The days have passed and I have broken my resolve; for here I am again
writing while the _Elsinore_ surges along across a magnificent, smoky,
dusty sea. But I have two reasons for breaking my word. First, and
minor, we had a real dawn this morning. The gray of the sea showed a
streaky blue, and the cloud-masses were actually pink-tipped by a
really and truly sun.
Second, and major, _we are around the Horn_! We are north of 50 in the
Pacific, in Longitude 80.49, with Cape Pillar and the Straits of
Magellan already south of east from us, and we are heading
north-north-west. _We are around the Horn_! The profound significance
of this can be appreciated only by one who has wind-jammed around from
east to west. Blow high, blow low, nothing can happen to thwart us. No
ship north of 50 was ever blown back. From now on it is plain sailing,
and Seattle suddenly seems quite near.
All the ship’s company, with the exception of Margaret, is better
spirited. She is quiet, and a little down, though she is anything but
prone to the wastage of grief. In her robust, vital philosophy God’s
always in heaven. I may describe her as being merely subdued, and
gentle, and tender. And she is very wistful to receive gentle
consideration and tenderness from me. She is, after all, the genuine
woman. She wants the strength that man has to give, and I flatter
myself that I am ten times a stronger man than I was when the voyage
began, because I am a thousand times a more human man since I told the
books to go hang and began to revel in the human maleness of the man
that loves a woman and is loved.
Returning to the ship’s company. The rounding of the Horn, the better
weather that is continually growing better, the easement of hardship
and toil and danger, with the promise of the tropics and of the balmy
south-east trades before them—all these factors contribute to pick up
our men again. The temperature has already so moderated that the men
are beginning to shed their surplusage of clothing, and they no longer
wrap sacking about their sea-boots. Last evening, in the second
dog-watch, I heard a man actually singing.
The steward has discarded the huge, hacking knife and relaxed to the
extent of engaging in an occasional sober romp with Possum. Wada’s face
is no longer solemnly long, and Louis’ Oxford accent is more
mellifluous than ever. Mulligan Jacobs and Andy Fay are the same
venomous scorpions they have always been. The three gangsters, with the
clique they lead, have again asserted their tyrrany and thrashed all
the weaklings and feeblings in the forecastle. Charles Davis resolutely
refuses to die, though how he survived that wet and freezing room of
iron through all the weeks off the Horn has elicited wonder even from
Mr. Pike, who has a most accurate knowledge of what men can stand and
what they cannot stand.
How Nietzsche, with his eternal slogan of “Be hard! Be hard!” would
have delighted in Mr. Pike!
And—oh!—Larry has had a tooth removed. For some days distressed with a
jumping toothache, he came aft to the mate for relief. Mr. Pike refused
to “monkey” with the “fangled” forceps in the medicine-chest. He used a
tenpenny nail and a hammer in the good old way to which he was brought
up. I vouch for this. I saw it done. One blow of the hammer and the
tooth was out, while Larry was jumping around holding his jaw. It is a
wonder it wasn’t fractured. But Mr. Pike avers he has removed hundreds
of teeth by this method and never known a fractured jaw. Also, he avers
he once sailed with a skipper who shaved every Sunday morning and never
touched a razor, nor any cutting-edge, to his face. What he used,
according to Mr. Pike, was a lighted candle and a damp towel. Another
candidate for Nietzsche’s immortals who are hard!
As for Mr. Pike himself, he is the highest-spirited, best-conditioned
man on board. The driving to which he subjected the _Elsinore_ was meat
and drink. He still rubs his hands and chuckles over the memory of it.
“Huh!” he said to me, in reference to the crew; “I gave ’em a taste of
real old-fashioned sailing. They’ll never forget this hooker—at least
them that don’t take a sack of coal overside before we reach port.”
“You mean you think we’ll have more sea-burials?” I inquired.
He turned squarely upon me, and squarely looked me in the eyes for the
matter of five long seconds.
“Huh!” he replied, as he turned on his heel. “Hell ain’t begun to pop
on this hooker.”
He still stands his mate’s watch, alternating with Mr. Mellaire, for he
is firm in his conviction that there is no man for’ard fit to stand a
second mate’s watch. Also, he has kept his old quarters. Perhaps it is
out of delicacy for Margaret; for I have learned that it is the
invariable custom for the mate to occupy the captain’s quarters when
the latter dies. So Mr. Mellaire still eats by himself in the big
after-room, as he has done since the loss of the carpenter, and bunks
as before in the ’midship-house with Nancy.