THE PASSAGE HOME
I NEVER had so much interest before, and very likely I shall never have
so much interest again, in the state of the wind, as on the
long-looked-for morning of Tuesday the Seventh of June. Some nautical
authority had told me a day or two previous, ‘anything with west in it,
will do;’ so when I darted out of bed at daylight, and throwing up the
window, was saluted by a lively breeze from the north-west which had
sprung up in the night, it came upon me so freshly, rustling with so many
happy associations, that I conceived upon the spot a special regard for
all airs blowing from that quarter of the compass, which I shall cherish,
I dare say, until my own wind has breathed its last frail puff, and
withdrawn itself for ever from the mortal calendar.
The pilot had not been slow to take advantage of this favourable weather,
and the ship which yesterday had been in such a crowded dock that she
might have retired from trade for good and all, for any chance she seemed
to have of going to sea, was now full sixteen miles away. A gallant
sight she was, when we, fast gaining on her in a steamboat, saw her in
the distance riding at anchor: her tall masts pointing up in graceful
lines against the sky, and every rope and spar expressed in delicate and
thread-like outline: gallant, too, when, we being all aboard, the anchor
came up to the sturdy chorus ‘Cheerily men, oh cheerily!’ and she
followed proudly in the towing steamboat’s wake: but bravest and most
gallant of all, when the tow-rope being cast adrift, the canvas fluttered
from her masts, and spreading her white wings she soared away upon her
free and solitary course.
In the after cabin we were only fifteen passengers in all, and the
greater part were from Canada, where some of us had known each other.
The night was rough and squally, so were the next two days, but they flew
by quickly, and we were soon as cheerful and snug a party, with an
honest, manly-hearted captain at our head, as ever came to the resolution
of being mutually agreeable, on land or water.
We breakfasted at eight, lunched at twelve, dined at three, and took our
tea at half-past seven. We had abundance of amusements, and dinner was
not the least among them: firstly, for its own sake; secondly, because of
its extraordinary length: its duration, inclusive of all the long pauses
between the courses, being seldom less than two hours and a half; which
was a subject of never-failing entertainment. By way of beguiling the
tediousness of these banquets, a select association was formed at the
lower end of the table, below the mast, to whose distinguished president
modesty forbids me to make any further allusion, which, being a very
hilarious and jovial institution, was (prejudice apart) in high favour
with the rest of the community, and particularly with a black steward,
who lived for three weeks in a broad grin at the marvellous humour of
these incorporated worthies.
Then, we had chess for those who played it, whist, cribbage, books,
backgammon, and shovelboard. In all weathers, fair or foul, calm or
windy, we were every one on deck, walking up and down in pairs, lying in
the boats, leaning over the side, or chatting in a lazy group together.
We had no lack of music, for one played the accordion, another the
violin, and another (who usually began at six o’clock A.M.) the
key-bugle: the combined effect of which instruments, when they all played
different tunes in different parts of the ship, at the same time, and
within hearing of each other, as they sometimes did (everybody being
intensely satisfied with his own performance), was sublimely hideous.
When all these means of entertainment failed, a sail would heave in
sight: looming, perhaps, the very spirit of a ship, in the misty
distance, or passing us so close that through our glasses we could see
the people on her decks, and easily make out her name, and whither she
was bound. For hours together we could watch the dolphins and porpoises
as they rolled and leaped and dived around the vessel; or those small
creatures ever on the wing, the Mother Carey’s chickens, which had borne
us company from New York bay, and for a whole fortnight fluttered about
the vessel’s stern. For some days we had a dead calm, or very light
winds, during which the crew amused themselves with fishing, and hooked
an unlucky dolphin, who expired, in all his rainbow colours, on the deck:
an event of such importance in our barren calendar, that afterwards we
dated from the dolphin, and made the day on which he died, an era.
Besides all this, when we were five or six days out, there began to be
much talk of icebergs, of which wandering islands an unusual number had
been seen by the vessels that had come into New York a day or two before
we left that port, and of whose dangerous neighbourhood we were warned by
the sudden coldness of the weather, and the sinking of the mercury in the
barometer. While these tokens lasted, a double look-out was kept, and
many dismal tales were whispered after dark, of ships that had struck
upon the ice and gone down in the night; but the wind obliging us to hold
a southward course, we saw none of them, and the weather soon grew bright
and warm again.
The observation every day at noon, and the subsequent working of the
vessel’s course, was, as may be supposed, a feature in our lives of
paramount importance; nor were there wanting (as there never are)
sagacious doubters of the captain’s calculations, who, so soon as his
back was turned, would, in the absence of compasses, measure the chart
with bits of string, and ends of pocket-handkerchiefs, and points of
snuffers, and clearly prove him to be wrong by an odd thousand miles or
so. It was very edifying to see these unbelievers shake their heads and
frown, and hear them hold forth strongly upon navigation: not that they
knew anything about it, but that they always mistrusted the captain in
calm weather, or when the wind was adverse. Indeed, the mercury itself
is not so variable as this class of passengers, whom you will see, when
the ship is going nobly through the water, quite pale with admiration,
swearing that the captain beats all captains ever known, and even hinting
at subscriptions for a piece of plate; and who, next morning, when the
breeze has lulled, and all the sails hang useless in the idle air, shake
their despondent heads again, and say, with screwed-up lips, they hope
that captain is a sailor—but they shrewdly doubt him.
It even became an occupation in the calm, to wonder when the wind _would_
spring up in the favourable quarter, where, it was clearly shown by all
the rules and precedents, it ought to have sprung up long ago. The first
mate, who whistled for it zealously, was much respected for his
perseverance, and was regarded even by the unbelievers as a first-rate
sailor. Many gloomy looks would be cast upward through the cabin
skylights at the flapping sails while dinner was in progress; and some,
growing bold in ruefulness, predicted that we should land about the
middle of July. There are always on board ship, a Sanguine One, and a
Despondent One. The latter character carried it hollow at this period of
the voyage, and triumphed over the Sanguine One at every meal, by
inquiring where he supposed the Great Western (which left New York a week
after us) was _now_: and where he supposed the ‘Cunard’ steam-packet was
_now_: and what he thought of sailing vessels, as compared with
steamships _now_: and so beset his life with pestilent attacks of that
kind, that he too was obliged to affect despondency, for very peace and
quietude.
These were additions to the list of entertaining incidents, but there was
still another source of interest. We carried in the steerage nearly a
hundred passengers: a little world of poverty: and as we came to know
individuals among them by sight, from looking down upon the deck where
they took the air in the daytime, and cooked their food, and very often
ate it too, we became curious to know their histories, and with what
expectations they had gone out to America, and on what errands they were
going home, and what their circumstances were. The information we got on
these heads from the carpenter, who had charge of these people, was often
of the strangest kind. Some of them had been in America but three days,
some but three months, and some had gone out in the last voyage of that
very ship in which they were now returning home. Others had sold their
clothes to raise the passage-money, and had hardly rags to cover them;
others had no food, and lived upon the charity of the rest: and one man,
it was discovered nearly at the end of the voyage, not before—for he kept
his secret close, and did not court compassion—had had no sustenance
whatever but the bones and scraps of fat he took from the plates used in
the after-cabin dinner, when they were put out to be washed.
The whole system of shipping and conveying these unfortunate persons, is
one that stands in need of thorough revision. If any class deserve to be
protected and assisted by the Government, it is that class who are
banished from their native land in search of the bare means of
subsistence. All that could be done for these poor people by the great
compassion and humanity of the captain and officers was done, but they
require much more. The law is bound, at least upon the English side, to
see that too many of them are not put on board one ship: and that their
accommodations are decent: not demoralising, and profligate. It is
bound, too, in common humanity, to declare that no man shall be taken on
board without his stock of provisions being previously inspected by some
proper officer, and pronounced moderately sufficient for his support upon
the voyage. It is bound to provide, or to require that there be
provided, a medical attendant; whereas in these ships there are none,
though sickness of adults, and deaths of children, on the passage, are
matters of the very commonest occurrence. Above all it is the duty of
any Government, be it monarchy or republic, to interpose and put an end
to that system by which a firm of traders in emigrants purchase of the
owners the whole ’tween-decks of a ship, and send on board as many
wretched people as they can lay hold of, on any terms they can get,
without the smallest reference to the conveniences of the steerage, the
number of berths, the slightest separation of the sexes, or anything but
their own immediate profit. Nor is even this the worst of the vicious
system: for, certain crimping agents of these houses, who have a
percentage on all the passengers they inveigle, are constantly travelling
about those districts where poverty and discontent are rife, and tempting
the credulous into more misery, by holding out monstrous inducements to
emigration which can never be realised.
The history of every family we had on board was pretty much the same.
After hoarding up, and borrowing, and begging, and selling everything to
pay the passage, they had gone out to New York, expecting to find its
streets paved with gold; and had found them paved with very hard and very
real stones. Enterprise was dull; labourers were not wanted; jobs of
work were to be got, but the payment was not. They were coming back,
even poorer than they went. One of them was carrying an open letter from
a young English artisan, who had been in New York a fortnight, to a
friend near Manchester, whom he strongly urged to follow him. One of the
officers brought it to me as a curiosity. ‘This is the country, Jem,’
said the writer. ‘I like America. There is no despotism here; that’s
the great thing. Employment of all sorts is going a-begging, and wages
are capital. You have only to choose a trade, Jem, and be it. I haven’t
made choice of one yet, but I shall soon. _At present I haven’t quite
made up my mind whether to be a carpenter—or a tailor_.’
There was yet another kind of passenger, and but one more, who, in the
calm and the light winds, was a constant theme of conversation and
observation among us. This was an English sailor, a smart,
thorough-built, English man-of-war’s-man from his hat to his shoes, who
was serving in the American navy, and having got leave of absence was on
his way home to see his friends. When he presented himself to take and
pay for his passage, it had been suggested to him that being an able
seaman he might as well work it and save the money, but this piece of
advice he very indignantly rejected: saying, ‘He’d be damned but for once
he’d go aboard ship, as a gentleman.’ Accordingly, they took his money,
but he no sooner came aboard, than he stowed his kit in the forecastle,
arranged to mess with the crew, and the very first time the hands were
turned up, went aloft like a cat, before anybody. And all through the
passage there he was, first at the braces, outermost on the yards,
perpetually lending a hand everywhere, but always with a sober dignity in
his manner, and a sober grin on his face, which plainly said, ‘I do it as
a gentleman. For my own pleasure, mind you!’
At length and at last, the promised wind came up in right good earnest,
and away we went before it, with every stitch of canvas set, slashing
through the water nobly. There was a grandeur in the motion of the
splendid ship, as overshadowed by her mass of sails, she rode at a
furious pace upon the waves, which filled one with an indescribable sense
of pride and exultation. As she plunged into a foaming valley, how I
loved to see the green waves, bordered deep with white, come rushing on
astern, to buoy her upward at their pleasure, and curl about her as she
stooped again, but always own her for their haughty mistress still! On,
on we flew, with changing lights upon the water, being now in the blessed
region of fleecy skies; a bright sun lighting us by day, and a bright
moon by night; the vane pointing directly homeward, alike the truthful
index to the favouring wind and to our cheerful hearts; until at sunrise,
one fair Monday morning—the twenty-seventh of June, I shall not easily
forget the day—there lay before us, old Cape Clear, God bless it,
showing, in the mist of early morning, like a cloud: the brightest and
most welcome cloud, to us, that ever hid the face of Heaven’s fallen
sister—Home.
Dim speck as it was in the wide prospect, it made the sunrise a more
cheerful sight, and gave to it that sort of human interest which it seems
to want at sea. There, as elsewhere, the return of day is inseparable
from some sense of renewed hope and gladness; but the light shining on
the dreary waste of water, and showing it in all its vast extent of
loneliness, presents a solemn spectacle, which even night, veiling it in
darkness and uncertainty, does not surpass. The rising of the moon is
more in keeping with the solitary ocean; and has an air of melancholy
grandeur, which in its soft and gentle influence, seems to comfort while
it saddens. I recollect when I was a very young child having a fancy
that the reflection of the moon in water was a path to Heaven, trodden by
the spirits of good people on their way to God; and this old feeling
often came over me again, when I watched it on a tranquil night at sea.
The wind was very light on this same Monday morning, but it was still in
the right quarter, and so, by slow degrees, we left Cape Clear behind,
and sailed along within sight of the coast of Ireland. And how merry we
all were, and how loyal to the George Washington, and how full of mutual
congratulations, and how venturesome in predicting the exact hour at
which we should arrive at Liverpool, may be easily imagined and readily
understood. Also, how heartily we drank the captain’s health that day at
dinner; and how restless we became about packing up: and how two or three
of the most sanguine spirits rejected the idea of going to bed at all
that night as something it was not worth while to do, so near the shore,
but went nevertheless, and slept soundly; and how to be so near our
journey’s end, was like a pleasant dream, from which one feared to wake.
The friendly breeze freshened again next day, and on we went once more
before it gallantly: descrying now and then an English ship going
homeward under shortened sail, while we, with every inch of canvas
crowded on, dashed gaily past, and left her far behind. Towards evening,
the weather turned hazy, with a drizzling rain; and soon became so thick,
that we sailed, as it were, in a cloud. Still we swept onward like a
phantom ship, and many an eager eye glanced up to where the Look-out on
the mast kept watch for Holyhead.
At length his long-expected cry was heard, and at the same moment there
shone out from the haze and mist ahead, a gleaming light, which presently
was gone, and soon returned, and soon was gone again. Whenever it came
back, the eyes of all on board, brightened and sparkled like itself: and
there we all stood, watching this revolving light upon the rock at
Holyhead, and praising it for its brightness and its friendly warning,
and lauding it, in short, above all other signal lights that ever were
displayed, until it once more glimmered faintly in the distance, far
behind us.
Then, it was time to fire a gun, for a pilot; and almost before its smoke
had cleared away, a little boat with a light at her masthead came bearing
down upon us, through the darkness, swiftly. And presently, our sails
being backed, she ran alongside; and the hoarse pilot, wrapped and
muffled in pea-coats and shawls to the very bridge of his
weather-ploughed-up nose, stood bodily among us on the deck. And I think
if that pilot had wanted to borrow fifty pounds for an indefinite period
on no security, we should have engaged to lend it to him, among us,
before his boat had dropped astern, or (which is the same thing) before
every scrap of news in the paper he brought with him had become the
common property of all on board.
We turned in pretty late that night, and turned out pretty early next
morning. By six o’clock we clustered on the deck, prepared to go ashore;
and looked upon the spires, and roofs, and smoke, of Liverpool. By eight
we all sat down in one of its Hotels, to eat and drink together for the
last time. And by nine we had shaken hands all round, and broken up our
social company for ever.
The country, by the railroad, seemed, as we rattled through it, like a
luxuriant garden. The beauty of the fields (so small they looked!), the
hedge-rows, and the trees; the pretty cottages, the beds of flowers, the
old churchyards, the antique houses, and every well-known object; the
exquisite delights of that one journey, crowding in the short compass of
a summer’s day, the joy of many years, with the winding up with Home and
all that makes it dear; no tongue can tell, or pen of mine describe.