southeast by south, true. Latitude, 17° 15′ north; longitude, 36° 50′
west.
+May 26+
Last night was a squally one and the sky-sails were furled early in the
evening, hands being stationed at the royal-halliards as well, until
they, too, were stowed at three in the morning.
We had an accident yesterday afternoon, which, though comparatively
trivial, occasioned some lively work. My wife and I were playing
backgammon at the forward end of the deck-house in the first dog watch,
and everything was running very smoothly, when, with a snap and a
rattle of chain links, the lee maintop-gallant-sheet was carried away.
In a second there was an uproar. Two men jumped with great alacrity
into the weather rigging and in a few minutes were astride of the lee
upper maintop-sail-yard-arm, working like demons, with the long length
of chain sheet waving and slashing among the braces as the ship rolled
in the beam seas. Louis, the Frenchman, swung himself into the rigging
immediately afterward, stationing himself on the royal-yard-arm,
followed by Mr. Rarx and three other men.
It wasn’t long before the work of repair was progressing
satisfactorily, when the skipper appeared at the cabin door, and,
without preliminary, commenced to shake things up a little. He shook
with such success that in three or four minutes Jimmie Rumps began to
simply hop into the air at intervals, the men were reduced to idiots,
while Mr. Goggins charged about, gulping with excitement; for the
captain would sandwich in such observations as, “I wonder whether
I shipped you for a mate or a farmer”; and requesting him, in soft
but deadly tones, to be “good enough to secure that sheet so it’ll
hold till to-morrow, anyway.” After snarling everything up into a
hundred grannies, Captain Scruggs vanished, and the work proceeded
quietly. The only man who kept his head was the second mate. This
French seaman, Louis Jacquin, is an ideal sailor. He is built like an
ox, short and very broad, with a bull neck thrust well down between
massive shoulders, a back all corrugated with muscle, and, what is
very remarkable in a sailor, large, strong legs. He is as swarthy as
a Spaniard, with blue-black hair and short moustache, and a wide,
powerful jaw, with a pleasant scowl, if such can exist, on his lean,
determined face. He is a man to lean on in an accident.
[Illustration: The ablest seaman in the ship]
We were glad to hear that when repairs had been made, the men were
going to mast-head the top-gallant- and royal-yards to the stimulus of
chanties; and sure enough, when the top-gallant-halliards were manned,
the invigorating strains of “A Long Time Ago” broke out in a hoarse but
agreeable barytone. A sailor’s chorus of this sort is a very inspiring
thing. The whole of the crew, eighteen brawny fellows, were stretched
in line, clear across the deck, with David MacFoy, the lusty-voiced
Scot, at the end, to sing the verses; and at the conclusion of each
line a roar would go ringing over the water that must have been heard
behind the horizon, the halliards coming in a full yard at each swing.
The main-royal went aloft to the tune of “A Poor Old Man,” and the boys
seem to find so much pleasure in their chanties and their faces so
shine with merriment that even the sight of them is enough to put a man
in a good humor.
Over against this pleasant diversion looms up gloomily to-day’s evening
repast. The captain had again imbibed enough to make him quarrelsome,
and during the half-hour that we were at table the mate was so jerked
about at the end of the skipper’s tongue that, objectionable as he
is, we could but pity him, for in five minutes he was in a running
perspiration. The only one who enjoyed the situation was the little
Malay steward, whose face shone with delight as he moved noiselessly
about the table with his gentle “scuse” (excuse), which he utters
whenever he places a plate before us. It might be stated that the mate
and the steward of a ship are at perpetual war; for the former always
has charge of the beef, pork, and flour, which he invariably grudges to
the steward.
The skipper has surprised us by handing me his sextant now and then, at
about a quarter to noon, with the injunction, “Just look out for her
to-day,” and has then disappeared below, to lie concealed often for
several hours. We made the discovery to-day that he does this to avoid
making himself ridiculous when taking the sun; for naturally a man
requires all his faculties to know exactly when the sun is at meridian.
Latitude, 14° 34′ north; longitude, 35° 12′ west.
+May 27+
Our good luck still follows us, for the Trades are stronger than ever.
We made two hundred and twenty-two miles in the twenty-four hours,
and for the last ten days our average daily run has been one hundred
and ninety miles. Not very many vessels can show such a record in
the northeast Trades at the end of May, and while two hundred and
twenty-two miles would be merely a fair run with a free wind, it is
extremely good work close-hauled with the leeches of the sky-sails
lifting. It is true that we are still four degrees too far west for
this latitude, but I expect that we’ll fetch by San Roque all right
anyhow. “Where will we lose the Trades?” is in every one’s mouth;
forty eight hours will, no doubt, see the end of them, and then for the
Doldrums and rain. It is very hot now, but the atmosphere is quite dry.
The captain hasn’t boozed any all day, and at dinner he was in normal
condition, and we had a long talk about the Scotch clippers of forty
and fifty years ago. I asked him which he thought was the fastest
sailing ship ever launched; he was in a good humor and answered
pleasantly, “Well, that’s a big question. Some will tell you that
the ‘Sovereign of the Seas’ was the smartest; others, the ‘Andrew
Jackson’; some, the ‘Flying Cloud,’ which went out to San Francisco in
eighty-five days, twenty-one hours, in 1857. These were all American
ships, as I suppose you know; but the fastest ship, I think, that ever
left the ways was the ‘Lothair,’ of Aberdeen, and I believe she was
faster than that other Scotchman, the ‘Thermopylæ,’ with her sixty days
from London to Melbourne. I’ll tell you what happened to me once: I was
second mate of a Newburyport ship, and we were running our easting down
bound out to Canton, and were somewhere near Tristan d’Acunha, when we
sighted a vessel astern. It was blowing hard from the nor’west, and
the next time I looked, a couple of hours later, there was the ship
close on our quarter, and we doing twelve knots. ‘Holy jiggers,’ says
I to the mate, ‘there’s the “Flyin’ Dutchman.”’ ‘Naw,’ says he, ‘its
the “Thermopylæ.”’ But when she was abeam a little later, she hoisted
her name, the ‘Lothair,’ and its been my opinion ever since that she
was making mighty close to seventeen knots.” Then I asked him what
he thought of the runs of some of our old tea-clippers of from four
hundred to four hundred and forty miles. “Don’t believe it,” was all
he said. It is very possible that the “Lothair” was doing better than
sixteen knots at that time, and one of the most prominent young naval
architects in New York told me once that if he got the order, he could
design a sailing vessel which, under favorable conditions, would log
eighteen knots.
The best authentic day’s run which I know of was made by the ship in
which we sailed from New York to Calcutta three years ago, on her next
eastern voyage to Anjer. She was running her easting down in ballast
not far from Amsterdam Island, and from noon to noon on one occasion
she sailed three hundred and fifty-one miles, an average of fifteen
miles an hour; I mean knots, of course. Captain Kingdon wrote to me
of this performance from Passaroean, and asserted positively that it
was done by some of the best observations which he ever got in the
Southern Ocean, and that dead reckoning had nothing to do with it.
Indeed, that whole passage was a very quick one, as he went out to Java
in eighty-three days from New York, and broke the record, as far as
he knew, from the longitude of Cape Agulhas to Anjer, having covered
that immense distance in twenty-one days. I told Captain Scruggs about
this, and he doubted it, until he learned the vessel’s name. “Oh,” said
he, “the ‘Mandalore’; well, maybe she did. I saw her in the dry-dock
once, and there never was such a bottom on a merchant ship; ’twas like
a yacht’s.” And, in truth, the handsomest vessel which I ever saw,
taken as a whole, alow and aloft, was the “Mandalore” of London, built
at Stockton-on-Tees. Seen, as we often saw her afterwards, moored in
the Hooghly at Calcutta, among scores of the finest sailing ships in
the world, she was the star of the fleet, the pride and very life of
her captain. Poor, dear old Kingdon! The voyage on which he broke the
record from Good Hope to the Straits of Sunda was the last he ever
made. The “Mandalore” sailed from Banjoewangie, bound to Boston on
the return passage, but called a few weeks later at Table Bay with
the captain sick. He pluckily continued, though against the doctor’s
orders, but was soon afterwards landed at St. Helena ill with cancer,
the vessel proceeding in charge of the mate. Captain Kingdon then went
by steamer to London _via_ Madeira, but was too far advanced in
life for an operation, so he was ordered to Cairo, in the hope that the
dry atmosphere would prolong his life. But his constitution was not
able to hold out much longer, and two months after his arrival in Egypt
died Ray Kingdon, true friend, master mariner, gentleman. Latitude, 11°
25′ north; longitude, 33° 14′ west.
+May 28+
The wind god is so exceedingly gracious to us at present that I
cannot but think that he is saving himself to swoop down upon us in
fell wrath at the Horn. Here we are bowling merrily along within five
hundred miles of the equator, doing two hundred and twenty miles in the
twenty-four hours, with an unlimited prospect of wind ahead; and if we
could maintain this speed of nine knots, we would cross the line on
Sunday, nineteen days from New York. There are sure to be several days
of calms between the Trades, though, so let us call it twenty-five days.
During the whole of yesterday the captain kept as sober as a lord
chancellor, until ten o’clock last night, when he took a drink, which
set him off again. He was very talkative when we left the deck at
10.30, and the last thing that I remember before dropping off to sleep
was, “You’ll have an easier time of it if you break a few of their
---- ---- heads.” This to the second mate after he had had two more
drinks. We knew by this he was in for another round of festivities, and
my wife said this morning that he was charging around the cabin all
night, snoring and groaning, falling over camp-chairs and door-sills.
I have known him to sink into a stupor on the cabin sofa, shoot off
with a whoop in a lurch of the ship, wallow on the floor till he struck
the table-legs, and then peacefully continue his slumbers in that
attitude. He doesn’t like my mixing with the men so much, especially
when pumping-ship; he is very suspicious, and said last evening that
he shouldn’t think that I’d want to come into contact with such men,
forgetting how much more interesting they are than he is.
If sailors can be induced to talk, they are the most entertaining
people as a class which it is possible to find. But it is very hard
for a stranger to break the ice with them; and if the stranger should
be a gentleman it makes it twice as hard, for they will always be
extremely reserved in his presence. The only way to do if you want
them to talk freely among themselves (which is much the most amusing)
is to ask them questions and try to start conversations with them at
every opportunity; generally, at the end of a week, they will see that
you really like to converse with them, the ice will gradually melt,
and from that time forward, if you should ever feel gloomy and sulky,
go down on the main-deck and stand by the galley during the second
dog-watch, and listen to the witty passes at each other; in fifteen
minutes you will be shaking with laughter, for theirs is real humor.
At the pumps this evening I asked the Frenchman several questions, and
found him not at all averse to talking, though his English is very
bad. In speaking of the Southern Ocean, he said that his preference
lay in favor of the Horn voyages, saying that the Good Hope seas were
too short, meaning that in the event of a very heavy sea it is best
to have as long a one as possible. Probably he was thinking of the
Agulhas Bank, where there is at times possibly the most dangerous sea
in the world,--a Bay of Fundy sea multiplied by ten. Across this bank,
in a westerly direction, flows a swift current that issues from the
Mozambique Channel, called now the Agulhas Current, and this, meeting
the westerly gales, produces enormous, hollow seas, from which no
vessel, however buoyant, can keep free.
What a splendid fellow this Gaul is! What a back and legs! and his
wrists are as large as some men’s ankles. He has a really engaging
smile, too, in spite of his bulldog jaws and shaggy brows. Opposite to
me to-day pumped Jimmie Rumps. Curiously enough, he is the only sailor
whom I have ever heard swear in joking among themselves, however they
may talk alone in the forecastle, and he does so because he thinks
that it is big. “There’s a fellow I’d like to see on the pumps,” he
remarked, quite an ugly look coming into his face; and, glancing
astern, I saw the skipper descending the weather-poop ladder. Though
many of the men were evidently of this opinion, not a word was said
by any of them; for might I not repeat their sentiments aft in the
cabin for aught that they knew? Therefore the observation was received
with scowls and a dead silence, which continued until Rumps again
broke in with, “Last voyage I was in the American ship ‘Ivanhoe,’ and
I was nearly starved to death!” “Eh?” said Louis, sharply. “I said
I was starved in the ‘Ivanhoe,’” repeated Jimmie. “Oh,” replied the
Frenchman; “I t’ought you meant zees sheep; you’ll find no bettair food
anywhere zan here.” It is not often that a sailor will acknowledge
this, and it speaks very well for Louis.
“Say,” Jimmie went on, “I’ve had enough of the sea, and if I can, I’m
going home to Brooklyn on eight wheels [_i.e._, railway car]; and
lemme give you a tip on San Francisco; don’t you miss the baths, though
it’ll cost you ten cents, and a quarter for a fresh-water swim. And,
say, you go over and see Oakland; but I dunno if they’ve got the fare
down to five yet.”
It is rather surprising that Captain Scruggs doesn’t take an interest
in keeping track of his various voyages, plotted off on the different
charts, as Captain Kingdon did. The latter used some which had sixteen
voyages pricked off on them as plain as ink could make it, forming a
very useful aid for future work, as he could select the average from
them all, for each voyage as it progressed. Our skipper, however, takes
no such pains, and so far hasn’t even looked at an ordinary chart.
To-day my wife asked him to show her where we were, at noon, and he
hauled out from under the sofa an old, ragged, hydrographic wind-chart,
and after much stertorous breathing he managed to stab the position
on the paper with the dividers, being so palsied from last night’s
potations that he had to steady one hand with the other before he could
hit the chart within several degrees of where we were. Latitude, 8° 24′
north; longitude, 31° 40′ west.
+May 29+
The end of the Trades is at hand. After blowing us through nearly
twenty-five degrees of latitude, the wind began to let go yesterday
afternoon and to simultaneously haul to the southward, while an immense
pall of blue-black cloud rose slowly out of the southwest and solemnly
spread itself over the clear sky, with an indication of thunder-squalls
in the “white heads” which crowned its summit. Sure enough, in the
middle watch there was some mild thunder and lightning, but hardly any
rain. However, a drizzle started later on, and as the morning was a
soft one and the atmosphere almost as heavy and hot as the steam from a
kettle,--a typical tropical morning,--the men were turned to scrubbing
the paint-work generally. It was a very long, tedious job, for every
particle of white paint had been transformed into a dirty drab in the
New York docks. I never saw such a change in a vessel as the men,
starting at the taffrail, worked their way forward--poop, bulwarks,
boats, skids, everything putting off the grimy look, and assuming in
its stead a glossy whiteness which almost hurt the eye.
It is strange that we have no head-pump here. On the “Mandalore” there
was a very powerful one, worked by four men, and a line of two-inch
hose that reached to the after hatch. Our method of washing down the
decks, though, is as primitive as irrigation in India, for all the
water must be hoisted over the side in a canvas bucket and dumped into
a cask, whence it is taken out as wanted.
Speaking of the “Mandalore” reminds me of a gruesome tale which MacFoy,
the bosun, told me last evening. So broad is his brogue that it was
rather hard to understand him, but I gathered the following: One
day, about nine years ago, there started from Hamburg, bound to San
Francisco, the big Liverpool ship “Falls of Ayr.” The weather growing
very bad in the Channel, though, she up helm and ran back for the
Downs, to anchor till the gale should break. Shortly before she sailed
the “Mandalore” left Hull, also bound around the Horn to San Diego, on
what MacFoy said was her maiden voyage. After getting well out into
the Channel, though, and finding it as thick as pea-soup, she, too,
ran back for the Downs, and before anybody knew what was happening,
with a fearful crash she hit the “Falls of Ayr” head on, well aft on
the quarter, dividing her nearly in two and smashing her boats, which
she carried aft, Liverpool fashion. Very curiously, the “Ayr” had no
after companion-way, entrance to the main cabin being effected solely
by means of the doors on the main-deck. These, being of iron, crumpled
like paper under the impact of collision, and then jammed, so that
in the hurry and confusion they baffled all attempts at opening, and
before anything could be done the ship foundered, carrying down with
her every soul aft,--captain, two mates, steward, and cook, caught
like flies in a trap. Nor was this all. Three boats had been broken
into match-wood, leaving but one unharmed, in which only a handful of
the men and two apprentices escaped. “And look again, sir,” continued
David, “she’s the unluckiest ship that ever left a yard. Two years
later she ran down a large Belfast ship off Pernambuco, one of the Star
Line,--I think ’twas the ‘Star of Greece,’--though both ships finally
made Buenos Ayres for repairs.”
And this was the dear old “Mandalore” which carried us so happily
across thirteen thousand miles of ocean only a short time ago! We had
absolutely no suspicion of those accidents before, and I asked the
bosun if he couldn’t be mistaken, but he answered, “I never forget a
ship, sir; this one I mean is a London ship built at Stockton nine
years ago.” That settled it; but how strange that we should never have
heard of either case!
There are two boxes of Sicilian oranges on board which are holding out
remarkably well; for though they are getting a little dry, not one has
so far spoiled. We also have good cool water to drink yet; for in spite
of the great heat of the last two days, it has not penetrated the big
galvanized iron tanks below. Indeed, the water is so much cooler than
the air that a blur forms on the outside of a tumbler. But this will
soon change, and we will have drinking-water at a temperature of ninety
degrees for a fortnight. Latitude, 6° 5′ north; longitude, 30° 30′
west.
+May 30+
This afternoon was very hot and calm, and we had the first hard rain
of the voyage. As we had had no wind at all previous to this shower,
the courses had been hauled up to prevent chafing; but some of the
buntlines and clew-lines had been let go when the rain came, although
as there was not much wind in the squall, the men were allowed to
drop braces and everything else and run for tubs and buckets to be
filled with fresh water, so that for the next thirty minutes the decks
presented a remarkable sight. The head-yards were braced up, while
the main- and after-yards were still squared, with the starboard clew
of the foresail, both clews of the mainsail, and the port-clew of the
cross-jack hauled up, while the decks were covered with a wonderful
snarl of ropes. However, we filled every bucket, tub, and cask on
board, while the men ran for their soiled clothes and spread them
out all over the forward deck to soften in the warm rain, the mate
producing three pairs of old trousers which he carefully deposited
on the after-hatch. Odd notion, this washing of ordinary clothes; I
had never heard of such a thing. The rain lasted for an hour, and the
captain had the bathtub filled and I had a delightful fresh-water
bath, the temperature of the rain being 79°. Only those who have been
compelled to bathe for weeks in brine can appreciate the luxury of
fresh water.
Our calm reminded the mate at dinner of a curious circumstance which
happened once in the Pacific. Quite a fleet of ships started out
together from San Francisco bound around the Horn; and, keeping well
together, they all fell into a calm streak just north of the line which
lasted for twelve days. During this time several ships passed this
fleet about fifty miles to the westward of them (among which was the
“Wandering Jew,” an American ship, since burned) with half a gale of
wind! This story seems to be quite true, as the “Jew’s” log-book for
that day showed that she was a degree west of the becalmed vessels, and
mentioned that they stowed the fore and mizzentop-gallant sails. A fact
of this sort shows what different weather conditions may exist at a
distance of less than one hundred miles.
We witnessed a punishment this afternoon which I thought was never
resorted to except in the navy; and, even there, the construction of
a modern war-ship necessarily precludes it. We were sitting at the
break of the poop, when we saw a man coming down from aloft in a hurry,
as though he were especially anxious to reach the deck; when, to our
surprise, no sooner had he done so than MacFoy gruffly said to him,
“Back you go; and this time to the sky-sail-yard; d’ye hear?”
So up he went again (it was Louis Eckers, the youngest and dullest
seaman in the ship) till he reached the main-royal, when of course he
had to “shin” up to the sky-sail-yard, as there are never any ratlines
above the royals. Presently, though, he stood upon the yard, one
hundred and eighty feet above the water, grasping the slender sky-sail
pole with one arm, and surveying the deck quite comfortably. When he
had been there about half an hour, the bosun roared out “Come down”;
and it was not till then that we realized that he had been mast-headed
for bad conduct. It seems incredible that a punishment so humane should
be resorted to on a Yankee ship.
The eating on board, aft at any rate, is still extremely good,
particularly the coffee, which is put up in convenient packages for
sea use and labelled “Best Maracaibo”; thus there is no deception, the
greater part of “Mocha” having its origin in Central or South America.
Every day at meals the mate seems to grow more hideous and grotesque,
and he is the only man whom I ever saw to whom the latter adjective
could be applied. His nose, which is enormous, is canted far over to
the right; one nostril is the size of a slate-pencil, while the other
would fit a small gas-pipe, and his dense, kinky moustache becomes
at meals the lurking place of various liquids and solids; while ears
like water-lilies expand from his head like those of a bat. His table
manners are actually shocking, though in some ways he is perhaps not
much worse than the skipper, who contrives to decorate the lapels of
his coat with a spray of soup at each dinner. Some men embellish the
region of their waist-bands with various fluids, but Captain Scruggs is
dexterous enough to decorate his entire front with such things.