Did we not think o’er ocean’s restless plain
To see embattled hosts, and feel the affray?
But lo! a truce is here, and gala-day;
Nor lines of march, nor rank and file remain.
The fleecy clouds move o’er the tranquil plain,
And fling their trade-wind signals to the breeze,
To Capricorn from Cancer, realm of peace!
They seek no martial order to regain,
But take some fancied likeness, one by one,
Or shape themselves in wizard groups of things;
No haste, nor deep designs, no jostling crowds.
The hosts are going home, their service done.
What sense of power the wide-spread quiet brings!
In calms or storms “His strength is in the clouds.”
The meteorology in the latter part of the Book of Job stood in no need
of modern science to captivate the hearts of the worshippers of the
true God. “Dost thou know the balancing of the clouds, the wondrous
works of Him which is perfect in knowledge?”
The charm of sea-life in a sailing-vessel I found to be constant
occupation of the mind without wearying it. At first it seemed a
duty to read the periodicals which we brought with us, the new books
reserved for the voyage, the choice articles in the quarterlies which
had been commended to us. But for these we found no time. What charm
could there be in Dante when a school of porpoises was in sight, each
of them leaping out of water just for the pleasure of the dive back?
If the mate called down the companion-way, “A sail on the lee-bow!”
the paper-folder must keep the place in the uncut volume till you know
all about her. It would be tedious waiting at a corner of a street ten
minutes for a horse-car; but it was pleasant to wait an hour and forty
minutes to come up with the stranger ahead, gaining upon her all the
time, meanwhile watching the flying-fish which the ship started on the
wing, or going forward into the bows and looking over to see the ship
dash through the waves, with “a bone in her mouth,” till suddenly the
main topgallant-sail splits, and so fulfills the expectation expressed
for the last five days that it could not long survive; and now, as
it is the change of watch, and all hands are on deck, what could be
more interesting than to see twenty-eight of them take in the old
sail and bend the new one, then line the side of the ship with their
curious faces to inspect the bark which we have now overtaken. She is
the “Doon of Ayr,” one hundred and six days from Japan for New York,
and as she was tacking we came so near that one might throw a biscuit
on board. The captains of the bark and the ship had time for a few
words of inquiry and information; then the two wanderers on the deep
parted company, and watched each other for half an hour, and sighted
each other, no doubt, occasionally, for an hour and a half, till each
became to the other a speck. You have long ago forgotten your book,
your journal, and magazine. This event, and its many interludes, are
more interesting to you than a battle in Lord Derby’s Homer; it is
practical life; you begin to feel that everything which you enjoy
will be without the intrusion of periodical engagements, and you feel
surprised that no such engagements now demand your thoughts.
Among the incidents at sea which give a charm to life, one is, Speaking
a vessel. This is a metaphorical expression, retained from the former
days before signals were used in conversation, and when vessels had to
come near enough to each other for the speaking to act its part. We had
been out five or six days, when a sail was descried on the starboard
bow. It proved to be a bark; and we were as glad to see her as though
we had met an old friend in a foreign land. The bark soon hoisted her
ensign, which was the same as raising your hat in passing. We hoisted
ours, which was a signal of recognition. The bark ran up four flags,
which we recognized by the spyglass as 6 9 5 7, showing her number
in the book to be 6957. Turning to it, we read “Sachem.” We ran up
4 5 9 1, our number in the book. The bark displayed 5 6 2 8, which we
found to be “Salem.” We showed 4 7 8 2,--“New York.” The bark gave
6 8 7 4,--“Zanzibar.” We returned 2 1 8 0,--“California.” The bark
showed 6,--“six days out.” We did the same. The bark showed numeral
pendant,--this meaning “longitude,” and with it 54 38. We replied with
54 30,--our calculation. The bark then dipped her ensign, hauling it
down half way, then raising it again. This was done three times. We
did the same, which was equivalent to “good-bye” on either side,
and lifting the hat; we added 6 3 8 9, meaning, “Wish you a pleasant
voyage.” The answer was, 5 7 8 3, “Many thanks.”
These courtesies at sea are pleasant. Coming up with the vessel, or she
and you drawing near in passing, reading the numbers by the spyglass,
and arranging all the signals, is an agreeable occupation for the
larger part of two hours, including the departure of the vessels from
each other, as though friends were parting, leaving the ocean more a
solitude than before.
Meeting vessels, or passing them at a distance, exchanging signals,
making out their numbers, bring remote parts of the earth suddenly
to mind. Thus new trains of thought succeed each other entirely
disconnected. I always enjoyed exercise on horseback for one principal
reason,--that on horseback you cannot long pursue one train of
thought. Your conjunctions are disjunctive. If you purpose to make out
your evening lecture on horseback, your attention is so frequently
taken by something in the road, or by the action of the horse, that
you probably come home without any connected plan. So at sea. The
occasional sight of a sail is an illustration of the charm of sea-life
as having complete possession of your thoughts without leaving you long
at liberty to pore over a subject. If you meet a Norwegian bark, and
the captain tells you he is twenty-four days from Buenos Ayres, there
is Norway and Buenos Ayres for your meditation, and perhaps for your
statistical or geographical inquiry. If the “Queen of the Pacific,”
eighty-seven days from Macao for London, comes in sight, there is
another chapter in the world’s great miscellany. That sail yonder
proves to be the “Hungarian,” from Saguenay, twenty-one days out, bound
to Melbourne, with lumber. You have another illustration of commerce
binding together the ends of the earth. You soon excuse those friends
of yours at home who commiserated you on the prospect of a long,
monotonous sea-voyage. Where is the monotony? Not in the ship’s clock,
which enumerates every hour and half-hour by a system of horology
altogether different from shore time-pieces; not in the boatswain’s
“Pumpship” at evening, when twelve or fifteen men entertain you with
a song. Every tune at the pumps must have a chorus. The sentiment in
the song is the least important feature of it; the celebration of some
portion of the earth or seas, other than here and now: “I wish I was in
Mobile Bay,” “I’m bound for the Rio Grande,” with the astounding chorus
from twenty-eight men, part of whom the fine moonlight and the song
tempt from their bunks, is an antidote to monotony.
The sailors were a merry set. Though only half of the crew--that is,
one watch--were required each night at the pumps, all hands at first
generally turned out because it was the time for a song. It was a
nightly pleasure to be on the poop deck when the pumps were manned, and
to hear twenty men sing. When making sail after a gale, the crew are
ready for the loudest singing, unless it be at the pumps. For example,
when hauling on the topsail halyards, they may have this song, the
shanty man, as they call him, solo singer, beginning with a wailing
strain:
_Solo_: O poor Reuben Ranzo! (twice)
_Chorus_: Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
_Solo_: Ranzo was no sailor! (twice)
_Chorus_: Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
_Solo_: He shipped on board a whaler! (twice)
_Chorus_: Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
_Solo_: The captain was a bad man! (twice)
_Chorus_: Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
_Solo_: He put him in the rigging! (twice)
_Chorus_: Ranzo, boys, Ranzo!
_Solo_: He gave him six-and-thirty-- (twice)
by which time the topsail is mast-headed, and the mate cries, “Belay!”
When the mainsail is to be set, and they are hauling down the main
tack, this, perhaps, is the song:--
_Solo_: “’Way! haul away! haul away! my ro-sey;
_Chorus_: ’Way! haul away! haul away! JOE!”
the long pull, the strong pull, the pull altogether being given at the
word “Joe;” then no more pulling till the same word recurs.
When hauling on the main sheet, this is often the song, sung
responsively:
_Shanty man_: “Haul the bowline; Kitty is my darling.
_Crew_: Haul the bowline, the bowline _haul_!”
That no one may think of me above that which he seeth me to be, or that
he heareth of me, let me say that I find, on inquiry, that the “main
tack” is the _line_ which hauls down that corner of the main sail which
is toward the wind; called, therefore, the “weather clew.” The “main
_sheet_” hauls the other corner of the main sail; called, therefore,
“the lee clew.” Why a rope should be called a sheet is a piece of
nautical metonymy which it would be difficult to explain. “Larboard”
and “starboard” were formerly used to designate respectively the left
and the right side of the ship, standing aft and looking forward; but
the two words, so much alike, were not always readily apprehended, and
so were changed to “port and starboard.” Why the word “port” is used,
does not appear; nor can any one tell why “Reuben Ranzo” is associated
with one of the long pulls; if there be any philosophy in it, or
historic association, it is as deep as the sea, or hopelessly lost.
After singing at the pumps in good weather when there was not much
work, the men would have some amusement. Sometimes it was “Hunt the
Slipper.” Then, again, two men sat down opposite each other, their
hands and feet tied, and a capstan bar was run through each of the two
men’s arms, behind him. The two would push each other with their feet
till one would lose his balance, and fall over; then, being helpless,
he was at the mercy of his comrade’s feet till he begged for quarter.
These games were interspersed with declamations. We had some of
Macauley’s “Lays of Ancient Rome,” “Spartacus,” “My name is Norval.”
The merry laugh and the clapping of hands at the declaimers, and, now
and then, the youthful voice of a boy reciting his piece from Henry
Clay, or a story from the “Reader,” beguiled many an evening in the
tropics.
On crossing the line, one evening when we were on the poop deck, we
were startled by a voice on the lower deck, “What ship’s that?” The
captain replied. The voice answered, “I shall call upon you to-morrow;
I have an engagement this evening.” At 3, P. M., the next day, being
Saturday, we were summoned on deck by one of the sailors, who announced
that Neptune was coming on board. All at once we saw a grotesque figure
swinging in the air over the water, half-way up to the main yard, two
of the sailors pulling him in. He came on board, wet from his waist;
and there came also over the sides a female figure and a young man.
They came to the front cabin door, and saluted the captain, who stood
ready to receive them. Neptune had on spectacles made of a tin can,
epaulets of the same, buskins made of duck, long hair of rope-yarns,
a duck tunic, and a girdle of twisted ropes. Mrs. Neptune had on a
long duck mantle, her face blackened with burnt cork, and a large fan
made of wood, and covered with sail-cloth; she used it gracefully. The
son bore his father’s trident, which was a four pronged iron, called
“the grains,” used for spearing sharks. He, also, was fantastically
dressed. They made obeisance to the captain, who welcomed them on board
in a short speech. They then repaired to a booth fitted up as a sort
of marquee, flung up the sides, and called a young man from the crew.
They asked him if he ever crossed the line before; then set him in a
barrel, with his feet out, inquired his name, where from and whither
bound, and as he opened his mouth to answer, they inserted the paint
brush filled with soap and lime, with which the son was lathering him,
who then produced an old saw fixed in a piece of wood for a sheath and
handle and shaved him. Neptune then ordered him to be washed; when
four men took him and dipped him into a barrel of water. This they did
to three young men. They then came up to our deck and saluted us. The
captain informed them that we were all liege subjects of Neptune and
needed not to be sworn. They then wished us a pleasant voyage,--Mrs.
N. taking her husband’s arm, fanning herself gracefully,--and they
withdrew. While it was a successful masquerade, well sustained in all
the parts,--the boys consenting to be hazed conscious that they were
contributing something to the dramatic poetry of sea-life,--it was easy
to see that it was capable of abuse. The officers saw that they should
be careful how they allowed this liberty. To an invalid at sea these
things are medicine; and, as I am writing in the interest of some who
may betake themselves for the first time to sea in a sailing-ship for
health, I would say that they must wait till they are in circumstances
to find how “dulce est desipere in loco,” how pleasant it is at sea to
be even gamesome upon occasions.
One day as I lay in the hammock I found myself in a revery; my eye
being fixed on a bright, new rope which appeared among the running
rigging. I mention it as an illustration of the frames of mind which
steal upon an invalid passenger, especially in a sailing-ship, because
undisturbed there by a crowd, or by the noise of steam and its
machinery. Would any one think that a single halyard among five or
six others could bring to mind Burke’s treatise on the “Sublime and
Beautiful”? But it was even so. I found my eye going up the new rope
in admiration at the perfect regularity in the twist of the strands.
An artist cannot always combine the hempen yarns with the exactness
which the ropemaker’s wheel gives them. My eye went from the new rope
to the old ones; all had the same perfect twist throughout the ship.
The ropes, from belaying-pin to truck, the signal halyard and the
hawser, seemed instinct with “the beauty of fitness,” to borrow a
term from the above-mentioned writer,--a common window-sash, with its
parallelograms of panes, serving that great genius for an illustration.
“Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts, to be claimed by whoever shall find.
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.”
I cannot forget the simple pleasure which this meditation on a rope
gave me, carrying me back to youthful days in my native place, and
to the ropewalks there, the swift spindles, the horse in the cellar
turning the wheel, the spinners, each with a bunch of hemp around him
hitching it to the spindle, then walking backwards, paying out the hemp
through his hands with judicious care, the rope all the time growing
lengthwise, down the walk. It used to be a wonder to me how the horse
in the cellar, going about on the tan, could twist the twine at the
end of the bridge as accurately as it was twisted at the spindle.
Unconscious influence, remote causations, continents, oceans, years,
intervening between the agent and the effect of his example and words,
were illustrated by the horse in the ropewalk; and the revery would
have been protracted, had not a vessel ahead caught my eye. Coming to
my senses I thought of Dean Swift’s satire on Robert Boyle’s pious and
sentimental writings, which the Dean had to read in the hearing of Lady
Berkeley, whose simplicity and enthusiasm he was pleased to ridicule,
in revenge for the task imposed on him, under the guise of mimicking
Mr. Boyle, in the famous piece, “Meditations on a Broomstick.”
But few things have so pleasing an effect in solving the kinks in one’s
brain as to lie in a hammock on deck at sea far away from care, and let
the fancy like the poet’s river “wander at its own sweet will.” This
wandering would have continued, had I not been startled by descrying
as aforesaid a vessel ahead, hove to, directly across our course, under
short sail, her jib-boom gone, all looking as if she was in distress
and trying to intercept us for relief. We began to consider how many we
could accommodate in case she proved to be in a sinking condition; how
our provisions would hold out; and other prudential questionings; which
were soon dissipated by finding that she was a whaler with a whale
alongside, a man standing on him cutting in, and the rest of the crew,
some of them, hoisting up the pieces, and others trying them out. This
episode in practical life contrasted well with the revery with which
the forenoon begun, making with it a good illustration of the variety
in sea-life.
It had rained in torrents one night, and it kept on till nine o’clock
the next day. The sailors stopped the lee scuppers, and soon the deck
had several inches of water on the lee side. The ducks were released
and thought their paradise regained. The sailors could not resist
the opportunity to do a little washing; so flannel shirts and other
articles of apparel came forth into the common tub, the main deck;
being trampled on by bare feet instead of the more laborious process of
the washing-board. The sturdy limbs bared up to the knees showed fine
sets of muscles, enough to excite the admiration of an artist pursuing
anatomical studies. After the sailors had finished, they turned their
attention to the pigs, which were severally walked into the water
on two legs by the men, when they were chased and knocked about and
scrubbed, till, by their looks, they made you believe the saying of the
market-men that ship-fed pork has no superior. There was no monotony
here.
But there was monotony soon in the doldrums. These are a region near
the equator, between the north-east and south-east trades, where calms
and rains abound, puffs of wind varying in direction every half-hour,
trying to the sailors, disappointing the captain’s hopes. He yearns
for steam; even an old captain will resolve, for the hundredth time in
his life, that he will never go to sea again; he jumps on his hat and
whistles for the wind. Then a breeze springs up, and he rubs his hands,
and thinks that, after all, his ship is better than a steamer, till, in
half an hour, she is almost motionless.
Then is the time for the sharks to appear. They are slow creatures
and cannot keep up with a good sailor; so in calms they come and lie
alongside. The little pilot-fishes, the curious attendants of the
shark, directing his attention to food, are with him. The grains are
thrust at the shark; and, if they fasten in him, a bend of a rope
around his tail brings him on board. Sailors have great spite against
sharks; they may show tenderness to other creatures, but for sharks
they have no mercy. They will use their sheath-knives about his nose,
and disfigure him in all conceivable ways. Their theory is that a shark
never dies till sunset. Sharks are hard to kill. You may cut off their
heads and tails, and disembowel them, and even then the trunk will
thrash the deck at so lively a rate that his executioners will have
need to jump about for safety. In contrast with the shark, the dolphin
seemed to me for beauty to verify all that poets have said of him. It
is my belief that a dolphin’s mouth is as perfect a curve as nature
ever produces. His tints, when dying, are no fiction. Two sword-fish
were caught one day, and the rapidity with which they were stripped of
their flesh, and their back-bones hung up to dry, rivalled the skill
and speed of young surgical practitioners.