At sea, Jan. 24, 1796.
I had hoped not to resume my pen upon the face of the restless Atlantic;
but that, long ere this, I might have addressed you from the island of
Barbadoes; unhappily however, nearly four more tedious weeks have been
consumed, in struggling against the united violence of merciless winds,
and a relentless ocean. The _new year_ set in, with mildness, and we
began to sail pleasantly on our passage. The breeze was fair; the sea
smooth and tranquil; the sun shone with genial warmth; the ship advanced
in steady motion; and our cares were dissipated in the hope that all our
disasters were buried in the grave of the _old year_. But, alas! our
flattering prospect had not the duration of a day.
Before the next morning the storm was renewed, and from that moment gale
has succeeded to gale, and storm to storm, defeating all our happiest
calculations; even the best established prognostics have deceived us;
clouds separating, a change of wind, heavy rain, and the like, are no
longer any indication of an abating tempest. At one time, under the
clearest azure sky, and the brightest sun, the dry wind tears in keenest
violence, as if rushing, from the parched clouds to devour all the
fluids of the ocean: at another, loaded with moisture, it bursts into
sudden gusts and squalls, heaving the ship, almost out of the sea, and
leaving her as it were suspended in the air; and, as if the fates had
resolved to torment us, whenever the wind, and the heavy waves have a
little subsided, and we have looked for steady sailing on our passage, a
breeze has sprung up, from the most unfavorable point, and though
moderate, for a moment, has quickly increased, again, to a storm. Seven
long weeks have passed, and with difficulty can it be said that we have
had an interval of one diurnal round, free from the perils of raging
winds, or of the huge and troubled mountains thereby engendered!
Did I not feel that I am steering _from_ my friends, the cruel
perplexities of this tormenting voyage would lead me into a vow, perhaps
somewhat rash, never again to intrust my body to so fickle a guardian as
the sea. But, not all the perils of which she is mistress, nor any thing
short of death, can deter me from again hazarding my person in order to
return amidst those I love. Novelty has many charms; and it is pleasing
to regard society under its various forms, in every country and every
clime; but, even in this, the great enjoyment centres in the endearing
hope of being, some day, stationary amongst our friends; for to
associate with those of similar minds, whose dispositions, whose
interests and pursuits are congenial with our own, is the highest boon
of civilized life: beyond this, the world has nothing to offer.
I still look forward to the happy termination of our passage; and feel
that the present sufferings will arm me against a multitude of future
alarms. I can almost fancy that a good ship is imperishable on the open
sea; and could you know all that ours has borne, you would be inclined
to countenance the opinion. She has amply proved herself to be what the
sailors term “_a good sea boat_;” and, from the events of our voyage,
you will feel the force of the technical expression that “_she can live
in all weathers_.” The shocks and beatings she has withstood, are almost
incredible. Her topmasts, yards, and different parts of the rigging have
been carried away—her sails split—the quarter boards stove in: things
have been washed overboard from the deck—seas have broken over
her—sprays dashed in the cabin windows—and various other accidents have
befallen her: yet all have been repaired, and she still rides
triumphant!
During the severity of a storm I have often remarked how differently the
scene has affected the minds of those accustomed, and those who are
unaccustomed to the sea. The sailor patiently observes the gale, lowers
the yards and topmasts, furls or reefs his sails, makes all snug, and
thanks the tempest for a holiday; heedless of the perils which surround
him, he extends himself in his hammock, or reclines his head on a plank
or a locker, and, sinking into the arms of Morpheus, regards the
howlings of the storm as his peaceful lullaby. The landsman, on the
contrary, is restless and impatient; listens in terror to the wind; and
shrinks in agitation at every sound: the dangers that are, he magnifies,
and his mind is tortured in the creation of others, which do not exist.
Each moment, to him, breeds new alarm. He asks a thousand questions,
dictated by a thousand fears. He goes upon deck—looks round with
affrighted eyes—his feet are unable to support his trembling body—he
clings to the companion door-way, and, thence, ventures to cast a look
at the ocean and its waves. His head grows giddy—nausea seizes him, and
he again descends to the cabin in extreme anxiety. He fixes himself in
the leeward corner—places his elbows on his knees—his head on his hands,
and, concealing his eyes, bewails his wretched fate! Suddenly he again
seeks the deck—multiplies all the perils of the moment—torments the
captain and sailors with new questions, all expressive of his
terror—fastens again to the companion door-way—gazes at the masts and
sails—observes the yards dip into the ocean—feels the yieldings of the
ship—imagines she is upset—fancies the masts are falling overboard, and,
in each rolling wave, beholds a devouring sea. Destruction occupies his
mind! He returns below—impatiently seats himself—seeks relief in a
book—is unable to read—throws away the volume—again takes it up, and
again throws it down: nausea returns, and he is seized with dizziness
and retching. His bodily feelings now augment the disquietude of his
mind, and, at length, as a remedy for both, he prostrates himself in his
birth; but is still wretched and comfortless—all rest is denied
him—sickness and anxiety remain—and he lies rolling, in fear and
anguish, to wear out the fury of the storm!
Strong as this contrast may appear, I have often seen it, fully,
verified. During a gale we sometimes feel amazement at observing the
carpenter and his mates working, quietly, in the tops; and the sailors
hanging about the yards and rigging, in seeming unconcern—tossed by each
rolling sea from side to side, far beyond the limits of the ship, and,
not unfrequently, while seated at the end of the yard, dipped and
drenched in the foaming billows! The indifference of seafaring men to
the dangers around them is exemplified in every part of their conduct,
and, even, in their common expressions. Many times when we have felt the
most vivid apprehensions from the fierceness of the tempest and the
roughness of the ocean, and have, tremblingly, sought relief, by an
appeal to the captain or mate, we have met only a look of unconcern, or,
at most, the laconic reply “_It blows fresh._” From their quaint and
technical terms it is difficult for any one, unaccustomed to the sea, to
know precisely what they mean to convey. Their degrees of comparison are
peculiar to themselves, and, at first, not easily to be comprehended:
taking the term fresh as the positive, they say it blows _fresh_—it
blows _strong_—it blows _hard_; and again, to denote the severest
possible gale, they assume hard as the positive—add an oath to form the
comparative, and augment that oath to constitute the superlative: thus,
it blows _hard_; it blows _d—— hard_; it blows _d—— hard, by ——_.
Previous to this extremity we are commonly furnished with an omen, by
the captain coming below, to change his long coat for a short round
jacket; from which we always prognosticate unfavorably; it being a
precaution which denotes busy, and perhaps, perilous employment.
Our steward is a very old sailor, tough as the ropes of the ship, and
callous to every alarm; being the person more immediately about us, it
most frequently falls to his lot to be teased with questions regarding
the weather, the wind, and the sea; and the steady apathy of his
feelings, together with his excessive and _sang froid_ and unconcern,
have been subjects of remark—sometimes, indeed, of vexation to us; for
his utter insensibility to the circumstances calling forth our cares and
alarms, has, occasionally, provoked us. During one of our perilous
storms, the wind having shifted to a point somewhat less unfavorable,
although still blowing a terrific gale, the usual question was
asked—“Well, steward! how is the weather?”—“_Squally, squally,
gentlemen—the wind’s coming about—be fine weather soon._” According to
the feelings of this old tar, the severest tempests that we have
suffered, were only squalls, for, in the midst of the most tremendous
gales, his reply has always been, “_Squally, a little squally
gentlemen._”—“Are we making any way, steward?”—“_Oh yes, fine wind,
quite free, going large, make six or seven knots._”—“But surely we have
too much of this good wind, steward?”—“_Oh, no! fine wind as can blow,
gentlemen—but a little squally—rather squally._”
Our dinner ceremony is often rendered a humorous scene: at this hour the
cabin being the general rendezvous of the party, we meet—crawl,
trembling, towards the table, and tie ourselves in the chairs. A tray is
set before us, with deep holes cut in it for the dishes, plates, and
glasses; the table and chairs are lashed to the deck; yet one or other
frequently gives way, and upsets half the things in the cabin! Presently
enters the steward with soup, followed by his little slave with
potatoes; and the servants with such other covers as there may chance to
be. But scarcely are the things upon table, and the servants stationed,
clinging to the backs of our chairs, before a sudden lurch of the ship
tumbles all into disorder. Away go steward, servants, and little Mungo,
to the lee corner of the cabin: the soup salutes the lap of one of us;
another receives a leg of pork; a third is presented with a piece of
mutton or beef; a couple of chickens or ducks fly to another; the
pudding jumps nearly into the mouth of the next; and the potatoes are
tossed in all directions, about the deck of the cabin. One seizes his
plate; another stops his knife and fork; some cling to the table,
thinking only of saving their persons; this secures the bottle; the
next, half fallen, holds up his glass in one hand, and fixes himself
fast to his chair with the other. Plates, dishes, knives, forks, and
glasses clatter together in all the discord of the moment. Every thing
is in confusion. The ship now becomes steady for a moment; the scattered
parts of the dinner are collected; and those who have escaped sickness,
again attempt to eat. Some, foreseeing all these accidents, fix
themselves in a corner upon the cabin-deck, and take the plate between
their knees, fancying themselves in security: but, quickly, they are
tumbled, in ridiculous postures, sprawling, with outstretched limbs, to
the other side of the cabin. One cries out with sore bruises; another
from being wetted with the sprays: this calls for help; that relieves
his stomach from sickness: some abuse the helmsman; others the ship; and
others the sea; while all join in a chorus of imprecations upon the
wind.
With pleasure I feel myself able to inform you that we have indications
of having passed the Azores. The temperature of the atmosphere is become
very genial to our feelings, and, amidst our tossings and bufferings, we
seem to have brought all-inspiring May close upon the heels of
Christmas. A considerable quantity of sea-weed appears floating upon the
water, and this, the sailors observe, is never seen to the north of the
Western Isles, it being supposed to proceed from the gulf of Mexico, and
not to be carried beyond these islands. We are steering more to the
south than our direct course; but we are glad to make _Southing_ at the
expense of a little _Westing_, in the hope of beating out of the
latitude of the tormenting gales, which have, almost incessantly, beset
us: but I forget that I am tiring you with uninteresting details, and
that my letter is growing as tedious as the voyage.
Adieu.