PASSAGE FROM HONOLULU TO MONTEREY.
THE MORAL PHAROS.—THE MORMON SHIP.—BIBLE CLASS.—THE SEA-HEN.—OUR
INSANE SAILOR.—FOURTH OF JULY.—PROFANENESS AT SEA.—EVENING
PRAYER-MEETING.—FUNERAL.—TARGET FIRING.—RELIGIOUS CONDITION OF THE
CREW.—ANCHOR UNDER MONTEREY.
“The sea-bird wheels above the mast,
And the waters fly below,
And the foaming billows flashing fast
Are leaping up the prow.”
TUESDAY, JUNE 23. We weighed anchor at daylight this morning, and stood
out from the open bay of Honolulu. The breeze was fresh, and in a few
hours Oahu presented only its volcanic peaks above the swell of the
ocean. We cast a parting glance to those cliffs from which we had gazed
in delighted wonder, and felt a sentiment allied to bereavement, as they
faded on our vision.
The volcanoes which threw up these mountain-masses have long since
rested from their labors; the flames which lit the savage grandeur of
their craters are extinct; dim ages have swept over them, and only the
bleak monuments of their terrific energy remain; but Christian
philanthropy, without pomp and parade, and in the silence of that love
which seeks only to solace and save, has here kindled a light that shall
never wane. Centuries may come and go, and night rest upon other isles
of the wide sea, but this light will still stream on in undying
splendor. Beneath its beams generations will here go untremblingly down
to the unbreathing sepulchre, and as this world darkens on their vision,
discern those objects of faith which loom to light in the spirit-land.
With the good, a shadow only falls between this world and the next.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 24. We have been for the last twenty-four hours on our
starboard tack, with the wind from the northeast. The jagged steeps of
Kanie sunk this morning in the sea over our larboard quarter. We are
again upon the wide ocean without an object on which the eye can rest.
Our frigate has a heavy roll; she has in her six months’ provisions, and
lies too deep for the greatest speed. The heat is oppressive, but has
been relieved by several refreshing showers. Our men jumped around in
them like wild ducks in the foam of the cascade.
The wardroom of the Congress presents an orderly, well-regulated table.
It has been so from the commencement of our cruise. Grace is said at our
meals; not a glass of spirits has entered our mess; not a word of
discord, petulance, or anger, has been heard. The officers are within
the circle of that religious sentiment which more or less pervades the
crew. It is religion alone that can bind passion, harmonize the elements
of society, and render the obligations of mutual forbearance and love
the abiding rules of action.
THURSDAY, JUNE 25. We left at Honolulu the American ship Brooklyn, with
one hundred and seventy-five Mormon emigrants on board, bound to
Monterey and San Francisco, where they propose to settle. They look to
us for protection, and expect to land, if necessary, under our
batteries. I spent the greater part of a day among them, and must say, I
was much pleased with their deportment. The greater portion of them are
young, and have been trained to habits of industry, frugality, and
enterprise. Some have been recently married, and are accompanied by
their parents. They are mostly from the Methodist and Baptist
persuasions. Their Mormonism, so far as they have any, has been
superinduced on their previous faith, as Millerism on the belief of some
Christians. They are rigidly strict in their domestic morals; have their
morning and evening prayers; and the wind and the weather have never
suspended, during their long voyage, their exercises of devotion.
FRIDAY, JUNE 26. We have had since we left port a head wind; but we are
constantly working our way north through the trades into the variables;
a few weeks since we were very anxious to get out of the variables, we
are now equally anxious to get into them. But we were then sailing
northwest; our course now lies northeast: such is the occupation of the
sailor. He is forever crossing and retracing his own track, and well
would it be for him if this crossing and retracing were confined to his
track on the deep, but unhappily it enters into the pathway of his moral
being. He plods back in penitence and remorse the space over which folly
and passion blindly whirled him. “Facilis descensus averni, sed revocare
his labor, hoc opus est.”
SATURDAY, JUNE 27. We have at last a slant of wind which has put us on
our course. The Mormon ship must make haste if she expects to overtake
us before we reach Monterey. It is a little singular that with a company
of one hundred and seventy emigrants, confined in a vessel of only four
hundred tons, depending on each other’s activity and forbearence for
comfort, unbroken harmony should have prevailed. They may have had their
momentary jars, but I was assured by the captain, who is not of their
persuasion, that no serious discord had occurred. They put their money
into a joint stock, laid in their own provisions, and have every thing
in common. They chartered their vessel, for which they pay twelve
hundred dollars per month. It will cost them for their passage alone
some ten thousand dollars before they disembark in California.
SUNDAY, JUNE 28. We had divine service at the usual hour. The subject of
the sermon was the aversion of the world to the meekness, humility, and
forbearance which enter into the Christian character. Men of the world
are too apt to consider these qualities incompatible with courage,
resolution, firmness, and self-respect. But the most heroic virtues have
been displayed in dungeons, on the rack, and at the stake, by martyrs to
truth. He who suffered on the cross, triumphed over not only the malice
of his foes, but the terrors of death. After service I met my Bible
class, and spent an hour with them. Among them are some of the first
seamen in the ship; men whose influence extend through the whole crew;
several of these, there is reason to believe, have experienced religion
since we started on the present cruise. God grant they may persevere
with unshaken firmness.
I applied to-day to Captain Du Pont and Mr. Livingston for the apartment
leading to the store-room, in which to hold our evening prayer-meeting.
It was granted without any hesitation. This prayer-meeting commenced
with three or four individuals; it now embraces some fifteen or twenty,
and it will not stop here.
MONDAY, JUNE 29. We have been in a dead calm all day,—the ocean
slumbering about us without a ripple, and our dog-vane not lifting a
feather. The lazy clouds piled themselves up in pyramids and castles on
the sea, without a wave or breath to disturb their fantastic forms. The
rays of the sun were quenched in their veils, and twilight spread over
their summits her rosy charm. As night in her sable hues advanced, the
moon came up and poured on turret and tower her tender light. Man rears
his structures amid weariness and tumult; nature erects hers in silence.
When the monuments of man decay, ages may sigh over their unreviving
relics, but when those of nature are dissolved, others emerge from the
ruin in more exulting beauty, as the bird of flame from the ashes of its
parent.
TUESDAY, JUNE 30. When an aquatic fowl appears for which the sailor has
no other name, he always calls it a sea-hen. Several of this brood have
been about our ship to-day, circling through the air, and resting on the
sleeping sea. The head is large, the neck strong, the wings long and
arching, and the plumage dark brown. We tried to hook one of them with a
tempting bait, but the fellow was too cunning. The only purpose they
seemingly serve is to relieve the monotony of a sea-life.
We have been lying now for two days in the same waveless berth; our
motion has not been sufficient to straighten our log-line. Every cloud
is watched, but it brings no breeze. It departs like the airy visions of
childhood, and none knoweth the place of its rest. We are born in
shadows; live in their aerial folds, and vanish at last into deep night.
But the spark of the Divinity that glows within is quenchless evermore.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 1. We caught to-day, with a hook, one of the sailor’s
sea-hens. It proved to be the brown albatros of the Pacific; and
measured ten feet between the tips of its wings. When brought on board,
the fellow threw his wild glances at the crew, and walked about as
haughtily as if sole monarch of the peopled deck. One of the men
attempted to trifle with his dignity, when he pounced upon him and
severely chastised his impertinence. After being detained an hour, we
let him go to join his female companion, who was waiting for him, on the
wave, by the side of the ship. The albatros never deserts its consort in
calamity.
The love which coldly wounds and kills,
Is that which care and sorrow chills.
THURSDAY, JULY 2. Our sailor, Lewis, who is touched with insanity, is
again on deck. He moves around among the crew, but never participates in
their amusements, or enters into conversation with any one. If
questioned, his answers are so stern and brief they quell curiosity. He
handles a rope as if there were a scorpion’s fang in every strand. Only
snatches of his history are known. He has borne arms; his last exploits
were at San Jacinto. He has the air of one in whom the feelings of a
better nature have been turned to apathy and scorn.
“His features’ deepening lines and varying hue
At times attract, and yet perplex the view
As if within that murkiness of mind
Worked feeling, fearful and yet undefined.
He has the skill, when cunning’s gaze would seek
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek,
At once the observer’s purpose to espy,
And on himself roll back his scrutiny.”
FRIDAY, JULY 3. We have at last a breeze from the northwest, which is
leading us out of this region of calms. Our latitude is 35° N. Our
thermometer ranges at seventy,—rather a cool temperature, considering
that we are so near the vertical rays of a cloudless sun, wheeling
around his northern bourne in his career of flame to the Line. But the
temperature of the Pacific never undergoes those extreme changes to
which that of the same latitude in the Atlantic is subjected. The cause
of this difference is probably found in the relative disproportion of
sea and land over which the tides of the atmosphere pass in the two
oceans.
Three seamen came into my state-room to-day to converse with me on the
subject of religion. They stated that for several weeks their attention
had been drawn to this subject, and that they had now resolved to
renounce every sin, and seek an interest in Christ. I encouraged them in
this good resolution, gave them books suited to their frame of mind, and
invited them to our evening prayer-meeting. These are the bows of
promise which span the dark tides of ocean.
SATURDAY, JULY 4. This is the anniversary of our national independence.
The crew have been permitted to spend it as they pleased; no duty being
required of them beyond what is essential to keep the ship on her
course. Some collected themselves in groups, and spun patriotic yarns
about naval actions in the last war; some sung the star-spangled banner;
some waxed eloquent at the idea of a war with Mexico, and some sat
quietly mending their old clothes. The young were generally the most
eager for hostilities, and seemed to think they could hew their way with
a cutlass and a pound of pork to the halls of the Montezumas.
Commodore Stockton gave an elegant dinner to his officers. Many
sentiments, kindled by the examples of the glorious past, went round;
and many thoughts of home and hearts left behind, melted in an
under-tone through the festivities. How veneration, gratitude, and
pride, will grow in the breast of an American, in a distant clime, over
the memory of those who perilled their all in the Revolution! They rest
in immortal remembrance amid the flowers and fragrant airs of earth:
“By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung.”
SUNDAY, JULY 5. Though the morning has been overcast with flying clouds,
from which dashes of rain have fallen, accompanied with sudden gusts of
wind, giving every thing the air of discomfort, and rendering the ship
rather uneasy, yet we have had our regular service. The subject of the
discourse was, Profaneness—its degrading effects, its prohibition in the
rules of the service, its violation of the laws of God.
This is the besetting sin of those who follow the seas,—of those who, in
their helplessness, are surrounded by the most stupendous displays of
omnipotent power. Yet let the ship in which it prevails most, be swept
in a gale of shroud and mast, be driving amid breakers against the steep
rock, her guilty crew will fall on their knees in prayer, and call on
Him whose name they have profaned, whose worship they have derided, to
have mercy and save.
Our prayer-meeting has increased, so that the small apartment in which
we have been assembling will not accommodate us. Capt. Du Pont, on the
suggestion of Mr. Livingston, has given us the use of the store-room. It
has been so arranged that there is no interference with the public
stores, and no increase of hazard from additional lights. It would have
been easy for them to have suggested difficulties; but, thank God, they
are not so inclined. They have extended to me every facility and every
encouragement in their power. Nor has any officer on board the ship cast
an impediment in my way. Not a derisive remark from any one, either in
or out of the wardroom, has fallen on my ear.
MONDAY, JULY 6. When we were receiving our crew at Norfolk, an old
seaman, by the name of Barnard, applied to Capt. Du Pont to be shipped.
He was told that he had not vigor for the hardships of another cruise,
and kindly advised to make the Naval Asylum his home. But he plead the
forty years of service which he had performed in our national ships so
earnestly, that he was permitted to come on board. Though over sixty
years of age, he has discharged the duties of quarter-master very well.
But recently the springs of life have been giving way, till at last he
has been obliged to relinquish his post at the wheel. He could not rally
again, and has sunk to his last repose.
To-day we have consigned his remains to the deep. The body, wrapped in
his hammock, was borne by his messmates up the main-hatch, along the
line of the marine guard presenting arms, where it was met by the
Commodore and Captain, As the band ceased its funeral air, the burial
service was read, the plank on which the body lay was lifted, and
Barnard glided down to his deep rest. Over him roll the waters of the
Pacific.
But when the last great trump shall thrill the grave,
And earth’s unnumbered myriads reappear,
He too shall hear the summons ’neath the wave,
That now in silence wraps his sunless bier.
And coming forth, in trembling reverence bowed,
Unfold the tongueless secrets of his shroud.
TUESDAY, JULY 7. We have sailed since we left Callao about eight
thousand miles without falling in with a single vessel, though the
Pacific is said to be sprinkled with whalers and merchantmen. The former
pursue their vocation without any reference to the customary tracks of
other vessels; they set up their chase wherever the whale sweeps, be it
to the Pole or the Line, and yet we have not encountered one of them.
Out of the thousand, not one has come within the range of our vision.
This gives one some idea of the immensity of the Pacific. A ship in it
is like a meteor in the unconfined realms of space.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 8. We have had general quarters, with the exercise of
the crew at the guns, almost every day since we left Honolulu. Mexican
papers were received there, the day before our departure, stating that
hostilities had commenced between that country and the United States, on
the Texan line. We doubted the correctness of the information, but put
to sea at once, that we might be off Monterey in season for any service
which the possible exigency might require.
To-day we have been practising at target firing. This fictitious foe
made his appearance on a platform buoyed up by eight empty casks at a
distance, varying with the action of the sea and wind, of from one to
two miles. The firing commenced on the larboard side, and was restricted
to one round from each gun. It was found that the shot, though the guns
had been elevated one degree, struck the water short of the mark. An
order was therefore given to elevate the guns two degrees, and to be
careful to fire on an even keel. This brought the target within a
point-blank range; and the shot whistled past it, grazing this side and
that.
We now tacked ship, and gave the starboard lads a chance. Their shot
struck with sufficient accuracy for all practical purposes in a naval
engagement, and the target, though bobbing up and down on the sea as a
frightened thing of life, very narrowly escaped. The whistling, whizzing
sound made by a huge ball in its passage through the air, is like
nothing else that I have ever heard. It seems to carry in its very tone
an import of the destructive errand upon which it is sent. This ominous
voice, however, in the excitement and thunders of an engagement, is
never heard. The warning and the havoc come together, twins in life and
death!
THURSDAY, JULY 9. We have made, for the last three days, but very little
progress towards our port. The wind has been extremely light and
baffling, breathing and dying away at all points of the compass. The
atmosphere has had that peculiar property which magnifies every object
of vision. The moon hung on the horizon this evening with a breadth of
circle which attracted the attention of all on board; the stars seemed
to have extended their glowing verge, the sea-bird to have enlarged its
dusky form as it floated dimly in the pale light, while the wing of the
cloud threw its vast shadow on the sleeping surface of the sea. We heard
“Not a sound, save the surge of the ship
As she lazily rolls to and fro,
And the sails as they listlessly flap,
And the creak of the rudder below.”
FRIDAY, JULY 10. We have had to-day a light but steady breeze on our
starboard quarter. Our studding-sails have been set for the first time
since we left Honolulu. We are now within nine hundred miles of our
port. All are engaged, some in ship’s duty, some in acquiring Spanish,
some in writing letters home; while the crew, as they come off watch,
occupy their time with books from the library. Sailors will read if you
furnish them with books suited to their tastes and habits. Give them
narratives, history, biography, and incidents of travel. In these
sketches virtues may be shadowed forth that will win reverence and love,
and the results of vice unfolded with repelling power. But all this
requires care in the selection; this duty properly devolves on the
chaplain; it is for him to elevate and mould the moral sentiments of
those around him. If he is not equal to this, he should not put his foot
on the decks of a man-of-war.
SATURDAY, JULY 11. Our light aft wind has left us, and we have in its
stead a heavy sea, rolling in from the west. There must have been a
tremendous blow in that quarter. Our ship rolled last night as she did
off Cape Horn. Every thing in the wardroom and steerage which had not
been secured, rushed about in crashing confusion. The candlesticks
leaped from the sideboard, a tray of knives and forks followed, while a
water tank flew from one bulkhead to another, as if determined to dash
in its own staves. The front board of my berth had been taken out to
admit more air, and I had no sooner dropped asleep, than out I rolled on
the floor; and well was it for me that I did, for I was no sooner out of
my berth than my library tumbled in. What singular feelings, half
vexatious and half ludicrous, one has gathering himself up from such a
tumble!
SUNDAY, JULY 12. The weather has been too stormy, and the roll of the
ship too heavy, for religious service on deck. We have had a
prayer-meeting in the store-room. The attendance was voluntary, but the
large apartment was filled. A good number of our sailors are earnestly
seeking religion, and several hope they have found it. I meet them every
evening from eight to nine o’clock. They speak in these meetings with
much frankness of their previous evil courses, and of their resolution
to abandon them and seek Christ. Those who have obtained light and
comfort, encourage others, and pray for them with an earnestness which
shows their heart is in the work. Every evening some two or three new
ones join us. Among them are some of the first sailors we have.
The effect of this on the discipline of the ship is too marked to escape
observation. There is no disobedience and no punishment. Each performs
with alacrity the duties of his station. It would seem as if we might
throw every instrument of correction and coercion overboard; their
requirement, for the present at least, has ceased. Give me the religious
sentiment in a crew, and you may sink your handcuffs, cats, and colts in
the depths of ocean. They who, under the hypocritical cry of church and
state, would deprive our seamen of these influences, have steeled their
hearts to the first instincts of humanity. Their religion, if they have
any, is cruel as the grave.
MONDAY, JULY 13. The following note, which I received last evening from
one of our quarter-gunners, a stanch sailor, derives its interest from
the fact that he followed it up with an attendance at our
prayer-meeting.
_U. S. Frigate Congress, July 12, 1846._
DEAR SIR:—
With feelings of sincere regret for the error I made on the night of
the 11th, by using profane language in your hearing, I do humbly crave
your pardon, and I do assure you, had I known you were present at the
time, such language would never have been used by me. I am aware I can
make no excuse for the crime of swearing: it is, as you have truly
said, the force of habit, which should have been checked by me years
ago. No man inside this ship is more indebted to an all-merciful God
than I am, for I have been totally shipwrecked in the course of my
sea-life four different times, and been preserved when some of my
shipmates met a watery grave; and still I sin greatly, daily, hourly,
in spite of all my resolutions to the contrary.
Yours obediently.
TUESDAY, JULY 14. We were tumbled out of our dead calm by a roaring
northwester, and have been driven by it two hundred and thirty-five
miles in the last twenty-four hours. We have six months’ provisions, and
four months’ water, on board, and have been logging eleven and twelve
knots. A ship that can do this under these circumstances, and close
hauled, must be a good sailer. We are now within two hundred and twenty
miles of our port; and if this wind continues, shall probably anchor
under Monterey to-morrow. Whether it be for hostilities or for peace, we
know not; but we are prepared for either.
WEDNESDAY, JULY 15. The wind continued very fresh through the night. Not
wishing to make the land till daylight, we furled our top-gallant sails,
hauled up our courses, double-reefed our topsails, and still run eight
knots. As day dawned, Point Pinos rose fifteen miles directly ahead of
us. But as the first rays of the sun tipped its forest-tops with flame,
a bank of fog rolled between. Not a vestige of the coast was seen for
hours; and we wore ship, and stood out to sea.
It was nearly noon before the fog lifted. We then made sail, and in two
hours rounded Point Pinos, and entered the harbor of Monterey. We
discovered at anchor the U. S. frigate Savannah, bearing the broad
pennant of Commodore Sloat; the U. S. sloop-of-war Cyane, Captain
Mervin; and the U. S. sloop-of-war Levant, Commander Page. We run up the
red pennant, and saluted the blue of Commodore Sloat with thirteen guns,
which were returned by the Savannah. As we rounded under her stern for
our berth, her band struck up “Hail Columbia!” We came to anchor, in
graceful style, outside the Cyane.
Here will we rest, and let the winds rave on
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