In the mean time Clemens had completed his plan for sailing, and had
arranged with General McComb, of the Alta California, for letters during
his proposed trip around the world. However, he meant to visit his
people first, and his old home. He could go back with means now, and
with the prestige of success.
“I sail to-morrow per Opposition--telegraphed you to-day,” he wrote on
December 14th, and a day later his note-book entry says:
Sailed from San Francisco in Opposition (line) steamer America,
Capt. Wakeman, at noon, 15th Dec., 1866. Pleasant sunny day, hills
brightly clad with green grass and shrubbery.
So he was really going home at last! He had been gone five and a half
years--eventful, adventurous years that had made him over completely,
at least so far as ambitions and equipment were concerned. He had came
away, in his early manhood, a printer and a pilot, unknown outside of
his class. He was returning a man of thirty-one, with a fund of
hard experience, three added professions--mining, journalism, and
lecturing--also with a new name, already famous on the sunset slopes of
its adoption, and beginning to be heard over the hills and far away.
In some degree, at least, he resembled the prince of a fairy tale
who, starting out humble and unnoticed, wins his way through a hundred
adventures and returns with gifts and honors.
The homeward voyage was a notable one. It began with a tempest a little
way out of San Francisco--a storm terrible but brief, that brought
the passengers from their berths to the deck, and for a time set them
praying. Then there was Captain Ned Wakeman, a big, burly, fearless
sailor, who had visited the edges of all continents and archipelagos;
who had been born at sea, and never had a day's schooling in his life,
but knew the Bible by heart; who was full of human nature and profanity,
and believed he was the only man on the globe who knew the secret of
the Bible miracles. He became a distinct personality in Mark Twain's
work--the memory of him was an unfailing delight. Captain “Ned Blakely,”
in 'Roughing It', who with his own hands hanged Bill Noakes, after
reading him promiscuous chapters from the Bible, was Captain Wakeman.
Captain “Stormfield,” who had the marvelous visit to heaven, was
likewise Captain Wakeman; and he appears in the “Idle Excursion” and
elsewhere.
Another event of the voyage was crossing the Nicaragua Isthmus--the trip
across the lake and down the San Juan River--a brand-new experience,
between shores of splendid tropic tangle, gleaming with vivid life. The
luxuriance got into his note-book.
Dark grottos, fairy festoons, tunnels, temples, columns, pillars,
towers, pilasters, terraces, pyramids, mounds, domes, walls, in endless
confusion of vine-work--no shape known to architecture unimitated--and
all so webbed together that short distances within are only gained by
glimpses. Monkeys here and there; birds warbling; gorgeous plumaged
birds on the wing; Paradise itself, the imperial realm of beauty-nothing
to wish for to make it perfect.
But it was beyond the isthmus that the voyage loomed into proportions
somber and terrible. The vessel they took there, the San Francisco,
sailed from Greytown January 1, 1867, the beginning of a memorable
year in Mark Twain's life. Next day two cases of Asiatic cholera were
reported in the steerage. There had been a rumor of it in Nicaragua, but
no one expected it on the ship.
The nature of the disease was not hinted at until evening, when one of
the men died. Soon after midnight, the other followed. A minister making
the voyage home, Rev. J. G. Fackler, read the burial service. The gaiety
of the passengers, who had become well acquainted during the Pacific
voyage, was subdued. When the word “cholera” went among them, faces grew
grave and frightened. On the morning of January 4th Reverend Fackler's
services were again required. The dead man was put overboard within half
an hour after he had ceased to breathe.
Gloom settled upon the ship. All steam was made to put into Key West.
Then some of the machinery gave way and the ship lay rolling, helplessly
becalmed in the fierce heat of the Gulf, while repairs were being made.
The work was done at a disadvantage, and the parts did not hold. Time
and again they were obliged to lie to, in the deadly tropic heat,
listening to the hopeless hammering, wondering who would be the next to
be sewed up hastily in a blanket and slipped over the ship's side. On
the 5th seven new cases of illness were reported. One of the crew, a man
called “Shape,” was said to be dying. A few hours later he was dead. By
this time the Reverend Fackler himself had been taken.
“So they are burying poor 'Shape' without benefit of clergy,” says the
note-book.
General consternation now began to prevail. Then it was learned that
the ship's doctor had run out of medicines. The passengers became
demoralized. They believed their vessel was to become a charnel ship.
Strict sanitary orders were issued, and a hospital was improvised.
Verily the ship is becoming a floating hospital herself--not an hour
passes but brings its fresh sensation, its new disaster, its
melancholy tidings. When I think of poor “Shape” and the preacher,
both so well when I saw them yesterday evening, I realize that I
myself may be dead to-morrow.
Since the last two hours all laughter, all levity, has ceased on the
ship--a settled gloom is upon the faces of the passengers.
By noon it was evident that the minister could not survive. He died at
two o'clock next morning; the fifth victim in less than five days. The
machinery continued to break and the vessel to drag. The ship's doctor
confessed to Clemens that he was helpless. There were eight patients in
the hospital.
But on January 6th they managed to make Key West, and for some reason
were not quarantined. Twenty-one passengers immediately deserted the
ship and were heard of no more.
“I am glad they are gone. D--n them,” says the notebook. Apparently
he had never considered leaving, and a number of others remained. The
doctor restocked his medicine-locker, and the next day they put to sea
again. Certainly they were a daring lot of voyagers. On the 8th another
of the patients died. Then the cooler weather seemed to check the
contagion, and it was not until the night of the 11th, when the New York
harbor lights were in view, that the final death occurred. There were
no new cases by this time, and the other patients were convalescent. A
certificate was made out that the last man had died of “dropsy.” There
would seem to have been no serious difficulty in docking the vessel and
landing the passengers. The matter would probably be handled differently
to-day.