Wednesday, November 5th. The weather was fine during the previous
night, and we had a clear view of the Magellan Clouds and of the
Southern Cross. The Magellan Clouds consist of three small nebulae
in the southern part of the heavens,-- two bright, like the
milky-way, and one dark. They are first seen, just above the
horizon, soon after crossing the southern tropic. The Southern
Cross begins to be seen at 18° N., and, when off Cape Horn, is
nearly overhead. It is composed of four stars in that form, and is
one of the brightest constellations in the heavens.
During the first part of this day (Wednesday) the wind was light,
but after noon it came on fresh, and we furled the royals. We
still kept the studding-sails out, and the captain said he should
go round with them if he could. Just before eight o'clock (then
about sundown, in that latitude) the cry of ``All hands ahoy!''
was sounded down the fore scuttle and the after hatchway, and,
hurrying upon deck, we found a large black cloud rolling on toward
us from the southwest, and darkening the whole heavens. ``Here
comes Cape Horn!'' said the chief mate; and we had hardly time to
haul down and clew up before it was upon us. In a few minutes a
heavier sea was raised than I had ever seen, and as it was
directly ahead, the little brig, which was no better than a
bathing-machine, plunged into it, and all the forward part of her
was under water; the sea pouring in through the bow-ports and
hawse-holes and over the knight-heads, threatening to wash
everything overboard. In the lee scuppers it was up to a man's
waist. We sprang aloft and double-reefed the topsails, and furled
the other sails, and made all snug. But this would not do; the
brig was laboring and straining against the head sea, and the gale
was growing worse and worse. At the same time sleet and hail were
driving with all fury against us. We clewed down, and hauled out
the reef-tackles again, and close-reefed the fore-topsail, and
furled the main, and hove her to, on the starboard tack. Here was
an end to our fine prospects. We made up our minds to head winds
and cold weather; sent down the royal yards, and unrove the gear;
but all the rest of the top hamper remained aloft, even to the
sky-sail masts and studding-sail booms.
Throughout the night it stormed violently,-- rain, hail, snow, and
sleet beating upon the vessel,-- the wind continuing ahead, and
the sea running high. At daybreak (about three A.M.) the deck was
covered with snow. The captain sent up the steward with a glass of
grog to each of the watch; and all the time that we were off the
Cape, grog was given to the morning watch, and to all hands
whenever we reefed topsails. The clouds cleared away at sunrise,
and, the wind becoming more fair, we again made sail and stood
nearly up to our course.
Thursday, November 6th. It continued more pleasant through the
first part of the day, but at night we had the same scene over
again. This time we did not heave to, as on the night before, but
endeavored to beat to windward under close-reefed topsails,
balance-reefed trysail, and fore top-mast staysail. This night it
was my turn to steer, or, as the sailors say, my trick at the
helm, for two hours. Inexperienced as I was, I made out to steer
to the satisfaction of the officer, and neither Stimson nor I gave
up our tricks, all the time that we were off the Cape. This was
something to boast of, for it requires a good deal of skill and
watchfulness to steer a vessel close hauled, in a gale of wind,
against a heavy head sea. ``Ease her when she pitches,'' is the
word; and a little carelessness in letting her ship a heavy sea
might sweep the decks, or take a mast out of her.
Friday, November 7th. Towards morning the wind went down, and
during the whole forenoon we lay tossing about in a dead calm, and
in the midst of a thick fog. The calms here are unlike those in
most parts of the world, for here there is generally so high a sea
running, with periods of calm so short that it has no time to go
down; and vessels, being under no command of sails or rudder, lie
like logs upon the water. We were obliged to steady the booms and
yards by guys and braces, and to lash everything well below. We
now found our top hamper of some use, for though it is liable to
be carried away or sprung by the sudden ``bringing up'' of a
vessel when pitching in a chopping sea, yet it is a great help in
steadying a vessel when rolling in a long swell,-- giving more
slowness, ease, and regularity to the motion.
The calm of the morning reminds me of a scene which I forgot to
describe at the time of its occurrence, but which I remember from
its being the first time that I had heard the near breathing of
whales. It was on the night that we passed between the Falkland
Islands and Staten Land. We had the watch from twelve to four,
and, coming upon deck, found the little brig lying perfectly
still, enclosed in a thick fog, and the sea as smooth as though
oil had been poured upon it; yet now and then a long, low swell
rolling under its surface, slightly lifting the vessel, but
without breaking the glassy smoothness of the water. We were
surrounded far and near by shoals of sluggish whales and
grampuses, which the fog prevented our seeing, rising slowly to
the surface, or perhaps lying out at length, heaving out those
lazy, deep, and long-drawn breathings which give such an
impression of supineness and strength. Some of the watch were
asleep, and the others were quiet, so that there was nothing to
break the illusion, and I stood leaning over the bulwarks,
listening to the slow breathings of the mighty creatures,-- now
one breaking the water just alongside, whose black body I almost
fancied that I could see through the fog; and again another, which
I could just hear in the distance,-- until the low and regular
swell seemed like the heaving of the ocean's mighty bosom to the
sound of its own heavy and long-drawn respirations.
Towards the evening of this day (Friday, 7th) the fog cleared off,
and we had every appearance of a cold blow; and soon after sundown
it came on. Again it was clew up and haul down, reef and furl,
until we had got her down to close-reefed topsails, double-reefed
trysail, and reefed fore spenser. Snow, hail, and sleet were
driving upon us most of the night, and the sea was breaking over
the bows and covering the forward part of the little vessel; but,
as she would lay her course, the captain refused to heave her to.
Saturday, November 8th. This day began with calm and thick fog,
and ended with hail, snow, a violent wind, and close-reefed
topsails.
Sunday, November 9th. To-day the sun rose clear and continued so
until twelve o'clock, when the captain got an observation. This
was very well for Cape Horn, and we thought it a little remarkable
that, as we had not had one unpleasant Sunday during the whole
voyage, the only tolerable day here should be a Sunday. We got
time to clear up the steerage and forecastle, and set things to
rights, and to overhaul our wet clothes a little. But this did not
last very long. Between five and six-- the sun was then nearly
three hours high-- the cry of ``All Starbowlines[1] ahoy!'' summoned
our watch on deck, and immediately all hands were called. A true
specimen of Cape Horn was coming upon us. A great cloud of a dark
slate-color was driving on us from the southwest; and we did our
best to take in sail (for the light sails had been set during the
first part of the day) before we were in the midst of it. We had
got the light sails furled, the courses hauled up, and the topsail
reef-tackles hauled out, and were just mounting the fore-rigging
when the storm struck us. In an instant the sea, which had been
comparatively quiet, was running higher and higher; and it became
almost as dark as night. The hail and sleet were harder than I had
yet felt them; seeming almost to pin us down to the rigging. We
were longer taking in sail than ever before; for the sails were
stiff and wet, the ropes and rigging covered with snow and sleet,
and we ourselves cold and nearly blinded with the violence of the
storm. By the time we had got down upon deck again, the little
brig was plunging madly into a tremendous head sea, which at every
drive rushed in through the bow-ports and over the bows, and
buried all the forward part of the vessel. At this instant the
chief mate, who was standing on the top of the windlass, at the
foot of the spenser-mast, called out, ``Lay out there and furl the
jib!'' This was no agreeable or safe duty, yet it must be done.
John, a Swede (the best sailor on board), who belonged on the
forecastle, sprang out upon the bowsprit. Another one must go. It
was a clear case of holding back. I was near the mate, but sprang
past several, threw the downhaul over the windlass, and jumped
between the knight-heads out upon the bowsprit. The crew stood
abaft the windlass and hauled the jib down, while John and I got
out upon the weather side of the jib-boom, our feet on the
foot-ropes, holding on by the spar, the great jib flying off to
leeward and slatting so as almost to throw us off the boom. For
some time we could do nothing but hold on, and the vessel, diving
into two huge seas, one after the other, plunged us twice into the
water up to our chins. We hardly knew whether we were on or off;
when, the boom lifting us up dripping from the water, we were
raised high into the air and then plunged below again. John
thought the boom would go every moment, and called out to the mate
to keep the vessel off, and haul down the staysail; but the fury
of the wind and the breaking of the seas against the bows defied
every attempt to make ourselves heard, and we were obliged to do
the best we could in our situation. Fortunately no other seas so
heavy struck her, and we succeeded in furling the jib ``after a
fashion''; and, coming in over the staysail nettings, were not a
little pleased to find that all was snug, and the watch gone
below; for we were soaked through, and it was very cold. John
admitted that it had been a post of danger, which good sailors
seldom do when the thing is over. The weather continued nearly the
same through the night.
Monday, November 10th. During a part of this day we were hove to,
but the rest of the time were driving on, under close-reefed
sails, with a heavy sea, a strong gale, and frequent squalls of
hail and snow.
Tuesday, November 11th. The same.
Wednesday. The same.
Thursday. The same.
We had now got hardened to Cape weather, the vessel was under
reduced sail, and everything secured on deck and below, so that we
had little to do but to steer and to stand our watch. Our clothes
were all wet through, and the only change was from wet to more
wet. There is no fire in the forecastle, and we cannot dry clothes
at the galley. It was in vain to think of reading or working
below, for we were too tired, the hatchways were closed down, and
everything was wet and uncomfortable, black and dirty, heaving and
pitching. We had only to come below when the watch was out, wring
our wet clothes, hang them up to chafe against the bulkheads, and
turn in and sleep as soundly as we could, until our watch was
called again. A sailor can sleep anywhere,-- no sound of wind,
water, canvas, rope, wood, or iron can keep him awake,-- and we
were always fast asleep when three blows on the hatchway, and the
unwelcome cry of ``All Starbowlines ahoy! eight bells there below!
do you hear the news?'' (the usual formula of calling the watch)
roused us up from our berths upon the cold, wet decks. The only
time when we could be said to take any pleasure was at night and
morning, when we were allowed a tin pot full of hot tea (or, as
the sailors significantly call it, ``water bewitched'') sweetened
with molasses. This, bad as it was, was still warm and comforting,
and, together with our sea biscuit and cold salt beef, made a
meal. Yet even this meal was attended with some uncertainty. We
had to go ourselves to the galley and take our kid of beef and tin
pots of tea, and run the risk of losing them before we could get
below. Many a kid of beef have I seen rolling in the scuppers, and
the bearer lying at his length on the decks. I remember an English
lad who was the life of the crew-- whom we afterwards lost
overboard-- standing for nearly ten minutes at the galley, with
his pot of tea in his hand, waiting for a chance to get down into
the forecastle; and, seeing what he thought was a ``smooth
spell,'' started to go forward. He had just got to the end of the
windlass, when a great sea broke over the bows, and for a moment I
saw nothing of him but his head and shoulders; and at the next
instant, being taken off his legs, he was carried aft with the
sea, until her stern lifting up, and sending the water forward, he
was left high and dry at the side of the long-boat, still holding
on to his tin pot, which had now nothing in it but salt water. But
nothing could ever daunt him, or overcome, for a moment, his
habitual good-humor. Regaining his legs, and shaking his fist at
the man at the wheel, he rolled below, saying, as he passed, ``A
man's no sailor, if he can't take a joke.'' The ducking was not
the worst of such an affair, for, as there was an allowance of
tea, you could get no more from the galley; and though the others
would never suffer a man to go without, but would always turn in a
little from their own pots to fill up his, yet this was at best
but dividing the loss among all hands.
Something of the same kind befell me a few days after. The cook
had just made for us a mess of hot ``scouse,''-- that is, biscuit
pounded fine, salt beef cut into small pieces, and a few potatoes,
boiled up together and seasoned with pepper. This was a rare
treat, and I, being the last at the galley, had it put in my
charge to carry down for the mess. I got along very well as far as
the hatchway, and was just going down the steps, when a heavy sea,
lifting the stern out of water, and, passing forward, dropping it
again, threw the steps from their place, and I came down into the
steerage a little faster than I meant to, with the kid on top of
me, and the whole precious mess scattered over the floor. Whatever
your feelings may be, you must make a joke of everything at sea;
and if you were to fall from aloft and be caught in the belly of a
sail, and thus saved from instant death, it would not do to look
at all disturbed, or to treat it as a serious matter.
Friday, November 14th. We were now well to the westward of the
Cape, and were changing our course to northward as much as we
dared, since the strong southwest winds, which prevailed then,
carried us in towards Patagonia. At two P.M. we saw a sail on our
larboard beam, and at four we made it out to be a large ship,
steering our course, under single-reefed topsails. We at that time
had shaken the reefs out of our topsails, as the wind was lighter,
and set the main top-gallant sail. As soon as our captain saw what
sail she was under, he set the fore top-gallant sail and flying
jib; and the old whaler-- for such his boats and short sail showed
him to be-- felt a little ashamed, and shook the reefs out of his
topsails, but could do no more, for he had sent down his
top-gallant masts off the Cape. He ran down for us, and answered
our hail as the whale-ship New England, of Poughkeepsie, one
hundred and twenty days from New York. Our captain gave our name,
and added, ninety-two days from Boston. They then had a little
conversation about longitude, in which they found that they could
not agree. The ship fell astern, and continued in sight during the
night. Toward morning, the wind having become light, we crossed
our royal and skysail yards, and at daylight we were seen under a
cloud of sail, having royals and skysails fore and aft. The
``spouter,'' as the sailors call a whaleman, had sent up his main
top-gallant mast and set the sail, and made signal for us to heave
to. About half past seven their whale-boat came alongside, and
Captain Job Terry sprang on board, a man known in every port and
by every vessel in the Pacific Ocean. ``Don't you know Job Terry?
I thought everybody knew Job Terry,'' said a green hand, who came
in the boat, to me, when I asked him about his captain. He was
indeed a singular man. He was six feet high, wore thick cowhide
boots, and brown coat and trousers, and, except a sunburnt
complexion, had not the slightest appearance of a sailor; yet he
had been forty years in the whale-trade, and, as he said himself,
had owned ships, built ships, and sailed ships. His boat's crew
were a pretty raw set, just out of the bush, and, as the sailor's
phrase is, ``hadn't got the hayseed out of their hair.'' Captain
Terry convinced our captain that our reckoning was a little out,
and, having spent the day on board, put off in his boat at sunset
for his ship, which was now six or eight miles astern. He began a
``yarn'' when he came aboard, which lasted, with but little
intermission, for four hours. It was all about himself, and the
Peruvian government, and the Dublin frigate, and her captain, Lord
James Townshend, and President Jackson, and the ship Ann M'Kim, of
Baltimore. It would probably never have come to an end, had not a
good breeze sprung up, which sent him off to his own vessel. One
of the lads who came in his boat, a thoroughly countrified-looking
fellow, seemed to care very little about the vessel, rigging, or
anything else, but went round looking at the live stock, and
leaned over the pigsty, and said he wished he was back again
tending his father's pigs.
A curious case of dignity occurred here. It seems that in a
whale-ship there is an intermediate class, called boat-steerers.
One of them came in Captain Terry's boat, but we thought he was
cockswain of the boat, and a cockswain is only a sailor. In the
whaler, the boat-steerers are between the officers and crew, a
sort of petty officers; keep by themselves in the waist, sleep
amidships, and eat by themselves, either at a separate table, or
at the cabin table, after the captain and mates are done. Of all
this hierarchy we were entirely ignorant, so the poor boat-steerer
was left to himself. The second mate would not notice him, and
seemed surprised at his keeping amidships, but his pride of office
would not allow him to go forward. With dinner-time came the
experimentum crucis. What would he do? The second mate went to the
second table without asking him. There was nothing for him but
famine or humiliation. We asked him into the forecastle, but he
faintly declined. The whale-boat's crew explained it to us, and we
asked him again. Hunger got the victory over pride of rank, and
his boat-steering majesty had to take his grub out of our kid, and
eat with his jack-knife. Yet the man was ill at ease all the time,
was sparing of his conversation, and kept up the notion of a
condescension under stress of circumstances. One would say that,
instead of a tendency to equality in human beings, the tendency is
to make the most of inequalities, natural or artificial.
At eight o'clock we altered our course to the northward, bound for
Juan Fernandez.
This day we saw the last of the albatrosses, which had been our
companions a great part of the time off the Cape. I had been
interested in the bird from descriptions, and Coleridge's poem,
and was not at all disappointed. We caught one or two with a
baited hook which we floated astern upon a shingle. Their long,
flapping wings, long legs, and large, staring eyes, give them a
very peculiar appearance. They look well on the wing; but one of
the finest sights that I have ever seen was an albatross asleep
upon the water, during a calm, off Cape Horn, when a heavy sea was
running. There being no breeze, the surface of the water was
unbroken, but a long, heavy swell was rolling, and we saw the
fellow, all white, directly ahead of us, asleep upon the waves,
with his head under his wing; now rising on the top of one of the
big billows, and then falling slowly until he was lost in the
hollow between. He was undisturbed for some time, until the noise
of our bows, gradually approaching, roused him, when, lifting his
head, he stared upon us for a moment, and then spread his wide
wings and took his flight.
[1] It is the fashion to call the respective watches Starbowlines
and Larbowlines.