DOUBLING THE CAPE.
As our merry little ship approached the far-famed Cape of Good Hope, I
often remained on deck after the watch was out, feasting my eyes on
the sight of constellations known to me before only by name, and as
yet scarcely anchored in my imagination. Each succeeding night, as the
various clusters rose, crossed the meridian, and sunk again into the
western waves, we came more and more into the way, not only of
speaking, but thinking of them, under their conventional titles of
hydras, doves, toucans, phoenixes, and flying-fish, not forgetting the
enormous southern whale, whose beautiful eye, called Fomalhaut, while
it flames in the zenith of the Cape, is hardly known to the
astronomers of this country, from its greatest altitude, as seen by
them, not being ten degrees.
But of all the Antarctic constellations, the celebrated Southern Cross
is by far the most remarkable, and must, in every age, continue to
arrest the attention of all voyagers and travellers who are fortunate
enough to see it. I think it would strike the imagination even of a
person who had never heard of the Christian religion; but of this it
is difficult to judge, seeing how inextricably our own ideas are
mingled up with associations linking this sacred symbol with almost
every thought, word, and deed of our lives. The three great stars
which form the Cross, one at the top, one at the left arm, and one,
which is the chief star, called Alpha, at the foot, are so placed as
to suggest the idea of a crucifix, even without the help of a small
star, which completes the horizontal beam. When on the meridian, it
stands nearly upright; and as it sets, we observe it lean over to the
westward. I am not sure whether, upon the whole, this is not more
striking than its gradually becoming more and more erect as it rises
from the east. In every position, however, it is beautiful to look at,
and well calculated, with a little prompting from the fancy, to stir
up our thoughts to solemn purpose. I know not how others are affected
by such things; but, for myself, I can say with truth, that, during
the many nights I have watched the Southern Cross, I remember no two
occasions when the spectacle interested me exactly in the same way,
nor any one upon which I did not discover the result to be somewhat
different, and always more impressive, than what I had looked for.
This constellation being about thirty degrees from the south pole, is
seen in its whole revolution, and, accordingly, when off the Cape, I
have observed it in every stage, from its triumphant erect position,
between sixty and seventy degrees above the horizon, to that of
complete inversion, with the top beneath, and almost touching the
water. This position, by the way, always reminded me of the death of
St. Peter, who is said to have deemed it too great an honour to be
crucified with his head upwards. In short, I defy the stupidest mortal
that ever lived to watch these changes in the aspect of this splendid
constellation, and not to be in some degree struck by them.
These airy visions are sometimes curiously broken in upon by the most
common-place incidents, which force us back upon ordinary life. On the
28th of May we overtook a packet on her way to the Brazils from
England, which had sailed more than a month after us, but she had not
a single newspaper, army list, navy list, or review on board. The mate
was totally ignorant of all the interesting topics of that most
interesting moment of the war (1812); and in reply to all our
questions, merely observed that everything was just the same as when
we left England. The captain was ill in bed, and could not be spoken
to, so that this intelligent gentleman, his chief officer, had been
lugged on deck to tell the news. He honestly confessed, after being
sufficiently baited and badgered by our interrogatories, that even
when in England he had no time to look at the newspapers, but that he
left public affairs to the management of those whose business it was
to look after them, while he found enough to do in looking after the
packet.
"I dare say," added the fellow, with rather more dryness of humour
than we had imagined was in his doughy composition, "I dare say the
whole story you are asking about, of Buonaparte and the Russians, is
told very exactly in these bags (pointing to the mail), and if I
deliver them safe at Rio, it will be wrong to say I bring no news."
On the 4th of June we had a jollification in honour of good old King
George the Third's birthday. In how many different parts of the world,
and with what deep and affectionate sincerity, were cups quaffed and
cheers rung out in the same loyal cause! If sailors would tell the
truth, we should find that when abroad and far away, they generally
use their distant friends as the captain, mentioned some time ago, did
his ship's company's European clothing--stow them away for a future
occasion. I do not say that they forget or neglect their friends; they
merely put them by in safety for a time. In fact, as the song says, a
sailor's heart and soul have plenty to do "in every port," to keep
fully up to the companionships which are present, without moping and
moaning over the remembrance of friends at a distance, who, in like
manner no doubt, unship us also, more or less, from their thoughts, if
not from their memory, for the time being; and it is all right and
proper that it should be so.
On the 5th of June we parted from our convoy, the China ships; and,
alas! many a good dinner we lost by that separation. Our course lay
more to the left, or eastward, as we wished to look in at the Cape of
Good Hope, while those great towering castles, the tea ships, could
not afford time for play, but struck right down to the southward, in
search of the westerly winds which were to sweep them half round the
globe, and enable them to fetch the entrance of the China seas in time
to save the monsoon to Canton. Each ship sent a boat to us with
letters for England, to be forwarded from the Cape. This was probably
their last chance for writing home; so that, after the accounts
contained in these dispatches reached England, their friends would
hear nothing of them till they presented themselves eighteen months
afterwards. Neither did they expect to know what was passing at home
till they should touch at St. Helena, on the return voyage, in the
latter end of the following year.
I remember looking over the lee-gangway next day, at the first blush
of the dawn, during the morning watch, and I could barely distinguish
the fleet far to leeward, with their royals just showing above the
horizon. On taking leave of our convoy, we were reminded that there is
always something about the last, the very last look of any object,
which brings with it a feeling of melancholy. On this occasion,
however, we had nothing more serious to reproach ourselves with than
sundry impatient execrations with which we had honoured some of our
slow-moving, heavy-sterned friends, when we were compelled to shorten
sail in a fair wind, in order to keep them company. A smart frigate
making a voyage with a dull-sailing convoy reminds one of the child's
story of the provoking journey made by the hare with a drove of oxen.
Our merry attendants, the flying-fish, and others which swarmed about
us in the torrid zone, refused to see us across the tropic, and the
only aquatics we fell in with afterwards were clumsy whales and
grampuses, and occasionally a shoal of white porpoises. Of birds there
were plenty, especially albatrosses. The captain, being a good shot
with a ball, brought down one of these, which measured seven feet
between the tips of the wings. I have several times seen them twelve
feet; and I heard a well-authenticated account of one measuring
sixteen feet from tip to tip. On the 22nd of June we came in sight of
the high land on the northern part of the peninsula of the Cape of
Good Hope, the far-famed Table Mountain, which looked its character
very well, and really did not disappoint us, though, in general, its
height, like that of most high lands, is most outrageously exaggerated
in pictures. The wind failed us during the day, and left us rolling
about till the evening, when the breeze came too late to be of much
use. Next day we rounded the pitch of the Cape, but it blew so strong
from the northward, right out of False Bay, accompanied by rain and a
high sea, that we found it no easy job to hold our own, much less to
gain the anchorage. But on the 24th of June, the day after, the wind
moderated and became fair, the weather cleared up, and we sailed
almost into Simon's Bay, a snug little nook at the north-western angle
of False Bay. It then fell calm, but the boats of the men-of-war at
anchor, his Majesty's ships Lion, Nisus, and Galatea, soon towed us
into our berth. During the winter of that hemisphere, which
corresponds to our northern summer, the only safe quarters for ships
is in Simon's Bay, on the south side of the Cape peninsula.
I have a perfect recollection of the feelings with which I leaped out
of the boat, and first set foot on the continent of Africa, but am
prevented from describing these poetical emotions by the remembrance,
equally distinct, of the more engrossing anxiety which both my
companion and myself experienced about our linen, then on its way to
the laundress in two goodly bundles. For the life of me, I cannot
separate the grand ideas suitable to the occasion, from the base
interests connected with cotton shirts and duck trousers. And such is
the tormenting effect of association, that when I wish to dwell upon
the strange feelings, partly professional and partly historical,
caused by actually gazing on the identical Cape of Good Hope, a spot
completely hammered into the memory of all sailors, straightway I
remember the bitter battling with the washer-folks of Simon's Town
touching the rate of bleaching shirts: and both the sublime and the
beautiful are lost in the useful and ridiculous.
The 3rd of July was named for sailing; but the wind, which first came
foul, soon lulled into a calm, then breezed up again; and so on
alternately, baffling us in all our attempts to get to sea. Nor was it
till the 5th that we succeeded in forcing our way out against a smart
south-easter, with a couple of reefs in the topsails, and as much as
we could do to carry the mainsail. A westerly current sweeps at all
seasons of the year round the Cape of Good Hope, and sometimes proves
troublesome enough to outward-bound ships. This stream is evidently
caused by the trade-wind in the southern parts of the Indian ocean.
For three days we were bamboozled with light south-easterly airs and
calms, but on the 8th of July, which is the depth of winter in that
hemisphere, there came on a spanking snuffler from the north-west,
before which we spun two hundred and forty miles, clean off the reel,
in twenty-four hours.
Nothing is more delightful than the commencement of such a fair wind.
The sea is then smooth, and the ship seems literally to fly along; the
masts and yards bend forwards, as if they would drop over the bows,
while the studding-sail booms crack and twist, and, unless great care
be taken, sometimes break across; but still, so long as the surface of
the sea is plane it is astonishing what a vast expanse of canvas may
be spread to the rising gale. By-and-bye, however, it becomes prudent
to take in the royals, flying-jib, and top-gallant studding-sails. The
boatswain takes a look at the gripes and other fastenings of the boats
and booms; the carpenter instinctively examines the port-lashings, and
draws up the pump-boxes to look at the leathers; while the gunner sees
that all the breechings and tackles of the guns are well secured
before the ship begins to roll. The different minor heads of
departments, also, to use their own phrase, smell the gale coming on,
and each in his respective walk gets things ready to meet it. The
captain's and gun-room steward beg the carpenter's mate to drive down
a few more cleats and staples, and, having got a cod-line or two from
the boatswain's yeoman, or a hank of marline stuff, they commence
double lashing all the tables and chairs. The marines' muskets are
more securely packed in the arm-chest. The rolling tackles are got
ready for the lower yards, and the master, accompanied by the gunner's
mate, inspects the lanyards of the lower rigging. All these, and
twenty other precautions are taken in a manner so slow and deliberate
that they would hardly catch the observation of a passenger. It might
also seem as if the different parties were afraid to let out the
secret of their own lurking apprehension, but yet were resolved not to
be caught unprepared.
Of these forerunners of a gale none is more striking than the repeated
looks of anxiety which the captain casts to windward, as if his
glance could penetrate the black sky lowering in the north-west, in
order to discover what was behind, and how long with safety he might
carry sail. Ever and anon he shifts his look from the wind's eye, and
rests it on the writhing spars aloft, viewing with much uneasiness the
stretching canvas all but torn from the yards. He then steps below,
and for the fortieth time reads off the barometer. On returning to the
deck he finds that, during the few minutes he has been below, the
breeze has freshened considerably, or, it may be, that, coming
suddenly upon it again, he views it differently. At all events, he
feels the necessity of getting the sails in while he yet can, or
before "God Almighty takes them in for him," as the sailors say when
matters have been so long deferred, that not only canvas and yards,
but even masts, are at times suddenly wrenched out of the ship, and
sent in one confused mass far off to leeward, whirling in the gale!
The men, who are generally well aware of the necessity of shortening
sail long before the captain has made up his mind to call the hands
for that purpose, have probably been collected in groups for some time
in different parts of the upper deck, talking low to one another, and
looking aloft with a start, every now and then, as the masts or yards
give an extra crack.
"Well! this is packing on her," says one, laying an emphasis on the
word "is."
"Yes!" replies another; "and if our skipper don't mind, it will be
packing off her presently," with an emphasis on the word "off." "Right
well do I know these Cape gales," adds an ancient mariner of the
South Seas; "they snuffle up in a minute; and, I'll answer for it, the
captain will not carry sail so long off Cape Aguilhas, when he has
gone round that breezy point as often as old Bill has."
At this moment the tardy voice of the commander, long unwilling to
lose any part of the fair wind, is at length heard, giving the
reluctant order, "Turn the hands up, shorten sail!" The ready clatter
of feet, and the show of many heads at all the hatchways, and
perhaps the sound of a suppressed laugh amongst the men who have been
gossiping and wagering about the gale, give sufficient indication that
this evolution has been expected for some time.
"All hands shorten sail!" calls out the boatswain, after a louder and
sharper note than usual from his pipe, winded not half the ordinary
length of time, though twice as shrilly; for his object is to mark on
the ears of the people the necessity of unusual expedition and
exertion. A clever and experienced person filling this important
situation will soon teach the men to distinguish between the various
notes of his call, though to unpractised ears the sounds might appear
unvaried.
"Shorten sail! that's easier said than done," growls forth some
hard-up old cock.
"No! not a bit easier said than done," unexpectedly observes the
captain, but quite good-humouredly, having accidentally heard the
seaman's remark. "Not a bit, old fellow, if you and the young hands
only work as smartly and cheerfully as I know you can do when you have
a mind. Come, my lads, are you all ready forward?"
It is a trying moment both for the sails and yards, when the order is
actually given to commence shortening sail; if the pressure from the
wind be considerable, it is necessary to have men stationed to lower
away the haulyards and ease off the tacks at the proper moment, while
others gather in the sails as they come down, fluttering a little
perhaps, if not carefully managed, but still quietly and easily, as
well as quickly. When, however, the wind has risen to a pitch beyond
its due proportion to the canvas spread, and the captain's anxiety to
make the most of a fair wind has tempted him to carry on too long, the
case becomes very difficult, the ropes which keep the sails in their
places contributing also an important share to the support of those
spars to which the sails are bent, or to which they may be hauled out.
Consequently, the moment the ropes alluded to, which are technically
named the haulyards and tacks, are slackened, the yards and booms,
being suddenly deprived of these material supports, are very apt to be
sprung, that is, cracked across, or even carried away, which means
being snapped right in two as short as a carrot, to use Jack's very
appropriate simile.
It is quite true, that lowering away the sail and easing off the tack
of a studding-sail does diminish the pressure of the sail on the spar,
and, of course, both the yard and the boom have less duty to perform.
Still, the moment which succeeds the order to "Lower away!" is
especially trying to the nerves of the officer who is carrying on the
duty. I have not unfrequently seen comparatively young officers handle
the sails and yards of a ship with perfect ease, from their superior
mechanical knowledge, at times when the oldest sailors on board were
puzzled how to get things right. One officer, for instance, may
direct the preparations for shortening sail to be made according to
the most orthodox rules laid down in Hamilton Moor's "Examination of a
Young Sea Officer," and yet when he comes to give the fatal word,
"Lower away! haul down!" everything shall go wrong. The tack being
eased off too soon, the spar breaks in the middle, and the poor
topmast studding-sail is spitted like a lark on the broken stump of
the boom, while the lower studding-sail, driven furiously forward by
the squall, is pierced by the spritsail yard-arm, the cat-head, and
the bumpkin; or it may be wrapped round the bowsprit, like so much wet
drapery in the inimitable Chantrey's studio over the clay figure of an
Indian bishop.
"What the blue blazes shall I do next?" moans the poor puzzled officer
of the watch, who sees this confusion caused entirely by his own bad
management. On such an occasion, a kind and considerate captain will
perhaps fairly walk below, and so leave the mortified youth to get
himself out of the scrape as he best can, and rather lose a small
spar, or a bolt of canvas, than expose his officer to the humiliation
of having the task transferred to another; or he will edge himself
near the embarrassed officer, and, without the action being detected
by any one else, whisper a few magical words of instruction in the
young man's ear, by which the proper train of directions are set
agoing, and the whole confusion of ropes, sails, and yards, speedily
brought into order. If this fails, the hands are called, upon which
the captain himself, or more generally the first lieutenant, takes the
trumpet; and the men, hearing the well-known, confident voice of
skill, fly to the proper points, "monkey paw" the split sails, clear
the ropes, which an instant before seemed inextricably foul, and in a
very few minutes reduce the whole disaster to the dimensions of a
common occurrence. "Now, you may call the watch," says the captain;
and the reproved officer again takes charge of the deck. I need hardly
say, that any young man of spirit ought rather to wear his hands to
the bone in learning his duty, than to expose himself to such
mortification as this.
Let us, however, suppose all the extra sails taken in without
accident, and rolled up with as much haste as may be consistent with
that good order which ought never to be relaxed under any degree of
urgency. In fine weather, it is usual to place the studding-sails in
the rigging, with all their gear bent, in readiness to be whipped up
to the yard-arm at a moment's warning; but when a breeze such as we
are now considering is on the rise, it is thought best to unbend the
tacks and haulyards, and to stow the sails in some convenient place,
either on the booms, between the boats, or in the hammock-nettings.
For the same reason, the small sails are sent on deck, together with
as much top hamper as can readily be moved. These things are scarcely
bundled up and lifted out of the way before the long-expected order to
reef topsails is smartly given out, and crowds of men are seen
skipping up the tight weather-rigging, with a merry kind of alacrity,
which always makes a captain feel grateful to the fellows--I do not
well know why; for, as there is then no real danger, there seems
nothing particularly praiseworthy in this common-place exertion.
Perhaps the consciousness that a storm is coming on, during which
every nerve on board may be strained, makes the captain see with
pleasure a show of activity which, under other circumstances, may be
turned to trials of the utmost hardihood and daring.
Be this as it may, the yards come sliding down the well-greased masts;
the men lie out to the right and left, grasp the tumultuous canvas,
drag out the earings, and tie the points, with as perfect deliberation
as if it were a calm, only taking double pains to see that all is
right and tight, and the reef-band straight along the yard. The order
has been given to take in the second and third reefs only; but the men
linger at their posts, expecting the further work which they know is
necessary. The captain of the top, instead of moving in, continues to
sit astride the spar, dangling his legs under the weather yard-arm
with the end of the close reef-earing in his hand, quite as much at
his ease as any well-washed sea-bird that ever screamed defiance to a
pitiless south-wester.
Johnny's anticipations prove right, for the anxious commander, after
gazing twice or thrice to windward, again consulting his barometer,
looking six or eight times at his watch in as many minutes, to learn
how many hours of daylight are yet above the horizon, and perhaps also
stealing a professional opinion from his first lieutenant, an officer
probably of much more technical experience than himself, decides upon
close-reefing. If he be a man of sense, and wishes the work to be done
quickly and well, he must not now hesitate about starting the topsail
sheets, and it will certainly be all the better if one or both the
clew-lines be likewise hauled close up.
The mainsail is now to be taken in; and as the method of performing
this evolution has long been a subject of hot controversy at sea, I
take the opportunity of saying, that Falconer's couplet,--
"For he who strives the tempest to disarm
Will never first embrail the lee yard-arm,"
has, in my opinion, done a world of mischief, and split many thousands
of sails.
I, at least, plead guilty to having been sadly misled by this
authority for many years, since it was only in the last ship I
commanded that I learned the true way to take in the mainsail when it
blows hard. The best practice certainly is, to man both buntlines and
the lee leechline well, and then to haul the LEE clew-garnet close up,
before starting the tack or slacking the bowline. By attending to
these directions, the spar is not only instantaneously relieved, but
the leeward half of the sail walks sweetly and quietly up to the yard,
without giving a single flap. After which the weather-clew comes up
almost of itself, and without risk or trouble.
Meanwhile the ship is spinning along very nearly at the same rate as
at first, though two-thirds of the canvas have been taken off her.
These variations in speed are odd enough, and, at times, not easily
accounted for. When the breeze first comes on, all sail set, and the
water quite smooth, the ship can be steered on a straight course
without any difficulty, and she really seems to fly. When the log is
hove, it is discovered, we shall suppose, that she is going eleven
knots. Well, the wind increases, and in come the studding-sails; but
as the water is still smooth, the single-reefed topsails and
top-gallant-sails may be carried, though it is evident the ship is
rather over-pressed, or, at all events, not another stitch of sail
could be set.
"Heave the log again, and see what she goes now!" says the officer.
"How much?"
"Eleven knots and a-half, sir," replies the middy of the watch.
Presently the sea rises, the masts bend, the ship begins to stagger
along, groaning and creaking in every joint, under the severe
pressure. The topsails are close-reefed to meet the increased wind;
but still, as before, she is under quite as much canvas as she can
possibly bear.
"Heave the log now!" again says the officer. "Ten knots!" reports the
middy.
By-and-bye the courses are reefed, and before dark the mainsail is
rolled up, the fore and mizen topsails handed, and the top-gallant
yards sent on deck. The sea has now risen to a disagreeable height,
and the steering, in spite of every care, becomes wilder and much more
difficult; and as the ship forges into the breast of the waves, or
rises with a surge not much less startling, her way seems deadened for
the moment, till she bounds up again on the top of the sea, to woo, as
it were, the embraces of the rattling gale. The storm is not slow to
meet this rude invitation; while, if the ropes, sails, and masts, be
all wet, as they generally are in such a breeze, it is difficult to
conceive any tones more gruff and unsentimental than the sounds of
this boisterous courtship.
In line-of-battle ships, and even in frigates, the close-reefed
main-topsail and foresail may be carried, for a very long time, when
going nearly before the wind; and indeed it is the best seamanship to
crack on her; for when the gale rises to its highest pitch, and the
seas follow in great height, they are apt to curl fairly on board, and
play fine pranks along the decks, even if the violence of the blow on
the quarter do not broach the ship to, that is, twist her head round
towards the wind in such a way that the next sea shall break over her
gangway, and in all probability sweep away the masts. In small vessels
it becomes a most anxious period of the gale when the sea has got up
so much that it is difficult to steer steadily, and when the wind
blows so strong that enough sail cannot be carried to keep the ship
sufficiently ahead of the waves, except at the risk of tearing the
masts away. When the requisite degree of speed cannot be secured, the
inevitable consequence, sooner or later, is, that a monstrous
pea-green solid sea walks most unceremoniously on board, over the
taffrail, and dashes along the decks like those huge debacles, of
which some geologists so confidently point out the traces on the
earth's surface.
I never happened actually to witness a catastrophe of this kind on the
great scale, though I have seen one or two smartish gales in my time.
Indeed the most serious evils I recollect to have been present at
occurred on board the Volage, on the very passage to India which I am
now describing. The following are the words in which these incidents
are noticed in my journal:--
"On the 13th of July, off the Cape of Good Hope, in the midst of a
heavy winter's gale, our worthy passenger, Sir Evan Nepean, governor
of Bombay, was thrown down the ladder, by the violent rolling of the
ship; and another gentleman, the Baron Tuyll, the best-natured and
deservedly popular passenger I ever saw afloat, was very nearly
washed out of his cot by a sea which broke into the stern windows of
the captain's cabin."
I have often enough been close to wars and rumours of wars, but was
never in a regular sea-fight; and though I have also witnessed a few
shipwrecks and disasters, I never was myself in much danger of what
might be honestly called a lee shore; neither is it my good fortune to
be able to recount, from personal knowledge, any scenes of hardship or
suffering from hunger, cold, or any other misery. My whole
professional life, in short, has been one of such comparative ease and
security, that I cannot now remember ever going far beyond twenty-four
hours without a good bellyful. Still I have often been forced to take
a high degree of interest in formidable adventures of this kind, from
their happening in fleets of which my own ship formed a part, or from
these incidents including among the sufferers persons to whom I was
attached.
In the year 1815, I accompanied a convoy of homeward-bound Indiamen
from Ceylon, and a right merry part of the voyage it was while we ran
down a couple of thousand miles of the south-east trade-wind; for
these hospitable floating nabobs, the East India captains, seldom let
a day pass without feasting one another; and we, their naval
protectors, came in for no small share of the good things, for which
we could make but a poor return. Along with our fleet, there sailed
from Ceylon a large ship, hired as a transport by Government to bring
home invalid soldiers. There were about 500 souls in her; of these a
hundred were women, and more than a hundred children. I was
accidentally led to take a particular interest in this ill-fated
vessel, from the circumstance of there being four fine boys on board,
sons of a military friend of mine at Point de Galle. I had become so
well acquainted with the parents of these poor little fellows during
my frequent visits to Ceylon, that one day, before sailing, I
playfully offered to take a couple of the boys in my brig, the Victor,
an eighteen-gun sloop of war; but as I could not accommodate the whole
family, the parents, who were obliged to remain abroad, felt unwilling
to separate the children, alas! and my offer was declined.
Off we all sailed, and reached the neighbourhood of the Cape without
encountering anything in the way of an adventure; there, however,
commenced the disasters of the unfortunate Arniston, as this transport
was called. She had no chronometer on board; a most culpable and
preposterous omission in the outfit of a ship destined for such a
voyage. The master told me that he himself was not in circumstances to
purchase so expensive an instrument, the cost of a good chronometer
being at least fifty or sixty guineas, and that the owners considered
the expense needless. He also stated that on his remonstrating still
more, and urging upon these gentlemen that their property would be ten
times more secure if he were furnished with the most approved means of
taking good care of it, he was given to understand, that, if he did
not choose to take the ship to sea without a chronometer, another
captain could easily be found who would make no such new-fangled
scruples. The poor master shrugged his shoulders, and said he would do
his best; but having often rounded the Cape, he knew the difficulties
of the navigation, when there was nothing but the dead reckoning to
trust to.
During our passage from Ceylon, it was the practice every day, at one
o'clock, for the Indiamen, as well as the men-of-war, to make signals
showing the longitude of each ship by chronometer. Thus we had all an
opportunity of comparing the going of our respective time-keepers, and
thus, too, the master of the Arniston was enabled to learn his place
so accurately, that if he had only kept company with his friends the
Indiamen, each of whom was provided with at least four or five
chronometers, the deficiency in his equipment might never have led to
the dreadful catastrophe which speedily followed the loss of this
assistance.
It was late in the month of May when we reached the tempestuous
regions of the Cape; and we were not long there before a furious gale
of wind from the westward dispersed the fleet, and set every one
adrift upon his own resources. The poor Arniston was seen at sunset,
on the day the gale commenced, with most of her sails split, but not
otherwise in danger, for she had a good offing, and the wind was not
blowing on shore. Three heavy gales followed in such quick succession
during the next week, that not only the ordinary course, but the
velocity of the current was changed, and instead of running, as it
almost always does, to the westward, it set, on the days in question,
to the south-eastward. According to the most moderate allowance for
the current, all circumstances being taken into consideration, any
navigator might fairly have supposed that, in the five days which
elapsed from the 24th of May to the 28th inclusive, his ship would
have been drifted to the westward by the current at least a hundred
miles. Our chronometers, however, distinctly showed us that we had
been carried, not, as usual, to the westward, but actually to the
eastward, a distance of more than a hundred miles; so that, in less
than a week, there occurred upwards of two hundred miles of error in
the dead reckoning.
The master of the Arniston, doubtless, after making every allowance,
according to the best authorities, and working by the most exact rules
of navigation of which he could avail himself, naturally inferred that
his ship was more than a hundred miles to the westward of the Cape,
and he probably considered himself justified in bearing up before a
south-easterly gale, and steering, as he had so much reason to suppose
he was doing, straight for St. Helena.
It is very important to remark, in passing, to professional men, that
no ship off the Cape, and under any circumstances, ought ever to bear
up, without first heaving the deep sea-lead. If soundings are obtained
on the Bank, it is a sure symptom that the ship is not sufficiently
advanced to the westward to enable her to steer with safety to the
north-north-westward for St. Helena. It is clear the ship in question
must have omitted this precaution.
All that is known of this fatal shipwreck is simply that the Arniston,
with a flowing sheet, and going nine knots, ran among the breakers in
Struy's Bay, nearly a hundred miles to the eastward of the Cape. The
masts went instantly by the board, and the sea, which broke completely
over all, tore the ship to pieces in a few minutes; and out of her
whole crew, passengers, women, and children, only half-a-dozen seamen
reached the coast alive. All these could tell was, that they bore up
and made all sail for St. Helena, judging themselves well round the
Cape. This scanty information, however, was quite enough to establish
the important fact that this valuable ship, and all the lives on board
of her, were actually sacrificed to a piece of short-sighted economy.
That they might have been saved, had she been supplied with the worst
chronometer that was ever sent to sea, is also quite obvious. I am
sure practical men will agree with me, that, in assuming sixty seconds
a-day as the limit of the uncertainty of a watch's rate, I have taken
a quantity four or five times greater than there was need for. Surely
no time-keeper that was ever sold as such by any respectable
watchmaker for more than thirty or forty guineas, has been found to
go so outrageously ill as not to be depended upon for one week, within
less than ten or fifteen seconds a-day. And as I have shown that a
chronometer whose rate was uncertain, even to an extent five or six
times as great as this, would have saved the Arniston, any further
comment on such precious economy is needless.