“A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE, AND A HOME ON THE ROLLING DEEP.”
FOR some time I had projected, for the spring of 1867, a voyage to San
Francisco, _via_ Cape Horn. My friends advised me, if I wanted to go to
California, to take a steamer and go by way of the Isthmus; but, for the
novelty of the thing, I determined to take passage on a sailing-ship and
double Cape Horn, South America, where the Patagonians live, who eat up
all the unfortunate sailors driven on their shores. [It’s a pity Cape
Horn should ever be _doubled_, for there is too much of it now.]
When March came, and it began to get windy and stormy, I went to New
York, with the intention of taking passage on the first sailing-vessel
that should clear for San Francisco.
My friends again gave me a little wholesome advice, and endeavored to
dissuade me from attempting the voyage till after the stormy season, but
I replied that I didn’t mind seeing a storm at sea, that, in fact, I
rather desired it: so, I went.
Some of the merchants, shipowners and underwriters of New York, have
occasion to remember the clipper-ship BREWSTER, which sailed from New
York for San Francisco, on the fourteenth of March, 1867, with a fresh
north-west wind and under good auspices, generally. I, John Smith, was
that ship’s only passenger. She was not a passenger ship; but I was
allowed to take passage on her, because I wanted to go round Cape Horn.
Captain Collins, the master of the vessel, asked me whether I thought I
could stand up on my crutch, when the ship should come to be tossed
about on a rough sea: I replied that I didn’t know about that, but that
I was quite skillful at falling down.
As before hinted, we sailed on the fourteenth of March; and as a
powerful little tug towed us out of the harbor, past Forts Richmond,
Lafayette and Hamilton, and I looked back and saw Trinity Church steeple
fading from view, I pondered on the long voyage of four or five months
before me, and wondered when, if ever, I should see New York and the
Atlantic coast again.
That day, and the day following, the weather was so extremely cold, that
the salt water of old Ocean, as it splashed over the bulwarks, froze
into a nasty uncomfortable slush, upon the deck. On the third
morning—that of Saturday, the sixteenth of March—the air was much
milder, and I began to entertain the liveliest hopes that we were to be
favored with pleasant weather, that I might sit by the low bulwarks of
the forecastle deck, and watch the blue waves foaming and splashing as
the ship plowed its way through them.
Captain Collins was an excellent fellow, a lively and agreeable
companion, and a perfect gentleman. The two mates, Messrs. Trufant and
Gorham, were unexceptionable; I was soon on the best terms with them,
and anticipated a pleasant voyage.
But, somehow or other, these three gentlemen were a little morose on
this pleasant Saturday morning. It was quite unaccountable to me.
“What can be the reason?” I asked myself. “Can it be that they don’t
like pleasant weather, and would prefer it cold and stormy?” I had heard
such things, of sea-faring men. [Reader, when _you_ hear it said that
sailors enjoy stormy weather, don’t believe it.]
About ten o’clock the first mate, Mr. Trufant, after several earnest
consultations with the Captain, came out of the cabin,—while I was
standing on deck enjoying the pleasant breeze and the fine view I had of
the waste of waters—and called out:
“Steward!”
“Ay, ay, sir,” responded the steward, from the galley.
“Get up a few barrels of potatoes, and what other things you may need
from the after-hatch: we’re going to have a gale o’ wind.”
[That was what the matter was. The barometer was getting low.]
“Ay, ay, sir,” said the steward.
The wind was still N. W., and glancing in that direction, I perceived
that some solid-looking, lead colored clouds were rising above the
horizon.
“Going to blow, is it?” I said, to the mate, as he walked by me.
“Yes, a little,” he replied, as he proceeded to give some order to the
sailors.
A couple of hours passed by, and I saw no indications of a storm. It had
grown a trifle cloudy; and the wind had increased but little.
“We won’t have that gale, after all, will we?” I remarked, as we sat at
dinner.
The captain laughed. “Give it time,” said he. “The barometer usually
warns in advance. If you don’t see a fresh breeze before morning, there
will be a big change in the weather somewhere.”
I said no more.
After dinner I was on deck, and, observing that the sailors were working
the pumps, I said to Mr. Gorham, the second mate:
“The ship leaks a little, does it?”
“O, yes,” he replied, indifferently: “all ships leak more or less.”
“I hope ours will leak _less_, then, if we get in a gale,” I said.
“So do I,” he returned; “but I fear it will leak _more_.”
The ship was rocking somewhat, but I had not yet grown sea-sick. In
fact, persons who have once been sea-sick are not quite so easily or so
severely affected the second time.
I walked to the bulwark, scanned the north-western horizon, and
perceived that it was beginning to wear a threatening aspect. The wind
was stronger, the waves rolling higher, and the sailors grave and
thoughtful.
It was no easy matter for me to stand, without holding to something: and
hatch-houses, masts, bulwarks, ropes and belaying-pins came quite handy
to brace myself against, or cling to with one hand.
In another hour, the wind was blowing hard, the waves were running high,
and one of them jumped over the bulwarks, and wet everybody on
deck—myself included. That is what sailors term, “Shipping a sea.”
“You had better stand within the cabin,” observed the second mate.
I thought so, too, made my way to the door, and stepped in. The cabin
was built on deck; but a high sill at the bottom of the door-way kept
the water from running in.
I then stood at the cabin-door for a couple of hours, grasping each side
of the door-way to brace myself, and watched the rising gale.