DOWN IN THE 'ROLLING FORTIES'
A week later, and on taking over the morning watch, Jack was
delighted to find that during the night several black-and-white
speckled birds, styled 'cape pigeons,' were following the ship. All
that day the beautiful little creatures continued to arrive in large
flocks, and it did not require any stretch of imagination to believe
that, as Jack Clewlin said, 'a feathered snowsquall was driving up
astern.'
They flew quite close to the ship, their beady black eyes always on
the watch for anything thrown overboard, and their shrill cries of
delight or disappointment mingled with the ceaseless 'boom boom' of
the rolling waves.
One of the saloon passengers immediately determined to shoot some of
the birds.
Captain Thorne raised strong objections, and also added that to do so
would be inviting misfortune on the ship, or to some of the people on
board.
The younger and less thoughtful of his hearers laughed at 'the funny
sailor superstition.'
Before more could be said, however, the 'sportsman' raised his
fowling-piece, and in rapid succession brought down two of the birds.
The indignation of the captain was withering.
'You should be ashamed of yourself, sir!' he hotly exclaimed.
'People such as you never seem happy unless they are killing or
maiming the most beautiful of God's creatures. What harm did those
little birds do you? Your selfishness is appalling, for you cannot
even recover what you kill. With all your boasted cleverness you are
not able to restore the life in what the Almighty has placed on this
sea for His own wise purposes.'
The captain spoke with considerable feeling, and no more birds were
slain. Some of the passengers who had been quickest to ridicule the
idea that it would be unlucky to shoot the birds now looked somewhat
shamefaced, and also realised that not only was it a wanton
destruction of life, but that the entire crew seemed deeply offended.
Day by day the 'Silver Crown' drew farther southward, and the weather
became correspondingly stronger and colder. The sea, too, began to
run with considerable weight, and the westerly wind steadily
increased.
The ship made daily runs of extraordinary distances, the outlook was
beautifully clear, and the sky of a vivid steel-blue hue. In short,
she had now reached that portion of the ocean known to mariners as
the 'rolling forties,' since below the latitude of forty degrees
south, and as nowhere else are such steady winds obtainable, the
masters of all vessels bound toward Australia, New Zealand, or
Tasmania, seize the opportunity of 'running their easting down,' in
other words, keeping an almost due easterly course.
And then it was that the only accident, a disaster, in fact, of
appalling suddenness, marred the otherwise successful voyage of the
'Silver Crown,' and cast a deep gloom over everyone on board.
One bright but cold Saturday morning the ship raced along at about
fourteen knots an hour, every inch of her best and newest canvas
swelling out magnificently in the strong wind, and broad bands of
seething foam leaped and hissed on either side.
The middle and after staysails, or those between the masts, were kept
set, but owing to the heavy 'send' of the sea, and the consequent
swing of the hull, they were not always full, and, of course, the
sheets, or such ropes as held down the lower corners of those
triangular-shaped sails, lay useless until again strained by the wind.
All the female steerage passengers were turned up on deck for the
customary weekly clothes wash, and with their tubs stood along each
side of the deck.
Beside them husbands, sons, or brothers, supplied the water, which
was drawn from the sea in small pails supplied for that purpose.
For a while all went well, and merry laughter and chatter prevailed
fore and aft the main deck.
Suddenly the appalling cry 'Man overboard!' arose.
The captain rushed on deck, and the helm was jammed hard down. The
ship immediately swung into the wind without shipping much water.
The sails beat heavily in the strong wind, the crew rushed to the
braces, ropes whizzed through their blocks, a lifebuoy was flung
astern, and when the yards had been steadied the lee lifeboat, in
charge of Mr. Statten, got safely away from the ship.
By that time Captain Thorne had reached the mizen top, and through
his glasses sought trace of the unfortunate man, but all he could see
were some albatrosses, which were following the vessel, hovering
above a spot far to windward.
The boat reached the place, but only brought back the buoy. As
nothing more could be done, the 'Silver Crown' resumed her voyage.
'Who has gone?' was the general inquiry.
No one could tell. The mate called over the muster-roll of the crew,
and each man answered to his name.
It was evident that one of the emigrants had been the victim. When
his name was called, and there was no reply, his wife declared that
he was below collecting clothes for the wash. On discovering her
mistake, she fell into a swoon, and on regaining her senses she
became almost beside herself with grief.
It subsequently appeared that her husband, although frequently warned
to keep clear of the big main topmast staysail sheet, had leaned
across it to draw water while the sail was empty, and when the latter
suddenly filled he was, of course, flung several feet clear of the
racing hull.
Six children mourned his loss, while, to make matters still worse,
every penny possessed by the unfortunate family was sewn into the
lining of an overcoat which the man then wore.
After arrival at Brisbane the whole family was sent back to England,
for the mother had become strange in her mind.
Well, the topgallant-sails and the royals were reset, a short funeral
service was held, and throughout the remainder of that day a deep
hush prevailed fore and aft.
On flew the clipper before the wind, and many large albatrosses
followed in the wake.
Most of those beautiful birds must have measured quite eight feet
from tip to tip of their extended wings, yet whether going with or
against the wind no one could detect the slightest movement of their
pinions.
Like the 'cape pigeons' nothing escaped their vigilant scrutiny, and
shrill screams, and a splash of grey-coloured feathers in the cold
sea, followed the throwing of anything overboard.
By hook and line one of them was captured, yet not without
considerable trouble, since with outspread wings and webbed feet
thrust rigidly against the water, it required the strength of two men
to haul it on board.
It struck out savagely with its strong hooked beak, and as it was too
heavy to rise from the deck it became seasick; yet when released it
immediately soared aloft, as before its capture.
The clipper continued to race along in magnificent manner, and runs
of four hundred miles were frequent. Sometimes the heavy seas
rolling up astern threatened to fall on board, but with upward rise
of the bow she always sped clear of the danger.
At last she began to edge northward out of the strong weather. The
temperature rose considerably. The albatrosses disappeared.
All hands set to work holy stoning the deck and painting ship. The
cables were dragged from below and secured to the anchors, which were
hove out over the bows.
In short, the voyage of the 'Silver Crown' was drawing to a close.
Everything not required for daily use was packed away by the
passengers for removal ashore, and a keen lookout for land was
observed.
Shortly after dawn one morning Mr. Statten, the second mate, ordered
Jack Clewlin to 'jump aloft and have a look round.'
Within a few minutes the excited lad had reached the fore topmast
crosstrees.
There he took time to recover his breath, and then thrusting his cap
within his shirt for safety he 'shinned' up the royal rigging.
With the slender mast pole six feet above his head he sat on the yard.
A splendid spectacle rewarded his climb.
Right away to the distant horizon all round, the deep blue and
white-ridged ocean lay beneath the increasing daylight.
Far below the head canvas pulled strongly at its boom, the sharp bow
cut through the water like a knife, surging foam seemed to leap
almost to the cat-heads, and never a sail stirred in the wind.
He thought of that first night ascent, and the beautiful scene then
witnessed, yet now a scarcely less exquisite light that always
precedes sunrise at sea prevailed.
With one arm flung round the mast for security Jack peered ahead.
As the light strengthened a dim blue haze seemed to hang just above
the horizon far ahead.
It seemed exactly like the first loom of the South American
continent. As it did not rise so rapidly as vapour would, Jack
mustered up all his courage for the grand announcement, and in clear,
boyish tones he hailed the deck--
'Land, ho!'
His heart beat quickly. Had he been too hasty? He peered at the
deepening haze, and then saw Mr. Statten in the crosstrees beneath
him.
'All right, Clewlin,' the mate sang out; 'that's the land. Come down
here and keep bright lookout for broken water. The royals will be
lowered directly.'
Jack breathed more freely. He had made no mistake, and could not be
jeered at by the crew.
The clipper's deck became filled with people watching the first
appearance of their future home, and the bluish tint soon assumed a
green colour.
Headlands and indentations became distinct. Towards a spacious bay,
partly protected by an island, the ship steered, and as she entered
it all the upper canvas was lowered and clewed up.
The courses were hauled up, and the topsails came down on the lower
caps.
'Let go the anchor!' the captain cried.
'Stand clear the chain!' the mate sang out.
The blow of a maul on the cat-head was followed by the roar of the
cable through the hawse-pipe. Then, after a good passage of
eighty-five days from Stonewell, the 'Silver Crown' swung head to
wind in Moreton Bay, Queensland, Australia.