THE EMBARKATION.
Having completed our outfit, written our last letters to distant
correspondents, and bidden adieu to many kind and faithful friends in
New York, we went on board the little schooner Mary Jane on the 16th of
August, 1833, and sailed for one of “the ends of the earth.”
From my journal of our voyage to Patagonia I make extracts:
_Schooner Mary Jane, off Sandy Hook, Aug. 16, 1833._--By the good hand
of God, our voyage to the far South is now commenced. We have bidden
smiling and weeping friends farewell. The city, with its turrets and
towers and lofty spires, has faded in the distance. Its busy hum is
hushed. With favoring breeze and pilot at the helm, our little bark has
sped down the channel, and now the great ocean opens on our sight. The
sun is setting behind the western hills of my beloved country. The wind
has died away. A placid calmness rests on the deep.
Captain Clift calls all hands, exhorts them to observe the rules of
morality, and to obey orders _promptly_ and _cheerfully_. He then
invited one of us to offer up prayer to Almighty God.
_Aug. 17._ We slept--and awaked. But the city, the islands, the
Bay, the headlands, the continent with all its distant hills, have
disappeared like a “vision of the night.” All is ocean around and under
us, and our little cockle-shell is ploughing a white foaming furrow
along the bosom of the deep.
On the 18th we had a heavy gale. Our light shallop danced and leaped
and staggered, and plunged like a mermaid into the foaming billows, and
like a duck or a swan received the spray and the leaping waves upon her
deck. We were in the Gulf-stream, and were severely handled for several
days, shipping heavy seas, but coming out well.
_Sept. 7_--lat. 34° 11′ N., lon. 29° 12′ W. We have had both stormy and
fair weather; have sighted one ship and one brig, but were not able to
speak to them. We have religious services on board when the weather
is good, and a part of the crew seem attentive and thoughtful. Some
retire to quiet places on deck to read the Bible and religious books
and tracts, and to converse. Others are hard and heathenish. A few seem
resolved to reform and lead new lives.
Our sympathies are much moved for a young sailor whose name is Charles
Palmer, of N. Y. City. He says that he is a member of Dr. Phillips’
church, of N. Y., but that becoming somewhat thoughtless he shipped
on board the Mary Jane without the consent of his parents. For this
he is now very sorry, as he is often attacked with fearful cramps and
convulsions, attended with delirium. Mr. Arms, having studied medicine,
administers anti-spasmodics and sedatives; and during these attacks I
give up my berth to him, and sleep on the transom. He seems grateful
for these cares.
_Sept. 22._ On ascending to the deck this morning we were surprised
to find our little vessel among the Cape de Verde Islands, and close
under the lee of the island Brava. A noble brig lay at anchor in the
bay, floating the “stars and stripes.” Soon a boat came alongside, when
we learned that the vessel was the Susan Elizabeth, Captain Davis,
of Boston, bound to Rio de Janeiro. This was the first vessel we had
spoken, though we had sighted five sails on our way. We glided slowly
away from the Cape de Verdes without anchoring or landing, and soon
lost sight of land.
_Oct. 6._ Captain Clift and Mr. Burrows, the mate, hunted the heavens
and the sea to-day for our latitude, but could find none. They found
20° of longitude. For 50 days we have been striving hard to _consume_
our latitude, and it has just left us, but we shall struggle again
to gain more than we have lost. We wish to make 52° from the great
Southern Hemisphere. We have glided smoothly over the equator without
feeling a jar, and, better still, that slimy old rascal, Neptune, has
not boarded us with his razor and slush-pot and brush; nor has Bacchus
intruded with bottle and song and revelry. May these sea-monsters sink
forever in the deep!
_Oct. 9_--lat. 6° S. For 54 days we have been pursuing the sun as he
has been moving south on his blazing car. To-day we have overtaken him,
and he looks down upon us from the zenith of his glory, flooding us
with his vertical rays. Now we could truly say:
“Your form no darkling shadow throws
Across the vessel’s deck.”
We shall now run south of the sun for a long time, and may often
long for his nearer visits. How our little planet swings and
changes position! The great Northern Hemisphere, with all its golden
constellations, seems to be dipping, while the Southern rises and hangs
out its shining lamps to guide our pathway over the dark abyss of
waters.
The Southern Cross, also, rises higher and higher to remind us of the
Sacrifice and of our great errand into the wild and dreary realms of
the South.
_Oct. 12_--lat. 14° 15′ S. Our speed is now 200 miles a day. One of the
Magellan clouds is in full view, hanging about 10 degrees above the
horizon. The appearance of this nebula is like that of the galaxy, and
it is, no doubt, formed by the blended rays of unnumbered stars.
Our seasons are now all reversed. We are in the midst of an opening
spring, while the blasts of autumn are sweeping over the North. It
seems odd to look north for the sun, and to see our tiny shadows fall
southward.
_Oct. 15._ Land ho! At daylight our good captain awoke us to see the
island of Trinidad, in lat. 20° 28′ S. Before sunrise we also made the
islands of Martin Vas, four in number, lying 9 leagues east of Trinidad.
These islets are rough, rocky heaps of volcanic products rising
abruptly from the ocean to the height of several hundred feet, sterile
and uninhabited except by a few goats and many sea-birds. We did not
land, and before noon all _terra firma_ had sunk below the horizon.
_Oct. 23_--lat. 34° 3′ S. We had a rousing gale on the 20th, with
drenching rain and boisterous sea. Since then we have had variable
weather, but have run rapidly on our course.
Birds of the “south seas” gather thick about us. The lively little
stormy-petrel, called by sailors “Mother Cary’s Chickens,” and the
Cape pigeons are very numerous and sportive. The soaring mollemoke
(_Procellaria glacialis_) and the proud albatross (_Diomedia exulans_)
sail gracefully above and around us, often lighting and dancing on the
rolling waves. The albatross is very large, often measuring from 12 to
13 feet from tip to tip of his outspread wings.
On the 25th and 26th we were visited by a storm of wind, rain, and
thunder more terrible than any that we had experienced. The night was
dark, the rain poured in torrents, the tempest howled through the
strained rigging, and ever and anon the thunderbolts from the black and
swirling clouds came with a crash which seemed to rend the heavens,
causing the “poor sailors to stand amazed and quiver,” while the
blazing lightning seemed to set the clouds on fire and revealed the
angry billows of the ocean rolling in sublime majesty and threatening
to swallow up our bark with all on board.
How strikingly we were reminded of the sublime language of the royal
psalmist: “The Lord sitteth king upon the floods. The voice of the Lord
is upon the waters; the God of glory thundereth; the Lord is upon many
waters”!
On the 27th the storm had subsided, and the day was quiet. We saw
whales, porpoises, and sea-fowls, great and small, in abundance. On the
28th almost a dead calm attended us, and multitudes of birds gathered
around us. By feeding them we drew a large family within a fathom of
our vessel. There was something social and domestic in the sight of
this brood, and it afforded us no little amusement to see the dexterity
with which they dived after pieces of meat thrown to them.
_Oct. 31._ After another gale more severe than any I have hitherto
recorded on this voyage, we are able again to use our pens to tell of
“the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep.”
During the night of the 28th, in lat. 40° S., long. 53° W., the wind
returned in fresh strength and continued to increase until morning,
when it proved to be a terrific pampéro, blowing directly from the
great pampas of S. America. Amidst the roar of the wind the stern
command of the captain was heard, “All hands ahoy!” and in two minutes
all hands were on deck making everything as secure as possible.
All the sails were furled, except the head of the foresail, just enough
to make the vessel feel the helm.
Under this small piece of canvas the vessel was put before the wind,
which blew from the SW., and made to stand to the NE., which was
going directly back over the ground we had passed. Soon the gale
increased into a fearful hurricane, and the angry waves assumed a more
threatening aspect, continually boarding us from every quarter and
threatening to engulf us.
Scudding now became unsafe, as the danger of broaching to, upsetting,
and sinking was imminent.
For hours no man on board but the captain dared touch the helm.
The chief mate was a man of iron frame, but he shrank from the
helm in dismay, and there stood the brave master--an excellent
seaman--breasting the roaring tempest and fighting the foaming billows
until his strength was nearly exhausted, when, with admirable skill
and resolution, he succeeded in “heaving to” the drenched and laboring
bark. The day was dark and fearful, the wind increasing every hour.
The conflict of the elements exceeded anything we had ever seen. The
roar of the winds, the towering of the waves, the reeling and creaking
and trembling of the vessel, the giving way of spars and rigging, the
breaking of railings and bulwarks, and the hoarse voice of command from
the officers, all bespoke a scene of confusion, of awe, and of peril
which none can understand but those who have witnessed a tempest at
sea. All day long on the 29th the wind seemed to increase in strength
and fury, and the waves rolled in sublime grandeur. Every succeeding
billow as it approached our little bark looked as if it must go over
us, but, coming under the bows and passing away at the stern, it lifted
us upon its crest, where for a moment our vessel quivered, as if
sensitive to fear, and then plunged down an angle of some 20 degrees
into the deep valley--the “trough of the sea”--in which her topmasts
could hardly have been seen from the valley beyond the next billow.
So long as these mountain waves were regular there was little danger;
it was a sight of grace and beauty to see the majestic wave as it came
under the vessel, lifting her up some 20 to 30 feet, holding her for a
few seconds on its foaming crest, sprinkling her with a white feathery
spray as with snowflakes, and then letting her down its sloping side
into the deep valley below. It seemed somewhat like marine _coasting_,
and indeed the motion was not unpleasant.
But ever and anon came a fierce, foaming billow, towering high and
roaring as if to devour us. This would sometimes “comb over” and break,
striking on the stern, on the bow, amidships, on our quarters, or
along the whole length of the ship’s sides, sweeping our decks from
“stem to stern,” dashing down the companion-way, drenching the cabin,
setting furniture afloat in wild confusion, and soaking our berths,
our clothing, our books and papers, and seeming, for the time being,
to have full control of the ship, the cargo, and the crew. These were
fearful breaches, and it often seemed as if all was lost. But it was
wonderful to see our little shallop rise like a sea-gull from such
a crashing and drenching flood, shake herself from the foam which
filled her scuppers and poured in cataracts over her sides, and like a
storm-bird adjust herself for another charge of her marine assailant.
During most of the time the sailors were holding on to the standing
rigging with desperate grasp. No table was laid, and no one ate except
by snatches.
This was a wind-storm from the great Buenos Ayres pampas, or prairies.
There was no rain, nor thunder and lightning, and yet the sun was
invisible by day and the stars by night, and no observations could be
taken to determine our latitude and longitude until the storm was over.
The obscuration of the heavenly bodies arose from the immense clouds
of spray raised by the tempest, which filled the atmosphere to a great
height and fell like a dense Scotch mist upon our decks. So thick was
this spray that at times we could not see the bowsprit from the main
deck, and a sailor at a few yards’ distance looked more like Hamlet’s
ghost than like a man.
But all things in nature are governed by the law of compensation, and
so it is with the laws of storms. Strong winds can raise the ocean
waves to a certain height, after which they have no power to elevate;
but, on the contrary, as the wind increases it can only depress the
billows by its great pressure, and by _uncapping_, so to speak, the
waves and lifting their crested foam into the atmosphere in the form of
spray, in which the sun in his brightness paints rainbows and makes all
the prismatic tints quiver and dance in aërial beauty.
But our sympathies were greatly moved for the master, the officers, and
the whole crew during this terrific tempest. Everything alow and aloft
was thoroughly drenched with the boarding waves or with the thick,
cold mist. We had no chance for drying by night or day, and were also
unable to cook or to get hot food; so that all of us were shivering
and chilled with cold. The sight of the vessel and of all on board was
dreary enough; but if the poet be correct,
“The darkest day, live till to-morrow, will have passed away;”
and so this storm ended, and we said with joy: “He maketh the storm a
calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because
they are quiet.”
Captain Clift labored with amazing energy, thorough nautical skill,
and untired patience and care to save our ship and all on board from a
grave in the deep; and his officers and crew were prompt and ready to
obey orders. The captain and the officers all say that they have never
before passed through such an awful tempest.
This last day of October is one of gladness. All are engaged in
repairing the damages to the vessel, in drying clothing, and enjoying
the warm sunshine.
_Nov. 1._ We are far from our course, having sailed and drifted many
miles northwardly during the storm.
Charles Palmer, the sailor heretofore mentioned as afflicted with
convulsions, had a severe attack last night, and was brought into the
cabin, where we cared for him.
_Nov. 8_--lat. 48° S., lon. 65° 14′ W. At 10 +A.M.+ the cry “Land ho!”
rang from all parts of the vessel. The low, sandy shores of Eastern
Patagonia near Cape Blanco are in full view about thirty miles to the
westward. The day is delightful; the sky unclouded, the air soft and
bland, the rays of the sun mild and grateful, all giving indications of
the vernal season. But we see no fields smiling under the hand of the
husbandman; no gardens and orchards dressed in the blooming beauties of
spring; no harbors adorned with the waving flags of commerce; no cities
lifting their towers against the sky; no peaceful villages and dainty
hamlets sprinkling the extended plains; no glittering church-spires
pointing the weary pilgrim to “a better country.” Art and science have
never shed their kindly influences over this benighted land; nor has
the “Light of Life” yet dawned upon it. Here the fierce savage has
roamed from age to age, tearing the flesh and drinking the blood of his
prey. Generation after generation has gone down to the shades of death
without a beam of light to cheer the dark valley, or a “morning star”
to give promise of “an eternal day.”
_Night._--A strong westerly breeze sets us eastward, and we have lost
sight of the land.
_Nov. 10._ We have had divine service on board to-day, for the last
time probably. Our next Sabbath we expect to spend among the Patagonian
savages.
We have enjoyed religious worship on the Lord’s day when it has been
fine weather during the voyage, and our little congregation is dear to
us. Some of the crew express faith in Christ, and others have appeared
sober-minded and impressible under the sound of the Gospel.
_Nov. 11._ At 5 +P.M.+ we made Cape Virgin on the north bank of the
entrance to Magellan Strait, bearing due west and distant about
eighteen miles.
_Nov. 12._ Arose this morning and found the Mary Jane within the
Strait, beating against a strong head-wind. At noon we passed the first
“narrows,” but at 5 +P.M.+ we were obliged to anchor on account of a
strong head-wind and current. As our vessel dragged fast, the anchor
was taken up, when one of the flukes was found broken off, and we were
in peril of drifting on shore. Sail was instantly made, and our vessel
ran back through the narrows till a new anchorage was found, when
another anchor was let go, which held the ship.
Captain Clift reported the broken anchor as a new one purchased in New
York. On examination it was found that a flaw in the fluke had been
filled with putty and concealed with paint! Such a flaw has its moral.
The land on each side of the Strait is thus far low and gently
undulating, with here and there a hill of little height. The beach
is white sand. As we sailed along, the savages on either side raised
a great smoke in many places. This is a common signal on descrying a
vessel approaching their coast.
_Nov. 13._ We lay at anchor all day on account of a fierce westerly
wind. As the tide fell, Captain Clift found it necessary to drop off
into deeper water. Much difficulty was encountered in finding good
holding ground, and we were all apprehensive of being driven out again
into the open Atlantic. At length, however, good anchorage was found,
and our bark rides safely.