There are few sights more thrilling than that of a vessel foundering at
sea; and for several weeks the _Sagamore’s_ people thought of little but
the lost bark and her crew. The _Dundee’s_ steward was set to work in
the galley, and the able seamen were divided between the two watches,
where each day’s numerous duties soon made them forget their recent
hardships. Captain Murray took the loss of his vessel much to heart, and
was greatly depressed for some days; but to distract his attention, he
voluntarily assumed the bo’s’un’s duties, and became less despondent as
time passed.
During the week following the rescue, the _Sagamore_, with streaming
decks, slowly but surely beat her way to the westward against contrary
winds. Sometimes it was useless to attempt to proceed against the
tremendous head sea, and she was hove to for a time. Then a gale would
swoop down, sails would be furled or reefed; and after it was over, a few
hours of what Captain Meade facetiously called “pleasant weather” would
intervene. Then, if it happened to be day, old Sol shed his kindly
warmth upon the ship, and the leaden sky was changed to an alluring blue.
If night, the same glorious harvest moon that shone on fields and
vineyards far away, here flooded the angry ocean with her soft,
mysterious light. At such times, when it was possible to set a few
sails, the merry clank, clunk, clank, of the capstan was heard as the
heavy yards were hoisted, to the wild accompaniment of a sailors’ chorus.
Every day it was “Tack ship” or “All hands reef sail,” until officers and
crew were well-nigh fagged out. Most of those on board had been through
the same experience many times, and knew that until it ended, all they
could do was to bear their trials as best they could.
But one day there were indications of a change for the better. The ship
was so far to the west, that a fair wind would enable her to steer north,
cross the 50th. parallel, and leave Cape Horn behind. The state of the
barometer, combined with other well known signs, led Captain Meade to
predict “a regular old ripper from the southeast,” which was just what
was wanted.
A violent snow-storm struck the _Sagamore_ that evening, soon covering
the decks with a mantle of white. After it ceased the wind nearly
failed, and it was decided to put the ship on the other tack, so as to be
in readiness to receive the south-easter which was felt to be at hand.
When the passengers came on deck after supper, the whole southern horizon
was black as pitch, sea and sky blending together in one dark, lowering
mass. All hands were called to strip the ship; halyards were let go,
sheets slackened, buntlines hauled in, and then the men, in rubber boots
and oilers, climbed the rigging and went out upon the swaying yards. The
gale struck her before the work was concluded; the icy polar wind was
soon screeching through the rigging, to the accompaniment of whirling
snow-flakes and flying spray; hail-stones pattered on the deck; and
amidst all this, the port watch had to work an hour overtime before it
was possible to go below and get supper. It is not an enviable
task,—furling stiff, wet sails, one after another, while a bitter wind
blows with a force that makes it necessary to hold on with one hand, to
avoid being blown into the sea, while you work with the other—and all
this at an elevation of sixty or seventy feet above the deck. The wind
kept getting into the belly of the half-frozen sails, making them
slippery as inflated balloons, and causing the men ten times the usual
work to get them laid on the yards; while the pelting snow and hail,
combined with the wild plunges of the ship, made it difficult to retain
their precarious footing. But the job was finished at last, and grog
served out.
Mr. Marsh came below cold and wet, in spite of his oilers, and his eyes
heavy from loss of sleep.
“Isn’t this as bad a gale as you were ever in?” asked Hartley. “They
were stretching life-lines on the quarter-deck when we came below, which
is certainly unusual.”
The mate looked at him a minute, and then burst out irrelevantly, “I’d
give a month’s pay to have the son of a sea-cook here who wrote ‘A life
on the ocean wave.’ Hang me if I wouldn’t heave him overboard!” And he
proceeded to spread a blanket on the floor before the stove, brought a
pillow from his room, and threw himself down in his clothes without more
words.
The passengers spent the evening at the cabin windows, watching the
booming seas roll on board. Both knew they were in for a night of it,
and upon retiring, took the precaution to place the “weatherboards” in
the front side of their berths, that they might not be pitched out before
morning.
Under two topsails and a staysail, the ship tore through the water like a
race horse; plunging madly forward, while the big seas astern chased her
as a pack of wolves might pursue their prey. The distinctive feature of
this gale was that it came from the southeast, instead of from the west,
as all the previous ones had done, and was, therefore, a fair wind. The
one danger now was, lest it should increase to such a degree that the
ship would be unable longer to run before it, thus losing the benefit of
a gale which, had it blown with less fury, would have carried her flying
across the 50th parallel in twenty-four hours.
Captain Meade was up all night, anxiously noting the behavior of the
ship, and calculating over and over the chances of being able to keep on
before the gale. Two of the three remaining sails had been furled when
the watches were changed at midnight, yet still that six thousand tons of
hull and cargo was driven through the water at a rate almost beyond
belief. Fast though she went, the seas behind were beginning to travel
more swiftly still, and already two had broken over the stern. Anxious
as the captain was to go on, he was too good a seaman to disregard these
warnings. In another hour the _Sagamore_ might be “pooped” at the rate
the sea was running, and so, after consulting with Mr. Marsh, he decided
that the ship must be hove to. He did not come to this conclusion
without great reluctance and some foreboding, for with the great sea
which was now on, the mere act of turning the ship around was attended
with great risk. In fact, when the mate was asked for his opinion, he
did not hesitate to say that he considered running before the gale
preferable to attempting to heave the ship to. Better to stand the
chance of being swamped, he contended, than to try an operation which
might result in throwing the _Sagamore_ upon her beam ends in the trough
of that mountainous sea. This contingency was what Captain Meade also
feared, but he decided that of the two dangers, going about was the
least.
Accordingly, soon after daybreak, Mr. Marsh bawled, “Wear ship,”
following this order with “Port fore brace!”
The mate was clinging to the ladder on the lee side of the forward house
when he gave these orders, and before his watch started to execute them,
he spoke a few words of warning. “Now, men, you all know there’s an ugly
sea running, so look out for yourselves, and don’t shift about without
holding fast to the life-lines. Port fore brace! Andrew, you stand by
the starboard brace ready to slack away.”
Jack and Montana were at the wheel, and Jumbo was at the lookout. All
the others save Andrew, pulled on the brace until the mate shouted
“Belay! Now haul in your slack to starboard.” They started to cross the
swimming deck, the sea being then on the beam. Some had reached the
starboard brace, others were in the middle of the deck; while Gene, who
had stopped to make the port brace fast, was not a third of the distance
across. At this moment the ship gave a wild roll, and the next, when her
starboard bulwarks were far down, an immense “green sea”—a solid wall of
water—broke on board.
What followed baffles description. Those who had hold of the starboard
brace escaped by clinging tightly to it and ducking beneath the bulwarks,
where they were buried under several feet of water, but the others fared
worse, being exposed to the full force of the sea. Whether Norris,
Smith, and Harry grasped the life-lines or not, they never could clearly
tell, but when the ship rolled to port, the great sea swept them before
it like flies. All three, by a providential circumstance, were knocked
down and jammed in between the iron stanchions and a spare spar lashed to
the bulwarks,—all that saved them from going overboard.
But poor Gene! He was caught up like a bit of chaff, and whirled away
over the submerged port bulwarks. Everyone near by, including the mate,
had all he could do to save his own life, and none of them knew for a few
moments what had happened. Captain Meade, from the quarter-deck, saw the
awful accident, and his cry of “Man overboard!” and Gene’s despairing
shriek mingled together. The captain was a cool man, and he desperately
hurled a coil of rope in less time than it takes to tell it, but even had
the lost man been able to grasp it, he could no more have held on at the
rate the ship was going than he could have seized a flash of lightning.
Before the words “Man overboard” were well out of the speaker’s mouth,
the poor fellow was disappearing astern; his white face and yellow
sou’-wester being plainly visible for several minutes.
It is frightful to see a fellow creature perish before one’s eyes, and at
the same time know that one is powerless to render the least
assistance—for before the _Sagamore_ could have been brought to a stand,
Gene would have been a mile or more astern. But even had he then been in
plain sight, no life boat ever constructed could have lived five seconds
in that boiling cauldron. The instant it touched the water, it would
have capsized or been crushed like an egg shell against the vessel’s
side. Death is repulsive at best to the young, even when the path
leading to it is smoothed over and made easier by loving friends and
relatives, or by the consolations of religious faith. But to be alive
and well one second, and then, before sixty seconds have told a minute,
to be swept from a vessel’s deck and left to drown—this is horrible
beyond conception. What mental tortures must that poor fellow have
suffered before losing consciousness, to see the ship, his only hope,
vanishing in the distance; and to know that there was not even one chance
in a thousand for his rescue. Thus was Gene lost off Cape Horn.
Meanwhile, others might share the same fate unless prompt action was
taken, and the wonder was that the mate and his whole watch had not
perished with Gene. When the ship freed herself from that sea, Harry and
Smith managed to rise unassisted, but Norris lay as one dead, with blood
trickling from a wound on the forehead, where he had been thrown against
the iron stanchion. Mr. Marsh ran to where he lay, and dragged the
unconscious sailor from his perilous position, into the forecastle. Here
he had to be left until the job of wearing ship was over, for the
_Sagamore_ was in more peril during those few minutes than at any time
during the voyage.
She came around without accident, though it was a close shave, and one
roll in particular, threw her over until the masts were almost parallel
with the ocean. She lay to, well, shipping comparatively little water,
and the mate at once investigated the injuries of Norris. He had
regained his senses, but felt badly, having received a hard blow on the
knee, besides an internal hurt which caused him much pain. The wound on
the head proved not to be serious, and after his external injuries had
received attention, he was helped to his bunk and relieved from duty
until complete rest should have restored him.
The gale blew itself out in twelve hours, and broke shortly after
breakfast, a fine day succeeding a night of storm, anxiety, and death.
But an atmosphere of gloom pervaded the ship. There was one empty bunk
in the forecastle; one man less to stand his trick at the wheel or on the
lookout; one hand less to sing out as the watch hauled on the braces; and
that one was the merriest and most light-hearted of all. His
intelligence and ready ability were in marked contrast to the ignorance
and stupidity which characterized most of the crew, and he was a
pronounced favorite with all on board;—most of all with Mr. Marsh, who
was difficult to please. The mate felt very badly over the matter, and
would not discuss it, even with the passengers. Captain Meade deplored
the calamity also, and said that during his score of years as master, he
had never before lost a man overboard from the deck, though three had
been killed at various times by falling from the yards.
The fatality was the subject of much discussion among the crew.
“If he’d of held onto the lines when he was a-crossin’ of the deck, he’d
been here now,” said one.
“That’s right,” said another. “I wonder when the captain’ll auction off
his clothes?”
“Not for a month, mebbe. He had some good togs, but I’d be afeerd to
wear ’em.”
“I never seen such an awful sea; it looked half way up to the fore yard.
Seems like Gene was too slick a bird not to hold on to somethin’, though.
I’ll warrant he jumped for the main riggin’, and missed it. Only
yesterday he was a-tellin’ of me how glad he would be when the ship got
into warmer latitudes.”
San Quentin had so far said nothing, but now the old man gave his opinion
in a loud and authoritative voice that silenced the discussion. “There
ain’t no use of explainin’ how he was carried overboard, nor sayin’ he’d
be here now ‘if’ somethin’ hadn’t happened. His time had come, and he
had to go, and that’s all there is about it. I’m more’n twice as old as
he was, but my time ain’t come, nor it won’t for ten years yet.” With
which prophecy the subject was dismissed.
When the mate wrote up the ship’s log that afternoon, he entered: “Sept.
29th—88 days out—Long. 78° 10′ W., Lat. 52° 22′ S.—barometer 28:65;
slowly rising—very severe gale from S. E., with heavy sea. Ran before it
till daylight, then hove to—Pumps carefully attended.”
He though a moment, and added: “Eugene Escarras, able seaman, aged 25, a
native of Algiers, was washed overboard from the main deck, and drowned.”
That was Gene’s epitaph.
* * * * *
The third day after the south-easter, both sea and sky wore a different
aspect than either had presented for many weeks past, and the air
reminded one of the first balmy spring day after a long winter. Even the
moaning, whistling sound in the rigging was gone, and the Cape pigeons
and albatross circled through the air with a seemingly new significance,
which was doubtless imaginary, as these Antarctic birds revel in storm
and cold. A gentle wind had come with the rising sun, and that morning,
for the first time in six weeks, the _Sagamore_ presented nearly her
whole spread of canvas to the breeze; everything, in fact, but skysails.
The bo’s’un’s leg was mending finely, and surgeon Hartley announced that
he would soon be able to leave his bunk. The two mates, ill-tempered
from overwork, and worn out from loss of sleep, knew their trials were
nearly over, and looked forward to the coming weeks of fair and pleasant
weather on the glorious Pacific. The various members of the crew
congratulated each other that their days of toil were about over. Soon
there would be no further use for mittens, rubber boots and oil-skins,
and on Sundays they could lie around the warm dry decks or fish from the
bows for hours. San Quentin and Jumbo made a wager as to how soon they
could go barefooted, and everyone on board was in fine spirits.
When Captain Meade worked out his sights that noon, he announced to the
passengers that the 50th parallel had been crossed during the forenoon
watch, on the 79th meridian of west longitude!
After twenty-six days, the ship was around Cape Horn.
The two captains and the passengers stood about the cabin table with the
chart spread out before them, and Captain Meade said, as they clinked
glasses, “Gentlemen, let us wish the _Sagamore_ a fifty days’ run from
here to San Francisco.”
FOOTNOTES.
{17a} A smooth piece of wood painted black and varnished. On one side
are directions in English telling those on a wreck where and how to
secure the hawser and tail-block. On the reverse side the same
directions are printed in French.
{17b} A running block, in which the breeches buoy travels upon the
hawser between the wreck and the shore.
{31} An expression often heard at sea, which means that there is not
sufficient room inside the galley to turn a pan-cake. It is a joke, of
course, but gives a fair idea of the exceeding smallness of the cook’s
domain on many brigs and schooners of light tonnage.
{79} This frail species of craft, which is much used in South American
coast waters, is usually formed by lashing several planks together, in
the form of a raft, the middle one being longer than the others, and
slightly turned up at the forward end so as to form a rude bow. Empty
casks are often lashed around the sides to lend buoyancy, and a single
sail completes the outfit. The Brazilian government will not allow any
other form of vessel at Fernando de Noronha—not even one for the
Governor’s use—lest the convicts should escape.
{101} When a seafaring man invites you to splice the main brace, he asks
you to join him in taking some liquid refreshment.
{132} Thick cones of clouded glass let into the quarter-deck. The
lazarette beneath obtains all its illumination from these deadlights,
which focus the rays of light powerfully.
{175} Many readers may fancy this an exaggeration, and marvel that such
a man should be accepted. The author recently left port on a large
American ship bound on a long voyage, and next day it was discovered that
there were four “able seamen” in the forecastle who knew no more of
steering by compass than does an infant, and could not even name the
yards and sails correctly. Like the rest of the crew, they had been
signed and placed on board by a U.S. Shipping Commissioner, who had taken
the usual precaution of first getting them drunk. The captain has the
privilege of rejecting any incompetent seamen, but in this case the test
questions were of no use because of the men being intoxicated. One of
them looked quite intelligent, but next day when they became sober, their
defects were discovered. It was then too late to get rid of them, and
for several months the officers had to put up with stupidity and
incapacity of the grossest character. Such cases are not rare, as
shipping commissioners can usually mulct “greenhorns” of at least $10 as
the price of getting them a ship.
{183} The common nautical contraction of “hermaphrodite.”