numbers one hundred miles, with Juan Fernandez two hundred miles away
in about the same direction. The appearance of this latter island is
said to be strikingly beautiful, though in size it is only thirteen
miles by four. It consists of a series of steep, rugged hills, formed
by huge boulders piled one upon the other, the loftiest reaching
an altitude of three thousand feet. Palms, tree-ferns, and a thick
undergrowth partially cover these rocky declivities, growing in very
shallow earth, which slips away when one attempts to scale the
precipices, and it is said that on this account the culminating peak
has never yet been ascended.
Juan Fernandez, which lies in the approximate corresponding latitude of
the Madeiras, is indissolubly associated with Robinson Crusoe, Defoe
having based his tale upon the adventures of one Alexander Selkirk,
of Fifeshire, Scotland, who was put ashore there in 1704, at his own
request, by Captain Straddling of the “Cinque Porte” galley, with
whom, as master, Selkirk had quarrelled. It is highly improbable,
however, that Juan Fernandez is the island pictured by Defoe, as his
descriptions in Crusoe do not always tally with the conformations of
Fernandez. Modern writers incline to the belief that Trinidad, off the
Venezuelan coast, was the island in “Robinson Crusoe.” Selkirk lived
on Juan Fernandez until 1709, when he was rescued by the ship “Duke”
from what seems to have been a by no means intolerable imprisonment.
Mas-á-Fuera, which means “more to sea,” called so by the Spaniards,
though far smaller than its neighbor, is even loftier still, one peak
attaining a height of four thousand feet.
In every spot where men do congregate there will nearly always be found
one silent individual, from whom it is apparently impossible to extract
a single syllable. We had one such on the “Mandalore,” an English
seaman with a Board of Trade certificate. During the whole voyage of
eighteen weeks he was never heard to utter a word unless he had some
unavoidable reason. Aboard the “Higgins” there is a man who can give
him cards and spades on taciturnity, for he hasn’t been known to speak
by either mate since the eleventh of May. This contemplative genius is
Karl, he whom Rarx so brutally struck in the face with the block away
back in the South Atlantic. Even then no word passed his lips, though
he did groan He isn’t surly--it is just his way--and the mates do
not mind now when he doesn’t answer, as he is manifestly so willing.
For torpid stupidity and phlegmatic stolidity his equal would be hard
to find, and we have often watched him at work and wondered, “Can it
really talk?” The most unexpected and painful surprise cannot draw
from him the slightest exclamation. For instance, a fortnight ago, one
afternoon at the pumps, a big sea surged over the side, but most of the
men saved themselves by jumping up on the fife-rail, except Karl and
Brün. Indeed, the latter had saved himself, and was kneeling on the
rail holding fast to the mizzen-royal-braces; Karl’s mind, though, was
far too numb to grapple with such an emergency, so the water carried
him off his feet, wrenched away his grip on the pump-handle, and was
sweeping him across the deck, when he grasped one of Brün’s feet in his
flight. This broke the latter’s hold on the brace, and away both flew
into the water-ways, where they bobbed around for a while in thirty-six
inches of icy brine. Brün was in a rage, of course, but not so Karl.
His wooden face arose by and by from the roaring scuppers, placid and
tranquil; he then by degrees found his legs, waited for a weather-roll,
shot back to the pumps, and resumed his place, totally unmoved. All
this time he was as dumb as a giraffe.
Again, yesterday afternoon, he was doing some work on the starboard
main-brace-bumpkin, when he slipped and went half under water before
he caught the bight of a rope that luckily hung over the side. Even
this didn’t trouble him in the smallest degree; he didn’t even wink his
codfish eyes, but seated himself again upon the bumpkin and proceeded
with his job.
Toward the end of the third month at sea most people begin to suffer
somewhat from dyspepsia, induced, no doubt, by the absence of fresh
meat and vegetables, though the best tinned varieties of the latter
certainly taste as good as the fresh. In the old days people, it is
true, did not have the great amount of such edibles to choose from as
they do now in going to sea, but they had plenty of young pigs and
sheep and chickens, which atoned in measure for the lack of canned
vegetables. Indeed, the deck of a Yankee ship fifty years ago looked
like the conventional barn-yard, with its pig-and sheep-stalls,
hennery, and not infrequently an enclosure for a couple of cows.
Latitude, 34° 5′ south; longitude, 83° 15′ west.
+August 6+
Gradually, since daylight, the form of the clouds has been changing
till they have assumed that of cumulus, and as the wind is letting
go, with an appearance of showers ahead, we seem to be upon the
brink of a change in the weather. For seven days the wind has been
at west-northwest, with never a shift of two whole points, while
the variation of the aneroid during that period was not more than
fifteen-hundredths of an inch. We are practically on the thirtieth
parallel at present, so that in eleven days we have made thirty degrees
of latitude. Steadily, too, the temperature has been rising, standing
at 59° at eight this morning for both air and water; a still more
significant indication of our northing, however, is that last night the
fire in the cabin stove was allowed to die out, to-day being the first
time in thirty-eight days that we have been without artificial heat;
thus for almost six weeks has the stove been going full blast, for it
was first lighted in 38° south in the Atlantic.
It is always an interesting thing to note the different attitude of
captains toward their chief mates on long-voyage ships. Some are
extremely affable, others are reserved and haughty to an absurd
degree. Where men are confined together in so small a space as a
ship’s deck for months at a stretch I think that a captain ought to
be reasonably unbending, but always dignified, in his manner toward
the chief officer, though, of course, much depends upon the sort of
man the latter is. Captain Scruggs is by turns civil and positively
wolfish toward Mr. Goggins; and one of the most curious phases of the
old man’s character is that he invariably crushes the mate whenever the
latter says something that he thinks will please the skipper. Night
before last, at supper, during a conversation about British Columbia,
the mate turned to the captain and beamingly said, “I remember the
time, sir, thirty years ago, when you used to could talk Chinook with
the best of ’em.” To his chagrin, though, the old man growled, “Never
knew six words of Chinook in my life”; while as a matter of fact he
used to talk it well. Mr. Goggins returned to the charge, however, and
again essayed some remarks, during which he ventured to hope that the
wind would back into the southward and let us make some westing, very
reasonably supposing that here was a sentiment that any skipper would
endorse. But, though the captain has been in a white heat lately at our
easting, he observed that he “didn’t care a chew er terbakker where the
wind went to,” which so angered the mate that he answered quite hotly,
“Well, so far as _I_ go, I’m sure _I_ don’t care ’ow long
we’re at sea; but I _know_ you do and so do the owners.” “I say I
don’t care a rap, rap, rap!” stormed the skipper, and we looked for a
row; but the mate slid off the bench and disappeared.
Strange man; unfortunate disposition. He must contradict. He feels it
his duty to differ from every one else, even if he knows that he is
wrong. This morning I remarked, as we sat down to breakfast, “I see the
thermometer’s 59° this morning.” “58-1/2°, I think,” he corrected.
Now, in the first place, it was 59°; and in the second place, he
wouldn’t have known it if it had been half a degree lower, for he can’t
read a book without powerful lenses, much less the rusty scale of a
thermometer a foot above his head. Latitude, 30° 44′ south; longitude,
82° 30′ west.
+August 7+
“Unhook that double main-sheet! Square the yards!” Oh, welcome, joyous
words! Even if the wind is not more than a breath, it allows us now to
lay the course and with a little to spare.
There are some ultra-nautical landsmen who will vigorously object to
the first word in this day’s log, and will insist that I ought to have
written “cast-off” instead; but if these individuals would go to sea
they would learn that there are many expressions heard aboard ship
which no argument could persuade them to use, for fear of not being
considered _au fait_ in nautical nomenclature. We have all seen
the horror of the pale youth with the large steam yacht when some one
in his hearing has suggested going “down-stairs” instead of “below.”
Yet many deep-water sailors say “down-stairs.” And one of Captain
Scruggs’s characteristic orders is, “Let the fore-t’gallant-yard
run down, Mr. Rarx, and tie up the sail,” instead of “Clew up the
fore-t’gant’-s’l,” while he himself ordered the double main-sheet
“unhooked.”
To resume. For seven or eight days we have been jammed hard on the
wind, and while we have made very excellent northing, we have fallen
away to the eastward so much as to well-nigh overbalance our difference
of latitude. In yesterday afternoon’s watch, however, the ship began to
come up, and all last night we steered northwest, our course, making
fairly good way, though it fell calm at daybreak, but breezed a bit
again, and the yards were checked in a couple of points more at 10
+A.M.+ According to Findlay, the average time from 50° south in
the Pacific to San Francisco is fifty-four days, and as we are somewhat
ahead of the average since leaving that parallel, we can stand a good
deal of light weather and still make a fair passage. It cannot be
denied, though, that from the equator to 40° south on the other side
we had a remarkable streak of bad luck; and I expect that the “A. G.
Ropes,” which sailed from New York thirteen days ahead of us, will make
a faster passage than we will. In parenthesis I might remark that most
of the large ship-owners give their captains ten dollars per day for
every day under one hundred and twenty. For instance, if a man makes
the passage in one hundred and ten days, he is entitled to one hundred
dollars.
It may be that the curious would like to know how we passed those
dreary weeks off Cape Horn, and here was our scheme, though, in truth,
our habits then were about the same as they are now. I rose at seven,
breakfasted at quarter to eight, and walked the poop alone till nearly
eleven. On days that were very rough, it was a continual source of
pleasure to chock myself off between the stern-bitts and speculate,
when a particular wave was still several hundred yards off, whether
it was going to break on board or whether we would clear it. It is a
fascinating spectacle, this, and an hour often passed like five minutes
as I gazed with ever-increasing awe at the resistless power of the
huge, crested breakers.
Then down to our room, where we read “Farthest North” aloud till noon,
when my wife made her first appearance. Dinner then occupied us till
nearly one, when we went on deck to walk for half an hour, if not too
rough. Down again to write up our journals, plot off the course on
our own chart, and note down in the government book the meteorological
observations made at Greenwich noon. This brought us to four o’clock,
when we again went on deck to remain till dark, and then a book claimed
us until supper, a little after five o’clock. Deck once more from six
till seven, in spite of any weather; then books again until nine, when
we went up for a breath of air again before turning in.
Exciting? No, truth compels me to admit that it was not, although
no doubt some of the days would have been lively enough for almost
anybody. Those who are sustained by excitement must never by any chance
allow themselves to be persuaded to try a deep-water voyage, no matter
how completely they may have convinced themselves of their fondness for
the sea. A true and abiding love for the sea is a very rare attribute
in any man. I mean that fondness for the ocean which enables him to
live contentedly and happily upon it for half a year at a time, and
to accept uncomplainingly whatever chance may provide. The monotony
of a twenty weeks’ voyage to ninety-nine per cent. of civilized
humanity would be nearly incalculable; and in the case of one sent to
sea for health’s sake, it is entirely conceivable that the depression
consequent upon such a voyage would, in some degree, counteract the
beneficial effects of sea-air. It is owing to a peculiar temperament
that a few people can stay at sea for an indefinite number of months
without in any way tiring of the life. To these few the state of the
weather and the direction of the wind are absolutely immaterial. A
calm of a fortnight or a month of head-winds, either in the Tropics or
the Southern Ocean, are regarded by them merely as events which they
expected to encounter when they sailed.
In spite of everything said and written to the contrary, I believe
that in every sailor, from seaman to master, his love for the sea is
never extinguished. Let them assert, times innumerable, that they hate
the life, and yet see how they all return to it after a little while
ashore. It is of no avail to argue that because a man is bred to the
sea he is incapacitated for duties ashore; I have known of several
ship-masters who, through influence, obtained lucrative positions in
various firms, but who resigned them, unable to further withstand the
magic influence which the deep sea exerts over those who have once
fallen under her resistless enchantment. Nor does the case of the
common sailor differ. I once knew a respectable foremast hand who
obtained the position of driver of a laundry-wagon in Boston. This was
a nice job, but I awaited developments; and, sure enough, in three or
four months he signed as bosun of a Japan-bound oil-ship. Even the most
shiftless of sailors could surely use a pick or shovel dirt ashore, yet
they prefer the less profitable and inconceivably more arduous duties
of the life before the mast, simply because they cannot overcome the
wondrous allurements of Old Ocean. Latitude, 28° 52′ south; longitude,
83° 12′ west.
+August 8+
We have almost every reason to believe that we have taken the southeast
Trades. I say almost every reason, for the only cause for doubting is
that we are so far south yet, and the wind, after all, may not amount
to anything. In any event, we are all astonished at such an outburst
of luck, except the skipper, who testily replies to interrogations,
“This _may_ go into the Trades; it certainly is _not_ them
_yet_.” At 4.30 yesterday afternoon, just as we had composed
ourselves for the hazy, yellow calm that lay upon the sea, a light air
from astern overhauled us, and backing into the southeast in a few
minutes, breezed up from that desirable quarter in a most refreshing
manner, so that ever since we have averaged seven knots. This, if it
lasts, is a most remarkable stroke of fortune, as ships often lie idle
for a week or more between the westerly and the southeasterly winds;
and to run from one into the other, with only an hour’s calm, is as
unusual as it is welcome. We are inclined to believe that, after all,
we will make the voyage in one hundred and thirty days,--that is, in
six weeks more. On this subject the old man is, of course, as dumb as a
lobster, and resents any such suggestions by obstinately staring in the
opposite direction; while Mr. Rarx, a man of great experience in the
North Pacific, which is now probably the only _bête-noir_ left to
us, even goes so far as to say that five additional weeks will anchor
us in San Francisco Bay.
We have now left behind us that most solitary and vast portion of
the South Pacific almost entirely devoid of the smallest fragments
of land, and we are entering that part thickly spattered with rocks
and islets that most people never heard of, not to mention the
thousands of islands to the westward that form the great clusters of
the Society, Friendly, Samoan, Gilbert, Ellice, Marquesas, Caroline,
New Hebrides, Ladrone, and Marshall groups. For instance, in our
neighborhood at present are the islets of San Felix, San Ambrosio,
Podesta, Sala-y-Gomez, and the Emily and Minnehaha rocks; doubtless
there are dozens of others besides, too insignificant to appear on a
chart of the world, such as I work with. These few, however, will serve
to show how thickly sown the Pacific is with insular obstructions;
and it is for this reason that this ocean, bar that part south of 30°
south, has never seemed to me as desolate or lonely as the Atlantic,
north or south. Behold how fittingly Nature has cleared the North
Atlantic of nearly every indication of land and has left an abundance
of clear, open water, through which rush the great steamers which
connect Europe and America, safe in the knowledge that even if they
drifted about for months with disabled machinery there would be
practically nothing to interrupt their wanderings. The most remarkable
proof of this was the case of the large schooner “Fannie E. Woolston,”
timber-laden, which drifted about for thirty months, covering six
thousand miles in that time, an average of over three knots per hour,
without approaching land. This was ascertained by means of the reports
of many different vessels which passed close to the “Woolston” during
her perigrinations. Indeed, the only island that lies at all near the
track of steamers bound from the more northerly European ports to those
north of Baltimore is the terrible Sable Island, the “Graveyard of
the Atlantic,” in 44° north, 60° west, about two hundred miles east
of Halifax. More vessels are lost here than at any other spot in open
water, and its number of casualties are probably only exceeded by such
shoals as the Goodwin Sands.
Turn, then, to the North Pacific, and it will be seen that, with the
exception of the higher northerly latitudes, through which lies the
great circle track between San Francisco or Vancouver and Japan, that
immense body of water is literally dusted with coral reefs and islands;
though it is necessary to examine a large chart to appreciate this, as
no geography will answer.
There are recognized among men several great classes or divisions of
bores, such as those who magnify their own greatness, those who can
remember how much colder the winters used to be in their boyhood,
or, if in New York, those whose memory recalls the period when milch
cows lowed where the City Hall now stands, and swine rooted in the
dirt upon the site of the Post Office. But there remains yet a genus
of bores so infinitely surpassing those mentioned that they may be
said to form an entirely different family. Fortunately for mankind,
comparatively few persons are victimized by them, by reason of their
profession; but in those parts where they do congregate, they are as
deadly as Mark Twain’s brain-fever bird. Allusion is made to those
venerable and crusty master-mariners who extemporize by the hour upon
that grand race of sailors who used to man the wind-jammers in days
of yore. Start them once on this subject, and woe to the anguished
wretch snared in their toils. One would think, in listening to them,
that they were talking about an extinct race who inhabited the seas
about the middle of the nineteenth century, and, like the apteryx and
platypus, had been suddenly and mysteriously exterminated; and when
one ventures to suggest that surely there must be some resemblance to
those exalted beings in the men who now sail before the mast, these
aged sea-hedgehogs bristle up and fly in a passion as they descant upon
the puny breed who now defile the honorable name of sailor with their
pampered notions and blubber-head stupidity. These persons ought to be
confined in some retreat for the rest of their lives; the disease is
incurable and terribly infectious, for every sea-captain over fifty
years of age suffers more or less from the unhappy malady.
It is true that the steamer has cut huge swaths in the sailing-ship
trade, but there are still a vast number of square-riggers left which
pay good dividends. It seems to be the prevalent opinion that steam
has spoiled seamen for sailing-ship work, but in reality the men who
ship for long voyages never do anything else, and let steamers severely
alone. Many good men, no doubt, begin their careers as lamp-trimmers,
etc., in steamers, and usually remain in them, and in this way sailing
ships, no doubt, lose a number of fine men; but it is well to bear in
mind that deep-water and steamship foremast hands are very different
beings in many respects.
As noted in an earlier page, some people are crying now that as soon as
the Central American canal is cut through it will be the instantaneous
death-knell of the long-voyage sailing vessel, but those who really
understand the business of transportation by water do not agree to this
by any means. Here are the words of Arthur Sewall, than whom few, if
any, are more competent to speak on the matter: “As long as the wind
blows and water flows there will be sailing ships built and business
to keep them busy. There will always be a chance for them to compete
against steam in traffic where time is not a factor, or where delay
is actually a good thing. For instance, there is the wheat crop. In
July or August it begins to be ready for delivery, and in a short time
the whole year’s supply is ready for shipment. But the consumption
of a crop stretches over a whole year. Shipping wheat in sailing
vessels consumes several months’ time, which would otherwise require
the storing of the wheat. Sailing freights are actually less than
steam freights, plus storage charges. So, you see, here is business
which sailing ships can hold. Then, again, take railroad materials,
especially rails, which are manufactured faster than they can be used,
and where the delay of sail over steam is better than storage. Of
course, as in any other business, it is a case of the survival of the
fittest, and as smaller ships are relatively more expensive than large
ones, small ships cannot make money, and will have to make way for
large ones.”
An excellent precedent in favor of the continuance of sailing vessels
is that subject in connection with the Suez Canal. When this was a
thing accomplished it was said that no more square-riggers would go out
around Good Hope; yet consider the enormous amount of sail tonnage that
is despatched every year to India, China, Australia, and Japan, for
it is computed that eight hundred sailing vessels double Agulhas every
year in both directions, and as but few of the ships in the Eastern
trade have a carrying capacity of less than thirty-five hundred tons,
the amount of merchandise that passes the southern extremity of Africa
per annum foots up the imposing total of at least seven million tons.
Mr. Goggins appeared at dinner to-day in a frock-coat! Can one conceive
the effect produced upon the mind by the contiguity of a frock-coat and
a red-flannel shirt. Certainly not. No one could unless he had seen it.
Goggins was monstrously proud of it, too, in spite of its being several
sizes too small for him, and ostentatiously got up during the soup and
officiated at the drawing of a pitcher of root-beer from the “kag” in
the corner, during which evolution he suddenly became embarrassed at
the unwonted attention centered upon himself, and in some way managed
to upset the pitcher all over the floor; and when he sat down he was
in such a state of excitement that his nasal whistlings and obligatos
were more piercing than ever before. And just think of this creature’s
name, Leander! Oh, heavens, it is too much! Latitude, 26° 54′ south;
longitude, 84° 50′ west.
+August 9+