearish, but I met a bear once in Alaska that
looked pleasanter. At least, the bear seemed pleased to meet me, but
this grizzly old man! Well, I suppose my hail disturbed his siesta,
and my little sloop passing his great ship had somewhat the effect on
him that a red rag has upon a bull. I had the advantage over heavy
ships, by long odds, in the light winds of this and the two previous
days. The wind was light; his ship was heavy and foul, making poor
headway, while the _Spray_, with a great mainsail bellying even to
light winds, was just skipping along as nimbly as one could wish. "How
long has it been calm about here?" roared the captain of the _Java_,
as I came within hail of him. "Dunno, cap'n," I shouted back as loud
as I could bawl. "I haven't been here long." At this the mate on the
forecastle wore a broad grin. "I left Cape Sable fourteen days ago," I
added. (I was now well across toward the Azores.) "Mate," he roared to
his chief officer--"mate, come here and listen to the Yankee's yarn.
Haul down the flag, mate, haul down the flag!" In the best of humor,
after all, the _Java_ surrendered to the _Spray_.
[Illustration: Chart of the _Spray's_ course around the world--April
24, 1895, to July 3, 1898]
The acute pain of solitude experienced at first never returned. I had
penetrated a mystery, and, by the way, I had sailed through a fog. I
had met Neptune in his wrath, but he found that I had not treated him
with contempt, and so he suffered me to go on and explore.
In the log for July 18 there is this entry: "Fine weather, wind
south-southwest. Porpoises gamboling all about. The S.S. _Olympia_
passed at 11:30 A.M., long. W. 34 degrees 50'."
"It lacks now three minutes of the half-hour," shouted the captain, as
he gave me the longitude and the time. I admired the businesslike air
of the _Olympia_; but I have the feeling still that the captain was
just a little too precise in his reckoning. That may be all well
enough, however, where there is plenty of sea-room. But
over-confidence, I believe, was the cause of the disaster to the liner
_Atlantic_, and many more like her. The captain knew too well where he
was. There were no porpoises at all skipping along with the _Olympia_!
Porpoises always prefer sailing-ships. The captain was a young man, I
observed, and had before him, I hope, a good record.
Land ho! On the morning of July 19 a mystic dome like a mountain of
silver stood alone in the sea ahead. Although the land was completely
hidden by the white, glistening haze that shone in the sun like
polished silver, I felt quite sure that it was Flores Island. At
half-past four P.M. it was abeam. The haze in the meantime had
disappeared. Flores is one hundred and seventy-four miles from Fayal,
and although it is a high island, it remained many years undiscovered
after the principal group of the islands had been colonized.
Early on the morning of July 20 I saw Pico looming above the clouds on
the starboard bow. Lower lands burst forth as the sun burned away the
morning fog, and island after island came into view. As I approached
nearer, cultivated fields appeared, "and oh, how green the corn!" Only
those who have seen the Azores from the deck of a vessel realize the
beauty of the mid-ocean picture.
[Illustration: The island of Pico.]
At 4:30 P.M. I cast anchor at Fayal, exactly eighteen days from Cape
Sable. The American consul, in a smart boat, came alongside before the
_Spray_ reached the breakwater, and a young naval officer, who feared
for the safety of my vessel, boarded, and offered his services as
pilot. The youngster, I have no good reason to doubt, could have
handled a man-of-war, but the _Spray_ was too small for the amount of
uniform he wore. However, after fouling all the craft in port and
sinking a lighter, she was moored without much damage to herself. This
wonderful pilot expected a "gratification," I understood, but whether
for the reason that his government, and not I, would have to pay the
cost of raising the lighter, or because he did not sink the _Spray_, I
could never make out. But I forgive him.
It was the season for fruit when I arrived at the Azores, and there
was soon more of all kinds of it put on board than I knew what to do
with. Islanders are always the kindest people in the world, and I met
none anywhere kinder than the good hearts of this place. The people of
the Azores are not a very rich community. The burden of taxes is
heavy, with scant privileges in return, the air they breathe being
about the only thing that is not taxed. The mother-country does not
even allow them a port of entry for a foreign mail service. A packet
passing never so close with mails for Horta must deliver them first in
Lisbon, ostensibly to be fumigated, but really for the tariff from the
packet. My own letters posted at Horta reached the United States six
days behind my letter from Gibraltar, mailed thirteen days later.
The day after my arrival at Horta was the feast of a great saint.
Boats loaded with people came from other islands to celebrate at
Horta, the capital, or Jerusalem, of the Azores. The deck of the
_Spray_ was crowded from morning till night with men, women, and
children. On the day after the feast a kind-hearted native harnessed a
team and drove me a day over the beautiful roads all about Fayal,
"because," said he, in broken English, "when I was in America and
couldn't speak a word of English, I found it hard till I met some one
who seemed to have time to listen to my story, and I promised my good
saint then that if ever a stranger came to my country I would try to
make him happy." Unfortunately, this gentleman brought along an
interpreter, that I might "learn more of the country." The fellow was
nearly the death of me, talking of ships and voyages, and of the boats
he had steered, the last thing in the world I wished to hear. He had
sailed out of New Bedford, so he said, for "that Joe Wing they call
'John.'" My friend and host found hardly a chance to edge in a word.
Before we parted my host dined me with a cheer that would have
gladdened the heart of a prince, but he was quite alone in his house.
"My wife and children all rest there," said he, pointing to the
churchyard across the way. "I moved to this house from far off," he
added, "to be near the spot, where I pray every morning."
I remained four days at Fayal, and that was two days more than I had
intended to stay. It was the kindness of the islanders and their
touching simplicity which detained me. A damsel, as innocent as an
angel, came alongside one day, and said she would embark on the
_Spray_ if I would land her at Lisbon. She could cook flying-fish, she
thought, but her forte was dressing _bacalhao_. Her brother Antonio,
who served as interpreter, hinted that, anyhow, he would like to make
the trip. Antonio's heart went out to one John Wilson, and he was
ready to sail for America by way of the two capes to meet his friend.
"Do you know John Wilson of Boston?" he cried. "I knew a John Wilson,"
I said, "but not of Boston." "He had one daughter and one son," said
Antonio, by way of identifying his friend. If this reaches the right
John Wilson, I am told to say that "Antonio of Pico remembers him."
[Illustration: Chart of the _Spray's_ Atlantic voyages from Boston to
Gibraltar, thence to the Strait of Magellan, in 1895, and finally
homeward bound from the Cape of Good Hope in 1898.]