Two Years Before the Mast
brightest constellation in the heavens.
During the first part of this day (Wednesday) the wind was light, but
after noon it came on fresh, and we furled the royals. We still kept
the studding-sails out, and the captain said he should go round with
them, if he could. Just before eight o'clock, (then about sun-down, in
that latitude,) the cry of "All hands ahoy!" was sounded down the fore
scuttle and the after hatchway, and hurrying upon deck, we found a
large black cloud rolling on toward us from the south-west, and
blackening the whole heavens. "Here comes the Cape Horn!" said the
chief mate; and we had hardly time to haul down and clew up, before it
was upon us. In a few moments, a heavier sea was raised than I had
ever seen before, and as it was directly ahead, the little brig, which
was no better than a bathing machine, plunged into it, and all the
forward part of her was under water; the sea pouring in through the
bow-ports and hawse-hole and over the knight-heads, threatening to wash
everything overboard. In the lee scuppers it was up to a man's waist.
We sprang aloft and double reefed the topsails, and furled all the
other sails, and made all snug. But this would not do; the brig was
laboring and straining against the head sea, and the gale was growing
worse and worse. At the same time the sleet and hail were driving with
all fury against us. We clewed down, and hauled out the reef-tackles
again, and close-reefed the fore-topsail, and furled the main, and hove
her to on the starboard tack. Here was an end to our fine prospects.
We made up our minds to head winds and cold weather; sent down the
royal yards, and unrove the gear, but all the rest of the top hamper
remained aloft, even to the sky-sail masts and studding-sail booms.
Throughout the night it stormed violently--rain, hail, snow, and sleet
beating down upon the vessel--the wind continuing to break ahead, and
the sea running high. At daybreak (about three, A.M.) the deck was
covered with snow. The captain sent up the steward with a glass of
grog to each of the watch; and all the time that we were off the Cape,
grog was given to the morning watch, and to all hands whenever we
reefed topsails. The clouds cleared away at sun-rise, and the wind
becoming more fair, we again made sail and stood nearly up to our
course.
Thursday, Nov. 6th. It continued more pleasant through the first part
of the day, but at night we had the same scene over again. This time,
we did not heave to, as on the night before, but endeavored to beat to
windward under close-reefed top-sails, balance-reefed trysail, and fore
top-mast stay-sail. This night it was my turn to steer, or, as the
sailors say, my trick at the helm, for two hours. Inexperienced as I
was, I made out to steer to the satisfaction of the officer, and
neither S---- nor myself gave up our tricks, all the time that we were
off the Cape. This was something to boast of, for it requires a good
deal of skill and watchfulness to steer a vessel close hauled, in a
gale of wind, against a heavy head sea. "Ease her when she pitches,"
is the word; and a little carelessness in letting her ship a heavy sea,
might sweep the decks, or knock masts out of her.
Friday, Nov. 7th. Towards morning the wind went down, and during the
whole forenoon we lay tossing about in a dead calm, and in the midst of
a thick fog. The calms here are unlike those in most parts of the
world, for there is always such a high sea running, and the periods of
calm are so short, that it has no time to go down; and vessels, being
under no command of sails or rudder, lie like logs upon the water. We
were obliged to steady the booms and yards by guys and braces, and to
lash everything well below. We now found our top hamper of some use,
for though it is liable to be carried away or sprung by the sudden
"bringing up" of a vessel when pitching in a chopping sea, yet it is a
great help in steadying a vessel when rolling in a long swell; giving
it more slowness, ease, and regularity to the motion.
The calm of the morning reminds me of a scene which I forgot to
describe at the time of its occurrence, but which I remember from its
being the first time that I had heard the near breathing of whales. It
was on the night that we passed between the Falkland Islands and Staten
Land. We had the watch from twelve to four, and coming upon deck,
found the little brig lying perfectly still, surrounded by a thick fog,
and the sea as smooth as though oil had been poured upon it; yet now
and then a long, low swell rolling over its surface, slightly lifting
the vessel, but without breaking the glassy smoothness of the water. We
were surrounded far and near by shoals of sluggish whales and
grampuses; which the fog prevented our seeing, rising slowly to the
surface, or perhaps lying out at length, heaving out those peculiar
lazy, deep, and long-drawn breathings which give such an impression of
supineness and strength. Some of the watch were asleep, and the others
were perfectly still, so that there was nothing to break the illusion,
and I stood leaning over the bulwarks, listening to the slow breathing
of the mighty creatures--now one breaking the water just alongside,
whose black body I almost fancied that I could see through the fog; and
again another, which I could just hear in the distance--until the low
and regular swell seemed like the heaving of the ocean's mighty bosom
to the sound of its heavy and long-drawn respirations.
Towards the evening of this day, (Friday 7th,) the fog cleared off, and
we had every appearance of a cold blow; and soon after sun-down it came
on. Again it was clew up and haul down, reef and furl, until we had
got her down to close-reefed topsails, double-reefed trysail, and
reefed forespenser. Snow, hail, and sleet were driving upon us most of
the night, and the sea was breaking over the bows and covering the
forward part of the little vessel; but as she would lay her course the
captain refused to heave her to.
Saturday, Nov. 8th. This day commenced with calm and thick fog, and
ended with hail, snow, a violent wind, and close-reefed topsails.
Sunday, Nov. 9th. To-day the sun rose clear and continued so until
twelve o'clock, when the captain got an observation. This was very
well for Cape Horn, and we thought it a little remarkable that, as we
had not had one unpleasant Sunday during the whole voyage, the only
tolerable day here should be a Sunday. We got time to clear up the
steerage and forecastle, and set things to rights, and to overhaul our
wet clothes a little. But this did not last very long. Between five
and six--the sun was then nearly three hours high--the cry of "All
starbowlines ahoy!" summoned our watch on deck; and immediately all
hands were called. A true specimen of Cape Horn was coming upon us. A
great cloud of a dark slate-color was driving on us from the
south-west; and we did our best to take in sail, (for the light sails
had been set during the first part of the day,) before we were in the
midst of it. We had got the light sails furled, the courses hauled up,
and the topsail reef-tackles hauled out, and were just mounting the
fore-rigging, when the storm struck us. In an instant the sea, which
had been comparatively quiet, was running higher and higher; and it
became almost as dark as night. The hail and sleet were harder than I
had yet felt them; seeming to almost pin us down to the rigging. We
were longer taking in sail than ever before; for the sails were stiff
and wet, the ropes and rigging covered with snow and sleet, and we
ourselves cold and nearly blinded with the violence of the storm. By
the time we had got down upon deck again, the little brig was plunging
madly into a tremendous head sea, which at every drive rushed in
through the bow-ports and over the bows, and buried all the forward
part of the vessel. At this instant the chief mate, who was standing
on the top of the windlass, at the foot of the spenser mast, called
out, "Lay out there and furl the jib!" This was no agreeable or safe
duty, yet it must be done. An old Swede, (the best sailor on board,)
who belonged on the forecastle, sprang out upon the bowsprit. Another
one must go: I was near the mate, and sprang forward, threw the
down-haul over the windlass, and jumped between the knight-heads out
upon the bowsprit. The crew stood abaft the windlass and hauled the
jib down, while we got out upon the weather side of the jib-boom, our
feet on the foot ropes, holding on by the spar, the great jib flying
off to leeward and slatting so as almost to throw us off of the boom.
For some time we could do nothing but hold on, and the vessel diving
into two huge seas, one after the other, plunged us twice into the
water up to our chins. We hardly knew whether we were on or off; when
coming up, dripping from the water, we were raised high into the air.
John (that was the sailor's name) thought the boom would go, every
moment, and called out to the mate to keep the vessel off, and haul
down the staysail; but the fury of the wind and the breaking of the
seas against the bows defied every attempt to make ourselves heard, and
we were obliged to do the best we could in our situation. Fortunately,
no other seas so heavy struck her, and we succeeded in furling the jib
"after a fashion"; and, coming in over the staysail nettings, were not
a little pleased to find that all was snug, and the watch gone below;
for we were soaked through, and it was very cold. The weather
continued nearly the same through the night.
Monday, Nov. 10th. During a part of this day we were hove to, but the
rest of the time were driving on, under close-reefed sails, with a
heavy sea, a strong gale, and frequent squalls of hail and snow.
Tuesday, Nov. 11th. The same.
Wednesday, Nov. 12th. The same.
Thursday, Nov. 13th. The same.
We had now got hardened to Cape weather, the vessel was under reduced
sail, and everything secured on deck and below, so that we had little
to do but steer and to stand our watch. Our clothes were all wet
through, and the only change was from wet to more wet. It was in vain
to think of reading or working below, for we were too tired, the
hatchways were closed down, and everything was wet and uncomfortable,
black and dirty, heaving and pitching. We had only to come below when
the watch was out, wring out our wet clothes, hang them up, and turn in
and sleep as soundly as we could, until the watch was called again. A
sailor can sleep anywhere--no sound of wind, water, wood or iron can
keep him awake--and we were always fast asleep when three blows on the
hatchway, and the unwelcome cry of "All starbowlines ahoy! eight bells
there below! do you hear the news?" (the usual formula of calling the
watch), roused us up from our berths upon the cold, wet decks. The
only time when we could be said to take any pleasure was at night and
morning, when we were allowed a tin pot full of hot tea, (or, as the
sailors significantly call it, "water bewitched,") sweetened with
molasses. This, bad as it was, was still warm and comforting, and,
together with our sea biscuit and cold salt beef, made quite a meal.
Yet even this meal was attended with some uncertainty. We had to go
ourselves to the galley and take our kid of beef and tin pots of tea,
and run the risk of losing them before we could get below. Many a kid
of beef have I seen rolling in the scuppers, and the bearer lying at
his length on the decks. I remember an English lad who was always the
life of the crew, but whom we afterwards lost overboard, standing for
nearly ten minutes at the galley, with this pot of tea in his hand,
waiting for a chance to get down into the forecastle; and seeing what