in the last twenty-five years, there being in 1871 twenty-four hundred
and sixty-six square-rigged vessels under the flag, as against four
hundred and fifty-six at the present time, there seems to be good
reason to think that an increase in this branch of ship-building is
about to commence. Arthur Sewall, the great Bath ship-owner, has a
large three-thousand-ton vessel completed and the keel of another one
laid down, both of steel, while it is not improbable that he will build
a fleet of such sailing ships. Think of our immense trade to the East
fifty years since, and then ponder on the fact that not long ago the
only vessel which entered the port of Calcutta flying the American
flag for a period of four years was a British-built steam-yacht! That
sailing vessels in general are not passing away as rapidly as people
suppose, however, was shown by a circumstance that occurred about
six months ago, when the freight-steamer “Massachusetts” arrived one
day at New York from London and reported that in twelve hours she
passed fifty-four sailing vessels of various rigs, all close-hauled on
the starboard tack! Her approximate position then was latitude 48°,
longitude 27°.
For several days the men have been setting up the rigging fore and aft,
and they are now finishing the mizzen-top-gallant, royal and sky-sail
backstays. It was a tedious job, but intensely interesting to watch,
and I had never seen it done before on a square-rigger, as the other
ship’s rigging was set up with turnbuckles. Latitude, 3° 22′ north;
longitude, 27° 50′ west.
+June 5+
We think that we have taken the southeast Trades, though the wind
as yet is nothing to the eastward of south. Last evening the dense
rain-clouds and vapory masses of the Doldrums gave way to a clear sky
dotted with trade clouds, and a lovely night followed, the moon in the
first quarter being visible for the first time in many days. We had
also a magnificent view of the southern heavens, with the golden Cross
now well up, wheeling slowly through the sky, the finest constellation
in the south. Immediately beneath, though a little to the left of, the
Cross a strange thing is to be observed in the shape of what seems to
be a large pear-shaped blot in the surrounding stars, bearing a close
resemblance to a dark cloud, about the same size as the Cross itself.
Within this space, which sailors call the Black Cloud, not a single
star can be observed with the naked eye, though the sky round about the
Cross in every other direction is thick with stars of the third and
fourth magnitude.
At eight o’clock this evening we tacked ship for the third or fourth
time to-day, and by reason of so much practice this herculean task
was accomplished with a little less noise than before. Still, the
disturbance was very great, with a prodigious amount of shouting and
bad language from the skipper, which once more rose to a climax when
one of the fore buntlines caught on something, just after he had sung
out “Let go and haul.” Captain Scruggs, who was standing at the extreme
forward end of the cabin-house, here executed a few fantastic steps
to relieve his mind, and being clearly outlined in the moonlight,
he made a very idiotic appearance. The manœuvre of tacking on this
occasion, by the way, was a very impressive one, the white moon-beams
transforming the dull gray canvas into cloths of satiny sheen as the
great yards revolved to maintop-sail haul.
It must be said that the captain was justified to-day in kicking at the
weather. The breeze was of the very faintest sort, and as often as we
tacked ship the wind actually seemed to jump around and head us off, so
that, after we were once more braced up on the port tack this evening
and the wind shifted back and into the south, heading us off to nearly
west, we really began to pity the skipper.
The phosphoric display here is the most beautiful which we have ever
seen. Our wake every night is a swirling, gyrating, writhing path of
liquid fire, in which glitter thousands of apparently incandescent
globes as large as billiard-balls, with now and then a suggestion of
fiery serpents twisting and wriggling through the glowing mass.
“Beyond the shadow of the ship
I watched the water-snakes;
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.
“Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire;
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.”
How singularly devoid some men are of decent feelings! I talked last
evening at the pumps with Murphy (he whose nose was pulled) and Rumps.
The latter was boasting as to how long he could stay drunk without
seeing startling visions, and rejoiced in saying that he had been
in the lock-up of more than one city in the United States. Murphy,
however, bowled him completely over by remarking quite calmly, “I been
in the jail of every large seaport in the world.”
Though the temperature is just as high, 84° at noon on deck, the
humidity has almost disappeared and the weather seems clear and
settled. Latitude, 2° 49′ north; longitude, 27° west.
+June 6+
Indications seem to point with certainty to our having taken the
southeast Trades, for a strong breeze sprang up at six this morning,
descending upon us in a squall. We trembled lest it should prove naught
but a puff; but we had the satisfaction of seeing it steadily increase,
so that four hours later we had logged thirty-four miles, close-hauled,
laying our course, the wind being strong and true at southeast. It
might not be thought amiss if I state here what the origin of the
trade-winds is. They are due to the inrush of cold air from the poles
towards the equator to take the place of the warm current which rises
from the latter. Owing to the easterly rotation of the earth on its own
axis the air from the north becomes a northeast wind, and that from
the south a southeast wind. The hot air flows to the poles as an upper
current, and, having been cooled there, it descends to the surface of
the earth to form the westerly or anti-trade-winds.
At 8.30 this morning a vessel was sighted to windward, bound north,
which soon resolved itself into a tramp steamer. Here was an excellent
chance to be reported; so telling the helmsman to hold her up as much
as possible, the captain hauled out the flags DRHF, bent them on to
the signal-halliards, and when he thought that the steamer had opened
out our monkey-gaff, he told the mate to hoist away; which, being a
very simple operation, he accomplished without accident; and in a
few seconds the flags which spelled our name were fluttering merrily
away a hundred feet above the deck. Anxiously we waited, but no
answering pennant showed from the steamer, and we were about to blast
her skipper with deep-sea anathemas, when she was observed to alter
her course at right angles and come bearing down upon us, pushing a
big snow-bank of foam ahead of her bluff bows. On she came, as if to
lay us aboard, until she was within half a mile, when she shifted her
helm again, describing a deep circle, while at the same instant the
familiar little red-and-white-striped pennant flew up to her triatic
stay, meaning “I understand you”; down came our flags on the run and
“Report me all well” was hoisted instead, or rather it wasn’t hoisted
until after the skipper had discovered that the miserable Goggins had
run up “Steer after me” by mistake, which necessitated some lightning
changes, as the stranger was moving rapidly away. Again the gay little
triangle fluttered from the latter, while we ran the stars and stripes
to the gaff and dipped three times, the other reciprocating with the
scarlet ensign of Great Britain. The steamer then kept away, and in
half an hour was a blot in the northeast; from her course the skipper
thinks that she was from Pernambuco bound to the Cape de Verde. Now,
here is a man who deserves to be publicly commended, and I wish that
we had caught the steamer’s name, that it might appear in these
pages. How many steamer captains are there who will alter the course
for the purpose of speaking a mere wind-jammer? This incident seems
to refute the assertion which is often made about the careless and
what-are-you-to-me-spirit of British ship-masters, for no one could be
more civil or polite than the captain of this tramp; rivalling in this
respect the Germans, who are said to be the most painstaking of all the
nationalities in the reporting of vessels.
I nearly forgot an agreeable break in the monotony of yesterday. We
sighted a brig in the forenoon ahead and to windward; and though she
had a lot of fore and aft canvas set, which ought to have held her up
well, we rapidly ate up towards her, so that at four o’clock she was
ahead and a little to leeward. We gradually crawled up on her then, and
in another fifteen minutes had her abeam, so close that the features
of her helmsman were clearly visible. Then I thought of our megaphone,
presented to us just before we sailed, and here was a grand opportunity
of putting it to practical use. So I brought it up on deck and the
following conversation ensued:
“Hello! what brig is that?”
“The ‘Venturer,’ of Nova Scotia, from Philadelphia for----” Here
followed a terrific aggregation of syllables which we couldn’t catch.
“When did you sail?”
“May 7, from Delaware Breakwater. What ship is that?”
“The ‘Hosea Higgins,’ from New York for San Francisco. Please report us
all well.” A flourish of the arm from a man on her poop answered our
request, which ended the interview. The megaphone worked beautifully,
though they are of no use in windy weather. Of course, the mate, never
having seen one, felt it his duty to jeer at it, which he did by
saying, “That thing, whatever yer call it, ’s no good; I could hear
better’n you without it.”
[Illustration: Overhauling the “Venturer”]
Reference to a copy of the _Maritime Register_ on board showed
that the “Venturer” was of one hundred and ninety-three tons, hailed
from Weymouth, Nova Scotia, and was bound to Margem do Torquary,
Brazil; small wonder that we couldn’t understand it before. It reminds
me of an Italian bark which sailed from New York a short time ago
for Alexandretta, the “Nostra Signora del Sacro Cuoro di Jesu.”
The “Venturer” was what is usually known as a tidy little vessel, and
she made a really fine picture as she surged buoyantly along over the
watery hillocks. Accurately, she was a brigantine, and we got several
very fair photographs of her, though the light was bad. Altogether,
we sight about a dozen vessels a day now, which shows how densely
populated the Atlantic is near the equator.
A circumstance quite surprising is the frequency with which the mates
leave the poop when on watch; indeed, a good deal more than half of
their time is spent on the main-deck; whereas on ships of foreign
nations it is the general rule that the officer of the watch shall
never leave the poop unless he has some excellent reason; common sense
shows the desirability of always keeping an officer where he will have
full command of the ship.
Well, we’re doing grandly now, and at noon were only ninety-five miles
from the equator, and should cross it between one and two o’clock
to-morrow morning. Latitude, 1° 35′ north; longitude, 27° 52′ west.
+June 7+
South latitude! Our expectations were fulfilled, for we entered the
Southern Hemisphere in the morning watch, crossing the great circle
which circumscribes the earth at fifteen minutes past four. Thus we
have entered upon the second stage of our voyage; and while the first
quarter was certainly not everything which could be desired, we reached
the line in very good time, twenty-seven days from New York. If we had
had even a little better luck in the Doldrums, four days could have
been stricken from the twenty-seven; this is a far better passage,
though, than we made in the “Mandalore,” when we had been forty-nine
days at sea before we finally cut the equator. Perhaps the most
comforting part is the fact that the skipper seems to have exhausted
his supply of _aguardiente_, for he has been very solemn and
strictly sober for three or four days. Heaven grant that he has no more
grog!
This weather is so magnificent now that the memory of our late
smothering calms, during which we were eight days in making four
degrees of southing, has entirely passed away, for we are humming
through the water at eight knots, close-hauled, with streaming
scuppers, while the superb southeast trade-wind sings a blithesome tune
in the rigging. It is the grandest wind that blows; so cool and steady,
and the ocean so sparkles under its influence, with a snow-white crest
topping each sea, reflecting the splendid blue of the heavens in its
azure depths, that existence becomes an unbounded delight. I think,
too, that the finest cloud effects which we saw on our first voyage
were in the southeast Trades. True to precedence, yesterday afternoon
at four o’clock the northeastern sky was obscured by a huge dark cloud
of the color of indigo, and rendered doubly so by the sun shining upon
it; this cloud extended almost to the sea-rim, black and frowning,
while immediately beneath it, on the horizon, appeared some faraway
masses of cumulus cloud of a most beautiful cream color, enchanting the
mind with their loveliness and resembling great yellow icebergs.
As we were contemplating this spectacle, MacFoy sung out something
which I thought was “Vessel on the lee.” The mate then went aloft for
a better view, and when he had come down I asked him if he could see
the vessel, to which he replied, “St. Paul’s Rocks.” This excited us
at once, and I went up to the cross-jack-yard, from which elevation I
plainly saw against a dark cloud what appeared to be twin light-houses,
like Thatcher’s Island lights at Cape Ann, Massachusetts. Although
fifteen miles distant at the time, and the weather was slightly hazy,
these two rocky columns rising from a depth of two thousand fathoms,
the only land within hundreds of miles, produced an effect wonderfully
majestic and solemn. The exact position of the rocks is 0° 55′ 30′′
north and 29° 22′ west, and they are five in number, though only two
are of considerable altitude, the loftiest being one hundred feet in
height. They are separated from each other only by narrow chasms, so
that until you approach very close the appearance is that of a single
island. The whole space occupied by St. Paul’s Rocks does not exceed
five hundred yards in length and three hundred in breadth; and while
Darwin concluded that they were not of volcanic origin, more modern
scientists--Renard, Geikie, and Wadsworth--have decided that they are
eruptive. These rocks are totally devoid of vegetation, but are the
resort of incredible numbers of sea-birds, both gannets and noddies, as
well as a certain spider, while the water in the vicinity swarms with
fish, seven varieties having been taken by the “Challenger” during a
very short stay.
Captain (afterward Admiral) Fitzroy, when in command of the “Beagle”
during her celebrated five years’ voyage, visited these rocks, and
wrote an admirable description thereof. Among his observations is the
following: “The multitude of birds covering the rocks was astonishing,
and they suffered themselves to be kicked about and killed with sticks;
at the same time those on the wing even darkened the sky. Numbers of
fine fish, like the grouper of Bermuda, bit eagerly at baited hooks;
but as soon as a fish was caught a rush of voracious sharks was made
at him, and notwithstanding blows of oars and boat-hooks, the ravenous
monsters could not be deterred from seizing and taking away more than
half the fish that were hooked.”
Had it been earlier in the day we would have stood in toward the rocks
to behold the surf which rages incessantly against the weather-side.
But it was too late; and even as we looked the lofty obelisks began to
fade away, and at 6.15 we had what I hope will not be our last look
at the lonely St. Paul’s Rocks. The Atlantic Ocean near the equator,
between the meridians of 18° and 23°, is subject to frequent and
violent earthquakes, which have the effect upon a vessel like that
of being dragged over a reef, or that of a heavy chain-cable being
suddenly run out through the hawse-pipes.
The most singular fact in relation to the component parts of sea-water
is the variation in the proportion of salt; for every ton of Atlantic
water evaporated there is yielded eighty-one pounds of salt; ditto
Pacific, seventy-nine pounds; ditto Arctic, eighty-five; while the Dead
Sea heads the list with one hundred and eighty-seven pounds, though I
have never seen such statistics in regard to our Great Salt Lake.
Although the temperature in the shade to-day was very agreeable, the
sun’s heat was terrific. It is customary to refer to a “baking sun,”
but I should call that of to-day a boiling sun, on account of the
moisture; and it is strange that on a day like this the sun’s rays
will not dry out a wet towel, though exposed to them for several hours
during the hottest part of the day, so great is the humidity. Latitude,
0° 49′ south; longitude, 29° 53′ west.
+June 8+
These are fine Trades, though the squalls are severe and sudden. A
few words here, in passing, as to squalls. What landsmen often call a
squall sailors call a puff, such as are experienced along our coasts
with a northwest wind, lasting a few seconds. A sailor’s squall often
lasts for thirty minutes and is accompanied with heavy rain, while it
can be observed approaching in the form of a nimbus cloud touching the
ocean a long while before it reaches the ship.
In this twenty-four hours we did two hundred and thirteen knots, an
average of more than nine within the hour, while in many of the squalls
we must have been going nearly twelve. How many yachts are there which
can equal this on a bowline? Ship-masters, however, cannot realize how
fast a yacht can sail with a light wind; they all seem to think that
a yacht sails best in a gale. Captain Kingdon often used to say to us
in the Southern Ocean, when we were doing twelve knots before a fresh
gale, “Ah! this is where I’d like to see an able yacht! Sixteen knots,
eh?” And he couldn’t understand that under those conditions a smart
yacht could sail but little, if any, faster than we were doing. But
what is even more difficult for them to grasp is the speed of a racing
yacht in what they call a light air. Sometimes when we were fanning
along at, say, five knots, I used to worry Captain Kingdon by telling
him that a seventy-footer would run him out of sight in that breeze in
a few hours. He refused to believe that any yacht could make nearly ten
knots while the “Mandalore” was doing perhaps five.
This morning we had a heavy sunrise squall, for which we had to let
go the royal halliards, the sky-sails having been stowed during the
night. But, quick as the men were, the wind was swifter yet; for before
the clew-lines and buntlines could be manned a great rent was made
in the mizzen-royal, and in a few minutes the second mate reported
that the upper foretop-sail was in the same condition; both were,
therefore, unbent and lowered as such, while a brand new mizzen-royal
was sent up, the first of the strong new sails which will be bent
before we reach the bad weather. It was the hardest squall which we
have had yet, and the wind and rain made a thunderous noise while it
lasted; yet, high above the din, could be heard the powerful voice of
Mr. Rarx, shouting to the men to bear a hand with the mizzen-royal
clew-lines. Though there were plenty of squalls throughout the night,
the sky was perfectly clear between them, and thickly studded with fine
constellations, while the moon silvered the great wool-packs as they
sailed serenely up out of the southeast. Quite a sea had made by eight
bells this morning, in which we wallowed a good deal, but lost none of
our way. Sea-birds have been very scarce lately, though a single large
frigate-bird has sailed all day on motionless wing in wide circles
overhead.
[Illustration: “Eight bells”]
I wonder how many perfectly well and healthy deep-water captains there
are? This sounds absurd at first, as it is the general opinion that
sea-captains are always thoroughly hearty and strong. Of course some
of them are, for long-voyage skippers not infrequently live to a very
advanced age, proving that they must have always been sound men; yet
in most instances it will be found that they suffer from some malady
brought about in their profession. Perhaps the most common is liver
trouble in conjunction with dyspepsia in some form. Captain Kingdon’s
death, it will be remembered, was caused by a cancer or abscess in
the liver. Such complaints are due to an inactive life for months at
a stretch, for captains, on account of their dignity, cannot take
part in the working of a ship or in pumping her out, so that walking
the poop must constitute all their exercise. Rheumatism, produced by
bad food and exposure, divides the honors with the liver, while from
heart-disease but comparatively few long-voyage captains are free.
It generally develops in those of a nervous temperament, induced by
worry in gales and dread of trouble with the crew if they are unruly,
besides a score of reasons only understood by the initiated. Even in my
very limited experience, I have known three master-mariners afflicted
with cardiac disease. One, a splendid fellow, Coalfleet, of Hantsport,
Nova Scotia, died in his bunk in the North Atlantic; another, in the
Ward Line service, was grievously stricken in Cuba, and had to retire
from the sea; while the third suffered from dreadful intermittent
attacks of angina, but I have lost track of him for several years.
Latitude, 3° 50′ south; longitude, 31° 35′ west.
+June 9+
Late yesterday afternoon Captain Scruggs came up and said that Fernando
de Noronha was visible to leeward from aloft, and that if we looked
hard enough we might be able to see it from the deck. So we gazed long
and earnestly over to the westward, and there, sure enough, arose a
soft, rose-colored cloud through the mist; and in another half-hour
we could perceive the various islands which constitute this group,
together with the lofty pyramidal rock one thousand feet above the
sea, which crowns the loftiest of the islands, giving it a peculiar
individuality, so that it is not possible to mistake this cluster for
any other known group. We were near enough to count four distinct
islands, the largest of them being twenty miles in circumference,
and we could just make out the tremendous walls of sheer, unbroken
rock falling into the sea; but beyond this it was not given us to
penetrate even with the strongest glasses on board. Would that we had
been fifteen miles nearer, that we might have compared this group with
Trinidad, which rears its desolate summit two thousand and twenty feet
above the sea, fifteen degrees farther south. The spectacle of the
surf breaking on Fernando de Noronha must be even grander than on St.
Paul’s Rocks; for, lying in the very heart of the strong southeast
trade-wind, the full force of the mighty South Atlantic surge dashes
ceaselessly against its basaltic walls.
Last evening was very fine indeed, the wind having let go sufficiently
to make the deck agreeable; and as the moon shone with great power,
it was a night of remarkable beauty even for the Tropics, although
some ragged scud which blew swiftly across the moon presaged plenty of
wind for to-day. The indications were fulfilled, for it has been very
squally since early this morning; all the royals came in at eleven
o’clock, and we have been plunging along in a broken sea, through
savage blasts which roar in the rigging with an angry voice. The most
unfortunate thing is that the wind is heading us by hauling to the
southward, and for the greater part of the past twenty-four hours we
have been steering well to the westward of southwest; so that, in spite
of our weatherly position on the line, we are going to have trouble
in getting past that portion of Brazil lying to the southward of San
Roque. Indeed, at noon we were only seventy-five miles from the land,
a little south of the Great Bugbear, as Maury pertinently styled the
famous cape.