J. SMITH’S CURIOSITY TO SEE A GALE MORE THAN SATISFIED.
ANOTHER heavy wave dashed over the bulwarks, and fell upon the deck,
with a thump that made the ship tremble. The wind rose higher, and was
soon howling among the rigging with a fierceness entirely new to me.
Wave after wave swept over, and the deck was continually washed with the
agitated waters. Evening came and I had no appetite for supper.
Night came, darkness frowned on the furious sea, the wind increased in
violence, and fairly screamed among the ropes, shrouds, masts, and
yards; we were indeed in a gale.
The ship tumbled about so, that I got sick; but determined not to give
way to it. I stood by the cabin door, leaned over the high sill, and
contributed my dinner to the waters of the ocean.
The sails had all been taken in but the three lower top-sails, and with
those still unfurled, we had been running before the wind. These were
now taken in—except the lower main top-sail, which is always left
unfurled, in order to control the ship—and the vessel was hove to: that
is, turned with her head to the wind, her bow a point or two off, in
order that she might rise on the waves.
When these measures had been taken, it seemed to me that the wind just
tried how hard it could blow; and to do it justice, I must say, that it
blew much harder than I had ever before thought it could. Wave after
wave—every successive one seeming to run higher and higher—struck the
ship, which was continually trembling, and straining, and “working,” as
though it might at any moment break to splinters.
Ah, I began to realize that a storm at sea is no luxury! Reader, if you
have not seen one, you are fortunate. If you ever start on a voyage,
pray earnestly for smooth weather, and if your prayers are answered be
very thankful.
I retired to my room at last, and “turned in.” That is the nautical
phrase for “going to bed.” You never hear a sailor say he will “go to
bed.” He never “goes to bed.” Such an expression would sound very odd at
sea. “Turn in,” is the proper term there. If a sailor should hear a man
talk about “going to bed,” he would think that man had actually never
been out of sight of land in his life.
I “turned in,” and slept. When I awoke again, the ship was tumbling
about so that I wondered I had not been pitched out of my berth. Seeing
one of the mates pass through the cabin, I accosted him with—
“How is it, without?”
“Blowing a regular gale,” he replied.
“What time is it?”
“Seven bells.”
At sea, they never say eight, nine, ten, eleven, or half-past eleven
o’clock. There is a large bell at the forecastle, which is tapped every
half-hour. At half-past twelve, it receives one tap; which is called
“one bell.” At one o’clock, it is tapped twice: that is, “two bells.” At
half-past one, it is tapped three times: that is “three bells;” and so
on, till four o’clock, which time is “eight bells.” Then at half-past
four “one bell” is struck again; at five o’clock, “two bells;” and so
on, up to eight o’clock, which is “eight bells,” again. Commencing at
half-past eight, “one bell” is again sounded, “two bells” at nine; and
so on till twelve, when “eight bells” is reached once more. So, when the
mate told me it was “seven bells,” it will be perceived that it was
half-past eleven.
I tried to sleep again, and succeeded. How long I slept, I could not
tell; but when I awoke again, the vessel was tossing about fearfully,
and the waves dashing over her fore and aft, with a fierceness that
threatened to burst her to pieces. But the wind had suddenly lulled. Not
a breath of air was stirring; the lower main top-sail was flapping idly
about; they had lost control of the ship, because she would no longer
steer when the wind ceased; and so, falling fairly into the trough of
the sea, she could not struggle up over the billows; and there she lay
at the mercy of the waves, being buffeted by them without any mercy at
all.
It was indeed a perilous time. The captain, with his many years of
experience at sea, knew our danger; but what could be done? Should this
state of things continue long, the ship must inevitably be beaten to
pieces. All hands had been called on deck; and I got out of my bunk and
struggled to the cabin-door. I opened it a little way, but a fearful sea
swept over and dashed it shut in my face. I could hear the voice of the
captain giving hurried commands to the sailors who were at work securing
the rigging. The shrouds were growing slack, and it was every minute
expected that the masts would be carried away.
No breeze came; and probably the angry sea would have crushed us down
then and there, but that the clouds gathered thickly over, and a heavy
rain came pattering upon the agitated waters—a very unusual
accompaniment of a north-west wind.
It may be wondered, by the uninitiated, how a heavy shower of rain could
help us. It is not generally known that rain has a soothing effect on
the angry sea. Yet, such is the case. No matter how fiercely the waves
are running, let the wind lull, and a brisk rain of an hour will take
all the rough edge off them. It is the dashing and breaking waves that
sailors dread. A regular swelling wave, no matter how high it towers,
will do no harm, as a vessel will rise with it, and ride lightly over.
This rain of twenty-five or thirty minutes, so far soothed the turbulent
waves as to place us out of immediate danger; and not long after, the
wind sprung up again, command of the ship was recovered, and so the
night passed—and the morning of Sunday, the seventeenth of March, St.
Patrick’s Day, dawned upon the wide ocean.
The wind was still blowing freshly, but the sky was clear, the sun
shining brightly, and the waves of the sea rolling within the pale of
moderation. They still washed the deck at intervals, but I had got used
to that, for the deck had scarcely been free from the briny water since
the middle of the previous day. The officers and sailors all wore high
rubber boots, and oil-cloth hats and clothes. But still, the water
dashed over them so violently, that they were wet to the skin all the
time. If any one ever asks you, dear reader, whether a sailor’s life is
a pleasant one or not, say “No!”
* * * * *
A strong breeze blew all day, and as night approached, it increased to a
gale again. I had hoped the storm was over; but a storm at sea seldom
subsides entirely within twenty-four hours.
What we had experienced on Saturday night, was not to be compared with
the terrors of that memorable Sunday night. I have suffered much, and
undergone much danger in my time, but I never, either before or since,
passed such a terrible night.
The gale grew fierce again—fiercer even than before—and the lofty waves
thundered over us so, that much of the time it was difficult to
determine whether we were still floating or not.
But the most fearful time was about midnight. Light clouds were hurrying
over, driven by the mighty wind, while, at intervals, portions of the
sky grew clear, and the moon shone down upon us. It was an odd
sight—such an awful tempest seen in the moonlight. The wind blew with
such violence that the ship was nearly the whole time on her beam-ends,
that is, lying over on her side. At intervals she would struggle up for
a moment, but the fierce blast would soon hurl her over again. On one
occasion, while she stood up for a moment, the pumps were sounded, and
the captain soon after called out,
“Starboard watch to the pumps!”
The fact was, the ship was found to be leaking badly, and the hold
already contained about four-and-a-half feet of water! One of the mates
informed me of this. I had requested him to be frank with me, and to let
me know the full extent of any danger; stating, that if it became
necessary for us to die, I would do my share of it with as good a grace
as possible under the circumstances.
The crew of a vessel is divided into two watches—one called the
Starboard, and the other the Port. The port watch is commanded by the
first mate, and the starboard by the second. [The port side of a ship is
the left-hand side, the starboard the right.] While the starboard watch
worked most energetically at the pumps, the port watch went aft with the
captain and first mate, and proceeded to heave cargo overboard.
All that was cared for now was to save our lives, and to do that, the
ship must be kept afloat. What cared we now for stores of wealth! The
wealth of the whole world would not have been more highly regarded than
an old rusty nail! What cared I for my trunk, my clothes, my books,
money, papers, manuscripts, and little valuable and favorite trinkets! I
could have seen them all, and a million times more, swept overboard into
the dashing sea, without giving them another thought.
How faithfully those sailors worked! both at the pumps, and at the
after-hatch, where the valuable cargo was being dashed from the ship, as
though a sacrifice to appease the wrath of the billows! How quickly and
submissively they sprung to execute every slight command! There was no
tardiness now. They were working for dear life, and it was only
necessary for them to know _what_ to do. The commands of the officers
were merely instructions. There was no cursing the sailors by the
officers. [As for the captain, _he_ seldom swore at the sailors; but the
mates could do so, in mild weather, with a skill that no reasonable
person could impeach.]
There was no longer any distinction between officers and men. All
appeared equal. All labored for a common end. Death, which lays every
one low, with an impartial hand, was apparently near us, and we were
comrades now. Kings and emperors, had they been aboard that seemingly
doomed ship, must have felt that they were only men!
I remained at the cabin door, most of the time, watching, at times—as
the receding sea would allow me to open the door a little way—the second
mate, Mr. Gorham, and his watch, working at the pumps, and the
phosphorescent sparks chasing each other over the deck and out at the
ports and scuppers. I could also see long lines of gleaming phosphorus
on the crests of the waves far out upon the dreadful sea.
The steward, who had been helping at the pumps, made his way into the
cabin for some purpose, and said to me,
“Passenger, don’t you think we’re gone?”
His voice indicated that he had already abandoned all hope.
“Things look rather gloomy,” I replied.
“Well,” he rejoined, “we have but once to die. If we go down, it will
soon be over; we won’t suffer long.”
This was all the consolation any of us had. The water in the hold did
not decrease—the storm raged with unabated fury—and the question now,
was not, “Shall we go down?” but, “How soon?” It seemed but a question
of time. If we had a spark of hope left, it was merely as one compared
with one hundred. The mate told me it was _possible_ the ship could be
kept afloat till morning, and that then it was _possible_ some vessel
might be in sight and come to our assistance. But these vague
possibilities were worse than no hope at all. They were too tantalizing.
I should really have felt better if I had known, beyond a doubt, that we
should go down in ten minutes.
Still, it is natural for man to cling to any hope that is held out to
him, however slight. Probably, hope, faint as it was, saved us on this
occasion. Had all given up, and sat down, with the conviction that we
were lost—although no one on board was really of any other opinion—the
ship would have filled in an hour, and we must have gone down to our
dismal graves in the depths of the Gulf Stream.
In this awful extremity, I could not help remembering certain verses
from Byron’s “Don Juan” which were very applicable to the occasion. I
quote them:
“It may be easily supposed, while this
Was going on, some people were unquiet;
That passengers would find it much amiss
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet;
That even the able seaman, deeming his
Days nearly o’er, might be disposed to riot;
As, upon such occasions, tars will ask
For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask.
* * * * *
“Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears
In his rough eyes, and told the captain he
Could do no more; he was a man in years,
And long had voyaged through many a stormy sea,
And if he wept, at length, they were not fears
That made his eyelids as a woman’s be;
But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children—
Two things for dying people quite bewildering.
“The ship was evidently settling now
Fast by the head; and, all distinction gone,
Some went to prayers again and made a vow
Of candle to their saints—but there were none
To pay them with; and some looked o’er the bow,
Some hoisted out the boats: and there was one,
That begged Pedrillo[3] for an absolution,
Who told him to be d——d, in his confusion.”
Footnote 3:
Pedrillo, a licentiate who accompanied Don Juan, and was his tutor.
The night passed—I scarcely know how—and, contrary to our anticipation,
morning found us still afloat. The storm was yet raging, and the sailors
were still busy pumping and heaving cargo overboard. I took my position
at the cabin door again, standing in water six or eight inches deep—for
the water had made its way into the cabin, where my trunk was
leisurely soaking. I heard the first mate tell one of the sailors to
climb up to the mast-head and keep a look out for a vessel. Shortly
afterward he came to the door, held it a little way open and said:
“Mr. Smith, just glance out! There is the wildest sight I ever saw,
during all my experience at sea!” And he pointed to windward.
I looked; but how shall I describe that sublime and awful picture! The
sun was shining brightly, the wind blowing so fiercely that it shattered
the green waves, lifted up the waters bodily and dispersed them into a
thick spray, so that I could not discern where sea and sky met. The next
moment we were enveloped in such a cloud that we could not see thirty
yards around us; the heavens grew black and it began to look like the
dusk of evening. A minute later, the clouds had swept over, and the
bright sun burst once more upon that scene of fearful grandeur. Never
did the god of day shed light on a wilder picture! It was
grand—majestically grand—awfully grand, beyond the expression of human
tongue! Notwithstanding our prospect of speedy death, I was lost and
swallowed up in momentary admiration. How vividly came to my mind, as I
stood there gazing on the tempestuous scene, those sublime words from
the one-hundred-and-seventh Psalm—words that I had never before properly
appreciated—
“They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great
waters;
“These see the works of the LORD, and his wonders in the deep.
“For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, _which lifteth up the
waves thereof_.
“They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depths; their
soul is melted because of trouble.
“They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their
wit’s end.”
Presently the whole wild picture was again wrapped in gloom, and I was
only conscious of the thunder of the waves beating over the ship, of the
howling wind and dashing, blinding spray; a moment of gloom: then the
clouds were dashed away by the wind, the sun burst out and the wild day
shone round again.
We were in the Gulf Stream, which is of a warmer temperature than the
other waters of the Atlantic in the same latitude; and the cooler wind
seemed to grasp the water up and dash it into the sky; so that, at
times, as the spray mounted up and formed in clouds, the sea and sky
appeared to leave their places, rushing about through space and
commingling in unutterable confusion.
In the midst of all this, how frail did our ship seem!—so frail, that I
fancied it lived only because the battling elements did not deign to
notice it, or think it worth their while to crush it, as they might have
done with a breath!
But now, a beam of hope dawned on us; and it could be seen shining on
the faces of all. Every countenance was radiant with it. There was, at
last, after eight hours of constant pumping, a perceptible decrease of
water in the hold. Sixty or seventy tons of cargo had been thrown from
the after part of the ship; the carpenter had gone down and succeeded in
patching up one of the rifts: and, to our joy, it was found that the
pumps were now capable of throwing the water out a little faster than it
ran in. Although the gale was still blowing, and many planks had been
torn from the bulwarks by the waves, imminent death no longer threatened
us, and we felt comparatively happy.
All that day, (Monday,) that night, and a portion of the following day,
the storm raged. But on Tuesday afternoon it gradually lulled, and on
Wednesday morning the sun smiled cheerfully on a nearly smooth sea. A
slight breeze was blowing, the sky was clear and blue, the air perfectly
charming; and I began to forget the terrors and dangers of the storm
through which we had passed. After all, now, it was pleasant to be at
sea.
Of course, such a thing as proceeding on a voyage of fifteen thousand
miles was not to be thought of; and the captain put back for New York,
which was now about seven hundred miles distant, as we had drifted a
long way during the north-west gale.
That beautiful morning, as I went up on the after deck—a deck, usually
called the poop deck, which surrounds the cabin, and is raised about
three or four feet above the main deck—I met the captain walking to and
fro, and he said:
“Well, Mr. Smith, taking into consideration our recent gale, what do you
think of the man who wrote ‘A life on the ocean wave?’”
“One of two things,” I replied: “he was either a lunatic, or else never
saw the ‘ocean wave.’ In the latter case, he was, at least, a fool.”
“That,” rejoined the captain, “reminds me of a certain Doctor—a friend
of mine—who once took a voyage with me. He was much elated with the idea
of going to sea, and, as we sailed from port, and he gazed out upon the
endless expanse before us, he was perfectly enraptured. But, by and by,
as we got out where it was a little rough, he became sea-sick—terribly
so—and I found him aft, in a little while, hanging over the bulwark, and
ready to turn inside out. O, wasn’t he sick! ‘Hallo, Doctor,’ said I;
‘not sick, I hope?’ ‘O, Lordy! yes,’ said he. ‘O, dear!’ Then I thought
his stomach itself would come up. ‘What do you now think of the man who
wrote, “_A life on the ocean wave_?” I was cruel enough to ask. ‘Think!’
said he. ‘I think—bawk!—think he was a d——d fool! Bawk! Bawk! O, Lordy,
O!’”