Richard Henry Dana was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on
August 1, 1815. He was the son of the American poet who, with
W.C. Bryant, founded "The North American Review," and grandson
of Francis Dana, for some time United States Minister to
Russia, and afterwards Chief Justice of Massachusetts. Young
Dana entered Harvard in 1832, but being troubled with an
affection of the eyes, shipped as a common sailor on board an
American merchant vessel, and made a voyage round Cape Horn to
California and back. His experiences are embodied in his "Two
Years Before the Mast," which was published in 1840, about
three years after his return, when he had graduated at
Harvard, and in the year in which he was admitted to the
Massachusetts Bar. His best known work gives a vivid account
of life at sea in the days of the old sailing ships, touches
sympathetically on the hardships of the seafaring life, which
its publication helped to ameliorate, and affords also an
intimate glimpse of California when it was still a province of
Mexico. "If," he writes, "California ever becomes a prosperous
country, this--San Francisco--bay will be the centre of its
prosperity." He died at Rome on January 7, 1882.
_I.--Life on a Merchantman_
On August 14 the brig Pilgrim left Boston for a voyage round Cape Horn
to the western coast of America. I made my appearance on board at twelve
o'clock with an outfit for a two or three years' voyage, which I had
undertaken from a determination to cure, if possible, by an entire
change of life, and by a long absence from books and study, a weakness
of the eyes.
The vessel got under way early in the afternoon. I joined the crew, and
we hauled out into the stream, and came to anchor for the night. The
next day we were employed in preparations for sea. On the following
night I stood my first watch. During the first few days we had bad
weather, and I began to feel the discomforts of a sailor's life. But I
knew that if I showed any sign of want of spirit or of backwardness, I
should be ruined at once. So I performed my duties to the best of my
ability, and after a time I felt somewhat of a man. I cannot describe
the change which half a pound of cold salt beef and a biscuit or two
produced in me after having taken no sustenance for three days. I was a
new being.
As we had now a long "spell" of fine weather, without any incident to
break the monotony of our lives, there can be no better place to
describe the duties, regulations, and customs of an American
merchantman, of which ours was a fair specimen.
The captain is lord paramount. He stands no watch, comes and goes when
he pleases, is accountable to no one, and must be obeyed in everything.
The prime minister, the official organ, and the active and
superintending officer is the chief mate. The mate also keeps the
log-book, and has charge of the stowage, safe keeping, and delivery of
the cargo.
The second mate's is a dog's berth. The men do not respect him as an
officer, and he is obliged to go aloft to put his hands into the tar and
slush with the rest. The crew call him the "sailors' waiter," and he has
to furnish them with all the stuffs they need in their work. His wages
are usually double those of a common sailor, and he eats and sleeps in
the cabin; but he is obliged to be on deck nearly all his time, and eats
at the second table--that is, makes a meal out of what the captain and
the chief mate leave.
The steward is the captain's servant, and has charge of the pantry, from
which everyone, including the mate, is excluded. The cook is the patron
of the crew, and those who are in his favour can get their wet mittens
and stockings dried, or light their pipes at the galley in the night
watch. These two worthies, together with the carpenter and the
sailmaker, if there be one, stand no watch, but, being employed all day,
are allowed to "sleep in" at night, unless "all hands" are called.
The crew are divided into two watches. Of these the chief mate commands
the larboard, and the second mate the starboard, being on and off duty,
or on deck and below, every other four hours. The watch from 4 p.m. to 8
p.m. is divided into two half, or dog, watches. By this means they
divide the twenty-four hours into seven instead of six, and thus shift
the hours every night.
The morning commences with the watch on deck turning-to at daybreak, and
washing-down, scrubbing, and swabbing the decks. This, with filling the
"scuttle butt" with fresh water, and coiling up the rigging, usually
occupies the time until seven bells (half after seven), when all hands
get breakfast. At eight the day's work begins, and lasts until sundown,
with the exception of an hour for dinner. The discipline of the ship
requires every man to be at work upon something when he is up on deck,
except at night and on Sundays. No conversation is allowed among the
crew at their duty.
When I first left port, and found that we were kept regularly employed
for a week or two, I supposed that we were getting the vessel into
sea-trim, and that it would soon be over, and we should have nothing to
do but to sail the ship; but I found that it continued so for two years,
and at the end of two years there was as much to be done as ever. If,
after all the labour on sails, rigging, tarring, greasing, oiling,
varnishing, painting, scraping, scrubbing, watching, steering, reefing,
furling, bracing, making and setting sail, and pulling, hauling, and
climbing in every direction, the merchants and captains think the
sailors have not earned their twelve dollars a month, their salt beef
and hard bread, they keep them picking oakum--_ad infinitum_. The
Philadelphia catechism is
Six days shalt thou labour, and do all thou art able,
And on the seventh, holystone the decks and scrape the cable.
We crossed the Equator on October 1 and rounded Cape Horn early in
November. Monday, November 17, was a black day in our calendar. At seven
in the morning we were aroused from sleep by the cry of "All hands,
ahoy! A man overboard!" This unwonted cry sent a thrill through the
heart of everyone, and hurrying on deck we found the vessel hove flat
aback, with all her studding sails set; for the boy who was at the helm
left it to throw something overboard, and the carpenter, who was an old
sailor, knowing that the wind was light, put the helm down and hove her
aback. The watch on deck were lowering away the quarter-boat, and I got
on deck just in time to heave myself into her as she was leaving the
side. But it was not until out on the wide Pacific in our little boat
that I knew we had lost George Ballmer, a young English sailor, who was
prized by the officers as an active and willing seaman, and by the crew
as a lively, hearty fellow and a good shipmate.
He was going aloft to fit a strap round the main-topmast head for
ringtail halyards, and had the strap and block, a coil of halyards, and
a marlin spike about his neck. He fell, and not knowing how to swim, and
being heavily dressed, with all those things around his neck, he
probably sank immediately. We pulled astern in the direction in which he
fell, and though we knew that there was no hope of saving him, yet no
one wished to speak of returning, and we rowed about for nearly an hour,
unwilling to acknowledge to ourselves that we must give him up.
Death is at all times solemn, but never so much so as at sea; and the
effect of it remains upon the crew for some time. There is more kindness
shown by the officers, and by the crew to one another. The lost man is
seldom mentioned, or is dismissed with a sailor's rude eulogy, "Well,
poor George is gone! His cruise is up soon. He knew his work, and did
his duty, and was a good shipmate." We had hardly returned on board with
our sad report before an auction was held of the POOR man's clothes.
_II.--At the Ends of the Earth_
On Tuesday, November 25, we reached the Island of Juan Fernandez. We
were then probably seventy miles from it; and so high did it appear that
I took it for a cloud, until it gradually turned to a greener and deader
colour. By the afternoon the island lay fairly before us, and we
directed our course to the only harbour. Never shall I forget the
sensation which I experienced on finding myself once more surrounded by
land as I stood my watch at about three the following morning, feeling
the breeze coming off shore and hearing the frogs and crickets. To my
joy I was among the number ordered ashore to fill the water-casks. By
the morning of the 27th we were again upon the wide Pacific, and we saw
neither land nor sail again until, on January 13, 1835, we reached Point
Conception, on the coast of California. We had sailed well to the
westward, to have the full advantage of the north-east trades, and so
had now to sail southward to reach the port of Santa Barbara, where we
arrived on the 14th, after a voyage of 150 days from Boston.
At Santa Barbara we came into touch with other vessels engaged in
loading hides and tallow, and as this was the work in which we were soon
to be engaged, we looked on with some curiosity, especially at the
labours of the crew of the Ayacucho, who were dusky Sandwich Islanders.
And besides practice in landing on this difficult coast, we experienced
the difficulties involved in having suddenly to slip our cables and
then, when the weather allowed of it, coming to at our former moorings.
From this time until May 8, 1836, I was engaged in trading and loading,
drying and storing hides, between Santa Barbara, Monterey, San Pedro,
San Diego, San Juan, and San Francisco.
The ship California, belonging to the same firm, had been nearly two
years on the coast before she collected her full cargo of 40,000 hides.
Another vessel, the Lagoda, carrying 31,000 or 32,000, had been nearly
two years getting her cargo; and when it appeared that we were to
collect some 40,000 hides besides our own, which would be 12,000 or
15,000, the men became discontented. It was bad for others, but worse
for me, who did not mean to be a sailor for life. Three or four years
would make me a sailor in every respect, mind and habits as well as
body, and would put all my companions so far ahead of me that college
and a profession would be in vain to think of.
We were at the ends of the earth, in a country where there is neither
law nor gospel, and where sailors are at their captain's mercy. We lost
all interest in the voyage, cared nothing about the cargo, while we were
only collecting for others, began to patch our clothes, and felt as
though we were fixed beyond hope of change.
_III.--A Tyrannical Captain_
Apart from the incessant labour on board ship, at San Pedro we had to
roll heavy casks and barrels of goods up a steep hill, to unload the
hides from the carts at the summit, reload these carts with our goods,
cast the hides over the side of the hill, collect them, and take them on
board. After we had been employed in this manner for several days, the
captain quarrelled with the cook, had a dispute with the mate, and
turned his displeasure particularly against a large, heavy-moulded
fellow called Sam.
The man hesitated in his speech, and was rather slow in his motions, but
was a pretty good sailor, and always seemed to do his best. But the
captain found fault with everything he did. One morning, when the gig
had been ordered by the captain, Mr. Russell, an officer taken on at
Santa Barbara, John the Swede, and I heard his voice raised in violent
dispute with somebody. Then came blows and scuffling. Then we heard the
captain's voice down the hatchway.
"You see your condition! Will you ever give me any more of your jaw?"
No answer; and then came wrestling and heaving, as though the man was
trying to turn him.
"You may as well keep still, for I have got you!" said the captain, who
repeated his question.
"I never gave you any," said Sam, for it was his voice that we heard.
"That's not what I ask you. Will you ever be impudent to me again?"
"I never have been, sir," said Sam.
"Answer my question, or I'll make a spread-eagle of you!"
"I'm no negro slave!" said Sam.
"Then I'll make you one!" said the captain; and he came, to the
hatchway, sprang on deck, threw off his coat, and, rolling up his
sleeves, called out to the mate, "Seize that man up, Mr. A--! Seize him
up! Make a spread-eagle of him! I'll teach you all who is master
aboard!"
The crew and officers followed the captain up the hatchway, and after
repeated orders, the mate laid hold of Sam, who made no resistance, and
carried him to the gangway.
"What are you going to flog that man for, sir?" said John the Swede to
the captain.
Upon hearing this, the captain turned upon him, but knowing him to be
quick and resolute, he ordered the steward to bring the irons, and
calling upon Russell to help him, went up to John.
"Let me alone!" said John. "You need not use any force!" And putting out
his hands, the captain slipped the irons on, and sent him aft to the
quarter-deck.
Sam by this time was placed against the shrouds, his jacket off, and his
back exposed. The captain stood at the break of the deck, a few feet
from him, and a little raised, so as to have a swing at him, and held in
his hand the bight of a thick, strong rope. The officers stood round,
the crew grouped together in the waist. Swinging the rope over his head,
and bending his body so as to give it full force, the captain brought it
down upon the poor fellow's back. Once, twice, six times.
"Will you ever give me any more of your jaw?"
The man writhed with pain, but said not a word. Three times more. This
was too much, and he muttered something which I could not hear. This
brought as many more as the man could stand, when the captain ordered
him to be cut down and to go forward.
Then John the Swede was made fast. He asked the captain what he was to
be flogged for.
"Have I ever refused my duty, sir? Have you ever known me to hang back,
or to be insolent, or not to know my work?"
"No," said the captain. "I flog you for your interference--for asking
questions."
"Can't a man ask a question here without being flogged?"
"No!" shouted the captain. "Nobody shall open his mouth aboard this
vessel but myself!" And he began laying the blows upon the man's back.
As he went on his passion increased, and the man writhed under the pain.
My blood ran cold. When John had been cut down, Mr. Russell was ordered
to take the two men and two others in the boat, and pull the captain
ashore.
After the day's work was done we went down into the forecastle and ate
our supper, but not a word was spoken. The two men lay in their berths
groaning with pain, and a gloom was over everything. I vowed that if
ever I should have the means I would do something to redress the
grievances and relieve the sufferings of that poor class of beings of
whom I was then one.
_IV.--I Become a Hide-Curer_
The comfort of the voyage was evidently at an end, though I certainly
had some pleasant days on shore; and as we were continually engaged in
transporting passengers with their goods to and fro, in addition to
trading our assorted cargo of spirits, teas, coffee, sugars, spices,
raisins, molasses, hardware, crockery-ware, tinware, cutlery, clothing,
jewelry, and, in fact, everything that can be imagined from Chinese
fireworks to English cartwheels, we gained considerable knowledge of the
character, dress, and language of the people of California.
In the early part of May I was called upon to take up my quarters for a
few months at our hide-house at San Diego. In the twinkling of an eye I
was transformed into a beach-comber and hide-curer, but the novelty and
the comparative independence of the life were not unpleasant. My
companions were a Frenchman named Nicholas, and a boy who acted as cook;
Four Sandwich Islanders worked and ate with us, but generally slept at a
large oven which had been built by the men of a Russian discovery ship,
and was big enough to hold six or eight men. Mr. Russell, who was in
charge, had a small room to himself. On July 18 the Pilgrim returned
with news. Captain T------ had taken command of a larger vessel, the
Alert, and the owners, at the request of my friends, had written to
Captain T------ to take me on board should the Alert return to the
States before the Pilgrim.
On September 8, I found myself on board the new vessel, and with her
visited San Francisco, as well as other ports already named. Our crew
were somewhat diminished; we were short-handed for a voyage round Cape
Horn in the depth of winter, and so cramped and deadened was the Alert
by her unusually large cargo, and the weight of our five months stores,
that her channels were down in the water; while, to make matters even
more uncomfortable, the forecastle leaked, and in bad weather more than
half the berths were rendered tenantless. But "Never mind, we're
homeward bound!" was the answer to everything.
The crew included four boys, regarding two of whom an incident may here
be chronicled. There was a little boxing-match on board while we were at
Monterey in December. A broad-backed, big-headed Cape Cod boy, about
sixteen, had been playing the bully over a slender, delicate-looking boy
from one of the Boston schools. One day George (the Boston boy) said he
would fight Nat if he could have fair play. The chief mate heard the
noise, and attempted to make peace; but, finding it useless, called all
hands up, ranged the crew in the waist, marked a line on the deck,
brought the two boys up to it, and made them "toe the mark."
Nat put in his double-fisters, starting the blood, and bringing the
black-and-blue spots all over the face and arms of the other, whom we
expected to see give in every moment. But the more he was hurt the
better he fought. Time after time he was knocked nearly down, but up he
came again and faced the mark, as bold as a lion, again to take the
heavy blows, which sounded so as to make one's heart turn with pity for
him. At length he came up to the mark the last time, his shirt torn from
his body, his face covered with blood and bruises, and his eyes flashing
with fire, and swore he would stand there until one or the other was
killed.
And he set to like a young fury. "Hurrah in the bow!" said the men,
cheering him on. Nat tried to close with him, but the mate stopped that.
Nat then came up to the mark, but looked white about the mouth, and his
blows were not given with half the spirit of his first. He was evidently
cowed. He had always been master, and had nothing to gain and everything
to lose; whilst the other fought for honour and freedom, and under a
sense of wrong. It would not do. It was soon over. Nat gave in, not so
much beaten as cowed and mortified, and never afterwards tried to act
the bully on board.
_V.--An Adventurous Voyage Home_
By Sunday, June 19, we were in lat. 34° 15' S. and long. 116° 38' W.,
and bad weather prospects began to loom ahead. The days became shorter,
the sun gave less heat, the nights were so cold as to prevent our
sleeping on deck, the Magellan clouds were in sight of a clear night,
the skies looked cold and angry, and at times a long, heavy, ugly sea
set in from the southward. Being so deep and heavy, the ship dropped
into the seas, the water washing over the decks. Not yet within a
thousand miles of Cape Horn, our decks were swept by a sea not half so
high as we must expect to find there. Then came rain, sleet, snow, and
wind enough to take our breath from us. We were always getting wet
through, and our hands stiffened and numbed, so that the work aloft was
exceptionally difficult. By July 1 we were nearly up to the latitude of
Cape Horn, and the toothache with which I had been troubled for several
days had increased the size of my face, so that I found it impossible to
eat. There was no relief to be had from the impoverished medicine-chest,
and the captain refused to allow the steward to boil some rice for me.
"Tell him to eat salt junk and hard bread like the rest of them," he
said. But the mate, who was a man as well as a sailor, smuggled a pan of
rice into the galley, and told the cook to boil it for me, and not to
let the "old man" see it. Afterwards, I was ordered by the mate to stay
in my berth for two or three days.
It was not until Friday, July 22, that, having failed to make the
passage of the Straits of Magellan, we rounded the Cape, and, sighting
the island of Staten Land, stood to the northward, and ran for the
inside of the Falkland Islands. With a fine breeze we crowded on all the
canvas the ship would bear, and our "Cheerily, men," was given with a
chorus that might have been heard halfway to Staten Land. Once we were
to the northward of the Falklands, the sun rose higher in the horizon
each day, the nights grew shorter, and on coming on deck each morning
there was a sensible change in the temperature.
On the 20th of the month I stood my last helm, making between 900 and
1,000 hours at this work, and 135 days after leaving San Diego our
anchor was upon the bottom in Boston Harbour, and I had the pleasure of
being congratulated upon my return and my appearance of health and
strength.