Chapter X: Part 10

His talking of restaurants puts me in mind of a rather amusing incident that happened to my wife and me in Boston a year or two ago. We were walking through Washington Street one evening, and being extremely hungry, stepped into one of the many dairy kitchens that adorn that thoroughfare. We found, upon seating ourselves, that it was a religious institution, with biblical mottoes upon the walls, and we were amusing ourselves watching the amazement of the prim, gray old couples from the country, almost stunned by the bevelled mirrors and electric lamps, when we became aware of two glaring legends hung cheek by jowl high up on the wall. One read, “Only the righteous shall see God.” Its neighbor, “Keep your eye on your hat and coat.” Latitude, 59° 9′ south; longitude, 79° 15′ west.

+July 28+

Course, northwest true, distance run in the twenty-four hours, two hundred and seventy-eight miles! Hurrah for the fair wind! Long live the easterly gale! What better conditions could be desired than those that now prevail? A fair, fresh gale, a sea which, while rough, is nothing out of the way, and a splendid position in which to take the expected northwesterly gales in a day or two. Every square inch of canvas is drawing to its utmost capacity, and we averaged only a fraction less than twelve knots for the twenty-four hours. Now, in spite of all the old records of more than three hundred and fifty miles a day, a run of two hundred and eighty is an extremely good one. It is certainly no great feat for a ship to make fifty or fifty-five miles in a watch, but when she maintains twelve knots for twenty-four hours, sailors call it fast going.

Some heavy water has come aboard in the last three hours, as all sailing vessels are very wet running before a strong wind and sea. At this very moment we shipped a comber over the quarter that broke entirely over the cabin-house with a crash that shook the bulkheads, and the skipper has just sung out, “Clew up the royals.” This is still another fine example of the difference between on and off the wind. It is blowing a fresh gale, as noted before, which means about forty-five miles an hour; yet until this moment we have lugged the three royals without trouble, and only clewed them up because the sea is getting ugly; by the wind we would be under reefed topsails. The “Hosea Higgins” doesn’t seem to run well. Even in this sea, which certainly is not really heavy yet, she is emphatically a wet ship. The “Mandalore,” a “diving-bell,” was drier than the “Higgins” is now, when she was running before a sixty-mile gale. We had no business to take that sea over the quarter a moment ago; indeed, ever since noon we have had heavy, green water on the poop, and an idea of the quantity may be gained when it is said that while the captain was standing by the weather mizzen-shrouds after dinner, a sea washed his legs from under him, and his grip on the mizzentop-sail-halliards was the only thing that prevented his being swept down on the main-deck. All the square windows in the weather-side of the house have been covered with the heavy, solid wooden shutters, as though they were ports in the ship’s side, instead of being inside of and protected by the bulwarks. The glass, which has been wonderfully steady for sixty hours, has commenced to fall, and a heavy gale is probably overhauling us, for easterly gales off the Horn have a hard name.

In all our experience at sea we never saw anything like the dampness during the late light weather. No rain fell then, but so heavily charged with moisture was the atmosphere that the water actually ran off the poop as during a shower; and from the top of the wheel-house, in size ten by fifteen feet, we filled two ten-gallon tubs in twelve hours with the moisture that condensed upon it; while down the walls of our room, separated from the dining-room, where the hot stove is, only by the after-cabin, moisture trickled in glistening beads.

The men have slightly improved, though they are still a badly used-up lot of sailors. To what an apparently infinite number and variety of ailments and mishaps they are liable! There is the tough and hardy second mate, even he has lost the entire use of one hand by a trivial accident. He had a small wart or something of that sort on the back of his right hand a few days ago, and on one occasion, while slacking off the weather lower maintop-sail-brace, one of the ropes knocked off this tiny excrescence. Mr. Rarx paid no heed to it; but in twenty-four hours his hand had swollen dreadfully, puffing up like a huge biscuit, and where the wart had been there formed a large sore that had to be lanced. Cold salt-water and friction must be looked to as accountable for this, for Rarx is as lean and healthy-looking as a prize-fighter. Louis Jacquin, the Frenchman, too, another specimen of rugged health, had a finger caught in a main-brace block and jammed, drawing blood; and in two days an ugly purple rising appeared at the base of the nail, as large and shining as a hot-house grape--so hard, withal, that a lance penetrated it with difficulty.

The best men in the ship are sent to the helm now, for an awkward, false turn of the wheel in such a sea would broach the ship to in a moment, and then, good-by pumps, rail, and everything else on the main-deck. Latitude, 55° 53′ south; longitude, 85° 20′ west.

+July 29+

_Salve lux benigna!_ Yesterday morning daybreak came perceptibly earlier than it used to, and by seven o’clock it was sufficiently light to distinguish faces at a short distance; while this morning, so much northing had we made, that at seven it was broad daylight; and we will soon be able to eat our quarter-to-eight breakfast without the palsied yellow glare of the lamp. It is true that the sky is still of a Saturnian lead color, but the dark, heavy _feel_ of the atmosphere has disappeared. To-morrow we will cut the fiftieth parallel if this easterly breeze holds. It has let go to a certain extent, yet it blew us over two hundred and fifty miles in the twenty-four hours, and in three days we have done six hundred and fifty miles to the northwest-ward, which is extraordinarily good work for this locality; our position is simply splendid.

The desire of Captain Scruggs for wishing to appear that he knows everything, especially in the presence of the mate, is still very remarkable. Sometimes it is amusing, but more often extremely annoying. Frequently, when I tell him something that he has never heard of before, he will nod his head slightly, and, with an alteration of my own words, repeat the sentence aggressively and dogmatically, as though it came directly from him, and he was giving us the information. The mate is completely deceived, and always looks admiringly toward him, simultaneously winking and leering atrociously. Moreover, Captain Scruggs is a man whom you cannot possibly surprise by any statement; and he is always unmoved in the face of the most unusual occurrences. As an example, we found, one morning, having taken the precaution of glancing into the pitcher, that the syrup contained a quantity of foreign substances which floated about in it.

“There seems to be a number of curious things in the syrup,” I humbly ventured; “looks like long-cut tobacco.” Disturbed? Indeed, no. He only clutched the pitcher from me, peered ferociously into it, and growled, “Steward, see if you can’t get this dust out with a knife.”

The skipper is likewise completely destitute of imagination. Shortly after we sailed I started to read an extract to him (I was bold in those days) from a collection of excellent sea stories called “The Port of Missing Ships,” in which mention is made of a mate who was so zealous that he “tried to see how near he could come to standing in two places at the same time without splitting himself.” Here I paused and glanced with a smile at the old man. But, with a face as expressionless as a tadpole’s, he asked, “Isn’t that a little overdrawn?”

The mate rises to the most sublime heights of his absurdities when he observes at dinner, as he frequently does, with a smirk perfectly diabolical, “Hi knows the secrets of hall the codfish haristocracy of San Francisco. My old woman used to work in the Wite ’Ouse” (_i.e._, that city’s branch of the Parisian Maison Blanc) “as a fitter; and be gar’s sakes, sir, the things wot I’ve ’eerd is hawful.”

He also makes use of extraordinary syncopations in conversation. For example, should my wife ask him a question about the weather, he always says “Sam?” which, being done into English, signifies, “What say, ma’am?”

Mr. Goggins is also abnormally addicted to stewed prunes, which we often have for supper. He usually disposes of four or five at each mouthful, and you wait to see him get rid of the pits; but you are disappointed, because he seems to have swallowed them. At length he has finished a large saucerful, pushes back his plate, draws his sleeve heavily across his face, leans back in his seat, looks fixedly at a point in the ceiling with a wooden face, draws in a long breath, bends over, and gently blows a dozen or so of prune-stones into his plate, like a shower of hail-stones. Then mumbling, “Hexcuse me, sir,” wriggles off his seat and out of the door. Latitude, 52° 34′ south; longitude, 89° 37′ west.

+July 30+

At last we have accomplished the arduous midwinter passage of the Horn, having been twenty-two days off the stormy Cape, or just about the average; but we would have been at least a week longer had it not been for that friendly easterly wind. We actually saw the sun several times to-day, too, were enabled to ascertain our exact location, and our calculations proved to be only fifty miles out in longitude and thirty in latitude. In consideration of the fact that for about a fortnight we wrestled with powerful currents, and uncertain ones at that, the error, especially in the departure, must be considered insignificant, in view of the almost limitless sea-room. Whatever may be Captain Scruggs’s failings, he is a first-rate seaman, and a keen, astute navigator; and on many occasions near Cape Horn we had opportunities of observing his accurate, almost infallible judgment.

To add to our increasing sense of comfort, the sun is mounting very rapidly in the heavens, both on account of our northing and by reason of the lengthening of the southern days. The noon altitude was 21° 20′, a very respectable height, more than double that of a week ago, when at meridian the sun, if we had been able to measure his altitude, would not have been more than 9° 30′ above the horizon. The orb, besides, had sufficient power to raise the mercury two degrees at mid-day when we hung a thermometer in his rays.

Off Cape Horn in winter the temperature is usually somewhat lower than that of the North Atlantic between the British Isles and the Newfoundland Banks in January. It is only between the latter point and New York that vessels experience such an intensity of frost as to contract the mercury to zero and sheath them in several feet of solid ice. That is, in the deepest seclusions of the open sea, the weather, even in the coldest season in high latitudes, is generally mild and soft compared with that found at the same parallel near a great expanse of land. Indeed, the comparatively high temperature of the entire Southern Ocean in winter is due to the preponderance of sea, the long, narrow finger of Patagonia being the only land south of 45°, save some diminutive clusters of islands.

On the other hand, though, owing to the uniformity of temperature produced by such a waste of ocean, Cape Horn summers are but little warmer than the winters; the difference between the lowest of July and the highest of December being only 18°, the average for the year being 42°; whereas in Canada, far away from the mellowing influence of salt-water, there is an extreme thermometrical range of 150° between the seasons. Compare Cape Horn’s winter temperature of 30° in the latitude of 56° and that of Minnesota of 55° below zero, though St. Paul is six hundred and fifty miles nearer the equator. St. Paul’s average for the year, 44°, is almost identical with that of the Horn, the intense heat of the northern summers almost exactly balancing a degree of cold not exceeded by 20° on the Arctic Ocean. Contrary to the general opinion, the most intense cold is not to be found in the far northern sea where Nansen travelled, but in Siberia. In the centre of that desolate country is a town called Irkutsk in 52° north, or fifteen degrees south of the Polar Circle, at which the lowest natural temperature ever recorded by man has been observed, the spirit thermometers once showing a temperature of 93° below zero, or 53-1/2° below the freezing point of mercury. Artificial cold, though, has far exceeded this reading, as Professor Dewar obtained a temperature of about 370° below zero in the liquefaction of oxygen. This latter figure is about as conceivable as the unit of measure of the astronomer, who adopts as his basis of calculation for celestial distances that extent of space which a ray of light would cover in a year, moving at the rate of one hundred and eighty thousand miles per second. In other words, instead of using one mile, his unit of distance is 5,676,480,000,000 miles, which is known as a light year; and he further crushes us with the information that stars of the seventeenth magnitude are thirty thousand light years away.

By this time the exhausted reader has said to himself many times, “What’s all this got to do with the Southern Ocean?” So, with apologies for such an excursion into the infinite, let us continue.

We are now kept farther away than ever from the dining-room stove by a new aggregation of garments, very different from the others, which need a little explanation. All the oil-skins in the slop-chest were used up by the men last week, and we have had to manufacture some for them. Many ships make a practice of taking to sea several suits of heavy cotton (which oil-skins are made of), but without being treated with the usual mixture of wax and oil. When, therefore, a ship’s regular stock of oil-skins has been exhausted, the captain produces some of these cotton suits and has them well rubbed with three coats of boiled linseed oil, allowing each coat to dry; the result being thoroughly water-tight, pliable garments, which will not crack, as slop-chest oil-skins have a curious habit of doing.

Around our stove for three or four days there have been suspended several of these suits, so oil-sodden that to touch one means an immense grease-spot. Nor is this the only inconvenience, for the whole interior of the cabin reeks with the stifling fumes of hot, boiled oil.

As far as we have been able to discover, there is but one article sold from a slop-chest to sailors that is worth paying for, and that is the stiff, black sou’wester. They are very comfortable, though as rigid as a fireman’s leather helmet, and are lined with heavy red flannel, with a band of the same that extends over the ears and back of the neck, to the exclusion of the most penetrating snow-squalls. The face is protected by a wide visor of the same inflexible stuff, which extends far down over the neck. As the old man remarked, “One o’ these things would stop a battle-axe.” However exaggerated this may be, though, they do most effectively preserve the cranium from the severest Cape Horn hail-squalls; you might as well tie a handkerchief over your head as to wear an ordinary yellow sou’wester in one of these squalls, as far as protection from the hail is concerned.

We now have for tea every evening a dish entirely new to us. It is a hind-quarter of pig steeped in brine for a fortnight; in other words, an unsmoked ham; and it is the sweetest, juiciest pig meat imaginable. I would rather eat it than the tenderest young sucking pig I ever tasted. Another very successful article of food on board is the soup, which is made as follows: Empty one of the large one-gallon tins of mutton (put up in a liquor like canned sausages) into a saucepan; add tinned carrots, tomatoes, rice, and barley, boil them together for about thirty minutes, season well with a very little onion, pepper, etc., and a rich, well-flavored soup will be obtained which would pass for stock soup almost anywhere ashore. It is infinitely better than the finest tinned soup. The mutton before alluded to is often purchased by ships in large quantities and given to the men, alternating with salt beef and pork; it is also much used for making meat pies for the cabin table, for which it is well suited, the resemblance to fresh mutton being remarkable. Our last pig has just been slaughtered; it seemed a pity to kill the poor beast, for he was an intelligent, quaint little fellow, very tame, and fond of being petted. Latitude, 50° 14′ south; longitude, 90° 12′ west.

+July 31+

Our breeze from west-northwest has not been very strong for the past twenty-four hours, and in addition we made two degrees of easting, which is sad. This was the first morning for a month on which we were able to eat our breakfast without lamplight, and in another week we hope to dispense with it at supper also. The weather is by no means clear yet, though, and we are now crossing the famous Roaring Forties, that belt of fierce winds lying between the parallels of forty and fifty on both sides of the equator, and clear skies cannot be expected until we are north of 40° south at least.

I expect to suffocate with suppressed hilarity before long if Mr. Goggins continues to grow more absurd. Last night I went on deck about ten o’clock and found the mate silently pacing athwartships near the wheel-house. It was raining, and his costume itself was enough to generate mirth in an owl. He was wrapped as in a sable shroud, in some one’s long black oil-skin coat, which was so much too large for him as to touch the deck, and the sleeves hung down half-way to his knees like the arms of a walrus, while his head was covered with a very old, limp sou’wester, also black, which fitted him like a skull-cap; it possessed not even an indication of a brim, so that the drizzling rain trickled down along the musty creases of his face, glistening in the wake of the binnacle-lamp. His forsaken appearance was further enhanced by a couple of yards of ancient gray rattlin-stuff that girded up the folds of his coat and prevented his tramping on it.

Without a word he ranged up alongside, and dropping his voice to a rasping whisper, as is his wont whenever he is about to reveal a startling theory, he said, mysteriously and very suddenly,--

“The human race is on the decline, sir.”

I didn’t reply, and he continued, “Where are the strappin’ big fellows, five-foot ten, five-foot eleven, and five-foot twelve, you used to see? Where are they, I say? _Gone. Gone._ And wot do ye find now? The present generation is growin’ up small and feeble, sir. They’re weak and no good. And luk at the winds; they’re changin’ too. They hain’t wot they used to be in the Atlantic; nor in the Pacific; nor off Cape Horn. The Trades is changed. Everythink’s changed. I may be a hold fool, sir, but I knows a thing or two. There’s more in my ’ead than comes out with a fine-tooth comb.”

All this with the most intense earnestness and so much stifled emotion as to render him partially unintelligible, while he snapped and jerked his long sleeves about in the most uncomfortable manner.

Then he abruptly changed the thread of discourse and began, “You talk about seas comin’ aboard, but you ought to been with me once when I was mate o’ the ‘Commodore.’ ’Twas in the Santa Barbara Channel, and blowin’ a whole gale o’ wind. We were runnin’, but bime by the old man thought he’d heave her to. So we put the hellum down, and as she was comin’ up, be gar’s sakes, sir, she shipped a sea that I thought was goin’ to take the hatches off. ‘You’d better jump below and call the second mate,’ said the cap’n; so I slipped down the after-companion-way into the cabin, where the old man’s eight-year-hold son was jockeyin’ a sofy that had fetched away, and says he, ‘Dad’s a-givin’ of ’er ’ell, ain’t he?’ he says. Well, I called the second mate, and then the cap’n says to us, ‘Go down and cut the lashin’s o’ that ere water-cask by the after-hatch; she’ll wipe the houses off if she don’t free herself.’ ’Twas a funny thing to do, but he was cap’n; so we crawled down on the main-deck where the watch was knockin’ about and cut the barrel adrift. In less nor five seconds it went through the rail, and in a minute there warn’t a capful o’ water on deck. It cost about ten feet o’ the port bulwarks, but ’twas our only chance.”

Now that we are well up past the rigors of Cape Horn, it actually seems as though we were close to San Francisco, while five thousand miles of latitude remain and fully fifty degrees of longitude, as ships are forced well out into the Pacific by the northeast Trades. Latitude, 48° 30′ south; longitude, 88° 25′ west.

+August 1+

Oh, how divinely beautiful and grand the dark-blue floor of heaven is after four weeks of hard gales, leaden, lowering clouds, and gray, clammy mists! To-day for the first time the sun shone with dazzling splendor, and although the altitude at meridian was only 26° 51′, we agreed that never before in our lives had we known a day of equal magnificence. And, even making allowance for our enthusiasm, the weather was well-nigh perfect. Between sunrise and dusk not the smallest cloud blurred the blue sky, which was reflected in a sea of dazzling crests, whose valleys partook of that dark, superb, velvety blue which is seen only where the ocean-bed sinks to immense depths, and which Mark Twain says looks solid enough to walk upon. A sparkling breeze whistled out of the west as exhilarating as pure oxygen, giving us a speed for the twenty-four hours of nine knots. That blighting, killing chill has vanished and one’s ears no longer tingle on exposure; and at noon we enjoyed a temperature of 50°, a rise of twenty degrees from the lowest. What a change in six days from 60° south, 76° west, to 45° south, 88° west! Pretty good work that, in less than a week; it is so much better than the average that it seems incredible. We cannot believe that in so short a time we have been blown across what ought to have been the worst part of the entire voyage. It was all the work of the east wind.

Just now there is a long, deep roll coming in from the southwest, and I am earnestly looking for some of those immense waves for which the South Pacific is famous. According to sailors, they usually occur two or three days after new and full moon; and as we had a new moon last night, perhaps we will see some of these rollers. This reminds me, however, that scientists have determined, after protracted observations, that the moon’s phases have no influence at all on the weather. Sailors often say during a spell of bad weather, “Well, there’s a change in the moon to-night; we’ll have a fine day to-morrow”; and if chance supports their remark, heaven couldn’t shake their belief.

This heavy sea that is met with here is generally not at all ugly; only a deep heave-up from the southward, often without wind, and is said to be one of the most impressive of all oceanic phenomena. The South Atlantic as well as the Pacific is also visited periodically by immense seas during calm weather. At St. Helena and Ascension they are called “rollers,” while at Fernando de Noronha and on the West African coast they are known by the Portuguese name of “calemmas.” They seem to occur chiefly in January, and, strange to say, they invariably came from the northwest. The quotation that follows is from the pen of Captain S. P. Oliver, who visited St. Helena in 1881 in one of the Union steamers:

“These rollers set in from the northwest on Thursday, January 13, with unusual severity, but lulled somewhat on the following day, Friday, only to recur with abnormal force on Saturday, attaining their maximum strength on Saturday night, so that the spectacle on Sunday morning was grand and magnificent, while the weather was bright and calm. It was surprising to see the spray of these deep ocean waves hurled by sheer force, for there was no wind, like fountains over the huge cliffs of Goat Pound Ridge and Horse Pasture, which rise perpendicularly seven hundred feet sheer out of the sea. The force of these enormous billows was spent by Sunday night, and gradually subsided into the normal calm on Monday morning.”

At our present rate of sailing a fortnight would see us on the equator, but if we cross it in three weeks it will be fine work. What sort of luck are we going to have between these westerly winds and the southeast Trades? That is one of the crucial points of the voyage that remain, another being, how far south will the northeast Trades blow?

We had a little excitement to-day at dinner. Ever since our cabin fire has been going, it has been the custom of the steward to put a can of whatever vegetable we were to have that day for dinner upon the top of the stove to heat; the proper way, of course, is to place the can in a dish of water and that in turn upon the stove or what not. To-day it was a tin of string-beans, and the steward, fully an hour before dinner, put the can upon the stove, which was nearly red-hot. (The warmer the day the hotter the fire, here as elsewhere.) When the soup had been cleared away, the gentle, timid little Malay took the tin into the pantry and attacked it with a can-opener. But no sooner was the metal pierced than the whole pantry was filled with a suffocating steam that rushed hissing out of the vent with the most astonishing fury. We sat aghast. The old man cursed a little and the mate got up, but instantly thought better of it and sat down again. And still the steam came belching out of the can, which had fallen down and was shooting about the pantry like a demented steam-cylinder, while we could dimly perceive the slender form of the little steward through the pungent vapory clouds making courageous efforts to lay hold of the bewitched bean-can. For nearly a minute steam continued to escape with such force that it almost shrieked; and had the tin remained another five minutes on the stove it must certainly have exploded and scattered boiling water, beans, and jagged fragments of tin and lead about the room.

Last evening at supper a bottle of Apollinaris burst in my hand with a loud report as I was opening it, scaring the valiant Goggins into upsetting a full cup of tea upon a clean cloth, for which the old man fixed him with his eye and held him thus for quite half a minute during an awful silence.

If only for the sake of the sailors we are anxious to get into warm weather again as soon as possible. Now that they have removed the mufflers, etc., from their necks and heads, we can see how pale and washed out most of them are. There are only two among them who do not bear ocular proof of the hardships of a month in the Southern Ocean in July. Paddy is perhaps the worst looking of the whole crew, though he cannot be thirty years of age. This is due probably to his never, under any circumstances, shirking his work, and to his exerting himself more than any one else in the ship. Indeed, he was so full of nerve and energy in the worst weather, that the captain surprised us once by saying, pointing to Paddy on a yard-arm in a heavy squall, “There’s what I call a brave man; he doesn’t know what fear is.” The skipper didn’t mean to insinuate that Paddy was courageous for going out on the yard at that moment; he was thinking about his general conduct.

Poor Paddy’s arms from wrist to elbow are perfect mountain-chains of sea-boils, and he looks as ghastly and pallid as a corpse, with pointed nose and staring eyes; his entire appearance has changed. It may be interesting to add that the majority of foremast hands do not live to be forty-three years old.

I forgot to say that for the first time in five weeks the mate shaved for dinner to-day, and so sleek and blue and shiny and naked did it make him look, that it was almost a shock when he sat down opposite us. Latitude, 45° 2′ south; longitude, 87° 40′ west.

+August 2+

This day was even finer than yesterday, except that since ten this forenoon we haven’t had much wind. But the weather is warmer, 48° at 8 +A.M.+, and the sea is as placid and still and clear as under the line. All the ground-swell has disappeared, and the great, level expanse of the mighty South Pacific stretches on all sides in tiny crinkles, frosted here and there by a crisp sparkle of froth; and the sea-rim bounds the view in a circle as sharp and black as ink. It was a day of almost tropic beauty, save that the air lacked the ineffable balm characteristic of a day at sea between Cancer and Capricorn. We rejoice at seeing the sky-sails once more expanded to the breeze, for to-day the three yards were crossed, giving to the ship a fine-weather look. Juan Fernandez will soon be abeam, and then only a few degrees more to the Trades, for we made three and a half degrees of latitude yesterday and hardly any easting. How pleasant it is to think of the approach of warm weather again, when we can lie in deck-chairs in the shadow of the wheel-house with a good book, or pass away the hours with a backgammon- or cribbage-board!

We are very much pleased to find how free this ship is from roaches that usually abound in sailing vessels; the only member of that objectionable family that we have yet perceived was a small red one; of the large, black cockroaches we have not seen one, though on the “Mandalore” we were told that they were numerous on all wooden ships. Neither have we discovered any of the more villanous creatures, which cannot be said of many transatlantic mail steamers.

A fact worthy of note, as deplorable as it was unexpected, is that since passing the meridian of Cape Horn we have not seen a single albatross. Indeed, during the whole passage we haven’t seen more than a dozen of them, they having been most numerous between the river Plate and Staten Land. In truth, the albatross seems to be disappearing, which is not astonishing when it is considered that many ship-masters either use them as rifle-targets or catch them by the half-dozen with hook and line, and take the quills and down home to sweethearts and wives. Is it not odd, by the way, that there are more benedicts among sea-captains than are to be found among the men of any other profession? Yet long-voyage skippers, who are invariably married men, see their wives only once a year.

Perhaps the albatross has been driven away into regions even more solitary than Cape Horn, but it is my belief that they are gradually vanishing, which is to be much lamented. They are of no apparent use to mankind, but neither is the tiger; yet if that royal beast were upon the eve of extermination, as our bison is, there would be a great wailing heard in the land. The albatross, be it said, has all the regal dignity of the bison; and no one who has not seen it can imagine the imperial flight of a full-grown wanderer. Latitude, 41° 35′ south; longitude, 86° 56′ west.

+August 3+

Pleasant northerly breezes, a smooth sea, and brilliant sunshine gladdened our hearts this morning, and at noon we found ourselves well north of 40°. The wind hauled to the northward somewhat during the night, though, so that, with the variation, we did not make good a better course than northeast by north, and are now heading for Juan Fernandez in 34° south.

We have made a disagreeable discovery about Timothy Powers in the port-watch. I don’t remember whether it was mentioned before or not, but Tim was said to have fallen off the forward house two weeks ago and sprained his right arm. From the first the captain never could discover anything wrong with it, but as the fellow insisted that he suffered terrible pains in that member, there was naught to do for a while but to believe him. At last the skipper grew tired of Tim’s loafing, and, going out on the main-deck this morning, he gave the Irishman a very sulphurous dressing down and compelled him to turn to. He was sent forward to clean out the pig-pen, and he went to work with a woful countenance to lift off two planks that served as an apology for a roof to the sty. He couldn’t move them with one hand, so he stopped, looked carefully about to see whether or not he was observed by the mates or any of his friends, deliberately took his arm out of the sling in which he still insisted on carrying it, lifted the heavy planks down with ease, put his arm back in the sling, resumed his pitiful look, turned to reach for a broom, and found the eyes of the second mate fixed steadily upon him. Mr. Rarx had been concealed and had witnessed the whole affair. That settled it. Tim almost fainted from shock, and from now till the end of the voyage his will not be a bed of roses. Think how this creature has been imposing not only on the captain and officers, but on his fellow-shipmates as well! For two entire weeks his most arduous duty consisted in keeping the lookout on the forward house in the daytime, perfectly well, with all night below, while his friends, ill and drenched to the skin, had to dive around the main-deck day and night with chattering teeth, two hands short in the worst weather,--two hands, because old Neilsen has been laid up in his bunk with general debility, too weak to even put his foot on the main-deck. Tim is the sort of animal who contributes much to the misery and suffering of sailors. A captain, for instance, catches a man in such a deceit, never forgets it and refuses to believe the next man, who actually has hurt himself, so that the real sufferer has to bear the penalty of the other’s fraud. It is not a criminal offence, but a low, contemptible trick; though just such a one as a man with a face like Tim’s would be guilty of. The mate’s powers of divination are not particularly acute, for he observed one day off the river Plate, looking at Tim, “There goes a feller that _I_ call a good, faithful man.”

At dinner to-day I chanced to remark that, as we had had such benefits from the easterly wind, we ought to accept our three points of easting now without grumbling. Mr. Goggins, however, is a fearful kicker, even for a sailor; so, thinking to please the old man, he instantly replied, “We ain’t had forty-eight hours o’ good luck on the hull passage.” This was so remarkable a statement that my wife was provoked into saying, gently but positively, “The man who talks like that doesn’t deserve to reach port for six months more.” “Well, we ain’t,” quoth Goggins, doggedly. Then I took a hand (it is usually best not to argue with him and the skipper), and asked as sarcastically as I could, “I suppose that three days’ easterly gale doesn’t count? And how about the first sixteen days of the voyage? You’re enough of a sailor, I suppose, though, to have forgotten all that.” I thought that he was floored; but he was possessed of more vitality than one would have supposed, for he came back at me with, “Well, the yards was ag’in the backstays all the time in the North Atlantic.”

This was such a novel stand to take that we let him alone, so that he got up and tramped out of the cabin much inflated. What possible difference it could make whether or not the yards touched the backstays as long as the ship lay her course and went through the water was beyond my powers of reasoning.

We are now followed by an immense number of Cape pigeons. What merry, blithesome little fellows they are, apparently all good-nature and love for one another as they circle around the ship, almost brushing the standing-gear in their mad, tumbling flight, now skimming just above the sea, now soaring over the mast-heads, and sweeping down again for very joy that they are made! But let a bucket of table refuse be thrown over the side, and then away with good-fellowship and fraternal affection. It’s a true case of every one for himself and the devil take the hindmost. No sooner does the refuse touch the water than two or three catch sight of it, and in an instant fifty pigeons are involved in furious battle. They fairly scream in their excitement, and beat each other with their powerful wings, and snap viciously right and left with sharp, curved bills. Then one lucky one will perchance seize a choice morsel. Instantly he is set upon by a dozen of his companions, who mercilessly bear down upon him before he can rise from the surface with his prize, and actually beat him down under water in their fierce efforts to get at the tempting mouthful; but so plucky are they, that we have never seen one relinquish anything when his bill has once closed upon it.

While the pigeons are engaged in this deadly strife a great molly-hawk sometimes looms up astern, having sighted the combat from afar, and dashing into the centre of the squabbling flock, which scatters before his huge wings and wide, formidable beak, like crows before a vulture, he snaps up the bone of contention and soars away to enjoy it at his leisure. After the rapacious monster has departed from out their midst, the dejected little creatures return, and hover over any particle of food that may remain, ever and anon diving far below the surface for a crumb that they perceive deep down in the placid depths, rising again with such amazing buoyancy and energy as to lift themselves clear out of the water, like an inflated bladder suddenly released. They afford us much amusement; but another six hundred miles farther north will, no doubt, see the last of our merry little companions. Latitude, 39° 35′ south; longitude, 85° west.

+August 4+

Although the lovely clear skies have for a while disappeared, being obscured by the most clearly defined stratus clouds that I ever saw, the weather is bracing and dry, with a sea so smooth that it never would be supposed that we were hundreds of miles from any land larger than Juan Fernandez or its neighbor, Mas-á-Fuera. Each day sees a rise of two or three degrees in the air and sea, and we are moving well up into the heart of the thirties. We will, no doubt, soon fall in with vessels from Chilean ports bound around the Horn; but those from San Francisco have been driven so far to the westward by the Trades that in this latitude they are away over in 125°. The wind is still to the northward of west, and we continue to make more easting than is desirable; because, if we have to steer much farther in towards the land, our course when we take the Trades will have to be northwest in order to cross the line in the right place, which, of course, would be dead before the wind, an undesirable position in a square-rigger, as in that event only the after-sails draw.

Captain Scruggs was quite a treat at the mid-day meal, for he appeared in one of his majestic phases, when no one can tell him anything that he doesn’t already know. My wife unhappily mentioned that this would be fine yachting weather. Now, the mere mention of a yacht nearly always upsets him; and we, therefore, had to listen while he disputed vigorously with himself for some minutes; and he finally concluded with the assertion that he could take the “Volunteer” and sail right round the “Defender”; he knew the old one was better, anyhow, than that there new brass boat, or whatever she was made of. On suggesting that he might find some little difficulty in consummating such an undertaking, he replied, “Well, I’ve got that confidence in myself; I used to sail small boats when I was a boy, and I ain’t forgot how.”

He concluded his remarks, always delivered in explosions as though challenging you to deny them, with a disquisition on jams. He believes in the theory that all kinds of preserves are boiled down together, and that different labels are then stuck on the tins. “Look at that, now,” he growled, pointing to one on the table. “What d’ye call that?” I showed him the device of a fig on the wrapper, with the name beneath it. “Lemme taste it,” said he, plunging a knife deep into the preserves. “There, what’d I tell you? ’Taint fig jam, it’s currants; they hain’t got the right libel onto it,” he explained.

When dinner was over we repaired, as usual, to the after-cabin, while the old man strode heavily back into the dining-room, called the mate, and abruptly demanded, “Have you got that spigotti out yet?”

“What’s that, sir?” asked the mate.

“Spigotti, spigotti; like macaroni. Don’t you know by this time what spigotti is?” said the skipper, very angrily, for he knew that he didn’t have the name right and that we could hear him.

“No, sir, Cap’in Scruggs, sir, I’m d---- if I do,” stammered the hapless Goggins; for we could perceive the captain through a chink in the door bristled up like a ruffled bantam, and the hideous, grisly old mate, his eyes popping out like a pair of deviled kidneys, racking his brain for a translation of spigotti.

But the particularly scintillating jewel in the skipper’s galaxy of remarkable pronunciations is his name for the inhabitants of Chile. They become Chilaneans; though, now that I think of it, I have heard other ship-masters put themselves to the trouble of so pronouncing it. Where do they get that extra syllable from? Now, in the case of Cubians, it’s different. They all say Cuby, so why not Cubians? It’s logical. But Chilaneans is unreasonable.

Speaking of Cuba reminds me of what a Chesapeake Bay fisherman asked me once, “Hain’t Mayceo fit with the Cubians before?” This was just before Maceo was killed.

Captain Scruggs seems utterly unable to avoid contradiction, and, being possessed of very uncouth manners (which he nevertheless knows quite well how to correct), it may be conceived how trying an ordeal half an hour at the table with him must be. “Don’t talk with him, then,” is very easy to say; we don’t talk between meals to him, but at table it is almost necessary to make one or two observations in thirty minutes; and whenever the silence becomes overwhelming and we hazard a remark, it is disheartening to listen continuously to “_I_ don’t _think_ so.” Latitude, 37° 3′ south; longitude 83° 20′ west.

+August 5+

Just another such day as yesterday, with the sky obscured by sharply-cut, stratus clouds. The only perceptible difference is that to-day the air is a little more balmy; the wind and sea are precisely the same, and our experience so far has been that the Pacific is most aptly named. Of course we ought to be reaching smooth water now, though it is often rough in the southeast Trades; the surprising part is that we had such a quiet sea in the stormy forties. The air has been wonderfully soft all day, the thermometer indicating 58° at noon, although the sky was completely overcast.

Mas-á-Fuera bore east-northeast true at mid-day, distant in round numbers one hundred miles, with Juan Fernandez two hundred miles away in about the same direction. The appearance of this latter island is said to be strikingly beautiful, though in size it is only thirteen miles by four. It consists of a series of steep, rugged hills, formed by huge boulders piled one upon the other, the loftiest reaching an altitude of three thousand feet. Palms, tree-ferns, and a thick undergrowth partially cover these rocky declivities, growing in very shallow earth, which slips away when one attempts to scale the precipices, and it is said that on this account the culminating peak has never yet been ascended.

Juan Fernandez, which lies in the approximate corresponding latitude of the Madeiras, is indissolubly associated with Robinson Crusoe, Defoe having based his tale upon the adventures of one Alexander Selkirk, of Fifeshire, Scotland, who was put ashore there in 1704, at his own request, by Captain Straddling of the “Cinque Porte” galley, with whom, as master, Selkirk had quarrelled. It is highly improbable, however, that Juan Fernandez is the island pictured by Defoe, as his descriptions in Crusoe do not always tally with the conformations of Fernandez. Modern writers incline to the belief that Trinidad, off the Venezuelan coast, was the island in “Robinson Crusoe.” Selkirk lived on Juan Fernandez until 1709, when he was rescued by the ship “Duke” from what seems to have been a by no means intolerable imprisonment. Mas-á-Fuera, which means “more to sea,” called so by the Spaniards, though far smaller than its neighbor, is even loftier still, one peak attaining a height of four thousand feet.

In every spot where men do congregate there will nearly always be found one silent individual, from whom it is apparently impossible to extract a single syllable. We had one such on the “Mandalore,” an English seaman with a Board of Trade certificate. During the whole voyage of eighteen weeks he was never heard to utter a word unless he had some unavoidable reason. Aboard the “Higgins” there is a man who can give him cards and spades on taciturnity, for he hasn’t been known to speak by either mate since the eleventh of May. This contemplative genius is Karl, he whom Rarx so brutally struck in the face with the block away back in the South Atlantic. Even then no word passed his lips, though he did groan He isn’t surly--it is just his way--and the mates do not mind now when he doesn’t answer, as he is manifestly so willing. For torpid stupidity and phlegmatic stolidity his equal would be hard to find, and we have often watched him at work and wondered, “Can it really talk?” The most unexpected and painful surprise cannot draw from him the slightest exclamation. For instance, a fortnight ago, one afternoon at the pumps, a big sea surged over the side, but most of the men saved themselves by jumping up on the fife-rail, except Karl and Brün. Indeed, the latter had saved himself, and was kneeling on the rail holding fast to the mizzen-royal-braces; Karl’s mind, though, was far too numb to grapple with such an emergency, so the water carried him off his feet, wrenched away his grip on the pump-handle, and was sweeping him across the deck, when he grasped one of Brün’s feet in his flight. This broke the latter’s hold on the brace, and away both flew into the water-ways, where they bobbed around for a while in thirty-six inches of icy brine. Brün was in a rage, of course, but not so Karl. His wooden face arose by and by from the roaring scuppers, placid and tranquil; he then by degrees found his legs, waited for a weather-roll, shot back to the pumps, and resumed his place, totally unmoved. All this time he was as dumb as a giraffe.

Again, yesterday afternoon, he was doing some work on the starboard main-brace-bumpkin, when he slipped and went half under water before he caught the bight of a rope that luckily hung over the side. Even this didn’t trouble him in the smallest degree; he didn’t even wink his codfish eyes, but seated himself again upon the bumpkin and proceeded with his job.

Toward the end of the third month at sea most people begin to suffer somewhat from dyspepsia, induced, no doubt, by the absence of fresh meat and vegetables, though the best tinned varieties of the latter certainly taste as good as the fresh. In the old days people, it is true, did not have the great amount of such edibles to choose from as they do now in going to sea, but they had plenty of young pigs and sheep and chickens, which atoned in measure for the lack of canned vegetables. Indeed, the deck of a Yankee ship fifty years ago looked like the conventional barn-yard, with its pig-and sheep-stalls, hennery, and not infrequently an enclosure for a couple of cows. Latitude, 34° 5′ south; longitude, 83° 15′ west.

+August 6+

Gradually, since daylight, the form of the clouds has been changing till they have assumed that of cumulus, and as the wind is letting go, with an appearance of showers ahead, we seem to be upon the brink of a change in the weather. For seven days the wind has been at west-northwest, with never a shift of two whole points, while the variation of the aneroid during that period was not more than fifteen-hundredths of an inch. We are practically on the thirtieth parallel at present, so that in eleven days we have made thirty degrees of latitude. Steadily, too, the temperature has been rising, standing at 59° at eight this morning for both air and water; a still more significant indication of our northing, however, is that last night the fire in the cabin stove was allowed to die out, to-day being the first time in thirty-eight days that we have been without artificial heat; thus for almost six weeks has the stove been going full blast, for it was first lighted in 38° south in the Atlantic.