HOMEWARD BOUND
We saw no whales as we went south, and we approached the Strait of
Magellan under what seemed to be favorable auspices. The weather was
fair, the sea was tranquil and the scenery was picturesque. The
strait is three hundred and sixty miles in length, and from five to
thirty miles in breadth. Patagonia is to the north, and the island
of Tierra del Fuego to the south. As we entered the strait and, for
a good many miles as we proceeded, we saw lofty ranges covered with
snow and immense glaciers, and between them patches which looked
like dark forests. The third day the weather changed, and navigation
became more difficult. The fog set in and, though we had seen no
vessels, the captain deemed it wise to be cautious, and we made only
about three or four knots an hour. In the late afternoon the fog
lifted, and the captain made for the shore of Tierra del Fuego. The
sea became more boisterous, the sky assumed a threatening aspect,
and the captain gave orders to throw the lead. When four fathoms was
reported, he gave orders to heave to, to take in sail and put out
two anchors. In the meantime the sky grew blacker, and we all worked
with a will to have the ship snugged up and ready when the storm
broke.
[Illustration: The sea became more boisterous, and the captain gave
orders to throw the lead.]
When it came, it was more like a hurricane than a squall, and it
came without any warning other than the troubled aspect of sea and
sky. It seemed as if all the wind in the world were gathered in one
terrific blast and that, too, for our especial benefit. It nearly
swept the men off their feet and drove them to cover; it fairly
shrieked as it swept through the rigging, and the only good thing
about it was that it lasted less than half an hour.
Kreelman said to me, “I rather think after all that the old man
knows his business. I believe he’s made the voyage through here
before and he knows just what to do and when to do it. By the way,
Fancy Chest, who was that man Magellan they call the strait after,
was he a Nantucket whaleman?”
“Oh, no. He lived a hundred years before the _Mayflower_ came over.
He was a Portuguese, but sailed for a Spanish king. In 1520 he made
the passage through this strait from east to west, and was the first
white man to cross the Pacific Ocean. He gave it the name of
Pacific, stopped at the Philippines and was killed there by the
natives.”
“He had some grit, didn’t he? If he hadn’t been killed, I rather
think he would have returned by the way of the Horn.”
We remained at our anchorage all night. The watch reported another
storm towards morning, only less violent. At daybreak the sea was
calm, and a boat appeared. Never had I seen and never have I since
seen such a spectacle of destitution, misery and wretchedness. The
boat was a rude affair, propelled by clumsy paddles. In the center
on a stone foundation was a fire, or rather a bed of live coals. The
occupants of the boat were Fuegians, small in stature, badly formed
and only half-clad. It would be difficult to picture people more
inferior and degraded. Some huddled over the fire, and others
stretched out their arms while they muttered something which we
assumed to be a request for food or clothing. The cook threw them
some scraps, and, as we weighed anchor and were off, they called to
us in tones from which we judged that they regarded our bounty as a
scant one.
Lakeum came forward and said to me, “What do you know about these
Fuegians?”
“I read up about them when I was at school. They are of a low order
of intelligence and are treacherous and degraded.”
Lakeum declared, “Let me tell you what an officer in our navy told
me. He said that their vessel once called at the northerly side of
the strait and that the Patagonians, though living close to salt
water, never ventured from shore. What little they knew about
boating pertained to fresh water. They had a circular craft for
crossing shallow streams. They would dump into it whatever was to be
transported; and then a horse was attached and he drew it to the
other side. This officer also said that the Fuegians would cross the
strait, steal anything they could lay their hands on, and, putting
off in their boats with their plunder, would laugh at the
Patagonians standing on the shore and unable to follow them.”
We were a week in making the passage, and a hard week it was, too.
The brief hurricanes came towards night, and the captain made due
preparations, as he had warning of their coming. Fogs came and went;
the air was raw and the desolation and solitude were relieved only
once when we sighted a steamer in the distance. The mere glimpse of
her improved our spirits and gave us courage. At the middle of the
strait there were large mountains at the north, and small hills at
the south. Here, on the Patagonian side, was a white settlement
called Sandy Point, and used by the Chilean Government as a penal
colony. We ran so near shore at this place that we could plainly see
a little group of Patagonians. They were of large structure and
powerfully built. I have since learned that the statement that many
Patagonians are seven feet high is untrue. As we approached the
eastern entrance to the strait, we noticed that the shores were low
and reddish in color, and apparently sandy. Once more in the
Atlantic we began to sing lustily the familiar song “Homeward
Bound”, the first and last stanzas of which are as follows:
We’re homeward bound, oh, happy sound!
Good-by, fare ye well,
Good-by, fare ye well!
Come, rally the crew and run quick around,
Hurrah, my bullies, we’re homeward bound!
We’re homeward bound, may the winds blow fair,
Good-by, fare ye well,
Good-by, fare ye well!
Wafting us true to the friends waiting there,
Hurrah, my bullies, we’re homeward bound!
In a couple of weeks we began to see whales, and lowered several
times, but they eluded us. When we reached the Rio de la Plata, we
captured a sperm whale that boiled down sixty barrels. Imbedded in
the body was a harpoon which had evidently been there for a long
time. It had become so rusted that we could not discover a trace of
the owner’s or ship’s name. I always took an interest in trophies
and asked Lakeum if I might have it. My request was granted, and the
rusty old reminder of the lost art of whaling is still in my
possession.
As we neared home, Kreelman began to take an interest in my
welfare—no longer with sharp words and in a haughty manner, but
rather as a father gives counsel to a son.
“Fancy Chest,” he said, “I come from poor folks back in the country,
so I thought I would like to follow the sea. I was a young fellow
when I reached New Bedford and shipped on a whaler, and in a few
years I’ll be an old man. I’ve been on the sea a good part of my
life, and I don’t know nothin’ but salt water. Now what have I made
out of it? Mighty little. I’ve never spent the little that was
comin’ to me, but put it by for old age. I haven’t any home or any
friends, and all my folks is dead. I shall ship on whalers so long
as they’ll let me, and I may die on shipboard and be buried at sea,
but it doesn’t matter whether on land or sea. Now what are you goin’
to do, Fancy Chest—follow the sea or stick to the land and do
somethin’ else?”
“The sea looks pretty attractive to me. I was warned before I left
home that the foremast hand got very little out of a voyage. Every
one on this vessel is going to get a little fortune, and why
shouldn’t I follow the sea?”
“You forget,” Kreelman rejoined, “that the ambergris is a good part
of our catch, and you might sail the seas a hundred years without
seeing another pound of it. I suppose you hope to be a captain some
day, but it’s a long road before you get there. Then, if you marry,
you are away from your home about half of your life. Remember that
all voyages are not successful. If you stick to the sea you’ll never
have a voyage that begins to equal this one. Then there’s another
thing. I suppose you think this crew are just like the crew of any
other vessel. No, they ain’t. Except gettin’ rid of that fellow at
the Azores, this voyage of ours has run as smooth as oil. If you go
on another voyage, it may be worse than bedlam.”
Kreelman’s counsel set me to thinking, and as the days went by I
weighed the advantages and disadvantages of a whaleman’s life. Then
I thought of my mother—how hard it was for her to give me up, and
how it pained her to part with me. I was still young, only in my
eighteenth year, and the world was all before me. Then and there I
determined to say to my mother at our meeting that one voyage was
enough, and that I would seek employment on the land.
Days passed, and as we neared home the Civil War was a constant
subject of conversation. We had, of course, no definite information,
so we indulged in conjecture. Late one day we saw smoke many miles
astern of us, and we assumed that it came from a burning ship or
from a steamer. The smoke increased in volume, and we soon saw that
the object, which was apparently pursuing us, was a steamer. Some
one said it might be a cruiser. From this inadvertent remark grew
the general belief that it was a cruiser. It would soon be dark, and
word was given to wet the sails. The water was passed up in buckets
and the men worked diligently. The hope was that the darkness would
protect us, but that hope was soon abandoned, for our supposed
pursuer was fast gaining upon us. After capture the oil would be
burned with the ship, but what should be done with the ambergris? It
was suggested by some one that it be cut up into small pieces and
concealed upon our persons, but there was not time enough to resort
to that expedient. Nearer and nearer came the great black object,
belching out its clouds of smoke. There was nothing on our part but
resignation and also reflection on a wonderful voyage ending in
collapse and ruin. When within half a mile of us the steamer veered,
and in a short time passed us. They must have seen the old whaler,
but she was too insignificant for recognition. The reaction brought
relief, and the relief was followed by laughter.
On the last day of April we sighted Block Island, and soon a pilot
boat made for us. When the pilot boarded us he called out to the
captain,
“What’s your ambergris worth?”
“How’d you know about that?” asked the captain.
“Why, all New Bedford is talkin’ about it. They say there’s more
interest taken in your voyage than in any other since whalin’ begun.
You’ll have a lot of visitors when you drop anchor.”
The wind came from the southwest and we made good time, soon
reaching the Elizabeth Islands and then passing into the bay. We
anchored at about the place from which we had sailed nearly three
years before. The sharks at sea were quick to gather round the
carcass of a whale; so were the gentlemen on land, of the same name,
quick to gather on the deck of our vessel. These were the visitors
the pilot referred to. One of them shook me vigorously by the hand,
remembered me perfectly, was sure he had fitted me out before I
sailed, and would do the right thing by me now, if I would go to his
shop.
“You are mistaken,” I declared. “You didn’t fit me out. My outfitter
was a woman.”
“A woman!” he exclaimed.
“Yes,” I said, “my mother.”
Just then some one tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and beheld my
old friend, the shipkeeper. How delighted we were to meet again! How
pleasant it was to hear that my parents were well!
“Bleechly,” he remarked, “don’t have anything to do with the
outfitters. Our boat is going up soon, and we’ll take you and your
chest along. By the way, how did you like Lakeum?”
“Fine. I pulled the stroke oar in his boat.”
“Yes, he is a fine man,” said the shipkeeper, thoughtfully. “It’s
rare indeed that you find a man like him on a whaler.”
The captain and officers went with us in the boat. Glad as I was to
be home again, I felt some regret in parting from the old vessel,
scarred from the battles with wind and wave and reeking with grease
and oil. I gave Lakeum a pressing invitation to go home with me and
meet my parents, but he courteously declined. He showed feeling when
I thanked him for his kindness to me during the voyage. I ordered
the chest sent up to the house and walked briskly myself, so as to
anticipate its arrival.
Of my meeting with my parents and of the assurance conveyed to my
mother that I had done with the sea, I propose to say nothing. Happy
was our home and delighted was my mother with the things I brought
her—the handiwork of the South Sea islanders, and of the inhabitants
of Pitcairn. That evening all the boys I had ever known, including
my old classmates, crowded into the house and made a hero of me. All
the articles I had brought were scanned and handled as if they were
precious and invaluable. Strange and ridiculous questions were
asked, which I answered with great dignity and with solemn demeanor.
The ambergris was, of course, the subject of animated discussion.
Its value naturally was greatly exaggerated, one boy putting it at a
million dollars. Then the watch was taken up, and all kinds of
questions were asked as to its make and value. These I could not
answer, because I had not received it. When the boys took their
departure, most of them said that they were going to sea. My mother
smiled and observed that their parents would have something to say
upon the matter.
How strange that night it seemed to stretch out in a bed! How
difficult it was to compose myself to sleep! My little room had not
been occupied since my departure, and now for the time being the
three years seemed to be obliterated and I was a boy once more under
my father’s roof. At last sleep stole on. I was visited by pleasant
dreams and, when I awoke in the morning, I exclaimed, “Where am I,
where am I?” only to find that I had forsaken the forecastle for the
home of my youth, and as good a home as any boy ever had.
The voyages were to be settled on the following day, so I told my
parents that, before officers and crew separated, there were three
of our number whom I desired to invite to the house, and they
approved my purpose. I made search that morning for Lakeum. Again I
wanted to press him to come to our home. I could get no trace of
him. At last I bethought me of the shipkeeper.
“Bleechly,” he said, “Lakeum’s gone and left a power of attorney
with a friend to settle his voyage. From what he said I think it
likely that he’ll never go whaling again.” Thus this man, who had
been such a true friend to me, and who had won the esteem of all the
men under him for nearly three years, passed out of my life. I never
saw him or heard of him again.
I found Kreelman in an outfitter’s establishment and I urged him to
honor our home with his presence at supper that evening. He seemed
touched and voiced his thanks most courteously but declined my
invitation. Then I looked up Ohoo and found him in a sailor’s
boarding house in the company of some questionable-looking
individuals. I called him to one side and extended an invitation to
supper.
“Me go, me tank ’ou,” he replied.
When I introduced him to my mother, in the afternoon, she observed,
“My son has told me how kind your family were to him in their home
in Honolulu, and now we are only too glad to have you in our little
home here in New Bedford.”
“Me tank ’ou. Me sing and dance.”
Ohoo conducted himself at our humble table with credit. His manners
were better than those of many people of opportunities and
education. In the evening he sang some of his quaint and weird
native songs, and he indulged in dances which caused merriment and
won applause. Just before he left my father cautioned him as to the
care of the money he was soon to receive, and suggested that the
savings bank take care of it during his absence on the next voyage.
As a fact, the counsel later was followed, and, when Ohoo went to
sea again, a goodly sum was standing to his credit in the
institution my father named.